“From that city men go by water, solacing and disporting them, till they come to an abbey of monks that is fast by, that be good religious men after their faith and law.

“In that abbey is a great garden and fair, where be many trees of diverse manner of fruits. And in this garden is a little hill full of delectable trees. In that hill and in that garden be many diverse beasts, as of apes, marmosets, baboons, and many other diverse beasts. And every day, when the convent of this abbey hath eaten, the almoner let bear the relief to the garden, and he smiteth on the garden gate with a clicket of silver that he holdeth in his hand; and anon all the beasts of the hill and of the diverse places of the garden come out a 3,000 or a 4,000; and they come in guise of poor men, and men give them the relief in fair vessels of silver, clean over-gilt. And when they have eaten, the monk smiteth efftsoons on the garden gate with the clicket, and then anon all the beasts return again to their places that they come from.

“And they say that these beasts be souls of worthy men that resemble in likeness of those beasts that be fair, and therefore they give them meat for the love of God; and the other beasts that be foul, they say be souls of poor men and of rude commons.”

Many other marvels did Sir John see, of which I shall not tell; but he writes always with his eye open and easy for miracles, and talks as a gardener talks of strange flowers and fruit, as of gourds that when they be ripe—“men cut them a-two, and men find within a little beast, in flesh, and bone and blood, as though it were a little lamb without wool. And men eat both the fruit and the beast. And that is a great marvel.” Then he writes of the wonders of the country of Prester John, and of trees there that men dare not eat of the fruit—“for it is a thing of faerie.”

Of Gatholonabes, he writes, and of the sham Garden of Eden he made, and of the birds that—“sing full delectably and moved by craft.” The fairest garden any man might behold it was. And of the men and girls clothed in cloths of gold full richly, that he said were angels.

And of Paradise he cannot speak, making towards the end of the book confession.

“Of Paradise ne can I not speak properly. For I was not there. It is far beyond. And that forthinketh me. And also I was not worthy.”

And so, after a little more, ends Sir John, and so I end, though I love him. Yet I doubt some of his stories.