"That is unfair," said Alwyn quickly. "The expression of the people's appreciation should always be chronicled."

"Of course!--but it never is, unless it suits the immediate taste of the cliques. Clique-Art, clique-Literature, clique-Criticism, keep all three things on a low ground that slopes daily more and more toward decadence. And the pity of it is, that the English get judged abroad chiefly by what their own journalists say of them,-- thus, if Sarasate is coldly criticised, foreigners laugh at the 'UNmusical English,' whereas, the fact is that the nation itself is NOT unmusical, but its musical critics mostly are. They are very often picked out of the rank and file of the dullest Academy students and contrapuntists, who are incapable of understanding anything original, and therefore are the persons most unfitted to form a correct estimate of genius. However, it has always been so, and I suppose it always will be so,--don't you remember that when Beethoven began his grand innovations, a certain critic-ass-ter wrote of him, 'The absurdity of his effort is only equalled by the hideousness of its result'."

He laughed lightly, and once more shook hands, while Alwyn, looking at him wistfully, said: "I wonder when we shall meet again?"

"Oh, very soon, I dare say," he rejoined. "The world is a wonderfully small place, after all, as men find when they jostle up against each other unexpectedly in the most unlikely corners of far countries. You may, if you choose, correspond with me, and that is a privilege I accord to few, I assure you!" He smiled, and then went on in a more serious tone, "You are, of course, welcome at our monastery whenever you wish to come, but, take my advice, do not wilfully step out of the sphere in which you are placed. Live IN society, it needs men of your stamp and intellectual calibre; show it a high and consistent example--let no eccentricity mar your daily actions--work at your destiny steadily, cheerfully, serenely, and leave the rest to God, and-- the angels!"

There was a slight, tender inflection in his voice as he spoke the last words,--and Alwyn gave him a quick, searching glance. But his blue, penetrating eyes were calm and steadfast, full of their usual luminous softness and pathos, and there was nothing expressed in them but the gentlest friendliness.

"Well! I'm glad I may write to you, at any rate," said Alwyn at last, reluctantly releasing his hand. "It is possible I may not remain long in London; I want to finish my poem, and it gets on too slowly in the tumult of daily life in town."




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