ere is very little trace of
asceticism. The delight in life is clearly indicated, and the only
sort of self-denial that is taught is the self-denial that ends in
simplicity of life, and in the joyful and courageous shouldering of
inevitable burdens. Self-denial was not to be practised in a
spiritless and timid way, but rather as a man accepts the fatigues and
dangers of an expedition, in a vigorous and adventurous mood. One does
not think of the men who go on some Arctic exploration, with all the
restrictions of diet that they have to practise, all the uncomfortable
rules of life they have to obey, as renouncing the joys of life; they
do so naturally, in order that they may follow a livelier inspiration.
It is clear from the accounts of primitive Christians that they
impressed their heathen neighbours not as timid, anxious, and
despondent people, but as men and women with some secret overflowing
sense of joy and energy, and with a curious radiance and brightness
about them which was not an affected pose, but the redundant happiness
of those who have some glad knowledge in heart and mind which they
cannot repress.

Let us suppose the case of a man gifted by nature with a great
vitality, with a keen perception of all that is beautiful in life, all
that is humorous, all that is delightful. Imagine him extremely
sensitive to nature, art, human charm, human pleasure, doing
everything with zest, interest, amusement, excitement. Imagine him,
too, deeply sensitive to affection, loving to be loved, grateful,
kindly, fond of children and animals, a fervent lover, a romantic
friend, alive to all fine human qualities. Suppose, too, that he is
ambitious, desirous of fame, liking to play an active part in life,
fond of work, wishing to sway opinion, eager that others should care
for the things for which he cares. Well, he must make a certain
choice, no doubt; he cannot gratify all these things; his ambition may
get in the way of his pleasure, his affections may interrupt his
ambitions. What is his renunciation to be? It obviously will not be an
abnegation of everything. He will not feel himself bound to crush all
enjoyment, to refuse to love and be loved, to enter tamely and
passively into life. He will inevitably choose what is dearest to his
heart, whatever that may be, and he will no doubt instinctively
eliminate from his life the joys which are most clouded by
dissatisfaction. If he sets affection aside for the sake of ambition,