ILLUSION AND REALITY: by Lydia Ross, M. D.
THE Man was wearied with success. He had sought to win beauty, fame, fortune, and personal power, and he had linked them all with his name. Around him was a wide circle of desirable things; within him was a restless center of discontent.
Far into the night he sat musing over his career. He had been fortunate beyond all expectation. He could name no ambition which had not been gratified; but the thought brought with it no feeling of elation or of satisfaction. Just now his keenest sense was that stinging ache in his breast which so often came of late at quiet times like this.
"It is all illusion and disappointment," he said, at last. "Marriage is a failure; fame is a mockery; happiness is not had at any price, and life is not worth living."
That nameless hunger from which he suffered was so baffling. If it were only possible to find the meaning of that dreary want. With all the new inventions for lighting the world why was there no illumination for the dimness of the inner life? If he could only find the source of that hungry need which devoured all the pleasure in his possessions.
Filled with intense desire for light, he drifted into the Land of Dreams with its countless pictures. There he saw a moving figure which was himself and yet not himself. There were no familiar lines in the form; but the eyes were his own and through them he read the thoughts.
He knew that this Traveler had come from afar. Along dusty highways, in shady bypaths and green meadows, through thickets and unwholesome swamps and across waters he had played a part in many scenes of a changing world. Youth and strength and gaiety were his companions, and together they sought activity and pleasure. Through places all unknown and often full of hidden dangers they made their way with merry jest and idle song and noise, fearing nothing save it were the Silence.
Then came a day when the Traveler grew tired of dust and heat and stains, of noisy mirth and empty songs and poisonous miasma. He wished for solitude and rest. As his companions sped along he turned aside and wandered into the deep forest. Throwing himself upon the ground long he lay beneath the trees with closed eyes and fingers threaded through the soft grass, finding refreshment in the touch. His chest rose with deep draughts of clear air, and as the cool quiet stole into his blood the throbbing pulses sank into a healing stream.
He had found some pleasant places in the old life that seemed so far away now, but this was beyond compare. Filled with a novel sense of awakening, the past appeared but a feverish dream. The sweetness of the place seemed to be taking form somewhere near and to be surrounding him with a delicious perfume.