a bankrupt, giving over his pension for reimbursing those who had
lost by him; and his eagerness for wealth for love's sake, always
thinking of somebody else,--such is this gentleman who trusts in God.
And thus simple, noble, unhumiliated:

"I chanced to look up from my book toward the swarm of blackcoated
pensioners, and among them--among them--sat Thomas Newcome. His dear
old head was bent down over his prayer-book; there was no mistaking
him. He wore the black gown of the pensioners of the Hospital of Grey
Friars. His Order of the Bath was on his breast. He stood among the
poor brethren, uttering the responses to the psalm. . . . His own wan
face flushed up when he saw me, and his hand shook in mine. 'I have
found a home, Arthur,' said he; for save this he was homeless. As
death came toward him his mind wandered, driven as a leaf is driven by
wandering winds. He headed columns in Hindustan; he called the name of
the one woman he had loved. In death, as in life, his thought was for
others, for Clive, dear, dear Clive. He said, 'Take care of him when I
'm in India;' and then, with a heartrending voice, he called out,
'Leonore, Leonore!' She was kneeling by his side now. The patient
voice sank into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that
he was not asleep. At the usual hour the chapel bell began to toll,
and Thomas Newcome's hands, outside the bed, feebly beat time. And
just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his
face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said, 'Adsum!'
and fell back. It was the word we used at school when names were
called; and lo! he, whose heart was as that of a little child, had
answered to his name, and stood in the presence of his Master."

Small wonder if, in India, they called Thomas Newcome "Don Quixote."

And King Arthur is Alfred Tennyson's dream of a gentleman. Arthur is
manhood at its prime. He was strong, a warrior, a self-made man, since
the foolish questioned, "Is he Uther's son?" Mystery and miracle mix
with his history, as is accurate, seeing no life grows tall without the
advent of miracle. He is rescuer of a realm from anarchy, founder of
the Round Table--an order of knighthood, purposed to include only pure
knights--was not spectacular; for we read that others were greater in
tournament than he, but he greater than all in battle, from which we
see how great occasions called out his greatness. He measured up to
n