his legs in the air. Inexpressible laughter followed, which broke up in a shower of tiny stones from innumerable hands. They could not materially injure me, although they cut me on the head and face. I attempted to run away, but they all rushed upon me, and, laying hold of every part that afforded a grasp, held me tight. Crowding about me like bees, they shouted an insect-swarm of exasperating speeches up into my face, among which the most frequently recurring were—“You shan’t have her; you shan’t have her; he! he! he! She’s for a better man; how he’ll kiss her! how he’ll kiss her!” The galvanic torrent of this battery of malevolence stung to life within me a spark of nobleness, and I said aloud, “Well, if he is a better man, let him have her.” They instantly let go their hold of me, and fell back a step or two, with a whole broadside of grunts and humphs, as of unexpected and disappointed approbation. I made a step or two forward, and a lane was instantly opened for me through the midst of the grinning little antics, who bowed most politely to me on every side as I passed. After I had gone a few yards, I looked back, and saw them all standing quite still, looking after me, like a great school of boys; till suddenly one turned round, and with a loud whoop, rushed into the midst of the others. In an instant, the whole was one writhing and tumbling heap of contortion, reminding me of the live pyramids of intertwined snakes of which travellers make report. As soon as one was worked out of the mass, he bounded off a few paces, and then, with a somersault and a run, threw himself gyrating into the air, and descended with all his weight on the summit of the heaving and struggling chaos of fantastic figures. I left them still busy at this fierce and apparently aimless amusement. And as I went, I sang— If a nobler waits for thee, I will weep aside; It is well that thou should’st be, Of the nobler, bride. For if love builds up the home, Where the heart is free, Homeless yet the heart must roam, That has not found thee. One must suffer: I, for her Yield in her my part Take her, thou art worthier— Still I be still, my heart! Gift ungotten! largess high Of a frustrate will! But to yield it lovingly Is a something still. Then a little song arose of itself in my soul; and I felt for the moment, while it sank sadly within me, as if I was once more walking up and down the white hall of Phantasy in the Fairy Palace. But this lasted no longer than the song; as will be seen. Do not vex thy violet Perfume to afford: Else no odour thou wilt get From its little hoard. In thy lady’s gracious eyes Look not thou too long; Else from them the glory flies, And thou dost her wrong. Come not thou too near the maid, Clasp her not too wild; Else the splendour is allayed, And thy heart beguiled.