So writes Dr. Newman, with that candour, that love of putting the case
most strongly against himself, which is only one of the lovely
characteristics of the man whose long life has been a miracle of
beauty and grace, and who has contrived to instil into his very
controversies more of the spirit of Christ than most men can find room
for in their prayers. But the dilemma is an awkward one. Does the
Madonna wink, or is Heaven deaf?

Oh, Spirit of Truth, where wert thou, when the remorseless deep of
superstition closed over the head of John Henry Newman, who surely
deserved to be thy best-loved son?

But this is a digression. With the nympholepts of Truth we have nought
to do. They must be allowed to pursue their lonely and devious paths,
and though the records of their wanderings, their conflicting
conclusions, and their widely-parted resting-places may fill us with
despair, still they are witnesses whose testimony we could ill afford
to lose.

But there are not many nympholepts. The symptoms of the great majority
of our modern Truth-hunters are very different, as they will, with
their frank candour, be the first to admit. They are free 'to drop
their swords and daggers' whenever so commanded, and it is high time
they did.

With these two exceptions I think my prescription will be found of
general utility, and likely to promote a healthy flow of good works.

I had intended to say something as to the effect of speculative habits
upon the intellect, but cannot now do so. The following shrewd remark