ant to
whose essence Being belonged--endless aeons after his ephemeral passing
It would still throb and glow, still offer to the surrendered human
soul the supreme uplift. He had but a moment to contemplate It, yet to
understand Its essence, to know the great laws of Its workings, to see
It _sub specie aeternitatis_, was to partake of Its eternity. There
was no need to journey either in space or time to discover Its
movement, everywhere the same, as perfect in the remotest past as in
the farthest future, by no means working--as the vulgar imagined--to a
prospective perfection; everywhere educed from the same enduring
necessities of the divine freedom. Progress! As illusory as the
movement of yon little vessel that, anchored stably, seemed always
sailing out towards the horizon.

And so in that trance of adoration, in that sacred Glory, in that
rapturous consciousness that he had fought his last fight with the
enslaving affects, there formed themselves in his soul--white heat at
one with white light--the last sentences of his great work:--

"We see, then, what is the strength of the wise man, and by how much
he surpasses the ignorant who is driven forward by lust alone. For the
ignorant man is not only agitated by eternal causes in many ways, and
never enjoys true peace of soul, but lives also ignorant, as it were,
both of God and of things, and as soon as he ceases to suffer, ceases
also to be. On the other hand, the wise man is scarcely ever moved in
his mind, but being conscious by a certain eternal necessity of
himself, of God, and of things, never ceases to be, and always enjoys
true peace of soul. If the way which leads hither seem very difficult,
it can nevertheless be found. It must indeed be difficult since it is
so seldom discovered: for if salvation lay ready to hand and could be
discovered without great labor, how could it be possible that it
should be neglected almost by everybody? But all noble things are as
difficult as they are rare."

So ran the words that were not to die.

Suddenly a halo on the upper edge of the black cloud heralded the
struggling through of the moon: she shot out a crescent, reddish in
the mist, then labored into her full orb, wellnigh golden as the sun.

Spinoza started from his reverie: his doublet was wet with dew, he
felt the mist in his throat. He coughed: then it was as if the salt of
the air had got into his mouth, and as he spat out the blood, he knew
he would not remain