I suppose it would have come
to do so by and by, but it was wasting time and trouble, which a single
look from its mother would have saved, just as wort will in time ferment
of itself, but will ferment much more quickly if a little yeast be added
to it. In the matter of knowing what gives us pleasure we are all like
wort, and if unaided from without can only ferment slowly and toilsomely.
My unhappy hero about this time was very much like the foal, or rather he
felt much what the foal would have felt if its mother and all the other
grown-up horses in the field had vowed that what it was eating was the
most excellent and nutritious food to be found anywhere. He was so
anxious to do what was right, and so ready to believe that every one knew
better than himself, that he never ventured to admit to himself that he
might be all the while on a hopelessly wrong tack. It did not occur to
him that there might be a blunder anywhere, much less did it occur to him
to try and find out where the blunder was. Nevertheless he became daily
more full of _malaise_, and daily, only he knew it not, more ripe for an
explosion should a spark fall upon him.
One thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general vagueness, and
to this he instinctively turned as trying to seize it--I mean, the fact
that he was saving very few souls, whereas there were thousands and
thousands being lost hourly all around him which a little energy such as
Mr Hawke's might save.
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