It certainly is no disgrace to any literary man not to know anything of so remote a philosopher as Xenophanes. The first characteristic of a genuine literary man is the frankness with which he confesses his ignorance. But Humphreys did not really know but that Xenophanes was part of the daily reading of a man of letters.
"Oh! yes," said he. "I have his works in turkey morocco."
"What do you think of his opinion that God is a sphere?" asked the Philosopher, smiling.
"Oh! yes--ahem; let me see--which God is it that he speaks of, Jupiter or--well, you know he was a Greek."
"But he only believed in one God," said Andrew sternly.
"Oh! ah! I forgot that he was a Christian."
So from blunder to blunder Andrew pushed him, Humphreys stumbling more and more in his blind attempts to right himself, and leaving, at last, with much internal confusion but with an unruffled smile. He dared not broach his errand by asking the address of August. For Andrew did not conceal his disgust, having resumed work at his loom, suffering the bowing impostor to find his own way out without so much as a courteous adieu.