tragic emotion--what does affect me is a peculiar touch of beauty, but it
is a luxurious and superficial thing. It would entirely prevent me," he
added, "from reading many poems or prose passages aloud which I greatly
admire. I simply could not command myself! In fact," he went on, smiling,
"I very often can only get to the end of a quotation by fixing my mind on
something else. I add up the digits giving the number of the page, or I
count the plates at the dinner-table. It's very absurd--but it takes me in
just the same way when I am alone. I could not read the last chapter of the
Book of Revelation aloud to myself, or the chapter on 'The Wilderness' in
Isaiah, without shedding tears. But it doesn't mean anything; it is just
the _hysterica passio_, you know!"

His voice, when he first joined in a talk, was often low and even
hesitating; but when he became interested and absorbed, it gathered volume
and emphasis. Barthrop once said to me that Father Payne was the only
person he knew who always talked in italics. But he very seldom harangued,
though it is difficult to make that clear in recording his talks, because
he often spoke continuously. Yet it was never a soliloquy: he always
included the listeners. He used to look round at them, explore their faces,
catch an eye and smile, indicate the particular person addressed by a
darted-out finger; and he had many little free gestures with his hands as
he talked. He would trace little hieroglyphics with his finger, as if he
were writing a word, sweep an argument aside, bring his hands together as
though he were shaping something. This was a little confusing at first, and
used to divert my attention, because of the great mobility of his hands;
but after a little it seemed to me to bring out and illustrate his points
in a remarkably salient way.

His habits were curious and a little mysterious. They were by no means
regular. Sometimes for days together we hardly saw him. He often rose early