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with a shining dust. The boughs were bent with snow. The stems in the underwood were frozen. There were no flowers to please the eye nor birds to please the ear.

This is the only pleasant time I have had since we came to this spoiled country,' said Oberon. 'I am heartily sick of this pilgrimage. Your excesses alone have been sufficient for that, Puck. You have been taken in with every new toy and behaved yourself like a friend of the acknowledged enemy. True fairy hood is forsaking you. I myself have tested the toys, and I admit

'Nay, my lord,' said Puck, ‘I hope you will not make any excuses-qui s'excuse s'accuse.'

'Be that as it may, in thirty hours we will go back to simplicity, peace, and quietness. This is New Year's Day. What memories hang about it! The appearances of things on this day are prophetical. Therefore I want ye all to take your last journey, and look on the world with a quiet eye. Go to London, and tell me after, not exactly what you have seen, but what you thought of what you saw when you saw it. We have seen much already, but go this last journey for it is New Year's Day. I shall only have time to hear your prologues; then we will go, and have the rest in fairyland. I have no desire to go myself; I am sick of the whole thing, and I want to be alone for a little while. You must not be together or you will tell the same tale, and that would be very tedious. Each one take his own road, but come back to my time, which is moonrise.'

Puck was the last to leave. He stayed to suggest that Oberon was rather heavy, and recommended him brandy and soda. Oberon took no notice of this recommendation beyond throwing a snow-ball at

Puck, who received it in his left ear, and departed.

'Well,' said Puck, as he turned away, they may say what they have a mind to, but I never liked England better than I do at this moment. It is full of real life and novelty.'

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Ah, there have been fearful changes,' said Oberon, when he was alone. We have gone through big panting towns and cities of smoke, and grime, and ghastly houses, where pale-faced women crawl about in rags and do not know the blush of shame. And we have seen-I dare not think what. It is a strange life that men live in a big city. They have beautiful churches, and wise men preach sermons that the poor cannot understand, and children sit outside in the gutter and watch the great painted windows and dream of bread, while wealth is inside taking paradise by compulsion. There are policemen who take up little boys that have no homes-some little boys are so wicked that they have no parents; but it is beautiful to know that though they have evaded the law and tried to earn something to eat by selling matches they cannot escape justice, and they are duly punished. The angels weep at man's mockery of man, but what think they of man's mockery of little helpless children, who go barefooted about the golden streets and cry for hunger in cities of perpetual feasting? When I think of it, I almost blush myself that I should have seen a man (and I have seen thousands) who dare go home to a great fire and a comfortable bed with the knowledge that just outside his house some little child, whose only crime is the cruelty of others, is shrinking in the cold up a yard, trying to sleep, but fearing the policeman's lamp. There is something

wrong somewhere, and they all seem content to let it go on wrong. That they should eat meat and drink wine, and allow children to bear the pain and suffering of the world, is very, very strange. I suppose it is all right and consistent with Christianity and good government. Great things are done here in the way of combination, palaces are built, and learned societies are formed; but still the children are under the lamps with great hungry eyes; and men can see them and pass on without fearing an earthquake! We have passed miles of mills and factories, towns and dirt, and everything smells of man and his gross conceit. They will have nothing above them. I have seen men working in the fields that have spent the whole of their dinner hour in reading a newspaper. There was a time when the farmer would troll a catch and look in the face of nature; but now he must needs send his sympathy into a printed pot-house. My forests have been cut down, and my meadows, where flowers clustered together in the summer, have been laid waste, Hedges, where the hawthorn grew and tempted the villagers on May morn, have been cut down, and railways have been put in the place; and the old country life is dying out. The great castles that stood gloriously

among the forests throughout the land have crumbled to heaps of stones. When I saw Berry Pomeroy, remembrance made my heart ache. The stout halls have been changed to little pasteboard castles, and the big cozy kitchens, with their wide fire-places and great roaring fires, are turned into kitchen ranges. Fancy sitting round a range to tell stories! The thatched cottages, with their little gardens, where all sweet

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things grew in a heap, are turned into villas, and things that grow are trained in A B C order. The rooms are few, square, and alike, and suggestive of nothing but utility; and this is the character of the people who live in them. Everything goes by machinery; men travel by steam on land and sea. They have steam in their business; it is with them day and night; and the result is that men themselves are machines. They move their arms and legs by machinery, they speak by machinery, and they act by machinery. There is no rest in them; they must always be going somewhere or doing something; but they do not enjoy restlessness, nor do they enjoy rest; and peace they do not understand. If they slept away an afternoon under a hedge in summer it would be a waste of time, the thought of which would frighten them for a year. would be the same if they attempted to sit idle by the winter fire. I pity the craving people. They have learnt to put their food on their backs and sleep in their pockets. They have made devils that will not leave them. Titania, I would not have you see this island now--this land that was once merry England. The gullible fools have spoilt the beauty of the land with their steam trumpery, and now they are trying to make themselves mad with too much drink, work, action, talk, and wrangling. If death were to still them all in the night, and Nature were to do her utmost, she could not in a thousand years repair the damage done to her green world by these busy, meddling, muddling, conceited mortals. And they are hugging themselves with the notion that they have improved their position, and yet they are not so happy as they were, nor so

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The time drew nigh when Puck and the wise ones should return. First came Polit. He did not go into raptures and embrace his master. He looked dismal, and said he was quite ready to go home. Then came Cricket, who also expressed his willingness to return at a very early period. Milkway was not long after them. He simply said the pilgrimage was a mistake, and hoped, for their own sakes, that many thousands of years would go before England again fell into their possession.

'I see how it is with you,' said Oberon. 'I am not surprised. I share your weariness. Life under Progress would almost make mortals of us.'

Then came Puck full of laughter. His cheeks were aglow, and in his eyes there was the old light of mischief and merriness. This is a glorious land we have come to. It is a paradise of novelty. Wit, wisdom, and work have formed a world that would make the angels langh and the devils weep. If you have eyes there is a lasting feast for you; if you have ears there is a lasting feast for you; and if you have reason there is a lasting feast for you. Let us not despise this Progress; he has drawn out good qualities and bad, and mixed them into a delightful conglomeration.'

'It is indeed time we returned,' said Oberon. 'Where are my trees, my hedges, and the old life that gave peace and plenty?'

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at. As for the old life, it is gone, and the old ignorance and old misrule have gone with it.'

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Puck, you are corrupted,' said Oberon, and I am not eager to hear you speak again. What did you notice, Cricket?'

'Many things, my lord, that made me grieve. I saw how eager men have been to win things that supply ornamentation. They have striven that they might eat their food like things of wax and serve starvation up with plate. The trick of living by rule has brought these poor creatures to such a state of mind that they really believe that to dine will do them no good unless their coats are cut in a peculiar manner. They also have an idea that they cannot comprehend stage plays unless they wear white ties. Neither are sermons considered of any value unless the preacher dress himself like an amateur ghost, and speak in an unnatural voice and gloomily. It reminds me of the old river where all the fishes were alike. deny this, Master Puck?'

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'No, indeed I cannot. It is such things that have afforded me amusement. It is absurdity in human life that amuses me. Do not mistake me. I do not say they live altogether a wise life here, but one capable of making me laugh for days together. There are, nevertheless, many good things that once had no existence, and many evils along with them; and many old glories are, alas! dead and gone.'

'I forgive you somewhat for this, Puck,' said Oberon, embracing him. 'Let us hear your voice, Polit. What has struck you as strange and unnatural?'

'The whole thing: but above all it seemed strange to me to be in a city crowded with dying men. They are all dying, every man;

and although they know it, they don't believe it. Numbers die every day, and are buried, and in a hundred years they are made into mortar wherewith to build churches and chapels.'

ping! Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty." Duty shuts out mercy and makes a fool of equity. Men have been flattering themselves

'I do not like thy sweet fancy,' with the idea that it is their duty said Puck.

'Each man chuckles with the idea that death is something that will carry off his neighbour,' continued Polit. I am not in the humour to throw stones at these poor people either. They are mistaken even unto blindness. They have paid men to stand on moral platforms and preach at them to the effect that there are only so many days in the year and only so many hours in the day, and that they should be up and doing, and grasp and struggle, and lose no time. As things go now I would much rather hear a plea for idle

ness.

These false moral appeals have often been the means of grinding the bodies and souls of men out of all sympathy with health and heaven. They have been too enthusiastic for toil, and have loved too much the gold it will bring. They have been up and doing the thing to death. They have been up and doing themselves injuries. They have been violating the laws of gentleness and quietness, which are the secret of man's happiness and that peace of mind which passeth all understanding. Man has an idea that to do his duty is the secret of happiness. should he then have hope? every man has his own idea of duty, and his own idea, of course, allows him to outrage all the virtues under the sun in the name of duty. It reminds me of Polonius and the players: "My lord, I will use them according to their desert." And you remember Hamlet's reply: "Odd's bodikin, man, much better use every man after his desert, and who shall 'scape whip

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to get gold. Work is the way to do it; therefore, as man makes his own gods still, work is duty also -work by day and night is sacred. Thus have they been engendering fevers of the mind which are worse than fevers of the body, and they have been up and doing so much that wisdom sits in a lunatic asylum, and industry crawls about with bleared eyes and stunted growth. And when learning has escaped the lunatic asylum she has travelled on to suicide. Others have sunk down suddenly and died; and so thoroughly have their brothers been imbued with the spirit of Progress that they have scarcely found time to bury the dead. Progress sticks at nothing: he will turn days into nights, men into monkeys, and children into scholars and little men and women. Go into the city and see Progress, the Golden Calf of the nineteenth century. See how the iron gilt-covered god thickens man's blood, and see how the hot hungry-eyed people elbow each other and hammer their heads and hearts out of shape in the worship of Progress and his pennies. And see how mothers and fathers bring home this orthodoxy to their offspring; and what have dear little children that we always lovedwhat have they done that they should have their young hearts cooled and their sweet faces paled with early wisdom? Progress has laid his iron hand on all classes of men, from peasants to preachers. Peasants harangue their fellowworkers in the field and seek for the honours of Parliament; and preachers are not satisfied with the

old truths-they have their novelties. They pray for the poor, and while the poor starve they bury money under their churches. Let me not breathe a word against the good pastor who lives with God in humbleness, and who does his work without parade.'

'And that is the humour of it, I suppose, as Nym would say,' observed Puck.

'You had best be still,' said Oberon to Puck, or you will be remembered in the epilogue.'

'His curses and his blessings touch me alike, my lord,' replied Puck. They are breath I do not believe in.'

The thing they call Progress,' continued Polit, 'is not Progress at all. He is the counterfeit with a good name. He is the villain who poisoned the king his brother, that "from a shelf the precious diadem stole and put it in his pocket." But there is some hope for them even now, if they will worship beauty-if they will leave the poison of the world, and seek an antidote in idleness. Thus they may know the beauty of the land wherein they live, even now in its smoke and ruins. Idleness is full of rest and romance. It is the one sweet pleasure on earth. It is the inspiration of true poets. It is the paradise of gentle hearts. A bad man may be idle, but he cannot enjoy it, and its deep, lasting joys are a sealed book to him.'

'I approve your sentiments, Polit,' said Oberon, although you yourself have not been very idle.'

'Progress is not entirely an ass, you know,' said Puck, 'or any other power that could give the electric telegraph, steamboats, railways, newspapers, and sewing machines.'

Especially sewing machines,' repeated Oberon scornfully. 'How say you, Milkway, are you delighted with the new world?'

'No, indeed; these men delight not me.'

Then I think they should,' said Puck. 'If you have any profession for things spiritual or any knowledge thereof, you must either have been lifted up or gone about with your eyes shut. Was there ever a time when men produced finer music, poems, or pictures? and are not these "the heart of your mystery?",

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I acknowledge these works, and I am thankful for them,' returned Milkway, mildly; but you must remember, Puck, that though it is this age that has given birth to the men, it is not this age that has given birth to the themes. The fine poems sing of an old world, and the fine paintings are pictures from the old world and its old sweet stories. There are exceptions, but even the exceptions are inspired by the world that was, and not the world that is. These good artists are the high souls who are as displeased with the world as it is as we are, and by means of music, poetry, and painting they can go back in spirit to the old world, and take others along with them. They are so displeased with the new world that they are learning to be recluses.'

Oberon smiled the smile of satisfaction.

'Your argument is somewhat one-sided, after all,' said Puck. 'You tell us it is the old world that has given inspiration for the good work; but you must know as well as I do that pure and high art has been accomplished, and not by men only, but by women also, who have never shown their power until the present age; and this work has been inspired by life as it is.'

'We know your obstinacy,' said Oberon.

'It may be my honesty. I say

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