another visit on our return journey. The sun was dipping now towards the western hills and the limitless desert behind them, and casting ever lengthening shadows over the plain in front. The day's work was done, and we passed groups of peasants, with their beasts of burden, making their way home-a camel perhaps stalking along in front, a donkey close behind looking absurdly small, and a heavy, slouching buffalo bringing up the rear. Amongst one of these groups, or rather lagging somewhat dolefully behind it, was a girl carrying a broken water jar. "Won't you get a good scolding when you get home?" was the consoling remark our dragoman addressed to her. "No," said she, "they will only say, 'Thank God that our sister has come back safely, and that it is only the pitcher which has been broken.'" The marvellous afterglow of sunset had passed from the cloudless sky and darkness settled upon the land ere we reached again the steep bank from which Belianeh looks down upon the Nile; below us lay our boat, yet more transformed with Christmas braveries than it had been when we left it in the morning: for now the triumphal arches of sugar-cane were all hung with manycoloured, lanterns and our upper deck was a very fairy-bower. Here, after dinner, we lay resting our limbs, wearied with many hours of donkey-riding-lay, like the lotus-eaters, Lull'd by warm airs blowing lowly And watch'd the wondrous river drawing slowly listening the while to the weird melody of the Arab songs and music with which our sailors on their deck below were winding up their Christmas festivities. Is there any more plaintive sound than the long drawn "Aäh" which closes every stave of an Egyptian song? The last of these "Aähs was dying away upon the air when Mohammed, the English scholar, made his appearance on our deck to speed with winged words the parting festival, even as he had ushered it in. He was apparently so well satisfied with his morning effort that he could now do no better than repeat it. But his "Good-night" sounded now upon our ears with more appropriateness than when it fell upon them as the morning greeting of our Christmas Day. WRAY W. HUNT. 187 A STRANGER IN ELYSIA. HE tale was told me by a friend whose veracity I count part of my religion, and I may endeavour to set it forth, such as it is, with what circumstances can be remembered. My friend, it seems, had gone a-fishing on a July day, and not attaining even a moderate success, had lain down upon the grassy bank of the stream. He had then drawn from his pocket "The Pilgrim's Progress," a book which always went with him on his travels, and, as he read therein, become drowsy and fallen asleep. How long he slept he could not afterwards tell; but sooner or later, as he said, he found himself awake in an orchard. His mind seemed filled with a sleep and a forgetting as to former things; but, as he moved among the trees, what he saw fixed itself with precision in his remembrance, so that he could tell what varieties of trees he had observed, how many apples or pears hung upon a branch of a certain curve, and other details of a like nature. Meanwhile, the softness of the air, the ruddy colour of the fruit (for he had wandered, as it were, from summer into autumn), the luxuriance of the yielding grass under foot, led him onwards unhurriedly, until a voice, falling with strange accent on his ear, caught his attention. As he proceeded, the trees stood thinner, and he saw figures moving in a space beyond, through the natural screen of boughs and leaves. Without hesitation he left the shelter of the trees and emerged upon the open green. Only one or two of those present bestowed a glance upon him, for all were intent upon a game of bowls. "Ah, Master Chaucer," cried a voice, "thou wast never famous for striking the golden mean. Thou hadst ever a bias towards the right or left, and the left more often than the right, I fear. sayest thou, Sir Walter ? " A merry laugh was the immediate reply to this sally. What A moment later, "That may be," said the gentleman addressed, as he carefully placed a ball in his right hand before rolling it; "yet if Master Chaucer's 'Tales' had been but fables for praying people" -here he rolled his ball-"I think we had missed some right good jests, and thou, Master Gay, hadst been at a loss for somewhat on which to sharpen thy wits! But, Sir Philip, you will remember the laugh the Queen raised when discussing the merits of the 'Wife of Bath'?" "Methinks they were better days for England," said Mr. Chaucer, "when we had men like the great Edward on the throne, subduing the Welsh; and he would have had his will with the Scots, too, if the arch-enemy had not stopped his hand. In your days your jewelled women could command brave men, and willy-nilly they must obey. Women are very well to sew and cook, and for a man to pass his leisure hours with; but on a throne-by my soul, I think it a plan of the devil for the confusion of England." "Yes, sir," growled the Rev. John Knox, "it is a damnable folly, an unheard-of monstrosity, a vile presumption !" "I fancy, reverend sir," said Mr. Gay, "that you said something of a different nature to the Queen of Scots on a certain occasion ; but that may have escaped your memory." "Sir," said Sir Philip Sidney (who had just hit the jack), turning to Mr. Chaucer, "if it were not that I would fain see this game to an end, I would fain cross swords with thee for insulting the dignity of our Virgin Queen." "Ah, Sir Philip,” replied Mr. Chaucer, "I must suspect thee of being something more to your Virgin Queen than a liege subject! Ha ha ha! "Women, in my opinion," broke in Baron Verulam, who had strolled round to watch the game, "are of a too curious a disposition to be wise in great affairs of state, but must ever be prying into matters that concern them not or are of small import, and if they be of a vicious nature they are like to bring their subjects into a sorry case. What had been the opinion of King Solomon? For although the Queen of Sheba had a high estimate of his mental gifts, and that will always tend to make a man of a good humour, I make but little doubt that she was more concerned with his head of hair than with the wisdom of his brains, and thought more of the pearls in his crown than in his speech." "Yet," continued Sir Philip Sidney, still unwilling to let his opponent go, "I think that thou, Master Chaucer, are not to be trusted in matters of judgment or taste. And thy 'Tales' bear witness to this, for though they may make tolerable reading, those of Boccace are better, and, in truth, thy verse contains but little music. My friend, Mr. Spenser, can take thee down a peg or two at that. I hold that no man may be thought a poet if music attend not upon his words." "None will deny Sir Philip Sidney's right to speak on the art of poesie," said another voice, "yet I think the gentle Mr. Spenser, if he were here, would not question that Mr. Chaucer is a good poet. But here comes Mr. Lawes. He should have something to say in a question of music. Mr. Lawes, what sayest thou? Sir Philip says that Mr. Chaucer hath but little music in his verse, and on that account holds Mr. Spenser a greater poet." "Why, I think that Mr. Chaucer and Mr. Spenser be both very good poets, though neither of them can hope to equal my friend, Mr. John Milton." "There, sir, you are begging the question. It is which hath the greater claims on account of the music of his verse." "Well, my lord, with the noose round my neck, I think that Mr. Spenser is a greater master of harmonies, but that Mr. Chaucer can often strike a clearer note, if you will allow the distinction." Sir Walter Raleigh now addressed my friend, proposing that he should join in the game. Just then Mr. Chaucer was heard to be speaking to someone who was standing on one of the boughs of an apple-tree and holding to a branch overhead. He was busily plucking the apples with his right hand and slipping them one by one into a wallet hanging at his side, and paid no attention to the game that was being played on the turf beneath. "How go the apples of wisdom, Master Plato?" said Mr. Chaucer. Then he continued, in the tone of Mephistopheles joking with Faust, "Aristotle hath it all his own way now, eh?" "Truth, my excellent friend, is eternal, and it is the part of every wise man to seek it." "Ah, Master Plato, Aristotle hath it all his own way now. There can be no doubt about that." "Worse luck!" croaked a voice, Giordano Bruno's, "worse luck!" "Aristotle, sir, is a man of judgment," said he in the apple tree; "I have read his works since coming hither." "Ah, thou divine Plato !" exclaimed Bruno, "I had not thought to hear thee speak thus of that unideal man!" The attention of all was then drawn to the game. A few seconds later an ominous crack was heard, and in a moment the divine Plato came to the ground on the top of a broken bough. He immediately picked himself up, and made speed away through the trees before any could assist him. My friend's arm was now taken by Sir Francis Bacon, who led him from the bowling-green; and the two, passing through a VOL, CCLXXX. NO. 1982. Sir Francis gave hedge of privet, came upon a wide open heath. himself out for a connoisseur in the matter of gardens, and told my friend that since coming to Elysia he had been enabled to put into actual form certain fancies and designs in things horticultural, for which time or opportunity had been denied him on earth. He indicated with particularity some thickets of sweet-briar and honeysuckle, wild strawberry, and primrose plants, these past their flowering, those now showing their red fruit among the grass; and some tangled growths of wild thyme, pinks, and periwinkles; all as being apt for such a place made on so princely a scale. For the object of a heath, so excellent a thing in gardens, is not the luxurious pleasing of the senses. This, indeed, may be had in the main garden. It should be frequented rather as a healthy and stringent alternative, so that one may return to the other, more susceptible to the nice varyings of scent a-circling in the air. For the pleasure felt after such an exile is like the more delicate flavour of tobacco, as Sir Walter Raleigh might say, after an abstinence of, it may be, a few days. The day now seemed to be coming to an end, for as they crossed the green my friend lost sight of his companion, who then left him, through the half-darkness. He found himself confronting a mansion with lights casting a dull glimmer from the windows. Approaching a short flight of steps, he ventured to ascend and enter by a door. As he passed in, a maid, seeing him in the hall, ushered him into a large room, whence a hum of conversation proceeded. A number of people were sitting down to dinner. Someone politely appointed my friend to a seat. "Really," said a voice, "Sir Isaac has arranged for the darkness very skilfully to-night. It has come on quite like a September evening." My friend asked his nearest neighbour if it were not customary for the darkness to come on of itself, and what was meant by saying that "Sir Isaac " had arranged it. "Well," said the gentleman addressed, who was, indeed, no other than Sir Richard Steele, "I must suppose that you have not been here very long, or you would have understood. Properly, there is no night here, as you may remember if you have read your Bible; but now and again the continuous light becomes so monotonous that Mr Shakespeare, whom you see seated at the head of the table, and some other choice spirits, prevail upon Sir Isaac Newton to arrange an artificial darkness and moonlight to remind one of former days. Sir Roger de Coverley generally puts in a word for a pitch-dark |