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Updated: June 26, 2025
Tuesday, 16th, Southampton. After breakfast walked down to the city wall, which has remnants of great antiquity they say, as old as the Danes, one bit being still heroically called "Canute's Castle." Wednesday, August 17th. Went to the theater, and rehearsed "The Stranger."
Whereupon the horse starts again, and we go lazily on, Cabby dropping in a word of enlightenment here and there to the effect that this old tumble-down part of the ancient wall is the celebrated Arcade, which formed part of the wall of the King's Palace; and this queer old lane running up through the walls like a sewer is Cuckoo lane; and that is Bugle street, where in olden times the warden blew; and here are the remains of Canute's palace, with its elliptical and circular arches and curious mouldings.
And for this purpose we must study the lines of direction of all the forces which traverse our human nature. We must study man as we have studied stars and rocks. We need not go, we are told, to our sacred books for astronomy or geology or other scientific knowledge. Do not stop there! Pull Canute's chair back fifty rods at once, and do not wait until he is wet to the knees!
The recent discovery in England of that which tradition avers to be the tomb of Canute's little daughter, speaks of another phase in nursery experience.
She might as well have screamed as moaned, for all that they would have noticed. About this time Canute's blade appeared to have become in earnest. Ceasing its airy defence, it took on the aggressive.
His manner was less smoothly deferential than when addressing Edmund, she noticed, affecting more the air of bluff frankness which one might who wished to disarm any suspicion of flattering; but she could not hear what he said because of the noise around him. The first words she heard distinctly were Canute's, as he paused with upraised goblet to look at the Mercian.
Now that the royal duellists stood forth together, stripped of cloak and steel shirt, and wearing no other helm than the golden circlet of their rank, their inequality was even more glaring than alarmed fancy had painted it. The crown of Canute's shining locks reached only to the chin of the mighty Ironside; and the width of nearly two palms was needed on his shoulders.
He was certain he knew his own mind, and therefore perfectly certain his passion for Isabella Waring would last for ever! Ready to swear eternal devotion with that delightful inconsequence of youth in its unreason, thinking to control an emotion as Canute's flatterers would have had him do the waves.
Lars, seeing the danger of his position, thought best to be careful, and so apparently acquiesced in Canute's proposition to reconsider; for such emotions, thought he, are always strongest in the beginning; one must temporize with them. But here he had miscalculated.
As he made the first step, however, Canute sat up suddenly, striking his fist upon the bunk. "I will do it!" he said. While they stared, he rose and recommenced his hurried pacing, his eyes keen and far away, his mouth set in grim resolve. "Do what, King?" the son of Lodbrok ventured at last. Canute's eyes appeared to rest upon the pair without seeing them.
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