What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine speech, word for word, twice over!  Yet it was not true, as the lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished his conversation with the Huma daily during that whole interval of years.  On the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances brought up precisely the same idea.  He ought to have been proud of the accuracy of his mental adjustments.  Given certain factors, and a sound brain should always evolve the same fixed product with the certainty of Babbage’s calculating machine.

—­What a satire, by the way, is that machine on the mere mathematician!  A Frankenstein-monster, a thing without brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; that turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them!

I have an immense respect for a man of talents plus “the mathematics.”  But the calculating power alone should seem to be the least human of qualities, and to have the smallest amount of reason in it; since a machine can be made to do the work of three or four calculators, and better than any one of them.  Sometimes I have been troubled that I had not a deeper intuitive apprehension of the relations of numbers.  But the triumph of the ciphering hand-organ has consoled me.  I always fancy I can hear the wheels clicking in a calculator’s brain.  The power of dealing with numbers is a kind of “detached lever” arrangement, which may be put into a mighty poor watch—­I suppose it is about as common as the power of moving the ears voluntarily, which is a moderately rare endowment.

—­Little localized powers, and little narrow streaks of specialized knowledge, are things men are very apt to be conceited about.  Nature is very wise; but for this encouraging principle how many small talents and little accomplishments would be neglected!  Talk about conceit as much as you like, it is to human character what salt is to the ocean; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endurable.  Say rather it is like the natural unguent of the sea-fowl’s plumage, which enables him to shed the rain that falls on him and the wave in which he dips.  When one has had all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illusions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will fly no more.

“So you admire conceited people, do you?” said the young lady who has come to the city to be finished off for—­the duties of life.

I am afraid you do not study logic at your school, my dear.  It does not follow that I wish to be pickled in brine because I like a salt-water plunge at Nahant.  I say that conceit is just as natural a thing to human minds as a centre is to a circle.  But little-minded people’s thoughts move in such small circles that five minutes’ conversation gives you an arc long enough to determine their whole curve.  An arc in the movement of a large intellect does not sensibly differ from a straight line.  Even if it have the third vowel as its centre, it does not soon betray it.  The highest thought, that is, is the most seemingly impersonal; it does not obviously imply any individual centre.