this vast cosmos, with its throng of stars and its
crowd of varied creatures." But if it comes to that why should not a man
say, "I like this cosy little cosmos, with its decent number of stars
and as neat a provision of live stock as I wish to see"? One is as good
as the other; they are both mere sentiments. It is mere sentiment to
rejoice that the sun is larger than the earth; it is quite as sane a
sentiment to rejoice that the sun is no larger than it is. A man chooses
to have an emotion about the largeness of the world; why should he not
choose to have an emotion about its smallness?

It happened that I had that emotion. When one is fond of anything one
addresses it by diminutives, even if it is an elephant or a
lifeguardsman. The reason is, that anything, however huge, that can be
conceived of as complete, can be conceived of as small. If military
moustaches did not suggest a sword or tusks a tail, then the object
would be vast because it would be immeasurable. But the moment you can
imagine a guardsman you can imagine a small guardsman. The moment you
really see an elephant you can call it "Tiny." If you can make a statue
of a thing you can make a statuette of it. These people professed that
the universe was one coherent thing; but they were not fond of the
universe. But I was frightfully fond of the universe and wanted to
address it by a diminutive. I often did so; and it never seemed to mind.
Actually and in truth I did feel that these dim dogmas of vitality were
better expressed by calling the world small than by calling it large.
For about infinity there was a sort of carelessness which was the
reverse of the fierce and pious care which I felt touching the
pricelessness and the peril of life. They showed only a dreary waste;
but I felt a sort of sacred thrift. For economy is far more romantic
than extravagance. To them stars were an unending income of halfpence;
but I felt about the golden sun and the silver moon as a schoolboy feels
if he has one sovereign and one shilling.

These subconscious convictions are best hit off by the colour and tone
of certain tales. Thus I have said that stories of magic alone can
express my sense that life is not only a pleasure but a kind of
eccentric privilege. I may express this other feeling of cosmic cosiness
by allusion to another book always read in boyhood, "Robinson Crusoe,"
which I read about this time, and which owes its eternal vivacity to the
fact that it celebrat