But we may at least do one thing.  We may speak frankly of our experiences, without either pose or concealment.  It does us no harm to confess our failures, and it puts courage into other pilgrims, who know at least that they are not alone in their encounters with the hobgoblins.  And no less frankly, too, may we speak of the fine things that we have seen and heard by the way, the blue hills and winding waters of which we have caught a glimpse from the brow of the windswept hill, the talk and aspect of other wayfarers whom we have met, the noble buildings of the ancient city, the stately avenue which the dull road intersects unaware, the embowered hamlet, the leafy forest dingle, the bleat of sheep on the dewy upland, the birds’ song at evening—­all that strikes sharp and clear and desirable upon our fresh or tired sense.

For one thing is certain, that the end is not yet; and that there is something done for the soul both by the morning brightness and the evening heaviness which can be effected in no other way.  And in this spirit we may look back on our mistakes, sad as they were, and on our triumphs, which are sometimes sadder still, and know that they were not mere accidents and obstacles which might have been otherwise—­they were rather the very stuff and essence of the soul showing through its enfolding garb.

And then, too, if we have suffered, as we all must suffer if we have any heart or blood or brain at all, we can learn the blessed fact of the utter powerlessness of suffering to hurt or darken us.  Its horror lies in the continuance of it, in the shuddering anticipation of all we may yet have to endure; but once over, it becomes instantly either like a cloud melting in the blue of heaven, or, better still a joyful memory of a pain that braced and purified.  No one ever gives a thought, except a grateful one, to past suffering.  If it leaves its handwriting on brow and cheek, it leaves no shadow on the spirit within.  It is so easy to see this in the lives of others, however hard it is to realise it for oneself.  What interest is there in the record of the life of a perfectly prosperous and equable person?  And what inspiration is equal to that which comes when we read the life of one who suffered much, when we see the hope that rose superior to thwarted designs and broken purposes, and the joy that came of realising that not through easy and graceful triumph is the soul made strong?  Why does one ask oneself about the dead hero, when his life rounds itself to the view, not whether he had enough of prosperity and honour to content him, but whether he had enough of pain and self-reproach to perfect his humanity?  Suffering is no part of the soul; the soul has need to suffer, but it is made to rejoice; and when it has earned its joy, it will abide in it.

And now a word of personal experience.  This book is a record of an experiment in happiness.  I had the opportunity, and I took it, of arranging my life in every respect exactly as I desired.  It was my design to live alone in joy; not to exclude others, but to admit them for my pleasure and at my will.  I thought that by desiring little, by sacrificing quantity of delight for quality, I should gain much.  And I will as frankly confess that I did not succeed in capturing the tranquillity I desired.  I found many pretty jewels by the way, but the pearl of price lay hid.