At this moment the old gentleman began to read, in a hurried gabble, what Charles Darwin had said in eighteen-seventy-six. The heckler allowed him two minutes, and then suggested cheerfully:-- "And _now_ let's git back to the Erpostle Paul." And so on. Our friends moved away, for not far off Philip's eye had discerned a familiar figure gesticulating upon a rostrum. It was Brand. He was addressing a considerable crowd, upon the edge of which Philip and Timothy now took their stand. Philip had never seen his colleague out of his overalls before, and was struck with the man's commanding presence and impassioned delivery. "Life?" shouted Brand. His face was dead white, but his eyes blazed. "Life? What does life mean to you?" He surveyed his audience with profound contempt. "_Beer!_" The crowd accepted this bludgeoning in excellent part. "What do you _do_ with Life?" continued the speaker. "The Life that is left to you when you have worked twelve hours a day for some capitalist, and slept eight more, and spent another two coming and going from your work--your spare time, I mean? How do you employ your Sundays? Do you go and study Nature? Do you read elevatin' literature? Do you cultivate your starving minds? No! What do you do? You can't think of anything better to do than to come here and listen to fools like me! That's the sort of mugs you are!" This summary of the situation met with hearty endorsement from all parts of the audience. "But it ain't your fault," continued Brand compassionately. "You haven't ever been taught what it _means_ to enjoy Life. You haven't got the time!" He raised clenched hands to heaven. "Life! Life! It should be beautiful--glorious--sublime! Look round you now! Look at those trees! Listen to that music!" The crowd, docile but a trifle mystified, obeyed. Faintly to their ears across the Park came the tremendous chords of the Pilgrims' Chorus from "Tannhäuser," played by the Grenadier Guards Band. Brand sank down over the rail of his platform until his arms hung limply before him. "Do these sights and sounds thrill us?" he demanded hoarsely. "Do they move us? I'm asking you. Do they? No! Not a thrill, not an emotion! Why? Because we haven't been educated up to them, you and me. We're only the People. We've always had to go to work, work, work! There's never been any _time_ for us to learn of the beauty that Life holds for us." The crowd was listening now, as it always will to a _cri du coeur_. The man swept on, all aflame. "Take music! What does it mean to us? Nothing--absolutely nothing! Can you and I interpret a symphony? Not on your life: we've never been taught!" His voice rose to a scream. "And what sort of music _do_ they hand out to us as a rule--us, the People!--yes, and we lap it up? _Ragtime! R-r-ragtime!_" Philip and Tim turned away soberly enough. The spectacle of an immortal soul beating its wings against prison-bars does not lend itself to flippant comment.