A curate was once complaining to me about certain hardships that he suffered at the hands of his vicar. “And, above all,” he said, “I am never allowed to preach an evening sermon. I get no chances. The vicar always preaches the evening sermons.” There was a good deal of justice in the complaint; we are all naturally more righteous in the evening. When the light dies behind the stained windows, and the music speaks, and through the open doors you can smell the syringa-bushes, then--for some reason that I know not--it is more easy to think oneself a sinner and to wish one were not. Preaching would naturally be more effective at such a time. It is evening now, and I have been thinking about the different things that I am going to eat shortly. I do not know what is wrong with me that I should be so low. But external circumstances that suggest one line of thought are always liable to suggest the exact opposite. It has been proved by statistics that two-thirds of the best English jokes are invented, but not necessarily spoken, at funerals. Perhaps this accounts for the depression one always has to conceal when one hears of the joy or success of a dear friend. _Zeitgeist_ will have a long rest now--until my return. I could wish for some reasons that I had a more complete control over that boat; that, when I started out with it, I could be more definitely sure where it was going; that, in short, its nature was less petulant. However, there is a charm in uncertainty. I forgive it everything. THE NINE MUSES MINUS ONE. I. CLIO’S STORY: CHARLES MARIUS. On a beautiful summer night of last long vacation a cloud sailed slowly out of the west. The sun was going down; the honest worker had fallen asleep over his books, and in his dream was standing before a booking office in the Bay of Tarentum and asking for a second aorist return to Clapham; the jubilant whist player, holding the situation in his hand, had exhausted the trumps, and was bringing in the rest of a long suit; the mere conversationalist had worked in that epigram again, and the mere athlete, who did not believe in that fancy kind of talk, had gone away to drink a little good beer; the fiery bedmaker had just gone round to the kitchens, to tell the men precisely what she thought about them: in fact, everything--except the cloud--was much as usual. But the cloud was extraordinary. It was granted to me to see that cloud close at hand, to stand in its midst, to hear what was spoken there, while I remained unseen and unheard. I do not wish to speak of myself much, because it seems to me vain and immodest; but I must say that I believe the real reason why I was permitted to behold the Muses, and to hear the stories which they told to one another to while away the summer night, is that my nature is singularly pure, and good, and spiritual, and free from grossness, and beautiful. So, I feel sure, is your nature, my dear reader, although in a less degree.