t out into the
world, to take their place with the dull, commonplace Philistine who has
made the House of Commons what it is.

But as Gordon heard Tester reading the wonderful riot of melody, which
conjures up visions of rainbows, and far-receding sunsets, of dew
gleaming like crystals in the morning, of water gliding like forgotten
songs, a strange peace descended on him. He had not known that there
could be anything so intensely beautiful. Over the great Abbey the sun
was rising heavenwards; down the street past the Almshouses he heard the
happy sound of a young girl laughing. The world was full of strange new
things; there was a new meaning in the song of the blackbird, in the
rustle of the leaves, in the whispering of the warm wind. And suddenly
there came over him a sensation of how far he himself was below the
splendour of it all. He had walked through life with blinded eyes; with
dulled senses he had stared at the ground, while all the time the great
ideal of beauty was shining from the blue mountains of man's desire.

Tester had finished reading.

"Well what do you think of it?"

"Oh, it's wonderful. I never dreamt of such music."

"Yes, you see, masters grow old; they forget what it was like to be
young; they want us to look at life through their spectacles, and, of
course, we can't. Youth and age is an impossible combination; we have to
cut a way for ourselves, Caruthers, sometimes we fail, sometimes we
succeed. I've made a pretty fair mess of things, because I have gone on
my own way; because I have had no one to guide me. I found little
consolation in mature thought, and I am not one of the fools who has
just taken things for granted; I strike out by myself. I want to find
what beauty really is, and I shall find it by sifting out everything
first. I have probed a good many things one way and another, some ugly,
some beautiful. I have followed the course of Nature. After all, Nature
is more likely to be right than an artificial civilisation. I follow
where my inclinations lead me. I hate laws and regulations. As I've
often said, I did not ask to come into this world, so I shall do as I
please, and I think that I shall reach home all right in the end.
Literature is a great sign-post!"

"Yes," said Gordon simply. "I never imagined it before. Who wrote that,
by the way?"

"Swinburne, the great pagan who was sick of the sham and pretence of his
day, and cried for the glories of Rome. Look here, Caruthers,