by Hildegarde Hawthorne, January 1910

One of Miss Hawthorne's more fanciful entries, talking about the magic of books, then continuing with the era's idolization of Arthurian legend.

A TWILIGHT VISION

It was just that hour of the day when you ought to, but do not want to, light the lamps, because there are such lovely shadows playing about the room, pretending not to notice the firelight, and yet cleverly keeping out of its way. I sat in a big chair and watched them jumping and tumbling around, having the best sort of a time.

It was then that it happened, and very wonderful I 've thought it since, though at the time I was so interested that I forgot to be surprised.

I called the room the studio, because it had a north light, and because I had hung up some old tapestries, and studies in oil and water-color made by different friends, and because of a divan and lots of cushions, and some pieces of brass about. But it was really my workroom and had a big desk, and shelves nearly the whole way round the walls, loaded with books.

As I sat watching the shadows I happened to raise my eyes to a shelf where there was a row of Shakspere. And right then it began! For, instead of the familiar gold and brown backs, I seemed to be looking at a vast, dark plain, where a few bent trees tossed their bare branches; a fire was burning in the middle distance, lashed this way and that by the wild wind, and over it hung a great caldron. Around this mighty pot circled three shapes like women, very old and twisted and ugly. They appeared to be throwing things into the pot, while they danced a strange dance. You can think how I stared, and rubbed my eyes, and stared again. Of course I had just been dreaming, and they had disappeared; but no—here was still no row of books; the witches had vanished, to be sure, but now I found myself looking into a moonlight garden all overgrown with roses and jasmine. A balcony hung against a beautiful old house, on whose stone balustrade leaned a lovely girl, looking up at the moon. Down below among the roses I could see indistinctly the form of a young man with a cloak over his shoulders.

Somewhat startled. I looked about the room. And whenever my eyes fell on what had once been the uninteresting back of a book, I saw instead, as though I had been looking through a magic mirror, a moving picture of the wild or splendid or fine or dangerous or just simple, every-day things those books told about. It was ever so exciting. In one corner, where Louisa Alcott belonged, I saw Jo and her sisters sitting beside their mother in the dear familiar room, with a glimpse of snow visible through the curtained window. Jo was reading from a roll of manuscript and waving one arm excitedly. Beth was smiling, with the cat on her lap; Amy was near the window embroidering. Just at that moment the door burst open and Laurie came rushing in.

In the middle of another shelf I saw three men on horses, flying along at a great pace. They had swords at their sides and wore huge hats with feathers in them that flapped madly, and their long curling hair streamed behind them. As I stared at them, they rounded a corner of the road and drew rein at a lighted house, evidently an old inn. There was a sign with a king's head painted on it, and some words in old French, while in the courtyard people were fussing about with horses and strange enormous coaches, and, from a window above, a girl looked down and laughed.

"They must be the Three Musketeers," I thought. "Probably they are riding on some adventure for the Queen." And I saw the host of the inn come running out, followed by a lad carrying three silver cups, which the riders took and emptied at a draft.

Scene after scene met my eyes; the walls of my studio seemed to open out in all directions, no matter to what part of the world, nor to what times, whether our own or back into the dim past. One particularly lovely picture I saw was an upland half overgrown with trees, where pink and white hawthorn bloomed in masses, and the green grass was all starred with little daisies and violets and anemones. The sky was mostly blue, with big white clouds sauntering slowly across it, and the tops of the trees swayed gently. Winding along among the green and white came a company of people, some on horseback and others walking. Many of them were carrying armfuls of the flowering may or tall lilies; some came dancing or playing on flutes and little harps. They were all dressed in wonderful clothes, flowing robes embroidered with precious stones, short cloaks of many colors, and the men wore doublet and hose, or else were in armor with helmets on their heads, whose lifted vizors revealed the strong, keen faces underneath. It was a marvelous sight.

I knew it must be Queen Guinevere and her knights and ladies going a-maying, and I leaned forward eagerly. There she was, sure enough! She rode a white palfrey, and from a jeweled circlet round her head her golden hair fell gloriously down below her waist. The bridle of her horse was all thickly studded with irregular blue stones, and her dress shone like the sun through a mist of white. Beside her, on a great black stallion, rode the most splendid knight of the whole company, his mighty shield glittering on his arm.

Then suddenly it all vanished. I sat up in my chair; the fire had quite died down, and all the shadows had rushed together and now stood side by side looking at me. They seemed to be trying to keep me from seeing the book-shelves, but I managed to get a glimpse between them, and there were all the familiar green and red and other colored books, standing close. Here and there I made out a gilded title or decoration, nothing more; yet. as I got up to light the lamp, I seemed for a moment to hear a confused murmur as of many faint voices, vague shouts, a clash of arms, and distant laughter. And these indistinct sounds appeared to be coming from the shelves —but when I stopped to hear better, there was only silence.

Since that time, however, I have always realized that the books, which seem to us to be sitting so quietly on the shelves, are really busy every hour of the night and day with the most tremendous affairs. Struggles are going on in them, conversations are being held, people are setting sail in ships or starting off in trains or on horseback to do all manner of things,—yes, a whole world within our world is busy being alive; and I 'm always hoping at shadow-time that I may see them at it again, but so far I only see the shadows playing silently about or the windows looking at the sunset, while I sit in the big chair and think about the wonderful life of the books.

THE STORIES OF THE ROUND TABLE

But that evening, since the prettiest thing I had seen had been the queen's maying, I took down the old book written by Sir Thomas Malory in the ninth year of the reign of King Edward IV of England, about the middle of the fifteenth century, and turned the pages. This book tells all about King Arthur and his Round Table, where gathered the greatest company of gallant knights the world has ever seen, and about Lancelot and Queen Guinevere and the search for the Holy Grail. It is full of fights between the Round Table knights and others, and of the rescue of unhappy ladies, and of enchantments and imprisonments and splendid tournaments, and many other matters. Only a knight who was perfectly good and perfectly brave and absolutely honorable could hope to win the Grail, and one by one the knights were killed seeking it, or they did something wrong and lost the chance to pursue the quest of it. All except Sir Galahad, Lancelot's son, who, after innumerable hardships and the utmost courage and determination, at last saw and drank from the Grail, in the middle of the enchanted castle where the wounded king lay. Galahad cured the king of his hurt by a touch of the spear that lay beside the Grail, just as Parsifal does in Wagner's opera. For Parsifal is another name for Galahad. Tennyson wrote a beautiful poem on this perfect knight.

These stories of the Round Table are very old. First they were sung in the ancient French, and then Sir Thomas Malory gathered them together and translated them into the English of his day, which you would find it hard to understand, for he uses many words which have long since been dropped out of the language. His spelling, too, is most astonishing. Luckily, many of the stories have been rewritten for you, and you can get them in modern English, and you will love them. When you are older you will not care to read them except as Malory himself wrote them, but at first it is better not to trouble with the difficulties of his book. Then there are Tennyson's lovely "Idylls of the King," which are all taken from "Morte Arthure," as the old book is called.

No one can read these stories without admiration for the men of that rough and hard age, who, in a time when life was perilous and men were bent on harming each other by any means, set for their goal the utmost courage, the noblest courtesy, the highest devotion, whatever it might cost them. Here for the first time chivalry was honored, and the knight whose word was never broken, who would never make use of an unfair advantage or refuse to help any one in distress, was the greatest among them. It was the beginning of a new thought and a deeper feeling among people, and the knights of the Holy Grail were the sign that the Christian ideal instead of the pagan ideal had come to lead the world.