"After all," he mused, "the matter is simple enough when one reasons it out. I have been unable to write anything worth writing for a long time, and I told Heliobas as much. He, knowing my apathetic condition of brain, employed his force accordingly, though he denies having done so, ... and this poem is evidently the result of my long pent-up thoughts that struggled for utterance yet could not before find vent in words. The only mysterious part of the affair is this 'Field of Ardath,' ... how its name haunts me! ... and how HER face shines before the eyes of my memory! That SHE should be a phantom of my own creation seems impossible--for when have I, even in my wildest freaks of fancy, ever imagined a creature half so fair!" His gaze rested dreamily on the opposite snow-clad peaks, above which large fleecy clouds, themselves like moving mountains, were slowly passing, their edges glowing with purple and gold as they neared the sinking sun. Presently rousing himself, he took up a pen and first of all addressing an envelope to "THE HONBLE. FRANCIS VILLIERS, "Constitutional Club, "LONDON" he rapidly wrote off the following letter: "MONASTERY OF LARS, "PASS OF DARIEL, CAUCASUS." "MY DEAR VILLIERS:--Start not at the above address! I am not yet vowed to perpetual seclusion, silence or celibacy! That I of all men in the world should be in a Monastery will seem to you, who know my prejudices, in the last degree absurd--nevertheless here I am,--though here I do not remain, as it is my fixed intention to-morrow at daybreak to depart straightway from hence en route for the supposed site and ruins of Babylon. Yes,--Babylon! why not? Perished greatness has always been a more interesting subject of contemplation to me than existing littleness--and I dare say I shall wander among the tumuli of the ancient fallen city with more satisfaction than in the hot, humanity-packed streets of London, Paris, or Vienna--all destined to become tumuli in their turn. Moreover. I am on the track of an adventure,--on the search for a new sensation, having tried nearly all the old ones and found them NIL. You know my nomadic and restless disposition ... perhaps there is something of the Greek gipsy about me--a craving for constant change of scene and surroundings,--however, as my absence from you and England is likely to be somewhat prolonged, I send you in the mean time a Poem--there! 'Season your admiration for a while,' and hear me out patiently. I am perfectly aware of all you would say concerning the utter folly and uselessness of writing poetry at all in this present age of milk-and-watery-literature, shilling sensationals, and lascivious society dramas,--and I have a very keen recollection too of the way in which my last book was maltreated by the entire press--good heavens! how the critics yelped like dogs about my heels, snapping, sniffing, and snarling! I could have wept then like the sensitive fool I was....