door.  Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales—­because they find them romantic.  In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him.  This proves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of interest and amazement.  These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green.  They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water.  I have said that this is wholly reasonable and even agnostic.  And, indeed, on this point I am all for the higher agnosticism; its better name is Ignorance.  We have all read in scientific books, and, indeed, in all romances, the story of the man who has forgotten his name.  This man walks about the streets and can see and appreciate everything; only he cannot remember who he is.  Well, every man is that man in the story.  Every man has forgotten who he is.  One may understand the cosmos, but never the ego; the self is more distant than any star.  Thou shalt love the Lord thy God; but thou shalt not know thyself.  We are all under the same mental calamity; we have all forgotten our names.  We have all forgotten what we really are.  All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten.  All that we call spirit and art and ecstasy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget.

But though (like the man without memory in the novel) we walk the streets with a sort of half-witted admiration, still it is admiration.  It is admiration in English and not only admiration in Latin.  The wonder has a positive element of praise.  This is the next milestone to be definitely marked on our road through fairyland.  I shall speak in the next chapter about optimists and pessimists in their intellectual aspect, so far as they have one.  Here I am only trying to describe the enormous emotions which cannot be described.  And the strongest emotion was that life was as precious as it was puzzling.  It was an ecstasy because it was an adventure; it was an adventure because it was an opportunity.  The goodness of the fairy tale was not affected by the fact that there might be more dragons than princesses; it was good to be in a fairy tale.  The test of all happiness is gratitude; and I felt grateful, though I hardly knew to whom.  Children are grateful when Santa Claus puts in their stockings gifts of toys or sweets.  Could I not be grateful to Santa Claus when he put in my stockings the gift of two miraculous legs?  We thank people for birthday presents of cigars and slippers.  Can I thank no one for the birthday present of birth?