Like the clearing of (mist from) the sky;

Like a man fowling therein toward that of which he was not

aware.

Death is before me to-day

As a man craves to see his home

When he has spent years in captivity."

I doubt whether, in the whole world's literature, Death has ever been portrayed in more alluring fashion or so sweetly sung. Could one but think of the experience of life's termination as being like that of going out from the monotony of the sick-room into the vivid freshness of the garden, when one's senses are all quickened by long absence from growing things, truly Death would be a sensation which would make all the distress of life worth while. Or does the reader know the enchantment of sitting upon the deck of a Nile-vessel when the steady North wind fills out the great sail above him, white against the deep blue of the sky, and drives the prow through the waters with the insistency of nature itself? Does he know that indefinable sense of reliability which is conveyed to a sailor by the straining sail spread above him in the sunlight? Has he felt the confident exultation of that passage through the waters, when the mind, aware of the destination, is absorbed by the majesty of the journey? Even so, says our poet, is Death; the triumphant rush forward to a sure harbour. The picture of the over-flowing water-channel is one that will best be appreciated by those who have lived amongst the fields of Egypt. The farmer digs a rough channel through the soil with his hoe, and into this he suddenly releases the water which has been held back awhile by a little bank of earth, so that it rushes forward on to the rich ground, travelling along

its appointed way in the sunlight. And to the joyful overflow of the cool water upon the prepared earth the poet tells us that Death is to be likened.

The metaphor in regard to the clearing of the mist requires to be explained before its extreme beauty can be appreciated by those unfamiliar with Egypt. Upon a reed-covered lake of the Delta a hunter's canoe is silently propelled through the dense, white mist of early morning, as yet undissolved by the risen sun. Presently the little craft comes to rest amidst the tall stems of the papyrus-plants; and in the stillness of the morning the clearing of the air is awaited, in order that the hunter may learn in which direction to move towards his quarry. Then, of a sudden, the sun breaks through the vapour, the white volume of the mist rolls aside, and he finds himself already in full, close view of the flock of duck and wild-fowl which he is seeking but of whose presence he was not aware. Even so is Death: the rending of the mist, and the sudden, proximate vision of that which stirs a hunter's heart.

As the lines of this poem are read and their sense is received by the brain, the series of pictures spring into life in the imagination with a clarity which is evidence of the author's mastery in the selection of words. Each sentence is expressed with such lucidity, such poignancy, and such convincing brevity, that the brain responds almost automatically. The meaning of the words leaps to the mind, the curtain swings up, the picture is seen in its perfection; and so clear is the vision that one is almost loath to read on and thus to change the scene. But not only is a series of pictures called before the imagination: there is also their application to the poet's imagery of Death; and, line by

line, the reader is introduced to mankind's ultimate tragedy in a new and wondrous aspect.

In spite of this laudation of Death, the soul still protests against the destruction of its earthly home; and thereupon the man describes the great privileges enjoyed by "those who are yonder," that is to say, the dead. They shall sit, he declares, in the barque of the sun and shall traverse the sky like the stars; they shall converse face to face with the solar gods and shall not be repelled by them; and they shall at last be able to inflict punishment for evil-doing where punishment is due, and shall seize hold of the wicked in the manner of the living gods. The idea of an ultimate Justice, and of the ability of the dead to sit in judgment upon those who had wronged them in life, at length overcome the scruples of the soul; and the embittered man is thus left free to put an end to his existence.

CHAPTER XVI

THE STORY OF THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR

WHEN the early Spanish explorers led their expeditions to Florida, it was their intention to find the Fountain of Perpetual Youth, tales of its potent waters having reached Peter Martyr as early as 1511. This desire to discover the things pertaining to Fairyland has been, throughout history, one of the most fertile sources of adventure. From the days when the archaic Egyptians penetrated into the regions south of the Cataracts, where they believed that the inhabitants were other than human, and into Pount, the "land of the Gods," the hope of Fairyland has led men to search the face of the earth and to penetrate into its unknown places. It has been the theme of countless stories: it has supplied material for innumerable songs.

And in spite of the circumambulations of science about us, in spite of the hardening of all the tissues of our imagination, in spite of the phenomenal development of the commonplace, this desire for a glimpse of the miraculous is still set deeply in our hearts. The old quest of Fairyland is as active now as ever it was. We still presume, in our unworthiness, to pass the barriers, and to walk upon those paths which lead to the enchanted forests and through them to the city of the Moon. At any moment we are ready to set

forth, like Arthur's knights, in search of the Holy Grail.

The explorer who penetrates into Central Africa in quest of King Solomon's mines is impelled by a hope closely akin to that of the Spaniards. The excavator who digs for the buried treasures of the Incas or of the Egyptians is often led by a desire for the fabulous. Search was recently made in the western desert of Egypt for a lost city of burnished copper; and the Anglo-Egyptian official is constantly urged by credulous natives to take camels across the wilderness in quest of a town whose houses and temples are of pure gold. What archæologist has not at some time given ear to the whispers that tell of long-lost treasures, of forgotten cities, of Atlantis swallowed by the sea? It is not only the children who love the tales of Fairyland. How happily we have read Kipling's "Puck of Pook's Hill," De la Motte Fouqué's "Undine," Kenneth Graham's "Wind in the Willows," or F. W. Bain's Indian Stories. Fairy plays, such as Barrie's "Peter Pan," and Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird" have been enormously successful. Say what we will, fairy tales still hold their old power over us, and still we turn to them as a relief from the commonplace.

Some of us, failing to find Fairyland upon earth, have transferred it to the kingdom of Death; and it has become the hope for the future. Each Sunday in church the congregation of business men and hardworked women set aside the things of their monotonous life, and sing the songs of the endless search. To the rolling notes of the organ they tell the tale of the Elysian Fields: they take their unfulfilled desire for Fairyland and adjust it to their deathless hope of