MAURICE BARING (continued 2)

August 1.—There is no news except that, as always occurs at this time of year, the Phœnix is reported to have been seen in Egypt.

August 3.—One of those distressing little incidents happened to-day which entirely spoil one's comfort and peace of mind for the moment: just like a piece of dust getting into one's eye. My old friend Lucius Anuseius came all the way from Rhodes to see me. By some mistake he was shown into the Chamber, where prisoners are examined, and before the error was rectified he was rather rudely interrogated. It turned out afterwards that Balbus mistook him for Titus Anuseius, the informer. Balbus is growing more and more stupid; he forgets everything. I ought to send him away; on the other hand, he knows my habits, and I should feel lost without him. As it is, Claricles says that Lucius is likely to feel it for several days. He is so sensitive and the slightest thing upsets his nerves. All his family are touchy, and I am afraid he will look upon the matter as a deliberate slight. If it had happened to anyone else it would not have mattered. They would have understood at once. This has quite put me out. But, as Fufius says, how little I shall think of this in a year's time.

August 7.—Lucius Anuseius left the island in a huff. It is most regrettable.

August 12.—Agrippina arrives to-morrow. There is nothing to be done. How pleasant life would be were it not for one's relations.

XII

FROM THE DIARY OF ŒDIPUS REX

Corinth. The Feast of the Minotaur.—My birthday and coming-of-age. All went oft very successfully. Papa gave me a chariot and mamma a pocket tooth-pick, set in gold, with an Egyptian inscription on it (two flamingoes and a water-rat, which means in Egyptian "Be merry and wise"). Nausicaa, my nurse, gave me a stylus-wiper with "A Present from Corinth" beautifully worked into it in silk. Polyphemus, our faithful old messenger (who has only one eye), gave me a pair of sandal strings. Very useful, as I'm always losing mine.

In the morning, after I had received all the family congratulations and tokens, at the first meal, there was a public presentation of gifts in the palace.

The town of Corinth sent a deputation, headed by the Priest of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, which presented me, on behalf of the city, with a silver vase, symbolic of the freedom of the city, beautifully embossed, and engraved with a suitable inscription.

The priest made a long speech, and papa, who never cared for oratory, kept on muttering, "By Demeter, be brief," but the priest wasn't brief. He spoke for nearly an hour.

Then I had to respond. I said I would earnestly endeavour to follow in my father's footsteps and to deserve the good-will and esteem of my future subjects, which was being manifested in so touching and patriotic a fashion. My speech had all been written out for me beforehand by Zoroaster, my Persian tutor; but I flatter myself I added a few unexpected and telling touches.

For instance, I began by saying: "Unaccustomed as I am to speaking in public—." They cheered this to the echo.

I also managed to bring in rather an amusing anecdote about how a foreign merchant called Abraham tried to get the better of a Corinthian merchant in a bargain, and how the Corinthian got the best of him by guile. This provoked loud laughter.

My peroration, ending with the words:

"What do they know of Corinth who only Corinth know?"

(a quotation from Tyrtæus) was loudly cheered. But my cousin Thersites almost spoilt the effect by adding audibly, "Quite enough."

In the afternoon there were games, and an ox was roasted whole for the ὁι πολλὸι. Papa says, now I am of age, I must go and pay my respects to the oracle at Delphi. It is a family tradition.

Delphi.—(What is the date?)—Arrived at last after a tedious journey. The inn is very uncomfortable. This is too bad, as in the guide book (Odysseus') it is marked with a constellation of the Pleiades, which means very good. The wine tastes of tar. And the salt is a chemical compound called Σερεβος. I made a scene and asked for ordinary slaves' salt, and they hadn't got any.

Shall not stay at this inn again, and I shall warn others not to. It is called ΞΕΝΩΛΟΧΕΙΟΝ ΒΑΓΟΝΛΗ. Disappointed in the Temple (very late architecture) and still more in the Oracle. I suppose it thought I didn't pay enough. But because one happens to be a prince, I don't see why one should be robbed. Besides which. I am travelling incognito as Kyrios Ralli. But the priests bowed, and they all called me, "your Shiningness." The Oracle was quite absurd, and evidently in a very bad temper. It said I would kill my father and marry my mother. It only shows how absurd the whole thing is. I hate superstition, and oracles ought to be stopped by law. Gypsies on the roadside are put in gaol. Why should oracles be supported by the State? I shall write to the False Witness about it.

In the afternoon went to the theatre. Saw the tragedy of Adam and Eve, a historical drama, translated from the Hebrew. Very long. The part of the Archangel, danced by Thepsis, was very bad, and the man who danced Eve was too old; but the snake was good. Scenery fine, especially the tree (which had real leaves).

Daulis, Tuesday.—Arrived this morning. Very disappointing; the famous Daulian nightingale is not singing this spring. Just my luck. Rather an amazing incident happened yesterday on the way. My chariot was run into by a stranger. He was on the wrong side of the road, and, of course, entirely in the wrong. Also, his charioteer was not sober. We shouted, and we gave them ample room, and time, but he ran straight into us and his chariot was upset. The owner and charioteer were both taken to the Æsculapian Home, which is under the management of the Red Serpent. The doctor said it was serious. We did all we could, but had to go on, as I was due at Daulis to-day.

Thebes, a year later.—Staying with Queen Jocasta, a charming widow. All very comfortable. Everybody is concerned about the Sphinx, who is really causing great annoyance, asking impertinent riddles, and playing dangerous practical jokes on people who can't answer. They want me to go. Very tiresome, as I never could answer a riddle; but it's difficult to refuse.

Wednesday.—Saw the Sphinx. Guessed the riddle first shot. It asked what was that which runs on two legs, has feathers and a beak, and barks like a dog. I said "pheasant," and I added, "You put that in about the barking to make it more difficult." The Sphinx was very angry and went off in a huff, for good.

Thursday.—As a reward for getting rid of the Sphinx I am allowed to marry the Queen; we are engaged. Everybody thinks it an excellent thing. She is a little older than I am; but I don't think that matters.

(Ten years later)

Thebes.—Rather a severe epidemic of plague. They say it is not bubonic, however. In fact, it is what they call plagueen. Still, there are a great many deaths.

Thebes, a week later.—The plague increasing. Have sent for Tiresias to find out what it comes from.

Tuesday.—Tiresias arrived. Very cross and guarded. Don't believe he knows anything about it. Doesn't want to commit himself. He loves making mysteries.

Saturday.—Insisted on Tiresias speaking out. Regret having done so now. He flew into a passion, and threatened the whole court with "exposure" and "revelations." That's the last thing we want now.

Monday.—Had it all out with Tiresias. He told the most absurd cock and bull story. Utterly preposterous, but very disagreeable even to have such things hinted. Said nothing to Jocasta, as yet. Luckily, there are no proofs. Tiresias has raked up an old shepherd, who is ready to swear I am not the son of the King of Corinth, but the son of Laius, King of Thebes, and of Jocasta (my wife!); and that Laius was the man I accidentally killed years ago on the road to Daulis!

Tiresias says this is the sole cause of the plague, which is getting worse. They now say it is Asiatic.

Thursday.—I interviewed and cross-examined the shepherd in the presence of Tiresias. There seems to be no doubt whatsoever about the facts. But I cannot see that any good can be done now, after all these years, by making a public scandal. It is, after all, a family matter. Tiresias says the plague will not stop unless the whole truth is published. Very awkward. Don't know how to break it to Jocasta.

Friday (dictated).—Jocasta overheard me discussing the matter with Tiresias and jumped, rashly, to conclusions. She had hysterics, and, losing all self-control, seriously injured both my eyes with a pin. I may very likely be blind for life. She was very sorry afterwards, and is now laid up. I and the children leave for Colonnus to-morrow, and it is settled that I am to abdicate in favour of Creon on the plea of ill-health and overwork. The children have been told nothing; but Antigone, who is far too precocious, alluded to Jocasta as grand-mamma. The matter will be hushed up as far as possible.

Citium Colonnus, two months later.—The air here is delicious. Must say the change is doing me good.

XIII

FROM THE DIARY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

Rouen, 1066.—Disquieting news from London. My friend, benefactor and relation, my brother Sovereign, Edward of England, has again had one of his attacks. It comes, I am sure, from not eating meat. Were anything to happen to him, I should be obliged to go over to London at once and settle as to the carrying on of the Government with Harold. Nothing could be more inconvenient at the present moment. Have the utmost confidence in Harold; but I fear the influence of the English nobility. I like the English; but they are not to be trusted in foreign politics. They are naturally perfidious, and they don't know it. They think they are more virtuous than other people; or rather that they are exempted from the faults and the vices which are common to us all. The European situation seems unsatisfactory.

Among other things Father Anselm writes that a certain party among the Englishwomen want to be admitted to the Witenagemot. The majority of the women are against it. The agitators sent a deputation to Westminster, but the King said it would not be according to the precedents to receive them. They were so annoyed at this that they made a dastardly attack on the beautiful old Druid Temple of Stonehenge, almost completely destroying it. F. Anselm says only a few blocks of stone are left, and that the place is unrecognisable.

The ringleaders were taken and claimed the ordeal by fire and the matter was referred to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who said that it was not a matter to be dealt with by ordeal. (Quite right!) He put the case into the hands of a select body of matrons, chosen from all classes. These decided that the offenders should be publicly whipped by women, and sent home. This was done, much to the satisfaction of everybody.

Rouen.—Heard Mass and went out hunting. Excellent sport. Shot a fox and six thrushes. Had thrush-pie for dinner. Find it difficult to get on horse-back without aid.

Rouen.—Received a letter from the Pope. He says that should anything happen to King Edward—he is, of course, far from suggesting such a thing, but one must take everything into consideration—I must be very firm about claiming the succession. H.H. says that although, of course, it would be indelicate for him to raise the question just now, he knows it is the King's wish that I should succeed him. He seems to think Harold may give trouble. But Harold is bound to me by oath. Also I saved his life.

Rouen.—Took William out hunting. His red hair frightens the ducks. Have told him over and over again to get a close-fitting green cap. The boys are always quarrelling. I don't know what is to be done with them. Robert broke his new battle-axe yesterday in a fit of passion.

My only consolation is that Henry is really making some progress with his tutor. He last learnt the alphabet as far as the letter F.

Rouen.—A fisherman arrived last night from Southampton with the news that King Edward is dead. The news, he said, was confirmed by the appearance of a strange star with a tail to it in the sky. I have questioned the courier and gathered he had only got the news at second-hand. The rumour is probably baseless.

Rouen.—The regular courier did not arrive this evening. The bag was brought by an Englishman. The official bulletin states that the King is slightly indisposed owing to a feverish cold, which he caught while inspecting the newly-raised body of archers, in the New Forest. A private letter from the archbishop tells me, in strict confidence, that the King's illness is more dangerous than people think. The children again quarrelled to-day. Matilda, as usual, took Henry's part, and said I was to blame. These domestic worries are very trying at such a critical moment. As a matter of fact, Henry teases his elder brothers, and boasts to them of his superior scholarship; they retaliate, naturally enough, by cuffing the boy, who complains at once to his mother. Since Henry has mastered the rudiments of the alphabet, his conceit has been quite beyond bounds. Of course, I admit it is clever of him. He is a clever boy. There is no doubt about that, but he shouldn't take advantage of it.

Rouen.—Again the regular courier has not arrived. The bag again brought by an Englishman. According to a bulletin the King is going on well. Received a very friendly note from Harold, putting Pevensey Castle at my disposal, should I visit England in the autumn—and suggesting sport in the New Forest.

Rouen.—Messenger arrived direct from London, via Newhaven. He says the King died last week, and that Harold has proclaimed himself King. Matilda said this would happen from the first. I think there can be no doubt that the news is authentic. The messenger, who is an old servant of mine, is thoroughly to be trusted. He saw the King's body lying in state. This explains why the regular messengers have not arrived. Harold had them stopped at the coast. This, in itself, is an unfriendly act. Matilda says I must invade England at once. Think she is right. But wish war could be avoided. Have written to the Pope asking for his moral support. Invasion a risky thing. Discussed the matter with General Bertram, who is an excellent strategist. He says he can devise fifty ways of landing troops in England, but not one way of getting them out again. That is just it. Supposing we are cut off? The English army is said to be very good indeed.

Rouen.—Invasion of England settled. Must say have great misgivings on the subject. If we fail, the King of France is certain to attack us here. Matilda, however, won't hear of any other course being taken. Have privately sent a message to Harold proposing that we should settle the matter in a friendly fashion—I offer him nearly all Wessex, Wales and Scotland and the North—I taking the rest of the Kingdom, including London and Winchester. His situation is by no means entirely enviable. His brothers are certain to fight him in the North, and the King of Norway may also give trouble.

Rouen.—Received letter from the Pope entirely approving of invasion. Sends me back banner, blessed. Received a letter from Harold also. Very insulting. Answers vaguely and commits himself to nothing. Ignores the past. Seems to forget I saved him from shipwreck and that he solemnly swore to support my claims. Seems also to forget that I am the lawful heir to the English throne. The crowning insult is that he addressed the letter to Duke William the Bastard.

Have ordered mobilisation to take place at once. The war is popular. Matilda and I were loudly cheered when we drove through the market place this afternoon. War will be a good occupation for the boys. Robert wants to stop here as Regent. Do not think this wise.

Hastings.—Very disagreeable crossing. Took medicine recommended by Matilda (nettle leaves and milk and cinnamon), but did no good. Harold apparently defeated his brother in the North. Expect to fight to-morrow. Temper of the troops good. Terrain favourable, but cannot help feeling anxious.

London.—Everything sadly in need of thorough reorganisation. Have resolved to carry out following initial reforms at once:—

1. Everybody to put out their lights by 8. Bell to ring for the purpose. The people here sit up too late, drinking. Most dangerous.

2. Enroll everybody in a book. Make it compulsory for the leeches to attend the poor, and dock serfs of a part of their wage, in order to create a fund for paying the leeches. (Think this rather neat.)

Shall tolerate no nonsense from the women. Matilda agrees that their complaints are ridiculous.

News from Normandy disquieting. Robert seems to be taking too much upon himself. Something must be done.

Going next week to New Forest to hunt. Very fine wild pony hunting there.

XIV

FROM THE DIARY OF MARY, MRS JOHN MILTON (née POWELL)

Aldersgate Street, July 1, 1643.—House-keeping not quite such fun as I thought it would be. John is very particular. He cannot eat mutton, or any kind of hashed meat. He compares the cooking here unfavourably with that of Italy. He says the boys in the school are very naughty and that, during the Latin lesson this morning, one boy, called Jones minor, put a pin on his chair, just before he sat down on it. I couldn't help laughing; and this made John cross. He is thinking of writing a poem about King Arthur (sic) and the burnt cakes.

July 6.—John has begun his poem. He makes it up during meals, which makes him forget to eat, and makes the meal very gloomy; he writes it down afterwards. He read me a long piece of it last night; but as it is in Latin I did not understand very much of it.

July 7.—John and I quarrelled. It was about Jones minor. John announced the news of a reported rebel success during the boys' Greek lesson, and told the boys to give three cheers for the rebel army, which, of course, they all did, as they would never dare to disobey, except one brave hero, I call him, called Jones minor (the son of a tinker, bless him!), who called out as loud as he could: "Long live King Charles and death to all traitors!" John told him to repeat what he had said, and he did, and John caned him. I think this was very wrong on John's part, because, of course, the rebels are traitors. I took the part of the boy, and this made John angry. Then I said: "Of course, if all loyalists are so wicked, why did you marry me? My father is loyal and I am heart and soul for the King and the Church." John said that women's politics didn't count; but that the young must be taught discipline; that he was tolerant of all sincere opinion, however much he disagreed with it; but that the boy had merely wished to be insolent, by flying in the face of public opinion and the will of the school, which was the will of the people, and therefore the will of God, merely to gain a cheap notoriety. I said that probably all the boys felt the same, but didn't dare say so, as they knew that he, John, was on the other side. John said there are only seven "malignants" in the school. He said the boys were very angry with Jones minor and kicked him. I said they were a set of cowards. John said did I mean he was a coward, and quoted Greek. I said I didn't understand Greek and didn't want to. "That comes from your false education," said John; "your parents deserve the severest blame." I said that if he said anything against my parents, I would leave the house, and that my father knew Latin as well as he did. John said I was exaggerating. I said that I had often heard Papa say that John's Latin verses were poor. John said when his epick on King Alfred and the Lady of the Lake would be published, we should see who knew how to write Latin. I said: "Who?" John said I was flighty and ignorant. I said I might be ignorant, but at least I wasn't a rebel. John said I was too young to understand these things, and that, considering my bringing up, I was right to hold the opinions I did. When I was older I would see that they were false. Then I cried.

July 6.—We made up our quarrel. John was ashamed of himself, and very dear, and said he regretted that he had used such vehement language. I forgave him at once.

July 9.—We had some friends to dinner. Before we sat down, John said: "We will not mention politicks, as we might not all agree and that would mar the harmony of the symposium." But towards the end of dinner, I drank the King's health, quite unwittingly and from force of habit, forgetting—

This made John angry and led to a discussion, some of our guests taking the King's part and others saying that he was quite wrong. The men became very excited, and a young student, called Wyatt, whom John had invited because he is very musical and cultivated, threw a glass of wine in the face of Mr Lely, the wine-merchant, who is a violent rebel, and this broke up the party. John said that all "malignants" were the same; and that they none of them had any manners; that they were a set of roystering, nose-slitting, dissolute debauchees. When I thought of my dear father, and my dear brothers, this made me very angry; but I thought it best to say nothing at the time, as John was already annoyed and excited.

July 10.—John says he can't make up his mind whether to write his epick poem in Latin or in Hebrew. I asked him whether he couldn't write it in English. He told me not to be irrelevant. The city is very dreary. John disapproves of places of public amusement. He is at the school all day; and in the evening he is busy thinking over his poem. Being married is not such fun as I thought it would be, and John is quite different from what he was when he courted me in the country. Sometimes I don't think he notices that I am there at all. I wish I were in the country.

July 11.—John was in good temper to-day, because a scholar came here yesterday who said he wrote Italian very well. He asked me for my advice about his epick poem—which I thought was the best subject for an epick, King Arthur and the Cakes or the story of Adam and Eve. This made me feel inclined to laugh very much. Fancy writing a poem on the story of Adam and Eve! Everybody knows it! But I didn't laugh out loud, so as not to hurt his feelings, and I said "Adam and Eve," because I felt, somehow, that he wanted me to say that. He was so pleased, and said that I had an extraordinarily good judgment, when I chose. We had some cowslip wine for dinner which I brought from the country with me. John drank my health in Latin, which was a great favour, as he never says grace in Latin, because he says it's Popish.

July 14.—John is thinking of not writing an epick poem after all, at least not yet, but a history of the world instead. He says it has never been properly written yet.

July 15.—John has settled to translating the Bible into Latin verse. I am afraid I annoyed him; because when he told me this, I said I had always heard Papa say that the Bible was written in Latin. He said I oughtn't to talk about things which I didn't understand.

July 28.—I am altogether put about. There are two Irish boys in the school; one is called Kelley and comes from the North, and the other is called O'Sullivan and comes from the South. They had a quarrel about politicks and O'Sullivan called Kelley a rebel, a heretick, a traitor to his country, a renegade, a coward and a bastard; and Kelley said that O'Sullivan was an idolater and a foreigner, and ended up by saying he hoped he would go and meet the Pope.

"Do you mean to insult the Pope before me?" said O'Sullivan.

"Yes," said Kelley, "to hell with your Pope."

I could hear and see all this from my window, as the boys were talking in the yard.

Kelley then shouted, "To hell with the Pope!" as loud as he could three times, and O'Sullivan turned quite white with rage, but he only laughed and said quite slowly:

"Your father turned traitor for money, just like Judas." Then the boys flew at each other and began to fight; and at that moment John, who was thinking over his epick poem in the dining-room, rushed out and stopped them. Then he sent for both the boys and asked them what it was all about, but they both refused to say a word. Then John sent for the whole school, and said that unless some boy told him exactly what had happened, he would stop all half-holidays for a month. So Pyke, a boy who had been there, told the whole story. John caned both O'Sullivan and Kelley for using strong language.

In the evening Mr Pye came to dinner, from Oxford. He teaches the Oxford boys physic or Greek philosophy; I forget which. But no sooner had we sat down to dinner than he began to abuse the rebels, and John, who was already cross, said that he did not suppose Mr Pye meant to defend the King. Mr Pye said he had always supposed that that was a duty every true-born Englishman took for granted; and John became very angry. I never heard anybody use such dreadful language. He said the King was a double-faced, lying monkey, full of Popish anticks, a wolf disguised as a jackass, a son of Belial, a double-tongued, double-faced, clay-footed, scarlet Ahithophel, and Mr Pye was so shocked that he got up and went away. I said that people who insulted the King were rebels, however clever they might be, and that it was dreadful to use such language; and when I thought of his beating those two little boys this morning for using not half such strong language it made me quite mad. John said that I was illogical. I said I wouldn't hear any more bad language; and I ran upstairs and locked myself in my room.

August 1, Oxfordshire.—I have come home. I couldn't bear it. John was too unjust. Whenever I think of those two Irish boys and of John's language at dinner, my blood boils. Went out riding this morning with the boys. Papa says the war news is better, and that the rebels will soon be brought to heel.

XV

FROM THE DIARY OF MARK ANTONY

Alexandria (undated).—The reception went off very well. The Queen came to meet me by water in her State barge. She is different from what I remember her long ago, when I caught a glimpse of her in Rome. Then she was rather a colourless young girl, who had the reputation of being very well read, and rather affected. But now ... when you look at her face and you look away, you see green from the flash, as though you had been staring at the sun. She dazzles and blinds you. I received her in the market place. Her curtsey was a miracle of grace. She was very civil and dignified. After I had received her in the market place, I went to her palace. Such is the etiquette. I invited her to supper; but she insisted on my being her guest. I accepted. Supper in her palace. Semi-state, as the court is in mourning for Archilaus, the King of Cappadocia's eldest son, the Queen's first cousin. The ladies in waiting wore gold ornaments only. One of them, Charmian, pretty. The Queen, dropping all formality, was very lively and excellent company. The supper was good (the boars well roasted) and not so stiff as those kind of entertainments are as a rule.

After supper we had music and some dancing. Egyptian Bacchanals, who did a modern thing called Ariadne in Naxos. Very noisy and not much tune in it; but the dancing good, although hardly up to the Scythian standard.

Mardian, who has a fine contralto voice (he has been admirably trained), sang a piece from a ballet on the siege of Troy arranged by Æschylus. Very good. I like those old-fashioned things much better. They say it's conventional and out of date; but I don't care. The Queen told me in confidence that she quite agreed with me, but that even classical music bored her, so after we had listened to one or two odes, she asked Mardian to sing something light, some songs in dialect, which he did. Very funny, especially the one which begins:

"As I was going to Brindisi, upon a summer's day."

We made him sing that one twice. The Greeks know how to be witty without even being in the least vulgar.

Alexandria, three weeks later.—Time has passed very quickly. Everybody is being so kind, and the Queen has taken immense pains to make everything a success. Most amusing improvised banquet in fancy dress last night. The Queen disguised as a fish-wife. She made me dress up, too. I put on a Persian private soldier's uniform. After supper we went into the town, in our disguises. Nobody recognised us, and we had the greatest fun. I threw pieces of orange-peel on the pavement. It was too comic to see the old men trip up over them. Then we went into a tavern on the first floor, and ate oysters. The Queen heated some coppers at the fire, and, after putting them on a plate with a pair of pincers, threw them out of the window. It was quite extraordinarily funny to see the beggars pick them up and then drop them with a howl! I don't think I ever laughed so much! The Queen has a royal sense of humour. And I who thought beforehand she was a blue-stocking! It shows how mistaken one can be.

Alexandria.—Time seems to fly. No news from Rome. Wish the Queen would not be quite so ostentatiously lavish on my account. Eight wild boars for breakfast is too much. And the other night at supper she wasted an immense pearl in drinking my health in vinegar. This kind of thing makes people talk. She is wonderfully witty. She can mimic exactly the noises of a farmyard. Nothing seems to tire her, either. She will sit up all night and be ready early the next morning to go out fishing, sailing or anything else. She must have a constitution of steel. Wonderful woman!

Alexandria, later.—News from Rome. Fulvia is dead: must go at once.

Rome, a month later.—Engaged to be married to Octavia, Cæsar's sister, a widow. Purely a political alliance. Cleopatra is sure to understand the necessity of this. It is a great comfort to think that she is reasonable and has a real grip of the political situation.

Athens, a month later.—Political situation grows more and more complicated. Octavia is very dutiful and most anxious to please. Do not think the climate here agreeable. The wind is very sharp and the nights are bitterly cold. Never did care for Athens.

Think that if I went to Egypt for a few days I could (a) benefit by change of air, (b) arrange matters with the Eastern Kings. Cæsar and Lepidus are trying to do me in the eye.

Athens, a day later.—Octavia has very kindly offered to go to Rome, so as to act as a go-between between myself and Cæsar. She says she is quite certain it is all only a misunderstanding and that she can arrange matters. Thought it best not to mention possibility of Egyptian trip, as I may not go, after all.

Alexandria.—Back here once more after all. Doctors all said change of air was essential, and that the climate of Athens was the very worst possible for me, just at this time. They said I should certainly have a nervous breakdown if I stayed on much longer. Besides which, it was absolutely necessary for me to be on the spot, to settle the Eastern Question. It is now fortunately settled. Cleopatra delighted to see me; but most reasonable. Quite understood everything. She did not say a word about Octavia. Reception in Alexandria magnificent. Ovation terrific. Shows how right I was to come back. Settled to proclaim Cleopatra Queen of Egypt, Lower Syria, Cyprus and Lydia. Everybody agrees that this is only fair.

Alexandria.—Public proclamation in the market place. Settled to keep Media, Parthia and Armenia in the family, so divided them among the children. Ceremony went off splendidly. Cleopatra appeared as the Goddess Isis. This was much appreciated, as it showed the people she really is national. The cheering was terrific.

Staying with us at present are the King of Libya, the King of Cappadocia, the King of Paphlagonia, the King of Thrace, the King of Arabia, the King of Pont, the King of Jewry, the King of Comagena, the King of Mede, and the King of Lycaonia. Question of precedence a little awkward. Herod, the King of Jewry, claimed precedence over all the other Kings on the grounds of antiquity and lineage. The King of Mede contested the claim, and the King of Arabia said that he was the oldest in years. There is no doubt about this, as he is 99. It was obvious the first place belonged to him. Question very neatly settled by Cleopatra. That they should rank according to the number of years they have reigned. She said this was the immemorial Egyptian custom, established by the Pharaohs and written out very carefully on a step of the great Pyramid. Everybody satisfied. King of Arabia takes precedence, but not on account of his age. Herod still a little touchy, but had to give in.

Played billiards with Cleopatra. Gave her 20. Won with difficulty. Cæsar is certain to make war on us. Have written to Octavia explaining everything fully.

In Camp near Actium.—Nothing doing. One wonders whether Cæsar means to fight after all. The mosquitoes are very annoying. Impossible to get any milk.

In Camp near Actium, later.—Cleopatra has arrived. She is used to camp life and does not mind roughing it. Everybody advises me to fight on land and not by sea, but Cleopatra and myself think we ought to fight by sea. Cæsar has taken Toryne. We have sixty sail. The thing is obvious; but soldiers are always prejudiced. Enobarbus worrying me to death to fight on land.

Cleopatra won't hear of it, and I am quite certain she is right. A woman's instinct in matters of strategy and tactics are infallible; and then—what a woman!

Alexandria, later.—Very glad to be home again. Cleopatra was perfectly right to retreat. Played billiards. Gave Cleopatra 25. She beat me. She will soon be able to give me something. She is a surprising woman. Last night the Greek envoy dined. Too clever for me, but Cleopatra floored him over Anaxagoras. Wonderful woman! She sang, or rather hummed, in the evening a little Greek song, the burden of which is

Ἐγὼ δὲ μόνα καθεύδω.

I cannot get the tune out of my head.

XVI

FROM THE DIARY OF IVAN THE TERRIBLE

Moscow, September 1, 1560.—I drove to the village of O——, 24 versts. On one side of the river is the village, with its church, on the other a lonely windmill. The landscape flat and brown, the nearer houses and the distant trees sharp in the clear autumn air. The windmill is maimed; it has lost one of its wings. It is like my soul. My soul is a broken windmill which is rusty, stiff, and maimed; it groans and creaks before the winds of God, but it no longer turns; and no longer, cheerfully grumbling as of yore, it performs its daily task and grinds the useful corn. The only spots of colour in the landscape were the blue cupolas of the church; a blue and red shirt hanging up to dry on an apple-tree near a wooden hut, and the kerchiefs of the women who were washing linen in the river. A soldier talked to the women, and laughed with them. I would that I could laugh like that with men and women. I can only laugh alone and bitterly. I had never been there before. But when lazily, a cock crew, and a little boy made music on a wooden pipe, and a long cart laden with sacks creaked by, the driver walking by its side, I knew that I had seen all this before, not something like unto it, but this very thing, that same windmill, that same creaking cart, that same little boy playing that very tune on that very pipe.

It was a mournful tune, and it said to my soul, "Why art thou so dusty and rusty, O my soul, why art thou sorrowful? Crusted with suspicion; uneasy and fearful, prompt to wrath and slow to trust, inhospitable towards hope, and a stranger to gladness?"

The world is a peep-show, and I have satisfied my expectation. I am weary of the sights of the fair, and the mirth of the crowd to me is meaningless. The bells, and the tambourines, and the toy trumpets, the grating of the strings, and the banging of the drum jar upon me. Like a child, who has spent a whole day in frolic and whose little strength is utterly exhausted, I desire to go home and to rest.

Rest, where is there any rest for thee, Ivan, Ivan the Restless? Everywhere have I sought for peace and found it nowhere, save in a cell, and on my knees, before the Image.

September 10.—Why was I born to be a King?

Why was I cast, a frail and fearful infant, to that herd of ravenous wolves, those riotous nobles, that band of greedy, brutal, and ruthless villains who bled my beloved country and tore my inheritance into shreds? I think I know why I was sent thither. Out of the weakness came forth strength; a little boy was sent forth to slay the giant. I was sent to deliver the Russian people, to break the necks of the nobles, and to cast the tyrants from their stronghold. I was sent to take the part of the people, and they will never forget this or me; in years to come, ages after I am dead, mothers will sing their children to sleep with songs about the great Tsar of Moscow, Ivan the well-beloved, Ivan the people's friend, Ivan the father of the fatherless, the brother of the needy, the deliverer of the oppressed.

But the proud and the mighty, the rich and the wicked, shall hate me and vilify me, and blacken my name. I know you, ye vipers, and all your ways. I would that not one of you could escape me; but, like the hydra, you have a hundred heads, that grow again as fast as they are cut off. When I am gone, O vile and poisonous nobility, you will raise your insolent head once more, and trample again upon my beloved people.

Would that I could utterly uproot you from the holy soil of Russia, and cast you to perish like weeds into a bottomless pit.

October 1.—I dreamed last night a fearful dream. I dreamed that I had done an abominable thing, and that I bore stains on my hands that the snows of the mountains and the waves of the sea could not wash out. I dreamed that all mankind shunned me, and that I wandered alone across the great plain till I came to the end of the world and the gates of Heaven. I knocked at the gates, but they were shut; and round me there was a multitude, and there arose from it a sound of angry voices, crying, "He has slain our fathers, and our brothers, and our mothers, by him our houses were burnt and our homes were laid waste, let him not enter"; and I knocked at the gate, and then there came a man with a mark on his brow, and he said, "This man has killed his son, let him not in." And I knew that man was Cain. And the howling of the voices grew louder, and the cries of hate surging round me deafened me. I knocked, and prayed, and cried, and wept, but the gate remained shut. And all at once I was left alone in the great plain deserted even by my enemies, and I shivered in the darkness and in the silence. Then, along the road, came a pilgrim, a poor man, begging for alms, and when he saw me, he knelt before me, and I said, "Wherefore dost thou kneel to me, who am deserted by God and man?" And he answered, "Is not sorrow a holy thing? Thou art the most sorrowful man in the whole world, for thou hast killed what was dearer to thee than life, and bitter is thy sorrow, and heavy is thy punishment." And the pilgrim kissed my hand, and the hot tears that he shed fell upon it.

And at that moment, far away I heard a noise as of gates turning on a great hinge, and I knew that the doors of Heaven were open.

Then I awoke, and I crept up the stairway way to my little son's bedroom. He lay sleeping peacefully. And I knelt down and thanked Heaven that the dream was but a dream; but when the sun rose in the morning, like a wave from out of infinity, apprehension rolled to my soul and settled on it. I am afraid, and I know not of what I am afraid.

February 13, 1570.—Thanks to God Novgorod is no more. I have utterly destroyed its city and its people for its contumacy. So fare all the enemies of Russia and of Moscow.

XVII

FROM THE PRIVATE LOG OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

On Board the Santa Maria.

August 3, 1492, Friday.—At five in the morning made the signal to weigh: but in less than half an hour the wind shifting to the southward and blowing fresh, I furled the topsails. The wind came in the afternoon to S. by W.; we weighed, but did not get far, the flood tide making against us.

August 4.—Little wind, or calm, all day. Send-off very fine; but now that we have started wonder whether I have been wise after all. Wonder whether we shall reach Western India and China.

August 5.—Took the meridian observation at midday; wind northerly with a great swell. Ship's company in good spirits: but the doctor says we have started on a wild goose chase.

August 8.—Stood close in with the land. At noon the latitude by observation was 28 degrees 18 minutes. Stood in to a small bay to the southward of Teneriffe. Anchored with the stream anchor, and sent the boat for water. Went ashore with the astronomer and instruments. All the liberty men came on board the worse for liquor, which is, on the whole, fortunate, as we shall have no trouble in getting them to continue the voyage.

August 9.—Several of the men confined with colds, and complain of pains in their bones. But from the careful attendance given them, doses of "Skulker's Mixture" being administered by the doctor all round, few continued in the sick list. The air very warm.

September 9.—Thick fog. At five the officer informed me that we were near an iceberg. I ordered the ship to be kept N. by W. and hauled farther in. At noon I steered north, seeing nothing of the ice; soon after I was told that they saw the ice: I went upon deck and perceived something white upon the bow, and heard a noise like the booming of surf. I hauled down the studding sails and hailed the Niña and the Pinta: I desired that they would keep close to us, the fog being so thick, and have everybody up ready to follow our motions instantaneously, determining to stand under such sail as should enable us to keep the ships under command, and not risk parting company. Soon afterwards, we saw something on the bow, which from the appearance we took to be islands, and thought we had not stood far enough out. The ship's company raised a cheer. I hauled up immediately to the N.N.W., and was soon undeceived, finding it to be a moderate-sized sea serpent, which we could not clear upon that tack; we tacked immediately, but the wind and sea both setting directly upon it, we neared it very fast, and were within a little more than a cable's length of the animal whilst in stays.

The doctor, who has always scoffed at the idea of the sea serpent, which, he said, was a travellers' tale (adding, sarcastically, and, I think, very inconsiderately, "like the western passage to China"), was silent all the evening.

Prefer this to his irritating reiteration of that silly Andalusian song:

And if we ever get back to Spain We will never, never, never go to sea again,

which he is so fond of indulging in. Sea serpent of the ordinary kind, with a white ring round its neck and a tufted crest. Not so large as the Icelandic specimens. Expect to reach China in ten days' time, should the weather be favourable. Officers and ship's company in decidedly less good spirits since the foggy weather began. Sea serpent incident also caused a good deal of disappointment, the men being convinced we had reached the coast of China, although I had repeatedly explained that we could not possibly make that land for some time yet.

September 10.—Lost the Niña and the Pinta twice in the night from the very thick fog. The situation of the men from the very fatiguing work made most minute precautions necessary. Double allowance of Manzanilla served round to-day.

September 11.—No land in sight. Calm all day, with a great swell from the S.W., and the weather remarkably mild. Confess am disappointed; wonder whether there is such a country as China after all. Confess I have no satisfactory evidence for thinking so. But am concealing my anxiety, of course, from the officers and the doctor, who grow more and more sarcastic every day. He said at dinner yesterday that we might come home by the Nile, as we should certainly encounter its source in China. Want of taste. It is only too plain that both officers and ship's company are growing sceptical as to the practical results of our voyage. Wish the King and Queen of Spain had been a little less sanguine. We shall indeed look very foolish if we come back having accomplished nothing.

September 12.—Ship's company distressingly sulky. If matters continue like this it will end in a mutiny. Have been obliged to fake the observations, measuring the ship's way so that the ship's company should remain in ignorance of the distances traversed, and think that they are much less than they are in reality.

This faking has been an easy task, since the log, being only a mean taken every hour and consequently liable to error from the variations in the force of the wind during the intervals, from which an arbitrary correction is made by the officer of the watch; as this allowance must from its nature be inaccurate, it is very easy to make it more inaccurate still, now, that is to say, that I have squared Roderigo.

September 13.—Have made a startling and disagreeable discovery. There is something wrong or odd about the compass. The axis of the needle no longer coincides with the geographical meridian it occupies—but makes an angle. This matter must be investigated.

September 17.—The ship's company discovered at dawn to-day the vagaries of the compass. Situation alarming. They at once said we must go home. Doctor and surgeon both say that they are not surprised. Roderigo has constructed an instrument, hanging by a universal joint on a triangular stand, adjusted so as to hang in a plane perpendicular to the horizon, by means of a plumb line, which is suspended on a pin above a divided circle. The length of the magnetic needle is 12 inches, and its axis is made of gold and copper.

Roderigo says he can now observe the variation. Most ingenious (if true).

September 18.—Everybody expects to see land to-day. Why, I can't think. Sailors sometimes have strange superstitions.

September 25.—We are now 475 leagues from the Canaries. No sign of land. I am quite convinced personally that there is no chance of our ever reaching land this voyage. I knew from the first the affair was hopeless. Feel certain we cannot be near China or India. Unfortunately, my conviction, which I have never expressed, is shared by the ship's company, who showed signs of positive mutiny to-day. Calmed them as best I could with soothing words and old sherry. Steered S. to W.

September 26.—Steered W. No sign of anything. Wish we had never left Spain. The Alguazil disgracefully drunk again last night, and rude in his cups. Doctor sarcastic. Surgeon sea-sick. Ship's company mutinous. Have a bad headache. Never did like the sea. It never agreed with my liver.

October 7.—I ordered the allowance of liquor to be altered, serving the ship's company one-fourth of their allowance in Manzanilla and the other three-fourths in brandy. One half of this allowance was served before dinner, and the other half in the evening. Result satisfactory.

Altered course W. to S.W.

October 10.—Mutiny. Ship's company refuse to go on. Insist on returning to Spain. If I refuse they threaten to kill me; but I fear they will kill me if I consent. Otherwise the matter would be simple. Have asked for three days' respite. Roderigo saw a piece of driftwood and a small bird called a red-poll. Thinks we are not far from land. Too good to be true.

October 11.—Saw a light on starboard bow, but am not quite certain that it wasn't a star.

October 12.—Roderigo saw the land at two in the morning. The King promised a reward of 10,000 Maravedises to whoever saw land first. Clearly this reward is mine, as the light I saw on Thursday night was not a star. Explained this to Roderigo, who lost his temper, and said that if he didn't get the reward he would turn Mahommedan. The land is, of course, the coast of China. I always said it was somewhere about here.

Stood in to make the land. Anchored with the best bower in eleven fathoms, soft clay. Hoisted Spanish flag; took possession of the country, which seems to be India, and not China, after all. Call it West India or Hispaniola. Natives talk in a drawling sing-song, chew tobacco and gum, and drink Manzanilla and Vermouth mixed, icing the drink. This is a very gratifying mixture. It is called a Cola de gallo. They have a round game of cards with counters, called chips, in which you pretend to hold better cards than you do hold in reality. Played and lost. Natives very sharp.

XVIII

FROM THE DIARY OF THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK

Pignerol, August 21, 1669.—Have at last, I think, attained my heart's desire. Arrived last night under the pseudonym of Eustache Danger. Found everything fairly satisfactory. That is to say, the King's promises to me with regard to the absolute solitude I crave have been carried out as far as was possible in the time. The prison is not finished, and this accounts for a fact which annoyed me not a little on my arrival. I found that the walls of my room were not of the thickness promised, so that, should any one be lodged next door to me, which Heaven forfend! he might have the bad taste to try and communicate with me by knocking on the wall. I wear a black velvet mask and the King solemnly promised me that if any officer were to dare to ask me who I was he would be instantly dismissed.

August 22, 1669.—So far so good. Saint Mars, the Governor of the Prison, is certainly doing his best. But last night, when he brought me my dinner, he forgot himself and said, "Bon Soir, Monsieur." If he does this again he will have to be removed. I did not come here to be bothered with conversation.

August 25.—I am enjoying myself immensely. The relief of waking up in the morning and of gradually becoming conscious that it will not be necessary—

(a) To dress in Court clothes.

(b) To go out hunting.

(c) To attend the King's lever, or still worse, his coucher.

(d) To play cards and lose.

(e) To listen to a play performed in a private house.

(f) To laugh at Madame ——'s chaff.

(g) To make love to J——.

(h) To pretend to enjoy the beauties of nature.

(i) To hear and give opinions on Molière.

(j) To sit through the long, long dinner.

(k) To talk philosophy with Mademoiselle.

(l) To find fault with my servant for giving me the wrong stockings.

(m) To wait for hours in the crown of the Œil-de-Bœuf.

(n) To be taken to the window by the English Ambassador and asked if I think the Spaniards really mean business.

(o) To talk internal politics with Louvois.

(p) To listen to Le Nôtre's account of Lord Carlisle's new garden.

(q) To listen to Bossuet's sermon on Sunday.

(r) Not to annoy the Duchesse de La Vallière.

(s) To have to look as if I thought the King an amusing conversationalist.

(t) To say that a Bal Masqué is great fun.

(u) To go to the opera at the back of a box.

(v) To pretend I like Dutch pictures.

(w) To dance all night in a room like a monkey cage.

(x) To read the Gazette.

(y) To be civil to the German Ambassadress.

(z) To change my clothes three times a day.

That is my alphabet of negation. It is incomplete. Yet to write it and read it over and over again fills me with ecstasy.

March, 1670.—A most annoying incident happened to-day. The upper tower, at the western angle of the Castle, is occupied by Fouquet and Lauzun. The King promised me solemnly that neither of them should be allowed to hold any communication with me. To-day one of Fouquet's servants entered my room and spoke to me, asking me whether I had anything of importance to communicate. I told him very sharply to go to the devil. If this happens again I shall ask to be moved to a quieter prison.

It is extraordinary that even in a place like this one cannot be free from the importunity and the impertinence of human curiosity.

April 3, 1670.—As the days go on, I enjoy myself more and more. A cargo of books arrived yesterday from Paris, sent by the King, but Saint Mars had the good sense not to bring them to me. He merely notified the fact on a slip of paper, which he left on my plate. I scribbled a note to the effect that he could throw them to the bottom of the sea, or read them himself, or give them to Fouquet's servant. Books indeed! It is no longer, thank God, necessary for me to read books, or to have an opinion on them!

November 1, 1671.—Lauzun has been sent here. The prison is getting far too crowded. It will soon be as bad as Versailles.

November 10.—Lauzun is being very tiresome. He taps on my ceiling. I wrote a short note to Saint Mars that if this annoyance continued I should be constrained to leave his prison.

March 3, 1680.—The situation was intolerable. Lauzun and Fouquet found some means of communication and they carried on interminable conversations. What they can have to talk about passes my understanding. I bore it patiently for some days. At last I complained to Saint Mars in writing, he took some steps and it appears that Fouquet has had an attack of apoplexy and died. I cannot endure the neighbourhood of Lauzun, and I have written to the King saying that unless I am transferred to a quieter dungeon I shall leave the prison.

April 8, 1680.—Matters have been arranged satisfactorily, and I have been moved into the lower chamber of the Tour d'en bas. But the whole fortress is far too crowded. There are at least five prisoners in it. Also I found a tame mouse here, left I suppose by a former occupant. Had the nuisance removed at once. It is delicious to be safely in prison just now that the spring is beginning and to think that I shall not have to spend chilly evenings in wet gardens and to speak foolishly of the damp April weather.

January, 1681.—Caused much annoyance by a tiresome Italian fellow prisoner called Mattioli, who, feigning either madness or illness, or both, caused a commotion in the prison, necessitating the arrival of doctors and priests. Kept awake by noise of bolts being drawn, and the opening and shutting of doors. Wrote to the King complaining of this which is a direct infringement of his promise. Asked to be moved to a quieter spot.

September 2,1681.—Moved to the Fortress of Exiles. Prison said to be empty. Hope this will prove true.

October 10,1681.—Saint Mars very nearly spoke to me to-day. He was evidently bursting with something he longed to communicate. However, I made such a gesture, that I think he felt the frown through my velvet mask and withdrew.

January 5, 1687.—After months, and indeed years of peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away, I have again been subjected to intolerable annoyance. Fouquet's valet fell ill, and Saint Mars informed me of the fact. I wrote to the King at once saying that either Saint Mars or I must go.

April 30, 1687.—King has granted my request. Arrived at Sainte Marguerite in a chair with wheels covered with wax-cloth. I think I shall be quieter here. I have been promised that no other prisoner shall be lodged here at all, but the promises of Kings are as iridescent and as brittle as Venetian glass.

January, 1690.—Alas! Alas! for the vanity of human wishes. Here I was perfectly contented, and, as I thought, quiet at last. Day followed day of perfect enjoyment, unmarred by conversation, undisturbed by study, unvexed by the elements, when the peace of my solitude is rudely shattered by the arrival of two Protestant ministers. It is true I am never to see them, but the mere fact of knowing that there are two Protestant ministers in the same building is enough to poison life!

June 1, 1698.—More Protestant ministers have arrived, worse than the last. They sing hymns. I have written to the King asking him to transfer me to the Bastille at once. I always said that the Bastille was the only tolerable dwelling-place in France.

September 13, 1698.—Arrived at the Bastille this afternoon. Lodged on the third floor of the Bertandière tower—the thickest tower. Really quiet.

September 19.—A man hammered over my head at four o'clock this morning. It is intolerable. Shall I ever find a place where I can sleep from 4 to 8 a.m. without being disturbed? As it is, I might just as well be living in a fashionable inn.

XIX

FROM THE DIARY OF AN ENGLISH GOVERNESS RESIDING IN PARIS DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

Paris, October 7, 1789.—I arrived this afternoon after a rapid and satisfactory journey. To my amazement found that neither the Count nor the Countess were here to receive me. The Hotel was deserted save for the presence of an old servant, and his wife, who appears to be the cook of the household, and to combine with this office the duties of hall porter. As I have no command over even the elementary rudiments of the French language, and as the French never trouble to learn any language but their own, communication is a sorely difficult task and results in perpetual misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I succeeded in apprehending from the voluble expostulations and the superfluous gesticulation of the old servant, whose name appears to be Pierre, but whom I have decided to call Peter, that the family had left Paris. That they had departed but recently and in haste, my senses were able to inform me. All over the house were traces of disorder. Some but half-packed boxes had been left behind; cupboards were open, clothes were strewn on the floor, and everywhere traces of precipitate packing and sudden departure were manifest. I made as if I would depart also, but Peter made it plain by signs that I was expected to remain, and indeed he conducted me to my room, which is airy and commodious enough, and where, after partaking of a light supper, insufficient and badly cooked as all French meals, and accompanied by the sour "wine" of the country, I fell into a comfortable slumber.

October 10, 1789.—I have now been here three days, and as yet I have received neither message, nor token, nor sign from the departed family, nor can I ascertain from Peter or his wife, the obtuse menials who are the sole occupants of this in some respects elegant mansion, whither they have gone: whether they are loitering in their country seat, or whether they have started on a longer peregrination. Paris is very full. The streets are ill-kept and ill-lit, a strange contrast to the blaze (at night) and tidiness (by day) of the London streets. It is a dingy city, and I think it must certainly be insanitary. The French understand no word of English, and if indeed one ventures to address them, all they reply is: "Rosbeef, plom pudding," a form of address which they consider facetious. The house is spacious enough, although inconveniently distant from the centre of the city, but it has the advantage of an extensive garden surrounded by high walls. As for myself, I am well cared for by Peter and his wife. She talks at me with great volubility, but I cannot understand a word of what she says. French is an unmusical language, very sharp and nasal, but not ill-suited to a backward people.

July 14, 1790.—Went for a long walk in the city. The streets quiet and deserted. Peter and his wife went out for the day. She is very handy with her needle. I find altogether that the French are quite amenable to reason, if well treated. Of course, one cannot expect them to work like English people, but they are willing and do their best. It is unfortunate they do not speak English. Received last quarter's salary through the usual channel. No further views.

March 4, 1792.—Went out in the evening with Peter and his wife. They took me to the Opera House, having apparently received tickets from a friend connected with theatrical affairs. Castor and Pollux was the name of the opera. The scenery was gorgeous, and the ballets very skilfully performed. The opera was given in French, so that I could not follow the words. Weather grey and dark. Boulevards as usual ill-lit; but crowded with people coming from the coffee-houses, the theatres and the out-of-door dining houses—all singing at the top of their voices. Returned home between nine and ten.

March 6, 1792.—Again to the Opera House to hear the Alcestis of Gluck, and to see the celebrated Vestris dance in a ballet called Psyche. Scenery as usual gorgeous, singing nasal and most unpleasing.

August 13, 1792.—Nothing worth recording. Spend most of the days in the garden. Weather hot. French people vulgar and loud in their holiday-making, partial also to fireworks, explosives, firing of guns, etc. I now make a point of-staying at home on Feast days and holidays, of which there are far too many.

Sunday, September 2, 1792.—Read the morning service in the garden. Sultry.

January 21, 1793.—Shops shut this morning, although it is Monday. No salary received for the last two quarters.

November 10, 1793.—Sunday. Started out to walk along the river in spite of the damp weather. Streets very muddy. A great crowd of people near the Cathedral. Caught in the crowd and obliged to follow with the stream. Borne by the force of the crowd right into the church. Deeply shocked and disgusted at the display of Romish superstition. A live woman resembling a play actress throned near the altar, representing no doubt the Virgin Mary. Most reprehensible. Was obliged to assist at the mummery until the crowd departed. Think I have taken cold.

November 11, 1793.—Have indeed taken cold in consequence of yesterday's outing. Remained indoors all day. Peter and his wife most obliging. They made me some hot negus flavoured with black currant, not unpalatable.

November 12,1793.—Cold worse. Suffering from ague in the bones as well. Shall not get up to-morrow. Peter's wife spent much time in talking and screaming at me. Gathered from her rapid and unintelligible jargon that she wished me to see a doctor. Shook my head vehemently. Shall certainly not put myself in the hands of a French doctor. One never knows what foreigners may prescribe.

January 1, 1794.—Came downstairs for the first time since I have been laid up. Made many good resolutions for the New Year. Among others to keep my journal more diligently.

May 30, 1794.—Walked in the garden for the first time since my relapse. Peter's wife has nursed me with much care and tenderness. Still very weak.

July 30, 1794.—First walk in the city since my long illness. Feel really better. Bought a lace kerchief.

October 1, 1794.—The family, that is to say, the Countess and her two daughters, arrived unexpectedly in the night. Countess simple and kindly, can scarcely speak any English. Begin lessons to-morrow.

October 2, 1794.—The eldest girl Amelia, aged seven, speaks English but has been shamefully ill-taught during her stay in England (for it appears the family have been in England!). She is sadly backward in spelling: but she has a fair accent and is evidently an intelligent child. Unfortunately, she has picked up many unseemly expressions. The Countess suggested my learning French, but I respectfully declined. Reading Pope's Essay on Man in the evenings. It is improving as well as elegant.

XX

FROM THE DIARY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, DURING HIS STAY AT ENGLAND, WHITHER HE WAS SENT TO STUDY AT THE UNIVERSITY AT OXFORD, UNDER THE SPECIAL CARE OF POLONIUS

Balliol College, Monday.—Read aloud my Essay on Equality to the Master. It began: "Treat all men as your equals, especially the rich." The Master commented on this sentence. He said, "Very ribald, Prince Hamlet, very ribald."

In training for the annual fencing match between the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Doing my utmost to reduce my flesh which is far too solid.

Tuesday.—Went to Abingdon for the day. When I came back I found that havoc had been made of my rooms: both the virginals broken to pieces—all the furniture destroyed, and all my pictures including a signed portrait of Ophelia.

Have my suspicions as to who has done this. Shall first make certain and then retaliate terribly. In the meantime it will be politic to conceal my annoyance.

Friday.—Dined last night with a society of Undergraduates who meet together in a Barn to discuss Falconry and French verse. Rhenish wine served in great quantities. Feigned drunkenness in order to discover who was guilty of taking liberties with my furniture. As I suspected, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were the culprits. They as good as admitted it in their cups.

Intend to be revenged some day, and that royally.

Saturday.—When we returned home from the barn last night, it was of course necessary for me to keep up the false semblance of intoxication with which I had started the evening.

This I did by improvising and singing quaint rhymeless couplets as we strutted across the Quadrangle of the College. It so chanced that we encountered the Dean, who addressed me. I answered, keeping up the part: "Buzz. Buzz."

Monday.—A College meeting was held this morning and I was summoned to appear on the charges:—

(a) Of having been intoxicated.

(b) Of having insulted the Dean.

(c) Of having persuaded and finally compelled the younger members of the College to drink more than was good for them.

To which I replied (a) that seeing that I was in strict training it was obvious that the charge of intoxication was unfounded; (b) that so far from insulting the Dean, I had addressed him in Danish, and that familiar as I knew him to be with all the languages of Europe and especially the Scandinavian tongues, he had probably not realized to the full the exact shade of deference, respect, and awe which the expression I used implied; (c) that as far as the charge of corrupting the young was concerned, I was not ashamed to stand in the same dock with Socrates, and I would cheerfully, if the College authorities and my Royal parents thought fit, share the doom of my august master. Finally I reminded the noble and learned assembly that were I to be expelled, even temporarily, from the College I should be unable (a) to represent the Alma Mater with the rapier against the University of Cambridge, who had a powerful champion of the noble art in Laertes, a fellow-countryman of mine; and (b) I should not be able to row in the College boat. I concluded by saying that certain as I was that my royal parents would endorse any decision which should be arrived at by the Master and his Colleagues, I was convinced that were I to be sent down from the College, my royal father, in order that my studies might not be interrupted, would immediately send me to Cambridge.

The net result of all this is that I am admonished.

Later in the Day I received a note from the Dean asking me to dine with him next Thursday.

Sunday.—Breakfasted with the Master to meet the Poet Laureate, the Archbishop of York, the Lord Chancellor, the French ambassador, and Quattrovalli, a celebrated Italian juggler. The poet laureate read out an Ode he had just composed on the King's sixth marriage. Very poor.

Monday.—Took part in the debate held by the College Debating Society. The subject being whether Homer's Epics were written by Homer or by a Committee of Athenian Dons.

Took what seemed to the audience a paradoxical view that they were written by Homer.

Tuesday.—Gave a small dinner party in my rooms. Horatio and a few others. Again compelled to feign intoxication, so as not to mar the harmony of the evening. Burnt a small organ, and rather a complicated printing press, belonging to a German undergraduate named Faustus, in the Quadrangle.

Wednesday.—The master commenting on last night's bonfire said he thought it was not humorous, and fined us heavily. Have as yet found no opportunity of revenging myself on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Thursday.—Coached by Polonius for two hours in Scottish history. Very tedious. In the afternoon went on the river in my boat the "Ophelia." Faustus has been sent down for trying to raise the Devil in the precincts of the College. It appears this is strictly against the rules. His excuse was that he had always understood that the College authorities disbelieved in a personal devil. To which the Dean replied: "We are all bound to believe in the Devil in a spiritual sense, Mr Faustus." And Faustus imprudently asked in what other sense you could believe in him.

Friday.—Must really settle this business of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern soon. It is beginning to prey upon my mind. They are quite insufferable. Have lost one stone since the term began, which is satisfactory. Fencing match is to take place next week, here.

Saturday.—The man who has the rooms opposite mine is a Spaniard. A nobleman very cultivated and amiable. His name is Quixote. Consulted him last night as to what to do about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Quixote said it was entirely a point of honour. That if I were certain they were guilty, and certain likewise that they had purposely insulted me, I should challenge them each, separately, to personal combat, with sword and rapier. I pointed out, however, that whereas I was a champion swordsman, and indeed had been chosen to represent the University, they had no skill at all. Moreover, I considered that to challenge them to fight would be doing them too much honour. Quixote said I must indubitably, take action of some kind, or else I would incur the suspicion of cowardice. At that moment—we were talking by the open casement—I saw in the darkness, walking stealthily along the wall a man whom I took to be Guildenstern. Seizing a bottle of white wine from Xeres with which Quixote had entertained me, I flung it out of the window on to the head of the skulker, but alas! it was not Guildenstern but the Dean himself!

Monday.—Again appeared before a College meeting. Accused of having wantonly wounded, and almost murdered the Dean. Protested my innocence in vain. It was further suggested I was intoxicated. Lost my temper, which was a mistake, and called the Dean a villain, losing control over my epithets.

Sent down for the rest of the term. Polonius is very angry. He has written to my father suggesting that I should not go back to Oxford, nor seek to enter Cambridge either, but go to Wittenberg instead. Owing to my abrupt departure the fencing match with Laertes will not come oft. No matter, a day will come, when maybe I shall be revenged on Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. We go to London to-day.