THE AMERICAN
would never work straight, this was not a reason for giving him up. Goethe recommended seeing human nature in the most various forms, and Mr. Babcock thought Goethe perfectly splendid. He often tried in odd half-hours of conversation to explain what he meant by some of his principal doubts, but it was like offering to read from a technical treatise. The volume might deal lucidly with Mr. Babcock's subject, but what was Mr. Babcock's subject without Mr. Babcock's interest in it? Newman could entertain a respect for any man's subject and thought his friend fortunate to have so special a one. He accepted all the proofs of its importance that were thus anxiously offered him, and put them away in what he supposed a very safe place; but poor Babcock never afterwards recognised his gifts among the articles that Newman had in daily use.
They travelled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where for three or four weeks they trudged over rough passes and smooth and lounged by the edge and on the bosom of blue lakes. At last they crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice. Mr. Babcock had become gloomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed moody, absent, preoccupied; he got his plans into a tangle and talked one moment of doing one thing and the next of doing another. Newman led his own usual life, recklessly made acquaintances, took his ease in the galleries and churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time in strolling in Piazza San Marco, bought several spurious pictures and for a fortnight enjoyed Venice grossly. One evening, coming back to his inn, he
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