Having passed a few more compliments, we saluted and walked on; and, coming presently to the edge of the cliff, lay down on the thyme and the crumbled leaf-dust.  All the small singing birds had long been shot and eaten; there came to us no sound but that of the waves swimming in on a gentle south wind.  The wanton creatures seemed stretching out white arms to the land, flying desperately from a sea of such stupendous serenity; and over their bare shoulders their hair floated back, pale in the sunshine.  If the air was void of sound, it was full of scent—­that delicious and enlivening perfume of mingled gum, and herbs, and sweet wood being burned somewhere a long way off; and a silky, golden warmth slanted on to us through the olives and umbrella pines.  Large wine-red violets were growing near.  On such a cliff might Theocritus have lain, spinning his songs; on that divine sea Odysseus should have passed.  And we felt that presently the goat-god must put his head forth from behind a rock.

It seemed a little queer that our friend in the bowler hat should move and breathe within one short flight of a cuckoo from this home of Pan.  One could not but at first feelingly remember the old Boer saying:  “O God, what things man sees when he goes out without a gun!” But soon the infinite incongruity of this juxtaposition began to produce within one a curious eagerness, a sort of half-philosophical delight.  It began to seem too good, almost too romantic, to be true.  To think of the gramophone wedded to the thin sweet singing of the olive leaves in the evening wind; to remember the scent of his rank cigar marrying with this wild incense; to read that enchanted name, “Inn of Tranquillity,” and hear the bland and affable remark of the gentleman who owned it—­such were, indeed, phenomena to stimulate souls to speculation.  And all unconsciously one began to justify them by thoughts of the other incongruities of existence—­the strange, the passionate incongruities of youth and age, wealth and poverty, life and death; the wonderful odd bedfellows of this world; all those lurid contrasts which haunt a man’s spirit till sometimes he is ready to cry out:  “Rather than live where such things can be, let me die!”

Like a wild bird tracking through the air, one’s meditation wandered on, following that trail of thought, till the chance encounter became spiritually luminous.  That Italian gentleman of the world, with his bowler hat, his skittle-alley, his gramophone, who had planted himself down in this temple of wild harmony, was he not Progress itself—­the blind figure with the stomach full of new meats and the brain of raw notions?  Was he not the very embodiment of the wonderful child, Civilisation, so possessed by a new toy each day that she has no time to master its use—­naive creature lost amid her own discoveries!  Was he not the very symbol of that which was making economists thin, thinkers pale, artists haggard, statesmen bald—­the symbol of Indigestion Incarnate!  Did he not, delicious, gross, unconscious man, personify beneath his Americo-Italian polish all those rank and primitive instincts, whose satisfaction necessitated the million miseries of his fellows; all those thick rapacities which stir the hatred of the humane and thin-skinned!  And yet, one’s meditation could not stop there—­it was not convenient to the heart!