THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD 
 
 AND 
 
 ASHBY MANOR
 
 BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 Uniform in half parchment. 
 
 s. <7. 
 
 1. IRISH SONGS AND POEMS. Second Edition, 
 
 with frontispiece of the Waterfall of Asaroe - - 6 
 
 2. LAURENCE BLOOM FIELD, with portrait of 
 
 the Author - 36 
 
 3- FLOWER PIECES: DAY AND NIGHT 
 Songs : Ballads. With two designs by D. G. 
 Rossetti. (Some copies on large paper) - - - 6 
 
 [N.B. — A permanent photograph has been substi- 
 tuted for the process reproduction. A copy can be 
 had free from the Publishers by any possessor of a 
 large paper copy of the book.] 
 
 4. LIFE AND PHANTASY, with frontispiece by Sir 
 
 J. E. Millais, K.A., and design by Arthur Hughes. 
 (Some copies on large paper) - - - - - (3 
 
 5. THOUGHT and WORD, and ASH BY MANOR 
 
 (A Play). With portrait of the Author (18G5), and 
 four theatrical scenes drawn by Mrs. Allingham. 
 (Some copies on large paper) GO 
 
 6. BLACKBERRIES. On hand-made paper 
 


 
 THOUGHT AND WORD 
 
 AND 
 
 sbbn ll^nnor 
 
 A PLAY IX TWh ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLI A M A L L I X G H A M 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT 
 FOUR DESIGNS FOR STAGE SCENES BY MRS. ALLINGHAM 
 
 AND 
 A SONG WITH MUSIC 
 
 LONDON 
 REEVES AND TURNER, 19G STRAND 
 
 1890 
 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 Thought is the shadow of Truth and Language the shadow of Thought.
 
 
 TO MY CHILDREN, 
 
 HOPING THEY (IP NO OTHERS) WILL BRING 
 A SYMPATHETIC ATTENTION TO THESE ENDEAVOURS 
 
 TO PUT IN WORDS 
 SOME FAINT HINT OF THE HIGHEST TRUTHS — 
 INEXPRESSIBLE IN ANY FORM OF LANGUAGE. 
 
 860366
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGTC 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT - 1 
 
 HEAVEN'S GATE - - - .3 
 
 LEVA VI OCULOS - - -10 
 
 PHANTOM DUTY -12 
 
 SUNDAY BELLS - -13 
 
 " SEE WHAT LIVES OF MORTALS ARE " - 14 
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY - -15 
 
 LOSS - - ... - 41 
 
 DOGMATISM - - - - 42 
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA 43 
 
 NURSERY RHYME FOR THE ELDERS - - 59 
 
 GRAVES AND URNS. 
 
 IN SHADOW - - - 63 
 
 HIS TOWN - - <i4 
 
 THE CRUCIBLE - - - - 66 
 
 THE COLD WEDDING - - - - 68 
 
 PHANTAST - - - 70 
 
 IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY - - - 71 
 
 THE FUNERAL - - - 72 
 
 URN BURIAL - - 73 
 
 FORWARD - - 75 
 
 WOULD I KNEW - - 76 
 
 DEATH DEPOSED - 78 
 
 "NO FUNERAL GLOOM" - - 79 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH - - 79 
 
 "WHAT IS YOUR HEAVEN ? " ■ 81
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET ... 8 6 
 
 PRESENT-FUTURE -' 87 
 
 "ART THOU LORD OF THE WORLD?" - - - 88 
 
 "SEARCH STARRY MYSTERIES OVERHEAD" - - - 89 
 
 EVERYDAY 91 
 
 ASH BY MANOR: A PLAY - - - - 9.3
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Whex a Poet knew himself, once on a time, 
 
 And his joy of life overflowYl into rhyme, 
 
 He had supple joints and curly dark hair ; 
 
 Folk see him now with a pate half bare, 
 
 Some grizzled locks hanging lichen-wise 
 
 Over wrinkled forehead and sunken eyes : 
 
 But why not show him (guarding truth) 
 
 As he used to be in his days of youth ? 
 
 Look and believe ! he once was young ; 
 
 When he sung of Love, he felt what he sung ; 
 
 A Poet then, if a Poet now, 
 
 Why with sad cheer and withcr'd brow 
 
 Greet the good Friend who may wish to learn 
 
 How he look'd? — He looked thus, on the Banks of 
 
 Erne, 
 (Nay, younger still, and merrier far, — 
 Already long set is the morning star) 
 Erne water dancing from dawn to dark : 
 Over the green hills caroll'd the lark, 
 Seagull screech'd over ocean-strand, 
 Plover wail'd on the brown moorland ; 
 Woman was loveliness ; life was wide, 
 Fill'd with wonders on every side ; 
 Heaven clear open as far as God, 
 Maker and Guardian of sun and clod ; 
 Truth, unselfishness, merely were right 
 Poets walk'd in celestial light. 
 Gloom and fear and longing and pain — 
 He forgets them now, — is almost fain 
 (But no !) to wish himself young again.
 
 HEAVEN'S GATE. 
 
 1—2
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 HEAVEN'S GATE. 
 
 "the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life. 
 
 T) ESPECT thine office ; fear no man ; 
 X\j Thou, Poet, art a sacristan, 
 (For higher creatures than poor we, 
 I think, are priests invisibly) 
 'Tis thine to tread on holy ground, 
 Where meaner foot is wrongly found ; 
 'Tis thine to guard the mysteries, — 
 Which are not shown to mortal eyes 
 The purest, clearest, — from disgrace 
 Of idols in the sacred place. 
 
 ii. 
 
 By names of Venus and of Mars 
 
 The Tuscan Exile fill'd the stars 
 
 With lover and with warrior souls : 
 
 Aloof each mighty planet rolls, 
 
 By sagest Poet unconceived. 
 
 Fancy on fancy, half-believed, 
 
 Forget how they have sprung from nought. 
 
 I often pictured in my thought 
 
 A Gate, whereof we speak and write ; 
 
 And found the same at dead of night, 
 
 Neither by moon nor lantern-light.
 
 6 heaven's gate. 
 
 III. 
 
 It was, in dreaming truth, a Gate 
 Vaster than kings go through in state, 
 And pierced a black gigantic wall 
 Immeasurably built. To all, 
 Wide, without bar or valve, it stood. 
 And round it throng'd a Multitude, 
 From every nation that has birth 
 Between the snowy poles of Earth. 
 
 IV. 
 
 As bursts the sunshine from a cave 
 Of high cloud, over field and wave, 
 One, like a man, but more than mortal, 
 Radiantly issues from the Portal, — 
 Realm within it softly bright, 
 Purple shadow and golden light 
 On mystic mountains, happy vales, 
 Where circle beyond circle fails. 
 
 " Come in ! " — 'twas music trumpet-clear, 
 " The Gate of Heaven is open here." 
 Whereat, a wind of joy and fear 
 Swept all that mighty Multitude 
 Like some great cornfield where they stood ; 
 Put only woke a whispering stress 
 Born from the hush of earnestness. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then jangling tones broke up the charm, 
 As bells a sleeping town alarm ; 
 "Beloved Sheep, beware, beware! 
 "This is no true thing, but a snare ; 
 " We see no mark or sign or token 
 " Whereof the oracles have spoken.
 
 heaven's gate. 
 
 "This like our promised Heav'n ! — to mix 
 
 "With heathens and with heretics! 
 
 " Apollyon seemeth Son of Light. 
 
 " But soon the Bridegroom shall invite, 
 
 " We're saved, the others flung to Hell, 
 
 " And hallelujah ! all is well. 
 
 " Close eye and ear, my brethren, — say 
 
 " Phantom ! Delusion ! Fiend ! away ! " 
 
 VII. 
 
 Suddenly a little Child 
 Ran up to where that Angel smiled, 
 And caught his skirt ; who, stooping Ioav 
 Lifted him ; and I saw them go, 
 And sigh'd, — and sighing, waken'd so ; 
 Amidst, methought, a boundless flow 
 Of people, many voices blent, 
 Sea-like ; I knew not what it meant. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Saint Wilbroil, where a Pagan King 
 
 Knelt at the font, had bow'd to flinj. 
 
 Miraculous water on his head ; 
 
 But the grave King rose up, and said, 
 
 " This was not thought of ; can'st thou tell 
 
 " If my forefathers be in Hell, 
 
 " Or Heaven ? " " In Hell," the Saint's reply 
 
 To whom the King with loftier eye, 
 
 " Enough ! I will not quit my race." 
 
 — To answer, Heaven is not a place, 
 
 Were bringing passports to disgrace. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Such doctrines Mather fear'd at Salem, 
 And, lest his own belief should fail him, 
 (So godly, that he turn'd inhuman) 
 Hang'd twice a week some poor old woman ; 
 
 !g
 
 heaven's gate. 
 
 Nay, Brother Burroughs' self, who doubted, — 
 That Scripture's letter be not scouted ; 
 Which, with all marvels big and little, 
 Not held and hugg'd in every tittle, 
 Faith were slain dead (that's now so strong), 
 And Truth, and Sense of Eight and Wrong ; 
 Yes, the Almighty then, no doubt, 
 From soul of man were blotted out. 
 
 x. 
 
 Predominancy, a great tree 
 Of Upas kind, drips constantly 
 The violent poison, Persecution ; 
 ( J reater the marvel, tho', if you shun 
 Harm from a small infesting weed 
 Which doth the self-same venom breed, 
 Verbality, whose mesh is found 
 In every field and garden-ground. 
 Spirit to spirit, we are wise 
 To meditate of mysteries, 
 To see a little, dark and dim, 
 For mortals are not Seraphim. 
 
 XI. 
 
 A Dream should as a Dream be told, 
 Nor do I this of mine uphold 
 Above the dreams of other men, 
 Where all is out of waking ken. 
 Let's to our daylight tasks and trust 
 The future, as we ought and must. 
 Go, noisy tongues, howe'er you will ! 
 One hath His plan, who keepeth still. 
 What is, He sees, — we cannot see ; 
 He knows, we know not, what shall be. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Tho' High-Priest, Medicine-man, nor Lama, 
 Zerdusht, Mohammed, Buddha, Brahma,
 
 heaven's gate. 9 
 
 Nor any Teacher, mild or blatant, 
 For true Religion hold a patent, 
 Can mathematicise the line 
 Connecting Human and Divine, 
 The line, say rather, that doth reach 
 From God to every soul and each, — 
 Tho' every parable and vision 
 Of scenes infernal and elysian, 
 By prophet-poet's genius told, 
 Ke-echo'd thousand-million-fold, 
 Whether of Greek, or Jew, or Swede, 
 Be rich poetic truth indeed, 
 No legal document to read, — 
 Tho' man's best wisdom on the earth, 
 Man's learning, be as little worth 
 For this, as to be six feet one 
 Helps you to pry into the sun, — 
 Still, when the Soul is walking right, 
 Heaven is sure to come in sight, 
 Near or distant, faint or bright.
 
 10 THOUGHT AND WOKD. 
 
 LEVA VI OCULOS. 
 
 IN trouble for my sin, I cried to God ; 
 To the Great God who dwelleth in the deeps. 
 The deeps return not any voice or sign. 
 
 But with my soul I know thee, Great God ; 
 The soul thou gavest knoweth thee, Great God ; 
 And with my soul I sorrow for my sin. 
 
 Full sure I am there is no joy in sin, 
 Joy-scented Peace is trampled under foot, 
 Like a white growing blossom into mud. 
 
 Sin is established subtly in the heart 
 
 As a disease ; like a magician foul 
 
 Kuleth the better thoughts against their will. 
 
 Only the rays of God can cure the heart, 
 Purge it of evil : there's no other way 
 Except to turn with the whole heart to God. 
 
 In heavenly sunlight live no shades of fear ; 
 The soul there, busy or at rest, hath peace; 
 And music floweth from the various world. 
 
 The Power is great and good, and is our God. 
 There needeth not a word but only these ; 
 Our God is good, our God is great. 'Tis well. 
 
 All things are ever God's ; men's thoughts of things 
 Are warp'd with evil will and stain'd with sin ; 
 God, and the things of God, immutable.
 
 LEVAVI OCULOS. 11 
 
 Great Master, how I fain would lift myself 
 
 Above men's network foolishness, and move 
 
 In thy unfenced, unmeasured warmth and light ! 
 
 Lo, when I rise a very little way, 
 
 The fences, nets, and pitfalls change to lines 
 
 Drawn on a map ; anon they disappear ; 
 
 All shows of things are seen as parts of truth 
 My soul, if busy or at rest, hath peace, 
 Hath visions of the House of Perfect Peace !
 
 12 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 PHANTOM DUTY. 
 
 SLOW-BURNING in the cavern's depth appears 
 The Talismanic Lamp which rules the spheres 
 Of men and spirits. Safely he hath pass'd 
 Swords, flames, ghouls, dragons, demons ; hut at last 
 A Phantom, like his Mother, sadly stands 
 Full in the destined way, with warning hands. 
 He pauses, he forgets, he sinks, he sleeps : 
 And in Elysium his true Mother weeps.
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 13 
 
 SUNDAY BELLS. 
 
 SWEET Sunday Bells ! your measured sound 
 Enhances that repose profound 
 Of all the golden fields around, 
 And range of mountain, sunshine-drown'd. 
 
 Amid the cluster'd roofs outswells, 
 And wanders up the winding dells, 
 And near and far its message tells, 
 Your holy song, sweet Sunday Bells ! 
 
 Sweet Sunday Bells ! ye summon round 
 The youthful and the hoary-crown'd, 
 To one ohservance gravely bound ; 
 Where comfort, strength, and joy are found. 
 
 The while, your cadenced voice excels 
 To waken memory's tender spells ; 
 Revives old joy-bells, funeral-knells, 
 And childhood's far-off Sunday Bells. 
 
 Sunday Bells ! your pleading sound 
 The shady spring of tears hath found, 
 In one whom neither pew nor mound 
 May harbour in the hallow'd ground : 
 
 Whose heart to your old music swells ; 
 Whose soul a deeper thought compels ; 
 Who like an alien sadly dwells 
 Within your chime, sweet Sunday Bells !
 
 14 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 SEE what lives of mortals are 
 On our foolish little star ! 
 Toil unceasing, pleasure flying, 
 Aspiration fall'n to sighing, 
 Old deceits in garbs newfangled, 
 Angel-wings with cobwebs tangled, 
 Selfish comfort, drugg'd with sense, 
 Ambition's poverty immense, 
 Tender memory, sad in vain, 
 Flickering hope and haunting pain, 
 Cries of suffering, sweat of strife, — 
 But where the strong victorious life 1 
 
 Perchance its deeds make little noise ; 
 No record of its pains and joys, 
 Save in mystic forms enscroll'd, 
 Spiritual eyes behold, 
 Seeing what lives of mortals are 
 On our foolish little star.
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 In the Soul's sky may dawn an Evil Day, 
 First of a Time of Horror and Dismay, 
 Which only God's own sun can chase away,
 
 THOUGHT AND WOKD. 17 
 
 • AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 SUDDENLY, softly, I awoke from sleep j 
 My lattice open to the morning sun, 
 Call of a distant cuckoo, lyric notes 
 Of many a voice, leaf-whispers. 
 
 May, once more, 
 Her dewy fragrant kiss, and all the love 
 It wakes us to, — a joyous, beauteous world ! 
 Long shadows lying on the luminous grass ; 
 The lilac's purple honeycombs enswathed 
 In freshest foliage ; snowy pear-tree bloom ; 
 Birds on our daisied lawn, or flitting swift 
 Through floating under-boughs to elmtops fledged 
 Against the tenderly translucent sky ; 
 And, through the leafage, glimpses of a realm 
 Of woodland slopes and vales, and distant hills 
 Of bright horizon. the sweet old rapture ! 
 May in my inmost soul awaking too. 
 This might be Earth's first morning, or the rise 
 Of that New Heav'n and Earth — 
 
 All pain ! ah grief ! 
 As happy winged thing afloat on air 
 Smit with a cruel pang, down-fluttering, drops, 
 My heart so fell — 
 
 They say " There is No God ! " 
 
 Evil May-day, by my account. Long since, 
 Whispers of bale were rife ; dark prophecies 
 And dim forebodings brought a passing qualm, 
 A momentary shiver ; that was all ; 
 
 2
 
 18 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 As peradventnre may a man have heard 
 
 Rumour of pestilence in Eastern lands, 
 
 Of little import : " creeping westward " next : 
 
 "Within our country's border" (this is grave) : 
 
 And then a pause, time slides, the man has turn'd 
 
 To his affairs and pleasures ; when one day 
 
 What's this the mirror shows him 1 — Heaven and 
 
 Hell! 
 The plague-spot on his tongue ! His lot is drawn. 
 
 Yes, look upon thy hands and touch thy head ; 
 
 'Tis thou — that wakedst oft in other Mays, 
 
 Didst kneeling say thy pray'r, and look aloft 
 
 As into thy dear Father's face, and see 
 
 His handiwork all round thee, all done right : 
 
 The lilies of the field and the seven stars, 
 
 Beast, bird, and insect, and immortal Man. 
 
 " These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good ! " — 
 
 " In wisdom hast Thou made them all." 
 
 Poor fool ! 
 Gaze round upon the flow'rs and grass and sunshine, 
 Bathe in their brightness, hear the senseless birds 
 Chatter and chirp, and be thou merry too. 
 All's but a dream ; and why torment thyself 1 
 — Because the plague is come. The bird is hit. 
 The dream is fled ; and now I wake aghast. 
 I see this world a body without soul ; 
 I see the flow'rs and greenery of May 
 A garland on a corpse. "There is Xo God." 
 
 Nay, courage ! let the fearful mood pass by. 
 Here is no plague. Behind those branching elms 
 Our shady lane winds to the village green, 
 Its ancient cottages, its ivied tower, 
 With graves of twenty generations. Hark ! 
 The dial : sturdy Labour forth has trudged 
 With tools in hand ; Age on his doorstep greets
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 19 
 
 The friendly radiance ; Childhood swarms to school 
 
 And hums like bees in clover, till the song 
 
 Heartily rises ; and our week moves round, 
 
 As weeks and years and centuries have moved, 
 
 Over this English village in its vale, 
 
 Secluded from the world, — not separate. 
 
 There goes the nutter of a distant train 
 
 Speeding to the great city full of men 
 
 And men's accumulated thought and work, 
 
 With ships from every sea along her wharves. 
 
 Art thou delirious ? or wilt thou count 
 
 All this, insanity — the varied life 
 
 In fields and cities, work and worship and love, 
 
 Whate'er binds men together, linking past, 
 
 Present, and future — 
 
 let be ! let be ! 
 No form of speech can do me any good, 
 My own or other men's devisal, fresh 
 As primrose, venerable as churchyard yew. 
 Having heard sentence pass'd, no other words 
 Can carry meaning ; one brief dismal phrase 
 Knolls on the air—" No God ! " and still—" No God ! " 
 
 Pretence of continuity ! talk, preach, 
 Write books ; build cities, churches, monuments ; 
 Patch up and varnish histories, pedigrees ; 
 Take childish titles, worship toyshop crowns ; 
 Sustain (save when alone or with a friend) 
 The masquerade of dignity ; pass on 
 Old phrases, teach them to the children ; make 
 Your little mark, or big, as one who scribes 
 Two letters, or full name, or date therewith, 
 Upon a tree, and dies, and in a while 
 The tree perishes also. Vain conceit ! 
 Swim with me, fellow-bubbles, catch fine hues 
 And picturedike reflections, and then burst ! 
 The swift stream flows, the shoreless sea of forms 
 
 2 — 2
 
 20 AN EVIL MAY-DAT. 
 
 Melting, reshaping, seeming (since our life 
 Is like a flash of lightning) permanent ; 
 But rolling ever from darkness into darkness. 
 God was behind that darkness once ; — that sea 
 His effluent power. But now, there is No God. 
 
 After the first sharp pain I wrote this down 
 
 To ease awhile my heart-ache. Count not these 
 
 But idle words ; for since I wotted first 
 
 Of my own being, never grief like that. 
 
 " Able to soothe all sadness but despair " 
 
 The poet sang : no finest solaces 
 
 Had any comfort. Through the dismal time 
 
 I dragg'd from sleep to sleep, groaning the while, 
 
 As one sore- wounded drags from pause to pause ; 
 
 And sleep was like a swoon, or else perturb'd 
 
 With shapeless terror. 
 
 But sleep grew more calm 
 (I know not when or how began the change) — 
 Ami all things with it ; wind and wave went down, 
 And life took on its ordinary look 
 By slow gradations. All was as before? 
 Not so. I was not in perpetual pain ; 
 Only half-paralysed. Month after month, 
 Ami after that sad year, another year, 
 And after this, another year : I went 
 And came and talk'd and laugh'd, like those around 
 
 me : 
 Only I recollected now and then, 
 And shiver'd, whispering to myself "No God." 
 
 No God, No Soul ; they are the self-same thought. 
 And I, that think it, turning into mire 
 To-morrow or next year, I care not much 
 What may befall a race of things like me, 
 A little better luck, a little worse, 
 As each Hits by and vanishes for ever.
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 21 
 
 To-morrow will be Nothing ; and To-day 
 That leads to it, is Next to Nothing. Go ! 
 Laugh, weep, do what you will, eat, drink, and die — 
 The sad old phrase found true. 
 
 Is't selfishness 
 Thus craves for God, that God may give us life 
 After this life ? New life he as it may. 
 That irks me nothing. It is this my life 
 I would not lose, the life within this life. 
 And I have lost it, if there he No God. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 OF all pathetic things the most is this — 
 A happy bright-eyed Child, some four years old, 
 Making acquaintance with man's common world. 
 Joy, wonder, eager questionings ; anon 
 An anxious look, a swift and wide-eyed stare 
 At his dear Oracle ; and merry laughs 
 And low contented songs made by himself 
 Are his ; and youthful strange imaginings ! 
 And sometimes you may see those innocent eyes 
 Fix'd in a meditative trance, the while 
 He strives to see some vaguest vapoury form 
 Of thought within him. 
 
 this world of ours ! 
 
 I am your Prophet, Priest, and Oracle, 
 My little Son ; whatever I respond 
 Is fate. One only answer vexes you — 
 " I do not know." You try and try again 
 For something better, and are ill-content. 
 But often must you hear those baffling words ;
 
 22 AN EVIL MAY- DAT. 
 
 And often must you say them to yourself 
 
 When manhood, which you deem omniscient, 
 
 Is yours in turn,- — is like what Ave have found. 
 
 guard thee, Prophet, well, not to mislead 
 
 Thy neophyte ! The dream, the phantasy 
 
 Thou puttest in his mind, is truth for him, 
 
 Until he finds it untrue. This young soul 
 
 Tremulous with wonder, curiosity, 
 
 Imagination, (look hut in his face) 
 
 Drinks in the world through every joyful sense ; 
 
 Sensation turns to thought and thought revives 
 
 Sensation in the memory ; thus is "built 
 
 The body of the mind by slow degrees, 
 
 With order'd imagery, with hahitudes 
 
 Of movement ; and the little world it lives in 
 
 Is its own making chiefly. All the while, 
 
 The great world lives around it, and includes 
 
 It with the rest of things. A word of mine, 
 
 Be it the emptiest hreath, can take firm shape 
 
 In my son's world ; the herald's animals, 
 
 Insert them in his natural-history book, 
 
 Were just as credible as any there ; 
 
 Angel is no Avhit harder to conceive 
 
 Than eagle, and a Heaven above the clouds 
 
 (Reach'd by balloon perhaps) much easier 
 
 Than suns and planets and space without a bound. 
 
 Thou shalt not build a false world, little Son, 
 If skill of mine can sift the follies out 
 Men have mix'd up with everything. My care 
 Is less to teach than save thee from being taught 
 Half-truths and falsehoods in thy tender time. 
 
 Beware, my Son, of words ! The Human Race 
 Hath stored its wisdom there, its errors there, 
 Mistakes and follies and duplicities. 
 Of words false gods arc made, each doom'd at last 
 A worn-out idol to the lumber-loft
 
 AN EVIL MAY- DAY. 23 
 
 Or trim museum, — concourse wonderful, 
 Superb, grotesque, pathetic, and obscene ! 
 
 Childhood will ask, " Who made all these things 1 " 
 "God." 
 "Where does God live?" — suppose I point and say, 
 "On that high mountain top"; my child regards 
 The peak with joyful awe ; but ono day climbs 
 And finds a barren frosty crag, — nor heeds 
 The wide spread glory of things encircling it. 
 He hears of Heaven above the clouds ; his book 
 At school confutes it : starry heaven goes blank. 
 Words said to children can be only true, 
 Or not, in their direct and simple sense. 
 " At such and such a place, God walked with men ; 
 They saw and heard Him ; what he said and did 
 Is warrant for your duties and your hopes." 
 The warm young spirit trustfully accepts, 
 Lies down, uprises, in a full belief, 
 From day to day, for many days and years, 
 Till one day comes the question, "Is this true 1" 
 Nay, teach the plans, ways, character of God, 
 With Man's relations to Him thence deduced, 
 In any form of words you will : how fence 
 The fatal question out — " But is this true 1 " 
 The answer " No ! " smites all truth to the ground, 
 The vine and prop together ; Truth itself, 
 Immortal Truth, lies murder'd ! 
 
 Foolishness, 
 Dishonesty and cowardice of men, 
 What bitter pain, what cruel wrongs ye breed ! 
 As if our case were not perplex'd enough, 
 And troublesome enough, and sad enough, 
 But we must writhe in self-inflicted pangs ! 
 
 But in the reign of Science you are born. 
 Theology, with pomp and riches yet,
 
 24 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Sits mumbling, droning, in his padded chair, 
 
 Gouty, asthmatic, ailing every way. 
 
 A young audacious voice rings through the land — 
 
 " Ask questions, men, where ye may hope reply 
 
 By gauge of human faculties, may test 
 
 Keply when found. First cause and final cause 
 
 In every case being out of reach, henceforth 
 
 Fix eye and thought upon the scrutable ; 
 
 Travel, examine, and subdue throughout 
 
 The great domain of Science ; step by step, 
 
 Link after link, trace, test, confirm and fix 
 
 The sequences of natural law ; reduce 
 
 The complex to the simple ; thus control, 
 
 So far as man may do so, human life, 
 
 The race itself ; attain, whate'er it be, 
 
 No twilight Land of Dreams, Fool's Paradise 
 
 Hid in a theologic labyrinth 
 
 Or metaphysic jungle. How sublime 
 
 In its simplicity, one single fact 
 
 In pure mechanic formula express'd, 
 
 (Shall it be call'd Vibration? — possibly) 
 
 And all phenomena its aspects merely ! 
 
 This we shall find at last." 
 
 And then ? Avhat then 
 Are we at home henceforward in the world ? 
 All comfortably settled in our minds, 
 Knowing the immortal truth — Vibration ? 
 Shall we spoonfeed our babes on science-pap, 
 Till teeth find tougher work ? train them to scan 
 The mechanism of all phenomena, 
 To measure and set it down in proper form, — 
 The ne plus ultra this, which cannot baulk ? 
 
 Again I say, Beware of words, my Son. 
 Exact and systematic knowledge — good ! 
 But now, of what ? Of the true nature of things? 
 That is abjured. No step found possible 
 In that direction. Of phenomena?
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. ~'o 
 
 "Surely." But I deny it : very close 
 We peer, and make our atoms very small, 
 Yet after all 'tis but the coarser part 
 Of any one phenomenon of nature 
 Which we can measure and make record of. 
 Science is measurement, no more, no less, 
 Whatever sauce we add. Minds wholly fill'd 
 With Physical Science (and a fond conceit 
 That they alone know Nature) miss and lose 
 The natural appearances of things 
 Beyond all common ignorance. Day and night, 
 Earth, ocean, sky, the seasons, peopled full 
 With countless forms of life ; a world imbued 
 With mystic beauty, wonder, awfulness, 
 Powers inexpressible and infinite, 
 Whereto man's spirit exquisitely thrills, 
 Baised, rapt, and soaring on celestial wings, — 
 Which ecstasy begetteth Art in some, 
 In every sane soul Worship in some wise, 
 Voiceful or silent, — shall we see instead 
 The tall ghost of a pair of compasses 
 Stalking about a world of diagrams, 
 And algebraic regiments that march 
 And countermarch, and wheel 1 
 
 learn all this — 
 If so thou fail not to come back at last, 
 My son, to nature's own rich symbolism ! 
 Value appearances, and study these 
 To see them well, — your first relationship, 
 Your last and truest too, with circumstance ; 
 More excellent by far to apprehend 
 Than all disclosures of analysis. 
 Upon the surface earthly Beauty blooms, 
 Yielding itself to every loving eye, 
 Known heavenly in its correspondences 
 When Seer or Poet comes ; immortal fiow'r, 
 Beloved of Man's soul, no trivial thing,
 
 26 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 No fleeting thing as flimsy proverbs wail ! 
 
 Inferior truths are good in their degree, 
 
 But the first-met is first, nor ever can 
 
 Be weigh 'd or measured. That the world is fair 
 
 Concerns us more than that the world is round, 
 
 (Though this, like every truth, be well to fix) ; 
 
 The rose, the primrose, and the hawthorn-flow'r. 
 
 The colours of the dawn or evening air, 
 
 Clouds, mountains, rivers, woodlands, grassy meads, 
 
 The varying ocean and the starry night, 
 
 The countless shapes of animals, and most 
 
 The human form, and miracle of face, 
 
 Have in their beauty more significance 
 
 Than tabulated light-waves which impinge 
 
 On optic nerves and yield the brain a sense 
 
 Of red, blue, yellow — Science knows not how. 
 
 Science can but afford a pitying smile 
 
 If you forget that just where warmth begins 
 
 Of human interest in a question, there 
 
 Science stops short. And let her have the praise 
 
 Of keeping in her limit, if she keep, 
 
 And lack not limitation's humbleness. 
 
 Beware, I say, of words, warm, wide, and loose ; 
 Beware of cold and rigid formula? 
 No less ; both full of power — they are not things, 
 Nor even thoughts, but shadowings-forth of thoughts, 
 Wearing a phantom dignity themselves. 
 True, that we think by these : most men by words, 
 The grave mathematician by his signs, 
 Expressing a mechanic universe, 
 Yet giving irrepressible Fancy room 
 To sport in magical curves and deem herself 
 Almost creative in mechanic wise, 
 Leaving out life and beauty merely. "Words 
 Have melody and colour, and thereAvith 
 The Poet's art can build a lovelier world,
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 27 
 
 Nay, truer than the common, for the gold 
 Is smelted from the dross that made it dull. 
 Be ever thankful of poetic truth, 
 And hold it fast. Value Appearances, 
 And let Imagination teach their worth, 
 Counting this practical. A sane clear mind 
 To see, and to imagine, is a mind 
 Of noblest rank : learning will nourish it, 
 But not to any show of learning : such 
 Are Seers and Poets. Through appearances 
 Beheld with keen and sympathetic eyes 
 Imaginative insight pierces deep 
 To something secret, — not mechanical 
 But spiritual, and wholly beyond reach 
 Of Science, which too often is so vain 
 As therefore to deny it scornfully ; 
 Spiritual, and not contain'd or circumscribed 
 In any science ever formulated, 
 Or any creed that is or will be made, 
 Or aught that eye can see, or ear can hear ; 
 For subtler, dearer, more delicious beauty 
 Lives in the soul than in the outer world, 
 And therefore fact is poor to dreams and hopes, 
 Child-fancies beggar all the famous things. 
 Ah, might we trust the Poets all in all ! 
 Too often they divert themselves and us 
 With gambols in the air. Amorous of words, 
 Temptable by a rhyme or phrase, they make 
 Language their end not means ; or sometimes stoop 
 To stroke the public ear and give those jaws 
 The food they gape for. 
 
 Men, in short, my Son, 
 Speak truth by most imperfect signs at best, 
 And with it many follies, many lies, 
 Deceiving or deceived, being only men, 
 Weak, wavering, limited. Yet men alone 
 See, note, explore, make record of, would fain,
 
 28 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 But cannot ever, comprehend the world, 
 
 Life being a mystery, not a mechanism ; 
 
 Orderly Miracle, where some men see 
 
 The Order, some the Wonder, most, and shape 
 
 Their diagrams, their phantasies ; the Wise, 
 
 Wedding experience and imagination — 
 
 Both ; and lift up their eyes and hands to God. 
 
 As to the Future, that is God's affair. 
 I am not Ruler of the Universe, 
 Nor .in His secrets ; hut I hold Him good, 
 His riches boundless, and His will to give. 
 Also that Man has share, whatever share, 
 In working out the Universal Plans, 
 And man's own fate is partly in his power 
 For each of us ; how far we cannot know. 
 This I do know, immortal thoughts alone, 
 Eternal things, have interest for my soul — 
 That which is truly me, my inmost self. 
 
 Man can help men, and also hinder them. 
 
 Men's evil and folly are to guard against, 
 
 Assuming many shapes ; not dangerous least 
 
 In Books, pretended utterances of thought. 
 
 I say it who have loved books all my life. 
 
 The tongue may lie, or, self-deceiving, show 
 
 Folly as wisdom, may omit or add, 
 
 Transpose, misrepresent : more easily 
 
 The pen ; and lo, by typographic art 
 
 What inky robes of grave authority 
 
 Do words put on, and in the library 
 
 The volume takes its seat among its peers, 
 
 Or quasi-peers. Nowhere such solemn shams 
 
 As pen and printer's ink can make ! Man's tongue 
 
 Is flexible, but eye, face, voice, and gesture, 
 
 Body and whole demeanour help you well 
 
 To check or to corroborate his speech 
 
 (Put faith in physiognomy !) ; a Book
 
 AN EVIL MAT-DAY. 29 
 
 Wears deep disguise ; may be a puppet-thing, 
 
 And not a man at all. The World of Books 
 
 Is full of glamour ; evil, good, false, true, 
 
 Living and dead ; enchanted wilderness 
 
 Where many wander, few can find a path, 
 
 Or gather what is good for them. My Boy, 
 
 I vow, shall not begin to read too soon ! 
 
 Learning can nourish Wisdom, when good food 
 
 Is quietly digested ; but, too oft, 
 
 Unfit, ill-cook'd, or overloaded meals 
 
 Lie crude and swell the belly with wind, or breed 
 
 Dull fat, mistook for portliness and strength. 
 
 And surely never since the world began 
 
 So many Learned Fools as now-a-days, 
 
 Or Learned Folly with so loud a voice. 
 
 Even the Wiser slip from sanity 
 
 At times, and swell the roaring storm of words. 
 
 I am your Oracle and Prophet now, 
 Young Mortal, weak and ignorant as I am 
 And fain to question rather than reply. 
 Yet have I journey 'd on the road of life 
 Full many a mile, and bought experiences, 
 Have seen, done, joy'd and suffer'd, with a soul 
 Not timid, neither hard, sincere in grain, 
 Open to every influence, not engross'd 
 Of any, wishing well to all I met. 
 On foot, but not a beggar, have I fared, 
 Rested in huts and inns and palace halls, 
 Conversed on equal terms Avith many men. 
 Crept through dark valleys, climbed the mountain tops 
 And known all kinds of weather. Here I sit 
 By fireside, with a baby on my knee. 
 A Boy with golden curls and grave blue eyes. 
 Asking me questions. Shall I tell him truth ? 
 Yes, Dearest, now and ever ! But to know 
 The needful questions is to be mature.
 
 30 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 A child but asks as prompted — mostly, too, 
 Prompted by Ignorance in Wisdom's mask ; 
 She uses words unmeaningly, and crowds 
 Life's pathways with memorials of man's folly. 
 Prompt him I must, and honestly give answer. 
 "Who made the world?" — Great God: we use that 
 
 name. 
 How do we know Him ? — In the heart and soul. 
 What is He ? — jSIo man hath the power to know." 
 This is enough to tell him at the time. 
 
 Man hath no thoughts to think what God is like, 
 And much less words to say ; but he can feel 
 At times the Presence great and wonderful 
 Beyond all words and thoughts and dreams, and yet 
 Wherein we live and move and have our being. 
 All great truths are incomprehensible ; 
 Much more the Living Centre of them all. 
 The clearest moments of the noblest men 
 Give insight thitherward, and what they see 
 Belongs to man, though some regard it not. 
 Soon the clouds roll together, the ground-fogs 
 Grow thick, and all the vision disappears ; 
 But what the best eyes at their best behold 
 Is Truth Divine ; the test whereof is this — 
 A lofty sanity of thought and life 
 In whoso doth receive it, harmony 
 Felt in his inmost being, nor wholly hid 
 From other men. But how impossible 
 To put the vision into words, nor weave 
 Therewith a snare ! folly, to suppose 
 That speech, however wonderful it be, 
 Is more than makeshift ! Could I stop thine ears 
 Till thou art somewhat ripened in thy mind, 
 My Son, from all more free discourse of God, 
 Dogmatic, controversial, personal, 
 I would ; and I will do it, all I can.
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 31 
 
 It may be thou art born to a troublous time, 
 Retributive on nations for their sins. 
 At least, thou shalt escape one evil thing— 
 My Evil May-day, doleful to endure, 
 Sad to remember. Yet it pass'd ; I live ; 
 And (ioD lives. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 AND God lives. Yes, begin and end with that, 
 For, whichsoever way you turn your face 
 And journey through th' illimitable vast, 
 You come to Nothing or you come to God. 
 
 "We come to Matter," you reply, "more Matter, 
 Matter in many forms, ourselves being of them, 
 Man too is made of world-stuff." 
 
 Which contains 
 No mind, affection, moral principle, 
 Or ruling will ; yet breeds them in its dance 
 Of purposeless gyration, turns (0 strange !) 
 At last to speculation on itself, 
 And finds at choice, dust or divinity. 
 — I say, we come to Nothing, or to God. 
 
 ' Confront us then with Him. Who sees his face 
 Or hears his voice ? They told us in our youth 
 He paced a garden, spoke from a certain hill, 
 And wore a" man's true body for a time. 
 They painted Him, an Old Man propt on clouds, 
 A Young Man, fLowing-hair'd, with aureole, 
 Walking on water, flying through the air ; 
 Much wondrous, much familiar circumstance. 
 But all this fading into fairy-tales, 
 What have we 1 '
 
 32 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Truth. And know this well, once more, 
 Every high truth is inexpressible, 
 And God, the highest, absolutely. Men 
 Strive after some conception, symbol-wise, 
 But make, too often, symbol into idol ; 
 And all these idols forged by human brain, 
 Better or worse, and aiding more or less, 
 Misleading less or more,' long-lived or short, 
 Are perishable things. The idol falls ; 
 And then it seems the pillars of the world 
 That break, the roof of heav'n that crashes in. 
 A little cloud of dust was in our eyes ; 
 Look up : God sits enthroned, thy lord and king; 
 Look round, His earth is wide and beautiful. 
 If once thou hast that vision, treasure it, 
 Speak little of it, let it nourish thy life 
 In fair thoughts, just deeds, and self-harmony, 
 While the unceasing noise of human talk 
 Hums round unheeded, and the multitude 
 Concerns itself with whatsoe'er it will. 
 Jove's thunderbolt, Apollo's fiery car, 
 Being phrases put aside, seems solar force 
 Less wonderful, or th' all-pervasive thrill 
 Of electricity ? The human mind 
 And moral laws, do these depend on names 1 
 The world is wider, deeper than our thought ; 
 We walk as if in twilight : but, at times, 
 How, whence, we know not, all is lighted up, 
 Transfigured. What is shown to us ? A glimpse 
 Of inmost truth. 
 
 So and not otherwise 
 Poetic and religious thoughts are born, 
 Nor else interpretable. This great Light, 
 More glorious than the sun's, this Divine Stream 
 This emanation from the Life of Life, 
 Named or not named, and fitliest received 
 With silent joy, these cloudless blissful hours
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 33 
 
 Or moments, who shall hope to represent ? 
 The finest mesh of words being all too coarse, 
 The loftiest tones of poem or of creed 
 But distant echoes of the vibrant Soul 
 Throbbing and pulsing in its bath of Light, 
 Fill'd with the presence of the Living God, 
 One Power evolving multiformity, 
 Pervading and transcending every form. 
 
 Such vision you may keep, or you may lose. 
 And what destroys it, or prevents it 1 This — 
 The setting-up False Vision in its place, 
 By obsolete pretended evidence, 
 Untrue in fact, impossible in kind, 
 Still palm'd on innocent souls when full of trust 
 And love and wonder. Once these holy names 
 And emblems meant what now they cannot mean, 
 As well thou knowest ; yet thou teachest them 
 For absolute truth to tender longing souls, 
 Fastening their faith, their highest faculty, 
 To forms decay'd, worm-eaten through and through. 
 We coward ! murderer of thy children's peace, 
 Preparing for them sick and crooked lives, 
 The end perhaps despair. But God's light shines, 
 Though men shut out, discolour, distort the ray. 
 
 Man, in a sense, makes God. In the same sense 
 Man makes the world : his world is what he makes it 
 Each man his world, his God. But tell me now : 
 The natural, true, and most miraculous World, 
 Which no man ever saw, can ever see, 
 The Living Absolute Eternal God, 
 Whom no man ever saw, can ever see, — 
 Do these depend on how a man shall think 
 Or picture them, or any set of men ? 
 The God a man hath made he^may pull down 
 The World a man makes alters with himself 
 The true, the everlasting Life remains, 
 Surest of all things, — personal, universal, 
 
 :?
 
 34 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Ineffable, incomprehensible, 
 
 Perceived, received, as with the flower of the soul. 
 
 God rules us whether we take heed or no. 
 
 Tis duty less than privilege and joy 
 
 To recognise Him ; nor such boon to all 
 
 In equal measure. Judge its potency 
 
 In the few most receptive, not the crowd. 
 
 To live, one needs not know that earth is round, 
 
 Much less the laws of planets and of suns, 
 
 But, all men ignorant, each man were lower'd, 
 
 And crippled even in his daily needs. 
 
 Were all born blind, then who would guess the light ? 
 
 All deaf, then who imagine any sound ? 
 
 And many see the light who nothing know 
 
 Of the Sun's greatness, only dimly see 
 
 The beauty it gives birth to ; many have ears 
 
 And yet by music's magic no more touch'd 
 
 Than carven figures by the organ-storm 
 
 Shaking their substance atoms. Must thou gain 
 
 These other men's impossible consent 
 
 Before thou tremblest to the mystic joy 
 
 That frees thy spirit with a gift of wings 
 
 In Music's atmosphere ? or give account 
 
 To them of how and why thou thus art moved 
 
 By Beauty, natural or interpreted ? 
 
 Doubt, or distrust, or disbelieve, since some 
 
 With ears that hear not, eyes that cannot see, 
 
 Bring scales to measure and weigh your consciousness? 
 
 Nay, know'st thou Love? — a Love sublime and pure, 
 
 The. world's transfiguration, through thy soul's. 
 
 If thou hast ever been assured of this, 
 
 Shall icy hearts or sneering tongues convict 
 
 High Love, and not themselves, of foolishness? 
 
 Consider then : if that most glorious Power 
 
 Far beyond audible and visual sense, 
 
 Felt at the inmost of thy soul of souls 
 
 In moments clear and rare, at other times
 
 AN EVIL MAT-DAY. 35 
 
 Be thickly veil'd from thee or quite ohscured, 
 
 Wilt thou accept the bright hour or the dark 
 
 To teach thee truth 1 If certain other men 
 
 Deny the vision wholly, wilt thou choose 
 
 Negation for thy having % and because 
 
 Of the great glory and wonder of the light 
 
 That shone upon thee, say it was a dream, 
 
 No truth at all 1 Forget Him if thou wilt. 
 
 Deny Him. Thou art free. Nor will He strike 
 
 With angry flash ; not so the world is made. 
 
 No penalties are set for unbelief, 
 
 Excejot the natural and inevitable 
 
 Contain'd in not believing. Count these nothing, — 
 
 Who shall refute, gainsay thee 1 go thy ways ; 
 
 The loss is in thyself ; and if unfelt, 
 
 The greater. Even as the man devoid 
 
 Of music misses nothing, loveless man 
 
 Pines not for lack of love, so he to whom 
 
 This world is empty of Divinity 
 
 From earth's dark centre to the Milky Way, 
 
 Sees this world full as other men's, and seems 
 
 To live in the same world. O marvellous ! 
 
 Here walk two human creatures side by side : 
 
 But seest thou in what kind of world each moves ? 
 
 Not with the bodily eye. Each makes his world, 
 
 And counts his own the only. To but few 
 
 Is given the Poet's, Prophet's ecstasy : 
 
 Yet theirs the witness we accept at last. 
 
 Many are dull and scarcely heed at all. 
 But some turn all to question : — " What is Life, 
 This marvel of all marvels 1 Show to us 
 Without delay, Whence, How, and What it is, 
 Or must we not affirm it meaningless 1 
 At most, a puzzle fit to stretch oar wits, 
 The whilst we eat, drink, fight, laugh, propagate, 
 Ami play at reason, virtue, and so forth? 
 
 3 — 2
 
 30 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Guess it a dustheap, somehow grown alive, 
 
 Or else a sort of mental phantasy 1 
 
 Surely, if we can't sift things, we have right 
 
 To rate them as we choose." There wisdom spoke ! 
 
 Not peevish folly, or forward babyhood. 
 
 But this at least is true beyond a doubt,— 
 
 Man's Life has meaning, else the World has none, 
 
 This Universe is but a puff of smoke 
 
 Floating in whirls about the gulf of space, 
 
 We atoms in the midst, and all our thoughts 
 
 Are less than nothing. 
 
 What Life is, I know not, 
 Nor claim the right to know ; but gladly accept 
 The highest hints and intimations given, 
 As likest truth. I know not what God is, 
 Nor count it reasonable to suppose 
 A man could know ; but that God lives and rules, 
 My soul in times of pure and tranquil vision 
 Sees without effort ; which great central truth 
 Sways into order all the world of thought, 
 That else were chaos. And, since I am I, 
 To me, a person, He, a person, lives ; 
 A Living God, of power immeasurable, 
 Nature incomprehensible, and plans 
 Inscrutable ; of whom I know by faith, — 
 A reasonable and necessary faith, 
 Correlative to ignorance, and yet 
 No way self-contradictory, a clue 
 In a prodigious labyrinth, a lamp 
 In a great darkness. 
 
 Why no more is known 1 
 Enough it is the nature of things ; and how 
 In sooth could I conceive it otherwise, 
 Create a different world 1 ? What use this faith? — 
 What use wide-sweeping universal thoughts 1 
 Nay what use is the Universe itself 1 ? . . .
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 3', 
 
 At least we'll take for granted it exists, 
 
 Though questions may lack answers ! " Matter," 
 
 "Spirit," 
 What may these be? one thing, or separate? — 
 I care not which ; for how should that concern 1 
 All is, of need, connected, up and down, 
 And grossest link'd with subtlest. We must live 
 In a material world, must therein work, 
 Thereby be wrought upon. I am conjoin'd — 
 This personal I, (invisible as God)— 
 To my own bodily organs first of all ; 
 Related strictly to the beast, the bird, 
 The blade of grass, the clod of earth, the cloud, 
 The faintest haze of suns within the sky. 
 That nearest fiery orb makes flow my blood ; 
 Electric ether vivifies my brain ; 
 And I, made up of these, who am not these, 
 Exist in personal being, think, enquire, 
 Reason, imagine, feel, and nothing know : 
 But in my dearest moments I think — God. 
 Ask you, What use is Faith 1 Faith is like Health ; 
 Which, if you have in full serene possession, 
 You feel it every moment of the day, 
 In every fibre of your frame, each mood 
 And movement of your mind, yet for most part 
 Unconsciously. Inherit health and lose it, 
 Then shall you know its worth. But some poor men 
 Have never had it, and their seeming life 
 Is three parts death ; some fling away their share 
 To buy diseases, or, when sense is dull'd, 
 Count dulness armour, take defect for strength ; 
 Few have full measure : O to be like them ! 
 For health is life, tho' sickness in a sort 
 Lives on, and nearly all the world is sick. 
 Faith is a higher wider subtler health, 
 What ether is to air, what harmony 
 Is to a throng of disconnected sounds ;
 
 38 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 A pure truth inexpressible in words, 
 
 All the great truths being measureless, and God 
 
 The truth of truths. 
 
 Spend not thy life in questions : 
 Go on thy journey, find there what thou may'st. 
 The past is past and had its own beliefs, 
 To day lies round, pours in, miraculous, 
 And in man's soul the springs of prophecy 
 Well up from their unfathomable source 
 Unceasingly, while he has faith in God. 
 Belief in God — here is the fountain-head 
 Of all religion, and, could that run dry 
 To all the human race, then human life 
 Were but a sandy desert full of asps. 
 No God — No Man. Blind matter all without ; 
 Within delusive shadows. Hold God fast. 
 
 May-Day was evil when I miss'd my God : 
 Earth, sea and sky fall'n empty of a sudden. 
 All the wide universe a dismal waste 
 Peopled with phantoms of my flitting self, 
 And mocking gleams chance - kindled and chance 
 
 quench'd, 
 All meaning nothing. Natural May-Day 
 Bevived to me when I found God again ; 
 World full of beauty and significance 
 Wisely and justly govern'd, and I too 
 Part and partaker of the wondrous whole ; 
 Made capable to feel, enjoy, adore, 
 To think and reason, not to comprehend. 
 
 Manhood is Freedom : to use it well, 
 Acting upon the element where I move 
 According to its nature and my own, 
 (( )bscurely folded in the germ at first, 
 Form'd by successive subtle acts of will)
 
 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 39 
 
 Acting to greater purpose than appears ; 
 
 Nor too much sorrowing over seeming loss 
 
 Nor anxious for security of gain, 
 
 Mild, equal-minded, fearless ! To such level 
 
 Kise I in happy hour, spring-tide of soul, 
 
 Aware, without words, and beyond all words, 
 
 That God was, is, and evermore remains ; 
 
 The Living Centre of this Universe, 
 
 Which is itself imagined and not seen ; 
 
 Always the Centre, reach'd by various roads 
 
 From many points by many different minds. 
 
 Who move tow'rds Him, converge. Who move from 
 
 Him 
 Diverge, and wander out to lonely Space, 
 Where they see nothing and hear nothing, save 
 A hollow echo of their own voice return'd 
 As from the Cavern of Eternal Death. 
 But from the Centre, Everlasting Life 
 Expands and pulses in perpetual waves. 
 
 Man's property is Will ; and he thereby 
 Can turn his face to God, change his own world ; 
 For some things must be fix'd, and some left free. 
 See we not Good and Bad 1 upgoing lines 
 And down, to Best and Worst, to Heaven and Hell 1 
 Man, as I deem, hath foretaste of them both. 
 But these, too, people image as they may 
 In gross fantastic verbal crudities, 
 Dark prisons, devils, tortures, pits of fire, 
 Unfading gardens, milk-white robes, gold harps, 
 A Heaven of vague "eternal happiness." 
 Not so it beckons me : pure health, fit work, 
 For Human Creatures chasten'd, purified, 
 Each to his best ; each, clear in aim and course, 
 Doing his proper part with strenuous joy : 
 Humility and self-forgetfulness, 
 Low work or high, in boundless universe ;
 
 40 AN EVIL MAY-DAY. 
 
 Not dull — a joyous, free, and busy Heaven, 
 
 Hope never baulk'd there, knowledge climbing on, 
 
 Wisdom expanding, love without a pain, 
 
 Sweet helpful interchange of thought and mirth ; 
 
 Beauty to fill each spirit to its content ; 
 
 Limitless growth : the Mystery Divine 
 
 Peacefully clear, yet still a Mystery, 
 
 The Spiritual Sun of all the Heavens ; 
 
 Infinitely remote, but fully felt ; 
 
 Whence radiate, and whereto in turn are drawn 
 
 All powers, all spirits, — the loAvest in their turn
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 41 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 GRIEVE not much for loss of wealth, 
 Loss of friends, or loss of fame, 
 Loss of years, or loss of health ; 
 
 Answer, hast thou lost the shame 
 Whose early tremor once could flush 
 Thy cheek, and make thine eyes to gush, 
 And send thy spirit, sad and sore, 
 To kneel with face upon the floor, 
 Burden'd with consciousness of sin 1 
 Art thou cold and hard within, — 
 Sometimes looking back surprised 
 On thy old mood, scarce recognized, 
 As on a picture of thy face 
 In blooming childhood's transient grace 1 
 Then hast thou cause for grief ; and most 
 In seldom missing what is lost. 
 With the loss of Yesterday, 
 
 Thou hast lost To-day, To-morrow, — 
 All thou might'st have been. pray, 
 
 (If pray thou canst) for poignant sorrow !
 
 42 THOUGHT AND WOED. 
 
 DOGMATISM. 
 
 THUS it is written."— Where? Oh, where? 
 In the blue chart of the air ? 
 In the sunlight 1 in the dark 1 
 In the distant starry spark 1 
 In the white scroll of the cloud ? 
 In the waved line of the flood 1 
 In the forms of peak or cliff, 
 In the rock's deep hieroglyph 1 
 In the scribbled veins of metal % 
 In the tracings on the petal 1 
 In the fire's fantastic loom 1 
 In the fur, or scale, or plume 1 
 In the greeting brother's glance 1 
 In the corpse's countenance 1 
 In men's real thoughts and ways ? 
 Time's long track, or passing days 1 
 In the cipher of the whole 1 
 In the core of my own soul 1 
 Nay ! — I have sincerely sought, 
 But no glimpse of this thing caught
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 
 
 A mighty Monarch, and a modest Man ; 
 Sweetest of Stoics since the world began.
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 45 
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 
 
 A.D. 180. 
 DRUSILLUS. PROBUS. 
 
 Dru. TJAIL, Probus ! 
 
 Pro, XI Hail, Drusillus ! — thou in Rome ! 
 
 Pale too, by Hercules ! Art sick, or wounded 1 
 
 Dru. Neither, my Probus. From Pannonia, I ; 
 A twelve days' journey. Now the Senate cons 
 My message, and I hurry to the bath. 
 Farewell, my friend ; I'll visit you to-morrow. 
 
 Pro. Nay, at this hour the public bath is throng'd, 
 And lo, my house at hand, and yours away 
 Beside the Vipsan Columns. Come, Drusillus, 
 Welcome awaits you, bath and robe and supper, 
 Not laid for guests, but large enough for two ; 
 And then, for March wind scours the dusty streets, 
 Home in my litter. Bravely said, old friend ! 
 I will not ask your camp news, well content 
 To hear with Rome : we'll talk philosophy, 
 As many a night before — dispute, agree, 
 And taste again the likeness in unlikeness 
 Friendship is mix'd of. 
 
 Dru. Thou may'st ask my news. 
 
 All Rome, indeed, will shortly ring with it. 
 
 Pro. Another victory and triumph 1 Nay, 
 Not a defeat ? Why look you at me thus 1 
 
 Dru. Csesar 
 
 Pro. Is dead ? 
 
 Dru. He is. 
 
 Pro. Aurelius dead !
 
 46 NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 
 
 friend, a weighty message in two words ! 
 So heavy hath not fall'n into mine ear 
 Since when, a youth, I heard men whispering 
 " Good Antoninus is no more ! " — How long 
 Is that ago 1 — He was thy father's friend 
 
 1 think, Drusillus, as Aurelius thine. 
 
 Dru. He was. — Exactly nineteen years this month 
 My father was that captain of the guard 
 "Who came to Antoninus, lying sick, 
 For the night's watchword, and the Emperor, 
 Fixing his mild majestic eyes on him, 
 Said, " Equanimity." At dawn of day 
 My father saw th' imperial face again 
 Pale, silent, and with eyes for ever closed. 
 And now his great adopted Son hath join'd 
 The shadowy multitude. No Quadic spear 
 Dethroned him ; it was fever's poison'd arrow 
 Flying invisible through the camp. He shared 
 The legionaries' food and long fatigues, 
 And every chance of war. 
 
 Pro. Thou too, Drusillus, 
 
 Or I mistake thee. Therefore do not scorn 
 This amber liquor from my own hill-slope ; 
 Thou hast sat beneath the vines there. As thou wilt. 
 Himself was not more temperate. Was his age 
 Twelve lustra 1 
 
 Dru. Save a year. 
 
 Pro. Too short a life ! 
 
 Dru. Aurelius thought not so. He ask'd my age 
 One day, and when I told him, "At two-score" — 
 He said — " a wise man knows what life is like, 
 And, though he lived a thousand years, would see 
 ( )ld things in new masks merely. Why not die ? 
 I soon shall notch a third score on the stick, 
 Nor wish the game spun wearisomely out. 
 The Roman death," he said, " a free man's choice 
 Is rational, bold ; great men have chosen it ;
 
 NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 47 
 
 But I for my part rather will await 
 Th' appointed hour of natural release, 
 Patient of life, not fearing death at all ; 
 A sentry at his post." 
 
 Pro. Go on, Drusillus ! 
 
 Dru. "Why," said the Emperor, "should death 
 be dreadful? 
 Since it is nothing hut a natural change, 
 One other needful movement in a world 
 Where all things always move, and nothing stays, 
 Yet nothing is destroy'd. Why shrink from change 
 That Power which governs all things, changes all, 
 And makes from out their substance, other things, 
 From these things other yet, continually ; 
 And by the flow of this perpetual change 
 Keeps universal nature always yormg." 
 
 Pro. Thy memory's good. 
 
 Dru. I noted down his words. 
 
 " The world, could'st thou but see it, would be seen 
 Shifting incessantly, but nothing lost, 
 And the great Whole continuing : the Gods 
 Also continuing, as I well believe." 
 
 Pro. Would that we might have clearer news of 
 them ! 
 In Kome, as well thou knowest, many men 
 Scoff at the Gods and count them fables merely. 
 What would they say to this 1 ? "Assuredly 
 Caesar must keep the temples up ! " — or else, 
 " Old-fashioned ! Out of date ! " 
 
 Dru. But here indeed 
 
 No Pontiff spoke : for one thing stay'd with him 
 Since Verus was his name, and Hadrian 
 Who loved the boy call'd him Verissimus ; 
 From youth to age, truth was his very nature, 
 Nor custom nor tradition master'd him, 
 All was digested in his mind, which took 
 Its proper nutriment ; nor he the fool
 
 48 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 
 
 To think, like many, truths wear out with time — 
 Being more substantial than the sea and land. 
 
 Pro. I trust his moderate and measured phrase 
 Beyond all nourishes. 
 
 Dru. He hated those. 
 
 "The Gods," he said, " we name them as we will : 
 They stand above my knowledge : but I feel 
 A Power Divine within me and without 
 Whereby all things are govern'd, changed, preserved." 
 And on another day these words were his : 
 " All from the Gods is full of Providence, 
 Nor Fortune separate from Nature ; all 
 Being interwoven in one mighty web. 
 Why therefore should I fear to quit the earth, 
 If this be so 1 And if it be not so, 
 Why should I care to live in such a world, 
 Empty of Gods and void of Providence 1 " 
 
 Pro. Wise words ! — and here no trivial theorist, 
 But Koman Csesar, mightiest of men. 
 What will his son be like 1 
 
 Dru. As the Gods please. 
 
 High man or low man, wise man is the man. 
 Marcus himself would many a time declare, 
 " Great Alexander, Julius, and Pompeius, 
 Count I but small, if match'd with Socrates, 
 Or Heraclitus, or Diogenes, 
 Or that Greek Slave." 
 
 Pro. Ay, noble Epictetus. 
 
 Aurelius would have made that slave his friend. 
 But let us talk of Commodus awhile. 
 Where is he 1 
 
 Dru. In the camp. Aurelius tum'd 
 
 By nature to Philosophy. He said 
 " The senate gave me empire, not desired, 
 Much better loving shady silent paths 
 Of peaceful meditation, than to roll 
 On dusty highway in triumphal car.
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 49 
 
 But all things moved together to that end, 
 Adoption, training, much experience gain'd 
 In public functions, most of all the wish 
 ( >f him my more than father ; and with these — 
 The driving-wheel of all — sense of man's place 
 And work, as social and for general use." 
 
 Pro. A noble nature ! 
 
 Dru. Well brought-np withal. 
 
 He loved to praise his tutors — "Thanks to them 
 For what I am." But he was ever humble. 
 "I know," he said, "being prince, and train'd 
 
 thereto, 
 I've miss'd much man-lore simple men have gain'd 
 Simply, as husbandmen grow weatherwise 
 And fishers wary." 
 
 Pro. There is truth in that. 
 
 Alp sees not close but wide. Nor can the great 
 "Well know the teasing troubles of poor men. 
 Was he a bookish man? 
 
 Dru. His books were few. 
 
 I've heard him say, "Much reading is but vain. 
 In contemplation and experience 
 The wise man will discover what he needs, 
 Unmesh'd in subtleties and speculations 
 Thin-spun by curious busy-idle wits. 
 The sense of things is plain to healthy minds, 
 The nature of them deep beyond all ken ; 
 Of qualities we learn ; of essence nothing ; 
 Nor do I deem, in myriad years to come, 
 Though many little truths they pick or delve 
 And put in storehouse, men are like to know 
 One atom more of Life, Death, or the Gods 
 Than we do now ; nor shall they profit much 
 In happiness, perchance, by all they learn. 
 To view the daily earth and nightly heavens, 
 Feeling their beauty and magnificence ; 
 To know there's good and evil, choose the good ; 
 
 4
 
 50 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 
 
 Let reason govern thee, not appetite ; 
 
 Learn to be true, just, diligent, and brave ; 
 
 Count all men brothers, work for general use ; 
 
 Obey God, help men, and be not perturb'd, 
 
 Taking thy lot with equanimity ; 
 
 These are the main things, and must always be ; 
 
 What more we add, not much, though we should set 
 
 The sun and moon in scales, see the grass grow, 
 
 And fly with better than Icarian wings 
 
 From Rome to Thule." 
 
 Pro. Had lie any guess 
 
 Of how the world was made 1 
 
 Dru. "Too deep for thought," 
 
 He said, "much more for language." Yet he mused 
 And question'd thus, "The nature of the Whole 
 Moved, and began the order'd Universe ; 
 And everything must be continuous 
 From that prime impulse. Shall we deem this force, 
 Ev'n in the highest things whereto it tendeth, 
 Void of a rational principle ? — or all 
 From one divine inscrutable First Cause, 
 Whence too our rational being must derive 
 Its powers 1 The order that subsists in thee 
 Is under rule of reason. Can this rule 
 Be absent in the Universe 1 Not so. 
 One Living Mind rules all." 
 
 Pro. Remember'd well ! 
 
 I see this as I never saw before. 
 His words are precious gems. Doth Commodus 
 Set forth at once to Rome 1 What think'st thou of 
 
 him ? 
 The slaves are out of hearing. 
 
 Dru. Grant me this, 
 
 1 >ear friend, no word of politics to-night ! 
 
 Pro. So be it. Tell me more then of our Prince 
 Who now is with the Gods. 
 
 Dru. ( 'ft in his tent 

 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 51 
 
 Or by a watchfire on the battle-field, 
 
 I saw him take a little parchment-scroll 
 
 Out of his bosom ; and on a certain night 
 
 He let me look therein, close-writ in Greek ; 
 
 Saying, " I put these thoughts upon my tablets 
 
 As they came to me, wrote them fairly out, 
 
 And turn to them again from time to time ; 
 
 Since what is written, even by oneself, 
 
 Becomes a force, takes place in the world of things, 
 
 And may be found again and scann'd again ; 
 
 Thus wise mood and clear insight come in aid 
 
 Of weak dark moments, and hold judgment firm. 
 
 The most," he said, " were written long ago ; 
 
 I read in them my brighter healthier self ; 
 
 Now, things grow wearisome, and seldom seem 
 
 Worth the style's labour — yet are they no worse, 
 
 No better than of old." With leave, I conn'd 
 
 The sentences, and copied many down 
 
 In our own tongue from memory. Words are seeds. 
 
 Here is my scroll, if thou art not yet tired. 
 
 But much he spoke was to the same effect. 
 
 Pro. Nay, read, Drusillus. 
 
 Dru. Thus Aurelius : 
 
 " Whate'er it be, this Universe, — myself 
 Am part thereof, related intimately 
 To other parts like me, my fellow-men. 
 Let me be thankful and content, and seek 
 The common good ; for happy he alone 
 Who, wise in contemplation, just in action, 
 Resigns himself to universal nature, 
 Expecting, fearing, and disliking nothing, 
 And puts his ruling faculty to use. 
 Ask this — how doth the ruling faculty 
 Employ itself? All else is but as smoke." — 
 " What is this hubbub that goes on around 1 
 Vain pomp and stage-play, weapon-brandishings, 
 Sheep following sheep (poor men !), herds driv'n along, 
 
 4 — 2
 
 52 NEWS PROM PANNONIA. 
 
 Dogs rushing to a bone, fish to a crumb, 
 
 Labours of ants, hurry of fright'n'd mice, 
 
 The posturing of puppets pull'd by strings ! 
 
 View it all quietly, good-naturedly, 
 
 And not with scorn ; but clearly understand 
 
 A man is worth so much as that is worth 
 
 He busies himself in. Yet, all are brethren : 
 
 Turn not away from any man or thing." — 
 
 "Wrong-doers must be, therefore marvel not 
 
 To meet one ; he's in error ; on thy part 
 
 Seek to amend him kindly : if thou'rt anger'd 
 
 Give thyself blame, not him. Be not perturb'd. 
 
 If a man hate thee, that is his affair, 
 
 Thine, that he have no cause. Upon thyself 
 
 Depends thy happiness ; thy will is free ; 
 
 Obey the voice of God."— Mark this, my friend : 
 
 " If God had plann'd it all — enough : art thou 
 
 Wiser than God 1 But certain men siirmise 
 
 Chance ruleth all, or Fate : be thou at least 
 
 Not ruled so, and having cared for this, 
 
 Be tranquil." Note that, Probus — "Thou at least 
 
 Be not so ruled." Often would he say, 
 
 "What is the dearest, most essential thing, 
 
 Whereof can no man rob us ? Our Free-Will ! " 
 
 Pro. A grand word ! But, how choose therewith ? 
 
 Dru. He field, 
 
 That, as our lungs inhale the atmosphere, 
 A subtler spiritual force pervades the world, 
 Which he who wills may draw into his mind. 
 
 Pro. Strange ! — yet my soul breathes freer at his 
 words. 
 Head on. 
 
 Dru. In this the perfect Stoic speaks: 
 " Rule thy opinion, and thou rulest all 
 Comes from without ; esteem that as it is, 
 Nothing — the Riding Faculty uutouch'd." 
 
 Pro. I am too weak for that !
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. 53 
 
 Dru. Again lie writes : 
 
 " Value not life at any costly rate, 
 Reflect : the Past a dream, the Future nothing, 
 The Present is the only thing thou hast, 
 Therefore the only thing which thou can'st lose, 
 And what is that? — a point." 
 
 Pro. The sophist here 
 
 Methinks, Drusillus — subtlety for wisdom ! 
 The Past is in the Present, and the point 
 Is moving, therefore measureless. 
 
 Dm. Well sai.l ! 
 
 No man is always right. 
 
 Pro. And then, " Opinion ? " 
 
 Suppose at some bad inn I drink sour wine, 
 How shall opinion make me taste and feel 
 Falernian ? Or should angry Neptune toss 
 My wretched body, hath opinion power 
 To comfort me 1 
 
 Dru. Some men are tougher made 
 
 No doubt, than others ; for the perfect Stoic 
 Too nice a palate is unapt, too weak 
 A stomach ; yet the main point lies not here. 
 Make by our Ruling Faculty the least 
 And not the most of adverse accident, 
 The best and not the worst of all our gifts, 
 We're followers, though with feeble step it be, 
 Of Zeno, Fpictetus, and Anrelius. 
 Live but to gratify our lower selves : 
 And study these, we're on the hateful road 
 With Nero and his parasites. 
 
 Pro. A gloss 
 
 On Stoicism ! — a good one I allow. 
 I fear I'm of the sons of Epicurus — 
 The later sons, degenerate from his doctrine ! 
 
 Dru. Nay, thou malign'st thyself — in vain to me. 
 No two men arc alike, nor no two Stoics. 
 Rut here are maxims fit for every man :
 
 54 NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 
 
 "Aet as thy nature leads, observing j ustice. 
 
 Rate everything according to its value. 
 
 Bear what the common nature brings to thee." 
 
 " Study not what thy neighbour says, does, thinks, 
 
 But live thine own life rightly. Talk no more 
 
 Of how a man should live, but so live thou." — 
 
 " The Soul's a sphere, and keeps her proper shape 
 
 If not stretch'd forth to outward things too far, 
 
 Nor, else, contracted inward, shrunk together. 
 
 " Seek imperturbably to live a life 
 
 Of wisdom, justice, temperance, fortitude ; 
 
 Be ever friendly, mild, benevolent ; 
 
 And follow thy eudsemon — God within thee." 
 
 Pro. Gold words ! The sweetest of the Stoics, he. 
 Unless it were his Father. 
 
 Dru. Nay, for him 
 
 Good life sufficed, without philosophy. 
 
 Pro. Little have I of either ! But note this ; 
 Marcus's nature, that was rational, 
 Mild, kind and sociable ; the voice within 
 Counsell'd him good not evil things. We all 
 Are not so made. Some men are idly given, 
 Care but for feasts and flowers and fluteplayers ; 
 Why should they baulk their fancies? Others 
 
 thirst 
 For glory, praise, and power ; and why not seek 
 
 them, 
 Such being their nature? How fit every man 
 To Marcus ? 
 
 Dru. Ay, or any other pattern ? 
 
 I said, no two alike, each his own life ; 
 And yet must none live solely for himself. 
 The idle and the grasping miss true life 
 Through error ; help them ; for, as Plato wrote, 
 Willingly is no soul deprived of truth ; 
 Count all amendable. 
 
 Pro. Nay, some I know
 
 NEWS FROM PANNONIA. oo 
 
 In whom a cacodsemon surely whispers ! 
 How deal with these 1 
 
 Dru. Shun, guard against, repress ; 
 
 At utmost need, expel them solemnly, 
 As curs'd hy fate or their perverted wills, 
 And give them over to the larger Power. 
 Aurelius could be stern — hut ever sadly. 
 Yet, tho' in his self-judgment strict, and all 
 That touch'd the State, to other men at times 
 (Perhaps because he did not rate them high) 
 And women, he was far too mild, too easy ; 
 His only fault. Witness his former colleague. 
 
 Witness his But enough. His life was pure, 
 
 His death was tranquil. May our souls tread firm 
 To follow his ! 
 
 Pro. Alas, I would the Gods, 
 
 Spoke out with clearer voice to us poor men 
 < hi life and death ! How should our souls be linn 
 When oracles are doubtful ? — Will new Csesar 
 Follow the fierce Beliona's flashing helm 1 
 Dru. Not if he hold his father's counsel dear. 
 " Jove grant my son," Aurelius used to say, 
 " Have little need and no desire of war. 
 War I detest. Yet I have lived in war, 
 To keep Augustus Csesar's legacy, 
 Our empire's bounds, unbroken — on the west 
 The Atlantic Ocean, on the north the Rhine 
 And Danube, with Euphrates to the east, 
 Africa's burning deserts to the south ; 
 The savage isle of Britain join VI to these 
 By later outpulsc of imperial force, 
 And Hadrian's Dacia afterwards. AVar — war — v 
 Would he exclaim, "I hate war — could not shun 
 
 it! 
 O happy Antoninus, fitly named 
 The Pious, three-and-twcnty peaceful years 
 The lifting of thy sceptre sway'd the world,
 
 5G NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 
 
 No further journeying than Lanuvium ! " 
 Two months ago, as many times before, 
 He spake in this wise ; and, on that same evening, 
 Came I for orders to the Emperor. 
 And found him pacing lonely on the bank 
 Of the broad Danube in a wintry dusk. 
 My business done, he lifted up his eyes, 
 And seeing great stars rising in the east, 
 "Think of the courses of the heavens," he said, 
 " The boundless gulf of past and future time, 
 And what our little lives are. This whole Earth 
 "We move upon is but a point." He stept 
 Silent some way, then stopping short exclaimed — 
 " Who can believe that good and noble souls, 
 The highest things we wot of, when they leave us 
 Perish and are extinguished, or that God 
 Will not preserve them, if the general scheme 
 Allow thereof 1 This body is not me ; 
 'Tis but the vessel and the instrument 
 Of an imperishable essence ; yea, 
 Myself and God are under one same law." 
 He ceased, then added in a lower voice — 
 " Shall man dispute with God? reverence Him 
 Confide in Him who governs everything ! 
 The perfect living Being, good and just 
 And beautiful, who generates, who holds 
 Together all things, who contains them all, 
 Continually dissolved and reproduced, 
 Himself not changed; from whom the soul of man 
 Is drawn, an efflux of the Deity." 
 When next I saw Marcus Aurelius, 
 He lay in fever. 
 
 Pro. Did it long endure 1 
 
 Dru. I'll tell thee, Probus. On the fifteenth day 
 I watch'd him, kneeling by the couch. His mind 
 Had wander'd, but he now lay motionless, 
 As in a trance, from noon till the fifth hour.
 
 NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 57 
 
 All unexpectedly, he looked upon me. 
 Forth came his hand. I kiss'd it. My heart leapt 
 With a pang of fleeting joy. He merely said — 
 " Farewell, DrusiUus. Bear the news to Home." 
 Then his eyes closed again ; and no more words. 
 
 Pro. Young Commodus, I think ■ 
 
 Dru. I think, my friend, 
 
 He had a virtuous and most nohle Father. 
 
 Pro. Truly. And I for my part recollect 
 Caligula's father was Germanicus, 
 Domitian's Titus. But — Hail, Commodus ! 
 Caesar and Emperor, seventeenth in count 
 From shrewd Augustus — some amongst them great 
 And many vile. Fortune hath strangely throned 
 Pernicious human monsters, gorging blood 
 Until it choked them. 
 
 Dru. Yea, but Rome endures ; 
 
 Jove's oak, whereon some carrion vultures perch'd ; 
 Empire that was, and is, and will be great ; 
 Never before so powerful, and so happy 
 As under Trajan, Hadrian, Antonine, 
 And our beloved Aurelius. 
 
 Pro. And yet, 
 
 All things, DrusiUus, have their term. Jove's oak, 
 Rock-rooted, wide-arm'd, after many years 
 Grows hollow, one day crumbles. Shall men see 
 Great Rome a ruin ? 
 
 Dru. Choose more lucky words, 
 
 Lear Probus ! — or indeed wilt thou forebode 
 This Christian superstition, the crush'd worm, 
 Lord of our seven hills, with superber shrine 
 Than Jove's own temple now? or dost thou fear 
 The Britons may outrival us in arms, 
 Wealth, power, and policy, and one day build 
 A greater city than on Tiber's banks 
 By some cold fenny river of the north? 
 
 Pro. Nay, I love Rome. Live Rome !
 
 58 NEWS FEOM PANNONIA. 
 
 Dm. She'll outlast us, 
 
 Be who will Caesar. May the Gods protect her ! 
 Thanks and farewell, my friend ! 
 
 Pro. The slaves await you. 
 
 Health and sound sleep, Drusillus ! Fare thee well !
 
 THOUGHT AND WOKD. 59 
 
 A NURSERY RHYME FOR THE ELDERS, 
 
 THE Masters of the World when Ave are gone 
 Play round our knees, look up to us with awe, 
 From our lips take their earliest deepest law ; 
 In jest we mould the clay that turns to stone, 
 Give little care what sort of seed is sown, 
 
 What weeds therewith, or venoms. If we saw 
 The Future, with our part distinctly shown, 
 
 Vulture Remorse might tear us, beak and claw. 
 
 Dolt ! Coward ! Rogue ! must Ages yet to be 
 Inherit, with Life's necessary griefs, 
 
 What thou thyself perceivest base in thee? — 
 Factitious crimes and duties, sham beliefs, 
 Pride like a murderer's, pleasure like a thief's 
 
 Man's very best besteep'd in falsity !
 
 GRAVES AND URNS
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. G3 
 
 IN SHADOW. 
 
 WHO with set eyelids venturing into years 
 That are not come, like years of long ago, 
 Can warm those shadows ? Dusk, with steps as slow 
 As mine, crept through the Graveyard, dropping tears 
 Like one that mourn'd. I mused and mused : me- 
 thouoht 
 
 o 
 
 Some months, some years were gone, and evening 
 
 brought 
 To linger by these graves a pensive Boy. 
 Amid the twilight stillness deep and lone 
 He stoops to read an old half buried stone, 
 And weeds the mosses that almost destroy 
 The letters of the name, which is — my own. 
 The wind about the old gray tower makes moan. 
 He rises from the grave with sadden 'd brow, 
 Leaving it to the night, and sighs, as I do now.
 
 64 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 HIS TOWN. 
 
 HIS Town is one of memory's haunts, - 
 Shut in by fields of corn and flax, 
 Like housings gay on elephants 
 
 Heaved on the huge hill-backs. 
 
 How pleasantly that image came ! 
 
 As down the zigzag road I press'd, 
 Blithe, but unable yet to claim 
 His roof from all the rest. 
 
 And I should see my Friend at home, 
 
 Be in the little town at last 
 Those welcome letters dated from, 
 Gladdening the two years past. 
 
 I recollect the summer-light, 
 
 The bridge with poplars at its end, 
 The slow brook turning left and right, 
 The greeting of my Friend. 
 
 I found him ; he was mine, — his books, 
 His home, his day, his favourite walk, 
 The joy of swift-conceiving looks, 
 The "low of living talk. 
 
 s>* 
 
 July, no doubt, comes brightly still 
 
 On blue-eyed flax and yellowing wheat ; 
 But sorrow shadows vale and hill 
 Since one heart ceased to beat.
 
 HIS TOWN. 65 
 
 Is not the climate colder there, 
 
 Since that Youth died 1 — it must be so ; 
 A dumb regret is in the air ; 
 The brook repines to flow. 
 
 Wing'd thither, fancy only sees 
 
 An old church on its rising ground, 
 And underneath two sycamore trees 
 A little grassy mound.
 
 6G THOUGHT AND WOED. 
 
 I 
 
 THE CRUCIBLE. 
 
 S he shrunk to Name and Date, 
 Painted on a coffin plate ? 
 
 ii. 
 
 With golden talismans bedeck'd, 
 Deep this single man was sheathed 
 In atmosphere of soft respect, 
 Which everyone around him breathed. 
 Well he was served, well attended, 
 Well becourted, well befriended ; 
 Many labours stopt or sped 
 By the turning of his head ; 
 Many lives toil'd like bees 
 To make the honey of his ease. 
 
 in. 
 
 And leave you him all alone 
 
 Beneath a stone, 
 
 Now when comes the twilight cold 
 
 Down the bare wold, 
 
 And winds are crying to the darken'd foam ; 
 
 When thoughts of glowing rooms and faces 
 
 And the dear domestic graces 
 
 Draw all men home 1 
 
 On this stone the ragged rooks will meet, 
 
 The gusty rain-storm rave and beat,
 
 THE CEUCIBLE. 67 
 
 The little grass-mouse will scamper over it 
 
 To and from her nest in the bield, 
 
 The wide-falling winter snow will cover it, 
 
 With other stones of the field. 
 
 Black Rook, white Snow, how can they know 
 
 This stone has a costly vault below 1 
 
 Brown Mouse, wild Rain, 'tis too, too plain, 
 
 Won't spare this grave from the common disdain. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, you say it is not he 
 You are laying by the sea ; 
 Leaving in the graveyard lonely ; 
 'Tis not he — his body only. 
 Darkness is its dwelling fit, 
 And a stone to cover it. 
 He Himself, His Soul, you say, 
 God has call'd him far away. 
 
 v. 
 
 Would that men would Avell discern 
 
 What a lesson they might learn 
 
 From this natural separation, 
 
 Chemist Death's elimination 
 
 Of the drossy and the fleeting, 
 
 Past all further trick or cheating ; 
 
 And in the actual be so wise 
 
 As to justly analyse 
 
 The elements of life, Avhile blended, 
 
 Which they rank, when all is ended, 
 
 Thus concluded, proved, and past, 
 
 In a truer rate at last. 
 
 Long his Life : and in the whole 
 
 How much worship earn'd his Soul? 
 
 5—2
 
 G8 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 THE COLD WEDDING. 
 
 BUT few days gone 
 Her hand was won 
 By suitor finely skill'd to woo ; 
 And now come we 
 In pomp to see 
 The Church's ceremonials due. 
 
 The Bride in white 
 
 Is clad aright, 
 Within her carriage closely hid ; 
 
 No blush to veil — 
 
 For too, too pale 
 The cheek beneath each downcast lid. 
 
 White favours rest 
 
 On every breast ; 
 And yet methinks we seem not gay. 
 
 The church is cold, 
 
 The priest is old, — 
 But who will give the bride away 1 
 
 Now delver, stand, 
 
 With spade in hand, 
 All mutely to discharge thy trust : 
 
 Priest's words sound forth ; 
 
 They're—" Earth to earth, 
 '• Ashes to aslu's, dust to dust."
 
 THE COLD WEDDING. 69 
 
 The groom is Death ; 
 
 He has no breath ; 
 (The wedding peals, how slow they swing !) 
 
 With icy grip 
 
 He soon will clip 
 Her linger with a wormy ring. 
 
 A match most fair, 
 
 This silent pair, 
 Now to each other given for ever, 
 
 Were lovers long, 
 
 Were plighted strong 
 In oaths and bonds that could not sever. 
 
 Ere she was born 
 
 That vow was sworn ; 
 And we must lose into the ground 
 
 Her face we knew : 
 
 As thither you 
 And I, and all, are swiftly bound. 
 
 This Law of Laws 
 
 That still withdraws 
 Each mortal from all mortal ken — 
 
 If 'twere not here ; 
 
 Or we saw clear 
 Instead of dim as now; what then 1 
 This were not Earth, and we not Men.
 
 70 THOUGHT AND WOED. 
 
 PHANTAST. 
 
 "The monument woos me." 
 
 Second Maidens Tragedy. 
 
 EVERYTHING that seeks to do thee harm 
 Hearkens to the song that I am singing. 
 Sly and winding worm is in his hole, 
 Ruddy shrewmice listen in their burrow ; 
 Wasps are nested by thee, but the charm 
 Keeps that yellow robber-band from stinging ; 
 In thy bed of clay the howking mole 
 Bores no tunnel thorough. 
 
 Now that day from heaven is gone, 
 Thou art smoothly dreaming on, — 
 Not to waken with the dawn. 
 
 Only now the moaning of the breeze" 
 Answers to the song that I am singing. 
 In the moonlit dyke the crouching hare 
 Raises up her watchful ears to listen ; 
 From the blackness of the ghostly trees 
 Swift and silent bats like Dreams are Avinging ; 
 Round the grassy hummocks here and there 
 Elfin tapers glisten. 
 
 Whilst the wind's sad tale is told, 
 Thou art lapt up from the cold 
 In a blanket made of mould.
 
 PHANTAST. 71 
 
 Many nights and many days have heard 
 
 Songs of mine like this that I am singing ; 
 
 By the sun, or by this paler round ; 
 
 In the dark, when shrouded stars are weeping ; 
 
 When the old tower shakes his ivy-beard, 
 
 When the skiey thunder-bells are ringing ; 
 
 Hurtful things that live below the ground 
 
 From thy pillow keeping. 
 
 And when I have leave to die, 
 Then an Angel from the sky 
 Comes to watch us where we lie.
 
 72 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 IN HIGHGATE CEMETERY. 
 
 FAR-SPREAD below doth London wear 
 Its cloud by day, its fire by night ; 
 But scarce with heavenly presence there, 
 Enshrined in smoke or pallid light. 
 
 Incessant troops from that vast throng 
 
 "Withdraw to silent colonies ; 
 Where houses, lo, are fair and strong, 
 
 Though ruins all that dwell in these. 
 
 Yet here, too, under boundless sky, 
 
 Do children sport, and wild birds sing ; 
 
 Calm foliage waxes green and high, 
 And grave-side roses smell of Spring.
 
 THOUGHT AND WOKD. 73 
 
 THE FUNERAL 
 
 SAY not we " bury him ; " nor talk 
 Of " sleeping in the tomb." 
 With foolish words the soul we baulk, 
 And shut it round with gloom. 
 
 The mystic form whereby we knew 
 Our parent once, or friend, 
 
 Let this, indeed, have reverence due 
 For life's sake, tho' at end. 
 
 But this no more is man at all, 
 
 Mere water now and clay, 
 Fit to be purged by fire, or fall 
 
 Apart in slow decay. 
 
 Life — Death — are hieroglyphics writ, 
 
 By one mysterious hand, 
 Their meaning passes all our wit, 
 
 We may not understand. 
 
 Forget men's timid vain pretence, 
 Forget their babbling speech ; 
 
 Trust to thy Spirit's highest sense 
 The truest faith to reach.
 
 7± THOUGHT AND WOKD. 
 
 URN BUEIAL. 
 
 EARTH is too full of graves, 
 So is Man's Mind : 
 Must we be always slaves, 
 Self-shackled, blind ? 
 
 Like fierce Mezentius, tie 
 
 Living to Dead 1 
 No ! — let flame purify 
 
 The foul instead,— 
 
 Purge quickly soil and air, 
 
 Body and soul, 
 Of base obstruction there, 
 
 In man's control, — 
 
 Give thus, for horror and pest, 
 
 Some ashes, white 
 As snow or sea-wave's crest 
 
 Or still moonlight, 
 Or thoughts of the loved and blest 
 
 Withdrawn from sight.
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. /5 
 
 TK 
 
 FORWARD. 
 
 EVER streams the living gale 
 To some forward goal, 
 Forward, forward bends our sail, 
 Forward strains our soul. 
 
 II. 
 
 Grandly of the ways of men, 
 Guesses childhood. But since then 
 Master Time has made me free, 
 Step by step in swift advance, 
 Of manhood's full freemasonry ; 
 And its mysteries prove to be 
 Blanker far than ignorance. 
 
 ill. 
 
 Men have a narrow range of sight, 
 A little peristyle of light, 
 A world of thought confused and crude, 
 AVhere chaos still is unsubdued. 
 Soothed in daily pain and sorrow, 
 With nursery promise for to-morrow, 
 They dream of corners unexplored 
 Where the wealth of life is stored, 
 Something to be shown at last, 
 Something to be known at last, 
 Beyond these poor toys of the Present ; 
 Moon of hope, for ever crescent, 
 Seems to grow, is never grown.
 
 76 FOEWAED. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet for the weakest one of these, 
 
 All the Arabian mysteries 
 
 Within the world's most credulous scope, 
 
 Afford not space enough for Hope 
 
 To build the Future's temple in : 
 
 At last they end where those begin, 
 
 Who searching with a mountain- view 
 
 The old earth-world all round and round, 
 
 And nowhere finding open ground, 
 
 At once send Hope on strong wings forth 
 
 Into a world almost as new as birth, — 
 
 Hope saith, almost as new. 
 
 And so at last, not much afraid, 
 Forward, file on file, we march 
 Into the gloom which takes our breath ; 
 Nay Avhen the Sun with glance divine 
 Upon that tearful cloud may shine, 
 Behold a new triumphal arch — 
 Yea, see the very Door of Death 
 Out of a Rainbow made !
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 77 
 
 W< )ULD I KNEW ! 
 
 PLAYS a child in a garden fair 
 Where the demigods are walking ; 
 Playing unsuspected there 
 As a bird within the air, 
 
 Listens to their wondrous talking : 
 " Would I knew — -would I knew 
 What it is they say and do ! " 
 
 Stands a youth at city-gate, 
 
 Sees the knights go forth together, 
 
 Parleying superb, elate, 
 
 Pair by pair in princely state, 
 
 Lance and shield and haughty feather 
 
 "Would I knew — would I knew 
 
 What it is they say and do ! " 
 
 Bends a man with trembling knees 
 By a gulf of cloudy border ; 
 
 Deaf, he hears no voice from these 
 
 Winged shades he dimly sees 
 Passing by in solemn order : 
 
 "Would I knew — would I knew 
 
 AVhat it is they say and do ! "
 
 78 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 DEATH DEPOSED. 
 
 DEATH stately came to a young man, and said 
 " If thou Avert dead, 
 What matter? " The young man replied, 
 
 " See my young bride, 
 Whose life were all one blackness if I died. 
 My land requires me ; and the world's self, too, 
 Methinks, would miss some things that I can do." 
 
 n. 
 
 Then Death in scorn this only said, 
 
 "Be dead," 
 And so he was. And soon another's hand 
 
 Made rich his land. 
 The sun, too, of three summers had the might 
 To bleach the widow's hue, light and more light, 
 
 Again to bridal white. 
 And nothing seem'd to miss beneath that sun 
 
 His work undone. 
 
 in. 
 
 But Death soon met another man, whose eye 
 
 Was Nature's spy ; 
 Who said, " Forbear thy too triumphant scorn. 
 
 The weakest born 
 Of all the sons of men, is by his birth 
 Heir of the Might Eternal ; and this Earth 
 Is subject to him in his place. 
 
 Thou leav'st no trace.
 
 DEATH DEPOSED. 79 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Thou, — the mock Tyrant that men fear and hate, 
 
 Grim fleshless Fate, 
 Cold, dark, and wormy thing of loss and tears 1 
 
 Not in the sepulchres 
 Thou dwellest, but in my own crimson'd heart ; 
 Where while it beats we call thee Life. Depart ! 
 A name, a shadow, into any gulf, 
 Out of this world, which is not thine, 
 
 But mine : 
 Or stay ! — because thou art 
 Only Myself."
 
 80 THOUGHT AND WOED. 
 
 NO funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone, 
 Corpse-gazings, tears, black raiment, graveyard 
 grimness ; 
 Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness, 
 Yours still, you mine ; remember all the best 
 Of our past moments, and forget the rest ; 
 
 And so, to where I wait, come gently on.
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 81 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 BODY to purifying flame, 
 Soul to the Great Deep whence it came, 
 Leaving a song on earth below, 
 An urn of ashes white as snoAv. 
 
 WHAT is your Heaven 1 describe it in a breath. 
 Pure health, fit work, beyond the gate of death.
 
 
 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET 
 
 Discern this Soul, his time and his abode : 
 In such a mould his reverent musings ilow'd. 
 
 0— :
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 85 
 
 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET. 
 
 DWELT a certain poor man in his day, 
 Near at hand to Hilda's holy house, 
 Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built 
 High o'er sea and river, on the head, 
 Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech, 
 Whitby, after, by the Norsemen named. 
 Csedmon was he call'd ; he came and went, 
 Doing humble duties for the monks, 
 Helping with the horses at behest ; 
 Modest, meek, unmemorable man, 
 Moving slowly into middle age, 
 Toiling on, — twelve hundred years ago. 
 
 Still and silent, Caedmon sometimes sat 
 With the serfs at lower end of hall ; 
 There he marvell'd much to hear the monks 
 Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp, 
 Handing it from each to each in turn, 
 Till his heart-strings trembled. Otherwhile, 
 When the serfs were merry with themselves, 
 Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights, 
 Handing round the harp to each in turn, 
 Csedmon, though he loved not lighter songs, 
 Long'd to sing, — but he could never sing. 
 
 Sad and silent would he creep away, 
 Wander forth alone, he wist not why, 
 Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds 
 Climbing from the sea ; and in his soul 
 Shadows mounted up and mystic lights,
 
 80 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET. 
 
 Echoes vague and vast return'd the voice 
 
 Of the rushing river, roaring waves, 
 
 Twilight's windy whisper from the fells, 
 
 Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird ; 
 
 Every sight and sound of solitude 
 
 Ever mingling in a master thought, 
 
 ( rlorious, terrible, of the Mighty One 
 
 Who made all things. As the Book declared. 
 
 "In the Beginning He made Heaven and Earth." 
 
 Thus lived Csedmon, quiet year by year ; 
 Listen'd, learn'd a little, as he could ; 
 Work'd, and mused, and pray'd, and held his peace. 
 
 Toward the end of harvest time, the hinds 
 Held a feast, and sung their festal songs, 
 Handing round the harp from each to each. 
 But before it came where Csedmon sat, 
 Sadly, silently, he stole away, 
 Wander'd to the stable-yard and wept, 
 Weeping laid him low among the straw, 
 Eell asleep at last. And in his sleep 
 Came a Stranger, calling him by name : 
 " Csedmon, sing to me ! " "I cannot sing. 
 Wherefore — wo is me ! — I left the house." 
 " Sing, I bid thee ! " " What then shall I sing 1 " 
 " Sing the Making of the World." AVhereon 
 Csedmon sung : and when he woke from sleep 
 Still the verses stay'd with him, and more 
 Sprang like fountain- water from a rock 
 Fed from never-failing secret springs. 
 
 Praising Heaven most high, but nothing proud, 
 Csedmon sought the Steward and told his tale, 
 Who to Holy Hilda led him in, 
 Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart, 
 Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece.
 
 THE FIRST ENGLISH POET. 87 
 
 *g 
 
 Caedmon at her bidding boldly san<. 
 ( )f the Making of the World, in words 
 Wondrous; whereupon they wotted well 
 Twas an Angel taught him, and his gift 
 Came direct from God : and glad were they. 
 
 Thenceforth Holy Hilda greeted him 
 Brother of the brotherhood. He grew 
 Famedest monk of all the monastery ; 
 Singing many high and holy songs 
 Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for : 
 Till his death-day came, that conies to all. 
 
 Casdmon bode that evening in his bed, 
 He at peace with men and men with him ; 
 Wrapt in comfort of the Eucharist ; 
 Weak and silent. "Soon our Brethren sing 
 Evensong?" he whisper'd. ''Brother, yea." 
 " Let us wait for that," he said ; and soon 
 Sweetly sounded up the solemn chant. 
 Csedmon smiled and listen'd ; when it lull'd, 
 Sidelong turn'd to sleep his old white head, 
 Shut his eyes, and gave his soul to God, 
 Maker of the World. 
 
 Twelve hundred years 
 Since are past and gone, nor he forgot, 
 Earliest Poet of the English Race. 
 Rude and simple were his days and thoughts. 
 AVisely speaketh no man, howso learn 'd, 
 Of the making of this wondrous World, 
 Save a Poet, with a reverent soul.
 
 88 THOUGHT AND WOED. 
 
 PRESENT-FUTURE. 
 
 " P\ IVE back my youth ! " the poets cry, 
 \JT " Give back my youth ! " — so say not I. 
 Youth play'd its part with us ; if we 
 Are losers, should we gainers be 
 By recommencing, with the same 
 Conditions, all the finish'd game 1 
 If we see better now, we are 
 Already winners just so far, — 
 And merely ask to keep our winning, 
 Wipe out loss, for new beginning ! 
 This may come, in Heaven's good way, 
 How, no mortal man shall say ; 
 But not by fresh-recover'd taste 
 Eor sugarplums or valentines, 
 Or conjuring back the brightest day 
 Which gave its gift and therefore shines. 
 Win or lose, possess or miss, 
 There cannot be a weaker waste 
 Of memory's privilege than this— 
 To dwell among cast-off designs, 
 Stages, larva? of yourself, 
 And leave the true thing on the shelf, 
 The Present-Future, wherewith blend 
 Hours that hasten to their end.
 
 THOUGHT AND WORD. 89 
 
 I. 
 
 ART thou Lord of the World 1 Was it all made 
 for thee, 
 Child of Time, Child of Clay 1 
 Thinkest thou, skies will ever bend o'er thee, 
 Bland and friendly as those of to-day 1 
 Every joy its savour keep, 
 Night o'erflow with happy sleep, 
 Pain and sorrow shun thy roof, 
 Sad Old Age keep well aloof, 
 Life go smoothly on its way, 
 Brain control, and hand obey, 
 To-morrow be like yesterday 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Things only wait, they only wait, 
 They lie in ambush for thy fate. 
 Days go, and nights go, 
 Years run away, and lo ! 
 Now the end is coming fast 
 The proud foolish dream past ; 
 See the brand, so brightly kindled, 
 To a fading ember dwindled, 
 All thy pleasures, all thy riches. 
 Vanish like a dance of witches ! 
 
 in. 
 
 Is this indeed the revolt thou wert fearing, 
 
 Child of the Infinite, Child of Hope ? 
 Or is it the lower world disappearing 
 Whilst thou art lifted to higher scope 1 
 Thou, as needs, art drawn away. 
 Think, — truly, — would'st thou stay ? 
 Nothing has been given thee yet 
 So good, but better thou may'st get.
 
 90 THOUGHT AND WORD. 
 
 EVERYDAY. 
 
 LET us not teach and preach so much, 
 But cherish, rather than profess ; 
 Be careful how the thoughts we touch 
 Of God, and Love, and Holiness. 
 
 A charm, most spiritual, faint, 
 And delicate, forsakes our breast, 
 
 Bird-like, when it perceives the taint 
 Of prying breath upon its nest. 
 
 Using, enjoying, let us live ; 
 
 Set here to grow, what should we do 
 But take what soil and climate give 1 
 
 For thence must come our sap and hue : 
 
 Blooming as sweetly as we may, 
 Nor beckon comers, nor debar ; 
 
 Let them take balm or gall away, 
 According as their natures are : 
 
 Look straight at all things from the soul, 
 But boast not much to understand ; 
 
 Make each new action sound and whole, 
 Then leave it in its place unscann'd : 
 
 Be true, devoid of aim or care ; 
 
 Nor posture, nor antagonise : 
 Know well that clouds of this our air 
 
 But seem to wrap the mighty skies : 
 
 Search starry mysteries overhead, 
 
 Where wonders gleam ; yet bear in mind 
 
 That Earth's our planet, firm to tread, 
 Nor in the star-dance left behind :
 
 EVERYDAY. 91 
 
 For nothing is withheld, he sure, 
 
 Our being needed to have shown ; 
 The far was meant to he obscure, 
 
 The near was placed so to be known. 
 
 Cast we no astrologic scheme 
 
 To map the course we must pursue ; 
 
 liut use the lights whene'er they beam, 
 And every trusty landmark too. 
 
 The Future let us not permit 
 
 To choke us in its shadow's clasp ; 
 It cannot touch us, nor we it ; 
 
 The present moment's in our grasp. 
 
 Soid sever'd from the Truth is Sin ; 
 
 The dark and dizzy gulf is Doubt ; 
 Truth never moves, — unmoved therein, 
 
 Our road is straight and firm throughout. 
 
 This Road for ever doth abide. 
 
 The universe, if fate so call, 
 May sink away on either side ; 
 
 But This and God at once shall fall
 
 A PLAY.
 
 To 
 M Y W I F E.
 
 ACT L— June 14, 1645. 
 
 Scene 1.— Stable yard of Ashby Manor House, 
 Northamptonshire. 
 
 (Sunlight. ) 
 
 Scene 2. — Room in the Manor House. 
 
 (Daylight.) 
 
 ACT II. — A day in September, same year. 
 
 Scene 1. — Anteroom in the Manor House, opening 
 on a Terrace, with harvest view. 
 ( Warm evening light. ) 
 
 Scene 2. — Fine old Room or Gallery in the same, 
 with pictures, armour, &c. 
 
 (Dusk, and afterwards candles.) 
 
 PERSONS. 
 
 Basil Radcltffe (about 50), Colonel of Horse for Parliament 
 under General Ireton. 
 
 Charlton Radcltffe, his nephew (about 28, handsome, but 
 gloomy and ill-tempered), Captain in the same Regiment. 
 
 George Fortescue, afterwards Lord Lvndore (about 24), 
 Royalist Cavalry Officer, under Prince Rupert. 
 
 Tom Trivet, his servant, an honest Devonshire lad, a trooper 
 in the same Regiment. 
 
 Corporal Grome (a sleek rascal), in Captain Radclyffe's troop. 
 
 Sir Thomas Chener? (dignified elderly man), Commissioner of 
 the Parliament. 
 
 Mr. John Chad, lawyer, his Secretary (keen lawyer, with rigid 
 features). 
 
 Cornet Jebb, Parliamentarian (self-conceited). 
 
 Jerry, a youth. Old Crookes, an aged servitor. 
 
 Mistress Radcltffe (a beautiful woman of 40 or 42), wife of 
 the Colonel. 
 
 Naomi Radcltffe (about 20), their only child. 
 
 Prudence, a waiting-woman. 
 
 Jerusha, a dairymaid. 
 
 Other servants. Troopers.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 99 
 
 ASHBY MANOR 
 
 Before the curtain rises, military music or overture, with drums and 
 trumpet : a march and battle-piece (including "■Prince Rupert's 
 March "J, dying off at last, and ending with tvm trumpet-calls ,- 
 the second more distant, replying to the other. N.B. — All the 
 Music with this Play ought to be English, of the 16th and 17th 
 centuries.] 
 
 THE PROLOGUE. 
 
 (Spoken before the Curtain. ) 
 
 A TREMBLING Author— use him kindly, pray !— 
 Presents to you to-night his first essay. 
 'Tis all his own — words, characters, and plot ; 
 But all is nothing, if it please you not. 
 Then try to like it ; half the battle's there ! 
 And you, fair Ladies, O be more than fair 
 In this, be generous to him ; recognize 
 His good intentions with indulgent eyes ; 
 And though he cannot picture womanhood 
 A thousandth part as richly as he would 
 If love and reverence might suffice, — with aid 
 Of sympathy, he'll show you, less afraid, 
 An English Daughter and an English "Wife, 
 Toss'd on the angry waves of civil strife, 
 Yet never losing heart, when England fought 
 Against herself, and for herself, distraught 
 Yet full of reason, wisely mad, and sent 
 Eor either party, King and Parliament, 
 Most precious lives into the bloody field, 
 Most honest men on both sides. Can you yield 
 Your thought on fancy's wings to float away 
 To Charles's time, a byegone summer day 
 At Nasebv 1 — JS T ow the roar of fight is done ; 
 The curtain rises ; and our scene's begun. 
 
 [Exit.
 
 100 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 Afternoon of June 14, 1645. Stable yard of Ashby Manor-house, 
 Northamptonshire; half-timbered Elizabethan out-buildings; 
 roofs and chimneys of the Manor-hovse rising beyond. Large 
 gate, and practicable Wicket, R. Stable with practicable door, L. 
 
 Enter cautiously, opening the wicket, a young Cavalier (with helmet, 
 cuirass and gorget, sword, riding boots, d-c. ) and his Servant, a 
 trooper (without swrrdj. They look soiled and tired. Cavaliers 
 right arm tied up vjith a red sash, as wounded. 
 
 George Fortescue, All seems quiet here. 
 
 Tom Trivet. Good luck 'twas unbolted, zir. 
 
 G. F. Make it fast. A friendly house, think you 1 
 
 [Tom holts wicket. 
 
 Tom. That's to prove, zir. An they he king's volk, 
 better for we. If not, we must hide zomewheres and 
 slink out i' th' dimmet. Wish we could borrow a dark 
 ne'at vrom Christmas next ! 
 
 [Looks round about. 
 
 G. F. How far are we from Naseby village 1 
 
 Tom. Zome dree mile, zir, a' 'ood zay. 
 
 G. F. Hiding and slinking are not much to my taste, 
 Tom. 
 
 Tom. They bean't Devonsheer tricks, your honour ! 
 -but luck's again us, and the Roundheads after us. 
 
 G. F. Confound them ! 
 
 Tom. 'Oss, voot and dragoons ! Zimmeth these New- 
 Noddle men can vight, zir? — London 'prentices and 
 j itch-like, we Avas told. 
 
 G. F. Ha, they can fight ! How Cromwell's horse- 
 men thundered in ! But, Tom, — this letter for his 
 Highness the Prince of Wales, which his Majesty's 
 own hand gave into mine : it must be delivered at all 
 risks. 
 
 Tom. Could we a' kept out o' thik last unlucky 
 scrimmage, we should a' bin well on our wa-y to Exeter
 
 102 ASHBY MANOK. 
 
 by now. zweet Devonsheer ! (G. F. touches his 
 icounded arm). Your honour's arm paineth 1 
 
 G. F. Not very much. Here, Tom, shift my sword- 
 belt to t'other side. 
 
 Tom. (Doing it.) Would your honour vight left- 
 handed 1 
 
 G. F. Sooner than be taken by a clown with a hay- 
 fork. 
 
 Tom. Fegs, a'd 's lieve not veace hayfork at the 
 present minnit ! My weepon's gone : all tek' thea- 
 samy in case o' need. (Picks up an axe for chopping 
 icood.) Zomebody's a comin'. — In, zir, vor God's sake ! 
 
 [They hide behind an outhouse, L. 
 
 Enter Jerusha (2nd entrance L) as from milking, with 
 tn-o pails. She sets them down and shakes her 
 head. 
 
 J. The very cows, poor things, are frighted out o' 
 their wits, and no wonder. It bean't 'alf a proper milk- 
 ing, and th' noise o' them great guns is enow to turn 
 sower what there is o't. It do turn my blood into 
 buttermilk ! 
 
 Enter Prudence as from house (centre). 
 
 J. Prue ! 
 
 P. Jerusha ! 
 
 J. Ah, you may well say so ! 
 
 P. What times we live in ! 
 
 J. I wish we'd been a-born in other times ! 
 
 P. Our fathers and mothers lived and died in their 
 beds ; not like this wicked Civil War ! 
 
 ./. I see no civility in't. Master away fighting ; 
 John and Timothy and Jenkyn away fighting, and 
 our five best horses, and ne'er a man left but Gaffer 
 Crookes, and Jerry, and our young lady's pet mare.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 103 
 
 P. And Mistress in her room there {points towards 
 house) praying, praying, as well as she can for them 
 roaring cannon bullets all the marning. Be they done 
 at last, think you ? 
 
 J. I've heerd none these two hours. 
 
 P. Thank goodness for that ! — And the dear Young 
 Mistress, talking cheerful to everybody, wi' her eyes 
 full of tears. If our folk on'y gets safe back, all's well. 
 
 J. May the Lord guard them ! 
 
 P. Maybe they're all murdered ! 
 
 J. dear ! 
 
 P. Lying stiff and bloody in the grass — 
 
 /. Don't talk so ! 
 
 P. Or crying out for someone to gi'e 'em a drink 
 o' water. [Shots heard. 
 
 Both. Oh ! oh ! [They loeep. Enter Jerry, 
 
 a youth, breathless. 
 
 Jerry. News ! news ! . 
 
 P. What is it, Jerry ? Where hast been ? Speak ! 
 
 Jer. News, great news ! A've bin at th' great foight. 
 
 J. You! 
 
 Jer. Ay, me, and a've run all th' way back. 
 
 P. That's true, I warrant. 
 
 Jer. Not till the King and his foiue gentry ran 
 away first. We've a-bait 'em, girls, we've admit em ! 
 Victory ! The Ironsides for ever ! 
 
 J. How was it 1 
 
 P. Is master safe 1 
 
 J. And Jenkyn ? 
 
 P. And Timothy? 
 
 J. And all 1 
 
 P Didst see them ? 
 
 J. Come they straight back 1 
 
 P. Is anybody killed 1 
 
 J. Or wounded 1 
 
 [They put these questions quickly; Jerry turns 
 from one to the other.
 
 104 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 P. Spaik out, man ! 
 
 J. Quick! 
 
 Jer. There's another question you've not asked me. 
 
 J. What's that 1 
 
 Jer. If I be hungry and thirsty. Get me a quart 
 of ale, and then — 
 
 P. Run, Jerusha ! (She goes.) And some cold roast 
 pork, too. But say, Jerry, is anyone hurt 1 
 
 [Jerusha returns with ale. 
 
 J. 0, is anyone hurt 1 
 
 Jer. Many a one. (Drinks.) But none of our 
 house. Leastwise, I hopes not. 
 
 P. You hopes not ! — Did you see master 1 
 
 Jer. No. 
 
 J. Or Jenkyn, or Timothy 1 
 
 Jer. Ay. 
 
 J. Lord be praised ! When come they back ? 
 
 Jer. Hm- — lira — 
 
 P. Answer, stupid ! 
 
 Jer. Not a word more, stupid as I am, till I sees 
 my mistress. But this much a'll tell ye — 
 
 Both, Yes ! 
 
 Jer. I've awful things to tell 
 
 Both. Ah ! 
 
 Jer. But not to you. (Female voice heard calling 
 from, house.) I'm too long here ! (Runs off (C), they 
 follow, crying out, " Jerry ! Jerry ! ") 
 
 Re-enter (L) Cavalier and Tom. 
 
 Tom. A dale o' chatter, but I coodn' hear what 
 'twas 'bout. How vare you, zir 1 
 
 G. F. Well enough— considering. 
 
 Tom. Zems to me, your honour, we be all ruinated, 
 vrom King down. 
 
 G. F. Nay, Tom, we'll turn tables on these Round- 
 heads yet.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 105 
 
 Tom. We've a-zung to thik tune long while ! — and 
 we 'ave a be-at 'em too, but tha' doozen' zem to mind 
 it — not bein' men of honour, like. 
 
 G. F. When our side's beaten, we feel it. 
 
 Turn. (Rubbing his shoulder.) Zartinly we doos ! 
 We be on raight zide, measter George, bean't us 1 
 
 G. F. I hope so, Tom. Hush, sirrah ! draw in 
 hither. [They approach a door, near front. L, 
 
 Ton peeps through hole in door. 
 
 Tom, A stable, and a hoss in't. Well, a hoss han't 
 no politics — there! (Opens door; then stands in door- 
 way.) Soho boy ! woa then ! Thoer's a smock-frock 
 and ould hat a-hangin up, might come in useful. 
 
 G. F. And a bridle with a knot of orange-tawny 
 ribbon: — A puritan household — hm. — Yet for the 
 present we must lie in the frying-pan rather than jump 
 into the fire. Here's the King's Majesty's letter : 
 where best to hide it 1 
 
 Tom. Your honour's boot. 
 
 G. F. First place people search. 
 
 Tom, Your hat might 
 
 G. F. Fly away any moment. 
 
 Tom. The bandage. [Points to wounded arm, 
 
 G. F. Hm, 'twill need dressing, and who will the 
 chirurgeon be ? 
 
 Tom. It ought a' been a - looked - to ere now. 
 Could I tie theas letter under your honour's 
 hair 1 No one 'ood catch a glimpse o't. (Action in 
 accordance, — Shouts outside.) What's that? Zome- 
 one at gate 1 
 
 G.F. (Listens.) They're passing on. They're gone 
 by. No, Tom (takes out his purse), I'll put it here. 
 
 Tom, Very first place, / should zay, to be ran- 
 sackt. 
 
 G. F. By Goring's men or Wilmot's ; as well fall in 
 with a gang of highwaymen. The Roundheads are no 
 pickpockets.
 
 106 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Tom. (Listening, and p>ointing thumb over shoulder 
 into stable, whispers.) Zir, a noise within. 
 
 G. F. (Looks). Only the rightful tenant twitching his 
 halter. See how much is in it. 
 
 [Hands purse to Tom. 
 
 Tom. Sixteen jacobuses, and zilver to boot, zir. 
 
 G. F. Clap the silver in thy poke — so ! Hand me 
 out six gold pieces — so ! (Pockets them.) Among the 
 remainder (takes purse) this cypher must lie, folded 
 small, — with which make thou all speed to his Eoyal 
 Highness at Exeter or elsewhere, should Fortune my 
 foe force me to give the charge to thee. Suppose ns 
 taken, and they consent to enlarge thee, as is often 
 done with those of lesser note, I toss thee this purse to 
 clear wages and so forth, and thou must put it up and 
 vanish. 
 
 Tom. 'Ithout the smallest delay, zir. But I hope 
 your honour 'ill do your own arrands. 
 
 G. F. You'll find your way to Devon 1 
 
 Tom. Like a carrier-pigeon to 's cote. But soft ! 
 zomebody's a-comin'. 
 
 G. F. Stand in ! 
 
 [Draws sicord with left hand. Tom takes 
 up the axe. They go into stable, softly 
 shutting the door after them. 
 
 Enter from house (C) Naomi Radclyffe. 
 
 Naomi. I must look after poor Lightfoot myself ; 
 with things in this confusion they might forget to feed 
 her. Jerry ! — where is this foolish groom 1 Jerry ! 
 (opens stable door.) Lightfoot, then ! Wo-ho, lass ! 
 
 [Makes a step forward and sees the intruders ; 
 step>s backward in alarm, her eyes fixed on 
 the doorway, at which now appear Fortescue 
 and Tom behind him. The former sheathes 
 his sword and salutes her respectfully. 
 G. F. Madam—
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 107 
 
 N. [Quickly and with dignity.) "What are you, sir's 
 
 G. F. A wounded man, madam, and it may be a 
 prisoner. 
 
 N. A prisoner? 
 
 G. F. At your mercy, madam, if you choose to give 
 us up. 
 
 N. Who is this other man ? 
 
 G. F. My servant, madam. 
 
 Tom. Only Tom Trivet, mistress, late of North 
 Devon, where he would fain be again. 
 
 iV. And your name, sir ? 
 
 G. F. George Fortescue, madam. 
 
 N. You are of the King's army. [Aside.) Is 
 nobody coming 1 
 
 G. F. Yes, madam. 
 
 Tom. — While he had one. 
 
 N. My father by affection and honour is bound to 
 the other side, and his household and neighbours are 
 staunch for the Parliament. 
 
 Tom. ( Whispers.) Shall I vling my cloak o'er her head? 
 
 G. F. (Indignantly, but in undertone.) Silence ! — ■ 
 Madam — (makes as though he would come forward.) 
 
 N. Sir, move not hand or foot, I caution you ! 
 Will you force me to raise my voice ? (Aside.) 
 "Would I could hear anyone stirring ! 
 
 G. F. We would not, madam, offend you in the 
 least particular. 
 
 N. Do you yield yourself ? 
 
 G. F. Pardon me, madam ; that I will not do, save 
 in extremity. 
 
 N. There is no harbour for you here. You must 
 surrender (he makes a negative gesture) or else — 
 (Aside.) There's not a soul left about the house ! 
 
 G. F. Or else ? 
 
 N. Go through that gate, by which you have 
 entered. I will not hinder you. 
 
 G. F. That were to be made prisoners immediately.
 
 108 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 N. You must choose, and quickly. (Aside.) I 
 cannot hold up much longer ! 
 
 G. F. Hear me one moment, madam. You per- 
 haps have some who are dear to you engaged in the 
 war. (Naomi sighs j he watches her face.) They also 
 may be in peril — wounded — in need of compassion. 
 
 N. What would you ask, sir 1 
 
 G. F. That you surfer us to rest in the corner of 
 this stable until dusk, and then glide off like ghosts or 
 shadows, if we have luck enough. 
 
 N. I know not if I may rightly do this. 
 
 G. F. Ask your own heart, which I am sure is not 
 without pity for the unfortunate. 
 
 N. Are you much hurt, sir 1 
 
 G. F. Not much, I thank you, lady. 
 
 Tom. Enow, by George, for one turn ! 
 
 G. F. A little surgery will set all right. 
 
 Tom. Heaven zend it may ! 
 
 N. I would we could help you better. Is there a 
 bullet in your arm, sir 1 
 
 G. F. A pistol bullet, fair lady, — from one of our 
 own men, too, by Jupiter ! 
 
 N. Your own men 1 — traitors 1 
 
 G. F. Not so. 
 
 N. How then could it chance ? 
 
 G. F. Will you care to hear 1 The battle well-nigh 
 over, in a sudden encounter of two bodies of horse I 
 rode across one of our men's pistols, just as he gave 
 fire, and down I came. 
 
 Tom. But your honour doesn't tell all. He rode 
 forward thus hastily, madam, to zave a Roundhead 
 ( Mlicer (begging your pardon) in bad case enow, dis- 
 mounted, tangled wi' his wounded hoss, his steel cap 
 off; but still he wa-ived his sword and shouted to 's 
 men. You lizzen, lady 1 
 
 N. I do indeed. 
 
 Tom. Well — two of our troopers in vury o' battle
 
 ASH BY MANOR. 109 
 
 rides at 'en vull butt — my measter here roars to hold 
 hard — no vise — spurs in at zame instant, jist in time 
 to zave tli' oul' fella and catch a bullet in's own sword- 
 arm. 
 
 N. Doth the wound bleed 1 
 
 G. F. Not now, madam. Tom here, tho' he had 
 a fall in the same melee, bandaged me cleverly. 
 
 Tom. Lord be praised 1 weren't far off. 
 
 N. And this officer whose life you saved 1 
 
 G. F. Both sides drew off — I saw or heard no more 
 of him. 
 
 N. 'Twas a good deed, sir ; and on this, if no other 
 argument, I'll make bold to give you harbour till 
 evening. You can lock this door inside, and I will 
 take order that none troubles you. You shall have 
 meat and drink, and the wicket unbolted for your 
 exit — at what hour 1 
 
 G. F. At eleven, madam, so please you. 
 
 N. At eleven. Take this key. And now, fare you 
 well, and may God keep you both. 
 
 G. F. Farewell, madam- — my heart thanks you, and 
 while it beats, your kind and sweet compassion shall 
 never be forgotten. One word more — may I crave 
 your name ? 
 
 N. Naomi Radclyffe. 
 
 G. F. Once heard and for ever ; no need to write 
 it down. Madam, farewell ! 
 
 [She bows and moves away ; lie says in undertone. 
 Fain had I sued for leave to kiss her hand ; 
 But that were too much daring. What are all 
 The beauties of the Court compared with her 1 
 
 [She glances round. 
 Farewell ! — and she is gone, perhaps for ever. 
 
 [Loud knocking and calling heard at the gate ; 
 a body of Parliament troopers are want- 
 ing to come in. Fortescue and Tom at 
 stable door listening. Naomi, almost 
 off, turns and comes back hastily.
 
 110 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 N. In, and lock the door ! 
 
 G. F. But— 
 
 N. In at once ! [They go in; clamour at 
 
 gate increases. 
 
 Voices outside. Hillo within ! — Open quickly ! — 
 Open to the Parliament ! — Burst it in, without more 
 parley ! 
 
 N. Hold ! Who is there 1 
 
 Voice. Do you speak at last? Open to General 
 Fairfax's men, and speedily. 
 
 N. Your name, sir 1 
 
 Voice. Captain Badclyffe, in command of a party of 
 horse. 
 
 N. Charlton's voice. {Opens wicket.) This way, 
 cousin. The great gate is fast, and I cannot undo it. 
 
 Enter Captain Charlton Kadclyffe. 
 
 Charlton. Ha — you, Cousin Naomi ! Where are all 
 your folk 1 
 
 N. None here, through the confusions of the time 
 and hour. I am sorry you have had to wait. {Earnestly.) 
 What news bring you, cousin 1 
 
 Ch. Victory, cousin, is our news — and a great one. 
 You have seen none of the fugitives, I suppose 1 
 
 N. I have not been abroad to-day. Have you any 
 news of my father 1 
 
 Ch. I am expecting it, and good, please Heaven, at 
 every instant. Have you been long in the stable-yard ? 
 
 N. Not long. I but came to see that my mare 
 starve not in the general disorder. Where is my 
 father 1 
 
 Ch. I know not precisely where ; Ave were separated. 
 But with your leave, cousin. (Calls.) Corporal Grome ! 
 Attention ! The men I name will dismount and come 
 in here ; nearest left-hand men to hold the horses. 
 The rest keep their posts. Hardy !
 
 ASHBY MA.NOK. Ill 
 
 Hardy. Here, sir ! 
 
 [Soldiers a?iswe)' and step through 
 loickeb in turn. 
 Ch. Hezekiah Wood ! 
 
 Here, sir. 
 Carstairs ! 
 
 Here, sir. 
 Freeman ! 
 
 Here, sir. 
 Watch-and-Pray Dobson ! 
 
 Here, sir. 
 Form line— steady ! 
 
 N. (Anxiously.) Intend you quartering with us to- 
 night, cousin ? 
 
 Ch. We may trouble you, cousin. Eoom here for a 
 score of men and horses, and goodwill, I know. How 
 doth mine honoured aunt 1 ? I ought to have asked 
 sooner. We'll take up no quarters till her good leave 
 be granted. 
 
 N. My mother is ill at ease, as you may well guess. 
 But cousin, cousin, will you not say if you know aught 
 of my father 1 Is some dreadful thing hid behind this 
 curtain of silence 1 
 
 Ch. JNb, in good sooth, cousin. We rode separate 
 ways. I am now, understand, in hot pursuit of certain 
 fugitives of the King's army, especially one young 
 man of rank, of Rupert's regiment, suspected as bearer 
 of a despatch for the malignants in the West. He, 
 with one that by description is his servant, must be in 
 some hiding-place not far off, and it seemed better that 
 I should search here than a stranger. So, with your 
 leave, fair cousin, we'll lose no more time, knowing 
 you will rejoice as much as any if these sons of Belial 
 can be seized. Now, men, bustle round ; search the 
 stables and outhouses ! Find the rats! Our terriers 
 watch outside, if they slip through.
 
 112 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Enter Servants — Prudence, Jerusha, Jerry, Old 
 Crookes — xolio talk confusedly to each other. 
 
 Mercy on us ! — Heaven protect us ! — What do they 
 in our place 1 — Here's our young lady ! — How is't 
 madam 1 
 
 [TJte soldiers search the stable-yard. 
 
 N. (To Charlton.) You are certain my father is 
 safe ? 
 
 Ch. As sure as trusty information can make me. 
 But, Naomi,— 
 
 N. (Alarmed.) What? 
 
 Ch. You have never asked a word touching your 
 am tin's well-being. 
 
 N. Cousin — what cousin 1 
 
 Ch. (Bowing.) Your servant — now and always. 
 
 N. Nay, cousin, I see thee safe and well. 
 
 Ch. I might he wounded, for all that — but I am 
 not ; or have escaped by a hair's breadth, — which I 
 did ; but you care not. 
 
 N. I am glad you are safe. 
 
 Ch. I thank you. 
 
 [The soldiers come to door of small 
 stable and try it. 
 
 Trooper. This is locked. 
 
 N. That is where my mare is lodged. 
 
 Ch. Where's the key 1 
 
 N. You'll frighten Lightfoot ; she's mettlesome 
 and nervous. 
 
 Ch. Nay ; we'll take measures with her. Let me 
 have the key. 
 
 N. I have it not. 
 
 Ch. (To servants.) One of you find it. Quick ! 
 
 Servants. 'Tis not with me. 
 
 ■ — I know not where 'tis. 
 — Do'st know, Jerry 1 
 — Not I, good sooth !
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 113 
 
 Ch. (To Naomi.) Can't you think where it may- 
 be found 1 
 
 N. What need your men go in there It is my 
 stable, and locked. 
 
 Jerusha. Could one get through keyhole — save a 
 witch 1 
 
 Ch. (In undertone to Naomi.) Your pardon, Naomi, 
 but I must search this place thoroughly. Why tease 
 me thus ? 'Tis no time for thine old girlish tricks 
 
 N. I gave them up long ago, I hope, cousin. 
 
 Corporal Grome. (Coming foncard). The men have 
 searched all round, sir, and stand idle. 
 
 Ch. Prise open the door with .as little force as will 
 serve. 
 
 Corporal. (To Charlton.) Sir, the prudent man, 
 saith Solomon, looketh well to his going. Let us use 
 caution. 
 
 [The men are ranged on each side of door with swords 
 drawn. Charlton draws pistol from his belt and 
 looks to the priming. Two soldiers force the door 
 open. A pause. 
 
 Ch. Corporal Grome — Hezekiah Wood — guard the 
 door. The rest go in. 
 
 [Men go into stable. 
 'Twill not take long to search. 
 
 Grome. (Looking in.) There's a loft, sir. 
 
 [The soldiers reappear, 
 
 Ch. Well? 
 
 Soldier. Nothing, sir, but a trim little bay nag. 
 
 Another. (Rubbing his leg.) Gave me a taste of her 
 hoof, and beshrew her ! 
 
 Jerusha. Used you properly ! 
 
 Naomi. Prudence, ask my mother to come hither at 
 once, but alarm her not. Say there's no ill news. 
 
 [Exit Prudence. 
 
 Ch. You tried the loft, too 1 
 
 Soldier. Ay, sir ; there's nobody. 
 
 8
 
 114 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Jerry. {Aside to Jerusha.) If there had a been some- 
 body, he were true idiot not to find the little window 
 at back. 
 
 Soldier {who has been looking round corner). Sir, 
 there's a little window at the back, unbolted, and foot- 
 marks in the midden without. 
 
 Ch. Corporal, see that the men outside are on the 
 alert. Hardy, Wateh-and-Pray Dobson, stay with me; 
 the rest, off. Search every cranny ! 
 
 [After a pause George Fortescue is brought 
 in, disarmed and angry. 
 G. F. Stand off, fellows ! You have my sword. 
 Ch. Made he resistance ? 
 Corporal. So far as a hurt man could. 
 
 [Fortescue groans involuntarily. 
 Ch. What ails you, sir 1 
 N. See you not he is wounded ? 
 G. F. My arm is somewhat painful, sir. 
 Ch. Press not on him. Who are you, sir 1 
 G. F. I do not choose to answer. 
 Cli. Then I'll tell you : George Fortescue, second son 
 of the late Lord Lyndore, of the county of Devon ; and 
 now on a secret errand of treasonable purport. 
 G. F. {Scornfully.) Treasonable ! 
 Ch. Ay, sir. The King being in the hands of evil 
 counsellors and Popish traitors who misadvise him, 
 against the true interest of crown and kingdom. 
 
 G. F. Pshaw, sir ! one has heard this stuff too 
 often. 
 
 N. {To Jerusha.) Is my mother coming, think 
 
 you 1 
 J. Prudence would lose no time, madam. 
 N. May Heaven help us! 
 Ch. What say you, Naomi ? 
 N. Nothing. 
 
 Corporal. {Sententiozcsly, after clearing his throat.) 
 We have our warrant ; yea, the Gospel light shineth in 

 
 ASHBT MANOE. 115 
 
 our inward parts. We fight against the Antichrist, 
 and all Popish, prelatical, malignant men ! 
 
 HezeJiiah Wood. (With a strong twang.) Wherefore 
 the Lord will save us from the curse of Meroz, who 
 would not help the Lord against the mighty. 
 
 Corporal. Silence in the ranks ! 
 
 Ch. Enough, both of you ! (To Fortescue.) We 
 defend the true rights of the Nation and the King. 
 
 G. F. I'll tell you what you are — a swarm of fools, 
 Set on by cunning and malicious knaves ! 
 Helping a rebel rabble parliament 
 To wreck the ancient fabric of this realm 
 Because a stone or two is out of place ; 
 To break the Crown, which caps and keeps together 
 Th' ascending cone of dignities and duties, 
 And let all rush to ruin ! 
 
 Ch. Come, no more, sir ! 
 
 J. (To Naomi.) He speaks foinely, don't he? 
 
 N. Alas ! how will this end ? 
 
 G. F. Soldiers ! your sires were honest folk, content 
 To fear God, honour the King, and live in peace 
 And plenty with each other. Are you wiser 1 
 England flung topsy-turvy, will that serve you ? 
 
 Ch. Peace, you were best ! 
 
 G. F. Rogues flourish in such times, not honest men, 
 And by-and-by, when retribution comes, 
 You all will feel it, and your children too ! 
 
 Ch. (Raising his pistol. ) Silence him ! 
 
 [Soldiers surround Fortescue. 
 
 N. Merciful Heaven ! 
 
 G. F. (Stepping free of them for a moment.) Come, 
 friends ! your lawful King will pardon you. Who's 
 for King Charles 1 
 
 Ch. (Cocking and presenting pistol.) Nay, if you will 
 not. 
 
 N. (Shrieks and rushes forward.) Do not fire. He's 
 weaponless and wounded. 
 
 8 — 2
 
 116 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Ch. This is no business for thee, Naomi Kadclyffe. 
 Enter Mistress Radclyffe. 
 
 N. It is for her. O mother, thou art come at last ! 
 
 Mistr. R. Charlton Radclyffe ! — nephew ! — what may 
 this mean 1 
 
 Ch. My humble service to you, gracious aunt. 
 
 Mistr. R. What of my husband ? Know you where 
 Colonel Radclyffe is, and how? 
 
 Ch. For the present, no, madam ; but I am momently 
 expecting news. 
 
 Mistr. R. Poor comfort ! 
 
 Ch. No cause for dread, my dear aunt. But pardon, 
 gracious madam, my duty waits. Corporal, look to 
 your prisoner. See that he makes away with no paper. 
 He must be searched. 
 
 G. F. (Aside.) You are too late ! 
 
 Ch. If he talks again — the gag ! 
 
 N. Mother, you will save him ? 
 
 Mistr. R. Your prisoner — permit me. Sir, who and 
 what are you ? 
 
 G. F. My name is Fortescue, madam. 
 
 Mistr. R. And your baptized name 1 
 
 G. F. George, madam. 
 
 Mistr. R. George Fortescue, — are you of Devon ? 
 
 G. F. That is my county, madam. 
 
 Mistr. Son of the good Lord Lyndore ? 
 
 G. F. You know my father's name ? 
 
 N. (To her mother.) madam ! you know this 
 gentleman's kin 1 You will plead for lr u ? 
 
 Mistr. R. I knew your mother, sir, when both of us 
 were girls, and loved her. Yes, Naomi ; you have 
 heard me speak of Philippa Chenies, of Moreton — that 
 was she. I am very sorry, sir, trust me, to see you in 
 my house on such unhappy terms. Your hurts must 
 be looked to. Nephew, / will be warrant for your 
 prisoner's safe keeping.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 117 
 
 N. This will certainly suffice you ? 
 
 Ch. Good, my aunt and cousin, I may not lose sight 
 of him. He has, most likely, papers of consecpience 
 about him. 
 
 G. F. None, upon my honour, sir. 
 
 N. You do not doubt his word ? 
 
 Mistr. R. Come, come, nephew, let him be brought 
 in. Am not I Colonel Radclyffe's wife 1 I'll have a 
 chamber made ready. Come with me, Prudence. 
 Naomi, look to Mr. Fortescue meanwhile. 
 
 [Exit Mistress Radclyffe. 
 
 N. Charlton, you will yield to my mother in this ? 
 
 Ch. I must not, Naomi. 
 
 N. Nay — surely . . . 
 Enter three troopers, bringing Tom a prisoner, disguised 
 in a smock frock and old lied. 
 
 Ch. Who's here? 
 
 Trooper. We took this fellow, sir, in the mown 
 meadow hard by, squatting in the hedge like a hare. 
 
 Ch. What is he 1 
 
 Trooper. A countryman he says. (Snatches Tom's 
 hat off.) You, sir, speak up for yourself ! 
 
 Tom. (Hesitatingly.) Plaise your honour, I'm a poor 
 innocent lad 
 
 Jerri/. (Cowing forward.) You're a rogue, a rogue, 
 that's what you are ! Why he's a-got my owd frock 
 on, and that there 'at's my 'at and norne else's ! 
 
 Ch. Uncase him ! 
 
 [They pull smock over Tom's ears and 
 show him in military dress. 
 
 Tom. (Sulkily.) Dowl ! don't pull a chap to pieces ! 
 
 Ch. (Meanwhile, in undertone to IS'aomi.) JS'aomi, 
 how came they in thy stable 1 
 
 N. By their own act. 
 
 Ch. Wholly? 
 
 Trooper. (Snatching a ptirse out of Tom's pocket.) 
 Look'ec here !
 
 118 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Tom. What, are ye cutpurses too 1 
 G. F. (To Charlton.) Your pardon, sir; this I own 
 is my man, who hath in vain attempted to escape, and 
 the purse is mine. 
 
 Tom. The purse is my master's. 
 Ch. Take it, sir. (Is handing it to Fortescue, when 
 Grome interposes.) 
 
 Grome. With favour, Captain — the counsels of the 
 wicked are deceit. 
 Ch. Thy meaning ? 
 
 Grome. Let the purse be opened ; yea, let the secrets 
 thereof be brought to light. 
 
 [Charlton opens purse and finds 
 paper, which he unfolds and 
 examines. 
 Ch. Cypher. It must to head-quarters at once, with 
 both prisoners. 
 
 N. You will wait till my mother returns ? 
 Ch. JS T ot another instant ! 
 
 \Troqpers seize Fortescue roughly; he 
 p>ushes them aside; Charlton steps 
 forward. 
 Will you not go quietly ? 
 
 G. F. (Staggering.) Your pardon, sir, ... I was 
 Avrong, I own . . . but . . . 
 
 \_tle faints; Tom 7'ushes forward and 
 raises him ; Naomi helps ; Charlton 
 comes near and looks at Fortescue ; 
 says contemptuously — ■ 
 Ch. Pshaw, this is nothing ! Remove him ! 
 
 [Naomi turns to Charlton. 
 N. Charlton Radclyffe, stand back, and your men 
 too ! We will not surfer this — not for fifty Parlia- 
 ments ! The son of my mother's old friend — wounded 
 — worn out — dying perhaps ! If you lay hands on him 
 you must on me too. This is my father's house — my 
 mother will be answerable for him before God and
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 119 
 
 man — and stir he shall not, till he hath been duly 
 cared for and is fit to move ! 
 
 [The soldiers look at each other ; Charl- 
 ton undetermined and much vexed. 
 Cli. Is it thus you speak, Naomi 1 
 N. Even thus ! Here (to servants), see to the gentle- 
 man ; (Tom helps) lift him, gently — now in ! 
 Ch. (Coming close to her.) One word, Naomi ! 
 N. (Pushing past him.) Not one ! Be tender with 
 his hurt arm. He revives, I think. Sir, you are with 
 friends, and shall want for no care Ashby Manor can 
 give you. 
 
 Ch. (To soldiers.) Follow, but hold back a little. 
 
 [Fortescue is supported towards 
 the house. 
 
 Enter Mistress Eadclyffe (C) meeting them. 
 
 Mistr. R. All is ready. 
 
 Ch. He shall not stay in this house ! 
 
 End of Scene I. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 A Room in the Manor House, panelled ; with sober, ancient 
 
 furniture. 
 
 Enter Mistress Eadclyffe, speaking. 
 Mistr. R. Prudence ! 
 
 Enter Prudence. 
 
 Let him on no excuse be disturbed. 
 P. No, madam. [Exit.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 121 
 
 Mistr. R. {Alone.) My private grief comes back — 
 grows worse each hour. 
 Ah, dreadful days ! when fellow-countrymen, 
 Companions, neighbours, friends, stand opposite 
 With deadly and implacable resolve 
 To deluge English soil with English blood ! 
 Thou God of Battles ! be my husband's guard ! 
 His cause is Thy cause : Thou wilt keep Thy chosen. 
 — And if he should be slain 1 Good men have fall'n. 
 
 [Sits down. 
 Ay, many a new-made widow now in England, 
 And many an orphan. Daughter ! what were we 
 In this rude world without thy father's face 1 
 Basil, come back to us ! come back to us ! 
 He hears not. Shall Ave ever have again 
 
 The sweet old quiet times 1 One other week 
 Brings round the longest day : O month of June ! — 
 That golden June in my dear Devon once ! 
 The honeysuckle-scented summer nights, 
 Warm stars and whispering wind among the leaves, 
 More loud than lovers' voices, — yet we miss'd 
 ISTo word each other spoke. How Avell I knew 
 His horse's gallop on the little bridge 
 And up the lane ; then came the light, cpiick step, 
 The tender word, and I was in his arms. 
 My Sweetheart ! One of such a constant mind 
 As when my flush of youth and beauty waned 
 His fondness but increased ; in England's realm 
 No Avoman AA r armlier loved, no Avife more honour'd. 
 And now — Ms life flung out into the whirl 
 Of a bloody tempest, scattering death and torture ! 
 
 [Starts up 
 O senseless fool ! weak Availing coAvard ! [Mings a bell. 
 
 Enter woman. 
 
 Quick ! 
 Is there a horse left 1 Someone saddle him,
 
 122 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 This moment — ay, for me — haste, haste, I say ! 
 
 I'll follow. [Exit woman, bewildered. 
 
 Enter Naomi. 
 
 N. Whither go you, dearest mother 1 
 
 Mistr. R. To the battle-field. 
 
 N. The battle-field ! What to do there 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Search for him. 
 
 N. What fear you ? 'Tis impossible ! His men 
 who love him, General Fairfax who honours him, 
 
 would never O, mother, news may come at any 
 
 moment ! 
 
 Mistr. R. I must go. 
 
 N. If he himself returned and found us gone. 
 
 Mistr. R. You are not wont to disobey me, Naomi ; 
 I thought you loved your father. 
 
 N. O dearest mother, we will go together ! 
 You are right — and walk if need be. 
 
 [Raises her mother and supports her 
 towards the door (L). 
 Come, sweet mother, we'll soon get ready. 
 
 Enter servant woman (L). 
 
 Servant. Master Charlton, madam, craves leave to 
 speak with you. 
 
 Mistr. R. Let him enter. 
 
 [Servant bows, goes out, and returns, showing 
 in Charlton. (L.) 
 
 Mistr. R. Have you news ? 
 
 Ch. None, madam, I — 
 
 Mistr. R. (Not noticing his intention to speak on.) 
 We have been distant, nephew, for some years. Let 
 the storm press us closer. I am heartily sorry to give
 
 ASHBY MANGE. 123 
 
 you so poor a welcome. And now urgent business 
 calls us from home immediately. 
 
 Ch. From home, madam, — on such a day as this? — 
 and whither 1 
 
 N. To the battle-field. 
 
 Ch. Mere madness to think of it ! the country 
 swarming with wild, disorderly soldiers, fevered with 
 victory, frantic with defeat, — 
 
 Mistr. R. God will protect us. 
 
 Oh. Madam, you must not think of this. I will 
 not, with all respect, suffer it. 
 
 Mistr. R. How say you ? 
 
 N. Not suffer ! — sir, you presume somewhat far on 
 your relationship — or is it your military rank makes 
 you an intermeddler 1 
 
 Ch. (Smili?ig.) Be satisfied, fair cousin ; I understand 
 these matters ; and once for all — it may not be. 
 
 N. Will you stay us by force 1 
 
 Cli. You will not put me to it. I act but for your 
 good, believe it. 
 
 [Mistress Radclyffe sinks into a chair 
 exhausted. 
 
 N. Poor mother ! (Turns to Charlton.) You saw 
 nothing of my father after mid-day 1 
 
 Ch. Nothing, fair cousin, but I doubt not he is safe. 
 
 Mistr. R. (Rousing herself.) Why say you so ? 
 
 Ch. Well (liesitating), 'tis a little strange, perhaps, 
 we should not have heard ere this. 
 
 Mistr. R. Strange, indeed ! Charlton, you believe 
 he's killed ? I see it in your face. nephew, nephew, 
 how could you leave the field, his fate in balance 1 
 You loved him not — you were ever cold-hearted ! 
 
 Ch. Nay, madam — 
 
 N. Mother, mother ! 
 
 [Mistress R. collects herself. 
 
 Ch. Madam, I came to say a word, with your per- 
 mission, touching my prisoner, Lord Lyndore.
 
 124 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Mistr. R. George Fortescue, you mean ; Lord Lyn- 
 dore is his elder brother. 
 
 Ch. Was, madam. This is a time of sudden heri- 
 tages. He, I have just learnt, lies cold on Naseby 
 field ; and my prisoner is Lord Lyndore, a man of con- 
 sequence, head of his family : besides which, he is 
 bearer from the King of private orders for the West. 
 His arm is now bandaged they tell me. I must carry 
 him to General Fairfax. 
 
 N. He is not fit to travel. 
 
 Ch. Did you dress his arm? 
 
 N. I gave my help. The bullet is still in, and he 
 cannot ride. 
 
 Ch. We'll tie him on. 
 
 Mistr. R. Nephew, you nmst not use this young 
 man harshly. 
 
 Ch. Aunt, he shall be used as well as haste and these 
 rough times allow. 
 
 N. Charlton, you will not drag him off? 
 
 Ch. By no means, fair cousin ; but he must come 
 quietly, and without more delay. Your pardon, madam, 
 —{going). 
 
 Mistr. R. Stop, Charlton ! I have pledged my word 
 for his safe custody. Let him stay for the present in 
 our keeping. 
 
 Ch. I may not, aunt ; and the more because you are 
 my aunt, to make myself suspect of favour. Pray you, 
 say no more. I humbly take my leave. Farewell. 
 Farewell, sweet cousin. (Aside to her.) I would speak 
 with you on a grave business before I go — a few words. 
 
 N. (Aside to him.) I'll see my mother in and return 
 hither. (Aloud.) Come, mother, you were best lie 
 down awhile. 
 
 Mistr. R. My head whirls. I know not what to do. 
 
 N. Lean on me, mother. [Exeunt together (R). 
 
 [Charlton stays, opens door (L), and 
 whistles, not loud.
 
 ASHBT MANOR. 125 
 
 Enter Grome. 
 
 Cli. Shut the door. Thou rememberest where 
 and when chance first threw thee in my way? — and 
 why I have taken thee into the regiment at no small 
 risk? 
 
 Grome. Very well, sir. 
 
 Ch. Never forget it. I have more work for thee. 
 Play me fair, it shall profit thee well. Go about to 
 trick me, and — thou knowest what I am. 
 
 Grome. Ay, sir, ever since — 
 
 Ch. (Interrupting.) And what thou art. 
 
 Grome. Your dog, sir ; my hopes and aims follow 
 humbly at heel of yours. 
 
 Ch. My uncle may be among the slain. 
 
 Grome. I'm sure on't. That would change your 
 honour's plans? 
 
 Ch. Help them on. Who saw him fall ? 
 
 Grome. Three several men told me. 
 
 Ch. (Chiefly to himself.) There has not been time to 
 sort the dead. The messengers may come at any mo- 
 ment with this news. And then how stand I ? What 
 shall I be then ? 
 
 Grome. Lifted, sir, I humbly hope, as on the wings 
 of the morning, out of the valley of debt and des- 
 pondency. 
 
 Ch. Pshaw ! — He was a good man, so all say. 
 Jealous of me, after Providence decreed the death of 
 my young cousin, and left me heir presumptive. 
 
 Grome. A fine estate, sir. 
 
 Ch. A small thing. In any case I shall make excuse 
 to leave thee behind me here. Thou wilt watch how 
 things go, — and be safer here, for the present. 
 
 Grome. (Murmurs.) Your honour is too kind to 
 me. 
 
 Ch. This inheritance would scarce clear my credit.
 
 126 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 I shall win the larger stake — and thou shalt profit. 
 But remember, 'tis a dangerous game. 
 
 Grome. I'll do my little part, sir, I hope. 
 
 [Sound of door shutting in corridor. 
 
 Ch. Some one comes — Go — but wait within call. 
 
 Grome. I will, sir. 
 
 Ch. And let the men be ready. 
 
 Grome. Yes, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Ch. I trust him, with a pistol to his ear. 
 My dog, yes — one, too, that could show his teeth : 
 So far he has fetch'd and carried very neatly. 
 
 How often little Naomi and I 
 Play'd hide and seek in these old corridors ! 
 Pest on these family quarrels ! Was't my fault 
 My baby cousin died 1 Now is the time 
 To make all round and smooth. She's hot of temper, 
 But readily appeased ; and, for the rest, 
 A woman, — ay, the fairest in seven shires ! 
 I am, or shall be, and perhaps I am 
 Lord of this manor. Naomi and my aunt 
 Will sorely need protection ; who but I 
 Through natural duty should afford it Jhem 1 
 But not a word of love — beware of that ! — 
 Until my plans are riper — 
 
 Enter Naomi. 
 
 Ah, sweet cousin ! 
 
 N. What would you, cousin 1 I have but a moment 
 to stay. 
 
 Ch. Time was, Naomi, you were ready enough to 
 keep me company, play, run, read, whisper, — kiss me 
 too. 
 
 N. When we were children. 
 
 Ch. Is there no memory of kindness left 1 ? Cousin, 
 I would crave your friendly ear for some discourse that 
 much concerns us both.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 127 
 
 N. I listen; but I must pray you to be brief. 
 
 Ch. Your father — 
 
 A T . What would you tell me 1 
 
 Ch. Nay, nothing more than hath been told already. 
 But this time may be a fit one, among close kin as we 
 are, to recon the map and roadbook of our family life : 
 no future but must continuate the past. 
 
 N. What aim you at 1 
 
 Ch. This. You know, doubtless, fair cousin, that I 
 am next heir to this estate. And you cannot but have 
 heard also of my grandfather's dying wish, that should 
 your father have no son to inherit, you, his only 
 daughter, and myself, when years were ripe, might if 
 possible be wedded. 
 
 N. I have heard this, — but never liked it. 
 
 Ch. Would that were otherwise ! But if't be so, 
 So be it. Yet remember, at the least, 
 
 I am your cousin ; and if changeful fortune 
 Bring such a need, a lamentable need, 
 This house, dear Naomi, will still be yours — 
 Your mother's — in all dignity and honour. 
 
 N. How mean you 1 
 
 Ch. Ashby Manor is your home, 
 
 Whatever happens. 
 
 A r . Were my father gone, — 
 
 Is that your meaning 1 
 
 Ch. {With pauses.) Yes, dear Naomi. — 
 
 You know me not — indeed you know me not. 
 Will you not speak 1 Is not the offer worth 
 A word of answer 1 
 
 A 7 . {Absently.) 0, I thank you, cousin, 
 I thank you — but my thoughts were otherwhere. 
 
 Ch. And you accept 1 Say merely you accept. 
 
 N. Charlton, my mother and myself would leave 
 This house for ever, were my father gone ! 
 
 Ch. But wherefore 1 — why should this be, Naomi ? 
 We used to live in kindlier confidence —
 
 128 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 'Twas chance that sunder'd us, not wrath or reason. 
 Will you not let me even be your friend ? 
 And whither would my aunt go ? Into Devon ? 
 I pray you, answer me. 
 
 iV. You speak as tho' 
 
 My father were already lost to us. 
 
 Ch. Naomi, in sad truth, I fear he is. 
 
 N. You fear that 1 Do you know it 1 — But you 
 fear it 1 
 Heaven have pity ! 
 
 Ch. Naomi — 
 
 A T . No more ! 
 
 Ch. Nay, go not ! — hear me ! — say you hate me not ? 
 What have I done that yon should use me thus? 
 
 N. Cousin, I hate not, and did never hate you. 
 Again I thank you. Pray you, let me pass. 
 
 Ch. Naomi — I love thee ! dost thou hear 1 — I love 
 thee, 
 Love none but thee — have loved thee all these years — 
 Have set my heart and soul on winning thee ! — ■ 
 Why should I have no chance to win thy love ? 
 Am I not manly enough to look upon 1 
 Hast ever heard them call me coward ? — Nay 
 You do me wrong by this cold, cruel bearing ! 
 Will you not speak — not even listen to me ? 
 
 [She turns away. 
 You must ! — you shall not go yet ! 
 
 [Seizes her arm ; she shrieks. 
 Naomi ! 
 Would'st drive me mad ? 
 
 Enter Lyndore, without armour or sword, his arm 
 bandaged. 
 
 Lyn. Stand back, sir ! what do you with this lady 
 Ch. How, sir, come you here % 
 Lyn. For this lady's protection, if she need it. 
 Ch. She needs it not.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 129 
 
 Lyn. I will not take your word for that. Maclam, 
 forgive me ; I liearcl your voice raised as in sudden fear. 
 
 Cli. Where were your sentries ? 
 
 Lyn. (Not heeding 1dm.) Nay, you shrieked. 
 
 Ch. I'll trounce the careless knaves ! 
 
 N. (To Lyndore.) I truly thank you, sir. Some- 
 thing told hastily by my cousin startled me ; but all is 
 now settled. 
 
 Ch. (To Lyndore.) My Lord Lyndore, back to ward ! 
 
 Lyn. Jackanapes ! 
 
 Ch. Insolent. [Half dra/ios his sicord. 
 
 N. (7b Charlton.) Upon a wounded man ! Hold, 
 for shame ! (To Lyndore.) I pray you ! 
 
 Ch. (To Lyndore.) Know me better, Lord Lyndore. 
 I am master here ; nay, doubly, triply master. I am 
 this lady's cousin — 
 
 Lyn. But not her master. 
 
 Ch. After Colonel Kadclyffe, I am head of this 
 family ; and further, in present command of a troop 
 of— 
 
 Lyn. Rascal rebels ! 
 
 Ch. No more words ! [Opens door and calls] 
 
 Grome ! 
 
 Grome. (Without.) Here, sir. 
 
 Ch. Where are your men ? 
 
 Grome. This way, men. [Grome and soldiers enter. 
 
 Ch. Take your prisoner, and look better to him. 
 Prepare to mount immediately. Strap him to Carstairs 
 if needful. Ready ! 
 
 [Soldiers surround Lord Lyndore. Enter 
 Mistress Radclyffe and servants. 
 
 N. O mother ! 
 
 Mistr. R. NepheAv, will you do yourself and our 
 house this dishonour? 
 
 Ch. Dishonour? — He must go, madam aunt, — your 
 pardon, but he must. 
 
 N. Madam, will you suffer it ? 
 
 9
 
 130 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Servant-woman. Truly, 'twill be his death ! 
 
 Ch. Men, remove the prisoner ! 
 
 Mistr. R. Stir not, I command you ! 
 
 Ch. On! 
 
 [The 'soldiers prepare to remove Lord Lyndore, 
 and Charlton to follow, when a side-door opens, 
 and Colonel Radclyffe steps in. He is in 
 military dress, soiled, and without a sword. All 
 silent and amazed for a moment or two. 
 
 Col. R. Hey ! what's to do here 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Basil ! {Embracing him.) Is it thou 
 indeed 1 
 
 N. Father ! [Clasps him ami Jcisses his hands. 
 
 Col. R. Truly, sweethearts, I am no ghost or goblin, 
 — though fain to creep in thus. 
 
 Mistr. R. And you are safe 1 
 
 Col. R. And sound, through Heaven's mercy. Thus 
 it was, wife : my horse shot and I prisoner, carried 
 mounted towards Rugby, my captors were set upon by 
 some of our side, and in the confusion I galloped off. 
 Two or three pistol shots followed me, but no harm 
 done, — and here I am. 
 
 Q , ( The good Heavens be praised ! 
 
 i Cod bless your honour ! 
 
 Col. R. But what business is toward 1 Who are 
 these gentlemen 1 Eh, — Charlton 1 
 
 Ch. Mine honoured uncle. I heartily rejoice to see 
 you safe in your own good house. 
 
 Col. R. I thank thee as heartily, nephew. Now, 
 explain. 
 
 Ch. I was sent hither by Colonel Hammond in 
 pursuit of fugitives, and have taken Lord Lyndore 
 with a letter in cypher — whom I am even now at point 
 of removing to General Fairfax's cpiarters at Market- 
 Harborough. 
 
 Mistr. R. (In undertone?) Dear husband, the gen- 
 tleman is wounded and unlit to move.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 131 
 
 Col. R. Let me see the prisoner. [Charlton motions 
 to soldiers, who bring forward Lord Lyndore. Are 
 you Lord Lyndore 1 
 
 Lyn. So I hear, sir, to my great grief. 
 
 Col. R. You have been wounded in the fight 1 
 
 Lyn. In the arm, sir. 
 
 Col. R. (Interested and coming near.) In the arm ! 
 Ha, stay ! 'twas a pistol-shot, I think ? — at close 
 quarters 1 — which you received in protecting an officer 
 of the enemy dismounted and sore beset ? Yes, yes ! 
 — I pray you look me in the face. 
 
 Lyn. I seem to know your face, sir. 
 
 Col. R. You do ! Look again ! Look at me well ! 
 Wife ! — daughter ! — this brave young gentleman gave 
 me my life at peril of his own. That wound he took 
 for me. How shall he be thanked 1 
 
 Mistr. R. With all we have and are ! 
 
 N. May God bless you ! 
 
 Lyn. You have already repaid me richly. \_A scuffle 
 at door: Tom's voice heard — " Ye sha'n't stop me!" — 
 Is that my man 1 
 
 Tom (Bursting through soldiers.) 'Tes, Measter 
 George ! {kneels and hisses his hand) — and where your 
 honour stays I'll stay, dead or alive ! 
 
 [Soldiers make as though to take Tom. 
 
 Col. R. Leave him alone. He shall wait on his master. 
 
 Tom. God bless your noble honour ! 
 
 Ch. (Aside.) The blue plague seize them ! (Aloud, 
 sullenly.) What orders, sir? 
 
 Col. R. Half of the men remain here for the present. 
 You with the rest ride to General Fairfax, give him 
 the paper you have taken, and say I follow quickly. 
 
 Mistr. R. Go so soon ! 
 
 Col. R. Yes, dear. I came but to assure you of my 
 safety, and must back to duty. 
 
 N. And when will you come to us again ? 
 
 Col. R. Soon, darling ; soon I hope — and to stay. 
 
 9 — 2
 
 132 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Ch. The prisoners, Colonel Radclyffe 1 
 Col. R. I charge myself with them. Draw off half 
 your men and mount. Farewell. Barrett ! 
 Trooper. Here, Colonel. 
 
 Col. R. Ride for the chirurgeon ; you'll find him at 
 Hinckley Farm, bring him hither as soon as may be. 
 Take a second horse. Quick ! (To Charlton, who 
 lingers). How now 1 
 
 Ch. With your favour, sir, I conceive it my duty to 
 carry my prisoners to the General. 
 
 Col. R. With your favour, sir, conceive it your first 
 duty to obey your superior officer. I have not lost my 
 colonelcy on the road. To horse, sir, with no more delay ! 
 Ch. I obey, sir. I meant to leave the Corporal (in- 
 dicates Grome) with a man or two for the protection of 
 the house. 
 
 Col. R. I will see to that. 
 
 Ch. (Going — mutters.) They shall all rue this ! She 
 among the rest. [Exit. 
 
 N. Father, thank Heaven you are safe ! 
 Mistr. R. And this gentleman its chosen instrument ! 
 (Col. R. To Lord Lyndore.) My lord, I owe you an 
 arm. Come. 
 
 Mistr. R. (As theij 9°-) Prudence! — Martha! — the 
 south chamber ! See after them, Naomi. 
 N. Yes, dear mother ! 
 
 [Colonel and Mistress Radclyffe help Lord 
 Lyndore (R.) Naomi stands for a moment 
 near door (L) watching them off with a look 
 of joy. She clasps her hands, raises her eyes, 
 and exclaims fervently, "Thank Heaven/" 
 then exit quickly. 
 Grome, standing stiffly as on duty, is seen 
 watching all the, proceedings ; lie changes his 
 attitude and looks keenly after Naomi while 
 Drop falls. 
 
 End of Act 1.
 
 ASIIBY MANOR. 133 
 
 ACT II.— SCENE I. 
 
 [Three months later. Large Chamber or Anteroom of the Manor 
 House, ground floor, half sitting-room, lvalf liall ; practicable 
 door at back, open,; large Tudor windows, the casements open; 
 giving upon a Terrace, beyond which stretches an autumnal 
 landscape. Practicable doors, R side 1st E, L side 3rd E. 
 
 Music between Acts 1 and 2 of a sweet and peaceful character ; 
 founded on, or including, airs of the period ; it continues after 
 the curtain rises. 
 
 The scene is for a moment or two empty, then Naomi and Lord Lyn- 
 DOHE are seen slowly passing the window in conversation, and 
 presently enter, as from a walk : the music dying away as they 
 come in. He wears a wide Cavalier hat with plume, and a 
 simple but handsome dress. She has in her hand some wild 
 flowers and ears of corn. He takes off his hat on entering. He 
 is pale and thin, but his arm is no longer tied up.] 
 
 N. A glorious autumn day ! 
 
 Lyn. The whole rich world 
 
 Basks like a mellow apple in the sun. 
 That corn Avas green when first I cross'd your bounds 
 A fugitive, — now, amber head to head, 
 Nodding and whispering as peacefully 
 As if no hostile camp or battle-field 
 Scored England's face with ugly frowns and scars. 
 
 [Looks at corn and flowers which she holds. 
 Lady, the summer sun that ripen'd these 
 Beat heavily upon my fever'd brain. 
 How I have tried your patience ! burthen'd all 
 Your household with my sickness ! 
 
 N. Who that breathes 
 
 Could aid, and would not 1 — When, at last, your fever 
 Sunk into heavy sleep, a vestibule 
 Of solemn darkness, with two opposite doors,
 
 134 ASHBY MANOK. 
 
 To life, to death, and, so God will'd, at last 
 The door of life unfolded, — what reward 
 For us the watchers, to see your sane eyes 
 Look out with recognition ! 
 
 Lyn. Not at first 
 
 I saw who sat and watch 'd me ; but it seem'd 
 Continuation of a dream of Heav'n. 
 Then flow'd assurance in, it was indeed 
 No visionary angel, and for once 
 Dream was outvied by the reality. 
 — Will you not rest ? 
 
 [She sits down and puts off her hat — 
 he sits near. 
 
 You saved my life, — a debt 
 I am well content to owe. 
 
 N. Not so, my lord ; 
 
 I shared with my dear mother and my woman, 
 And your own servant, duties well repaid 
 In this your restoration. 
 
 Lyn. Yet methinks 
 
 I am not whollv cured. 
 
 N. What ails your lordship 1 
 
 Doth your head ache ? 
 
 Lyn. Not so. I merely crave 
 
 A draught of that ethereal soothing medicine 
 Made by a subtle mixture of fine sounds, 
 Which, gently poured into one's ears, doth rock 
 The brain to blissful dreaming and our soul 
 Breathes Paradise. Will you not sing one song 1 
 This gentle servant, see, your lute, is ready — 
 
 [Takes down a lute from the wainscot 
 and touches the strings. 
 Or nearly. May I venture? (Tunes it.) Is that 
 right? [Offers it. 
 
 N. My skill is somewhat homely as you know ; 
 Here's an old simple thing : 
 
 [She preludes a Utile, then sings.
 
 
 136 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 i. 
 
 Wilt thou, Summer, haste away ? 
 Yet a little longer stay. 
 Thou but earnest yesterday — 
 
 'Tis too soon to go. 
 Just as we were truly friends, 
 All our fine communion ends ; 
 Autumn will not make amends, — 
 
 Ah, I fear me, no ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 Leave thy hand in ours awhile ; 
 Then at last a merry smile, 
 Parting sorrow to beguile, — 
 
 Since it must be so. 
 We will hive thee in our heart, 
 Where is memory's better part, 
 Warm and loving as thou, art, 
 
 Through the winter snow. 
 
 Lyn. " it came o'er my ear like the SAveet South ! " 
 — you know the line, I see. And your father is fami- 
 liar as any cavalier with our fine stage-poet, who 
 outsoars all best others as king eagle the whole tribe of 
 hawks. He should be cavalier ! 
 
 N. My father 1 That follows not. He is no pre- 
 cisian, but in principle firmer than oak. 
 
 Lyn. Would he were loyal ! 
 
 N. So he is — to England. Would Charles Stuart 
 
 '8' 
 
 t 
 
 were so 
 
 Lyn. Could England do without her king 1 
 N. Better than without truth and freedom !
 
 Seme. 
 
 Aik: Mad Robin. (The original words are lost.) 
 
 To be accompanied, if possible, by the singer on an old English lute; 
 else {she fingering the lute) by a single harp in the orchestra. 
 
 j H^J4 
 
 3=t 
 
 * s 1 g 
 
 5=*=t=Sar^ 
 
 1. Wiltthou,surnnier,hastea - way ? Yet a lit- tie long- er stay ; 
 
 2. Leave thy hand in ours a - while ; Then at last a mer - ry smile, 
 
 iiE 
 
 ^22 
 
 rail. 
 
 5* 
 
 i 
 
 
 * * 
 
 "J. 
 
 2=t 
 
 Thou but earnest yes- ter - day, — 'Tis too soon to go. 
 Part-ing sorrow to be - guile,— Since it must be so. 
 
 Jk J J 
 
 ^= 
 
 3C=S= 
 
 ;; p p tit ^iH+j-a-f 
 
 HEI 
 
 I U 
 
 Just as we were tru - ly friends, All our fine com-munion ends; 
 We will hive thee in our heart, Where is mem'ry's bet-ter part, 
 
 SE 
 
 ^ 
 
 "2T 
 
 ^^ 
 
 I?2= 
 
 ^ 
 
 r~*~ 
 
 3 
 
 5* rail.. 
 
 IV 
 
 ^^= 
 
 -*!• *=P 
 
 f? 
 
 Au-tumn will not make a- mends,— Ah, 1 fear me, no! 
 Warm and lov- ing as thou art, Through the win-ter snow. 
 
 &^ == f Z 
 
 4- 
 
 =*£
 
 138 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Lyn. She hath had kings ever since the days of 
 savagery, and grown great under them. 
 
 N. And changed them when needful. The country, 
 my lord, exists not for the king's sake, but the king 
 for the country's. 
 
 Lyn. A flag of truce, dear lady ! 
 
 N. You count a woman not worth argument, my lord. 
 
 Lyn. I am humbler minded, believe me ; I fear 
 losing all my former convictions, ere I am aware. I 
 talked mainly to support my own courage. 
 
 N. My father and you had much discourse when he 
 was last here. 
 
 Lyn. I long for more of it. Comes he not home 
 again soon 1 
 
 N. Very soon — perhaps to-night. And to stay — to 
 stay ! unless some pressing call should summon him 
 again, which heaven forefend ! He hath fought in 
 every battle from Edgehill, been thrice wounded ; and 
 now, needing rest and some care of his own affairs — 
 the public stress being slackened — he hath been most 
 honourably relieved of his charge. 
 
 Lyn. He is a brave soldier. 
 
 N. A brave man — not a soldier ! 
 
 Lyn. How mean you, I pray ? 
 
 N. He hath fought bravely in what he counts a 
 great and just cause. So, my lord, have you. Mere 
 Soldiers are the kind of men, made wolves or demons, 
 that Tilly stormed Magdeburg with. Had not your 
 Prince Rupert some like them 1 Let them go back to 
 Germany or France and serve despotic kings — we like 
 them not. 
 
 Lyn. (Avoiding the subject.) Nor I indeed. 
 This is your father's likeness. 
 
 [Points to picture on wall : they rise 
 and look at it. 
 
 N. In his handsome youth : but I like him still 
 better now.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 139 
 
 Lyn. Years have enriched his manly looks. He is 
 a wise and good man. 
 
 N. Indeed he is. Do you dispute much 1 
 Lyn. At first I dared. But, tho' 'tis not easy to put 
 off the opinions one was horn into, I soon saw how, 
 "beyond reckoning, he encompassed me in experience, 
 overtopt me in knowledge, outweighed me in wisdom ; 
 "being most modest withal, and ever making too much 
 of my argument. 
 
 Enter Grome, silently and unobserved, j He pretends to 
 be looking for something, but is really spying and 
 listening. He is in a plain dress, like a serving-man, 
 with a trace of the soldier. ,] 
 
 N. Is't not pity, my lord, such men as you and he 
 should stand at feud 1 — 
 Alas, what England hath already lost ! 
 
 Lyn. I'm nothing : but indeed what gaps are made 
 By wild and wasteful war ! had Falkland fall'n 
 Ey Frenchman's hand, how England would have wept 
 Had Spanish bullet struck John Hampden's hreast, 
 How England like one man had mourn'd for him ! 
 But now, half England-— poor divided land, 
 A land heside itself — with frenzied shout 
 Joys when a noble Englishman is slain. 
 
 N. True, true ! and who to blame ? 
 
 Lyn. Ambitious rebels ! 
 
 N. JSTo ! an ambitious king —who would be more 
 Than England will endure in any king ! 
 
 Lyn. {Shaking his head.) The time's perplext. But 
 who is here, I pray you ? 
 
 [Pointing to another picture. 
 
 N. My uncle, Edward Clinton, — on the king's side ; 
 Yet, strange to say ! an honest man, I think. 
 
 Lyn. I well believe it. I have heard of him, 
 But never seen him. 
 
 N. He's at Oxford now.
 
 140 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 He sometimes writes a letter to my father, 
 Hoping to bend him to the royal side, — 
 Vainly enough. [Sees Grome and addresses Mm. 
 
 What seek you 1 
 
 Grome A key, madam, so please you. I think it is 
 not here. [Exit. 
 
 Lyn. (Gently.) One other song? 
 
 N. N"o more. 
 
 Lyn. In sign of peace between us. 
 
 N. Peace may there be ! 
 
 Would it could overflow the land, like moonlight. 
 But no more songs to-night. And further know 
 You must not tarry nigh an open window 
 When evening air grows moist. 
 
 Lyn. Why, I am well. 
 
 I'm almost sorry for it. 
 
 N. But not strong, sir. 
 
 I pray you now, come in ; or must I call 
 Higher Authority 1 
 
 Lyn. I yield to yours, 
 
 Madam, most willingly. 
 
 [Both going towards side door (L). 
 Would I could think 
 I had a little of your father's favour. 
 
 N. You have, sir. 
 
 Lyn. Do you think so ? 
 
 A r . I am sure of it. 
 
 He is your friend. — How autumn daylight dwindles ! 
 Already half way to midwinter nights ! 
 
 Lyn. But every season hath its own delights. 
 
 [Exeunt together. 
 Same place. 
 
 Enter Colonel Kadclyffe in riding dress, looking joyful 
 and expectant. He exclaims " Home I liome ! " puts 
 down his gloves and hat, and calls in a louder voice — 
 
 Lucy !
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 141 
 
 Enter Mistress Eadclyffe quicldy. They embrace. 
 
 My Lucy ! 
 
 Mistr. R. This is like old clays, my Basil ! 
 A rough time hoards up sweets, like mountain honey 
 You're well 1 
 
 Col. R. And happy ! — Little do they know 
 Who deem that love is youth's particular ; 
 The best of us must live to find what life is, 
 And then live on, to find what's best in life. 
 
 Mistr. R. Methinks you talk pure Devonshire to- 
 night. 
 
 Col. R. I am a poor Northampton man, no better. 
 
 Mistr. R. But thus you used to talk in Devonshire 
 How long is that ago 1 
 
 Col. R. A month or two — 
 
 A year or two — or is it twenty years ? 
 They sometimes tell us life's a dream ; but love — 
 We love each other, do we not 1 That's real ! 
 
 Mistr. R. Thank God for it, sweet husband ! 
 JSTaseby Fight 
 Is like a dream now, though but three months past. 
 So will this Avar be, one day. How goes it on 1 
 
 Col. R. Badly for Charles — who moves with stately 
 step 
 And grave blind eyes, to ruin, — wiled along 
 By her, the black-eyed little Frenchwoman, 
 Their battle cry at Naseby. Could he put 
 Tom Wentworth's, my old schoolmate's, head again 
 Upon his shoulders and make use of him 
 To better purpose, Charles might have a chance ! 
 'Tis idly said that on the eve of ISaseby 
 Charles from his restless couch look'd up and saw 
 The ghost of him that served him — whom he mur- 
 
 der'd— 
 Sadly and sternly gazing in his face.
 
 142 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Mistr. R. I do believe it. Now and evermore 
 Pale Stratford haunts his dreams ! 
 
 Col. R. He would have proved 
 
 A dangerous weapon in a skilful hand ; 
 But Charles could only cut himself withal, 
 Then fling it down and break it ! 
 
 \WJiile saying this, he lifts his sword 
 in the scabbard with Jlis left hand, 
 a short way] and lets it drop again 
 to the hilt. 
 Mistr. R. You need not this ! 
 
 [She unlmchies the sword and lays it 
 on a chair. 
 Col. R. Nay not to-night, I hope ! — But, our young 
 prisoner, — 
 What of him, Lucy ? — Stay a little here. 
 
 Mistr. R. Most gladly : but I'll shut the casements 
 
 first. [Shuts them. 
 
 Col. R. Sound man again, I hear, thanks to your 
 
 nursing. 
 Mistr. R. His wound is heal'd, his dangerous fever 
 cool'd. 
 Yes he is sound, I think, but scarcely strong. 
 
 Col. R. 'Twill soon be boot and saddle, to horse and 
 away. 
 Doth he not speak of that 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Yes, much of late. 
 
 And whither goes he when exchanged 1 To Rupert 1 
 Col. R. Bristol way, doubtless, to the horseman 
 prince, 
 No wiser than his horse, who rides through foes 
 And leaves his friends to ruin, a campaign 
 Lost for a gallop. Pity Lyndore must go ! 
 The youth came out to please his elder brother, 
 Spurr'd headlong after Rupert, as a schoolboy 
 Follows the cock o' the school, caught up the phrases 
 Floating around him ; — in the rights and wrongs,
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 143 
 
 All argument of quarrel, he was blank 
 
 As any clodpole forced to trail a pike. 
 
 — I say he teas so : in this dangerous sickness 
 
 His mind hath measurably overshot 
 
 Its former stature. 
 
 Mistr. R. He hath conn'd that book 
 
 Of the king's letters. Would he might go home 
 To Devon and be qxiiet ! He needs rest. 
 
 Col. R. My Lord Lyndore, being what he is, must 
 needs 
 Procure exchange (I marvel 'tis delayed), 
 Fill up his brother's place in Rupert's regiment, 
 Command the troop, men from his own estate, 
 Raised by his brother ; and in short must stand 
 Well forward in the party of the Court. 
 
 Mistr. R. Poor boy ! 
 
 Col. R. How think you 1 Is his health restored 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Safe from relapse, please Heaven, but far 
 from strong. 
 
 Col. R. You tended him right well. 
 
 Mistr. R. With cordial pleasure ; 
 
 And truly all of us have learnt to love him. 
 
 Col. R. (Pointedly.) Doth Naomi love him? 
 
 Mistr. R. Why ask that so sharply 1 
 
 Col. R. Come, answer, wife. 
 
 Mistr. R. Basil, in sooth, I know not. 
 
 She hath not spoken word of it to me. 
 
 Col. R. And yet it may be so. I hope it is not ! 
 
 [They rise. 
 
 Mistr. R. Dear husband, look not anxious. Have I 
 done wrong ? 
 
 Col. R. She is my dearest thing on earth, but one ; 
 Yet would I not withhold her from a suitor 
 Carrying Heaven's warrant clear to win and wear her. 
 A daughter's love we only hold in trust 
 Till it be claimed. Alas ! it sometimes goes 
 Into a squanderer's hand.
 
 144 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Mistr. R. You do not think 
 
 He's a court gallant, who would win and wear 
 A lady's favour like a knot of ribbon 
 Until the fashion pass'd 1 He is not such ! 
 
 Col. R. A brave youth ! and an honest one. 
 
 Mistr. R. He is ! 
 
 Be sure of it, dear husband ! — Basil, think 
 How well I knew his mother, in whose kind blood 
 Was no sour drop ! [He crosses. 
 
 Col. R. I doubt it not, my Lucy. 
 
 But warily and wisely must we walk. 
 This youth's deservings are our very dangers. 
 Warn Naomi, I charge thee, Lucy, warn her 
 She look on Lord Lyndore as one whose course 
 Is mark'd by Providence to lead him off 
 From hers at the next turning ; nor build aught 
 Upon the sand-drift island of his visit. 
 Being gone, he'll soon take back his former self 
 (Or so much of it as concerns with action), 
 Range under Rupert's banner with flush'd cheek 
 His troop of tenants, cheering their new lord, 
 And— do as others do. Nay, circumstance 
 Is odds for most of us. — But where is she 1 
 Where's Naomi, "My Pleasantness 1 ?" 
 
 Mistr. R. Retum'd 
 
 From walking with Lyndore, and resting now. 
 
 [She sits. 
 
 I accept thy reasons, Basil, yet I'm sure 
 There's more than this. Then why not tell me 
 more? 
 
 Col. R. I have enemies— among the Parliament, 
 
 Mistr. R. Thou enemies ! 
 
 Col. R. Ay, better men have had them. 
 
 I hear a blight hath crept upon my name ; 
 Hints of unsoundness, nay malignancy, 
 AVhich the diseased temper of the time 
 Makes partly credible.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 145 
 
 Mist,: R. Who credits it 1 
 
 Such falsehoods cannot hurt thee. 
 
 Col. R. I trust not. 
 
 But no man's safe. 
 
 [He comes close and leans on her chair. 
 And, mark this — of Lyndore too 
 Snake-whispers creep about men's itching ears. 
 
 Mistr. R. How framed 1 
 
 Col. R. Diversely, as by forked tongue ; 
 
 That he and I are plotting for the king. 
 Again, that I have drawn him from the king. 
 
 Mistr. R. You have been here but twice since he 
 took ill. 
 
 Col. R. (With slow emphasis.) That he hath lingered 
 in this house, avoiding 
 Loyal return to duty. And, moreover, 
 Our daughter's name, my Lucy, hath been used 
 To paint these falsehoods — he, she, you, and I, 
 Mixt in the scandal. 
 
 Mistr. R. (Risinq.) Wholly false ! 
 
 Col. R. Most false. 
 
 Yet now thou seest, my Avife, how right it is 
 On all sides that if Lord Lyndore can move 
 He part as soon as possible. 
 
 Mistr. R. I fear so ! 
 
 Col. R. Find Naomi, and speak to her at once. 
 
 Tell her Lyndore is leaving Ashby Manor. 
 
 Mistr. R. When, husband? 
 
 Col. R. Say to-morrow. Go, sweet Avife, 
 I'll tarry here a little by myself. [Kisses her. 
 
 Good-bye, and not farewell — a short good-bye ! 
 
 Mistr. R. (Gain;/: aside.) Heav'n grant our daughter 
 had such good in store 
 As to her mother fell ! — I'd ask no more. [Exit. 
 
 Col. R. (Observes Grome in a comer of the room, who 
 has come in silently during tin- latter ■pari of the dia- 
 logue.) Who's there ? 
 
 10
 
 14G ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Grome. {Coining forward a little.) Shall I take off 
 youv honour's hoots 1 
 
 Col. R. Nay, let he for the present. Thanks, my 
 man. Pnt this into my room. 
 
 [Gives his sword to Grome, who taJces if 
 most respectfully, and exit. 
 Col. R. (alone, pacing up and down). Pray llcav'n she 
 
 love him not ! — it were a tangle 
 Hard to untie, and sharp to cut asunder. 
 I hold him dear, but dearer far my daughter ; 
 And his good name, and ours, are both impeach'd 
 More deeply every day he stops with us. 
 We net the rich young lord ! lie shirks his duty, 
 Lull'd in the Puritan Armida's bower ! — 
 Forge a malicious lie — ten thousand fools 
 Will back it instantly, agog to show 
 The vile sham-shrewdness of believing ill ; 
 And in these times a lesser lie than this, 
 Like the small arrow puft through an Indian's tube, 
 May carry deadly venom. 
 
 — Lord Lyndore ! 
 
 Enter Lord, Lyndore, who runs to him and 
 greets him warmly. 
 
 Lyn. Dear Colonel Radclyffe ! — let me play the 
 host 
 For once, and welcome you to your own house ! 
 No wonder if I almost think it mine. 
 
 Col. B. Who inbroad England could have better right 2 
 You're looking flesh and blood again, thank God. 
 
 Lyn. -—And the most kind entreatment. lam well, 
 And must not longer be a burthen to you. 
 
 Cot. R. Your lordship's still my prisoner; I remain 
 Yniir surety with the Parliament. 
 
 Lyn. In faith 
 
 'Tis no uneasy prison — but were't other, 
 I would not break parole.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 147 
 
 Col. R. I fear it not. 
 
 But have you any news ? 
 
 Lyn. Why, very little ; 
 
 And that surprises me ; for I have writ 
 To rny cousin and to others, several times. 
 Thus much I know — Prince Rupert is at Bristol. 
 
 Col. R. Is it your lordship's wish to join him there? 
 
 Lyn. {Somewhat surprised.) Surely: when I have 
 once procured exchange. 
 
 Col. R. I wrote to you from York, of that was 
 proffer'd. 
 
 Lyn. Proffer'd ! — What proffer, pray you ? 
 
 Col. R. 'Twas proposed. 
 
 To exchange our Colonel Hodson, held by Rupert, 
 Against your lordship, when your health allow'd. 
 
 Lyn. I never saw your letter ! — when was't sent ? 
 
 Col. R. A fortnight since. I look'd for your reply — 
 But sickness was excuse enough. 
 
 Lyn. Excuse ! 
 
 I have had no such letter — nor my cousin 
 Hath told me anything ! I have written thrice 
 To London to him, urging an exchange. 
 You know Sir Geoffrey Percival — on your side, 
 And in the House ? 
 
 Col. R. All this is very strange ! 
 
 I'm glad I've come to-night. To own the truth, 
 My lord, the pressure of these times is such, 
 'Twere well, perhaps, no longer you delay 
 Your needful journey (would there were no need !) 
 — That is, suppose your strength allow it, fully. 
 
 Lyn. I'd start to-night if I were free to go ? 
 But how now, Colonel Radclyffe— what's befallen ? 
 
 Col. R. never doubt, Lyndore, our love for you ! 
 Would that the world were made so, all could live 
 (As in a better world we hope to do) 
 Unsever'd, who are friends ; since, to be friends — 
 What other reason makes true company? 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Good friends we are, good friends we shall remain, 
 I trust so ever — ever — (fakes his hand) 
 
 Yet we must part, 
 And briefly — 'tis your interest, do not doubt me. 
 
 Lyn. I trust you, and obey you. But tell me more. 
 Am I suspected of — 
 
 Col. B. I'll tell you all 
 
 Presently, all I know. Meanwhile, this paper 
 
 [Takes out 'paper. 
 Signed by the General in command, will act 
 As your releasement, leaving the exchange 
 To Rupert, of some prisoner held by him 
 Of answerable rank. It came last night 
 
 [Touches the paper. 
 On my responsibility. And with it 
 
 [Separates second paper from first. 
 A pass — yourself and servant — through our posts 
 Along the road to Bristol. 
 
 Lyn. I will start 
 
 To-morrow at day-break. 
 
 Col. JR. This grieves me much. 
 
 In truth it does. We shall meet at supper time, 
 ( )r a little sooner. [Exit. 
 
 Lyn. (Ay /fated.) Now may the Devil — ! 
 
 [Sees Grojie, who has come in unobserved, 
 and is silently busying himself in an ob- 
 scure part of the rot mi. 
 What seek you, fellow 1 
 
 Grome. Only these, my lord— I ask yo\ir lordship's 
 pardon. [Takes up Colonel's hat and gloves 
 
 from chair and exit. 
 Lyn. (Aloyie.) What ! 
 
 An exchange proffer'd and I not know of it. 
 Here lingering, tended like an ailing woman, 
 While Rupert and my regiment and my troop 
 At Bristol stand at bay ! Have I been sleeping, 
 So that being call'd to, loudly, I heard nothing?
 
 ASHBY MANOK. 149 
 
 Nay, I am ready to go, — and have been ready 
 
 Any day since I tried to lift my arm, — 
 
 That's scarce a fortnight since ! Doth Eadclyffe doubt 
 
 me? 
 He's far too noble ; but he knows past doubt 
 That others doubt me. Would I could start to-night ! 
 {Slowly) — That means — take leave of Naomi — for 
 
 ever. 
 We two are in two ships that glide away 
 On opposite courses. What a thing is life ! 
 Eadclyffe had argued with me many a time, 
 And more convinced me than he knows ; yet now 
 Urges me back into the deadly ranks 
 Of his sworn enemies. And Naomi . . . 
 Suppose, as others of my class have done, 
 I changed sides, stept from one ship to the other, 
 Ere driveii apart ? — Ay ! " left the sinking ship 
 As rats will ! — saved his skin, and his estate. 
 The Parliament being master, — won besides 
 A Beauty with an orange breast-knot " — 
 
 Win her? 
 She would despise me first and most of all ! 
 ( ) curse of public life, to make men slaves 
 Of their own repute, bid them distort themselves 
 To match some picture hung in others' brains ! 
 Poor men are freer : who in all his realm 
 So hampered as the King ? I would to Heav'n 
 I were a neatherd on my own estate 
 And she a milkmaid ! base thoughts ! how ill 
 Becoming her deserver. I believe 
 The worst they say of me perhaps is true, 
 And thus an honest conscience, turning lawyer, 
 Argues itself into a rogue? Dear Lady ! 
 
 Enter Naomi. 
 
 N. My lord, I hear you leave us suddenly.
 
 150 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Lyn. It is so, madam ; hath your father told you 1 
 Early to-morrow, — with the break of dawn. 
 
 N. "We shall be sorry to lose your company. 
 
 Lyn. I shall miss yours a thousand times a clay ! 
 
 N. Nay, 'twas an hour certain to come at last ; 
 Better without long warning. On your own part, 
 We'll wish you joy. 
 
 Lyn. How joy 1 
 
 N. In health restored, 
 
 Your place in life resumed, — tho' in some things 
 We would 'twere otherwise. 
 
 Lyn. {Eagerly.) How otherwise ? 
 What would you have me do ? Speak, I beseech you ! 
 
 N. 'Tis not my part to give your lordship counsel. 
 
 Lyn. I would it were ; but tell me what you think 
 I pray you let me know your very thoughts. 
 
 N. They are worth little, when I know so little. 
 Hath not exchange been offer'd for your release 1 
 
 Lyn. Your father tells me, — I knew it not before. 
 
 N. And he hath got releasement in advance 
 And safeguard for your lordship, to rejoin 
 Your regiment at Bristol ? 
 
 Lyn. So it is. 
 
 You know, I think, a troop in it was raised 
 By my dead brother, — all of Devon men, 
 From his own hills, who freely follow'd him, 
 Giving their simple lives into his hand 
 To use them as he pleased. They fought right well, 
 Yeoman, and yeoman's son, and peasant lad ; 
 But Naseby Fight made havoc in their ranks, 
 And slew their captain. Still, they hold together, 
 " Lyndore's Troop," — and the captainship is mine. 
 They wait for me. Shall I not go to them ? 
 
 N. How else 1 
 
 Lyn. How else indeed 1 You see the case 
 Admits not of a day's, an hour's, delay ; 
 I ought to start to-night, I think !
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 151 
 
 N. (With forced calmness.) My lord, 
 We see that you must needs pursue your path 
 We cannot wish the cause you fight for, well ; 
 But, so far as the two may be disjoin'd, 
 We wish you well, my lord, unfeignedly. 
 — To-morrow, did you say 1 
 
 L'jn. At earliest daylight. 
 
 N. The time is short enough, and much to fill it. 
 So, my lord, for the present I shall leave you. 
 We'll give you kind farewells before you go. [Exit. 
 
 Lyn. Cold, cold, ice-cold ! How could I take as real 
 The puppets of my fancy's theatre, 
 Myself had drest and spoke for, to amuse 
 The hours of slow recovery ! Many scenes 
 Of love they play'd, all closed in happiness. 
 The true scene ends but poorly. Not one spark 
 Of love. Humanity ! — yes, womankind 
 Is tender-hearted, dutiful, and sweet, — 
 She would have nursed a hospital as kindly ; 
 Fool to imagine other ! and now I see 
 Contempt fast growing as compassion fades, 
 To watch me idling here. (Pause.) — -An odious war ! 
 But I must ride to Rupert, fight my best, 
 And then — some whistling bullet or swift edge 
 Cut bonds, and free my soul ! I thought she loved me 
 Fool !— fool ! 
 
 Enter Naomi, somewhat hastily. 
 
 N. Pardon, my lord — but one thing more 
 I meant to say, lest hurry leave it out — 
 Forget not that your sickness hath been grievous, 
 And new-grown health is but a tender plant. 
 So you will guard it prudently 1 If we 
 Took trouble for your health, methinks we hold 
 Some property therein. 
 
 Lyn. And will you care 
 For news of me 1
 
 152 ASHBY MANOK. 
 
 N. Indeed, we'll look for it 
 From day to day — all of us in this house — 
 Most earnestly. [Going. 
 
 Lyn. (Following a step or two.) Naomi ! one word. 
 Now — now — before we part. It is perhaps 
 The very last time we're alone together ; 
 You'll listen to me 1 Yes 1— 
 
 [Takes her hand in botlt of Ins ; she 
 turns her head away and looks 
 sorrowful and frightened. 
 N. No, no, my lord ! 
 
 Lyn. I tremble to offend you, yet I'll speak — 
 You know — you must know that I . . . 
 
 Enter Colonel Radclyffe in an in-door dress. 
 
 Col. B. (In a mild firm voice.) Naomi ! 
 Thy mother asks for thee ; she's in her chamber. 
 
 [Exit Naomi, curtsying to Lord Lyndore, 
 who bows profoundly. 
 Pardon, my lord ; I'm loth to be so rude, 
 But 'tis no common case. (Approaches him.) Dear 
 
 Lord Lyndore ! 
 I'll use a freedom with you I would shun 
 With one less loved ; for boldly let me say 
 I love you — every parting hath some tinge 
 Of death's own frankness in it, the great parting — 
 So doth my wife. And further still I'll push 
 The time's allowance and confess to you 
 My daughter is must friendly in her thoughts. 
 — But, in addition, I must tell you this, — 
 There can be nothing of a closer bond 
 Between you. 
 
 Lyn. Oh, sir, she's dearer than my life ! 
 
 Col. R. You have not told her this ? 
 
 Lyn. I have not dared. 
 
 Col. It. Then, I entreat you, never tell her so.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 153 
 
 Ask not for reasons ; which, at least in part, 
 
 Your mind will prompt you in ; but hold this sure — 
 
 That such a marriage must not, cannot be. 
 
 Lijn. Cannot ! — let me see her — from her month 
 Eeceive my sentence. Grant me this at least. 
 
 Col. R. It must not be. In brief, my lord, unless 
 You bid my daughter farewell in the key 
 Of quiet friendship, no half-tone beyond, — 
 I'll carry your adieu. You shall not see her. 
 
 Lyn. Not see her ! — not see Naomi again ! . . . 
 Doth Mistress Eaclclyffe know of this ? 
 
 Col. R. She doth. 
 
 I speak for her as for myself. 
 
 Lyn. Good God ! 
 
 How little knew I how confused our path is ! 
 I thought one merely had to step straight on 
 And take his fortune ! Eadclyffe, am I a coward 1 
 
 Col. R. Let no man say so in my hearing, — else 
 He shall abye it. 
 
 Lyn. No ! I am not that — 
 
 Unless my nerves are weaken'd. Formerly 
 "When swords were out and horses on the fret, 
 Our trumpet thrill'd no nerve save to ride in 
 Upon the gleaming pikes and levcll'd guns, 
 Where twenty thousand men were brave as I ! 
 
 Col. R. Needless to tell me : if my life again 
 Hung on your courage, I should fear no scaith. 
 
 Lyn. (Excitedly.) But others deem not so. I pass 
 for one 
 Who slinks aside and leaves his men in danger. 
 My name is doubtless in the garrison 
 Hung round with sneers, a tatter'd effigy 
 The common soldiers hoot and spit upon ; 
 And those of my own rank would scorch me up 
 With one contemptuous look if I came near (pause). 
 (Suddenly in another tone.) — Why should I go to them ! 
 
 Col. R. Because you must.
 
 154 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Lyn. You tell me so. 
 
 Col. R. Could I at such a point 
 
 In your affairs persuade you not to go ? 
 
 Lyn. Nay, but suppose, Eadclyffe, — I say suppose — 
 A man in my place, who should find his aims, 
 His hopes, his purposes, his inmost thoughts, 
 Alter'd— 
 
 Col. R. {Perplexed and vexed.) Nay — do not tell me 
 this, Lyndore ! [Crosses. 
 
 Lyn. ( With rapid and impassioned idterance.) 
 To whom else could I tell it ? Are you not 
 The first man who awaken'd in my soul 
 (Even more by what you are than what you said) 
 The faculty of reason 1 — some true glimpse 
 Of what life is and ought to be, some sense 
 Of what we owe to others, and to Heav'n, 
 Some light to help me onward through the maze 
 And mist? — I must speak out ! — 
 (More quietly.) When I came here 
 
 Three months ago, you know not what I was, — 
 A foolish, flashy thing, lighter than froth ! 
 The manners of this house, grave, pure, and sweet, 
 The creatures it enshrines, who would be saints 
 Were they less kindly human, — that keen look 
 At all things from death's door, wherein they take 
 A strange new perspective, — the tranquil days 
 Of slow recovery, second infancy 
 With a man's brain and heart to breathe its air, — 
 
 Itadclyffe ! I am changed, another man. 
 And why — 
 
 Col. R. (Much disturbed.) No more, no more ! 
 
 Lyn. O speak ! 
 
 Col. R. How speak 1 
 
 Would thou hadst left me to my fate ! — 
 
 No, no, 
 Km give, I talk at random ! — but indeed 
 
 1 am perplex'd beyond all use of words.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 155 
 
 Lyn. Your counsel, sir, shall be my oracle. 
 Col. R. { Vehemently). It shall not !— 
 
 {Then move mildly, collecting himself, 
 but with earnest expression) 
 See, Lyndore, — this is no case 
 Where friend asks friend's advice, and there an end. 
 Consider what you are, and what I am, 
 (Plain words are best) with all eyes fix'd upon us, 
 Slander already busy. All at once, 
 You change sides — underneath my roof ! — what then 1 
 Lyn. {Abandoning himself for the moment to despon- 
 dency.) I know not ! — care not ! 
 Col. R. {Collecting himself entirely, and, with great 
 gravity and dignity.) Well then, Lord Lyndore — 
 Since I must speak for you — I am resolved. 
 Lyn, {Eagerly expecting his further words.) 
 
 And I'll obey ! 
 Col. R. Then give me your free pass — 
 
 And the release — [He does so. 
 
 They're henceforth null and void. 
 [Puts them into his breast pocket. 
 Lyn. But, sir ! — 
 
 Col. R. I'll take upon me to make out 
 
 Another pass — for York, not Bristol. 
 Lyn. York 1 
 
 Col. R. Our General's head-quarters ; he will take 
 Charge of your lordship henceforth ; and 'twere best 
 You start to-night. I'll write your papers now. 
 
 [Sits doicn to table. 
 Lyn. {Aside.) He scorns me ! — I deserve it ! 
 
 {Aloud) Colonel Kadclyfie, 
 I thank you deejuy ; and I will be ready 
 At eight o'clock to-night. 
 
 Col. R. For York? 
 
 Lyn, For Bristol. 
 
 Col. R. {Standing n/>.) Here are your papers. 
 
 [Giving back the papers he had taken.
 
 15G ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Lyn. {hooking round!) I must find some one to — 
 Ah! 
 
 [Sees Grome again in the room, 
 pretending to hang up a whip or 
 something on the wall; Grome 
 turns and bows; Lord Lyndore 
 addresses him. 
 
 Where is my man 1 
 Grome. Gone out, my lord, I believe. 
 Lyn. When he returns, send him to me at once. 
 Grome. Yes, my lord. [Exit, homing humbly. 
 
 Enter Mistress Radclyffe and Naomi. 
 
 Mistr. R. {Taliing Lord Lyndore's hand, in both of 
 hers.) To-morrow morning! 
 
 It is very soon. 
 
 Lyn. Madam, I go to-night. 
 N. {With sudden emotion!) To-night! 
 
 Mistr. R. To-night! 
 
 Cot. R. (Interposing.) There are good reasons for it. 
 (To Lord Lyndore.) May I request your ear, my lord, 
 one instant? [They go up. 
 
 N. You see he hurries off. 
 Mistr. R. Against his will. 
 
 N. (Somewhat bewildered.) It may he so : — and you 
 are sorry for it — 
 Are you not. mother ? 
 
 Mistr. R. (With, great feeling.) If my own dear hoy 
 Were living, and grown up, and parting thus, 
 'Twere scarce more hitter ! 
 N. Can it he to-night 1 
 Mistr. R. Hush, darling ! 
 
 [Goes a step or tiro towards the men, who 
 are still in grace, slow conversation in 
 the background. 
 We came to bid you to supper.
 
 ASHBY MANGE. 157 
 
 Col. R. {Coming forward with Lord Lyndore.) 
 Thanks, my Lucy. 
 
 Mistr. R. (Looks affectionately at Lord Lyndore.) 
 My lord, may I have your company 1 
 
 Lyn. (Smiling sadly.) For the last time ! 
 
 [They more to door. 
 Col. R. (Tenderly to Naomi.) Come, daughter. 
 (Going, they pause.) You trust me, dear — even if I 
 make you unhappy. 
 
 N. I trust you entirely ! [They follow. 
 
 [Exeunt Mistress Radclyffe with Lord. Lyndore, 
 followed by Colonel Radclyffe and Naomi. 
 As they go, Grome appears, standing half con- 
 cealed behind a tall chair, and looks after them 
 knavishly, whilst scene-drop sloioly descends. 
 
 End of Scene I. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 [A fine old panelled room, or gallery in the Manor House, with 
 pictures, and armour and some rows of large hooks. Practicable 
 doors It (Did L. A recess near centre of back, with a window in 
 it, a nd two large old pictures. A trophy of swords on the wall, 
 i a the recess or close to it. Old furniture — but not too much of it. 
 
 Prudence discovered, finishing some settling 
 of things. 
 
 P. This room wunt be left to isself so much, now 
 master's come home. 
 
 Eider Tom, hat in hand, as if just come into 
 tumse.
 
 158 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Tom, Zo, Prue ! I've a just got back. We can 'a 
 two minutes' quiet chat, can't us ? We're old friends 
 like, now, Prue, bean't us 1 Zimmeth a couple o' years, 
 'fegs, zince master and me took shelter here. 
 
 P. Ah dear, dear, what a day wur that ! I wur 
 raight frightened o' thee at first, measter Trivet. 
 
 Tom, Vrighted, Prue 1 
 
 P. Ah — thinks I, here's some o' the hell-babes under 
 our roof at last ! — the swagg'rin', swearin', drinkin', 
 gamblin', roysterin' — 
 
 Tom. (Shakes his head.) No, no, not me ! 
 
 P. Ah, some of ye. 
 
 Tom. Not me. But I were vrighted too, at thoughts 
 o' biding here. Long prayers and short commons, 
 thinks I. But the smell o' dinner encouraged me 
 like ; and when I tastis your home-brew, " They're 
 vellow-creatures ! " I zays — and zo I've vound ye, Prue, 
 I will zay. 
 
 P. 0, measter's none of your hard ones. — Your 
 young gentleman's as good as well now ; fever clean 
 gone ; hands as cool, and pulse as quiet as mine. 
 
 Tom. Let's veel thy pulse. 
 
 P. That ain't to the purpose. He'll be for moving 
 shortly. Where to ? 
 
 Tom, To Devonsheer, if I'd my wa-y. But, lookeezee, 
 Prue, we be what they calls Pris'ners o' War. I'll ex- 
 plain theeze matter to 'ee. (Comes close.) You have 
 us and hold us, you zee (takes her hand), and wunt free 
 us on no account Avhatsumdever — (She nods several 
 times.) — 'Cause Ave be on wrong zide — that's to zay, 
 raight zide, — I means, f other zide. You keeps hold 
 on us, taight, taight as you plaise ; but still, you does 
 us no harm ; you don't hurt us — nornabit 1 (Still 
 hut i ting her hand.) 
 
 P. Oh — I used to think prisoners were allays shot 
 or hanged, or their heads cut off, poor things ! 
 
 Tom. Not 'mong Chrisscn volk — 'cept they 'appens
 
 1G0 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 to be short in temper. You keeps us pris'ners and uses 
 us well — Don't 'ee tek' awa-y thee hand — and we 'ud 
 do zame by you {pats her hand), and zo theas meks Avar 
 quite comfortable like, leastways to what it might be. 
 
 P. Ah, 'tis bad enough business, measter Trivet. I 
 hopes we'll see no more on't. (Takes her hand away!) 
 "What sort o' place now is Devonshire ? 
 
 Tom. A lovely zweet place, that's a zure thing ! and 
 no zweeter spot in't than our Park. I can zee't now, 
 th' old red Hall at wood-edge, big rocky tors on moor 
 above, and clear river galloping to the zay at valley's 
 end. I've a work'd there man and boy, vather and 
 grander avore me. But you'll want to know where- 
 about I do bide : I've a cottage and garden. That's 
 not much, you'll zay ; but I'm to have a pritty plat o' 
 around when we sets back — and do'ee know what I 
 means to do ? 
 
 P. How should I, measter Trivet ? 
 
 Tom. Build an offshoot to my cottage. You'll ask 
 me, what for? and I'll tell 'ee, — to get more room. 
 Why more room? zays you, — an' I'll tell 'ee — I'm 
 thinking of matteremony. 
 
 P. Eh, measter Trivet, what's that ? 
 
 Tom. Gett'n married, Prudence ; nayther more nor 
 less. (Confidentially.) Besides t' land, his lordship's 
 as good as promised me gardener's place. I'se a pritty 
 turn thic wa-y, if you'll believe me. 
 
 [Prudence lias been softening and inclin- 
 ing to him, hit Grome enters behind 
 it nring Tom's last speech and watches 
 them, seen by Prudence, not by Tom. 
 Her manner changes. 
 
 P. (Coldly.) Oh, very likely. 
 
 Tom. Old gardener at Lyndore's a useless old chap. 
 
 P. So let un be. I care not ! 
 
 Tom. Good now, Prue, what's wrong?
 
 e- 
 
 ASHBT MANOE. 161 
 
 Grome. (Comes forward, smiling civilly.) I humbly 
 ask your pardons both for interrupting : I came to look 
 for Tom Trivet. 
 
 Tom, {Roughly.) Well, now you've vound him, 
 Paul Grome, what d'ye want wi' him ? 
 
 Grome, {To Prudence.) My Pose of Sharon! 
 {whispers) I have somewhat to say to thee. 
 
 P. I must go. Good be with you both ! 
 
 [Buns off. 
 
 Grome. Good master Trivet, I would fain be thy 
 jrood friend. 
 
 Tom, Thou'rt too good for me. 
 
 Grome. Alas, a worm, a worm ! 
 
 Tom. Very like — but laive off squirming ! — I bean't 
 o' your wa-ys o' thinking and never sholl. 
 
 Grome. {Unctuously.) Alas, I know thy lot hath 
 been cast in evil places, among the Canaanites and 
 Hittites and Amorites — - 
 
 Tom, No zuch thing ! 
 
 Grome. The Peruzites and the Jebusites — 
 
 Tom, Devil a bit ! 
 
 Grome. And the Hivites. But the Lord may yet 
 be pleased to open thine eyes. 
 
 Tom, Lookeedeezee, Paul Grome, my eyes mayn't 
 want opening zo much as you think vor. I can zee 
 there's underhand business a-going on in theas old 
 house. 
 
 Grome. Underhand business, master Trivet ! Of 
 what nature ? 
 
 Tom. Ay, tell me that ! One thing I do know — - 
 I often catch thee a-sliding and a-sneaking about like 
 a tom-cat, creeping in at this corner, vanishing round 
 t'other, — 
 
 Grome. {Aside.) Damn the hooby ! {Aloud.) You 
 are merry this evening, master Trivet. 
 
 Tom. Not particklar, Paul Grome. — You've been 
 a long while from your regiment, ha'n't you 1 
 
 11
 
 1G2 ASHBT MANOR. 
 
 Grome. (Hastily.) What the ! {Quietly.) Tis 
 
 in garrison ; and the honoured lady here, extending 
 favour to the unworthy, hath wished my stay. 
 
 Tom. (In undertone.) Ay, -women takes up curous 
 notions. Thou'st wriggled into favour sure enough. 
 (Louder.) -Aisy times, Grome ; to Rugby or Leicester 
 twice a week wi' letter-bag — don'no' what else thou 
 doest, more'n lob about. 
 
 Grome (Mutters.) The scoundrel would pick a 
 quarrel. (Louder, suavely.) Master Trivet, my lord 
 desired to see thee the moment thou wast returned. 
 
 Tom. Ass! couldn' ye a' zaid zo 1 [Hurries off. 
 
 Grome (Sjieaking after him.) You appeared to be 
 engaged, master Trivet! (Ah me.) These fools give a 
 deal of trouble. He must meddle with my young 
 woman too. I'll stop that. Neither shall he miss his 
 share of the rod in pickle. 
 
 [During the deliver]/ of the following 
 v:ords, Grome shifts his position occa- 
 sionally, without noise, listening at the 
 doors, and prying into various 2>arts 
 of the room. 
 What's Charlton going to do 1 He must be quick 
 about it. I gave him three days' notice of the 
 Colonel's coming home. Here's another letter for him, 
 though never meant for him — (takes letter from pocket 
 and looks at it) — but how to let him have it? He may 
 be hovering about. Very likely. He's devilish fond 
 of hovering about. (Puts up letter.) I'm shown little 
 of his schemes, the patch of light round a miner at 
 work, — but I hold my lamp up when his back's 
 turned. 
 
 I'll wait here till they come from supper. (Sits 
 down.) I have his little plan on my thumb-nail. 
 Uncle and rival clapt in the Tower (not through him, 
 < ) no !) for this pretended plot against Parliament, there 
 they lie safe enough, out of rogue Charlton's way. ±\o
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 163 
 
 man living he fears like his uncle ; but he cares no 
 longer for the girl, I can see that. 
 
 As the real plot ripens, a breath of air may puff 
 these two heads off, and make Charlton rid of two 
 plaguey fellow-creatures, Lord of Ashby Manor, and, 
 by-and-by, one of the grateful Royalty's new peers. 
 All plain sailing enough, if the weather serve. In any 
 case he stakes on the King, and I daresay he's right. 
 England will soon tire of psalm singing and go back to 
 her jolly old ways. (Rises.) "What an honest fellow our 
 gallant captain is ! And Grome his accomplice ? — a 
 poor devil that pries, and filches, and makes his petty 
 profit. What knows he of those great affairs — save by 
 chance 1 The sun-royal will never shine on Grome, 
 save in the shape of a few jacobuses. Would 1 were 
 in Holland noAv, and these in my pocket. 
 
 \It has been growing dusk since Grome 
 
 came in. Servants enter icith tapers and 
 
 light the sconces. Grome pretends to be 
 
 arranging something and hangs about. 
 
 Exeunt servants. Grome continues: 
 
 — One thing fairly puzzles me ! — if this young fellow 
 
 rides off now, what becomes of our fine scheme? 
 
 Charlton, after all, may only show himself a clever 
 
 fool, like so many more of us ! I sometimes almost 
 
 wish I was honest myself : only, it ties a man down 
 
 so confoundedly ! 
 
 Re-enter Servants and set other lights on table — Enter 
 Colonel Radclyffe and Lord Lyndore in riding 
 dress, speaking. 
 
 Col. R. ' —Believe it ! 
 
 Lyn. I thank thee, Radclyffe, from my heart ! 
 
 Col. R. Our love runs level, dear Lyndore. Enough 
 said. Each to his duty. I hear my wife and daughter 
 coming : take leave at once, and briefly. 
 
 11 — 2
 
 1G4 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Lyn. Partings may be for ever ! — I'll obey you. 
 
 Enter Mistress Eadclyffe and Naomi. 
 
 Col. R. Lucy, my Lord Lyn (lore "will take leave of 
 you now. His man, he tells me, hath the horses ready, 
 or very nearly. 
 
 Lyn. All is prepared. 
 
 Col. R. The weather holds fair, and a moon rising. 
 He but rides to Daventry, where he will find good 
 quarters for the night. 
 
 Mistr. R. We part with you unwillingly, my dear 
 lord. 
 
 Lyn. I am heartily sorry to leave you, and most 
 grateful, — both beyond all words. Farewell, dear 
 madam ! (Kisses her hand.) (To Naomi.) Farewell. 
 
 [Kisses her hand. 
 N. God keep you, sir. 
 
 Col. R. Short parting's best ; so come with me, 
 Lyndore. 
 
 Lyn. (Aside.) I leave a house which I may see no 
 more. [They more towards door (L). 
 
 N. How far is it to Bristol, mother ? 
 Mistr. R. Two days' journey. 
 N. "Who commands the besiegers? 
 Mistr. R. Come, daughter. 
 
 N. Gone! [Hides her face on her mother s neck. 
 
 [Col. Kadclyffe and, Lord Lyndore 
 approach door (L) ; when near it, 
 door opens and servant appears, 
 flurried. 
 Servant. So please your honours — 
 
 [A young Cavalry Officer of the Par- 
 liament has just dismounted, stents 
 before him and interrupts. Soldiers 
 are seen behind, him. The ladies 
 come for/card anxiously.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 1G5 
 
 Officer. (A self-important 2 )erson -) Your pardon, 
 ladies. Best speak for myself. I come here by- 
 authority. 
 
 Col. R. Who are you, sir 1 
 
 Officer. Colonel Radclyffe, your servant— you will 
 understand my duty. I am Joshua Brand-from-the- 
 Burning Jebb, Cornet, in command of an escort of 
 dragoons. 
 
 Col. R. Whom escort you, sir ? 
 
 Comet. Sir Thomas Chenery, Colonel Radclyffe, 
 honourable commissioner for the Parliament ; who 
 hath especial business in this neighbourhood, and 
 by whose orders we have made bold to visit your 
 house. 
 
 Col. R. An unexpected honour ; but you are welcome, 
 sir. 
 
 Comet. I must request that no one quit this room. 
 
 Lyn. How, sir? 
 
 Comet. My Lord Lyndore, if I mistake not, (Lord 
 Lyndore hows) a prisoner of war. Under this warrant, 
 my lord, (shows it) I am ordered to carry you to London 
 with all possible despatch. 
 
 [Signs to soldiers, two of whom place 
 themselves beside Lord Lyndore. 
 
 Lyn. To London ! (All exclaim.) 
 
 Comet. This, Colonel Radclyffe, is my authority for 
 thus entering your house (shows another payer) — most 
 unwillingly — and further . . . 
 
 Col. R. Go on, sir. 
 
 Comet. For arresting you. 
 
 [Signs to soldiers; two of whom 
 now place themselves beside the 
 Colonel. 
 
 Col. R. Arresting me ! on what charge 1 
 
 Cornet. Colonel Radclyffe, hold me excused for the 
 present, I pray you. 
 
 Mistr. R. Basil !
 
 1G6 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Col. R. Fear nothing, Lucy. (To his daughter.) 
 Good cheer, my Naomi ! 
 
 N. They will not carry you away 1 — They cannot 
 harm him, mother? 
 
 Mistr. R. Alas, many innocent men lie in prison on 
 mere suspicion. 
 
 Lyn. (To Colonel Kadclyffe.) You comprehend 
 this, Kadclyffe 1 
 
 Col. R. The least part of it. I told you there were 
 evil tongues at work. 
 
 Lyn. Have I brought this upon you ? 
 
 [Cornet, at back of stage, has meanwhile been 
 quietly sending off soldiers to various parts of 
 the house, posts two at each door of the room, 
 and keeps three with him. 
 
 Cornet. ( Comes down, and interposes between Lyndore 
 and, Kadclyffe.) Hold me excused, gentlemen ! (To 
 Lyndore.) 'T would seem your lordship is prepared 
 for a journey. 
 
 Lyn. I was at point to start, sir. 
 
 Cornet. In-deed ! Might I venture to inquire — 
 whither 1 
 
 Col. R. "With your favour, sir, / can briefly explain 
 tins. Lord Lyndore was setting forth towards Bristol 
 with a release and pass signed by the General, — ex- 
 change to be completed on his arrival. They were 
 given on my responsibility. 
 
 Cornet. In-deed ! 
 
 Col. R. What mean you, sir 1 
 
 Cornet. Hold me excused, Colonel. Those papers 
 are useless now — altogether useless. 
 
 N. (To her mother, meanwhile.) He were better in 
 London than Bristol 1 
 
 Mistr. R. I know not, child. Ill-agents are at work. 
 Think of thy father, Naomi. 
 
 N. I do, mother, I do.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 167 
 
 Enter Tom (L), after a short parley with the sentries, in 
 
 riding-dress, a valise in his hand. 
 
 Tom. Zo plaise you, my lord, — 
 
 Comet. Is this your lordship's man ? With your 
 leave — [Tries to take valise. 
 
 Tom. (Swings it away.) Let be ! let be ! — Tantara- 
 bobus again ! 
 
 Cornet. (Motions to soldiers, who seize Tom — valise is 
 taken.) Hath your lordship papers here? 
 
 Lyn. Papers ? — none of moment, certainly. Look 
 for yourself, sir. [Gives keg. 
 
 Cornet. (Examining valise.) A packet of letters — and, 
 among them, a paper in cypher. 
 
 Lgn. (Looking.) I know it not. 
 
 Tom. Roguery, I'll swear ! 
 
 Cornet. (Still looking at cypher.) Hm, hm, yes, yes 
 — It so happens I have the key to this. 
 
 [General movement. 
 
 Col. R. awl Lyn. "What is it ? 
 
 Cornet. Confirmation— full confirmation. 
 
 Lyn. Of what ? 
 
 Cornet. Of a most grave charge. Lord Lyndore, 
 Colonel Radclyffe, I must at once put you separately 
 into close arrest. Look to them ! [I'o the soldiers. 
 
 Col. R. What charge, sir ? 
 
 Cornet. The man too. 
 
 [Lord Lyndore, Colonel Radclyffe, 
 and Tom are guarded separately. 
 
 Tom. Odswilderakins ! 'tis the wursest piece 'o' busi- 
 ness yet ! 
 
 Mistr. Li. 3ly head swims. 
 
 [Sinks into a chair. 
 
 Col. R. (Soothingly). Lucy ! 
 
 N. (Approaching Comet.) Are you advised in what 
 you do, sir? What are these gentlemen charged with? 
 
 Cornet. Your name, fair mistress, an't please you ?
 
 168 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 N. I am Colonel Eadclyffe's daughter 
 
 Comet. (Looking at her deliberately.) Ah! you are 
 Colonel Eadclyffe's daughter. 
 
 N. (Hotly.) Ay, sir ! — and if I were his son 
 
 Mistr. R. Naomi, come to me, I pray thee. 
 
 N. (Moving towards her mother.) Is this fledgling 
 officer to twirl Colonel Eadclyffee and Lord Lyndore 
 round his fingers without reason given 1 
 
 Cornet. (Touching the paper taken from valise.) 
 Here is reason enough — more than enough. 
 
 Lyn. I never saw that paper in my life before. 
 
 Col. R. (To Cornet, with authority.) Say in plain 
 words, sir, what you mean. 
 
 Comet. Colonel Eadclyffe and my Lord Lyndore, you 
 are charged with plotting against the Parliament and 
 the peace of the kingdom. In this paper is full con- 
 firmation of the suspected plot — fullest confirmation. 
 
 Col. R Plot? 
 
 Cornet. — For raising the Midland Counties against 
 Parliament, seizing certain garrisons and strong places, 
 and reinforcing the king at Oxford. 
 
 Mistr. R. Plot? And who joins that word with 
 Colonel Eadclyffe's name 1 
 
 Cornet. It hath been so joined. 
 
 N. Only by fools or knaves ! 
 
 Col. R. The charge is groundless. But what next, 
 sir- 
 
 Cornet. I await the Honourable Commissioner. 
 Meanwhile I must put the house under strict ward, 
 and make bold to ask for all keys. Find me pen 
 and paper. (Soldier brings writing materials ; Cornet 
 ir riles at table.) Eemove the prisoners for the present 
 and guard them in separate rooms. 
 
 [Exeunt some soldiers ivith Col. Eadclyffe 
 and Lord Lyndore. Meanwhile Naomi 
 (E) has given way and is weeping. 
 
 Mistr. R. (Consoling her.) Hush, my child, the false
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 169 
 
 charges will easily be dispelled. As for Lord Lyndore, 
 it is better he should go to London than Bristol. He 
 is all unfit for war and hardship. 
 
 N. True, alas ! — and yet he longs to go. 
 
 Mistr. R. He longs to be at Bristol with his men. 
 
 N. And rightly, rightly ! so would I. — mother 
 Can there be duty on the wrongful side 1 
 Are this and that side, chances in a game 1 
 Do we take sides by hazard 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Not so, daughter. 
 
 Conscience must rule ; the rest is in God's hand. 
 
 N. It is, and must be. If he go to London 
 Is he in danger there 1 
 
 Mistr. R. In none, I think. 
 
 N. What will befall him 1 
 
 Mistr. R. Only questionings. 
 
 Delays and doubts, not hard to solve at last. 
 Daughter, I'm very glad he goes to London ! 
 Herein I see the hand of Providence. 
 Send him to Bristol and they drive from port 
 A shatter'd vessel into raging storm. 
 
 N. Thank God he goes not thither ! 
 
 Cornet. (Pauses in writing, looks up and addresses 
 Mistress Radclyffe.) Madam, with your favour. 
 
 [Mistress Radclyffe ajproaches him, leaving 
 Naomi near the front. 
 How many servants in your house ? 
 
 [He motions her to sit, she refuses; he then 
 asks Iter questions and notes down her 
 a nswe i w s. Mea nwh He — 
 
 N. (Soliloq.) To Bristol?— or to London 1— either 
 way 
 And every way so far aAvay from me ! 
 And what am I to him 1 . . . (J foolish girl ! 
 Can this be Naomi Radclyffe 1 Where's my pride. 
 My old composure 1 Doth this feverous war 
 Lay hold upon my blood, make my heart throb,
 
 170 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 And all swim, round unsettled 1 What to seize 
 
 And steady me by grasping it I know not ! 
 
 I know his wishes have no harbour here, 
 
 But shoot adown the wind to Bristol gates, 
 
 And overleap the leagured city-wall 
 
 Compass'd with fiery death. My dream last night 
 
 Was dark and doleful ; and when he is gone 
 
 I may not speak of him, — when he is dead 
 
 What right have I to weep for him ? O Heaven, 
 
 Be merciful, and teach me what to do, 
 
 Or how to rest ! In which room is he guarded 1 — 
 
 Would he were now upon the road to London, 
 
 Prisoner, but safe ! — to Bristol is to death ! 
 
 Mistr. R. (Returning from bach.) Come now, my 
 daughter. 
 
 [Exeunt Mistress Radclyffe and Naomi. 
 
 Cornet. (Finishing his writing and standing up.) I'll 
 have a word with Lord Lyndore. Call back his guard 
 — (to soldier, who goes out). He may desire to com- 
 municate with me in private. 
 
 Re-enter Lord Lyndore, guarded. 
 
 Cornet. (To soldiers.) Wait without. (To Lord ^Lyn- 
 dore, in undertone.) Hath your lordship, peradventure, 
 ought to say to me 1 
 
 Lyn. Only, sir, that this paper you have found is 
 absolutely strange to me; as is the pretended plot 
 Avhereof it treats. 
 
 Cornet. (Drily.) Hold me excused, my lord ! I 
 merely wish to give you an opportunity, if there be 
 anything to communicate. 
 
 Lyn. There is nothing, sir. 
 
 Cornet. Very well, my lord. Your escort will be 
 ready as soon as our horses are fed — say in an hour's 
 time. Meanwhile be good enough to rest here. This 
 room shall be yours. I am going. Sentries, to your 
 posts. Your servant.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 171 
 
 Lyn. One word, sir, — as to Colonel Radclyffe — 
 Cornet. Hold me excused, I pray you ! — Your 
 servant. [Exit. 
 
 Lyn. (Alone: restless and agitated.) 
 Ten minutes since it seemed a martyrdom 
 To quit this house perforce — as now to stay. 
 I reck not of this plot, if plot there be ; 
 Nor of the grim reality of the Tower, 
 Whose stony jaws shut fast on innocence 
 As well as guilt, and let no cry escape : 
 But not to be at Bristol with my men ! 
 My honour there with Rupert stands at risk, 
 Myself being absent — " Safe enough" they'll say ; 
 " He's but one other noble renegade, 
 Since fortune left the king ! " 
 
 [Pacing the room, during these words, he opens 
 door (L) and, finds a sentry ; shuts it, ap- 
 j > roaches opposite door, stops, makes a gesture 
 ivith his hand implying that it is useless to 
 attempt escape and sits down sadly. Door (R) 
 opens, someone is seen parleying in dumb show 
 with sentry, then Naomi comes in hurriedly. 
 Lyndore, astonished, rises and makes a step 
 or two to meet her ; the sentry follows Naomi 
 into the room and then stands stolidly, keeping 
 his eye upon both. 
 Lyn. Naomi ! 
 
 N. (Agitated, in undertone}) I have but a moment. 
 Are you — would you still go to Bristol 1 
 Lyn. Sooner than to Heaven ! 
 N. Ah ! — In London — 
 
 Lyn. I shall be in prison, and all my slanderers at 
 large. 
 
 N. Consider, Bristol is beleagured, and you — 
 Lyn. Have x the more call to be there ! You do not 
 recollect my urgency. 
 
 N. I do — most clearly. You have still your Pass 1
 
 172 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Lyn. Safe — here. [Touches his breast. 
 
 N. Hide this, and read it when I go. 
 
 [Passes a note to him. 
 Sentn/. (Advancing.) Now, mistress. 
 N. Farewell! 
 Lyn. Farewell, dear lady ! 
 
 [Sice goes, fvllo iced by sentry, they pass out 
 
 and. the door is closed. A mutual gesture 
 
 of farewell before Naomi disappears. 
 
 Lyn. (Reading note.) "Right hand picture in the 
 
 recess — press the carved rose on its frame. Secret 
 
 stair — stable-yard — I have released your man, and he 
 
 and the horses are ready. The men below know not 
 
 as yet of your arrest. Your pass will serve you. Be 
 
 quick!" * 
 
 A way of escape ! At least a chance ! (Looks round.) 
 With a free start 'twill be hard to overtake us. For 
 Bristol and my men ! — 
 
 [Presses on carved rose ; picture turns on ver- 
 tical axis and shows a narrow stair descend- 
 ing in the wall. Lyndorb turns towards 
 door where Naomi disappeared, and says 
 with heartfelt expression, though in under- 
 tone : 
 Farewell, my own sweet Naomi ! 
 
 [Charlton Radclyffe mean 'while is seen by 
 the audience in the recess behind the picture 
 and on Lyndore turning again to the open- 
 ing he finds Charlton standing there, in 
 riding-dress, sword in hand. 
 Lyn. You here, sir 1 
 
 [They speak in suppressed tones, bid with 
 
 gradually increasing anger. 
 
 Ch. Yes, my lord, as it happens. I know the ways 
 
 of this house. But mistake me not. I would not stop 
 
 you. My uncle and you are arrested. — Go, my lord, 
 
 and leave him to his fate. I'll make way for you.
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 173 
 
 Lyn. The charge is false and foolish. 
 Ch. Very likely, my lord. Go — the stair is free — 
 I'll say nothing. 
 
 Lyn. I will not go ! 
 
 Ch. Yon lose time, my lord. The road is still clear. 
 Lyn. Enough, sir ! trouble me no farther. 
 Ch. Do you distrust me ? 
 Lyn. Profoundly ! 
 
 Ch. (As yoiiiy.) Farewell, my lord ! — (turns to Lord 
 Lyndore again.) One word more — you have play'd a 
 nohle part here ! 
 
 Lyn. What mean you, sir 1 
 
 Ch. (Losing temper.) While miching, on pretence of 
 illness, you have striven to beguile my cousin, — 
 Lyn. What, sir ! 
 
 Ch. — You have hurt, perhaps fatally, my uncle's 
 reputation ; — thus outraging hospitality and trust and 
 every principle of honour. And now you would have 
 slunk off like a thief ! 
 
 I/yn. You speak falsely and foully ! 
 Ch. Bitter truths, my lord ! 
 
 Lyn. Base lies ! — for the which I hope one day to 
 call you to account. Take this in pledge ! 
 
 \_Flings a riding glove (they were stuck in his 
 
 belt) in Charlton's face. 
 
 Ch. (Leaps down from picture, which closes behind 
 
 him, seizes Lord Lyndore with left hand, and raises 
 
 his sword menacingly.) Scoundrel! if you had a 
 
 sword ! 
 
 Lyn. (Flinging him off so that he staggers back, and 
 snatching a sword from trophy.) I have! 
 
 [They fight: sentries rush in, and at the same 
 moment Lord Lyndore wounds Charlton 
 in the right arm, ivho stumbles and falls, 
 dropping hi* sword. Cfhers enter by various 
 doors, including Grome, who puts himself 
 forward in assisti?ig Charlton.
 
 174 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Grome. [Mutters.) What the devil has he been 
 doing ? A plotter should keep his temper. 
 
 Enter Mistress Radclyffe and Naomi, and Prudence. 
 N. {Rushing up to Lyndore.) Are you hurt? 
 Lyn. (Smiling joyfully.) Unhurt! 
 
 [As she. leans forward to put the question he 
 presses her for a moment to his breast. 
 Mistr. R. Charlton here ! — and wounded ! 
 
 [She and Naomi and Prudence kneel to help 
 Charlton ; the Cornet also helps ; Charl- 
 ton's arm is bandaged with, a scarf, and he 
 is propt up. 
 
 Movement at door (L), soldiers make way and draw 
 themselves up. Enter Sir Thomas Chenery, a dig- 
 nified elderly man, and his Secretary, Mr. John 
 Chad, a dry, keen-looking lawyer of about 40, who 
 puts on spectacles occasionally but never changes 
 feature. 
 
 Cornet. (Saluting.) The Honourable Commissioner 
 of the Parliament. 
 
 Sir Thomas Chenery. What's this? — resistance? — 
 Your pardon, ladies. Why, how comes Captain Rad- 
 clyffe here ? 
 
 Cornet. I know not, Sir Thomas. I thought he was 
 at Leicester. Look on this, sir, I pray you. 
 
 [Shows paper taken from valise to Sir 
 Thomas, loho consults Secretary a moment. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Where is Colonel Radclyffe? 
 
 Cornet. (Motioning to soldiers, who open a little.) 
 There, Sir Thomas. 
 
 Col. R. (They speak as old acquaintances.) Your 
 servant, Sir Thomas. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Yours, Colonel Radclyffe. 
 
 Col. R. My Lord Lyndore. [Presenting him. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Your servant, my lord. Colonel Rad-
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 175 
 
 clyffe, I never before was unwilling to look upon your 
 face. This is my secretary, Mr. Chad, learned in the 
 law. Your name, Colonel Radclyffe, is given in, with 
 my Lord Lyndore's, among the chief ones in this plot 
 against the Parliament. 
 
 Col. R. As to the plot, Sir Thomas, I have heard of 
 none such before this evening, and I own scarce believe 
 in it. 
 
 Sir Thomas. A plot is certain. 
 
 Secretary. Ab-so-lute-ly. 
 
 Sir Thomas. If you can free yourself, no one will 
 rejoice more than I. I fear I cannot choose but send 
 you and his lordship to London. But can you explain 
 this 1 [Points to Charlton, who is 
 
 still on the ground. 
 
 Col. R. Pure enigma to me. 
 
 Cornet. [By Charlton.) 'Tis but a flesh wound, 
 Sir Thomas. The Captain struck his head in falling 
 and was stunned, but he recovers. 
 
 [They lift Charlton to a chair— while 
 tending him and adjusting his dress 
 a letter falls out, Grome picks it up 
 and conceals it. 
 
 N. (Steps foricard.) "What hast thou there, fellow? 
 
 Grome. Nothing, madam. 
 
 N. A letter. 
 
 Grome. No, madam. 
 
 N. Thou hast. Give it up ! Here ! wrench it from 
 him. [Seizes his wrist. 
 
 Grome. Ah, mistress, wilt thou use me thus 1 Dost 
 not know me % 
 
 N. Methinks I do ! Let him not make away with 
 it ! [Still hulls Grome. 
 
 Soldier. Yield it, without more words ! 
 
 [Two or three soldiers seize Grome 
 and take letter from him. 
 
 Grome. Do you not know your comrade 1
 
 176 ASHBY MANOR. 
 
 Sir Thomas. "What means this ? 
 
 Secretary. {Receiving the letter from a soldier.) An 
 odd affair ! (Puts on spectacles, looks at letter.) Hm ! 
 
 [Hands it to Sir Thomas. 
 
 Sir Thomas. (Looks at it.) I'll make free in this 
 case. (Opens and reads letter.) How got Captain 
 Kadclyffe this ? 
 
 Charlton. (With an effort.) I meant not, I own, to 
 appear in this matter — nor know I what that letter 
 contains — but I have been looking after this plot, in 
 the interests of the Parliament. 
 
 Mistr. R. Otherwise, playing the spy in this, thy 
 uncle's house ? 
 
 Sir Thomas. Do you charge Colonel Eadclyffe and 
 Lord Lyndore as parties to this plot 1 
 
 Ch. (Hesitating.) I make no charge against them. 
 
 Grome. (Aside.) A fine tangle we are got into. 
 
 Sir Thomas. (Pointing at Grome.) Who is this 
 man 1 Step forward, fellow. 
 
 Ch. A corporal in my regiment, Grome by name — 
 left here in trust. 
 
 N. In trust ! 
 
 [Grome is put forward: his sleeve pushed up 
 by the scuffle. 
 
 Secretary. (Puts on spectacles.) Hm — let me look 
 at him. Turn this way. A little more in the light. 
 With your good leave, Sir Thomas. (Sir Thomas ?wds.) 
 Your name is Grome ? 
 
 Grome. Paul Grome, an't please you. 
 
 Secretary. ( Calmly. ) It doth not altogether please me. 
 Methinks, friend, I have been used to know you by 
 other names. At the Winter Assize of the City of 
 London four years ago I knew you by the name of 
 Josiah Peters, alias Jack Ludgate. You were con- 
 victed of highway robbery and murder, but broke jail 
 and escaped with two other convicts. Afterwards I 
 had tidings of your enlistment under the name of Harry
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 177 
 
 White in Lord Wilmot's horse, and subsequent deser- 
 tion from the same, with robbery. 
 
 Grome. Sir ! — 
 
 Secretary. {Takes off spectacles.) Give me leave. 
 Since then, you have been in Ireland, and in Holland, 
 under various names. I will confess I looked not to 
 have the pleasure of meeting you to-day. 
 
 Grome. (Stammering.) Sir, you are a lawyer — Am I 
 the man you saw four years ago ? 
 
 Secretary. The very same, — only fatter; and ivith 
 the same scar on your wrist. (Points : Grome hastily 
 covers his wrist.) Sir Thomas — 
 
 [Speaks low. 
 
 Sir Tlwmas. Cornet Jebb, you will take charge of 
 him. [Grome is arrested. 
 
 Ch. I knew nothing of all this. He has deceived 
 me also. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Take him away. Colonel Radclyffe, 
 my Lord Lyndore, I must ask you to prepare for your 
 journey. 
 
 N. mother ! there is treachery here, and we cannot 
 find it out ! — Will you let them be taken to prison 1 — 
 Sir Thomas Chenery ! 
 
 Col. R. Hush, JS T aomi. 
 
 [Grome at door, in custody, is trying to 
 speak: the soldiers forcing him out. 
 
 N. (Rushing to them.) Soldiers ! let that man stay ! 
 
 Grome. (To Sir Thomas.) One word! — Will your 
 honour graciously permit one word?— in a contrite and 
 humble spirit ! 
 
 N. Will you not hear him ? 
 
 Sir Thomas. Let him speak. (They bring Grome 
 back.) AVh at would you say 1 ? 
 
 Cornet Jebb. Speak up, Jack Ludgate ! 
 
 Grome. Yet why should I, unless his honour will 
 promise me some kindness 1 Let it be said that mercy 
 and truth have met together. 
 
 12
 
 178 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Come, fellow, thy neck is already forfeit. 
 If thou hast aught worth telling, it may serve thee. 
 
 Gh. Sir Thomas, will you listen to such a man? 
 
 Grome. Belying on your honour's honourable promise, 
 I will briefly say what can be well established by proof. 
 This gentleman {points to Charlton) has for some 
 three months past been plotting (coughs) against his 
 worshipful uncle, Colonel Radclyife (Grome botes to 
 Colonel Radclyffe), and against this honourable young 
 nobleman, my Lord Lyndore (Grome bows to Lord 
 Lyndore). He has spread false reports, opened 
 letters, suppressed applications for my lord's exchange, 
 forged papers, and, finally, caused information of 
 treason to the Parliament to be supplied against them. 
 
 Gh. Scoundrel ! 
 
 Sir TJwvias (To Grome.) Say you so? This in 
 cypher 1 
 
 Grome. He forged it ( points to Charlton), and I 
 sadly confess that, under his fear, I put it into his lord- 
 ship's writing-case. 
 
 [Sir Thomas whispers with his Secretary. 
 
 N. (To her mother.) I knew not Charlton was so 
 wicked ! 
 
 Mistr. R. Seeds of good and evil flourish pro- 
 digiously under Avar's fiery climate. 
 
 Secretary. (To Grome.) You accuse Captain Rad- 
 clyffe. What motives could lie have ? 
 
 Grome. Verily, first, to get his uncle, whom he loves 
 not, out of his way — along with my lord, whom he 
 loves still less. Then, to make his own throw for 
 fortune, — perhaps a peerage if all went right. 
 
 Secretary. How that 1 
 
 - Grome. The Midland Counties Plot is a blind. — The 
 true plot is in Yorkshire and the North. But the true 
 plotters are not these gentlemen, but Master Charlton 
 Radclyffe and certain friends of his. 
 
 [Secretary nods, and whispers to Sir Thomas.
 
 ASHBY MANOE. 179 
 
 Ch. [Raining himself.) Rogue and liar! 
 
 [Falls back. 
 Sir Thomas. (To Grome.) Canst prove this? 
 Gram i 1 . To the last point, sir. I have been on the 
 watch all through. He (points to Charlton) hath 
 this long while been dealing with the King's party. 
 I can name you many of his complotters. You will 
 get me a pardon, Sir Thomas ? 
 
 Sir Thomas. (To Secretary.) What think you? 
 
 [They ichisper. 
 Grome. Let him be searched. I shall marvel if you 
 rind not proof upon him at this moment. 
 
 [Sir Thomas motions to Cornet Jebb, 
 who searches Charlton, seated in 
 chair, a soldier on each side hold- 
 ing his arms. 
 Cornet. A secret pocket — Here's somewhat ! 
 
 [Pulls out a small case containing 
 a parchment folded, which lie 
 hands to Sir Thomas. 
 Sir Thomas. (Opens it.) The King's signature ! 
 Grome. He carried that key to open men's minds 
 to him. 
 
 Sir Thomas. What say you to this, Charlton 
 Radclyffel (Charlton groans and, shuts his eyes.) 
 By and by you may be able to speak. Meanwhile, 
 Colonel Radclyffe, I take upon me to relieve you from 
 arrest (Secretary nods), and will add I for one never 
 believed the charges laid against you. Suspicion will 
 melt from your name like breath from your sword-blade. 
 Col. R. 1 thank you, Sir Thomas. 
 
 [He joins his wife and daughter. 
 
 Mistr. R. Husband, you are safe ! 
 
 N. I knew it, father, I knew it ! 
 
 Sir Thomas. For you, Lord Lyndore, I understand 
 
 you have suffered no little from a wound taken in 
 
 saving the life of one of our best officers. (Boies slightly 
 
 12 — 2
 
 180 ASHBY MANOE. 
 
 to Col, Kadclyffe.) I think you know nothing of 
 this plot. 
 
 Lyn. Nothing, sir, upon my honour. 
 
 Sir Thomas. How conies Charlton Radclyffe 
 wounded 1 
 
 Lyn. In no quarrel of my seeking. 
 
 Col. R. {Stepping forward to Charlton.) Speak, sir ! 
 
 Ch. (Furiously.) Would I had struck him dead ! 
 
 N. (Shuddering.) how should any kin of ours he 
 there ! 
 
 Sir Thomas. My Lord Lyndore, it is within my 
 power to offer you free pass to your native place, there 
 to live undisturbed, on promise not to move henceforth 
 against the Parliament of England. 
 
 [All look at Lyndore. 
 
 Lyn, I most truly thank you, Sir Thomas Chenery ; 
 but I cannot accept this offer. 
 
 Col. R. Ha ! 
 
 Sir Thomas. Not accept 1 
 
 [Secretary puts on spectacles and 
 looks at Lord Lyndore. 
 
 N, mother, why does he refuse? 
 
 iMistr. R. Alas ! 
 
 Sir Thomas. "What then would you do, my lord 1 
 
 Lyn. Ride to Prince Rupert at Bristol. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Prince Rupert is not at Bristol. 
 
 Lyn, Not there, sir ! 
 
 Sir Thomas. Bristol is ours. 
 
 Col. R. Indeed ! [General movement, 
 
 Lyn, And Rupert 1 
 
 Sir Thomas. On his road to Germany perhaps. 
 Pray read your letter, my lord. This is for you. Pardon 
 my freedom of opening it. 
 
 [Hands him the letter taken from 
 Grome. Talks to Secretary, who 
 also icrites on a paper. 
 
 Lyn. (Takes letter.) From my trusty old Major
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 181 
 
 Lucas ! (Steps nearer Col. Eadclyffe and his group, 
 and reads) — "Strange news to send — Bristol is sur- 
 rendered — Rupert dismissed by the king and ordered 
 to leave England — his regiment disbanded — your troop 
 all scattered and the men gone home. We heard some 
 lies about you, but believed none. We knew well you 
 would have been with us if you could. The fighting- 
 game's up. I shall beat my own sword into a plough- 
 share, and whistle behind it for better times." — My 
 comrades did not doubt me then ! — Radclyffe, thy 
 advice 1 
 
 Col. R. Your lordship's main duty now is to your 
 own place and people, and you are free to go to them. 
 Else, you are not free to go anywhere. 
 
 Mistr. R. Follow my husband's counsel, Lord Lyn- 
 dore. 
 
 Lyn. (To ISTaomi, wJw has fallen into a reverie.) Do 
 you also thus advise 1 
 
 N. Your pardon — what, my lord 1 
 
 Lyn. You heard Sir Thomas Chenery's offer? 
 
 N. Yes. 
 
 I/yn. Think you I should accept 1 
 
 N. I do. 
 
 Lyn. Sir Thomas Chenery, your pardon, — I thank- 
 fully accept the conditions. 
 
 Sir Thomas. I am glad to hear it. (Secretary hands 
 him paper.) Here is your free pass, my lord. Use it 
 at your convenience. See to the wounded man. 
 
 Comet. He is better. The wound is not grave. 
 
 Grome. ( To Charlton.) How feel you, Captain 1 
 
 Ch. Ready to choke you, villain ! 
 
 Grome. Alas, sir, you've been so anytime this twelve- 
 month. (Fingers his throat.) Methinks I breathe 
 freer now. They will scarce nurse you in this house, 
 Captain. 
 
 Sir Thomas. Look well to your prisoners, Cornet 
 Jebb.
 
 182 ASH BY MANOR. 
 
 Cornet. We shall take them on to our night-quarters, 
 Sir Thomas. 
 
 Sir Thomas. And send them to London as soon as 
 may be. 
 
 Cornet. I shall, sir. 
 
 Soldier, to another. To the strong box ! and after- 
 wards — (winks). . 
 
 [Charlton walks out with difficulty, 
 
 guarded; lie catches Grome's eye, 
 
 scowls at him and shakes his fist. 
 
 Grome. {Pointing at Lord Lyndore, icho is in 
 
 familiar talk witdi Naomi, and resuming liis twang.) 
 
 Verily, Captain, thou hast done him a good turn ! Yea, 
 
 thou hast been exceeding kind unto him ! 
 
 [Exeunt Charlton, Grome, and some of 
 the soldiers. Mistress Badclyffe 
 sends Prudence after them; Tom 
 follows Prudence closely, and, in 
 going out, (glances round to see if he 
 is observed, then kisses her neatly, 
 not to her discontent. 
 Sir Thomas. (To Col. and Mistress Eadclyffe.) 
 ]S r o, I thank you ; I must ride further to-night, late as 
 it is. Ladies, your humble servant ! Good-night, 
 Colonel Eadclyffe ! — my lord ! — 
 
 [Boies exchanged, Sir Thomas exit deliberately 
 (L), soldiers preceding him ; attended cere- 
 moniously to the door\by Col. and Mistress 
 Eadclyffe. Naomi a?id Lyndore left by 
 themselves (E, centre). She is now seated 
 in an old carved chair. Her manner grave 
 and distant. 
 Lyn. Naomi! 
 N. My lord. 
 
 Lyn. You were in haste to dismiss me. 
 N. You were eager to depart. 
 Lyn. Are you still in the same mind?
 
 ASHBY MANOR. 183 
 
 N. More firmly than ever. 
 Lyn. How mean yon 1 
 
 N. Your road is clear, my lord, and you are bound 
 to go. 
 
 Lyn. Not bound to go to-night . . . unless you bid 
 me. If that be your wish . . . — Naomi ! dost thou 
 indeed send me away ? 
 
 N. (Looks at him, then suddenly stretches old her 
 arms.) No ! [He embraces her. 
 
 [Col. and Mistress Eadclyffe come from door 
 L. Col. Eadclyffe affectionately holds 
 hack his wife, and they stand a ■moment 
 looking at Naomi and Lord Lyndore. 
 Naomi sees them. 
 N. dearest parents ! 
 Lyn. May I call you so 1 
 
 Mistr. R. No better son could bounteous Heaven 
 bestow ! 
 
 Col. R. Lyndore ! — my Naomi ! — this plighted troth 
 Is welcome news to us, who love you both. 
 And may God grant the future of our land 
 Be emblem'd by this happy hand in hand. 
 
 [Joins their hands 
 
 (Music, introducing " Wilt Thou, Summer.'") 
 
 Curtain fads slowly.
 
 X T E 
 
 Mad Robin. — This delightful old melody is here, perhaps, pub- 
 lished modernly for the first time in its integrity. Chappell's 
 Popular Music of the Olden Time is a book with an air of authority, 
 but nevertheless untrustworthy. In vol. ii. p. 512, we find in it : 
 "Mad Robin. — This tune is in The Dancing Master of 1686 
 (additional sheet) and all later editions I have not suc- 
 ceeded in finding the song of Mad Pwbin, and have therefore taken 
 the first and last stanzas of a ballad contained in a manuscript of 
 the time of James I., now in the possession of Mr. Payne Collier. 
 I have no authority for coupling them with the tune, but prefer 
 these old words to any written expressly to the air in the ballad- 
 operas." The version given is inaccurate, and, indeed, in one place 
 alters the whole character of the air. 
 
 I give the exact original music, copied (in the British Museum) 
 from The Dancing Master, 7th ed. 16S6, in additional tunes at the 
 end. It is not in the Sth ed., 1690, but is in the 9th ed., 1695, 
 page 185. 
 
 I have been ignorantly supposed to have taken a fine old Song, 
 tampered with the music, and substituted my own words for the old 
 ones : what I have done is to go back to the oldest known authority 
 for the music, and no old words, so far as I can learn, are in 
 existence. The admirably suitable accompaniment I owe to my 
 friend Mrs. Tom Taylor. 
 
 Ashby Manor was sent in print to several London Managers, 
 one of whom solicited an interview with the Author, at which he 
 highly praised the Play, regretted that it was not exactly suited to 
 his company, and requested that something else might be sub- 
 mitted to him from the same hand, deprecating strongly, as a 
 detail, the printing of a Play before its appearance on the Stage. 
 Some months later this Manager produced a Play which appeared, 
 not merely to the Author but to others, to be beyond all doubt a 
 kind of clumsy parody of Ashby Manor, in time, story, incidents 
 and characters, with senseless melodramatic additions, and an 
 entirely irrelevant fifth act. The Manager, on this being pointed 
 out to him, asserted that he had never read a page of Ashby Manor, 
 and scarcely recollected anything about it. His bold enterprise 
 deservedly proved a failure.
 
 DALZIEL BROTHERS. CAMDEN PRESS, LONDON, N.W.
 
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