diddling them on the end of his forefinger, began to speak in his highly mannered voice, with frequent breaks into falsetto, something like this:
You can't, you know, always tell the truth. It isn't polite or expedient. Three-fourths of the time I don't feel at all like coming over here. And God knows that three-fourths of the time you would probably rather be anywhere than here. But if we acted on those feelings you would be called before the dean, and I should be told that I could devote my energies to something else.
The formal dress, decorous aspect and little affectations of the man were in delicious contrast with the opening speech, and, indeed, with the entire point of view in the course. The man's mind was lucid, honest, virile, burly and absolutely untrammeled; his speech likewise. "Literature," he said, "was the meaning of life"; and he was not afraid to face life's meaning or to express it in round terms—so long as he dealt with its meaning in the seventeenth century.
I can suggest the flavor of this series of lectures by a few extracts from my own memoranda: "In 1642 the drama was so dead that it stank in the nostrils of London." "The Puritan thinking himself a sharer in the will of God believes himself required to force his will on others." Occasionally there was an excursus: "Vox populi, vox Dei means that if you can get a majority of trades unions on your side that's just what God wants." Speaking of the central figure in his course, he observed: "It is remarkable that Milton could approach so close to modern culture and still believe literally in the Scriptures. How can you take your Maker and dress him up in pretty verses? I
