e in the effect, as likewise the soft yellow silk tie that
fluttered like a flame in the speed of his going. His blue eyes were
tragically fresh and clear,--as though they had as yet been little
used. There were little wings of haste upon his feet, and he came
straight to me, with the air of the Angel Gabriel about to make his
divine announcement. For a moment I thought that he was an apparition
of prophecy charged to announce the maiden of the Lord for whom I was
seeking. However, his brief flushed question was not of these things.
He desired first to ask the time of day, and next--here, after a bump
to the earth, one's thoughts ballooned again heavenwards--"had I seen a
green copy of Shelley lying anywhere along the road?"

Nothing so good had happened to me, I replied--but I believed that I
had seen a copy of Alastor! For a moment my meaning was lost on him;
then he flushed and smiled, thanked me and was off again, saying that
he must find his Shelley, as he wouldn't lose it for the world!

He had presently disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but he had
left me a companion, a radiant reverberant name; and for some little
space the name of Shelley clashed silvery music among the hills.

Its seven letters seemed to hang right across the clouds like the Seven
Stars, an apocalyptic constellation, a veritable sky sign; and again
the name was an angel standing with a silver trumpet, and again it was
a song. The heavens opened, and across the blue rift it hung in a
glory of celestial fire, while from behind and above the clouds came a
warbling as of innumerable larks.

How strange was this miracle of fame, I pondered, this strange
apotheosis by which a mere private name becomes a public symbol!
Shelley was once a private person whose name had no more universal
meaning than my own, and so were Byron and Cromwell and Shakespeare;
yet now their names are facts as stubborn as the Rocky Mountains, or
the National Gallery, or the circulation of the blood. From their
original inch or so of private handwriting they have spread and spread
out across the world, and now whole generations of men find
intellectual accommodation within them,--drinking fountains and other
public institutions are erected upon them; yea, Carlyle has become a
Chelsea swimming-bath, and "Highland Mary" is sold for whiskey, while
Mr. Gladstone is to be met everywhere in the form of a bag.

Does Mr. Gladstone, I wonder, instruct his valet "to pac