Your true Trojan, in short, will don and doff his folly as a garment.

Do you meet him, grave as a judge, with compressed lip and corrugated brow?
Stand aside, I warn you: his fit is on him, and he may catch you up with him to heights where the ridiculous and the sublime are one and all the Olympians as drunk as Chloe.

Better, if you have no head for heights, wait and listen for the moment--it will surely come--when the bubble cracks, and with a laugh he is sane, hilariously sane.
Just here it was that our Mayor fell out with our _genius loci_.
He could smile--paternally, magisterially, benignantly, gallantly, with patronage, in deprecation, compassionately, disdainfully (as when he happened to mention Napoleon Bonaparte); subtly and with intention; or frankly, in mere _bonhomie_; as a Man, as a Major, as a Mayor.

But he was never known to laugh.
Through this weakness he fell.

But he was a great man, and it took the Millennium-nothing less--to undo him.
Here let me say, once for all, that the Millennium was no invention of ours.