Yet he was wrong. Very slight inquiries into evidence have since convinced me that our Universe does exist. It is difficult to credit, in the face of William's logic: but I fear we must believe it.
Very well—waiving the possibility of our all being hypnotized through all the ages (say by Adam, Rameses the Great, Mr. Stead, or some other power having sway over human minds) into a belief of the existence of the non-existent—we will, please, take it as carried that we do exist, and that even William is forced to admit it. Very good: now let's get on.
"What do you think now?" asked James, a weak-minded scintillation of triumph in his eye.
William was evidently seriously offended; facts which contradict carefully-weighed logic, flawless in all other respects, are always irritating to the thoughtful. Men of science will indorse this.
"Hurrm!" he said at last; "your Universe does exist—in a way; and the globe you call 'Terra' does exist—in a way. But the highly objectionable creatures on it don't seem too comfortable; in fact, a more ridiculous, calamitous, disastrous, pitiful, gruesome, repulsive muddle than they make of it I could not possibly conceive!"
"But they have some reasonable qualities?" argued James.
"A few," said William. "Those taught them by the conduct of what you call the lower animals. I know what's principally wrong with them—they think, and do things, too much."
"Well, they are, perhaps, too much given to thinking and doing things. I admit that they make many mistakes, but I do protest that they mean well—that their theories are, as a whole, in the right direction—that they have a solid, genuine admiration for good aims and great deeds, and reward such merits when conspicuously shown by any among them."
"Hum!" said William.
"Oh, come," said James; "you must admit that humanity's rewards are, as a rule, conferred on those who do the greatest services to humanity."