Such a wide chance for divergence in the spiritual.  It has been such a busy world for twenty years.  So many things have been torn up by the roots again that were settled when we left college.  There were to be no more wars; democracy was democracy, and progress, the differentiation of the individual, was a mere question of clothes; if you want to be different, go to your tailor; nobody had demonstrated that there is a man-soul and a woman-soul, and that each is in reality only a half-soul,—­putting the race, so to speak, upon the half-shell.  The social oyster being opened, there appears to be two shells and only one oyster; who shall have it?  So many new canons of taste, of criticism, of morality have been set up; there has been such a resurrection of historical reputations for new judgment, and there have been so many discoveries, geographical, archaeological, geological, biological, that the earth is not at all what it was supposed to be; and our philosophers are much more anxious to ascertain where we came from than whither we are going.  In this whirl and turmoil of new ideas, nature, which has only the single end of maintaining the physical identity in the body, works on undisturbed, replacing particle for particle, and preserving the likeness more skillfully than a mosaic artist in the Vatican; she has not even her materials sorted and labeled, as the Roman artist has his thousands of bits of color; and man is all the while doing his best to confuse the process, by changing his climate, his diet, all his surroundings, without the least care to remain himself.  But the mind?

It is more difficult to get acquainted with Herbert than with an entire stranger, for I have my prepossessions about him, and do not find him in so many places where I expect to find him.  He is full of criticism of the authors I admire; he thinks stupid or improper the books I most read; he is skeptical about the “movements” I am interested in; he has formed very different opinions from mine concerning a hundred men and women of the present day; we used to eat from one dish; we could n’t now find anything in common in a dozen; his prejudices (as we call our opinions) are most extraordinary, and not half so reasonable as my prejudices; there are a great many persons and things that I am accustomed to denounce, uncontradicted by anybody, which he defends; his public opinion is not at all my public opinion.  I am sorry for him.  He appears to have fallen into influences and among a set of people foreign to me.  I find that his church has a different steeple on it from my church (which, to say the truth, hasn’t any).  It is a pity that such a dear friend and a man of so much promise should have drifted off into such general contrariness.  I see Herbert sitting here by the fire, with the old look in his face coming out more and more, but I do not recognize any features of his mind,—­except perhaps his contrariness; yes, he was always a little contrary, I think.  And finally he surprises me with, “Well, my friend, you seem to have drifted away from your old notions and opinions.  We used to agree when we were together, but I sometimes wondered where you would land; for, pardon me, you showed signs of looking at things a little contrary.”