C are sure that A is the
best friend of each. This harmony, however, is not triangular. A makes
the mistake of supposing that it is--having a notion that things which
are equal to the same thing are equal to each other--and he brings B and
C together. The result is disastrous. B and C cannot get on with each
other. Regard for A restrains their animosity, and they hypocritically
pretend to like each other, but both wonder what A finds so congenial in
the other. The truth is that this personal equation, as we call it, in
each cannot be made the subject of mathematical calculation. Human
relations will not bend to it. And yet we keep blundering along as if
they would. We are always sure, in our letter of introduction, that this
friend will be congenial to the other, because we are fond of both.
Sometimes this happens, but half the time we should be more successful in
bringing people into accord if we gave a letter of introduction to a
person we do not know, to be delivered to one we have never seen. On the
face of it this is as absurd as it is for a politician to indorse the
application of a person he does not know for an office the duties of
which he is unacquainted with; but it is scarcely less absurd than the
expectation that men and women can be treated like mathematical units and
equivalents. Upon the theory that they can, rest the present grotesque
schemes of Nationalism.

In saying all this the Drawer is well aware that it subjects itself to
the charge of being commonplace, but it is precisely the commonplace that
this essay seeks to defend. Great is the power of the commonplace. "My
friends," says the preacher, in an impressive manner, "Alexander died;
Napoleon died; you will all die!" This profound remark, so true, so
thoughtful, creates a deep sensation. It is deepened by the statement
that "man is a moral being." The profundity of such startling assertions
cows the spirit; they appeal to the universal consciousness, and we bow
to the genius that delivers them. "How true!" we exclaim, and go away
with an enlarged sense of our own capacity for the comprehension of deep
thought. Our conceit is flattered. Do we not like the books that raise us
to the great level of the commonplace, whereon we move with a sense of
power? Did not Mr. Tupper, that sweet, melodious shepherd of the
undisputed, lead about vast flocks of sheep over the satisfying plain of
mediocrity? Was there ever a greater exhibition of power, while it