But there are degrees of approximation to truth and of remoteness from it.  Truth as apprehended by pure passion, truth as apprehended by simplicity of soul ("And a little child shall lead them"), truth as apprehended by spiritual experience—­such respectively make up the substance of the monologues of Caponsacchi, of Pompilia, and of the Pope.  For the valuation, however, of this loftier testimony we require a sense of the level ground, even if it be the fen-country.  A perception of the heights must be given by exhibiting the plain.  If we were carried up in the air and heard these voices how should we know for certain that we had not become inhabitants of some Cloudcuckootown?  And the plain is where we ordinarily live and move; it has its rights, and is worth understanding for its own sake.  Therefore we shall mix our mind with that of “Half-Rome” and “The Other Half-Rome” before we climb any mounts of transfiguration or enter any city set upon a hill.  The “man in the street” is a veritable person, and it is good that we should make his acquaintance; even the man in the salon may speak his mind if he will; such shallow excitements, such idle curiosities as theirs will enable us better to appreciate the upheaval to the depths in the heart of Caponsacchi, the quietude, and the rapt joy in quietude, of Pompilia, the profound searchings of spirit that proceed all through the droop of that sombre February day in the closet of the Pope.  And, then, at the most tragic moment and when pathos is most poignant, life goes on, and the world is wide, and laughter is not banished from earth.  Therefore Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Procurator of the Poor, shall make his ingenious notes for the defence of Count Guido, and cite his precedents and quote his authorities, and darken counsel with words, all to be by and by ecclesiasticized and regularized and Latinized and Ciceroized, while more than half the good man’s mind is occupied with thought of the imminent “lovesome frolic feast” on his boy Cinone’s birth-night, which shall bring with it lamb’s fry and liver, stung out of its monotony of richness by parsley-sprigs and fennel.  Yes, and we shall hear also the other side—­how, in a florilegium of Latin, selected to honour aright the Graces and the Muses and the majesty of Law, Johannes-Baptista Bottinius can do justice to his client and to his own genius by showing, with due exordium and argument and peroration, that Pompilia is all that her worst adversaries allege, and yet can be established innocent, or not so very guilty, by her rhetorician’s learning and legal deftness in quart and tierce.