But you must not jump to the conclusion that all Sulphites are agreeable company.  This is no classification as of desirable and undesirable people.  The Sulphite, from his very nature, must continually surprise you by an unexpected course of action.  He must explode.  You never know what he will say or do.  He is always sulphitic, but as often impossible.  He will not bore you, but he may shock you.  You find yourself watching him to see what is coming next, and it may be a subtle jest, a paradox, or an atrocious violation of etiquette.

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All cranks, all reformers, and most artists are sulphitic.  The insane asylums are full of Sulphites.  They not only do ordinary things in unusual ways, but they do unusual things in ordinary ways.  What is more intensely sulphitic than, when you have said your farewells, to go immediately?  Or, as you swim out to rescue a drowning girl, to keep your pipe burning, all the while?  They do not attempt to “entertain” you, but let you choose your own pastime.  When they present a gift, it has either rhyme or reason to it.  Their letters are not passed about to be read by the family.

* * * * *

Hamlet was a Sulphite; Polonius a Bromide.  Becky Sharp was sulphitic; Amelia Sedley bromidic.  So we might follow the line of cleavage between the two groups in Art, Religion and Politics.  Compare, for instance, President Roosevelt with his predecessor in office—­the Unexpected versus the sedate Thermometer of Public Opinion.  Compare Bernard Shaw with Marie Corelli—­one would swear that their very brains were differently colored!  Their epigrams and platitudes are merely the symptoms of different methods of thought.  One need not consult one’s prejudice, affection or taste—­the Sulphitic Theory explains without either condemning or approving.  The leopard cannot change his spots.

* * * * *

But if, along with these contrasts, we take, for example, Lewis Carroll as opposed to Dr. Johnson, we are brought up against an extraordinary inconsistency.  It is, however, only an apparent paradox—­beneath it lies a vital principle.  Dr. Johnson was, himself, a Sulphite of the Sulphites, but how intensely bromidic were his writings!  One yawns to think of them.  As for Lewis Carroll, in his classic nonsense, so sulphitic as often to be accused by Bromides of having a secret meaning, his private life was that of a Bromide.  Read his biography and learn the terrors of his formal, set entertainments to the little girls whom he patronized!  They knew what to expect of him, and he never, however agreeably, disappointed them.  No, unfortunately a Sulphite does not always produce sulphitic art.  How many writers we know who are more interesting than their work!  How many who are infinitely less so!  Your professional humorist is usually a dull, melancholy fellow in his private life—­and a clergyman may preach infant damnation and be a merry father at home.