these are all moral joys built up, and these are profounder far than intellectual or physical joys.  Translate into words the feeling that spurs on the hero, and how trivial it seems!  Insignificant too does the idea of duty appear that Cato the younger had formed, when compared with the enormous disturbance it caused in a mighty empire, or the terrible death it brought on.  And yet, was not Cato’s idea far greater than the disturbance, or death, that ensued?  Do we not feel, even now, that Cato was right?  And was not his life rendered truly and nobly happy, thanks to this very idea, that the reason of man will not even consider, so unreasonable does it appear?  All that ennobles our life, all that we respect in ourselves, the mainsprings of our virtue, the limits that feeling will even impose upon vices or crimes—­all these appear veriest trifles when viewed by the cold eye of reason; and yet do they fashion the laws that govern every man’s life.  Would life be endurable if we did not obey many truths that our reason rejects?  The wretchedest even obeys one of these; and the more truths there are that he yields to, the less wretched does he become.  The assassin will tell you, “I murder, it is true, but at least do not steal.”  And he who has stolen steals, but does not betray; and he who betrays would at least not betray his brother.  And thus does each one cling for refuge to his last fragment of spiritual beauty.  No man can have fallen so low but he still has a retreat in his soul, where he ever shall find a few drops of pure water, and be girt up anew with the strength that he needs to go on with his life.  For here again reason is helpless, unable to comfort; she must halt on the threshold of the thief’s last asylum, even as she must halt on the threshold of Job’s resignation, of the love of Marcus Aurelius, of the sacrifice made by Antigone.  She halts, is bewildered, she does not approve; and yet knows full well that to rise in revolt were only to combat the light whereof she is shadow; for amidst all this she is but as one who stands with the sun full upon him.  His shadow is there at his feet; as he moves, it will follow; as he rises or stoops, its outline will alter; but this shadow is all he commands, that he masters, possesses, of the dazzling light that enfolds him.  And so has reason her being, too, beneath a superior light, and the shadow cannot affect the calm, unvarying splendour.  Far distant as Marcus Aurelius may be from the traitor, it is still from the selfsame well that they both draw the holy water that freshens their soul; and this well is not to be found in the intellect.  For, strangely enough, it is not in our reason that moral life has its being; and he who would let reason govern his life would be the most wretched of men.  There is not a virtue, a beautiful thought, or a generous deed, but has most of its roots hidden far away from that which can be understood or explained.  Well might man be proud could he trace every virtue, and joy, and his whole inward life, to the one thing he truly possesses, the one thing on which he can depend—­in a word, to his reason.  But do what he will, the smallest event that arrives will quickly convince him that reason is wholly unable to offer him shelter; for in truth we are beings quite other than merely reasonable creatures.