of the “great green sea” the captains of archers, have related their adventures to him; and he might repeat to you their stories.  Indeed, he has such a tale to tell that, looking at it in this light, one might expect his listeners all to be good fighting men and noble women.  It might be supposed that the archaeologist would gather around him only men who have pleasure in the road that leads over the hills, and women who have known the delight of the open.  One has heard so often of the “brave days of old” that the archaeologist might well be expected to have his head stuffed with brave tales and little else.

His range, however, may be wider than this.  To him, perhaps, it has been given to listen to the voice of the ancient poet, heard as a far-off whisper; to breathe in forgotten gardens the perfume of long dead flowers; to contemplate the love of women whose beauty is all perished in the dust; to hearken to the sound of the harp and the sistra, to be the possessor of the riches of historical romance.  Dim armies have battled around him for the love of Helen; shadowy captains of sea-going ships have sung to him through the storm the song of the sweethearts left behind them; he has feasted with sultans, and kings’ goblets have been held to his lips; he has watched Uriah the Hittite sent to the forefront of the battle.

Thus, were he to offer a story, one might now suppose that there would gather around him, not the men of muscle, but a throng of sallow listeners, as improperly expectant as were those who hearkened under the moon to the narrations of Boccaccio, or, in old Baghdad, gave ear to the tales of the thousand and one nights.  One might suppose that his audience would be drawn from those classes most fondly addicted to pleasure, or most nearly representative, in their land and in their time, of the light-hearted and not unwanton races of whom he had to tell.  For his story might be expected to be one wherein wine and women and song found countenance.  Even were he to tell of ancient tragedies and old sorrows, he would still make his appeal, one might suppose, to gallants and their mistresses, to sporting men and women of fashion, just as, in the mournful song of Rosabelle, Sir Walter Scott is able to address himself to the “ladies gay,” or Coleridge in his sad “Ballad of the Dark Ladie” to “fair maids.”

Who could better arrest the attention of the coxcomb than the archaeologist who has knowledge of silks and scents now lost to the living world?  To the gourmet who could more appeal than the archaeologist who has made abundant acquaintance with the forgotten dishes of the East?  Who could so surely thrill the senses of the courtesan than the archaeologist who can relate that which was whispered by Anthony in the ear of Cleopatra?  To the gambler who could be more enticing than the archaeologist who has seen kings play at dice for their kingdoms?  The imaginative, truly, might well collect the most highly disreputable audience to listen to the tales of the archaeologist.