urglars, indeed, we may have had some
haunting thought of; and we had certainly an eye to past ages when
lanterns were more common, and to certain story-books in which we had
found them to figure very largely. But take it for all in all, the
pleasure of the thing was substantive; and to be a boy with a bull's-eye
under his top-coat was good enough for us.

"When two of these asses met, there would be an anxious 'Have you got
your lantern?' and a gratified 'Yes!' That was the shibboleth, and very
needful, too; for, as it was the rule to keep our glory contained, none
could recognize a lantern-bearer unless (like the polecat) by the smell.
Four or five would sometimes climb into the belly of a ten-man lugger,
with nothing but the thwarts above them,--for the cabin was usually
locked,--or chose out some hollow of the links where the wind might
whistle overhead. Then the coats would be unbuttoned, and the
bull's-eyes discovered; and in the chequering glimmer, under the huge,
windy hall of the night, and cheered by a rich steam of toasting
tinware, these fortunate young gentlemen would crouch together in the
cold sand of the links, or on the scaly bilges of the fishing-boat, and
delight them with inappropriate talk. Woe is me that I cannot give some
specimens!... But the talk was but a condiment, and these gatherings
themselves only accidents in the career of the lantern-bearer. The
essence of this bliss was to walk by yourself in the black night, the
slide shut, the top-coat buttoned, not a ray escaping, whether to
conduct your footsteps or to make your glory public,--a mere pillar of
darkness in the dark; and all the while, deep down in the privacy of
your fool's heart, to know you had a bull's-eye at your belt, and to
exult and sing over the knowledge.

"It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid.
It may be contended rather that a (somewhat minor) bard in almost every
case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor. Justice is not
done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man's
imagination. His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud:
there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells
delighted; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the observer, he will
have some kind of bull's-eye at his belt."

... "There is one fable that touches very near the quick of life,--the
fable of the monk who passed into the woods, heard a bird break int