n, which was a murder; and the Women's
Almshouses, and a dozen other things which tourists are expected to see
besides many dozen which they are not; and it is for the latter that
Ellaline and I have a predilection. She and I are also fond of believing
any story which is interesting, therefore we are both invaluable victims
to the custodians of museums and other show places. The nice old fellow
in the Glastonbury museum was delighted with our faith, which would not
only have moved mountains, but transported to such mountains any
historic celebrity necessary to impress the picture. We believed in the
burying of the original Chalice, from which to this hour flows a pure
spring, the Holy, or Blood Spring. We believe that St. Patrick was born,
and died on the Isle of Avalon; and more firmly than all, that both
Arthur and Guinevere were buried under St. Mary's (or St. Joseph's)
Chapel. Why, didn't the custodian point out to us, in the picture of an
ancient plan of the chapel, the actual spot where their bodies lay? What
could we ask more than that? But if we go to Scotland next year, we
shall doubtless believe just as firmly that Arthur rests there, in spite
of the record at Glastonbury, in spite even of Tennyson:

"... the island valley of Avilon;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

Does that come back to you, from Arthur's speech to Bedevere? but he
died of the "grievous wound" after all; and the custodian goes so far as
to assert, solemnly, that when the coffins were opened in the days of
Henry II. the bodies of the king and queen were "very beautiful to see,
for a moment, untouched by time; but that in a second, as the people
looked, their dust crumbled away, all except the splendid golden hair of
Guinevere, which remained to tell of her glory, for many a long year,
until it was stolen, and disappeared forever."

That is a good story, anyhow, and adds to the curious, almost magical
enchantment of Glastonbury. Ellaline says that the very name of
Glastonbury will after this ring in her ears like the sound of fairy
bells, chiming over the lost lake that ringed the Isle of Avalon. You
know, I dare say, that Glastonbury is supposed to have its derivation
from British "Ynyswytryn," "Inis vitrea," the "Island of Glass," b