I may be mistaken, but my impression is that “The Light of the World,” by Holman Hunt, is the only celebrated picture in the world of which there are two originals.  One of these may be seen at Oxford and the other in St. Paul’s, London.  Neither is a copy of the other, and yet they are both alike, so far as one may judge without having them side by side.  The picture represents Christ standing at a door knocking, with a lantern in one hand from which light is streaming.  When I think of a lantern the mind instantly flashes to this picture, to Diogenes and his lantern, and to the old tin lantern with its perforated cylinder which I used to carry out to the barn to arrange the bed-chambers for the horses.  All my life have I been hearing folks speak of the association of ideas as if one idea could conjure up innumerable others.  The lantern that I carried to the barn never could have been associated with Diogenes if I had not read of the philosopher, nor with the picture at Oxford if I had never seen or heard of it.  In order that we have association of ideas, we must first have the ideas, according to my way of thinking.

Thus it chanced that when I came upon some reference to Holman Hunt and his great masterpiece, my mind glanced over to the cynical philosopher and his lantern.  The more I ponder over that lantern the more puzzled I become as to its real significance.  The popular notion is that it is meant to show how difficult it was in his day to find an honest man.  But popular conceptions are sometimes superficial ones, and if Diogenes was the philosopher we take him to have been there must have been more to that lantern than the mere eccentricity of the man who carried it.  If we could go back of the lantern we might find the cynic’s definition of honesty, and that would be worth knowing.  Back home we used to say that an honest man is one who pays his debts and has due respect for property rights.  Perhaps Diogenes had gone more deeply into the matter of paying debts as a mark of honesty than those who go no further in their thinking than the grocer, the butcher, and the tax-man.

This all tends to set me thinking of my own debts and the possibility of full payment.  I’m just a schoolmaster and people rather expect me to be somewhat visionary or even fantastic in my notions.  But, with due allowance for my vagaries, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I am deeply in debt to somebody for the Venus de Milo.  She has the reputation of being the very acme of sculpture, and certainly the Parisians so regard her or they would not pay her such a high tribute in the way of space and position.  She is the focus of that whole wonderful gallery.  No one has ever had the boldness to give her a place in the market quotations, but I can regale myself with her beauty for a mere pittance.  This pittance does not at all cancel my indebtedness, and I come away feeling that I still owe something to somebody, without in the least knowing who it is or how I am to pay.  I can’t even have the poor satisfaction of making proper acknowledgment to the sculptor.