CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



an instant are one bunch of torn, bloody plumes. 

 Perhaps their wings are broken, and they can soar no 

 more — so up we fling them both into the air — and 

 wheeling each within a short circle, clash again go 

 both birds together, and the talons keep tearing 

 throats till they die. Let them die, then, for both are 

 for ever disabled to enjoy their lady-love. She, like 

 some peerless flower in the days of chivalry at a fatal 

 tournament, seeing her rival lovers dying for her sake, 

 nor ever to wear her glove or scarf in the front of 

 battle, rising to leave her canopy in tears of grief and 

 pride — even like such Angelica, the falcon unfolds 

 her wings, and flies slowly away from her dying rav- 

 ishers, to bewail her virginity on the mountains. "O 

 Frailty! thy name is woman!'*' A third Lover is al- 

 ready on the wing, more fortunate than his preceding 

 peers — and Angelica is won, woo'd, and sitting, about 

 to lay an egg in an old eyry, soon repaired and fur- 

 bished up for the honey- week, with a number of small 

 birds lying on the edge of the hymeneal couch, with 

 which, when wearied with love, and yawp with hun- 

 ger, Angelica may cram her maw till she be ready to 

 burst, by her bridegroom's breast. 



Forgotten all human dwellings, and all the thoughts 



and feelings that abide by firesides, and doorways, and 



rooms, and roofs — delightful was it, during the long 



long midsummer holydav, to lie all alone, on the 



[107 J 



