en us. When under
your spell, it seemed that I was born to lisp in numbers and devote
myself to singing, that the world was good and all of it fit for
singing. But away from you, even then, doubts faced me, and I knew in
vague fashion that we lived in different worlds. At first in vague
fashion, I say; and when with you again, your spell dominated me and I
could not question. You were true, you were good, I argued, all that was
wonderful and glorious; therefore, you were also right. You mastered me
with your charm, as you were wont to master those who loved you.

But there came times when your sympathy failed me and I stood alone on
outlooks I had achieved alone. There was no response from you. I could
not hear your voice. I looked down upon a real world; you were caught up
in a beautiful cloudland and shut away from me. Possibly it was because
life of itself appealed to you, while to me appealed the mechanics of
life. But be it as it may, yours was a world of ideas and fancies, mine
a world of things and facts.

Enters here the prejudice of love. It was the lad that discovered our
difference and concealed; it was the man who was blind and could not
discover. There we erred, man and boy; and here, both men now, we make
all well again.

Let me be explicit. Do you remember the passion with which I read the
"Intellectual Development of Europe?" I understood not the tithe of it,
but I was thrilled. My common sense was thrilled, I suppose; but it was
all very joyous, gripping hold of the tangible world for the first time.
And when I came to you, warm with the glow of adventure, you looked
blankly, then smiled indulgently and did not answer. You regarded my
ardour complacently. A passing humour of adolescence, you thought; and I
thought: "Dane does not read his Draper on his knees." Wordsworth was
great to me; Draper was great also. You had no patience with him, and I
know now, as I felt then, your consistent revolt against his
materialistic philosophy.

Only the other day you complained of a letter of mine, calling it cold
and analytical. That I should be cold and analytical despite all the
prodding and pressing and moulding I have received at your hands, and
the hands of Waring, marks only more clearly our temperamental
difference; but it does not mark that one or the other of us is less a
dedicated spirit. If I have wandered away from the warmth of poesy and
become practical, have you not remained and become confirmed