When we had come to the corner of my street in Chelsea as I got out I offered him a cigar which I had upon me. He told me he did not smoke. He was going on to tell me that he did not drink, and would, I had no doubt, if he had had further leisure, have told me his religion, his politics, and much more about himself; but though the ’buses in those days would wait very long at street corners they would not wait for ever, and that particular ’bus rumbled and bumped away. I looked after it a little wistfully, for fear that I might never see a happy man again. And I walked down my street towards my home more slowly than usual, thinking upon the thing that I had just experienced. I confess I found it a very difficult matter. That experience not only challenged all that I had heard of happiness, but also re-awoke the insistent and imperative question which men put to their gods and which never receives an answer. Ecstasy is independent of all material conditions whatsoever. That great sense of rectitude which so often embitters men but permits them to support pain is independent of material conditions also. But these are not contented moods: oblivion is ready to every man’s hand, and even the most unfortunate secure a little sleep, and even the most tortured slaves know that at last, for all the rules and fines and regulations of the workshop, they cannot be forbidden to die; but such a prospect is not equivalent to content. Further, there is a philosophy, rarely achieved but conspicuous in every rank of fortune, which so steadily regards all external accident as to remain indifferent to the strain of living and even to be, to some extent, master of physical pain. But that philosophy, that mournful philosophy which I have heard called “the permanent religion of mankind,” is not content: on the contrary, it is very close indeed to despair. It is the philosophy of which the Roman Empire perished. It is the philosophy which, just because it utterly failed to satisfy the heart of man, powerfully accelerated the triumph of the Church, as the weight and pressure of water powerfully accelerate the rise of a man’s body through it, to the sunlight and the air above, which are native and necessary to him. No, it was not the philosophy of the Stoics which had laid a foundation for the ’bus-conductor’s soul. I could not explain that content of his in any way save upon the hypothesis that he was mad. The Missioner