Not only had he
not the temper of the zealot or the fanatic, but he was a kindly man,
with no fierceness about him. Yet somehow, and this was the miracle, he
contrived to have none of the easy unction of the pushing man of
holiness who realises that if he is to succeed in accomplishing what he
wants accomplished, he must assume a certain cunning suavity of manner
which is really foreign to his character. Hankey had no pose. He was at
bottom what Walt Whitman calls a "natural and nonchalant" person, who
happened to be made all through of sweetness and light, though never the
superior person, and never, as it were, too good for this world. Not for
one moment did you find in him the chill of sanctity. In the phrase of
John Silver, "he kept company very easy."
I should imagine that confession was the very last thing that Hankey
would ever have encouraged in anyone, for it is the most debilitating of
the virtues. All the same, a penitent would have found him an
extraordinarily easy occupant of the box. He was warm-hearted,
sympathetic, and full of the victorious spirit. One felt with Hankey
that he was born for whatever was arduous. In truth he was "God's
soldier.
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