Here, late one afternoon, Professor Lachsyrma was deciphering some yellow
leaves of papyrus. The dusk was falling, and he laid down the pen with
which he was delicately transcribing uncials on sheets of foolscap, in
order to light a lamp on the table. It was 6.30 by an irritating little
American clock recently presented him by one of his children, noisy
symbol and only indication that he held commune with a modern life he so
heartily despised. As the housekeeper entered with some tea he took up a
copy of a morning paper (a violent transition from uncials), and glanced
at the first lines of the leader:

The Trustees of the British Museum announce one of the most
sensational literary discoveries in recent years, a discovery which
must startle the world of scholars, and even the apathetic public at
large. This is none other than the recovery of the long-lost poems of
Sappho, manuscripts of which were last heard of in the tenth century,
when they were burnt at Rome and Byzantium. We shall have to go back
to the fifteenth century, to the Fall of Constantinople, to the
Revival of Learning, ere we can find a fitting parallel to match the
importance of this recent find. Not since the spade of the excavator
uncovered from its shroud of earth the flawless beauty of the Olympian
Hermes has such a delightful acquisition been made to our knowledge of
Greek literature. The name of Professor Lachsyrma has long been one
to conjure with, and all of us should experience pleasure (where
surprise in his case is out of the question) on learning that his
recent tour to Egypt, besides greatly benefiting his health, was the
means of restoring to eager posterity one of the most precious
monuments of Hellenic culture.

'Dear me, I had no idea the press could be so entertaining,' thought the
Professor, as a smile of satisfaction spread over his well-chiselled