There, in the fifteenth century and early in the sixteenth, you have
Malory and Berners writing beautiful English prose; prose the emotion of
which (I dare to say) you must recognise if you have ears to hear. So you
see that already our English prose not only achieves the 'high moment,'
but seems to obey it rather and be lifted by it, until we ask ourselves,
'Who could help writing nobly, having to tell how King Arthur died or how
the Bruce?' Yes, but I bid you observe that Malory and Berners are both
relating what, however noble, is quite simple, quite straightforward. It
is when prose attempts to _philosophise_, to _express thoughts_ as well
as to relate simple sayings and doings--it is then that the trouble
begins. When Malory has to philosophise death, to _think_ about it, this
is as far as he attains:--

'Ah, Sir Lancelot,' said he, 'thou wert head of all Christian Knights!
And now I dare say,' said Sir Ector, 'that, Sir Lancelot, there thou
liest, thou were never matched of none earthly hands; and thou were the
curtiest knight that ever bare shield: and thou were the truest friend
to thy lover that ever strood horse, and thou were the truest lover of
a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou were the kindest man that
ever strooke with sword; and thou were the goodliest person that ever
came among press of knights; and thou were the meekest man and gentlest
that ever sat in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest Knight
to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.'

Beautiful again, I grant! But note you that, eloquent as he can be on the
virtues of his dead friend, when Sir Ector comes to the thought of death
itself all he can accomplish is, 'And now I dare say that, Sir Lancelot,
there thou liest.'