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Ardath

<h2 id="id02104" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> <h5 id="id02105">HELIOBAS.</h5> Some few days after the Duchess's dinner-party, Alwyn was strolling one morning through the Park, enjoying to the full the keen, fresh odors of the Spring,—odors that even in London cannot altogether lose their sweetness, so long as hyacinths and violets consent to bloom, and almond-trees to flower, beneath the too often unpropitious murkiness of city skies. It had been raining, but now the clouds had rolled off, and the sun shone as brightly as it ever CAN shine on the English capital, sending sparkles of gold among the still wet foliage, and reviving the little crocuses, that had lately tumbled down in heaps on the grass, like a frightened fairy army put to rout by the onslaught of the recent shower. A blackbird, whose cheery note suggested melodious memories drawn from the heart of the quiet country, was whistling a lively improvisation on the bough of a chestnut-tree, whereof the brown shining buds were just bursting into leaf,—and Alwyn, whose every sense was pleasantly attuned to the small, as well as great, harmonies of nature, paused for a moment to listen to the luscious piping of the feathered minstrel, that in its own wild woodland way had as excellent an idea of musical variation as any Mozart or Chopin. Leaning against one of the park benches, with his back turned to the main thoroughfare, he did not observe the approach of a man's tall, stately figure, that, with something of his own light, easy, swinging step, had followed him rapidly along for some little distance, and that now halted abruptly within a pace or two of where he stood,—a man whose fine face and singular distinction of bearing had caused many a passer-by to stare at him in vague admiration, and to wonder who such a regal-looking personage might possibly be. Alwyn, however, absorbed in thought, saw no one, and was about to resume his onward walk, when suddenly, as though moved by some instinctive impulse, he turned sharply around, and in so doing confronted the stranger, who straightway advanced, lifting his hat and smiling. One amazed glance,—and then with an ejaculation of wonder, recognition, and delight, Alwyn sprang forward and grasped his extended hand. "HELIOBAS!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible YOU are in London!—YOU, of all men in the world!" "Even so!"—replied Heliobas gayly—"And why not? Am I incongruous, and out of keeping with the march of modern civilization?" Alwyn looked at him half-bewildered, half-incredulous,—he could hardly believe his own eyes. It seemed such an altogether amazing thing to meet this devout and grave Chaldean philosopher, this mystic monk of the Caucasus, here in the very centre, as it were, of the world's business, traffic, and pleasure; one might as well have expected to find a haloed saint in the whirl of a carnival masquerade! Incongruous? Out of keeping?—Yes, certainly he was,—for though clad in the plain, conventional garb to which the men of the present day are doomed by the fiat of commerce and custom, the splendid dignity and picturesqueness of his fine personal appearance was by no means abated, and it was just this that marked him out, and made of him as wonderful a figure in London as though some god or evangelist should suddenly pass through a wilderness of chattering apes and screaming vultures. "But how and when did you come?"—asked Alwyn presently, recovering from his first glad shock of surprise—"You see how genuine is my astonishment,—why, I thought you were a perpetually vowed recluse,—that you never went into the world at all, …" "Neither I do"—rejoined Heliobas—"save when strong necessity demands. But our Order is not so 'inclosed' that, if Duty calls, we cannot advance to its beckoning, and there are certain times when both I and those of my fraternity mingle with men in common, undistinguished from the ordinary inhabitants of cities either by dress, customs, or manners,—as you see!"—and he laughingly touched his overcoat, the dark rough cloth of which was relieved by a broad collar and revers of rich sealskin,—"Would you not take me for a highly respectable brewer, par example, conscious that his prowess in the making of beer has entitled him, not only to an immediate seat in Parliament, but also to a Dukedom in prospective?" Alwyn, smiled at the droll inapplicability of this comparison,—and Heliobas cheerfully continued—"I am on the wing just now,—bound for Mexico. I had business in London, and arrived here two days since,—two days more will see me again en voyage. I am glad to have met you thus by chance, for I did not know your address, and though I might have obtained that through your publishers, I hesitated about it, not being quite certain as to whether a letter or visit from me might be welcome." "Surely,"—began Alwyn, and then he paused, a flush rising to his brow as he remembered how obstinately he had doubted and suspected this man's good faith and intention toward him, and how he had even received his farewell benediction at Dariel with more resentment than gratitude. "Everywhere I hear great things of you, Mr. Alwyn,"—went on Heliobas gently, taking no notice of his embarrassment—"Your fame is now indeed unquestionable! With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you long life and health to enjoy the triumph of your genius!" Alwyn smiled, and turning, fixed his clear, soft eyes full on the speaker. "I thank you!" he said simply,—"But, … you, who have such a quick instinctive comprehension of the minds and characters of men,—judge for yourself whether I attach any value to the poor renown I have won,—renown that I once would have given my very life to possess!" As he spoke, he stopped,—they were walking down a quiet side-path under the wavering shadow of newly bourgeoning beeches, and a bright shaft of sunshine struck through the delicate foliage straight on his serene and handsome countenance. Heliobas gave him a swift, keen, observant glance,—in a moment he noticed what a marvellous change had been wrought in the man who, but a few months before, had come to him, a wreck of wasted life,—a wreck that was not only ready, but willing, to drift into downward currents and whirlpools of desperate, godless, blank, and hopeless misery. And now, how completely he was transformed!—Health colored his cheeks and sparkled in his eyes; health, both of body and mind, gave that quick brilliancy to his smile, and that easy, yet powerful poise to his whole figure,—while the supreme consciousness of the Immortal Spirit within him surrounded him with the same indescribable fascination and magnetic attractiveness that distinguished Heliobas himself, even as it distinguishes all who have in good earnest discovered and accepted the only true explanation of their individual mystery of being. One steady, flashing look,—and then Heliobas silently held out his hand. As silently Alwyn clasped it,—and the two men understood each other. All constraint was at an end,—and when they resumed their slow sauntering under the glistening green branches, they were mutually aware that they now held an almost equal rank in the hierarchy of spiritual knowledge, strength, and sympathy. "Evidently your adventure to the Ruins of Babylon was not altogether without results!" said Heliobas softly—"Your appearance indicates happiness,—is your life at last complete?" "Complete?—No!"—and Alwyn sighed somewhat impatiently—"It cannot be complete, so long as its best and purest half is elsewhere! My fame is, as you can guess, a mere ephemera,—a small vanishing point, in comparison with the higher ambition I have now in view. Listen,—you know nothing of what happened to me on the Field of Ardath,—I should have written to you perhaps, but it is better to speak—I will tell you all as briefly as I can." And talking in an undertone, with his arm linked through that of his companion, he related the whole strange story of the visitation of Edris, the Dream of Al-Kyris, his awakening on the Prophet's Field at sunrise, and his final renunciation of Self at the Cross of Christ. Heliobas listened to him in perfect silence, his eyes alone expressing with what eager interest and attention he followed every incident of the narrative. "And now," said Alwyn in conclusion,—"I always try to remember for my own comfort that I LEFT my dead Self in the burning ruin of that dream built city of the past,—or SEEMED to leave it, . . and yet I feel sometimes as if its shadow presence clung to me still! I look in the mirror and see strange, faint reflections of the actual personal attributes of the slain Sah-luma,—occasionally these are so strong and distinctly marked that I turn away in anger from my own image! Why, I loved that Phantasm of a Poet in my dream as I must for ages have loved myself to my own utter undoing!—I admired his work with such extravagant fondness, that, thinking of it, I blush for shame at my own thus manifest conceit!—In truth there is only one thing in that pictured character of his, I can for the present judge myself free from,—namely, the careless rejection of true love for false,—the wanton misprisal of a faithful heart, such as Niphrata's, whose fair child-face even now often flits before my remorseful memory,—and the evil, sensual passion for a woman whose wickedness was as evident as her beauty was paramount! I could never understand or explain this wilful, headstrong weakness in my Shadow-Self—it was the one circumstance in my vision that seemed to have little to do with the positive Me in its application,—but now I thoroughly grasp the meaning of the lesson conveyed, which is that NO MAN EVER REALLY KNOWS HIMSELF, OR FATHOMS THE DEPTHS OF HIS OWN POSSIBLE INCONSISTENCIES. And as matters stand with me at the present time, I am hemmed in on all sides by difficulties,—for since the modern success of that very anciently composed poem, 'Nourhalma'"—and he smiled—"my friends and acquaintances are doing their best to make me think as much of myself as if I were,—well! all that I am NOT. Do what I will, I believe am still an egoist,—nay, I am sure of it,—for even as regards my heavenly saint, Edris, I am selfish!" "How so?" asked Heliobas, with a grave side-glance of admiration at the thoughtful face and meditative earnest eyes of this poet, this once bitter and blasphemous skeptic, grown up now to a majesty of faith that not all the scorn of men or devils could ever shake again. "I want her!"—he replied, and there was a thrill of pathetic yearning in his voice—"I long for her every moment of the day and night! It seems, too, as if everything combined to encourage this craving in me,—this fond, mad desire to draw her down from her own bright sphere of joy,—down to my arms, my heart, my life! See!"—and he stopped by a bed of white hyacinths, nodding softly in the faint breeze—"Even those flowers remind me of her! When I look up at the blue sky I think of the radiance of her eyes,—they were the heaven's own color,—when I see light clouds floating together half gray, half tinted by the sun, they seem to me to resemble the soft and noiseless garb she wore,—the birds sing, only to recall to me the lute-like sweetness of her voice,—and at night, when I behold the millions upon millions of stars that are worlds, peopled as they must be with thousands of wonderful living creatures, perhaps as spiritually composed as she, I sometimes find it hard, that out of all the exhaustless types of being that love, serve, and praise God in Heaven, this one fair Spirit,—only this one angel-maiden should not be spared to help and comfort me! Yes!—I am selfish to the heart's core, my friend!"—and his eyes darkened with a vague wistfulness and trouble,—"Moreover, I have weakly striven to excuse my selfishness to my own conscience thus:—I have thought that if SHE were vouchsafed to me for the remainder of my days, I might then indeed do lasting good, and leave lasting consolation to the world,—such work might be performed as would stir the most callous souls to life and energy and aspiration,—with HER sweet Presence near me, visibly close and constant, there is no task so difficult that I would not essay and conquer in, for her sake, her service, her greater glory! But ALONE!"—and he gave a slight, hopeless gesture—"Nay,—Christ knows I will do the utmost best I can, but the solitary ways of life are hard!" Heliobas regarded him fixedly. "You SEEM to be alone"—he said presently, after a pause,—"but truly you are not so. You think you are set apart to do your work in solitude,—nevertheless, she whom you love may be near you even while you speak! Still I understand what you mean,—you long to SEE her again,—to realize her tangible form and presence,—well!—this cannot be until you pass from this earth and adopt HER nature, . . unless,—unless SHE descends hither, and adopts YOURS!" The last words were uttered slowly and impressively, and Alwyn's countenance brightened with a sudden irresistible rapture. "That would be impossible!" he said, but his voice trembled, and there was more interrogativeness than assertion in his tone. "Impossible in most cases,—yes"—agreed Heliobas—"but in your specially chosen and privileged estate, I cannot positively say that such a thing might not be." For one moment a strange, eager brilliancy shone in Alwyn's eyes,—the next, he set his lips hard, and made a firm gesture of denial. "Do not tempt me, good Heliobas," he said, with a faint smile—"Or, rather, do not let me tempt myself! I bear in constant mind what she, my Edris, told me when she left me,—that we should not meet again till after death, unless the longing of my love COMPELLED. Now, if it be true, as I have often thought, that I COULD compel,—by what right dare I use such power, if power I have upon her? She loves me,—I love her,—and by the force of love, such love as ours, . . who knows!—I might perchance persuade her to adopt a while this mean, uneasy vesture of mere mortal life,—and the very innate perception that I MIGHT do so, is the sharpest trial I have to endure. Because if I would thoroughly conquer myself, I must resist this feeling;—nay, I WILL resist it,—for let it cost me what it may, I have sworn that the selfishness of my own personal desire shall never cross or cloud the radiance of her perfect happiness!" "But suppose"—suggested Heliobas quietly, "suppose she were to find an even more complete happiness in making YOU happy?" Alwyn shook his head. "My friend do not let us talk of it!"—he answered—"No joy can be more complete than the joy of Heaven,—and that in its full blessedness is hers." "That in its full blessedness is NOT hers,"—declared Heliobas with emphasis—"And, moreover, it can never be hers, while YOU are still an exile and a wanderer! Friend Poet, do you think that even Heaven is wholly happy to one who loves, and whose Beloved is absent?" A tremor shook Alwyn's nerves,—his eyes glowed as though the inward fire of his soul had lightened them, but his face grew very pale. "No more of this, for God's sake!" he said passionately. "I must not dream of it,—I dare not! I become the slave of my own imagined rapture,—the coward who falls conquered and trembling before his own desire of delight! Rather let me strive to be glad that she, my angel-love, is so far removed from my unworthiness,—let her, if she be near me now, read my thoughts, and see in them how dear, how sacred is her fair and glorious memory,—how I would rather endure an eternity of anguish, than make her sad for one brief hour of mortal-counted time!" He was greatly moved,—his voice trembled with the fervor of its own music, and Heliobas looked at him with a grave and very tender smile. "Enough!"—he said gently—"I will speak no further on this subject, which I see affects you deeply. Nevertheless, I would have you remember how, when the Master whom we serve passed through His Agony at Gethsemane, and with all the knowledge of His own power and glory strong upon Him, still in His vast self-abnegation said, 'Not My will, but Thine be done!' that then 'there appeared an Angel unto Him from heaven strengthening Him!' Think of this,—for every incident in that Divine-Human Life is a hint for ours,—and often it chances that when we reject happiness for the sake of goodness, happiness is suddenly bestowed upon us. God's miracles are endless,—God's blessings exhaustless, . . and the marvels of this wondrous Universe are as nothing, compared to the working of His Sovereign Will for good on the lives of those who serve Him faithfully." Alwyn flashed upon him a quick, half-questioning glance, but was silent,—and they walked on together for some minutes without exchanging a word. A few people passed and repassed them,—some little children were playing hide-and-seek behind the trunks of the largest trees,—the air was fresh and invigorating, and the incessant roar of busy traffic outside the Park palings offered a perpetual noisy reminder of the great world that surged around them,—the world of petty aims and transitory pleasures, with which they, filled full of the knowledge of higher and eternal things, had so little in common save sympathy,—sympathy for the wilful wrong-doing of man, and pity for his self-imposed blindness. Presently Heliobas spoke again in his customary light and cheerful tone: "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!" Again he laughed,—Heliobas had listened with a keen and sarcastic enjoyment of the whole story. "Undoubtedly your 'Zabastes' was no phantom!"—he observed emphatically—"His was evidently a very real existence, and he must have divided himself from one into several, to sit in judgment again upon you in this present day! History repeats itself,—and unhappily all the injustice, hypocrisy, and inconsistency of man is repeated too,—and out of the multitudes that inhabit the earth, how few will succeed in fulfilling their highest destinies! This is the one bitter drop in the cup of our knowledge,—we can, if we choose, save ourselves,—but we can seldom, if ever, save others!" Alwyn stopped short, his eyes darkening with a swift intensity of feeling. "Why not?"—he asked earnestly—"Must we look on, and see men rushing toward certain misery, without making an effort to turn them hack?—to warn them of the darkness whither they are bound?—to rescue them before it is too late?" "My friend, we can make the effort, certainly,—and we are bound to make it, because it is our duty,—but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred we shall fail of our persuasion. What can I, or you, or any one, do against the iron force of Free-Will? God Himself will not constrain it,—how then shall we? In the Books of Esdras, which have already been of such use to you, you will find the following significant words: 'The Most High hath made this world for many, but the world to come for few. As when thou askest the earth, it shall say unto thee that it giveth much mold wherein earthen vessels are made, and but little dust that gold cometh of, even so is the course of this present world. There be many created but FEW shall be saved.'—God elects to be served by CHOICE—and NOT by compulsion; it is His Law that Man shall work out his own immortal destiny,—and nothing can alter this overwhelming Fact. The sublime Example of Christ was given us as a means to assist us in forming our own conclusions,—but there is no coercion in it,—only a Divine Love. You, for instance, were, and are, still perfectly free to reject the whole of your experience on the Field of Ardath as a delusion,—nothing would be easier, and, from the world's point of view, nothing more natural. Faith and Doubt are equally voluntary acts,—the one is the instinct of the immortal Soul, the other the tendency of the perishable Body,—and the Will decides which of the two shall conquer in the end. I know that you are firm in your high and true conviction,—I know also what thoughts are at work in your brain,—you are bending all your energies on the task of trying to instil into the minds of your fellow-men some comprehension of the enlightenment and hope you yourself possess. Ah, you must prepare for disappointment!—for though the times are tending toward strange upheavals and terrors, when the trumpet-voice of an inspired Poet may do enormous good,—still the name of the wilfully ignorant is Legion,—the age is one of the grossest Mammon worship, and coarsest Atheism,—and the noblest teachings of the noblest teacher, were he even another Shakespeare, must of necessity be but a casting of pearls before swine. Still"—and his rare sweet smile brightened the serene dignity of his features—"fling out the pearls freely all the same,—the swine may grunt at, but cannot rend you,—and a poet's genius should be like the sunlight, that falls on rich and poor, good and bad, with glorious impartiality! If you can comfort one sorrow, check one sin, or rescue one soul from the widening quicksand of the Atheist world, you have sufficient reason to be devoutly thankful." By this time their walk had led them imperceptibly to one of the gates of egress from the Park, and Heliobas, pointing to a huge square building opposite, said: "There is the hotel at which I am staying—one of the Americanized monster fabrics in which tired travellers find much splendid show, and little rest! Will you lunch with me?—I am quite alone." Alwyn gladly assented,—he was most unwilling to part at once from this man, to whom in a measure he felt he owed his present happy and tranquil condition of body and mind; besides, he was curious to find out more about him—to obtain from him, if possible, an entire explanation of the actual tenets and chief characteristics of the system of religious worship he himself practiced and followed. Heliobas seemed to guess his thoughts, for suddenly turning upon him with a quick glance, he observed: "You want to 'pluck out the heart of my mystery,' as Hamlet says, do you not, my friend?"—and he smiled—"Well, so you shall, if you can discover aught in me that is not already in yourself! I assure you there is nothing preternatural about me,—my peculiar 'eccentricity' consists in steadily adapting myself to the scientific spiritual, as well as scientific material, laws of the Universe. The two sets of laws united make harmony,—hence I find my life harmonious and satisfactory,—this is my 'abnormal' condition of mind,—and you are now fully as 'abnormal' as I am. Come, we will discuss our mutual strange non-conformity to the wild world's custom or caprice over a glass of good wine,—observe, please, that I am neither a 'total abstainer' nor a 'vegetarian,' and that I have a curious fashion of being TEMPERATE, and of using all the gifts of beneficent Nature equally, and without prejudice!' While he spoke, they had crossed the road, and they now entered the vestibule of the hotel, where, declining the hall-porter's offer of the "lift," Heliobas ascended the stairs leisurely to the second floor, and ushered his companion into a comfortable private sitting-room. "Fancy men consenting to be drawn up to their apartments like babes in a basket!" he said laughingly, alluding to the "lift" process—"Upon my word, when I think of the strong people of a past age and compare them with the enervated race of to-day, I feel not only pity, but shame, for the visible degeneration of mankind. Frail nerves, weak hearts, uncertain limbs,—these are common characteristics of the young, nowadays, instead of being as formerly the natural failings of the old. Wear and tear and worry of modern existence?—Oh yes, I know!—but why the wear tear and worry at all? What is it for? Simply for the OVER-GETTING of money. One must live? … certainly,—but one is not bound to live in foolish luxury for the sake of out-flaunting one's neighbors. Better to live simply and preserve health, than gain a fortune and be a moping dyspeptic for life. But unless one toils and moils like a beast of burden, one cannot even live simply, some will say! I don't believe that assertion. The peasants of France live simply, and save,—the peasants of England live wretchedly, and waste! Voila la difference! As with nations, so with individuals,—it is all a question of Will. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' is a dreadfully trite copybook maxim, but it's amazingly true all the same. Now let us to the acceptation of these good things,"—this, as a pallid, boyish-looking waiter just then entered the room with the luncheon, and in his bustling to and fro manifested unusual eagerness to make himself agreeable—"I have made excellent friends with this young Ganymede,—he has sworn never to palm off raisin-wine upon me for Chambertin!" The waiter blushed and chuckled as though he were conscious of having gained special new dignity and importance,—and having laid the table, and set the chairs, he departed with a flourishing bow worthy of a prince's maitre-d'hotel. "Your name must seem a curious one to these fellows"—observed Alwyn, when he had gone,—"Unusual and even mysterious?" "Why, yes!"—returned Heliobas with a laugh—"It would be judged so, I suppose, if I ever gave it,—but I don't. It was only in England, and by an Englishman, that I was once, to my utter amazement, addressed as 'He-ly-oh-bas'—and I was quite alarmed at the sound of it! One would think that most people in these educational days knew the Greek word helios,—and one would also imagine it as easy to say Heliobas as heliograph. But now to avoid mistakes, whenever I touch British territory and come into contact with British tongues, I give my Christian name only, Cassimir—the result of which arrangement is, that I am known in this hotel as Mr. Kasmer! Oh, I don't mind in the least—why should I?—neither the English nor the Americans ever pronounce foreign names properly. Why I met a newly established young publisher yesterday, who assured me that most of his authors, the female ones especially, are so ignorant of foreign literature that he doubts whether any of them know whether Cervantes was a writer or an ointment!" Alwyn laughed. "I dare say the young publisher may be perfectly right,"—he said—"But all the same he has no business to publish the literary emanations of such ignorance." "Perhaps not!—but what is he to do, if nothing else is offered to him? He has to keep his occupation going somehow,—from bad he must select the best. He cannot create a great genius—he has to wait till Nature, in the course of events, evolves one from the elements. And in the present general dearth of high ability the publishers are really more sinned against than sinning. They spend large sums, and incur large risks, in launching new ventures on the fickle sea of popular favor, and often their trouble is taken all in vain. It is really the stupid egotism of authors that is the stumbling-block in the way of true literature,—each little scribbler that produces a shilling sensational thinks his or her own work a marvel of genius, and nothing can shake them from their obstinate conviction. If every man or woman, before putting pen to paper, would be sure they had something new, suggestive, symbolical, or beautiful to say, how greatly Art might gain by their labors! Authors who take up arms against publishers en masse, and in every transaction expect to be cheated, are doing themselves irreparable injury—they betray the cloven hoof,—namely a greed for money—and when once that passion dominates them, down goes their reputation and they with it. It is the old story over again—'ye cannot serve God and Mammon,'—and all Art is a portion of God,—a descending of the Divine into Humanity." Alwyn sat for a minute silent and thoughtful. "A descending of the Divine into Humanity!" he repeated slowly—"It seems to me that 'miracle' is forever being enacted—and yet … we doubt!" "WE do not doubt—" said Heliobas—"WE know,—we have touched Reality! But see yonder!"—and he pointed through the window to the crowded thoroughfare below—"There are the flying phantoms of life,—the men and women who are God-oblivious, and who are therefore no more actually LIVING than the shadows of Al-Kyris! They shall pass as a breath and be no more,—and this roaring, trafficking metropolis, this immediate centre of civilization, shall ere long disappear off the surface of the earth, and leave not a stone to mark the spot where once it stood! So have thousands of such cities fallen since this planet was flung into space,—and even so shall thousands still fall. Learning, civilization, science, progress,—these things exist merely for the training and education of a chosen few—and out of many earth centuries and generations of men, shall be won only a very small company of angels! Be glad that you have fathomed the mystery of your own life's purpose,—for you are now as much a Positive Identity among vanishing spectres, as you were when, on the Field of Ardath, you witnessed and took part in the Mirage of your Past." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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