to one section.  And the Celtic brotherhood are not invariably fools in their sensitiveness.  They serve you on the field of Mars, and on other fields to which the world has given glory.  These execrate him as the full-grown Golden Calf of heathenish worship.  And they are so restive because they are so patriotic.  Think a little upon the ideas of unpatriotic Celts regarding him.  You have heard them.  You tell us they are you:  accurately, they affirm, succinctly they see you in his crescent outlines, tame bulk, spasms of alarm and foot on the weaker; his imperviousness to whatsoever does not confront the sensual eye of him with a cake or a fist, his religious veneration of his habitual indulgences, his peculiar forms of nightmare.  They swear to his perfect personification of your moods, your Saxon moods, which their inconsiderate spleen would have us take for unmixedly Saxon.  They are unjust, but many of them speak with a sense of the foot on their necks, and they are of a blood demanding a worshipworthy idea.  And they dislike Bull’s bellow of disrespect for their religion, much bruited in the meadows during his periods of Arcadia.  They dislike it, cannot forget the sound:  it hangs on the afflicted drum of the ear when they are in another land, perhaps when the old devotion to their priest has expired.  For this, as well as for material reasons, they hug the hatred they packed up among their bundles of necessaries and relics, in the flight from home, and they instruct their children to keep it burning.  They transmit the sentiment of the loathing of Bull, as assuredly they would be incapable of doing, even with the will, were a splendid fire-eyed motherly Britannia the figure sitting in the minds of men for our image —­a palpitating figure, alive to change, penetrable to thought, and not a stolid concrete of our traditional old yeoman characteristic.  Verily he lives for the present, all for the present, will be taught in sorrow that there is no life for him but of past and future:  his delusion of the existence of a present hour for man will not outlast the season of his eating and drinking abundantly in security.  He will perceive that it was no more than the spark shot out from the clash of those two meeting forces; and penitently will he gaze back on that misleading spark-the spectral planet it bids wink to his unreceptive stars—­acknowledging him the bare machine for those two to drive, no instrument of enjoyment.  He lives by reading rearward and seeing vanward.  He has no actual life save in power of imagination.  He has to learn this fact, the great lesson of all men.  Furthermore there may be a future closed to him if he has thrown too extreme a task of repairing on that bare machine of his.  The sight of a broken-down plough is mournful, but the one thing to do with it is to remove it from the field.