Of course, I haven't lost my interest in sociology — not by any means. I always hold fast the thought that all the world are brothers.
I'm taking up Dew-hopping next week. It's a wonderful new nerve cure. Formerly it was quite the thing to walk barefoot in the dew at dawn.
But at this new place I've discovered they don't merely walk — that's going out, quite. They HOP. Like frogs and toads, you know.
It brings the patients into closer kinship with the electric currents of the earth, hopping does, the doctor says. It's WONDERFUL!
He is the loveliest man — with mystic eyes! — the doctor is.
THE SONG OF THE SNORE
Fothergil Finch, Hermione's friend, the vers libre poet, dodges through life harried and hunted by one pursuing Fear.
"Some day," he said to me —
(It is Hermione's Boswell who is speaking in this sketch, in the first person, and not Hermione, the incomparable.) —
"Some day," Fothergil finch said to me, the other night, in a tone of intense, bitter conviction, "some day It will get me! Some day I will overtake me. The great Beat, Popularity, which pursues me! Some day It will clutch me and tear me and devour my Soul! Some day I will be a Popular Writer!"