The King of Alsander

t I had a

a littl

omantic E

er's not s

er not t

Wil

he peaceful village of Blaindon. This secluded hamlet lies some ten miles from the sea, in an undulating, but not terrible, country-a land of woodland and meadow, of buttercup and daisy, of tiny streams and verdant dells. At evening the scene is more tranquil than ever, and the old church spire, standing sentinel above the cold

er the village yokel for a moment, as with mouth a

solido de

c viridi mem

ad aquae len

w of the stable loft for hotter days. Ensconced beneath such lowly roofs as those of little Blaindon, many a hundred sons of toil have been born, been married and been finally de

e in a state of ceaseless intermarriage for century after century. The Weolkeeings of Saxon days, the Weilcans of the Normans, who are they but the honest Wilkinses round the corner? No great calamities have occurred at Blaindon except an occasional plague; no stirring battles have there been fought. The place seems to have been forgotten or overlooked

f his advancing years as because he was very tired and a heavy eater. He could trust his son completely. Young Norman Price was one of the most envied personages in Blaindon. He was only nineteen; a handsome and strong young man, and the face he showed a customer wore no servile frock-coated smirk, but a laugh of real pleasure at being able to supply the needs of the community. Nearly everything was on sale in his shop-all groceries, also cloth, garden seeds, papers, books (the least flourishing part of the trade), and tobacco. Yet his store did not look at all like other village stores where everything is bought in dirty pennyworths. It was well arranged, and the goods were displayed to good account, more after the tradition, I fear, of American vulgarity

Holbein's portrait of Georg Gisze. The young merchant, robed in delicate silk and velvet, and surrounded by keys, quadrants, scissors, maps, and ledgers, was obviously mea

not close the book without a sigh of remonstrance against all those who insist on giving the lower classes thoughts above their station. John Gaffekin lived with his widowed mother in the Elizabethan Blaindon Hall, a typical old country house standing just outside the village on a plot of park. The old lady was infirm, and in order that he might attend to his mother, and also avoid drawing on a by no means unlimited income, John had never gone to school. He had taken some lessons from the Vicar, who had been "a fine classic in his day," and as he naturally loved books and was

of me not to have sent you away before. You are getting buried in this stupid place,

h me to Oxford," said John. "

you consorting with that so

at subject,"

of my words when you've seen a little

"College terms only account for half the y

lunged into everything, learnt Latin and French, attempted Greek. There were very few books that he read carefully; hardly one would he read twice. "There are so many more to read," he used to say. No one could be less of a scholar, and the fine points of characterization, the delicate shades of metre and language, lay beyond his sphere. But he loved all the books that are not generally read; he could feel that such books were peculiarly his own property or his own discovery, and a habit of always reading books that no one else has read is not a bad guide to literature. All the works that glow with dark frenzy, or with diabolical Rembrandt fires, whose authors died nameless deaths or were burnt for magic, all the fantasti

s so fearlessly and with such psychological insight the problems of our industrial age. In fact, he used to say that it might be damned good, but it was damned boring. Such is the obtuseness of the Philistine. He was, moreover, no critic, as you may well opine; he had not the fine taste of his friend, but he fell the more readily under the spell and domination of strange books; he was a dreamer, and entertained ideas of his own, which h

mother bought yesterday." She was a pretty girl, and Price almost aspired to marry her. Had he only known it, the poverty-stricken Mr Apple would have been only too g

of merchandise to traverse with bells a-jangle while wagoners told the tales of wagoners high perched on their creaking wains; yet a road for modern life, ready for tramways to glide along its hedges, and motor-cars to spin down its smooth and cambered way; yet perhaps chiefly an ancient road, down which some herald would speed, his gold coat laced with dust, his knees tight gripping his steaming horse, with a message of war, disaster, or relief. And do

face seemed smooth, and he had surprisingly young, blue eyes. Afterwards, one noticed his long archaic lips and the beauty of his hands. His clothes, subordinate as all clothes should be to the face, were yet curious and distinctive. He wore a mauve silk scarf, a sort of No

Navy Cut, sir?"

a retreat into the shop to let the stra

," bellowed the ol

sat down on a chair and threaded out the tobacco into an eno

on Mixture here!" said he. "I haven't been a

As he did so his eye lit upon the Holbein. He gave a second start, more violent than the first, a qui

e did you ge

s a present from

es, are they for sale? Have you a G

d them when bus

not a gentleman: you look too much like a god. Tell me, what are you doing, with

"it's a picturesque old place

the Gate of Taurus. I have seen the Alps from the Finsteraarhorn below me, Niagara from the footpath above me, night in the city, day in the desert, dawn on the sea. I have seen the Little Effects: Normandy, Tasmania, the English

r, there is a sky,

h that pure accent, vendor of spices; or to frame such pl

y about my case. I have a friend, now at Oxford,

your sunlight and starlight? Supremely

ne to talk to, and these wonderful stories" (he pointed to the b

enough to make castles out of his biscuit tins, and fortifications out of washing soap." And

orman, with a little vulgar pride in his poetic and pathetic

sort of Watts-Dunton talk you are wrong; I'm goin

n; "you haven't pa

sat down w

nd you aren't a cultured snob after all, but somethin

market days I usually go over to Iffcomb

u have never known, how dare you stand opposite me, a young man with the face of a god, and blither a

ot

tle, s

ndred pounds of

in your pocket or in the bank, I do not know, when five pounds will take you to the Alps, seven to Italy, twelve to the Gulf of Corinth, thirty to Damascus,[1] and fifty to Yokohama. You should clear out of this rat-hole, young man, and that immediately. Why not to-night? as thundering Salvationists cry, desiring

looked at him dramatically. Then he turned rou

e," said Norman,

the exact sum. "You will certainly succeed, Mr Norman Price. So I will giv

tionary was too heavy. Finally he sat down on his counter, gazing at the sunswept fields and lengthening shadows of the hedges. The vast mournful light of the late afternoon penetrated his spirit, and he felt, not for the first time, that unutterable sadness, that vague and restless longing for the Unknown land Impossible that it is the privile

hn and he had often talked of a bicycling tour in Normandy. That would be inexpensive, but now it seemed so tame an affair. What of this delicately-named Alsander the Poet talked of? It sounded remote enough. To go somewhere where no one else had ever been would be better than reading books no one else had ever read. And one should go at

om dirt and disease in a quarter of an hour, cannot a radiant poet save a dreamer from stagnation in ten minutes? Norman b

the porch), and we never become acutely conscious of their existence or individuality unless they die, disappear, or make themselves offensive. Norman dispassionately scrutinized his father's stumpy red beard, curious veiled eyes, and fireless, thin face, remembered his equanimity and his shrewdness, and wondered with boyish shallowness and conceit-for he knew less about his father than about the man in the moon-what on earth he h

rule that the elder generation is the last place where the new should expect sympathy. However, for want of something to talk about, N

" said William

meant

il fellow, stifling his words in large mo

," said Norman, "a

o see it myself. Used to live down by the sea in Kent, and I was always wunnering what was the other side, and thinking

meal in silence and

air, leaving the old man still hard at work. "I expect

said William Pric

a stroll," said N

ce after him, with a wink. "Young rip!" he

even his confident son might have been startled to see him open his wide da

irm him in a resolution. Whether indeed the celestial lady did touch him somehow, or whether his vanity and naughty desire to startle the villagers was not more powerful, cann

onest, strenuous, interesting fellows, a little too full perhaps of local colour, Though they were a little jealous of him, they were a kindly folk

he bar as a habitué should,

anywhere this tame o' na

"I'm just off abroad. And

e, and was, in accordance with the universal custom of savage communities, almost worshipped in consequ

now as usual, Mr Canthrop. T

ieking, "not tould yer feyther? Not t

nvulsively i

Nancy, simpering. She was a great friend of Norman's, and

airily at the bar, leaned over and whispered very audibly, "It's a scrape, Nanc

for nimble elocution, his metaphors for the

was sitting behind him, "ye have

m trouble, do you? Or that I should be likely to get into trouble? Or

mas Bodkin. A roar of laughte

t. It was more than he could stand, this asini

he sexton. "You will not see

trains. None between five this evening and 10.30 to-morrow,

d, a baffled Byron, punished by the native humour of hon

ok the Post Office Savings Bank book from the safe. There were ninety pounds odd in it, entered in his name, the profits that had accrued during his two years' management of the shop. Perhaps it was not strictly his; his father had established the business, and provided the initial stock. But then his father had laid by enough to keep him even in food for the next ten years, and Norman had done the work. It is the young who want money; Norman had never been able to see the object of saving money with imm

e once. New lands, new books, and I am not goin

saddle-bag. Just as he was mounting one more thought troubled him. Would he not be terribly lonely? If only John could come too! "No," he sa

ltation. Smoothly and quickly the tyred wheels bore him on out to infinity. The door of the Blaindon Arms stood open

l it," said the old

the words of the old poet too seriously and wasting thirty pounds in goin

by the poet are of