very gravely as he handed him one of the
volumes.

'Master Lancelot,' he said, 'in giving you that book I bestow upon you
what is worth more than a king's ransom--yea, more than gold of Ophir
and peacocks and ivory from Tarshish, and pearls of Tyre and purple of
Sidon. It is John Florio's rendering of the Essays of Michael of
Montaigne, and there is no better book in the world, of the books that
men have made for men, the books that have no breath of the speech of
angels in them. Here may a man learn to be brave, equable, temperate,
patient, to look life--aye, and the end of life--squarely in the face,
to make the most and best of his earthly portion. Take it, Master
Lancelot; it is the good book of a good and wise gentleman, and in days
long off, when I am no more, you may remember my name because of this my
gift and be grateful.'

Then he turned to me and handed me the other book that he had been
hugging under his arm.

'For you, my dear young friend,' he said, 'I have chosen a work of
another temper. You have no bookish habit, but you have a gallant
spirit, and so I will give you a gallant book.'

He opened the volume, which was a quarto, and read from its title-page
in his thin, piping voice, that always reminded me somewhat of his own
old bullfinch.

'A New, Short, and Easy Method of Fencing; or, the Art of the Broad and
Small Sword, Rectified and Compendiz'd, wherein the practice of these
two weapons is reduced to so few and general Rules that any Person of
indifferent Capacity and ordinary Agility of Body may in a very short
time attain to not only a sufficient Knowledge of the Theory of this
art, but also to a considerable adroitness in practice, either for the
Defence of his life upon a just occasion, or preservation of his
Reputation and Honour in any Accidental Scuffle or Trifling Quarrel. By
Sir William Hope of Balcomie, Baronet, late Deputy-Governor of the
Castle of Edinburgh.'

I should not have carried such a string of words in my memory merely
from hearing Mr. Davies say them over once. But they and the book they
spoke of became very familiar to me afterwards, and I know it and its
title by root of heart.

Lancelot thanked him for us both in well-chosen words, such as I should
never have found if I had cudgelled my brains for a fortnight.

Then we wrung Mr. Davies's hands again, and he wished us God-speed, and
we came out again into the open street, where the day had now well
darkened down.