The mortal whose heart never glows with generous affections is a pitiable object indeed. Absorbed in his self-love, his emotions soon become like the petals of a bud which has never unfolded into a flower, has never given forth its fragrance and been painted by the sunshine into beauty, but withers in darkness and perishes in mould. Giving forth little, he receives back even less. His sordid joys burrow in dirt and darkness like the mole; they have never mounted skyward and beheld from a glad height that it is, indeed, "more blessed to give than to receive."
He does not really give, however he may give in seeming, who gives in order to receive; he is merely attempting a barter under false pretences.
"If ye love them which love you, what thank have ye?"
