Once started on his talk, he never thought of food or clothing or shelter; but his eyes glowed, his face lighted up with a strange effulgence, and he quite lost himself upon the tide of his own oratory.

I saw him afterward by a flare-light at the centre of a great crowd of men and women--but that is getting ahead of my story.
His talk bristled with such words as "capitalism," "proletariat," "class-consciousness"-- and he spoke with fluency of "economic determinism" and "syndicalism." It was quite wonderful! And from time to time, he would bring in a smashing quotation from Aristotle, Napoleon, Karl Marx, or Eugene V.Debs, giving them all equal value, and he cited statistics!--oh, marvellous statistics, that never were on sea or land.
Once he was so swept away by his own eloquence that he sprang to his feet and, raising one hand high above his head (quite unconscious that he was holding up a dill pickle), he worked through one of his most thrilling periods.
Yes, I laughed, and yet there was so brave a simplicity about this odd, absurd little man that what I laughed at was only his outward appearance (and that he himself had no care for), and all the time I felt a growing respect and admiration for him.

He was not only sincere, but he was genuinely simple--a much higher virtue, as Fenelon says.

For while sincere people do not aim at appearing anything but what they are, they are always in fear of passing for something they are not.

They are forever thinking about themselves, weighing all their words and thoughts and dwelling upon what they have done, in the fear of having done too much or too little, whereas simplicity, as Fenelon says, is an uprightness of soul which has ceased wholly to dwell upon itself or its actions.