We see that
there is no more natural order than in a dusty old attic. There is
often the same incongruity between fact, idea, and emotion as there
might be in an opera house, if all the wardrobes were dumped in a heap
and all the scores mixed up, so that Madame Butterfly in a Valkyr's
dress waited lyrically for the return of Faust. "At Christmas-tide"
says an editorial, "old memories soften the heart. Holy teachings are
remembered afresh as thoughts run back to childhood. The world does
not seem so bad when seen through the mist of half-happy, half-sad
recollections of loved ones now with God. No heart is untouched by the
mysterious influence.... The country is honeycombed with red
propaganda--but there is a good supply of ropes, muscles and
lampposts... while this world moves the spirit of liberty will burn in
the breast of man."
The man who found these phrases in his mind needs help. He needs a
Socrates who will separate the words, cross-examine him until he has
defined them, and made words the names of ideas. Made them mean a
particular object and nothing else. For these tense syllables have got
themselves connected in his mind by primitive association, and are
bundled together by his memories of Christmas, his indignation as a
conservative, and his thrills as the heir to a revolutionary
tradition. Sometimes the snarl is too huge and ancient for quick
unravelling.
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