The Rambles of an Idler 



These three simple facts are too commonplace 

 for us, and Nature altogether too prosaic for 

 our mystery-loving feouls. The earth is not for 

 our feet; we must tread on air. We weary of 

 the homely beauty of simplicity; we must see 

 ghosts. The real ceases to satisfy, we crave 

 the unreal, the unsubstantial, the feverish lie 

 rather than cool-headed truth. 



Cobwebs and consistency make a rare com- 

 bination for a winter night's meditation. We 

 claim to be consistent and resent any hint that 

 we are lacking in this virtue. Nothing if not 

 practical is our boast. We glory in the conclu- 

 sions of the truly learned, yet, if it chance to be 

 dark and a clammy thread of gossamer crosses 

 our face, we stop as if struck with a rod of iron. 

 That single, delicate thread, the tiniest twig 

 will break, is a cable of vast strength our nerves 

 tug against in vain. We feel for the moment 

 as if Fate had decreed the end of our career. 

 All the while, we know it is gossamer, but lose 

 faith in our knowledge. Very consistent when 

 not even a fool is deceived, but shut out the light 

 of day and every pygmy is a malicious giant. 

 It is as difficult to be consistent as to be candid, 

 and little the credit, if we succeed. 



36 



