University of Virginia Library

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Embedded lie, like strata out of date.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.