"No, my friend!—Not even the greatest! Do you not think there must have been great and wise and gifted men in Tyre, in Sidon, in Carthage, in Babylon?—There are five men mentioned in Scripture, as being 'ready to write swiftly'—Sarea, Dabria, Selemia, Ecanus, and Ariel—where is the no doubt admirable work done by these? Perhaps … who knows? … one of them was as great as Homer in genius,—we cannot tell!"
"True,—we cannot tell!" responded Villiers meditatively—"But, Alwyn, if you persist in viewing things through such tremendous vistas of time, and in measuring the Future by the Past, then one may ask what is the use of anything?"
"There IS no use in anything, except in the making of a strong, persistent, steady effort after good," said Alwyn earnestly … "We men are cast, as it were, between two swift currents, Wrong and Right,—Self and God,—and it seems more easy to shut our eyes and drift into Self and Wrong, than to strike out brave arms, and swim, despite all difficulty, toward God and Right, yet if we once take the latter course, we shall find it the most natural and the least fatiguing. And with every separate stroke of high endeavor we carry others with us,—we raise our race,—we bear it onward,—upward! And the true reward, or best result of fame, is, that having succeeded in winning brief attention from the multitude, a man may be able to pronounce one of God's lightning messages of inspired Truth plainly to them, while they are yet willing to stand and listen. This momentary hearing from the people is, as I take it, the sole reward any writer can dare to hope for,—and when he obtains it, he should remember that his audience remains with him but a very short while,—so that it is his duty to see that he employ his chance WELL, not to win applause for himself, but to cheer and lift others to noble thought, and still more noble fulfilment."
Villiers regarded him wistfully.
"Alwyn, my dear fellow, do you want to be the Sisyphus of this era?—You will find the stone of Evil heavy to roll upward,—moreover, it will exhibit the usually painful tendency to slip back and crush you!"
"How can it crush me?" asked his friend with a serene smile. "My heart cannot be broken, or my spirit dismayed, and as for my body, it can but die,—and death comes to every man! I would rather try to roll up the stone, however fruitless the task, than sit idly looking at it, and doing nothing!"
"Your heart cannot be broken? Ah! how do you know" … and Villiers shook his head dubiously—"What man can be certain of his own destiny?"
"Everyman can WILL his own destiny,"—returned Alwyn firmly. "That is just it. But here we are getting into a serious discussion, and I had determined to talk no more on such subjects till to-night."
"And to-night we are to go in for them thoroughly, I suppose?"—inquired Villiers with a quick look. "To-night, my dear boy, you will have to decide whether you consider me mad or sane," said Alwyn cheerfully—"I shall tell you truths that seem like romances—and facts that sound like fables,—moreover, I shall have to assure you that miracles DO happen whenever God chooses, in spite of all human denial of their possibility. Do you remember Whately's clever skit—'Historical Doubts of Napoleon I'?—showing how easy it was to logically prove that Napoleon never existed?—That ought to enlighten people as to the very precise and convincing manner in which we can, if we choose, argue away what is nevertheless an incontestible FACT. Thus do skeptics deny miracles—yet we live surrounded by miracles! … do you think me crazed for saying so?"
Villiers laughed. "Crazed! No, indeed!—I wish every man in London were as sane and sound as you are!"