He paused, his face flushing with vigorous, righteous wrath.  Alwyn’s eyes grew dark with an infinite pain.  His thoughts always fled back to his Dream of Al-Kyris, with a tendency to draw comparisons between the Past and the Present.  The religion of that long-buried city had been mere mummery and splendid outward show, —­what was the religion of London?  He moved restlessly.

“How all the warnings of history repeat themselves!” he said suddenly..  “An age of mockery, sham sentiment, and irreverence has always preceded a downfall,—­can it be possible that we are already receiving hints of the downfall of England?”

“Aye, not only of England, but of a good many other nations besides,” said Villiers—­“or if not actual downfall, change and terrific upheaval.  France and England particularly are the prey of the Demon of Realism,—­and all the writers who should use their pens to inspire and elevate the people, assist in degrading them.  When their books are not obscene, they are blasphemous.  Russia, too, joins in the cry of Realism!—­Realism! ...  Let us have the filth of the gutters, the scourgings of dustholes, the corruption of graves, the odors of malaria, the howlings of drunkards, the revellings of sensualists, . . the worst side of the world in its vilest aspect, which is the only real aspect of those who are voluntarily vile!  Let us see to what a reeking depth of unutterable shameless brutality man can fall if he chooses—­not as formerly, when it was shown to what glorious heights of noble supremacy he could rise!  For in this age, the heights are called ’transcendental folly’—­and the reeking depths are called Realism!”

“And yet what is Realism really?” queried Alwyn.—­“Does anybody know? ...  It is supposed to be the actuality of everyday existence, without any touch of romance or pathos to soften its frequently hideous Commonplace; but the fact is, the Commonplace is not the Real.  The highest flights of imagination in the human being fail to grasp the Reality of the splendors everywhere surrounding him,—­and, viewed rightly, Realism would become Romance and Romance Realism.  We see a ragged woman in the streets picking up scraps for her daily food, . . that is what we may call realistic,—­but we are not looking at the actual woman, after all!  We cannot see her Inner Self, or form any certain comprehension of the possible romance or tragedy which that Inner Self has experienced, or is experiencing.  We see the outer Appearance of the woman, but what of that? ...  The realism of the suffering creature’s hidden history lies beyond us,—­so far beyond us that it is called romance, because it seems so impossible to fathom or understand.”