which seems to wind us up so blankly, there is always a BEYOND. And the strange thing about that Beyond is that it is really no Beyond at all: it is There all the time; but we can hardly see it for the rather odd reason that we are too close. And this Beyond that is always There is the real Story, if we only knew it. What we read is only foot-notes at the bottom of the page to explain the real Story. But because our eyes are so close to the page, and because the page is so very large, we often only see the foot-notes, which are most interesting of themselves. Then sometimes we deny that the page is there, saying the foot-notes are all, which is rather foolish: for what is the good of Notes on Nothing? And a man who buries his nose in the Notes, and tries to read the writing by smelling it, is a sinner; and _he_ usually knows a lot about nothing. And a man who holds his eyes close to the page, and pries into the Notes, is a scientist; and _he_ usually knows a lot about the Notes, and nothing about the Story, which the Notes are on. And a man who stands back a bit, and says he can read the whole thing, Notes and all, and explain it easily, is a Philosopher; and _he_ usually knows a little about both Notes and Story. And a man who stands still further back, and looks at the Story very quietly, and tells truly all he sees, without trying to explain it, is a Poet; and he usually knows a lot about both Notes and Story. And this Beyond that is always There is always the same, and is always a Love-story. And we are characters in this Love-story, and walk for ever through its pages. But if we walk apart by ourselves, rather proud and puffed up, saying that it isn't a real Story, and that we don't belong to it, and will take no part, then we lose all the interest. For that comes from joining in, and feeling that we are characters in the Story, and must help it along by helping the other characters. While if we enter in, then we very soon find out that it is the best Story in the world, and that if we will, we can be little heroes, and play our part, and win in the end quite splendidly. _Then_ it becomes exciting. And once we have joined in, we find oddly enough that as we grow older we grow younger, until at length we become as little children, happy all the time, our work our play, our life a Song of Innocence, not unlike the natives of That Country. * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Redcoat Captain, by Alfred Ollivant