planet we inhabit, for search it from sea to sea and neither Calliope, Melpomene, nor Erato—
Mr Deacon: It is true that we have lost many of the Muses, but Terpsichore—
Moore: You have mentioned the Muse, Mr Deacon, in whom I am least interested. Terpsichore, I admit, is not easily avoided in London, and we cannot get the music she demands out of our ears; it leaves us little peace. But her great sisters are nowhere to be discovered, and many think they have followed the Gods, who, Heine tells us, went into exile in the third century; whilst others think that they have hidden themselves in the laboratories of scientists to whom they whisper secrets of poisonous gases, having become diabolic, like Wagner's Venus. I have borrowed the thought from Baudelaire, who suggests that the Erecine became diabolic among ages that would no longer accept her as divine, and what more natural than that the eight (Terpsichore is admittedly with us still) should conspire to destroy a world that no longer follows beauty? I hope you will take note, Mr Deacon, of the valuable hint I have just thrown out to account for the disappearance of the eight, and that your Editor will reserve some columns of his newspaper for a correspondence on the subject of the present occupation of the Muses, whether they have really left the planet, or are engaged in planning the destruction of a civilization concerned only with truth and knowledge. . . . I know what you are going to say, my dear sir: that want of space will prevent your Editor from considering in detail the very interesting question I have raised. I have had much to do with Editors, and know that their point of view is with affirmations rather than with negations. Now, if the correspondence I suggest were concerned with the return of the Muses, the matter would be different and he would be glad to publish a letter on the subject. You will tell him that although I cannot anticipate the return of the missing eight, I would like to point out in his valuable newspaper that the tenth Muse arrived some five years ago and at once devoted herself to the revival of the ancient art of music in England, and, when her project for English opera went into bankruptcy descended at once into the Phoenix Society and found her reward in an unbroken series of successes. I know what you are going to say: you are going to tell me that the Phoenix rises out of her own ashes. My remembrance is that art always rises out of its own ashes. Why, therefore, should not the revival of the Eliza-
