As Mencius, the philosopher, was travelling in pursuit of wisdom,
night overtook him at the foot of a gloomy mountain, remote from the
habitations of men. Here, as he was straying, (while rain and thunder
conspired to make solitude still more hideous) he perceived a hermit’s
cell, and approaching, asked for shelter. “Enter,” cries the hermit in a
severe tone; “men deserve not to be obliged; but it would be imitating
their ingratitude to treat them as they deserve. Come in: examples of
vice may sometimes strengthen us in the ways of virtue.”
After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots and tea, Mencius could not
repress his curiosity to know why the hermit had retired from mankind,
whose actions taught the truest lessons of wisdom. “Mention not the
name of man,” cried the hermit with indignation; “here let me live
retired from a base ungrateful world; here, in the forest I shall find
no flatterers. The lion is an open enemy, and the dog a faithful friend;
but man, base man, can poison the bowl, and smile when he presents it.”
“You have then been used ill by mankind?” interrupted the philosopher
drily. “Yes,” replied the hermit; “on mankind I have exhausted my whole
fortune; and this staff, that cup, and those roots, are all that I have
in return.”—“Did you bestow your fortune among them, or did you only
lend it?” returned Mencius. “I bestowed it, undoubtedly,” replied the
other; “for where were the merit of being a money lender?”—“Did they
ever own that they received your benefits?” still adds the philosopher.
“A thousand times,” cries the hermit; “they every day loaded me with
professions of gratitude for favours received, and solicitations for
future ones.”—“If, then, (says Mencius smiling) you did not lend
your fortune in order to have it returned, it is injustice to accuse
them of ingratitude; they owned themselves obliged; you expected no
more; and they certainly earn a favour who stoop to acknowledge the
obligation.”—The hermit was struck with the reply; and, surveying
his guest with emotion, “I have heard of the great Mencius, and thou
certainly art the man. I am now fourscore years old, but still a child
in wisdom; take me back to the world, and educate me as one of the most
ignorant, and youngest, of thy disciples.”