In the British Museum, among the Elgin Marbles, Phidias has carved a pile of heaped-up marble waves, and out of them rise the arms of Hyperion—­the most beautiful arms in the world.  Homesick for heaven, those weary arms try to free themselves of the clinging foam.  Another minute and surely the triumphant god will leap from his watery couch and guide with unerring hands the coursers of the Dawn!  But that reluctant minute is eternal, and the divinity still remains incapable, clogged and wrapped in the embrace of marble waves.  Yet the real sun every morning succeeds in equipping himself for his journey, and arrives, glad, at his welcome bath in the western sea.

The inference I draw is:  If you want a career to be eternal instead of transitory, hand it over to Art.

[ILLUSTRATION:  “HAND IT OVER TO ART.”]

The true moral of it all is, that we are all savage myths of the Course of the Sun.  We disappear any number of times, but we rise and trail new clouds of glory, and our readers or our audiences perceive that it is the same old Hyperion back again.  The youth who by the faithful hound, half buried in the snow, is found far up on the most inaccessible peaks of imagination, is perceived to grasp still in his hand of ice that Germanesque and strange device—­Auf Wiedersehen.

[ILLUSTRATION]

FOLLOWING THE TIBER.

TWO PAPERS.—­1.

[Illustration:  NEAR THE SOURCE OF THE TIBER.]

“Ecce Tiberum!” cried the Roman legions when they first beheld the Scottish Tay.  What power of association could have made them see in the clear and shallow stream the likeless of their tawny Tiber, with his full-flowing waters sweeping down to the sea?  Perhaps those soldiers under whose mailed and rugged breasts lay so tender a thought of home came from the northerly region among the Apennines, where a little bubbling mountain-brook is the first form in which the storied Tiber greets the light of day.  One who has made a pilgrimage from its mouth to its source thus describes the spot:  “An old man undertook to be our guide.  By the side of the little stream, which here constitutes the first vein of the Tiber, we penetrated the wood.  It was an immense beech-forest....  The trees were almost all great gnarled veterans who had borne the snows of many winters:  now they stood basking above their blackened shadows in the blazing sunshine.  The little stream tumbled from ledge to ledge of splintered rock, sometimes creeping into a hazel thicket, green with long ferns and soft moss, and then leaping once more merrily into the sunlight.  Presently it split into numerous little rills.  We followed the longest of these.  It led us to a carpet of smooth green turf amidst an opening in the trees; and there, bubbling out of the green sod, embroidered with white strawberry-blossoms, the delicate blue of the crane’s bill and dwarf willow-herb, a copious little stream arose.  Here