Brown. Truth is an airy point between two cliffs Of adamant opinion: safest he Who foots it far from either beetling brink. Hallowes, now: he goes hanging on the verge His martyr-face and aspirations strung With bent keys. If his starting eyes behold Some tartan star, or other fire-flaught born Of pallid brains ill-nourished on bleached blood, It is the truth--truth absolute! And down, Loosing his hold to clasp his fervid hands, He'll crash, and spill his life on stones untrod. Robinson. Fair--very fair, indeed! Jones. So would not you! The Bastille Column or St. Paul's at noon, Where crowds may see your glossy frock-coat fly, And wax pathetic o'er the exotic spray That slips the button-hole in middle air, And twinkling after, lights upon the mess Of limbs and oozing blood that late was you. Robinson. Come, let each other be! no answer, Brown; Because I want to open up a point. That fellow, Smith--the point is suicide-- He said the other day--why, it was here!-- He would have coffee; we had brandy: well-- You know he speaks to everybody; so, He cries to Topsy, there, who brought the drink-- He spoils the barmaids with his high-flown talk: I tried it, and they laughed at me; but he! He talks philosophy, religion, books: And they can talk it too, with him. Well, then---- Brown. Pure innocence: the man's a baby. Jones. Yes. Uncultured, too; he lacks the college stamp. Robinson. Well, then, my point---- Brown. Oh, never mind your point! You've hit it, Jones; "uncultured" is the word. Give me a man who knows what language means: No forging sudden bolts that gild the fact, A bright enough reality before: Who never says a thing a thousand ways, Nibbling with slippery sleight-of-tongue, till chance Expose the end to bite. Give me a man Whose mind is ready as a lawyer's desk, Each pigeon-hole accountable for this, Each drawer containing that, and nothing else. Jones. Whose thinking's done; whose automatic mind Strikes the same absolute response each time. Brown. A man who knows the best of everything; Consummate, bland; whom novelty annoys, Guessing what musty masquerade it is Of some dispute of Lamech and his wives. Jones. Smith's a mere savage, barbarous as a Lapp: A handsome creature, but elliptical. Brown. Something awanting to complete the sense! Robinson. Fair, very fair! But here's a point: you men Since you began to go about with Smith, Have caught a little of his style of talk; You can't deny his power. Brown. Power?--seething blood. Give Jones, or such a man, Smith's body--why, You'd have the hero of the age! Power? stuff! Jones. Admit the power--potential as a troop; But where's the captain? Brown. Ay; his brain's a mess Of sodden sawdust; it ferments and fumes: But, let me say, wood-spirit's not champagne, In spite of fables to the contrary.