Men of his stamp enforce courtesy in others by their mere presence. It would have been impossible to have disturbed him. I turned to a somewhat more lengthy composition, which was also to appear above his signature, entitled, “The Effect of Greek Philosophy upon European Thought.” When I had completed my analysis of this profound historical influence, I thought that my master and guide would have freed himself from the net of the author who thus entranced him. I was mistaken. I had, however, but just begun a third article, of which the subject escapes me, when he turned to me and said, closing the book between his hands: “Will you go and interview someone for me?” I fear my sudden change of expression betrayed the fact that the idea was repugnant to one familiar rather with foreign politics and with the Classics than with the reporters’ side of the paper. Mr. Caliban looked at my collar with his kindly eyes, and kept them fixed upon it for some seconds. He then smiled (if such a man could be said to smile) and continued: “I want to tell you something....” There was profound silence for a little while, during which a number of thoughts passed through my mind. I remembered that Dr. Caliban was Editor at that moment of the _Sunday Herald_. I remembered that I was his right hand, and that without me the enormous labour he weekly undertook could never have been accomplished without trespassing upon the sanctity of the Sabbath. After a little hesitation, he pulled down his waistcoat, hitched his trousers at the knees, crossed his legs, made a half-turn towards me (for his study-chair was mounted upon a swivel), and said: “It’s like this:-- ...” I assured him that I would do what he wished, for I knew, whenever he spoke in this tone, that there was something to be done for England. “It’s like this,” he went on, “I have found a man here who should _count_, who should _tell_. It is a fearful thought that such a mind can have remained so long hidden. Here is a man with something in him quite peculiar and apart--and he is unknown! It is England through and through, and the best of England; it is more than that. Even where I disagree with him, I find something like a living voice. He gets right at one, as it were ... yet I never heard his name!” Here Mr. Caliban, having stopped for a moment, as though seeking something in his memory, declaimed in a rich monotone: “Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air.” There was a little silence. Then he said abruptly: “Do you know Wordsworth’s definition of a poet? Take it down. I should like you to use it.” I pulled out my note-book and wrote in shorthand from his dictation a sublime phrase, which was new to me: “_A Poet is a_ MAN _speaking to_ MEN.” “This man,” said Dr. Caliban simply, “is a man speaking to men.”