only a trifling nexus in the rational series. He returns to his main
thesis, and other counterpoising arguments occur to him. He outlines
them, with delicious Æsopian sagacity. "Of course this analysis is
only quantitative, not qualitative," he says. "But I will now
restate my position with all the necessary reservations, and we'll
see if it will hold water."

We smile, and look at each other slyly, in the sheer happiness of
enjoying a perfect work of art. He must be a mere quintain, a poor
lifeless block, who does not revel in such an exhibition, where
those two rare qualities of mind--honesty and agility--are locked in
one.

Of course--it is hardly necessary to say--we do not always agree
with everything he says. But we could not disagree with _him_; for
we see that his broad, shrewd, troubled spirit could take no other
view, arising out of the very multitude and swarm and pressure of
his thought. Those who plod diligently and narrowly along a country
lane may sometimes reach the destination less fatigued than the more
conscientious and passionate traveller who quarters the fields and
beats the bounds, intent to leave no covert unscrutinized. But in
him we see and love and revere something rare and precious, not
often found in our present way of life; in matters concerning the
happiness of others, a devoted spirit of unrivalled wisdom; in those
pertaining to himself, a child's unblemished innocence. The
perplexities of others are his daily study; his own pleasures, a
constant surprise.


[Illustration]