toil, the idler to his idleness,
the miser to his gold. In swift and picturesque sequence the personages
of the Masque pass before us. Merchants, hucksters, players, lovers,
gossips, soldiers, vagabonds, and princes crowd the scene, and have in
turn their word of poignant speech. We mingle with the throng in the
streets; we hear the whir of looms and the din of foundries, the blare
of trumpets, the whisper of lovers, the scandals of the market-place,
and, in brief, are let into all the secrets of the busy microcosm.
A contracted stage, indeed, yet large enough for the play of many
passions, as the narrowest hearthstone may be. With the sounding of the
curfew, the town is hushed to sleep again, and the curtain falls on this
mimic drama of life.

The charm of it all is not easily to be defined. Perhaps if one could
name it, the spell were broken. Above the changing rhythms hangs an
atmosphere too evasive for measurement--an atmosphere that stipulates an
imaginative mood on the part of the reader. The quality which pleases in
certain of the lyrical episodes is less intangible. One readily explains
one's liking for so gracious a lyric as The Flower-Seller, to select an
example at random. Next to the pleasure that lies in the writing of such
exquisite verse is the pleasure of quoting it. I copy the stanzas partly
for my own gratification, and partly to win the reader to "Wishmakers'
Town," not knowing better how to do it.

Myrtle, and eglantine,
For the old love and the new!
And the columbine,
With its cap and bells, for folly!
And the daffodil, for the hopes of youth! and the rue,
For melancholy!
But of all the blossoms that blow,
Fair gallants all, I charge you to win, if ye may,
This gentle guest,
Who dreams apart, in her wimple of purple and gray,
Like the blessed Virgin, with meek head bending low
Upon her breast.
For the orange flower
Ye may buy as ye will: but the violet of the wood
Is the love of maidenhood;
And he that hath worn it but once, though but for an hour,
He shall never again, though he wander by many a stream,
No, never again shall he meet with a dower that shall seem
So sweet and pure; and forever, in after years,
At the thought of its bloom, or the fragrance of its breath,
The past shall arise,
And his eyes shall be dim with tears,
And his soul shall be far in the gardens of Paradi