“The priests and ministers, the bishops and strolling preachers, have through the ages called themselves ‘divines;’ and, lo! they stand aside, and we, the moderns, give that title in our heart of hearts to the poets, the dramatists, the weavers of tales that touch the soul, the wonder-workers in words and thoughts who have wrought that glorious temple we call literature. Homer and Plato and Horace and Shakespeare and Goethe,--these are the true ‘divines;’ these are the inspired and anointed teachers who, making no demands for our reverence and awe, find all the generations bending the knee before them.” He paused for breath, and a round of applause drove the tobacco-smoke against the ceiling. “With this introduction,” he went on, “I will present an old friend of yours, who has written a poem that he has modestly informed me is ‘simply great.’” A shout of laughter greeted this sally, as a tall, slim man with gray hair and a youthful cast of countenance arose. That he was well known and thoroughly liked was proved by the applause that welcomed him. He stood at the end of the table at which Richard’s inamorata was seated; and, as he recited the following poem, he indicated by look and gesture that the dark-haired girl had been its inspiration--by-play that amused his hearers, but filled Richard with a jealousy that was as pronounced as it was unreasonable. “I call this little effort to amuse you,” said the poet, “Prince Spaghetti’s Vengeance.” Then he recited, with a good deal of elocutionary cleverness, the following lines:--