Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches: then we looked toward England
And cited up a thousand fearful times

During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befallen us. As we paced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling
Struck me, that sought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks,
Ten thousand men that fishes gnawed upon,
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearls,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels

All scattered in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems.
Which wooed the slimy bottom of the deep
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

Oft did I strive

To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul and would not let it forth
To seek the empty, vast and wandering air,
But smothered it within my panting bulk
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Awaked you not with this sore agony?

Oh, no, my dream was lengthened after life,
O, then began the tempest to my soul
Which passed, methought, the melancholy flood
With that grim ferryman which poets write of
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law renowned Warwick
Who cried aloud "what scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"

And so he vanished: then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel with bright hair
Dabbled in blood, and he squeaked out aloud:
"Clarence is come, false fleeting perjured Clarence
That stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury;
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environed me about and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries that with the very noise
I trembling waked, and for a season after
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made the dream.

There is no comment adequate to follow such a passage. It belongs to "the high order of things "; and, as Fitzgerald said of Gray's Elegy, "is written among the stars forever."

We dream of strife, love, death, warfare, torment, fear, delight and wonder, but how often do we dream jokes? I only know of two instances of what-with the utmost leniency-might possibly be placed under that heading. There is the case of the man who dreamed that he was arguing with a friend. Nothing he could say made any impression, every argument he brought forward fell useless before the granite of his friend's opinion, and the sense of cumulative vexation grew almost unbearable, in that intensifying climate that is of the dream-state. At last his exasperation broke bounds and he exclaimed in his dream: "It's no good-I give it up-you display such astounding ignorance. And I tell you it's more than ignorance! It's pignorance."

Rightly was he pleased with the word when he awoke.

And the other case is that of the woman who dreamed she was walking in the garden at home, with her children, and as they walked they looked back at

the house among the trees with its old stone tiled roof, and the cottage-end which is the thatched wing of the building. She thought she said: "That is really two houses you know, and what is more, they each have a name, and I'll tell you them . . . . . they are called Jack Straw and Wat Tyler.”

it.

Thus she dreamed; and when she awoke-loanbold! (as we say in tabloid) there was something in It wasn't just utter nonsense; but "Kate-awhimsy, John-a-Dreams." I wish we had more dream-jokes and less dream-striving.

Children know well the curious states of the dreamcondition; and can describe them often forcibly. A child once said to his mother: "I had long strong dreams last night. It was like living a very loud picture."

Yet with all the stress and tumult that colour and twist our dreams let us remember there do occur sometimes those rare and perfect orientations of the mind, that arise, no doubt, from some psychic condition. They translate the Dreamer far beyond his normal ken. He is "caught up to the seventh Heaven, affinitised for a space to the abode where the Immortals are."

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
Are where thy footstep gleams,
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

JOA

THE STORY OF JOAN OF ARC

RETOLD

OAN OF ARC was born on 6 January in the year 1412. Her father was John d'Arc, and her mother's name was Isabella Romée. They lived in a small village called Domremy, and earned their livelihood by labouring in the fields. Joan went with her sister to school in a little house that you may yet see at Domremy, and her father's house yet stands, its garden touching the churchyard.

Joan was very gentle in her ways, and very simple and truthful. Everyone loved her, for they saw how kind she was. She was industrious, and she helped those who worked with her. During the day she would drive the cattle to pasture, or taking her place beside her father, she would help him in the field, rough though the work might be. At other times she helped her mother in the house, and in the evenings she would sit quietly and spin. In such wise did Joan live, passing the early years of her childhood:

An angel-watered lily that near God
Grows, and is quiet.

One summer's day about noon, when she was thirteen years old, she was in the garden and she heard a voice speaking to her. At the same time she saw a great light. Then the vision of an angel appeared, and in her heart she knew it was a divine messenger. Joan," the voice said, "you must go to the help your country. You must go to the Dauphin. It is

of

for you to see that he goes to Rheims to be consecrated before being crowned."

Joan said, "How shall I arm myself, or know how to lead men?"

Then within her spirit she knew the angel answered, "God will help you."

Now from this day forward Joan's heart was often stirred within her. The consciousness of her mission was to increase more and more. She would often leave her companions to walk alone, wondering in what way she was to play her part, and unseen voices would speak to her. These voices spoke more and more urgently.

"The danger to your country is great," they would say. "It is you who must save your country. It is you Joan, who must save your country and your King."

She often thought deeply how best this great task should be undertaken; and at last she decided to make a journey to see the Lord of Baudricourt at Vaucouleurs. When there she intended to ask him to give her an escort to take her to the King; but she did not speak of this to her parents.

She went to Bury to her uncle Laxart, and told him all that was in her mind. Her heart glowed in her speech so that she carried all before her, and her uncle even promised to take her on her way.

But when they arrived at Vaucouleurs it was to find scant welcome. Joan told Baudricourt that she came from God, and her message was for the Dauphin. "Let him hold himself in readiness," she said, "for God will certainly help him before Lent is over. God wishes him to be crowned, and crowned he shall be, despite his enemies; and it is I who am destined to bring him to his coronation."