A MALFOEMED GIANT 191 



it was a large, black, hairy, horrible spider. His 

 sister heard him say: 'Poor thing! it is not his 

 fault. ' " A galley slave whom he had hospitably 

 fed and lodged in his house makes off in the night 

 with his silver. In the morning he is walking in 

 the garden again, when his "women folks" make 

 the discovery and raise the alarm; but, so far from 

 sharing in the surprise or the indignation which 

 was quite proper on the occasion, he thinks only of 

 a little flower that the man had crushed in passing 

 out, and bends over it with a look of sadness and 

 pity. There may be persons to whom this sort of 

 thing is impressive and grand, but for my part I 

 cannot see how it can ever be possible to one hav- 

 ing a genuine feeling or appreciation of nature. 



The mighty poet does not recreate nature in any 

 radical sense. He redistributes, remoulds, remar- 

 ries, when occasion requires, always bearing in 

 mind the almighty edict, "Thus far shalt thou go 

 and no farther." And it is the final test and glory 

 of his work that though vast and imposing it falls 

 easily within the scope of the natural universal. 



