’"I am not mad, most noble Festus,” was Paul’s rejoinder, as he turned upon his vulgar censor with the grace of a courtier, the dignity of a prophet, and the mildness of a saint.  But many there are, who, adhering to the faith of the soul with that unusual earnestness which the world calls “mad,” can answer their critics only by the eloquence of their characters and lives.  Now, the other day, while visiting a person whose highest merit, so far as I know, is to save his pennies, I was astounded by hearing him allude to some of most approved worth among us, thus:  “You know we consider those men insane.”

’What this meant, I could not at first well guess, so completely was my scale of character turned topsy-turvy.  But revolving the subject afterward, I perceived that we was the multiple of Festus, and those men of Paul.  All the circumstances seemed the same as in that Syrian hall; for the persons in question were they who cared more for doing good than for fortune and success,—­more for the one risen from the dead than for fleshly life,—­more for the Being in whom we live and move than for King Agrippa.

’Among this band of candidates for the mad-house, I found the young poet who valued insight of nature’s beauty, and the power of chanting to his fellow-men a heavenly music, above the prospect of fortune, political power, or a standing in fashionable society.  At the division of the goods of this earth, he was wandering like Schiller’s poet.  But the difference between American and German regulations would seem to be, that in Germany the poet, when not “with Jove,” is left at peace on earth; while here he is, by a self-constituted police, declared “mad.”

’Another of this band was the young girl who, early taking a solemn view of the duties of life, found it difficult to serve an apprenticeship to its follies.  She could not turn her sweetness into “manner,” nor cultivate love of approbation at the expense of virginity of heart.  In so called society she found no outlet for her truest, fairest self, and so preferred to live with external nature, a few friends, her pencil, instrument, and books.  She, they say, is “mad.”

’And he, the enthusiast for reform, who gives away fortune, standing in the world, peace, and only not life, because bigotry is now afraid to exact the pound of flesh as well as the ducats,—­he, whose heart beats high with hopes for the welfare of his race, is “mad.”

’And he, the philosopher, who does not tie down his speculation to the banner of the day, but lets the wings of his thought upbear him where they will, as if they were stronger and surer than the balloon let off for the amusement of the populace,—­he must be “mad.”  Off with him to the moon! that paradise of noble fools, who had visions of possibilities too grand and lovely for this sober earth.