THE BARD 
 
 OF 
 
 MARY REDCLIFFE 
 
 BY 
 
 ERNEST LACY 
 
 ILLUSTRATED AUTOGRAPH EDITION 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 SHERMAN AND COMPANY 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 I9IO
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BT 
 ERNEST LACY
 
 To 
 
 THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 
 
 WILLIAM, 
 THIS BOOK is DEDICATED
 
 SRLF 
 URL 
 
 AUTOGRAPH EDITION 
 Limited to Three Hundred and Fifty Copies 
 
 NO. ...* 
 
 
 Printed for
 
 Beware ! beware 
 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread j 
 For he on honey -dew hath fed 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 (v)
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 The North Porch of Mary Redcliffe, . . Frontispiece 
 The Tomb of William Canynge in the South 
 
 Transept, 5 
 
 Steep Street, 63 
 
 The Old Fox Inn, 87 
 
 Chatterton {From the Painting by Henry Wallis), 166 
 
 (vii)
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON, the Bard of Mary Redcltffe. 
 
 RICHARD PHILLIPS, his uncle, Sexton of Mary Redcliffe. 
 
 THOMAS PHILLIPS, an usher in the Colston School. 
 
 MRS. CHATTERTON, the Poef s mother. 
 
 MARY CHATTERTON, her daughter. 
 
 HENRY BURGUM, a wealthy pewter er. 
 
 BERTHA BURGUM, his daughter. 
 
 JAMES THISTLETHWAITE, a teacher in the Colston School. 
 
 THOMAS BROUGHTON, the Vicar of Mary Redcliffe. 
 
 JOHN LAMBERT, an attorney to whom Chatterton is 
 
 bound. 
 
 MRS. LAMBERT, his mother. 
 SAM, his footboy. 
 ALICE, >j 
 
 BETTY, 
 
 > girls in Bristol. 
 DOROTHY, 
 
 AGNES, 
 
 ALEXANDER CATCOTT, the Vicar of Temple Church. 
 
 GEORGE CATCOTT, his brother. 
 
 WILLIAM BARRETT, a surgeon.
 
 persons "Represented) 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE, son of the former Prime Minister of 
 
 England. 
 
 THOMAS HARRIS, the Mayor of Bristol. 
 CAPTAIN FRANCISCO, a highwayman. 
 MONSIEUR BARTHELEMON, the leader of the band in the 
 
 Gardens. 
 
 MRS. ANGELL, the keeper of a lodging-house. 
 HARRY ANGELL, her son, ten years of age. 
 BERTHA ANGELL, her daughter, six years of age. 
 
 Street-criers ; a gingerbread-man, a flower-girl, mum- 
 mers and spectators j first gentleman, second gentle- 
 man, first girl, second girl, other patrons of Mary- 
 lebone Gardens, and gods and goddesses in the 
 burletta. 
 
 SCENES : Bristol and London. TIME : From the middle 
 of April to the latter part of August, 1 7 70.
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF THE CHARACTERS. 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON, 
 
 the Bard of Mary Redcliffe, though not yet eighteen 
 years of age, is as mature in body as he is in mind. He 
 is medium-sized, strong and agile ; his mouth is large ; 
 his nose straight ; his forehead high ; his auburn hair 
 long and flowing. His gray eyes, one of which is more 
 brilliant than the other, are remarkable for the fire roll- 
 ing at the bottom of them a fire sometimes seen in 
 black eyes, but not in gray ones. His motions, like his 
 words, are sudden and swift, indicating the immediate 
 passing.of thought into action. 
 
 RICHARD PHILLIPS, 
 
 his uncle and Sexton of Mary Redcliffe, is lean, grizzly, 
 and wrinkled. Were he to stand erect, he would be 
 taller than the average man, but grave-digging has 
 stooped his shoulders and robbed him of a foot in 
 height. His slow steps seem timed to the movement 
 of a dirge, his downcast eyes suggest walking over sepul- 
 chral brasses, and his hushed voice whispers of long 
 comradeship with the dead.
 
 Descriptions ot tbe Cbaracters 
 
 THOMAS PHILLIPS, 
 
 an usher in the Colston School, is in his twenty -sixth 
 year. He is homely in the word's twofold sense : his 
 form is meagre and awkward ; his hair is scant ; his 
 features are irregular ; but his large brown eyes have a 
 fireside glow that radiates happiness to others, and he 
 leaves the impression of his being a big man a rudely- 
 hewn foundation rock, underground, on which the 
 loftiest spire could rest. 
 
 MRS. CHATTERTON, 
 
 the Poet's mother, is a plain, primitive little woman, 
 with flaxen hair streaked with white, and a countenance 
 of the ordinary type. In person and even in a trick of 
 tone, she resembles Thomas as a painter's first sketch 
 resembles his finished work. Unreasoning love, with 
 its faith and anxiety, beams from her face ; and, while 
 her son is speaking, she gazes at him with eyes as full of 
 wonder as is the proverbial hen when she sees the gos- 
 ling she has hatched disporting in a pond. 
 
 MARY CHATTERTON, 
 
 her daughter, is a spirited girl, two years older than the 
 Poet. She is somewhat taller than her mother, and is
 
 Descriptions of tbe Characters 
 
 possessed of a symmetrical figure, brown curling hair, 
 and gleaming black eyes, in which a strange light flits 
 at times, vanishing like Will-o'-the-wisp. She is, the 
 gossips say, the image of her departed father. 
 
 HENRY BURGUM, 
 
 a wealthy pewterer, is in middle life, burly and bluster- 
 ing. Physically, he is a second Dr. Johnson without 
 the marks of scrofula or learning. Ignorant, pompous, 
 and ungainly as he is, however, he excites an amused 
 tolerance, which, one feels, might pass into a phase of 
 affection, if, by the beating of tam-tams, the imp of 
 arrogance could be expelled from his inflated chest. 
 
 BERTHA BURGUM, 
 
 his daughter, is, perhaps, of some ancestral mould. One 
 year younger than Chatterton, she has those dewy 
 charms of form clustering round the word, girlish. Her 
 features are small and regular, her rippling hair is of a 
 golden tint, and her eyes are of the deepest blue. 
 Ethereal she might be called, were it not that, when 
 deeply moved, her cheeks flush, her bosom heaves, and 
 her voice trembles till reassured by its own sound, and 
 then it flows with nervous force. A Saxon beauty she 
 is to her lover the embodiment of Bertha in his 
 tragedy of '
 
 Descriptions of tbe Cbaractcrs 
 
 JAMES THISTLETHWAITE, 
 
 a. teacher in the Colston School, is in his early twenties. 
 He is swarthy in hue and diminutive in size ; but his 
 frame prefigures corpulence, as his hair betokens bald- 
 ness in old age. His broad forehead, his twinkling 
 black eyes, and his shapely nose lend, to the upper part 
 of his face, a benign expression, which is contradicted 
 by the ugly mouth and the heavy jaws below. He smiles 
 constantly, chuckles good-naturedly as he talks, and 
 habitually places his arm on the shoulders of friend or 
 foe. Eternal activity on the fruitful surface of affairs, 
 however, is indicated by an endless glide of words 
 uttered in a nasal tone. 
 
 THOMAS BROUGHTON, 
 
 the Vicar of Mary Redcliffeand author of ' An Histori- 
 cal Dictionary of all Religions from the Creation of the 
 World to this Present Time,' is a tall, handsome man 
 in the prime of life. His complexion is olive ; his hair 
 and eyes match the colour of his clerical garb ; his 
 every gesture is studied, for he stalks before a mirror in 
 his mind ; and his attitude, even while sitting, is stiff 
 and upright, as if he had an unbending creed for a back- 
 bone. His voice is clear, cold, and incisive, like that 
 of the accusing angel, and proclaims that the episode of 
 (xiv)
 
 Descriptions ot tbc Gbaracters 
 
 scourging the changers from the temple is, to him, the 
 whole of sacred history. 
 
 JOHN LAMBERT, 
 
 an attorney to whom Chatterton is bound, is a wiry, 
 irritable, prosaic snip of a man, evidently afraid of his 
 own shadow. His skin is as yellow as parchment ; his 
 pale eyes, with inflamed lids, show red ; and his fore- 
 head, cheeks, and chin converge toward the point of his 
 nose. He is, indeed, a human ferret that would, with 
 equal unction, dislodge a rat from its hole or a rabbit 
 from its burrow. 
 
 MRS. LAMBERT, 
 
 his mother, is a thin old woman, thin in every wise 
 thin body, thin hair, thin cheeks, thin nose, thin lips, 
 thin voice, and a thin soul that conceives Providence to 
 be as thin as itself. 
 
 SAM, 
 
 Lambert's footboy and Chatterton's bedfellow, is a 
 blowzy youth, with bristling hair, a turned-up nose, and 
 a puckered mouth. His constant stretching and yawn- 
 ing show that sleep is his ambition an ambition 
 strengthened, perhaps, by his chum's nightly inspira- 
 tions. 
 
 (zv)
 
 Descriptions of tbe Cbaracters 
 
 ALICE, BETTY, DOROTHY, AND AGNES, 
 
 girls in Bristol, are all in the witching teens. Alice is a 
 stately blonde, gravely sensitive ; Betty, a tiny brunette, 
 charmingly silly. Dorothy is plump and Agnes slender ; 
 but both are of the usual height, both have brown hair 
 and blue eyes, and both are romantically sentimental. 
 
 ALEXANDER CATCOTT, 
 
 the Vicar of Temple Church and author of ' A Treatise 
 on the Deluge, ' is a spare old gentleman, with a cracked 
 voice and a shuffling gait. His lamp-bleached face is 
 set with watery-blue eyes, is slit with a purple-lipped 
 mouth, and is provided with a long, pointed nose that 
 suggests poking into antiquated rubbish. His sparse, 
 white hair, falling over his cheeks, adds to his kindly 
 expression, and completes the illusion that he has just 
 stepped out of the ark. 
 
 GEORGE CATCOTT, 
 
 his brother, is his junior by fifteen years. There is, 
 indeed, a faint family -likeness, but it defies analysis ; 
 for George is shorter and stouter than the Vicar, his 
 eyes are darker, his nose is small and reddened at the 
 tip, his mouth is capacious, and his voice is harsh and 
 explosive. In brief, his looks and his manners harmonise
 
 descriptions of tbe Cbaracters 
 
 with his habit of sputtering his decrees in an ale-house, 
 and boasting that he climbed St. Nicholas steeple and left 
 a pewter record of his daring under the topmost stone. 
 
 WILLIAM BARRETT, 
 
 a surgeon and author of ' The History and Antiquities of 
 the City of Bristol, ' is lanky, athletic, and featured like 
 a Roman. Here, however, the semblance ends. A 
 keen observer would soon note that the antiquarian has 
 learning without culture and boldness without courage, 
 and would rate him as a weak, sensitive man that might 
 be killed by criticism hostile to his book. 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE, 
 
 son of the former Prime Minister of England, is fifty- 
 three years old, short and slender, but compact and 
 neatly made. His complexion is of an unhealthy pale- 
 ness ; his eyes are very dark and lively; his wig is un- 
 powdered, combed straight and queued behind; his 
 voice is low and musical, but his laugh is forced and un- 
 couth, and even his smile is unpleasant. He walks with 
 affected delicacy knees bent and feet on tip-toe, as if 
 afraid of a wet floor and never wears a hat, but carries 
 it under his arm or between his hands, as if he wished 
 to compress it. [ Taken from contemporaneous descrip- 
 tions of Walpole.~\
 
 Descriptions of tbe Cbaracters 
 
 the Mayor of Bristol, is in the belly-god period of ex- 
 istence too young to be scared into reformation, and 
 too old to be lured into active vice. His huge feet, his 
 stocky legs, his fat jowls, and his ponderous paunch 
 make him appear squat, though, in reality, he is rather 
 tall. His large, round head with beady eyes, flat nose, 
 and expansive mouth flaunts a shock of coarse, black 
 hair ; and his bushy eyebrows, while he speaks or chews, 
 wave up and down like the wings of hovering vultures. 
 In conversation, he gives vent to a big, guttural voice, 
 broken by gasps and grunts ; and when in motion, he 
 rolls from side to side, like a merchantman caught in the 
 trough of the sea. His relish for turtles may be ascribed 
 to heredity of office ; for history records that the mayors 
 of Bristol were notorious for this weakness, and that 
 one of them, on a journey, allotted a special chariot to 
 the green-shelled monsters, and, distrustful of country 
 kitchen-maids, took a skilful cook along. 
 
 CAPTAIN FRANCISCO, 
 
 a highwayman, is not more than five and thirty to the 
 view. His figure is slim and boyish ; his skin is of a 
 transparent whiteness on his forehead, but gradually 
 ( xviii )
 
 Descriptions ot tbe Cbaracters 
 
 darkens to the heavy tan on his chin ; his features are 
 effeminate in cast ; his hands and feet are small : his 
 bearing is aristocratic ; and his dress is exquisite. There 
 is, too, a mildness in his light-blue eyes ; but this, like 
 his person , is deceptive, for it denotes a calmly desper- 
 ate man, who, did he not live in a Broughtonian age, 
 might be an honoured one. 
 
 MONSIEUR BARTHELEMON, 
 
 the leader of the band in Marylebone Gardens, is 
 middle-aged, low and slender in stature, and so excita- 
 ble that he expresses himself as much by antics as by 
 words. His chronic look of outraged genius, it may be 
 added, lends further proof that he has the artistic tem- 
 perament, which claims the earth as its preserve and 
 brands every one else a poacher. 
 
 MRS. ANGELL, 
 
 the keeper of a lodging-house, is a young matron, plump 
 in form, comely in face, and motherly in her ways ; for 
 she has not yet been hardened by the cares of letting 
 rooms. Harry, her son, is an urchin of ten mischievous 
 years ; and Bertha, her daughter, is a coy little maid of 
 six summers, with hair so red that even her future lover 
 can not mistake it for auburn. 
 
 (zix)
 
 TV Bart. 
 
 of 
 
 fybdtffe 
 
 (xxi)
 
 THE BARD 
 
 OF 
 
 MARY REDCLIFFE. 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 SCENE. The muniment room near the summit of the 
 hexagonal porch of St. Mary Redcliffe, Bristol. 
 Four sides of the apartment are shown, three of 
 which are pierced by a series of windows of four 
 lights each. At the right, an oaken door opens on 
 winding steps that lead to the roof above and to the 
 interior of the porch below. Seven coffers of various 
 sizes are scattered about the place. Before the rise 
 of the curtain there is a chime of bells. Then the 
 voices of a choir are heard faintly as the curtain 
 rises, disclosing the moonlit room with a monk, in 
 cowl and scapular, writing on the top of one of the 
 coffers, by the light of a single candle. Suddenly 
 the music increases in volume, and then diminishes 
 i
 
 ACT i.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 as the closing of a heavy door is heard. As footsteps 
 sound upon the spiral stairway, the monk blows out 
 the candle, and conceals himself by raising the lid of 
 the coffer. Then the Sexton, with jangling keys in 
 one hand and a lanthorn in the other, appears and 
 stands in the doorway, looking down the steps. 
 
 Sexton. [Holding the lanthorn above his head.~\ 
 Be careful, sir, the steps are steep and winding ; 
 And if you fall, you'll be whirled round so oft 
 You will be giddy ere you reach the bottom. 
 
 Phillips. [From below. ,] 
 Well, if I fall, I'll fall into the church. 
 
 Sexton. The door is locked and is of oak and iron : 
 Best keep your footing. 
 
 Phillips. \_Reaching the landing and pointing up the 
 stairway.^ 
 
 Whither does this lead ? 
 
 Sexton. Unto the roof, from which there is a view 
 As far as Clifton and Prince Rupert's Fort. 
 Will you go up ? 
 
 Phillips. I'll wait till Thomas comes : 
 
 He asked me, sir, to meet him here at curfew. 
 
 Sexton. [As they enter the roomJ\ 
 So your name's Phillips ; my name's Phillips, too : 
 We may be relatives. 
 
 2
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Phillips. We may, indeed. 
 
 I am the usher at the Bluecoat School 
 Who taught your nephew until he was bound 
 To Lambert, the attorney. 
 
 Sexton. It is strange 
 
 He never spoke of you ; and yet 'tis not, 
 For seldom does he speak of any one 
 Save Canynge, who re-edified this church, 
 And Rowley, his priest-poet. 
 
 Phillips. Who were alive 
 
 In reigns of Henry Sixth and Edward Fourth. 
 
 Sexton. But have you read the poems Rowley 
 wrote ? 
 
 Phillips. A few of them : The Parliament of Sprites, 
 The Bristowe Tragedy, The Tournament ; 
 And Thomas purposes to read to-night 
 A Song to ^lla. 
 
 Sexton. Are they not beautiful ? 
 
 Phillips. As beautiful as white and red rose blended. 
 
 Sexton. My nephew found them in these very chests, 
 With parchment proofs that Burgum takes descent 
 From some old Norman knight ; and, rarer still, 
 A manuscript describing Master Mayor's 
 First passing over the old Bristol bridge 
 In time of Henry Third. 
 
 3
 
 ACT i.] ZTbe 3Bart> of 
 
 Phillips. What angel led 
 
 To all this coffered wealth ? 
 
 Sexton. Tom's father, sir. 
 
 Phillips. I thought that Chatterton the elder died 
 Before his son was born. 
 
 Sexton. Both truths are true. 
 
 Sit down upon that chest. The Chattertons 
 Were sextons here two hundred years and more. 
 
 Phillips. He told me that. 
 
 Sexton. Proud is he of his birth 
 
 As a rooster of his treading ; all are proud. 
 His father has he told you aught of him ? 
 
 Phillips. That he was master of the Pyle Street School, 
 And a sub-chaunter in the Cathedral here ; 
 Was fond of music and of rare antiques 
 
 Sexton. Too fond of music and of rare old wine. 
 Music or wine alone we can withstand ; 
 But wine and music mingled, like rum-punch, 
 Drive us to woman or the devil, sir. 
 
 Phillips. But what of Thomas ? 
 
 Sexton. Listen or narrate. 
 
 Old Chatterton, who thought his lineage made 
 This church his chapel, robbed these ancient chests, 
 And covered school books with the precious parchments. 
 
 Phillips. And he a man of learning ! 
 4
 
 
 I
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Sexton. One of these 
 
 The youthful Thomas found, and fell in love 
 With its illuminated capitals. 
 Till then we thought the lad a hopeless dunce ; 
 For he was stupid and would sit and cry, 
 Saying he wept because he had been born. \Laughs. 
 
 Phillips. Misunderstood from birth. 
 
 Sexton. But from that day 
 
 He took to reading, as a babe to milk, 
 And spent his holidays within this church, 
 Brooding the aisles or rummaging these chests. 
 Why, I have seen him sit by Canynge's effigy 
 Two mortal hours, as white and motionless 
 As the alabaster angel on the tomb. 
 
 Phillips. Where is old Rowley buried ? 
 
 Sexton. No one knows : 
 
 Canynge's purse-bearer, cook, and brewer lie 
 In the south transept, but his poet's bones 
 Rest in a grave obscure. 
 
 Phillips. 'Tis very strange. 
 
 Has Thomas searched for it ? 
 
 Sexton. I can not say : 
 
 But once I came upon him in this room, 
 His hands and face besmeared with lead and ochre, 
 And when I merely asked what he was doing, 
 
 5
 
 ACT i.] Ube Barb ot 
 
 He flew into a passion, and then begged 
 To be left with Rowley. And away I went ; 
 For he could wheedle bones from kennelled hounds 
 Without their snarling. Would you like to see 
 His birthplace ? You can view it from the windows. 
 
 \_Goes to the windows and Phillips follows him. 
 
 Phillips. Yes, show me everything and tell me all ; 
 For he has been secretive, and his eyes 
 Like the gray eyne of Dawn, are ever turned 
 To a golden noontide and a sunset crimson. 
 
 Sexton. Why bless my soul, you talk like Thomas, sir ! 
 You see that building just beyond Pump Lane ? 
 Well, that is Pyle Street School ; behind it stands 
 The master's house where Chatterton was born. 
 
 Phillips. His mother lives there still ? 
 
 Sexton. No : on the hill 
 
 By the upper gate ; she keeps a dame-school now. 
 
 Male Hawker. \_From the street '.] 
 Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot spice gingerbread ! 
 
 [Sings.'] 
 
 It is all hot, nice smoking hot, 
 
 Or I would not so cry ; 
 But if you won't believe, you sot, 
 
 You need but taste and try. 
 
 Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot spice gingerbread ! 
 
 6
 
 iRefccliffe, [ACT i. 
 
 Sexton. \_Wliile the cry is dying away in the distance J\ 
 He bakes good gingerbread. 
 
 Phillips. And makes good verse. 
 
 Sexton. That is the leaning tower of Temple Church. 
 Catcott, the Vicar, is a friend to Thomas ; 
 He writes about the Deluge. 
 
 Phillips. So I hear. 
 
 Sexton. There's Burgum's house upon the Avon's 
 
 bank, 
 
 This side those fig trees in St. Peter's garden. 
 Barrett, the historian of Bristol, lives 
 
 Phillips. I see the house : ' tis near the Colston School . 
 Sexton. Well, when perplexed he comes for aid to 
 
 Thomas. 
 
 [ The n pointing out the different Churches. .] 
 St. Nicholas, Christ Church, All Saints', and St. Wer- 
 
 burgh's. 
 
 Let us unto the roof : the view is better. 
 Phillips. But if he come ? 
 
 Sexton. \_Going.~\ We need not tarry long, 
 
 [As they cross to the door, the monk rises and stands 
 motionless in the moonlight as if reading a parch- 
 ment. Then a distant bell begins to toll. 
 Phillips. \Stopping.~\ The curfew. 
 Sexton. Rung for ages from St. Nicholas. 
 
 7
 
 ACT i.] tlbe 3Barfc of 
 
 Phillips. [ Glancing round and seeing the monk.~\ 
 Look there ! 
 
 Sexton. \_Turning.~\ O Heaven and Mary Rowley's 
 
 ghost ! 
 Preserve us Saints ! [Sinks upon his knees. 
 
 Phillips. Rise, sir ; it is some trick. 
 
 Sexton. It is no trick ! 
 
 It is no trick ! [Then to the monk.~\ If we do trespass 
 
 here, 
 We will depart and leave your poems sacred. 
 
 Phillips. Who are you ? Speak, or I will rush 
 upon you ! 
 
 Sexton. [Rising and restraining him.~\ 
 No, we must not defy him come away ! 
 
 Phillips. I'll sound this mystery. 
 
 Sexton. Oh, let us go ! 
 
 Phillips. Who are you ? 
 
 The Monk. [ Throwing off his cowl, and bursting into 
 laughter. ,] 
 
 Thomas Chatterton ! 
 
 Sexton. [Raising the lanthorn.~\ 'Tis Thomas ! 
 
 Chatterton. In truth it is, for Rowley's ghost is fled. 
 [Then coming down and taking their hands. ,] 
 Forgive me, uncle and my dearest friend, 
 This mediaeval masking. 'Twas unkind 
 But not foreplanned ; and jesters must be cruel.
 
 iRefccltffe* [ACT i. 
 
 Phillips. Why did you play the ghost ? 
 
 Chatterton. 'Twas but a freak ; 
 
 For when I write I do assume a guise 
 To lure the archaic Muse. 
 
 Phillips. [Touching the robe.~\ Was this found, too ? 
 
 Chatterton. My mother made it from my own design. 
 You are not angry, Phillips ? 
 
 Phillips. Not at all. 
 
 Chatterton. And you, dear uncle ? 
 
 Sexton. [Breathing hard. .] I have lost my speech. 
 
 Chatterton. But eyes can look forgiveness ; yet ' twas 
 
 wrong, 
 
 And I will wear no more the monkish garb 
 When with my friends. [Casts off the robe.~\ 
 
 Phillips, shall I unmask ? 
 
 Phillips. You have done so. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, you will deem that robe 
 
 The veil of April to the cloak of March, 
 Which blurs the golden sun to silver patch 
 And dusks all England, when I do unmask. 
 
 Phillips. You speak in cipher. 
 
 Chatterton. And must so persist 
 
 Until I quench this moonlight. 
 
 [Goes to a coffer and takes out a bundle of can- 
 dles. 
 
 9
 
 ACT i.] Tibe Bare of 
 
 Sexton. \Apart to Phillips. ~\ Have no fear : 
 
 On nights like this the boy is flighty. 
 
 Chatterton. [Overhearing him. ~\ Ay! 
 
 The moon doth raise my spirits with the tides. 
 [Then holding up a candle. ~\ 
 Here's that will make them ebb ; your lanthorn, uncle. 
 
 Sexton. You'll set the church on fire ! 
 
 Phillips. Be quiet, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. [Lighting the candle and returning the 
 
 lanthorn.~\ 
 
 What shall we dub this struggle ? Let it be 
 'A Battle 'twixt the Candles and the Moon.' 
 [Inverts the candle so that the tallow drops iipon the chest. .] 
 Its blood is sluggish ; we will name it Lambert. 
 Hold fast, pale warrior, and oppose the Moon 
 In this, your castle-city call it ' Bristol.' 
 [Places the candle upright on the chest and lights another. .] 
 Hail Alexander Catcott, reverend Greek ! 
 Your Treatise on the Deluge proves that you 
 Can squire the Nightmare in his joust with Dreams. 
 Stick there ! Now lend your darkling brother light. 
 [Lights the third candle at the second. ] 
 George Catcott, you who climbed St. Nicholas' spire, 
 And, like an impious pigeon, left your mark 
 Upon the steeple, do you blanch with fear
 
 iRefcclfffe. [ACT i. 
 
 When argent shafts from Luna's archery 
 
 Pour through the loopholes of this donjon-keep ? 
 
 [ Waves his hand toward the moonlight streaming into the 
 
 windows ; places the third candle and lights the 
 fourth. ~\ 
 
 The cry is ' Barrett to the Rescue ! ' Come, 
 Historian, bold when tilting 'gainst the truth; 
 Stand firm : the airy arrows of the nymph 
 Glance from your head-piece. [Places the fourth candle. ~\ 
 
 Fancy faints more light ! 
 [Lights the fifth candle hurriedly. ~\ 
 I would not have her dwindle into death. 
 There, Thomas Harris, gross and greasy Mayor. 
 \Places the fifth candle and lights the sixth.~\ 
 Now, Thistlethwaite, stand upright if you can. 
 [Places the sixth candle and lights the seventh.] 
 The last pale knight shall it be christened ' Phillips ' ? 
 Nay, Phillips is for me, I for the Moon, 
 And all for Phantasy ! Courage, old Cutts. 
 [Places the last candle, rises, and looks first at the dimmed 
 
 moonlight and then at the seven burning candle s.~\ 
 The Candles win ! the Seven of the Storm, 
 That dwell within the hollows of the Earth 
 And ride in chariots drawn by dappled deer, 
 Have quite eclipsed the Moon, and Fancy's dead.
 
 ACT i.] Ube Barb ot 
 
 Sexton. Have you gone mad ? 
 
 Phillips. I see it all, dear Thomas : 
 
 It is your battle, and you fight alone ; 
 May I be your ally ? 
 
 Chatterton. [Seizing his hand. ~\ O Phillips, Phillips ! 
 'Twas but a needful prelude to my tale. 
 I am encompassed by a host of fools : 
 You cannot blame me if I wear a mask. 
 
 Phillips. I do not blame you. 
 
 Sexton. And I see no mask. 
 
 Chatterton. You know of Rowley, Phillips ? 
 
 Phillips. Yes. 
 
 Chatterton. His works? 
 
 Phillips. What you have read to me. 
 
 Chatterton. A re they of worth ? 
 
 Phillips. Surpassing worth ! 
 
 Chatterton. Why then, if after charm 
 
 Low chanted in some weird Egyptian strain, 
 A waving wand, a rolling of the eyes, 
 A sprinkling of a powder on these flames 
 These seven mystic flames he should arise, 
 What would you say ? 
 
 Sexton. [In alarm.] He's mad ! 
 
 Chatterton. Would welcome him ? 
 
 Phillips. As warmly as if Chaucer leaped to life.
 
 TRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton. I am the monk. 
 
 Phillips. Impossible ! 
 
 Sexton. Alas ! 
 
 Chatterton. O doubting Thomas, had old Rowley lived, 
 Think you my father would have covered books 
 With golden fleece like this ? [Holds out a manuscript. 
 
 Phillips. That did seem strange. 
 
 Chatterton. Burgum lacks birth I find it for him 
 
 here ; 
 
 Barrett needs chronicles The Yellow Roll 
 And Rowley's version of Turgot are found; 
 Bristolians soon will celebrate their bridge 
 In Felix Farley's Journal will appear 
 A rare account, in quaint old English writ, 
 Of how the bridge was opened ages past. 
 
 Phillips. Too opportune for truth. 
 
 Chatterton. You wish more proof? 
 
 Give me a theme : be it the nameless knight 
 That in the transept lies with crossed legs 
 To signify three visits to the shrine ; 
 Or Admiral Penn's iron gauntlets, sword, cuirass, 
 And helmet with the rampant lion's crest, 
 Which rust beneath his trophies in the nave. 
 Give me an olden theme, one moonlit night ; 
 Then hear my song. 
 
 '3
 
 ACT i.] Ube Bar& ot 
 
 Phillips. I could not doubt your voice, 
 
 Could I rebut your words. 
 
 Sexton. 'Tis marvellous ! 
 
 Chatterton. Here is a song to ylla, nesh and clean 
 As sacrificial lamb. I'll antiquate it. 
 [ Takes from a coffer a piece of ochre in a brown pan, 
 charcoal dust in a pounce-box, black-lead powder in 
 a bottle ; then rubs the ochre on the parchment, .] 
 This lends the fragrance of the Tudor rose. 
 [Sprinkles the charcoal over //.] 
 This, of two roses York and Lancaster. 
 \Holds up the bottle of black-lead.~\ 
 This used : 'twould savour of the golden broom, 
 Whose Gallic seedling in our English soil 
 Quickened to mighty oak Plantagenet. 
 \Throws the parchment lipon the floor, runs his foot over 
 
 it, and then crumples it in his handJ\ 
 When they need more, I smoke them in the chimney. 
 Phillips. [Examining the parchment, .] It is well 
 
 done. 
 
 Sexton. [Looking over his shoulder, ,] Ay, marvel- 
 lously well. 
 
 Chatterton. Note the calligraphy, old words and all. 
 There's wondrous sorcery in spelling, Phillips. 
 Phillips. None could detect 
 14
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton. Not even Horace Walpole. 
 
 But you shall see, for I have sent to him 
 The Ryse of Peyncteynge, wroten by T. Rowleie ; 
 And you will hear him drum and see him lift, 
 Like partridge whirring to the fowler's call. 
 
 Sexton. He may discover 
 
 Chatterton. No. 
 
 Phillips. But if he should ? 
 
 Chatterton. What then ? Did he not publish his own 
 
 work, 
 The Castle of Otranto, as antique ? 
 
 Phillips. Why not be open ? 
 
 Chatterton. I have tried it, Phillips : 
 
 I once told Barrett, and he said I lied ; 
 Nor would my poems be received as mine 
 Till verdict was recorded past recall. 
 Were I to leave this arrow-lede to fame, 
 What of my mother ? She is aging fast, 
 And I have deepened furrows on her brow. 
 
 Phillips. Your course in this seems clear. 
 
 Chatterton. Why, who is wronged ? 
 
 If these blood-rubies flash Promethean fire, 
 What matter whom they dight, myself or Rowley ? 
 Dear uncle, Burgum will be here to-night. 
 
 Sexton. Not here ? 
 
 15
 
 ACT i.] Ube Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. Yes, here : will you meet him below 
 And light him up the steps ? 
 
 Sexton. [Going.] That will I do, 
 
 Be it for monk or nephew. 
 
 Chatterton. Thank you, uncle. [Exit Sexton. 
 
 Phillips, for giving Burgum Norman sires, 
 My only plea is that I am part boy ; 
 That he abused me, and I linked the lies 
 To sport myself against the pompous man. 
 I had not met her then. She comes with him 
 To see where Rowley's soul is sepulchred. 
 
 Phillips. Who comes ? 
 
 Chatterton. Her name think me not overfond 
 His daughter Burgum' s daughter. 
 
 Phillips. And do you 
 
 Chatterton. I hold my life less dear to me than art, 
 And she is dearer than my dearest verse. 
 More, gentle friend, I need not say to you : 
 To word my love were to abase my love. 
 
 Phillips. Does she responsive act ? 
 
 Chatterton. No, not to me : 
 
 She is in love with Rowley. 
 
 Phillips. When she learns 
 
 That Canynge's bard has less of earthly mould 
 Than the purple image of a thunder-cloud 
 
 16
 
 IReteltffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Beheld in dreamful waters, will she change ? 
 
 Chatterton. The world and she will love me when 
 
 1 say 
 
 ' I am old Rowley all he wrote is mine ! ' 
 
 [A wild burst of laughter rises from the street.~\ 
 
 Drunkards carousing at the Old Fox Inn. 
 
 I would their laugh had come less timely, Phillips ; 
 
 For trifles haunt me. 
 
 Phillips. 'Twas but Chance at play. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, Fate may justly scourge me when I 
 
 claim 
 The works of Thomas Rowley. Do not laugh. 
 
 Phillips. What do you mean ? 
 
 Chatterton. I feel that Rowley lives ! 
 
 Last night I saw him in the moonlight there 
 As plain as I see you ; and he was weeping. 
 Each crystal tear-drop seemed a little world 
 Of sorrow falling from its native sphere. 
 
 Phillips. 'Twas all a dream. 
 
 Chatterton. It may have been, and yet 
 
 Do you think, Phillips, that the mind can bear 
 Real, living spirits never clothed in flesh, 
 That act and suffer as we dream they do 
 Making truth fancy and all fancy truth ? 
 
 Phillips. Mind then usurps creative power. 
 
 2 17
 
 ACT i.] TTbe 36art> of 
 
 Chatterton. Not so : 
 
 God moving on the brain, the heart, the soul 
 The nobler part ; not on this lecherous frame. 
 The one you worship, Phillips, was so born. 
 
 Phillips. Such things are past our ken. 
 
 Chatterton. But not our sight : 
 
 And I would swim upon this wave of thought 
 Though it bear me to madness. 
 
 Phillips. As you please. 
 
 Chatterton. Will Shakespeare had three children 
 
 scarcely fit 
 
 To run on four legs and to nibble grass : 
 Must Hamlet, Portia, Desdemona die 
 And his gross offspring live ? 'Tis past belief. 
 
 Phillips. It is not writ that fancy ends with death, 
 And, in our fancy, they may live for aye. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, they must have a separate existence, 
 Or heaven is all a dream. What would life be 
 With Vicar Catcott paddling o'er the flood 
 In search of flotsam from old Noah's ark; 
 Or his fool-brother clambering up a spire ; 
 Or Barrett trudging o'er a Roman camp ; 
 Or Thistlethwaite, your colleague and my friend, 
 A charlatan, a hypocrite, a cur 
 
 Phillips. And Burgum 
 18
 
 IRe&cliffe, [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton. Is her father ; let him pass. 
 
 When I am weary of the things called real, 
 I summon Rowley and his phantom crew. 
 We catch the shimmering life-lines of the moon, 
 Thrown out to drowning souls, and all aboard, 
 Sail past the mysteries of endless space. 
 Past Jupiter, white as is the god of power 
 Enthroned on adamant ; an eagle perched 
 Upon his gauntlet, and around him grouped 
 The Northern Winds that battle with the Plagues. 
 Past silver Mercury, where the god of wit 
 Lolls on an emerald seat ; beneath his foot 
 A wild hyena laughing, at his back 
 An ape that chatters wisdom in his ear. 
 Past yellow Saturn, from whose ebon state, 
 Infest with scorpions, basilisks, and toads, 
 The god of melancholy rules those Winds 
 On which ride Ague, Palsy, and Despair, 
 And fell Consumption with her glittering eyes. 
 Past ruddy Mars, where on carved jasper sits 
 The choleric god in tabard dyed vermilion 
 A vulture on his right, and on his left 
 A mastiff and a panther held in leash, 
 While frantic Fevers antic near their liege. 
 Past Venus, green as is the western sky 
 
 19
 
 ACT i.] Ube Bart) of 
 
 Set with a golden sun ; where rosy nymphs 
 
 Rise from a violet sea, and on a couch 
 
 Of orient ruby lies the goddess, Love, 
 
 Fanned by her swarthy slave, the Southern Wind, 
 
 The pearly tints of morning on her form 
 
 And midnight in her hair. 
 
 Phillips. 'Tis beautiful ! 
 
 Chatterton. Thence to the zenith, past the throne of 
 
 God; 
 
 So close we hear the voices of the angel choir 
 And see the face of Christ ! 
 
 Phillips. [Starting to his feet.~\ Your words are 
 wild! 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, when I feel an ecstasy like this, 
 The world may sink to hell ! Forgive me, Phillips : 
 The moon is full and I am in a frenzy ! 
 
 \_Throws his arms about Phillips and bursts into 
 tears. 
 
 Phillips. Dear Thomas! 
 
 Chatterton. Yes, I know : I can not tread 
 
 The star-dust pathway to the Northern Lights, 
 Whence truth shines dimly through vast bergs of ice ; 
 Nor drink the magic vintage of the night, 
 Which spirits vision that o'erwhelms the sense : 
 Flesh must have ground and water. 
 
 20
 
 IRefccIiffe* [ACT i. 
 
 [Laughter as if the roisters were leaving the Inn is 
 
 heard and then the sound of voices on the stairs. 
 Phillips. They are coming. 
 
 Chatterton. Yes, Burgum and his 
 Phillips. Why, you pale and shake 
 
 As if Saturnian wind swept over you. 
 
 Chatterton. Hope lies with folded wings in white 
 
 cocoon ; 
 
 Then bursts to light, a rainbow-tinted joy, 
 With tearful vans that flutter ere they fly. 
 Oh, I shall flush and stammer like a fool ! 
 You do not smile : you have a poet's heart. 
 
 [Enter the SEXTON, MRS. CHATTERTON, and her 
 
 daughter MARY.] 
 Mother ! 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Do not be attery, Tommy. 
 Chatterton. [Going to her and embracing her.~\ No. 
 O mother dear, it seems almost a crime 
 For me to love another. 
 
 Mary. [Roguishly.] Oh, indeed ! 
 
 Chatterton. \_Kissing her J\ Not you, sweet sister 
 Mary. No, but some one else, 
 
 Or you have changed ; for when you were but six, 
 To lure you from the lumber room, we said 
 Your little sweetheart, Sukey Webb, was come. 
 
 21
 
 ACT i.] Ube Bart) of 
 
 Chatterton. Poor Sukey ! My mother and my sister, 
 
 Phillips. 
 
 \Phillips bows and the women courtesy J\ 
 Receive him, mother, as my trusty friend, 
 Most meet to be my dear associate 
 In my best moments. He has my Rowley secret. 
 
 Sexton. And my family name. 
 
 Chatterton. Uncle, remember Burgum. 
 
 Sexton. The pewterer had melted in my mind. 
 
 \_Exit Sexton. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. [ Taking eatables from a basket and 
 putting them on a coffer, while Mary and Phillips 
 converse.~\ 
 
 I've brought you sheep tongues and a pot of tea 
 Alack, the tea is cold ! 
 
 Chatterton. It matters not : 
 
 By gorging I would make myself more dull 
 Than God has made me. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You must eat, Tommy. 
 
 Chatterton. Please, mother, call me Thomas or plain 
 
 Tom: 
 
 Think you that Shakespeare ever did permit 
 A soul to call him Billy ? 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. It shall be Thomas. 
 
 Chatterton. For Rowley's sake, not mine.
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. \_Handing him a tongue. ~\ Now, 
 son, eat this. 
 
 Chatterton. Do you know, mother, I could give that 
 
 tongue 
 
 The eloquence of Pitt or make it sing 
 Like Chaucer? I will eat it by-and-by. \_Returnsit. 
 
 Phillips. Your sister says you seldom eat. 
 
 Mary. Or sleep. 
 
 Chatterton. I have a queasy stomach ; for I feed 
 With Lambert's scullion at the kitchen board, 
 And with the footboy lodge, when I am one 
 To lie with kings and feel they break my rest. 
 
 Phillips. He is a brute ! 
 
 Chatterton. And you the prince of friends 
 
 To check my vapouring with sympathy 
 And not with chiding. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Chiding makes him worse. 
 
 Mary. Both Lambert and his mother treat him 
 ill. 
 
 Chatterton. Their day will pass. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. And yours will come, my son. 
 
 I well remember when you were a child 
 You would not read from out a little book ; 
 And in the games you were the master-man 
 With all your playmates servants ; once you said, 
 
 2 3
 
 ACT i.] trbe JSaro of 
 
 ' Paint me an angel with a trumpet, mother, 
 To blow my name throughout the listening world.' 
 Chatterton. Think me not wholly vain and selfish, 
 
 Phillips. 
 
 I feel like a spokesman of a Saxon king, 
 With parchment credence bearing royal seal : 
 Proud of entrusted power, resolved to gain 
 The vantage in the league for my own folk. 
 
 \Puts his arm round his mother. 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Selfish ! why, when he toddled by 
 
 my side, 
 
 His tiny fingers holding to my gown, 
 He begged for pennies to give beggars, sir. 
 
 Phillips. He is a manly boy, a boyish man ; 
 Self-willed, impetuous, full of fire divine, 
 And yet, withal, befooled by fools to folly. 
 
 \Footsteps and voices on the stairs again are heard, 
 
 and Chatterton shows signs of agitation. 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Your words have hurt him, sir. 
 Chatterton. No, mother, no : 
 
 He is as kind to me as Joseph was 
 To Benjamin. My guests are coming up. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Then I will make things tidy. 
 
 [Puts the eatables into the basket. 
 Mary. Who are they, Tom ? 
 
 24
 
 [ACT i. 
 
 Phillips. Miss Burgum and her father. 
 Mary. Oh ! 
 
 Sexton. [Arriving on the landing.^ This way, sir. 
 Burgum. Whew ! surely I have climbed from hell to 
 heaven. 
 
 Enter the SEXTON followed by HENRY BURGUM. 
 Chatterton. \_To Phillips J\ His daughter has not 
 
 come. 
 
 Burgum. \_Gruffly. ~\ Well, Chatterton. 
 
 Chatterton. My mother, sister, Thomas Phillips, sir. 
 Burgum. [Scarcely noticing them.~\ My Pedigree is 
 
 finished, eh ? 
 
 Chatterton. It is. 
 
 Burgum. Then let me see it. 
 
 [ Chatterton goes to a coffer. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Pleasant evening, sir. 
 
 Burgum. You'd say that, madam, had ^Eolus loosed 
 The ventus and sonorus tempestates. 
 
 Phillips. Luctantes ventos tempestatesque sonoras 
 Is the line you seek. 
 
 Burgum. Well, let it be the line : 
 
 We men of birth leave Latin to our clerks. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Rcturning and giving a manuscript to 
 
 Burgum, .] 
 
 That is your Pedigree which I have traced 
 
 2 5
 
 ACT i.] Ube Barb of 
 
 From Simon de Seyncte Lyze, a Norman knight, 
 Who came with William First, and then was made 
 Earl of Northampton. 
 
 Burgum. Noble to the core ! 
 
 Chatterton. Observe this Patent in the Latin tongue, 
 Granting the right to Asheton and Sir Trafford 
 To change base metals into precious ones. 
 
 Burgum. That knights my trade ; for I melt tin and 
 
 lead 
 To purest pewter. 
 
 Phillips. [To Mary.} A subtle compliment. 
 
 Burgum. \_Reads. ,] ' Per Artem sive Scientiam Phi- 
 losophise.' 
 
 \_Then with an air of learning.} 
 Through Art or Science of Philosophy. 
 We can translate when we are in the humour. 
 \_Glances over several pages J\ 
 It is a lengthy Pedigree. What's this ? 
 {Reads, .] ' Radcliff de Chatterton of Chatterton, 
 The General Heir of many Families.' 
 You knave ! you put that in to raise yourself. 
 
 Chatterton. Consult the March and Garter Records, 
 sir. 
 
 Burgum. To hell with them ! What is that in your 
 hand? 
 
 26
 
 tRefcciiffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton. This, sir, is the de Bergham Coat-of- 
 arms. 
 
 Burgum. My Coat-of-arras ! by heaven, it shall be 
 
 graved 
 In granite o'er my door. 
 
 Phillips. Like the odd device 
 
 Of Abbot Nailheart o'er the Lower Gateway. 
 
 Burgum. When did he live ? 
 
 Chatterton. Three centuries ago. 
 
 Burgum. Only three centuries an upstart man ! 
 Name me the bearings of such royal hues 
 On my escutcheon. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Taking the Arms.~\ On this quarter or 
 There is a cheeky cross argent and azure 
 Between four crosses, sir, pattee 
 
 Burgum. By God ! 
 
 These blood-red crosses blazon holiness 
 In every one of my illustrious sires. 
 
 Phillips. It ended in your father. 
 
 Burgum. Save your breath 
 
 To pay respect to one of such descent. 
 
 Chatterton. An azure field with fess indented argent 
 Between three heads of stags cabossed gules 
 And armed or. 
 
 Burgum. Most lordly sportsmen all ! 
 
 27
 
 ACT i.] Ube 3Barfc of 
 
 Chatterton. Argent, a bend vair or and azure 'tween 
 Spears bendwise gules. 
 
 Burgum. You rob my lungs of air ! 
 
 Phillips. Enough is left for swearing. 
 
 Burgum. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Chatterton. Barry of fourteen pieces purpure, sir, 
 And ermine, with chevronel engrailed or, 
 Surmounted by another counter-changed. 
 Beneath you see inserted in a scroll 
 
 Enter BERTHA with the Sexton 's lanthorn. 
 
 Burgum. [Noticing Chatterton' : s confusion.] 
 What ails the fool ? 
 
 Chatterton. [Significantly."] The motto is ' Ryde on ! ' 
 
 Burgum. \To Bertha. ~\ What were you doing ? 
 
 Bertha. Examining the walls 
 
 That Rowley's hands have touched, the steps of stone 
 His weary feet have worn, and, part way up, 
 The door that opens to a deadly fall. 
 
 Burgum. You silly girl, here are our Pedigree 
 And Coat-of-arms ! 
 
 Flower- Girl. \_From the street, .] Buy my rosemary, 
 
 buy sweet briar ! Rosemary and sweet briar O ! 
 [Sings.] 
 
 Rosemary and briar sweet 
 I every day do cry 
 28
 
 TRefcclffte. [ACT i. 
 
 Through every square and street ; 
 Come buy it sweet, come buy it dry ! 
 
 Rosemary and sweet briar O ! 
 
 [As the cry is heard, Thistlethwaite steals up the 
 stairway, peers into the room, and then goes up 
 the steps toward the roof. 
 Bertha. \_To Chatterton.~\ Where are those poems, 
 
 sir ? 
 
 Chatterton. Within that chest. 
 Burgum. You shall not look at them ! 
 
 Chatterton. The voice of that belated flower-girl tells 
 That rosemary and sweet briar prove a drug 
 To hot spice gingerbread. 
 
 Bertha. And soulful songs 
 
 To coats-of-arms. 
 
 Burgiim. Damn Rowley and his songs ! 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis useless, then, for me to tell you, sir, 
 That in the Fourteenth century there lived 
 One, John de Bergham, who made several books, 
 Translated Homer into English verse, 
 And wrote this ballad, ' The Romance of the Knight. ' 
 Burgum. Give me that poem ! What new glory 
 
 next? 
 
 Here is a poet you may love, my girl. 
 
 29
 
 ACT i.] Ube 3Battt of 
 
 \_Takes the parchment and attempts to read //.] 
 I should have brought my eye-glass. 
 
 Bertha. [Looking at it. ~\ 'Tis old English. 
 
 Chatterton. [Taking the parchment and reading, .] 
 
 ' The sunne ento Vyrgyne was gotten, 
 The floureys al arounde onspryngede ' 
 
 I have the poem modernised at home. 
 
 Burgum. Most beautiful! superb! There is a 
 
 crown : 
 
 I patronise the Muse when she appears 
 In noble form. [Gives him a crown. 
 
 Bertha. [After again looking at the parchment.] 
 
 It does not equal Rowley. 
 
 Burgum. Bah ! Rowley was a monk. But let us go : 
 Barrett must see this ere he goes to bed. 
 I'll call to-morrow for your version, boy. 
 Chatterton. Uncle. 
 
 Sexton. I will attend them to the street. 
 
 Bertha. Good-night to all. 
 
 [Exeunt Sexton, Burgum, and Bertha 
 Mrs. Chatterton. That man was so uncivil. 
 
 Phillips. He is an ignorant, presumptuous fellow, 
 And swears profanely. 
 
 Mary. True ! 
 
 3
 
 TRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton. If Burgum roils 
 
 Your placid current, Phillips, think of mine 
 An Avon flood that tides o'er fouling mud 
 Past beauteous scenes. Is Bertha not most fair? 
 Phillips. Yes, very fair. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. No fairer than my son. 
 
 Phillips. Or daughter, madam. 
 Mary. Oh ! 
 
 Chatterton. He is sincere. 
 
 Phillips. \_A little embarrassed.~\ 
 Well, I must go, or I shall be reproved 
 By our head-master. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Taking up the seventh candle. .] 
 
 Cutts will be our torch. 
 
 Phillips, give Burgum' s crown to that flower-girl. 
 Mary. Are you not coming ? 
 
 Chatterton. No further than the porch. 
 
 Phillips. Then I will take your mother to her 
 
 door. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You are so thoughtful. 
 Chatterton. These steps are treacherous. 
 
 \_Exeunt all. While their laughter is heard rising 
 from the stairway. Thistlethwaitc steals down the 
 steps from above the muniment room, hurries to 
 one of the coffers, and ransacks it, now and then 
 3*
 
 ACT i.] Ube Barb of 
 
 stopping to listen. Then he goes from coffer to 
 coffer and examines the contents of each. 
 Watchman. \From the street. ~\ Past nine o'clock and 
 a moonlight night ! Past nine o'clock and a moon- 
 light night ! Past nine o'clock and a moonlight 
 night ! 
 
 [As the cry grows fainter and fainter, Chatterton, 
 with the lighted candle still in his hand, enters the 
 room and, running noiselessly to Thistlethwaite, 
 seizes him by the throat and holds the candle to 
 his face. 
 
 Chatterton. You thief ! 
 
 Thistlethwaite. [Struggling.] Unhand me ! 
 Chatterton. Stealing on your knees ! 
 
 Thistlethwaite. Let loose, I say ! 
 Chatterton, Not yet, friend Thistlethwaite. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. Your gripe is strangling me ! 
 Chatterton. Best cease to writhe ; 
 
 For scuffling ever rouses me to rage, 
 And I may hurl you down those steps, you toad, 
 And with your venom spatter all the stones. 
 Thistlethwaite. What have I done to you ? 
 Chatterton. What would you do ? 
 
 Tear from my throat a carcanet of gems 
 In pendent sparkles richer than the rays 
 
 3 2
 
 IRetelfffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Of the Golconda brilliant ; and clasp it, too, 
 About your scurfy neck. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. It is not yours. 
 
 Chatterton. Take it by law and not by looting, 
 
 then. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. What right have you 
 Chatterton. The right of one who ploughs 
 
 Through unkeeled seas to sunset lands untrod 
 A Cabot's right. 
 
 [Then forcing him down as he attempts to rise. 
 
 Remain upon your knees ! 
 You churchman without charity or grace ; 
 You scholar without learning or its trend ; 
 You statesman without honesty or depth, 
 Cleaning the ponderous shoes of petty men 
 To earn a pennyworth of parish power ; 
 You flea in both activity and poise, 
 Hop on some mangy cur, your proper prey, 
 And cease tormenting else. And now begone ! 
 
 [Flings him gasping upon the floor. 
 Thistlethwaite. [Rising.] The Vicar shall know all. 
 Chatterton. You shall not say 
 
 That I am niggard of this copper race 
 Inhabiting my West. Take them for slaves. 
 [Takes up a parchment and glances at it.] 
 3 33
 
 ACT i.] Ube JBarfc ot 
 
 This is a Testament that doth bequeath 
 
 A negro boy named Tallow. It comes pat. 
 
 \Throws it to Thistlethwaite and takes up another. .] 
 
 This, a Petition from the Vestry here 
 
 To Bishop Seeker, asking him to grant 
 
 A faculty for one fair organ built 
 
 Without his sanction. 'Twas a sinful past ! 
 
 \_Throws it to Thistlethwaite and takes up a third '.] 
 
 This is the Will of Sarah Deane, who leaves 
 
 To her god-daughter one brass kettle pot, 
 
 Her green say apron, and worst little bed ; 
 
 And to her son, in solemn terms of law, 
 
 Her scarlet petticoat with gold galoome 
 
 That he may make a waistcoat of the cloth. 
 
 [ Throws it to Thistlethwaite. ] 
 
 But Friendship reckoning when she lends to friend 
 
 Should be by measure paid. Give well, give all ! 
 
 [ Throws armfuls of the parchments over Thistle- 
 thwaite. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. You have the Rowley poems under 
 
 bolt, 
 And I shall find the key. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, spare your pains : 
 
 Not all the power of England could unlock 
 The coffer of old Rowley's manuscripts ! 
 
 34
 
 IRefcclftte. [ACT i. 
 
 Enter BERTHA. 
 
 Bertha. I thought they still were here. [ Turns to go. 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, do not go ! 
 
 Wait the departure of this gentleman. 
 [Then as she is about going, he quickly adds.~\ 
 The passageway is narrow down the steps. 
 [Points to the door, and Thistlcthwaite departs. .] 
 He came to filch what I so freely give. 
 
 Bertha. You will call me a robber when you learn 
 That, slipping from my father, I have come 
 To purloin a Rowley poem. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, to claim 
 
 What was inspired by you. 
 
 Bertha. By me? 
 
 Chatterton. Who knows 
 
 But that a soul may love a soul unborn 
 And centuries removed? His ^lla loved 
 The Saxon maiden, Bertha. 
 
 Bertha. Mystic praise ! 
 
 And my reply, good -night. [Turns toward the door. 
 
 Chatterton. Resolve the word 
 
 And say ' Good-death and speed you to your doom ! ' 
 
 Bertha. [Stopping.] Is that from Rowley ? 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis a paraphrase. 
 
 Bertha. [Again going.] Good-bye. 
 35
 
 ACT i.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. That word spun him a priestly frock, 
 As heavenly orbs foretold. 
 
 Bertha. [Turning.] What heavenly orbs ? 
 
 Chatterton. Venus and Saturn were his parent stars ; 
 And oft he watched them from the windows here. 
 \Goes to the windows and Bertha follows him.] 
 There's Saturn shining with malefic light 
 To blast his babes ; and there is Venus, too, 
 In fell conjunction with the jaundiced god, 
 As on that natal hour. 
 
 Bertha. Dear Rowley's hour ! 
 
 Chatterton. The horoscope ascendant at his birth 
 Was Gemini, with Mercury lord thereof, 
 Who gives the stringed shell. 
 
 Bertha. 'Twas well bestowed. 
 
 Chatterton. The Moon, the lady of the second house, 
 Was posited malignant in the twelfth, 
 The gaol -house of the skies, foreboding want 
 And even prison chains ; but Jupiter shone 
 From out the pasture of the plunging Bull, 
 And dimmed her baleful rays. 
 
 Bertha. Well done, bright star ! 
 
 Chatterton. \_Comingfroni the windows.] 
 The crescent Moon allied the sinking Sun 
 In twilight coalition 'gainst the child ; 
 
 36
 
 IRebcliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 And from their proper houses rushed the stars 
 With steely spears, as if to slay wild boar ; 
 But from his laurelled helmet, lightning-proof, 
 Their points fell blunt, till Venus hurled her darts, 
 Ensteeped in Saturn's bane, and pierced his heart. 
 
 Bertha. Poor, star-crossed bard ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Showing her a parchment.~\ 
 
 Here is a swan-like song. 
 'Tis yellowed by the feet of pilgrim years 
 And wrinkled by the clutch of times profane ; 
 Writ in his blood and blurred with burning tears. 
 
 \_Covers his face with his hands and sinks upon a 
 chest. 
 
 Bertha. [Kneeling beside him.~\ 
 Tell me of him ; and when I read his verse, 
 The meaning of his life will mingling flow 
 And clear the cloudy lines. 
 
 Chatterton. The tale is sad : 
 
 His youth was travail ; life in fulness came 
 When he beheld her first. 
 
 Bertha. Who was the lady ? 
 
 Chatterton. A maid as beautiful and free from guile 
 As roseate baby slumber. 
 
 Bertha. And her name ? 
 
 Chatterton. The name of .^Ella's love. 
 37
 
 ACT i.] Ubc 3Bar& ot 
 
 Bertha. 'Twas Bertha, then. 
 
 Chatterton. The vision took its christening from the 
 real. 
 
 Bertha. He must have loved her well. 
 
 Chatterton. Too well for speech : 
 
 His love uprose like snowdrop in the snow, 
 And flowers were its interpreters. 
 
 Bertha. Chaste flowers ! 
 
 Chatterton. At first he sent her lilacs to unveil 
 The purpled birth of passion. 
 
 Bertha. I would have worn 
 
 White hawthorn buds to token purest hope. 
 
 Chatterton. Then lovely speedwells and geraniums wild, 
 Plucked on the lofty cliffs whose summits catch 
 The nightingale's first ecstasy of song 
 As it comes o'er the Avon from Leigh Woods, 
 Like blissful voice across the gorge of death. 
 
 Bertha. St. Vincent's Rocks ! 
 
 Chatterton. Then pinks in native cress, 
 
 Heart' s-ease, and rath primroses sprigged with broom ; 
 For he was young and humble in his love. 
 And then dog-roses in their leaves and thorns, 
 Blue periwinkles and their pallid friends, 
 The florets of the wind, with sprays of heath, 
 The weed of solitude. 
 
 38
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Bertha. And no response ? 
 
 A scarlet poppy should have decked her hair. 
 
 Chatterton. Ere summer and the autumn rolled away, 
 He sent her marigolds with jasmine buds : 
 The meadow saffron with the bitter-sweet ; 
 And in the chilling winter of his heart, 
 Garlands of aloe, cypress, and dead leaves, 
 With all the blooms denoting love's despair 
 Entwined in mystic order ; and at last, 
 The plant that whispers in the Spanish tongue 
 ' I perish, maiden, if you love me not ! ' 
 
 Bertha. Scarlet geranium for her stupid head 
 And laurel for his brow ! Did she reply ? 
 
 Chatterton. Her passion, like the laurel, blossomed 
 
 late: 
 Her lover, Rowley, had espoused the Church. 
 
 Bertha. She must have loved. 
 
 Chatterton. She was in love with Homer ; 
 
 For he was elder, and he wrote in Greek. 
 
 Bertha. \_Rising suddenly and placing her hand on the 
 flowers at her breast. ~\ You sent these lilacs, sir ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Sinking upon his knee.~\ O lady, hear ! 
 Hear one whose pride will bend the knee to naught 
 Save Mary Redcliffe, England, and yourself. 
 
 Bertha. What does this mean ? 
 39
 
 ACT i.] ZTbc 3Barfc ot 
 
 Chatterton. That you are like the maid 
 
 Who wore the fragrant emblems of his love 
 Upon her breast, and threw his heart away. 
 
 Bertha. Alas ! what can I do ? 
 
 Chatterton. Wear hedgerow flowers, 
 
 And they shall be as sacred in my thoughts 
 As the buds that blow for May-day and for Yule 
 On Glastonbury thorn. 
 
 Bertha. I must not stay. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, drive me not to winter and dead 
 leaves. 
 
 Bertha. I much regret 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, leave me only hope ! 
 
 And you shall find a poet living now 
 Who will unstring to none. I am but young, 
 A man in song though still a boy in years : 
 Let love come flooding in, like moonlight there, 
 And I will make the monkish Rowley seem 
 A cawing chough beside a spring-tide thrush. 
 Yea ! in the summered plenitude of power, 
 I will envelop you in golden showers 
 Of sparks dilating with celestial fire ! 
 
 Bertha. You frighten me ! Some one is on the steps ! 
 [ Voices and footsteps are heard. 
 
 Chatterton. What mortal can oppose the potent stars ? 
 40
 
 IRefcclfffe* [ACT i. 
 
 'Tis Saturn's work ! I hear them coming up, 
 Like those two shuffling knaves in Berkeley Castle 
 Who killed an English king. Be not afraid : 
 I shall be commonplace in daylight, lady. 
 
 Enter the SEXTON, BROUGHTON, and THISTLETHWAITE. 
 
 Broughton. What business have you here ? 
 
 Chatterton. Not much nor little. 
 
 Broughton, Miss Burgum, your surprise me. 
 
 Bertha. I confess 
 
 That I was not discreet. 
 
 Chatterton. The fault is mine : 
 
 I lured the lady with some lays of eld 
 Writ by a priestly hand. 
 
 Broughton. Those selfsame lays 
 
 Belong to Mary Redcliffe, not to you. 
 
 Chatterton. O reverend sir, I should reply in wrath, 
 Were you not Vicar to the dearest Saint 
 In dearest England. 
 
 Broughton. You are idolatrous ! 
 
 Chatterton. Then lead me from another wilderness : 
 Glad me with countenance and counsel, sir, 
 And I shall be as open as the skies 
 In every thought ; uprear our broken spire, 
 Until its gilded vane shall gleam afar 
 And guide the future o'er forbidding seas
 
 ACT i.] Ube Barb of 
 
 To bless your memory. Pause ere you speak : 
 This is my fallow hour. 
 
 Broughton. Your nonsense hour. 
 
 Richard, debar your nephew from this church, 
 Or you shall be dismissed. Friend Thistlethwaite, 
 We will explore these coffers in the morning. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. He may have manuscripts of value 
 
 hid. 
 
 Chatterton. Keep him to silence, or behold a deed 
 Loosed from religion and the bonds of love. 
 
 Broughton. Restrain your anger in this holy place. 
 Miss Burgum, I am walking past your house. 
 [Then taking the lanthorn from the Sexton .] 
 Remain behind and see your nephew out. 
 
 [As Bertha crosses to the door, the lilacs fall from 
 her breast. She hesitates for a moment, and then 
 hurriedly joins the Vicar on the landing. Chat- 
 terton picks up the lilacs, and, sinking upon a 
 coffer, buries his face in the flowers. Broughton, 
 Bertha, and Thistlethwaite go down the steps, 
 leaving the Sexton standing near the door, looking 
 with pity at his nephew. Then the voices of the 
 choir are heard singing the close of the service, 
 and Chatterton suddenly raises his head with a 
 look of exaltation. 
 
 42
 
 iRefccliffe. [ACT i. 
 
 Chatterton, The voice of Mary Redcliffe ! 
 Sexton. Shall we go ? 
 
 Chatterton. Not for a thousand vicars self-ordained. 
 Sexton. We must not linger. 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, give me to-night : 
 
 Some mystic presence hovers in the air. 
 
 Sexton. Put out the candles, then, lest he detect 
 That you have not gone home. 
 
 Chatterton. [After blowing out all of the candles ex- 
 
 cept the second. ~\ Take Catcott, uncle. 
 
 The ark was lighted by the ruddy glow 
 Of carbuncles. Good-night. 
 
 Sexton. Good-night, my boy. 
 
 \_Exit Sexton. Chatterton kisses the lilacs, and 
 then, going to the coffer at which he was first seen, 
 takes lip a manuscript. 
 
 Chatterton. This Ode to Freedom must be writ by 
 dawn. [Reads. ~\ 
 
 ' Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on, 
 
 Wit skilly whimpled guides it to his crown ; 
 His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone ; 
 He falls, and falling rolleth thousands down. 
 War, gore-faced War, by Envy burled arist, 
 
 His fiery helm ynodding to the air, 
 Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist ' 
 
 43
 
 ACT i.] zrbe 3Baro of 
 
 \He stops, runs his fingers through his hair, and then 
 walks up and down repeating the last line at in- 
 tervals. ] 
 
 ' Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist ! ' 
 Ah me ! the line hath quite o'erwhelmed my fancy. 
 I am worn a ghostly whisper bids me rest : 
 I'll sleep. [Rolls up the monk 1 s robe for a pillow, and 
 lies down upon the coffer in the moonlight. ~\ 
 
 When you are ready, Rowley, wake me. 
 [As he sinks into slumber, with one hand holding 
 the bunch of lilacs falling over the side of the 
 chest, the vision of a monk gradually appears 
 dawning in his dreams. Chatterton moves un- 
 easily, smiles in his sleep; and the curtain slowly 
 descends as the choral music dies away. 
 
 44
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 SCENE. -John Lamb erf s house in Bristol. A great oak- 
 panelled hall, once the chapel of William Canynge, 
 with a tess elated pavement and a gallery running 
 along the wall at the right. The high-pitched timber 
 roof, with central louvre or lanthorn, is supported 
 by curved bracing ribs resting on corbels of demi- 
 angels bearing shields. At the back, a massive stair- 
 case, with quaint newel heads, bases and handrails, 
 rises a few steps to a large landing, from which a 
 narrow flight of stairs leads to the gallery above. A 
 casement of stained glass, in the centre of this land- 
 ing, forms an entrance to the garden, and, when open, 
 discloses trees, the Avon, and part of the city beyond. 
 At the right, is an archway or main entrance to the 
 hall ; at the left, are a doorway to the parlour and, 
 further down, a sculptured mantelpiece representing 
 the Judgment of Solomon. Rich rugs arc spread 
 here and there over the tiles ; a carved oaken table 
 and chairs of antique design are near the archway ; 
 and near the mantelpiece are a smaller table, several 
 chairs, and a curious old settle. Candelabra, law 
 45
 
 ACT ii.] ftbe Barfr ot 
 
 books, and some faded flowers are on the table. At 
 the rise of the curtain, the sunlight is streaming in 
 many colours through the casement, and the glow from 
 a log fire is reddening the lower part of the ha/!. 
 Lambert and his mother, one reading a newspaper 
 and the other a book, are seated before the fire. 
 
 Lambert. \Looking up from his newspaper.] 
 Well, yesterday that squint-eyed profligate, 
 John Wilkes, came out of King's Bench. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Who is he, son ? 
 
 Lambert. The publisher of Number Forty -five 
 Of the North Briton ; for which he was gaoled 
 And expelled from Parliament four several times. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Chatterton shouted * Wilkes and Lib- 
 erty ! ' 
 
 Lambert. The fool ! and here are forty-five more 
 
 fools, 
 
 Who purpose dining Thursday at The Crown 
 In honour of the demagogue's enlargement. 
 The dinner will consist of forty -five 
 Large loaves of bread, and forty-five pounds each 
 Of beef, of veal, of pork, and roasted pig ; 
 With bowls of punch and gallons of old ale 
 And papers of tobacco forty- five. 
 
 46
 
 IReteliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Enough of that : it jars so with these 
 
 sermons. 
 
 Lambert. Here is a letter telling how to treat 
 The small-pox to preserve the skin from marks ; 
 Written by Mrs. Stewart, Racquet Court, 
 Who lived in South Carolina many years. 
 Mrs. Lambert. The subject is unpleasant. 
 Lambert. This describes 
 
 The Friars passing over the old bridge 
 As chronicled in ancient manuscripts. 
 Mrs. Lambert. That is of interest. 
 Lambert. It is oddly spelled, 
 
 And signed by Dunhelmus Bristoliensis. 
 [Reads. .] ' On Fridaie was the time fixed for passing 
 the new brydge. Aboute the time of tollynge the 
 tenth clock ' 
 
 Enter FOOTBOY yawning. 
 Footboy. The Reverend Thomas Broughton, sir, is 
 
 here. 
 
 Lambert. Let him come in. \Exit Footboy. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Do not subscribe a farthing. 
 
 Lambert. Perhaps he seeks advice. 
 Mrs. Lambert. Not at the house. 
 
 Enter FOOTBOY followed by BROUGHTON and 
 THISTLETHWAITE. 
 47
 
 ACT ii.] ftbe :Baro of 
 
 Lambert. \Rising and going to the visitors. ~\ 
 This is an unexpected pleasure, Vicar. 
 And Mr. Thistlethwaite. 
 
 Broughton. I see you know 
 
 Lambert. The author of ' The Brilliant Men of 
 
 Bristol,' 
 In which my life is traced, is known to all. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. Dear Mr. Lambert, you are overkind ; 
 For what I wrote of you and others, sir, 
 Is history not favour. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. A noble youth ! 
 
 You both are welcome. 
 
 Lambert. Be seated, gentlemen. 
 
 Broughton. I much deplore that such a kindly greeting 
 Must usher painful business. 
 
 Lambert. Painful business? 
 
 Broughton. You have, sir, an apprentice, 
 
 Lambert. Chatterton ! 
 
 Broughton. Who, from the lockless coffers of my 
 
 church, 
 Has taken parchments. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. Of historic value. 
 
 Lambert. I'll beat him for the theft ! 
 
 Broughton. [ Taking a newspaper from his pocket. ] 
 
 There's an account, 
 48
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT n. 
 
 In Felix Farley's Journal of to-day, 
 
 Of how the Friars passed the Bristol bridge. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. We were about to read it when you 
 came. 
 
 Enter ALICE, BETTY, DOROTHY, and AGNES 
 with bunches of flowers. 
 
 Alice. Oh, pardon us ! we thought you were alone ; 
 For Sam was sleeping soundly at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. [Going to them.~\ 
 Come in, come in : you all know Mr. Broughton 
 And Mr. Thistlethwaite. [ The girls courtesy. 
 
 Betty. We came to bring 
 
 Some Bath buns and some flowers. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Charming girls ! 
 
 Go to the parlour and amuse yourselves 
 Till we are through with business. 
 
 Dorothy. May we go 
 
 Into the garden ? 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. As you wish, my dear ; 
 
 I'll call you soon. 
 
 Dorothy. Oh, do not be in haste. 
 
 [Exeunt girls laughing into the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. How sweet to be so loved ! 
 
 Thistlethwaite. I've seen those girls 
 
 Walking with Chatterton in College Green. 
 4 49
 
 ACT ii.] Ube JSaro of 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Why you alarm me : I will warn 
 them, sir. 
 
 Lambert. What were you saying, Vicar ? 
 
 Broughton. \_Pointing to the newspaper. ~\ This ac- 
 count, 
 
 Upon the eve of opening our new bridge, 
 Has roused the City Fathers from their sleep, 
 And made them hungry with desire to learn 
 Who Dunhelmus Bristoliensis is. 
 
 Lambert. Who can he be ? 
 
 Broughton. Why, Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. He took the manuscript from Redcliffe 
 
 Church, 
 
 And sent a copy of it to the Journal, 
 As we can prove past doubt. He is my friend ; 
 And had he stolen a book, a ring, a purse 
 Committed private wrong, I would have held 
 My very breath, lest it should form a word 
 Of guidance for suspicion ; but to steal 
 The sacred relics of the hallowed truth 
 Our rich bequeathment from the ages past, 
 The birthright of the future, is a crime 
 My love for history can not connive. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Arrest him at the office, not the 
 house. 
 
 5
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Broughton. At neither place, if he return the parch- 
 
 ments. 
 
 Lambert. He shall not 'scape a flogging. 
 Broughton. Be not rash : 
 
 Send for his mother and appeal to her ; 
 For he is tempered like a sword of fire. 
 Meanwhile, friend Thistlethwaite and I will go 
 To Redcliffe Church and search the coffers there. 
 Come, Thistlethwaite. 
 
 Lambert. I'll show you to the door. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. And I will get those loving girls some 
 cider. 
 
 [ Mrs. Lambert goes into the parlour, and the others 
 go out by the main entrance. Then the girls, who 
 have been peeping into the hall, enter from the 
 garden, leaving the casement open. 
 Dorothy. Where can he be ? 
 
 Alice. He was not at the window. 
 
 Betty. I saw him come to dinner. 
 Agnes. \_In a whisper. ~\ There he is. 
 
 Enter CHATTERTON who comes slowly down the stair- 
 
 case. 
 
 Alice. What is the matter, poet ? 
 Chatterton. [Looking up.~\ Ah, my dears ! 
 
 Alice. Your cheeks are very pale.
 
 ACT ii.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. Bleached by the moon, 
 
 Which steals the pigment from the poet's face 
 And lends it to his verse. 
 
 Betty. What pretty words ! 
 
 Chatterton. I saw you in the garden, and have 
 
 brought 
 An answer to your ode. 
 
 Dorothy. Is our ode good ? 
 
 Chatterton. Each line's a cripple with a perfect soul. 
 I fear the Muse, too envious of your beauty, 
 Refused to grant you aid. Here's my reply ; 
 'Tis called 'The Constant Lover,' and is worth 
 A hundred kisses. 
 
 Betty. We will buy it then. 
 
 Chatterton. [Reads. ~\ 
 
 Lady dearest, why tax me 
 With the sin inconstancy ? 
 That I ever am in love 
 Your laments, fair lady, prove. 
 Giving you o'erflowing measure, 
 Still is left such boundless treasure, 
 Ever have I love to spare 
 For a damsel debonair. 
 
 Alice. Call you this constancy ? 
 5 2
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Chatterton. I do forsooth : 
 
 Not to Love's object, but to Love, my dear. 
 
 {Reads.'} 
 
 Were I cold to beauty's grace, 
 Slight I might your matchless face : 
 It is only by compare 
 Lovers learn to rate the rare. 
 'Tis by use we make life longer 
 And the tender passion stronger ; 
 So I dally with a score 
 That I may adore you more. 
 
 Alice. Indeed ! 
 
 Chatterton. Emotions thrive by exercise. 
 
 Life is love and death is hating ; 
 Loving one is selfish mating ; 
 Lovers' vows are ropes of snow 
 Melting in an amorous glow : 
 Bind my nature as I will, 
 Cupid is its master still. 
 Lady mine, then cease lamenting, 
 For my future's past repenting. 
 
 Alice. Is it for me ? 
 Dorothy. For me ? 
 
 Agnes. For me ? 
 
 Betty. For me ? 
 
 53
 
 ACT ii.] Ube Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. There's Solomon upon the mantelpiece; 
 Two women claim the child ; a soldier stands 
 With naked sword to cut the boy in two : 
 Which one of you will yield this baby whole ? 
 Alice. I will not yield ! 
 Betty. Nor I ! 
 
 Agnes. Nor I ! 
 
 Dorothy. Nor I ! 
 
 Chatterton. \_After a pause in which he acts non- 
 plussed.^ 
 Quarter the infant, Captain of the Guard ! 
 
 \_Tears the manuscript into four parts . 
 All. No, no ! 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis just ; for all may read or none ; 
 
 And each one shares the offspring of my brain 
 As each divides my heart. 
 
 [Throws the pieces fluttering among them. 
 Enter MRS. LAMBERT/T^W the parlour. 
 Mrs. Lambert. My innocents ! 
 
 What are you picking up ? 
 
 Chatterton. Mere wanton words 
 
 That scratch their names upon the tomb of Time. 
 Mrs. Lambert. That's meaningless and surely means 
 
 a poem. 
 
 And here's another found upon your desk. 
 
 54
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT n. 
 
 There is your stuff ! [Tears up a paper and throws the 
 
 pieces in his face. .] Come, girls, into the parlour. 
 
 [Exeunt all except Chatterton, who stands motion- 
 
 less till they are gone. 
 
 Chatterton. Whom has the vandal slaughtered ? [Ex- 
 amines the bits of paper on the floor and reads'^ 
 
 'Elegy.' 
 
 Knowing my wealth of thought, I spend too freely : 
 I'll gather the remains. 
 
 Enter BERTHA. 
 
 Bertha. 'Tis well you're here. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis well's superlative repeated thrice ! 
 Your visitation makes this bed of pain 
 Lie soft as downy eider's nest. 
 
 Bertha. No more : 
 
 Our bond is Rowley do not sever it. 
 The Catcotts, Broughton, Barrett, and my father 
 Are now upon the steps in earnest speech 
 About an article that has appeared 
 Chatterton. The passing of the bridge ? 
 Bertha. Yes, that is it ; 
 
 And threats of process and arrest are made 
 Against you, sir, unless you make return. 
 Chatterton. And you would warn me ? 
 Bertha. Yes. 
 
 55
 
 ACT ii.] ube 38aro of 
 
 Chatterton. May they be blessed 
 
 For giving you occasion. Not a scrap 
 Of priceless parchment shall they wrest from me. 
 Bertha. Be wary, sir ; for they are very wroth. 
 Chatterton. No boyish muscles ply within these arms ; 
 And with those magic darts of gold and lead 
 That quicken love and hatred, I defy 
 Jove's thunderbolts in livid lightning forged ; 
 Much more these harpies. I am full of fight ! 
 Bertha. Be not incensed. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Twas but a tidal wave 
 
 Of briny anger roaring through my veins 
 Like Severn's eagre. \Voices heard from without. ,] 
 
 I will wait them here. 
 Bertha. I do beseech you, go ! 
 Chatterton. Rome was well sold 
 
 By Antony. I shall obey you, lady. 
 
 [ Chatterton goes up the staircase and Bertha sits 
 down by the fireplace as Burgum and George Cat- 
 cott enter followed by Lambert, Barrett, and Alex- 
 ander Catcott. 
 
 Burgum. No, Catcott, no : my aidance I refuse. 
 First let me get my Pedigree complete, 
 With every poem of my songful sires, 
 Then hale the boy to gaol. 
 
 56
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Barrett. Your Pedigree ? 
 
 Of more concern are parchments he withholds : 
 'Turgo's Account of Bristol,' 'England's Glory,' 
 'The Ancient Form of Monies,' views unique 
 Of castles, churches, chapels, Saxon gates 
 All vital to my book. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. And what are these, 
 
 Friend Barrett, to the things he may have found 
 That prove the Noachian Deluge ? for the works 
 Of Ovid, Lucian, Plutarch, and Berosus, 
 Though heathen writings, testify the flood 
 O'er this terraqueous globe. 
 
 Bertha. And bear in mind 
 
 That harshness may blot Rowley from the roll. 
 
 Barrett. That's very true ; for I have heard him say 
 That he had poems worth their weight in gold 
 The world must beg or lose ; and as he spoke 
 His eyes struck fire, and kindled, and blazed up 
 Most wonderful ! 
 
 Lambert. How shall we tame the whelp ? 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Let us consider : can you prove 
 the theft ? 
 
 Lambert. Past doubt. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. By whom ? 
 
 Lambert. By Thistlethwaite. 
 
 57
 
 ACT ii.] abe Bare of 
 
 George Catcott. The youth 
 
 That in The Glocester Journal did recount 
 My climbing Nicholas' spire ? He would not lie. 
 
 Barrett. He wrote my life. 
 
 George Catcott. And mine. 
 
 Lambert. And mine. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. And mine. 
 
 Burgum. And also mine : he has discrimination. 
 
 Lambert. And wit and eloquence ; for he declaims 
 On every topic from the birth of light 
 To doomsday darkness. 
 
 George Catcott. And he does it well : 
 
 His words flow out like oil. 
 
 Bertha. And oil-like float 
 
 Upon the surface of each theme : he is 
 Too flaunting of his learning to be learned. 
 
 Burgum. Hush, daughter, hush ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Nay, now I do recall 
 
 No Greek is taught within the Colston School, 
 Which Thistlethwaite attended ; yet, forsooth, 
 He rants about Euripides, nor knows 
 That Beta follows Alpha in the list. 
 
 George Catcott. His sensitive corn the Greek ! 
 
 Bertha. Euripides, 
 
 Tradition says, was killed by a pack of hounds. 
 
 53
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. What are we to infer ? 
 
 Bertha. The hounds fed high. 
 
 Burgum. Another word, and I will send you home. 
 
 Bertha. You gag and blindfold Justice in your court, 
 And then pronounce a sentence in her name. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. ^Restraining Burgum with a ges- 
 
 ture. ] 
 You shall be heard : speak fair solicitor. 
 
 Bertha. \_Rising in the red glow of the fire as Chatter - 
 ton, with breast heainng and eyes dilating, appears 
 in the gallery above. ] 
 My father will bear witness that till now 
 I lacked the froward spirit to o'erstep 
 A maidenly reserve ; but truth at times 
 Is carried by a single trembling string 
 That knows not why it vibrates : hear me, then, 
 As one o'ershadowed by a holy cause ; 
 For, by my mother's memory, I speak truth. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. They all shall listen or be in con- 
 tempt. 
 
 Bertha. What is the accusation ? that a youth, 
 With swift discernment where you all were lag, 
 Has taken parchments from abandoned chests 
 And saved them to the world. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. But theft is theft. 
 
 59
 
 ACT ii.] trbe 3BarO of 
 
 Bertha. Between the upright letters of your words 
 I see a monster glaring : what you brand 
 Is that he robbed you of the homage due 
 The bold explorer of a buried age, 
 Who brings its art and learning to the light 
 Adding a page to knowledge : yea, restores 
 What Time has smuggled ; and you call him thief ! 
 
 Lambert. He keeps the originals unlawfully : 
 'Tis larceny as bailee. 
 
 Bertha. Because you chill 
 
 A nature warm as are the springs of Bath 
 Bubbling from Roman ruins ; lave in it, 
 And sluice it through base channels till it 'scapes 
 Adown the Avon to the lustral sea. 
 And who is his accuser ? one that shows 
 Too eager to wreak justice to be just : 
 Himself a thief. 
 
 Lambert. Such words are slanderous ! 
 
 Bertha. Then you wrought wilful slander. Yester 
 
 night, 
 
 Within the muniment room of Redcliffe Church, 
 The glib and slippery Thistlethwaite was caught 
 Rifling the sacred coffers. 
 
 Lambert. Your witness, girl ! 
 
 Bertha. One who was there myself. 
 60
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Burgum. [Starting up.~\ How came you there ? 
 
 Bertha. I am not now on trial : 'tis enough 
 That what I vouch is true. 
 
 Barrett. May be he sought 
 
 To save them for the Vestry. 
 
 Bertha. Give may-bes scope, 
 
 And whom can you convict ? not Chatterton. 
 Oh, how you rush from reason to reprieve 
 An oily rogue because he flatters you : 
 Loves Barrett's history and Lambert's law, 
 The Vicar's corals, sea-shells, bones, and teeth, 
 That tell the Mosaic story of the flood ; 
 Notes each adventure of his brother George ; 
 And writes your lives with scarce a censor-word 
 To give laudation credence. Are you blind? 
 You seek the earthly paradise of fame, 
 Where deeds immortal chant the doer's praise, 
 And fly your only guide the one that raised 
 Old Rowley from the grave. He does not time 
 The quick pulsation of his fevered words, 
 For worth is haughty when it is disprized ; 
 And he is young so young that I can plead 
 As if he were my brother. You may change 
 His golden locks to snakes, his teeth to tusks, 
 His glorious eyes to blood-shot orbs of pain, 
 
 61
 
 ACT ii.] ube Bart> of 
 
 And make death welcome ; but beware his scorn, 
 For it hath power to turn you into stone, 
 The mock of ages ! I can say no more. 
 
 [Bursts into tears and hurries through the casement 
 into the garden as Chatterton, trembling with emo- 
 tion, disappears from the gallery. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Her flail threshed out some corn. 
 
 Burgum. By God, 'twas great ! 
 
 Into the horse-pond went the Vicar first, 
 Like some old toper toppling from the ark ; 
 Next came the lawyer sprawling in the mud ; 
 And then the surgeon and the pewterer 
 With those of lesser trades ; and all emerged 
 Like cattle I have seen on rainy days 
 Tied to St. Thomas' Church. [Laughs uproariously and 
 
 flourishes his Pedigreel\ It was the blood 
 
 Of John de Bergham speaking on her tongue 
 From out the silent past. Had I but known 
 Such eloquence was mine by right of birth, 
 I would have stood in Parliament ere this 
 And been the mouth of England. 
 
 Lambert. [Sarcastically.'] Have a care, 
 
 Friend Burgum, lest your grandchild find, 
 Amid the knightly charges on his shield, 
 An inkhorn and a goose-quill. 
 
 62
 
 IRe&cliffe, [ACT n. 
 
 Barrett. And enscrolled, 
 
 In scrivener's script, ' Write on ! ' 
 
 Burgum. Write on ? write what ? 
 
 My motto, sir, is ' Ride on. ' 
 
 Barrett. Best dismount ; 
 
 For you are at the top of Steep Street now, 
 And your high barb may stumble. 
 
 Burgum. Is that sense? 
 
 Lambert. To echo John de Bergham, are you blind ? 
 
 Burgum. You both are riddlers. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. I will be more clear. 
 
 If these old ears have not forgot a voice 
 That trembled in their portals years agone, 
 There spake upon the lady's silvery tongue 
 A nobler spirit than your Norman sire 
 Divinely-fathered Love. 
 
 Burgum. \Jn anger. ~\ She loves him not ! 
 
 I have it from her lips. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. I've heard it said 
 
 Love laughs at lovers' lies, as well as locks, 
 And angels ne'er record them. 
 
 Burgum. It is false ! 
 
 Lambert. Yet from her tale we might infer a tryst 
 Within the muniment room ; perhaps to plan 
 Continuance of your line. 
 
 63
 
 ACT ii.] Ube 3Bar& ot 
 
 Burgum. I say 'tis false ! 
 
 She is contract to Rowley, that damned monk 
 Who wrote erotic verse. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. More cause for fear : 
 
 When Cupid and Calliope are leagued, 
 A maiden's heart needs more than Bristowe's wall 
 To check the Cavaliers. 
 
 George Catcott. She praised his eyes. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Ah, so she did ; and that's de- 
 notement sure 
 
 That they have darted wildfire through her own 
 Upon her bosom's keep, and tinded flames 
 The blissful tears of budding maidenhood 
 Can not extinguish. 
 
 Bur gum. Damn his eyes and yours ! 
 
 She loves him not ! I say she loves him not ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. But women learn to love what 
 
 they protect : 
 'Tis childless motherhood. 
 
 Burgum. [ Walking up and down in a rage.~\ 
 
 She loves him not ! 
 
 Lambert. Has John de Bergham aged to iterance ? 
 
 Burgum. [Pausing and shaking his finger at Lam- 
 bert.'} 
 
 By heaven ! I'd see you and your prentice burnt, 
 
 64
 
 tRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Like Sharp and Hales, upon St. Michael's Hill, 
 Ere blood of his should mingle with my own. 
 
 Barrett. Does not your Pedigree proclaim him heir 
 To Radcliff de Chatterton of Chatterton ? \They laugh. 
 
 Alexander Catcoti. Enough of this bear-baiting. 
 
 Burgum. [ With a forced laugh.~\ Aptly put : 
 
 Old Bruin worried by some mongrel dogs ! 
 Enter FOOTBOY. 
 
 Lambert. Well ? 
 
 Footboy. Mr. Horace Walpole 
 
 Lambert. [In amazement. ~\ Horace what? 
 
 Footboy. He says his name is Walpole. \_Yawns. 
 
 Lambert. Are you sure ? 
 
 You drowsy dolt, you are not half awake. 
 
 Footboy. I must sleep day-time, sir, or never sleep ; 
 For Thomas writes all night. 
 
 Lambert. Well, show him in. \_Exit Footboy. 
 
 The son of England's former Minister 
 Seeks legal counsel. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Or my fossils, sir. 
 
 Barrett. I sent him a prospectus of my book ; 
 But we shall learn what magnet draws him here. 
 
 Burgum. [ Waving his Pedigree. .] 
 Perhaps I hold the magnet in my hand. 
 
 Enter FOOTBOY followed by HORACE WALPOLE. 
 5 65
 
 ACT ii.] Ube Bare of 
 
 Lambert. \_Rising and going to him.~\ 
 Welcome to Bristol, most distinguished sir ! 
 
 Walpole. This, 'then, is Mr. 
 
 Lambert. Lambert. 
 
 Walpole. \Puzzled. ~\ Lambert? yes. 
 
 Lambert. Let me present to you my worthy friends : 
 The Reverend Alexander Catcott, sir, 
 Vicar of Temple Church and author of 
 A Treatise on the Deluge ; William Barrett, 
 The surgeon and historian of Bristol ; 
 George Catcott, who ascended Nicholas' steeple 
 And left his name beneath the topmost stone ; 
 And Henry Burgum, sir, whose Pedigree 
 
 Burgum. Whose Pedigree runs parallel with yours ; 
 For both the founders of our families, sir, 
 Came over with the Duke of Normandy. 
 
 Walpole. England owes much and many to his 
 Grace. 
 
 Burgum. I'll call my daughter in. 
 
 \_Hurries into the garden. 
 
 Walpole. I came from Bath 
 
 This morning in the coach. 
 
 Lambert. Sit near the fire : 
 
 The day is chilly, and you are fatigued. 
 
 Walpole. I am not, sir, epuise with the jaunt 
 66
 
 TRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 From Bath to Bristol, for the air was bracing ; 
 But my eyes are Ghebers in their love for flames. 
 You know, I fancy, why I trespass here. 
 
 Lambert. [ With assurance. ] Entanglement in law ? 
 
 Walpole. Lord bless you, no ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Were it not too presumptuous, I 
 
 might ask 
 
 Whether your journey, honoured sir, is due 
 To interest in the Deluge ? 
 
 Walpole. Deluge, sir? 
 
 I drink iced water there my interest ends. 
 
 Barrett. [ With an air of confidence. ] 
 Tt is more likely, Vicar, that a wit, 
 A man of letters, patron of the arts 
 
 Walpole. I beg your pardon : I am none of these. 
 Enter BURGUM and BERTHA. 
 
 Burgum. My daughter, Mr. Walpole Horace Wal- 
 pole. 
 
 Walpole. [Looking with evident admiration and then 
 
 bowing. ~\ 
 
 The fashion is too formal to express 
 My pleasure at this meeting. 
 
 Bertha. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Burgum. Is she not truly Norman? 
 
 Bertha. [Embarrassed. ] Father, please. 
 
 67
 
 ACT ii.] Ube BarD of 
 
 Walpole. Her gentle breeding shows in delicate veins, 
 Like azure current branching through the snow. 
 
 Lambert. [ With slight irritation.] 
 We are agog to serve you, Mr. Walpole. 
 
 Walpole. My mission had quite faded in the light 
 Of sudden fortune : I am like a man 
 Who, stooping for a stone to hurl in sport, 
 Finds in his path a cloud-begotten pearl. 
 
 [Makes a bow to Bertha, which Chatterton observes 
 as, hat in hand, he comes down the staircase. 
 
 Burgum. A second John De Bergham in the flesh ! 
 
 Walpole. A curious manuscript was sent to me 
 By some old antiquary Chatterton. 
 
 AIL Chatterton ! 
 
 [Chatterton stops as his name is pronounced and 
 leans on a newel head. 
 
 Walpole. [To Lambert. ~\ A relative of yours, perhaps. 
 
 Lambert. A relative ? my bound apprentice, sir ; 
 And there he stands. [All turn and look at Chatterton. 
 
 Walpole. [Rising] That boy ? you surely jest. 
 
 Chatterton. [Coming down,] 
 What matter that I am not free and old ? 
 The purest pearl upon Spain's tawny breast 
 Was found by a negro child. 
 
 Walpole. [Haughtily] I must refuse 
 
 68
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Bertha. Will you not listen ? 
 
 Walpole. [Bowing graciously. ] If you so request. 
 
 Chatterton. You prate of pearls ; I have the flawless 
 
 stones 
 
 That flamed upon the breast-plate of a priest : 
 A sardius glowing like the setting sun, 
 Firing the soul and banishing all fear ; 
 A topaz from the alabaster mines 
 Of Jove's great city, quickening every sense ; 
 A Burmah ruby ripened in the earth, 
 Clouding its lustre at approach of ill, 
 And gleaming crimson in the murkiest night ; 
 An Emerald flashing like the lightning's play 
 Among green olive trees ; a saphire star ; 
 A Brahmin-diamond lucid as the dew, 
 Refulgent as the rays of orient sun, 
 And cool as evening tempered by the moon ; 
 A ligure brilliant as the eye of lynx ; 
 An agate, like the memory, holding aye 
 The imaged beauty of a woodland scene ; 
 An amethyst that quells the god of wine ; 
 A beryl from Egyptian mummy-pit, 
 Wearing the verdant livery of the sea ; 
 An onyx from the finger-tip of Love ; 
 And last a jasper with these dazzling gems ; 
 
 69
 
 ACT ii.] Ube Bar& ot 
 
 Each catching fire and colour from the rest ; 
 All ranged by fiat in four tribal rows, 
 And set in gold in their enclosings, sir. 
 Contest another figure, if you please. 
 
 Walpole. A span of tinsel not a word of sense ! 
 
 Chatterton. I borrowed words from Exodus. 
 
 Walpole. They began 
 
 ' All ranged by fiat ' 
 
 Chatterton. No, those words were mine. 
 
 Shall I close up my casket and depart, 
 Or will you view one jewel ? 
 
 Bertha. \Eagerly. .] Show him one. 
 
 Chatterton. \Taking a manuscript from his pocket.] 
 This is the Ode to Freedom Rowley wrote ; 
 'Tis from his Tragedy of ' Godwin,' sir. 
 {Reads. .] 
 
 When Freedom, drest in blood-stained vest, 
 
 To every knight her war-song sung, 
 Upon her head wild weeds were spread, 
 A gory anlace by her hung. 
 She danced on the heath ; 
 She heard the voice of Death. 
 
 Bertha. {To Walpole. ~\ Is that not masterful ? 
 Walpole. No modern bard 
 
 Not even Gray could paint so weird a picture. 
 
 70
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Burgum. You must read Bergham's 'The Romance 
 
 of the Knight. ' 
 Alexander Catcott. 'Tis like a ballad-dance in ancient 
 
 Greece, 
 
 Where motion, words, and music blend like flames. 
 Chatterton. \_Reading with a strange smile. ,] 
 
 Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, 
 In vain assailed her bosom to acale 
 
 Walpole. Acale ? I do not know the word. 
 Chatterton. \Rebukingly .] To chill ! 
 
 Burgum. De Bergham wrote much harder words than 
 
 that. 
 Chatterton. [Continuing his reading. ~\ 
 
 Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, 
 
 In vain assailed her bosom to acale ; 
 She heard onflemed the shrieking voice of Woe 
 And sadness in the owlet shake the dale. 
 She shook her burled spear, 
 
 On high she jeste her shield ; 
 Her foemen all appear, 
 And flizz along the field. 
 
 Walpole. 'Tis well sustained. 
 
 Bertha. And will be to the close. 
 
 7 1
 
 ACT ii.] Ube Bart* of 
 
 Chatterton. \Reading with increased force.] 
 
 Power with his heafod straught into the skies, 
 His spear a sunbeam and his shield a star, 
 Alike twa brendyng gronfyres rolls his eyes, 
 Chafts with his iron feet and sounds to war. 
 She sits upon a rock, 
 
 She bends before his spear, 
 She rises from the shock 
 Wielding her own in air ! 
 
 Walpole. The bard has reached his pitch and he must 
 
 stoop ! 
 Bertha. He will not stoop he'll stop ere he will 
 
 stoop ! 
 Chatterton. \Almost in a frenzy, ,] 
 
 Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on ; 
 
 Wit skilly wimpled guides it to his crown ; 
 His long sharp spear, his spreading shield is gone ; 
 He falls, and falling rolleth thousands down. 
 War, gore-faced War, by Envy burled arist, 
 
 His fiery helm ynodding to the air, 
 Ten bloody arrows in his straining fist 
 
 Walpole. Magnificent ! Read on ! 
 Alexander Catcott. Read on ! 
 
 Bertha. Read on ! 
 
 72
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Chatterton. I've read it all : the line overwhelmed 
 his fancy. 
 
 Walpole. You well may call it jewel ; for it glows 
 Like moon new-risen on a battlefield. 
 
 Chatterton. Or like the blood-red ruby Harry wore 
 Upon his crest at Agincourt. 
 
 Walpole. Enough ! 
 
 Chatterton. Rub it with ruby tried ; and if it break, 
 It is a garnet coloured like a bull 
 And set with copper foil. 
 
 Bertha. It will not break. 
 
 Barrett. ( The Battle of Hastings ' is a livelier stone. 
 
 Bertha. That's Rowley's, too ! 
 
 Walpole. This gem can not be matched. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Save by the Greeks. 
 
 Burgiim. And John de Bergham, sir. 
 
 Walpole. Why did you write to me ? 
 
 Chatterton. Think not I seek 
 
 To fatten you for food with flattery. 
 You are a gentleman reputed wise, 
 And have a private press at Strawberry Hill : 
 If Rowley's poems please you, publish them ; 
 If not, the Hotwells will repay your ride. 
 
 [Laughter of girls heard from the parlour. 
 Enter FOOTBOY excitedly. 
 73
 
 ACT ii.] Ube 3Bar& of 
 
 Footboy. It is the Mayor Thomas Harris, sir ! 
 
 Lambert. What if it were the King, you Bedlamite ? 
 Enter the MAYOR. 
 
 Mayor. I am informal, for I am in haste : 
 The Corporation dine me at The Bush, 
 And it is famous for its turtle soup. 
 
 Lambert. You can not come too soon or stay too long, 
 Most honoured sir. 
 
 Mayor. That's what the landlords say. 
 
 Footboy. [After drawing attention by eyeing the Mayor 
 admiringly.^ He looks like Stephens 'the nailer! ' 
 
 Lambert. Out, you fool ! 
 
 And do not show your face again this day. 
 
 [Exit Footboy. 
 
 Perhaps, dear sir, you came to meet my guest, 
 Who will be glad 
 
 Mayor. I've met him or shall miss him ; 
 
 I must divulge my mission and away. 
 
 Lambert. If you have need of pilot in the law, 
 The honour in your service is my fee. 
 
 Mayor. Do you know Thomas Chatterton ? 
 
 Lambert. [In anger. ~\ Again ! 
 
 Mayor. Bright said he thought he was your partner, 
 sir. 
 
 Lambert. He is my prentice, and is smiling there. 
 74
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Mayor. \_To Lambert after staring at Chatterton.~\ 
 The time for joking is at table, sir, 
 Where tipple wets dry wit : 'tis foul to ask 
 A sober man to laugh at silly sallies. 
 Lambert. No other Chatterton is known to me. 
 
 Mayor. [Beckoning to Chatterton, .] Come here; 
 
 come here ! 
 
 [Chatterton looks up the staircase.] What are you look- 
 ing for ? 
 
 Chatterton. Your poodle, sir. 
 
 Lambert. This insolence must cease. 
 
 Mayor. Do you write verse for Felix Farley's Jour- 
 nal? 
 
 Chatterton. Some vagrant lines. 
 
 Mayor. The penmanship's the same ! 
 
 Did you describe a grand procession formed 
 To celebrate the birth of Bristol's bridge? 
 
 Chatterton. I fathered it. 
 
 Mayor. Then you're the one I seek. 
 
 The Aldermen, the Councillors, and Mayor, 
 In hasty convocation, have decreed 
 To open our new bridge the selfsame way. 
 
 Chatterton. Well, they have my assent. 
 
 Mayor. [Taking out a newspaper.] You saucy boy ! 
 Do you know more than you have here set down ? 
 
 75
 
 ACT ii.] Tibe 36aro of 
 
 Chatterton. Like creamy Cheddar, sir, I sell the curd 
 And keep the whey of thought. A little more. 
 
 Mayor. Then meet me at my house to-morrow noon 
 In St. Augustine's back. 
 
 Chatterton. I shall be there. 
 
 Mayor. We must have trappings, minstrels, rod, and 
 
 all, 
 
 As in that bygone age : 'twill be sublime ! 
 And now for dinner with the turtle soup. 
 
 Enter BROUGHTON and THISTLETHWAITE. 
 
 Broughton. This is a timely meeting, Master Mayor : 
 We have discovered what will interest you 
 And many sitting here. 
 
 Mayor. You must be brief: 
 
 The tables groan, and I am tender-hearted. 
 
 \Rubs his stomach. 
 
 Broughton. [ To Chatterton who turns scornfully away. ] 
 You must not go you are the one accused. 
 
 Chatterton. \Turning.~\ Accused of what ? 
 
 Broughton. Of many things in one. 
 
 Chatterton. Heigh-ho, up we go ! we'll have a scene 
 in court. 
 
 Broughton. Now, Thistlethwaite, begin. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. It grieves me much 
 
 To expose a friend. 
 
 76
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT n. 
 
 Chatterton. Observe the ugly mouth 
 
 Of that fellow with a lisp within his name. 
 Could anything as beautiful as Truth 
 Issue from such a pit ? Present your case. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. To prove wrong-doing is to anger 
 
 guilt ; 
 
 But I am so reluctant in my duty, 
 That taunts bestir compassion. Facts will speak ; 
 Nor shall they be enforced by word of mine. 
 I do affirm, and am prepared to prove, 
 That all of Thomas Rowley's works were writ 
 By Thomas Chatterton. [ General consternation. 
 
 Chatterton. [Calmly. .] Produce your proof. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. \_After taking a piece of ochre, a 
 poimce-box, a bottle, and a parchment from a 
 satchel. ] 
 
 Here are the ochre, lead, and charcoal used 
 For forging those antiques in Redcliffe Church ; 
 And here's ' A Song to ^Ella ' partly aged. 
 What say you, Rowley, to this evidence ? 
 
 Chatterton. You can not prove a calf leaped o'er a barn 
 By leading out the calf : show us the leap. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. \_Triumphantly turning to the others 
 
 who are talking and gesticulating wildly. ~\ 
 And what say you, my friends? 
 
 77
 
 ACT ii.] ftbe 36aro of 
 
 Barrett. You are a fool ! 
 
 Burgum. A lunatic at large ! 
 
 George Catcott. A drivelling dunce ! 
 
 Walpole. A knave without the cunning to conceal 
 His native baldness with attorney's wig, 
 Who fain would foist a fairy tale on me. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. My motive, sir, was honest, be assured. 
 
 Walpole. Write Rowley's works? absurd ! 
 
 Biirgum. Preposterous ! 
 
 Barrett. Write Rowley's works write Chaucer's 
 
 tales ! 
 
 Were he to swear it I should swear he lied. 
 'Twould prove my book a hoax it would, by God ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. The boy has rarest genius ; mark 
 you that. 
 
 Barrett. He may have made the Burgum Pedigree. 
 
 Burgitm. [Jumping to his feet. .] 
 The Burgum Pedigree ? you quacking goose ! 
 \Then turning to Thistlethwaite. ~^ 
 And you you braying colt of some wild ass ! 
 Make of your skull a fishing-pot for eels. 
 The Heralds' College shall attest my birth. 
 
 Mayor. \_Holding up the newspaper as the situation 
 dawns on him ] Does he allege that Chatterton 
 wrote this ? 
 
 78
 
 TRebclitte, [ACT n. 
 
 \_Barrett nods assent. ,] 
 
 By currant dumplings and a bit of hash, 
 
 I'll clap him in the madhouse for his speech ! 
 
 Lambert. Vicar, I marvel that yourself believed 
 In such a fable. 
 
 Broughton. I had not read the works. 
 
 \Then to Chatter ton. ~\ 
 What purpose did the lead and ochre serve ? 
 
 Chatterton. To overpaint the damning bloom of 
 
 youth : 
 
 To give my skin the parchment hue of age 
 And mark deep wrinkles, sir. If not for that, 
 Make your surmise : we are not now in France 
 Where the accused must work his own undoing. 
 
 Bertha. He may have used them to make copies, sir. 
 
 Burgum. That's true, my girl. 
 
 Walpole. 'Tis sure : a woman's wit 
 
 Has solved the puzzle. 
 
 Broughton. \_To Thistlethwaite.~\ Make the graver 
 charge. 
 
 Thistlcthwaitc. [ Taking a manuscript/row the satchel. ] 
 This document was found within a coffer. 
 
 Broughton. \_To Chatterton who smiles. ~\ 
 You deem it droll ; but 'tis as libellous 
 As Number Forty-five that gaoled John Wilkes. 
 
 79
 
 ACT ii.] Ube JBarfc ot 
 
 [Enter from the parlour MRS. LAMBERT and the 
 girls laughing. Lambert motions to them not to 
 interrupt the reading. 
 Thistlethwaite. {Reads. .] 
 
 This is the latest Will and Testament 
 Of Thomas Chatterton whose life is spent. 
 
 Lambert. What can a pauper leave ? 
 
 Chatterton. His body, sir. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. \Reading.~\ 
 
 Written in great distress, but not in fear, 
 This fourteenth day of April, the tenth year 
 Of George the Third, our wooden-headed king, 
 Who to the bagpipes foots the Highland Fling. 
 
 Barrett. Treason ! 
 
 George Catcott. Were this disclosed, he would be 
 
 hanged ! 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading, ,] 
 
 To Thomas Broughton I bequeath my eyes, 
 That see the figured truth in literal lies 
 Damned narrow notions tending to disgrace 
 The boasted reason of the human race. 
 
 [All except Broughton laugh. 
 Broughton. Profane and blasphemous ! 
 80
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. [Smiling.~\ Not that, if true. 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading. ] 
 
 To Vicar Catcott, all my bones and blood, 
 To fill his cabinet and to swell his flood ; 
 And to his cat-like brother, my toe-nails, 
 That he may climb until his courage fails. 
 
 [All except the Catcotts and Broughton laugh. 
 Alexander Catcott. 'Tis sinful to scoff the Deluge. 
 George Catcott. Or my climb. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading.] 
 
 To William Barrett I bequeath my brain 
 The primal part of it when split in twain 
 That he on printing may not waste his cash ; 
 For, save what Rowley wrote, his book is trash. 
 
 [All except Barrett, the Cctcotts, and Broughton laugh. 
 Barrett. The snarling cur ! to call my history trash, 
 And flatter Rowley. Curse his impudence ! 
 Thistlethwaite. \_Reading.~\ 
 
 To harsh John Lambert I assign my liver, 
 
 To cleanse the bilious blood that wronged the giver. 
 
 Lambert. A viper I have warmed upon my breast ! 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading.~\ 
 6 81
 
 ACT ii.] ZTbe 3Baro of 
 
 To Thistlethwaite I leave my candid tongue, 
 Which sings unwisely, but has never sung 
 A whining psalm to sanctify my hate, 
 Or petty paean pandering to the great. 
 
 I pardon him those most unchristian lines. 
 
 Mayor. This is most humourous, but my dinner waits. 
 Broughton. Be patient ; it will take a serious turn. 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading .] 
 
 To our fat Mayor, who fain would be a knight, 
 I leave my stomach and my appetite ; 
 And when he snores in church, like hog o'erfed, 
 I bid the sacrist smite him on the head. 
 
 [All except those satirised laugh ; Bur gum laughing 
 
 more loudly than any. 
 Mayor. [Sputtering with indignation.~\ 
 Smite me upon the head, you parish brat ! 
 And do you think I would accept from you 
 That thimble-belly in exchange for this? 
 [Slaps his paunch proudly and turns angrily to Brough- 
 
 ton.~\ 
 
 Is it for this you kept me from the table ? 
 By turtles' ghosts ! 
 
 Broughton. The end is very near. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. [Reading. ,] 
 82
 
 IRefccltffe. [ACT n. 
 
 To Henry Burgum I bequeath my scorn 
 
 Of ignoble men that are most nobly born, 
 
 My Latin, modesty, and ancient name, 
 
 To snatch his blustering ignorance from shame. 
 
 Burgum. \_Waving his cane and starting toward 
 
 Chatterton.~\ 
 My blustering ignorance ! I'll cudgel you ! 
 
 Bertha. [Running to her father and restraining him. ] 
 Father ! father ! 'tis but a boyish fling ; 
 Be not so foolish, or you'll prove it just. 
 
 Burgum. \Returning to his chair, .] 
 An upstart to a man of quality ! 
 
 Thistletliwaite. \Reading.~\ 
 
 To dear Tom Phillips I entrust my heart, 
 Ere to the land of shadows I depart, 
 That he may have this motto graved thereon 
 Brief as my life ' Alas, poor Chatterton ! ' 
 
 Mayor. \While the others fume with rage.~\ 
 'Tis treason to His Majesty, the King ! 
 Lambert. And libel on us all ! 
 
 Barrett. What shall be done ? 
 
 Burgum. Monstrous ! 
 
 Broughton. Take him before a magistrate. 
 
 Enter MRS. CHATTERTON. 
 83
 
 ACT ii.] tlbe Baro of 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Dear Mr. Lambert, did you send 
 
 for me ? 
 O Thomas ! what is this ? 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis nothing, mother : 
 
 A potent star, lord of the house of wealth, 
 Forbade a prison cell. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. [ Wildly. ] A prison cell ? 
 
 Lambert. Madam, your son has grossly libelled us ; 
 And we propose to punish him by law. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You are not guilty, Thomas ? 
 
 Chatterton. Mother, no. 
 
 Lambert. A judge and jury shall determine that. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Oh, do not drag him, sir, before a 
 court ! 
 
 Bertha. Be merciful ! 
 
 Barrett. He does not merit mercy. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. That is not true. 
 
 Broughton. Be firm. 
 
 Lambert. I will not swerve. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. O Mr. Lambert, it would kill my 
 
 son ! 
 Upon my knees 
 
 Chatterton. [Restraining her.~\ No, mother, not to 
 
 him. 
 
 There is no mercy Mary Redcliffe holds 
 
 84
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT n. 
 
 Could make me kneel to man ; and I would kneel 
 Ere you should, mother. 
 
 Lambert. Now, lest he decamp, 
 
 I must place him in proper custody. 
 
 \Rises to make the arrest, and Chatterton, pulling 
 back the ruffles from his wrists, prepares for a 
 struggle, while his mother clings to him in terror. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. O Thomas ! Thomas ! Mr. Lam- 
 bert, mercy ! 
 
 Bertha. Hear what he has to say in his defence ! 
 
 Walpole. I must uphold the lady. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Let him answer. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Steppingforward and standing free .] 
 The Will is mine : 'twas niched from Mary Redcliffe. 
 I wrote the thing in sport for my own eyes, 
 To please my humour and to ease my mind ; 
 And when the fit of satire is upon me, 
 I spare nor friend nor foe. Our thoughts are free, 
 Our pens are free in secret to record them. 
 'Twas harmless as a tigress in her lair 
 Suckling her playful cubs ; if not so now, 
 Let your full censure fall upon the one 
 Who forced it from its natural retreat. 
 It is not libellous ; but suppose it were : 
 The crime is publishing, not writing it 
 
 85
 
 ACT ii.] TTbe Baro of 
 
 With no intent to print and he's the libeller. 
 We are on English soil, my merry men, 
 And that is English law ! 
 
 Broughton. [_To Lambert. ,] Is that the law? 
 
 Lambert. It is the law ; for now I do recall 
 'Tis held that publication must be shown, 
 Or prosecution falls. \_Takes a paper from the table- 
 drawer and goes to the fireplace .] But I will burn 
 The Indenture of Apprenticeship made void 
 By his misconduct and his obdurate heart ! 
 
 [Lights the paper and holds it up flaming. 
 Chatterton. My bonds are burning. [ Then smiling 
 sweetly as the ashes fall. ] They are all consumed. 
 Dear mother, let us go away together. 
 
 [Puts his arm round his mother, and they go out of 
 the archway as the curtain descends. 
 
 86
 
 tRefcclffte. [ACT m. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 SCENE. A Street in Redcliffe, Bristol. At the left is 
 the North Porch of St. Mary Redcliffe, with steps 
 leading to the entrance ; at the right is the Old Fox 
 Inn, with a table and chairs near the doorway. At 
 the back centre is Redcliffe Gate, through which are 
 seen quaint, gabled houses. On the rise of the cur- 
 tain, Chatterton is discovered writing at the table 
 before the inn. As the organ sounds and the people 
 begin to come from the church, he throws down the 
 quill, folds the manuscript, and puts it into his 
 pocket. Then Betty, Agnes, Dorothy, and Alice 
 enter from the porch. 
 
 Alice. There is our constant lover ! 
 Chatterton. [Rising and bowing.~\ Ever yours. 
 
 Alice. A husband's letter ; for a lover's note 
 Closes with ' love and kisses. ' 
 
 Betty. Try again. 
 
 Chatterton. Hail nymphs as radiant as the irised 
 
 spray 
 
 Skirting the salt-sea breakers ! 
 
 87
 
 ACT in.] ube 38arfc ot 
 
 Alice. That is better. 
 
 Agnes. You naughty poet, you were not at service. 
 
 Chatterton. A sermon preached to sanctify a sport 
 Smacks of a barbarous age. 
 
 Agnes. What sport ? 
 
 Dorothy. What sport ? 
 
 Chatterton. The sport to-day the opening of the 
 bridge. 
 
 Alice. Why do you call it sport ? The Vicar said 
 It will be a. touching and a solemn sight. 
 
 Chatterton. And so it will ; but Chaucer's shade will 
 
 smile 
 
 When Bristol rouses to her cats and dogs 
 To ape a pristine pageant. 
 
 Alice. For this pomp, 
 
 You have neglected us. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, for two weeks 
 
 I have been tricking out the burghers, dear, 
 With garments such as the Brystowans wore 
 When christening their new bridge at Eastertide. 
 I'll make the richest progress of Queen Bess 
 Appear a march of rags. Wait till you see 
 George Catcott in a goat's skin and the Mayor 
 Astride a white horse dight with sable trappings, 
 Waving a golden rod. 
 
 88
 
 IRefcclfffe, [ACT m. 
 
 Betty. Won't he look grand ! 
 
 Alice. Would you had never found that parchment, 
 
 Tom : 
 For it has robbed us of a dozen songs. 
 
 Agnes. I wish so, too. 
 
 Dorothy. And so do I. 
 
 Betty. And I. 
 
 Chatterton. I still am young. 
 
 Alice. What were you writing there? 
 
 Chatterton. A farewell ode to Mary Redcliffe, Alice ; 
 I leave to-day for London. 
 
 All. Oh ! 
 
 Alice. You jest ! 
 
 Enter LAMBERT and his MOTHER _/h?;# the church. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tistrue: the coach this afternoon will 
 
 take 
 Your songster in its basket. 
 
 Betty. I shall weep ! 
 
 Dorothy. I know I shall. 
 
 Agnes. Alice is weeping now ! 
 
 Chatterton. Heaven bless you all ; for you have been 
 
 to me 
 What glades in forests are. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. O John, look there ! 
 
 Come here, my dears ; you do not know that boy.
 
 ACT in.] Ube Bar& of 
 
 Lambert. He barely 'scaped a prison. 
 
 Chatterton. Sir, you lie. 
 
 Lambert. \Raising his stick. ~\ 
 Withdraw those words, or I will strike you down ! 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Be careful, John ! 
 
 Alice. O Mr. Lambert no ! 
 
 Chatterton. But touch me, sir, to make the battery 
 
 yours, 
 
 And I will seize you by that throat of clay 
 And choke you till your venomed tongue will crawl 
 Like an adder from its hole. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Come, John ; come, girls ; 
 
 For I see Murder glittering in his eyes. 
 
 Lambert. Your end will be the gallows. 
 
 Chatterton. Best pass on. 
 
 Mrs. Lambert. Did you ere see a more ungrateful 
 wretch ? 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Lambert, Lambert, and the girls. 
 
 Chatterton. Footpads infest the cross-roads of my life ; 
 And I must fight them even in my sleep. 
 
 Enter from the porch PHILLIPS, MRS. CHATTERTON, 
 and MARY. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. There's Thomas waiting for us. 
 
 Chatterton. \Going to her.~\ My own mother, 
 
 You make me feel abashed. 
 
 90
 
 IRefcclfffe* [ACT m. 
 
 Mary. I know the why : 
 
 We left Miss Burgum with your Uncle Richard ; 
 I think they went up to the muniment room. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. I am not jealous, Thomas, yet at 
 
 times 
 
 I feel so home-sick for the little boy 
 That had no word but mother on his lips, 
 And could not walk without me. 
 
 Chatterton. \Putting his arm round her.~\ Mother, 
 
 dear, 
 
 I can not walk without you now. Each twinge of pain, 
 Flitting across your features, gives to me 
 A tremor of alarm ; each print of care 
 Leaves impress of remorse ; why, every cloud 
 That hovers o'er your face dusks all my joy ; 
 And I watch you more closely than you dream. 
 Alas ! there is a shadow on your brow. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. It is the thought of parting with 
 
 you, Tom. 
 Chatterton. Cold Saturn glared from the ascendant, 
 
 mother, 
 
 When this brave question in my mind was born ; 
 But bid me stay, and I will fight in Bristol. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You are a good son, say they what 
 they may. 
 
 9 1
 
 ACT in.] Ube JSaro of 
 
 Chatterton. Tell mother, Phillips, it is for the best. 
 God knows that fame is not so dear to me 
 As the one that gave me birth. 
 
 Phillips. 'Tis for the best : 
 
 'Twill give him tribes and tribute for his work ; 
 And I will stake my life upon its worth. 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, I could fall down here upon my 
 
 knees, 
 
 Heap ashes on my head, and sackcloth wear 
 For my ingratitude in cursing Fate ! 
 Three beings on this earth, and each one mine 
 Through glory or dishonour to the grave ; 
 No need of reason not a doubt to kill ! 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You must write often, Thomas. 
 
 Chatterton. Every coach 
 
 Shall be a herald of my triumph, mother. 
 And when the stars allow me to unfrock 
 And own the lovely children of my brain, 
 You shall not teach or stitch a tick of time ; 
 Mary shall realise her dreams of dress ; 
 And Phillips shall not waste his precious prime 
 On the witless urchins of the Colston School. 
 We'll have a place beside the gliding Thames, 
 As calm and peaceful as the downy swans 
 Floating reflected on its heaveless breast 
 
 92
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 A cottage covered o'er with ivy vines, 
 Lilacs and woodbines and a hawthorn hedge, 
 Huge oaks that root in ages overgrown, 
 And our own sweep of sward. 
 
 Phillips. . 'Tis likely, Tom; 
 
 But be not sickened by a hope deferred. 
 
 Chatterton. What hidden meaning does your tone be- 
 tray? 
 
 Phillips. I fear that ere the world gives Rowley's 
 
 songs 
 
 The fervent praise it can not well unsay, 
 You must tell Walpole Rowley is a myth. 
 
 Chatterton. Why must I, Phillips ? 
 
 Phillips. Burgum goes to London, 
 
 At Walpole' s urgent counsel, to remove 
 The doubt cast on his Pedigree and Arms ; 
 And once the Heralds' College sees them, Tom, 
 Suspicious eyes will scan the Rowley works 
 And prove them to be yours. 
 
 Chatterton. When does he go ? 
 
 Phillips. The early part of August. 
 
 Chatterton. Four long months ! 
 
 I'll be prepared before that distant day ; 
 Why, ere the coach rolls over Marlborough Downs, 
 A method will be sprouting in my mind. 
 
 93
 
 ACT in.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. What method, Tom ? 
 
 Chatterton. The method of unhooding. 
 
 Four months is long enough with time to spare 
 For Rowley's fame, were not a verse composed. 
 
 Phillips. The Bard of Avon scarce could work so 
 fast. 
 
 Chatterton. There are two Bards of Avon, Will and 
 
 Tom, 
 
 And each one has his river. Happy thought ! 
 I have the method : I will write a play, 
 In which a youth shall follow in my course ; 
 Have Garrick act it when old Walpole's present; 
 And doff my cowl with grace. 
 
 Mary. Why use a play ? 
 
 Chatterton. Walpole is prejudiced, capricious, vain, 
 But sensitive withal ; and a device 
 So old and delicate will please his taste ; 
 O'ercream the prickle of his nettled pride ; 
 And, deftly done, may lift me up so high 
 That the step to Rowley will appear so slight, 
 His gouty foot will mount it without pause. 
 And more than this there is Miss Burgum now ! 
 
 Mary. She is taking leave of uncle in the porch. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Come, Mr. Phillips ; we are in the 
 way. 
 
 94
 
 TRefccIitfe. [ACT m. 
 
 Chattcrton. Forgive me, mother ; I'll be at the house 
 Ere the procession starts. 
 
 Mary. I send a kiss. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Be silent, Mary. Thomas, bear in 
 
 mind 
 That Chatterton' s a nobler name than Burgum. 
 
 Chatterton. My love is humble but not grovelling, 
 mother. 
 
 [Exeunt Mrs. Chatterton, Mary, and Phillips as 
 Bertha comes slowly down the steps. 
 
 Bertha. Why, Mr. Chatterton ! 
 
 Chattcrton. Are you surprised ? 
 
 Bertha. I have not seen you since the day the day 
 
 Chatterton. You were so eloquent in my defence. 
 
 Bertha. You were eavesdropping, then. 
 
 Chatterton. Call it not that. 
 
 Some words, the Cabala says, have power occult 
 No spirit can resist ; 'twas so with me. 
 Their curses seemed like bats upon the wing; 
 Your accents like the flight of finches, lady, 
 Followed by Fancy, with her mistless eyes, 
 Beyond the range of sight, and memoried then 
 For future dreams. 
 
 Bertha. What have you done these days 
 
 Since you left Lambert's house? 
 
 95
 
 ACT in.] Ube Bart) of 
 
 Chatterton. Not overmuch : 
 
 Re-read Agrippa, part of Paracelsus, 
 And ' The Economy of Human Life ' 
 Translated from a Bramin's Indian tongue ; 
 Designed the costumes for this mummers' march ; 
 Sketched a few castles and some Roman camps ; 
 Wandered at times o'er the surrounding hills 
 There are expansive views from Drundry Tower 
 O'er seven counties of this peerless Isle ; 
 One over Clifton and the Severn's tide 
 To the Wyndcliff rising from the tortuous Wye 
 Near Tintern Abbey. 
 
 Bertha. Have you written nothing ? 
 
 Chatterton. A few poor songs : I wrote an elegy 
 At Stanton-Drew a joyless lover's wail, 
 Amid the altars of enduring stone, 
 Where Druid-priest once drove his golden knife 
 Into the victim's heart. 
 
 Bertha. What have you found ? 
 
 Chatterton. An ancient song near Norton -Mai re ward, 
 The place of Rowley's birth. 
 
 Bertha. A name prophetic. 
 
 Oh, let me see the song ! 
 
 Chatterton. It is not here. 
 
 Bertha. What is the title ? tell me of it, please. 
 96
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Chatterton. A name prophetic, too ' The Unknown 
 Knight.' 
 
 Bertha. May I not read it soon ? 
 
 Chatterton. To-morrow evening 
 
 I shall be passing through Threadneedle Street 
 To Shoreditch, London. 
 
 Bertha. When do you return ? 
 
 Chatterton. When Rowley's famous and myself am 
 
 known 
 
 When I stir London with real flesh and blood, 
 As I shall Bristol with this puppet-show : 
 To-day's my climax here. 
 
 Bertha. That may take years. 
 
 Chatterton. Time minces through the wonderland of 
 
 youth : 
 My months are years. 
 
 Bertha. My prayers accompany you. 
 
 Chatterton. Then I shall win : I lift the glove of Fate ! 
 
 Bertha. You must not be so wild. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Taking a bracelet from his pocket. ~\ 
 
 This bangle, lady, 
 
 Has pendants formed from early coins upturned 
 By my dear father in his tragic search 
 For what his present lacked ; for then as now, 
 The city walls, the Roman camps, the hills, 
 7 97
 
 ACT in.] ube 3Bar& of 
 
 And the outlying castles were too weak 
 
 To check the Roundhead, Commerce. Here we see 
 
 The sitting figure of a Latin dame 
 
 Holding a goblet to uncoiling serpent 
 
 Ascending from an altar ; on this medal, 
 
 Constantinus riding in a chariot drawn 
 
 By four wild steeds, ' Soli invicto Comiti . ' 
 
 Here is another maid, in her left hand 
 
 The horn of plenty, and within her right 
 
 The rudder of a ship. The symbol's clear. 
 
 A man transfixing suppliant with a dart ; 
 
 The drawing of a captive from a den ; 
 
 Two hands clasped tightly in mild Nerva's reign ; 
 
 And on this coin of silver is inscribed 
 
 The potent word, ' Invictus ! ' Take it, lady. 
 
 Bertha, A maiden, sir, can not accept 
 
 Chatterton. You must, 
 
 Or I will hurl the trinket to the street. 
 A gift refused revives the bitter slight 
 Whenever it is scanned. 
 
 Bertha. \Taking it. ~\ Then give it me. 
 
 I am very sorry you are going, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. Such sorrow is my joy ! 
 
 Bertha. You must be calm, 
 
 Or prudence will forbid me to remain. 
 
 98
 
 IRefcclitfe. [ACT in. 
 
 Chatterton. Fools are uplifted by the wings of Love. 
 You do not know how calm I meant to be ; 
 How oft I have rehearsed this parting scene 
 With every tranquil word I was to speak, 
 And not a syllable is apt not one. 
 I love you that is all. 
 
 Bertha. You are a boy, 
 
 And youth is changeful as an April sky. 
 
 Chatterton. You call me boy ; I have an only son 
 Three centuries old his name is Thomas Rowley. 
 
 Bertha. You must forget this fondness in your work. 
 
 Chatterton. I've tried to weary love with ceaseless 
 
 toil: 
 
 Why, I have scarcely slept since last we met ; 
 No hour too late, and not a moment lost. 
 Nor could I drown my love in beauty, lady : 
 Each blackbird sang of wooing to its mate, 
 Each primrose whispered of a bridal wreath, 
 Each landscape spake of wedded years ahead. 
 Look on the carving of that purfled porch, 
 And see a genius tangled in design : 
 Love is the rock, the rest is filigree ! 
 
 Bertha. You promised to be commonplace in day- 
 light. 
 
 Chatterton. O, gentle lady, give me some response 
 99
 
 ACT in.] Ube Bar& ot 
 
 A word on whose foundation I can build. 
 Think what it is to be alone in London : 
 A million people and not one a friend ; 
 A maze of narrow streets with smoking lamps ; 
 Steep, creaking stairs, a garret, and a candle 
 That weeps and struggles feebly with the dark. 
 But to a lover loved, all this is changed : 
 A million fancies come as welcome friends, 
 The streets are highways leading on to fame, 
 The lamps are stars, the garret is a palace, 
 The tallow dip is Freedom's flaming torch, 
 And the swift river is the flux of power 
 Seeking communion with the mighty streams 
 That pour into the ocean. Bertha, dear, 
 Let Love accompany me. 
 
 Bertha, This is true love, 
 
 If it prove lasting. 
 
 Chatterton. Put me to the proof. 
 
 Bertha. You must not deem me cold and heartless, sir ; 
 But were I yours, and were your love to wane, 
 My life would be undone. 
 
 Chatterton. A test ! a test ! 
 
 Bertha. Time is the only test, and we must wait ; 
 I, too, am young and vaguely know my heart ; 
 Though this your frankness forces me to own : 
 
 100
 
 /lDar# IRefccliffe* [ACT m. 
 
 I love to hear your voice, and when you leave 
 I feel I shall be lonely. 
 
 Chatterton. Those few words 
 
 Will fill all London with the scent of roses 
 And flood the alleys with a gilding light ! 
 In knightly spirit, lady, I accept 
 The trying test of time and seal the bond. 
 
 [Sinks upon one knee and kisses her hand. 
 
 Bertha. My father comes ! \_Chatterton rises. 
 
 Enter BURGUM, ALEXANDER CATCOTT, and BARRETT. 
 
 Chatterton. I thank thee, Mary Redcliffe. 
 
 Burgum. Yes, here they are ! 
 
 Barrett. I told you it was true. 
 
 Burgum. How dare you meet my daughter? 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Silly question : 
 
 Wren flies to wren, and why not youth to maiden ? 
 
 Burgum. Thistlethwaite said that you were here 
 together. 
 
 Chatterton. A truth with evil purpose is a lie. 
 
 Burgum. Are you not here ? 
 
 Chatterton. I am not quite awake. 
 
 Burgum. No insolence, or you shall feel this stick. 
 
 Chatterton. I think that I should welcome the first 
 
 blow 
 
 To show I am not dreaming. 
 
 101
 
 ACT in.] trbe Bars of 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Gently, Burgum : 
 
 If you would have the maiden love the youth, 
 Abuse him and she will. 
 
 Burgum. She love that scrub ? 
 
 And it is odds I would bestow her hand 
 On a pauper's brat scarce past his teething teens, 
 And foul my lineage with the vassal blood 
 That comes from sires like his ! \_Laughs scornfully. 
 
 Barrett. Be not so loud. 
 
 Chatterton. Saint Mary, lend me patience ! 
 
 Bertha. Father, cease. 
 
 Burgum. By John de Bergham's shade, it is too good 
 For anything but laughter ! Tell them, Bertha, 
 As you confessed to me some time ago, 
 That you love Rowley and not Chatterton. 
 
 Bertha. Confessions, father, are best made at home. 
 
 Burgum. Confessions 'slife ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. The lady's in the right : 
 
 Confessions to the public tang of pride. 
 
 Burgum. Oh, damn the public ; I will have the truth ; 
 Girl, answer me- you love or love him not. 
 
 Bertha. Dear father, I do not deny your claim 
 To learn the inmost secrets of my heart 
 For my own welfare and your peace of mind ; 
 But, sir, not here I'll answer you to-night. 
 
 102
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Burgum. Defied by my own child ! 
 
 Chatterton. Sir, I will ease 
 
 Burgum. You said the first blow would be welcome, 
 
 boy; 
 Well, there it is ! [Strikes Chatterton with his cane. 
 
 Bertha. O father Chatterton ! 
 
 Chatterton. \_Restraininghimselfwith a strong effort '.] 
 Saint Mary, Mary, Mary ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. \To Burgtim.~\ You are a brute ! 
 
 Chatterton. It is a fitting prologue for the test : 
 I did not dream that I could bear a blow 
 God help the next that strikes me ! 
 
 Alexaudcr Catcott. Strike him again, 
 
 And my stick will play about your Midas ears ! 
 
 Burgum. I've humbled him before her. 
 
 Bertha. Raised him, sir ; 
 
 For well I know that no man but my father 
 Would live to say ' I struck him. ' 
 
 Chatterton. I wish the blow 
 
 Had been much harder it will leave no scar. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. [To Burgum.'] 
 I warned you : she will love him now ere night, 
 Were she a maid of marble in the snow. 
 I love him better, and I've loved him long. 
 
 Chatterton. O Mr. Catcott, I have done you wrong 
 103
 
 ACT in.] Ube Baro of 
 
 The bitterest wrong because it was sincere. 
 
 Were you a priest, yourself should set the penance : 
 
 I'd rather murder than disprize a friend. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Merciless vicars are the devil's 
 
 spies : 
 
 My province is to save and not to judge. 
 Your faults are many ; but your frozen pride 
 In kindness melts like icicles in the sun. 
 Call on me at the vicarage to-night. 
 
 Chatterton. I go to London, sir. 
 
 Burgum. Had I known that, 
 
 I would not have chastised you. 
 
 Chatterton. Let that pass ; 
 
 I am on trial, and the worst is o' er : 
 You turned the thumbkin, and I did not flinch. 
 
 Barrett. You shall not go to London till I have 
 The parchments that will verify my book. 
 
 Chatterton. You're younger and more muscular than 
 
 Burgum : 
 
 I'll give them all to you with Rowley's works, 
 If you touch me with a finger of restraint, 
 Or say again ' you shall ! ' 
 
 Bertha. Pe not so brash ! 
 
 I know your courage would not blanch at Death. 
 
 Chatterton. Here's Horace Walpole with the barnacle 
 104
 
 TRefcclfffe, [ACT m. 
 
 That fastens to each onward-ploughing keel, 
 And moves as swiftly as the loftiest ship 
 To unvexed anchorage in the silken East. 
 Pray God, he may insult me ! 
 
 Alexander Calcott. Thomas, lad, 
 
 A quarrel now would rob you of your crown. 
 
 Chatterton. I will not quarrel, then God bless you, 
 sir. 
 
 Enter WALPOLE and THISTLETHWAITE. 
 
 Burgum. \_Goingto Walpole.] 
 Welcome ! I stopped for you at the White Lion. 
 
 Walpole. I went up to the Lamb to lodge with 
 ghosts. 
 
 Bertha \To Chatterton J\ My admiration is more 
 
 wholly yours 
 Than when you stood and faced them with the law. 
 
 Chatterton. I am a feather from the wing of Fortune. 
 
 Walpole. Miss Burgum, I have sought you every- 
 
 where ; 
 And, but for him, I should be searching still. 
 
 Bertha. A Bristol stone is barely worth the search. 
 
 Walpole. A lapidary can detect a jewel 
 Though in a bezel with delusive foil. 
 I have received from London by the post 
 My ' Castle of Otranto.' Here it is.
 
 ACT m.] TIbe 3Bar& of 
 
 Chatterton. Walpole and Rowley entered in the lists. 
 
 Walpole. I will not break a lance with any knight : 
 Rowley is Rowley, and myself am self. 
 
 Burgum. It is a masterpiece of noble wit ; 
 Second to none since John de Bergham wrote. 
 
 Bertha. You have not read it. 
 
 Burgum. But I've read its author. 
 
 Chatterton. Were your words conscious, they would 
 be superne. 
 
 Walpole. What is that coming here in garb grotesque 
 Bearing a rod of gold ? 
 
 Chatterton. The Mayor of Bristol ! 
 
 Walpole. He looks more like a monkey than a mayor. 
 
 Chatterton. You have the prejudice but not the pride 
 Upholden by the conquest of the past. 
 Enter the MAYOR. 
 
 Mayor. Greeting, Bristolians greeting to you all ! 
 
 Walpole. Lord love us, he will make a speech. 
 
 Mayor. A speech ! 
 
 You call upon the Mayor to make a speech ? 
 To-day we emulate our ancient sires, 
 And open our new bridge as they did theirs. 
 This is the day of days, the hour of hours 
 Time's apex from which every thing descends. 
 
 Walpole. Let me crawl out from under ere you fall. 
 106
 
 iRefcclfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Chatterton. Your gorgeous robes of state are all awry. 
 \_Arranges the robes on the Mayor.~\ 
 That gilded rod is not a walking-stick ; 
 But an awful symbol of barbaric sway, 
 And must be borne like sceptre in the hand. 
 By those two Britons, Brennus and Bellinus, 
 You wear your helmet with the visor back, 
 As if your enemies were in the rear ! 
 Turn it about. There, that is better, sir. 
 Draw round that girdle ; ornament your front, 
 Or you will look, sir, like a Chinese junk : 
 Most lofty in the poop. 'Odspins-and-needles ! 
 I must o'ersee the placing of each gaud, 
 Or, in your ignorance of knightly forms, 
 You'll have your horse's frontlet on his rump. 
 
 Mayor. I left George Catcott struggling with his 
 clothes. 
 
 Chatterton. I must array him, too ; or he will stalk, 
 Like wild Caradoc in the streets of Rome : 
 With goatskin hose for muffettees on his arms, 
 His short, white alba tied about his loins, 
 And naked else. 
 
 Mayor. What was the Saxons' food ? 
 
 Chatterton. Turtles and nappy ale. 
 
 Mayor. Hail to their taste ! 
 
 107
 
 ACT in.] TTbe JSarO of 
 
 Each drop of Saxon blood within my veins 
 Cries ' turtle ! ' to my stomach. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis but wind. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. The Old Fox here serves turtles, I 
 
 believe. 
 
 Mayor. Bid them prepare one ; I am nearly famished. 
 Chatterton. Stop ! not a mouthful shall his Mayor- 
 ship have, 
 
 Or this procession moves without my aid. 
 Mayor. Let me have one wee turtle. 
 Chatterton. Not a fin. 
 
 Mayor. 'Tis heartless, boy, to make me fast three 
 
 hours. 
 Thistlethwaite. You have my deepest sympathy, dear 
 
 sir; 
 
 For at the school we know what hunger is. 
 I care not for myself, but for the lads 
 Whose growing bodies proper nurture need. 
 
 Mayor. Saint Julian ! Latin is less use than food. 
 Thistlethwaite. The ham is sliced so thin that one 
 
 pig's thigh 
 
 Would carpet Brandon Hill in red and white ; 
 And then there is no butter on the bread. 
 
 Mayor. Sandwiches and no butter monstrous fraud ! 
 What will the next race be ? How comes this thus ? 
 
 1 08
 
 TRefccliffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Thistlethwaite. The master is a very worthy man, 
 But oft too heedless. 
 
 Chaff erf on. You back-biting flea ! 
 
 You seek the master's place. Another word, 
 And I will spank you in the public street 
 Until your bed will need no warming-pan ! 
 
 Bertha. O Mr. Chatterton ! 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Forbear, my boy. 
 
 Burgum. He is but jealous of the young man's parts. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, jealous that a mongrel cur can thrive 
 By licking feet that ought to spurn him, sir. 
 What has he done what will he ever do 
 That ranks with my least line ? 
 
 Alexander Catcott. The lad is just : 
 
 Since that Pride's Purge in lawyer Lambert's house, 
 I've studied Thistlethwaite with kindly eyes, 
 And found a mountebank. 
 
 Mayor. Cease this debate ! 
 
 I would not wait my dinner for a cock-fight ; 
 Much less for this. 
 
 Chatterton. A fight is in me still. 
 
 \A burst of lighter from the inn is heard. 
 
 Mayor. Those hungry sots will leave the larder bare. 
 [Then to Thistlethwaite. ,] 
 Go bid the landlord have prepared for me, 
 
 109
 
 ACT in.] TTbe JSaro of 
 
 As soon as this sublime parade is o'er, 
 
 A knuckle of veal, and see the bone is blue 
 
 To prove the meat is young ; a Southdown leg 
 
 With fat as white as is the mountain snow ; 
 
 Some sweetbreads garnished with mushrooms and eggs ; 
 
 A chicken minced and stewed with pats of butter ; 
 
 A hamper full of strawberries red-ripe ; 
 
 Cucumbers, cabbages, and apple pie ; 
 
 A pregnant pudding in a brandy sea ; 
 
 And one large turtle turned to Saxon soup, 
 
 Flavoured with onion, marjoram, and ham, 
 
 And riched with lights and liver. But beware, 
 
 Lest he should burst the bladder of the beast, 
 
 And drench my dainty appetite with gall. 
 
 Chatterton. Why not a calf's brain, too? 
 
 Mayor. Yes, order that. 
 
 Thistlethivaite. It shall be done at once. 
 
 \Exit into inn. 
 
 Mayor. \_To Chatterton.~\ Come now with me : 
 If I must fast, the shorter time the better. 
 
 Walpole. Go all of you with him ; for I confess 
 A Joseph's ardour to interpret dreams 
 To Potipherah's daughter. 
 
 Burgum. Royal dreams ! 
 
 Come, Barrett, Vicar you may be of aid. 
 
 no
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Alexander Catcott. Were this a Grecian festival, I 
 might. 
 
 \Exeunt all except Walpole and Bertha. 
 
 Walpole. [Sitting down upon the steps of the church.~\ 
 Let us dispense with etiquette, my dear, 
 And be ourselves. 
 
 Bertha. Form oft is part of self. 
 
 Walpole. Nay, form is for those butterflies with brains 
 Much lower than their rank ; I need it not. 
 Sit here beside me and appraise this book. 
 \Then after Bertha is seated."} 
 ' The Castle of Otranto ' was a fling 
 Against the modern critics, who must blow 
 The dust of ages from each work of art, 
 Or blast it with their breath. I published it 
 As a translation of a tale antique 
 Writ by an artful priest in the Crusades. 
 
 Bertha. Why, Rowley was a priest ! 
 
 Walpole. A mere coincidence. 
 
 Then when the Gothic story was in vogue 
 And men of nicest censure praised it high, 
 I quick unfrocked, and owned that it was mine. 
 
 [Laughs, 
 
 Bertha. You wanted courage. 
 
 Walpole. It was boldly wise 
 
 in
 
 ACT in.] Ube 3Barfc of 
 
 To grant the world a treasure, and by a ruse 
 To hasten the enjoyment of the boon. 
 
 Bertha. With power of wealth and preference of birth, 
 You were afraid to father your own child 
 Till it had fathered you. For one obscure, 
 There would be more excuse. 
 
 Walpole. You are too harsh : 
 
 It is the music not the parent muse 
 The cord is severed when the song is born. 
 What matter whether Ossian or Macpherson 
 Wrote those Erse poems flashing like old Pindar's? 
 Let the translator own the forgery, 
 And Gray is ready to pack up his lyre, 
 Saddle wild Pegasus, and set out at once 
 To greet the minstrel in his Highland home ; 
 And I will ride, if needful, on the crupper. 
 But this is from the point ; here is the book. 
 
 Bertha. [After turning over the pages, ,] 
 'Tis writ in prose ! 
 
 Walpole. Prose is a merchantman, 
 
 And Poetry a rakish pirate craft 
 With greater spread of sail. But I've a play 
 Called 'The Mysterious Mother,' writ in verse ; 
 And you shall read it when you come to London 
 As my most honoured guest. 
 
 112
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Bertha. You have a press : 
 
 Why not print Rowley's poems, and exalt 
 A youth that has rare genius of his own ? 
 
 Walpole. What you command I'll do, but nothing 
 
 more. 
 
 Artists have pencils, authors have their pens ; 
 And the public must reward them at its will. 
 
 Bertha. It is unfair to make me give command, 
 When your ripe judgment should enforce the act. 
 A gift to Genius is a gift to Time, 
 And outranks Genius in its melting power 
 'Tis a payment by the Present to the Future 
 Of what the Present owes the parent Past. 
 Think not to buy a quittance of this claim 
 With cunning words that counterfeit the truth : 
 Posterity is merciless but just. 
 Now tell me of Otranto. 
 
 Walpole. 'Tis an attempt 
 
 To wed young Nature to mature Romance ; 
 And as the public have applauded me, 
 I must not say that I have wholly failed. 
 I've followed Shakespeare, not Corneille, dear, 
 In placing naivete near the august. 
 My servants speak as servants, not as counts. 
 
 Bertha. Therein you followed life. 
 8 113
 
 ACT in.] TTbe 3BarO ot 
 
 Walpole. A keen remark ; 
 
 Though great Voltaire would censure me most sore 
 For setting a buffoon beside a seer. 
 But I appeal from Voltaire to himself: 
 Within the preface to his ' Enfant Prodigue,' 
 Marked by his style and ease of argument, 
 These words appear, ' On y voit un melange ' 
 Do you speak French ? 
 
 Bertha. A simple phrase or two. 
 
 Walpole. It is a pity : I will teach you French 
 And somewhat of Italian ; though I hate 
 The blending of the tiger and the monkey, 
 With more of monkey than of tiger, dear, 
 In every male in France. 
 THISTLETHWAITE enters from the inn and then departs. 
 
 Bertha. There's Thistlethwaite. 
 
 Walpole. A very modest youth. 
 
 Bertha. An arrant sneak ! 
 
 Walpole. That damns him in my eyes ; and let 
 
 him go. 
 
 Read o'er this tale and tell me of its faults ; 
 For I have found each word of yours acute 
 And vital to the issue. 'Tis a shame 
 But with your father I will have a talk 
 And seek a way to mend it. 
 
 114
 
 TRefcCliffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Bertha. To mend what ? 
 
 Walpole. To mend the blind decrees of eyeless Chance. 
 Bertha. That is the errand of a man of wealth. 
 
 [The bells of Mary Redcliffe begin to chime. 
 Walpole. What means this chime of bells ? 
 Bertha. I fancy, sir, 
 
 A messenger has entered the south porch, 
 With news that the procession is begun. 
 
 Enter THE PEOPLE. 
 
 Walpole. You are a sibyl, for the people come. 
 Gingerbread Man. Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot 
 
 spice gingerbread ! 
 
 Walpole. How harmless they appear in gay attire ! 
 But when at table, brandishing their knives 
 In act to carve a mountain of roast beef, 
 They mind me of the cannibals, my dear. 
 Enter CHATTERTON, MRS. CHATTERTON, MARY, and 
 
 PHILLIPS. 
 Chatterton. We'll take our stand here, mother, on 
 
 the steps : 
 
 There could not be a better point of view ; 
 For they will mass in numbers by this porch. 
 {Then to Bertha. ,] 
 
 I left the burghers ready in the meadows ; 
 The chiming of the bells will bring them down.
 
 ACT in.] Ube Barb of 
 
 Enter ALICE, BETTY, DOROTHY, and AGNES. 
 
 Agnes. There is the bard ! 
 
 Chatterton. The Bard of Mary Redcliffe ! 
 
 Come here, my dears; there's room enough for all. 
 
 Alice. We saw them in the meadows. 
 
 Dorothy. They look odd. 
 
 Betty. Six of them put the Mayor upon his horse. 
 
 Gingerbread Man. Hot spice gingerbread ! Hot 
 spice gingerbread ! 
 
 Chatterton. Sir Gingerbread, come over to these 
 
 ladies, 
 
 And prove a baker's right to golden spurs ; 
 For knighthood's won in tournaments of trade. 
 God save King George and bless his glorious reign ! 
 \_Then after the man is come to the steps.] 
 Here, mother, is a smoking piece for you. 
 Miss Burgum, Mary, Alice all must partake : 
 The Saxons fed on this and turtle soup ; 
 But save the crumbs, for waste betokens want. 
 Will you not try it, sir? 
 
 Walpole. No, none for me. 
 
 Chatterton. I beg your pardon, sir ; for I forgot 
 Your Gothic castle is of gingerbread. 
 
 Walpole. This is pure impudence ! 
 
 Bertha. Excitement, sir. 
 
 116
 
 [ACT m. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis madness to speak truth. 
 
 [A song celebrating the joys of the Pine Apple Inn 
 
 is heard from the Old Fox across the street. 
 Mrs, Chatterton. Your father's song ! 
 
 Chatterton. That's Thistlethwaite's contrivance to 
 
 bedim 
 
 The perfect lustre of this flawless hour : 
 He went into the inn. Wait till he comes ! 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You must do nothing, Thomas ! 
 Chatterton. Nothing, mother: 
 
 I am merciful as Mercy when I rule. 
 
 Enter BURGUM, VICAR CATCOTT, BARRETT, and 
 
 THISTLETHWAITE. 
 
 Burgum. There's Mr. Walpole ; we will join him. 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Now, Tom, be civil to them. 
 Chatterton. I will, mother. 
 
 Enter FLOWER GIRL. 
 Flower Girl. [Singing.] 
 
 My basket daily I supply ; 
 
 Come buy my nosegays, buy who'll buy. 
 
 Sweet violets ! Sweet violets ! 
 
 Chatterton. The souls of hapless lovers are in flowers ; 
 And in the violet modest la dwells, 
 Still hiding from Apollo. Here, my dear ! 
 
 117
 
 ACT in.] Ube IBaro of 
 
 I will buy every blossom, lest I miss 
 A fragrant whisper in its haunted leaves. 
 [Some of the people laugh .] 
 Laugh on ! My life's salvation lies in mirth : 
 Flowers must drink sunlight to preserve their bloom, 
 But they grow faster in a day of gloom. 
 That rime is saucy, for it came unsought. 
 Enter LAMBERT and his MOTHER from the street and 
 BROUGHTON/rtfw the porch. 
 
 Mrs. Chatterton. You must be prudent, Thomas ; for 
 you have 
 
 Chatterton. [ Thrusting his hand into his pocket. ] 
 Five pounds, three shillings, and one penny, mother : 
 The number of the whirling spheres of song. 
 I can count all by feeling in my pocket ; 
 [Then glancing significantly at Walpole.~\ 
 But gingerbread takes second place to-day. 
 
 Flower Girl. How many nosegays, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. All you have gathered. 
 
 Flower Girl. Two shillings for the lot. 
 
 Chatterton. You shall have three. 
 
 [Then as he throws the violets to those on the steps.] 
 Catch them, fair ladies, catch them as they fly ! 
 They will perfume the air, and in return 
 The air will cleanse them of my pitchy touch. 
 
 118
 
 /Bars TCe&cUffe. [ACT m. 
 
 Flower Girl. I shall have more of them to-morrow, 
 
 sir. 
 Minstrels. [Singing in the distance .] 
 
 When King Kinghill in his hand 
 Held the sceptre of this land, 
 Sheening star of Christian light 
 The merkie mists of pagan night 
 
 Gan to scatter far and wide : 
 Then Saint Werburgh he arose, 
 Doffed his honours and fine clothes ; 
 Preaching in his Master's name, 
 To the land of West Sexx came, 
 
 Where blaeke Severn rolls his tide. 
 
 Chatterton. [Rushing up the steps at the first sound. ~\ 
 There' re coming, mother; listen to the strains ! 
 Bertha. \_In alarm, .] His eyes are all aflame ! 
 Mrs. Chatterton. Be calm, my son. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis worth a life to live a single hour : 
 Would one exultant moment were eterne ! 
 
 \The sounds grow louder and louder, and the people 
 
 shout. 
 
 Then enter two BEADLES strewing fresh straw. 
 Chatterton. The Beadles ! The procession is begun ! 
 Enter GEORGE CATCOTT dressed in hose and doublet 
 of goat-skin, over which is a large white robe, 
 119
 
 ACT in.] Ube JBaro of 
 
 without sleeves, reaching to his loins. On his left 
 shoulder is a girdle of azure reaching also to his 
 loins on the right, doubled back to the left, and 
 fastened with a golden buckle dangled to his knee. 
 In his hand is a shield representing Saint Wer- 
 burgh crossing the ford. 
 Phillips. George Catcott sure ! 
 Chatterton. King Harold was a fool ! 
 
 Catcott will be the first to cross the bridge. 
 
 \Enter a MAN in complete armour bearing an ancient 
 
 , sword of Bristol, followed by a band of Saxon 
 
 Spearmen with triangular shields, short hauberks, 
 
 and rude helmets defending the head and neck.~\ 
 
 Hold up your heads, you stooping, knock-kneed 
 
 knaves ! 
 
 And march as ^Ella marched when forced to leave 
 His Bertha's arms to battle with the Danes. 
 
 \Enter six Clarions and six Minstrels. 
 Minstrels. \Singing. ~\ 
 
 Then the folk a bridge did make 
 Over the stream unto the hecke 
 All of wood eke long and wide, 
 Pride and glory of the tide ; 
 
 Which in time did fall away. 
 Then Earl Leof he bespedde 
 120
 
 1Ret>cIfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 This great river from his bed, 
 Round his castle for to run ; 
 'Twas in troth an ancient one, 
 
 But war and time will all decay. 
 
 Chatterton. You Danish ravens, give a louder croak ! 
 [Enter a MAN bearing a banner with a boar 1 s head 
 
 on it. 
 
 The Saxon symbol ! see the boar's head, mother ! 
 It makes a fitting banner for our Mayor. 
 
 [Enter the Priests and the friars, some singing 
 Saint Werburgtt s song and others sounding cla- 
 rions thereto. 
 Louder you shavelings ! Rowley was a monk ; 
 
 [Enter the Mayor in golden robes waving a rod of 
 gold, mounted on a white horse with mane and 
 tail braided with ribbons, and with a small 
 escutcheon of the ancient arms of Bristol on its 
 forehead. Beside the horse walks a dwarf bear- 
 ing in his hand the Mayor 1 s helmet. 
 The Mayor ! the Mayor ! Look, mother, at the Mayor ! 
 [Enter the Aldermen in scarlet copes and hats with 
 sable plumes, mounted on black horses dight with 
 ivhite trappings. 
 The Aldermen ! Oh, I shall die of mirth ! 
 
 [Enter a crowd of Saxon warriors, extending as 
 121
 
 ACT in.] Ube Baro of 
 
 far as the eye can reach, armed with axes, bills, 
 clubs, and short swords. 
 Now JEAla. bids defiance to the Danes ! 
 
 \The procession halts before the church in a glitter- 
 ing mass, and the singing ceases. 
 Mayor. Bristolians all, Time never saw before, 
 And ne'er will see again, a sight like this. 
 Strike up the music ! Forward to the bridge ! 
 Minstrels. [Singing. ] 
 
 Now again with bremie force, 
 Severn in his ancient course 
 Rolls his rapid stream along, 
 With a sable swift and strong, 
 
 Moving many an okie wood. 
 We, the men of Bristowe town, 
 Have upreared this bridge of stone, 
 % Wishing each one it may last 
 
 Till the date of days be past, 
 
 Standing where the other stood. 
 
 [As the singing is resumed and the procession begins 
 to move, a horn, the roll of wheels, and the sound 
 of horses' hoofs are heard. 
 
 The People. The coach ! the coach ! the coach ! 
 Chatterton. It is the coach ! 
 
 The dust is flying from those hoofs and wheels !
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT m. 
 
 That horn blows welcome summons to the fray. 
 
 Fear not, dear mother ; I am armed in steel ! 
 
 Good-bye, Tom Phillips ; I will write you oft ; 
 
 My loving sister ; and my mother last 
 
 The last and dearest, for she gave me life. 
 
 Saint Mary Redcliffe be your guardian Saint. 
 
 Bristol is mine ; I now lay siege to London ! 
 
 [ The sounds of t/ie approaching coach grow louder 
 and louder ; the procession moves on toward the 
 bridge ; Mrs, Chatterton throws herself sobbing 
 into her sori 's arms ; and the curtain slowly de- 
 scends. 
 
 123
 
 ACT iv.] Ube JSaro of 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 SCENE. Marylebone Gardens, London. In the centre 
 is a pavilion with a curtained stage, on either side of 
 which is an orange tree with a small lamp in each 
 orange. At the front left are a rustic table and 
 seats j and at the right is a statue of Milton seated 
 as if listening to music. The trees and the pavilion, 
 decorated with festoons of flowers and brilliantly 
 lighted with lamps of various colours, give to the 
 place the appearance of a gala night. On the rise 
 of the curtain, ladies and gentlemen are strolling 
 through the grounds, and two macaronis with two 
 girls are seated at the table drinking wine. The 
 men bray like asses and the girls crow like cocks. 
 Then braying and crowing are heard from different 
 parts of the gardens, and are follcnved by laughter. 
 
 First Gentleman. Hens never crow till cocks are 
 
 turned to asses. 
 
 First Girl. Eve must have crowed. 
 Second Girl. Ay, men have brayed since Adam. 
 
 Second Gentleman. A thrust between the ribs ! 
 124
 
 IRetelfffe, [ACT iv. 
 
 First Gentleman. A fitting thrust 
 
 For one of Eve's fair daughters. 
 
 Second Gentleman. Let us bray. 
 
 [ The men bray and the girls crow as before. 
 
 First Gentleman. \_Looking at a programme .~\ 
 What is there left for fodder ? A Welsh harpist 
 And a Burletta, ' Cupid and the Titan,' 
 By Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 Second Girl. By Chatterton? 
 
 Second Gentleman. A raw recruit : I never heard 
 of him. 
 
 First Gentleman. The playing off of fireworks at 
 eleven. 
 
 First Girl. We must not stay so late. 
 
 Second Gentleman. Another hour 
 
 Will make departure early. 
 
 First Girl. But not safe : 
 
 Highwaymen grow like weeds in Marylebone fields ; 
 And one among them, if report be true, 
 Is Satan in the semblance of a man. 
 
 First Gentleman, You mean Francisco ? 
 
 First Girl. Yes, that is his name, 
 
 Though he is English I have heard it said. 
 He rides a stallion which he calls Black Death. 
 
 Second Girl. He rode from York to London in a night. 
 125
 
 ACT iv.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Second Gentleman. \_Laughtng.~\ 
 And leaped the Thames below Westminster Bridge ! 
 Enter FRANCISCO. 
 
 First Gentleman. [Putting his hand on his sword. ~\ 
 Let me meet this Francisco, and he'll ride 
 From Earth to Hades at a break-neck pace. 
 
 Francisco. I shall be present when you meet him, 
 sir. [ Turns qiiickly and disappears. 
 
 First Girl. [In alarm.~\ Who is that man? 
 
 First Gentleman. I did not see his face. 
 
 Second Girl. Might he not be Francisco ? 
 
 Second Gentleman. Nonsense, dear : 
 
 He would not thrust his head into a noose. 
 
 First Girl. We should have gone to Vauxhall. 
 
 Second Gentleman. Sadler's Wells, 
 
 Where once a human monster ate live cocks ; 
 Or Finche's Grotto 
 
 First Gentleman. Ranelagh, Jenny's Whim, 
 
 Or Adam and Eve Tea Gardens ; for your charms 
 Make each place Paradise, as they do this. 
 
 First Girl. Near Eden's apple tree a serpent crawled : 
 I may seem timid, but I dread that rogue. 
 
 First Gentleman. A jester merely who o'erheard my 
 threat. 
 
 126
 
 TRefccliffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 Second Gentleman. Departing with the crowd has less 
 
 of risk 
 Than leaving here alone. 
 
 First Gentleman. Come, take a stroll ; 
 
 For walking, like the flow from Pancras Wells, 
 Is a general and a sovereign help to nature : 
 Cleanses the body, sweetens bilious blood, 
 And quells the rising vapours of the mind. 
 We' 11 walk away from care. But first a toast. 
 \_They rise and pick up their glasses. .] 
 My meeting with Francisco be it soon ! 
 First Girl. [Putting down her glass. ] 
 I will not so brave Fortune. 
 
 Second Girl. Nor will I. 
 
 First Gentleman. You cause my sword to blush within 
 
 its sheath. 
 Enter CHATTERTON, MONSIEUR BARTHELEMON, and 
 
 PHILLIPS. 
 Second Gentleman. There's Barthelemon, the leader 
 
 of the band. 
 First Gentleman. Salute him with the voices of the 
 
 morn. 
 
 \Then after braying and crowing they resume their seats. 
 Chatterton. Walpole is here to-night ; and, as I said, 
 I have a weighty secret to unfold 
 127
 
 ACT iv.] Ube Batft ot 
 
 Through this Burletta ; but at rehearsal, sir, 
 Your music was so loud it drowned my words, 
 And they were foaled for ears. 
 
 Barthelemon. Ze music loud ? 
 
 Chatterton. Questions are oft as crooked as their 
 
 marks : 
 
 I vow that in the hubbub you create 
 A thunderbolt would sound like a skittle-ball. 
 
 Barthelemon. Mon Dieu ! c'est le ton qui fait la 
 
 musique. 
 
 Ze toucher is so soft as ze as ze 
 As ze petit ruisseau vat call you him ? 
 
 Chatterton. I call him nothing, for I know him not. 
 Speak English or be dumb. 
 
 Phillips. Have patience, Tom. 
 
 Barthelemon. Ze music, too, for ears. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis not alone. 
 
 The words and music should together blend 
 Like two harmonious thoughts ; but by the Muse ! 
 When little Cupid chants his chiefest lay, 
 Your fiddles whine like three-mouthed Cerberus 
 Unhoused for the night ; your shifting trombones, 
 Your fifes and clarionets and deep bassoon 
 Rumble like the windy stomach of a god, 
 Making fair Venus when she sings appear 
 
 128
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT iv 
 
 As if she chewed in silence on a bite 
 
 Of tough ambrosia ; and your French horns 
 
 Play merry hell with Jupiter's last speech. 
 
 Barthelemon. Ciel ! parler comme ca de 1'art divin ! 
 Ze music hell ! Diable ! vous etes un enfant ! 
 
 [ Walks up and down in a rage. 
 
 Phillips. Do not excite him further. 
 
 Chatterton. But my words 
 
 Barthelemon. Ze vords ! ze vords ! ve buy ze food 
 
 in vords. 
 
 Vous avez soif, you vish a leetle beer, 
 Some port eh bien ! vous employez les mots. 
 Vous avez faim ; que voulez-vous ? du jambon ? 
 Ze tarts, ze cheesecakes, ou ze syllabubs ? 
 Encore les mots, n'est-ce pas? Parbleu ! ze vords 
 Pour les choses basses les choses materielles ! 
 
 Chatterton. A novel punch French wine and English 
 
 ale. 
 
 Why, you old fizzling bottle of champagne ! 
 They employ far better melodies than yours 
 For hawking crabs and lobsters in the streets. 
 
 Barthelemon. Zest ! vous etes gourmand ! 
 
 Chatterton. I a gourmand, sir, 
 
 When both of your forefeet are in the trough ? 
 Glance o'er this list and cease your squealing, sir. 
 9 I2 9
 
 ACT iv.] Ube Baro of 
 
 [Takes a programme from his pocket. ~\ 
 
 A song, ' Swift winged vengeance nerves my arm, ' 
 
 By Mr. Thomas, set by Barthelemon ; 
 
 Concerto on the violin, by Barthelemon ; 
 
 A rare French song, by Madame Barthelemon ; 
 
 Trumpet Concerto, by Master Barthelemon ; 
 
 An overture in Otho, Handel bah ! 
 
 A favourite song translated from the French, 
 
 Music and words by Monsieur Barthelemon ; 
 
 A new Burletta, ' Cupid and the Titan, ' 
 
 By Chatterton, but set by Barthelemon. 
 
 Ye gods ! the printer has made one mistake : 
 
 Fireworks, and not set off by Barthelemon ! 
 
 Barthelemon. Ah, c'est trop fort ! 
 
 \_Themacaronis and the girls, who have been enjoy- 
 ing the quarrel, now burst into a laugh. 
 
 Phillips. Speak less loud : 
 
 You are attracting notice. 
 
 Chatterton. Friend Barthelemon, 
 
 If you obscure a syllable but one 
 Louis will lose a subject do you hear ? 
 
 Barthelemon. Pardieu ! 
 
 Chatterton. But let the words have scope to-night, 
 And you thereafter shall have your own will. 
 
 Barthelemon. Ze vords to-night ? 
 130
 
 IRefcclfffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 Chaff erf on. To-night. 
 
 B 'arthe 'lemon. Ze music den ? 
 
 Chatterton. Then let your battery open on my lines 
 And blow them into dust. Are you agreed? 
 
 Barthelemon. Oui, oui ! 
 
 Chatterton. Your hand on that. 
 
 Barthelemon. Volontiers ! 
 
 First Gentleman. A peaceful ending to a tragic 
 
 theme 
 Ensures the vulgar plaudits of the pit. [ Claps his hands. 
 
 First Girl. That must be Chatterton. 
 
 First Gentleman. Nay, Cupid, dear, 
 
 Contending with the Titan. 
 
 Second Girl. Lovely boy ! 
 
 Phillips* \_To Chatterton who tiirns angrily to the 
 
 jesters. ] 
 Do not be nettled it is only sport. 
 
 Chatterton. I can tell sport from insult by the smell. 
 
 Second Gentleman. By Jove ! he ruffled up his 
 
 feathered neck 
 Like bantam in a cock-pit. 
 
 First Gentleman. Cupid, Harry : 
 
 Ride on the figure till its race is run. 
 
 First Girl. Are not the darts of Cupid forged in 
 France ?
 
 ACT iv.] Ube Barb of 
 
 First Gentleman. The leaden ones in England for the 
 
 French. 
 Second Gentleman. Does Mother Venus know her 
 
 son's abroad 
 At this late hour of night ? 
 
 Second Girl. Love's day is night. 
 
 First Gentleman. Nimble Apollo could not dodge his 
 
 darts 
 How foolish in the Frenchman ! 
 
 Chatterton. \_Going to the table. ~\ Gentlemen ! 
 First Gentleman. [Paying no attention to Chatterton.~\ 
 Where were the vans of Cupid ? 
 
 Phillips. Tom ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Slapping the fop in the face. ~\ There's 
 
 one ! 
 How do you like its flapping ? 
 
 First Gentleman. \Leaping to his feet. ~\ Ill-mannered 
 
 boy ! 
 You die for this. 
 
 Chatterton. My death before my epitaph. 
 
 Enter FRANCISCO. 
 First Girl. O Edward ! 
 
 Second Girl. There's a tremor in his voice ! 
 
 Second Gentleman. All of our jests were born of 
 purest fun. 
 
 132
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 Chatterton. I slapped his face in fun. 
 
 First Gentleman. [Drawing his sword. ] Defend 
 yourself. 
 
 Phillips. He knows no thrust nor parry it is murder ! 
 
 First Gentleman. Then should he have a nurse. 
 
 Phillips. [Despairingly to Chatterton.~\ You are un- 
 skilled ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Shaking Phillips off and drawing his 
 
 swordJ\ 
 My skill is inspiration ! Stand apart. 
 
 [They cross swords. 
 
 Francisco. [Striking up the weapons. ] 
 This quarrel's mine ! 
 
 Chatterton. I am sufficient, sir. 
 
 Francisco. The first abused should be the first avenged. 
 I'll have a bout with him and then with you ; 
 But 'tis unfair that I should meet you both 
 Without a breathing spell. 
 
 First Gentleman. What plaint have you 
 
 When we were strangers till you spoke ? 
 
 First Girl. Beware ! 
 
 Francisco. You live upon the same revolving globe, 
 Eat its rare products, fill its choicest space, 
 You breathe the air I crave, and childish prate 
 When I feel eloquent. 
 
 133
 
 ACT iv.] ube Bar& ot 
 
 First Gentleman. That is no wrong. 
 
 Francisco. God's death ! 'odsfish ! and all the royal 
 
 oaths ! 
 You give the lie to me ? 
 
 First Girl. It is Francisco ! 
 
 Francisco. Pray, who is he ? Have at you, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. Forbear ! 
 
 First Gentleman. I will not fight with you. 
 
 Chatterton. \_To Francisco.~\ Come, sir, withdraw ; 
 For though your knightly purpose is not hid, 
 No champion shall uphold my challenge, sir : 
 This quarrel is my own. 
 
 Phillips. O Tom, dear Tom ! 
 
 Francisco. Well, be it so ; and you you popinjay ! 
 If you but bleed this boy, tell o'er your beads : 
 You are as good as dead. Make room for them ; 
 No movement and no sound. Salute ! salute ! 
 
 First Girl. He shall not fight ! 
 
 Second Girl. No, no ! 
 
 First Gentleman. I will not fight. 
 
 Chatterton. \To Francisco.] 
 He fears but you : please leave the gardens, sir ; 
 My honour is at stake. 
 
 Francisco. Not with an ass. 
 
 I'll teach you how to change from tierce to carte
 
 IRefccllffe, [ACT iv. 
 
 With speed of lightning in its dazzling stroke ; 
 And you can kill him at your leisure, lad. 
 
 First Gentleman. We'll drink a quart of arrack, and 
 
 then part 
 As gentlemen by error made fast friends. 
 
 Francisco. Reserve your wine for your Dutch cour- 
 
 age. Go ! 
 
 And take the baggage with you. Do not pause : 
 My bloodless sword is blushing in its sheath. 
 
 First Girl. It is Francisco ! 
 
 Second Girl. Or the devil sure ! 
 
 Francisco. Either may be Truth's minister. Begone ! 
 \_Exeunt the macaronis and the girls. 
 
 Barthelemon. \_Tremblingly to Chatterton. ~\ 
 Ze music vill be soft. Adieu ! adieu ! \_Exit. 
 
 Chatterton. A great musician and, perforce, a fool. 
 
 Francisco. Put up your sword. When you salute, 
 
 my boy, 
 
 I'd rather be your foemen than your friend : 
 I nearly lost an eye. You must be taught 
 The art of fawning or the art of fence ; 
 For a manly temper and an awkward sword 
 Are dangerous companions. 
 
 Chatterton. I owe you much, 
 
 And thank you from my heart. 
 
 135
 
 ACT iv.] ftbe Barb of 
 
 Phillips. A thousand thanks ! 
 
 Francisco. ' Odsfish ! I would have done as much for 
 sport. 
 
 Phillips. If you but knew the value 
 
 Francisco. I will learn. 
 
 \_Then turning to Chatterton.~\ 
 You are so young and are so full of life, 
 My eyes begin to sparkle with your youth. 
 Tell me your hopes that I may live again 
 My days of esperance. Sit down, my lads. 
 [ Then after they are seated. ] 
 Will you have wine ? 
 
 Phillips. I seldom drink it, sir. 
 
 Francisco. And you ? 
 
 Chatterton. My father drowned in that red flood 
 No wine for me. 
 
 Francisco. Peace to his spirit, lad. 
 
 I, too, abstain ; for tippling interferes 
 So rudely with my business, which needs haste, 
 And would be ruined by a muddled mind. 
 You live in London ? 
 
 Chatterton. I was born in Bristol ; 
 
 But left that sordid place three months ago. 
 Since then I have been writing vigorous truths 
 
 136
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 For Wilkes and Liberty against King George 
 And his Scotch favourites. 
 
 Francisco. You wrote in verse ? 
 
 Chatterton. Partly in verse, but mostly in vile prose : 
 My Muse was virgin till she came to town. 
 
 Francisco. Were you successful ? 
 
 Chatterton. I was nearly made, 
 
 And soon would have been haled unto the Tower ; 
 But Lord Mayor Beckford died and dashed my hopes. 
 Fell is in King's Bench, Hamilton is mean, 
 And all the other publishers are prudes 
 From recent prosecutions. Were Fate to break 
 The silvered promise of this moonlit night, 
 I should be like young Harry Wildfire, sir : 
 Throned on a broken chair within an inch 
 Of a thunder-cloud. 
 
 Francisco. That cloud must never burst. 
 
 Have you no poems with you ? 
 
 Chatterton. \_Taking out manuscripts. ~\ Four or five : 
 The Balade of Charitie and several more. 
 
 Francisco. Entrust them to me ; they shall be returned 
 Within a fortnight. Where do you reside ? 
 
 Chatterton. At Mrs. Angell's, Brooke Street, Holborn, 
 sir. 
 
 137
 
 ACT iv.] zrbe Baro of 
 
 Francisco. I have a friend, the Reverend Dr. Fry, 
 My college chum though we are far apart. 
 Why are you here to-night ? 
 
 Chatterton. Well, you must know 
 
 That I have written poems in Old English. 
 
 Francisco. I knew you were a poet from the first ; 
 For fire runs liquid in your nether eye. 
 
 Chatterton. To all the world and to a man that owns 
 A private press to give them to the world, 
 Those poems are antique. That man is here 
 With her who holds me past the fold of dreams ; 
 And my Burletta will unveil the truth. 
 The songs are mine be bounteous, you stars ! 
 This night is mine ! I should have killed that fop 
 Had he been master of all tricks of fence ! 
 
 Francisco. [Pouring out a glass of wine and rising. ] 
 To Thomas Chatterton and his success, 
 Captain Francisco drinks with thirsty soul 
 His first and his last glass of wine ! 
 
 Phillips. Francisco \ 
 
 Chatterton. I thought as much. How is it that you 
 
 bear 
 
 The name of one who levied toll on Metz 
 In sage Agrippa's day? 
 
 Francisco. I stole it, lad, 
 
 138
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 From that bold bandit to conceal my own, 
 
 An honoured name made so by sack and slaughter. 
 
 You've read Agrippa? 
 
 Chatterton. Paracelsus, too ; 
 
 And Count Gabalis, who in part reveals 
 The mystic People of the Elements. 
 
 Francisco. I have not read his treatise. 
 
 Chatterton. It describes 
 
 The Gnomes, composed of subtlest parts of earth, 
 Guardians of treasures, mines, and precious stones 
 In subterranean realms ; the Salamanders, 
 Born of pure fire and dancing in its flames, 
 Of wondrous beauty both in wit and form, 
 Though, like the poets, they have been maligned 
 By those that knew them not ; the watery Nymphs, 
 Fairer than Fancy ever paints the fair, 
 Running with rippling laughter to the sea 
 And lolling on its roll at liquid ease ; 
 The Sylphs, the rarest atoms of the air, 
 Basking in rainbows, drifting on the clouds 
 Like dreams above our state, or in the sweep 
 And swirl of wintry tempests, howling loud 
 The wolves of the wind ; for they are soulless things 
 Till in a maiden's passionate embrace 
 They find immortal life. You smile at this ?
 
 ACT iv.] Ube IBaro of 
 
 What is to-day and was not in the past 
 Has always been ; and what will be is now. 
 The found is true, the undiscovered false 
 That is the world's religion. 
 
 Francisco. But not mine, 
 
 Though threefold wrapped within Tartarean shade. 
 Give me your purse. 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis lean as lustful Amnon ; 
 
 For all that this Burletta brought was spent 
 On gifts and dress. Were I a poet true, 
 I would not squander so much on my back 
 When my dear head is needy. Take it, sir. 
 
 \_Throws his purse upon the table. 
 
 Francisco. Six shillings and three pennies. 
 
 Chatterton. Nine ill luck ! 
 
 Og, King of Bashan, was nine cubits high. 
 
 Francisco. I'll take a penny : it shall interest 
 
 bear, 
 Though you are now the richer of the two. 
 
 \Returns the purse and rises to depart. 
 
 Chatterton. Would I could utter the Mirific word 
 To summon angels with its wave of sound ! 
 Be well advised ; you stand against the world, 
 And Chance is fickle to her fondlings, sir. 
 
 140
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Francisco. [ Taking a phial of poison from his pocket. ] 
 When she proves false, and it may be to-night, 
 They shall ride fast that overtake me, lad. 
 
 Chatterton, \_Snatching the phial from his hand.~\ 
 I'll have this for my penny ! 
 
 franc isco. A fair exchange : 
 
 Powder is ruder but it breaks the shell. 
 
 Chatterton. You must not keep the devil in your pay ; 
 For there are moments when God seems to sleep, 
 And they are hard to pass through. 
 
 Francisco. More than hard. 
 
 Chatterton. I'll earn enough for both. 
 
 Francisco. Inspiring boy ! 
 
 May nothing harsher than a moonbeam fall 
 Athwart your path. Good-bye. \JZxit Francisco. 
 
 Chatterton. I'll save him yet ; 
 
 For peerless charity God dare not damn, 
 And it is still triumphant in his breast ; 
 And I will beat him, too, at play with foils. 
 Sit down, dear Phillips : we must have a talk. 
 Mother is well, you say ? 
 
 Phillips. As when you left. 
 
 Chatterton. I would that she were here to share my 
 glory. 
 
 141
 
 ACT iv.] TTbe Bart) of 
 
 I could not bear that you should be away ; 
 
 My mother loves me, but you know me, friend. 
 
 The presents were received ? 
 
 Phillips. Yes, all of them. 
 
 Chatterton. How did she like the cups and saucers, 
 Phillips ? 
 
 Phillips. She laughed and wept with joy. 
 
 Chatterton. I would have sent 
 
 A china tea-pot and a cream-pot, too, 
 But they are not in fashion, I believe : 
 Red china, which she has, is more the mode. 
 
 Phillips. The snuff-box won the favour of her eye. 
 
 Chatterton. It is right French and very curious. 
 The silver fan, the graver of the two, 
 Was meant for her ; the other one for Mary. 
 Sis would have chosen purple flowered with gold, 
 But purple and pink are more genteel and lively. 
 
 Phillips. She was well pleased. 
 
 Chatterton. And what did granny say 
 
 About the twisted pipes and herb tobacco ? 
 
 Phillips. She sat down in the ingle-nook that night, 
 And did the smoking for the blazing logs 
 Till we peered at each other through a fog. 
 
 Chatterton. Did Uncle Richard get his walking-stick? 
 
 Phillips. Not till your mother had displayed the gifts 
 142
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 To all the neighbours, saying to each one 
 ' See what my son has sent to us.' 
 
 Chatterton. Dear Mother ! 
 
 What is there new in Bristol ? 
 
 Phillips. Thistlethwaite 
 
 Is now head-master of the Colston School. 
 
 Chatterton. He played at Brag most shrewdly foul and 
 
 won. 
 
 We will eat passion-flower and die of laughing 
 At all beflattered fools ! 
 
 Phillips. He would be naught 
 
 Beside the matchless fervour of your mind, 
 Were you not haughty to those holding power. 
 
 Chatterton. Let me not live till I grow politic. 
 Have you no news more helpful ? 
 
 Phillips. Only this 
 
 'Tis of myself. 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, tell me of yourself ! 
 
 Phillips. Well well I fear 
 
 Chatterton. Am I not part of you, 
 
 And do you hesitate ? You wrong us both. 
 
 Phillips. I scarce know how 
 
 Chatterton. Think to yourself aloud. 
 
 Phillips. I loved your sister Mary from the time 
 
 Chatterton. You are betrothed ? 
 '43
 
 ACT iv.] Ube 3Bar& of 
 
 Phillips. We are. 
 
 Chatterton. The moon is full, 
 
 And unleashed billows bound and bay with joy ! 
 You will be brother to me in the law 
 As you have been in love. My brother Phillips ! 
 [Seizes his hand and Phillips coughs. ,] 
 You have a cough ! I learned enough of physic 
 From William Barrett to cure current ills. 
 If you neglect your health you hazard mine ; 
 For you are needful as this fleshly frame 
 To stay my spirit's flight : I almost die 
 In your imagined death. 
 
 Phillips. The cold is slight : 
 
 The tears and yearning for the lost be mine. 
 
 .ZiVz&r WALPOLE, BERTHA, and BURGUM. 
 
 Walpole. How scrub these gardens are ! But for the 
 
 lamps, 
 'Twould be a common night. 
 
 Bertha. Not so to me. 
 
 Walpole. Great Youth, my child, feels with poetic limbs 
 And sees with poetic eyes ; but Art must be 
 As plumb as Abishag to warm me now. 
 There's Chatterton. 
 
 Burgum. I must consult with him 
 
 About my Pedigree and Coat-of-arms. 
 
 144
 
 IReteliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Walpole. When does your play begin ? 
 
 Chatterton. In half an hour ; 
 
 It follows the Welsh harpist. 
 
 Walpole. Is it brief? 
 
 Chatterton. As brief as patience. 
 
 Walpole. Then it is not long. 
 
 Chatterton. A Locke in logic ! 
 
 Walpole. \Turning to Bertha. ~\ He is very rough. 
 
 Bertha. The question was not polished, 
 
 Walpole. True, indeed : 
 
 Each author is laconic to himself. 
 Tell us the plot. 
 
 Chatterton. The scene of my Burletta 
 
 Is on Mount Olympus 'mong the heathen gods, 
 And Cupid is the culprit he writes verse. 
 
 Walpole. Poetry is gone to bed or into prose : 
 I fear it is all fustian. 
 
 Chatterton. Have no fear : 
 
 It is all fustian ; but, like Hamlet's play, 
 Its purpose is poetic that is all. 
 Come, Phillips, to prepare it for the King. 
 
 [Exeunt Chatterton and Phillips. 
 
 Walpole. Follow him closely, sir, if you wish sane 
 Coherent answers ; for his looks and speech 
 Border on Moorfields now. 
 
 10 145
 
 ACT iv.] Ube 3Bar& of 
 
 Burgum. That is most wise. \Exit Burgum. 
 
 Walpole. We'll sit near Milton, for the bard is 
 blind. 
 
 Bertha. One sense deposed flies to another's aid ; 
 And he is listening. 
 
 Walpole. Delicately keen 
 
 As Madame de Sevigne ! yet you choose 
 To bloom in desert air, like friend Gray's flower. 
 
 Bertha. Flowers in their clime and maidens in their 
 
 sphere 
 Are wards of Nature. 
 
 Walpole. Bravo! the chef-d'oauvre 
 
 Of wit and eloquence, but not of truth ; 
 For genial strangeness in a foreign soil 
 Oft quickens plants and mortals. At the Castle 
 My large laburnums pass their Alpine sires, 
 As do my orange trees their tropic kin. 
 
 Bertha. [Pointing to one of the orange trees. .] 
 Behold my witness with its hollowed fruit 
 Aglow, like sin, with artificial light. 
 'Twill soon be cast aside. 
 
 Walpole. True but not apt ; 
 
 For words felicitous may falsely shine. 
 Our poets, following the Romans, sing 
 Of cooling breezes in the summer's warmth ; 
 
 146
 
 tRefccliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 But Zephyr here becomes a north-east wind, 
 And our best sun is made of Newcastle coal. 
 Bertha. Put out the sun and see. 
 
 Walpole. \_Laughing. ~\ I own defeat 
 
 In rhetoric but not reason, Lady Clever, 
 And, flying from all figures, shall be frank. 
 Last month at Stowe, attendant on the Princess, 
 I could not help comparing you, my dear, 
 In mind and beauty and the flush of youth, 
 With Lady Temple, Lady Mary Coke, 
 Lady Anne Howard and a dozen dames. 
 You are a star unsphered. 
 
 Bertha. Then, like a star, 
 
 I shall glide twinkling in an orbit strange 
 Till custom make it mine. And now, dear sir, 
 Kindly make choice of some more worthy theme. 
 
 Walpole. Nay, by your leave ; for I have waited long 
 To bring this subject on the tapis, my love. 
 \The sounds of a Welsh harp are heard.~\ 
 Erato strikes her lyre ! 
 
 Bertha. Court gallantry ! 
 
 Walpole. Listen ; and let not modesty deny 
 What candour must approve. You have rare wit 
 And beauty coupled with a feline form 
 Whose every movement breeds a fond desire : 
 
 147
 
 ACT iv.] Ube Bart) of 
 
 Wit needs applause and beauty needs a glass ; 
 And these are not in Bristol but in London 
 Among the leisured few. You shall o'erpeer 
 The proudest lords and ladies in the land ; 
 You shall meet Gray, a gentlemanly bard 
 That leans not on eccentric dress or phrase, 
 Like stuttering Goldsmith or the beastly Johnson ; 
 You shall put Rowley's poems into print; 
 Nourish wild Chatterton, if so you please, 
 And watch his weedy growth ; though I admit 
 That, in the witching atmosphere you shed, 
 I hope to win your sanction and the world's 
 With chiming numbers and with tolling prose ; 
 For, though I say it, I am not untried. 
 
 Bertha. How can I work these wonders ? 
 
 Walpole. By a word 
 
 A ' yes ' to one small question. 
 
 Bertha. Ask it, sir. 
 
 Walpole. Will you be mine ? pardon, may I be 
 yours ? 
 
 Bertha. A step with Folly means a dangerous stroll ! 
 I think you know, sir, that I am surprised. 
 
 Walpole. Whate'er you say I know; be you as trust- 
 ful. 
 
 Bertha. I'll be as true. 
 
 148
 
 TRe&cliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Walpole. Why did I hear with patience 
 
 That Ode to Freedom by a prentice read ? 
 Why did I linger long in tiresome Bristol ? 
 Why did I tice your father to my house ? 
 Why have I borne the insults of that boy, 
 And now am here to patron his Burletta ? 
 
 Bertha. I dread the answer. 
 
 Walpole. 'Twas for you, for you. 
 
 Bertha. My indiscretion is so near a crime, 
 Who will believe me guiltless ? 
 
 Walpole. Your servant, lady. 
 
 Bertha. I did not purpose to mislead 
 
 Walpole. To guide. 
 
 Bertha. The years between us 
 
 Walpole. Are a stony brook 
 
 Across which you can step with gathered skirts 
 And wet nor boots nor lace. Appraise these truths : 
 My love is not the sparrow-hawk of youth, 
 Which seizes wit and beauty as its due, 
 But like an eagle constant, strong, and poised. 
 I have the wealth and station to command 
 Whate'er prolongs life's spring and makes it lush, 
 And you are in your flower. A younger man 
 Must struggle blindly through a yellow fog, 
 Dragging you with him in his mad pursuit 
 
 149
 
 ACT iv.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Till all desire has flown the weary heart 
 And damning wrinkles come. 
 
 Bertha. Two souls ne'er love 
 
 Till scars record the battles won together. 
 
 Walpole. Some scars I have that tell of conflicts past ; 
 And there are victories still for us to gain 
 From knightly foemen, not from howling mobs 
 With brutal bludgeons armed. And when peace comes, 
 Like sunset's glow, I shall not be too old 
 For the enchantment of a maiden's voice 
 Or wildest rapture in her trembling arms. 
 
 Bertha. Oh, whither are we drifting ? 
 
 Walpole. Ask not whither : 
 
 Love laughs at harbours and the future, dear, 
 When in his gondola beneath the moon 
 On music -laden waters. 
 
 Bertha. We waste words : 
 
 I could not be your wife. 
 
 Walpole. No, not my wife 
 
 Till some slight obstacles have been removed, 
 For what we scorn is potent in our lives ; 
 But formal marriage is a fool's device 
 Wisely to govern fools. 
 
 Bertha. [.Rising excitedly. ~\ Your mistress, then. 
 
 Walpole. My wife in all save name.
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Bertha. Your paramour ? 
 
 Walpole. Love is Love's only name in English, love, 
 
 Bertha. I would that Hatred had a single term, 
 That I could ease my bosom with a word, 
 For loathing chokes me ! 
 
 Walpole. \_Rising in alarm. ~\ Compose yourself, I 
 beg. 
 
 Bertha. And I have listened ! 
 
 Walpole. Listen to the end. 
 
 My father had a mistress whom he wed 
 When time and circumstance approved the act ; 
 But ere the nuptials I esteemed their child 
 My rightful sister. 
 
 Bertha. She shared not the shame. 
 
 Walpole. Chaste country morals have no place at 
 
 court ; 
 
 For peers have privilege wisely held from boors, 
 Who slabber gravy like roast beef new cut, 
 And must be tethered as promiscuous bulls 
 Reserved for breeding are. 
 
 Bertha. I'll hear no more : 
 
 My ears have been denied ! 
 
 Walpole. \_Embracing her, ,] You must consent. 
 
 Bertha. Oh, let me go ! 
 
 Walpole. When you have promised, sweet.
 
 ACT iv.] Ube JBart> of 
 
 Bertha, Stop ! I will rouse the gardens with my 
 cries ! 
 
 Enter FRANCISCO masked. 
 
 Francisco. Good evening, Horry ! You appear per- 
 turbed. 
 Kisses patch quarrels with a light-o' -love. 
 
 Walpole. \As Bertha sinks upon the seat.~\ 
 You wear a mask this is not a ridotto. 
 
 Francisco. We all wear masks ; for life is a ridotto. 
 
 Walpole. I do not know you, sir. 
 
 Francisco. A plague on fame ! 
 
 Captain Francisco at your service, sir. 
 
 Walpole. Captain Francisco ! 
 
 Francisco. Am I still unknown ? 
 
 Walpole. Do not alarm the lady. 
 
 Francisco. Not to find 
 
 The Fount of Youth and Water-Stone of the Wise ; 
 Though she, I fear, is past her virgin fright, 
 Or giddy Lust has mounted to your head 
 And left your body stingless. 
 
 Bertha. Spare me, sir. 
 
 Walpole. Help here ! thieves ! thieves ! 
 
 Francisco. [Seizing him by the throat. ,] 
 
 That Welshman saved your life : 
 Had you been heard, you had not croaked again.
 
 TCefcclfffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Bertha. He's unprepared ! 
 
 Francisco. And will be to his death, 
 
 Though he should rival Enoch's yeared son. 
 Your purse. Be quick ! I have the Spanish heart 
 Which Aztec gold allays. 
 
 Walpole. \_Giving up his purse. ~\ There ; leave us, sir. 
 
 Francisco. The lady's purse : you shall buy her an- 
 
 other, 
 
 And keep it plenteous as the fabled horn. 
 Age must pay dear to see his wrinkled face 
 Reflected in the amorous eyes of Youth, 
 Or lie with Dreams. \_Takes Bertha' s purse. 
 
 Walpole. You have our purses go. 
 
 Francisco. [Passing his hand over his eyes.~\ 
 My eyes are bloodshot ah, that garnet stone ! 
 I have the sulphur, you may well believe, 
 But lack the gem for Paracelsian salve. 
 [ Takes Walpole' s pin. ] 
 Your snuff-box and your rings. God's death ! be 
 
 quick : 
 
 To dawdle o'er a gift makes taking theft. 
 [ Takes the snuff -box and the rings. ] 
 Were you alone, I'd strip you naked, sir, 
 And let the world behold the shrunken skin 
 That cloaks your meagre soul. 
 
 153
 
 ACT iv.] ube JSarfc of 
 
 Walpole. Now you have all. 
 
 Francisco. That bracelet, lady. 
 
 Bertha. Any thing but that : 
 
 'Twas given me 
 
 Francisco. I take it is a gift. 
 
 [Then after examining /'/.] 
 
 Rare Roman coins the dangling themes for song ! 
 And I know one who can their tinkling turn 
 To canticles that would make Tiber thrill 
 And dream his halcyon days were come again. 
 I rob you, lady, to enrich the Muse. 
 That plain gold band. 
 
 Bertha. My mother's wedding-ring ! 
 
 Francisco. Keep it and use it as your mother did. 
 [A bell rings.'} 
 
 The boy's Burletta ! He must have the stage. 
 'Odsfish ! I would not bring the youngster's play 
 In contrast with the gaudy scenes of life 
 Before a throng of worldlings ; so adieu. 
 May you be wealthier, sir, when next we meet 
 Is your poor servant's prayer. [Exit Francisco. 
 
 Bertha. I feel ashamed 
 
 As if I were the shameless thing he named. 
 
 Walpole. But hear me. 
 
 Bertha. Take me to my father, sir. 
 
 154
 
 IRefcclfffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 Walpole. Have mercy, lady ! I was crazed with love. 
 
 Bertha. Call you that love ? True Love would die of 
 
 love 
 Ere he would base his love with lawless glance. 
 
 Walpole. Law can not pasture Nature on green 
 
 baize. 
 
 Fate is to blame : had consequences smiled, 
 I would have offered you 
 
 Bertha. I've heard enough : 
 
 To parley with seduction is to fall. 
 I'll find my father, sir, without your aid. 
 
 Enter CHATTERTON, PHILLIPS, BURGUM, and THE 
 PEOPLE. 
 
 Walpole. Delay revenge, if you must have revenge 
 On one whose passion leaped the pale of pride : 
 'Twould ruin his Burletta ! There he comes. 
 
 Chatterton. The curtain soon will rise ; prepare your- 
 
 selves. 
 
 I'll keep the moblings in their proper tier. 
 Sit on this bench ; I'll clarify the plot. 
 [Drags the seat round and then speaks to the people.] 
 Stand back ; beyond this line of vision, please ! 
 
 Voice from crowd. I paid a half-crown for the right 
 to see ! 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, sir, you bought a pint of Frontiniac
 
 ACT iv.] tbe Bar& of 
 
 In the Rose of Normandy and own all France. 
 
 A jub of ale would give you title clear 
 
 To this fair Isle in fee. \_The people laugh. 
 
 Girf s Voice. What is the price 
 
 Of boyish kisses, sweet? 
 
 Chatterton. Your virtue, dear. \_Laughter. 
 
 Womari s Voice. His eyes be bright as Peggy-wi'-t'- 
 
 wisp, 
 
 But bring me some as can kiss me wi' might. 
 Chatterton. How are the Yorkshire yokels ? 
 
 [Laughter. 
 
 Mart s Voice. With that sword 
 
 He looks like a fly empaled upon a pin. 
 
 Chatterton. Be not amazed, old rump-steak, at my 
 
 presence : 
 Flies have the sense of smell, and you are high. 
 
 \Laughter. 
 
 Girl 1 s Voice. He is Love's pet ! 
 Woman's Voice. I'd give my cat for him ! 
 
 Chatterton. An old maid sure, or she would have a dog. 
 \_Laughter as the music begins. ~\ 
 The play is on ! Be silent, gentle friends, 
 And keep good-humoured like an English crowd ; 
 For we are on Olympus with the gods ! 
 
 \_The curtain rises disclosing the top of Mount Ofym- 
 156
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 pus with Jupiter, Juno, Apollo, Venus, Bacchus, 
 and other gods and goddesses seated on the 
 clouds. 
 Chorus. [Air.] 
 
 Scrape, ye fiddlers, tinkle, tinkle, 
 Music makes my twinklers twinkle ; 
 
 Humming, 
 
 Thrumming, 
 
 Groaning, 
 
 Toning, 
 
 Squeaking, 
 
 Shrieking, 
 
 Bawling, 
 
 Squalling, 
 O the sweet charms of tinkle, tinkle ! 
 
 Jupiter. [Recitative.} 
 Now by the muddy waters of the Styx, 
 Which, like the Avon, tempers fools and bricks, 
 No music cheers me now. [ Weeps. 
 
 Chorus. Why this excretion ? 
 
 Sorrow finds solace only in repletion. 
 
 Jupiter. Fair Semele is dead ! 
 Chorus. Alas ! alas ! 
 
 That godless things on earth should come to pass. 
 
 Jupiter. She melted in my arms. 
 
 Jiino. She froze, you mome, 
 
 Or you were warmer than you are at home.
 
 ACT iv.] ube 3Bar& ot 
 
 Jupiter. Nor can my wife this burning grief assuage, 
 For Juno's forty thousand years of age. 
 
 Juno. But twenty-seven thousand, you old brute ! 
 And lustier than your thundership to boot. 
 
 Jupiter. To twenty-seven women cling till fifty : 
 In years, and only years, our wives are thrifty. 
 Juno. \_Air.~\ 
 
 I will never tamely bear 
 All these wrongs and slights, sir ; 
 Heaven and all the gods shall hear 
 How you spend your nights, sir. 
 Drinking, swearing, 
 Roaring, tearing, 
 Wenching, roving everywhere ; 
 Whilst poor I 
 At home must lie, 
 Wishing, scheming, 
 Sighing, dreaming, 
 Grasping nothing but the air. 
 
 Woman's Voice. Jove's very like my husband ! 
 Women' s Voices. And like mine. \_Laughter. 
 
 Jupiter. [Recitative.'} 
 
 Hence, thou eternal tempest, from our regions, 
 And yell in concert with infernal legions ! 
 
 Bacchus. [Staggering and holding aloft his bowl. ~\ 
 'Odsniggers, Sire ! I know your sad condition, 
 And I will be your majesty's physician. 
 
 158
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Man' s Voice. That's Bacchus with a bowl of royal- 
 bob ! [Laughter. 
 
 Bacchus. \Air^\ 
 
 Fill the bowl and fill it high, 
 Vast as the extended sky ! 
 Since the dire disease is known 
 Wine's the balm to cure the wound. 
 
 Jupiter, | Recitative.} 
 
 You hogshead of liquor and its bitter lees ! 
 Nor wine nor brandy now can give me ease 
 Chorus. Cure him, Apollo ! 
 
 Apollo. Sire, at your desire, 
 
 I'll strike my lyre, and light your wonted fire. 
 
 Jupiter. That rimes too glibly to be more than gab ; 
 The modern Muse is nothing but a drab. 
 
 Venus. Cupid, my liege, awaits your royal pleasure 
 To chant some verses writ in modern measure. 
 Jupiter. \Laughing^\ Cupid write poems? he is but a 
 
 boy ! 
 
 Venus. Boys frequent add to our celestial joy. 
 Jupiter. 'Tis Cupid not Adonis. Well, my dear, 
 I can deny you naught : let him appear ; 
 But have the arrows taken from the wight, 
 For I have no fair partner for the night. 
 
 [A cloud parts and Cupid with a manuscript appears 
 Chorus. That boy a poet ! 
 
 159
 
 ACT iv.] Tibe IBart) of 
 
 Venus. Hearken to his lay. 
 
 Cupid. Peace, heavenly rakes and strumpets, or away ! 
 Jupiter. Begin the reading ; not another word ; 
 But for fond Venus, you had not been heard. 
 
 Cupid. [ Unrolling his manuscript and chanting^ 
 
 The pleasing sweets of spring and summer past, 
 The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast. 
 
 Burgum. That's Chatterton's rendering of de Berg- 
 ham's song ! 
 
 Cupid. The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold, 
 The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold, 
 Jupiter. Enough ! enough ! 
 Chorus. [Scornfully '.] The silver joys of grass! 
 Cupid. You gods are geese and Jupiter's an ass ! 
 Venus. Be calm, dear Cupid. 
 
 Jupiter. [Feeling in his pockets .] By my horrid head, 
 If I find thunderbolt, I'll strike you dead ! 
 
 Cupid. You can make poets suffer but not die. 
 Jupiter. I can not kill a poet ? boy, you lie ! 
 \Then after a fruitless search^ 
 Juno has robbed my breeches over night, 
 And I am thunderless and powerless quite. 
 
 Cupid. If my poor lay excite your regal scorn, 
 I have a Titan's song a Titan born 
 Ere you, my liege, were suckled by a goat. 
 Jupiter. A Titan's song ! I long to hear each note. 
 1 60
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT iv. 
 
 Cupid. Make me invisible but for a minute, 
 And I will show your godship what is in it. 
 Jupiter. Be thou unseen. 
 
 Cupid. Have stringed music sound. 
 
 Jupiter. Cease singing, and let Bacchus' bowl go round. 
 [ While the bowl is passing from immortal to immortal, 
 Cupid runs a quill over the parchment. 
 
 Chatterton. He antiquates the spelling ! 
 [ Cupid rubs something on it. ] 
 
 That is ochre, 
 
 Gilding it like the Phrygian touch of Age. 
 [Cupid sprinkles it with a powder. ,] 
 That's charcoal counterfeiting cindered years. 
 \Cvpid crumples it in his hands. .] 
 It must have creases or it is not old. 
 [Cupid throws it upon the grouud and runs his foot 
 
 over it, .] 
 
 It must be dusty or it lacks desert. 
 Were he in Hades, he would smoke it, too ! 
 
 Francisco. [ Who has stood in the background unseen.] 
 Olympus now will echo with acclaim. 
 
 Walpole. [Turning and seeing him.~\ 
 Arrest that villain ! He fleeced me to-night 
 Francisco is his name ! 
 
 The People. Francisco ? oh ! 
 
 ii 161
 
 ACT iv.] Ube JSaro of 
 
 [ General consternation. The men cry out ' Fran- 
 cisco ! ' the women scream, and the actors scurry 
 from the stage. Francisco claps a mask on his 
 face, draws a pistol, and steps into the open 
 space. 
 
 Francisco. Who will arrest Francisco, when the gods 
 Run skimper scamper from their sacred mount 
 At mention of his name ? 
 
 Burgum. In the King's name 
 
 Francisco. May you and George the Third be damned 
 
 together. 
 
 A Girl. The rogue is comely. 
 Francisco. \Drawing her to him and kissing her.~\ 
 
 And your lips are ripe. 
 
 Now boast that once Francisco kissed you, dear. 
 Mari 's Voice. A dozen rush upon him ! 
 Woman 1 s Voice. No, I beg ! 
 
 He gave us money when we were in need. 
 Man's Voice. He helped me in distress ! 
 GirF s Voice. He rescued me ! 
 
 Chatterton. Away with speed ; you are in danger 
 
 here ! 
 Francisco. The risk is slight ; for mobs are headless 
 
 things. 
 
 Chatterton. But my Burletta 
 162
 
 IRefccliffe* [ACT iv. 
 
 Francisco. Pardon me, my lad. 
 
 Horry should die for this, were it not better 
 To let the gouty creature draw his breath 
 Till every step discharges shooting pains 
 And chalk-stones issue from his swelled hands. 
 Good-night, my friends ; to follow me is death. \_Exit. 
 Chatterton. Recall the actors. 
 Walpole, I have heard enough. 
 
 [ The scream and bursting of a rocket arc heard, 
 The People. Fireworks ! fireworks ! 
 
 \Exeunt the People. 
 
 Chatterton. The play is overthrown. 
 
 Walpole. I know its purport. 
 Chatterton. It shall be made clear : 
 
 I am old Rowley, and his works are mine ! 
 
 \_The hoofs of Francisco 1 s horse galloping away are 
 
 heard. 
 Walpole. I will not trust one that consorts with 
 
 thieves. 
 
 Chatterton. You shall have proof. 
 Walpole. 'Tis woven in the songs ; 
 
 And Gray and Mason shall unravel them. 
 I'll call on you and tell you their report. 
 
 Bertha. Old Rowley's works are yours? Do not 
 profane 
 
 163
 
 ACT iv.] Ube J3aro of 
 
 The awful silence of a minstrel's tomb, 
 And from his pulseless temples tear the wreath 
 Of mortal frailty and of deathless song. 
 Twice have I been most rudely undeceived : 
 Take me, dear father, from these gardens, please ! 
 
 [ Throws herself sobbing into her father 1 s arms. 
 Chatterton. By my dead father's memory 
 Phillips. Tom, not now : 
 
 You shall convince them when the time is meet. 
 
 Burgum. I'll to the Heralds' College in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Bertha. Take me away my sight begins to reel ! 
 Walpole. Have courage, lady. To the carriage, 
 quick ! 
 
 \Exeunt Walpole, Burgum, and Bertha. 
 Chatterton. Damn Saturn's searing rays ! I am un- 
 done. 
 
 Is this the fruitage of my nurtured dreams ? 
 Are these the purple berries and green leaves 
 Enwreathed in nectared fragrance for the brow 
 Of immortal child among immortal men ? 
 I will write scurvy things to make hell laugh, 
 And gain in lust what I have lost in love. 
 
 \Sinks down by the table and bows his head upon 
 his arms. 
 
 164
 
 [ACT iv. 
 
 Phillips. [Putting his arm round him.~\ Dear 
 
 Thomas ! 
 Chatterton. \Raisinghis head. ~\ Phillips, were it not 
 
 for you 
 O my dear brother, were it not for you ! 
 
 \_An explosion of fireworks and the shouts of the 
 people are heard j the gardens are lighted by the 
 glow ; and Chatterton, mastering his emotion, 
 rises quickly. ~\ 
 
 Come, Phillips, let us see the fireworks play. 
 Curtain. 
 
 165
 
 ACT v.] Ube J3ar& of 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 
 SCENE. Chatterton^ s lodging. A garret in the house of 
 Mrs. Angell, London. The floor is bare ; the roof 
 slopes to a casement at the back; and a door, at the 
 left, opens on the stairs. Near the casement is a 
 small bedstead; and not far from the doorway are 
 rude chairs and a table, on which are a lighted 
 lamp, a few old books, an inkhorn, and quills and 
 manuscripts in disorder. Many scraps of paper are 
 on the floor by the table. At the opposite side of the 
 room is a wash-stand ; and near it are a mirror, a 
 large deal-box, and a chair on which is the suit of 
 silk worn by Chatterton in Marylebone Gardens. 
 On the rise of the curtain, the moonlight is stream- 
 ing over the roofs of the houses into the room; and 
 Mrs. Angell and her two children, Harry and 
 Bertha, are discovered. Mrs. Angell is sweeping, 
 Harry is brandishing the poef s sword, and Bertha 
 is scrawling with a quill at the table. It is the 
 night of August 24th, 2770. 
 
 166
 
 iRefccliffe.- [ACT v. 
 
 Watchman. [From the street. ~\ Past nine o'clock 
 and a moonlit night ! Past nine o'clock and a 
 moonlit night ! 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Be careful, or you'll overturn the ink 
 And blot his poems ! 
 
 Harry. What are poems, mother? 
 
 Mrs . Angell. They are like hymns : at least the lines 
 
 begin 
 
 With capitals ; and those who write them starve. 
 Bertha. I'll write a hymn. 
 Mrs. Angell. Give me that sword at once. 
 He was so happy when he showed me this, 
 And told me of the things that he would buy 
 For his dear mother ; but the boy is down : 
 They never should have let him go from home. 
 Harry. I'll go away some day. 
 Bertha. May I go, too ? 
 
 Mrs. Angell. The bed has not been used ; and all he 
 
 wrote 
 Is torn in pieces. 
 
 \As Mrs. Angell picks up the bits of paper, Harry 
 goes to the deal-box, opens it, and takes out several 
 manuscripts. 
 
 Enter CHATTERTON, who stands in the doorway. 
 Harry. Mother, what are these ? 
 
 167
 
 ACT v.] Ubc Baro of 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Put them away ! Were Chatterton to 
 
 come, 
 
 He would be as furious as he was the time 
 Your father told him of a vacant clerkship. 
 
 Bertha. I'll tear my poem, too. \_Tears up a paper. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. \Taking the pieces out of her hands^\ 
 
 You naughty girl, 
 You have destroyed his work ! 
 
 Bertha. He tears them up. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. What can be done ? 
 
 Chatterton. \_Coming down.~\ Do not reprove the 
 
 child : 
 Her little ringers are at school. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. \In alarm.~\ O sir! 
 
 Chatterton. The song is worthless. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. As you were not in, 
 
 I came to sweep the room ; for once you said 
 That poets hated brooms. 
 
 Chatterton. Uncleanly beasts ! 
 
 Did any letters come ? 
 
 Mrs. Angell. No, none at all. 
 
 Chatterton. And no one called ? 
 
 Mrs. Angell. I really can not say ; 
 
 For I was not at home this afternoon. 
 
 Chatterton. I trust your outing was a pleasant one. 
 1 68
 
 IRefcclfffe, [ACT v. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. You should have seen the sunset, sir, 
 
 to-day 
 From Hampstead Heath. 
 
 Chatterton. I saw a sunset once 
 
 From Penpole Point near Bristol, looking 'cross 
 The lowlands and the Severn into Wales : 
 The globe descending bulged upon a peak, 
 And, to my fire-intoxicated eyes, 
 Became a golden punch-bowl for the gods ; 
 Then, sinking deeper, made the verdant hills 
 Volcanoes in eruption. Do you smoke? 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Why, what a question ! 
 
 Chatterton. My grandmother smokes ; 
 
 My pate is but a pipe for puffing vapour ; 
 And the iridescent token in the cloud 
 Has faded to a fog-bow. Close the casement ! 
 
 Mrs. Angell. You are three-quarters famished : for 
 
 two days 
 You have not tasted food. 
 
 Chatterton. I need no meat. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. I'll fetch you oysters any thing you 
 crave. 
 
 Chatterton. Tell o'er some viands, and I'll eat your 
 
 words. 
 
 I should not starve when I bequeath the world 
 
 169
 
 ACT v.] Ube Barb of 
 
 A magic board where centuries will feed 
 
 Upon the fledgelings of my brooding brain, 
 
 And drink the Burgundy within these veins. 
 
 [Slaps his arm fierce ly.~\ 
 
 But then I am a panther with a spot 
 
 That wanes and waxes with the fitful moon, 
 
 And must be prodded that I may display 
 
 My jungle-nature. Shut out the moonlight ! please. 
 
 \Then to Bertha as Mrs. Angell goes to the window. ,] 
 
 Come, sweetheart, come. Why does she turn away? 
 
 Harry. She is ashamed. 
 
 Chatterton. Ashamed ? ashamed of what ? 
 
 Harry. Because she has red hair. 
 
 Chatterton. My hair is red. 
 
 We'll put our heads together, and make a torch 
 To warn benighted vessels from the Gilstones. 
 What is her name ? 
 
 Harry. Her name is Bertha, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. Saint Mary ! Come, tiny Bertha, come 
 
 to me; 
 You must not be afraid. 
 
 Bertha. \_Going to him. ~\ I'm not afraid. 
 
 [ Chatterton takes her in his arms and sits down by 
 the table. 
 
 170
 
 TCe&clfffe* [ACT v. 
 
 Harry. No one but Mr. Cross has hair like hers ; 
 And that makes mother angry. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Hold your tongue ! 
 
 Chatterton. If I were rich, I'd dower you, little maid. 
 \_Fumbles among his papers and selects one.~\ 
 Here is my ' Clifton ' : keep it till my death ; 
 They will bid more for it than I have had 
 In all my life. Your hair is lovely, dear ; 
 In sunlight it will glint more varied hues 
 Than Cornish heath upon Goonhilley Downs. 
 How old are you ? 
 
 Bertha. I used to be five years, 
 
 But now I'm six. 
 
 Chatterton. When were you five, my girl ? 
 
 Bertha. A long, long time ago. 
 
 Chatterton. Young years are long. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Come, dears, before you tire the gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Chatterton. Leave them with me : I dread to be 
 
 alone ; 
 
 And children cheer me, for I ne'er was child. 
 I'll learn their language and will think their thoughts. 
 What shall we play, my love ? 
 
 Bertha. Why, any thing. 
 
 171
 
 ACT v.] Ubc Barb of 
 
 Chatterton. Let us play 'church.' 
 
 Harry. I'll be the rector, then. 
 
 Chatterton. I'll be the sexton, and inurn the dead. 
 And you'll be Mary that's the church itself. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. And I ? 
 
 Chatterton. Will be the churchyard for the poor. 
 
 \Thcn glancing round. ,] 
 This garret's very like the muniment room 
 In Mary Redcliffe's porch. At Whitsuntide, 
 When the Cathedral bell was tolling midnight, 
 I left old Rowley's work ; and, stealing down 
 Into the tomb-paved chancel, placed six lights 
 Upon the altar, and then knelt and prayed, 
 With mailed spirits and their beauteous dames, 
 The haughty rulers of a thousand years, 
 Kneeling about me. 
 
 Bertha. I don't like this game. 
 
 Chatterton. You will, my dear, for you shall light the 
 
 candles. 
 
 [Takes a bundle of candles from a drawer in the table. ~\ 
 Your innocent touch will turn this fat to wax, 
 Or Poverty must plead for dispensation. 
 Light this, my child. \Bertha lights it at the 
 
 I'll stand it on this tome : 
 There must be one above and two below. 
 
 172
 
 IRefcclfffe* [ACT v. 
 
 Another ; and another. \_Bertha lights two more can- 
 dles, and Chatterton places them so as to form a tri- 
 angle^ Now three more. 
 
 Harry. Let me light one. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, you shall blow them out. 
 
 [Bertha lights three candles, and Chatterton forms an- 
 
 other triangle on the opposite side of the table .] 
 The hilt of this bright dagger is the cross. 
 \Sticks a dagger upright in the centre of the table.] 
 With Mary Redcliffe lying at its foot. 
 \Places a miniature near the blade of the dagger.] 
 Now is our altar perfect, with six fires, 
 The number of perfection ; for its parts 
 Its half, its third, its sixth produce itself : 
 The number of production ; in six days 
 This earth was made and man must labour six, 
 The Hebrew slave six years obeyed his master. 
 Would that these candles were of wax from bees, 
 The cleanest insects, to denote pure life, 
 As their flames symbolise the Light of lights, 
 The Beacon for the world ; and were ablaze 
 Upon the altar of my soul to-night, 
 Where rushes dipped in tallow flicker low. 
 I can not worship blindly in the dark ! 
 
 173
 
 ACT v.] Ube Bart) of 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Do some thing else : this is no sport 
 
 to you. 
 
 Bertha. Let us play ' mother. ' 
 Chatterton. I'll be grandfather, dear. 
 
 Enter CAPTAIN FRANCISCO. 
 
 Francisco. The door was open, so I helped myself. 
 Chatterton. [ Going to him and taking his hand. ] 
 You are most welcome. We are playing games : 
 These are my daughter and grandchildren, sir. 
 
 Francisco. I will be Uncle Croesus to each one. 
 Your hand is feverish and your face is haggard. 
 What is the matter ? Tell your uncle all. 
 Mrs. Angell. The boy is starving, sir. 
 Chatterton. No more of that. 
 
 Seven days, 'tis said, a mortal can exist 
 Without a bite of food : five more are left. 
 
 Francisco. Come here, my chicks, and peck at yellow 
 
 grain. 
 
 \Throws a handful of sovereigns upon the floor, and 
 the children scramble for them. Then to Chatter. 
 ton~\ 
 
 Your mind is rare and gold is plentiful : 
 No more of starving, lad. 
 
 Bertha. That one was mine ! 
 
 174
 
 IRefcclifte* [ACT v. 
 
 Francisco. You bantam rooster, you should scratch 
 
 for her. 
 How many have you now ? 
 
 Harry. One, two, three six. 
 
 Bertha. And I have only three. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. You have enough. 
 
 Francisco. [After giving three more coins to Bertha. ~\ 
 Now you have six. What will you do with them ? 
 
 Bertha. I'll buy a baby. 
 
 Harry. I will buy a sword. 
 
 Francisco. Most aptly spoke according to the sex. 
 Now mother gets the cage in which there are 
 A few goldfinches left. \_Gives a purse to Mrs. Angell. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. You are too kind. 
 
 Francisco. The pleasure of the gift is largely mine : 
 I am your debtor, madam. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Come, my dears ; 
 
 The gentlemen must wish to be alone. 
 
 Chatterton. Will you not kiss me, Bertha, ere you go ? 
 
 Mrs. Angell. \_To Francisco, .] God bless you, sir. 
 
 Francisco. He knows my life too well. 
 
 Bertha. \To Chatterton in a loud whisper, ,] 
 I love you best. 
 
 Francisco. ' And you love wisely, dear. 
 
 Good dreams or none, sweet sleep and joyous waking. 
 
 175
 
 ACT v.j Ube Bars ot 
 
 Bertha. Good-night. 
 
 Chatterton. Good-night. 
 
 Harry. I'll race you down the stairs. 
 
 [The children run out of the doorway down the steps, 
 
 and are heard screaming and laughing for a minute 
 
 afterward. Francisco goes with Mrs. Angell to 
 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Your coming is a blessing to us all. 
 
 Francisco. May it prove so. 
 
 Chatterton. Amen. 
 
 Francisco. Adieu. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. [As she leaves the room.~\ Good-bye. 
 
 Francisco. [Turning and walking back to the table. ~\ 
 Oh, that a squall-like mood should wreck a life ! 
 What you are suffering I have suffered, lad, 
 Without your power. You know not what that means : 
 Why, I speak Latin and can only steal. 
 God's death ! let us be frank, nor care a groat 
 How many angels can a footing find 
 Upon a needle's point. Do not reply : 
 Your reason is unshipped by want, my boy, 
 And gusty words will blow you on Hellweathers. 
 Let me do all the storming; and I'll swear 
 Like some old sea-dog with a salted soul ; 
 Not at you, lad, but with you. 
 
 176
 
 TRefccliffe. [ACT v. 
 
 Chatterton. Bless you, sir. 
 
 Francisco. A poet starving ! by chameleon's liver 
 Drenched with a lapwing's blood, it shall not be. 
 There's food for flesh and there is food for fancy. 
 
 \_Gives a purse and a bracelet to Chatterton. 
 
 Chatterton. That's Walpole's purse ! and that is 
 pray, continue. 
 
 Francisco. You are in need ? why, you shall mount 
 
 to fame. 
 
 On gold and silver rungs, and at a sneeze 
 Shall spit into the mouth of every toad 
 That climbs upon a tree. Your pride is great ? 
 You give to me more than I can bestow : 
 A goal ahead, which I have never had 
 Since I at college took a double-first, 
 And learned that learning is not power to do 
 High Aspiration's bidding. It is nard 
 To find your mind is but a levant sponge 
 To be a disappointment to yourself. 
 
 Chatterton. You are unjust to self. 
 
 Francisco. I am unjust : 
 
 My mission's greater than I dreamed it was. 
 Enter MRS. ANGELL. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. A gentleman is coming up the stairs. 
 
 12 177
 
 ACT v.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. It must be Walpole : you have brought me 
 
 luck! 
 He said that he would call. 
 
 Francisco. I'll walk apart. 
 
 \Goes to the window and stands with his back to 
 the others. 
 
 Enter HORACE WALPOLE. 
 Chatterton. Good evening, sir ; your coming is most 
 
 kind. 
 
 {Then to Mrs. Angell.'\ 
 You need not wait : I'll tend him down the steps. 
 
 \_Exit Mrs. Angell. 
 
 Walpole. It is less hazardous to mount those steps 
 Than to ascend Fraud's ladder. 
 
 Chatterton. You should know. 
 
 Walpole. A suzerain's banter, truly, from a serf; 
 For though I value not my lustrous birth, 
 Which has been more a hindrance than a help 
 
 Francisco. [ Coming down with a black mask covering 
 the upper part of his face, .] You are a most insuf- 
 ferable coxcomb. 
 
 Walpole. [Starting up.~\ How dare you oh ! 
 Francisco. That ' oh ' expresses more 
 
 Than any page you've penned. You should not 
 pale, 
 
 178
 
 TRefccliffe, [ACT v. 
 
 Nor palm that spinel ruby in your frill : 
 This roof is sacred and my promise whole. 
 
 Walpole. What do you wish ? 
 
 Francisco. To barter words with you. 
 
 Walpole. My talk is only prattle. 
 
 Francisco. Lucian wrote 
 
 Of some Egyptian temple near the Nile, 
 Painted and gemmed to shrine a jabbering ape 
 That barked to mark the hours. Do you tell time? 
 
 Walpole. You are what you must own yourself to be. 
 
 Francisco. There Pride and Prudence claimed the 
 
 right of way, 
 And Pride went to the gutter. 
 
 Walpole. You are so clever. 
 
 Francisco. As we accept offensive facts as fun, 
 Truth is a well of wit, whose waters pass 
 Those of the ' Dog and Duck.' 
 
 Walpole. [Sarcastically.'] I am o'ermatched. 
 
 Francisco. Nay, we are equals, take us all in all. 
 
 Walpole. 'Twould make me vain to think so ; really, 
 sir. 
 
 Francisco. You have forebears of caste and so have I ; 
 You drink iced water and I quaff no wine ; 
 I have a mistress, you have Kitty Clive, 
 And Rumour says a girl named Burgum, too. 
 
 179
 
 ACT v.] TOe 3Bar& of 
 
 Chatterton. Then Rumour lies ! She is as pure aa 
 
 Love 
 Before the fall of man. 
 
 Francisco. I am at fault ; 
 
 And on remorseful knee I ask indulgence ; 
 [Sinks upon one knee and rises quickly .] 
 For Rumour is as slanderously chaste 
 As wanton saved by marriage from worse lot. 
 But Horry ceded Cliveden to his Kitty. 
 
 Walpole. You are but quibbling ; come now to the 
 pith. 
 
 Francisco. I borrow sparklers and make no return, 
 And taking without giving is a theft. 
 You have three patent places in your gripe ; 
 You are the Usher of the Exchequer, sir, 
 Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk of the Estreats ; 
 And calmly purse four thousand pounds a year, 
 For which the service rendered is mere form. 
 I rob the rich, you rob the rich and poor ; 
 I am an outlaw, but we both are thieves. 
 Between us, sir, there is not much for choice. 
 
 Walpole. I will not wrangle with a stultus pravus. 
 
 Francisco. Fortuna nimium quern fovet stultum facit ; 
 And Fortune favours you beyond desert, 
 Like some fond mother with a foolish child ; 
 
 i So
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 For breathing earns you luxury and fame. 
 
 But if you are learned and I am ignorant, 
 
 Recall two proverbs centuries apart : 
 
 A Greek says '"" AtiaOia Opdaoc; qtpeij 
 
 And some provincial Gaul, in musty voice, 
 
 Cries ' Ignorance ne quiert pas prudence ! ' 
 
 Wherefore a modern gives this sage advice, 
 
 ' II ne faut jamais affronter un sot. ' 
 
 Shall we dispute in Spanish or in German ? 
 
 God save us all, sir, from our mother tongue ! 
 
 Walpole. You are, forsooth, a most amusing fellow. 
 
 Francisco. A Fellow once of Balliol. 
 
 Walpole. Oh, indeed ! 
 
 Francisco. You must not patronise me with a drawl, 
 Lest we should meet at midnight on the road. 
 You well may startle ; stranger things have happed. 
 You have some dealing with this gifted boy, 
 Who, with mere English, overtops us both : 
 Be square or you shall rue it, sir. Good-night. 
 
 \Exit Francisco. 
 
 Ink Man. [From the street. .] 
 Come buy my writing ink ! Fine writing ink ! 
 
 [Sings.] 
 
 My ink is good, as black as jet, 
 'Tis used by princes and their set ; 
 181
 
 ACT v.] Ube 3BarO ot 
 
 If once you venture it to try, 
 
 Of this I'm sure none else you'll buy. 
 
 Come buy my writing ink ! Fine writing ink ! 
 
 Walpole. \After hearing a door below close. ,] 
 Boon company, a cut-throat and a sharper. 
 
 Chatterton. I beg of you do not provoke me, sir. 
 You find me in a mood remote before : 
 Reluctant for a fray, but dangerous. 
 
 Walpole. Were not the Rowley poems forged by you? 
 
 Chatterton. I plead ' not guilty. ' 
 
 Walpole. Why, you so confessed ; 
 
 And Gray and Mason date the verse as late. 
 
 Chatterton. In my brief study of the law, I gleaned 
 That forgery is a writing made or marred 
 Against another's right. Whose right is crossed 
 If, as a monk, I elfin grants engross ? 
 The crime is in your diction not my deed : 
 You seek to damn me with a word misused. 
 
 Walpole. Your craft might lead to sembling notes of 
 hand. 
 
 Chatterton. Go punish might-bes and the Pope will 
 
 hang. 
 
 You wrote 'The Castle of Otranto,' sir, 
 And in the preface solemnly declared 
 That in the north of England it was found, 
 
 182
 
 IRefcclfffe, [ACT v. 
 
 Translated from black-letter of Muralto 
 By William Marshal ; all of which is feigned. 
 You donned a domino to shirk the world ; 
 I wore a cowl lest it should pass me by. 
 Perhaps, in realm ideal, both would swing 
 For masquerading in the fane of Truth ; 
 But we are on the earth, where life at best 
 Must be a compromise or martyrdom. 
 If you come here in fairness, welcome, sir ; 
 If fixed in bias, better to depart. 
 
 Walpole. I will depart when going gladdens me. 
 You can not play Francisco with me, boy : 
 Although I might mistake you for his son, 
 Did I not know your father's wild career. 
 
 Chatterton. You'll drive me into Billingsgate or Bed- 
 
 lam. 
 
 My father was a man of noble parts, 
 Perchance a genius, pressed by low estate 
 To see that children came clean-washed to school, 
 And bear the fool-dominion of a board. 
 Small wonder he found solace in the cup, 
 And wandered on the Avon's bank at night 
 Shaking his frenzied fists at all the stars 
 In impotent defiance. 
 
 Walpole. Your mother, too 
 
 183
 
 ACT v.] Ube JBar& ot 
 
 Chatterton, She has a limitation in some things, 
 But not in love. Speak not her name again : 
 I would protect you while I have the power. 
 
 Walpole. She may be milky but she is low-bred. 
 
 Chatterton. You've loosed a wild-cat on your family 
 
 tree ! 
 
 Your own reputed father was a beast 
 A bull in office brought down by the nose. 
 
 Walpole. How dare you say ' reputed ' ? 
 
 Chatterton. You shall hear : 
 
 Years after your last brother you were born. 
 
 Walpole. What if there were eleven years be- 
 tween us ? 
 
 Chatterton. It is one candle : I will melt five more. 
 No human beings less resemblance show 
 Than you and Robert Walpole. 
 
 Walpole. God of heaven ! 
 
 Chatterton. His bulky form, his comely face 
 
 Walpole. Enough ! 
 
 Chatterton. You have Lord Hervey's lineaments and 
 
 frame, 
 
 His trick in writing and his smirking grace. 
 Three candles lighted in as many lines. 
 
 Walpole. [Starting toward the door^\ 
 I will not listen to this infamous charge. 
 184
 
 IRefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 Chatterton. [Seizing the sword and running to the 
 
 doorway. ~\ 
 
 Approach this door, and I will turn a leech 
 And test whose brat you are. 
 
 Walpole. You are insane ! 
 
 Chatterton. Sir Robert and his lady were estranged. 
 
 Walpole. It is a lie ! 
 
 Chatterton. Throughout your infancy, 
 
 Your father treated you with tart neglect ; 
 And till at Eton you upheld his name, 
 Could not endure your cuckoldising face. 
 
 Walpole. "Tis fell as night ! 
 
 Chatterton. I have another dip. 
 
 You bear the birth-marks of a love-child, sir : 
 Fastidious, boorish ; artificial, frank ; 
 Broad and despotic ; generous and mean ; 
 With potent talents in a petty mind. 
 The last of the six candles is aflame : 
 Your father is not Walpole but Lord Carr, 
 The eldest son of Hervey, Earl of Bristol ! 
 
 Walpole. Oh, for a sword ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Throwing the sword to Walpole J\ 
 
 A fairy heard your cry. 
 
 Walpole. [Picking up the sword eagerly .] 
 Now I will pierce your heart as you pierced mine. 
 
 185
 
 ACT v.] ube Bar& ot 
 
 \Chatterton bursts into a wild laugh. ,] 
 With words not weapons. 
 
 Chatterton. They must needs be sharp. 
 
 Walpole. Sharper and shorter than a hunting-knife. 
 You heard Francisco speak of one you love : 
 He spoke the truth, for she at last did yield. 
 
 Chatterton. You bastard ! 
 
 Walpole. Tush ! that dart has spent its force. 
 
 She hugged the priestly poet and repulsed 
 The vagrant passion of the beggar-boy. 
 That brought a sigh ; could you not spill a tear ? 
 
 Chatterton. I'll not believe your spite. 
 
 Walpole. You shall have proof. 
 
 You flared six candles ; I will flash a score 
 To show that Horace Hervey, if you please, 
 Unhorsed old Rowley in the lists of iove, 
 And wears the lady's favour. 
 
 Chatterton. You married her ? 
 
 Walpole. \_With mocking laughter J\ 
 I could not so corrupt my Hervey blood. 
 You may espouse her in a year or two ; 
 For matrons can not be so nice as maids. 
 And she looks kindly on you pities you. 
 
 Chatterton. Spout not of pity : we are in the lists ; 
 No quarter given and no quarter asked. 
 
 186
 
 TCefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 Walpole. 'Twould melt Tintagel's rock to hear her 
 
 plead 
 
 For me to aid you, with her naked arms 
 Entrailing me like sprays of rambling rose ; 
 Her eyes half-closed and swimming in their light ; 
 Her redolent tresses willowing her breast 
 But you turn white and tremble. 
 
 Chatterton. Spare me not, 
 
 Lest in my soul one spark of mercy glow. 
 
 Walpole. In faith, her lips undo their suasion quite ; 
 For with their moistening pressure they remove 
 From memory's page the pledge their music won : 
 Else had I called before. 
 
 Chatterton. Have you said all ? 
 
 Walpole. Nay, I could clasp the fanciful a week 
 And never weary, were she o'er the seas ; 
 But dwelling here in London at my house, 
 I can embrace the real ; so take my leave. 
 \_Chatterton closes the door hurriedly, locks it, puts the 
 key in his pocket, and, taking off his coat, throws it 
 upon the floor, while Walpole looks at him in alarm.~\ 
 What do you purpose ? 
 
 Chatterton. Not to boggle, sir ; 
 
 Now weapons and not words. 
 
 Walpole. Give me that key ! 
 
 187
 
 ACT v.] Ube 3Baro of 
 
 Chatterton. [ Going to the table and wrenching out the 
 
 dagger, .] 
 
 'Tis fitting that the cross should bear you down : 
 If what you say is true, you fouled an angel ; 
 If it is false, you vilely slander one. 
 For either, it is death. 
 
 Walpole. Beware your life ; 
 
 If you rush on me I will run you through ! 
 
 Chatterton. Miss not my heart the width of that keen 
 
 blade, 
 Or you are lost past praying. Are you ready? 
 
 [Loud knocking on the door. 
 
 Walpole. Break down the door ! help ! murder, 
 murder, help ! 
 
 [Chatterton runs toward Walpole who slips past 
 him. The door is burst open, the lock falling with 
 a crash, and Burgum, Mrs. Angell, and Bertha 
 Bur gum rush between them. 
 Burgum. Hold ! 
 
 Mrs. Angell. Mr. Chatterton ! 
 Bertha. For my sake, hold ! 
 
 Burgum. What does this mean ? 
 Walpole. He strove to murder me. 
 
 Chatterton. In Clifton once they paid for killing fox, 
 Hedgehog, or polecat ; and you are all three. 
 
 1 88
 
 IRefccltffe, [ACT v. 
 
 Bertha. Give up the dagger. 
 
 Chatterton. Nay, it is the cross, 
 
 Which rests in peace-time on the altar here. 
 
 {Goes to the table and fixes the dagger in it. 
 
 Walpole. He is stark mad. 
 
 Chatterton. I am unweaponed now. 
 
 Bertha. How did this quarrel rise ? 
 
 Walpole. I told him all. 
 
 Bertha. You should have kept part secret. 
 
 Chatterton. \Jronic ally. ~\ Lack-a-day ! 
 
 Walpole. Nor did I gloss the nature of my suit, 
 Which, to untempted Impotence or Age, 
 Is e'er a crime past clergy ; that I came, 
 Upon your hint, to minister to his muse, 
 As kind of penance for my amorous course. 
 At which, with jealous rage, he locked the door, 
 And would have slain me had you not appeared. 
 
 Bertha. 'Tis not astounding that it angered him. 
 {Then to Chatterton.'} 
 Do not endeavour to avenge the wrong : 
 I have forgiven him. 
 
 Burgiim. Avenge what wrong ? 
 
 Walpole. I will inform you as we ride toward 
 home. 
 
 Chatterton. \To Bertha~\. Came he from you? 
 189
 
 ACT v.] TTbe 35art> of 
 
 Bertha. He came at my request 
 
 Made in rash moment, for I pitied you. 
 
 Chatterton. His very words ! Condone my rashness, 
 
 lady : 
 
 I am an errant of the chivalrous past, 
 A knight in pantaloons with broken lance. 
 [Then turning to Burgum J\ 
 Proceed to business and have done with else : 
 What loadstone have I here? 
 
 Burgum. You brazen rogue, 
 
 The Heralds' College disallows my Arms : 
 The Pedigree is stuff ! What say you, boy ? 
 
 Bertha. Wait till to-morrow, father. 
 
 Burgum. Not a breath. 
 
 Walpole. He is so youthful, we must not be harsh. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Turningto Walpole. ~\ 
 Open your jaws except to curse me, sir, 
 And I will speed you to that cirque where bawds 
 Are lapped in warring blasts. 
 
 Burgum. Your answer now. 
 
 Chatterton. E'en in this fevered wilderment of mind, 
 The strong excuse that rises eloquent 
 Shall be o'erruled : I plead for clemency. 
 
 Burgum. Will that restore to me my Norman 
 sires ? 
 
 190
 
 IRefcclifte. [ACT v. 
 
 Chatterton. Born on this merry Isle, you have enough 
 With English birth and birthright. 
 
 Burgum. I'll have revenge ! 
 
 Chatterton. Revenge is yours beyond your direst wish, 
 For I am suffering more than you can feel ; 
 But if you deem that punishment too slight, 
 There is a poniard, and my soul's unarmed. 
 
 Burgum. I will proclaim your perfidy abroad, 
 That you may straggle, like a branded Cain, 
 Without a friend on earth. 
 
 Chatterton. I have a friend 
 
 Who would do more for me than for himself; 
 Whose gentle nature, like St. Andrew's Spring, 
 Pours forth a never-failing flood of love, 
 To nourish flowers or bathe the dusty streets ; 
 Murmuring at times, but ever sweet and low. 
 He stands like Tor Hill on the plain of Wells ; 
 Go move him if you can. 
 
 Burgum. Who is he, pray? 
 
 Chatterton. His name is Thomas Phillips. 
 
 Burgum. \_Chuckling brutally. ~\ He is dead. 
 
 Chatterton. That lie makes you my debtor ! 
 
 Burgum. It is the truth : 
 
 George Catcott wrote me that Tom Phillips died 
 From cold he caught in London. 
 
 191
 
 ACT v.] Ube 3Bar& ot 
 
 Chatterton. O my God ! 
 
 You are too cruel had I killed your son. 
 If you say this to crush my spirit down, 
 See, I am humbled, all my pride is gone. 
 Tell me he lives. 
 
 Bertha. Alas ! your friend is dead. 
 
 Chatterton. Then God has been dethroned ! Leave 
 
 me alone : 
 
 My grief is kingly and must not be seen. 
 \Chatterton stands like a statue, the tears rolling down 
 his cheeks, till the others have gone down the stairs; 
 then he goes to the door, closes it, and sinks sobbing 
 upon his knees, his hands clinging to the frame, .] 
 O Phillips, Phillips '.Dear Tom Phillips dead ! 
 And Bertha Burgum Walpole's paramour ! 
 Not all earth's wealth could keep me on it now : 
 Tell father I am coming, dearest friend. 
 \Rises and goes toward the table but stops. .] 
 No dagger : I will not profane the cross. 
 
 Song Man. \From the street. ] 
 Songs ! Songs ! Songs ! Beautiful songs ! 
 Love songs, new songs, old songs all for a penny ! 
 Chatterton. The price is up, and poets now can 
 
 nibble 
 
 At hopes and biscuit in Tom's Coffee House. 
 
 192
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 That minds me of a task yet unperformed. 
 
 [Throws his coat upon the bed and goes to the deal boxJ\ 
 
 I must be swift and steady in the work 
 
 Of murdering my babes. 
 
 [Opens the box, selects a manuscript, and reads .] 
 
 'A Song to^Ella.' 
 
 That will repay the City for my burial : 
 I shall owe London nothing. [Puts it aside."] 
 
 Recall her fall ! 
 [ Tears up the manuscripts. 
 
 Song Man. [More faintly from the street. ~\ 
 Songs ! Songs ! Songs ! Beautiful songs ! 
 Love songs, new songs, old songs all for a penny ! 
 
 Chatterton. [Rising.~\ 
 
 Think not, my children, that this moves me not 
 Because my eyes are dry : the scalding tears 
 Are dropping on my heart ; and we shall meet 
 Above the fateful glimmer of the stars. 
 I'll comb my hair : my exit must be seemly. 
 [Takes up a candle and a comb and goes to the mirror, ,] 
 If it be sooth that hair grows in the grave, 
 What famous locks I'll have. [Combs out his auburn 
 
 hair and then pauses. ~\ This mirror gleams 
 
 A crystal lake in which my wraith appears, 
 With Orkney sea-weed spread upon its head, 
 13 J 93
 
 ACT v.] Ube Baro of 
 
 Foreshadowing my doom. I shall not live 
 
 To hold a candle nightly to the glass 
 
 And watch my face grow old : to see the lines 
 
 Deepen to ditches round the eyes and mouth 
 
 When Time besieges Beauty ; to make that fight, 
 
 Which must be lost, against the first gray hairs 
 
 Plucking them out lest winged Love espy 
 
 The ghostly vanguard of advancing years. 
 
 Nor last, with taper held in palsied clutch, 
 
 To view the muddy orbs, the lips caved in, 
 
 The visage rutted, as if a thousand cares, 
 
 After long rains, had driven their heavy wains, 
 
 With iron-bound wheels, across the features. No ! 
 
 The spirit of my youth shall never peer 
 
 Through Age's hideous mask. [Leaves the mirror.] 
 
 You fly too high 
 
 For sorrow ; stoop, my Fancy, lest your pitch 
 Impugn my grief and lure me into living. 
 I'll singe your wings ! \_Flashes the light about, stops 
 suddenly, and laughs.^ 
 
 Theatric on the brink ! 
 
 Most like, in maddening moonlight, Death and I 
 Will sit upon my grave and forge antiques. 
 We'll split the point of his insatiate dart, 
 And write in poets' blood, on their white skulls, 
 
 194
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT v. 
 
 The songs they left unsung. 'Twill be revenge 
 
 To make of hungry Death a harmless bard, 
 
 With nothing but a pen to fill his maw. 
 
 Death being dartless, fools will multiply : 
 
 Each foot of ground will have its occupant, 
 
 And then they'll stand upon each other's heads 
 
 Until the topmost clamber into heaven. 
 
 Lend me a hand, dear Phillips ; pull me up ! 
 
 \Extends /it's hand heavenward, and then, bursting into 
 
 tears, brings it down across his eyes.~\ 
 There'll be a horrid screaming in the morning. 
 The Coroner and jurymen will find : 
 ' Drank opium in water, Friday night, 
 The twenty-fourth of August, seventeen seventy, 
 At Brooke Street, Holborn, number thirty-nine, 
 T. Chatterton, about eighteen unknown.' 
 The shell will be of rough boards painted black 
 The heart, perchance, of some tall singing pine 
 Besmirched by hands like those that felled the tree ; 
 And Curiosity, not Love, will look 
 The last time on my face. One ghoul may say, 
 As I am borne past Shoe Lane Workhouse wall, 
 'The boy was handsome ; pity he was starved ; 
 And yet, well-fed, he would have galled our hands. 
 We'll take what London pays us for this job, 
 
 195
 
 ACT v.] Ube 3Barfc ot 
 
 And at the Three Crowns drink the youngster's health 
 
 In tankards of old ale. Quick step, my lads ! ' 
 
 If they consign me to the common pit, 
 
 And when my bones disjoint, my skeleton 
 
 Should seek a missing foot or this dear hand, 
 
 How those old skulls will grin ! What's that to me? 
 
 No wizard word can conjure up from hell 
 
 A fiend more dread than one dissembling friend 
 
 Exulting in my writhe. Enough of both ; 
 
 I'll see how Mors looks bottled. 
 
 [Goes to the bed, fakes a phial from his coat, and comes 
 
 down holding the poison before his eyes.~\ 
 
 Were Fancy free 
 
 To ringer o'er this simple cadence, death, 
 She'd find rich harmonies in senseless things, 
 And write a fugue that would not end till doomsday. 
 Instead of that, I'll mull some Bristol milk, 
 The brew she uses when she weans her bards 
 From her cold breast the pap she fed to Savage. 
 [Goes to the washstand, pours water into a glass, and 
 
 takes the glass to the table. ~\ 
 What shape will issue ? Come, Beelzebub ! 
 [Uncorks the phial and looks round. .] 
 His horns stick fast, or may be that he fears 
 To fright me from my purpose. Well, no matter. 
 
 196
 
 IRefccliffe. [ACT v. 
 
 [Pours the opium into the water, ] 
 
 The bubbles rise : quick, quick ! a soul is drowning. 
 
 \Stirs the poison with a quill. ,] 
 
 I'll push it back as I immerse a fly 
 
 To shield it from chill weather. [Knocking on the door.~\ 
 
 Who is that ? 
 
 It may be Bertha she returned before 
 And I may see her, save her, ere I die ! 
 
 [ Goes to the door, opens it, and starts back as Mrs. 
 
 Angell enters with a basket on her arm. 
 Mrs. Angell. Mr. Francisco brought this for you, 
 
 sir. 
 
 Chatterton. \_Taking the basket and looking into //.] 
 Tarts, apple-fritters, jelly and champagne. 
 I have no relish for these dainties, madam : 
 Give them to little Bertha, and tell the child 
 To pray for me to-night. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. You must eat, sir. 
 
 Chatterton. Well, leave them by the table on the 
 
 floor. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. The lady, ere she left, bade me supply 
 Your wants, and she 
 
 Chatterton. Would pay with Walpole's gold! 
 
 [Picks up Walpole'' s purse and hurls it upon the floor. 
 Enter BERTHA BURGUM unseen. 
 197
 
 ACT v.] tbe Bar& of 
 
 Mrs. AngelL She meant not to distress you. Take 
 some wine. 
 
 Chatterton. [Raising the glass of poison.~\ 
 In bitter water, a more fitting draught 
 For Bedouin lost upon the desert sands, 
 I drink the damsel's health ! [Drinks. 
 
 Bertha. Drink now to me. 
 
 Chatterton. [ Turning and seeing her. ] 
 The toast was to you, lady. 
 
 Bertha. You are ill ! 
 
 Chatterton. I pant for pleasure in a wish fulfilled. 
 
 Bertha. Dear Mrs. Angell, we must be alone : 
 There is a secret that I would impart. 
 
 Mrs. Angell. I hope that it is cheering ; for the boy 
 Has borne enough. 
 
 Bertha. I hope so, too. 
 
 Mrs. AngelL Good-night. 
 
 [Exit Mrs. Angell as he puts the glass on the washstand. 
 
 Bertha. Please give me some beginning to my tale : 
 'Tis harder to own folly than offence. 
 
 Chatterton. Speak freely, lady, for I know the worst ; 
 And, needing mercy, I am merciful. 
 
 Bertha. One thing you can not know. 
 
 Chatterton. Alas ! I do, 
 
 And love you madly still. 
 
 198
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 Bertha. \In a whisper. ~\ I came in time. 
 How could I be so foolish ! 
 
 Chatterton. No good is tardy : 
 
 Oh, leave him, lady, leave a life of shame ; 
 Where love is lacking, dalliance is foul. 
 
 Bertha. I know not what you mean ! 
 
 Chatterton. He says you are 
 
 I must pronounce it are his paramour. 
 
 Bertha. He tells a groundless lie ! 
 
 Chatterton. [With a wild cry.] Thank God ! thank 
 God! 
 
 Bertha. He made proposals that were met with 
 
 scorn ; 
 
 Professed repentance ; begged me not to tell 
 My father, or to quit the house at once, 
 Lest it would scandal him ; asked what good deed 
 Lay in his might to prove reform sincere ; 
 And rashly then I pointed to your claim. 
 I have his letters to attest the truth ; 
 For I refused to encounter him alone. 
 
 Chatterton. Oh, I could make him tread with naked 
 
 feet 
 
 On plates of red-hot iron, marking each step 
 With strips of burning flesh ! 
 
 Bertha. You are o'erwrought. 
 
 199
 
 ACT v.] ube JBaro of 
 
 Chatter fan. My soul for one short hour ! But he 
 
 shall live 
 Chained to my corpse for aye ! 
 
 Bertha. Be calm and listen. 
 
 I took a separate hack, making excuse 
 That he must speak to father on a theme 
 I could not hear discussed ; and then returned, 
 Against all custom, form, and girlish pride, 
 To say that I that I had waked to love. 
 
 Chatterton. O Mary Redcliffe, did you know of this, 
 And let me perish ? 
 
 Bertha. [Sinking upon a chair. ,] You will despise 
 
 me now. 
 
 Chatterton. [Kneeling beside her and taking her hands. ] 
 Despise you, Bertha ? O my love ! my love ! 
 No saint is worshipped as I worship you ; 
 And I am half a spirit half removed 
 From fleshly passion now. [Goes to the table and takes 
 from the drawer a bunch of faded flowers.] 
 
 See, I have kept 
 
 The lilacs that once bloomed upon your breast ; 
 They withered though I watered them with tears. 
 Bertha. [Rising] Forgive me, Tom. 
 Chatterton. [Taking her in his arms] You are my 
 own at last ! 
 
 200
 
 TCefccliffe* [ACT v. 
 
 The blossom of my life is now full-blown, 
 And its leaves are rustling in the autumn wind. 
 
 Bertha. I was so young that I felt very old, 
 And you seemed but a child. 
 
 Chatterton. The past is past ; 
 
 The present makes amend. 
 
 Bertha. The future, too ; 
 
 For I have learned that Reverend Dr. Fry, 
 The head of St. John's College, Oxford, read 
 Your Rowley poems, and is coming down 
 To greet the truest poet of the age. 
 
 Chatterton. To die when Fame's bronze gates are 
 
 opening wide, 
 
 And Love is walking with me hand in hand ! 
 ' Tis well : I am a creature born of fire, 
 And could not live 'mong mortals. 
 
 Bertha. You are fagged, 
 
 And speak so strangely. 
 
 Chatterton. Happiness is strange ; 
 
 And you remember I was ever odd : 
 They dubbed me ' The Mad Genius ' in our town. 
 
 Bertha. Your vision has been clouded by the storm ; 
 All will be sunlight after one long sleep. 
 
 Chatterton. If I should die 
 
 Bertha. Oh, no ! 
 
 201
 
 ACT v.] Ube IBaro of 
 
 Chatterton. But if I should, 
 
 For frost oft kills the firstlings in the spring, 
 Console my mother and my sister, love ; 
 And go to Mary Redcliffe, where my ghost 
 Will walk the pillared aisles on moonlit nights. 
 And now no more of dying or of death : 
 This is our wedding-night. 
 
 Bertha. Our wedding -night ? 
 
 Chatterton. We'll christen it 'The Marriage of Two 
 
 Souls.' 
 
 [ffe passes his hand over his brow ; for the voices of a 
 choir are heard singing as they sang in the muniment 
 room, but more faintly ; for they are sounding in his 
 mind.~\ 
 
 But first I must be shriven from all sin. 
 Kneel with me at this altar, love, and say, 
 ' Saint Mary Redcliffe, pardon Chatterton ; 
 For my sake, pardon him. ' Repeat it, dear. 
 
 Bertha. [Kneeling beside him.~\ 
 ( Saint Mary Redcliffe, pardon Chatterton ; 
 For my sake, pardon him.' 
 
 Chatterton. [As they rise.~\ That is enough ; 
 For, clearer than those voices, come the words, 
 ' Forgive him, for he knew not what he did. ' 
 
 Bertha. What voices, Tom ? 
 202
 
 iRefccliffe. [ACT v. 
 
 Chatterton. \Dreamingly. ] Do you not hear them? 
 
 Bertha. No. 
 
 Chatterton. My father sang in the Cathedral choir. 
 [Nearly swooning, he grasps the table for support. .] 
 Open the window, dear, the air is close ! 
 \_Then as she goes to the window and opens //.] 
 I am coming, Mary Redcliffe ; give me time 
 To bid my earthly love farewell. 
 
 Bertha. \_Returning anxiously to him.~\ O Tom ! 
 
 Chatterton. 'Tis nothing but sheer weariness no 
 
 more : 
 You know how hard on me the day has been. 
 
 Bertha. Then I must go. 
 
 Chatterton. Yes, dearest, it is wise : 
 
 Love can not beat off Slumber with his wings. 
 
 \A distant clock begins to strike the hour. 
 
 Bertha. When shall I come again ? 
 
 Chatterton. I leave here soon. 
 
 Meet me, dear Bertha, in the muniment room 
 My Uncle Richard will give you the key 
 Next Friday night upon the stroke of ten : 
 The hour is tolling now. 
 
 B erf ha. I'll meet you there. 
 
 Chatterton. But one more kiss, my love ! [Strains her 
 to his breast and kisses her.~\ And fare -you -well. 
 203
 
 ACT v.] Ube JSarfc of 
 
 Bertha. \_Going to the doorway and turning^ 
 Good-night, dear Tom. 
 
 Chatterton. [ With forced cheerfulness. ] 
 
 You see how strong I am ! 
 [As Bertha descends the stairs, Chatterton steals to 
 
 the landing and leans against the door-frame. 
 Drunken Woman. \_From the street, singing in maud- 
 lin tones with occasional bursts of laughter. ,] 
 
 I put my hand into a bush, 
 
 I pricked my finger to the bone, 
 
 I saw a ship sailing along, 
 
 I thought the sweetest flowers to find. 
 
 Chatterton. [Rushing out on the landing and calling 
 
 wildly as the door below closes with a bang.~\ 
 Bertha ! Bertha ! Bertha ! Die here alone, 
 You selfish fool, and spare her all you can. 
 [Re-enters the room.~\ 
 The gall of cuttle-fish and aloe wood, 
 Red styrax and red roses have been burned 
 The room is full of blood, with zigzag lightning 
 Flashing before my eyes ! I'll kneel and pray. 
 [As he kneels before the table, the sounds of a horn, cf 
 wheels, and of St. Werburgh 1 s song are heard as 
 they were heard before, and he rises delirious. ,] 
 204
 
 TRefcclfffe. [ACT v. 
 
 The coach ! 
 
 The coach is coming at a spanking pace ! 
 
 Do not weep, mother ; it is for the best : 
 
 You and fond sister shall wear silks and gems, 
 
 And ride to service in a chaise-and-four. 
 
 Fear not for me ; my courage will not fail : 
 
 Westminster Abbey shall enclose my bones. 
 
 [The sounds of the coach cease. ~\ 
 
 I must not tarry, for the coach is here. 
 
 I've taken Bristol ; now for London Town ! 
 
 [Goes to the bed and sits down upon it as if it were the 
 
 basket of a coach. .] 
 
 Good-bye, dear mother, sister, Phillips, too ; 
 May Mary Redcliffe bless you every one. 
 
 [His head sinks slowly back upon the pillow, the 
 singing grows fainter and fainter, and the coach 
 wheels roll away. Then all sounds cease as the 
 hand holding the faded lilacs falls from his breast 
 over the side of the bed; and he lies, as if asleep in 
 the muniment room, dead in the moonlight. 
 Watchman. [From the street. ~\ Past ten o'clock and 
 all's well ! Past ten o'clock and all's well ! Past 
 ten o'clock and all's well ! 
 Curtain. 
 
 205
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A 001 045 507 9