And in spirit they were what they
seemed: such a wild, joyous, frolicsome spirit, with such grace
and fleetness, one does not look for in human beings, but only in
birds or in some small bird-like volatile mammal--a squirrel or a
spider-monkey of the tropical forest, or the chinchilla of the
desolate mountain slopes; the swiftest, wildest, loveliest, most
airy, and most vocal of small beauties." Or this, as the
quintessence of a sly remark: "After that Mantel got on to his
horse and rode away. It was black and rainy, but he had never
needed moon or lantern to find what he sought by night, whether
his own house, or a fat cow--also his own, perhaps." So one
might go on quoting felicity for ever from this writer. He seems
to touch every string with fresh and uninked fingers; and the
secret of his power lies, I suspect, in the fact that his words:
"Life being more than all else to me . . ." are so utterly
true.
I do not descant on his love for simple folk and simple things,
his championship of the weak, and the revolt against the cagings
and cruelties of life, whether to men or birds or beasts, that
springs out of him as if against his will; because, having spoken
of him as one with a vital philosophy or faith, I don't wish to
draw red herrings across the main trail of his worth to the
world.
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