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.



LETTER--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