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."