should suddenly beat with joy on seeing certain colours, or grow sad even to tears on hearing certain sounds.  At times I was so alarmed on comparing my continual agitation with the indifference of other men of my class that I even began to imagine that I was mad.  But I soon consoled myself with the reflection that such madness was sweet, and I would rather have ceased to exist than be cured of it.  Now that I know these things have been thought beautiful in all times and by all intelligent beings, I understand what they are, and how they are useful to man.  I find joy in the thought that there is not a flower, not a colour, not a breath of air, which has not absorbed the minds and stirred the hearts of other men till it has received a name sacred among all peoples.  Since I have learnt that it is allowed to man, without degrading his reason, to people the universe and interpret it by his dreams, I live wholly in the contemplation of the universe; and when the sight of the misery and crime in the world bruises my heart and shakes my reason, I fall back upon my dreams.  I say to myself that, since all men are united in their love of the works of God, some day they will also be united in their love of one another.  I imagine that education grows more and more perfect from father to son.  It may be that I am the first untutored man who has divined truths of which no glimpse was given him from without.  It may be, too, that many others before myself have been perplexed by the workings of their hearts and brains and have died without ever finding an answer to the riddle.”  “Ah, we poor folk,” added Patience, “we are never forbidden excess in labour, or in wine, or in any of the debauches which may destroy our minds.  There are some people who pay dearly for the work of our arms, so that the poor, in their eagerness to satisfy the wants of their families, may work beyond their strength.  There are taverns and other places more dangerous still, from which, so it is said, the government draws a good profit; and there are priests, too, who get up in their pulpits to tell us what we owe to the lord of our village, but never what the lord owes to us.  Nowhere is there a school where they teach us our real rights; where they show us how to distinguish our true and decent wants from the shameful and fatal ones; where, in short, they tell us what we can and ought to think about when we have borne the burden and heat of the day for the profit of others, and are sitting in the evening at the door of our huts, gazing on the red stars as they come out on the horizon.”

Thus would Patience reason; and, believe me, in translating his words into our conventional language, I am robbing them of all their grace, all their fire, and all their vigour.  But who could repeat the exact words of Patience?  His was a language used by none but himself; it was a mixture of the limited, though forcible, vocabulary of the peasants and of the boldest metaphors of the poets, whose poetic turns he would often make