upon what science makes of things near at hand.  Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is ‘degeneration,’ and human life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the ’carbon compounds’—­God-a-mercy!  If science makes such grotesque blunders about radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its opinion upon matters so remote as the stars—­or even the moon, which is comparatively near at hand?

Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long since escaped.  It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to haunt its faithless lover, the world.  It is a country of ancient silver-mines, unworked for centuries.  You may see the gaping mouths of the dark old shafts through your telescopes.  You may even see the rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and shovel.  Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in the young fools who love to gaze upon it.  It is, so to speak, a bad half-crown.

As you will! but I am of Endymion’s belief—­and no one was ever more intimate with the moon.  For me the moon is a country of great seaports, whither all the ships of our dreams come home.  From all quarters of the world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon.  They are the ships that sail just when and where you please.  You take your passage on that condition.  And it is ridiculous to think for what a trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey.  If you want to come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass or two of bright wine—­indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart’s Desire; but if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even easier—­a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing’s-worth of explosive fire, and thus also you are in the Land of Heart’s Desire for ever.

I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the dark ship was there.  It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the world.  Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell was beating impatient summons to be gone.  The dark captain stood ready on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on board.  ‘Is it for the long voyage?’ he said.  ‘Yes! the long voyage,’ I said—­and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered.

At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of sight of land.  Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never reach our port in the moon—­so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great screws, beating in the ship’s side like a human heart.