minute and surely the triumphant god will leap from his watery couch
and guide with unerring hands the coursers of the Dawn! But that
reluctant minute is eternal, and the divinity still remains incapable,
clogged and wrapped in the embrace of marble waves. Yet the real
sun every morning succeeds in equipping himself for his journey, and
arrives, glad, at his welcome bath in the western sea.

The inference I draw is: If you want a career to be eternal instead of
transitory, hand it over to Art.

[ILLUSTRATION: "HAND IT OVER TO ART."]

The true moral of it all is, that we are all savage myths of the
Course of the Sun. We disappear any number of times, but we rise and
trail new clouds of glory, and our readers or our audiences perceive
that it is the same old Hyperion back again. The youth who by the
faithful hound, half buried in the snow, is found far up on the most
inaccessible peaks of imagination, is perceived to grasp still in his
hand of ice that Germanesque and strange device--_Auf Wiedersehen_.

[ILLUSTRATION]




FOLLOWING THE TIBER.


TWO PAPERS.--1.