esick for heaven,
those weary arms try to free themselves of the clinging foam. Another
minute and surely the triumphant god will leap from his watery couch
and guide with unerring hands the coursers of the Dawn! But that
reluctant minute is eternal, and the divinity still remains incapable,
clogged and wrapped in the embrace of marble waves. Yet the real
sun every morning succeeds in equipping himself for his journey, and
arrives, glad, at his welcome bath in the western sea.

The inference I draw is: If you want a career to be eternal instead of
transitory, hand it over to Art.

[ILLUSTRATION: "HAND IT OVER TO ART."]

The true moral of it all is, that we are all savage myths of the
Course of the Sun. We disappear any number of times, but we rise and
trail new clouds of glory, and our readers or our audiences perceive
that it is the same old Hyperion back again. The youth who by the
faithful hound, half buried in the snow, is found far up on the most
inaccessible peaks of imagination, is perceived to grasp still in his
hand of ice that Germanesque and strange device--_Auf Wiedersehen_.

[ILLUSTRATION]

FOLLOWING THE TIBER.

TWO PAPERS.--1.

[Illustration: NEAR THE SOURCE OF THE TIBER.]

"Ecce Tiberum!" cried the Roman legions when they first beheld the
Scottish Tay. What power of association could have made them see in
the clear and shallow stream the likeless of their tawny Tiber,
with his full-flowing waters sweeping down to the sea? Perhaps those
soldiers under whose mailed and rugged breasts lay so tender a thought
of home came from the northerly region among the Apennines, where a
little bubbling mountain-brook is the first form in which the storied
Tiber greets the light of day. One who has made a pilgrimage from its
mouth to its source thus describes the spot: "An old man undertook to
be our guide. By the side of the little stream, which here constitutes
the first vein of the Tiber, we penetrated the wood. It was an immense
beech-forest.... The trees were almost all great gnarled veterans
who had borne the snows of many winters: now they stood basking above
their blackened shadows in the blazing sunshine. The little stream
tumbled from ledge to ledge of splintered rock, sometimes creeping
into a hazel thicket, green with long ferns and soft moss, and then
leaping once more merrily into the sunlight. Presently it split into
numerous little rills. We followed the longest of these. It led us
to