ical romance. Dim armies have
battled around him for the love of Helen; shadowy captains of sea-going
ships have sung to him through the storm the song of the sweethearts
left behind them; he has feasted with sultans, and kings' goblets have
been held to his lips; he has watched Uriah the Hittite sent to the
forefront of the battle.

Thus, were he to offer a story, one might now suppose that there would
gather around him, not the men of muscle, but a throng of sallow
listeners, as improperly expectant as were those who hearkened under the
moon to the narrations of Boccaccio, or, in old Baghdad, gave ear to the
tales of the thousand and one nights. One might suppose that his
audience would be drawn from those classes most fondly addicted to
pleasure, or most nearly representative, in their land and in their
time, of the light-hearted and not unwanton races of whom he had to
tell. For his story might be expected to be one wherein wine and women
and song found countenance. Even were he to tell of ancient tragedies
and old sorrows, he would still make his appeal, one might suppose, to
gallants and their mistresses, to sporting men and women of fashion,
just as, in the mournful song of Rosabelle, Sir Walter Scott is able to
address himself to the "ladies gay," or Coleridge in his sad "Ballad of
the Dark Ladie" to "fair maids."

Who could better arrest the attention of the coxcomb than the
archaeologist who has knowledge of silks and scents now lost to the
living world? To the gourmet who could more appeal than the archaeologist
who has made abundant acquaintance with the forgotten dishes of the
East? Who could so surely thrill the senses of the courtesan than the
archaeologist who can relate that which was whispered by Anthony in the
ear of Cleopatra? To the gambler who could be more enticing than the
archaeologist who has seen kings play at dice for their kingdoms? The
imaginative, truly, might well collect the most highly disreputable
audience to listen to the tales of the archaeologist.

But no, these are not the people who are anxious to catch the pearls
which drop from his mouth. Do statesmen and diplomatists, then, listen
to him who can unravel for them the policies of the Past? Do business
men hasten from Threadneedle Street and Wall Street to sit at his feet,
that they may have instilled into them a little of the romance of
ancient money? I fear not.

Come with me to some provincial town, where this day Professor