Three saints, all equally solicitous for their souls’ welfare, took three different routes to their salvation.
One, appalled by all the troubles, setbacks, and delays that plague the courts of law, became an arbiter, deciding lawsuits gratis (little did he care for secular reward). He hoped to save his litigants from wasting half their lives before the bench.
The second saint applied himself to hospitals. I laud him; there’s no charity more admirable than soothing pains and treating illnesses. The ill, however, then as now, were cross, impatient whiners: they accused the saint of favoritism and neglect.
But these complaints were nothing next to those the judge received. His arbitration never pleased both parties, pleased but seldom even one. “His scale,” they grumbled, “isn’t balanced.”
So, discouraged by ingratitude, the saints at last, with doleful hearts, retired from work and sought seclusion in the placid woods.
Beneath a rugged precipice, beside a gin-clear pool, within a dell unknown to wind or sun, they found the hermitage of the third saint, and asked of him advice.
“You mustn’t seek advice outside yourself,” he said. “Who else but you can know your needs? To know oneself is therefore every self’s first duty. But it can’t be done amid the world’s commotion. Seek tranquility. —Stir up this water. Can you see yourselves reflected in it?”
“No; we’ve clouded now its crystal clarity.”
“My brothers,” said the hermit, “let it settle then awhile.”
O princes, magistrates, and ministers! Do not abandon your vocations yet. In hurly-burly public life, beset with public cares, you’ll find prestige and pelf. —In silent solitude, you’ll find yourself.