"Why, Thought far outstrips puny Action!" said I--" it reaches
deeper, soars higher; in our actions we are pigmies, but in our
thoughts we may be gods, and embrace a universe."
"But," sighed the Preacher, "while we think, our fellows perish
in ignorance and want!"
"Hum!" said I.
"Thought," pursued the Preacher, "may become a vice, as it did
with the old-time monks and hermits, who, shutting themselves
away from their kind, wasted their lives upon their knees,
thinking noble thoughts and dreaming of holy things, but--leaving
the world very carefully to the devil. And, as to smoking, I am
seriously considering giving it up." Here he took the pipe from
his lips and thrust it behind his back.
"Why?"
"It has become, unfortunately, too human! It is a strange thing,
sir," he went on, smiling and shaking his head, "that this, my
one indulgence, should breed me more discredit than all the
cardinal sins, and become a stumbling-block to others. Only last
Sunday I happened to overhear two white-headed old fellows
talking. 'A fine sermon, Giles?' said the one. 'Ah! good
enough,' replied the other, 'but it might ha' been better--ye
see--'e smokes!' So I am seriously thinking of giving it up, for
it would appear that if a preacher prove himself as human as his
flock, they immediately lose faith in him, and become deaf to his
teaching."
"Very true, sir!" I nodded. "It has always been human to admire
and respect that only which is in any way different to ourselves;
in archaic times those whose teachings were above men's
comprehension, or who were remarkable for any singularity of
action were immediately deified. Pythagoras recognized this
truth when he shrouded himself in mystery and delivered his
lectures from behind a curtain, though to be sure he has come to
be regarded as something of a charlatan in consequence."
"Pray, sir," said the Preacher, absent-mindedly puffing at his
pipe again, "may I ask what you are?"
"A blacksmith, sir."
"And where did you read of Pythagoras and the like?"
"At Oxford, sir."
"How comes it then that I find you in the dawn, wet with rain,
buffeted by wind, and--most of all--a shoer of horses?"
But, instead of answering, I pointed to a twisted figure that lay
beneath the opposite hedge.
"A man!" exclaimed the Preacher, "and asleep, I think."
"No," said I, "not in that contorted attitude."