They afford a strange
example of mutual mystification.
Thus at least one-half the world, not of life only (which does not
greatly matter, for one can live as happily with half the world as with
the whole) but of thought, was closed to him. Most of the poetry, the
music, and the art of the world was humbug to him, and it was only by
insisting that Homer and Shakespeare were exactly like himself that he
managed to except them from his natural aversion. So, in the last
resort, he humbugged himself quite as vehemently as he imagined the
majority of men were engaged in humbugging him. If his standard of truth
was higher than that of the many, it was lower than that of the few.
There is a kingdom where the crass division into sheep and goats is
merely clumsy and inopportune. In the slow meanderings of this _Memoir_
we too often catch a glimpse of Butler measuring giants with the
impertinent foot-rule of his common sense. One does not like him the
less for it, but it is, in spite of all the disconcerting jokes with
which it may be covered, a futile and ridiculous occupation.
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