’To-morrow the candles and the dais and the bishop with his clergy
                coped and gold embossed,
    But to-day the shout like thunder of an equal, unofficered host
        Who, led and kindled by the flag alone,
    With one sole spirit swollen, and on one sole thought intent,
    Are become one cry like the crash of walls shattered and gates rent: 
        ‘Hosanna unto David’s son!’

    Needless the haughty steeds marble-sculptured, or triumphal arches, or
                chariots and four,
    Needless the flags and the caparisons, the moving pyramids and towers,
                and cars that thunder and roar,—­
        ’Tis but an ass whereon sits Christ;
    For to make an end of the nightmare built by the pedants and the
                pharisees,
    To get home to reality across the gulf of mendacities,
        The first she-ass he saw sufficed!

    Eternal youth is master, the hideous gang of old men is done with, we
    Stand here like children, fanned by the breath of the things to be,
        But victory we will have to-day! 
    Afterwards the corn that like gold gives return, afterwards the gold
                that like corn is faithful and will bear,
    The fruit we have henceforth only to gather, the land we have
                henceforth only to share,
        But victory we will have to-day!’

In the same spirit Charles Peguy—­like Claudel, be it noted, a student of Bergson at the Ecole Normale—­found his ideal in the great story of the young girl of Domremy who saved France when all the pomp and wisdom of generals had broken down.  And in our own poetry has not Mr. Bottomley rewritten the Lear story, with the focus of power and interest transferred from the old king—­left with not an inch of king in him—­to a glorious young Artemis-Goneril?

But among our English Georgians this tense iconoclastic note is rare.  Their detachment from what they repudiate is not fanatical or ascetic; it is conveyed less in invective than in paradox and irony; their temper is not that which flies to the wilderness and dresses in camel hair, but of mariners putting out to the unknown and bidding a not unfriendly good-bye at the shore.  The temper of adventure is deeply ingrained in the new romance as in the old; the very word adventure is saturated with a sentiment very congenial to us both for better and worse; it quickens the hero in us and flatters the devil-may-care.

In its simplest form the temper of adventure has given us the profusion of pleasant verses which we know as the poetry of ‘vagabondage’ and ’the open road’.  The point is too familiar to be dwelt on, and has been admirably illustrated and discussed by Mr. McDowall.  George Borrow, prince of vagabonds, Stevenson, the ‘Ariel’, with his ’Vagabond-song’—­

    ’All I seek the heaven above,
      And the road below me’,