forthwith.]

"No, no, the essential thing is not quite that," observed an attendant
lackey, a really clever writer, who wrote, indeed, far more
intelligently than he thought. He was a professor of patriotism, and
prior to being embalmed in the academy he had charge of the
postgraduate work in atavism and superior sneering. "No, my test is
not quite that, and if you venture to disagree with me about this or
anything else you are a ruthless Hun and an impudent Jew. No, the
garbage-man may very well be an excellent judge: for by my quite
infallible test the one thing requisite for a critic of our great
Philistine literature is an ability to induce within himself such an
internal disturbance as resembles a profound murmur of ancestral
voices--"

"But, oh, dear me!" says Horvendile, embarrassed by such talk.

"--And to experience a mysterious inflowing," continued the other, "of
national experience--"

"The function is of national experience undoubtedly," said Horvendile,
"but still--"

"--Whenever he meditates," concluded this lackey bewilderingly, "upon
the name of Bradford and six other surnames.[4] At all events, I have
turned wearily from your book, you bolshevistic German Jew--"

[Footnote 4: Sævius Nicanor does not record the wonder-working
surnames employed to produce this ancient, ante-Aristotlean [Greek:
_katharsis_], and they are not certainly known. But, quite unaided, I