of the mere ‘author,’ the writer-tradesman, the amateur’s superstition; not of men of genius, who, despite cackle, cannot disappoint.  If they seem to do so, it must be that we have not come close enough to know them.  But the man of genius is rarer, perhaps, in the ranks of authorship than anywhere:  you are far more likely to find him on the exchange.  They are as scarce as Caxtons:  London possesses hardly half-a-dozen examples.

Narcissus enjoyed the delight of calling one of these his friend, ’a certain aristocratic poet who loved all kinds of superiorities,’ again to borrow from Mr. Pater.  He had once seen him afar off and worshipped, as it is the blessedness of boys to be able to worship; but never could he have dreamed in that day of the dear intimacy that was to come.  ’If he could but know me as I am,’ he had sighed; but that was all.  With the almost childlike naturalness which is his greatest charm he confessed this sigh long after, and won that poet’s heart.  Well I remember his bursting into our London lodging late one afternoon, great-eyed and almost in tears for joy of that first visit.  He had pre-eminently the capacity which most fine men have of falling in love with men—­as one may be sure of a subtle greatness in a woman whose eye singles out a woman to follow on the stage at the theatre—­and certainly, no other phrase can express that state of shining, trembling exaltation, the passion of the friendships of Narcissus.  And although he was rich in them—­rich, that is, as one can be said to be rich in treasure so rare—­saving one only, they have never proved that fairy-gold which such do often prove.  Saving that one, golden fruit still hangs for every white cluster of wonderful blossom.

‘I thought you must care for me if you could but know me aright,’ Narcissus had said.

’Care for you!  Why, you beautiful boy! you seem to have dropped from the stars,’ the poet had replied in the caressing fashion of an elder brother.

He had frankly fallen in love, too:  for Narcissus has told me that his great charm is a boyish naturalness of heart, that ingenuous gusto in living which is one of the sure witnesses to genius.  This is all the more piquant because no one would suspect it, as, I suppose, few do; probably, indeed, a consensus would declare him the last man in London of whom that is true.  No one would seem to take more seriously the beau monde of modern paganism, with its hundred gospels of La Nuance; no one, assuredly, were more blase than he, with his languors of pose, and face of so wan a flame.  The Oscar Wilde of modern legend were not more as a dweller in Nirvana.  But Narcissus maintained that all this was but a disguise which the conditions of his life compelled him to wear, and in wearing which he enjoyed much subtle subterranean merriment; while underneath the real man lived, fresh as morning, vigorous as a young sycamore, wild-hearted as an eagle, ever ready to flash out the ‘password