THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE

Countless ages ago a Traveller, much worn with journeying, climbed up the last bit of rough road which led to the summit of a high mountain. There was a temple on that mountain. And the Traveller had vowed that he would reach it before death prevented him. He knew the journey was long, and the road rough. He knew that the mountain was the most difficult of ascent of that mountain chain, called “The Ideals.” But he had a strongly-hoping heart and a sure foot. He lost all sense of time, but he never lost the feeling of hope.

“Even if I faint by the way-side,” he said to himself, “and am not able to reach the summit, still it is something to be on the road which leads to the High Ideals.”

That was how he comforted himself when he was weary. He never lost more hope than that; and surely that was little enough.

And now he had reached the temple.

He rang the bell, and an old white-haired man opened the gate. He smiled sadly when he saw the Traveller.

“And yet another one,” he murmured. “What does it all mean?”

The Traveller did not hear what he murmured.

“Old white-haired man,” he said, “tell me; and so I have come at last to the wonderful Temple of Knowledge. I have been journeying hither all my life. Ah, but it is hard work climbing up to the Ideals.”

The old man touched the Traveller on the arm. “Listen,” he said gently. “This is not the Temple of Knowledge. And the Ideals are not a chain of mountains; they are a stretch of plains, and the Temple of Knowledge is in their centre. You have come the wrong road. Alas, poor Traveller!”

The light in the Traveller’s eyes had faded. The hope in his heart died. And he became old and withered. He leaned heavily on his staff.

“Can one rest here?” he asked wearily.

“No.”

“Is there a way down the other side of these mountains?”

“No.”

“What are these mountains called?”

“They have no name.”

“And the temple how do you call the temple?”

“It has no name!”

“Then I call it the Temple of Broken Hearts,” said the Traveller.

And he turned and went. But the old white-haired man followed him.

“Brother,” he said, “you are not the first to come here, but you may be the last. Go back to the plains, and tell the dwellers in the plains that the Temple of True Knowledge is in their very midst; any one may enter it who chooses, the gate is not even closed. The Temple has always been in the plains, in the very heart of life, and work, and daily effort. The philosopher may enter, the stone-breaker may enter. You must have passed it every day of your life; a plain, venerable building, unlike your glorious cathedrals.”

“I have seen the children playing near it,” said the Traveller. “When I was a, child I used to play there. Ah, if I had only known! Well, the past is the past.”

He would have rested against a huge stone, but that the old white-haired man prevented him.

“Do not rest,” he said. “If you once rest there, you will not rise again. When you once rest, you will know how weary you are.”

“I have no wish to go farther,” said the Traveller. “My journey is done; it may have been in the wrong direction, but still it is done.”

“Nay, do not linger here,” urged the old man. “Retrace your steps. Though you are broken-hearted yourself, you may save others from breaking their hearts. Those whom you meet on this road, you can turn back. Those who are but starting in this direction you can bid pause and consider how mad it is to suppose that the Temple of True Knowledge should have been built on an isolated and dangerous mountain. Tell them that although God seems hard, He is not as hard as all that. Tell them that the Ideals are not a mountain range, but their own plains, where their great cities are built, and where the corn grows, and where men and women are toiling, sometimes in sorrow and sometimes in joy.”

“I will go,” said the Traveller.

And he started.

But he had grown old and weary. And the journey was long; and the retracing of one’s steps is more toilsome than the tracing of them. The ascent, with all the vigour and hope of life to help him, had been difficult enough; the descent, with no vigour and no hope to help him, was almost impossible.

So that it was not probable that the Traveller lived to reach the plains. But whether he reached them or not, still he had started And not many Travellers do that.