On the other hand, how he despised fustian and bombast.  His “Bah!” delivered explosively, was often like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room.  Several years ago, before I came here—­and it is one of the historic stories of the county—­there was a semi-political Fourth of July celebration with a number of ambitious orators.  One of them, a young fellow of small worth who wanted to be elected to the legislature, made an impassioned address on “Patriotism.”  The Doctor was present, for he liked gatherings:  he liked people.  But he did not like the young orator, and did not want him to be elected.  In the midst of the speech, while the audience was being carried through the clouds of oratory, the Doctor was seen to be growing more and more uneasy.  Finally he burst out: 

“Bah!”

The orator caught himself, and then swept on again.

“Bah!” said the Doctor.

By this time the audience was really interested.  The orator stopped.  He knew the Doctor, and he should have known better than to say what he did.  But he was very young and he knew the Doctor was opposing him.

“Perhaps,” he remarked sarcastically, “the Doctor can make a better speech than I can.”

The Doctor rose instantly, to his full height—­and he was an impressive-looking man.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I can, and what is more, I will.”  He stood up on a chair and gave them a talk on Patriotism—­real patriotism—­the patriotism of duty done in the small concerns of life.  That speech, which ended the political career of the orator, is not forgotten to-day.

One thing I heard to-day about the old Doctor impressed me deeply.  I have been thinking about it ever since:  it illuminates his character more than anything I have heard.  It is singular, too, that I should not have known the story before.  I don’t believe it was because it all happened so long ago; it rather remained untold out of deference to a sort of neighbourhood delicacy.

I had, indeed, wondered why a man of such capacities, so many qualities of real greatness and power, should have escaped a city career.  I said something to this effect to a group of men with whom I was talking this morning.  I thought they exchanged glances; one said: 

“When he first came out of the army he’d made such a fine record as a surgeon that everyone-urged him to go to the city and practice——­”

A pause followed which no one seemed inclined to fill.

“But he didn’t go,” I said.

“No, he didn’t go.  He was a brilliant young fellow.  He knew a lot, and he was popular, too.  He’d have had a great success——­”

Another pause.

“But he didn’t go?” I asked promptingly.

“No; he staid here.  He was better educated than any man in this county.  Why, I’ve seen him more’n once pick up a book of Latin and read it for pleasure.”

I could see that all this was purposely irrelevant, and I liked them for it.  But walking home from the cemetery Horace gave me the story; the community knew it to the last detail.  I suppose it is a story not uncommon among men, but this morning, told of the old Doctor we had just laid away, it struck me with a tragic poignancy difficult to describe.