Life is a series of accidents more or less controlled; the play of circumstances upon character infinitely various and infinitely involved. Elizabethan life was superb for the reason that there were fewer men, and they had the immense advantage of realizing their power and of possessing scope for their energy. It was the age of discovery, not only of new lands, but of discovery in every branch of life. Now, a man may grow old before he has acquired an inkling of what has been found out, before he has read what has been written finely. The world stands at ease uneasily, and has time for shuffling and discontent. Vitality and opportunity then worked in wonderful harmony. We are not less vital, but our energy is apt to be stifled. Everything is so easy. We read day by day what has happened throughout the world. There is nothing surprising except our friends and ourselves--and they are apt to surprise us too much. Effort begets effort, and effort, strength. The Elizabethan, without railways, without posts, without telegraphs, was bound to rely upon himself for everything. Man brought news to man by word of mouth, without warning or previous discussion, or the help of photography. An errand-boy can now know more easily what is happening in the whole world than a wise man could then know of what was happening in his county. You did not know of a battle till you saw the wounded fighters. They were shut out from the outside world, and from time to time dramatically news fired their imagination and minds. And their minds were trained so that they did not gape and wonder. Their minds were stored with the wisdom of the Greeks and Romans, and were thrilled as only trained minds can be thrilled, and roused to a veritable storm of energy by the huge possibilities of life. The difficulties to be overcome were material and romantic, and triumphs were more easily attained. Life was as adventurous as the true tales of adventure that were circulated at every fireside. Nowhere were these tales more frequent or fresher than near the great sea-ports in Devonshire, where Walter Ralegh was born. The farmhouse still stands, at Hayes, near Budleigh-Salterton. The country-side has remained strangely the same in its appearance, a little more populous, and, after waking to the arrival of trains, has sunk back to its long, prosperous sleep, contented. No longer do strange ships with stranger tidings disturb its rest; they are watched for and quietly expected; the sailors land to learn news, and can tell little but gossip in return. No longer do horses carry messengers on the Queen's service with packets marked "_Haste_," "_Post Haste_," "_For Life_," galloping to the Queen's Chief Secretary, in London. News was spread slowly; its effect must have been incredibly impressive.