“Pardon me, I simply meant to ask if you are one of those who swear by Lord Verulam.”
“I swear by no man, I do not swear at all, not on philosophical subjects especially; swearing adds nothing to faith,” said Beauclerc.
“I stand corrected,” said Churchill, “and I would go further, and add that in argument enthusiasm adds nothing to reason—much as I admire, as we all admire,” glancing at Miss Stanley, “that enthusiasm with which this favoured work has been advocated!”
“I could not help speaking warmly,” cried Beauclerc; “it is a book to inspire enthusiasm; there is such a noble spirit all through it, so pure from petty passions, from all vulgar jealousies, all low concerns! Judge of a book, somebody says, by the impression it leaves on your mind when you lay it down; this book stands that test, at least with me, I lay it down with such a wish to follow—with steps ever so unequal still to follow, where it points the way.”
“Bravo! bravissimo! hear him, hear him! print him, print him! hot-press from the author to the author, hot-press!” cried Churchill, and he laughed.
Like one suddenly awakened from the trance of enthusiasm by the cold touch of ridicule, stood Beauclerc, brought down from heaven to earth, and by that horrid little laugh, not the heart’s laugh.
“But my being ridiculous does not make my cause so, and that is a comfort.”
“And another comfort you may have, my dear Granville,” said Lady Davenant, “that ridicule is not the test of truth; truth should be the test of ridicule.”
“But where is the book?” continued Beauclerc.
Helen gave it to him.