Edward Simmons, a painter of the last generation whose anecdotes are more genial than his murals, tells this story about Paul Verlaine. He was, says Simmons, a plain, hairy, dirty figure who frequented a Parisian café where Simmons foregathered with his fellow art students. You would not look twice at the ugly, disorderly being unless you chanced to notice his eyes. If he looked at you, you knew you were in the presence of your better. One night Simmons had a dispute with a French friend as to what was the meaning of courage. One argued that it is an admirable quality, the other that it is mere stupidity and vanity. At the height of the discussion Verlaine came in and was appealed to for a decision. He first demanded beer and then listened carefully to both sides. Looking at Simmons, he said: “I decide for the young American.” “But why?” asked the Frenchman. “Because you are right and he is right; you are wrong and he is wrong. But he believes what he says.” Whatever you may think of the forthcoming argument, please consider that I believe what I shall say. If belief is the touchstone of persuasion, as Verlaine seems to have asserted, I may find responsive ears. But remember that the other side could be right too.