certain grand and convincing home-truths set forth in the plays of the divine Hyspiros,—­simply because they instinctively feel them to be truths, no matter how far they themselves may be from acting up to the standard of morality therein contained.  The more highly cultured will hear the same passages unmoved, because they, in the excess of artificially gained wisdom, have deadened their instincts so far, that while they listen to a truth pronounced, they already consider how best they can confute it, and prove the same a lie!  Honest enthusiasm is impossible to the over-punctilious and pedantic scholar,—­but on the other hand, I would have it plainly understood that a mere brief local popularity is not Fame, . .  No! for the author who wins the first never secures the last.  What I mean is, that a book or poem to be great, and keep its greatness hereafter, must be judged worthy by the natural instinct of Peoples.  Their decision, I own, may be tardy,—­their hesitation may be prolonged through a hundred or more years,—­but their acceptance, whether it be declared in the author’s life-time or ages after his death, must be considered final.  I would add, moreover, that this world-wide decision has never yet been, and never will be, hastened by any amount of written criticism,—­it is the responsive beat of the enormous Pulse of Life that thrills through all mankind, high and low, gentle and simple,—­its great throbs are slow and solemnly measured,—­yet if once it answers to a Poet’s touch, that Poet’s name is made glorious forever!”

He spoke with a rush of earnestness and eloquence that was both persuasive and powerful, and he now stood silent and absorbed, his dreamy eyes resting meditatively on the massive bust of the immortal personage he called Hyspiros, which smiled out in serene, cold whiteness from the velvet-shadowed shrine it occupied.  Theos watched him with fascinated and fraternal fondness, . . did ever man possess so dulcet a voice, he thought? ... so grave and rich and marvellously musical, yet thrilling with such heart-moving suggestions of mingled pride and plaintiveness?

“Thou art a most alluring orator, Sah-luma!” he said suddenly—­ “Methinks I could listen to thee all day and never tire!”

“I’ faith, so could not I!” interposed Zabastes grimly.  “For when a bard begins to gabble goose-like platitudes which merely concern his own vocation, the gods only know when he can be persuaded to stop!  Nay, ’tis more irksome far than the recitation of his professional jingle—­for to that there must in time come a merciful fitting end, but, as I live, if ’twas my custom to say prayers, I would pray to be delivered from the accursed volubility of a versifier’s tongue!  And perchance it will not be considered out of my line of duty if I venture to remind my most illustrious and renowned master—­” this with a withering sneer,—­“that if he has any more remarkable nothings to dictate concerning this particularly inane creation of his fancy ‘Nourhalma,’ ’twill be well that we should proceed therewith, for the hours wax late and the sun veereth toward his House of Noon.”