it to work its own way, which, if it be the right way, it must work in the right mind,—­for Wisdom is justified of her children; while no one who loves the truth can be other than anxious, that if he has spoken the evil thing it may return to him void:  that is a defeat he may well pray for.  To succeed in the wrong is the most dreadful punishment to a man who, in the main, is honest.  But I beg to assure my reader I could write a long treatise on the matter between Mr Stoddart and myself; therefore, if he is not yet interested in such questions, let him be thankful to me for considering such a treatise out of place here.  I will only say in brief, that I believe with all my heart that the true is the beautiful, and that nothing evil can be other than ugly.  If it seems not so, it is in virtue of some good mingled with the evil, and not in the smallest degree in virtue of the evil.

I thought it was time for me to take my leave.  But I could not bear to run away with the last word, as it were:  so I said,

“You put plenty of poetry yourself into that voluntary you played last Sunday.  I am so much obliged to you for it!”

“Oh! that fugue.  You liked it, did you?”

“More than I can tell you.”

“I am very glad.”

“Do you know those two lines of Milton in which he describes such a performance on the organ?”

“No.  Can you repeat them?”

“’His volant touch, Instinct through all proportions, low and high, Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue.’”

“That is wonderfully fine.  Thank you.  That is better than my fugue by a good deal.  You have cancelled the obligation.”

“Do you think doing a good turn again is cancelling an obligation?  I don’t think an obligation can ever be returned in the sense of being got rid of.  But I am being hypercritical.”

“Not at all.—­Shall I tell you what I was thinking of while playing that fugue?”

“I should like much to hear.”

“I had been thinking, while you were preaching, of the many fancies men had worshipped for the truth; now following this, now following that; ever believing they were on the point of laying hold upon her, and going down to the grave empty-handed as they came.”

“And empty-hearted, too?” I asked; but he went on without heeding me.

“And I saw a vision of multitudes following, following where nothing was to be seen, with arms outstretched in all directions, some clasping vacancy to their bosoms, some reaching on tiptoe over the heads of their neighbours, and some with hanging heads, and hands clasped behind their backs, retiring hopeless from the chase.”

“Strange!” I said; “for I felt so full of hope while you played, that I never doubted it was hope you meant to express.”

“So I do not doubt I did; for the multitude was full of hope, vain hope, to lay hold upon the truth.  And you, being full of the main expression, and in sympathy with it, did not heed the undertones of disappointment, or the sighs of those who turned their backs on the chase.  Just so it is in life.”