The Broad Highway

"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."