It is true also that
the agitator--no matter what he may be agitating--is always sure of
his market; a circumstance which made that most conservative of
chancellors, Lord Eldon, swear with bitter oaths that, if he were
to begin life over again, he would begin it as an agitator. Tom Moore
tells a pleasant story (one of the many pleasant stories embalmed
in his vast sarcophagus of a diary) about a street orator whom he
heard address a crowd in Dublin. The man's eloquence was so stirring
that Moore was ravished by it, and he expressed to Sheil his
admiration for the speaker. "Ah," said Sheil carelessly, "that was
a brewer's patriot. Most of the great brewers have in their employ
a regular patriot who goes about among the publicans, talking violent
politics, which helps to sell the beer."

Honest enthusiasm, we are often told, is the power which moves the
world. Therefore it is perhaps that honest enthusiasts seem to think
that if they stopped pushing, the world would stop moving,--as though
it were a new world which didn't know its way. This belief inclines
them to intolerance. The more keen they are, the more contemptuous
they become. What Wordsworth admirably called "the self-applauding
sincerity of a heated mind" leaves them no loophole for doubt, and
no understanding of the doubter. In their volcanic progress they bowl
over the non-partisan--a man and a brother--with splendid unconcern.
He, poor soul, stunned but not convinced, clings desperately to some
pettifogging convictions which he calls truth, and refuses a clearer
vision. His habit of remembering what he believed yesterday clogs
his mind, and makes it hard for him to believe something entirely
new to-day. Much has been said about the inconvenience of keeping
opinions, but much might be said about the serenity of the process.
Old opinions are like old friends,--we cease to question their worth
because, after years of intimacy and the loss of some valuable
illusions, we have grown to place our slow reliance on them. We know
at least where we stand, and whither we are tending, and we refuse
to bustle feverishly about the circumference of life, because, as
Amiel warns us, we cannot reach its core.

The Temptation of Eve

"My Love in her attire doth shew her wit."

It is an old and honoured jest that Eve--type of eternal
womanhood--sacrificed the peace of Eden for the pleasures of dress.
We see this jest reflected in the satire of the Middle Ages, in th