ace of
uncomfortable symptoms, which seemed unworthy of a man whose conscience
had been properly cultivated. And yet poor Babcock liked him, and
remembered that even if he was sometimes perplexing and painful, this
was not a reason for giving him up. Goethe recommended seeing human
nature in the most various forms, and Mr. Babcock thought Goethe
perfectly splendid. He often tried, in odd half-hours of conversation
to infuse into Newman a little of his own spiritual starch, but Newman's
personal texture was too loose to admit of stiffening. His mind could no
more hold principles than a sieve can hold water. He admired principles
extremely, and thought Babcock a mighty fine little fellow for having
so many. He accepted all that his high-strung companion offered him,
and put them away in what he supposed to be a very safe place; but poor
Babcock never afterwards recognized his gifts among the articles that
Newman had in daily use.

They traveled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where
for three or four weeks they trudged over passes and lounged upon blue
lakes. At last they crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice.
Mr. Babcock had become gloomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed
moody, absent, preoccupied; he got his plans into a tangle, and talked
one moment of doing one thing and the next of doing another. Newman led
his usual life, made acquaintances, took his ease in the galleries and
churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time in strolling in the
Piazza San Marco, bought a great many bad pictures, and for a fortnight
enjoyed Venice grossly. One evening, coming back to his inn, he found
Babcock waiting for him in the little garden beside it. The young man
walked up to him, looking very dismal, thrust out his hand, and said
with solemnity that he was afraid they must part. Newman expressed
his surprise and regret, and asked why a parting had became necessary.
"Don't be afraid I'm tired of you," he said.

"You are not tired of me?" demanded Babcock, fixing him with his clear
gray eye.

"Why the deuce should I be? You are a very plucky fellow. Besides, I
don't grow tired of things."

"We don't understand each other," said the young minister.

"Don't I understand you?" cried Newman. "Why, I hoped I did. But what if
I don't; where's the harm?"

"I don't understand YOU," said Babcock. And he sat down and rested his
head on his hand, and looked up mournfully at his immeasurable friend.