And when they have crept into their own little holes, and smugly laid themselves down in their last long sleep, the future centuries will roll the stone away and he will come forth again.  For be it known:  That man of us is imperishable who makes his century imperishable.  That man of us who seizes upon the salient facts of our life, who tells what we thought, what we were, and for what we stood—­that man shall be the mouthpiece to the centuries, and so long as they listen he shall endure.

We remember the caveman.  We remember him because he made his century imperishable.  But, unhappily, we remember him dimly, in a collective sort of way, because he memorialized his century dimly, in a collective sort of way.  He had no written speech, so he left us rude scratchings of beasts and things, cracked marrow-bones, and weapons of stone.  It was the best expression of which he was capable.  Had he scratched his own particular name with the scratchings of beasts and things, stamped his cracked marrowbones with his own particular seal, trade-marked his weapons of stone with his own particular device, that particular man would we remember.  But he did the best he could, and we remember him as best we may.

Homer takes his place with Achilles and the Greek and Trojan heroes.  Because he remembered them, we remember him.  Whether he be one or a dozen men, or a dozen generations of men, we remember him.  And so long as the name of Greece is known on the lips of men, so long will the name of Homer be known.  There are many such names, linked with their times, which have come down to us, many more which will yet go down; and to them, in token that we have lived, must we add some few of our own.

Dealing only with the artist, be it understood, only those artists will go down who have spoken true of us.  Their truth must be the deepest and most significant, their voices clear and strong, definite and coherent.  Half-truths and partial-truths will not do, nor will thin piping voices and quavering lays.  There must be the cosmic quality in what they sing.  They must seize upon and press into enduring art-forms the vital facts of our existence.  They must tell why we have lived, for without any reason for living, depend upon it, in the time to come, it will be as though we had never lived.  Nor are the things that were true of the people a thousand years or so ago true of us to-day.  The romance of Homer’s Greece is the romance of Homer’s Greece.  That is undeniable.  It is not our romance.  And he who in our time sings the romance of Homer’s Greece cannot expect to sing it so well as Homer did, nor will he be singing about us or our romance at all.  A machine age is something quite different from an heroic age.  What is true of rapid-fire guns, stock-exchanges, and electric motors, cannot possibly be true of hand-flung javelins and whirring chariot wheels.  Kipling knows this.  He has been telling it to us all his life, living it all his life in the work he has done.