No truth which I find can deny that I am seeking
the truth. My mind cannot find anything which denies my mind...
But what is all this? This is no sort of talk for a genial essay.
Let us change the subject; let us have a romance or a fable
or a fairy tale.
Come, let us tell each other stories. There was once a king who
was very fond of listening to stories, like the king in the
Arabian Nights. The only difference was that, unlike that
cynical Oriental, this king believed all the stories that he
heard. It is hardly necessary to add that he lived in England.
His face had not the swarthy secrecy of the tyrant of the thousand tales;
on the contrary, his eyes were as big and innocent as two blue moons;
and when his yellow beard turned totally white he seemed to be
growing younger. Above him hung still his heavy sword and horn,
to remind men that he had been a tall hunter and warrior in his time:
indeed, with that rusted sword he had wrecked armies. But he was one
of those who will never know the world, even when they conquer it.
Besides his love of this old Chaucerian pastime of the telling of tales,
he was, like many old English kings, specially interested in the art
of the bow. He gathered round him great archers of the stature
of Ulysses and Robin Hood, and to four of these he gave the whole
government of his kingdom. They did not mind governing his kingdom;
but they were sometimes a little bored with the necessity
of telling him stories.
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