the marrow of a weak man. But the school-master was no weak man.
His foot was entirely on his native heath, I assure you. He knew
every inch of the ground, from the domination of the absolute
faith in the ages of Fetichism, to its pseudo-presentment in the
tenth century, and its actual subversion in the nineteenth.
Every step. Our politicians might have picked up an idea or two
there, I should think! Then he was so cool about it, so skilful!
He fairly rubbed his hands with glee, enjoying the combat. And
he was so sure that the Doctor was savagely in earnest: why, any
one with half an ear could hear that! He did not see how, in the
very heat of the fray, his eyes would wander off listlessly. But
Mr. Howth did not wander; there was nothing careless or two-sided
in the making of this man,--no sham about him, or borrowing.
They came down gradually, or out,--for, as I told you, they dug
into the very heart of the matter at first,--they came out
gradually to modern times. Things began to assume a more
familiar aspect. Spinoza, Fichte, Saint Simon,--one heard about
them now. If you could but have heard the school-master deal
with these his enemies! With what tender charity for the man,
what relentless vengeance for the belief, he pounced on them,
dragging the soul out of their systems, holding it up for slow
slaughter! As for Humanity, (how Knowles lingered on that word,
with a tenderness curious in so uncouth a mass of flesh!)--as for
Humanity, it was a study to see it stripped and flouted and
thrown out of doors like a filthy rag by this poor old Howth, a
man too child-hearted to kill a spider. It was pleasanter to
hear him when he defended the great Past in which his ideal truth
had been faintly shadowed. How he caught the salient tints of
the feudal life! How the fine womanly nature of the man rose
exulting in the free picturesque glow of the day of crusader and