University of Virginia Library

[Released at last! Released from agony!]

REUBEN.

A Dramatic Poem.

ACT I.

Scene I.

A Room. Several young men seated around a table.
First Speaker.
Another name would make our list complete;
And since our number is to be restricted,
I should advise we look about for one
Having some quality that we yet want.
Knows any one where Reuben spends his nights?
He used to come amongst us; but of late
He might be dead, or married.—Have you mark'd
How friendships, be they ever so alive,
Grow cold and die without a special cause?

Second Speaker.
Nothing is fix'd: the granite ribs that shield
The continents from the besieging sea,
Are being lick'd into soft layers of sand.
In time the dogged sea will have his day.
Where cities lie i' the sun, where sickles glance,
Where lovers walk in lanes, and cottages
Wreathe up their lazy smoke in sylvan nooks,
There will be nothing then but sea, blue sea!
A sea of change is ever in our hearts,
Ebbing and flowing; blotting out the lines
That character our present, and anew
Giving our life its margin. Our old loves
Embedded lie, like strata out of date.
Yet who can say they will not rise again
For other, and it may be higher, use?
Buried formations, older than the flood,
Come up and serve the wants of this our day.

Third Speaker.
We are like beads in a kaleidoscope;
And as time moves it round and round, we slip
Out of one fellowship into another,
In hue and form all different: yet through all
Runs the old beauty both of form and hue.

Fourth Speaker.
Or like a pack of cards play'd by the gods:
And as they shuffle, cut, and deal us out,
We find ourselves in many different suits;—
Now link'd between a brace of arrant knaves
With side-long glances, winking to each other;
Now hand in hand with kingly sorts of men
That look straight forward with bright royal eyes;
Then in a company of jolly trumps,
Breezy in mirth, with the world all at their feet,
Carrying the game before them; and anon,
Close quarter'd with dull miserable rags
That lack the virtue of one living thought,
And can but mutely wait till they are play'd.

Fifth Speaker.
The presences of men are double. This
Which fills the eye and babbles to the ear,
Is but the covert to a timid doe,
Scarce ever to be seen upon the lawns,
But marvellous in beauty when beheld.
Words and side watchings keep that presence in.
Behind the rags you speak of, there is that
Which shrinks from your keen eyes.—In my school time.
I had a cousin; and on holidays
We ever were together: long, long days
We wander'd in lone places, side by side;
Or sat whole hours upon the river's brink,
With not one word between us. Since he died
I've sought in vain another silent mate:
For every one will speak, or wish to speak,
And thus we never can come near enough.—
I dreamt one night there was a crowd of men,
And not one spoke: all were rapt up in thought.
But I could see their spirits coming out,
And flitting, ghost-like, 'mid the silent frames,
Communing with each other without speech.
And when I woke I thought upon my cousin,
And those long days in which we never spoke.

Second Speaker.
Let us be silent now: our ghosts will creep
Out of their tenements, like mice at night
When one sits in his slippers, and the fire
Has wink'd itself asleep, and the haunting clock
That had been still all day, goes like a sprite
Ticking through all the house,—O, then they come
Like little clues of worsted o'er the hearth,
And peep about with their black diamond eyes,
Till he's in love with them, and pleased to think
That in the very house with him there are
So many living things that he may love.
Let us be quiet, then, we double men,
And see our beauteous presences come out.
But if we move a foot, or speak one word,
Lord, what a splutter to regain their holes!

First Speaker.
They will not come to watchers: Nature gives
To the unconscious only, things divine.—
Our list still wants a name. I mentioned one,
And that one for this reason. There are some
Whose natures are so mellow in themselves,
They seem to mellow everything they touch;
Most passive souls that put out no strong will,
Their action being chymical. Unknown,
E'en to themselves, they draw bad humours out,
And drop on fever'd natures balmy dew.
Reuben has that rare virtue.

Fourth Speaker.
Rare defect!
For that it is defect in him is clear.
He is so undecided in himself
That he takes on the hue of any one,
Be that black, white or green—sinner or saint,
Or simple innocent; and any whim
That any fool may broach, still finds in him
Forbearance, and is even reflected back
With added light on its enraptured sire.
Rare virtue this! I call it rare deceit.

First Speaker.
O no, he is sincere, and only takes
The good that will be found in all bad things.
What if he tackle to a vice at times,
And like an angler runs it with the stream?
Trust me, before he leaves it, it will lie
In all its bareness, strangled at his feet,
Its weak side uppermost.

Fourth Speaker.
Not with a line,
But with a net he fishes. All is fish
That comes to Reuben's net—very good fish.

Sixth Speaker.
He has a strange one in it now, I hear—
A very wary nibbler that has had
Most choice baits offer'd to her. She comes up
And sculls provokingly around the hook,
Swinging her saucy tail; then makes a feint,
As if about to take: the fisher's heart
Is up and all on tip-toe for the sport.
'Twas but a nibble, and she's up the stream
To play the same game with some other heart.
The finest twisted lines, the daintiest hooks,
With all old Izaak's art to boot, have fail'd
To wile this sly one from her watery home.
But Reuben comes, and in his blundering way,
Using no art at all, casts in his net,
When straight she falls into it, and is his.

First Speaker.
But has he landed her, and has he knelt
Upon the soft green cushion by her side?
Till then, who knows but she may use an art,
The deeper in seeming none? I do not like
A woman with the habits of a fish,
Treating men's hearts as if they were mere baits
For her especial self, and each conceal'd
A barbed hook which she might rob, then leave.
Your mermaids ever have deceivers been.

Sixth Speaker.
Of wooers she has fifty more at least,
That ply her more than Reuben, and hold out
Flattering inducement: he but lays his heart,
Not in low fawning duty at her feet,
But as a well, over whose brim she stoops,
And sees she is the goddess of its deeps:
And, gazing in, she finds her thoughts all lost
In his soft love, which, like an azure sky,
Is mirror'd deep beneath. So that, in him
Her senses being lost, her art is gone,
And love's fine madness leads her like a child.

Second Speaker.
The ladye love of fifty belted knights
Would not go mad for one. But who is she
That in her single bosom thus absorbs
The dues of fifty maids?

Sixth Speaker.
You know the Inn,
Over the river where the two roads meet
And marry with each other on the bridge?
That Inn, her sire has kept for many a year;
And in the good old times when coaches ran,
And carriers and drovers lined the roads,
He fill'd his coffers. The good times went out,
And railway trains had damn'd the house, when lo!
Out of her girlhood's disregarded bud
Burst Margaret into beauty, and became
The house's saviour.

Second Speaker.
I see, I see:
She sets about enlisting simple swains,
And keeps them drinking for the house's good—
Half drunk with love, and half with country ale.
Her heart is sacrificed to save the house,
And this you call the doctrine of salvation.

Sixth Speaker.
If men ask drink, it is no part of hers
To serve them with sour looks. If they admire
The sparkling light dancing in her black eyes,
The fine dark stormy beauty in her hair,
The dimpling cheek that mantles like a sea
Flush'd by a ruddy sunset, is it then
Her part to drive them from the house, which house,
Being public, is as free to them as her?
If fifty men would have her, she is led,
Driven, perhaps against her fair intent,
To use the arts I spoke of.

First Speaker.
And you say
Reuben, of all the fifty, is the man!
But since she is not yet securely his,
He has his work before him; and our ends
Were poorly served by the mere patch of heart
That he could spare. Therefore, let each of us
Think of some other friend, so that our list
May be completed the next time we meet.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Bridge, and Road before the Inn. Enter Reuben, reading from a slip of paper.
Reuben.
[Exit.

Enter Spanker, coming from the Inn.
Spanker.
If she be not quite struck with me, it's strange!
A very pleasant place, and good ale too.
I'll come here often. Amidst all those louts,
How she mark'd out the gentleman! Her eye
Cast on them sharp reproof: it flooded me
Like April with a shower of rainy light.
And this before we had exchanged one word,
More than—“A glass of so and so,” and—“Yes, sir.”
When we drew near each other and remark'd
Upon the day, the weather, and the crops—
Although in truth I know not wheat from oats:
Let's see, yes, oats grow bristles on their top,
And wheat's that other thing—she was so pleased,
I ventured nearer home, look'd round the bar,
And, seeing all so shiny-like, remark'd,
“Whoever has the management of this,
Will make a rare wife to some lucky wight.”—
“You think so, do you?”—After that, I saw
From out the corner of mine eye, that she—
Ay, more than once—scann'd me from head to foot;
And as I left, she from a vase of flowers
Took this, and placed it in my button-hole.
It is a pink. I wonder what it means.
I'll write to one of those cheap papers; they
Give shrewd replies, and sometimes good advice.—
'Tis lucky I went in, yet merest chance!
I've pass'd here many a time—seen her, no doubt;
Not with my now illuminated eyes,
But as the settlers saw for many years
The golden clods, yet knew them not as gold.—
I'll keep this Australasia to myself,
And work it at my leisure.

[Exit.
Enter Bradbury, going to the Inn.
Bradbury.
I am old;
That is, compared with her; but from the hints
I got in conversation with her mother,
That seems all in my favour. So it should.
To mate her portion to a spendthrift youth,
Were heartbreak to her parents; and the thought
That their hard raked-up gains were being spent
In madcap thriftlessness, would haunt their graves,
And rob their aged bones of death's sweet rest.
Great fears that plague the spirit in this life
Do hang about it long time after death,
Withholding it from bliss. But she herself
Affects not lack-brain'd youth, and leans, I know,
To large experience and the stable mind
That age alone matures. I could invest
Her money to advantage; could extend
My present business, which, truth to say,
Must have some capital to float it o'er
The bars and banks of trade—ay—banks indeed!—
Or if she'd have me landlord of this house—
This jolly ringing hostelry—why then,
To that I've no objection. Let me see;
My draught is deep enough;—a landlord's paunch,
Like to a tithebarn in the olden time,
Should give reception to all kinds of goods,
And stow them mixty-maxty. So could mine.
I am no mewling milksop, but, though small,
Season'd and tough. Then, I have wit to give
A ready answer that will turn the mirth
As 'twere against myself, the while I wink
Within myself, and chuckle in my sleeve:
And, when appeal'd to in disputes, I could
Give artful judgment, favouring both sides,
Drawing them on to bets and double gills.
Then, there's the ready laugh to the lame joke;
The affected interest in the maudlin talk,
With, Yes—no—certainly—indeed!
Thrown in to suit the drift of him that speaks:
The sharp eye to anticipate the pipe
That wants a light; the quick officious hand:
The ready-reckoning thumb that counts out change
Without the head's assistance. These have I.—
Some one approaches! I will stand within
The shade of this abutment till they pass. (Cock crows.)

I like not that! I like not that! A cock
Crowing at night, under a waning moon,
Across a wooer's path, bodeth no good;
And that's the big black cock with glossy wings—
A pet of Marg'ret's—I fear some ill.

(Crows again.)
Enter Juniper and Friend going to the Inn.
Juniper.
Crow up my gallant bird, use all your nights;
Your days are almost counted; they are few.

Friend.
You know the bird, then?

Juniper.
Know him! deuced well:
They've only one, and he is Marg'ret's pet,
The which I supersede. I've seen her waste
More precious love on that black Spanish Don
Than suited well my stomach; and he struts
So rakishly about her petticoats—

Friend.
Lord! what privilege to give the Don.

Juniper.
He will be superseded: he is doomed.
The other day, whilst lolling in the bar,
Smoking my pipe, she knitting by my side,
In bounced her father—“Margaret,” quoth he,
“That cock has been at his old tricks again:
A bed of radish seed! Not one seed left!
'Twill never do; we'll have him killed straight off.”
“Yes, father, very well; but—not to-day.”
Then, blandly smiling, “William,” whispered she,
“We'll have him to the wedding breakfast—cold.”

Bradbury.
(aside)
Ah, yes! I do but sleep, and dream all this.

Friend.
You're a lucky dog, Will. 'Tis a large house this;
And all their own, too. Eh?

Juniper.
Yes, all our own,
And a deal of land besides, man—quite a farm.
You'll come and stay a month or two. Let's in—
See how you like our ale.

[Exeunt.
Bradbury.
(coming forward)
Our ale! the snipe!
The wedding breakfast too! What means the rogue?
Have I a rival, then? He might be more!
She would not play me false, and make the while
A paction with an empty kite like that!
No. There are men who whip into the past
Much-wished for, barely possible events,
And trot them out as facts before our eyes,
Merely to be admired. Yet I have seen
These overweening fools make that to be,
By the mere assuming it already was:
For if they work in metal soft enough,
It cannot choose but run into their mould.
That knave may damage me. I'll to her straight
And damage him. I'll nick the hoops that gird
His hollow cause: when next he moves his suit,
'Twill fall, like an old cask, into a heap
Of rotten staves, beyond all setting up.

Enter Car, half-drunk, coming from the Inn.
Car.

There need not be no bother. The owd folk may stay with us, or build themsel's a cottage. (Looks back, and surveys the house.)
The same sign will do—at least very near—

Bradbury.
(striking him)

You lie, 'twill not do. My name's John Bradbury; that is Richard Riccard.

Car.

Thou dasht owd foo'—if thee strikes me agean, I'll pic thee o'er the brig. What has thee to do wi' it? Didn't Merget tell me hoo was baun' to wed me in a week?

Bradbury.
Ah! this confirms me that I am asleep,
And do but dream it all. I'll wake, and laugh
To think what monstrous things are born in dreams;
How that my pretty Margaret engaged
To marry this rude clown; how that—

Car.

Call me a clown? Thou dash't owd foo', I'll punch thy heod. (Makes up to Bradbury, who runs off, and Car returns.)
He said he was asleep! The owd foo's drunk. And call'd her his pretty Merget! Na, na, owd lad; I've spent more brass in the house than ever thee was worth; and I haven't spent it for nowt, naither. But I needn't spend no more now—hoo's safe enough. (Surveys the sign again.)
It'll welley do as it is. His name is Richard; so is mine; Richard can stand. Then there's R-I-C-C-A-R—stop now,— C-A-R!—good lad, Dick, thy name's there already! A little peant and a brush to peant out R-I-C—and leave C-A-R-D—No, dang it, that would be Card! D must come down. I'm a trump; yet my name's not Card. Ha! ha! ha!—I had welley given her up when hoo gave in. Well, it's a long loan as never has a turn. I always said soa.—How goes?

Enter Wheeler, going to the Inn.
Wheeler.

Good night, good night. [Exit. CAR.]
A most unfortunate thing! I've kick'd myself ever since for my own stupidity. Why, it was like throwing herself at me; as much as to say, “Here, Jack, take me and all my undertakings; you've been a most persevering wooer, now comes your reward.”—I can read it no other way; 'tis plainer than plain. Her married cousin gets a child: while I sit drinking beside her on

Saturday night, she claps into my hand a letter asking her to come to the christ'ning on Sunday and stand godmother: “And John,” says she, “you'll go with me and be godfather!” And then, John, she might have added, the next child we stand father and mother to will be our own. She meant as much, that's certain. —The time of starting was agreed on. At seven in the morning she would meet me at the town-end with the gig and black Dobbin, and then we would drive over together.—On the strength of this, I drink me ten glasses more of her best old ale, hand running, and leave her between twelve and one, promising, without fail, to be waiting her at seven. I bundle home, stumble into bed before I have time to take off my clothes, fall dead asleep, and wake at—nine! I then take double time to dress, having first to undress; and come running in blazing haste to the place appointed, without breakfast, and buttoning my waistcoat. No Margaret there, and two hours and three-quarters past the time! What a relief to find that she also had overslept herself! I begin to frame some gentle impeachment, and adjust my shirt collar, and re-tie my neckerchief, when an idle-looking vagabond in fustian comes touching his cap to me: “Are you the gent,” quoth he, “that the lady and conveyance waited so long for?”—“Waited! where are they?”— “Gone, two hours ago.” “Gone! and alone?”—“No, a gentleman with her.”—I kicked the villain out of my way, and rushed to the railway station. A train that stops within a mile of her cousin's house had left a minute and a half before, and there would be another in the evening. Hang your trains!—Sought a horse through all the town; not even a donkey to be had. Twelve o'clock!—too late now, even with a horse. Passed an afternoon of deep and remorseful dejection. Came down to her house here, at night, determined to await her return. Kept the old ale plying on the fire of my remorse, and had well nigh quenched it; when, as the clock struck ten, in she came, closely followed by a fellow I have seen hanging about her of late. Smirking, radiant, flushed, she came prancing in; but when she saw me she looked like a thunder-cloud, and her eyes fired into me a volley of black anger. She passed by me, and went up stairs, followed by her gentleman, to some private room, as I suspect. I have not seen her since.—Thus have I again laid the case plainly before myself, and it looks a very bad case—a devilish bad case. How should I do? I wish I had some friend to advise with.—Who comes? He must be somewhat tipsy; he speaks to himself. Why, so do I, yet am I not tipsy. I will hear what he has got to say. (Stands back, and enter Greene, coming from the Inn.)
It's he that was with her on Sunday!

Greene.
A draw-well has a bottom; the deep sea
Is not so deep but that it may be sounded.
Nothing is bottomless, unless it be
A tailor's thimble and a woman's mind.
But yet, a tailor's thimble can be seen through;
Not so a woman's mind—

Wheeler
(aside.)
He's but a tailor; yet he speaks good sense.

Greene.
This black-eyed witch—
Forgive me, stars! I say this black-eyed queen,
So much my own, and yet not all my own,
So much revealing, yet withholding that
One little word which would elect me king!
Have we not stood before a man of God,
And taken on our consciences joint vows
Anent her cousin's child; thus making me,
As 'twere, one of themselves? And did we not
On our long Sunday drive unfold our hearts,
And lay them side by side, like man and wife,
And seem'd they not as one? Yet here to-night
I work'd her heart up with most winning speech,
Until I thought, Now is my kingdom come,
Then put the final question. 'Sblood, it fell
Like a man's money overboard at sea,
And bought no answer. My bewilder'd ear
Heard but a splash, then all was as before!

Wheeler
(coming forward.)
With him that lost the money?

Greene.
No, my friend,
With me. I got no answer; gain'd no point.
I put it plainly, “Wilt thou be my wife?”
My question, like a pearl into the sea,
Dropt, and was no more valued than a stone.

Wheeler.
Such questions are as common to some women
As pearls are to the sea. You should have laid
A pearl, or some such trinket, in her hand,
Long, long before that perilous question came.

Greene.
Ah, well, here is this ring—an emerald;
With this I did intend to seal her troth—
After 'twas plighted.

Wheeler.
Did she see the ring?

Greene.
I put it on my finger to that end;
She saw it and admired it very much.

Wheeler.

You know not yet the wooer's A B C. Why, man, she asked you for the ring, and you refused it. Without some guarantee of your sincerity, 'twere mere simplicity in her to yield that point which you complain of losing. I've told her often not to be so foolish. But, for your sake, since you have thus confided in me, I'll make the matter right. I'll scold her into it, and talk father and mother into your favour.

Greene.

What! are you old Riccard's son? I understood that Margaret had no brother.

Wheeler.

How could old Riccard have a son and she no brother? Give me the ring. With it I'll recover lost ground, and gain the point that you unwisely missed. Come down to-morrow night. I'll back you out.

Greene.

Give me your hand, friend—brother. You know who I am, do you? I was with her you know at the christening.

Wheeler.
Ay, ay, I know. I'll work the thing.

Greene.
She said herself it would be all right.

Wheeler.
Come down to-morrow. Good night.

Greene.

Of course, you'll not tell her what has passed between us. Do it gently; draw it mild, as they say.

Wheeler.
Ay, ay; good night, good night.

[Going.
Greene.
Well, good night; but here—

Wheeler.
Yes, yes, I know, I know.

[Exit.
Greene.

Yes, yes, but you don't know.—I've acted unwisely now. I should have seen this sooner. I've loved her chiefly because she was an only child, and old Riccard rich. But now I find she has a brother, anxious, apparently, to get her married and out of the way, that he might talk father and mother, as he calls them, not into my favour, but into his own. Scissors! but this is cloth of another colour. I do not want her. She would not make a suitable partner for one of my disposition, and could only be tolerated on account of that which I erroneously supposed she would inherit. I could not put up with her temper. Some say she is pretty. For my part, I could never see it. Nothing but coarse red and black; cheeks like Newton pippins at a penny a dozen, and eyes like black beetles in the sun. Not my style of beauty, by any means. What a goose I was to give that young dog the ring! I see no way of getting it back without making a fool of myself. What with drink and it together, she has been a dear morsel to me already. But first cost is the least, they say; so I'll let by-gones be by-gones, and have no more to do with her.

[Exit.

Scene III.

The Old Churchyard in the Wood. Reuben and Joseph leaning over the wall.
Reuben.
Speak not of death and graves. Is't not enough
That we should see these mounds and miss our friends,
Without the dragging in of painful thoughts
That might lie dead as they? We think of death,
And lose one-half of life. This holiday
Is not enjoyed, to-morrow being none.
If I could think I lived through endless time,
I could live well each moment of it all:
But this my little span is not half-lived,
Being lessen'd by the dread it is so short.
Stir not the thought of death, and it will lie
Still as the dead themselves.

Joseph.
I doubt it not,
Since they do not lie still. It comes unstirr'd.
Think'st thou we have the origin of thought
Within ourselves? We did not make ourselves.
The thoughts that we most purposely avoid
Do ever haunt us most. This thought of death
At every corner starts out like a ghost
Across our path—I doubt not, to the end
That we be warn'd and well prepared to join
The ever-marching caravan of souls,
Across the penal sands that lie between
The present world and the next.

Reuben.
Where is the next?
Your lifted eyes look past the winking stars
Into the blue delusion. Is it there
Your next world lies? Or deep beneath our feet,
In the mysterious centre of the earth?
Or is it, Joseph, in the brains of priests?
Trade, trade—a secret of the trade. Yourself,
A cobbler, have a secret—some nice art,
That glosses up a thing, and makes it seem
More than it is. All trades have—so may priests.

Joseph.
Faithless, suspicious Reuben! Canst thou doubt
That immortality—that rock, that crown—
The rock whereon religion builds—the crown
For which she lifts her blessed head to God?
O call not that a trick of priests' device
Which was before priests were. Do not believe
A trick could live through eighteen hundred years,
And gem the earth with churches—massive fanes
On whose high pillar'd walls man graves his soul,
And builds it up in reverential stone—
Seeking to give his finest thoughts hard form.
O do not think delusion or mere trick
Could bear all up. Yet do but take away
This blessed hope of everlasting life,
And farewell to religion! It were nought,
And I'd be irreligious as thou art.

Reuben.
And am I irreligious? So I am.
I have no priest, do not confess my sins—
To any but myself—go to no church,
And have forgotten all my lisping hymns.
Yet have I some religion: my poor soul,
By the besetting wonder fenced about,
Goes prowling round its little park of time
To seek an entrance into that dim maze,
And gazes with a sad, beseeching eye
Up every dreamy vista. All fine thoughts
That start up in my way, seek to that maze,
And disappear like birds within a wood.
I cannot follow them, I lack their wings.
And I do think there are beyond that bound
A finer beauty, and a deeper truth,
Than we on this side know. But what of that?
They are not there for me. Therefore I come
Back to my own earth, with its vaulted roof,
And here find sweet religion. In the night
It dazzles, and is called the light of stars.
It rises with the moon, and rides all through
The rack of windy skies; or when she hangs
Heavy and low on a still night like this,
It floods the earth with prayer, so creamy soft!
And people call it moonlight. All day long
It laps the earth in beauty: in the morn
It purples up the east, and on the meads
It glistens lowly in a daisy's heart.
Beneath the trees at noon it comes and goes
Like some faint hymn upon a drowsy ear;
And some say this is but the hum of bees,
Or murmur of the wind among the leaves.
Along yon meadowy banks where, like a child
All heedless of the hours, the river plays,
Religion fills me—ah! I see you smile.
But if you knew how much I love these things,
And how they move my heart, my lips, to prayer,
You would not lightly laugh, but think, with me,
There was a spirit in them, which the names
We learn to call them by serve but to hide.

Joseph.
Why, God is in them—any one knows that;
But surely not religion. In the church,
And in God's book—if thou would'st read that book—
Alone is the religion that can save.

Reuben.
Is not the universe the book of God?
And who can read it through? I can but spell
As much as tells its Author; and He is
A fine besetting wonder to my soul.
So this is my religion. More than this
I read no reason for—would that I could!
I know not what you mean by save; no church,
No creed, no book can save this breathing life.
My saddest thought is, that our eyes must close
On this most beauteous earth, and see no more.
Therefore, I seek to shun the thought of death.

Joseph.
And yet I meet thee in a lonely wood,
Beside an old churchyard, pack'd full of death!

Reuben.
(aside)
I wish you had not met me.—Ah, dear love,
Thywards leap all the currents of my blood;
My heart rocks in suspense, and, like a boat
At anchor in a stream, it drags to thee. (To Joseph.)

Let us go down to the Bridge and drown these thoughts
In Margaret's old October.

Joseph.
Not to night.
You see I'm laden with old boots and shoes.
And yet I will. Let's see; I'll take them home
And meet you there in less than half an hour.

[Exit.
Reuben.
A whole one if you like.—'Tis ever thus:
I nibble at a good thing, like a child
That saves the daintiest morsel to the last;
And while I spare the luscious bite, some one
Comes stumbling up and knocks it from my hand.
Or appetite is sated with plain fare,
And that which is most toothsome finds no tooth.—
The moon walks up the stately hall of night
Unto her throne, and all the courtier stars,
At her approach fall back and give her way.
Tuts! these are but the plain fare of the night,
And blunt my appetite.—Ah, sweet, sweet love!

[Exit.

Scene IV.

The inside of the Inn. Margaret and Wheeler in the Bar. Voices from an inner Apartment.
Wheeler.
He pass'd me when I fell. Some few came round,
And he among the rest. I knew his face,
As having seen him here; begg'd he would speed
To the appointed place, plead my excuse
Of sudden accident, and give you this;
Which at the christening I did intend
To place upon this finger.

(Puts the ring on her finger.)
Margaret.
It is strange!
He neither spoke of you nor of the ring.
I saw it on his finger here to-night
For the first time.

Wheeler.
Alas! when will ambition
Be satisfied with what itself can reach
From its own stand of merit? I can see
He reached this little beating heart of thine,
Standing upon my shoulders. True, he spoke
Nothing against me, mention'd not my name:
But that suppression put me under foot:
My non-appearance was the pedestal
Which raised him to thine eyes. But here I stand,
Trampling on no one, trusting to that love
Which rises to one level in our breasts—
Say, shall it float our hearts again together,
Billing like two young ducklings in a pond,
Beyond the reach of the pecking tribe on the banks?
Sweet lips, dear eyes, say yes.

Margaret.
You had no right
To fall at such a time. I am not pleased.

Wheeler.
It was my too great haste that made me fall;
My red-hot, reckless haste to be with thee.
My love outran my foot: though it lay lamed,
My heart was with thee.

Margaret.
Is your foot much hurt?

Wheeler.
At first I could not point it to the ground,
No, not for love.

Margaret.
O, do take care of it.

(Knocking, and voices from within.)
Voices.
Ale, ale! more ale! tobacco! bring the jug!

Margaret.
I've heard a piece of flannel boiled in salt
Was a good thing for a sprain.

Wheeler.
Ay, so they say;
But, bless your heart, it's almost well again.
One little kiss—come love—'twere worth a web
Of flannel boil'd in salt.

Margaret.
Behave yourself!
I'm very angry with you. No! not one.
Do you not hear them calling? Let me go.

[Kisses her, and exeunt, she following to the door.
Juniper
(within, knocking and shouting.)
Margaret, Alice, Ann! More ale, some one.

Re-enter Margaret, admiring the ring on her finger.
Margaret.
Have you no patience there? How very neat!
How lustry green the stone! and fits so well!
Yet, there is something strange in the two tales
Of Greene and Wheeler; they do not fit well.

(More knocking.)
Enter Bradbury from the inner room.
Bradbury.
What, is there no one here?—Ah! pardon me. (Margaret takes in the ale-jug.)

His impudence is not to be endured.
He sits and shouts there, “Margaret, bring the jug”—
As if she were a common waiting-maid;
And asks his friend, “Tom, how do you like our ale?”
And bets that he will play a game at bowls
On our own green with any man for a sovereign. (Laughing within.)

That's he, the swaggering fool!—She comes: ah, sweet!
Fill me another glass, I'll drink it here,
And thou wilt sit beside me.

Margaret.
My dear sir,
You should not leave the company! Go in
And sit amongst them; take your pipe and glass;
Be jolly, man! What, company must be humour'd!
Let that be your department—this be mine.

Bradbury.
In proper company keeping, that's my part;
But, there's that coxcomb there, he does not know
What company keeping is. You would not have
A man like me descend to humour him?

Margaret.
He's but a braggart: heed not what he says,
Have I not told you there's no word of truth
In all you overhead upon the bridge?

Juniper
(within) sings.

Voices
(within.)
Bravo! bravo! Your health, Juniper!

Bradbury.
No, no, my dear, I'll not go in again.
To-night he has it too much his own way—
He and his myrmidons. Content am I
That his most certain fall may be postponed.
Let him enjoy his visionary bliss
While we concoct the real.—Now, dear love, (Takes her hand.)

Vouchsafe a word or two. I will not blink
Your evident design that I, not you,
Should be the mover. I have weighed this well,
And, though not customary for the man
To make the wife's home his, yet I agree,
For reasons touching your weal more than mine.
But more of this hereafter. There are things—
Preliminary, love, to the event—
That claim our prior notice. Pardon me,
I wish not to procrastinate the time;
But business reasons will not let me name
Sooner than this day six weeks—

Margaret.
What! Six weeks?

Bradbury.
Well, then, say four. I think I can arrange.

Margaret.
O, go along; four weeks! the man is mad!

Bradbury.
What say you then, my pretty one? Let's see—
Perhaps I could arrange—O yes, I can:
Name any day you please within a fortnight.

Margaret.
Worse and worse! Why, it would take six months
To screw my courage up to name a day,
And six to get my dresses made. Young men
Are so impatient. O, my dear good sir!
It is a serious thing. Be not too rash;
Another year or two upon our heads,
And then—we'll talk about it.

Bradbury.
Fiddlesticks!
We've talked enough;—but ah! I understand,
And much commend thee for thy delicate sense
Of the proprieties. The woman's play
Is ever to be passive. Thus must she
Be looked at, loved, visited and admired,
Wooed, flattered, treated and sonneted,
Bowed to, kneeled to, solicited, implored;
No charm should move her lips to yield consent,
Till, like a lamb, she is led without consent;
Withholding to the last her sweet “I will,”
That she may drop it through the wedding ring.
Is it not so, my sweet? Well, well, good night;
We understand each other. For a woman
The finest gem in all her coronet
Is modesty; and Margaret, in thy sphere,
Amid the rude attacks and ribald jokes,
Still to retain the lustre of that gem,
Shows what a crown of studded virtues sits
Around these raven tresses! Dear, good night.

(Knocking on table within.)
[Exit Bradbury followed by Margaret.
Juniper
(within) sings.
Re-enter Margaret, who busies herself wiping glasses.
(Knocking on the table inside, and huzzaing.)

Enter from the inner room several gents, followed by Juniper. They go off, and he remains.
Juniper.
Walk slowly, gentlemen, I'll follow you.—
Now, darling dear, come, put away the towel:
Let Alice do the glasses. Why should you
Do all the sloppy work? You should have come
And sat beside us. Did you hear my songs?
Has Daddy Bradbury left? What an old fool that is!
Are all the yokels gone from the other rooms?
How quiet 'tis without them! Well, good night.
What, not a word to spare?

Margaret.
O, yes;—good night.

Juniper.
O, bother to its little saucy lips;
I'll make them speak.

[Kisses her, and exit.
Margaret.
How can you be so rude?

[Follows him, slapping him with the towel.

ACT II.

Scene I.

The Bar in the Inn.
Enter Reuben, looking up at the clock.
Reuben.
Peggy, your clock is wrong,—and yet this quiet
Corroborates the clock! One may almost
Discern the hours by anything; our clocks
Are needed but for minutes. In this house
Each hour has its own sound; for, even now,
This silence has a ring that tells the time.
The husbandman can note it in the field
By the peculiar creaking of his plough;
The housewife by the blinking of her fire;
And they that live in cities know the stride
Of any hour that walks along the streets.

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.
Now, where have you been raking to all night?
Perhaps you think I did not see you pass.
Pray, keep away your hand. Go chuck her chin
With whom you have been walking.

Reuben.
By this hand,
Thou hast thyself been with me all the night;
And, like the marble Venus of the wood,
Hast stood before me in the dusky shades.
I throned thee up in niches of the clouds,
To be admired by all night's gazing eyes;
And, from my bended knee up to thy throne,
My heart would leap to think thee all my own.

Margaret.
And by such leaps it overleaps the mark.
But do not think to cheat me with fine talk
Of marble Venuses and hearts that leap
Up from a bended knee. Be plain, confess,
That with some country lass you've been to-night
Hanging about the lanes.

Reuben.
'Twould wrong the sun,
And prove a man insane, if, in broad day,
To pick his steps he used a farthing light.

Margaret.
I grant the insanity, but not the wrong.
The monarch sun smiles at the little act.
He is not wrong'd more than his light is paled
By that poor farthing blaze; nor yet withholds
One ray from him that would insult his light.

Reuben.
Then be thou like the sun and feel no wrong.

Margaret.
O, do not think you wrong me: you may flirt
With all the country lasses in the place:
It makes no odds to me: not it, not it.

Reuben.
Thy busy brain hath spun both warp and woof,
And woven of itself this spider's web;
And love is wrestling in it like a fly.
Sit down and I will brush it from thy brain,
And loose the wingèd prisoner from its snare.
Sit down beside me and I'll tell thee all.

Margaret.
O, keep it to yourself. Pray, why should I
Be made to listen to your love affairs? (Sits down beside him.)

Impudent gipsies! What care I for them!

Reuben.
When first I cross'd the bridge to-night, this house
Buzzed like a hive with honest country men,
Who talk'd, and laugh'd, and sang all in a breath.
And thou wert on the move from room to room.
But why should I come in to sit and stare,
Without this luxury of sweet discourse;
To see thee at the beck of everyone,
And but a passing word, a smile, a glance,
Fall to my share—who would have all of them,
Compress'd, distill'd, served up on those red lips,
And drink their spirit thus?

(Kisses her.)
Margaret.
But not alone?

Reuben.
Not if thy sweet idea be a presence.—
On coming by the church, I met—

Margaret.
So, so!
I thought it would come out. Persuade me now
It was by chance, mere chance, you met her there.—
Now do not come so near me. Pray, keep off.
Who was she? But I do not want to know.

Reuben.
I met a cobbler coming by the church.
Reproof sits in thy unbelieving eyes;
But if the cobbler come not here to-night,
And witness this the truth, then may those eyes
Never again receive me in soft folds,
But be the hard impenetrable glass
That they are now.

Margaret.
I cannot, for my life,
See what can take you into woods alone
At these late hours, or any time alone.
I have no fellowship with anything
That smacks not of humanity; no love
For dusky shades, cold skies and mewling streams,
Unless they are alive with whisper'd words
Or ring with merry laughter; and mute night,
That, like a cockatrice with myriad eyes,
Sits staring at the earth, I hate and shun,
Making it day inside with cheerful lights.
Oh, frightful is that silence which redounds
The beat of one's own heart! And solitude,
In which we breathe the fume of our own thoughts,
Is no more pleasant than a smoky house.
Your musing, moping, solitary fits
Are a disease.

Reuben.
Of which be thou the cure.
There is a dancing spirit in thy veins
Which sets my blood on tiptoe. Let my breast
To thine lie nearer, love, so that my heart,
By sympathy, may time itself to thine.

Margaret.
O, not through bony ribs can hearts be moved,
But through the electric channels of the brain;
As, when some sudden news leaps in the ear,
The heart is on the instant beating time
To the music of that news; or when we read
Some stirring tale that gallops to a close,
The heart goes with it and obeys the theme.
If you would have your heart keep time with mine,
Be minded as I am.

Reuben.
Then, in my ear
Drop thou thy heart's best news, or let me read,
Within the stirring volume of those eyes,
The tale which I could wish might never close;
Or hand lock'd into hand, or lip to lip,
Or cheek heaved on the soft sea of thy breast;
Whichever way thy spirit may embue
My languid being with thy richer life!
And then, ah then!—

Margaret.
If you indeed were true—
If there were one true bosom amongst men,
And that were yours, I'd give myself unto it,
Confidingly as does a new built ship
Pass from her mother's arms into the sea—
Into the bosom of the fondling sea,
Who proudly bears away his new-made bride.

Reuben.
Yes, while in view of home, and all her friends,
He gently dallies with this maiden bride:
But when he takes her to his desert keep,
Far off into the friendless waste of waves,
A very Blue Beard does her lord become;
And having beaten her, he thrusts her down
In some vile dungeon, never to be seen:
Or spurns her from him on a foreign shore
To languish in neglect. Or if, perchance,
He brings her home again, a haggard thing,
It is to cast her on her parent's bosom,
Then run away and leave her. Faithless sea!
Yet, if my breast were true as the false sea,
The trim-built Peggy would resign herself
Unto it with the surety of a duck
That throws itself upon a glassy lake.

Margaret.
I almost think your eye does not deceive,
But may not trust your words.

Reuben.
Then take the eye.
Spirits out of the flesh could not deceive;
Their closest thoughts lie bare, and all may read.
The guile is in this clothing of the soul,
In which the only loop-holes are the eyes.
Think'st thou, my sweetest, we shall live and love
After this shabby habit is put off?

Margaret.
Most surely, yea. They tell us who best know.

Reuben.
Ah, that is why I doubt it; that we need
Telling at all—not born into the fact.
But do'st thou think, for ever? love for ever!
As much as we do now? O, heaven indeed!
Our earthly cares laid in an earthly grave,
And evermore to feel this luxury
Of being with each other—this deep pulse
That beats to the extremest edge of joy
In both our breasts at once, as from one heart,
Whose office is to give out love for blood!
Were it not heaven to be always thus,
Without the dread of coming separation?

Margaret.
Such is not heavenly love. The love you paint
Is deeply tinged with earth: it is, indeed,
Our greatest earthly care, and must go down
With all our lesser cares into the grave.
This ache o' the heart which we on earth call love,
Little befits us for the love in heaven.
It is too pure for our sin-spotted souls,
Which must be washed in the living blood of Christ,
Ere they can take the dye of heaven on.

Reuben.
But is not earth God's earth? He loves the best,
And lives the most, who fills the God-given cup
Of present capability to the brim—
E'en though he stain it with earth's blood-red wine,
Unfitting it for nectar. Change of drink
Will have a change of cup. But I want none,
Either of cup or drink. From this sweet thee
There overflows into my chaliced heart
A nectar which the gods themselves might sip,
And be the more celestial. Lay thy cheek
Here, love, and I will live upon its glow.
Hear'st thou the satisfaction of my heart
That bears so sweet a burden?—God! to die,
And be for ever thus!—Time, cease thy hours,
Arrest us in our deepest trance of joy,
That we, when thou art run, may so remain
Through the eternal day.

Margaret.
Reuben, my Heart!
Let us not go too deep in this god's cup,
For fear the dregs prove devil's drink.

Reuben.
Then, bring
Right sovereign ale, for here King Crispin comes.—
Politic prince! one who submits his rule
All to the understandings of his subjects,
Yet, stooping, takes the measure of their foot.
Inheriting the ancient virtue, he
Heels more than any doctor, cures more soles
Than all the curates of them: nor restricts
His bounty to their higher wants alone,
But sometimes adds to his poor subjects' corn;
Yea, bountifully administers his awl,
And measures out his mercy to the last.
O, worthy king of cobblers!

Enter Joseph. Exit Margaret.
Joseph.
Sweet King Love,
That would not talk of death and the old churchyard.
I see, I see; nor do I marvel thou
Should'st see an Eden in this sinful earth.
And, welt me, but this Eve of thine would make
A worse place Eden. The forbidden fruit
Might ripen in the sunshine of her eyes—
Ripen to heavenly sweetness; and the sin
Of taking it were such a tempting sin,
That angels might transgress and be forgiven.

Reuben.
What will you have, Joseph? Let us sit down inside.
I'll talk to you now about any mortal thing—
Aye, or immortal either. When the heart
Stands proudly on the top of its desires,
No longing unaccomplished, then the mind—
Perch'd high above the ambitious mists that creep
Out of the marshy troubles of our nature—
Sees far and clearly. Come: what shall we have?

[They pass into the inner room.

Scene II.

The Kitchen of the Inn. Mrs. Riccard sitting at a table with tea-things on it.
Mrs. Riccard.
Come, Margaret, come to supper; get them out:
It's time they were gone home.—Well, folks that keep
A public-house work harder for their living
Than he that breaks stones on the public road.
He stops when wearied, has the cheerful run
Of all the passers-by, yet none to serve.
His day ends with the dusk; his humble cot
Is his while in it; and when Night and Sleep
Go through the villages from door to door,
Gathering to blessed rest, he can obey.
And when the morning's level beam walks in
Upon his lowly floor, he wakes, as if
It were an angel stirring in the house—
Wakes gently and refresh'd: then plods to work,
Over the beaded grass, with songs of birds,
Pelting like raining music in his ears.—
Not such our life who must the public serve.
Though weary unto death we may not stop;
Fresh comers must be served. Our one day ends
Just where the next begins—at twelve at night!
There is no room in all this roomy house
But may be anybody's for three ha'pence—
And a glass of ale to the bargain. Any lout
May order like a lord; we humbly wait,
Screwing our faces to a gracious smile.
The cock that crows up all pure-living things,
Warns us, like guilty spectres, to our lairs,
To restless unregenerate repose;
And when we wake we scarce can name the day,
Our calendar having run all into one.—
But then, it pays, and money mends it all.
With us the worst is over: speedy wealth
Will give us long retirement. Best of days
Are those that fight up through a blustering morn;
And having clear'd the rifted clouds by noon,
Break out in azure, and go blithely down
The long slope of a sunny afternoon.—
Come, Margaret—come, my lass, I yawn for sleep;
Mine eyes nip and grow rheumy. Get them out—
It's little they'll drink now.—There is some wit
In knowing when to fill, when not to fill;
And there's a knack in getting people out.
When drink won't pay for light, it's time to stop.—
Now, come—are those two gone?

Enter Margaret.
Margaret.

Gone! bless yo, no. They seem set in for a two hours' sit, at least; and even that won't finish their subject. If I fill them another glass in half an hour, they'll not be half a minute advanced in their argument. It keeps no pace with the clock, and seems, indeed, more fitted for eternity than time. They

never meet, these two, but they are at it, as keen as knives and forks at a cheap dinner; but I see in them no corresponding diminution either of appetite or eatables. Their arguments are like splashing in water; they make a great frothy noise; but when that ceases, we find no impression made: the water might never have been touched, barring that it is muddier than they found it. Each seems not so much to listen to what the other says as to what himself says; not so much to consider what the other has said, as what he himself shall say next.

Mrs. Riccard.

You see they are both already full, each of his own conviction. Though both strive to convince, yet neither will hold any more; and that is why both speak, but neihter listens. I have always seen that gentlemen whose minds are made up and comfortably settled, the moment one begins a-talking to them, they likewise begin. It is like filling bottles that are already full.—But, Margaret, let me tell you this: you allow that Reuben too much his own way. You lay yourself too open to him. Men will push themselves far enough into a woman's affections without facilities given on her part. One in your position should be fenced about with thorns.

Margaret.

Now, mother, have you not often said that a pretty girl in a public-house—if she be judicious enough—is the making of it? Have you not often hinted to me

not to be too abrupt with gentlemen, but to linger rather over the serving of them, and give each of them, in turn, the smiling side of my face, so that he in particular might think he was the favoured one? And have you not often said that a sensible girl might allow great familiarities without any danger—such as a chuck under the chin, an arm thrown about her waist, or even, at times, an attempted kiss?

Mrs. Riccard.

Yes, through the fence; but the thorns should interfere, and make the intruder draw back.

Margaret.

Why, so they do. O, I can be throny enough, and sweet enough too—thorns and honeysuckle twined together. I'll warrant you, none shall take the one without feeling the other.

Mrs. Riccard.

I fear you with none so much as Reuben; and that is the reason of my counsel. For, looking through the lattice here into the bar to-night, I could see him fondling you, and pressing you to his lips, and devouring all your sweet breath, as if you had been a plucked rose that had lost its barbs; and I could see no attempt on your part to cast him off. Now, this is wrong—quite wrong—and very dangerous. Had he been a man of standing among folks;—if he had money, property, or a good business; if he had been a marriageable sort of man, it would have been another thing,

I could have said nothing; for, Margaret, you are getting into years, and must not lose your market. But him! Who is he? Nobody! What is he? Nothing! He is not known among respectable folks. Poor, drunken, half-witted creatures reckon a deal of him; but that is a bad sign. He spends all he gets, and has nothing to fall back upon. Like most other of your hangers-on, I daresay he thinks if he could get you he would have nothing to do but hang up his hat —which is all his moveable property—and sit himself down, with all his personal effects.

Margaret.

A little more sugar in this—I mean a little more tea —yet, wait a little till I taste again. Well, I don't know what it wants.

Mrs. Riccard.
Why, child, your lips have lost all taste.

Margaret.

Ay, so it seems—at least your lecturing would make it appear so.

Mrs. Riccard.

My lecturing! Oh! Well, my lass, you know it's for your own good. If a husband were a thing for gratifying your lips merely, I should not object even to Reuben; but a husband cannot be held as a sweetmeat and no more, he cannot be shut up in a cupboard, a secret to all but yourself. No, the world

persists in knowing that you have a husband; and, go where you may, his reputation goes with you, whether he be there or not. A woman rises or sinks to her husband's level—loses her own character and name, and takes on his. She is no longer whom she was, but So-and-so's wife. And as nothing but substance now-a-days can raise people up, we that are up should beware of being dragged down. Above all things, Margaret, shun a poor man. Look at your cousins, they are all respectably married. What would they say—what would the world say—if you were to marry the like of Reuben?

Margaret.

Why, mother, what makes you talk of marriage in earnest? I thought it was only your usual mirth that was venting itself. You know my reasons well enough for playing with these men-mice. I can crush any of them on the instant when it suits me. Trust me, I know better than you seem to be aware of how far to let them transgress into my favours. As for going the length of marriage! bless your heart! and with Reuben too! a man we should have to keep. Why, to suggest such a thing is equal to suspecting that I am not your daughter.

Mrs. Riccard.

I am not so much afraid that you go the length of marriage, as that you overstep it and go farther.

Margaret.

Ah, I see what you mean, but there again you belie

your own maternity. Am I not of your own bringing up, mother? I do just as you would do were you as I am, and kept pace with the times. If I seem in your eyes to outrage discretion a little, just reflect how manners are changed since you were young.

Mrs. Riccard.

Aye, manners are changed, like dress; but when young folks come together, and love gets in between them, the ancient souls and bodies of all our young days are found breaking through both manners and dress. The blood of our first parents runs down all the centuries, and this is seen in nothing so much as in the love between man and woman. I would not have you trust too much to the custom of the times. It is but the froth upon life's stream. Old nature runs strong beneath it, and is ever tumbling up and shouldering aside the giddy bubbles. Your changed manners are not a footing that I could like to venture on. If they are the glittering froth upon the stream, they are also the treacherous ice. People skip gaily enough over it for a time, but a sudden stroke of nature, like a sunbeam, melts it, and they fall through.—

(Knocking within.)
Enter Margaret.
[Exit Mrs. Riccard.

Margaret.

Scene III.

The Bridge. Reuben and Joseph.
Reuben.
What light is this? It cannot be the dawn!
No—see the moon straight up above our heads,
Her face bent earnestly down on this spot,
As full of wonderment as one that looks,
With bright enchanted eyes, into a nest.

Joseph.
A lark's nest, with two eggs, down in the grass.
But do you not see two moons? I see two!
And, by the mass, they jostle one another,
And try to get into each other's place.
Something's to happen—we have seen two moons!

Reuben.
No—only one; and she is still as Faith.
The ale has put your eyeballs out of gear;
They do not pull together. Their old bond
Of partnership dissolved, each has set up
Upon its own account; and thus your brain
Sees one moon twice at once, and thinks it twain.

Joseph.
My brain sees twice the words, and twice the trouble
That need be used to say I am seeing double.—
Well, drink works great divorcement in a man!
His eyes, which God hath join'd; it puts asunder;
His tongue becomes a traitor to the state,
Of which his head is king; his arms throw down
Industrious trades and handicrafts, and rise
In idle high rebellion; and his legs
Pay swaggering fealty, or quite throw off
All manner of allegiance; till at length
The lords are driven from their seats i' the brain,
And leave no government in all the land.
Then rocks the throne, down comes the kingly head,
Clod-hopping feet are up, and in his stead.

Reuben.
I never felt a softer light than this:
It lies about the soul like folds of silk.
Yet does it seem unearthly. See the road,
How lank and pale and like a corpse it lies!
How like two ghosts we stand upon the bridge,
And, ghost-like, cast no shadow!

Joseph.
By my brogues,
And neither do we! But I seem to stand—
Not very like a ghost—on mine own hat!

Reuben.
The bridge strides like a mammoth skeleton,
Its big bones weather-bleach'd ten thousand years.—

Joseph.
Four thousand years before the world began!

Reuben.
I think I hear the moaning of the sea!—
Though no external sound be in the ear,
Yet, if we listen, we can hear a sound
Coming from depths within. So when the earth
Is speechless, and the air has ceased to breathe,
Then in the night's vast ear the sea is heard,
Though miles and miles away. I never hear
That voice, hoarse-toned and ancient, but I feel
The embedded ages pressing on my soul.
It comes with all their burdens in its moan;
And I am crush'd into the merest grain
Of rock that tides build in a million years!—

Joseph.
Lord, how he adds and multiplies! A man,
Thus reckon'd, might be Adam's grandfather.
The earth itself but counts six thousand years—

Reuben.
Crush'd from my place in Time! But living souls
Can travel to the very brink of Time
And look a stage beyond it; and though lost,
There on the marge of the eternal gulf,
'Tis higher life to be sublimely lost
Than keep one place in Time, and stop within
The little circuit that we think we know.—
A thought can crush the soul to nothingness!
But if it be the soul that form'd the thought,
Is there not hope that it will rise again?
Mind's weakness is its strength if when it sinks,
It be beneath the weight itself creates.

Joseph.
I never knew thee worse of drink till now—
And this is sober drunkness. Thou hast ta'en
Glass after glass with me till I've been blind,
Then with another till he could not stand,
And with a third till he went mad and raved;
Yet who can say he ever saw thee drunk?

Reuben.
Not you, if you were blind. But what of that?
I could be drunk, if I liked, upon one glass,
Or sober after fifty. There is none
Of all the spirits stronger than the will.

Joseph.
It must be taken first, then—and unmix'd.—
But, come, will you go home with me to-night?
I have a butt of prime ale in the house,
And we can drink until it's time to rise.

Reuben.
Some other time I'll taste it—not to-night.
The night is past! Look, in the east, the clouds
Are shifting like the scenes upon a stage,
Preparing for the entrance of a star.
How busy all is there! And, see, the hills
Have turn'd their shining faces to the east,
And throb with expectation.

Joseph.
High in air
The two lights struggle. 'Tis a fight between
A golden eagle and a silvery snake,
And I know which will conquer.

Reuben.
So do I:
For as the snake's is borrow'd flight,
So the moon's is borrow'd light;
The sun that lends will conquer. Let us go
Before their bright blood shed on us; for soon
'Twill sparkle on the dew-tips of the grass.—
Good morning—for the morning is begun.

Joseph.
Nay, nay, good night—all's night above the sun.

[Exit.
Reuben.
The air this side the keystone is at least
A breathing nearer her. It may have play'd
About her lips in sleep, and even now
Be laden with dream kisses meant for me.
I have but parted from her and my heart
Hungers and thirsts to be with her again.
But certain hours of sleep—at least of bed—
And then a drudging day, and tasteless meals,
Stretch like a wilderness between the times
Of parting and of meeting. Thus, I find
That, when far off the object of my joy,
I pant in every limb to hunt it down.
But when within my grasp, I am content
To catch the mere idea of my joy:
I fondle it in thought, and would delay
The inexorable hour that drives me on.—
By this, sleep lies about her like a bath,
All warm and breathing round her lovely form;
And I so near her yet that, but for walls,
I could look in upon her charmèd rest,
And watch the dreaming thought upon her lip.
But like a pearl within a deep-sea shell
She lies with all her beauty to herself,
And is unconscious of it. Beauty is lost
If no soul drinks it in: and here I parch
The while it flows to loss. But as the air
Is dower'd with the beauty that earth wastes,
So my imagination is enrich'd
With that my love is wasting. The sweet air
Owes all its sweetness to the abundant earth;
And there is not a sweet thought in my brain
But comes, my love, from thee.

[Exit.

ACT III.

Scene I.

Reuben's parlour. Jane sitting at the breakfast table.
Jane.
Already comes the morning sun across
To lick the shadows from our side the street,
And noisy children shift their playing ground
To bask like flies i' the heat. Outside, the day
Is thoroughly awake—indeed half done,
While here, inside, it seems not yet begun. (Rings bell.)

The greater part of life is spent in waiting
To do that which the other never does.
My appetite is sated through the eyes,
Waiting for Reuben, who leaves his in bed;
Or if he bring it with him, his affairs
Step in 'tween it and the meal. Breakfast with him
Is but the flourish of the instruments
Before a piece of music left unplay'd.

Enter Mary.
Mary.

Please, Miss, he's only been two or three hours in bed, Miss; and he does not sleep such a terrible deal, Miss; his key never comes to the door, not much before I get up, and good broad daylight, too, Miss, and the sun shining; and boots just awful to clean, Miss, and ------

Jane.
Well, do as I bid you.

Mary.

He pass'd me in the lobby just as I went to let in the sweeps, and they kept bawling in the chimney a full hour at least, Miss; and no wonder he doesn't get up; and, I'm sure, if you was me—that is, if I was you ------

Jane.
Now, now; that's enough. [Exit Mary.

He ever was a wanderer of the night,
Yet seldom past night's noon. When he returned
We saw he had not been in vicious ways;
He came as from a bath of meditation,
Its freshness still about him; in his eyes
A mild light, got with looking in the moon,
And all his nature dimpling as a spring
Of sweet good humour, mellow as rich cream.
So am I not untroubled by the change
That, like a sudden rack on a fleet wind,
Has over-run his life, and hung a cloud
Between him and this little world of home.
I feel not now the warm beams of his heart;
His presence lacks the soul; in through his eyes
I see no moving tenant, but the mould
And desolation of a haunted house.
His outward garniture bespeaks a lover;
But worthy love within illumes a ruin—
Gives it the semblance of a lighted fane;
He loves unworthily, if he love at all.
I've used my artfullest wiles to incline his heart
Towards my friend Eliza, my best friend;
'Tween whom and me needs but a brother's love
To make us more than sisters. But in vain.
He cannot see how dotingly her soul
Pours out its wealth on him; nor can he see
How much her virtues even exceed the bound
Of my great estimate. With such a one,
How prosperous were the matrimonial voyage,
So often jarr'd by storms.

Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
My breakfast, Jane.
You should have waked me sooner. Sleep's a vice
Confoundedly tenacious of its hold.
Like all the little vices, it will claim
That as its due to-morrow which to-day
We give by way of favour.

Jane.
True enough;
But hunger'd creatures are not to be blamed
For over-feeding when they get the chance.
You bedded late last night.

Reuben.
Yes, pretty late.
How over-hot this coffee is for haste!

Jane.
I did not hear you coming in last night.
At what time came you, did you say?

Reuben.
Past twelve.
You should have had it pour'd ere I came down.

Jane.
I'll bring it cold enough,

[Exit Jane.
Reuben.
Past twelve! and yet,
'Twas but a quarter—of a day—past twelve.—
I trust they hanged him that invented clocks.
Not only do they lie among themselves,—
They are the most prolific cause of lies,
Quibble, and deceit, in us who would be true.
Had not the steeples with their babbling tongues
Rung all the morning hours into my ear,
I had been ignorant, and could not lie.
It were a virtuous world without a clock!
Yet virtue come of ignorance never raised
A soul one step to heaven: therefore, those things
That prompt us to our sins and teach the way,
Are ministers of virtue and of heaven.—
I never can escape that infinite circle.
In argument I reach the self-same point,
Whichever way I turn; and thus I find
I never can become a partizan.

[Rises to go.
Re-enter Jane.
Jane.
Now, try a cup of this. What, done already!
You've taken nothing! Do begin again.

Reuben.
Thank you, I've eaten heartily, very heartily;
So heartily, indeed, my heart is full.

Jane.
I'd rather that your stomach were. But stay,
I want to speak to you. This afternoon
I go to spend the evening with Eliza,
Who accuses us that we do not return
Her frequent visits hither. I will go
Early, and take my needlework, and you
Will come and fetch me home.

Reuben.
Well, but—I have—
That is—at least—I—you—and then—you see—
But yet, it may keep fair—it may, it may.

Jane.
Keep fair! look out—there's not a flake in the sky!
But what although it come a glittering shower!
There's many a sheltering tree along the way.
Nothing so pretty as the summer rain,
Shooting like silver arrows from the sun,
Darting and pattering on the leafy shield
Above one's head. How pleasant when it fairs,
To step again into the beamy day,
Along the reeking hedgerows, while the thorns
Wink with their little eye-drops! And how sweet
To hear the bees resume their droning song,
The woods, the bushes, the blue sky itself
Break out in bells of music, as the cloud
That brought the shower lifts up its skirts and limps
Northward beneath the bright and shiny bow
That spans the valley. If you think 'twill rain
I cannot choose but go. Say, then, you'll come.

Reuben.
Of course; but then, you'll stay so late; and then,—
But yet, I'll come—if I can find the way.
Perhaps I'll find it.

Jane.
If you would, you will.
You cross the river by the wooden bridge—
You know the way right well!—then straight along
The ruin'd tram-road where the rank grass whistles
Over the broken rails, and toad-stools gaze,
With blind eyes, from the sides of rotten planks,
And nettles, thistles, hemlock and dischilaig,
'Mong wrecks of waggons and overturn'd wheels,
Infect the mind with sadness—

Reuben.
Ah, you mean
The broken bridge that crosses the canal
Near to its head or end. It is indeed
The melancholiest picture of decay,
In midst of thriving traffic, I have seen!
The sodden punts lie swamp'd up to the lips;
The green sink is long dead, and yet alive,
With reptile and with vegetable life;
It bocks and bubbles, and anon a toad
Raises a black snout through the slimy scum,
Startles the dead dogs with a horrid croak,
Then back to slime and silence. Round the marge
The long rank grass and fat unwholesome docks
Harbour the water-rat and bloated worm;
And all around, fragments of strange machines,
Invented and then left to rust and rot.

Jane.
You know very well that's not the way I mean,
But quite the opposite. When you have cross'd
The river—not canal—and gone along
The little ancient railway till you come
To the second lane on the right, you turn down that,
Pass an old lime-kiln and a white-wash'd house,
And on and on, leaving, upon your left,
An old house with three gables, and a date
Carved quaintly on the lintel of the door;
Then onward, crossing by a one-arch'd bridge
A sluggish little stream; and then your road
Winds round a small wood, deafen'd with noisy rooks.
There, in a bed of roses and sweet briars,
You come upon a cottage roof'd with straw.
You'll know it by the taste—indeed, sweet thoughts
It breathes around it; by the little green,
And by the antique dial 'fore the door,
The honeysuckle tangling to the eaves,
The narrow casements curiously set
With stain'd glass like a chapel. That is it.

Reuben.
Ah—bridge—white-house and tram-road—right and left;
And then the old lime-kiln on the one-arch'd bridge;
Then the house with the seven gables. Let me see—
You'll leave Eliza's, say at half-past six;
I'll meet you at the seven-gabled house.
Till then—

[Going.
Jane.
(following)
Nay, stop; why that's the loneliest part,
The very dreariest bit of all the road!
I'll stay until you come, however late.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A room in Eliza's Cottage. Enter Eliza, opening letters.
Eliza.
(Reads.)

“Thanks to the tides, or to the moon who sways them, I shall see you once again before I sail. It will be the day after to-morrow before we can float. O, Eliza! bethink you seriously of our last interview. You sent me away with my soul toss'd on a sea of uncertainty. Heaven sends me one opportunity more. Be prepared to decide my fate for ever. On you it depends, whether I return in two short years, prosperous and happy, or find a home—perchance a grave—on some barbarous shore. My soul knows but one haven of refuge, and that is your breast. Let me depart in the divine trust that to it I may freely return. To-morrow evening I will be with you. Edward.”

“Dearest Eliza,—You often tell me that I owe you twenty visits. Well, this very day I will pay the half of them with one long one. I shall be with you early in the afternoon, and stay until Reuben comes for me. This is to apprise you of my coming, that you may not otherwise dispose of yourself. Meantime, I am, affectionately yours, Jane.”

[Exit.

Scene III.

A street. Enter two gentlemen.
First Gent.
Yes, we have many instances of love
As sudden as the shooting of a star—

Second Gent.
Coming to nothing, like a shooting star.

First Gent.
Not so.—I grant, some finer looking men,
And many richer, may have fill'd her gaze;
But love stands not on looks,—a lip, a nose,
Although of import in the general mind,
Is little thought of when love makes a choice.
They tell us that in heaven all are fair:
So love with angel-eyes looks through the flesh,
And sees the heavenly features even here.
Then, as to wealth, with her of whom I speak,
That cannot be an object; for, in short,
The old man's rich, and she an only child.

Second Gent.
I cannot think such progress could be made
In one short interview.

First Gent.
Yourself shall judge.
To-night they give a treat to some few friends—
Their customers. She said I must be there,
And if you'll meet me here at half-past eight,
Ill take you with me.

Second Gent.
No, I'll meet you there:
The Bar is public, I presume.

First Gent.
Agreed.

[Exit.
Second Gent.
What folly to conclude upon a glance—
Yea, but a twinkle of that fine black eye,
Which she perforce must give to all that come,
Or not be there at all! That he must love
Is only the necessity of all
Who see her. But that she dotes in return
Is equally their folly to suppose.—
He'll take me with him! Take! How strange to me,
Who was, of course, the first that she invited!
He's but a stranger to the house. He'll blush
For these his soft revealments when he sees
Me paramount to-night! And, strange to say!
This is the very friend I thought to make
Groom at our wedding. Had I but prevail'd
Last night on Margaret to name the day,
I should have broach'd the subject even now,
And quench'd his passion ere it burnt his heart.—
'Tis better as it is. I have observ'd
That what we've said is oftener regretted
Than what we should have said but have omitted.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

—A Street. Bradbury outside, surveying his shop window.
Bradbury.
Methinks I have displayed unusual taste,
A readier art and quicker expedition,
In hanging out my bannerets to-day:
My hands seem quicken'd with a conqueror's heart,
And everything I touch slips bravely through them.
As schoolboys at the approach of holidays,
So I, who am almost on the happy eve
Of still diviner days, address myself
As lightly to my task as if 'twere none.
The theory is, we summon up the nerve
Of all our coming idleness, and do
With force of many hours, the work of one. (Draws from his pocket a note, and reads.)

“Supper at nine,” she says, “and then a dance.”
A dance! 'Tis awkward, very! Had it been
A mental thing!—It matters not, but thus
To shuffle all one's self-respect away—
Excuse me, love, I have not learnt the way.—
But let me catch her deeper sense: it needs
Profounder study, larger grasp of mind,
In him that truly reads than him that wrote;
For he must grasp subject and writer both,
And see their wants ere he see all they mean.
With fine naiveté and pertinence she writes,
“Fools we shall have in plenty; but I trust
“That Bradbury will bear with all.” Just so;
And her unwritten thought is clearly this:
That she expects I will not join this troop
Of light feet and light heads, but keep aloof,
And with a patron-majesty look on:
Yes, sit sedately by the old man's side
And smoke a quiet pipe, drop shrewd remarks,
And look approvingly—well pleased to see
Such innocent enjoyment, yet withal
Bearing myself as in a higher sphere.—
“Make no advances to me; you will learn
“Reasons for this ere long.” I see them now—
Yes, thanks to this,

(Tapping his forehead)
Enter Juniper and Friend.
Juniper.
Good morrow, daddy. Got your window dress'd?
Fine display. Splendid shawl that! Gaudy, though!
Coming down to-night, eh? Dance, you know.
Good morning, daddy

[Exeunt.
Bradbury.
“Fools we shall have in plenty.” Verily,
Of all the fools she mentions, he is king!
An empty-headed pack! I scorn them all.
Of such, however, we, the shrewd, the 'cute,
Our profits make, in every branch of trade.
They are the life-blood of the taverns,
And therefore I will teach myself to bear,
To “bear with all,” for Margaret and the house.

[Exit.

Scene V.

Corner of the Market-place. Car, selling vegetables.
Car.

Not twelve o'clock yet! I wish it was neet! Can onybody tell me if that clock bees stonin'? It doesn't look to me to move a bit! Yet it did tak' a stert when I look'd a while the other way.—Supposing it was twelve now, how long would that be while eight? Add twelve from eight. No, substract twelve to eight. You cannot. Put down your ought and then reduct. Why, it's more till a whole day put together; which is some error.—Howsomever, I must goa to the Brig at eight. Merget said nine; but it's best to be in time. (Enter a woman, who looks at the vegetables.)
Two-pence a stone missus. (Woman goes away.)
Verra weel; yo needn't buy them. It's dirt cheap for turmits.—I doant need to lower my price now for no woman. I want to leave the merket with a good character; so that hucksters will say, “He was a rare good chap was Richard for keepin' up prices.” “Prices has never been what they was since Richard wed Merget and went to the Brig.” “It was a ill day for aur trade when Richard sterted landlord.” “But a man has a reet to better hissel', and here's wishin' his verra good health.”—Yonder comes Wheeler, one o' them town swells that would like to catch Merget. But hoo wouldn't have a town's mon on no account.

Town's folk is actiwally not worth a leek, and quite as green.

Enter Wheeler.
Wheeler.
(aside)

There's Car the gardener. I met him on the road half drunk last night, shouting to everyone that passed, “My name is Richard Car, or Dick, if you will. I'll be wed to Merget Riccard in a week, and never sell a turmit nor a green thing no more.”—Good morning, Richard. I hear you are going to be married and turn landlord.

Car.

What, down at the Brig? Nay, nay, Measter Wheeler, Merget would never take the like o' me. You've the best chance yonder.

Wheeler.

I once thought so, Richard. She's an excellent wench, and a pretty. But she wants a man that knows gardening and farming; and that's just the reason she's taking you in preference to me.

Car.

Hoo always said hoo would have nowt but a country mon. But I howp yo'll take no offence, Measter Wheeler. It's not my fault yo knoan. Yo'll not leave the house will yo?

Wheeler.

Leave the house! Hang it, no! I'll take my glass

as usual. Why, man, although I know you and she will be man and wife in a week, yet shall I be down to-night, and perhaps dance a quadrille with her, if you'll let me.

Car.

You'll be vastly welcome, Measter Wheeler; for I'm nowt at cowreels mysel'. I've been too much at cow heels for that,—ha, ha, ha!

Wheeler.

You've that to thank for your good fortune, Richard. (Thanks to the tailor's ring, I can afford to joke on this subject.) Good morning, Richard.

[Exit.

Car.

Good day, Measter Wheeler.—He's a verra nice gentlemany gentleman that.—I must go, though; for there will be nowt more done to-day.—Merget's been telling him all about it, I can see; and he taks it weel—verra weel. I thowt he would be vext, but he wasn't; for he sees it isn't my fault.

(Loads his barrow, preparing to leave the market, and sings.)

It's a very lamancholy sweet song; and if I could bethink me of the rest of it, I would sing it over all day; for I'll be like to give it them at neet. So I'll goa and bethink me.

[Exit.

Re-enter Wheeler, with Greene.
Greene.

—because, if you have not given it her I would rather ------

Wheeler.
But I have given it her.

Greene.
I would rather ------

Wheeler.
But I tell you I have given it her.

Greene.
Are you quite certain of that?

Wheeler.
How could I be uncertain?

Greene.
And how did she take it?

Wheeler.
O, not with the tongs—gingerly.

Greene.

I mean, how did she look? What did she say or think? In short, how did the thing take?

Wheeler.

Well, she looked as if she had been newly shaken out of a bag; and when she came to herself, she said it was a sweet pretty thing, kissed it, and put it on her finger. What she thought, I could not swear to, but I flatter me she wished such brotherly love might continue. In short, the thing took just as I expected it would; and of this you shall shortly be convinced. So, go on and prosper, my boy. (Slapping him on the shoulder.)
Good-day.

[Exit.

Greene.

It might be well to prosecute this thing, and not tamely give it up, as I had determined. My battle, it would seem, is half fought by this ally of mine, her brother. And the prize! Why, it may not be so bad after all. She's extremely pretty, and I love her distractedly

—with the single exception that she has this brother. But the old fellow's rich, and even the half would not be bad. Then, there's the business: Margaret is sole manager now, and must inevitably inherit it; for that rattletrap could not settle to it. Besides, I will encourage him to drink, and we all know the up-shot of that. Yes, yes, my course seems perfectly clear. But I'll first make the necessary inquiries as to the will, &c. Oh, yes, I'll be cautious not to commit myself. They shan't have an action out of me.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

Scene I.

—A Country Road.
Enter Reuben.
Reuben.

[Exit.

Scene II.

The Garden and Grounds about Eliza's Cottage. Enter Eliza and Jane.
Eliza.
The shadows lengthen, and the afternoon
Already puts an evening sadness on;
And so should I, Jane, had you not been here.

Jane.
Your senses dream all inwardly: awake!
Look with me, and behold how glad we are.
There's not a branch but has its little throat
Loading the air with melody; light winds
Steal through the garden, kissing the pretty flowers—
How sweet their breath is as they trip away!
That brook that prattles at the foot o' the green,
O list how glad it is! And do you hear
The oaten rustle of yon full-eared fields—
Suggesting harvest-homes?

Eliza.
I hear and see
Their bodies, but their spirits, where are they?
They come to you, being in harmony;
I lean my ear upon the throbbing air,
And hear my own heart—not the spirit tongues
That drop their music into ears attuned.
We know not what we lose, being unprepared.
Seers and hearers tell most dream-like things;
Yet who shall misbelieve them and be sure
That he is not the dreamer?

Jane.
It is true.
Our faculties, not nature, limit us;
And every new development doth find
Its object hath been waiting. But I know
You did but speak the momentary mood
When you bewailed the want of harmony:
For we have ever with a similar eye
Beheld the self-same beauty in a flower;
Our ears have caught the same particular notes
That many hear not on the wafting air;
And evermore our lips would speak the thought
That had arisen in the other's mind.
Therefore I think some passing cloud or mist,
Or it may be the gathering of love,
Has come between you and the souls of things.

Eliza.
Love comes not like a mist, nor does it throw
The shadow of an interposing cloud;
But rather, like a new created orb,
Adds lustre to our firmament—a sun
That wakes us out of night and gives new day—
In whose revealing light all dusky things
Assume their brightest meanings.

Jane.
But the sun
Doth ever rise in cloud or haze; if, then,
Love be the orb that rules our day of life,
It, like the sun, may have a misty rise.
Love sits on the horizon of thy day,
And looks with moist eyes o'er the dew. But see!
Thy heaven is blue above; when love stands there,
Eliza will be bright again.

Eliza.

Jane.
Ay. Be it e'er so simple, e'er so rude,
I doubt not even Heaven will lend an ear.

Eliza.
Three times a-day, at morn and noon and even,
Do sweet religious bells call me to prayer.
First, at the gray and earliest wink of dawn,
The mellow-throated blackbirds of this brake,
Send soft devotional peals along my sleep;
And when I waken into real thought,
'Tis not like tearing from a blessed dream,
But a continuation of the dream,
For still the soft peals come. Then I arise,
And, stepping forth into the morn, behold
The sun at orisons upon a bank
Far in the east, and with his lowly beams
Clasping the whole earth to his loving breast.
The grass, the hedges, yea the rankest weeds
So dazzle with the sapphire dew, that earth
Seems all a paradise, whose very dust
Is pearls and precious stones.—The dimpling well
That laves the entrance to this hallow'd grove
Receives my first obeisance. There I drink.
Pure water is the symbol of pure life:
The morning draught should be a daily pledge;
And inasmuch as 'tis the God-given wine
That comes direct from Nature, so we reach
The immediate Presence, even by that thought.
It is the ruling feature of all things,
And that which makes each kin to all, that we,
By passing into them, still come to God.
What can we more beyond the Eternal Thought,
Which in itself is sermon, hymn, and prayer—
The sole heart of my service? So I pace
This quiet sward to find it; and when found,
It is the inauguration of a day
On which all things go heavenward: the birds
Sing hymns, the flowers in sweet odours pray;
The herd boy's whistle, and the mower's song,
With sound of sharpening scythes, seem all to ring
Of innocence and Eden.—I return
To household duties, to a simple meal,
And find the consecration on them all.

Jane.
And this your matin service! But I see
It's all thought service. You should give, I think,
At least one voiced hymn to the morning; thus:—

Eliza.
The thoughts are good, and wonderfully sung,
Considering how untunable the measure.—
I would augment my service with a hymn,
And have a heart for music; but my ear
Is spoil'd, I think, with living near a wood.
Therefore I'll leave that part to you.

Jane.
Describe
Your noontide service then; and if a hymn
Arise by nature from it, I shall sing.
All song should seem spontaneous, if 'tis not.

Eliza.

Jane.
Somewhat indefinite service, is it not?

Eliza.
I do not know; but if it be, 'tis well—
You have the greater license for the hymn.

Jane.
Spare me your comments and proceed to eve.

Eliza.

Jane.
Amen. The conscience is indeed God's voice;
It cannot be out-reason'd; therefore 'tis
The reflex of a higher mind than ours.
As well earth burn the sun out with her fires,
As we by argument put out this light.

Eliza.
See! Evening, with the eyelids almost closed,
Looks through their long dusk lashes, half in dream,
And passes softly into deeper sleep.
Sing us a hymn and then we'll go along.

Jane.
[Exeunt.

Enter Reuben.
Reuben.

[Exit.

ACT V.

Scene I.

A Room in Eliza's Cottage.
Eliza.
He loves not me—he may love, but not me.
My heart o'erflow'd its love into his eyes,
The conduits of his heart; it filter'd through,
And seem'd to leave in him nought but the sands.
His presence, constantly, would drain my heart,
Which, getting no return, would cease to love.
Were all the dews earth breathes into the air
Not lavish'd back again upon the earth,
Parch'd earth would soon have nothing more to give.
Better be mateless, then, than match'd with him.
Better! Harsh argument! It could not be:
He is not to be reason'd from my heart.
Yet, would that I had seen one hope of Spring
In all the Winter of his speech—one beam
Behind that black ice of his eye, to tell
There was a coming Summer in his heart.
But there was none; and when he took my hand
To bid Good night, I felt 'twas but a hand
That touch'd me, not a spirit.—While he stayed
I could not realise the full despair,
For mine he was, as much as eyes could hold:
But when he went, without one poor exchange—
A look, a sigh, on which a thought might hang,—
O misery! But peace: thy bitter dregs,
Sweet Hope, I drain, and throw away the cup.—
I've pour'd my soul into a fine ideal,
Imagined it a lover, and loved that.
Away, sweet dream, that seem'd my waking day!
Be what thou art, a dream; and, like most dreams,
Leave not on memory one scratch of truth
By which thy foolish reign might be recall'd. (Knocking without.)

Edward? Ah me! I had forgot the sad
Announcement of his coming here to-night.—
The loved unloving gone, and in his stead
The unloved loving.

Enter Edward.
Edward.
Eliza, by the weather in your face
I read sweet summer changes. Why, you stand
Like blue-eyed April, looking through her showers.
But whence the tears—the showers?

Eliza.
From the clouds.

Edward.
Ay, but the clouds, Eliza, whence are they?

Eliza.
The sun exhaled them from this little earth,
And when he set, they rain'd.

Edward.
Were I your sun
I'd never set, nor leave so loved an earth.
But truce to these poor similes—they limp.—
Eliza!—

Eliza.
Edward!

Edward.
Ah! what need for speech?
You know what I would say.

Eliza.
I do, I do:
And therefore will I use no idle speech:
I scorn to trifle with an earnest heart.

Edward.
Perfection perfected! Yet speak not thus
If afterwards you do not mean to grant
This heart the prize due to its loyalty:
But rather let each word make less your worth,
If I'm to be the loser of it all.

Eliza.
If you can keep a secret, here is one:—
You shall not lose—

Edward.
O heaven!—

Eliza.
Till you possess.

Edward.
Who scorn'd to trifle with an earnest heart?—
I'll risk the loss, if you will the possession.

Eliza.
But you are going on a tedious voyage:
Full twenty moons will fill their orbs and wane,
Ere Time redeem the pledges of our troth.
Love's moon itself may wane with you ere that.
Urge me no further now: when you return,
If then—

Edward.
The doubt would kill me long ere then!
My life is poison'd with the hope deferr'd;
The food I eat is poison'd, and my sleep;
And I am neither nourish'd nor refresh'd:
I die even now. But ah! thou hast not known
The agony of unrequited love.

Eliza.
(aside)
A kindred sorrow kindles love: our hearts
Are nearer by the binding of a grief.

Edward.
What would'st thou say, Eliza? With a word
Thou could'st so sweetly medicine my soul,
That none of all life's ills could e'er again
Infect my being.

Eliza.
And if that could be,
It were itself the greatest ill. We live
By overcoming ills; and to be freed
From feeling them were hopeless death. But no,
That may not be: the present gone, 'twill seem
That but some other ill has push'd it out,
And stands there in its stead.

Edward.
Yet is it well
To think the present ill shall be our last,
Lest, feeling there's no end of them, we rest
Desponding in the old, and thereby miss
The very uses of adversity.
Then, let me conquer the impediment
To present bliss, and I'll be doubly steel'd
For those that have to come.—But list! O love,
The wind has whistled, and I know the tide
Is almost waiting for me. 'Tis no time
To analyse fine sentiments. In brief,
Wilt thou be mine, Eliza—mine for aye?

Eliza.
(aside)
Alas! What should I say? He loves me not;
Nor show'd that night of love that closed him in,
One ray to herald whence a dawn might come.
Why am I fascinated with despair?
Ah, wherefore can the ghost of an idea
Lay hands upon my will? Away thou shade! (To Edward.)

Edward, forgive me, I am not myself:
I have no mind; take answer as thou wouldst.

Edward.
I will not bid thee speak it: plighted troth
Has stood ere now on the unspoken word
As firmly as on parchment. I can read
The unwritten contract even in thy face.
To such a bond be this the fitting seal. (Kissing her.)

Now fare-thee-well, Eliza!

Eliza.
Nay, not yet.
Come in and eat; and, while we sit, trace all
Your voyage on the map, that day by day
I may keep reckoning of your whereabouts.
I'll keep a daily journal of the winds,
Read dissertations on the law of storms,
Be up in latitudes and longitudes,
And in the papers turn to Vessels spoken with,
Even before Births, Marriages and Deaths.

Edward.
The speedy winds shall be our messengers.
The one that stirs your poplars here to-day
May fill my sails to-morrow. Therefore give
Each breeze sweet greeting, and a word for me.
I'll entertain the rudest for your sake,
And speed them round to you with freights of love.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Green before the Inn. The Inn lighted up. Music, dancing and laughter within.
Enter Reuben.
Reuben.
How swiftly flies the heart on wings of love!
Mine has been here an hour since, and my feet
Have hardly yet o'ertaken it.—I hear
The beat of Margaret's foot amid the dance.
It comes into my soul like a sweet strain
Play'd in the midst of thunder. As I came
Over the bridge, her gorgeous figure dash'd
Across the lighted blind; my spirit leapt,
And even my arms involuntarily stretch'd
To clasp the instant beauty. O, my brow,
Flaming with thoughts of her, pants to be bathed
In the luxurious bath of her dark hair.
That battery of love, her burning lips,
I almost shrink from touching the first time
After the absence of a day, an age;
The shock of ecstasy runs into pain. (Laughter within.)

'Tis her's, that dulcet laugh that ripples through
The harsh-lipp'd merriment. She is the flute
Amid the brazen music.—Here comes one
Reel'd from the dance, all puffing hot and soil'd,
And beaded as a haggis newly boil'd.

[Exit Reuben into the Inn, passing Spanker, who comes from it.
Spanker.
Hot work! hot work! But O, that maid divine!
Riches of womankind! Yea, each one's good
Collected and transfused into one best!
And now to think, to feel this treasure mine!
Did I not say she'd be a mine, indeed,
That I might work at leisure? Leisure! nay,
She's too impetuous for a laggard's love.
Have at her then: all duties else I throw
Contemptuously aside; and on my knees
Thus give my energies—Bah! that old man.

Enter Bradbury from the Inn, and Spanker retires into the shade.
Bradbury.
How dark! bless me! I cannot see a stime!
When one has lived a comfortable lie,
How blind he is to its opposing truth!
So I, with looking at the glare inside,
Am blind to all the outlines of the night.
We need to live a truth that we may see it;
And when I've look'd a while into the night
I'll see its faintest margins.

Spanker.
Ah! if love
Spurr'd that old ass as hard as it spurs me,
He could not amble thus with an idea.

Bradbury.
The knowledge of a fact comes by the brain;
So thinks the world; but the affectional heart
Has more to do with it than the world thinks.

Spanker.
The world's a fool, that's clear, and he a sage.

Bradbury.
Love gives the eyes to see what is unseen
By others in the face of them we love;
It gives the intellect to know their worth:
Thus eyes and intellect without the heart
Are impotent—mere tools without the hand.
We all are better featured than we seem
To the dispassionate external eye:
The heart's eye, it alone, can see the true.
How else amid this troop of dashing youth
Who—for I will admit the fact—outstrip
The falsely seen John Bradbury,—and all
Apparently in madness for her hand,—
How else could she set all aside for me,
Unless John Bradbury, the truly seen,
To her heart's eye, outrivall'd all of them?
I'll bear me more supremely—'tis my right.
Ye eyes of night, look at me, and endorse
What Margaret's consummate taste approves.
Am I not he, the destined man?

Spanker.
I thought
The imagining faculty belong'd to youth.

Enter Juniper and Friend from the Inn.
Bradbury.
Rheumatics seize his shanks! He crosses me
Not only in the rosy ways of love,
But on the glebes of ruminating thought.
The darkness favours me, I will withdraw
Within the sombre shadow of the wall.

Friend.
But, Will, I see you have powerful opposition.

Juniper.

Yes, in numbers; but what of that? Numbers in love, my boy, are not like numbers in war. Here it's every one for himself. Take each singly, and I've no opposition. What are they? That kangaroo who talks so much about Australasia and gold finding; he'll find no gold here, I can tell him. He made his appearance only the other day, and presumes already to hope. He leaps too far at a time, that fool.

Spanker.
(aside)

It won't be too far to leap down your throat, and that's what I may do before all's done.

Juniper.

Then Daddy Bradbury, what's he? My butt, my foil, my background. He serves but to throw me more fully into Margaret's eye. These are a sample

of the opposition. There's none! I tell you she's mine; I shan't even have to walk the course.

Bradbury.
(aside)

No: for it's not intended you shall win the race. His butt! his foil! his background! If I had but a part of his youth on my side, I'd butt him, and foil him too, and give him a background into the bargain: the dirtiest part of the road should be his background.

Friend.

That may all be well enough; but women's fickleness is proverbial; and sometimes they make such a villainous choice—love being reputed to be blind— that even old Bradbury—

Bradbury./
(aside)
Even! He dare not say that to my face.

Friend.

Who's this comes spinning like a top? Stand aside, or he'll waltz over us.

Enter Hopkins from the Inn.
Hopkins.
The reel, the waltz, the intoxicating whirl,
The pressing bosom of that glorious girl,
The cheeks of ruby and the teeth of pearl,
The sable tresses, their enamouring curl,
The springy limb, the eye of fiery jet,
The bust that might owe Angelo a debt,
A one in which the graces three are met,
Whom luck calls mine, and I call Margaret!

(Whirls off.)
Friend.
I'll bet you, Will, he robs you of your treasure.
What woman could withstand both rhyme and measure?

Enter Wheeler and Greene from the Inn.
Wheeler.
I told you I should make it all right for you.

Greene.
She's got the ring on, I see.

Wheeler.

Yes, and did you see how her attention was divided between it and you?

Greene.
You'll drink at my expense to-night, Jack.

Wheeler.
O dear, no—that would be too much.

Greene.
You shall. She's a splendid girl, Margaret, eh?

Wheeler.

Well, but it's not for a brother, you know, to praise her over much.

Greene.

When it does come off, Jack, you'll be best man, of course. Don't you think she would come out and take a walk with us? It's so oppressively hot inside! Besides, there's so many, I can't get spoken with her.

Wheeler.

Well—ah—I'll try. Just walk you over the bridge there. [Exit Greene.]
What a monstrously silly fool that is! He has not cut his eye-teeth yet, or he would see through my glaring deceptions. The breach that was between her and me is now completely fill'd up by his ruins—the broken-down walls of his suit. They must not speak together, though. I'll after him and send him a wool-gathering, so that they may not meet to-night at all. By to-morrow night, please the pigs, she'll be too much mine to care for him or any one else.

[Exit.

Bradbury.

They know I'm here, and have made up this among them—pure envy at seeing an elderly man preferred.

Juniper
(to friend.)

His name is Wheeler—empty as a bell—all talk

and bluster. Don't you be frightened for me. I tell you it's all settled between me and Margaret.

Spanker.

Surely there can be no reality in all this. She would not, could not speak to me, look at me,—yea, let me approach her as she does, and at the same time afford these fellows the inlet to her affections they seem to have got. No; it's a silly piece of tomfoolery made up among them, for what purpose I know not. —Here comes a decent country fellow. Surely he is not one of them.

Enter Car from the Inn.
Car.

Well, we're keepin' it up ony way. Them town chaps is squeezin' Merget rayther more till I like though; but yet a-wouldn't gie the wink hoo casts me at every turn for all their squeezin's. I'll have all that to mysel' in another week. Aigh isn't hoo pritty the neet, wi' her glossy black heur dancin' at her cheeks? —Wain't I be proud when I see my name abuv that door? A peanter might mann it better till me too; but them raskets is like cobblers. Gie a cobbler your shoes to heel and he soles them as weel, and nails you into three-and-sixpence, instead o' ninepence. Merget would pay it certainly: but it's all one for that; what's hoo's is mine.

Spanker.

Even this simpleton is into the trick. Can it be

aim'd at me? I will try.—My good fellow, will you take a glass with me?

Car.
Ay, I doan't mind if I do: I never likes to refuse nowt.

Spanker.

Before we go in, tell me now—there's a good fellow— What's the meaning of so many of you coming out and talking about Miss Riccard in this way—Margaret, as you call her—and zounds! each one of you pretending to be on the point of getting married to her?

Car.
Did thee hear it up in the town?

Spanker.
Hear what?

Car.

That hoo was baund to wed me. It's pritty well known now, I daresay. Them things will out.

Spanker.
That'll do, that'll do; don't think you've caught a flounder.

Car.

Flounder! Call Merget a flounder? I'll make a flounder o' thee—flat enough too!

Spanker.

There now, that's enough: a joke may be carried

just a little too far. But come, be plain with me; I want to be your friend, if you only knew it.

Car.
Well, dash it! be my friend. What does thee want?

Spanker.
I want to know who set you on to this, and is it aimed at me?

Car.
I doan't know what thee means.

Spanker.

Why, this: You know very well that Margaret—Miss Riccard—would not take the like of you, and that—

Car.
Get out, you foreign Portuguese!

Hopkins.
(coming forward)

Pardon me, sir; but am I to understand that you, sir, have any expectations in that quarter?

Spanker.

Excuse me, sir, I don't know you; but if you, sir, pretend to any expectations, I beg politely to remark that it's no use, it won't fit, and the sooner your name is Walker, the better.

Hopkins.

Your politeness is insulting, sir, and I beg to say that the sooner your name is Walker, the better.

Bradbury.
(coming forward)

Gentlemen, you are exceedingly polite; but I beg to inform you [Enter Greene]
that if Margaret—Miss Riccard—be the lady in dispute, you may keep your politeness for another; for she is engaged.

Greene.
Yes, gentlemen, to me.

Bradbury.
To me, sir; who are you?

Juniper.
(Coming forward and knocking their heads together.)
You lie, Daddy, she's mine.

Car.
Yours, you snig! (striking him).
Or yours! (striking Bradbury).
Or yours either!

(striking Greene).
Greene.

Holloa! here, Jack! help! help! thieves! they'll carry her away! help, Jack!

Car.
Get out, you're a set of poppies; I'll lick you all.

(Hits them right and left, a general melée ensues, all striking one another, and enter Wheeler, who beats Greene.)
Greene.
Murder! Jack! Margaret! Any one! any one!

[Exeunt all into the Inn, fighting and shouting.
Enter Margaret, followed by Reuben.
Margaret.
What's all this noise?

Reuben.
Ah, now we are alone!

Margaret.
Hold off!

Reuben.
You do not know me in the dark!
Look, Margaret, 'tis I!

Margaret.
I know, begone!

[Exit into the Inn, shutting the door after her.
Reuben.
Begone! was that the word? or was it come?
Begone! my ears deceived me! yet my eyes
Bear witness, as she spoke that word, the moon
Look'd o'er the edge of yonder bank of cloud,
The light fell on her face, and I could see
A very fiend glare at me, with no trace
Of love or beauty left: it was Begone!
O what a devil's glare! There's no such thing
As outward beauty: no, the heavenliest sace
Puts on at once hell's features if a fiend
Takes up abode inside.—Hold off! Begone!
Ah, whither could I go? These words have ta'en
The very earth from me, with all its hopes:
Life holds me only by one thread—despair.
So have I felt in dreams, and waked with shrieks;
But after thanking God, have slept again.
Would I could shriek, and turn me, and forget
This night as 'twere a dream!—And may I not?
How know I it was Margaret? We danced
A reel together scarce a minute since!
And as we swept between the admiring lines
My soul drank love from her upturnëd eyes:
Yea, from her willing lips I snatched a kiss.
Amid the scramble of the breaking-up dance
And forming of a new, she left the room.
I follow'd. Some disturbance brought her here.
'Twas nothing when we came: and seeing her
Alone, and even, I thought, expecting me,
I rush'd to press her to my heart—Hold off!—
Methinks it was not Margaret at all.
In coming out I've miss'd her in the crush,
And this has been some other. O fool, fool!
Some other heart's divinity! Blest pair!
They whisper even now inside the door.
Suspicion justifies me if I listen,
To be still more assured it was not she. (Listens.)

His love is not ethereal: that voice
Has never yet been touch'd with the soft oil
Wherewith love's angels trim their wings for flight.
Ah, now she'll speak.—Curst be my ears! that sigh
Was Margaret's; and, death! it is her voice!
She loves another! O, infernal thought!
It leaps like fire within me. Would to God
That from the calendar this night would drop,
And Time close up the blank! What have I done,
Or left undone, that from her heaven of love
Thus suddenly, unwarn'd, she casts me out?
And who is he that she has made a god?
'Twere well I saw him—saw him with her eyes—
That I might know the attribute I want.
Ah, if she bear him only half the love
She seem'd to hold for me! she does not—no!
All love has gone from her—love that imparts
The angel to humanity. That thing
That stood before me in sheer ugliness,
And croak'd the fiendish words Hold off! Begone!
Retains no love for any one: for love
Reflects itself, and makes all else beloved:
The heart that thoroughly loves one loves all,
And could not be a fiend to any one.

Enter Joseph from the Inn.
Joseph.
O ho! and that's her game! If I were him—
As, praise be blest, I am not,—Reuben, eh?
Why, I've been looking for you up and down,
In every room and corner of the house.

Reuben.
What for?

Joseph.
For company. The mirth is up,
And twice they've knock'd down Reuben for a song.
No Reuben answers, nor is Margaret there;
And so, 'mid jealous looks, the whisper runs
That she and you have other fish to fry.

Reuben.
Our fish is fried and eaten, and the bones
Stick in my throat.

Joseph.
I could have guess'd as much.

Reuben.
You guess'd? From what?

Joseph.
From what to-night I've seen.
She hath a score of wooers in that house.

Reuben.
I know; but what of that? they make no speed.

Joseph.
Love blinds you, Reuben—they make speed enough:
Her lips are common as a village green,
And all the geese graze on them.

Reuben.
Rogue, you lie!
I know it is a lie. 'Tis true they seek,
Ay, scramble for that luxury; but they
Taste not the fervid lips she gives to me.

Joseph.
I saw her even now, behind that door,
Close bosom'd with a man.

Reuben.
What kind of man?

Joseph.
A publican and sinner, both in one;—
Cutely they call him, he that keeps the inn
Up there in Fleukergate; who beat his wife—
Ay, beat her, so they say, till she, poor soul,
Was fain to quit that blacken'd tenement
Her body, which he buried some three weeks since.

Reuben.
I'll not believe it, Joseph. Two round years
I've been her loving servant; night by night
Have fann'd her beauty with impassion'd sighs;
I have not miss'd a night, yet never once
Have seen that man on the contested ground.
Besides, in him there's no attraction—none!

Joseph.
There's money, boy, money—lots of that!

Reuben.

Joseph.
God help our wisdom, and our learning too!
Your Latin mends a pen, my Greek a shoe;
We be not classic, but plain English fools,
And none can call us debtors to the schools.

Reuben.
God's universal book is writ in thoughts:
The Tongues have merely turn'd it into words.
We cannot read translations, and are forced
To go to the original. That's all
The secret of their scholarship. Let's go.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—A Room in the Inn. Margaret and Cutely.
Cutely.

True, true, it is uncertain; life's uncertain: but I'll make it two hunder pound a-year, that is per annim, if I die.

Margaret.

Two hundred pounds—that is two hundred pounds. Ah, well, life's so uncertain. A written contract, of course?

Cutely.
Black on white.

Margaret.
Yes, well,—that's over and above what the law might allow?

Cutely.
By course. The law you know is the law; but this is certain and sure.

Margaret.
Then, there's that dear little boy, your son.

Cutely.
He'll be provided for.

Margaret.
By law? or—

Cutely.
No; let's see though—yes: ah, well, we'll see about that after.

Margaret.

O, certainly, see about that; make it something definite, you know, dear little fellow!

Cutely.

Yes, yes; all them things can be settled, when we get settled ourselves.

Margaret.

Ah, but life, you know, life is so uncertain, and there's no time like the present.

Cutely.

I'll do it to-morrow. Where's your mother? Let's arrange about the wedding-day.

Margaret.

We've some sharp young men in the house now— attorney's clerks, and the like. One of them could do the settlement, and—

Cutely.

O, any barber's clerk could do that.—I understand there's something they call a special license, that one can get at once. Now, what day would be convenient?

Margaret.

—And we've writing things in the house. It could

be going on in another room, while I consult my mother about the day.

Cutely.

Very well, very well; go get your pen and paper —some ink too; and if you can pick me out a clerk that can keep a thing, do so. [Exit Margaret.]
Ay, that's the sort for me; a girl of business. My affairs is running into a ravel since my poor, dear Maryhann, heaven forgive me, died; and I must have another at once.—She'll have money, too, money; old Riccard cannot last for ever. They tell me she has some fifty after her on that account—young, penniless shavers, that don't know how to take a woman. I've had my eye upon the girl these two weeks; but never spoke with her before to-night. Every man—and woman— has her price, as the poet says: and very proper too.

Re-enter Margaret.
Margaret.

Now, love, everything's ready—young man and all— in the little back parlour, No. 7.

Cutely.

Kiss me Margaret. (Kisses him.)
There; send me in a pipe and tobacco; and let's have a bottle of sherry over the job; and come yourself in a little, to see that it's all nicely written. They tell me you can do something in that way. You'll have all my writing to do.

[Exit Cutely.

Margaret.
(throwing herself into a chair)

Mother! [Enter Mrs. Riccard.]
Mother, my bannock's baked for life.

Mrs. Riccard.

I thought it would, my girl; I told you that was the right sort of man. What has he come to?

Margaret.

Two hundred pounds a-year, settled and certain— send him in a pipe and tobacco—that is on his death, you know—and a bottle of sherry into No. 7.

Mrs. Riccard.
Bless my heart! two hundred pound! Well, well, well, well.

[Exit Mrs. R.
Margaret.
(rising)
Two hundred pounds at death, and twice my age.
Besides, the law, despite his will, allows
One third, I think, of all his moveables.—
He's not so handsome as I could have liked.
Then there's that brat, that boy by his first wife:
Ay, what of him? He shan't be in the house,
With young ones of our own: I'll board him out
With some one who—he's delicate, poor thing,
And may not live long.—But, about the day:—
'Tis Friday now—say this day week—no, no;
Friday would be unlucky—Wednesday—
'Tis not too soon.—Two hundred pounds a-year!
And what will Master Reuben think of that?—
O name not Reuben! would to heaven it were
Two hundred pounds and Reuben! or half that!
Love, love, methinks, were worth the other half.
Or nothing! if he had the name of rich.
His name's a golden key that opes my heart:
Where art thou, Reuben? Ah, come back, come back!
Two hundred pounds! two hundred wither'd leaves—
Are scatter'd by the breathing of thy name.

Re-enter Mrs. Riccard.
Mrs. Riccard.

He wants you, Margaret—run, my girl, fly—he's made of money—but run to him. See you! here's fifty pound he's given me to buy livery for myself and the wenches—but go, go—any prints will do for them —and there's other fifty yonder for yourself, to buy dresses with—away with you!

Margaret.
Other fifty! he must indeed be made of money!
What have I been thinking of!

Mrs. Riccard.
Run, run, there's no time for thinking.

[Exeunt.

Scene IV.

A Country Road.
Reuben.

[Exit.

Scene V.

A Room in Eliza's Cottage. Eliza seated, with a Map before her.
Eliza.
He should be here, here, where he said the sea
Was of a deeper blue than my own eyes.—
Alas! how is it with me? I am faint;
And something like a mist is on the map.
'Tis nothing.—And to-morrow he'll be there.—
O! he has gone with radiance on his soul,
But left me dark in spirit, ill at ease.—
This hand I plighted, and before he left
I felt that I had given him all my heart.
And so I had; but, like a new-drawn tooth,
I feel as if the fragment were left in
That caused the pain.—Then, in about a week,
The Falkland Isles—no, no, I've lost my course:
My thoughts are crowded, I am press'd with thoughts,
Yet to no end or purpose can I think. (A knock.)

Come in, and welcome, be ye whom ye may;
Come any one, and take these thoughts away. Enter Reuben.

Ah, Jane! I am so glad, so very, very glad.

Reuben.
And so am I, to find you are so very, very glad.
But where is Jane? She was not telling me—

Eliza.
Is she not with you, then? Not ill, I trust, not ill?
Be seated, Reuben, and tell me.

Reuben.
She is well. 'Tis I that am ill.

Eliza.

And you do well to walk for it. There is nothing better than a country walk for a slight illness.

Reuben.
And you with me, Eliza.

Eliza.
(aside)
Ah!—what means he?

Reuben.

O! how may I approach you, how obliterate the old impressions you must have of Reuben? Eliza, I— I love you.

Eliza.
O, God! too late! too late! Away, dear Reuben!
Leave me! I cannot—may not—O, you are too late!

Reuben.
Too late! O, how?

Eliza.
I am another's! I—I am betrothed.

Reuben.

O! thou hast plucked my soul out! I have no thought, no word—dumb silence all!

Eliza.

O! Reuben, I did love thee—love thee now; and even yesterday would—O, God! God! Farewell— thy presence maddens me. O leave, for Heaven's dear love.

Reuben.

I go, Eliza! but the love of Heaven methinks I leave behind. Farewell! Be happy, and—forget me.

[Exit.

Eliza.
He should have said forget, and then be happy—
Not happy and forget.—O! I could pray
That thou, my God, would'st teach me to forget,
But that thy will is visible in this,
And rules it as it is. If thus to-day
He loves me, surely yesterday he loved.
What unseen finger then lay on his lips,
Or held back in his eye that tongue of light,
And loosed them now to speak unto a heart
That dares not hear?—I have been as a tree,
Whose inward principle of life is love;
Which from the earliest spring has budded out
Nothing but leaves of sorrow. Surely now
I've reach'd the full flow'r of my agonies!
And next, in Heaven's good time, must come the fruit;
Bitter or sweet, I leave with thee, O God!

Scene VI.

A Country Road.
Reuben.

[Exit.

MISCELLANEOUS.

HOUSE-HUNTING.

SIR PETER'S CURE.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT.

THE ROOKERY.

THE WEASEL'S CAIRN.

“They are varmints for money,” old Denis said,
As he took off his hat and scratched his head,
Where he stood in the field with his foot on his spade,—
“Money they never in honesty made.”
“And where do they get it?” “Steal it, to be sure;
For a weasel will rob both rich and poor;
Steal from the cabin, the church or the hall,
Without any conscience for helpless or old,
And not for a hap'orth of use at all,
But just for the love of the silver and gold.
Wherever the miser may bury his store,—
In the garden three feet deep or more,
In a hole of the wall or under the floor,
Or behind the cross-beam over the door,
Hidden, however securely or dim,
It's known to the weasel as well as to him.—
Sometimes it lives in the miser's house,
In the crannied walls, like rat or mouse;
But rats and mice leave their cozy homes
When the bold little cunning weasel comes.
Or it worms its way through the mouldy thatch,
And up in the rafters keeps secret watch
O'er the movements and doings of folks below,
To see where their money is hidden, you know.—
When the careful housewife counts her gear,
Half dead for fear of anyone near,
Stretch'd on a joist it leans its ear,
For the clink, clink, clink, and chink, chink, chink,
Is the sweetest music a weasel can hear.
Its little black diamonds gleam at the sight,
And its pretty white waistcoat heaves with delight:
And aye, as the housewife clink, clink, clinks,
That silver and gold shall be mine, it thinks.
Or perhaps, it lies crouch'd inside of the wall,
And peeps thro' a crevice so round and small,
That anyone catching the glance of its eye,
Takes it for the sheen of a blue-bottle fly.
Then the miser, thinking all safe and sound,
Creeps to his hoard, looking round and round,
Pausing and list'ning in horrible fear
At the thought of a footstep coming near,
Falls down, and worships his god in the pose;
But he little knows, he little knows
That the blue-bottle fly is the weasel's eye
Peering at him wherever he goes.”
“But, when does the weasel help itself,
And where keeps it all this ill-gotten pelf?—”
“Why, just at the gray of the morning, sir,
That sound sleeping hour when no one's astir.
Ay, then may the weasel be seen on the hearth,
A perfect wonder of playful mirth,
Dancing around and dancing around
A bright gold coin it has stolen or found.
But, ere the red streaks light up the gray,
It nips up its guinea and scampers away,
Without e'en the faintest patter or noise,
And up through the walls to the place of its choice;
Or down through the floor to its crannied store,
Somewhere about the foundation-stone,
And drops its guinea among many more,
To lie unknown, long, long unknown,
Till all the folks are dead or away
To the Irishman's home in Amerikay;
When the poor old cabin is pull'd to the ground,
And the long hidden wealth of the weasel found,
As much as had kept them here at home
For generations and years to come.
You don't believe it, sir! By the lord,
It's truth I tell ye, every word,
And none knows the truth of it better than I;
Just listen a minute and I'll tell you why.
This very ground on which we stand—
Twenty acres of arable land,
Ten of old pasture, and ten of bog,
And five of gnarly woody scrog—
Five and forty acres all told
My grandfather bought with a weasel's gold.—

THE LOTTERY TICKET.

John Skippangoe was footman to a squire,
Willing and prompt as master could desire,
And oftentimes his faithful service got
Such recompense as all good service ought—
The kindly word, the patronising joke,
Which condescension in its turn awoke
Familiar reverence in the breast of John.
Full many gifts he gave him and anon
A ticket for the lottery, sure to gain—
The lottery of Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
But honest John, though prodigal of thanks,
Knew well his master's luck was all for blanks:
In truth, both John and squire knew well enough
The ticket was not worth a pinch of snuff.
But, one day, when the squire was snugly set
Over his breakfast, reading the Gazette,
His eyes fell carelessly upon the list
Of Frankfort prizes. Suddenly his fist
Came down upon the table with a thump
That made his egg out off the egg-cup jump:—
“Can I believe my eyes? No, no,—yet zounds!
It is John's ticket! eighty thousand pounds!
For years and years have I this lottery tried,
And still my luck was on the losing side;
The most unlucky dog may have his day,
But I, poor whelp, have given my turn away.
Had it but been a hundred pounds or so,
I could have bid my disappointment go;
I would have e'en congratulated John,
And sworn how glad I was that he had won.
But eighty thousand pounds all in a crack!
'Twere well I think to get my ticket back.—
No, no, not even a mint of money can
Outweigh the honour of a gentleman,
Whereas this breach of honour would distrain
The very worth of its unworthy gain.
John shall enjoy it; I will realise
More interest from his joy than from his prize.
And John's no common footman; I have seen
A dash of higher breeding in his mien—
A sort of gentleman in short; and Fate,
Having seen the same, bequeaths him an estate.”
Thus mused and mused the squire, till in the end
Poor John seem'd not his footman but his friend.
Such sudden wealth he thought as suddenly gave
The attributes a gentleman should have;
And, acting in the same becoming way,
Invited John to dine with him that day.
John marvell'd greatly how he could deserve
This honour, he whose business was to serve,
But stopp'd no fine-spun theory to draw,
For well he knew his master's word was law;
And whether said in earnest or in play,
John's only argument was to obey.
He knew their modes and manners just as well
As any of the quality could tell;
He knew the cut of collar, coat or vest,
And came to dinner in the very best;
So that, to judge of them by their attire,
You could not tell the footman from the squire.
It matters little how the squire had plann'd
To let his wife and daughter understand
John's new position; but their looks confess'd
He was no more their servant, but their guest.
The lady, ripen'd by long years and grief,
Was falling fast into the yellow leaf:
The daughter, though unwater'd by a tear,
Was falling just as fast into the sere,
And so, if all the truth must needs be told,
Was shelv'd as something that could not be sold.
Who knows but that the squire began to dream
Already of some matrimonial scheme?
A daughter ancient—and a footman rich—
Might well suggest the hymeneal hitch.
Nor does it matter how the dinner sped,
How John was drunk to, patronized and fed.
The viands and the wines went round galore,
His health was drunk a score of times and more,
As he some proper gentleman had been,
And much he wonder'd what it all could mean.

THE WIDOW AND THE PRIEST.

Outside our village, up within a croft,
Shelter'd from all the winds except the soft
Sweet clover breath that comes out of the west,
There lived a widow in a lonely nest—
A clay-built cottage in against a bank,
Choked up with brambles, docks and nettles rank;
Before the door a small potato bed,
A bush or two of roses, white and red,
Some herbs we used to know in days of old,
As rue, and thyme, and balm and marigold;
And one tall willow, in whose wiry top
A pair of pyets came to jibe and hop:
A sleepy place but for the little stream
That brattled through the croft and broke its dream.
For thirty years of lonely widow-hood
She strove to make ends meet as best she could,
Her chief support one small milk-cow that housed
Within a little byre at night, and browsed
All day among the whins, or took a turn
About the herby borders of the burn:
And if she straggled from the widow's ken
A gentle calling brought her back again.
And duly as the milking time came round,
The little beast would at the door be found,
Crooning of well-fill'd udders. Little need
The widow had for watching, and indeed
Long hours within the willow shade would sit,
Or on some hillock, in the sun, and knit
The coarse gray woollen stockings, which she sold
About the village when the days grew cold.—
This, with her scanty butter, milk and cheese,
Made up her little stock-in-trade: and these
Found ready market; for 'twas thought and said,
The natural herbs whereon her cow was fed
Gave to the milk rare virtues, and in turn
The products of her chizzard and her churn.
Thus did she by her merchandise provide
The livelihood that never is denied
To honest, careful labour, and could give
A portion to the priest, as well as live.
But here it was her brooding trouble lay;
For left alone all thro' the thoughtful day,
With priestly terrors rankling in her brain,
And penal fears, and everlasting pain,
She conjured up a load of outward sin
Far more than one might carry, and within
A poor, weak, helpless soul. “Alas!” cried she,
“The holy Jesus never comes to me,
To loose me from this burden of my cares;
Nor will, save thro' a world of costly pray'rs:
And what can my small pittance do to bring
A poor old woman to her Lord and King!”
“Good woman, I have pray'd for thee, and sure
Such loud and fervid pray'rs for one so poor
Never went up before. Peter and Paul,
The powerfullest among the older saints, and all
The weightiest of the new, have been implored
That thou to Christian comfort be restored.”
“Ah, woe is me! so many holy saints
To strengthen me, and yet my poor heart faints
Beneath its load! Good father, what beside
Is in thy power? Can nothing else be tried?”
“Ah, reverend father, in good Mary's sight
Perhaps my little, like the widow's mite,
Would find much favour: try, good father, try;
And if great faith be needed, that have I.”
“Great faith is needed; but the price is much
Above thy means, the intercession such
As only wealth indulges in. Yet thou,
I just bethink me, hast a good milk cow—
And what are worldly goods to sins forgiven,
A cleansëd heart, a place secured in heaven?
What profits it a man to gain the whole
Of earth, if, gaining that, he lose his soul?
And, earth possessing, it were well he gave
All up, if thereby he his soul could save.”
Some while the widow sat without a word—
Although her breast with much unrest was stirr'd—
Brooding, with downcast eyes and thoughtful brow,
Between her soul's salvation and her cow;
And when she spoke 'twas with a sigh:—
“Alas!
We know not what a day may bring to pass:
Why need we set our hearts on worldly gear,
And death, that severs us and it, so near—
So ever near that any footslip may
From all our clinging hoards snatch us away!
And then to die as unprepared as now!
O, reverend father, thou shalt have my cow.
But pray for me to Mary, Mother in Heaven,
On bended knees, till I am wholly shriven.”
It was agreed that he should pray and pray,
And keep the courts of heaven, both night and day,
For one whole week, with supplications plied—
Enough to purify a soul, though dyed
As black as sin itself—far more than lift
Her burden off, and give her peaceful shrift.—
All that was needed on both sides was this—
Unbounded faith on hers, fervour on his.
And for the rest, the cow might nibble there,
About the croft, until the Lammas fair,
A fortnight hence, when he would have her sold.
Meanwhile the widow's grief grew manifold.
If all those holy saints and all those pray'rs
Have fail'd to rid her of her sinful cares,
How great must these now be! So greatly more
Than ever she had dreamt they were before,
That even the Virgin's interceding word
Unto the bar of Heaven may rise unheard!
And to her crowding sorrows she has now
To add the speedy parting with her cow:—
“Alas! alas! the world has never seen
Such friends, poor Crum, as thou and I have been.
And must we part at last! And must we part—
To save my soul—ay, ay—but break my heart!”
Then would she hang upon its neck, or gaze
Into its eyes, until she thought a haze
Rose from their deeps and gather'd in a tear;
And as the day grew nearer and more near
When they must part, her fondness for the beast,
Her fondness and her kindness, still increased.—
She moved beside it both by burn and brake,
And sadly shared with it her oaten cake.
Now when the week of prayers was at an end,
Up through the croft the priest was seen to wend,
And coming on the widow and her cow,
“Woman,” said he, “how is it with thee now?”
“No better, reverend father, none, but worse;
And all my life seems blacken'd with some curse
That even holy church has not the power,
I fear, to charm away, or priest to scour.
O, reverend father, hast thou pray'd thy best?”
“Good woman, I perceive thy great unrest
Arises from a want of faith as great.
For one whole week I've pray'd, early and late,
For thee and thee alone, and am assured
Thy soul's salvation is right well secured.
Believe it, just believe it is, and lo!
That very instant thou wilt find it so.
This want of faith, my woman, is thy hell,—
Yes, think all well with thee, and all is well.—”
And ere she well knew what to think or say,
He turn'd upon his heel and went away;
While, in a trance of curious, mute surprise,
Up through the croft she track'd him with her eyes,
Beyond the knolls till through the upland gap
His long, black breezy skirts were seen to flap.
And then she sank into her own sad breast,
As to the last extremity distress'd,
All outward trust cut off, the last hope gone,
Her sole reliance in herself alone.
And long she brooded over her despair:—
“If I have but to think his week of prayer
Has brought me peace from Heaven, why might I not
Myself raise comfort by the power of thought?
My thinking or his praying—which, ay which,
It matters not. If I could think me rich,
Believe myself a duchess or a queen,
I should not feel that I am poor and mean;
If I can think away my sins, what need
Of priest or holy church to intercede?”
But while she reason'd thus, the priest's man came,
With quick official strides. Said he, “Old dame,
I'm come to fetch the cow.” She look'd him—Nay!
“Go back to him that sent thee, man, and say
He's got the cow: if not, be his the blame;
Tell him to think he has—it's all the same!”
And there was such commanding in her look
As plainly told the man that she could brook
No parley with him, so he turned and left.
Alone again, she felt as one bereft
Of outward help or hope, and doubted whether
'Twere wise to break with priest and church together;
“For though they fail'd to rid me of my grief,
The thought that yet they would, gave some relief;
But, now I've cast them off, I see their worth,
And feel the desolation of this earth.”
Her eyes fell on the damp earth where she stood,
And there a daisy in sweet solitude
Was meekly folding to the setting sun,
And all around it not another one.
Its loneliness so touch'd her heart that she
Let go her sorrow, and on bended knee
Gazed deep into the being of the flower,
And seem'd its sweet existence to devour:
“Dear God, dear God, what need have I to doubt
Thy far-descending care, which leaves not out
Even this lowly daisy? Dear, dear, look!
Within its leaves a spray-drop from the brook
Gleams like a star; Thy sun that rules the day
E'en stoops to glorify a drop of spray!
O, nothing is too lowly for Thy light,
Nor any soul unworthy in Thy sight.
If this poor daisy, looking to the sky,
Is dower'd with such radiance, may not I,
By looking unto Thee, O God, receive
The spirit, at whose touch all troubles leave?
When Thou thyself didst walk this earth, God-Christ,
'Twas not the rich man, not the learned priest
That got Thy benedictions, but the poor;
Yea, even those that begg'd from door to door,
And orphans, widows—all that were distressed;
If they but kneel'd unto thee and confess'd
Their sins, as I do now, they rose up pure—
Lord of the lowly, thou! friend of the poor!”
While thus she kneel'd, she seem'd to look right thro'
This frame of earth that hides from mortal view
The real world behind; and when she came
Back to her common self, the glori-flame
In which departed spirits, as 'tis said,
And all angelic beings are array'd,
Came flickering with her, as if she had been
Within the unseen world behind the scene.
She rose with such meek majesty and grace
As though she had seen Jesus face to face,
And softly to her dumb companion talk'd,
Patting its neck as side by side they walk'd
Along the croft into their clay-built home,
Where never more the priest was known to come.

SEVEN CHURCHES OF CLONMACNOISE.

THE NEGLECTED CANARY.

THE LAIRD OF BRETHERTON.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

A' BURDENS ARE LICHT, EXCEPT TO THE BEARER.

DRUMM'D OUT.

LONDON.

To live in London was my young wood-dream—
London, where all the books come from, the lode
That draws into its centre from all points
The bright steel of the world; where Shakspere wrote,
And Eastcheap is, with all its memories
Of gossip Quickly, Falstaff and Prince Hal;
Where are the very stones that Milton trod,
And Johnson, Garrick, Goldsmith and the rest;
Where even now, our Dickens builds a shrine
That pilgrims thro' all time will come to see;
London! whose street names breathe such home to all:
Cheapside, the Strand, Fleet Street and Ludgate-hill,
Each name a very story in itself.
To live in London! London, the buskin'd stage
Of history, the archive of the past—
The heart, the centre of the living world!
Wake, dreamer, to your village, and your work.

THE ALBUM.

A household treasury, where all that come
May leave the impression of the varied mind
In pencil's breathing lines, that speak, though dumb;
Or words that give a picture to the blind:
A casket where the gems of thought and art
We gather on life's rugged way are set
In lasting beauty, to renew the heart
When sear'd and sadden'd with this worldly fret;
A glass in which our future will behold
Our present feature, and compare the two.
O may the characters we now unfold
Be such as bear progressive Time's review,
That in these pages eyes unborn may glean
A worthy glimpse of what our lives have been!

SONNET.

[Since, twenty years ago, you took this hand]

Since, twenty years ago, you took this hand,
And robed me in the mantle of your name,
My raven locks are gray with time's white sand,
But yet this heart, then young, remains the same.
And so with you: amid your temples' snow
I see no wrinkle of the aged man;
For love's eyes look all inwardly, and know
A deeper truth than outward vision can.—
O wherefore need we ever think of age,
Or mourn the lapse of time, unless to learn
That life is endless, and time but a gauge
Whereby we comprehend the great eterne?—
Then, grow we old or young, what matter whether,
So long as you and I grow on together.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

To Stratford-on-the-Avon. And we pass'd
Through aisles and avenues of the princeliest trees
That ever eyes beheld. None such with us
Here in the bleaker north. And as we went
Through Lucy's park, the red day dropt i' th' west;
A crimson glow, like blood in lovers' cheeks,
Spread up the soft green sky and pass'd away;
The mazy twilight came down on the lawns,
And all those huge trees seem'd to fall asleep;
The deer went past like shadows. All the park
Lay round us like a dream; and one fine thought
Hung over us, and hallow'd all. Yea, he,
The pride of England, glisten'd like a star,
And beckon'd us to Stratford.

TO JANET,

With a small book, entitled, “Ears of Corn, from various Sheaves.”

If cares in others may be understood
By feeling what ourselves bear and have borne,
Then may I judge your spirit sometimes lorn,
And often craving for a higher good.
How precious, then, the stores of heavenly food
Bequeathed in books! And these few “Ears of corn,
From various sheaves,” by various reapers shorn,
May help the longings of your upward mood.
For, as the body lives by nourishment,
So does the spirit; and its daily bread
Is truth and beauty, God's fine mystery blent
Through art and nature; and the hopes that shed
Perpetual morning in our way; yea, all
Of joy or grief that can our day befal.

MUSINGS.

TO JANET,

On her Forty-second Birth-Day Anniversary.

SOLITUDE.

BOOKS AND THOUGHTS.

TOO MANY BOOKS.

INCENSE OF FLOWERS.

MIND'S SEASONS.

THE MYSTERY OF THOUGHT.

UNWITTING TRIBUTE.

LOGIC.

UNCLASSIC.

BEAUTY THE FLOWERING OF VIRTUE.

THE DANDELION.

THOUGHT SPRINGS.

USE OF BEAUTY.

SEEING.

HOPE'S ARGUMENT.

THE STREET SINGERS.

SELF-DENIAL.

FACT AND FICTION.

AT THE CHURCH DOOR.

PETTY PRIDE.

MASTER AND SERVANT.

IMAGINATION.

1861–62.

10TH MARCH, 1863.

5TH FEBRUARY, 1868.

LIVERPOOL.

SAILING UP THE FIRTH.

POET'S CORNER.