“’The king seeing his household troops, being only one thousand strong, surrounded by twelve regiments, the best Spanish troops, amounting to eighteen thousand four hundred and forty-two, although he doubted not of victory, yet thought he might lose many brave men before the close of the day, and rode up instantly to King Charles, and said, —

“’"My brother!  I am loath to lose so many of those brave men yonder.  Whistle off your Spanish pointers, and I agree to ride home with you.”

“’And so he did.  But what did King Charles?  Abusing French loyalty, he made our Francis his prisoner, would you believe it? and treated him worse than ever badger was treated at the bottom of any paltry stable-yard, putting upon his table beer and Rhenish wine and wild boar.’

“I have digressed with thee, young man,” continued the knight, much to the improvement of my knowledge, I do reverentially confess, as it was of the lad’s.  “We will now,” said he, “endeavour our best to sober thee, finding that Doctor Glaston hath omitted it.”

“Not entirely omitted it,” said William, gratefully; “he did after dinner all that could be done at such a time toward it.  The doctor could, however, speak only of the Greeks and Romans, and certainly what he said of them gave me but little encouragement.”

Sir Thomas.

“What said he?”

William Shakspeare.

“He said, ’The Greeks conveyed all their wisdom into their theatre,- -their stages were churches and parliament-houses; but what was false prevailed over what was true.  They had their own wisdom, the wisdom of the foolish.  Who is Sophocles, if compared to Doctor Hammersley of Oriel? or Euripides, if compared to Doctor Prichard of Jesus?  Without the Gospel, light is darkness; and with it, children are giants.

“’William, I need not expatiate on Greek with thee, since thou knowest it not, but some crumbs of Latin are picked up by the callowest beaks.  The Romans had, as thou findest, and have still, more taste for murder than morality, and, as they could not find heroes among them, looked for gladiators.  Their only very high poet employed his elevation and strength to dethrone and debase the Deity.  They had several others, who polished their language and pitched their instruments with admirable skill; several who glued over their thin and flimsy gaberdines many bright feathers from the widespread downs of Ionia, and the richly cultivated rocks of Attica.

“’Some of them have spoken from inspiration; for thou art not to suppose that from the heathen were withheld all the manifestations of the Lord.  We do agree at Oxford that the Pollio of Virgil is our Saviour.  True, it is the dullest and poorest poem that a nation not very poetical hath bequeathed unto us; and even the versification, in which this master excelled, is wanting in fluency and sweetness.  I can only account for it from the weight of the subject.  Two verses, which are fairly worth two hundred such poems, are from another pagan; he was forced to sigh for the church without knowing her.  He saith, —