there.  And take with you such company and purveyance as shall be appertaining to your estate.  And, wheresoever ye come, let it be known how ye carry with you the heart of King Robert of Scotland, at his instance and desire to be presented to the Holy Sepulchre.’  Then all the lords, that heard these words, wept for pity.

There, in the fifteenth century and early in the sixteenth, you have Malory and Berners writing beautiful English prose; prose the emotion of which (I dare to say) you must recognise if you have ears to hear.  So you see that already our English prose not only achieves the ‘high moment,’ but seems to obey it rather and be lifted by it, until we ask ourselves, ’Who could help writing nobly, having to tell how King Arthur died or how the Bruce?’ Yes, but I bid you observe that Malory and Berners are both relating what, however noble, is quite simple, quite straightforward.  It is when prose attempts to philosophise, to express thoughts as well as to relate simple sayings and doings—­it is then that the trouble begins.  When Malory has to philosophise death, to think about it, this is as far as he attains:—­

‘Ah, Sir Lancelot,’ said he, ’thou wert head of all Christian Knights!  And now I dare say,’ said Sir Ector, ’that, Sir Lancelot, there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly hands; and thou were the curtiest knight that ever bare shield:  and thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever strood horse, and thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou were the kindest man that ever strooke with sword; and thou were the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights; and thou were the meekest man and gentlest that ever sat in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest Knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.’

Beautiful again, I grant!  But note you that, eloquent as he can be on the virtues of his dead friend, when Sir Ector comes to the thought of death itself all he can accomplish is, ’And now I dare say that, Sir Lancelot, there thou liest.’

Let us make a leap in time and contrast this with Tyndale and the translators of our Bible, how they are able to make St Paul speak of death:—­

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.  O death, where is thy sting?  O grave, where is thy victory?

There you have something clean beyond what Malory or Berners could compass:  there you have a different kind of high moment—­a high moment of philosophising:  there you have emotion impregnated with thought.  It was necessary that our English verse even after Chaucer, our English prose after Malory and Berners, should overcome this most difficult gap (which stands for a real intellectual difference) if it aspired to be what to-day it is—­a language of the first class, comparable with Greek and certainly no whit inferior to Latin or French.