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 i^4NNETS 
 
 
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 GEORGE REED CCATES; 
 
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 Sonnets 
 
 Poems 
 
 Sketches 
 
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 GEORGE REED COATES. 
 
 

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 3n fIDcmoriam. 
 
 riEORGE REED COATES, the author of this collection of 
 ^^ poems and sketches, was born in London, Eng., March 
 J 8th, 1876, and died at the early age of twenty-two from the 
 result of an unfortunate accident while prospecting for minerals 
 in the Rainy River District, Canada. 
 
 He was partly educated at a private school in Margate, 
 Eng., and Wesley College, Melbourne, Australia, but chiefly 
 at the Ley's, Cambridge, Eng, He studied Mechanical 
 Engineering under his uncle, Mr, Thos. Coates, C.E., of 
 Darlington, Eng., and Mining Engineering at McGill College, 
 Montreal, and the Kingston School of Mines, Ontario. 
 
 I have thought it desirable to preserve these sketches, which 
 were found amongst his books, etc., some written at random on 
 odd scraps of paper, while others show considerable care and 
 thought. To those who knew the rare sweetness of his 
 disposition, his intense love of nature, high idealism and 
 absolute unselfishness which made his no ordinary character, 
 these few lines will but inadequately re-echo the lofty spirit 
 which marked his every thought and action. 
 
 The essay on Socialism shows the bent of his early in- 
 vestigations and the ardent desire to get at the truth of things, 
 which goes to show that had his earthly life been spared he 
 would have been an efficient and zealous worker along the 
 world's best lines of progress. 
 
 In the writings of Matthew Arnold, the young author in- 
 variably found understanding and help — ** Sweetness and 
 Light." 
 
 Perhaps one of his strongest characteristics was a passionate 
 love of music. That he was himself the possessor of an 
 exceptionally fine baritone voice was a never-ending source 
 of pleasure, to him, and the object of his dearest hopes and 
 ambitions. 
 
 His well-remembered saying that he would some day 
 **Sing with the best,'* is already realized in its highest sense. 
 
 * To his dear mother, and in her son's name, I dedicate this 
 little book. 
 
 ^ ^ , , JOHN COATES. 
 
 Toronto, October J2th, 1893. 
 
m 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 I 
 
 ''Sweetness and Ligfht^'r-a finely tempered mind, 
 The gfenius, God bestowed, of knowing right— 
 A vision clear for all things pure and bright 
 And beautiful and noble in mankind! 
 Groping in darkness, spiritually blind, 
 I yearning, seek for this more perfect light, 
 That I too could be armed with spirit-might. 
 And leave this gross, material state behind* 
 I High up, the mists that round the mountain peak 
 I Obscure the fair, ethereal scene beyond, 
 I Are clearing, and the path we dimly seek 
 Is well defined* Master, thy magic wand. 
 Poesy, pierces the darkness, points the way, 
 And lights the awakened soul to perfect day* 
 
mmm 
 
 Mr»«- 
 
 i 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF '* THE PURPLE EAST.** 
 
 Thou mighty champion of the trampled weak, 
 Ever their valiant trite knight hast thou been, 
 Surely thy pungent lines must fire the meek, 
 Surely thy flaming pen, that tooth full keen 
 Must bite rJecp in the dull hearts of sluggish men, 
 And bring a nation's suffering to their ken 
 With such terrific force that from the paths of greed 
 They turn, forget their selfish ends at last to heed 
 That distant call for help, the overwhelming cry, 
 Sent by a struggling race yoked with black tyranny. 
 
 I 
 
 Ah! then for the strong right arm, the undaunted heart, 
 A foremost place in that great glorious fight. 
 Against the bloody Ottoman to take a part. 
 And banish tyranny forever from the light. 
 
E EAST.'' 
 
 IMITATION OF KEATS* 
 
 
 Men, 
 
 f greed 
 leed 
 
 *anny. 
 
 ^^ Heart, 
 
 i 
 
 QH for warm Sammcr and the South I I dream 
 
 Of casement, and of love glance, framed in tresses 
 Black as the night; of beauty that confesses 
 
 No idle languishment nor disesteem; 
 Of Bacchus and his purple flowing stream, 
 
 Of Venus, and . Faery Goddesses, 
 Of Phoebus, who with golden lyre, addres .s 
 
 "Warm youth and panting love in melting theme. 
 Lead me to some cool shade where I shall lie 
 
 On a soft couch of bedded grasses, strewn 
 "With amorous flowers that never fade nor die, 
 
 And other than thy beauty never own; 
 Nor let me hear beneath this azure sky. 
 
 The mournful echo of the world's sad groan* 
 
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l.v:*d«*^SSu»ttif5^^.SiV..^jfi,. 
 
 
 TO AUTUMN- 
 
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 Season of sadness^ sadness of the heart, 
 
 Regret for all the weary might-have-been: 
 
 I gaze upon this golden Autumn scene. 
 
 With many an aching void, an open smart, 
 
 For all that is no more« The swallows start 
 
 Their Southern whirling, with the fading green* 
 
 The latest harvest scattered toilers glean; 
 
 And nature's smile makes ready to depart* 
 
 Strive as I will I cannot shut the door 
 
 On memories of a youthful heart that thrilled 
 
 With glad anticipation* Now overcast. 
 
 Sadly I turn and view the granary store. 
 
 Stocked with the wraithes of alms, that unfulfilled. 
 
 Stare mockins: from the corners of the past* 
 
 il I 
 
HOPE ON* 
 
 What matters it my heart, is all else drear, 
 
 Because Heaven's blue is sometimes tinged with gray ? 
 
 Where, did no danger lurfc upon the way, 
 
 Would glory in successful strife appear? 
 
 And if the cruel thorns evoke a tear. 
 
 Let us remember ever, while we may. 
 
 That God's rose still smells sweet, and tho' to-day 
 
 Be clouded, that to-morrow may be clean 
 
 Behind the shrouded heaven gleams a star. 
 
 Beneath earth's snowy pall sweet flowers bloom. 
 
 Steadfast the light of Hope shines from afar 
 
 To strengthen failing hearts and pierce the gloom, 
 
 False apparitions, by its truth effacing, 
 
 A purer image in the soul replacing* 
 
ial*'i'u\:;Jklt^Jhi 
 
 H 
 
 A MESSAGE* 
 
 As I woke one April morningf^ 
 
 All the world seemed cold and drear. 
 
 Though the son was shiningf warmly 
 
 And the birds were singfingf near: 
 
 Sweetly singing, but their warbling 
 
 Seemed to me to have a sneer* 
 
 And I said: ^'^Tis only mocking, 
 
 All this promise, seeming cheer; 
 
 For the night comes, quickly shattering 
 
 All our hopes and bringing fear* 
 
 Then to all this vain delusion 
 
 Cold shall be my heart, and when 
 
 I see others with effusion 
 
 Meet thee, I will pity them.*^ 
 
 But I wandered in the garden. 
 And I saw her from afar, 
 Saw her in her wondrous beauty. 
 Felt her presence, like some star 
 Shedding all her radiance round her 
 
 •^•"V'-fS-'t 
 
O'cf the scene that erst did jar; 
 And she smiled upon wz sweetly^ 
 Breathed upon me till the world 
 Seemed to have a different meaning:^ 
 And her spirit o'er me stealing;^ 
 Plucked I then a sin8;Ie flower;— 
 'Twas a violet and I kissed it, 
 Wept upon it, and the power 
 Of its lovliness imparted 
 To my heart a softness, then, 
 Whispered I to her this message: 
 *'A1I this endless plaint of men 
 Rises not from men's surroundingfs. 
 But the use they make of them*'' 
 
THE EXILE 
 
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 The Summer wind is sobbing; 
 
 In the vale against the trees^ 
 
 And my head is throbbingf^ throbbingf, 
 
 As I hsiin it to the htcczc ; 
 
 And my brow is wet with anguish^ 
 
 And my eyes are full of tears; 
 
 To my home shall I return? 
 
 O'er the waters shall I langfuish^ 
 
 In the bitter comingf years? 
 
 Shall I back to thee return? 
 
 
 The nigfhtingfale is singfing:^ 
 In the stillness^ on my ears^ 
 It is ringing:^ ringing:, "ngfingf, 
 All the burden of my fears* 
 My senses of thy melody, 
 Have drunk its sweetness deep; 
 Shall I hear thy voice again ? 
 The music of thy threnody 
 Is bitter, bitter sweet; 
 Shall I hear thy voice again ? 
 
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 I 
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 Oh my heart is nearly breaking I 
 As I gaze upon this scene, 
 Memories are waking, waking, 
 Of the gladness that has been* 
 Oh thou home of happy childhood I 
 Oh thou scene of joyous days! 
 I shall always think of thee* 
 Thou songster in the greenwood. 
 Pouring forth mysterious lays: 
 I shall always dream of thee* 
 
f — 
 
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 I ' I 
 
 
 A LULLABY* 
 
 Twiligfht gray is stealing:, 
 Evcixing: bells are pealingf, 
 
 Lean upon my breast: 
 I my watch am keeping:. 
 Sleep, my love, and sleeping: 
 
 Be at rest* 
 
 I Hi 
 
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 Shades of nig:ht are falling. 
 Little birds are calKngf, 
 
 Calling: tenderly: 
 Moonbeams g:ently g:Ieaming,— 
 Dream, my love, and dreaming 
 
 Dream of me* 
 
 1 1 ^ 
 
Stars arc softly shining, 
 You my arms entwining. 
 
 Nothing now to fear: 
 Should the wind be wailing, 
 Should your heart be failing, 
 
 I am here* 
 
 So until the morrow, 
 Bringing joy and sorrow, 
 
 Tranquil let us be: 
 I my love enfolding, 
 God in heaven beholding 
 
 You and me. 
 
mmmm 
 
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 DREAMS. 
 
 As I sleep and I dream in the calm of the night. 
 Visions are hovering, greeting my sight ; 
 Visions of darkness, and visions of light, 
 Visit my sleep as I dream in the night. 
 
 As I sleep and I dream, 'tis the soft magic hour, 
 When faery and spirit from enchanted bower. 
 Come riding astraddle on moonbeam and flower. 
 Teasing my sleep with their mad 'witching power. 
 
 As I sleep and I dream, comes a vision so fair. 
 Clothed in the folds of her wonderful hair; 
 Maddening me with a soft mocking stare. 
 Asleep in my powerlessness and despair. 
 
 As I sleep and I dream, oh what horror is this ? 
 Damning desire of beauty and bliss. 
 Pointing me down to a darksome abyss ; 
 Restless my sleep! oh what horror is this? 
 
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 tu^^m 
 
 ' nig:ht, 
 
 hour, 
 rcr, 
 
 [owcf, 
 8f power. 
 
 fair, 
 
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 As I sleep and I dream, whence this music divine? 
 Thrillingf my senses like gflorious wine; 
 Can it be strung from the harps of the Rhine ? 
 Apollo, what ecstasy, music of thine ! 
 
 As I wake from my dream in the g^ray of the dawn, 
 Still on my ears is that glad music borne; 
 Hark ! ^tis the joyous lark heraldingf morn. 
 Faded my visfons, in silence withdrawn. 
 
 this? 
 
t( 
 
 LINES ON THE EMANCIPATION 
 OF WOMEN. 
 
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 YcSf strike off these fetters and let me gfo free^ 
 Too long hast thou fondled^ I fawned at thy feet^ 
 My soul is awake and a new life I see. 
 Its radiant young morning I hasten to greet* 
 
 Thro^ the dim mists that hang over its springtime^ 
 Sunned by the promise that nurtures its youth^ 
 I catch the faint echoing call of its birth-chime^ 
 And trace the fair form of this offspring of Truth* 
 
 Welcome, sweet freedom ! the last link lies broken^ 
 I burst from the bonds that have bound me so long^ 
 
 Self-dependence is mine^ its powers foretoken 
 
 The birth of a rights and the death of a wrong* 
 
 I 
 
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A REVERIE 
 
 Sweet wind that blows o'er sunny isles 
 
 The softness of the sea, 
 Blow thou across these mocking miles, 
 
 News of my love to me. 
 
 Ripples her hair like waves that sweep 
 
 About the pleasant shore; 
 Her eyes are bluer than the deep 
 
 Round rocky Appledore. 
 
 Her sweet breast shames the scattered spray. 
 
 Soft kissed by early light ; 
 I dream she is the dawn of day 
 
 That lifts me out of night. 
 
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 BATTLE BRIDGE. 
 
 (Concordt Mass.) 
 
 Their puissant spirits still enthrall the air^ 
 Nor will the magfic cease with added years ; 
 Swiftly throug^h placid vales and pastures fair^ 
 The silent stream its voiceless messag^e bears. 
 
 Stirrings the hearts of those who such as I^ 
 
 Brood o^er their deeds ^neath that same stretch of sky^j 
 
 Which witnessed each his oath to do or diCf 
 
 And watched the first blow struck for liberty. 
 
TO MEPHISTO IN THE GUISE OF A 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Hail! bcautii jI temptress forever entwining, 
 Some half-willingf swain in the coils of thy tresses; 
 For I, while I know that thy charms are designing, 
 Would taste the sweets of thine amorot;s caresses* 
 
 Half swooning with joy, still I am not forgetting 
 The penalty owing this excess of pleasure; 
 Pm willingly snared in thy gold-silken netting, 
 Tho' doomed in the future to t it it at leisure. 
 
 Oh ravishing charms! on thy lips madly sinning, 
 I indolent grow towards the thought of my fate. 
 And yet, when my soul thou succeedest in winning, 
 I know thou wilt mock at my desolate state. 
 
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 Silent drawing-, 
 Sweet confusion, 
 Lips caressingf. 
 Love's profusion. 
 
 Stolen sweetness, 
 Stress of passion, 
 Love's completeness. 
 Human fashion I 
 
 t : 
 
 Quick awaking. 
 She still cling'in^, 
 He forsaking:, 
 Blackness bringing. 
 
Shamed^ degraded^ 
 Stern contention, 
 Guilt paraded, 
 Crue! convention. 
 
 Broken, drifting:. 
 
 None befriendingf. 
 
 Torn, despairing:, hope all fled- 
 
 Naug^ht existing, 
 
 Daylig^ht ending: 
 
 In a sunset bloody red. 
 
11 
 
 !* 
 
 OVER THE BOUNDLESS SEA. 
 
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 Over the boundless sea 
 I drift from an unknown source. 
 Impelled by an t^nseen hand, 
 I take my rudderless course 
 To a far off distant strand^ 
 Over the boundless sc3u 
 
 Is it for that unknown land 
 The sun sinks down in the West ? 
 And I wearily take my stand, 
 For I may not take my rest 
 Till I reach that unknown strand. 
 Over the boundless sea. 
 
 Over the boundless sea. 
 
 Oh weary, weary heart, 
 
 Awaitingf a sign to tell 
 
 The clue to thy life's part. 
 
 Thy course till then drifts aimlessly 
 
 Over the boundless sea* 
 
?, 
 
 a 
 
 AFTERWARD. 
 
 If only you had not looked at me, 
 And I had not seen the wish unexpressed, 
 
 Had we but paused events to foresee : 
 Remorse had not stabbed, and scattered the breast* 
 
 How did it happen you ask? and plead 
 That never a word by you was spoken ! 
 
 Ah — but a glance of the eyes, and I read 
 A God's gift lost, and our two hearts broken. 
 
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 Weary and sick 
 Of strugfgle on this Plane, 
 Where now the couch to rest 
 A soul in pain ? 
 
 Doubtingf, false doubts 
 I feel them all to be, 
 What is it comes to shake 
 My faith in Thee? 
 
 fif 
 
 t! 
 
 Oh for a calm 
 On this gfreat storm of life! 
 Only a moment's stay 
 From endless strife^ 
 
 Only a gfleam, 
 An opening in the West, 
 There catch a ray from out 
 The Vale of Rest, 
 
 II 
 
I 
 
 Caught in a stream, 
 A sufg^ing: htiman tide, 
 I grasp their empty faiths, 
 Still scorn a guidz* 
 
 God give me strength, 
 A higher, loftier aim; 
 Lead me to nobler paths 
 Than empty fame* 
 
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 I sat by the old fireside 
 
 And I heard the faint echoes chime^ 
 
 As the old year went and the New Year came 
 
 To enter the list of time, 
 
 And I gently lifted the mantle cast 
 
 On the distant shores of the past, 
 
 And I saw in a dim shadowland 
 
 Forms that I loved longf ag;o^ 
 
 To that silent band in a sweet command 
 
 A voice spake soft and low, 
 
 **Time goes on and no man knows 
 
 What the end shall win, 
 
 But from Spring's sweet showers 
 
 And Winter's deep snows 
 
 I silently gather my 'lock within^'' 
 
 if i' I ii 
 
TO A LONDON SQUARE. 
 
 Vca,t 
 
 came 
 
 land 
 
 I 
 
 Oh sweet is the g:Iimpsc of thy green in the morning, 
 
 So calm and reposeful thy quiet domain; 
 
 The buildings around seem to be deeply mourning 
 
 The fates that have cruelly made them so plain. 
 
 To-day I detect on the bushes surrounding, 
 Vce buds peeping forth, shyly heralding Spring; 
 And Melody sings from the branches abounding. 
 To Love, and to Hope, and the pleasures they bring. 
 
 And glad is my heart! like the wanderer returning, 
 Who gazes on England with memory aflame; 
 As with joy overflowing and sentiment burning. 
 He blesses the land of his birth and his name. 
 
 Old London Square — so sweet and refreshing. 
 Thy verdure and contrast this city transform; 
 Still silently rest from the turmoil distressing 
 And act as a lull in the midst of the storm. 
 
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 ii 
 
 l: I ■• 
 
 SPRING SONG. 
 
 Hark! Hark! it is the Spring:; 
 The lark is on the wing;> 
 And the buds upon the tree 
 Peeping; down on you and me 
 As we singf — 
 Welcome, welcome Spring! 
 
 All the heavens are rife 
 
 With joyous sounds of life, 
 
 And the fresh youngf blades of grass 
 
 Smile up at us as we pass, 
 
 And we sing— 
 
 Welcome, welcome Spring! 
 
 J 
 
 I 
 
 Sweet nature wears her smile, 
 Casts the veil she wore awhile. 
 Lifts her bared face to the sun, 
 Penetrates us as we run. 
 And we sing — 
 Welcome, welcome Spring! 
 
ON A SUNSET. 
 
 Fast dying embers of the impassioned day I 
 Keep open still thy gates of glowing fire, 
 Or merged within thy lovely hues entire, 
 Waft me. Oh waft me to some far away, 
 Where this dull life's interminable gray, 
 i| And weary-hearted stumbling in the mire 
 Shall be forgot; thy glorious colour lyre 
 Softens and stills my aching, — stay, Oh stay. 
 
 Thou fadest — cruel — and leav'st a mateless dove ! 
 
 Within thy narrowy shapes, from some high heaven, 
 
 I saw the neglected image of my love. 
 
 Leaning as does yon cedar towards the Lake, 
 
 To view the perfect contours of her shape. 
 
 Why, holding forth such fruit dost leave me leaven? 
 
 On a Sunset " was written after a glorious sunset, while camped on 
 the shores of Camp Bay, Lake of the Woods District, Canada. 
 
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PROSE POEMS. 
 
*f ,' 
 
THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 Not a movement,— not a sound, save ever and anon faint 
 catches of a breaking sob : the sob of the melancholy wind as 
 it murmurs its plaint to the silent trees. 
 
 How majestically they stand in the weird night light, with 
 naught to mark their sympathy for the grief of the pity-plead- 
 ing wind save the rustle of a leaf as it brushes its way through 
 the branches, falling like a great tear upon the earth's cold 
 cheek. 
 
 What magic in the glimmer of the silent stream I so still, 
 and yet so swiftly flowing. Calmly the stars keep their night 
 watch o'er the sleeping children of Nature; the twining 
 flowers, how sweet their slumber I Like youths and maidens 
 locked in a love-brace, their tired eyes closed, their faces up- 
 turned, to be chastened by the falling dew. 
 
 "What mighty charm haunts the air, breathing of some 
 near magic presence I Gently but surely it presses upon me, 
 inspiring my soul with fear and wonder until - suddenly — 
 the sense of my own infinite nothingness rushing over me, 
 trembling I bow down and worship at the feet of the great 
 unseen Unknown I 
 
TIT 
 
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 In- 
 
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 THE RUBICON. 
 
 Helpless and hopeless she stands upon the brink of life and 
 gazes with dazed eyes into the endless vista of dim eternity ; 
 behind, the unceasing din of worldly strife, before, unearthly 
 stillness out of which arise the phantom forms of Sleep and 
 Death. 
 
 Oh life of tears, what hast thou to offer ? Oh sleep of 
 Death, take me to thy bosom, lull me to an everlasting, 
 dreamless rest* 
 
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%^^ t^' 9^^ V^ %^^ ^^ 9^^ 9^^ ^r^ tS^ 9fi^ J^ 
 
 ' life and 
 eternity ; 
 inearthly 
 leep and 
 
 sleep of 
 ;rlasting, 
 
 Oh my love, my lovet long have I sought thee. In the 
 dark winter cf my loneliness I have warmed my starved soul 
 with sweet visions of thy brightness. I have even been happy 
 in the sweet uses of my imagination— beautiful gift of God. 
 I have weaved many, many fancies pictures in which thou 
 wast ever the centrepiece — poems in which thou wast ever my 
 inspiration. Truly, oh beauteous one, hast thou been the 
 goddess of my idolatry I Long have I worshipped thee and 
 waited thy coming. 
 
 And now, oh blissful pain, now that thou hast come— I am 
 afraid — I dare not approach thee. The sense of my unworthi- 
 ness, the knowledge of my grossness, is strong upon me. How 
 can I draw near to thee thou pure in spirit ? How can I — 
 earthbound as I am— breathe the pure atmosphere of thy high 
 heaven ? Oh lovely being, how shall I throw off the burden 
 of this mortality ? How shall I escape the lusts, desires, and 
 weaknesses which I am made to contend against, and yet 
 which mortify and shame my bruised spirit ? 
 
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SOCIALISM. 
 
 A LL observers arc aware that great changes are looming 
 in the future — that we are undergoing a rapid social 
 evolution. Just what shape these changes will take, forms a 
 subject of serious conjecture to the minds of many to-day. 
 All thinkers are agreed that the existing relations between the 
 classes and the masses are as bad as bad can be. But the 
 cause of the disease— the root of the evil, is not so apparent to 
 the superficial onlooker. 
 
 In as brief and concise a manner as possible I propose to- 
 night to attempt to give you a short diagnosis of this serious 
 but intensely interesting case, a case to which all modern 
 thinkers are giving their best attention, a disease which is not 
 spreading, but has already spread ; a disease with v/hich all 
 are tainted, nay charged, charged in body, mind and soul, 
 What treatment then is to be discovered in order to e"^purgatc 
 the malady ? What Herculean purgative is to cleanse this 
 modern Augean stable? This is the momentous question 
 which at present occupies modern advanced thought. 
 
 That a state of luxury, ease and idleness is the lot of a 
 few, whilst the many lead a hand to mouth existence 
 is a fact that has seemed natural Iiitherto, indeed seems natural 
 enough to-day, to all but the small minority of thinkers to 
 whom I have already referred. But ^tis the latter to-day who 
 are thundering the question, why are the few rich ? And why 
 
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 arc the many poor ? Why does the wealth of a nation remain 
 in the hands of a few whilst the many slave for a pittance ? 
 Yes, and consider themselves fortunate to be allowed to slave 
 for that pittance. 
 
 In England, during the Feudal age, we are aware that the 
 lot of the common people was a comparatively happy one. 
 They were able to live in comfort ; they owned a fair portion 
 of land, besides having for their use the large tracts of 
 common land and the lands in the possession of the then 
 existing Monasteries. The proletarial owned his fowl, his 
 sheep, his pig, and very commonly his cov/. That honest 
 labour should be unable to make a comfortable home was a 
 state of affairs then inconceivable. Poor-houses were un- 
 known, beggary and starvation practically unheard of. This 
 was the merrie England that produced the sturdy yeoman 
 who performed such wonders in the Crusades^who conquered 
 nearly the whole of France, and who laid the foundation of 
 all England^s greatness. 
 
 Let us trace then the succession of events which have led 
 up to the present unhappy systems of Landlordism in the 
 country and Capitalism in the towns. 
 
 After the Wars of the Roses, which impoverished the 
 nobility, the great nobles who were at variance with the 
 Crown and Parliament set to work to restore their fortunes 
 by turning out the peasant owners and by encroaching on the 
 common lands w^hich the laborers depended upon for depastur- 
 ing their animals, also accompanying these robberies by a 
 steady conversion of arable land into pasture. Let me draw 
 your attention especially to the latter fact. The masses of 
 the people were agriculturists. To-day, with our improved 
 methods of cultivation and labor-saving machinery, arable 
 land will employ more than twice as many men as pasture. 
 But in those days the proportion was far larger. 
 
 Why then did the nobles pursue this course ? Simply be- 
 
nation remain 
 3r a pittance ? 
 owed to slave 
 
 ware that the 
 y happy one. 
 a fair portion 
 rge tracts of 
 of the then 
 his fowl, his 
 That honest 
 home was a 
 jes were un- 
 ard of. This 
 urdy yeoman 
 ho conquered 
 foundation of 
 
 lich have led 
 rdism in the 
 
 )verished the 
 ice with the 
 their fortunes 
 iching on the 
 ifordepastur- 
 )bberies by a 
 -et me draw 
 le masses of 
 ur improved 
 inery, arable 
 :n as pasture. 
 
 Simply be- 
 
 cause there was more to be gained by feeding sliecp than men. 
 To compete profitably in the wool markets of Flanders 
 was more important than to maintain a race of independent 
 peasant farmers. So serious then became this flood of landless 
 people, unfortunates with no place in society as it then existed, 
 that Henry Seventh and his Parliament made constant efforts 
 to check the rapacious and harmful actions of the barons, but, 
 unfortunately, to little purpose. 
 
 The landless class still increased, and more and more 
 people became dependent on others for support. Henry 
 Seventh, a great, though penurious monarch, saw clearly 
 that the welfare of the mass of his subjects, not the 
 inordinate wealth and aggrandizement of the few, con- 
 stituted the real strength of his kingdom. He was anxious 
 therefore to keep the land in the hands of small owners, who 
 were really the bone and sinew of the country. He made 
 laws, and even the day labourer received his consideration and 
 was secured by the laws four acres of land to his cottage. 
 Such a suggestion as this : Four acres of land or the equivalent 
 in work secured, mind, not to be sought for, prayed for, or 
 given as a sort of favour, but secured — would be ridiculed to- 
 day. Why, to-day a labourer feels himself under an obligation 
 to the man who allows him to work at a bare pittance, but I 
 will show later on that it is the capitalist who in reality is the 
 debtor to the labourer. 
 
 But to return to Henry Seventh. In spite of his laws the 
 process of expropriation went relentlessly on. 
 
 But the confiscation of the lands of the Monasteries, and 
 Priories and Nunneries, at the time of the Reformation, was 
 a far greater blow to the welfare of the people. Carried 
 out with a shameless disregard for the rights and privileges of 
 the people, by the most violent and despotic monarch who 
 ever sat on the English throne. This was the greatest injury 
 inflicted on the poor which our history records. The property 
 
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 of the dtholic Church, though not always well administered, 
 was in reality at the service of the poor and needy, "Whatever 
 might be urged against abbots and friars, pauperism was then 
 unknown. The celibate parish priests had small expenses and 
 the land they held, was held, it may almost be said, in trust 
 for the people. They were, however, swept away, their 
 goods seized and the lands taken from the people to be held by 
 the king or given to his favourites. 
 
 Thus the poor, who had ever obtained ready relief from 
 the Church, the wayfarers who could always find food and 
 shelter in the religious houses, were deprived at one fell swoop 
 of alms^ shelter and schools. When, however, the Monasteries 
 were thus destroyed, and their lands confiscated, not only was 
 almost the last hold of the English people on their own soil 
 torn off, but the monks, nuns, priests and friars, were turned 
 loose upon the world to swell the ranks of the *' unemployed." 
 The whole country was overrun with loafers and vagrants 
 deprived of the means of living by no fault of their own. Not 
 even the most atrocious laws could keep them within limits, 
 and at length, paupers beinp thus numerous in the reign of 
 Elizabeth, who had resumed all the confiscated lands, a Poor 
 Law was passed,— and from that time to this pauperism has 
 formed as integral a portion of our social constitution as the 
 aristocracy who created the necessity for the law. 
 
 How could it be otherwise ? The landed rights of the 
 many had been sacrificed to the greed of the few; and con- 
 fiscation, really put in force to bolster up luxury and selfish- 
 ness, was carried on in the name of religion. From that time 
 up to the present the whole face of England has been changed. 
 In place of well-being, contentment and general prosperity, as 
 described by Fortescue, depression and misery has become the 
 common lot of the people who own no land. The mere 
 wage earner has taken the place of the labouring petty farmer 
 — a man at the mercy of his employer. Nothing more 
 
lministefcd» 
 . "Whatever 
 n was then 
 Kpenses and 
 lidf in trust 
 iway, their 
 t be held by 
 
 relief from 
 id food and 
 '. fell swoop 
 VLonasteries 
 )t only was 
 ir own soil 
 rere turned 
 rmployed/' 
 d vagrants 
 own. Not 
 hin limits, 
 ic reign of 
 ids, a Poor 
 3erism has 
 ion as the 
 
 rhts of the 
 and con- 
 nd selfish- 
 i that time 
 1 changed, 
 sperity, as 
 ecome the 
 The mere 
 tty farmer 
 ling more 
 
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 shameful is told in the long tale of class greed than this of the 
 seizure of the common lands by the upper and middle classes 
 of Great Britain. To deprive the people of their last vestige 
 of independent holding, and thus to force all to become mere 
 hand to mouth wage earners at the mercy of the capitalist class, 
 such has been the practical effect of bill after bill framed by a 
 Parliament made up almost exclusively of land owners, and 
 in no sense whatever representative of the mass of the people* 
 In the course of 150 years, between J700 and 1845, no fewer 
 than seven million acres of public land, and probably a great 
 deal more, were enclosed by the landowners of England in 
 Parliament assembled, without one half-penny of real com- 
 pensation ever being madz to the public, whose rights were 
 thus ridden over. 
 
 The very people who ate up the whole country away 
 from their countrymen, and made land a monopoly, cry out 
 fiercely that they are being ill-used when an attempt is made 
 to re-assert some small portion of the rights of the nation over 
 that which is, and always has been, the property of the nation 
 — the land of England. What sort of title have many of them 
 to their lands ? 
 
 ** The trees that spread their boughs against the evening 
 sky, the marble that I have prepared beforehand these millions 
 of years in the earth, the cattle that roam over the myriad 
 hills— they are mine, for my children — 
 
 If thou lay hands on them for thyself alone, thou art 
 accursed.^^ ^^For I w^ill have none who will not open his 
 door to all ; treating others as I have treated him.*^ 
 
 Such is the w^ritten command. The majority of monopo- 
 lists, I have no doubt, consider themselves Pillars of the 
 Church. How, then, do they reconcile this with their 
 consciences. 
 
 I propose to describe briefly the position of the modern 
 Capitalist, showing how, in order to increase his capital, he 
 
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 cheats the labour he employs of its due reward, appropriating 
 to himself a large part of the results of the labour of others 
 without payxnent. Labor is the basis of value* As an 
 illustration of this fact, take a piece of cloth and make it into 
 a dress. Its value is increased by just so much labour as it 
 took to make the plain cloth into a useful garment. Thus, if 
 the dress is worth just twice as much as the cloth, it is because 
 it (the cloth), contains only half the labour of the dress. Now 
 let us see how the Capitalist, who applies his capital to this 
 particular line of work, makes his profits. 
 
 He buys the raw material ; he employs labour to work it 
 up into a finished article ; and he sells the finished article. 
 These are the three processes of his business, and in one (or 
 more) of these processes he must get more than he gives — 
 otherwise he can make no profit. 
 
 He buys cloth, employs dressmakers to cut and stitch it, 
 and sells dresses. These, as I have said, contain so much 
 cloth and so much labour (including the labour necessary to 
 replace wear and tear of machines, rent and other necessary 
 expenses). And the value of the dress is equal to the value 
 of the cloth plus the value of the labour put into it. 
 
 It is obvious that in the long run the dress will not sell for 
 more than this. If not, where does the profit come from ? It 
 must come out of the cloth or out of the labour. But he has 
 paid the full value of the cloth and therefore he cannot on 
 the average get more in selling it. This only leaves the 
 labour. Has he paid the full value in purchasing that? No, 
 certainly not ; and it is here that the profit arises. 
 
 He pays his women fifty cents (50^, (generally less), for 
 their days* work at the sewing machines. But the labour 
 that they put into the work is worth far more thari fifty cents ; 
 and the value that he gets in the market for the dress (above 
 the value of the cloth out of which it is made), is the actual 
 value of the labour put into it, not the value of the wretched 
 wage which he gives. 
 
ippfopriating 
 
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 lue. As an 
 
 make it into 
 
 labour as it 
 
 tit. Thus, if 
 
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 dress. Now 
 
 ipital to this 
 
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 ished article, 
 id in one (or 
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 ind stitch it, 
 tin so much 
 necessary to 
 er necessary 
 to the value 
 it. 
 
 I not sell for 
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 But he has 
 J cannot on 
 ' leaves the 
 
 that? No, 
 
 ly less), for 
 i the labour 
 I fifty cents ; 
 Ircss (above 
 is the actual 
 le wretched 
 
 Thus it is that he gets more than he gives. 
 
 The process is simple enough. An article for whose entire 
 production the total sum of labour expended is nine hours, 
 will fetch in the market an equivalent of nine hours* labor. 
 
 So if the workwoman puts nine hours* labour into the 
 dress* she will at any rate increase the value of the dress on 
 the market by that equivalent sum. But does anyone suppose 
 that the fifty cents, which she receives, is the equivalent, or 
 anything like the equivalent of these same nine hours? "What 
 in the way of ordinary necessaries of life does nine hours' 
 labour represent ? Godwin, the author of ** Political Justice,'* 
 calculated that a man with ordinary labour, unhampered by 
 the rapacity of others, should be able in two hours daily to 
 support himself with the necessaries and conveniences of life. 
 What does Henry Thoreau say in his book ** "Walden ?** 
 
 ** For more than five years I maintained myself thus solely 
 by the labour of my hands, and I found that by working 
 about six weeks in a year I could meet all the expenses of 
 living.*' This man tired of wading through the bogs of 
 modern social life, had the pluck to land himself on the dry 
 ground of actual necessity. He squatted on a small piece of 
 land in New England, built himself a little hut, produced the 
 main articles of his own food, hired himself out now and 
 again for a little ready money, and has recorded for us the 
 results of his experience. Moreover, to leave no doubt as to 
 his meaning, he adds : ** The whole of my winters, as well 
 as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study.** 
 (He was an author and naturalist). 
 
 The real truth about Thoreau is that he was a thorough 
 economist, and having, so to speak, labour in his right hand and 
 its reward in his left, he had no difficulty in seeing what was 
 worth labouring for and what was not, and no hesitation in 
 discarding things that he did not think worth the time or 
 trouble of production. One day he picked up a curiosity and 
 
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 kept it on his shelf for a tiire^ but soon finding; that it required 
 dusting, he threw it out of the window. It did not pay for 
 its keep. Thofcau preferred leisure to ornaments j other 
 people may prefer ornaments to leisure. This is, of course, a 
 matter of taste. But you cannot have ornaments and idleness 
 both. 
 
 But this is a digression. To return to the capitalist, or 
 rather to the seamstress. The nine hours^ labour, then, which 
 she puts into the dress, ought to represjint for her a comfortable 
 living for several days. It represents a bare living for one 
 day. She ought to receive say $2 for it. She receives fifty 
 cents. The capitalist pockets the difference. The wretched 
 woman makes him a present, or has to make him a present 
 of four days^ work in the week. She gets the value of her 
 labour for two. And this is where profits, where interest 
 under our present social system come from. 
 
 The position of women in these matters is notoriously 
 bad, but that of the male labourers, skilled or unskilled, is 
 little better. Marx calculates that the ordinary cotton- 
 spinner makes a present to his master of three days* work in 
 a week. He puts six days* labour into the yarn, and his 
 master in selling the cotton gets the equivalent of that six 
 days* labour, but he only gives the spinner the money value 
 of the three days* labour. 
 
 Under the old system of feudalism, a man was obliged to 
 give, say one day*s work in a w?ek, or at most two to his 
 feudal lord without payment. Such a man, though he had 
 the remaining five or six days* wholly to himself, was 
 thought little better than a slave. Nor was he. English 
 capitalists would, of all men, subscribe largely to relieve 
 human beings from continuing in such a shameful and 
 degraded position. But here at home we have men, women, 
 and cliildren, who are obliged to give four, five, six hours a 
 day to the capitalist and yet are thought free. This cease- 
 
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that it required 
 id not pay for 
 nientsj other 
 ;s, of course, a 
 ts and idleness 
 
 ; capitalist, or 
 r, then, which 
 a comfortable 
 iving for one 
 receives fifty 
 fhc wretched 
 him a present 
 value of her 
 ''here interest 
 
 5 notoriously 
 unskilled, is 
 lary cotton- 
 ays* work in 
 arn, and his 
 t of that six 
 noney value 
 
 as obliged to 
 two to his 
 >ugh he had 
 imself, was 
 le. English 
 to relieve 
 imeful and 
 en, women, 
 six hours a 
 This cease- 
 
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 ( 
 
 less labour of the workers continually enriches those already 
 rich, until extreme wealth enables a privileged minority to 
 live in careless luxury, undisturbed by the struggle for 
 existence that gjes on beneath them. Have labourers no 
 right under the sun but to work when capitalists think fit, 
 and on such terms as competition may dcterniine ? 
 
 " You shall see things — as they are,'' said Ruskin, himself 
 one of the very last men to fall into vain imaginings that 
 what is *^bad'' is the only ** reality,''— *'And the least with 
 the greatest, because God made them ; and the greatest with 
 the least, because God made you, and gave you eyes and 
 a heart." 
 
 That is Ruskin's prophecy — or is it a command ? How 
 far, looking round on any section of English life at present, 
 can one honestly say this prophecy is being fulfilled ? At any 
 rate, it is part of our lives to strive to inculcate and spread 
 larger and more generous and adequate ideas of life, more 
 belief in **the best that has been thought and said in the 
 world," in education, in religion, and above all in ordinary 
 social relation. Not that we, like Matthew Arnold, are 
 likely to meet with any immediate success. 
 
 But no, — they rubbed through yesterday 
 In their hereditary way. 
 And they will rub through if they can 
 To-morrow on the self-same plan. 
 
 Yet in reviewing the changes in thought and in sentiment 
 on many subjects which have taken place during the last 
 quarter of a century, one looks forward to the future with a 
 heart full of hope and gladness. 
 
 In Canada here w^e are becoming more thoroughly demo- 
 cratic every day. That the distribution of wealth is here also 
 sadly faulty is indeed too certain. Here, too, is felt the 
 alternation of inflation and stagnation consequent upon our 
 capitalist system, and the large capitalists, either English or 
 
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 native^ are acquiring excessive preponderance. But the 
 possibility of a man taking himself out of the wage-earning 
 class is far greater than in England* The abundance of 
 virgin soil, the rapid increase of wealth in proportion to the 
 population keep wages at a higher level than in the old 
 country. Not as yet, of course, can we hope to realize more 
 than a portion of that for which we strive, but the time 
 approaches when capital can be made public property no 
 lorgei" at the disposal of the few, but owned by the com- 
 munity for the benefit of all. For, while capital is left in 
 the hands of the few, poverty must be the lot of the many* The 
 same with the land. The land was made by God for His 
 people, not to be monopolized by a few for game preserving 
 and other useless purposes. Therefore let us have National- 
 ization of the land tbat the land may be used by the people 
 for the good of the people. But, let me say in conclusion, 
 true Socialism does not consist merely of a series of economic 
 measures which we wish to see taken. We do not strive for a 
 life of mere ease and comfortable living for the people. This 
 pursuit of wealth, this idea that wealth is a precious end in 
 itself, this is what we would change. Perfection, not wealth, 
 is the true aim of life— perfection which consists of becoming 
 something, rather than ii* Iiaving something. Culture, says 
 Matthew Arnold, is a study of perfection, and perfection — as 
 culture from a thoroughly disinterested study of human nature 
 and human experience learns to conceive it — is an harmonious 
 expansion of ^^all" the powers which make the beauty and 
 worth of human nature. Never, he goes on to say, did 
 people believe anything more firmly than nine Englishmen 
 out of ten at the present day believe, that our greatness and 
 welfare are proved by our being so rich. Now, the use of 
 culture is that it helps us, by means of its spiritual standard of 
 perfection, ^c regard wealth but as machinery, and not only to 
 say as a matter of words that we regard wealth as machinery, 
 but really to perceive and feel that it is so. If it were not for 
 
ce. But the 
 wagc-caming 
 ibttndance of 
 portion to the 
 n in the old 
 realize more 
 xtt the time 
 property no 
 by the com- 
 ital is left in 
 ;many. The 
 God for His 
 le preserving 
 ve National- 
 ly the people 
 1 conclusion, 
 of economic 
 )t strive for a 
 ;opIe. This 
 :ious end in 
 . not wealth, 
 3f becoming 
 -ulture, says 
 rfection — as 
 iman nature 
 harmonious 
 beauty and 
 to say, did 
 Englishmen 
 eatness and 
 the use of 
 standard of 
 not only to 
 machinery, 
 ere not for 
 
 this purging effect wrought upon our minds by culture, the 
 whole world, the future as well as the present, would belong 
 to the Philistines. The people who believe most that our 
 greatness and welfare are proved by our being very rich, and 
 who most give their lives and thoughts to becoming rich, are 
 just the very people whom we call Philistines. Culture says : 
 ** Consider these people, then, their way of life, their habits, 
 their manners, the very tones of their voices ; look at them 
 attentively ; observe the literature they read, the things which 
 give them pleasure, the words which come forth out of their 
 mouths, the thoughts which make the furniture of their 
 minds ; would any amount of wealth be worth having with 
 the condition that one has to become just like these people by 
 having it ? " 
 
 And thus, culture begets a dissatisfaction which is of the 
 highest possible value in stemming the common tide of men's 
 thoughts in a wealthy ^nd industrial community, and which 
 saves the future, as one may hope, from being vulgarized, 
 even if it cannot save the present. The pursuit of perfection 
 then is the channel into which we would direct the vitality 
 and energy of the people ; instead of their being misused in 
 the present vain pursuit of worldly riches. The pursuit of 
 culture which seeks to make the best that has been thought 
 and known in the world current everywhere; to make all 
 men live in an atmosphere of sweetnees and light, where they 
 may use ideas, as it uses them itself, freely, — nourished and 
 not bound by them. This, says Arnold, is the social idea ; 
 and the men of culture are the true apostles of equality. 
 
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SYNOPSIS OF THE LIFE OF THOMAS 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 ^HOMAS CHATTERTON was born in Bristol, in the 
 year J752. Among the poets of the J8th century, he 
 occupies a place absolutely unique. His remarkable intel- 
 lectual precocity^his matured literary style and his marvellous 
 originality, single him out in an age when such men as 
 Johnson, Gray and Goldsmith were at the zenith of their 
 fame. For this reason, together with the fact of his untimely 
 end at the age of seventeen, the name of Chatterton stands 
 alone in the history of the world. The bulk of his literary 
 fame rests on those curious creations which have come down 
 to us in the form of the ** Rowley Poems.'* At an early age 
 he conceived the character of an imaginary monk-poet, of 
 the name of Thomas Rowley. Producing poems of rare and 
 beautiful merit, he dressed them in quaint mediaeval language, 
 and ascribed them to his fictitious monk, who was supposed 
 to have lived in the J 5th century. The MSS. of these he 
 professed to have found in the old Church of St. Mary Red- 
 cliffe, the sextonship of which had been in the Chatterton 
 family for over two hundred years. 
 
 These poems were received at first with child-like 
 credulity, but brought no substantial remuneration to 
 Chatterton. He accordingly addressed himself to no less a 
 
 \ 
 
pefsonage than Horace 'Walpole^ afterwards Lord Orford^ a 
 distinguished literateur and patron of the fine arts, who at 
 first acknowledged the poems with great courtesy. This 
 courtesy, however, led Chatterton to make a more unreserved 
 communication, in which he revealed his poverty and youth. 
 Walpole's suspicions were at once aroused, and he placed the 
 MSS. in the hands of the poets Gray and Mason, who pro- 
 nounced them to be of modern construction, "^alpole then 
 treated Chatterton with much harshness, refusing for some 
 time to return the poems, and to this treatment can be clearly 
 ascribed Chatterton^s subsequent act of self-destruction. 
 
 It is on this motive that the dramatist has constructed the 
 following play : — 
 
 i I 
 
 i' 
 
-ord Offord, a 
 z arts, who at 
 iuftcsy. This 
 ore unreserved 
 rty and youth. 
 [ he placed the 
 son, who pro- 
 Walpole then 
 sing for some 
 can be clearly 
 action. 
 
 )nstructed the 
 
 CHATTERTON. 
 
 (Dramatized). 
 
 CAST: 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON, 
 HORACE WALPOLE. 
 
 The Boy Poet. 
 
 JACK LADGATE, - An impecunious actor, friend of 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
 MRS. ANGEL, 
 
 Landlady to Chatterton and 
 Ladgate. 
 
 Action of play passes at No. 4 Brook Street, Kolborn, 
 London. 
 
 Scene :— A garret. At the back a window, across which 
 is a pallet bed. In front, to the right, a table with two wooden 
 chairs beside it. On the table, ink, pens and paper. To thr 
 left, a door* 
 
 Time ; — Late afternoon. 
 
1 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 I ' ( ^ 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Curtain rises and finds Mrs. Angel at the window, look- 
 ing out. She is a motherly woman, and throughout displays 
 great concern on behalf of Chatterton. Enter Chatterton 
 immediately. 
 
 CHATTERTON: (He is pale and thin and signs of 
 poverty and hunger are deep-set, yet he carries himself 
 proudly, even haughtily, and speaks cheerfully, with an 
 effort.) 
 
 The same story, the same story. 
 
 MRS. ANGEL : Oh, Mr. Chatterton, haven't you been 
 successful to-day? 
 
 CHATTERTON: Successful! I have never yet been 
 able to learn the meaning of the word. Ah, Mrs. Angel, 
 my hopes of ever realizing the fair ideals I used to dream of 
 are fast fading away. The picture I painted of a life 
 earnestly devoted to the true and the beautiful — some quiet 
 spot where free from the thought of mere worldly gain I 
 could give full scope to my imagination, and after a life of 
 unceasing activity of thought be able to lay some accept- 
 able offering at the altar of the Goddess of Art I But where 
 is my picture ? Alas I blotted out I Instead, I am barely 
 able to keep body and soul together I What are these awful 
 forces which bar the path to success — aye, even the modest 
 success I ask a bare living I The whole world seems to 
 
rmm 
 
 . JHiM 
 
 have risen against me^ and everywhere I seem to hear the 
 cry ^' Chatterton, you shall not succeed* you shall not 
 succeed I ** 
 
 MRS. ANGEL : Oh, Mr. Chatterton, I am sure it will 
 all come right in time. Why, what a lot you have printed 
 already y and you so young too I 
 
 CHATTERTON: Ah, yes, they are always ready 
 enough to print, but when it comes to pay, it is a different 
 story. But I am forgetting about you. I have been able to 
 scrape together a little to-day, and so can pay you your 
 rent- all but sixpence- which I expect to be able to make up 
 to-morrow. (He places the money in her hand.) 
 
 MRS. ANGEL : Oh, Mr. C, I am in no hurry. Would 
 you not like to keep half until you are better off ? 
 
 CHATTERTON : No, no thanks. (He points to his 
 forehead.) See, I have that here which will get me more. 
 
 MRS. ANGEL : (Looks at him and hesitates, then walks 
 to the door and turns.) 
 
 Will you have something to eat with us, Mr. C? 
 
 CHATTERTON: No thank you, Mrs. A., not to-night. 
 
 MRS. ANGEL: (Aside, putting up her hand.) He's 
 that proud, that proud. (She goes off.) 
 
 CHATTERTON : (Sinks into a chair wearily.) Ten 
 and sixpence -a beggarly half guinea for sixteen poems— the 
 cheats I The cowardly cheats I How long is this to last? 
 Not a bite of food, not a crust for two days. How am I 
 to live ? What am I to do ? And now my great hope — 
 the work I sent to Walpole — rejected I (He lets his head 
 drop into his hands.) 
 
 (Jack Ladgate enters. He is a mean, poverty-stricken 
 individual, with an affected manner. He is constantly 
 posing and patronizes C. somewhat.) 
 
 JACK LADGATE: Ah, C, in the dumps again? 
 Cheer up I Don't give way I Look at me ; you never see 
 circumstances get the better of me! 
 
1 
 
 f>' ^[ 
 
 :!i 
 
 • 
 
 ff 
 
 m 
 
 CHATTERTON : Jack, I cannot understand how you 
 always manage to pull along, 
 
 JACK LADGATE : No, Ha, Hal (He nudges C' Ifs 
 the women, C, it's the women. 
 
 CHATTERTON: The women I How do you mean? 
 
 JACK LADGATE: You must have noticed the re- 
 markable way I have with the women. It^s wonderful 
 how they take to me. Take my advice, C. Cultivate a 
 way with the fair sex. Sweet creatures - so full of pity, so 
 tender and sympathetic, and above all, so ready with their 
 help. Oh, yes, I owe a great deal to this devil of a way 
 I have with the women. 
 
 CHATTERTON : Why, how does that put bread in 
 your mouth ? 
 
 JACK LADGATE: Put bread in my mouth? Only 
 this morning I breakfasted with my friend, Mrs. Tompson, 
 the cook. By the way, I was telling her of you, and she 
 was mightily taken with the idea that you wrote verses? 
 now, she wants you to come along this evening, and in 
 return for beef and beer, you can reel off something for 
 her. I usually give them bits from Richard the Third and 
 Hamlet. Ha, Ha, Ladgate^s Hamlet for a meal. By Jove I 
 It's cheap at the price. However, times are bad, and fair 
 exchange is no robbery. What do you say? Will you 
 come? 
 
 CHATTERTON : Ha, Ha I Beef and beer, and kiss 
 the cook, for my poetry. No thanks. 
 
 JACK LADGATE: (Offended) AU right, C. I don't 
 sec anything to laugh at. 
 
 CHATTERTON: Don't be offended J. I know you 
 mean kindly, but I can't come to-night, thanks, 
 
 JACK LADGATE: WeU, well, we'll see. What luck 
 with your poems lately? 
 
 CHATTERTON : None whatever. 
 
 J 
 
i how you 
 
 resC;> Ifs 
 
 '0X1 mean? 
 ed the re- 
 wondcfftil 
 lultivatc a 
 of pity, so 
 svith theif 
 af a way 
 
 bread in 
 
 1? Only 
 ^ompson, 
 and she 
 :e verses; 
 V and in 
 thing for 
 hird and 
 By Jove I 
 and fair 
 ^ill you 
 
 ind kiss 
 
 I don't 
 
 )W you 
 
 at luck 
 
 JACK LADGATE : But what of the tragedy you sent 
 to Walpole ? Ah, there were some fine lines there - as good 
 as anything youVe done. What did Walpoie say to that ? 
 
 CHATTERTON : Oh, it's a long story. You know 
 what a rage there is for anything mediaeval at present. 
 Well, to better the chances of his making use of it, and 
 thereby hasten my profit, I dressed it up and made it look 
 as ancient as possible, and sent it to him as the work of a 
 monk named Thomas Rowley, who lived three hundred 
 years ago. He wrote me at first praising it highly. This 
 led me to tell him of my poverty, and he seems to have 
 become suspicious, for he showed the manuscripts to Gray, 
 the poet, who pronounced them forgeries. This, Walpole 
 wrote to mc, and concluded by saying that he desired no 
 further communication with a person capable of practising 
 such deceit. 
 
 JACK LADGATE ; Does he know that you arc the 
 real author? 
 
 CHATTERTON : He did not, and he has neglected 
 to return the manuscripts. Yesterday, I wrote him strongly, 
 demanding them back, and telling him that I wrote them, 
 
 JACK LADGATE : Have you another copy ? Vd like 
 to read over some of the lines again. 
 
 CHATTERTON : Yes, I have the original. I made 
 a fresh copy t - send to Walpole. (He gives him the copy. 
 Mrs. Angel cniers.) 
 
 MRS. ANGEL i Mr. Chatterton, a gentleman of the 
 name of Walpole would like to see you, 
 
 CHATTERTON : (Starting.) Show him up. 
 
 JACK LADGATE : (Goes over to C. on way to door.) 
 Talk of an angel. (Goes out.) 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Much agitated.) What can he 
 want? Can there be hope yet? (He calms himself as 
 Walpole enters.) 
 
I t 
 
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 M 
 
 H 
 
 m 
 
 
 WALPOLE : (A finely dressed, elderly, pompous man.) 
 I have the honor to address Mr. Chatterton? (C. bows.) 
 I have called in order to return your MSS. 
 
 CHATTERTON : Ah, you are good enough to return 
 them at last. 
 
 WALPOLE : Mr. C, the terms of your last letter to 
 me were singularly impertinent. That the return of your 
 MSS. was unfortunately delayed through an oversight, I 
 admit, but I have put myself to some inconvenience to 
 return them in person. 
 
 CHATTERTON : May I ask the reason of this extra 
 trouble ? 
 
 WALPOLE: That I may the better impress upon you 
 the very serious mistake you are making in your choice of 
 a career. Let me urj^e your immediate return to the 
 attorney's desk. A more complete study of your verses has 
 convinced me of the absolute necessity of this step. 
 
 CHATTERTON : You praised them highly at first. 
 
 WALPOLE : Yes, but you forget that you led me to 
 believe that they were written at least three hundred years 
 ago. Your use of Saxon words in their phrasing gave 
 them a certain quaintness. Stript of this, I can find nothing 
 to recommend them. 
 
 CHATTERTON : (Angrily.) Any merit you saw in 
 them at first — and you certainly gave me to understand that 
 you saw plenty- -must be there now. No mere question of 
 time can alter the intrinsic value of the work. The fact that 
 your first opinion was given when you were under the 
 impression that the poems were the work of Rowley, is a 
 guarantee that your judgment was an unprejudiced one. 
 "What object would you have in praising a man whom you 
 supposed to have lived three centuries ago ? 
 
 WALPOLE : Sir, I repeat the only interest they had for 
 me was that which is attached to all ancient MSS. 
 
m 
 
 CH ATTERTON : You praised them withowt reserve I 
 WALPOLE: (Ignoring him.) Now that that interest is 
 removed, they have no further value. In giving me a false 
 impression you committed an act of base deception. 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Imploringly.) Oh, but my poverty, 
 my poverty. 
 
 WALPOLE: (Ironically./ Return to your former 
 work, and when you have made a fortune, it will be time 
 enough to tempt the Muse. 
 
 CHATTERTON: Oh, Mr. W., I implore you, do not 
 mock me. This is no idle fancy. There's a divinity that 
 shapes our ends I Some unseen power controls me, and bids 
 me write— I must obey. 
 
 WALPOLE : Tut, boy, tut, I have advised you. 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Imploringly.) Mr. W., it is in your 
 power to help me. I again entreat you. Refuse and you 
 will live to regret this day. 
 
 WALPOLE: Sir, you are insolent, I have given you 
 good advice. 
 
 CHATTERTON: Pm starving. I implore you to 
 help me. 
 
 WALPOLE: Mr. C, take back your forgeries (He 
 throws MSS. on table.) I wish you good day. 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Tearing MSS. in two.) No, stay. 
 You spurn me, but before you go you shall hear what I 
 have to say. These poems which you call forgeries arc 
 none the less the product of my own brain, the fruit of my 
 imagination. I feel and I know that there is true merit in 
 them. If you live longer than I, and I believe that you 
 will, you will bitterly repent your treatment of me. In 
 the fullness of time my work will be recognized, and you 
 will have to meet the sternest reproaches. May God forgive 
 you, for you will never be forgiven on earth I (Walpole 
 goes.) 
 
liii: 
 
 m 
 
 •,■■' J 
 
 
 CHATTERTON : (Throws himself into a chair at 
 tablet lets his head drop on table and sobs.) What am I to 
 do? "What am I to do? (He pauses and sobs with his 
 head on the table, then rises frenzied.) Oh, this is terrible 1 
 Terrible I The dreams, the hopes that I built upon— 
 my poor castles— all shattered ! My mother, my dear 
 sister, the luxuries I had hoped to give them, the comforts 
 they will never have ; my aims, anticipations, all unfulfilled I 
 (He returns to table and sobs, then rises and goes to window. — 
 
 There is the glow of the sunset outside.) How beautifully 
 the sun lingers ; it contains the last of my dreams, my hopes. 
 Ah, it is going now. (The glow fades away.j But it will 
 rise to-morrow, while I feel that I shall never, never hope 
 again. Ah, here comes the early moon to join with all the 
 world in mocking Chatterton ! (He turns from the window.) 
 Never did Death seem half so sweet as now — to sVep a 
 dreamless sleep and be at rest from all this ceaseltoo toil 
 and anguish I (He returns to the window.) How strange 
 it is that even the dumb beasts are better off than II 
 Whilst they arc kept and fed, I starve for want of a crust. 
 (He grips his breast in agony.) Oh, this hunger, it gnaws me 
 as a hungry dog a bone. Is there no charity in the world ? 
 (Picks up his hat.) I must get bread— surely some one will 
 give me credit— if only for a crust. 'He wall« to door and 
 meets Mrs. A.i 
 
 MRS. ANGEL: Oh, Mr. C, how ill you look— have 
 you had anything to eat to-day ? 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Excitedly.) Ha, ha, no; I forgot 
 until this moment. Just going out to get something, (He 
 goes out). 
 
 MRS. ANGEL: (Goes over to the window and looks 
 out.) Poor boy, I don^t believe he's eaten for days — and 
 he's that proud he won't take nothing he caan't pay for. 
 (She feels in her apron pocket and takes out letter.) Ah, 
 
I have forgotten to give him this letter* (She places it on 
 table*) Never mind^ he will see it when he comes in — there* 
 
 (Enters J. L* hurriedly*) 
 
 JACK LADGATEj HuUof Mrs* Angel, where is Mr. 
 Chatterton ? 
 
 MRS* ANGEL : Gone out to get something to eat, he 
 says, but I don^t believe he's got as much as a penny in his 
 pocket* 
 
 JACK LADGATE: A penny — not he, and he never 
 
 will have until he's learned to pocket that cursed pride of his. 
 
 Pride, Mrs* Angel, is of no use to a starving man. Now, I 
 
 have pride and to spare, on occasion* By the way, you never 
 
 saw me in the part of Hotspur, did you ? 
 
 MRS. ANGEL: No, Mr* Ladgate. (Aside) for a very 
 good reason too* He ! he I 
 
 JACK LADGATE:No, no, of course I haven't had an 
 opportunity of filling that part in London* Ah, my version, 
 I venture to think would take well here* (Mrs* A* looks 
 doubtful.) I remember those provincial blockheads were 
 unable to understand it — a little too subtle for them. (Aside.) 
 Ye Gods, how they laughed. Now, speaking of pride — 
 (Enter C. weakly. He pulls himself together when he sees 
 the others.) — Now, there was an exhibition of — (He breaks 
 off on seeing C, and Mrs. A. goes out.) Ah, Chatterton, 
 there you are. (His artificial air suddenly disappears and he 
 lays his hand on C.'s shoulder in deep concern.) Why, man, 
 I'.ow ill you look. Now think better of it and come with 
 me to-night. 
 
 CHATTERTON : No, Jack, not to-night, thanks. 
 
 JACK LADGATE: Ah, sit on that pride of yours, 
 Chatterton, or you will starve to death. 
 
 CHATTERTON : (Mysteriously.) No, I shall not starve 
 to death* 
 
 JACK LADGATE: WeU, III caU in a^ain before I go, 
 and see if you have altered your mind* 
 
 ii 
 
p:^ 
 
 m 
 
 J: 
 
 'it:-' • 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Impulsively.) Ah, don't think Fm 
 ungrateful Jack. You have been a kind friend to me. 
 
 JACK LADGATE: (Kindly.) All right lad, cheer up. 
 (Goes out.) 
 
 CHATTERTON: (Watching him out, then carefully 
 closes the door.) Starve to death, Ah, no not that way. 
 Here's my sleeping draught, — more sure, more speedy — here's 
 that which will lull me to my everlasting rest. No credit for 
 bread — curse them — but this (he holds up packet) will satisfy 
 me more effectually — no second hunger there— (lays packet 
 on table and crosses to window.) Oh, monstrous, cruel un- 
 charitable worlds to use me thus ; to kill me with your grim, 
 unpitying indifference. No smile of welcome — no helping 
 hand. Oh, cold, cold world, how I hate you, I hate you, (he 
 raises his hand to his breast and groans— then turns to table and 
 takes up poison.) Ah, a trusty weapon, a sure tool with which 
 to burst the doors of death. Now, God pilot my soul, and 
 farcweU to all. (He drinks the poison and stands for a 
 moment motionless, then sits down and reads as he writes). 
 
 ** Farewell, Bristolia's dingy piles of brick. 
 Lovers of mammon, worshippers of trick, 
 Ye spumed the boy who gave you antique lays. 
 And paid for learning with your empty praise, 
 I go to where celestial anthems swell. 
 But you, when you depart shall sink to hell. 
 Farewell, m/ mother ; cease my anguished soul» 
 Nor let distraction's billows o'er me roll. 
 Have mercy. Heaven, when here I cease to live. 
 And this last act of wretchedness forgive." 
 
 (He repeats the last two lines, then laying down the paper, 
 sees the letter and starts up.) Why, what is this? A letter? 
 (tears open and reads) ** Dear Mr. Chatterton, I ha.^ the good 
 fortune to see the Rowley poems when in the possession of Mr. 
 
 wianriiiu^'a-^-- 
 
hink Vm 
 
 le. 
 
 cheer up. 
 
 carefully 
 lat way. 
 r — here's 
 :redit for 
 U satisfy 
 s packet 
 ruel un- 
 M grim, 
 helping 
 you, (he 
 able and 
 h which 
 >ul, and 
 5 for a 
 rites). 
 
 Horace Walpole. I then pronounce d them forgeries^ and hav^ 
 just learned that they were your compositions. The least I 
 ean say at present is that they are true poetry. It grieves 
 me deeply to learn of your poverty, and I shall call upon you 
 to-night, when I trust that you will allow me to do all in my 
 power to help you. Thomas Gray.'' 
 
 (C. crunches the letter and allows it to drop to the floor.) 
 Thomas Gray, the poet (stands gasping, then shrieks) Life's 
 last irony. Oh, what a fool has fortune made of me. 
 (Qutchesat his throat.) My God, what agony. (Weakly.) I 
 think this must be the end. (He struggles to bed and lies 
 down. The moon shines on his face. Presently he starts up 
 in agony and struggles to the centre of stage, where he writhes 
 and then falls ami lies stretched out. Immediately a loud 
 knocking is heard at the door and J. L.'s voice is heard calling) 
 ** Chatterton, Mr, Gray is here. (The door bursts open and 
 
 he rushes in crying) ** Chatterton, Chat (stops abruptly 
 
 and throws up his arms aghast.) 
 
 Curtain: 
 
 paper, 
 letter? 
 t good 
 of Mr. 
 
1 
 
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Written for the Daily " Mail and Empire/' in 
 reply to a previous review on the production 
 in London of Ibsen's *' Little Eyolf.'' 
 
 TN a recent address on the drama during the Queen's reign, 
 Mr, Forbes Robertson, referring to Henrik Ibsen, asserted 
 that he was undoubtedly a force to be reckoned with. 
 
 An eminent critic and editor of a newspaper which has 
 by its restless energy and the undoubted worth of its matter 
 forced its way into the very front rank of the newspapers of 
 the world (I refer to Mr. Massingham of **The Daily 
 Chronicle '0 speaking of the eventful afternoon on which 
 "Little Eyolf was produced at the Avenue Theatre, 
 London, laid stress on the fact that not by a special coterie 
 of thinkers (as Mr. Clement Scott would have us believe) 
 was the theatre filled, but by representatives of every s< ction 
 of thought in London— that is the world. He also said that 
 the play had on him " the effect of music.'' 
 
 Another critic of great discernment remarks that ** opinions 
 will and do differ as to the meaning and full value of the 
 piece, but who can deny that it is the work of a master 
 of the human heart and a master of the stage ? " 
 
 Now, the most striking fact in all Ibsen's work is the 
 wonderful simplicity of the language which he uses in order 
 to expose his vast and searching knowledge of human nature. 
 And it is in this one fact alone, we venture to think, that the 
 pity of Ibsen's greatness and influence is felt. It is in this 
 particular respect that our own great master, Mr. Pinero, 
 
^ 
 
 01 
 
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 11 
 
 resembles him closely^ and it is no doubt due to this resemblance 
 that insistence has been given to the statement that Mr* Pinero 
 belongs to the Ibsen School^ but that is a question that hardly 
 concerns us here and it is to ** Little Eyolf ** that we would 
 now direct our attention. The characters in the play are 
 Alfred AUmers (landed proprietor^ man of letters^ formerly a 
 tutor), Mrs. Rita Allmers (his wife), Eyolf (their child, now 
 nine years old), Miss Asta Allmers (Alfred's younger half- 
 sister), Engineer Borgheim and the Rat ^ife. 
 
 In the first act Allmers has just returned from the moun- 
 tains after his first absence from his wife since their marriage, 
 an absence of a fortnight ; and we are speedily made to feel 
 that there is something wrong about the man ; the tone of 
 his conversation does not ring sincere, and his attitude to- 
 wards his wife is not responsive to the strong jealous affection 
 she has for him. "We further learn that it is due to his wife's 
 **gold and green forests'' that he is able to devote himself 
 to the book which he has intended to be his lifework. He 
 now tells us, however, that whilst ** in the infinite solitudes 
 on the mountain peaks " he has formed a resolution never to 
 finish his book — ** Human Responsibility" — but henceforth 
 to act it out in his own life. He will no longer be a school- 
 master to his son, but a father, ^^ Eyolf shall carry on my 
 lifework if he wants," he declares, ** or he shall choose one that 
 is altogether his own. Perhaps that would be best. At all 
 events I shall let mine rest as it is. I can't divide myself in 
 this matter, and therefore I shall efface myself — Eyolf shall be 
 the complete man of our race and it shall be my new life- 
 work to make him the • . ^ ^ete man." And so after ten 
 years and a communion vsrith the stars which gives him 
 strength for his exaggerated self-renunciation he launches upon 
 the elementary duties of fatherhood. So strongly are we made 
 to feel the trace of insincerity in his every speech that already 
 we begin to see through the man. It is in this act that the 
 
Rat Wife makes her appearance; a character so charged 
 with meaning that we feel that only the master mind of 
 Ibsen comld have conceived it ; a character symbolizing death 
 so vividly that we feel that only the master hand of Ibsen 
 could have portrayed it. 
 
 She is described as carrying in a black bag^ a little dog 
 with which she explains she lures the rats> and which 
 strangely fascinates Little Eyolf. It is upon Eyolf that she 
 fixes her attention and the following conversation passes 
 between them : — 
 
 EYOLF: And does he bite them to death? 
 
 THE RAT WIFE : Oh, not at all. No, we go down 
 to the boat, he and I do» and then they follow after us, both 
 the big ones and the little ratikins. 
 
 EYOLF: (eagerly) And what then — tell me. 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: Then we push out from the land, 
 and I scull with one oar, and play on my Pan's pipes. And 
 Mopseman, he swims behind. (With glittering eyes.) And 
 all the creepers and crawlers, they follow and follow us out 
 into the deep, deep waters. Ay, for they have to» 
 
 EYOLF: Why have they to ? 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: Just because they want not to- 
 just because they're so deadly afraid • f the water. That's 
 why they've got to plunge into it. 
 
 EYOLF : Are they drowned, then ? 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: Every blessed one. (More softly). 
 
 And there it's all as still and soft and dark as their hearts 
 
 can desire, the lovely little things. Down there they sleep 
 
 a long, sweet sleep, with no one to hate them or persecute 
 
 them any more. (Rises). In the old days, I can tell 
 
 you, I didn't need any Mopseman. Then I did the luring 
 myself — I alone. 
 
 EYOLF : And what did you lure then ? 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: Men. One most of aU. 
 
EYOLF: (with eagerness) Oh, who was that one? 
 Tell me 1 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: (laughing) It was my own 
 sweetheart, it was, little heartbreaker ! 
 
 EYOLF I And where is he now, then ? 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: (harshly) Down where all the 
 rats are (resuming her milder lone). But now I must be 
 off and get to business again. Always on the move. (To 
 Rita). So your ladyship has no sort of use for me to-day? 
 I could finish it all off while Fm about it. 
 
 RITA : No, thank you : I don^t think we require 
 anything. 
 
 THE RAT WIFE: Well, well, your sweet ladyship, 
 you can never tell. If your ladyship should find that there^s 
 anything here that keeps nibbling and gnawing and creeping 
 and crawling, then just see and get hold of me and Mopse- 
 man. Good-bye, good-bye, a kind good-bye to you a!'. 
 
 (She goes out by the door on the right). 
 
 EYOLF: (softly and triumphantly, to Asta) Only 
 think, Auntie, now IVe seen the Rat Wife too I 
 
 ( R ita goes out upon the verandah, and fans herself with 
 her pockcthandkerchief. Shortly afterwards, Eyolf slips 
 cautiously and unnoticed out of sight). 
 
 We then come to another very powerful scene, in which 
 Rita reproaches her husband for his coldness on his return 
 home the evening before. ** There stood your champagne, 
 but you tasted it not,*' she quotes, and the emotion of this 
 scene is still fresh when shrielcs are heard in the distance 
 from the direction of the fiord. 
 
 It is here that Ibsen gives us an example of one of his 
 lightning word pictures. He describes in four words Little 
 EyolFs death with a vividness which leaves us gasping : 
 
 RITA : (on the verandah listening) Hush, be quiet ; let 
 me hear what they are saying. (Rita rushes back with a 
 piercing shriek into the room). 
 
 "S! 
 
 *■. 
 
.y«i,'«j«.-v^sw»«*Mftsti>i««iiJi»'-.«t;,4»'-w&i^i«^^ 
 
 ALLMERS : What did they say ? 
 
 RITA: (sinking down beside the arm chair on the left.) 
 They said ** The crutch is floating/' 
 
 In the second act we learn that it was while watching the 
 Rat-'Wife row out over the fiord that Eyolf ^ standing alone on 
 the very edge of the pier, seemed to turn giddy and disap- 
 peared ; that he was seen lying on his back on the bottom ; 
 and with ** great, open eyes/* A painful scene occurs, and 
 it is here that Ibsen strips Rita and Alhners naked to their 
 very souls. We see the man in his true colors. We see his 
 superficiality, his falseness and cowardice. We are shown 
 Rita, ** the passionate, warm-blooded being/' ** the child of 
 earth,'' jealous to satisfy her uncontrolled desires — not a nice 
 picture by any means, but one which appeals to us much 
 more readily than AUmer's selfish priggishness. ** Not out of 
 love for Eyolf," says Rita, *^ did you sacrifice your book, but 
 because you were consumed with distrust of yourself — 
 because you had begun to doubt whether you had any great 
 vocation to live for in the world." 
 
 ALLMERS : (observing her closely.) Could you see that 
 in mc? 
 
 RITA : Oh, yes ; little by little. And then you needed 
 something new to fill up your life. It seems that I wasn't 
 enough for you any longer. 
 
 ALLMERS : That is the law of change, Rita. 
 
 RITA : And that is why you wanted to make a prodigy 
 of poor little Eyolf. 
 
 ALLMERS: (with sudden passion.) You are the guilty 
 one in this I 
 
 RITA: (rising.) II 
 
 ALLMERS : Yes, you. It was your fault that he became 
 what he was I It was your fault that he couldn't save him- 
 self when he fell into the water. 
 
 RITA : Alfred — You shall not throw the blame on mc I 
 
^'A 
 
 
 
 m ■ ! 
 
 ALLMERS: Yes, yes? I do I It was you that left the 
 helpless child unwatched upon the table. 
 
 RITA ; He was lying so comfortably among the cushions, 
 and sleeping so soundly, and you had promised to look after 
 him. 
 
 ALLMERS: Yes, I had. (Lowering his voice.) But 
 then you came — you, you, you — and lured me to you. 
 
 RITA: (looking defiantly at him.) Oh, better own at 
 once that you forgot the child and everything else. 
 
 ALLMERS: (in suppressed desperation.) Yes, that is 
 true. (Lower.) I forgot the child— in your arms 1 
 
 RITA: (exasperated.) Alfred I Alfred— this is intoler- 
 able of you I 
 
 ALLMERS : (in a low voice, clenching his fist before her 
 face.) In that hour you condemned little Eyolf to death. 
 
 RITA : You, too. You, too — if it is as you say. 
 
 ALLMERS : Oh, yes ; call mc to account, too — if you 
 will. We have sinned, both of us. And so after all there 
 was retribution in Eyolf^s death. 
 
 RITA: Retribution? 
 
 ALLMERS: (with more self-control.) Yes. Judgment 
 upon you and mc. Now, as we stand here, we have our 
 deserts. While he lived, we let ourselves shrink away from 
 him in secret, abject remorse. We could not bear to see it — 
 the thing he had to drag with him 
 
 RITA: (whispers.) The crutch? 
 
 ALLMERS: Yes, that. And now, what we now call 
 sorrow and heartache — it is really the gnawing of conscience, 
 Rita; nothing else. 
 
 ** Little Eyolf '* is a drama of retribution. Remorse and 
 anguish have set in. They are haunted by the thought that 
 the child's ** great open eyes ** may watch them day and 
 night. 
 
ALLMERS: Our love has been like a consuming fire. 
 Nowy it must be quenched. 
 
 RITA : (with a movement towards him.) Quenched ? 
 
 ALLMERS ; (Hardly.) It is quenched— in one of us. 
 
 RITA : (As if petrified.) And you dare say that to me ? 
 
 ALLMERS: (More gently.) It is dead, Rita. But in 
 what I now feel for you — in our common guilt and need 
 of atonement — I seem to foresee a sort of resurrection — 
 
 RITA: (Vehemently.) I donH care a bit about any 
 resurrection : 
 
 ALLMERS: Rita. 
 
 RITA: I am a warm-blooded being 1 I don't go 
 drowsing about— with fishes* blood in my veins. (Wringing 
 her hands.) And now to be imprisoned for life in anguish 
 and remorse I Imprisoned with one who is no longer 
 mine, mine, mine! 
 
 ALLMERS : It must have ended so, sometime, R ita. 
 
 RITA : Must have ended so I The love that in the 
 beginning rushed forth so eagerly to meet with love I 
 
 ALLMERS: My love did not rush forth to you in the 
 beginning. 
 
 RITA: What did you feel for me, first of all? 
 
 ALLMERS: Dread. 
 
 RITA: That I can understand. How was it, then, 
 that I won you after all? 
 
 ALLMERS: (In a low voice.) You were so cntranc- 
 ingly beautiful, Rita. 
 
 RITA: (Looks searchingly at him.) Then that was 
 the only reason? Say it, Alfred I The only reason? 
 
 ALLMERS: (Conquering himself.) No, there was 
 another as well. 
 
 RITA: (With an outburst.) I can guess what that 
 was I It was '*my gold, and my green forests,*' as you 
 call it. Was it not so, Alfred? 
 
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 ALLJVIEKS: Yes. 
 
 RITA: (Looks at him with deep reproach.) How 
 could you? How could you? 
 
 A happy contrast to this maudlin prater of duty is 
 Engineer Borgheini^ full of joy in his ** great piece of road- 
 makings with mountain ranges to cross and the most tre- 
 mendous difficulties to overcome/^ Asta, with her quiet 
 strength and restraint, also provides a vivid contrast to 
 Rita, and it is almost a relief to find after all that she is 
 not AUmers' half-sister. 
 
 In the last Act Allmers decides to go away, and Rita 
 determines to go down to the beach and bring all the poor 
 neglected children home, and take them to her heart. 
 **They shall live in Eyolf^s rooms; they shall read his 
 books; they shall play with his toys; they shall take it in 
 turns to sit in his chair at table, and thus fill the empty 
 place within her * With something that is a little like love.^^' 
 
 ALLMERS: ^Stands for a moment lost in thought, 
 then looks at her.) The truth is, we haven^t done much 
 for the poor people down there. 
 
 RITA : "We have done nothing for them. 
 
 ALLMERS : Scarcely even thought of them. 
 
 RITA: Never thought of them in sympathy. 
 
 ALLMERS: We, who had ^*the gold and the green 
 forests.'^ 
 
 RITA: Our hands were closed to them. And our 
 hearts too. 
 
 ALLMERS: (Nods.) Then it was perhaps natural 
 enough after all that they shouldn't risk their lives to save 
 little Eyolf. 
 
 RITA: (Softly.) Think, Alfred. Are you so certain 
 that we should have risked ours? 
 
 ALLMERS: (With an uneasy gesture of repulsion.) 
 You must never doubt that. 
 
riMJe-t,:i^ <....-. 1'. 
 
 RITA: Oh^ we are children of earth. 
 ALLMERS: What do you really think you can do 
 with all these neglected children ? 
 
 RITA : I suppose I must try if I cannot lighten and— en- 
 noble their lot in life, 
 
 ALLMERS: If you can do that— then Eyolf was not 
 born in vain. 
 
 RITA : Nor taken from us in vain, either. 
 
 ALLMERS: (looking steadfastly at her.) Be quite clear 
 about one thing, Rita. It is not love that is driving you to 
 this. 
 
 RITA : No, it is not— at any rate, not yet. 
 
 ALLMERS : Well, then, what is it ? 
 
 RITA: (half evasively.) You have so often talked to 
 Asta of human responsibility — 
 
 ALLMERS: Of the book that you hated. 
 
 RITA : I hate that book still. But I used to sit and listen 
 to what you told her. And now I will try and continue it in 
 my own way. 
 
 ALLMERS : (shaking his head.) It is not for the sake of 
 that unfinished book — 
 
 RITA : No, I have another reason as well. 
 
 ALLMERS : What is that ? 
 
 RITA: (softly, with a melancholy smile.) I want to 
 make my peace with the ** great, open eyes,'' you sec. 
 
 ALLMERS : (struck, fixing his eyes upon her). Perhaps, 
 I could join you in that ? And help you, Rita ? 
 
 RITA: Would you? 
 
 ALLMERS : Yes, if I were only sure I could. 
 
 RITA: (hesitatingly.) But then you would have to 
 remain here. 
 
 ALLMERS : (softly.) Let us try if it could not be so. 
 
 RITA : (almost inaudibly.) Yes, let us, Alfred. (Both 
 are silent. Then Allmers goes up to the flagstaff and hoists 
 
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 the flag to the top. Rita stands beside the summer-house and 
 looks at him in silence*) 
 
 ALLMERS : (coming forward again.) "We have a heavy 
 day of work before us, Rita. 
 
 RITA : You will see — that now and then a Sabbath peace 
 will descend upon us. 
 
 ALLMERS : (quietly, with emotion.) Then, perhaps, we 
 shall know that the spirits are with us, 
 
 RITA : (whispering.) The spirits ? 
 
 ALLMERS: (as before.) Yes, they will perhaps be 
 around us— those whom we have lost. 
 
 RITA : (nods slowly.) Our little Eyolf. And your big 
 Eyolf, too. 
 
 ALLMERS: (gazing straight before him.) Now and 
 then, perhaps, we may still — on the way through life — have 
 a little passing glimpse of them. 
 
 RITA: Where shall we look for them, Alfred? 
 
 ALLMERS : (fixing his eyes upon her.) Upwards. 
 
 RITA: (nods in approval.) Yes, yes — upwards. 
 
 ALLMERS: Upwards — towards the peaks. Towards 
 the stars. And towards the great silence. 
 
 RITA: (giving him her hand). Thanks. 
 
 It is easier for us to understand Rita*s sudden conversion 
 than Allmer% and we are, perhaps, hardly convinced that 
 the latter^s will last. But how noble in theme the play, and 
 does it not have on us ** the effect of music ? ** How soothing 
 those closing chords, like a sweet, far-off strain on a calm 
 summer^s night after the heat, the fret, and fever of the day. 
 And in spite of our incurring Mr. Scott^s displeasure, we leave 
 the play, softly murmuring, *' thanks, thanks to you, great 
 master.** 
 
 X 
 m 
 
I'j'.'^l'w— TP'.wn^f .m I i^pHD't^MMIJ*"**"!!^'!' "WWHHTM 
 
 A PROSPECTOR'S STORY. 
 
 ^^T the present time when so much attention is being 
 drawn to the vast mineral weaUh of our country, the 
 outcome of whicrh would seem to be a new and almost phe- 
 nomenal era of prosperity for Canada, I think that some little 
 attention mi^ht also well be given to that individual who has 
 silently added so much to t^„ wealth cf great countries, who 
 endures hardships undre.imed of by his more fortunate fellows, 
 and who, through suffering countless ills, so seldom reaps any 
 reward adequate or even inadequate for his endeavors — I 
 mean that individual of a large workir g class, the prospector. 
 
 Even under the ( from a prospector^s point of view) almost 
 perfect conditions which prevail in our Lake of the "Woods 
 and surrounding mining districts, might his life from any 
 point of view be described as a happy one, and considering 
 the fact that in so many different ways of adding wealth and 
 distinction to the country is he the pioneer, it is perhaps only 
 fair to give him, more especially at the present moment, a 
 little thought. 
 
 I have said that the conditions whiv:h prevail in our Lake 
 of the Woods district are almost ideal for prospecting, but I 
 will give a short outline of a recent outing extending over 
 some six weeks, and if those good people who are contemplat- 
 ing throwing up comfortable positions for a vain rush into 
 a country like the Yukon, will keep in view the fact this is 
 the merest child^s play, they may pause and reconsider their 
 decisions. 
 
 It was in the last week in June that my partner and I 
 started out. My partner, an Englishman of some eight or 
 

 nine years* experience of roughing it in this country, I a 
 ''greeny.*' To pay for my lack of experience I found the 
 whole outfit, and we went on half interests. 
 
 As we intended working several new districts, we decided 
 to take an Indian, but owfng to its being near treaty time we 
 were unable to get one in town. We started off, however, 
 fully expecting to be able to get one at a reservation on the 
 way. This, however, we were unable to do, and being 
 dubious of our way, we struck over to an Indian fisher whom 
 my partner knew, and who proved willing to guide us to the 
 point at which we intended working inland. In an incredibly 
 short space of time his wife, two children and grub were all 
 in their birch bark, and, although our canoe was lighter and 
 we carried less weight, in about five hours he and his wife 
 had given us all the paddling we wanted. "We camped on a 
 small island, and the night being fine we did not put up the 
 tent, simply rolling ourselves in our blankets and p;jning ihz 
 mosquito net o\zt our heads. jNot being as yet quite accus- 
 tomed to my hard couch, I did not sleep particularly well, 
 and we arose at four o^clock next morning. This happened 
 to be fortunate, as at five o'clock a steamboat picked us up 
 and we were able to dispense with the Indian. After carry- 
 ing us about fifteen miles tht jat dropped us and we made 
 for our inlet, a small creek extending, according to the map, 
 some seven miles inland. About half a mile from the mouth 
 we came to some rapids and were compelled to make a port- 
 age of a quarter of a mile. Portaging on a cold day may not 
 be particularly hard work, but at the hottest time of the year 
 by the time one has cairied some 300 lbs. of stuff, not includ- 
 ing the canoe, with the flies rampant all the time, one is 
 inclined perhaps to exaggerate the hardness of the conditions 
 of working. We had three more portages, however, before 
 we finished the day. The river was remarkably pretty, 
 tiger lilies strewing the .Iream ; the pine, poplar and birch 
 reflected in the water all added to the attractiveness of the 
 
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 scene^ and had it not been for the flies ani the intense heat^ 
 the place would have been a veritable paradise. As it was, 
 however, the black flies taking a particular fancy to me, my 
 face was soon covered with smudges of blood. 
 
 '^e camped at what was shown on the map as the head 
 of the river* but the next day finding that it was connected 
 inland with a whole chain of lakes we decided to paddle 
 back and try and get an Indian at the mouth of the river to 
 act as guide* 
 
 Starting out with a handful of grub and the mosquito net, 
 we paddled down in the cool of the evening and made the 
 portages comfortably, but by the time we arrived at the lake 
 we were caught in a heavy downfall of rain which lasted all 
 night* We were unable to keep a fire on and were forced to 
 crawl under the canoe and wait for morning. The next 
 day, being unable to persuade any of the Indians to accom- 
 pany us, we returned, spending a week or so in the district, 
 explored and prospected it as well as we could, without, how- 
 ever, meeting with any success. 
 
 Striking down again to the main lake we were fortunate 
 enough to meet an Indian, a young buck, who offered to act 
 as our guide for four days pending his departure for his Treaty 
 Reserve. As we wished to work some country about twelve 
 miles to the south, and which would entail a good deal of 
 travel in the bush, we were glad to avail ourselves of the 
 opportunity. The contact we wished to strike extended 
 round a lake which lay four or five miles inland* Paddling 
 down and camping on the shore of the main lake, we started 
 early the following morning into the bush, the Indian carrying 
 the axe, **billey'' and most of the grub. My companion 
 and I taking our picks and a sandwich of bacon and bannock 
 which we were unable to squeeze into the ** billry.'' After 
 following a trail some three miles we struck off co the bush 
 trusting to our Indian and the compass. When we reached 
 
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 the shores of the lake we wished to work round* the Indian 
 for some extraordinary reason decamped^ taking the axe and 
 food he was carrying. We decided to stick to our original 
 plan and work round the lake. This we did* making a circuit 
 of some fifteen miles through pouring rain and thick wet 
 brush. Absolutely sodden with the wet* we got round to 
 where we expected to strike the trail out. This we were 
 unable to do* and darkness catching us in a swamp we were 
 compelled to lie down and fight the clouds of mosquitoes. Not 
 having carried our matches in a box* we were unable to light 
 a fire* so we lay on the wet earth* aching with the damp* cold* 
 weary and exhausted* but unable to sleep* praying for dawn 
 to end the incessant battle with the mosquitoes. With the first 
 streams of light we started on our search for the trail and 
 fortunately stumbled on to it after some hours of wandering. 
 
 Arriving back at our camp we found that the Indian had 
 left the grub but had stolen the axe. I was so feverish with 
 mosquito bites on every part of my body that we laid Mp for 
 the day> With th" evening we drifted in the canoe on to the 
 lake for a breath of air and gazed at a wonderful sunset ; 
 the fading colors seem to paint an Allegory and we returned 
 to the camp and the dull gray of a prospector^s life in an 
 unbroken silence. 
 
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