He heard the question Circle Heaven through-- Closed the book and answered: “I did--and do!” Quietly but speedily (As Captain Wentworth moved) Entered into Paradise The man Jane loved! THE PROPHET AND THE COUNTRY THE PORTENT Horace, Ode 20, Bk. V. Oh, late withdrawn from human-kind And following dreams we never knew! Varus, what dream has Fate assigned To trouble you? Such virtue as commends the law Of Virtue to the vulgar horde Suffices not. You needs must draw A righteous sword; And, flagrant in well-doing, smite The priests of Bacchus at their fane, Lest any worshipper invite The God again. Whence public strife and naked crime And--deadlier than the cup you shun-- A people schooled to mock, in time, All law--not one. Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin, Nor give thy children cause to doubt That Virtue springs from iron within-- Not lead without. THE PROPHET AND THE COUNTRY North of London stretches a country called “The Midlands,” filled with brick cities, all absolutely alike, but populated by natives who, through heredity, have learned not only to distinguish between them but even between the different houses; so that at meals and at evening multitudes return, without confusion or scandal, each to the proper place. Last summer, desperate need forced me to cross that area, and I fell into a motor-licence “control” which began in a market-town filled with unherded beeves carrying red numbered tickets on their rumps. An English-speaking policeman inspected my licence on a bridge, while the cattle blundered and blew round the car. A native in plain clothes lolled out an enormous mulberry-coloured tongue, with which he licked a numbered label, precisely like one of those on the behinds of the bullocks, and made to dab it on my wind-screen. I protested. “But it will save you trouble,” he said. “You’re liable to be held up for your licence from now on. This is your protection. Everybody does it.” “Oh! If that’s the case----” I began weakly. He slapped it on the glass and I went forward--the man was right--all the cars I met were “protected” as mine was--till I reached some county or other which marked the limit of the witch-doctoring, and entered, at twilight, a large-featured land where the Great North Road ran, bordered by wide way-wastes, between clumps of old timber.