our author happens to be a man of (you may trace them in his books) some
rather fine reveries.

Every convert begins by being a rebel, and I do not see myself how any
mercy can possibly be extended to Mr. Luffmann. He is a convert from the
creed of strenuous life. For this renegade the body is of little
account; to him work appears criminal when it suppresses the demands of
the inner life; while he was young he did grind virtuously at the sacred
handle, and now, he says, he has fallen into disgrace with some people
because he believes no longer in toil without end. Certain respectable
folk hate him--so he says--because he dares to think that "poetry,
beauty, and the broad face of the world are the best things to be in love
with." He confesses to loving Spain on the ground that she is "the land
of to-morrow, and holds the gospel of never-mind." The universal
striving to push ahead he considers mere vulgar folly. Didn't I tell you
he was a fit subject for the cage?

It is a relief (we are all humane, are we not?) to discover that this
desperate character is not altogether an outcast. Little girls seem to
like him. One of them, after listening to some of his tales, remarked to
her mother, "Wouldn't it be lovely if what he says were true!" Here you
have Woman! The charming creatures will neither strain at a camel nor
swallow a gnat. Not publicly. These operations, without which the world
they have such a large share in could not go on for ten minutes, are left
to us--men. And then we are chided for being coarse. This is a refined
objection but does not seem fair. Another little girl--or perhaps the
same little girl--wrote to him in Cordova, "I hope Poste-Restante is a
nice place, and that you are very comfortable." Woman again! I have in
my time told some stories which are (I hate false modesty) both true and
lovely. Yet no little girl ever wrote to me in kindly terms. And why?