for looking at the show. I noted the dresses
and the jewels, and the ladies' favours of the
knights; the action of the horses and the
faces of the riders; the life, the carelessness,
the sudden heed; the body curving to the
rearing steed; the patting hand, that best
persuades the check, makes the quarrel
up with a proud neck—the thigh broad-
pressed, the spanning palm upon it, and
the jerk'd feather flowing on the bonnet.
Then came, after an interval of stately
length, a troop of steeds, milk-white and
unattired, Arabian bred, each by a blooming
boy lightsomely led. What next? The
pages of the court, in rows of three—of
white and crimson is their livery. Space
after space, and still the trains appear a
fervid whisper fills the general ear. Ah!
yes—no—'tis not he, but 'tis the squires who
go before him when his pomp requires. And
now his huntsman shows the lessening train
—now the squire carver and the chamberlain.
And now his banner comes, and now
his shield, borne by the squire that waits him
to the field. And then an interval—a lordly
space—a pin-drop's silence strikes o'er all the
place. The princess from a distance scarcely
knows which way to look; her colour comes
and goes, and with an impulse and affection
free, she lays her hand upon her father's
knee, who looks upon her with a labour'd
smile, gathering it up into his own the
while. When some one's voice, as if it
knew not how to check itself, exclaims,
"The Prince! Now—now!" And on a
milk-white courser, like the air, a glorious
figure springs into the square. Up with a
burst of thunder goes the shout——["Wimbledon
and Malden! Wimbledon and
Malden! Passengers for Wimbledon and
Malden! "]——and rolls the echoing walls
and peopled roofs about.

The noble youth, at sight of whom surprise,
relief, a joy scarce understood, something,
perhaps, of very gratitude, and fifty
feelings, undefined and new, danced through
the bride and flushed her faded hue, was
Paulo. And, alas for a fair maiden's love, he
was to be no more to her than the brother of
the bridegroom, by whom he had been sent
as proxy to be wedded in his name and to
convey the bride to Rimini. To Paulo poor
Francesca gave her hand in mockery, her
heart in truth. And as I read more of her
tale the rainy weather found its way into my
eyes, so that I even murmured to myself
after Giovanni when he stood over the dead
youth, "And, Paulo, thou wert the completest
knight that ever rode with banner to
the fight; and thou wert the most beautiful
to see that ever came in press of chivalry;
and of a sinful man thou wert the best that
ever for his friend put spear in rest; and
thou wert the most meek and cordial that
ever among ladies ate in hall; and thou
wert still, for all that bosom gor'd, the
kindest man that ever struck with sword."

"I could walk faster than this train is
going," said my discontented neighbour;
"we shall never see our journey's end—it's
shameful!"

I had the end to see of Francesca, and I
did not answer him. How could I? I knew
nothing about the journey—it was his journey,
not mine—why should he talk to me
about it? But I had not remained much
longer absorbed in my book before my
discontented neighbour put his head, pipe and
all, into my face to say,—

"Esher, sir! We have been twenty minutes
coming from Kingston Junction—twen-ty
minutes! I ask you, sir, is it not shameful?"

"Doubtless; I have not noticed."

"Not noticed, sir! Perhaps you've an
objection to fast travelling?"

"I—I don't think we've been sitting in
the same train. I was just thinking how
agreeable it was to be carried in one minute
from Rimini to the Hellespont, only to see
Hero and Leander."

"O! where next?"

"Why, sir," I said, turning a leaf or two,
"my next station, I see, is in Sherwood
Forest; I am to stop there to make friends
with Robin Hood."

"The writer of that book drives a long
excursion-train. I wouldn't mind a word
with Robin Hood myself, God bless him!
but, as for your poets, I hate them all: they
tie their English into knots, and want a mile
of it—knots and all to say 'fine weather
for the ducks,' as, truly, it is this morning—
Ugh!"

"I say nothing of that, sir; I have nothing
just now in my mind except this book of
stories—which is just a book of stories, all
of them good ones, written in such verse as
may be read by rich and poor with almost
equal pleasure. They are only told in verse
in order that the music may give force and
beauty to the sense; read them or print
them how you will, you cannot destroy their
music or convict them of being by a syllable
too wordy; they discharge their burden in
plain sentences, without even going out of
their way to avoid expressions common in
the mouths of the people. Every picture in
them is poetical in its conception, and in its
expression musical. There is nothing far-
fetched—there is no mystification; these are
just stories in verse which may be enjoyed
by the entire mass of the people. There is
even as little as possible of simple meditation
in them, though that would have been welcome
from the mind of a pure-hearted man,
beloved of poets in his youth and in his
prime, now worthy to be loved of all mankind.
Of him there are fewer to speak ill
than even of Robin Hood, when not a soul in
Locksley town would speak him an ill-word;
the friars raged; but no man's tongue nor
even feature stirred; except among a very
few, who dined in the abbey halls; and then
with a sigh bold Robin knew his true friends