r for you to have no hand in Pandarus, to keep out of
Pandarus his neighbourhood! Which is, to this hour, the mere
fact; though for the present, alas, the forgotten fact. I think
they were comparatively blessed times those, in their way!
'Violence,' 'war,' 'disorder:' well, what is war, and death
itself, to such a perpetual life-in-death, and 'peace and peace
where there is no peace!' Unless some Hero-worship, in its new
appropriate form, can return, this world does not promise to be
very habitable long.

Old Anselm, exiled Archbishop of Canterbury, one of the purest-
minded 'men of genius,' was traveling to make his appeal to Rome
against King Rufus,--a man of rough ways, in whom the 'inner
Light-beam' shone very fitfully. It is beautiful to read, in
Monk Eadmer, how the Continental populations welcomed and
venerated this Anselm, as no French population now venerates
Jean-Jacques or giant-killing Voltaire; as not even an American
population now venerates a Schnuspel the distinguished Novelist!
They had, by phantasy and true insight, the intensest conviction
that a God's Blessing dwelt in this Anselm,--as is my conviction
too. They crowded round, with bent knees and enkindled hearts,
to receive his blessing, to hear his voice, to see the light of
his face. My blessings on them and on him!--But the notablest
was a certain necessitous or covetous Duke of Burgundy, in
straitened circumstances we shall hope,--who reflected that in
all likelihood this English Archbishop, going towards Rome to
appeal, must have taken store of cash with him to bribe the
Cardinals. Wherefore he of Burgundy, for his part, decided to
lie in wait and rob him. 'In an open space of a wood,' some
'wood' then green and growing, eight centuries ago, in Burgundian
Land,--this fierce Duke, with fierce steel followers, shaggy,
savage, as the Russian Bear, dashes out on the weak old Anselm;
who is riding along there, on his small quiet-going pony;
escorted only by Eadmer and another poor Monk on ponies; and,
except small modicum of roadmoney, not a gold coin in his
possession. The steelclad Russian Bear emerges, glaring: the
old whitebearded man starts not,--paces on unmoved, looking into
him with those clear old earnest eyes, with that venerable
sorrowful time-worn face; of whom no man or thing need be
afraid, and who also is afraid of no created man or thing. The
fire-eyes of his Burgundian Grace meet these clear eye-glances,
convey t