“Are you writing anything new just now?” he asked.  “Or are you resting from literary labor?”

“Well, rest and work are with me very nearly one and the same”—­ replied Alwyn,—­“I think the most absolutely tiring and exhausting thing in the world would be to have nothing to do.  Then I can imagine life becoming indeed a weighty burden!  Yes, I am engaged on a new poem, . . it gives me intense pleasure to write it—­but whether it will give any one equal pleasure to read it is quite another question.”

“Does ‘Zabastes’ still loom on your horizon?” inquired his companion mirthfully—­“Or are you still inclined—­as in the Past—­ to treat him, whether he comes singly or in numbers, as the Poet’s court-jester, and paid fool?”

Alwyn laughed lightly.  “Perhaps!” he answered, with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes,—­“But, really, so far as the wind of criticism goes, I don’t think any author nowadays particularly cares whether it blows fair weather or foul.  You see, we all know how it is done,—­we can name the clubs and cliques from whence it emanates, and we are fully aware that if one leading man of a ‘set’ gives the starting signal of praise or blame, the rest follow like sheep, without either thought or personal discrimination.  Moreover, some of us have met and talked with certain of these magazine and newspaper oracles, and have tested for ourselves the limited extent of their knowledge and the shallowness of their wit.  I assure you it often happens that a great author is tried, judged, and condemned by a little casual press-man who, in his very criticism, proves himself ignorant of grammar.  Of course, if the public choose to accept such a verdict, why, then, all the worse for the public,—­but luckily the majority of men are beginning to learn the ins and outs of the modern critic’s business,—­they see his or her methods (it is a notable fact that women do a great deal of criticism now, they being willing to scribble oracular commonplaces at a cheaper rate of pay than men), so that if a book is condemned, people are dubious, and straight way read it for themselves to see what is in it that excites aversion,—­if it is praised, they are still dubious, and generally decide that the critical eulogist must have some personal interest in its sale.  It is difficult for an author to win his public,—­but when won, the critics may applaud or deride as suits their humor, it makes no appreciable difference to his popularity.  Now I consider my own present fame was won by chance, —­a misconception that, as I know, had its ancient foundation in truth, but that, as far as everybody else is concerned, remains a misconception,—­so that I estimate my success at its right value, or rather, let me say, at its proper worthlessness.”

And in a few words he related how the leaders of English journalism had judged him dead, and had praised his work chiefly because it was posthumous.  “I believe”—­he added good-humoredly—­ “that if this mistake had not arisen, I should scarcely have been heard of, since I advocate no particular ‘cult’ and belong to no Mutual Admiration Alliance, offensive or defensive.  But my supposed untimely decease served me better than the Browning Society serves Browning!”