was ours; we are vowed to the
pursuit of it. Mr. Radnor lighted on the tracks, by dint of a thought
flung at his partner Mr. Inchling's dread of the Jews. Inchling dreaded
Scotchmen as well, and Americans, and Armenians, and Greeks: latterly
Germans hardly less; but his dread of absorption in Jewry, signifying
subjection, had often precipitated a deplorable shrug, in which Victor
Radnor now perceived the skirts of his idea, even to a fancy that
something of the idea must have struck Inchling when he shrugged: the
idea being . . . he had lost it again. Definition seemed to be an
extirpation enemy of this idea, or she was by nature shy. She was very
feminine; coming when she willed and flying when wanted. Not until nigh
upon the close of his history did she return, full-statured and
embraceable, to Victor Radnor.

CHAPTER II

THROUGH THE VAGUE TO THE INFINITELY LITTLE

The fair dealing with readers demands of us, that a narrative shall not
proceed at slower pace than legs of a man in motion; and we are still but
little more than midway across London Bridge. But if a man's mind is to
be taken as a part of him, the likening of it, at an introduction, to an
army on the opening march of a great campaign, should plead excuses for
tardy forward movements, in consideration of the large amount of matter
you have to review before you can at all imagine yourselves to have made
his acquaintance. This it is not necessary to do when you are set astride
the enchanted horse of the Tale, which leaves the man's mind at home
while he performs the deeds befitting him: he can indeed be rapid.
Whether more active, is a question asking for your notions of the
governing element in the composition of man, and of hid present business
here. The Tale inspirits one's earlier ardours, when we sped without
baggage, when the Impossible was wings to imagination, and heroic
sculpture the simplest act of the chisel. It does not advance, 'tis true;
it drives the whirligig circle round and round the single existing
central point; but it is enriched with applause of the boys and girls of
both ages in this land; and all the English critics heap their honours on
its brave old Simplicity: our national literary flag, which signalizes us
while we float, subsequently to flap above the shallows. One may sigh for
it. An ill-fortuned minstrel who has by fateful direction been brought to
see with distinctness, that man is not as much comprised in external
fea