The incidents of these immortal tales were as well known to the humblest as to the highest in the land. We have abundant evidence of their popularity when recounted in front of the fire in hostel or homestead. Even so late as Milton's day it was the custom to recount knightly adventures and fairy tales about the evening fireside. When
the live-long daylight fail
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
· · · · · ·
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prise,
until at length
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Winds soon lull'd asleep.
How great a part of the pleasures of this world have they missed whose pulses are never stirred by the Spirit of Romance! Content and Peace of Mind may be had by all who will offer up sacrifices to obtain them; but Imagination is not to be had at any price unless it be a part of our birthright. Content may yield a tranquillity of mind that refreshes the soul, but it is Imagination alone that can produce that spiritual exaltation which takes our minds from worldly things, carries us backwards or forwards through countless ages of the past or æons of futurity, and enables us to ride in the chariot of Phœbus. It is a vast library in itself.
'He had small need of books; for many a tale
Traditionary round the mountains hung,
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods,
Nourished Imagination in her growth.'
It was the fortune of our book-hunter once to spend an afternoon in June upon the downs near Winchester. To southward of the old town there is a deep grassy hollow, crescent-shaped, its southern slope fringed with wood; and here in the shade he lay reading the 'Morte d'Arthur' of old Malory. Coming at length to the Noble Tale of the Sangreal, he read how King Arthur, having come 'unto Camelot by the houre of undorn on Whytsonday,' and feasting with the fellowship of the Round Table, was told of the marvel wrought unto Balin's sword by Merlin.
You will remember that Balin fought unbeknown with his brother Balan, that each wounded the other unto death, and that they were buried by Merlin in the same tomb. Then Merlin 'lete make by his subtylyte that Balyn's swerd was put in a marbel stone standyng up ryght as grete as a mylle stone, and the stone hoved alweyes above the water, and dyd many yeres, and so by adventure it swam doun the streme to the Cyte of Camelot that is in Englysshe Wynchestre.'
To the west the downs slope steeply into the river valley, and set in the rich green meadows like a skein of silver threads the book-hunter could discern the Itchen with its attendant rivulets. So he gazed across to the stream and pondered over this marvellous stone which 'hoved' always above the water, a sword set in it so that the pommel alone could be seen, 'and in the pomel therof were precyous stones wrought with subtyle letters of gold.' It was the symbol which was to prove the youthful Galahad the haut prince who should achieve the Sangreal.
That same evening, wandering along the river's bank below the city, his head full of the wondrous tale, an adventure befell him. It was dusk, and he had crossed the stream at a ford, when suddenly he saw the stone. It was lying upon its side, not a dozen paces from the water. There was no doubt whatever about it. It was roughly five feet long, about half as wide and thick, and of a curious reddish-brown—the colour of dried blood.