in the English language.’  This woke me up considerably, and I read on, groping my way through all sorts of wordy phrases and used-up arguments, till my mind gradually grasped the fact that the critic of the Parthenon had evidently never heard of Theos Alwyn before, and being astonished, and perhaps perplexed, by the original beauty and glowing style of ‘Nourhalma,’ had jumped, without warrant, to the conclusion that its author must be dead.  The wind-up of his lengthy dissertation was, as far as I can recollect, as follows: 

“’It is a thousand pities this gifted poet is no more.  Splendid as the work of his youthful genius is, there is no doubt but that, had he lived, he would have endowed the world anew with an inheritance of thought worthy of the grandest master-minds.’  Well, when I had fully realized the situation, I began to think to myself, Shall I enlighten this Sir Oracle of the Press, and tell him the ‘dead’ author he so enthusiastically eulogizes, is alive and well, or was so, at any rate, the last time I heard from him?  I debated the question seriously, and, after much cogitation, decided to leave him, for the present, in ignorance.  First of all, because critics like to consider themselves the wisest men in the world, and hate to be told anything,—­secondly, because I rather enjoyed the fun.  The publisher of ’Nourhalma’—­a very excellent fellow—­sent me the critique, and wrote asking me whether it was true that the author of the poem was really dead, and if not, whether he should contradict the report.  I waited a bit before answering that letter, and while I waited two more critiques appeared in two of the most assertively pompous and dictatorial journals of the day, echoing the eulogies of the Parthenon, declaring ‘this dead poet’ worthy ’to rank with the highest of the Immortals,’ and a number of other similar grandiose declarations.  One reviewer took an infinite deal of pains to prove ’that if the genius of Theos Alwyn had only been spared to England, he must have infallibly been elected Poet Laureate as soon as the post became vacant, and that too, without a single dissentient voice, save such as were raised in envy or malice.  But, being dead ’—­ continued this estimable scribe—­’all we can say is that he yet speaketh, and that “Nourhalma” is a poem of which the literary world cannot be otherwise than justly proud.  Let the tears that we shed for this gifted singer’s untimely decease be mingled with gratitude for the priceless value of the work his creative genius has bequeathed to us!’”

Here Villiers paused, his blue eyes sparkling with inward amusement, and looked at Alwyn, whose face, though perfectly serene, had now the faintest, softest shadow of a grave pathos hovering about it.

“By this time,” he continued..  “I thought we had had about enough sport, so I wrote off to the publisher to at once contradict the erroneous rumor.  But now that publisher had his story to tell.  He called upon me, and with a blandly persuasive air, said, that as ‘Nourhalma’ was having an extraordinary sale, was it worth while to deny the statement of your death just yet? ...  He was very anxious, . . but I was firm, . . and lest he should waver, I wrote several letters myself to the leading journals, to establish the certainty, so far as I was aware, of your being in the land of the living.  And then what do you think happened?”