ow shorter and now longer, into which the time
from sunset to sunrise was divided, belonged to the Seven Planets, in the
order Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Sol, Venus, Mercury, Luna--by following out
which order, you will discover that, since the first hour of Sunday
belongs to the Sun, giving name to the day--the twenty-third hour, or the
second before sunrise of the following day, will belong to Venus, to whom
Palamon then prays--and the hour of sunrise, next day, belongs to the
Moon, or Diana, to whom Emelie then addresses herself. Following the
circle, you find that the fourth hour of Monday belongs to Mars. This is
Arcite's hour. And if you wonder how such Chaldaic and Egyptian lore
should come into your tale of chivalry, you will be relieved by
understanding that these dedications had, in our poetical ages, due
popularity for infusing into them a poetical efficiency; forasmuch as an
old French "Shepherds' Calendar," cited by Tyrwhitt, alleges the very rule
which we have given, for the instruction of him "who will weet how the
Shepherds do wit which planet reigneth every hour of the day and of the
night." This timing, therefore, of sacrifice and orison to the planetary
hours, is pertinently and speakingly feigned by Chaucer.

The Tournament follows, which is mediaeval enough. Arcite, according to the
promise of Mars, is victorious. Palamon is taken and bound. But here is
the difficulty. Venus has promised Emelie to Palamon. Saturn, the [Greek:
agchylometis], finds a remedy, and gratifies his grand-daughter. As
Arcite, the victor, having taken off his helmet, rides along the lists to
show himself to all, and especially to Emelie, Pluto, at the request of
Saturn, sends an infernal fury who starts up out of the ground before him.
The scared horse plunges and stumbles; Arcite is thrown upon his head, and
taken up for dead. He is not dead; but he dies, and is burned, after the
fashion of Patroclus and Hector; and twelve months after, his virgin widow
is by Theseus given in marriage to Palamon.

What is the real effect of all this commixture? The truth is, that under
such circumstances, after a little resistance and struggling, you give in,
and let the poet have his own way, provided that he is a poet. There is
but one condition--that the poet put, into whatever manners, true life.
Then you willingly give up your own dull book-learning, and accept his
painting for the authentic record of reality. You are, in fact, gradually
co