poetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of
the supernatural. The modern philosopher had told me again and again
that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in
acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the _wrong_ place, and my
soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and
illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy. I knew now
why grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a
giant, and why I could feel homesick at home.




CHAPTER VI.--_The Paradoxes of Christianity_


The real trouble with this world of ours is not that it is an
unreasonable world, nor even that it is a reasonable one. The commonest
kind of trouble is that it is nearly reasonable, but not quite. Life is
not an illogicality; yet it is a trap for logicians. It looks just a
little more mathematical and regular than it is; its exactitude is
obvious, but its inexactitude is hidden; its wildness lies in wait. I
give one coarse instance of what I mean. Suppose some mathematical
creature from the moon were to reckon up the human body; he would at
once see that the essential thing about it was that it was duplicate. A
man is two men, he on the right exactly resembling him on the left.
Having noted that there was an arm on the right and one on the left, a
leg on the right and one on the left, he might go further and still find
on each side the same number of fingers, the same number of toes, twin
eyes, twin ears, twin nostrils, and even twin lobes of the brain. At
last he would take it as a law; and then, where he found a heart on one