For ages humanity has raved about the “sympathetic” heart. Medals and iron crosses galore have been pinned upon it for special softness. It is the minaretted peak of applied tenderness. All this is pure piffle. It is not the heart that is soft, sympathetic, and tender, that throbs with solicitude for the well-being of its owner, that writhes in anguish when anything goes wrong with the republic of cells he carries around between his hat and his shoes.