dly. But his men
love him not, neither love they the English nor the Muscovy folk, for
they are worshippers of Mahound, and endure not Christian men. And they
love not them that cut their throats, and burn their country.

Now they of Muscovy ben Devyls, und they ben subtle for to make a thing
seme otherwise than it is, for to deceive mankind. Wherefore Englishmen
putten no trust in them of Muscovy, save only the Englishmen ciept
Radicals, for they make as if they loved these Develes, out of the fear
and dread of war wherein they go, and would be slaves sooner than fight.
But the folk of Ynde know not what shall befall, nor whether they of
Muscovy will take the Lond, or Englishmen shall keep it, so that
their hearts may not enduren for drede. And methinks that soon shall
Englishmen and Muscovy folk put their bodies in adventure, and war one
with another, and all for the way to Ynde.

But St. George for Englond, I say, and so enough; and may the Seyntes
hele thee, Sir John, of thy Gowtes Artetykes, that thee tormenten. But
to thy Boke I list not to give no credence.

XII. To Alexandre Dumas.

Sir,--There are moments when the wheels of life, even of such a life as
yours, run slow, and when mistrust and doubt overshadow even the most
intrepid disposition. In such a moment, towards the ending of your days,
you said to your son, M. Alexandre Dumas, 'I seem to see myself set on
a pedestal which trembles as if it were founded on the sands.' These
sands, your uncounted volumes, are all of gold, and make a foundation
more solid than the rock. As well might the singer of Odysseus, or the
authors of the 'Arabian Nights', or the first inventors of the stories
of Boccaccio, believe that their works were perishable (their names,
indeed, have perished), as the creator of 'Les Trois Mousquetaires'
alarm himself with the thought that the world could ever forget
Alexandre Dumas.

Than yours there has been no greater nor more kindly and beneficent
force in modern letters. To Scott, indeed, you owed the first impulse
of your genius; but, once set in motion, what miracles could it not
accomplish? Our dear Porthos was overcome, at last, by a superhuman
burden; but your imaginative strength never found a task too great for
it. What an extraordinary vigour, what health, what an overflow of force
was yours! It is good, in a day of small and laborious ingenuities, to
breathe the free air of your books, and dwell in the company of Dum