But all was profoundly silent.

Strolling into the hall, I took up at random from a side-table a little volume of poems, unknown to me, called "Pygmalion in Cyprus;" and seating myself in one of the luxurious Oriental easy-chairs near the silvery sparkling fountain, I began to read.

I opened the book I held at "A Ballad of Kisses," which ran as follows: "There are three kisses that I call to mind, And I will sing their secrets as I go,-- The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind, Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know, As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.
"The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,-- And evermore my soul will loathe the same,-- The toys and joys of fate I may forget, But not the touch of that divided shame; It clove my lips--it burnt me like a flame.
"The third, the final kiss, is one I use Morning and noon and night, and not amiss.
Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse! And when I die, be Love enrapt in bliss Re-sanctified in heaven by such a kiss!" This little gem, which I read and re-read with pleasure, was only one of many in the same collection, The author was assuredly a man of genius.

I studied his word-melodies with intense interest, and noted with some surprise how original and beautiful were many of his fancies and similes.

I say I noted them with surprise, because he was evidently a modern Englishman, and yet unlike any other of his writing species.
His name was not Alfred Tennyson, nor Edwin Arnold, nor Matthew Arnold, nor Austin Dobson, nor Martin Tupper.