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 Scaramouch in Naxos,
 
 Plays, 
 
 " A notable volume. . . . The ' Unhistorical 
 Pastoral ' is a charming conception, delicately 
 wrought." — Saturday Review. 
 
 " Good as they are, the final impression left 
 by these plays is that Mr. Davidson is equal to 
 better work still. Every reader of them will 
 certainly wish for something more from the 
 same hand." — Acadeviy. 
 
 " Abound in humour, wit, and flashes of 
 genuine poetry." — Glasgow Herald. 
 
 \ 
 
 Under the title of '■'- Plays" this Voiume was 
 printed and published for private circulation. 
 In issuing this edition the z^uthor takes the 
 opportunity of correcting his title-page, and 
 giving his work the title of the play he likes 
 best.
 
 Scaramouch 
 
 in 
 
 Naxos 
 
 A Pantomime 
 
 And Other Plays 
 
 by 
 JOHN DAVIDSON 
 
 Second Edition 
 
 London: T. Fisher Unvwin 
 Paternoster Square MDCGGXC
 
 &l'5
 
 Ids: 
 
 Bind air 
 
 last copy only 
 
 Remove all 
 
 Bind as oHached Inst, 
 'ndex: 
 None wanted 
 Bind in front 
 Bind in back
 
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 ■ -SI 
 
 o O «> 
 
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 O'^ O 
 
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 oH-
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL, - - 5 
 A ROMANTIC FARCE, - ... 87 
 
 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS : A Pantomime, 129
 
 LIBRARY ^ 
 
 DNTVERSTTY OP CALTFORNTX 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 AN 
 
 UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 (Glasgow, 1877).
 
 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Nobles of 
 'Belmarie. 
 
 Alardo, King of Belmarie. 
 Rupert, Alardo's Son. 
 Conrad, ^ 
 
 GUIDO, 
 
 Felice, 
 
 Bruno, 
 
 Torello, 
 
 CiNTHio, Conrad's Son. 
 
 Sebastian, a Sea-Captain. 
 
 SciPio, "I 
 
 Ivy, V Rustics. 
 
 Green, J 
 
 Celia, a Shepherdess. 
 
 Oberon. 
 Puck. 
 
 EULALIE. 
 
 Faustine, Guide's Daughter. 
 
 Sylvia, a Shepherdess. 
 
 Onesta, Faustina's Maid. 
 
 Martha. 
 
 Titania. 
 
 A Servant. 
 
 Fairies. 
 
 Mayers. 
 
 Officers. 
 
 Scene: Belmarie. 
 
 In Grenade, at the siege had he be 
 Of Algesir, and ridden in Behnarie. 
 
 — Chaucer
 
 AN 
 
 UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. — The Sea-Coast. 
 Enter Alardo and Conrad. 
 
 Alardo. Safe, sound, on land, and our own land at last. 
 How long, Conrad, have we been sea-farers ? 
 
 Conrad. On our disastrous and untimely cruise, 
 In early spring we merrily embarked. 
 The trees are greener now than when we sailed, 
 More softly breathes the air : my lord, I think 
 About this time last year our ills began, 
 A honeymoon on ocean's breast gone by. 
 If I be right — for judgment here is wide, 
 Since in escapes from icebergs, pirates, perils 
 Of krakens, quicksands, bloody cannibals. 
 Storms merciless, and nights of many days — 
 The married life of those who wed the deep^ 
 All reckoning was lost — hoar, doting time 
 Repeats the seasons' epic where our ears 
 Ceased to attend the world-old history. 
 One year's discordant interlude between. 
 
 Alardo. Well-tempered discord strengthens : if my son 
 Be but alive and well, life's music glides
 
 8 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 In sweeter, richer cadence for this crash. 
 
 If in deep ocean's unrobbed tomb, or white 
 
 And all unsepulchred, on some bleak coast 
 
 His bones lie withering, discord is the theme 
 
 Shall din my hearing to eternity. 
 
 Do you remember when the envious wave, 
 
 Begrudging me so beautiful a boy, 
 
 With swift abduction snatched him from the poop, 
 
 And swept him from our ken ? Mind you his cry 
 
 That pierced the howling storm, nor through that shield 
 
 Did with a gentler sound transfix our ears ? 
 
 Saw you his begging hand finger the air. 
 
 Then vanish, lastly visible of him ? 
 
 Conrad. 'Tis deeply graven in my memory. 
 
 Alardo. Ay, as a moving picture's strong impress, 
 But I was in it — you, a looker-on. 
 I watched the sneaking waves, the subtle waves. 
 The sly, the pitiless, the sinewy waves. 
 Swarm from the cuttle-sea like suckers lithe. 
 And steal my son to feed its hungry maw. 
 
 Conrad. Indeed, my lord, not to that tongueless grief 
 Which seized you then, and held you captive long, 
 Was I prisoner ; but I sorrowed both 
 For your bereavement and my own past lost. 
 
 Alardo. O, you, too, mourn a son ! 
 
 Conrad. In infancy 
 
 One was reft from me. 
 
 Alardo. Blessed then are you 
 
 That know him in Elysium ; but I 
 Have no sweet sunshine gleaming through my tears.
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. C 
 
 I would not have mine dead e'en to gain heaven ; 
 But Hfe may now be hell : on yon rude shores 
 Near which we drifted when my son was lost, 
 They say that human fiends cavern to prey 
 On hunted ships the tinchel-waves drive in, 
 Torturing the voyagers for ransom ; some 
 Transporting slaves to burning Afric climes : 
 Each imaged pang impales my inmost heart. 
 
 Conrad. I said my loss was past, yet, in a sort, 
 I suffer fresh bereavement every day ; 
 And might with uncurbed fancy harrow up, 
 As you do yours, my fatherly regard, 
 But that it boots not to imagine ill. 
 Where equal chance shows good luck may betide. 
 My child was lost, or stolen, drowned, or devoured, 
 I brood not which ; but, in most hopeful mood. 
 Think soon to see him well ; more sluggish thoughts 
 Would joy to find him any how or where : 
 And so, piecemeal, my hope is back repulsed 
 To find content in sure news of his death. 
 
 Alar do. Was it a while ago your son was lost ? 
 
 Conrad. Full fifteen years ; his age, one half that sum. 
 
 Alardo. Fifteen unsevered years may cool me too, 
 But grief and I are fresh and all uncloyed ; 
 We drain the utmost sadness that we can. 
 
 Conrad. I bore grief just so passionate a love ; 
 But long before you slight her as I do. 
 Doubt not that dear joy will seduce your heart : 
 Your quick-found son will give her to your arms. 
 
 Alardo. How did you lose your son, good Conrad, say ?
 
 lO AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Conrad. Indeed I cannot. One soul-sickening night 
 Nowhere was he discovered. Every haunt 
 Where curious childhood oft had wandered him 
 Appeared as wistful for his sight as we ; 
 The mourning echoes called with us his name. 
 He was my only son — Heaven grant he is ! 
 
 Alardo. For you conjecture had an airy stretch, 
 And hope full complement of anchors strong ; 
 My thoughts are hedged, my only grapnel drags. 
 Your son was lost from vague remembrance ; death 
 Plucked mine with bony grasp from out my eyes. 
 Five years you had a son ; five times that term 
 Has tamed your sorrow's force : my Rupert's eyes 
 Had viewed a score of summers : by this count 
 A century should see me bow to fate ; 
 But I'll be traitor till death vindicate 
 The all-commanding rule of destiny. 
 
 Conrad. Permit me, sir : such is your present thought. 
 Holds your intent to travel in disguise 
 Thence to our court : to hear what rumour goes 
 Concerning us ; toward you what mind is borne ; 
 To note your subjects' state ; with parent's care 
 To mark what merits praise, what needs reproof, 
 And understand the country's inmost soul ? 
 
 Alardo. I purpose so. Our lives, however short. 
 And full of toil, have time enough for grief. 
 Yet stay, my lord : here comes one who shall tell 
 Which is the pleasantest, most peopled way. 
 In him, moreover, we will broach the fame 
 Of our loni"' ventures in a time so brief.—
 
 ACT. I. SCENE I. II 
 
 Enter CiNTHlO. 
 Sea-bred, or inland, friend ? 
 
 Cinthio. A shepherd, sir. 
 
 Conrad. Where are we, gentle shepherd, by your voice, 
 And who reigns here ? 
 
 Cinthio. In Belmarie, not far 
 
 From court, kind stranger, where no courtiers be. 
 This country's king was lost a year ago : 
 Yet in a longing hope he is not dead 
 The heir-apparent but a regent's power 
 Decrees to exercise for twice four years. 
 When that date is expired, if no king come. 
 The prince intends to fill his father's room. 
 
 Alardo. His father's, say you ? (Aside.) Have I then 
 two sons ? 
 This shepherd dreams. 
 
 Cinthio. Yes ; King Alardo, once 
 
 Of these broad realms ; now, king in heaven, I wot. 
 Even as earth's bower-maid, spring, in robes of green. 
 Her naked lady, roused from winter's sleep. 
 Began to deck, five galleys, new-built all, 
 With sails of taffeta, and masts of gold, 
 Pushed from this strand bound on adventures far. 
 The king, his son, and many a noble knight. 
 With mariners and fighting-men aboard. 
 Of this armada not a single ship 
 Has yet returned to us ; nor any spar 
 Of drifting wreckage tells a woeful tale. 
 The gallant prince right from his father's eyes 
 Was hurried in a storm, and, blest by fate,
 
 12 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Snatched from that doom which overwhehned the rest ; 
 
 For he was washed ashore and nursed to health 
 
 By fisher-folk, whom he has made his friends. 
 
 And now he has forsaken courtly state 
 
 To live in country freedom for a while ; 
 
 In Dolorosa's vale he spends the spring. 
 
 Alardo. And what road must we take to reach this place? 
 (Aside.) I dare not credit him, or else his tale 
 Is true of some impostor. 
 
 Cintliio. Onward go, 
 
 Until that pine-straight pathway radiates 
 Two branches from its stem, extending still : 
 That shooting westward winds a mile or two, 
 And ends in our royal town ; the other way. 
 Toward sunrise, leads to Dolorosa's vale. 
 
 Alardo. Thy kindness, shepherd, merits some reward ; 
 
 But now our purses are as lank as we. 
 
 Rest you assured of worthy recompense 
 
 From me in Dolorosa. 
 
 \^Goes out. 
 
 Conrad. Ifmy old eyes 
 
 Deceive me not, I've seen you, sir, before. 
 
 Cintliio. Maybe, sir ; though I, witting, ne'er saw you. 
 
 Conrad. (Aside.) I'll question him again. — Shepherd, 
 
 farewell. 
 
 \_Goes out. 
 
 Cinthio. What lordly wight was this, who, seeming poor, 
 
 Would fee a duteous courtesy ? He hides 
 
 His beams behind a ragged cloud perhaps. 
 
 I'll hope to see him in his majesty. 
 
 Entcj- Sekastian.
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 13 
 
 I came to see you, captain and good friend. 
 When do you sail ? 
 
 Sebastian. When we have made an end 
 
 Of lading, and have shipped a proper crew ; 
 Perhaps two days hence. How may this touch you ? 
 
 Cinthio. Now you impeach my friendship to speak so ; 
 For I would come, and this full well you know. 
 To clasp my loved Sebastian on the strand. 
 And drop a tear upon his parting hand, 
 And fill his sails with breath of heart-felt prayer 
 To waft him back, outspeeding swiftest air. 
 Even while his barque degrades into eclipse 
 Behind the bulging world, as Phoebe slips, 
 Slackly and slow, over the ocean's rim. 
 And stars grow bright, and seas and hills grow dim. 
 But hark, Sebastian, give me careful heed : 
 Your often-proferred help I sorely need 
 To aid me in an enterprise of note. 
 
 Sebastian. They all are yours — myself, my men, my boat. 
 
 Cinthio. Is there, far distant from the sea's highway, 
 Unwatched by any eye save that of day — 
 Or if perception lights unreasoning eyes. 
 By gentle beasts, and birds of paradise — 
 A coral isle, old nature's best-loved child 
 And latest offspring, nursed by waters wild — 
 Tamed in that nurture — to rare loveliness. 
 Whose witchery creates a sweet distress ; 
 An islet Venus might have made her home, 
 Even as, love-mad, she blossomed from the foam ; 
 Where lovers may beneath a bread-fruit tree
 
 14 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Repose on bedded flowers, by harmony 
 Of birds and waters lulled to slumber deep ; 
 And by like sounds be roused to waking sleep, 
 To feed upon their couch's canopy, 
 And watch what may appear with dreamy eye. 
 Stirring no limb, save for their gentler ease. 
 For ministry of love, or what they please ? 
 Methinks you told me once of such a gem, 
 Descried unsought ; or is it my own dream ? 
 
 Sebastia7i. In stress of storm I found it : tempest-driven 
 I took the first port, and I lit on heaven. 
 
 Cinthio. This isle's felicitous, Edenic state 
 Lacks of perfection, eyes to appreciate ; 
 These are within your office to supply : 
 What better watchers than Faustine and I ? 
 O, there's the direst need of flying far ! 
 That envious, and most inveterate star 
 Whose wanton spite is spent in thwarting love 
 Has chosen us for signal harm ; we strove 
 Against disaster, but are hemmed to this, 
 Either to fly, or die upon a kiss. 
 
 Sebastian. To die upon a kiss ? 
 
 Cinthio. Or kiss and die ; 
 
 For Faustine is a maid of lineage high ; 
 A foundling, and a vulgar shepherd, I. 
 Her sire's a lordly wight of sternest mould. 
 Who guides his life and hers by precepts old. 
 He trains his child in crude simplicity. 
 That ignorance may foster modesty ; 
 Gives her free scope — in gardens and parterres,
 
 ACT I. SCENE I. 15 
 
 With dowagers and hoary aunts for feres ; 
 
 So jealous of his name, so mean his measure 
 
 Of all feminity, her honour's treasure 
 
 He will not trust to any common guard, 
 
 But in the night, before her door is barred. 
 
 He hides — unchristened trick ! — that cloudy dress 
 
 Wherein by day her sun-bright nakedness 
 
 She mercifully veils from mortal eyes. 
 
 To hinder, as he trusts, all enterprise. 
 
 Such as we purpose with the treacherous aid 
 
 Of that twice suborned spy, my lady's maid ; 
 
 Which, with your help, we've sworn to amplify, 
 
 Or on an everlasting kiss to die. 
 
 Sebastian. Yet wherefore fly to such a far-off isle ? 
 Unbroken time to love, and nature's smile, 
 With safety unmolested, you may reach 
 Upon some neighbouring and less dangerous beach. 
 
 Cinthio. We have solaced our souls with hope of bliss 
 In that far isle ; not there, then paradise : 
 Being bound for heaven, not storms, not rocks can fray us. 
 Yea dreadless death more swiftly would convey us. [think ; 
 
 Sebastian. Then nothing moves you. Yet, take tent and 
 They need not drown who still stand on the brink ; 
 And let me tell you, if I rightly deem, 
 These isles are all as fragile as they seem ; 
 Strong as the spider's web, the poor fly's tomb, 
 Fixed as the rainbow on a crest of foam. 
 Stable as any luring bright mirage. 
 
 Torn into ribbons by the ruthless wind. 
 Whelmed by the multitudinous waves' wild dash, 
 Gone like a dream leaving no trace behind.
 
 l6 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Ciiithio. If you, my best Sebastian, bear us hence, 
 We'll prove this doctrine by experience. 
 
 Sebastian. Its truth will be expounded by th' event. 
 Must all things fit that you may sail to-night ? 
 
 Cinthio. Not until after midnight, for our flight 
 Must be with stealth, and cautious management. 
 
 Sebastian. Love's gentle goddess prosper your intent I 
 Two hours past night's dark noon I'll meet you here. 
 
 Cinthio. Farewell till then. 
 
 Sebastiaji. Farewell, and no ill fear. 
 
 Of what I said, dissuading, have no care : 
 Blow high, blow low, we this adventure dare. 
 
 [ They go out separately. 
 
 SCENE II. — Dolorosa. A Room in Giiidds House. 
 
 Enter Alardo, Conrap, and Guido. 
 
 Alardo. Thus thrice am I the father of one son : 
 By ordinary geniture and birth ; 
 And by my son's deliverance from death — 
 Yea, resurrection, for I held him dead ; 
 And now experience within these months 
 Of our forlorn and ship-wrecked wanderings 
 Has moulded him into a goodly youth. 
 Refined and brilliant in all inward beauty : 
 Witness his conduct in the regency : 
 What prince had nailed such shackles on his power. 
 Or fixed his bondage for so long a term 
 Simply for love of his sire's memory,
 
 ACT I. SCENE II. 17 
 
 Seeing that hope of Hfe there could be none ? 
 
 This is a certain new-birth ; for I feared, 
 
 By some hot coltish springs his blood had fetched, 
 
 That, boiling high, it might sad trouble brew ; 
 
 And partly 'twas to coy his restive sprite 
 
 I planned that voyage whose conclusion 
 
 Had such ill-opening, and ends so well. — 
 
 Now, heaven forgive my selfishness ! Guido, 
 
 Go, send out messengers on every coast. 
 
 It could not well bechance that we alone 
 
 Of all our ship's crew should be now dry-shod : 
 
 Yea, and indeed it would be marvellous. 
 
 That of five vessels in the self-same track. 
 
 Four should be swallowed wholly by the deep. 
 
 Bid all the mariners who leave our ports 
 
 To pass no ship unspoken they may spy : 
 
 We have escaped, so may those who remain : 
 
 Till they are landed safe, and not till then, 
 
 Will I take heart to laugh. Go, quickly, sir. 
 
 Guido. Your grace's mandate needs no issuing. 
 For penalties have been already paid 
 By those who disobeyed the prince in this. 
 
 Alardo. He does anticipate our utmost wish. 
 
 Guido. He is, sire, a right slip of the old tree ; 
 We know well whence his rosy graces spring ; 
 Yet, if you should be pricked in finding out 
 Among these flowers a thorn, be not surprised. 
 
 Alardo. Be not so emblematic, trusty Guido. 
 
 Guido. I do not, sire, asperse your dead queen's fame ; 
 But she was mother to our noble prince : 
 
 6
 
 l8 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Now queens are women, and all women are 
 But women — 
 
 Alardo. 'Tis most true ; and spades are spades. 
 
 Guard well your tongue. Proceed, sir, and be brief. 
 
 Giiido. Pardon, your majesty. You are too quick : 
 I meant not as your jealousy conceives : 
 But I will stake my head none of their sex 
 Are better than their sphere of life requires : 
 This is their utmost character for good. \ 
 
 Alardo. Come, we have heard your doctrine many a time ; 
 And, by the way, how does your vestal daughter ? 
 Still in her cloister mewed from eyes profane ? 
 But without more digression, Rupert's fame 
 Seems by your blazoning a little blurred. 
 Record me how a bar sinister comes 
 To blot the fair field of his character. 
 
 Giiido. Being a woman's son unstable motion, 
 The loose stone in his virtue's strong rampirc. 
 Threatens a down-come to its battled front ; 
 For he pursues with lewd desire or love — 
 Both in this case disastrous to a prince — 
 A maiden of the very humblest strain, 
 Who, by her beauty's unassisted charms, 
 Or these and spells of necromantic art, 
 Has found his weakness : this did I smell out 
 When his companions' younger noses failed. 
 
 Alardo. That's not so well ; but being a man's son 
 The youthful blood that warmed his father's veins, 
 Now briskly runs in his. We'll find a bit 
 To stay its galloping, or suasion soft
 
 ACT I. SCENE II. 19 
 
 To woo it from such skittish practices. 
 
 Guido. Please it, your highness, now to tell me why 
 I have been honoured first to taste the joy 
 Of your long-prayed for presence in your land, 
 Rather than to delight at once your son. 
 
 Alardo. I doubted that he was no son of mine, 
 But some impostor. 'Twas a foolish fear 
 With hope twin-born by information scant 
 That there was cause to hope ; so, thinking well 
 That should I rush to this youth unadvised 
 The fear would like a hated step-child fare. 
 And passion nurse the longed-for hope alone, 
 I judged it wise to save me by prevention 
 From that heart-breaking shock which had assailed 
 Had dread survived, and hope, unwarned, expired : 
 Therefore I verified report in you. 
 Now, use your wits ; devise some plan whereby 
 I may, myself unknown, confer with Rupert. 
 
 Guido. To-day a custom, ancient, all-observed, 
 But savouring in my mind of pagan rites. 
 And unbecoming folk of Christendom, 
 Is followed by our sheepish villagers, 
 Who in their day and generation act 
 What by their ancestors has been performed. 
 In timely order tumbling in the ditch 
 Some silly, old, bell-wether age first filled. 
 To-day our youth are met upon the green 
 To plot a treason licensed by the time, 
 Which is, to choose a king and queen of May 
 To reign to-morrow and each holiday ;
 
 20 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 To whom, alone, they shall allegiance swear 
 At every festal season of the year. 
 There Rupert courts his lovely, well-loved quean, 
 Who will be crowned, if I guess rightly, queen ; 
 And he, most like, so highly throned by birth, 
 Will reign their monarch on a seat of earth. 
 In some disguise conceal your royalty ; 
 Go there ; inspect your son, and be as free 
 As though you wore no mask : every degree 
 Has access to him in this pageantry. 
 
 Alardo. A very feasible and pleasant plot. 
 Come, Conrad, comrade us : since by our lot 
 Comrades we have been for so long a spell 
 In danger and in woe, it chords right well 
 That we be still in unison for joy ; 
 You saw me lose, behold me find my boy. 
 
 Conrad. I will, my lord. Vouchsafe to call to mind 
 My dead wife's image. 
 
 Alardo. Strange I I am inclined 
 
 To think of her full oft within these hours. 
 I see her now, of many lovely flowers 
 That graced our youthful court the loveliest ; 
 My sweet, her queen ; she, queen of all the rest. 
 The shepherd whose direction helped us here — 
 'Tis he recalls your lady's pleasant cheer ; 
 Her voice, her smile, her action, yea, her face, 
 Stronger, being male, as coy, to suit his place. 
 
 Conrad. He is, indeed, the picture of her youth. 
 Conviction now lacks nothing of the truth. 
 He'll be among those playful-treacherous ones, 
 Where let us haste to find two long-lost sons. \^They go out.
 
 ACT II. SCENE I. 21 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I.— A Room in Martha's House. 
 
 Enter Eulalie. 
 
 Eulalie. O little heart of mine, why ache you so ? 
 
 Enter Martha. 
 
 Martha. Why, child, why 1 What a state is this ! Come 1 
 and you to be Queen of the May ! They say Prince Rupert 
 will himself be king. 
 
 Eulalie. And that it is that troubles me. 
 Martha. And so it should. Trouble ! the highest lady 
 in the land would be so troubled — such a coil would she 
 be in ! What kirtle to put on ; what flower, or none ; she'd 
 spend six hours, I warrant, over her hair. Then her 
 stomacher, her kerchief, and her shoes ; her sash, gloves, 
 necklace, each an hour a-piece. But what's your trouble, 
 child ? 
 
 Eulalie. I do not know. 
 
 Martha. Who was it said just now Prince Rupert 
 troubled her? 
 
 Eulalie. I think 'tis he ; for when I first was told 
 That they would have me for their Queen of May 
 It pleased me as a new gown pleases me. 
 When Rupert's name was buzzed about for king. 
 My heart became a hive of busy things 
 That hum perplexingly : I know them not. 
 But fear they may have stings : that is my grief.
 
 22 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 I cannot tell if it be joy or grief : 
 To grieve for joy were far more happily sad 
 Than ever I have been ; if joy unmixed, 
 Then wherefore am I sad ? 'Tis melancholy. 
 
 Martha. Melancholy ! Why, child, I would laugh if 
 thou did'st not look it. Come ; I have that would banish 
 melancholy from a mummy — a new, flowered, silken dress, 
 and ribbons. 
 
 I'll dress thee and thou'lt be the loveliest queen 
 That ever led a dance upon the green. 
 
 \_Goes oitt. 
 Eulalie. The mood which I have christened melancholy 
 Is that, I think, which rules a lonely dove : 
 It wars with maidhood, yet is not unholy : 
 
 I'll rebaptize my melancholy, love. 
 With dropping tears of virgin purity. 
 Claiming its soul for spotless chastity. 
 
 Re-enter Martha. 
 
 Martha. Hurry ! There's not a second, child, to spare ; 
 Indeed it is high time that you were there. 
 Where all the village waits to make you queen ; 
 And that is what your mother ne'er has been. 
 
 [ They go out. 
 
 SCENE 11.-^4 Garden before Riiperfs House. 
 
 Enter Felice and Bruno. 
 
 Bruno. Think you the prince's present humour lasting ? 
 Felice. Ay, while the relish smacks. This rustication
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 23 
 
 Is pleasant to him now, a dainty tasting 
 
 Of heather honey ; lacking domination 
 O'er appetite, he'll gorge and surfeit soon 
 
 On country pleasures ; sick of nature's sweet, 
 Of making hay, and gazing on the moon, 
 
 Of hearing kine low, wool-producers bleat. 
 Cocks crow, crows caw, doves coo, and goslings gabble. 
 
 Of all their junketing and rural sport, 
 Their ales, mays, harvests, songs and silly babble, 
 
 He'll hasten to the spiced and pickled court. 
 With all due reverence for mighty Pan, 
 
 Here's one who wishes we might leave to-morrow ; 
 For, by my beard, I'll soon lose all the man 
 
 Hushing my wit, and suckling of that sorrow. 
 Bruno. I fear it much ; mine is at least asleep : 
 
 Plague on these blowsy girls and brown-faced knaves, 
 Who rake their brains and set our jests asteep, 
 
 Distilling that which no refining craves. 
 Concentrating wit's subtle, quaint, quintessence. 
 
 In courtly spheres fat dullards feed fine lights ; 
 But brilliant stars wane swiftly from their crescence 
 
 When doomed to shine among chaotic wights : 
 Too much damp fuel quells the strongest fire ; 
 
 We perish of this plethora of faggots. 
 Felice. Respect has wrought a transformation dire : 
 
 We are dead dogs, these creatures are our maggots. 
 We, air imperial, burn in this gas. 
 
 Which once illumined us, its atmosphere ; 
 I am a beast of burden ; you, an ass- 
 Slaves, where before our lash was held in fear.
 
 24 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 By heaven, our pates the jingHng cap befits ! 
 We are the clowns ; the country louts, the wits. 
 
 Brntio. Here comes knave Scipio, the prince's friend, 
 Stuck like a wild-flower in his love-lock's shade, 
 Replacing us, poor, withered, hot-house blooms. 
 We'll dust his livery with wordy strokes. 
 And in his own outspoken chaff deride him. 
 
 Enter SciPiO. 
 
 Felice. By Jove, we will ! — Come hither, Scipio. 
 Master of wit, lord of a cabbage-bed, 
 Knight of the cudgel, toady, knave, and clown. 
 Beseech your mightiness to signify 
 To us, your humble servants, what's o'clock ? 
 
 Scipio. The clock's hand points now to that very hour 
 It indexed at the same time yesterday. 
 
 Felice. Sirrah, you lie, because the clock's gone fast. 
 
 Scipio. Then is it very adverse to your wit. 
 
 Felice. And like to yours, for fast is loose : your wit 
 Is dissipated, drunk ; 'tis redolent 
 Of sour ale and the smoke of tavern ingles. 
 
 Bruno. That is as much as to say it is ailing, and lapped 
 in inkle, in flannel. 
 
 Scipio. Verily, it is ailing, in sore pangs of travail, ha\ing 
 been impregnated by yours; yet will you hate your offspring. 
 By the cock and the goose ! — which is a Grecian oath, and 
 very religious and philosophic — your wits are mad, stark 
 mad : Democritus, with an acre of hellebore, could not cure 
 them. Gentlemen, I can prove you the maddest fools out of 
 your own mouths.
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 25 
 
 Bruno. Indeed, we are out of our own mouths ; for our 
 mouths are within us ; but I thought the fooHshest and most 
 unruly member had been in the mouth. 
 
 Felice. A fool expose fools ! Let the blind lead the blind. 
 
 Scipio. Nay ; set a thief to catch a thief. But shall I 
 advise you of your folly ? 
 
 Bruno. Wise men are silent when fools advise. 
 
 Scipio. Well said ; therefore shall I be silent. But no ; 
 for that would be for the wise man to follow the fool's advice. 
 Sir, do you seek for anything ? 
 
 Felice. I seek for some ripe grain of wisdom in the desert 
 of your brain. 
 
 Scipio. And how much do you find ? 
 
 Felice. Not a stalk. 
 
 Scipio. He is a fool who seeks that he cannot find ; and 
 you a superlative fool to seek in a wilderness, where you are 
 jagged and torn by prickly briars, for what you believe can- 
 not, without the miraculous intervention of Ceres, grow there. 
 Pray, sir, do you seek for anything ? 
 
 Bruno. I seek nothing from you. 
 
 Scipio. What an ass have we here, what a dizzard ! He 
 is surely the king of fools who seeks what, being' found, will 
 do him no good, namely, nothing : 'tis a folly worthy of that 
 greatest of fools and criminals, old Nick Nemo. 
 
 Bruno. And who may he be ? 
 
 Scipio. Do you seek to know ? 
 
 Bruno. Ay. 
 
 Scipio. Then shall I not tell you. 
 
 Bruno. But you shall, if he were the devil. 
 
 Scipio. What ? Jove help you ! Are your wits entirely
 
 26 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 sublimed, and condensed on the cold sides of the moon like 
 the melancholy bishop's ? Now are you — I cannot say how 
 foolish. You would seek to know the devil ? O damned 
 fool who seek to know that, which, being found, will do 
 you more harm than good ! Out upon you ! out upon you ! 
 
 Felice. Fellow, do you seek for anything ? 
 
 Scipio. I seek for something, for something in a special 
 way. I mean I do not seek fof nothing ; nor do I seek that 
 which I cannot find ; nor that which, being found, will do 
 me more harm than good. 
 
 Bruno. 'Twere a gospel to tell us what you do seek for. 
 
 Scipio. Sirs, I seek to be rid of you ; therefore, farewell. 
 
 Bruno. This fellow must be whipt. 
 
 Felice. For being witty ? It is very true 
 His words are fitted for the barest need. 
 His jests being like himself, but scantly clad, 
 Of aspect somewhat sour ; but this I see 
 Plain-speaking blunts much sharper wits than we. 
 
 Bruno. I relish not such spartan-tongued conversers. 
 The prince approaches, and in company. 
 
 Enter Rupert and Cinthio. 
 
 Rupert. Ah ! do you jest with Scipio ? Know him, friends 
 
 A fellow of a right good stinging wit ; 
 Who will not spare a king for sordid ends. 
 
 But utter all his mind whoe'er he hit. 
 This shepherd here is of a different sort ; 
 
 His present speech will certify you so. — 
 Cinthio, my mistress is the sole resort.
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 27 
 
 And temple of the graces ; in her grow 
 A spring of beauties ; and Pandora's dower 
 By heritage she wears even at this hour. 
 
 Cinthio. I am a lowly youth, and love a maid 
 
 More high than I am low, and O, so fair ! 
 Her brow might lend the noon-day heaven aid 
 
 To shine upon the world with richer glare ; 
 Her eyebrows are twin rainbows ; and her eyes, 
 
 Peered suns, excelling all that ever shone, 
 For they illuminate bright red-rose skies 
 
 Of cheeks celestial with a day-long dawn : 
 Day being ended, scarcely night's blue veils. 
 
 Her fringed eyelids, can enshroud their beams : 
 Setting or rising radiance never fails 
 
 To mark their absence in the land of dreams. 
 Sweet cups of perfumed flowers her nostrils be : 
 
 No bees suck there ; the odour makes them faint. 
 Her little chin is bent with dimples three 
 
 Beneath rich fruit her summer blood does paint 
 With brighter hues than apples on their trees : 
 
 Alas, to me they are forbidden fruit, 
 Dearer than apples of Hesperides, 
 
 And guarded by as dragonish a brute. 
 And when her lips do ope they show her teeth 
 
 Like pearly seeds in sliced pomegranate 
 Breathing an air that balmily agreeth 
 
 With that delicious fruit. O hapless fate. 
 That orchards up such dainties to be tasted ! 
 Were I their keeper they should not be wasted. 
 Felice. Who may this wild hypcrbolist be ?
 
 28 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Scipio. A shepherd who feeds his sheep upon Parnassus. 
 He gets admission to the chimney-corner at the CastaHan 
 Inn, being very thick with the Muses, and a minion of mine 
 host, Apollo. 
 
 Rupert. In very sooth the damsel of your heart 
 
 Seems but a copy of my peerless love, 
 Fashioned by nature's self-admiring art. 
 
 Which yet has failed to equal what it strove, 
 My goddess' perfect, yet extempore, beauty : 
 
 Whereby this breathing picture, uttered now. 
 Far short, as you will say — ^a lover's duty — 
 
 Of its exalted theme, must languish low 
 Beneath the high original I praise. 
 By two detractions of her copied grace. 
 Your miniature you finished with her chin : 
 Look you, where you desisted, I'll begin.- - 
 Her neck into her bosom coyly glides ; 
 
 It have I never seen, but well I know 
 Beneath the little billowy boddice hides 
 
 Costlier treasure than the deep can show : 
 How white it is I cannot realize. 
 
 Because her hands are whiter than the snow 
 In sunny winters that half-blinds the eyes. 
 
 Vesting the swelling hills in satin so. 
 Her waist is fitting for so rare a maid ; 
 
 Methinks it was not fashioned for an arm ; 
 In whatsoever garment 'tis arrayed 
 
 Too dainty seems it for maternal harm. 
 The dimples of her cheek and of her chin, 
 
 The blue veins of her brow, her lashes long.
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 29 
 
 Her faultless arms, her fingers lithe and thin — 
 
 Sometimes a ring appearing them among, 
 Looks like the little golden coronal 
 
 Round which the petals of the lily cluster : 
 Her sloping shoulders, and her feet so small, 
 
 That hardly can sufficient courage muster, 
 Even in the circumlocutory shoe 
 
 To show themselves in their entirety. 
 But like a maid's first love thoughts from the view 
 
 Of her own eyes retire most trepidly. 
 The limbs above them ! Hush, the moonlight pales 
 
 Before their splendour white as sunlight seems. 
 Her hair ! The brightest imagery fails 
 
 To be a proxy for its rippling streams. 
 Like shimmering wavelets when the sun has set 
 Where his pale, golden, glory lingers yet. 
 When I am with her I need not to think ; 
 
 For if she silent sit, or walk, or stand. 
 My faculties do altogether link 
 
 And chain my eyes upon her by command 
 Of her magnetic power ; or if she speak 
 
 In tones that Mercury might imitate. 
 Or through her lips a sounding streamlet break 
 
 With rush of sweetest melody, create 
 Within the coral, pearled grotto of her mouth, 
 
 In tones that Philomel could not surpass ; 
 Then does deep hearing cause a summer drouth 
 
 In sense's welling founts, whose waters pass 
 Into the yawning ocean of my ears, 
 Entranced as by the music of the spheres.
 
 30 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Cophetua's bride was humbler than she is ; 
 
 Yet is she humblest of the maids I know. 
 Mage Hymen will transmute girl to princess ; 
 
 My empress love enthroned her long ago. 
 
 Scipio. I know this wonder. 
 
 Felice. Which the prince praises ? 
 
 Scipio. Ay. She is, indeed, a miracle. Her mother is a 
 woman ; and there are those who will swear she was once no 
 higher than her grandam's arm-chair. It is reported that 
 she eats when she is hungry ; her liquor, too, most commonly 
 runs down her throat. Rumour says she is of no kin to 
 graymalkin, for without light she cannot see ; yet can her 
 eyes pierce a whinstone as woundily as another's : that she can 
 hear in the night, when she has been known to sleep ; that 
 she is often stirring in the day ; that when she talks, her 
 organ of utterance is her tongue. Those who should know 
 best will certify that her mouth stands across between her 
 nose and her chin. But the oddest thing about her is her 
 gait ; for, look you, when she walks, as the old song goes, 
 one leg or t'other will always be first. Lo, our shepherd has 
 gathered the flock of his thoughts : listen, while he shall tell 
 his tale. 
 
 Cinthio. No wealth, power, state, can I bestow upon her. 
 
 Who dowers me with herself — that trifles all. 
 I naught possess save unstained youth and honour ; 
 
 But could I purchase it, hers were this ball. 
 Yea, to my queen the universe I'd give. 
 
 Fastening her zodiac-girdle with the sun, 
 Which from its fixture I would swiftly rive 
 
 By love's unrivalled power. This being done,
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 31 
 
 The moon I would assail, and, for a brooch. 
 
 Place it between the fair moons on her breast ; 
 Nor would the ornament on them encroach 
 
 So pure are they. Nor would I then desist, 
 But gather all the stars out of their bowers, 
 
 And with the most magnate a carkanet 
 String for her neck ; with other heavenly flowers 
 
 Bead for her richer hair a priceless net ; 
 And ring her fingers, deck her little ears — 
 So like their homes, the stars would have no fears. 
 
 Scipio. Well said, shepherd ! All the world on our side ! 
 Nothing remains but hell. 
 
 Cinthio. Not even that ; for she with piteous tears 
 Would quench its sulphurous flames. 
 
 Rupert. So it appears 
 
 There's naught beneath, on earth, in heaven above, 
 Remains for me to ornament my love. 
 And, truly, it needs not ; for in her smock 
 
 She would outshine your star-bedizened dear. — 
 But lo, the mayers to the may-pole flock ! 
 
 I am resolved to live no more in fear, 
 But straightway hasten to that company 
 
 Where now my sweetheart is ; move her aside ; 
 Tell her I love her heartily and true. 
 
 And ask her to become my darling bride. 
 Then shall she murmur sweetly, ' I love thee.' 
 I'll kiss her then, and gaze into her eyes ; 
 
 Appoint a near date for our union, too. 
 And pray for sweet conjunctions in the skies. 
 
 \Goes out.
 
 32 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Cinthio. Permit me, gentlemen, to part from you. 
 
 \Goes mit. 
 
 Bruno. Willingly, willingly. — A new rival. 
 
 Felice. Then is Scipio cut out too. Come, we'll be friends 
 with him. — Scipio, do you know where the Prince is gone ? 
 
 Scipio. Do I know what kind of beast a lover is ? Does 
 he not follow his mistress like a lamb to the slaughter ? If 
 she be in the mouth of hell, I warrant you'll find him in the 
 jaws of death, an he be no nearer. The Prince is now upon 
 his way to her. 
 
 Felice. And she ? 
 
 Scipio. Is where he will find her. 
 
 Felice. Which is ? 
 
 Scipio. Whither I will bring you, if you be so minded ; 
 and on the road I will tell you how all the beauteous 
 virginity and lusty bachelery of Dolorosa be even now 
 assembled to choose a May-queen ; how thereafter they will 
 go to bed, and sleep till midnight ; how they will then 
 journey to the forest accompanied with music and blowing 
 of horns, to gather may-blossoms and birchen boughs, and 
 deck themselves with nose-gays and crowns of flowers. 
 What else they may do there I shall also hint at, specifying 
 to what proceedings on the morrow these actions are 
 prelusive. 
 
 Felice. Of all this the light of knowledge has revealed to 
 us somewhat ; but concerning Mademoiselle Eulalie, the 
 prince's sweetheart, we are in Egyptian darkness. 
 
 Scipio. Behold, her mother is a fisherman's widow, who, 
 in her poverty nursed the half-drowned prince, pinching 
 herself and her daughter, who was, if possible, more willing
 
 ACT II. SCENE II. 33 
 
 to be starved, that the unknown sick gentleman might have 
 dainties. She has no gold but the gold of her hair ; and no 
 jewels save her eyes. If beauty be riches, her wealth is 
 incalculable ; moreover, it is safely lodged in the bank of 
 health. 
 
 Felice. And the prince, by legal usury, would increase 
 her beauty if she would permit him. 
 
 Scipio. Even so. But there is another merchant in terms 
 for this commodity, for such he would make her. He has 
 more bushels of gold than stones of flesh, and more carnality 
 than wisdom. He is as strong as a horse, but a most 
 outrageous braggart, and little better than a coward. He 
 makes great estimation of his personal appearance, and his 
 figure would be passable enough were it not so bent with 
 worshipping his calves. He dresses like a herald or a 
 macer ; and grows the eccentricities of fashion into absurdi- 
 ties, lopping such as by their generality have almost become 
 beauties. This great monkey must needs fall in love with 
 my dainty Eulalie ; and finding, though he come before her 
 as gaudy as a serpent that he works no fascination upon 
 her, he has betaken himself to other charms, and hopes to 
 approach her in a shower of gold. 
 
 Felice. But she is no Danae, you would say ; and that this 
 would-be Jupiter will find. Now, what do you think ? 
 Shall we play some trick upon — what d'ye call him ? 
 
 Scipio. Torello. By Jove, I would give something to see 
 him taken down a peg ! 
 
 Bruno. We'll peg him. We'll whip him about like a top. 
 
 Felice. Then let us, as we wend along, conclude 
 
 Some scheme to harm Torello for his good. 
 
 C
 
 34 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE l.—A Road. 
 Enter Felice, Bruno, and SciPio. 
 
 Scipio. Yonder he is, puzzling over a paper. Neither of 
 your lordships know him ? 
 
 Felice. No. 
 
 Scipio. It is no wonder. Since he fell in love he afifects a 
 kind of bearish melancholy ; secludes himself ; feeds his 
 passion on fish, and has gross dreams. It will take some 
 angling to catch him, gudgeon and all as he is. 
 
 Eniei- Torello. 
 
 Good-day, sir. 
 
 Torello. Oh ! — good-day. 
 
 Scipio. Here are two gentlemen of the prince's court, 
 who, their ears being infected with your absolute accom- 
 plishments, have been plagued by the unsatisfied desire of 
 your acquaintance. 
 
 Torello. It is not the first time I have plagued my 
 acquaintance. Gentlemen, who are you ? 
 
 Felice. Felice is my name ; my title, lord ; my having, 
 handsome ; and my expectation, great. 
 
 Torello. O sir, my name is Torello ; my figure is at least 
 as handsome as yours ; and my expectation is high and 
 sure. — Your name, sir ?
 
 ACT III. SCENE I. 35 
 
 Bruno. My figure is as God made it ; and my expecta- 
 tion ends in salvation. 
 
 To7'ello. Mine ends in matrimony. 
 
 Felice. You are he who loves Eulalie. 
 
 Torello. Here is a copy of verses, a sonnet to her. Will 
 you read it ? It will tell you. 
 
 Felice. Are they yours ? Did you write them ? 
 
 Torello. I scratched them down this morning. 
 Felice (Reading.) My sweetest sweeting, once again I say. 
 With no adornment, simply, 'I love you,' 
 You ask me for a mint of words mayhap : 
 I give you none save these, ' I do love you,' 
 In which is melted all my passion's gold. 
 Many a white plain have I deluged black 
 With overflowing, wordy, rhyming streams ; 
 But I have found them all too weak, and so 
 I simply say and mean, 'I do love you.' 
 
 This is excellent. 
 
 You ask me why no tears bedim my eyes : 
 I answer, I have drained them dry already. 
 
 Better still. 
 
 You ask me why my cheek so rosy is : 
 I answer, that I keep my health for you. 
 
 O, admirable ! This cannot fail to win her. 
 
 Scipio. {Aside.) He may have written it after all. 
 
 To7-ello. I will send it to her along with this string of 
 pearls. 
 
 Scipio. If I might interest myself so far in your lordship's 
 affairs, I would suggest that, having thus engaged the services
 
 36 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 of Plutus and Apollo, you now enlist under your love's flag 
 the potent Hecate. 
 
 Torello. Ah ! I shall consider your counsel. 
 
 Felice. It is good counsel. 
 
 Torello. Who's this Hecate ? 
 
 Felice. She is a sorceress, and has her haunt in the wood. 
 She will tell you how you are to discover that you are to 
 marry Eulalie ; and this certain knowledge of futurity, 
 stranded with the verses and the necklace, will form a cable 
 that draws her into your arms. 
 
 Torello. Into my arms ! Let us visit Hecate at once. 
 
 Felice. It is too soon. She will not be approached till 
 the moon is up. 
 
 Torello. Then come with me, and you shall see Eulalie. 
 But, look you, I will not make her known to you. (Aside.) 
 She knows too many men already. 
 
 Felice. It needs not : we will know her by her beauty. 
 
 Torello. Ay ; but you must not speak to her. 
 
 Felice. How if she speak to us ? 
 
 Torello. Then must you be short in your answers, and 
 by no means attempt to gain her favour ; I would have her 
 ■favour no man but me. 
 
 Felice. Fear not us. Courtiers know how to behave, and 
 fishermen's daughters are excellent wenches. 
 
 Torello. They are most sweet wenches. Eulalie is a most 
 sweet fisherman's wench. 
 
 Felice. How was he sweet ? Did he do business in fresh 
 
 water only ? 
 
 Torello. What, he ? You start from our subject. Come 
 
 on, come on. 
 
 Bruno and Torello go out.
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 37 
 
 Felice. It will work, I think. 
 
 Scipio. Assuredly. I know where to get such rig as will 
 pass for a witch's. Bring him along to the place you wot 
 of, and let chance guide our sport. 
 
 [ They go out. 
 
 SCENE 11.^ — An ope7i space. 
 
 Beneath a haiuthorii, Eulalie, garlanded ; near her, Rupert. 
 Felice, Bruno, Torello, and Scipio, standing together. 
 Ivy and Green, Alardo and Conrad, dressed like soothsayers, 
 among a crowd of Mayers beside a may-pole. CiNTHio, apart. 
 
 Green. Prince Rupert shall our may-lord be. 
 
 Ivy. Well said ! 
 
 Mayers. The prince, the prince ! 
 
 Green. (To Eulalie.J Fair queen, entreat the prince. 
 
 Eulalie. Be you our lord of May, most gracious prince. 
 I pray you pardon me if I be bold ; 
 Being but a puppet-queen, my subjects' pupil, 
 I speak as I am urged. 
 
 Rupert. As you are urged ? 
 
 You are their spokesman, merely ? 
 
 Eulalie. Queen, they say. 
 
 But little more than their spokeswoman, sir. 
 
 Rupert. I mean, you are mouthpiece only for them. 
 
 Eulalie. Has any other, sir, petitioned you ? 
 
 Rupert. You will not understand me. This request 
 That I should share with you May's flowery throne,
 
 38 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Is, say, the utterance of a hundred hearts. 
 Well-purged and sweetened to the May-queen's prayer, 
 And she, the hundred first, breathes only air. 
 
 Eidalie. Air, only air, prince, for these hundred hearts : 
 I speak for them ; beseech you, be their king. 
 
 Rupert. The May-queen would not have me for her 
 
 consort ? 
 Eulalie. O yes, my lord, I would. My own heart's throbs 
 Are prayers beseeching you to take it all — 
 To reign, to tyrannize, to enslave, to kill. 
 My kingdom's conquered now and factious strife 
 Of modesty and love quelled and atoned 
 By your dictation ; nobles and populace 
 Crown you, enthrone you, monarch absolute. 
 I pray you, speak not to me ; I would weep. 
 The blush upon my cheek will hotly burn 
 Till flooding penitence has quenched its glow. 
 You are so pertinent an inquisitor. 
 Your eyes did burn my resolution through. 
 Your voice did drown me, and I cried for help. — 
 My lord of May, speak to the people, now. 
 
 {She leads /ji??i forimrd and goes out, 
 Torcllo. (Aside.) Now will I offer it to her. Oh ! she 
 has tears in her eyes. No ; she must be in a merrier mood 
 to think of love. 
 
 Rupert. (Aside.) Ay, lord of May, and lord of May again ! 
 May-lord this year, lord of this May for aye ; 
 Lord of this flowery season of love's bloom. 
 Lord of this flower of love, seasonably blown : 
 Prince am I — King, maybe, of Belmarie,
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 39 
 
 May- King, and king of sweet may Eulalie. — 
 Good friends, we thank you for this title new : 
 Its fresh addition gives us double power. 
 With which we join our queen's, two-fold as well, 
 Strong by your suffrage, by her beauty strong : 
 And in this combined and quadruple might, 
 We bid you be as merry as you may. 
 Let study, commerce, labour, for a time — 
 In truth, three woes — be counted sins in act ; 
 Shame anger, malice, envy, every ill 
 Back to the devil with loud-laughing mocks ; 
 Drink hail to liberty in rosy wine ; 
 Happy your faces with continuous smiles. 
 And spend mirth's overflow in jest and song ; 
 Forsake stone walls ; re-live the golden age 
 Among the trees in sweetness and moonlight. 
 
 Mayers. We will, we will ! 
 
 Rupert. Our May-Queen gone ! 
 
 Felice. She has retired to preserve her beauty. 
 
 Bruno. Ay sir, to pickle it, to wash it in brine, to weep. 
 
 Rupert. Wept she, indeed ? 
 
 [ They talk apart. 
 
 Green. Is it not a noble prince ? 
 
 Alardo. Truly he seems to be ; but by this hue 
 We may not judge his nature's primal mood ; 
 For princes, in their humours, are chameleons. 
 
 Ivy. Camelias, sir, are of ditferent colours. Our prince 
 is of the spotless dye. 
 
 Alardo. White-washed — a sepulchre ? 
 
 Ivy. Sir, do you speak well ?
 
 40 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Alardo. Well ; I hope I speak as well as other men. 
 
 Ivy. But do you mean well ? 
 
 Alardo. By all means. 
 
 Green. For he who speaks ill of the prince here, had need 
 to be his bosom-friend, or a cur whom no one would waste a 
 kick on. 
 
 Alardo. The prince must lie warm-covered in your hearts. 
 
 Ivy. You must be a stranger. Know, that this same 
 Prince Rupert is out of sight and beyond hearing the 
 mightiest monarch in these parts. To the nobles he is a 
 most egregious tyrant ; to the commons, a very brother. 
 But yesterday he addressed me by the damnations of knave 
 and fellow : he could not have been more familiar though he 
 had been my own father, who always calls me rascal. His 
 good qualities are as contemptible as another man's sins. 
 
 Alardo. Then, by your showing, worthy villager, 
 He is a very white crow of a prince. 
 But, tell me, is he not Alardo's son ? 
 
 Ivy. His son, and successor. Indeed, I may say, he is 
 his father, for he, being without question dead, Rupert is king. 
 
 Alardo. Dead without question ! You are positive. 
 How, if I say I know he is alive ? 
 Think you to gain a sire the prince would choose 
 To lose so mighty and august a throne ? 
 
 Ivy. Treasonless man ! would you dethrone the prince ? 
 Ho! lechery and faith ! guard our good prince ! His life's 
 in danger. 
 
 Rupert. What cry is this ? 
 
 Ivy. Great prince, it might have been a crying matter ; 
 but I, thank the gods, have been man enough to stifle it.
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 41 
 
 Rupert. So you have turned approver : renegades 
 I never trust ; but what have you to say ? 
 
 Ivy. I will prove that this greybeard is the most note- 
 worthy renegade, and trusty traitor these times have seen. 
 
 Rupert. Your language is too original for ordinary 
 capacities. — What are you, old man ? 
 
 Alardo. A sooth-sayer. 
 
 Rupert. Is he affiliated in your trade ? 
 His dress betokens that. What have you said 
 That this clod could construe as treasonable ? 
 
 Alardo. I but suggested that your highness' sire 
 May yet be canopied by yon blue sky. 
 With no damp mouldering roof, or watery pall 
 Between him and the tabernacling air ; 
 That you would joy at loss of sovereignty 
 To clasp Alardo in your arms once more ; 
 Whereon this loyal sirrah bellowed out. 
 And laid on me officious needless hands. 
 
 Rupert. Ha ! those of your profession are not wont 
 To talk at random even in courtesy. 
 Approach us nearer ; we would speak with you.— 
 (To IvY.^ For you, sir — there : we pay your blundering faith. 
 (To Alardo.^ Now, summon to thine aid thy powerfullest 
 
 sprite ; 
 Or if thy demon be unknown, and speed 
 All unappealed and unannounced, whether 
 He fly from heaven or mid-aerial limbo. 
 Subdue all motion and prostrate thy will, 
 Yea, let thy soul evacuate, that, void. 
 Thy genius may usurp its empty fane.
 
 42 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 And prophesy with scope and native truth. 
 To question were to slight thy divination ; 
 Therefore say sooth of all I seek to know. 
 Alardo. Two things by thee desired most 
 
 Cannot be thine : one must be lost : 
 One's forfeit is the other's cost. 
 Rupert. An oracle. Expound it now, good sage. 
 Alardo. Remember one, absent and dear ; 
 Think of another, loved and near ; 
 Their interests clash ; their clashing fear. 
 Before the sun a second time 
 Shall drown his flaming locks in brine ; 
 Before the moon does twice uplight 
 The dusky countenance of night, 
 It shall be past, this bosom-fight. 
 Rupert. I understand, and half believe, because 
 On an event so sudden and unlike, 
 As that of King Alardo's re-appearance. 
 Thou stak'st thy fame thus openly. Say more. 
 Alardo. No more to-day ; I am dispirited : 
 And never twice twixt ruddy morn and morn 
 Are we with visionary prospect blessed. 
 Your eyes are on my comrade. Brother, speak. 
 
 Conrad. Nothing to you. Prince Rupert. There is one 
 Of lowlier state, whom I have news to tell. 
 He yonder stands and broods with eyes down-cast. 
 Rupert. Cinthio, hither and hear thy fortune told. 
 Alardo. Prince, I have converse for your private ear. 
 
 \They talk apart. 
 Cinthio. Soothsayers and augurers of old were held
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 43 
 
 In high repute for dreams and prophecies. 
 
 Their star is waning now, their traffic being 
 
 Unto a race, better in being busy, 
 
 In barren, fallow fancy, how much worse ! 
 
 Divine you from the stars, old man ; or from 
 
 Men's shapes, complexions, palms, dreams and the like ? 
 
 Scan you a mutton's clean-picked shoulder-blade, 
 
 Or have you any visionary aid ? 
 
 Conrad. I'll tell thee truths about myself thou know'st not. 
 
 Cinthio. Say on. 
 
 Conrad. Three lustres has this orb circled the sun, 
 
 Swinging around its vast and vaulted bell 
 
 Of measured space, striking its own deep knell 
 From side to side, a huge and pendulous tongue. 
 Since thou, then five years' journey to thy grave. 
 
 Wast filched most vilely from a lordly home. 
 Thou shalt not, shepherd, twice Pan's blessing crave. 
 
 Morning and evening on thy flock ; nor roam 
 Upon these hills beneath a twice-risen sun 
 Before thou find'st a father ; he, a son. 
 
 Ciiitliio. A mutual treasure-trove. But by what sign 
 May I believe this bare assertion true ? 
 
 Conrad. Beneath thy left breast is a crescent mole ; 
 A flame has sealed a kiss upon thy cheek ; 
 A gold chain quaintly wrought hangs round thy neck, 
 Hidden from every but the second sight. 
 
 Cinthio. By heaven, these things are so ! Now, who art 
 thou? 
 
 Rupert. Presumptuous, meddling fool ! A plot, a plot ! 
 Confess who bribed thee. Cluido 'twas, I warrant.
 
 44 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Cinthio, what says the other ? 
 
 Cinthio. He gives me 
 
 A noble father at no later date 
 Than sunset of to-morrow ; vouching this 
 By nominating several private marks 
 About my body. 
 
 Rupert. So ; well-planned, indeed ! 
 
 Wretched dissemblers, bear these wrinkles hence, 
 That, being hypocrites, for age is wise, 
 Shame that which they betoken. Quick, begone ! 
 (To Cinthio.^ I'll tell thee more anon. — Stand not agape ; 
 Be off, trudge, trot ; away ! 
 
 [Alardo a«^ Conrad go out. 
 Good, gentle mayers, 
 Retire home for a little ; lightly sup ; 
 Lightly to bed ; at midnight, lightly up. 
 To welcome May, to banish worldly jars, 
 And wanton it like twinkling earthly stars, 
 Outpeering those who then will deftly tread 
 In joyous, maiden mirth, and all the night 
 About the pure moon, from whose dark blue bed 
 Her bower-maids singing sweetly-low aloud 
 To wake their queen, will, with soft, quaint affright, 
 Charily cast her coverlet of cloud : 
 Stars must we all be when shall be displayed 
 Our May-moon, Eulalie, earth's loveliest maid. 
 
 [Mayers go out shouting. Felice, Bruno, and Tok¥aa.q> follviv. 
 Cinthio. Was not this all too hurried, unripe, green ? 
 
 Rupert. No ; inconsiderate I have not been. 
 Grant what they prophesied of us should hap.
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 45 
 
 It proves no science in the heaven's great map, 
 
 Nor any other of unearthly mean : 
 
 Their boasted foresight is of things past seen, 
 
 And their informing spirits, my good lords. 
 
 Now, do you scent the plot ? In fewest words ; 
 
 Some certain knowledge of my sire and thine, 
 
 Some hint that I would make Eulalia mine. 
 
 The haughty stomachs and the fatuous brains 
 
 Of my high cabinet, have feared with stains 
 
 Upon our line to spring from Eulalie, 
 
 Upon their wisdom in permitting me 
 
 To have my bent ; and so, to change my mind. 
 
 Which by their own they fathom, and to bind 
 
 Alardo to their penetrating wit. 
 
 They taught these two, dismissed, to tempt this hit. 
 
 Which, like a boomerang, returns to maim 
 
 The flingers, who have made an evil aim. 
 
 Ciitthio. It seems to me this argument is lame. 
 Rupcrf. Lame ! Had you heard yon dotard tackle me 
 Anent the marring of our family tree ; 
 Predicting sad disaster, ruin, death, 
 O'erhanging state and king, which loosed by breath 
 Of vows yet to be sworn to Eulalie 
 Must thunder on us from the cloudy sky ; 
 No fear of wrong would linger in your head. 
 No doubt would cripple what I now have said. 
 Or if I blame too widely, sure am I 
 
 'Twas Guido sent these rusty prophets here. 
 This daughter whom he keeps in turret high, 
 
 Making by rarity her beauty dear.
 
 46 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 In solitude her soul unsullied blows ; 
 
 And he upon her lofty virtue builds 
 A loftier castle than his wisdom knows : 
 
 He rushes in, disdaining highest guilds 
 Of Belmarie's nobility, to mate 
 
 His daughter with its prince, himself to make 
 Most potent minister in all the state — 
 
 His prince's king, mayhap, for Faustine's sake. 
 For any thought save this, I have no mind — 
 My heavenly love is, like a goddess, kind. 
 I go to seek her. At some other time 
 Of these predicts we'll reason, or else rhyme. 
 
 I^GOCS 02lt. 
 
 Cinthio. False prophets, or soothsayers, what care I ! 
 For me the thread is spun and cast the die ; 
 The boat is waiting, and the wind is right. 
 March past, ye steady hours ; lead on midnight. 
 
 Enter Onesta. 
 
 Onesta ! Hangs this gear where it did ? 
 
 Onesta. Alack, alack, it hangs together like a snow-shower 
 in the air. 
 
 Cinthio. Then is it indeed alack. What has unbound 
 our plot ? 
 
 Onesta. O, we are all unbound ! All undone ! twelve 
 o'clock will never, never do. 
 
 Cintliio. How has that hour become refractory which 
 yesterday was most corrigible ? 
 
 Onesta. O, she does not lack courage, but her father, he 
 is fractious.
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 47 
 
 Cinthio. Her father ! what of him ? 
 
 Ottesta. O, it's all along of him ! He goes to bed every 
 night at eleven, as sure as the clock : upstairs, at every 
 chime creak goes a step, and his stick comes down between, 
 with his other hand on the baluster. And he talks about a 
 new lamp for the landing, as he has done for the last twenty 
 years — not that I remember ; but Marjory, who will be 
 seventy to-morrow — that's May-day ; and to hear her talking 
 about the May-days when she was young ! This very fore- 
 noon she began gabbling, with her toothless, old gums, and 
 her beard going wag, wag 
 
 Cinthio. For God's sake cease thy gabbling and thy 
 wagging, and tell me how Guido has perverted the good- 
 nature of midnight. 
 
 Onesta. La ! what a temper you have ! I'll tell Faustine 
 how wild a lover she has caught. 
 
 Cintliio. Tell her how wild I am for her dear love. 
 While you stand dallying with our happiness. 
 
 Onesta. Dallying, forsooth, dallying ! I'll dally no more 
 between you ! 
 
 Ci7tthio. My fair Onesta, carry this kiss to thy mistress, 
 and keep this one to yourself Twelve o'clock is not suit- 
 able, because ? 
 
 Onesta. Because, as I was just beginning to tell you, 
 Guido goes to bed at eleven — I mean, he goes to his cham- 
 ber then ; counts his keys, his money ; gets undressed ; 
 curses his valet ; says his prayers ; then a door slams, or a 
 chimney rumbles, or a rat scrapes behind the wainscot, or a 
 loose slate on Signer Guido's own head, rattles a noise of its 
 own in his ears, and he yells, 'Thieves ! Fire !' and the bell's
 
 4o AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 rung, and the whole household roused up ; and every room, 
 every bed, and closet and hole, searched and shook, and 
 hacked and pierced ; and out to the garden 
 
 Cinthio. And is this a nightly performance ? But you 
 knew all this before. What prompted you to have us deter- 
 mine our flight for midnight ? It must be then, or sooner. 
 
 Oncsta. It can't be, it shan't be, either sooner, or later I 
 
 Cinthio. Come, come, remember the crowns. (Aside.) 
 I believe she's sold herself to the other side. 
 
 Onesta. Perhaps it may be done, perhaps it may : though 
 it's not any more possible now than it was before. 
 
 Cinthio. How are we to manage ? 
 
 Onesta. Well, it may be done ; for when I remember, 
 there are two old travellers staying with us just now. They 
 take up all Guido's time. Everybody is so busy you would 
 think our house was a bazaar of all the trades ; there could 
 not be more ado supposing it was for the interment of a king. 
 About eleven they will be drawing to the hinder end of sup- 
 per, and every guest busier than his neighbour eating and 
 drinking, and all the servants drudging like millers with a 
 good wind. Come then : my lady will be ready ; and you 
 must put the dress in by the window, and wait till she gets 
 it on, for she will have nothing but her night-gown. Then 
 she will come down, and — O lord ! I wish I knew nothing 
 of it. 
 
 Cinthio. Can you by no means procure her own apparel ? 
 
 Onesta. It is not to be thought of; for her father would 
 know that she could not come at it but by me. 
 
 Cinthio. She will have greater ease in man's attire, 
 And no disguise could better suit our flight.
 
 ACT III. SCENE II. 49 
 
 The wood that lies between us and the shore 
 Will hide us till Sebastian's hour has come. 
 Eleven is our hour. Let Faustine know 
 If I come not that death has flown with me ; 
 Or that old time himself at length has gone, 
 And doomsday come to righten every wrong. 
 
 Enter a Servant, 
 
 \_Goes out. 
 
 Onesta. Where have you been ? 
 
 Sertfafit. I was sent to invite the prince to sup at our 
 house to-night : and it is good words to ask a man to a good 
 supper. But the prince refused to come, and that is bad 
 words ; for it is bad not to choose the good. 
 
 Onesta. Belike the prince has chosen a better supper 
 somewhere else. 
 
 Servant. Belike he has. Are you going home ? 
 
 Onesta. Yes. You go before. 
 
 [ They go out.
 
 50 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE I. — The garden of MarthcCs house. 
 
 Enter EuLALiE. While she is speaking Rupert enters behind, 
 
 Eulalie. My tongue must heave my bosom's suffering forth, 
 Or else into my mouth my prisoned heart 
 Will leap, and pant its desperate passion there. 
 Wild love has burst upon me like a storm : 
 The gathered clouds I knew ; not their full freight. 
 O me ! my desperate, foolish, high-pitched love ! 
 Is this my fortitude, my deep-sworn muteness ? 
 Now, blabbing tongue, be silent ; for, behold. 
 How many bright-eyed, heavenly beings peer 
 From countless windows on my blush, self-called. 
 And, listening, smile the welkin wide across 
 At me, plaining anew love's endless tale, 
 So risible, so old, so stale to them : 
 Poor, weary stars, no wonder 'tis you wink ! 
 But I have dared to tell myself 1 love. 
 And madly to confess to him 'tis he. 
 O daring, swift such madness to conceive ! 
 O madness, with untimeous haste brought forth ! 
 Now will I venture on another thing. 
 The birds are all asleep ; so are the winds ; 
 The trees ? — Ah, they have tongues and must have ears : 
 Dear trees, beseech you, tell no tales on me ;
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 5 1 
 
 And never, when the wind would have you sing, 
 Chant this sweet name which I will utter now, 
 Hereafter dreaming nevermore of Rupert. 
 Nay, gentle trees, you may sigh low his name, 
 And make all winds in love with that sole word. 
 Till northern pine-trees rustle it, and know. 
 As well as southern palmy groves, to teach 
 Their feathered choirs the syllables I love : 
 Ye streams and rivers, thou deep-swelling sea. 
 Confine your far-ranged voices to that theme : 
 Ye crystal ringing spheres the echo catch. 
 
 Rupert. (Aside.) Now will I kiss her. No, her melting 
 heart 
 Exhales in words still. Hush, my heart ; she speaks. 
 
 Etilalie. These are sweet thoughts ; as sweet as foolish 
 they. 
 Though all the myriad voices of the world 
 Should thunder Rupert far up into space 
 Until the moon swerved from her circling path 
 Distracted by the noise, I, bidding now, 
 'Twould only waste breath and the spheres endanger. 
 For it could not avail to make him love me. 
 I wish that it were ever night, and I 
 Could hold converse with it concerning Rupert. 
 Poor dreamer ! have I not appointed this 
 For my fantastic, final love-discourse ! 
 
 Rupert. And of true love's lasting communion first. 
 
 Eulalie. O, let me go ! — My lord, I did not mean 
 My treason to be heard by any one. 
 To princes people are all hypocrites ;
 
 52 AN UNHISTOKICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 And sovereigns all believe that they profess 
 Which from a true desire to please is said : 
 This is what should be truth — I love you not. 
 
 Rupert. Treason most capital 1 Lov'st thou not me, 
 Thy prince, thy king ? For this I rede thy doom : 
 Full twenty thousand kisses shalt thou pay, 
 And twenty thousand kisses after these, 
 As many more when these have been discharged, 
 To be due always, every hour of the day. 
 To him 'gainst whom thou hast conspired to cheat 
 Of what thou longest, burnest to bestow. 
 O, perjured felon, to thyself and me, 
 Begin fulfilment of this penalty. 
 
 Eulalie. Are you so peremptory ? Am I lost ? 
 Think that you heard no syllable of mine, 
 For you did apprehend my thoughts, as they 
 Transgressed my own decrees, into night's ear. 
 And must not prosecute their wantonness, 
 Since I, their mistress, have forgot their crimes — 
 This, recent, and that past, done to your face — 
 Not knowing if I have forgiven them. 
 I pray you, sir, forget them too — I pray you. 
 
 Rupert. Ah, thou dost fear the honour of my love ! 
 I will forget. Therefore, fair Eulalie, 
 Most worshipful and low-adored goddess, 
 I love thee more than any tongue can tell, 
 And more than all the world beside can love ; 
 More lovingly, more truly, I love thee 
 Than any lover that has ever loved. 
 Dost thou lo\'e me, and wilt thou marry me ?
 
 ACT IV. SCENE I. 5^ 
 
 Eulalie. I love thee with a love not to Ije shouted : 
 It is as huge and glowing as the sun, 
 And it will burn when that clear lamp is out : 
 Thou art its infinite vitality : 
 It is as spacious as the element, 
 And thou art heaven and earth, and all between. 
 Marry thee, Rupert, Prince of Belmarie ? 
 I know I dream. Ah me, when I shall wake ! 
 
 Rupert. I know I dream not : lips so sensible, 
 So warm as thine, no dreamy spectre bears. 
 
 Eidalic. In sleep love's ecstasy's omnipotent. 
 So sweet a dream as this were best soon done, 
 That lasting memories may less deplore. 
 Good-night, fair vision : heaven languishes for thee ; 
 Thine absence has bedimmed its radiance. 
 
 Rupert. I am thy true love, and thou dost not dream : 
 'Tis not thy wraith, but thee thyself I clasp. 
 
 Eulalie. O, art thou flesh and blood ? Dear love, good- 
 night. 
 I'll not believe I have no filtre quaffed. 
 And ani not wandering in some blissful land, 
 Where midnight and pale moonshine ever reign, 
 And lover's wishes are made true events. 
 Unless I light my lamp in my own room 
 And see my bed unruffled. Good-night, love. — 
 Pluck me a rose that I may surely know 
 It is no waking vision I have seen, 
 If I should find I have not been asleep. 
 Exquisite dream, come to the door with me. 
 
 [ They go out.
 
 54 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Rupert. (Re-entering.) O, I am new-born, fit for highest 
 deeds ! 
 Now, could I, like old Atlas, bear the world 
 With all its cares upon my shoulders twain 
 And say 'twas light, if but my finger-tips 
 Rested upon my sweetheart's lily hand. 
 I'll to the woods till Eulalie has found 
 Our love is true and sweeter than a dream. 
 
 \Gocs out. 
 
 SCENE II. — An eminence in a wood. 
 Enter Felice, Bruno, ami Torello. 
 
 Torello. May this sorceress be approached safely ? 
 
 Felice. O, she'll not bite. 
 
 Bruno. She'll only give you a bit of her mind. 
 
 Torello. I may chance to give her a bit of mine if she be 
 not civil. 
 
 Bruno. A bit is good for a jade. 
 
 Torello. By Jupiter, she'd best play me no jade's tricks. 
 Shall we on ? 
 
 Felice. Yes ; over this knoll. 
 
 Enter Rupert, He does not observe the others. 
 
 Rupert. I see thee, moon, in thy high heavenly garden ; 
 Thou walkest like a maid among her flowers. 
 But thou art not more beautiful, I ween, 
 Than she who gave herself to me to-night
 
 ACT IV. SCENE II. 55 
 
 Within an earthly garden.— Perhaps she sleeps. 
 O elves unseen, and far away from me, 
 Who dance upon the shore, and fairies, who 
 Enamel green hill-tops with little rings 
 Where merry balls are held ; and all ye sylphs 
 Inhabiting dark shades and rustling bowers, 
 Ye naiads who make silver streams your haunts. 
 And ye aerial ones who chant high songs 
 Unto the twinkling of the lyric stars : 
 From distant vales and hills of Greece o'erskip 
 The mtervening countries at a bound 
 Ye ancient deities — if ye be dead. 
 Let your ghosts rise from flowery sepulchres, 
 Or coral tombs beneath the blue Aegean : 
 Ye little dwarfs and legendary people 
 In forest black, or by the oft-sung Rhine, 
 Or in the moonless caves of furthest Thule, 
 Desert your homes to-night : and all together, 
 Quaint, lovely, beauteous, delicate, and droll, 
 Troop to my lady's chamber ; be her dream. 
 
 [Goes out. 
 
 Torello. Dragons and scorpions, hippogrififs and asps. 
 Hobgoblins, and the ghosts of murderers. 
 And fiery devils in a fierce night-mare 
 Confound this fellow's folly ! 
 
 Felice. Are you mad ? 
 
 Torello. Tell not me ! Eulalie loves him. It was her he 
 spoke of. 
 
 Felice. Are you mad? What he and she ? {To Bruno.) 
 Follow this foolery with me. We'll persuade him he has not
 
 56 AN UN HISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 seen Rupert. — What trance were you in for a minute's space, 
 and, being roused, why do you tear your beard ? What 
 vision have you seen ? 
 
 Torello. Would you befool me ? I'll after, and defy him. 
 
 Felice. Defy whom ? 
 
 Toi-ello. The prince. 
 
 Felice. Of the powers of the air ? 
 
 Torello. Prince Rupert. 
 
 Felice. Ha 1 be careful what you do. But he is within 
 doors just now. 
 
 TorcUo. Within doors I I hear his tread. 
 
 Felice. What ! Is he coming hither? 
 
 Torello. No ; he is going hence. 
 
 Felice. Let me understand you. 
 
 Torello. Understand that I am not deaf; and, having 
 heard Rupert, leaning against that tree, talk like a happy 
 lover, I perceive at once that he must have been accepted by 
 Eulalie : therefore I will challenge him. 
 
 Felice. Love has turned his brain. Did you see Rupert, 
 Bruno ? 
 
 Bruno. Not since he left us. 
 
 Felice. Nor I. 
 
 Torello. Did you not see him put his shoulder against 
 that tree, fold his arms, gaze at the moon, and talk ; then 
 with a skip and a hop caper away as merrily as a school- 
 boy from school ? 
 
 Felice. By Luna's horns, but this is wonderful 1 It can- 
 not be — yet have you not a powerful imagination ? 
 
 Torello. I scarce know ; I think so : I am strong. 
 
 Felice. So strong you do not know your own strength ?
 
 ACT IV. SCENE II. 57 
 
 Torello. I have never found its match. 
 
 Felice. That explains this rhapsody, then. Your imagina- 
 tion has been slumbering. Love comes and rouses it, and, 
 like all newly awakened gifts, it attempts great things. 
 Being in keeping with your other qualities, of immeasurable 
 strength, it creates a concretion : you have here without 
 doubt, suddenly and potently summoned up this apparition 
 of Rupert, its spoken nonsense and ridiculous gait. It must 
 be so. Sir, your imagination is godlike. 
 
 BruJto. Torello, my imagination cannot form a metaphor 
 to express the admiration, the reverence, your genius inspires 
 in me. Many a poetical dreamer would thank God on his 
 knees for a tithe of your gift. 
 
 Torello. Did you not see the prince ? 
 
 Felice. With that solemn face ! Ha, ha ! You carry the 
 jest ; but you cannot create a vision for our eyes. 
 
 Briaio. Come ; deride us no longer. Confess you have 
 befooled us. 
 
 Torello. We are all befooled, I think. This sorceress is 
 charming us. 
 
 Felice. Love, I say, stirred your imagination to plant this 
 jealous fancy against that ash, and gave it language chiming 
 with your fear, and hath almost persuaded you of its reality. 
 To the witch, and be satisfied. 
 
 Torello. Ay, let us to the witch. She may have sent this 
 vision to spur me on. What shall I say to her ? — I would 
 swear I saw Rupert. 
 
 Felice. We'll teach you what to say as we go. 
 
 YJ'hcy go out.
 
 58 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 SCENE \\\.— Another part of the 7vood. 
 
 Enter on one side Green andlw, tipsy; on the other Celio and 
 Sylvia, singing. 
 
 Sofig. 
 
 O, the day is loud and busy ! 
 
 Every blush the sun discovers. 
 Loud and busy, bright and bold, 
 
 Day was never loved of lovers. 
 
 Night for nightingales and moonlight ! 
 
 Many a blush night's mantle covers. 
 Night for kissing, night for loving, 
 
 Night for us, for we are lovers ! 
 
 Ivy. What singers be these ? 
 
 Green. A shepherd and his lass. 
 
 Ivy. I know a better song than that. It goes this way — 
 
 (Sings.) Night and day let us be merry, 
 
 And set not by the world a cherry ; 
 For dry bread chokes 
 
 That's not right. I forget it. I could make a better song 
 than either, myself; by my soul, I could! None of your 
 sheepish love-songs, but a song to make the stars dance 
 quicker, and the moon multiply itself a score of times. You 
 have only made two moons. 
 
 Celio. We did not aim at putting the moon beside herself. 
 
 Ivy. I could make a song about the moon. Sir, I have 
 read about the moon. Her name — hie ! — her name is — 
 hie ! 
 
 Celio. Hecate.
 
 ACT IV. SCENE IV. 59 
 
 Ivy. Give a man time to speak his mind. Her name is 
 Hecate, although you say it. I know about the moon : 
 Hecate is the moon, Hecate. 
 
 Sylvia. O, come a\\'ay ! 
 
 Celio. Make your song, my friend, and shew it to me to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Ivy. I will, sir ; I will. 
 
 Celio. Good-night. 
 
 [Celio and Sylvia go out. 
 
 Ivy. The song is coming. Green ; it's coming. ' By the 
 
 light of Hecate's lamp' — lamp, lamp — what rhymes with 
 
 lamp ? — Come to some more delusive, poetic spot. — ' By the 
 
 light of Hecate's lamp'-— lamp? — Come. — What the devil 
 
 rhymes with lamp ! — Come. 
 
 [Ivy and Green go out. 
 
 Enter hurriedly CiNTHio, and Faustine dressed as a shepherd-boy. 
 
 Faustine. O Cinthio, hearken ! We are lost. Alas I 
 Cinthio. Fear not, my love : all danger we shall pass. 
 
 [ They go out, 
 
 SCENE IV. — A room in Marthds house. 
 
 Enter Martha. 
 
 Martha. Gone with the prince ! I knew 'twould come at 
 last. 
 Well, I shall be a lonely woman soon. 
 To think how many a mother envies me 
 My lovely daughter for her loveliness, 
 And that she has enchanted our good prince, 
 And all the happiness in store for me. 
 When I shall be a prince's mother-in-law. 
 (Knocking.)
 
 6o AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 A visit at this time ! Who's there ? 
 Enter On est A. 
 
 What now, my lady Faustine's maid ? 
 
 Onesta. The king has sent for you. 
 
 Martha. The king ! 
 
 Onesta. King Alardo. By the deceit of providence he 
 has come back ; and Guido has found out Faustine's escape. 
 He commanded me to go and bring you, because he has 
 heard about Eulahe ; for Guido threatened me with flayiijg 
 and pickling, and buttering and roasting. You are to come 
 at once and meet the king and Guido and another lord at 
 the tree in the gushet where the three roads meet, to go with 
 them to the wood, where Eulalie and the prince, and Faustine 
 and Cinthio are. If I would not tell him all, he would have 
 minced me into collops, else he might have pulled my tongue 
 out before I would have told. The king is going to pack you 
 and Eulalie off this very night. ' The mad, old heifer,' says 
 he, ' to set her low-bred cow to my royal bull.' And Cinthio 
 is to be made into a ram — no, it was a ewe, Guido said : I 
 think it was a ewe, though it struck me he meant an ox ; and 
 Faustine is to mew in a nunnery all her life. 
 
 Martha. The king come back, and Eulalie and I to be 
 packed off to-night ; Faustine, made a nun ; you, to be 
 roasted 
 
 Onesta. Haste, haste. I'll tell you more as we go. 
 
 Martha. More ! Save us ! You have said more than 
 enough. 
 
 [ They go out.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 6l 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE I. — An open space in the zuood. 
 Enter Felice, Bruno, and Torello. 
 
 Felice. Do you remember what you must say 
 
 Torello. I think so. 
 
 From Thessaly, that land of incantation, 
 
 Tetragrammaton, 
 Come Hecate and bear my suppHcation 
 
 Felice. Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Torello. Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Felice. You must speak this word very loud ; its virtue is 
 great ; and the greater mouth you give it the stronger its 
 power. Shout it again exultantly ; for with this word 
 properly spoken, a world might be created. 
 
 Torello. Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Felice. Pronounced in a most redundant ore rotundo. 
 No witch that ever culled simples with a brazen knife by 
 moonlight could resist such a summons. 
 
 Torello. Will she indeed come forth to this ? 
 
 Felice. Like a cat from the water. 
 
 Torello. What shall I say then ? 
 
 Felice. The witch will question you and you must answer 
 her. 
 
 Torello. What questions? Will she use a book? I 
 could never learn catechism.
 
 62 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL, 
 
 Felice. Answer anything. It matters little what, so it be 
 spoken reverently. This is the stone ; place one foot on it ; 
 take off your hat ; hold your sword high above your head ; 
 place your other hand upon your haunch : now, begin. 
 ' From Thessaly.' 
 
 Torello. (Prompted by Felice.^ 
 
 From Thessaly, that land of incantation, 
 
 Tetragrammaton, 
 Come Hecate and hear my supplication, 
 
 Shemhamphorash. 
 On broomstick ride to grant what I shall ask, 
 
 Tetragrammaton ; 
 
 Simple to thy skill will be the task, 
 
 Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Enter SciPio dressed like a 'witch, 
 
 Scipio. Thou comest to know if she whom thou lovest will 
 be thine. Swear by oak and ash and thorn to perform what 
 rites I shall direct, and thou shalt know. 
 
 Torello. I swear. 
 
 Scipio. The oak is Jove's tree ; thou hast sworn by Jove : 
 Mars' lances, Cupid's arrows are of ash ; 
 To witness therefore hast thou summoned them : 
 The thorn is Mercury's ; he binds thine oath. 
 Among the flags that, like a rushy curb 
 The streaming brook rein to an ambling pace. 
 With hands fast bound and eyes from light swathed close, 
 In upright patience shalt thou take thy stand. 
 If she thou lov'st loves thee, fate drives her here
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 63 
 
 Thy bondage to release, or rather change 
 To wedded slavery in rose-linked chains 
 That shackle willing lovers mutually. 
 
 Torello. What if she come not ? 
 
 Scipio. Why, some other then 
 
 Or man, or maiden will enfranchise thee. 
 If man, thy doom of single life is sealed ; 
 If maid, in her behold a wife revealed. 
 Jove, Cupid, Mars, Mercury bless this rite ; 
 Fail in the least, they curse thee from to-night. 
 
 S^Goe: out. 
 
 Torello. Need I do this ? Stay ! Gone — without a gift, 
 too ! An inhuman witch ! (Aside.) Am I mocked, I 
 wonder? That can hardly be. I must go on : it were 
 cowardly to be afraid. Yet will I watch these two. — Well, 
 sirs, you heard the witch. 
 
 Felice. It is a strange ceremony. Having sworn, you 
 cannot evade it. 
 
 Torello. Tie my hands and bind my eyes. - 
 
 Felice. It is a most infallible test. I knew a knight who 
 was scarce in the water before his mistress came and un- 
 bound him. 
 
 Torello. Do you laugh ? 
 
 Brufto. Who ? I ? — No ; I am as solemn as a hangman. 
 
 Torello. How deep is this stream ? 
 
 Felice. It cannot reach above your knees, being so shal- 
 lowed by its width. Are you ready ? Come along then. 
 
 Havuv^ pinioned and blind-folded ToRELLO they lead him into the 
 stream. — Celio and Sylvia entei-, and pass into a grove.
 
 64 AN UN HISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Brzmo. (Aside.) Two mayers. 
 
 To?'ello. Is there any one coming? 
 
 Felice. You must not speak. We will withdraw among 
 the hazels. Let faith and courage console each other, and 
 your spirit may have that comfort which your body lacks. 
 
 Re-enter SciPlO. 
 
 Scipio. How do you like the leeches' element ? Have 
 you made the acquaintance of any insinuating eels ? 
 
 Felice. (Aside.) Hush! you must treat it solemnly. It 
 is a dull nose that cannot scent hartshorn. He begins to 
 sniff. 
 
 Torello. Leeches, eels ! I pray you, how stand I for 
 getting out should any evil thing attack m.e ? 
 
 Felice. Your back faces the only safe way ; the stream is 
 deeper before you than on your right ; to the left the muddy 
 bed would smother you ; you stand on a stone. Cry on us 
 if you are assailed. 
 
 Torello. I will. Go not far away. 
 
 Felice. A speedy deliverance to you. 
 
 [Felice, Bruno, and .Scipio 7oithdravo to the back of the stage. 
 
 Torello. Thanks. — Lord, lord, what love will make a man 
 do ! Here am I — Eulalie, when thou findest me thus thou 
 wilt love me. 
 
 Felice. Now, if we had a leash of hounds to loose on him, 
 or a troop of charitable imps to pinch him for us. 
 
 Enter CiNTHiO and Faustine. 
 
 Bruno. More noctambulators.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 65 
 
 Felice. This is the prince's shepherd, and his sweetheart : 
 if they observe Torello, they may help our plot. 
 
 Cijtthio. Bright-pinioned night now slacks her onward 
 flight 
 And hovers towards its mid stage, to alight, 
 Furling her wings, one instant on the earth, 
 Ere emptying heaven for Aurora's birth. 
 That gladdens every morn. Here will we rest 
 Till night has sped a little further west. 
 O that we might recline between her wings. 
 And sail for aye her heavenly voyagings ! 
 
 Faustine. I would we might, but we must navigate 
 A vessel and an ocean less elate. 
 How far are we from thy Sebastian's boat ? 
 
 CintJiio. An hour will take us where it lies afloat. 
 
 FaiisttJie. Is this the forest's most secreted spot ? 
 
 CintJiio. Yes ; none save shepherds visit it. Do not 
 Fear anything ; and we will reach the shore 
 By pathways that are their peculiar lore. 
 
 Enter Rupert and Eulalie. 
 
 The prince and his beloved ! 
 
 CiNTHio and Faustine conceal themselves. 
 
 Rupert. Sit, Eulalie ; this tree-trunk bids us rest. 
 Hush ! hark ! the nightingale, the lover's bird. 
 The throbbing pulse of night, panting its joy. 
 About this season he expects his mate, 
 And spends all day and night in rapturous toil 
 Upon a bridal-song to greet her with.
 
 66 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 I think those twinkling midnight birds up there, 
 The stars, that seem to nestle in the leaves, 
 Utter such dulcet strains could we but hear. — 
 Now, tell me softly ; did'st thou dream to-night ? 
 
 Eidalie. Thou should'st have first enquired if I did sleep. 
 Whether I slept or not, I dreamt a dream, 
 The most entrancing, and most lovable. 
 
 Rupert. Did'st thou indeed ! What was it all alsout ? 
 
 Eulalic. I laid me on my bed, and couched the rose 
 That thou had'st given me in my bosom. Then 
 Its odour, packed with semblances of bliss, 
 Far-off delights, remembrances of songs. 
 And nameless sweets, all woven in a charm 
 Of strange awakening scent alone bestows. 
 Grew brightly visible ; and in that halo 
 Sleep realized a shining rainbow crowd 
 Of gay unearthly beings, who, to notes 
 That never lark or nightingale imagined, 
 Tripped in the mazes of a wildering dance — 
 A poem in mute show. — Hark I some one comes. 
 
 [Rupert and Eulalie retire. 
 
 Re-enter Celio and Sylvia. They scat themselves on the tree vaeated 
 by Rupert and Eulalie. 
 
 Torellfl. Sweet voices I Methought I heard Eulalie's. 
 O, come, my love ! Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Sylvia. Had any one save thee told me this tale 
 Discredit would have paid his waste of breath. 
 So dark that grove is, and its air so full 
 Of night's fantasticism, thy whispers low
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 67 
 
 May have been rounded to a meaning big 
 With sense that had no birth in thy intendment. 
 Did'st thou not tell me of a peopled star? 
 If there be such a jewel in the heavens, 
 Point out its light. 
 
 Celio. That magnate brilliant, 
 
 Gleaming, opalesque, red, white, and blue. 
 Quivering and shuddering in its loveliness. 
 That star's inhabited. 
 
 Sylvia. It is, indeed, 
 
 A bright, first-water sphere. And in it dwell 
 Oberon and Titania, and their elves. 
 Did'st thou say that ? 
 
 Celio. I said it, and it's true. 
 
 Sylvia. King Oberon, a many years ago. 
 Divining that this grass-green, sea-green earth. 
 This emerald that sets off the golden sun, 
 Should be by mankind sadly under-priced ; 
 That this fair hanging garden, swung for elves 
 And men to revel in, this glorious stage 
 In heaven's theatre, so gallantly 
 Hung out and decked for elves and men to grace, 
 This temple, wherein all might minister, 
 Should be o'er-rioted, abused, profaned ; 
 That this globe, frescoed round by nature's art, 
 Should lose its beauty in the sight of men — 
 Men's eyes being jaundiced by a golden lust 
 To prize much more the hills' bright excrement, 
 Than their elate and sun-gilt brows of strength ; 
 That men, like children, wearied of a toy.
 
 68 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Would spoil its loveliness, in pieces rending 
 
 To put it to some use, or ravish out 
 
 The useless secret of creation : he, 
 
 The fairy king, slow-winged and sad of heart. 
 
 Searched out a new home from the host of heaven. 
 
 And chose that star for him and his to dwell in. 
 
 Celio. I said so. 
 
 Sylvia. And, beside, that this strange science 
 
 Impart to thee a darling fairy did — 
 One of a company that roam the earth 
 To happy and inspire such clay-clad souls 
 As recognize their heavenly geniture, 
 And separate them from the loathly world : 
 And that this spirit visits earth to-night 
 To revelate some pleasure new to thee. 
 Which thou, sweetheart, art going to share with me ? 
 
 Celio. Hark to that singing I 'tis the fairy's voice. 
 
 Ricpert. We o\ erheard you here unwillingly. 
 But with wills well inclined would now remain. 
 
 Celio. That's as the fairy pleases. Here he comes. 
 
 Cinthio. (To Faustine.^ All are engrossed: no fear of 
 our discovery. 
 We'll wait awhile, then slip unseen away. 
 
 Felice. (To Bruno.^ Here be miracles about to be. 
 
 Enter ist Faiiy. 
 
 1st Fairy. So7ig. 
 
 On the mountain's crown, 
 \\'hen the sun goes down.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 69 
 
 You may see me robed in the bright crimson. 
 
 In the still mid-night 
 
 When the moon shines bright, 
 
 I shimmer down on a beam of light. 
 
 I guide the mariner's crazy craft, 
 When the billows are raging high. 
 I glide before the wandering boor. 
 And lead him safe to his own house door 
 For love of charity. 
 
 I sit and sing in the poet's ear ; 
 I give him his thought and his rhyme : 
 The minstrel's hand with my unseen wand 
 I guide o'er the strings at a time. 
 
 Whatever is joyful and makes the world glad. 
 
 That is my lot to do. 
 
 I never am weary, I never am sad, 
 
 For my work my play is too. 
 
 Celio. He smiles ; our number does not anger him. 
 List ; he will tell us now unheard-of news. 
 
 Torello. Felice, Bruno ! are you by ? 
 
 Felice. We are here. Whisper softly, or you may break 
 the spell. 
 
 Torello. Who are those that talk and sing ? 
 
 Felice. I hear no talking and singing. The charm is 
 acting : these voices which we cannot hear herald the 
 approach of your deliverer. 
 
 Torello. I hope so ; but perhaps it is my imagination. 
 Have you really heard nothing ? There were first several 
 who spoke, and Eulalie's voice amcmg them, and then an
 
 yo AN UN HISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 angel sang. O, that some one would come ! It is horribly 
 cold standing here. 
 
 Bruno. Patience, patience. 
 
 Scipio. Patience, sir, is a great virtue. 
 
 Torello. But love is a greater ; for were I not in love, I 
 would have no patience. 
 
 1st Fairy. The pleasance of our starry residence, 
 In human, bald speech inenarrable. 
 Transcends your dreams of Arcady and Eden. 
 Yet every year we all descend to earth. 
 Because our memories are steeped in joy, 
 Which was our ancient mundane element 
 When men were heroes and the world was young, 
 And life was laughter, love, and noble spleen : — 
 Alas, for you, poor actors ! in heaven's sight 
 Ye play an after-piece abjectly low I — 
 Also, because there are — how few they be 1 — 
 Who love true riches and despise the false, 
 We leave our unimagined paradise 
 Upon the first night that fair Pleiad, May, 
 Begins her soft ascendance o'er the year, 
 And bringing summer with us, visit earth. 
 Even now I see our elfin nation come. 
 Descending like a shower of frosty snow 
 For lightness, and for loveliness like Iris 
 Speeding in rainbow colours through night's gloom. 
 Look how the lightning or the light doth pass : 
 So have the fairies travelled from their star ; 
 They left a minute since, and here they are.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 7 1 
 
 Enter Oberon, Titania, Puck, and the Fairies. The Fairies 
 dance and sing. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Weave the dance and sing the song ; 
 Subterranean depths prolong 
 The rainy patter of our feet ; 
 Heights of air are rendered sweet 
 By our singing. Let us sing, 
 
 Breathing softly, fairily. 
 
 Swelling sweetly, airily, 
 Till earth and sky our echo ring. 
 
 Rustling leaves chime with our song ; 
 
 Fairy bells its close prolong. 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong. 
 
 Philomel, sing loud and high, 
 Leader of our minstrelsy ; 
 No owl hoot, or raven cry ; 
 All glad sounds join harmony. 
 And let no faintest discord sigh. 
 
 Crickets chirrup merrily, 
 
 And grasshoppers cheerily, 
 Till our echo thrill the sky. 
 
 Rustling leaves chime with our song ; 
 
 Fairy bells its close prolong, 
 Ding-dong, ding-dong. 
 
 Eulalie. This is the harmony that filled my dream. 
 
 Rupert. Perfumes of lilies, roses, violets- - 
 Sweeter far than they : such a rich gust 
 Of warmth and scent they flood the air withal. 
 
 Celio. That is Titania with the golden hair. 
 And wreath of moon-flowers pale, which shows, methinks, 
 Like lightning round the sun.
 
 72 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Syhna. And see, her robe ! 
 
 It's a new colour. O, it aches my eyes ! 
 
 Rupert. And Oberon's a king, a very king. 
 
 Eulalie. My dream — this is my dream I 
 
 Ritpert. And to thy dream 
 
 I'll tell thee how I played god Morpheus. 
 But now with these good neighbours let us talk. 
 
 Eulalie. No ; let us feast our eyes and then our ears. 
 
 Torello. More music and voices ! This is no imagina- 
 tion : it is the charm's doing. I will say it again profounder : 
 Shemhamphorash. 
 
 Rupert. Moonlight and madness ! What a howl was that ! 
 
 Celio. What stands in the mid-stream ? 
 
 Sylvia. A man, bound, blinded. 
 
 Eulalie. It is Torello, sure. 
 
 Rupert. And I see two 
 
 Who know full well how he comes in this plight. 
 What's Puck about ? 
 
 Puck liberates Torello. 
 
 Torello. O hell ! art thou the devil ? Felice, Bruno, take 
 this imp away. Ha! what sights are here? Angels, and 
 fairies, and Eulalie and Rupert ! Perdition ! O, perdition ! 
 
 Felice. Be calm. Who unbound you ? 
 
 Torello. This little, grinning demon. 
 
 Felice. Where ? 
 
 Torello. Here, on my shoulder. Do you not see him? 
 And all this crowding crowd, and Rupert and Eulalie ? Do 
 you not? Do you not see them ? Ah me ! you cannot ; for 
 it is a vision. I will not suffer it. My doom is sealed.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. T^ 
 
 Farewell, fair Eulalie, farewell. Avaunt, thou hairy fiend 1 
 Thou shalt not have me. O, you pinch me I Oh ! oh I 
 
 [TORELLO runs out tormented by I'UCK. 
 
 Puck re-enters shortly. 
 
 Rupert. This is the wildest prank : we'll hear its source 
 another time. 
 
 Celio. Should not our queen of May interview the fairies? 
 Rupert. Well bethought. 
 
 Eulalie. Then I'll begin with thee. What elves are these, 
 Thou seem'st to lead in ordered companies ? 
 2nd Fairy. That the fairy army is. 
 
 Clad in rose-leaves, bravely worn ; 
 
 Pollen far outshines gold lace ; 
 
 Their helmets bright are husks of corn ; 
 
 Quivers of the adder's slough ; 
 
 Bows of legs of spiders slain ; 
 
 A cob-web string is strong enough 
 
 For a spear-grass arrow's strain, 
 
 With the sting of hornet tipped, 
 
 In the dew of hemlock dipped. 
 Eulalie. And what are you, ye varied, restless ones ? 
 jrc/ Fairy. We the fairies are who sleep. 
 
 Blanketed and pillowed deep 
 
 In the goldep, blooming folds 
 
 Of nightly-cradled marigolds. 
 
 Some with evening's blushes meek 
 
 Tinge the peach's downy cheek. 
 
 Feathers stolen from butterflies 
 
 Make our pencils : all the dyes
 
 74 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Of all the flowers we fairies know : 
 How bright daffodils to gild 
 In the saffron sunrise glow ; 
 To launder lilies in the snow ; 
 When midnight all the air has filled 
 We dip in purple gloom the pansy ; 
 When Cupid over-rules our fancy 
 For our loves we make incision ; 
 The daisies with our blood we dight, 
 Loosened from its veined prison ; 
 When we haste upon our mission 
 In a moonless, starless night, 
 Fire-flies, glow-worms lend us light. 
 
 Eulalie. Come hither, little brownie, dark and green. 
 1 prithee, tell me what thy fellows bin. 
 
 ^tJi Fairy. Wood-elves they, in russet dressed, 
 And they love the lindens best. 
 Hark, they hum our antique rune ! 
 A human fiddler learned the tune, 
 And played it at a merry-making : 
 Still he plays ; the clowns still dance 
 In a jolly, jigging trance ; 
 For them to rest there is no waking, 
 Till that fiddler learn to play 
 Backward our elfin melody. 
 
 Eulalie. And what are ye so beauteously dressed ? 
 
 j/A Fairy. River-spirits, golden-tressed, 
 
 With blue eye, and light-blue vest. 
 None can sing so sweet as we. 
 Joyfully or mournfully
 
 ACT V. SCENE 1. 75 
 
 And our chant is ever ringing : 
 
 Such a spell is in our singing, 
 
 Every listener hears aright 
 
 His own thought from the water-sprite. 
 Eiilalie. And ye ? 
 6th Fairy. We are sea-nymphs, sea-gi^een-haired, 
 
 Liquid-voiced, and liquid-eyed. 
 
 We will float with bosoms bared 
 
 On old Neptune's happy tide ; 
 
 There our filmy smocks to bleach 
 
 In the sun, and soft west wind : 
 
 Mortals, gazing from the beach 
 
 Think them foam-crests, fairy-blind. 
 Eulalie. And ye, the fairiest of all the fairies .'' 
 jth Fairy. We are most ethereal sprites. 
 
 Draped in merging rainbow lights. 
 
 Perfume is our dainty food ; 
 
 Ever varying is our mood. 
 
 Sometimes in a rose we shine ; 
 
 Now a girFs face make divine 
 
 For her sweetheart, lying hid 
 
 In her blush, or her eye-lid : 
 
 Unfelt we swing upon a hair : 
 
 To be lovely 's our sole care. 
 
 Sylvia. Titania waves her wand. O, will she speak ? 
 
 Tita?tia. All manner of delight attend your loves : 
 That you are lovers tasks no intuition ; 
 And we rejoice to think Cythera's son 
 His ancient craft plies with unbated skill,
 
 76 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Though there be some who hold he fled long since 
 
 For ever from his earthly hunting-ground, 
 
 While a usurper courses his preserves — 
 
 A hideous dwarf, disguised, who blindness feigns, 
 
 And shoots forged bolts that are indeed of gold, 
 
 But cast in Hades, of heavenly ore. 
 
 Lacking love's temper, and sweet-poisoned barb. 
 
 Truth has its part herein, sad sooth to tell, 
 
 For many a fight has Cupid with his foe. 
 
 And much the issue of their war is feared 
 
 In skyey quarters : well it is for you 
 
 That ye are lovers orthodox and true. 
 
 Every good wish is in this that I say — 
 
 May you be lovers till your dying day. 
 
 Wilt thou say something to them, Oberon ? 
 
 Oberon. Bless you, fair lovers — be7iedicite. 
 Kind damsels, let me kiss you. 
 
 Titajiia. Nay — why, then, 
 
 If thou wilt kiss the maids, I'll kiss the men. 
 
 [ They do accordingly, 
 Oberon. Mortals, farewell for ever and a day. 
 
 To-night we fairies wend the wide world round ; 
 And this our visitation each new May 
 
 To summer sweetness mellows air and ground. 
 The winds kiss from our lips a perfumed spoil, 
 
 And store the pillaged wealth in woods and bowers ; 
 Each fairy footstep swift impregns the soil. 
 
 And in our wake we leave a foam of flowers. 
 In orchard blossoms from our odoured hair 
 
 We shake rich drops that flavour all the fruit ;
 
 ACT V. scp:ne 1. 
 
 n 
 
 Nor lacks the grain our much-availing care : 
 
 Each thing is blessed where comes a fairy foot : 
 We bless all bridals true, all love that's chaste. — 
 Now, fairies, to the sea with utmost haste ! 
 
 Oberon, Titania, and theYTiw'xQ^ go Old. 
 
 Puck. Eveiy trick that erst I played 
 
 On horse or ox, on man or maid. 
 
 On jealous husband, grandam old, 
 
 On timid wight, or braggart bold, 
 
 On lazy slut, or busy lass — 
 
 To whom I through the key-hole pass, 
 
 Pinching slattern black and blue, 
 
 A tester dropping in thrift's shoe — 
 
 To-night I merrily repeat, 
 
 And all sight and hearing cheat. 
 
 Willy-wisp, spoorn, hag, or faun. 
 
 Urchin, changeling, pixy, pan, 
 
 All these shapes and names I bear, 
 
 Pressing like a dread night-mare 
 
 Full-fed losels, half-awake. 
 
 Rustling like the fierce fire-drake, 
 
 Shouting loud the whole night long 
 
 Witching spell or laughing song. 
 Voice. Come, come, come along 1 
 Puck. Hark I 'twas Oberon who cried 
 
 From the sandy, wet sea-side. 
 Voice. Come, come, come away ! 
 Puck, ril be with you, princely fay. 
 
 Ere again those words you say. 
 
 \Goi's out.
 
 78 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Eulalie. Hush I 
 
 Felice. This sport is o'er. We must go see]< Torcllo. 
 
 [Ff.lice, Bruno, and "^^cwio go out. 
 CintJiio. Come, Faustine ; this bright mask is played and 
 done. 
 Fair pioneers, we'll follow you anon. 
 
 [CiNTHio and Faustine go onl. 
 
 Enter Green and Ivy tipsy. 
 
 Ivy. By the light of Hecate's lamp — lamp, lamp ? What 
 rhymes with lamp ? Scamp ? cramp ? 
 Green. Damp. 
 Ivy. Damp ? Good. 
 
 By the light of Hecate's lamp, 
 
 May all poetry be damned ; 
 
 And each stupid poet-scamp, 
 
 May his invention take the cramp ! 
 There ! that's genius ! 
 
 Sylvia. O Celio, come ! I cannot bear these fools. 
 
 [Celio and Sylvia go out. 
 Ivy. Here be people ! 
 Green. And here be more ! 
 
 Entir Alardo, Guido, Martha, Onesta, and Mayers, ivith 
 CiNTHio and Faustine guarded. 
 
 Eulalie. Mother, what do you here ? 
 Mai'tha. You'll see anon. 
 
 Onesta. (To FAUSTINE.^ O, my lady, you must not blame 
 me ! I could not help it. My lord, your father
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 79 
 
 Giddo. Peace, well-named hypocritel- ( Aside to K\.K^\)0.) 
 
 This is your son, 
 With that low maid on whom he would devolve 
 The varied riches of his royal blood. 
 
 Alardo. Refer to his decree your daughter's case, 
 Thereby to see how far his judgment's warped. 
 (To Conrad.^ Reveal not yet your parentage, I pray. 
 
 Rupert. Why, how now, Guido? Sir, what mean you thus 
 With all this mob to break upon us here ? 
 
 Guido. My gracious prince, these two but now confessed — 
 What fear of torture from my daughter's maid 
 Had riven ours already — that to-night, 
 Faustine, havmg 'scaped by practises most vile, 
 Meant with this silly shepherd to elope, 
 He having stolen her heart from me, her sire ; 
 Though by what means they interchanged their lo\-es. 
 How spake, how saw each other, passes skill : 
 And both with fixed intent to rob your land 
 Of their two bodies and hidden wealth of issue, 
 In that same ship, whose captain is Sebastian 
 (Riders we have despatched to fetch him here). 
 Purposed themselves to carry off — fine caskets 
 Of so high value and unpriced contents, 
 All to your grace, and all to Belmarie, 
 And a fair moiety to me, belonging. 
 This knowing, and that, until time would serve 
 They here did hide, thinking the wood more safe 
 Than our exposed and pirate-haunted shores, 
 I, with these lords, came hither. On the way 
 Wc trained along with us these unbid Mayers,
 
 8o AN UN HISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Who must excuse themselves if they offend ; 
 
 Though for their help in finding out this haunt, 
 
 Subserving thus the law, they might be shrived. 
 
 A strange and most sweet music led us on ; 
 
 And we supposed to find the minstrels here, 
 
 And know from them of those love-guided truants. 
 
 In perpetration of their triple crime 
 
 We caught our night-errant lovers. Upon them 
 
 Immediate justice I do here demand 
 
 In your name, mine, and in that of the land. 
 
 Rupert. Which thou and it and they shall surely have. 
 Stand from the shade, ye social rebels. What ! 
 My Cinthio ! thou should'st have trusted me. — 
 This is the final doom that I decree. 
 Guido, take thou thy daughter in one hand, 
 Her lover in the other. Mother mine, 
 Here is my hand and here is Eulalie's. 
 Lord Guido, thou next best blood to the throne, 
 Surrender here into this shepherd's arms. 
 Thy well-beloved and only daughter, Faustine. 
 Good Martha, of the very lowliest stock. 
 On me. King Rupert, thy sweet child bestow. 
 I now revoke my first decree, and take 
 That title, which is mine, to make this right ; 
 For kings are higher than all laws but love. 
 Do as we bid, lord Guido ; join their hands. 
 As Martha now unites my love's and mine. 
 Do it, I say ; or else by Hymen's torch 
 I'll marry thee to Martha, and so make 
 Three marriages, by which a king becomes
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 8 1 
 
 A peasant's husband, and a subject's son ; 
 Obtains a mother — a poor fisher's widow- - 
 Who brings with her a lordly father-in-law, 
 A gentle sister, and a simple brother : 
 Thus I, a king, beget more new affection 
 Than love, which not incites this my election. 
 
 Alardo. Rash boy, forbear. 
 
 Rupert. My father ! 
 
 Alardo. Yes, Rupert ; 
 
 No ghost, in health, and likely long to live. 
 Leave go her hand ; and you, girl, let his go. 
 Woman, be you more careful of your child. 
 We wait to be obeyed. 
 
 Rupert. I'll not obey : 
 
 I owe no duty, know no king, but love. 
 
 Eulalie. Farewell, dear Rupert. Rupert and farewell 
 I say now finally : yet kiss me once. 
 My dream dispels before your father's frown. 
 Those fairies which we saw we did not see ; 
 I am still half asleep : when I awake 
 My cheated eyes will weep their own deceit. 
 Viewing my chamber's walls so falsely real. 
 Go to your father, prince ; I'll to my mother. 
 
 Faustine. I have no father, and I have no king 
 Save thee, my Cinthio, and my dearest love. 
 I see her heart is almost split in twain ; 
 But if they rive my body from thine arms. 
 My heart entire will stay there : I shall die. 
 
 Alardo. I had forgot : you two need not to part ; 
 Conrad will speak the barrier away. 
 
 F
 
 82 AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Cmthio. I do remember now two soothsayers. 
 
 Rupert. I see them in my father and this lord. 
 
 Conrad. You see aright. Shepherd, thou art my son. 
 I here have watched thee with a lynx's eyes, 
 And noted every motion of thy limbs, 
 Thy heart's each flutter and thy tongue's each word. 
 And every act ; and in thy very sighs. 
 Thine eye's upturning, there is limned past doubt 
 A faithful copy of thy heaven-homed mother. 
 But let me see the chain that's round thy neck. 
 Thou art my son I 
 
 CititJiio. My father 1 
 
 Giddo. Go, Faustine, 
 
 Go to him. Royal sir, my word is proved. 
 That women are but governed by their bloods. 
 
 Alardo. And dogs, and men, and angels I presume. — 
 But what to do with my sad son I know not. 
 
 Martlia. I'm going to disown thee, Eulalie. 
 Please it your gracious highness and fair prince. 
 This gentle lady is no child of mine. 
 Her parents both were noble : how they died, 
 And she, an infant, of her heritage 
 Was cozened by an uncle, I'll make plain 
 By names, dates, papers, birth-marks, jewellery. 
 I reared her as my own in low content. 
 And meant not to destroy her happiness 
 By telling her of her nobility, 
 Till she might claim her land with power to take. 
 
 Alardo. Prove what thou say'st, and they may wed to- 
 morrow.
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. 83 
 
 Rupert. Thanks, gracious father. It is true, I know. 
 What, Eulahe ! hast thou no energy ? 
 Art thou struck dumb ? Wilt thou not spring to me ? 
 How ! Would'st thou have me woo thee o'er again ? 
 A high dehght ! Then high-born maid, be coy. 
 
 Eulalie. O no, I need no wooing ; but I fear 
 Thou'lt love me in a manner different. 
 A lady I would be to marry thee ; 
 But with thy former love, pray love me still. 
 
 Rupert. With that, and every kind of love, I will. 
 Thou art — O what thou art I cannot say ! 
 I love thee, nor can tell how lovingly. 
 
 Itiy. I'll make a ballad of this, a proper ballad — a ballad 
 that would draw tears from a frog in the heart of a rock. By 
 Hecate, I will ! 
 
 Enter Officers with Sebastian. 
 
 Officer. This is the captain we were sent to take. 
 
 Alardo. Can'st thou say aught by way of an excuse ? 
 
 Sebastmft. King, I behold such happy faces here, 
 Glowing like stars in the grey morning air, 
 That I have little fear to say, I cannot. 
 It seems indeed that every star of heaven 
 With most auspicious aspect earthward turns. 
 I bring such tidings as will raise your brows 
 Much more than this new amity I see 
 Constrains surprise in me. Your appetites 
 Shall, when they have fed full of wonderment, 
 Fall to a second feast of happiness.
 
 64 AN UNHISTOKICAL PASTORAL. 
 
 Admiring, welcoming and hearing told 
 
 The ships, their crews, and unconceived escapes. 
 
 Alardo. What ships, crews, 'scapes ? 
 
 Sebastian. Those galleys four, ornate, 
 
 With all the gallant, living human freight 
 That sailed forth in the five, with wealth untold 
 Of bullion, spices, silks, and rarities, 
 Gathered in many lands and many seas, 
 Are in the harbour safe arrived but now. 
 
 Alardo. I cannot speak. Kind heaven, my knees I bow. 
 
 Mayers. Long live the King ! Long live Prince Rupert! 
 Long live our May-Queen ! 
 
 Greeft. Let us to the shore. 
 
 Ivy. Ay, that's the word ! Come, lads and lasses ! There 
 shall we have sight of ships we thought never to see, and 
 shake hands that we thought death had shaken, and hear 
 voices that we thought were singing with mermaids. O, 
 there will be kissing and embarassment, and sobbing and 
 lacrimony ! I will end my ballad with it. 
 
 Cinihio. Sebastian, all our voyaging is past 
 
 Sebastian. And paradise attained at home at last. 
 
 Ivy. Good captain, lead us on. 
 
 Sebastian. I pray you, wait. 
 
 Ivy. Sir, we have waited a year and a month, and can 
 tarry no longer. Come. 
 
 Mayers. Away, away ! 
 
 [Green, Ivy, Sebastian, aitd Mayers go out. 
 
 Alardo. Behold the blinking dawn with sleepy eyes 
 Peers from her cloudy lattice in the skies, 
 Early astir to see if it be time
 
 ACT V. SCENE I. S5 
 
 For Phcebus to awake and make day's prime. 
 
 Be glorious in thy rising, day-god bright, 
 
 For thou wilt usher us to that delight 
 
 We hardly dared to pray for : mark this day 
 
 With thy most splendid, most benignant ray ; 
 
 For fate has blessed it, and time seems to make 
 
 A new departure — yea of life to take 
 
 A fresh lease : so, henceforth, our years shall date. — 
 
 Follow us lovers linked in hands and hearts 
 
 Like true love-knots that strength or skill ne'er starts. 
 
 [Alardo, Conrad, ami Gu\do ^0 out. 
 
 Martha. Eulalie ! 
 
 Eulalie. Dear mother ! 
 
 Rupert. And mine too. 
 
 Cinthio. Now, let us wash our faces in the dew. 
 
 Rupert. O, I forgot th' observance of the day. 
 All hail my mistress, and my Queen of May I 
 
 Eulalie. I am afraid that all our joys but seem. 
 And I shall yet awake out of a dream. 
 
 Rupert. Have no such fear, my love. — Behold us, then, 
 Two happy maidens and two happy men. 
 Lo, wakened by the lark, his bellman true. 
 
 Armed with a torch that merrily doth shine, 
 Arrayed in saffron of the deepest hue 
 
 The sun, like Hymen, comes with smile benign ! 
 As long as his resplendent light shall bum, 
 May our love-tides increase, but never turn. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 A ROMANTIC FARCE 
 
 (Edinburgh, 1878).
 
 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Earl Edmund. 
 
 Sir Ja!\ies Montgomery. 
 
 Antinous. 
 
 Clown. 
 
 Captain Mercer. 
 
 Ringan Deane, a boy. 
 
 Lady Montgomery. 
 
 May Montgomery. 
 
 Mary-Jane. 
 
 Bellona. 
 
 Herminia. 
 
 Annie Smith, a prirl. 
 
 Scene: A Country Town in Scotland.
 
 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 SCENE. A room, opening off a ball-room. 
 
 Enter a lady dressed as an Amazon, and a gentleman dressed as a 
 Clown ; both masked. 
 
 Clotun. Fair warrior, how speed you in a fight, 
 If all foredone after the second waltz ? 
 
 Amazon. My soul is tired of folly, not my limbs. 
 Good clown, of your light wit enlighten me 
 Concerning somewhat cloudy. 
 
 Clown. Certainly. 
 
 My light wit if it may dispel your night, 
 Will flaunt as proudly as the sun. Behold I 
 
 \^Unmasks. 
 
 Amazon. You are too hot. I would not, sir, be scorched : 
 Becloud your beams again. Your eyes burn bright — 
 Oh ! — like the round holes carved in turnip-lamps, 
 Lit up by boys on witching hallow-e'ens 
 To fright their sisters and the serving-maids : 
 I am afraid : clap to the shutters, pray. 
 
 [Clown masks.
 
 90 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 Now, like the hollowed orbs of the baboon 
 Your eyes gleam furtively — like rush-lights dim 
 That steal into the night through secret chinks 
 Of steep-thatched huts in lonely, highland glens. 
 
 Clown. I might enlarge upon the periods 
 On either side your nose, that put an end 
 By saucy looks to any parleying 
 Save that of sharp-edged words ; but haste me now 
 To know the darkness which I must illume. 
 
 Aiiiason. What wight is he, as gentle Sidney dressed, 
 Who casts his wit about like pearls— I mean 
 Like pearl-less oysters, which the crowd accept. 
 Unskilled or unconcerned, as worth mirth's price, 
 While you and I perceive them what they are. 
 Sad fish indeed, old, stale, unsavoury ? 
 
 Clown. I've marked him well, but know not who he is : 
 He seems to be acquaint with comic writers. 
 Know you the nymph that danced with him but now — 
 She, with the rosy garland — only hue 
 About her white robe save her golden hair — 
 With frank blue eyes that always seem to ring 
 With peals of fairy laughter, summer's queen ? 
 
 Enter a gentlematt dressed as a Corsair, and a lady dressed as a 
 CONTADINA ; both masked. 
 
 Amazon. Hush ! 
 
 Clown. Ah ! 1 noted these in the last waltz. 
 
 Amazon. She's my full cousin ; he, a highland one. 
 I think they be in love.
 
 ACT I. 91 
 
 Enter a gentleman dressed as an Elizabethan CouRTiER, and a lady 
 dressed to symbolize Summer. After them runs in hurriedly a 
 lady dressed as a Scotch Peasant-girl. They are masked. The 
 Courtier shuts the door and puts his back against it. 
 
 Cloivn. Our cynosures I 
 
 Amazon. Indeed ! Pray, let me out. 
 
 Courtier. Superb she-warrior, rest you here a space : 
 Nay, frown not, most redoubted amazon : 
 I have a thing to say : I'll say it now. 
 That which the world calls folly is my trade, 
 Unwitting that its trade is only folly. 
 I neither crave the statesman's rancid fame, 
 The sailor's vogue, the soldier's red renown. 
 Nor care I to discover : Africa 
 Agrees not well with my adventurous sprite ; 
 The negress is not lovely — that's the die : 
 Nor is the Arctic climate amorous. 
 
 I wrote a book Good lack, the solitude I 
 
 But first the woe by which I was confined I 
 
 O Luna, of thy tenderness I pray, 
 
 Let me no more be fructified by woe 1 
 
 The highway.'' — F"ie on steam and liveried lightning !— 
 
 Whate'er I fancy if I may I do. 
 
 A happy notion fills me now ; give ear, 
 
 Gentle and lovely ladies, gentlemen. 
 
 Sprightly and handsome. Will you hearken it t 
 
 ( They assent. ) 
 It is my earnest hope to make you mad.— 
 These gala robes wherein we now are dressed. 
 Why should we cast for good and all to-night,
 
 92 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 To don the wintry worldling's dingy slough, 
 
 Returning sadly to the crysalis ? 
 
 Fashion, propriety, convention ? — Tush ! 
 
 Let us like noble heretics protest 
 
 Against all dogmas false and fashionable, 
 
 And, if need be, with righteous resignation 
 
 Attest our faith in glorious martyrdom, 
 
 Tied to opinion's stake, and burned by tongues 
 
 Of scandalous fire, blazing from faggot hearts. 
 
 Then, gentle friends, since such is our resolve, 
 
 We can do nothing nobler than attack 
 
 Fashion's main-stay, the discipline of dress. 
 
 I swear that you may well with less ado 
 
 Worship the sun, keep harems, or, like France 
 
 When liberty became beside herself. 
 
 Extend the week from seven days to ten — ■ 
 
 Yea, set apart and consecrate each day 
 
 To traversing with all your might and main, 
 
 In order, Moses' ten ' commandements,' 
 
 Than steadfast be in non-observance brave 
 
 Of the great ordinance of dressing all 
 
 In fashion's right religious uniform. 
 
 So, shall we dare the world ? Who says with me. 
 
 To wear this fancy dress to-morrow too 
 
 In the sun's kindly, and the world's ill, eye ? 
 
 Amazon. Suppose we do, what issue do you see ? 
 
 Courtier. Whatever fantasies our minds may don 
 We shall expound with these our fancy clothes. 
 There is none here, I think, to whom I'm known, 
 Nor do I know a single one of you ;
 
 ACT I. 93 
 
 So I propose that each assume some name 
 To complement the dress worn, to be used 
 While we are in this mood. 
 
 Clown. fZf? Amazon.^ If that were fixed 
 
 You should be called war's bride, Bellona bold. 
 
 Bellona. Bellona would be bold to call you clown. 
 
 Corsair. (To Zo^TKHl^K.) I'll call you — what? — Some 
 lingering name : Herminia. 
 
 Herminia. Herminia ! 
 
 Corsair. What name for me, Herminia? 
 
 What word, however harsh, would, by your lips, 
 Be sweetened to a note of Syren strength. 
 That, whispered, should have force to summon me 
 From Iceland to Ceylon. Tell me, Herminia. 
 
 Hermiitia. I think Antinous should be your name. 
 
 Courtier. (To Summer.^ And you, sweet Summer — Flora? 
 
 Sinnmer. I'd be called, 
 
 And for no other reason than I would. 
 Not Flora, no, nor Maud, but Mary-Jane. 
 
 Courtier. (To Peasant-GIRL.J Sweet lowland lass — 
 alas, without a lad ! — 
 Will you be of us and yourself re-christen. 
 
 Peasant-girl. I harboured here to shun a horrid man 
 Whom I saw like a pirate, bearing down 
 To rob me of a dance. I'll sport with you. 
 
 Courtier. What name, then, lassie ? — Effie, Jeanie, Katie? 
 
 Peasant-girl. No ; call me May Montgomery, if you 
 please. 
 
 Courtier. What ? May Montgomery ! Why choose that 
 name ? 
 None of the rest have been extravagant
 
 94 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 To take a surname's luxury. 
 
 May. Let me — 
 
 Nay, for I will : I'll not be in the fashion : 
 And it will be a pleasing penance, too. 
 
 Courtier. A pleasing penance I Can you tell us how ? 
 
 May. I scarcely like. But, sir, I like your play, 
 Because I would be called Montgomery'. 
 
 Courtier. Then, May Montgomeiy, tell us your romance. 
 
 May. Alas, the speed I have to tell my tale 
 Is slow as melancholy thoughts can be, 
 That strike as often as a passing-bell : 
 A bitter-sweet confession I must make. 
 
 ladies, do not fit your faces, pray, 
 For some iniquity I Sadly, 'tis this. 
 In Paris, where I lived a year ago, 
 
 A youth fell sick in love for worthless me : 
 
 1 marvel now, though then I thought it due : 
 Yet love creates, being a divinity. 
 
 What it affects ; and his most holy love 
 
 Inspired poor me with beauty not my own, 
 
 Though still I wonder that what grace I have 
 
 Could be enriched with such induement sweet 
 
 As he cast over it ; for at that time 
 
 He lacked his passion's courage, so he wrote 
 
 A tender tale whose heroine was me, 
 
 But metamorphosed to a deity. 
 
 The book is throbbing like his fiery heart : 
 
 This I have learned with memorizing it : 
 
 And now it is my only orison. 
 
 My only literature, my only joy.
 
 ACT I. 95 
 
 I lull myself to sleep low-murmuring it, 
 
 And in my dreams its sweetest scenes enact : 
 
 I waken smiling in his tender arms, 
 
 And sob to find mine clasped about myself. 
 
 After his book he came to hear his doom : 
 
 Trembling he stood : I, wanton, doomed us both — 
 
 Him to his grave, for then I loved him not; 
 
 Myself, to love him now most hopelessly. 
 
 And May Montgomery in his book I am : 
 
 Pray, call me so ; it is a lovely name. 
 
 Courtier. And is your lover dead ? 
 
 May. I fear it, sir. 
 
 Courtier. Now, are we named anew, all except me. 
 How will you call me ? Come, give me a name. 
 What in his story is your lover hight ? 
 
 May. Earl Edmund ; and the whisper went that he 
 By right was lord of many lands and towers 
 In Scotland here : but that I do not know. 
 
 Courtier. I pray you, bid me take that name. 
 
 May. O no ! 
 
 Earl Edmund ! That were blasphemy I — But yes : 
 I will be glad to speak it out aloud. 
 
 Edinitnd. Speak it, I pray, as often as you choose. — 
 Well, I am tired of barring up this door. 
 So, on the morrow, by the stroke of noon 
 Be all together, dressed as now we are, 
 Assembled at the distant, dusky end 
 Of that most pleasant pathway of the glen, 
 Where lovers, shaded by a green arcade, 
 Wander toward eventide, slow, silently.
 
 96 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 May. The Alley of Sighs. 
 
 Edmund. So is it called, I think. 
 
 Belloiia. What there to do, I pray you ? 
 
 Edmund. I know not : 
 
 Plan nothing, and you'll see a wondrous plot. 
 
 Meantime, unmask, and let us see ourselves. 
 
 [ They unmask. 
 Now, call our names. 
 
 They go out, repeating their new names. Mary-Jane and May 
 
 Montgomery re-enter immediately. 
 
 May. Sweet mother, do you know how well you look ? 
 They all think you at least as young as I. 
 
 Mary-Jane. My darling, it is you who keep me young : 
 The world is young while you are fresh and fair. 
 1 was eighteen when you were born, my dear : 
 I'm more than twice your age, for you're sixteen. 
 
 May. Which no one will believe. — To think that I 
 At fifteen should be loved with such a love 
 As poor Earl Edmund's was 1 — Now, Mary-Jane, 
 Do you intend to play in this new game ? 
 
 Mary-Jane. I think they merely mean a passing joke. 
 
 May. O no ! it is to be an earnest joke. 
 Do let them call me May Montgomery ! 
 Besides, he whom I am to call Earl Edmund 
 Has got his eyes and voice — indeed he has. 
 
 Mary-Jane. Well, we will go to-morrow to the glen : 
 I like the company of sprightly men : 
 And you will have this earl to clarify 
 The sorrow-shaded cheek, and tear-dimmed eye. 
 
 May. O Mary- Jane, I am a widow too ! 
 
 I'll never wed another ; nor will you. 
 
 [ They go out.
 
 ACT I. 97 
 
 Re-enter Earl Edmund. 
 
 Edmund. She looks at me perplexed and wistfully ; 
 
 But I am certain that she knows me not. 
 
 How should she ! When her memory might have caught 
 
 A faithful copy of me, love, unrisen, 
 
 Shrank from the dawn : and so it is that now 
 
 When love has flooded all her life, the shape 
 
 Conceived of me within her inmost heart 
 
 Must be the picture of a false ideal : 
 
 I dread to think how fine a thing she loves. 
 
 I'm glad she cannot pierce my sanguine mood, 
 
 And find the haggard child of pain and care. 
 
 Who, pain being dead, and in pale care's despite, 
 
 Has laughed himself to pleasant looks and strength. 
 
 Of my identity the sudden news 
 
 Would to my suit hardly be suitable : 
 
 Wherefore I'll fall upon some easy course, 
 
 And gently glide unfelt into her heart. 
 
 \_Gocs Old.
 
 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE. The Alley of Sighs. 
 Enter Ringan Deane and Annie Smith. 
 
 Ringan. What is the meaning of your face to-day ? 
 Will you not speak ? Then sit down here awhile. 
 
 (They sit. She gives him a daisy.) 
 But Annie, speak. This flower is very well : 
 Now let me have some blossoms ^rom your tongue. 
 What are these roses struggling in your cheeks, 
 And withering with your waxing, waning smile, 
 Which something means and yet is that thing's veil ? 
 Is it love's sun that rises ? Is it love 
 Beginning to embalm your heart's sweet flood, 
 And dyeing deep the roses that now die, 
 Now flourish in your cheeks ? — If you'll not speak 
 Then here's a thing to do. Read this aloud. 
 
 ( Gives her a paper. ) 
 And read it in your softest, dreamiest tones ; 
 Clothe with your voice my verses' skeletons. 
 
 Annie. (Readiiig.) 
 
 Where have you been to-day, Annie Smith, 
 
 Where have you been to-day ? 
 By the shore where the river becomes a frith ? 
 
 Or up on the hills, away
 
 ACT II. 99 
 
 By purple heather and saffron broom 
 
 Like clouds at the sunset hour, 
 And all the well-kent flowers that bloom 
 
 In each breezy hill-side bower? 
 
 Were you there, Annie Smith, that your face is so gay 
 
 And your eyes so laughing and blue ? 
 Was it there that you spent the whole of the day ? 
 
 Or, tell me, darling, were you 
 In the leafy wood where the grass grows thick 
 
 With the fairies at their play ? 
 Did you flirt with Oberon, dance with Puck, 
 
 That your face, Annie Smith, is so gay ? 
 
 Where have you been to-day, Annie Smith, 
 
 That you smile so gaily on me ? 
 By the shore where the river becomes a frith ? 
 
 Or were you upon the sea ? 
 Did you sail in a pearly shell, Annie Smith, 
 
 With your hair flying free ? 
 Do your laughing blue eyes tell, Annie Smith, 
 
 Such a happy tale of the sea ? 
 
 Or were you down in the caves, Annie Smith, 
 
 With the mermaids under the sea ? 
 Did the mermen beneath the waves, Annie Smith, 
 
 Try to catch and keep you from me ? 
 Or did you fly through the air all the day ? 
 
 Did you frolic with the wind ? 
 Did you dine with the man in the moon, I pray, 
 That your face and your eyes are so laughing and gay? 
 Come, Annie, Annie, be quick and say 
 Where you have been the whole of the day, 
 
 In your body or in your mind ?
 
 lOO A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 II. 
 
 Where have you been, Annie Smith, to-day. 
 
 That your face and your eyes are so cahn ? 
 Did you hear in the church the minister pray ? 
 
 Did you join in the holy psalm ? 
 Did he tell of the solemn joys of the blest, 
 
 That your face is so calm and serene. 
 That you seem to have ended each earthly quest ? 
 
 In the church, Annie Smith, have you been ? 
 
 Or did you stand on the shore, Annie Smith, 
 
 And gaze away to the west ? 
 Did you stand where the river becomes a frith. 
 
 With your hands folded over your breast. 
 And gaze at the golden skyey gate 
 
 As the sun passed through sublime ? 
 Did you get this shadowy light of fate 
 
 On your face at the sunset time ? 
 
 Or are you an angel, Annie Smith, 
 
 For a time from your blessedness riven. 
 
 To guide me over the cold, wan, frith 
 Of death to your happy heaven ? 
 
 Ringan. O, you might precept Mercury's elocution, 
 And teach the Muses and the Syrens singing. 
 Annie. And do you love me, then ? 
 Ringan. You know I do. 
 
 Annie. I love you — and I love you, Ringan Deane. 
 
 {E)iier Clown.) 
 
 O, what a curious-looking gentleman ! 
 
 Clown. A pretty pair, indeed ! — And who are you ?
 
 ACT II. lot 
 
 Annie. He is a poet, and I am his sweetheart. 
 Clown. A poet is he, sweetheart ! Lack-a-day ! 
 
 Bid him go hang or drown without ado ; 
 And in Elysium while you live, he'll pray 
 
 For showers of blessing to descend on you, 
 Whose high behest despatched him to that clime 
 
 Of peaceful pleasure and warm purple dusk, 
 Ere rained calamity and mouldering time 
 
 Could rot his spirit in its carnal husk. 
 Or if you needs must keep him, be prepared 
 
 For daily infidelity, my dear, 
 For you will find your part in him is shared 
 
 By every beauty he may see or hear ; 
 Whether it be of seas, of flowers, of skies, 
 
 A wind, a woman, or a music note. 
 His hungry passion hugs it till it dies, 
 
 Leaving him happy with a new-born thought. 
 Annie. He being a poet, must it be so with him ? 
 Clown. It is the poet's health and his disease, 
 His joy, his sorrow, his belief and whim. 
 
 His bane and blessing, and his itch and ease. 
 His night and day, his pestilence and breath. 
 His summer, winter, heaven, hell, life, and death, 
 This passion, shackled to its own desire. 
 
 Unchained, unchainable within that range. 
 
 Sateless, bateless, changing without change, 
 Consuming beauty after beauty, higher 
 To toss its blood-stained, heaven-scaling fire. 
 
 Enter Edmund.
 
 I02 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 Good-morrow, noble earl. What, you look pale I 
 
 By every gentle oath that is not stale 
 
 You are a votary of Cupid's throng, 
 
 And have been keeping vigil all night long 
 
 At some high window, or in some lone grove ; 
 
 For it is still the doom of those in love — 
 
 O cruelty, most condign and refined I — 
 
 To watch with Dian and her nymphs unkind. 
 
 And, like chameleons, take the stars' wan hue, 
 
 The while their purple hearts love's fire burns through. 
 
 Last night you seemed unharmed of Venus' son. 
 
 What ! has your cheeks' red radiance trickling gone 
 
 Out by a broach of last night's archery. 
 
 When Cupid vol eyed shafts from many an eye ? 
 
 Edmund. Late hours, good clown, late hours : I swear 
 that's all. 
 
 Clown. No ; you are in love : I am sure of it. Now, 
 take a little advice from me. Do not addle your brain by 
 imagining that you love a particular lady. You are in love : 
 that's all ; and that's enough. O these romancists ! It is 
 womankind you love : and these wonderful ladies, if it were 
 not for novels and poetry and tradition, and heredity, perhaps, 
 would never dream of bestowing their affections on an 
 individual. The world's a mere expansion of Adam and 
 Eve : I look upon it as one man and one woman — as man- 
 hood and womanhood : and I believe, if you sounded the 
 thought of the world, you would find that is how it regards 
 itself. 
 
 Edmund. I know a lady who will ne\er regard the world 
 in that light.
 
 ACT II. 103 
 
 Clown. O, unsophisticated youth ! 
 Ednmnd. A maid whose bosom is a nunnery chaste, 
 Where spotless thoughts like votaresses dwell. 
 
 Clown. There is not a maid, wife, or widow, whose fancy 
 any man, if he set himself to it, could not conquer ; nor any 
 man whom any woman could not subdue if she chose. 
 
 Edmund. One single fancy like an upright king 
 Sways her most constant loyalty : my love 
 Conceives not that there is in all the world 
 Another man save me ; and I, no maid. 
 
 Clown. I would undertake to make your saintly lady love 
 me, and forget you altogether. 
 
 Edmund. O, rather would I have my lady hear 
 The hiss of serpents and the howl of hell. 
 Than have the rose-bud beauty of her ear 
 Sullied by such a tale as you would tell ! 
 For though a pure portcullis' instant fall 
 
 Would cut your foul breath from her cloistered brain, 
 On the pink portal like a sooty pall, 
 
 I fear its filthiness might long remain. 
 If you dared ope your lips and let them hold 
 Most distant parley with a noisome theme, 
 Her eyes would lighten out their glance of gold, 
 And strike you dumb for ever. O, you dream ! 
 Clown. You talk, you talk. Honestly I admire your 
 youthful enthusiasm. But these clear-starched opinions, 
 which young men collar themselves with in the first moon of 
 manhood, will soon soil, and be washed and wrung to a rag. 
 But truly, I am in love myself. 
 Edtnund. With whom ?
 
 I04 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 Clown. She wears the habit of an amazon, 
 And flings her limbs as though they ne'er had moved 
 In Chinese steps within a frock's confine ; 
 Whistles, lays hand on hip, laughs at her ease, 
 And seems to signify of two things, one- 
 Come, kiss me if you choose, or, if you dare. 
 
 Enter Antinous, Herminia, May Montgomery, Mary-Jane, 
 and Bellona. 
 
 Edinimd. Good morning, and good morning, gentle friends. 
 Bellona. And who are these ? 
 
 Clown. A sweetheart and her poet. 
 
 May. (To Annie.) Tell me your name, and I will tell you 
 
 mine. 
 
 [May and Annie talk apart. 
 
 Ringan. (To Mary-Jane.^ O lady, summer's essence, 
 centuries 
 Of sunlight from your eyes my being flood. 
 The sweetest damask of a season's bloom 
 Of roses dyes your cheeks, your tender breath 
 Is sweeter than their scent, and in your hair 
 There shines more gold than ever July spent 
 In gilding leagues of wheat. 
 
 Mary -Jane. Ha, ha ! good boy. 
 
 You'd better deem me dressed as winter, though. 
 
 Ringan. O, were you in a snow-drift clad, and hung 
 With icicles about, a glance would tell 
 That you were summer masquerading. Lo ! 
 You are the summer, and you could not hide, 
 No more than Venus with her girdle on 
 Could pass for Hecate. And I love you, lady.
 
 ACT II. 105 
 
 Mary-Jane. Now, you are foolish, sir. 
 
 \Crosses to Edmund. 
 
 Ringan. I fear I am. 
 
 [ZzVj down tinder a tree. 
 
 Belhna. Have you ever been in love ? 
 
 Clown. I am not such a fool. 
 
 Bellona. Not such a man, you mean. You are all fools 
 till you be in love — great, lubberly, ill-bred, selfish clowns. 
 And when the selfish passion seizes you, then — then — O then I 
 
 Clown. Why, what then ? 
 
 Bellona. Then you become ten times great, lubberly, ill- 
 bred, selfish clowns. Men are all, and always, fools. — Earl 
 Edmund we are here. What then ? 
 
 Edmund. Impatient amazon, thus then it is : 
 This hour you must complete as best you can ; 
 When it is sped, here gather all again, 
 And on the grass partake a sylvan feast : 
 There shall not want for music ; if for song. 
 The blame be with yourselves. Be happy, all. — 
 Sweet May Montgomery will you walk with me ? 
 
 [Edmund and May go ant. 
 Bellona. I'll walk alone. 
 
 (Ringan rushes foriuard.) 
 
 Well boy, you look distraught. 
 
 Ringan. O incarnation of what nymph so e'er, 
 
 I knew not what it is to love till now ; 
 
 For never have I seen in any maid 
 
 So much to love as in this heaven appears. 
 
 Some maidens are like night, and some like day. 
 
 But hear me swear, since day and night began
 
 Io6 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 There has not overhung a thrilled, hushed world 
 A night so bossed with points of admiration, 
 As o'er my soul is imminent in you, 
 Studded with stars of love-enforcing power ; 
 Nor has there shone a day so bounteous 
 Of every largesse to a thankful world. 
 But that the joyous motion you instil 
 Throughout my life transcends its benefice : 
 Wherefore, vouchsafe to hear me cry, I love you ; 
 And frown not, for the night should never frown 
 Upon the humble flower that yields its scent. 
 Its sole ability of offering ; 
 The day should never lower upon the lake 
 Exhaling tears, which is its grateful life. 
 O, be not angry that the life of love 
 Which you infuse in me, here at your feet 
 For further inspiration or for blight, 
 Lies lowly, and the ground you tread on kisses. 
 (Falls on the ground.) 
 
 Bellona. But what of that fair girl, your sweetheart there? 
 
 Ritigan. Talk not of her. I never loved her. No ! 
 I thought I did, for she was prettiest : 
 But having seen you I have seen the sun. 
 And never more will languish for a star. 
 
 Bellona. You are a foolish boy. 
 
 Rmgatt. What shall I do ? 
 
 [Goes out. 
 
 A7inic. O, he has left me ! O, my heart will break ! 
 
 Herininia. His haste forgot his love. You should not 
 weep.
 
 ACT II. 107 
 
 Annie. It was not haste. These ladies ! O, my heart ! 
 Clown. I told you what to look for. 
 Bellona. Out on you ! — 
 
 Come, we'll devise a way to bring him back. 
 
 [Mary-Jane, Bellona, and A'S'sib. go oict. Chow a follows. 
 
 Antinoits. (Singing.) 
 
 The bee sucks honey from the flower, 
 
 Because the sweets are there : 
 I love a maiden in her bower. 
 
 Because the maiden's fair. 
 
 The morning flower turns round his head 
 
 To greet the rising sun ; 
 My love turns all to you, sweet maid. 
 
 And so my song is done. 
 
 [Antinous and Herminia go out.
 
 Io8 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE. — A Garden. 
 Enter Lady Montgomery aud Captain Mercer. 
 
 Mercer. I'm glad we've met. How long ago was that ? 
 
 Lady M. Since she was stolen it is fourteen years ; 
 Yet in that time no tears have wet my eyes : 
 For when we knew the darling child was lost, 
 My husband all his other hopes gave up — 
 His office, and advancement, whose sure strides 
 Pursued him constantly, dogged as time ; 
 His friends and schemes political ; his fame, 
 Which years and dignity bore shoulder-high : 
 He gave them all to buy this little pearl 
 Whose price exceeds the value of the world. 
 O, in our heart her dainty shape is shrined, 
 And keeps it pulsing ; and she goes not out 
 Till wintry death expel her summer reign. 
 And freeze that ruddy home to be his house. 
 
 Mercer. Why, fourteen years ago I lost a wife, 
 The sweetest girl that ever blessed a man. 
 Some happy months, and then I crossed the seas : 
 I sailed from Naples, and she went to Rome. 
 When I returned my friends in Rome were gone. 
 Whether I found not. Then my wife had died,
 
 ACT III. 109 
 
 I thought, in child-bed, and looked up the news. 
 
 I did not there discover what I feared, 
 
 But found in place a most conflicting tale 
 
 Of brigandage ; and murders had been done. 
 
 Some ransomed, some let go, some corpses found, 
 
 Left unaccounted for a child and woman. 
 
 I searched until my purse and I were lank. 
 
 In hope to find these two ; then, back to sea. 
 
 Having made many voyages and much wealth 
 
 I still pursued my calling, for in it 
 
 I found from sorrow refuge ; though, alone. 
 
 In midnight watches I have often wept 
 
 To hear the waves with melancholy tongues 
 
 Lapping my ship, to see the crowded stars 
 
 Rejoicing like a family in heaven. 
 
 And so I marvel that you, being a woman. 
 
 From weeping should refrain since love so great 
 
 Beats in your heart for such a priceless loss. 
 
 Lady M. The war of hope and fear made desolate 
 The wine-press of our tears immediately ; 
 And since the imminence of our great loss, 
 Our constant, wearisome world-wandering 
 Has all unqualified our eyes for tears : 
 I tell you we have gone through all the world. 
 First every city, town, Italian croft. 
 All hermitages, and all robbers' dens, 
 From wintry Blanc to fiery Etna's base, 
 We searched, or sharpened others' eyes with gold 
 To ransack for our treasure : if two beings, 
 Having between them for their inspiration
 
 no A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 One soul alone, might lose it, and yet move 
 
 To seek their riven life, with wanner looks, 
 
 With ghostlier, more eagle-sighted eyes. 
 
 Than those with which we glanced through Italy, 
 
 They could not pierce the region that they haunt : 
 
 Obscurity was all revealed to us. 
 
 Thereafter every morn a measured space 
 
 Of weary world our gaunt eyes oversee : 
 
 Round with the day from east to west we go. 
 
 Twelve years, now past, from Rome we westward hied ; 
 
 And here, grown old, foot-sore, heart-sore, and poor 
 
 In earthly gold, but rich in hope's bright coin. 
 
 We wander west again. 
 
 Mercer. Most noble souls ! 
 
 You shall not lack for gold while I have wealth. 
 O, you administer a chastisement 
 To my unwinged proceedings in my search 
 For wife and child, which should have distanced yours 
 Who travel only for a daughter. 
 
 Lady M. No ; 
 
 She is our niece, but loved more than a daughter. 
 
 Mercer. I never heard, nor read, of such a love. 
 
 Lady M. O, but you never saw, nor shall behold 
 So lovable a creature ! I would more 
 Lose her and pine for her than be the dame, 
 The happy dame, of seven lusty boys 
 Like any I have seen — the loveliest. 
 
 Mercer. What kin is she ? — your husband's or your own ? 
 
 Lady M. Her father was my husband's elder brother ; 
 His wife died when our little one was born.
 
 ACT III. 
 
 I reared her, loved her, and her infancy 
 
 Laid hold upon my husband. Six years passed ; 
 
 And then her father wished her back again. 
 
 Upon that news a sickness of my husband's 
 
 Became a malady that claimed my care. 
 
 Dividing so my grief. A worthy priest, 
 
 Once chaplain to her father, leaving us — 
 
 We spent the summer in the Appenines^ 
 
 We trusted our one jewel to his care. 
 
 But on the way a brigand regiment 
 
 Killed him and others who would not submit. 
 
 The captives being ransomed, she was missed, 
 
 She and her nurse ; and fourteen years reveal 
 
 But little further light. Her father's dead ; 
 
 She is our ward ; and we, her only friends. 
 
 Mercer. What news is this ! A woman and a child 
 In both our stories unaccounted for ! 
 You spoke of further light. 
 
 Lady M. Hope not too much. 
 
 We met one, Julio, twice among the hills, 
 Where he confessed he led the robber-band 
 That wrought our woe ; but of the nurse and child 
 Professed whole innocence and ignorance. 
 When he was captured and condemned to die 
 He asked to see my husband. Penitent, 
 He told him all he knew, a dreadful tale. 
 While others plundered, he had marked a maid 
 Who carried in her arms a lisping child : 
 Seizing his fancy, her he laid hold upon ; 
 She struggled hard ; he, in his greedy haste —
 
 112 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 For though the leader, if he took her not 
 
 And any other were possessed of her, 
 
 He might not claim her — the loud-screaming babe 
 
 Tore from her, bent to kill ; but on its breast, 
 
 Its clothing being rent, there gleamed a cross 
 
 Of gold, whereon in diamonds quaintly set 
 
 Christ hung on ruby nails with ruby blood : 
 
 It turned aside his purpose. Nigh them knelt 
 
 Another woman, wringing of her hands, 
 
 And weeping o'er another infant dead. 
 
 Afraid to desecrate the symbol blest. 
 
 He pressed the child, from early earthly death 
 
 Saved by the cross, into this Rachel's arms. 
 
 And swung the maid, discumbered harshly so. 
 
 Upon his horse, and kept her for his own. 
 
 The other woman with the cross-saved child 
 
 Escaped, and took with her a store of gold. 
 
 Mercer. This woman who escaped must be my wife 
 It is my wife ! Resource was still her forte ; 
 By countless proofs her sleight of head she showed. 
 Nor were her hands less cunning in their kind. 
 I have not known in any clime of earth. 
 Where trade constrained, or pleasure led me on. 
 One of her sex likelier for such a deed 
 As this checkm.ating of the brigand band : 
 And with it all a girl most feminine ; 
 The deepest scrutiny would never dream 
 What strength lay sleeping with an open eye 
 Beneath her melting gaze and rosy mouth, 
 Like fire that underburns a flowery mead.
 
 ACT III. 113 
 
 Pardon me, pray, I have not talked of her 
 To any one alive for many years. 
 Why she should travel in that company, 
 Not leaving word, nor sending any news, 
 I can but marvel. 
 
 Lady M. Here my husband comes. 
 
 Enter SiR James Montgomery. 
 
 Sir James. News, news ! 
 Lady M. O heaven ! 
 
 Sir James. I'll tell you as we go. 
 
 [ They go out.
 
 114 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 SCENE.— ^ IVflod 
 Enter Edmund and May. 
 
 May. Where is your bubbling mirth that overflowed 
 In fresh, fantastic volume yester-eve ? 
 If doleful thoughts should shadow any face, 
 My past might countenance such mirroring. 
 And see, I laugh ; yea, by all merry things 
 Light-hearted am I ! 'Tis the sun, I think. 
 Why are you sad ? If you still raise your brows, 
 And stare so, like a spaniel, and unslack 
 The pressure of your lips, I'll think, indeed. 
 You mean to mimic my lost love, and steal 
 With stolen looks my heart. 
 
 Edmund. Am I like him ? 
 
 May. When you look sad you are, and when you laugh, 
 I think he would have laughed so if he could. 
 
 Edtnimd. You think him dead. 
 
 May. Sometimes, and sometimes not. 
 
 Edmu?td. Say you were certain of his death, what then ? 
 
 May. In weeds that widows wear I'd hide myself 
 In some far lonely land, and mourn for him 
 Among the hills and streams ; and read his book ; 
 And, feeding seld and spare, woo fickle death. 
 Who flirts with weaklings and bears off the strong. 
 For one cold kiss to take my soul to him.
 
 ACT IV. 115 
 
 Edmund. There is no man that's worthy of such love. 
 
 May. I think not of his worth or want of worth ; 
 I love him. But if gentle manliness, 
 Beauty, and honour, and unsounded passion 
 Deserve a maid's devotion, my poor love 
 Is but a scanty tribute to his worth ; 
 And — woe, alas ! — its date of payment past, 
 And the robbed creditor far hence or dead. 
 Its garnered hoard weighs heavy on my heart. 
 
 Edmtmd. Fear not, fear not. There's something 
 whispers me 
 Your love will be rewarded, in so far 
 As to possess your sweetheart can amend 
 The lengthy woe you suffer for his sake. — 
 Now, here's a thing to do to make you glad. 
 Suppose that I'm the true and true-loved earl : 
 I'll go into that grove, and suddenly 
 Emerging, light on you ; and you will know me, 
 Or I will know you, or we'll know each other, 
 Or let our unthought act the instant mould. 
 
 May. O, in his story there's a scene like that ! 
 I'm sitting reading in my sweetheart's book 
 A passage where he finds me reading it. 
 
 Edmtmd. A curious notion ! 
 
 May. Shall we act that scene ? 
 
 Edmtmd. Yes, if you please. But have you got the book? 
 
 May. Yes ; here it is. Now hide ; and I will change 
 To suit the place the passage. 
 
 Edmtmd Very well. 
 
 [Goes out.
 
 Il6 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 May. (Reading.) "Now it chanced that May Montgomery 
 was resident in this town at the very time of Edmund's 
 arrival. One afternoon the love-sick girl took her book to 
 the glen, and sitting down in the shadow of a tree endeavoured 
 to alleviate her passion by reading aloud the scene wherein 
 her lover had represented her in just such a situation, and so 
 engaged. She had read over the description of herself lying 
 on her mossy couch, and her cheek was flushed with the 
 anticipation of the interview about to ensue in the narrative 
 between her lover and herself, when the branches rustled 
 behind her and a voice " 
 
 Edmund. (Within.) May Montgomery ! 
 
 May. O Heaven! Deceitful ears! " — and a voice 
 whispered ' May Montgomery.' She accused her fancy of 
 cheating her, and proceeded with her reading " 
 
 Edmund. ( Within.) May Montgomery ! 
 
 May. O me ! this voice is agonizing ! Fancy, you will 
 make me mad ! " — when the voice again whispered her 
 name. She exclaimed on fancy for torturing her so, and 
 laying the book upon the ground, was about to stretch her- 
 self, leaning on her elbows with her fingers in her ears, when 
 
 a shadow came " 
 
 Good my eyes have you leagued with my ears, then ? 
 There is a shadow ! Oh ! 
 
 Re-entci- Edmund. 
 
 Edmund. ' Turn not away. 
 
 Your hands late held my book. Take now the hand 
 That wrote the book. 
 
 May. Are you a ghost, a ghoul,
 
 ACT IV. 117 
 
 A vampire, come to plague me for my sin 
 
 In killing him with scorn whose form you bear ? 
 
 I beg no mercy, for the doom is just. 
 
 But no ; you are an angel ; it must be : 
 
 No spirit foul could harbour in your shade : 
 
 And you have come to tell me I'm forgiven. 
 
 Edmund. I'm neither ghost, nor ghoul, nor angel. May : 
 I am your lover in carnation true, 
 A bodiment much better than of yore, 
 Edmund, with health restored, and joy complete, 
 Since it is crowned with what he never hoped. 
 The freely given diadem of your love. 
 
 May. I think you surely are the devil, sir. 
 This acting is too good : you're like him too. 
 
 Edmund. Him !— whom ? — the devil ? 
 
 May. O, no ! Earl Edmund. — Love, I know you now. 
 (He offers to embrace her.) 
 No, sir ; I will go to the grave unkissed by any man, if I do 
 not find the true Earl Edmund. I think I must begin and 
 search for him. I wait and wait, and time is all that comes 
 and goes. When I think that on every hour I bestow a 
 treasure of hope, and that some day I may have entertained 
 so many hours as to have spent all my fortune in that kind ; 
 and when I remember that all this expense may be waste, 
 for my love may be in heaven ; and when I think that if he 
 be alive every hour removes my memory further from him ; 
 that he may love another, that he may be married, then I 
 cling to the skirts of every parting hour, and sigh at the 
 knell that tolls its departure and the advent of the ne.xt. — But 
 let us act again. —
 
 Il8 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 yes, I know you, Edmund, and I love you. 
 But can you then forgive me for my scorn ? 
 
 Edmund. Forgive — forgive ? There's nothing to forgive. 
 May. O, I was very foolish, very young ! 
 
 1 did not know how grand a thing love is : 
 That woman's love is like the spacious sea, 
 And man's love like the mirroring of the sky. 
 
 O, I knew nothing ! Yet, I should have known. 
 
 Now, I know all ; your book has been my school, 
 
 My manual, my cyclopaedia : 
 
 It tells me of the all in all of love. 
 
 And teaches that its soul cannot be told. 
 
 That action is its highest eloquence. 
 
 Edmund. The silence of your lips, my gentle love. 
 Is richer, rosier, than the ruddiest gold ; 
 The diamonds and the rubies of your speech 
 Become them well. 
 
 May. You act too warmly, sir. 
 
 Edmund. I do not act at all ; I am myself. 
 
 May. Nay, then, I think you are beside yourself. 
 Be moderate, sir. — You uttered only words ; 
 And words are breath ; and then, a lover's breath ! 
 Hot, gasping, poisonous air ! 
 
 Edmufid. O no, my May ! 
 
 Love's breath is hot and healthy as the breeze 
 That floats the summer from the sunny south, 
 With merry crews of nightingales and swallows. 
 As sweet and swift as are the words of love. 
 
 May. O words and songs and sounds are merely stones, 
 When love is as an empty hungry gulf
 
 ACT IV. 119 
 
 Edinutid. Ay, but when love is certain of a feast, 
 Then words and songs and sounds are spicy whets. 
 
 May. Yes, yes ; dear love, dear love. Speak on, speak on. 
 
 Edmund. Say after me what I will say to you, 
 The words that are the sweetest in the world. 
 And are an act when all a soul is in them. 
 You are the cause that makes me whisper them. 
 And, being said, from you claim like effect. 
 If what I say be of such worth to you, 
 As, said by you, ''twill hold in my esteem, 
 Then this will be a changing gold for gold : 
 I love you. 
 
 May. I love you. 
 
 Edmund. The only words 
 
 Worth learning, speaking, writing, singing, graving. 
 The middle word, the linking word, the ' love ' 
 Is like eternal space ; and ' I ' and ' you ' 
 Mark out a sky and earth, and gather in 
 Time, heaven, and hell. 
 
 May. O, happiness alone ! 
 
 We hedge about an Eden, I and you. 
 
 Edinmtd. Eden, indeed ! Adam I envy not 
 His grand originality ; for when 
 I say to you, ' Sweet May Montgomery, 
 I love you,' I speak words I seem to make. 
 As sweet and strange they are as when first said 
 By Adam when he first beheld his Eve. 
 I feel within, about me, and above 
 The freshness of creation. Everything 
 Is new, and every word a while-hot poem ;
 
 I20 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 I am a poet, too, as great as Adam ; 
 
 To speak, as in his time, is to invent. 
 
 ' I,' ' you ' — O, these are words new-forged and bright I 
 
 And herein am I happier than he — 
 
 I love, not Eve, but May Montgomery. 
 
 Alay. O me, I would that I could find my love ! 
 You are in love, too, for your speech betrays you. 
 Pray, tell me of your love ; I told you mine. 
 
 Edmund. Not now ; the hour is past. Come ; we must 
 run. 
 How they will mock us ! 
 
 May. We've been happy, though. 
 
 [ 77^1?/ go out, running.
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 SCENE. The Alley of Sighs. A table set out. 
 
 Enter Clown and Bellona. 
 
 Clown. O Amazon, victorious and proud, 
 
 More dread than is your bow your eyebrows 
 are, 
 Upbending to discharge darts keener far 
 Than fill your cjuiver or the thunder-cloud. 
 You jest at me, you mock my heartfelt love ; 
 You put me off and on even as a glove. 
 O gentle, noble, bitter amazon, 
 
 I would that you could see into my heart ! 
 Bellona. I've seen ; it is an empty nut, good clown. 
 Clowit. Thenceforward, I will play a silent part. 
 
 Enter Mary-Jane. 
 
 Bellona. What is to be done ? 
 
 Mary-Jane. Herminia is dressing Annie Smith like a 
 bride in satin and lace ; and she and Antinous will lead her 
 into the presence of the mad boy, whom we are to have here. 
 As it was our dresses as much as our maturity that caught 
 his fancy, I have no doubt that, mistaking Annie for a new 
 goddess, he will fall at her feet with some hyperbolical 
 apostrophe, as he did at yours.
 
 122 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 BeHona. A very likely thing. I hope he may not 
 
 recognize her. — Clown. 
 
 Clown. Your will ? 
 
 Belloiia. Fetch hither Ringan Deane. 
 
 C/own. Where is he ? 
 
 BeHona. Find him. 
 
 [Clown goes out. 
 
 Mary-Ja7ie. Have you two quarrelled? 
 
 Bellona. O no I He's a patient, strong man, that clown. 
 
 Mary -Jane. He's a handsome fellow. 
 
 Bellona. I have eyes. 
 
 Enler Edmund and May Montgomery. 
 
 May. (Aside.) We're not the last ; we're safe from 
 mockery. 
 
 Edmund. Why, where are all the rest, good amazon .-* 
 
 Bello7ia. Why, where's your wondrous plot, good earl ? 
 
 Edimmd. Fate knows. 
 
 Bellona. Fate ! — how you startle me ! I brooded once 
 On destiny, and thus said with myself: 
 I will not do as other women do, 
 Marry a man, and be one couple more ; 
 I will not be as other women are. 
 Whom the world praises, and who deem themselves 
 Happy as earth can make them : I will be 
 Unwomanly, and scorn what women love. 
 
 Edmund. A new Diana. 
 
 Bellona. No, a thousand times ! 
 
 Why will you think what may be must have been? 
 My thought— But I'll not tell you ; for to tell
 
 ACT V. 123 
 
 Would kill it ; then I could not give it shape. 
 
 Always I read of fate and talked of it, 
 
 Of birth-stars, and our own polarity. 
 
 And of the orient, iron dooms-day-book. 
 
 Of former lives that we have led whose deeds 
 
 Determine this, of unrelenting life — 
 
 The ecstasy that with the flowers we share. 
 
 The crisis that for ever shakes the world ; 
 
 And I would ebb and flow with hope and fear. 
 
 But mostly breast the adamant with waves 
 
 Of seething blood, I curbed, I quelled — How's this ? 
 
 You spoke of fate, and struck a resonant string. 
 
 Edmund. Then, you're a fatalist. 
 
 Bellojia. I fear I am. 
 
 Edmimd. You speak more truly than you think. Your fear 
 Is just ; for brooding souls that talk of fate, 
 And of their helpless, brute plasticity 
 In mighty, thoughtless hands, bring down the woes 
 They dread and should defy : the timid blood 
 Is first to be diseased ; and winged death 
 Falls on the shrinking quarry. Amazon, 
 Face fate and stare it down. Why, this is fate, 
 This only : other slave we cannot have 
 Than these same hands and feet of circumstance. 
 Master it, master it ; or fire and flood 
 Are drowned and scorched like moths and drops of dew ! 
 The Arab fisher's jinn ; unsealed, diffused, 
 He fills and suffocates the universe ; 
 Inurned, a plaything, or a marshalled host. 
 You see, I know the western prophet, too.
 
 124 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 May. O, let us lie and talk of love and fate 
 Here on the daisies till the night comes down ! 
 
 Enter Sir James andl^AViY Montgomery, and Captain Mercer. 
 
 Mary-Jcme. (Aside.) My husband! O, what shall I do ! 
 
 Lady M. Alas, 
 
 She is not here ! 
 
 Mercer. My wife is ; that is she. 
 
 Edmund. You watch us keenly. 
 
 Sir James. We have reason, sir. 
 
 Mary-Jane. {Kneeling before Mercer.) 
 
 Forgive me. Kneel beside me, May ; kneel down. 
 
 ("May kncds.) 
 
 (To May.^ Give me your hand, and — kiss me. 
 
 May. Mother, mother ! 
 
 What is it ? 
 
 Bellona. Now, I think, the play begins. 
 
 Mary Jane. They killed my baby ; and they gave me her. 
 Look at her, feel her !— could I give her up ? 
 Sir — madam ! 
 
 May. Mother, mother ! 
 
 Mary-Jane. Husband ! 
 
 May. Hush, 
 
 Or you will die. 
 
 Mercer. Dear love, dear soul, dread nothing. 
 
 (Raises M ary-Jan e. ) 
 
 Bellona. (Aside.) Herminia comes. — Good people, who 
 are caught 
 In this same net of circumstance, go hence :
 
 ACT V. 125 
 
 Pass through these birches and you'll find a bower, 
 Whose shade will blend more sweetly with your mood, 
 And make serener your enraptured souls. 
 Besides I am the prompter, or the fate 
 Of one scene more fantastic than you play, 
 Which falls now to be acted here. 
 
 Sir James. Lady, 
 
 Your garb does not bespeak your wisdom. 
 
 BcUona. Sir, 
 
 Since when had decency sole grant of sense ? 
 
 Edmund. Well said ! 
 
 Sir James. I'll set my wit to yours anon. 
 
 Is this the way? 
 
 BcUona. Under the lowest boughs. 
 
 [Sir James and Lady Montgomery, Mercer, Edmund, 
 Mary-Jane, and May go ont.'\ 
 
 Enter Antinous and Herminia ivith Annie Smith dressed like 
 a bride. 
 
 Bellona. Ah, keep that look, sweet child ! The mystery 
 Of sense and soul ! Her eyes are infinite. 
 Herminia, what would not you and I, 
 Maids as we are, and infants yet in law, 
 Surrender thankfully to own again 
 The dream of innocence ? 
 
 Herminia. My beauty — ay, 
 
 Half of my beauty for the dewy dawn, 
 The fragrance, and the shadow of heaven, the blood 
 That knows not what it would, bathing the thought 
 With odorous tides, the rapture of life, the swoon
 
 126 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 Of innocence, the infinite longing, 
 The sweet pain, and a pure, brave boy to love me ! 
 Antinous, we shall please ourselves with this, 
 And play at being a boy and girl again. 
 
 Antinous. My love, you are happier in this fantasy 
 Than when you were the thing and knew it not. 
 
 Herinittia. And I believe you. 
 
 Bellona. Here they come. Sit, child. 
 
 Annie Smith sits on a ktioll. Herminia and Bellona lie on 
 
 either side of her. Antinous stands behind. Enter Clown 
 
 with RiNGAN Deane. 
 
 Ringan. What deity is this ? whose bride? whose queen? 
 Look, how she sits among these earthly maids, 
 A star between two lamps. She looks at me 
 With eyes like beckoning flames. A kind of night 
 Hovers about her, she so dazzles day. 
 She bends towards me ; she stretches out her arms ; 
 A tear, a molten tear wells in each eye, 
 And overhangs the lid and slowly falls. 
 Loath to descend these tender wistful heavens. 
 Her lips are open, but her struggling voice, 
 A helpless, still-born sigh, dies in her mouth. 
 I hope I may have strength to speak to her. 
 (He kneels before Annie Smith.) 
 
 An7ne. O Ringan — Ringan Deane ! 
 
 Ringan. You know me, then ! 
 
 An?tie. (Embracing him.) O Ringan, I am Annie — Annie 
 Smith ! 
 
 Bellona. Clown, this is \'er}' well. I am so moved ; 
 I feel a kindliness to all the world.
 
 ACT V. 127 
 
 C/own. And I am of the world. 
 
 Bellona. Ay, so you are. 
 
 Re-enter Sir James, Lady Montgomery, and the others. 
 
 Bellona. Well, noble earl ? What ! — wonders ? 
 
 Edmund. Yes, indeed : 
 
 Most wonderful. 
 
 Bellona. Sit then and tell us. See, 
 
 The feast is spread. 
 
 Ed)iiund. We'll tell you when we sit ; 
 
 But there's a thing to do before we sit. — 
 Ladies and gentlemen, a little way 
 We've stepped beyond convention. I propose 
 A further deviation from the path 
 Beaten by ages, dusty with the trade 
 Of thronging use and wont. The Scottish law 
 Permits us here to marry as we are : 
 Let us be married — are we not all paired ? 
 And this same feast shall be our wedding-feast. 
 Do you object. Sir James ? 
 
 Sir James. Why should I, sir? 
 
 Edmund. Then, May Montgomery, will you know me yet? 
 
 May. I am in a dream. One mystery at a time. 
 However came you by my proper name ? 
 
 Edmund. That is the strangest accident of all : 
 I was a prophet when I wrote my book. — 
 Sweet May Montgomery, I take you for my wife 
 In sight of heaven and you, astonished friends.
 
 128 A ROMANTIC FARCE. 
 
 May. I take you for my husband. 
 
 Antinoiis. I take you, 
 
 Herminia, for my wife. 
 
 HerDiinia. And I take you, 
 
 Antinous, for my husband. (Aside to Ant.) Dear old Jack ! 
 
 Bellona. My name is Mary Jones. 
 
 Clown. So ? Ha ! Then I, 
 
 James Jocelyn, take you to be my wife. 
 
 Bellona. I love you, and I take you for my husband. 
 
 Mercer. My dearest wife, you'll be my bride again ? 
 
 Mary-Jane. Surely, my husband. 
 
 Sir James. This is bravely done ! 
 
 My wife and I bid heaven's blessing on you. 
 
 Mary-Jane. But where are Annie Smith and Ringan 
 Deane ? 
 
 May. I saw them, like a vision, steal away. 
 
 Curtain.
 
 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS 
 
 A PANTOMIME. 
 (Crieff, 1888).
 
 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS 
 
 
 
 A Pantomime. 
 
 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Bacchus. 
 
 
 
 Ariadne. 
 
 SiLENUS. 
 
 
 
 Ione, Daughter to Glaucus. 
 
 Sarmion. 
 Glaucus. 
 
 
 
 Columbine, in the employ 
 ment of Scaramouch. 
 
 Scaramouch, a Showman. 
 
 Harlequin, in the employ- 
 ment of Scaramouch. 
 
 Satyrs. 
 
 Bacchantes. 
 
 Sailors. 
 
 
 
 Sce7ie : 
 
 Naxos.
 
 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Silemts. Gentle readers — I would fain say, hearers, but 
 I am afraid I shall never fool it on the stage — I am very fond 
 of Pantomimes. I don't know whether I like this one so well 
 as I liked those which I witnessed when I was a boy. It is 
 too pretentious, I think ; too anxious to be more than a 
 Pantomime — this play in which I am about to perform. 
 True Pantomime is a good-natured night-mare. Our sense 
 of humour is titillated and strummed, and kicked and oiled, 
 and fustigated and stroked, and exalted and bedevilled, and, 
 on the whole, severely handled by this self-same harmless 
 incubus ; and our intellects are scoffed at. The audience, in 
 fact, is, intellectually, a pantaloon, on whom the Harlequin- 
 pantomime has no mercy. It is frivolity whipping its school- 
 master, common-sense ; the drama on its apex ; art, unsexed, 
 and without a conscience ; the reflection of the world in a 
 green, knotted glass. Now, I talked to the author, and 
 showed him that there was a certain absence from his work 
 of this kind of thing ; but he put his thumbs in his arm-pits, 
 and replied with some disdain, " Which of the various 
 dramatic forms of the time may one conceive as likeliest to 
 shoot up in the fabulous manner of the bean-stalk, bearing on
 
 1.32 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 its branches things of earth and heaven undreamt of in 
 philosophy ? The sensational dramas ? Perhaps from them 
 some new development of tragic art; but Pantomime seems 
 to be of best hope. It contains in crude forms, humoun 
 poetry, and romance. It is the childhood of a new poetical 
 comedy." Then I saw where he was, and said, " God be 
 with you," and washed my hands of him. But I'll do my 
 best with my part.
 
 SCENE I. 133 
 
 SCENE I.— A Wood. 
 
 SiLENUS, sitting. Harlequin and Columbine posturing about 
 him. Satyrs and Bacchantes dancing ronnd the group. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Sing of dancing, sing of wine, 
 
 Satyrs and Bacchantes, sing. 
 Harlequin and Columbine, 
 Leap within our frantic ring. 
 Dance, the skies are violet ; 
 Dance, our lips with wine are wet ; 
 
 Sing, heigh-ho, the shade is mellow ! 
 Twist and twine from dusk till dawn ; 
 Feet and hoofs beat bare the lawn : 
 Bacchus is a noble fellow ! 
 
 From our garlands grapes are flung, 
 And we tread them in the grass ; 
 Ivy, in our tresses strung. 
 
 Streams behind us as we pass. 
 Dance, the skies are violet ; 
 Dance, our lips with foam are wet ; 
 
 Sing, the beechen shade is mellow ! 
 Bend and bound with one accord ; 
 Foot it firm, and trench the sward, 
 liacchus is a splendid fellow I
 
 134 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Round we spin ; our starry eyes 
 
 Glimmer through our tossing manes. 
 Time is ending ; wisdom dies ; 
 
 We are drunk ; and Bacchus reigns. 
 Dance, the skies are violet ; 
 The dust with juice of grapes is wet ; 
 
 Sing, the deepening shade is mellow ! 
 Dance the night into the day ; 
 Dance into eternity ; 
 Bacchus is the only fellow ! 
 
 Harlequin. Now, you may tell them ; now, that they 
 think of Bacchus but as one of themselves — a wine-bibber, 
 and the inventor of wine-bibbing. 
 
 Silenus. Do you disparage wine-bibbing ? 
 
 Harlequin. May my mask grow to my face, and my sword 
 to my arm, if I do not think it a most intellectual pursuit ! 
 
 Columbine. For what do you take us ? 
 
 Silenus. No enigmas : I am not good at riddles in the 
 evening ; for the tedious parched hours of this torrid July, 
 and the labour of moistening them make me sweat brains ; 
 but if I have not enough left to say what I take you for I 
 would be glad to mount spontaneously to heaven in a chariot 
 of fire — I mean by combustion. You, my good Harlequin, I 
 take to be the son of Mercury and one of the furies. 
 
 Harlequi?t. Which one ? 
 
 Silenus. Know you not your own mother ? She whom 
 Hermes mistook for Aphrodite : it's an old story now, as your 
 joints might tell you, for you are a most degenerate Harlequin. 
 Now do I remember Bathylus and Pylades, sweet youths 
 both.
 
 SCENE I. 135 
 
 Harleqiim. Were they Harlequins ? 
 
 Silenus. Harlequins ! They were anything. Their very 
 hands were garrulous as beldames, and their fingers more 
 exclamatory than Marsyas under the knife of Apollo. You 
 are a mere grasshopper and a magpie — a very signboard. 
 You are like your father in nothing but the lightness of your 
 heels, and the nimbleness of your pilfering. 
 
 Harlequin. In what am I like my mother? 
 
 Siletius. In greed, and in that you are appointed to be my 
 torment. But you serve me, too, or I would discard you. 
 Moreover you amuse me. You are a walking firmament : 
 your spangles are the milky way, and your belt the zodiac. 
 Sometimes you are Orion, and swagger out with sword on 
 thigh to ogle the Pleiades. You are the bad angel of 
 pleasantry, because you are, as it were, humour run to seed, 
 and become a science : you are a mere name, and the thing 
 which you once were is in limbo ; wherefore you suit these 
 times, and are well matched with my sweet Columbine. 
 
 Columbine. What am I ? 
 
 Sile?ius. What short flounces and lime-light have made 
 you. What do these woods know of fleshings ? Dofif them 
 for shame, and go naked. 
 
 Columbine. (Aside.) Swell till you burst, old pumpkin ! 
 We'll make a pantaloon of you before we've done. 
 
 Silenus. What are you muttering? Do you hear? You 
 must go naked with a tiger's skin. 
 
 Harlequiti. She shall. But see, they are ripe for your 
 address. 
 
 Silenus. I say, wine-bibbing is noble, and drunkenness a 
 virtue. Give me a drink, and let me go to sleep.
 
 136 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Harlequin. Have you forgotten ? 
 
 Silemts. I thank Jove I have. To forget is Elysium ; 
 regret is hell. I would put it better if I weren't so sleepy. 
 
 Harlequin. This will rouse you. (Gives him wine.) 
 
 Silenus. (Drinks.) Aurora is in this wine : already I feel 
 her chariot prancing through my veins. I have drunken of 
 
 the sun. Children (Aside.) What was I to say? 
 
 There was some plot. 
 
 Harlequin. (Aside.) You are Bacchus. 
 
 Silenus. I am the new Bacchus 
 
 Harlequin. (Aside.) No, no ; you are the old Bacchus ! 
 
 Silenics. — and the old Bacchus, and Bacchus altogether ; 
 and that maiden-faced Bacchus, who these many generations 
 has roamed about the world striking men with fury and mad- 
 ness, is not the son of Semele, but a pampered and audacious 
 old mountain-rover, none other than my ancient, Silenus, 
 disguised. And this is the meaning of the fable that says I 
 was dead and buried for a time. What greater burial could 
 there be than the eclipse of Bacchus by Silenus ! Well then, 
 I am Bacchus : Proserpina nursed me. 
 
 Harlequi7i. The true Bacchus is come again I 
 
 All. Long live the true Bacchus ! 
 
 Silenus. There shall be no more rations, but all shall 
 drink as much as they please ; for ever since I stepped out of 
 Jove's thigh I have been a hard drinker. (Aside.) Do I not 
 do it well? Observe how I throw in these back-handers 
 about my parentage — casually — before I am aware ; and I 
 blush and hem, for I would not be thought proud. — Children, 
 rumour has confounded me with my father, Jupiter. Think 
 it not : I am plain Bacchus, whose only claims on the world
 
 SCENE I. 137 
 
 are that he invented wine, and is a good fellow, and a hard 
 drinker. Fear me not, for I am harmless. 
 
 All. Long live Bacchus. 
 
 Sileniis. Columbine, where is Ariadne ? 
 
 Columbine. I do not know, but we must find her. 
 
 Sileniis. We must. — I have no chariot. 
 
 Harlequin. You shall have one. 
 
 Sileniis. And tigers ? 
 
 Harlequin. I fear you can't have tigers : there are none 
 on the island. 
 
 Silcfuis. Then you must get me some cats instead. And 
 now I bethink me, cats will please me better. They were 
 dangerous reptiles, those tigers, and I am growing old : my 
 charms have not the power they once had. Harness me 
 some half-dozen tabbies : they shall serve well enough. I have 
 somewhat more to say, and I will say it seriously. (Rises.) 
 Drinkers and drunkards, gentle profligates. 
 In praise of drinking to be curious 
 Would task Apollo and his morning lyre, 
 With fresh and dulcet brains and strings new-strung. 
 So often has the art been sung and said : 
 And yet good reasons for it scarce are known : 
 One that consoles me I will offer you. 
 We are immortals — all of us, divine ; 
 But people of inferior intellect. 
 Wherein consists our chief capacity ? 
 In drinking deep : and some have sprightly toes. 
 Well, here's my reason. What is genius ? This : 
 Perception of our bent and tireless zeal 
 To track it out against the wind of fate.
 
 138 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Have we not followed with a quenchless thirst 
 Deep drinking? 
 
 AIL We have, most noble Bacchus. 
 
 Silenus. Are we not plagued with headaches in the 
 morning ? 
 
 All. We are, we are. 
 
 Silenus. Some of our noses, too, are rubicund. 
 
 All. Most true. 
 
 Silenus. Our eyes are bulging, blazing amethysts. 
 
 1st Satyr. Grapes, bursting grapes. 
 
 Silenus. The women's hair is dank as Panope's, 
 Uncrisped and colourless, as limp as hay. 
 
 Bacchantes. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Silenus. Their cheeks are hollow, and their arms are thin. 
 
 Bacchantes. Alack-a-day ! 
 
 Silenus. We all are rebels. 
 
 1st Satyr. Outcasts. 
 
 1st Bacchante. Unsexed. 
 
 2nd Bacchante. Lost. 
 
 Silenus. Then are we geniuses. Now, hear my reason. 
 
 1st Satyr. Your reason ! 
 
 2nd Satyr. Why, we thought we had it now ! 
 
 Silenus. Erroneous conclusion ; for to say 
 That we have geniuses for drinking deep. 
 And drink accordingly, is but to say 
 We drink because we're dry : that's not enough. 
 Reason there is for genius evermore, 
 Could we discover it. 
 
 1st Satyr. Then tell us ours. 
 
 Silenus. Patience and drink a little. 
 
 (All drink.)
 
 SCENE I. 139 
 
 Mine alderliefest prodigals, the truth 
 Is simply this, that we're inferior. 
 
 1st Bacchante. We know it. 
 
 Silemis. Well said ! That's it 1 We know it ; 
 
 Inferior, and we know it. Consider then. 
 What dreadful thought is this — what dire dismay — 
 Inferior, yet immortal ! We tried, we failed ; 
 Failure was our familiar : so we chose, 
 Rather than miss our aim eternally, 
 To aim to miss, making success secure : 
 That is the reason of our geniuses. 
 Were we of those to whom death ministers. 
 We might strain struggling, staggering — but no ! 
 What is the highest life that mortals live ? 
 A finger-length — time, fame, oblivion — 
 A slate, a pencil, and a sponge ! Then drink. 
 
 Song and dance, in which SiLENUSyi^/wj. 
 
 Dance and sing, we are eternal ; 
 
 Let us still be mad with drinking : 
 'Tis a madness less infernal 
 
 Than the madness caused by thinking. 
 
 Death, cease whetting missiles for us ; 
 
 Lurk not in the grave's dark portal ; 
 Bring your dead, and join the chorus ; 
 
 Drink, for we are all immortal. 
 
 Drink, my gallants ; reel and rhyme ! 
 
 Though our souls are second-rate, 
 We are none the less sublime : 
 
 Drink, and give the lie to fate !
 
 I40 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Silenus. I know another song like that ; but if drunken- 
 ness is no excuse for plagiarism, what is ? 
 
 [Silenus, Satyrs, and Bacchantes go out. 
 
 Etiter Scaramouch. 
 
 Harleqicin. Welcome, great chief! 
 
 CoIu7nbi7ie. Hail, noble champion ! 
 
 Scaramouch. How d'ye do ? How d'ye do ? Have you 
 secured our venerable Bacchanalian friend ? 
 
 Harleqtiifi. We have. 
 
 Scaramouch. Where is he? Now, don't tell me he's in 
 your pocket. I'm not yet better of that fairy you caught me. 
 
 Harlequin. Was she not a success ? 
 
 Scaramouch. O Harlequin ! O Columbine ! I had her 
 advertised on posters as big as mainsails. I paid munici- 
 palities fortunes to permit policemen to be my sandwich-men. 
 
 Harlequin. And a very good use to put them to. 
 
 Scaramouch. Now don't : I can't stand it. Listen : I 
 offered a prize of a thousand guineas to whoever would make 
 a new joke about policemen, introducing my fairy. Twenty- 
 one thousand jokes were sent in : I read these jokes. 
 
 Harlequin. Heroic soul ! 
 
 Scaramouch. Nay, I am better. Do not flatter me. — 
 Well, I published an hourly bulletin of the fairy's progress to 
 the capital with gratis supplements of original novels by the 
 chief living writers. I hired and shut up six theatres, and 
 bought the Crystal Palace to exhibit her in. Age of glass 
 and iron ! there came a thing about the size of a small 
 tadpole !
 
 SCENE I. 141 
 
 Harlequin. Well, I never said she was a giantess. 
 
 Scarainouch. No ; but my bills had her as big as a ballet- 
 girl. The crowd — there was a crowd the first and only 
 night — couldn't see it ; so they wrecked the Palace and went 
 ofif in a body to the performing fleas, and a stray cat ate the 
 fairy. Now, how big is Bacchus ? 
 
 Harlequin. Too big for a cat to eat : in fact, I don't 
 believe any cat in Christendom, even Whittington's, which 
 bearded a king, would dare to look at him. I only saw him 
 once, and I've no desire to see him again. He withered me, 
 sir, with a look : I am limp still. 
 
 Scaramouch. Paper, pens, and ink ! I thought you said 
 you had him .'' 
 
 Harlequin. No, sir ; we have only got his venerable 
 Bacchanalian friend. 
 
 Scaramouch. People and pantomimes ! what am I to do ? 
 
 Harlequin. Ship Silenus instead. Why, even supposing 
 we could get hold of Bacchus, he would be of no use for our 
 purpose. 
 
 Columbine. He would be a worse bargain than the fairy, 
 unless you passed him off for Ariadne. 
 
 Scaramouch. In the name of the living tinker, how.'' 
 
 Harlequin. Because not a soul would believe that the big, 
 beardless boy which Bacchus looks was he. Now, this old 
 wine-skin, Silenus, is just the idea your worthy patrons have 
 of what Bacchus must be after a supposed debauch extending 
 from end to end of the Christian era. 
 
 Scaramouch. And is he willing to play Bacchus ? 
 
 Harlequin. As willing as a grub is in May to be a butter- 
 fly. Bacchus has placed him and some other drouths of his
 
 142 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 crew under guard, and limited them to so many drinks a day, 
 for they were as dissipated as porters. I helped them to 
 escape on condition that they should sail with us; which was 
 a bargain. But they were more difificult to manage than a 
 crew ashore after a three months' voyage. Imagine, now : 
 they have gone off in search of Ariadne. By good chance 
 they took the way to the beach. 
 
 Scaramouch. Is Ariadne in the wood ? 
 
 Harlegtdn. Not at all : but they have all shipped such a 
 sea of liquor that they would beUeve anything. Silenus told 
 them to go and find Ariadne, and they straightway compre- 
 hended that she was in the vicinity. 
 
 Scaramouch. I suppose we couldn't lay hands on her ? 
 
 Columbine. On Ariadne ? you might as well try to lay 
 hands upon a star. 
 
 Scaramouch. Stripes and stirrups ! a glorious idea I To 
 have a well-preserved planet or a three-tailed comet on 
 exhibition ! Naxos and night ! but that would be stupendous. 
 
 For a caravan is the only plan ; 
 
 Hurry my toms and trulls ! 
 Ho-ye-ho, and a rumble-low ! 
 Pay your penny, and see the show : 
 
 This is the age of gulls. 
 
 ( They go out dancing. )
 
 SCENE II. 143 
 
 SCENE 11.-77^^ Seashore. 
 
 Enter lONE. 
 
 lone. O wind, and do you wander all the night, 
 Moving the broad, black clouds, heavy and high, 
 And lifting, there and yonder, with a kiss, 
 The wet plumes of the sea ? O sweet west wind. 
 Stay here and tell me secrets for a while ! 
 Whence do you come and whither are you bound ? 
 What music are you singing to yourself, 
 Sometimes with muffled syllables that fall. 
 And break their meaning on the hearts they touch ? 
 Is this the wind that turned against her mouth 
 Forsaken Ariadne's wrathful sighs ? 
 I see her leaning on her clenched right hand, 
 As she awakes and knows the flying sail. 
 And thinks that even to her has man been false, 
 Hatred and scorn — no sorrow, love, nor dread — 
 Starting in tears from both her angry orbs. — 
 My foot is wet ! The tide is thronging up 
 With jocund whispers, and the press of waves 
 Scatters in pearly laughter on the sand. 
 Surely the moon is arming for the night : 
 O, now, I see her silver harness gleam 
 Behind the dusky curtains of her tent !
 
 144 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 While the wind, swelling, sounds a trumpet-note. 
 She showers her bounteous shadow on the sea, 
 A largesse to the waves that toss their caps : 
 And now she leaps into the lists of heaven. — 
 What creature in her shadow floats this way ? 
 It is a boat, and one sits at the helm ! 
 
 [Hides behind a rock. ) 
 The sail is silken, and the hull, pearl-clad ; 
 It leaps from wave to wave : the sweet, salt spray, 
 Like odoured tresses loosened in the dance. 
 Streams from the prow. This is some god : he lands. - 
 If he be man, the men that I have known 
 Are of a lower order. How the moon 
 Shines on him ! and his eyes drink in her light. 
 He cannot know our world. Now on the sea, 
 Now on the shore, he flings his looks about ; 
 And yet again, the moon. What if he be 
 Endymion ! O, would I were the moon ! 
 What ! has he seen me ? 
 
 (Sarmion enters and leads her from her hiding-place.^ 
 Are you man or god ? 
 {He makes a sign.) 
 Can you not speak ? Poor mariner, he's dumb ! 
 What shall I do with him ? Be not afraid ; 
 No one shall harm you, for my father owns 
 The land here and the shore. I left our house 
 Without his knowledge and against his will 
 That I might see the sea alone at night : 
 I never felt such ecstasy before :
 
 SCENE II. 145 
 
 I will frequent the strand, and with the moon 
 Keep company. You love the moon, I think ? 
 
 (Within, "lone, lone !") 
 My father's voice ! 
 
 Enter Glaucus. 
 
 Glaucus. Well, why don't you introduce me ? 
 
 lone. Are you angry ? 
 
 GlaticHS. O no ! I have run a mile through thorns and 
 bents and sand, but I am not angry. I may be hot and out 
 of breath, and my head may steam like a punch-bowl, but I 
 am not angry. I fell ten or twelve times and harrowed the 
 soil with my countenance, but I am not angry. My daughter, 
 sir^ — this is my daughter, the sauciest madcap in Naxos — 
 runs out of the house when she should be asleep, to meet you 
 in this unwholesome moonlight, and she asks me if I am 
 angry ! Why, sir, a man who could be angry in these 
 circumstances would be a man of an infinitesimal mind. My 
 body may be one bruise ; my heart may be broken into cat's 
 meat ; but I am not angry : do not think it. 
 loNE and Glaucus talk apart. 
 
 lofte. This is a god. 
 
 Glaums. A what ? 
 
 lone. One of the minor gods. 
 
 Glaucus. I wouldn't have thought it. What's his name ? 
 
 lone. I do not know. He slid down a moonbeam in that 
 boat you see, and sailed ashore five minutes ago. He has 
 not spoken yet, nor will he speak. I think he has done some- 
 thing for which Jove is punishing him with dumbness. 
 
 Glaucus. Poor fellow ! I'd sooner be blind. 
 
 K
 
 146 SCARAPilOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 lone. I believe you, father. I think you should ask him 
 to the house. 
 
 Glaucus. Do you? Are they not rather ticklish customers, 
 these gods ? 
 
 Io7tc. No ; they are charming company. 
 
 Glaucus. Oh ! — But this is an anonymous god. People 
 would laugh at us, and call him an impostor. 
 
 lone. We can give him a name. Endymion will do. 
 
 Glaucus. What god is he ? 
 
 lofie. God of the moon. 
 
 Glaucus. Endymion, god of the moon. Well, I'll invite 
 him. — Good sir — I mean, good . . . lone, how shall I 
 address him ? 
 
 lofie. Address him by his name. 
 
 Glaucus. Endymion, will your godship be pleased so far 
 to favour my humble abode as to take up your quarters there 
 for the night. 
 
 (Sarmion passes his hand ilu-oiigh Tone's hair.) 
 (Aside.) Thus do the gods turn the insolence of men into 
 courtesy. He seems smitten with lone. Suppose, now, my 
 daughter were to marr}' a god : she would become a goddess ; 
 and I, the father of a goddess and the father-in-law of a god, 
 would, perforce, be made a god also — a minor god. I would 
 have been contented to be a baronet ; in my dreams I have 
 sometimes beheld myself a lord ; but to be a god I — Ha ! 
 you are getting on together. I wonder, now, Endymion, for 
 what you were made dumb. Do you know the dumby 
 alphabet ? No ; well ; you can write it down when we go 
 home. lone, I want to speak to you. 
 
 (Glaucus atid Ionf, talk a^a7-t.)
 
 SCENE II. 147 
 
 Would you like your father to be a god, — a minor god ? 
 
 lone. No. 
 
 Ghmcits. But I would develop god-like qualities, of which 
 the chief is tolerance. I begin to feel more dignified and 
 wiser already. Then, as these qualities, by friction with 
 other gods, and a rational indulgence in ambrosia and nectar, 
 become brighter and solider, my minority may end, and they 
 may give me a seat at Jove's table on Olympus. lone, 
 think ; a little intrigue has brought about a greater matter 
 than a divorce : Juno must be old : her successor — you do 
 not listen : give your eyes to him and your ears to me. 
 
 lone. I will. You were saying that you would like to be 
 a god. 
 
 Glauciis. After all I am a well-made man ; and Edymion 
 looks no more. 
 
 Io7ie. But he is disguised. 
 
 Glaticiis. It may be that I am disguised too. 
 
 lone. I doubt it : no god could be disguised so completely 
 as not to know his own identity. 
 
 Glauciis. Still, here is a god punished with dumbness : 
 Jupiter may have punished me with oblivion of a brilliant 
 past. 
 
 Io7ie. What god could you possibly be ? 
 
 Glaucus. Probably just a god. Doubtless there are gods 
 of nothing in particular, merely decorative. 
 
 lone. Doubtless. 
 
 Glaucus. Well, I would rather be that than no god at all. 
 
 Io7ie. I fear it. 
 
 Glaucus. Endymion, you must tell me in writing when we 
 go home, if one of the chief minor gods was punished some
 
 148 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 fifty years ago by the loss of all knowledge of his own 
 identity. 
 
 lone. Father, he does not know a word you say : 
 He understands no language I can speak — 
 {Aside.) Except that of my eyes. If I can read 
 The fire of his they tell me priceless tales. 
 
 Enter Silenus, Satyrs, and Bacchantes. 
 
 Sile7ms. Ha ! Ariadne ! — Theseus, not yet fled ! 
 Or who are you ? But you are Ariadne. 
 
 {He is ahoitt to take her hand %vhen Sarmion interferes.^ 
 Bacchantes, bind him ! 
 
 {After a short struggle S ARM ION is bound.) 
 
 Glaitctis. I declare ! Take care what you are about, my 
 good women ; and you, old man, conduct yourself more 
 respectfully in the presence of immortals. This is Endymion, 
 and I am a nameless god. 
 
 Silenus. Nameless and noteless, you ! Endymion, this ? 
 Never ! I saw Endymion long ago 
 Before the stars were tarnished : with his crook 
 Sloped in his hand he wandered down a hill ; 
 The night shone round him : this youth is not he. 
 Men are not made so now, though this is one 
 Who may remind me of the elder time. 
 But you, most lovely lady, seem to me 
 The very image of the golden age. 
 
 Glniictts. My daughter ! 
 
 Silenus. She is Ariadne now,
 
 SCENE II. 149 
 
 For I am Bacchus. Fill my cup again ; 
 If I cease drinking I grow melancholy. 
 
 (A Bacchante yJ/Zj' /ii's cup and he d}-inks.) 
 Glauciis. Pardon, most potent god ! 
 
 Enter Scaramouch, Harlequin, «;/t/ Columbine. 
 
 Sileniis, Ha ! Harlequin I 
 
 Scaramouch. Is that Bacchus ? 
 
 Harlequin. Yes. 
 
 Scaramouch. Capital ! — How d'ye do ? how d'ye do ? 
 
 Silentcs. What irrepressible person is this ? 
 
 Harlequin. Scaramouch. 
 
 Silentts. I do not know the name. 
 
 Scaramouch. Lamps and limpets, no ! It is not in 
 Lempriere, but it is a good name. 
 
 Silenus. It is well you think so. What are you ? 
 
 Scaramouch. I am the gentleman Harlequin told you of — 
 he who has the honour to be your majesty's most obedient 
 servant and impresario. 
 
 Silenus. The showman ! Well, I suppose there must be 
 showmen. 
 
 ScaramoiicJi. Shawms and psalteries, I should think so ! 
 I can demonstrate to you that there is nothing pays but 
 showmanship. 
 
 Glaucus. {Aside.) This is a wise fellow. 
 
 Silenus. You shall demonstrate nothing to me ; but get 
 us all on board your vessel as soon as possible. 
 
 Scaramouch. As practical as a man ! I thought all you 
 gods were a kind of moon-struck, plastcr-of-Paris, posturing, 
 and, to say the truth, frequently indecent parcel of patriarchs.
 
 150 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 It shall appear in your advertisement, sir, 'As practical as a 
 man.' May I be dipped in wax if it don't. The terms, sir : 
 do you accept the offer Harlequin made ? 
 
 Silenus. You must be the son of a puppet. 
 
 Scaramouch. Puppies and patchwork, why ? 
 
 Silenus. From your habit of unexpected, disjointed, and 
 inept gesticulation, which has its exact counterpart in your 
 pattering speeches and preposterous preludes. 
 
 Sca?-amouch. What am I to do ? The world is old ; it has 
 been satiated with originality, and in its dotage cries bitterly 
 for entertainment. A public man must therefore be extrava- 
 gant in order to distinguish himself My felicitous alliteration 
 and prompt non-blasphemous oaths constitute my note, which 
 is the literary term for trade-mark — a species of catch-word, 
 in fact. Sweetness and light ! do you understand me ? 
 
 Sile7ius. Showman and sharper, you speak shrewdly, and 
 I accept your terms. Come, where are your boats ? 
 
 Scaramouch. Oakum and orchids, there is only one ! 
 
 Sile7tus. One ! you need a fleet. 
 
 Scaramouch. Break me and splice me, if I understand ! 
 
 Silenus. How else will you ship the company before 
 morning ? 
 
 Scaramouch. Company ! — Harlequin, explain. 
 
 Harlequin. It is true I only bargained for Bacchus, but 
 he seems to think I meant the whole crowd. 
 
 Silenus. All, or none. 
 
 Scaramouch. Never I thei'e was a bargain. Business I^ 
 O sacred word ! Now you attack me on my weak point, 
 which is also my strong one. 
 
 ( Hhnos a luhislh'. Enter two Sailors. )
 
 SCENE II. 151 
 
 With reverential firmness remove our Bacchanalian friend. 
 
 (SiLENUS mesmerises the Sailors as they advance.') 
 
 Mesmers and mystogogues ! none of that ! Secure the god, 
 although he nod he cannot shake the spheres. 
 
 Sailors. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 1st Sailor. Our timbers are rooted. 
 
 2nd Sailor. Our flippers are frozen to our sides. 
 
 Scaramouch. Good, my men. I shall find you an engage- 
 ment as supers when we go home ; but this is not the stage. 
 
 Sailors. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 1st Sailor. I'm in as good form as calf's-foot jelly, and as 
 frisky as a pyramid. 
 
 2nd Sailor. And I'm as strong as water, and stiffer a deal 
 than grog. 
 
 Scaramouch. Ha ! ha ! very fine, indeed. Now, truss 
 him up and away. Do you hear? stop that acting. 
 
 Sailors. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 1st Sailor. Acting ? I call it doing nothing. 
 
 2nd Sailor. I can't even scratch my head. 
 
 Scaramouch. {Draws his sword.) Death, distinctly, if 
 you do not leap your own height when I count three. One, 
 
 two 
 
 (SiLENUS makes passes and they leap.) 
 
 Scaramouch. {Sheathes his sword.) Back to thy bed, 
 bright babe of Birmingham ! Arrest the god. 
 
 [The Sailors advance, hit are again mesmerised by Silenus.)
 
 152 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Sea-lubbers, dare you rouse me further ? 
 
 Sailors. Ay, ay, sir. 
 
 Scaranioitch. {Draws his sword.) Homer and homicide, 
 then die ! 
 
 (SiLENUS mesmerises ScAKhMO\:cii Jiisi as his sivord pricks 1st Sailor.) 
 
 1st Sailor. Do not pi'olong my agony : run me through 
 at once : the point pricks me, sir ; in or out, one or other. 
 
 Scaramouch. Magic and mastodons, I can do neither ! 
 Great Bacchus, is this a trick or no ? 
 
 Sileniis. That depends on you, good Scarabee. If you 
 consent to ship all my friends, it is a trick ; but if you do 
 not, you will find it a serious matter to stand there till you 
 rot. 
 
 Scaramouch. Every mother's son and daughter of them — 
 the whole island, anything you like. This power of yours is 
 worth a kingdom. 
 
 (SiLENUS releases them.) 
 
 Silcnits. Embark Ariadne in the boat you have, and send 
 back others for the rest. Tow this egg-shell shallop with 
 you : it is precious ; its workmanship is divine. 
 
 Scaramouch. Ariadne ! 
 
 Silemis. Yes ; that is she. 
 
 Scaramouch. Shiver my timbers ! this will be the greatest 
 combination on record. 
 
 Silc7ius. Columbine, attend your mistress. 
 
 Columbine. Mistress Ariadne, I am to be your waiting- 
 maid. 
 
 lone. I am not Ariadne.
 
 SCENE II. 153 
 
 Glaitciis. {Aside to lONE.) You are ! you must be ! 
 Don't you see this is Bacchus, and the dumb fellow an 
 impostor? Bacchus says he's not Endymion. 
 
 Io7ie. {Aside to Glaucus.) It was I called him Endy- 
 mion. He's no impostor. 
 
 Glaucus. {Aside to lONE.) Don't argue. — Great Bacchus, 
 Ariadne is a little bashful as becomes a maiden honoured 
 with the attention of your godship. 
 
 Silenus. What are you ? 
 
 Glaucus. Her father — at least I have been so for eighteen 
 years. I begin to doubt whether she be my child or no, 
 since your godship perceives that she is Ariadne — a fact 
 which I recognised the moment you mentioned it ; and since 
 certain quakings have overcome my being, revealing to me 
 that this lodgment of clay is, as it were, a long-slumbering 
 volcano, about to waken into full and luminous godhood. 
 
 Silenus. Know then, that she is not your child ; she is a 
 king's daughter. 
 
 Glaucus. Princess Ariadne, I beseech you humbly to 
 pardon any trouble I may have given you as a father. I 
 here formally renounce, what was never mine, all control 
 over your royal highness. — And now, Bacchus, let us sift to 
 the bottom this mythological mystery. First of all, what 
 god am I ? Of course I know I am only a minor one in the 
 meantime, so do not scruple to tell me, however insignificant 
 my rank may be. 
 
 Silenus. We will discuss it, friend, over a bottle. — ■ 
 Harlecjuin, remove Ariadne and this youth. Good people, 
 accompany them with singing to the shore. 
 
 lone. Adventures throng upon me.
 
 154 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 S07lg. 
 
 The boat is chafing at our long delay, 
 
 And we must leave too soon 
 The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, 
 
 The tawny sands, the moon. 
 
 Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight ! 
 
 Watch from thy pearly throne 
 Our vessel, plunging deeper into night 
 
 To reach a land unknown. 
 
 [Harlequin, Columbine, Ariadne, Sarmion, etc., go out.
 
 SCENE III. 155 
 
 SCENE lU.— T/ic same. 
 
 SiLENUS, Scaramouch, and Glaucus sitting round a rock. 
 Bacchantes set bottles of wine and go out. 
 
 Silcniis. Taste this, good Scarab. My little godling, drink. 
 ^All drink. ) 
 
 Scaramouch. Body and bouquet ! what is this 1 
 
 Sileniis. Wine, sir, crushed from grapes the sun never 
 ripened. 
 
 Glaucus. Is this to be bought ? 
 
 Silcnus. What ! are you still buying and selling here ? 
 Come, drink again. {^All chink.) Does it not search into 
 the dark corners and irrigate the waste places of the brain ? 
 This will make you gods, truly. And you still buy and sell 
 below the moon ? 
 
 Scaramouch. The old story, sir — 
 
 East and west, and north and south. 
 Under the crescent, or under the cross, 
 
 One song you hear in every mouth, 
 ' Profit and loss, profit and loss.' 
 
 Silenus. Is it so? I would have expected some change. 
 
 Glaucus. Where have you been not to know that the 
 divine institution of buying and selling is as vigorous as ever? 
 
 Silenus. I did not know it was divine, and I have been 
 with Bacchus among the stars. 
 
 Scaramouch. Roads and railways ! what does he mean ? 
 
 Silenus. And is money still the cure for all the ills of life?
 
 iS6 scara:mouch in naxos. 
 
 Is it still the talisman, eh ! — my brand-new demigod ? And 
 the great and glorious institution of rich and poor, good 
 spick-and-span divinity — is the world not tired of that gift of 
 the gods yet ? 
 
 Glaiiciis. This is empty railing : there must always be 
 rich and poor. 
 
 Silcnus. Let the rich hope so. But drink : these thoughts 
 unnerve me. [All d7-ink.) 
 
 Scaramouch. Good Bacchus, great Bacchus, you must be 
 careful. Such a slip in public as you made just now would 
 ruin us. 
 
 Silenus. What slip did I make ? 
 
 Scaramouch. You talked of being with Bacchus ; now, you 
 are Bacchus. 
 
 Silenus. So I am. Well, it was a slip. 
 
 Scaramouch. Tell us about the stars. 
 
 Silenus. Aha ! good Scarab, we travelled about from 
 planet to planet, from orb to orb, and each fresh sphere grew 
 an original wine. As pebbles to grapes, are grapes to the 
 fruits they crush there. Damsels, Hebes all, gather and 
 tread them, and their ankles are stained with purple all the 
 year round : the wine-presses and the vats are made of 
 scented wood : the season never changes : there is no night, 
 no death, no rich and poor. 
 
 Glaucus. Glorious, Bacchus, glorious ! But it seems to 
 me that we three may now fitly discuss my mythological rank. 
 
 Silcftus. We may, good codling. Let us see. There was 
 a god some five decades ago who lost caste abominably — no, 
 it is longer ; because during the last score centuries we 
 Bacchanalians have been out of hearing of the faintest
 
 SCENE III. 157 
 
 mundane murmur, beyond cry of Olympus, conquering the 
 realms of space, and now visit the earth solely for Ariadne's 
 pleasure : she had a desire to see once more her bower in 
 Naxos. 
 
 Glmicus. To whom might I appeal, then ? Is there no 
 register of gods ? 
 
 Scaramouch. None but Lempriere. 
 
 Sile7ius. It matters not : if you feel confident that you are 
 a god you must be one. 
 
 Glauciis. But any one might be a god at that rate. 
 
 Sileniis. Surely, surely ; confidence makes gods and 
 goddesses of the merest mortality. 
 
 Scaramouch. Mars and martyrdom ! I shall be a god too. 
 
 Silenus. Do, good Scrub, do : be a god : be the god of 
 gulls. — I have it ! Drink again. (All drink.) By-the-bye, 
 what has your name been hitherto ? 
 
 Glaiicus. Glaucus. 
 
 StlettKS. Then, Glaucus, know that thou art not Glaucus, 
 but my squire, Silenus. I am right glad to see thee, old one. 
 Thou hast been a wanderer long. 
 
 Glaucus. I thank thee, Bacchus. But I have no memoiy 
 of my name or character. If thou 
 
 Silenus. Nay, thou must not thee and thou me. I am thy 
 superior, and in my familiarity and my cups so address thee, 
 showing my pleasure in thy return. Use respectful pronouns, 
 Silenus. I am not angry with thee : in coming to thyself 
 thou wilt doubtless make many mistakes, which I without 
 resentment shall promptly correct. 
 
 Glaucus. Ah ! great Bacchus, I seem, now, to remember 
 with what reverence I regarded your godliness : it is the first
 
 158 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 hint my consciousness supplies of my identity. Will your 
 great highness tell me more of myself? 
 
 Silenus. I will, Silenus. Thou art one of those whom the 
 bulk of gods and men pity : but thou art not truly pitiable. 
 It is certain that thou art not a respectable immortal, for thou 
 keepest late hours, and dost allow thy company to choose 
 itself. I hear that thou art, or would'stbe, perennially drunk : 
 thou seemest to have as many stomachs as a cow, and art as 
 bald as a vulture ; and after thy godliness thy most indubit- 
 able attribute is certainly not thy cleanliness. No ; thou art 
 not respectable, therefore art thou pitied ; but thou dost not 
 pity thyself, wherefore I love thee. I respect the unsubduable 
 temper of thy soul, which, in the perdition of all that mortality 
 and immortality consider barely necessary for the mere 
 toleration of existence, still retains its diamond edge, flashing 
 from the worn-out scabbard, keen and serviceable for offence 
 or defence. 
 
 Glazicits. But, my lord Bacchus, I shall reform. 
 
 Silenus. Never, by Styx, thou fool ! I tell thee, wcrt thou 
 to change one thought of thy brain, or could'st thou obliterate 
 one dream of thy youth, or cancel an action of thy prime, 
 thou would'st endanger the stability of the universe. Go to : 
 if thou reformest thou losest immortality and mortality, and 
 shalt cease to be. 
 
 Glaiiciis. With all due respect for your godship, I do not 
 like my character. 
 
 Si/eniis. Dost thou think I like mine ? 
 
 Glaiiciis. But when I was Glaucus 
 
 Sile?ius. Thou wert a fool and respectable, and did'st 
 admire thyself Go to.
 
 SCENE III. 159 
 
 Scaramouch. Gall and wormwood ! what sound is that ? 
 
 Silemts. I hear no sound. 
 
 Scaramouch. A sort of tinkling. 
 
 Silenus. O Hecate ! it is the silver cymbals. 
 
 Scaramouch. What cymbals ? 
 
 Silemts. Listen. 
 
 Glaucus. (Aside.) The old wine-skin's going to faint. 
 
 Sileftus. He comes ! he comes ! great Bacchus comes ! 
 My heart ! 
 Now, foolish creatures, will you see a god. 
 But me, alas ! what punishment for me? 
 Some wine ! (Drinks.) I'll dull my sense and show no 
 shame. 
 
 (Empties his bottle.) 
 This wine has lost its virtue. — Do you hear ? 
 These cymbal-players all were ladies once, 
 Matrons and maids, close-robed from head to heel : 
 Wild panthers' skins, zoned slackly, vest them now ; 
 Their milk-white limbs like moonbeams softly glance 
 From tree to tree : and through the night they come. 
 
 Scaramouch. Would I could hear them ! But I tremble. 
 
 Glaucus. What does all this mean ? {Rises, drufik.) 
 Bacchus is here, and Bacchus is there, and I'm a god, and 
 can't understand it. I have a crude suspicion that I have 
 taken too much wine, which a man may do once or twice in 
 his life. My opinions about drunkenness are strong, but I 
 will keep them to myself. Suffice it to say that I have never 
 been drunk without good reason, and I'm not drunk now. I 
 know the difference — any man knows the difference between 
 exhilaration and drunkenness. I'm exhilarated now ; I'm
 
 l6o SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 not drunk. I seem to remember another man some time or 
 other — several men, in fact, at various times — saying that 
 they were only exhilarated. It's a common thing to say in 
 certain circumstances : it's a platitude. I'm not drunk. Do 
 you think I'm drunk ? 
 
 Scaramouch. Drams and drachmas ! as drunk's a fiddler ! 
 
 Glauciis. Liar ! liar, definitely ! Put me to the test. 
 Bacchus — give me a back ! {Rims at SiLENUS, and falls.) 
 
 Silettiis. These are the satyrs playing pandean pipes, 
 These rippling flames of sound : the muffled notes 
 Are tabors. How the music dwindles ! Hark ! 
 From some far isle it seems to reach our ears. 
 To reach our ears and faint : the tide-mark there 
 Is out of hearing. I should say they pass 
 A knoll that lies between us, or the road 
 Winds backward, and the forest is more dense. 
 
 Scaramouch. They may be going back. 
 
 Silenus. No, Bacchus comes for me. 
 
 Scaramouch. Perhaps they've lost the way. 
 
 Silenus. Ha ! ha ! when Bacchus loses himself in a wood 
 Silenus will drink the sea. 
 
 Scaramouch. The sound again ! It is as you say : one 
 would think it journeyed over sea. It grows and gathers, 
 and now it travels from its own cjuarter : it is very near. 
 
 Sileftus. He comes in all his state : the chariot-wheels 
 Like silent billows roll ; from side to side 
 The tigers' heads between their velvet paws. 
 Like lilies eyed with flame, sway noiselessly. 
 Or, poised on high, breathe odours to the moon. 
 Taller than Ariadne by a head
 
 SCENE III. l6l 
 
 He stands with her upon the chariot-floor : 
 They have been lovers since he found her here : 
 His arm is round her neck ; one loyal hand 
 Droops on her shoulder, and the other holds 
 A careless rein : her face lifts up to his 
 The deep, sweet melancholy of desire ; 
 And he looks down, high mystery in his eyes, — 
 The passionate love of these sweet centuries, 
 Unstaunched, uncloyed. 
 
 Scaramouch. But, where ? — where ? 
 
 Sileniis. In the wood. 
 
 I know how Bacchus travels. Here they come. 
 
 Scaramouch. But the tigers : we shall be eaten alive. 
 
 Sile7iiis. My good Scrub, the tigers of Bacchus know of 
 daintier food than such marrowless bones and savourless 
 flesh as you and I. The best thing you can do is to stretch 
 yourself there beside Glaucus, and pretend that you are 
 drunk. Bacchus may be angry at those who have carried 
 me off, and his immediate punishment might be severe : he 
 will do nothing to one who is in the power of wine, and by 
 the time you can be reasonably sober his ire will have gone 
 like the beads from a goblet. 
 
 Scaramouch. I would not do so for a man, but gods may 
 be encountered by such sleights. Honestly, I have soused 
 my brains a little. You do not lie comfortably, Glaucus. 
 Come — why, he is sound asleep ! I'll make a pillow of him. 
 
 (Lies down loith his head on Glaucus. j 
 
 Enter Satyrs and Bacchantes, ycZ/OTCw/ by IJacchus (/;/(/ Ariadne 
 in a chariot drawn by tigers. 7'hcy descend, 
 
 L
 
 1 62 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Bacchus. Well, runagate, who are your friends ? 
 
 Silenus. My foes : 
 
 They fell at the first bottle : I have won. 
 
 Scaramoicch. (Aside.) I could drink him out in brandy ; 
 but these planetary wines are not for this world. 
 
 Bacchus. How often have you run away ? 
 
 Silenus. Seven times. 
 
 Bacchus. Seven times you've risked disaster. You are old. 
 Feeble and foolish 
 
 Sileftus. Oh ! not foolish, Bacchus ! 
 
 Bacchus. Hare-brained at least 
 
 Ariadne. But chide him not, dear lord. 
 
 Bacchus. Well then, I will not : he is found. Be wise, 
 My ancient friend, and know your happiness. 
 
 (Bacchantes siin-oiind Silenus and bind him with ivy.) 
 
 Scaramouch. (Aside.) These are gentle divinities. 
 
 Ariadne. Here, by this sea, I waked — how long ago ! 
 Here, by this sea, you found me. 
 
 Bacchus. Would you be 
 
 My bride again ? 
 
 Ariadne. O no ! each day, each hour 
 
 I am your bride ; and as the days and years 
 Gather behind us, every happiness — 
 And that is every minute of my life — 
 Doubles the joy of that which went before : 
 And yet the past is as a galaxy 
 Wherein no star excels the radiant throng. 
 
 Bacchus. Not that fair hour when first you loved me ? 
 
 Ariadne. No : 
 
 I have no mcmor)'. I am striving now
 
 SCENE III. 163 
 
 To summon up the time when here you came, 
 And made me an immortal and your bride. 
 I might as well compel my thoughts to search 
 For some unnoted dream that I forgot 
 The moment after I had told you, love, 
 New wakened from the sleep I dreamed it in. 
 
 Bacchus. But memory goes afoot — invalid here : 
 Love has a high-commanding minister, 
 Imagination ; and it serves alone 
 Beings who yield their moods and bow their minds 
 To its obedient masterdom : stout thought, 
 That trudges, blind and lame, the dusty way, 
 And memoi-y, that casts its broken net 
 In Lethe's waves, keep not among your train — 
 Fit servants these for mortals. 
 
 Ariadne. So I do — 
 
 I banish them : but still there clings to me 
 Something of earth. 
 
 Bacchus. I love you best for that. 
 
 A goddess born is tame, secure of heaven, 
 And there is nothing to endow her with ; 
 But you derive divinity from me, 
 Yet keep the passionate heart that mortals have. — 
 Now, I am at the morn I found you here : 
 Come, Ariadne, leap into the past. 
 
 Ariadne. I cannot. 
 
 Bacchus. See, the flying traitor's sail ! 
 
 Ariadfie. No, no ! This night — this hour is in my blood. 
 The brine, the sea-pinks, and the soaring moon 
 Seem thoughts of mine which now I body forth ;
 
 164 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 And these, and all the beauties of the world 
 Breathe of my love for you. 
 
 Bacchus. I found you here 
 
 With crimson cheeks and nostrils wide, asleep ; 
 Your hair dishevelled, and your mantle torn. 
 
 Ariadtte. No, no ! 
 
 You cannot drive me back. I see, indeed, 
 A picture of our meeting ; but not mine. 
 My fancy like a wayward messenger 
 Despatched to gather roses, on its wings 
 Bearing their scent, flies empty-handed home. 
 Bacchus. What picture, Ariadne ? 
 Ariadne. That we saw 
 
 In Athens, when we last alighted there. 
 Do you remember how it made us smile 
 Until we felt that love had painted it ; 
 And then we found it true and beautiful ? 
 Bacchus. Yes : and the poet. 
 
 Ariadne. Oh I some mortals still 
 
 Love us, and deem us worthy of a song. 
 But for the subject of their art, I vow 
 They needs must know it better than myself 
 Who am the heroine : their feigning hangs 
 A veil before my fancy. — Come away : 
 Back where the water gurgles through the fern. 
 Dewing the feathery fronds, and hyacinths 
 Spread like a purple smoke far up the bank. 
 
 (Steps into the chariot.) 
 Enter Harlequin and Columkine. Scaramouch rises^
 
 SCENE III. 165 
 
 Harlequin. Bacchus ! {Is rimnitig out.) 
 
 Bacchus. Stay. 
 
 Harlequin. Pardon, great Bacchus ! 
 
 Scaramouch. Pardon ! 
 
 Bacchus. What men are you, infesters of this isle ? 
 
 Scaramouch. From England come we, Bacchus — England. 
 Ha ! 
 Know you not England, land of shams and shows ? 
 
 Bacchus. Is patriotism dead in England, then, 
 That travellers thus traduce their native land ? 
 What make you here ? 
 
 Scaramouch. We came to hire you, sir : 
 
 I am a showman : but we took instead 
 Silenus here, who, pardon me, agrees 
 More closely with the popular idea 
 Of what you're like than you yourself do. Now, 
 What must I do ? I most distinctly see 
 That you would be a more attractive show ; 
 But I have made a contract with Silenus. 
 Then, here's the Ariadne I suppose, 
 And I have just returned from shipping one ! 
 What's to be done ? Stalactites, storms, and strums ! 
 Will you come, too ? Name your own price : look here : 
 You'll be yourself; Silenus himself, too ; 
 And x^riadne will be Ariadne. 
 
 For her I've shipped — why, ladies have their starts. 
 Their turns, their maggots, and their fantasies, 
 Their hypochondrias, their aches, their pains. 
 Their dreams by day and night, their whims, their nothings ; 
 And should her ladyship lie in the clutch,
 
 1 66 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 The grip, the throes, or to be more precise, 
 The mood, or mode, or manner of a quahn, 
 The madam I have shipped could take her place. 
 And be her under-study as it were. 
 Yea, by the very doom of destiny, 
 I have a substitute for you, my lord — 
 Endymion, they call him — in the ship ! 
 So, Bacchus, if it happened, as it might — 
 And who has better reason ? — that you sipped. 
 
 Or tippled, or indulged, or Heaven forgive me ! 
 
 (Falls on his knees.) 
 Take off your eyes : they scorch me through and through ! 
 Bacchus. {To HARLEQUIN.) You, with the wooden sword, 
 I know your trade : 
 You shall do feats with that untempered blade. 
 {To Ariadne.) Should you not like to see these substitutes ? 
 Ariadne. Rarely. 
 
 Bacchus. {To HARLEQUIN.) Strike, kna\e ; and deeper 
 than the roots 
 Of aged oaks, as deep as is the sea. 
 
 Wide as the ^gean, and as Olympus high. 
 Your striking shall be felt. Come nearer me ; 
 Now strike, until your sword in splinters fly. 
 
 (Harlequin strikes ihe earth with his sii'onl.)
 
 SCENE IV. 167 
 
 SCENE IV. — Transforinatton frojn the Sea-shore to the 
 Bower of Ariadfie. 
 
 Song. 
 Through the air, through the air, 
 We are borne ; from our hair 
 A spicy odour is shaken : 
 We sing as we sail ; 
 The strong trees quail. 
 And the dreaming doves awaken. 
 The pale screech-owl 
 That, cheek by jowl, 
 Goes ravening with night, 
 Thinks day has come. 
 And hurries home 
 Half-starved, to shun the light. 
 An eagle above us screams ; 
 But a star blows a silver horn. 
 And a faint far echo floats 
 From the depths of the lakes, and the streams 
 Warble the shadowy notes. 
 A young lark thinks it morn, 
 And sings through our flying crowd. 
 That seems to his eager soul 
 Like a low-hung dawning-cloud. 
 The bells of midnight toll ; 
 The night-flowers tell the hour ; 
 And the stately planets roll, 
 As we fly to our lady's bower.
 
 l68 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 SCENE V. — The Bozuer of Ariadne. 
 
 Enter Bacchus and Ariadne, Sarmion and Ione, Harlequin 
 and Columbine, Glaucus, Scaramouch, Satyrs, and 
 Bacchantes. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Here are brackens, green and gold, 
 Fit for plumes of Titans old ; 
 And we see them by the light 
 That immortals shed at night : 
 Bosky rooms where to and fro 
 Shadowy drj'ads come and go ; 
 Bubbling springs where naiads peep, 
 Mossy couches where they sleep. 
 Here beneath this tree-topped hill 
 Pan oft comes to pipe his fill, 
 Making all the valley ring ; 
 Here the Muses sometimes sing : 
 And here upon this midnight hour 
 We visit Ariadne's bower. 
 
 Ariadne. {To Sarmion.) Who may you be ? 
 lone. He cannot speak. 
 
 Ariadne. Not speak ! 
 
 Bacchus. Silenus knows a remedy for that. 
 Silenus. None better. ( Gives Sx^^no'H wine in a goblet.) 
 This would loosen dead men's tongues. 
 Sarmio7i. My name is Sarmion. Whence I come I know not :
 
 SCENE V. 169 
 
 I know I live ; and now I have command 
 
 Of speech and of my thoughts, thanks to this wine. 
 
 I first remember being on the sea : 
 
 My shallop leapt from wave to wave : I thought 
 
 For ever to go sailing through the night : 
 
 My molten life welled from my heart and streamed 
 
 In murmuring flame through all its channels, fanned 
 
 By cooling winds : I watched the wanton waves 
 
 That melted in each other till I slept. 
 
 When I awoke the moon shone overhead, 
 
 And made along the sea a path of light, 
 
 Wherein I sailed : the beauty of it all 
 
 Blanched me with rapture ; but before I knew 
 
 My shallop grounded, and I sprang on shore. 
 
 I looked about me for a silver stair 
 
 To mount up to the moon, and seeing none 
 
 Began to be dismayed, when suddenly 
 
 I came upon this lady, whom I love. 
 
 {To I ONE.) Lady, I love you. How I longed to say 
 
 ' I love you !' — We were carried to a ship, 
 
 And thence arrived here borne upon a cloud. 
 
 Bacchus. I know you now, and what and whence you are. 
 I think this lady loves you in return : ask her and see. 
 
 (Sarmion and Ione talk apart.) 
 
 [To Scaramouch.) So, you or he would make of me a 
 show. 
 ScaraDiouch. It is my vocation. It may be an inferior 
 calling, but there are worse. It is not so honourable as 
 being a god, doubtless, but it is a decent kind of beggary.
 
 I70 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Bacchus. I understand you have been prosperous. 
 
 Scaranioiich. On the whole I have. I am not yet a 
 miUionaire, but I have capital. I — don't look at me like 
 that! 
 
 Bacchics. Prosperity has spoiled you, sir, I see : 
 You need to view the world with other eyes. 
 Come, Harlequin, that sphnter of your sword 
 Shall work an old-world metamorphosis. 
 Strike him between the shoulders. 
 
 (Harlequin shikes Scaramouch.) 
 To an ape 
 Be changed : and in that form you shall be caught, 
 And pass on exhibition for a year 
 From John-o'-Groat's to Land's End, up and down : 
 Thereafter you shall be a man again. 
 
 Scaramouch. Monkeys, menageries, and misery! Bacchus, 
 Bacchus, think what you do ! Do I merit such a fate ? 
 Make me a toad, a rat, a cockroach I Heavens ! A mon- 
 key in a cage ! Straw, stench, and filth ; and little boys to 
 tickle me with sticks, and throw me nuts ! A blinking, 
 bleared baboon 1 A chattering, gibbering, jabbering — 
 (Scaramouch rushes out transformed to ati ape.) 
 
 Bacchus. {To Glaucus.) Come hither. 
 
 Glaucus. {Aside.) Now shall I grow young again, and 
 be the god I am — and yet I tremble. 
 
 Bacchus. You look like one who thinks himself of note. 
 
 Glaucus. Surely, sir, surely. I am Silenus, your high 
 godship's faithful old servant. I wish I could see myself 
 Have I undergone a change similar to your godship's ? 
 When I last saw you — I remember nothing since I fell asleep
 
 SCENE V. 171 
 
 by the sea-shore — you were an old blown blue-bottle ; now 
 you are as I see you. Am I now a god ? Have I cast my 
 slough ? 
 
 Silenus. Oho ! I have a word to say. You must know 
 that I played Bacchus in my wanderings. This vain old 
 coxcomb took it into his head that he must be a god, 
 whereupon I persuaded him that he was myself, though all 
 Olympus knows there's not much of the god about me. 
 
 Glaucus. What ! have I been played upon like a kettle- 
 drum ? Is this all a dream ? 
 
 Bacchus. Well, are you still an immortal ? 
 
 Glaucus. No — no ; I am a foolish old man. 
 
 Bacchus. I'm glad you think so : you can now go home. 
 
 Glaucus. My daughter, sir? 
 
 Bacchus. Is safe. Farewell. 
 
 (Glaucus goes out.) 
 
 {To Harlequin i2;?<:/ Columbine.) Come here. 
 
 Harlequin afid Columbine. Mercy ! mere)' 1 
 
 Bacchus. Will you return, or will you follow me ? 
 
 Harlequin and Columbine. O send us back ! 
 
 Bacchus. A wretched choice : but go. 
 
 (Harlequin ^zW Columbine _^(^ out.) 
 Sarmion, what says the lady to your lo\e ? 
 
 Sarmion. O words of wonder, of enchantment — sweet. 
 And yet so strong, so tender and so bold. 
 That any ears save mine would miss the sense, 
 The savour, the aroma that they bear. 
 
 Ariadne. You love him, then ? 
 
 lone. Yes. 
 
 Ariadne, And you told him so
 
 172 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Io7te. I did. 
 
 Ariadne. What wondrous language could you use 
 That he should be so frenzied ? 
 
 lone. I but spoke 
 
 The language of my heart. 
 
 Bacchus. Well answered, girl. — 
 
 Our time is brief, for we have far to go 
 Before this side of earth can roll again 
 Out of its shadow. Listen, lovers. 
 
 Sile7ius. Peace. 
 
 Bacchus. Sarmion, you are descended from a race 
 Inhabiting a star above the moon. 
 Spirits they are, and by a subtle thought 
 Spirits are born to them. Those sultry clouds 
 That surge in slumbrous ranks like golden waves, 
 Or on the sky-line of the earth build up, 
 Agleam with topaz and with sardonyx. 
 Towards evening, high pavilions and towers, 
 That change to lofty crests and gorges deep 
 The fancy cannot fathom, are more dense. 
 More gross than the ethereal continents 
 Of yonder orb, washed by a sinuous sea 
 Guiltless of storm, thinner and lovelier 
 Than the divided azure. In a dream 
 You had a vision of an earthly maid ; 
 And, still asleep, your life, on fire for her, 
 Shaped to itself the body that you have — 
 The first to be incarnate of your race : 
 And then the secret limbec of your love 
 Distilled the wing'd and airy boat of pearl
 
 SCENE V. 173 
 
 That bore you to the earth. Here you awoke, 
 The past, forgot — the present, wonder all. 
 
 Ariadne. But shall we visit soon this star of his ? 
 
 Bacchus. Sometime we shall. — Sarmion, this choice is yours : 
 Either to give lone up, and be 
 Again a free thought in your natal sphere, 
 Whose whole dimensions, tense and rare, are pierced 
 By dwellers there, and give as easy way 
 As summer air to swallows, as the deep 
 To sporting dolphins ; or to have your love, 
 And with her the imprisonment of earth, 
 Where spirit must be draped in mortal flesh, 
 Where motion's shackled, and where ways are hewn. 
 Where life is conscious, and where death ends all. 
 
 Sarmioti. I choose lone. What with her must come 
 I scarcely understand ; but there can fall 
 No present woe so bitter as would be 
 Her absence from my life. 
 
 loite. O love, think well ! 
 
 Here are disease and care ; I shall grow old ; 
 And poverty may catch us in its net. 
 
 Sarmio7i. Your voice is music, but you speak of things 
 Unknown to me. 
 
 lone. Then, though my heart must break, 
 
 Return, return ! This world is not for you ! 
 A thousand daily pitfalls mesh the path 
 Of those who here are native : faults in friends, 
 Denials, tarryings, storm, and heat and cold, 
 Things loathsome, incomplete, falsehood, and wrath : 
 O I am ill at saying what I mean !
 
 174 SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS. 
 
 Think ; if these pitiful disquietings 
 
 Have power to kill the joy in us, who come 
 
 Of blood that never beat in other veins 
 
 Than those of men and women, still abused 
 
 By buffetings of chance on every side, 
 
 What misery, what terror will there be 
 
 For you, whose life has known no bolts, no bars, 
 
 No stumbling-blocks, no weariness, no care ! 
 
 And, chief of all, when you begin to find, 
 
 How weak, how foolish, and how fond I am ! 
 
 Sarinion. Have you to suffer daily miseries ? 
 Then here I stay. Gaunt wretchedness, advance : 
 If I may have this maiden for my mate, 
 No sting, no stroke of yours can make me quail ; 
 And while I live I cannot be so bruised 
 But some sound part of me shall have the strength 
 To bear the blows intended for my love. 
 
 Io7te. Now, God forbid ! 'Tis I shall be your shield. 
 
 Ariadne. Come here and kiss me. 
 
 (Ariadne embraces Ione.) 
 
 Bacchus. This is well, indeed. — 
 
 We must, ere dawn, away to India : 
 You two shall be transported through the air 
 To Glaucus' house. 
 
 lone. How far are we from home ? 
 
 Bacchus. Three miles, I think. 
 
 lone. O, pray you, let us walk ! 
 
 Sarmion, three miles together through the wood 
 Shimmering with moonlight, full of smothered sound,
 
 SCENE V. 175 
 
 And ghostly shadow, and the mingled scent 
 Of flowers and spices, and the cooling earth ! 
 It is a very life-time of delight ! 
 
 Bacchus. Good-night then, and farewell. 
 
 Ariadne. Farewell. 
 
 lone. Farewell. 
 
 Sarinion. All happiness go with you into Ind. 
 
 (Sarmion ami Ione go on!.) 
 
 Ariadne. This star, my love, I burn to see this star. 
 
 Bacchus. You shall upon your birth-day. 
 
 Ariadne. Two weeks hence, 
 
 As mortals count ! Well, I can wait. 
 
 Bacchus. Lead on. 
 
 CUR'l'AIN.
 
 PR 
 
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