Alfred the Great ; or, The Minstrel King An Historical Extravaganza |
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Scene First.
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 | Alfred the Great ; or, The Minstrel King |  |
Scene First.
—The Danish Camp in Wessex. English Coast Scenery.Ina and Elswith (disguised as a waiting maid), R., shooting at a stuffed figure in Lincoln Green, R.
Elswith.
(L.—offers an arrow)
One more!
Ina.
(L. C.)
'Tis waste of time! yet have your will—
(misses again)
I told you so, the Green Man's there—
Elswith.
And still!
Yet don't be beaten—patience wins the game.
Ina.
The ground's too much up hill! I've lost my aim—
Some bows won't bend—the man's beyond my reach.
Elswith.
I see your highness I shall never teach
To draw the long bow. Come, you pretty dunce!
Out with the truth you're burning with at once.
Ina.
Since to conceal it seems a fruitless trouble,
Edith, my words conveyed a meaning double,
In saying I'd no aim—I meant in life—
And as for the Green Man—
Elswith.
He wants a wife!
Ina.
(hiding her face, embracing Elswith)
He hasn't said so yet.
Elswith.
For want, no doubt,
Of fair encouragement—we'll draw him out.
Proceed!
Ina.
Ahem! 'Tis now some three months since,
Guthrum, my Danish sire—the noblest Prince
Of Odin's free and independent race—
Elswith.
(curtly)
More free than welcome here!
Ina.
How! to my face?
Elswith.
Oh, madam, no offence—the words would pop;
It's in my blood—of which, though ev'ry drop
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Not half an ounce of it have I the power
To change in quality—
Ina.
Explain!
Elswith.
It's English!
A sort that at Invasion's name grows tinglish—
Flushes the cheeks—lights fire within the eyes.
(grasping Ina's wrist in her excitement)
Ina.
(shrinking alarmed)
Cowardly girl! Hit one of your own size!
Elswith.
(calming herself)
Forgive me, madam, just a passing weakness.
Ina.
Then please be strong again! All smiles and meekness,
Who could have thought 'twas in the girl?
Elswith.
That's it!
You foreigners can't make us out a bit,
We stand so much in the insulting line,
You don't believe we can kick up a shine.
But when provoked at last—we prove so strong—
Hit out so hard—and keep it up so long,
In spite of num'rous odds and armed disparity—
Hem! Hence our Continental popularity!
Song—“The Island Home of an Englishman.”
You foreigners can't make us out a bit,
We stand so much in the insulting line,
You don't believe we can kick up a shine.
But when provoked at last—we prove so strong—
Hit out so hard—and keep it up so long,
In spite of num'rous odds and armed disparity—
Hem! Hence our Continental popularity!
There is a stain on the English fame,
(Though it seems but a beauty spot
To the eyes of friends,)—which our foes proclaim
As a most unsightly blot.
'Tis that the English troops—when the foeman swoops
On their lines with numbers vast;
And they ought to feel whack'd—to acknowledge the fact
Will refuse to the very last.
'Tis an obstinate habit, deny it who can?
But you can't knock it out of an Englishman!
(Though it seems but a beauty spot
To the eyes of friends,)—which our foes proclaim
As a most unsightly blot.
'Tis that the English troops—when the foeman swoops
On their lines with numbers vast;
And they ought to feel whack'd—to acknowledge the fact
Will refuse to the very last.
'Tis an obstinate habit, deny it who can?
But you can't knock it out of an Englishman!
(a triumphal march heard faintly, R., in which the bagpipes predominate—Ina listens eagerly)
Ina.
(R. C.)
Hush!
Elswith.
(L. C.)
What alarms your highness?
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Silence, do!
Dinna ye hear them?
Elswith.
What?
Ina.
They're coming!
Elswith.
Who?
The Campbells?
Ina.
No—the Danes. They've won a battle!
What, if among the luggage or the cattle
They've captured him?
Elswith.
Him!—who?
Ina.
(wildly)
How should I know?
As if he'd ever told his love!
Elswith.
(aside)
Oho!
Ina.
I shall go mad!
Elswith.
Calm your excited brains!
Ina.
What! think you Guthrum's are St. Clement's Danes,
That any mercy will to him be shewn?
(crosses, L.)
My gallant what's his name!—my loved unknown!
Fly!—bribe his captors—warn him of his danger!
(music stops)
Elswith.
(R.)
Really—the gentleman's a perfect stranger!
Ina.
(L.)
True, true!—I will be calm, though it's distressing.
Listen!
Elswith.
They've stopped the bagpipes—that's one blessing!
Song.—Ina.—Air, “Old English Gentleman.”
You recollect the form, of course—to say you don't's no use—
Of that fine young English officer who brought the flag of truce?
With stiff moustache and whiskers hanging down like streamers loose—
Who scarcely spoke two words, except “Good gwacious!” and “The dooce!”
Like a fine young English officer,
One of the Coldstream kind!
Of that fine young English officer who brought the flag of truce?
With stiff moustache and whiskers hanging down like streamers loose—
Who scarcely spoke two words, except “Good gwacious!” and “The dooce!”
Like a fine young English officer,
One of the Coldstream kind!
When Guthrum, fierce, with angry words, attempted him to awe,
He merely stroked his whiskers with the observation, “Haw!”
When threaten'd death he bared his neck, exclaiming—“Trifling! Baw!”
Slight indications marking the—in fact—“Je ne sais quoi”
Of a fine young English Officer,
One of the Coldstream kind.
He merely stroked his whiskers with the observation, “Haw!”
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Slight indications marking the—in fact—“Je ne sais quoi”
Of a fine young English Officer,
One of the Coldstream kind.
And now conceive the horrid fear that rends my heart in twain,
That this fine young English Officer should captive be, or slain;
Or—excuse my broken English when in anguish I explain—
If with scorn dat Saxon treats me, its all over with dis Dane.
Through that fine young English Officer,
One of the Coldstream kind.
That this fine young English Officer should captive be, or slain;
Or—excuse my broken English when in anguish I explain—
If with scorn dat Saxon treats me, its all over with dis Dane.
Through that fine young English Officer,
One of the Coldstream kind.
Exeunt, L., Elswith supporting Ina.
March resumed, off, R., louder.
Enter Guthrum, Haldane, Oscar, and other Danes, in triumph, R. U. E., preceded by Banner Bearer; Guthrum strikes the Archery Dummy out, R. 2 E., as he enters.
Guth.
Here plant our Rafen Standard, ere we sup,
It's not yet paid for—therefore stick it up.
(the standard is planted, C.)
Well, Sons of Odin! By this victory
We've liberated England thoroughly—
Freed her from Dover's Straits to Scotland's Borders,
Yet somehow, we get looked on as—marauders.
And spite the purity of our intention,
Folks don't appreciate our intervention.
Nor think that all our sieges, broils, and battles,
Were undertaken for their goods—and chattels.
All's one—we here commence a three week's fête,
This crowning victory, to celebrate
That leaves us England's lords, and nothing but—
Where's her King Alfred? Echo answers—“cut!”
For hips and haws about the hedge-rows dodging,
And literally up a tree for lodging.
Now, folks don't live up trees—not forced to use 'em;
And few pick hips and haws because they choose 'em.
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Can't keep a crown. What, ho! the Norseman's cup!
Exit Officer, R.
To drink to him whose name for the succession,
Stands next in alphabetical progression.
Hald.
(R.)
How alphabetically—great chieftain, say!
G comes not usually after A?
Guth.
(thoughtfully)
That's true! Yet we can square it to our liking.
Alfred's an ex-king—Guthrum is a wi-king!
The Hirlas Horn (which is a large drinking horn) is brought in from R., he takes a prolonged draught. Female Attendants enter, and hand round drinking cups to Soldiers, during the following
Song—Haldane—Air, “Libiamo,” from “La Traviata.”
The horn! Let us drink from the Hirlas horn,
'Tis the true tonic cup for the Norseman born.
The horn! For the warrior on battle-fields worn,
Here are hartshorn and oil both in one.
When round the ships of Norse or Finking,
Waves dash, and lightning's fierce are blinking,
And the Sea King feels a kind of sin-king,
As his stock of spirits gets outrun.
The horn! Just a draught from the Hirlas horn
Enables him tempests to laugh to scorn.
The horn! of true courage, the source and the bourne,
Whether Danish or Dutch 'tis all one.
(during this, Guthrum sits on stone seat, C., and applies himself constantly to the Hirlas horn)
At end of song an Officer enters, R. U. E., bringing in “a yard-and-a-half of songs.”
Guth.
(C., rising)
What now?
Officer.
(who has crossed to L.)
In Saxon Alfred's empty tent,
We found this paper.
Guth.
Hand the document.
Officer gives paper and exit, L.
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“Poems, by Alfred Rex, Fid-Def, et cetera;”
The weak invention of a poor black letterer.
Can authors fight? Goes victory with anyone
Whose line of battle at the best's a penny one?
“Yet stay, important vict'ries have been won
Through Reüter's agency, by words alone.”
(tears up paper)
Declined with thanks—we can't return bad writing;
Somebody think of something more exciting.
Hald.
(R.)
The sacrifice of victims—
Guth.
We'd forgot.
That's better; call us when the stakes are hot!
(goes up, C.—noise of chains, L. 1 E.)
Now, what's all this?
Enter Oswith and Edric, loaded with chains—Otho trying to prevent their entrace, L. 1 E.
Oswith.
(L. C.)
Your pardon, warlike Dane,
For this intrusion.
Edric.
(L.)
Pray, let me explain!
Oswith.
Then simply, this man's mad.
Edric.
Oh, he's a fool!
Guth.
(C.—drinking)
That both are right, we feel a strong suspicion;
Yet clouds affect our cerebral condition.
It may be from our warlike deeds this morn,
Or copious reference to the Hirlas horn.
What are ye, fellows?
Oswith.
(proudly)
I myself, avow,
An officer and gentleman.
Guth.
And thou?
Edric.
(abjectly)
Merely an officer!
Guth.
(C.)
In reg'ments crack?
Oswith.
(L. C.)
The Horse Guards Blue.
Guth.
And yours?
Edric.
(L.)
The Foot Guards Black.
Guth.
Your names?
Oswith.
Mine's Oswith.
Edric.
Edric's mine.
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(smiling foggily)
No! is it?
Gentleman, both,—the honor of this visit—
Something beyond what I could have presumed—
Hald.
(R.—correcting him)
Sire, these are captives, both to Odin doomed.
Guth.
How now! Is Guthrum schooled and contradicted?
Prisoners at the bar—you stand convicted—
No, that's not it. Our drinking cups replenish.
(to Oswith and Edric, amiably)
Though, if you'd rather light Bourdeaux or Rhenish—
Haldane, my friend, just watch this case for us,
We don't feel quite the thing.
(sits and slumbers)
Hald.
(to Otho)
Now, what's the fuss?
Otho.
(up, L. C.)
In drawing lots for Odin's sacrifice,
We drew this baddish lot—at any price.
(Edric)
Out for the altar we in robes had trick'd him,
When this man volunteers to save the victim—
Edric.
Who in my place, without of fear of particle,
Offers himself—
Oswith.
As a superior article!
Edric.
I'm one these trying times upset most sadly;
In battles I'm no use—I run so badly.
To forge a signature, I've scarce the skill,
And haven't strength to take up e'en a bill.
My life's all kicks—no halfpence—thorns, not clover;
I wish you'd just light up and get it over!
Hald.
(R., to Oswith)
See you in life no beauties?
Oswith.
(L. C.)
Well, not many!
(eyeing them all around)
As placed at present—I may say—not any.
The air of Continental revolution
I fear won't suit my British Constitution.
I'm sure we shan't agree in any case,
So, to save trouble, grill me in his place;
I feel that I shall do you far more credit,
Also the service—verbum sap—I've said it!
(goes up, L. C.)
Edric.
(aside)
He'll beat me yet! He always did at school!
(goes up, L.)
Hald.
(shaking Guthrum)
Chief! we await your sentence!
Guth.
(asleep)
Take a rule!
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Ina.
(aside)
Tishe!
Oswith.
(up, L. C., seeing her)
By Jove! What heavenly vision's yonder?
Edric.
(up L.—struck also with her beauty)
Good gracious! there's a girl! Another blunder!
Now I'm in love—and want to keep alive!
Ina.
(aside)
Pray Heaven, to save him I in time arrive!
(coming towards C.—the Danes make way for her)
Otho.
(R., to Guthrum)
My liege! the Princess Ina!
Guth.
Eh! what's brought her?
(starts up and embraces her)
My angel twins!—I mean my single daughter—
Affection dims our eyesight.
Ina.
(clinging to him)
From the fight
Returned in safety?
Guth.
Right, my love—and tight!
Ina.
(rapturously)
And this my birth-day!
Guth.
So it is, my dear,
Which makes you in your thirty-seventh year!
Ina.
(L. C.)
What! I? Just turned eighteen!
Guth.
(R. C.)
True! Care and trouble.
Makes your afflicted pa see all things double
But we remember, if things turned out pleasant,
Out of the spoil we promised you a present.
Ina.
Forgotton in the joy of seeing you.
Guth.
What's it to be?
Ina.
(assuming carelessness)
Oh! anything will do—
That slave for instance (pointing to Oswith)
pretending to despise you.
Guth.
He's yours! Remove his chains!
(Otho moves to do so)
Oswith.
(calmly)
Shouldn't advise you!
These hands once free, might spoil some Danish feature
By demonstrations of a British nature.
(tucking up his cuffs—a movement on the part of the Danes)
“Hand-cuffs removed might lead to fisty-cuffs!
What are hands for but to slip into muffs?”
Hald.
(R.)
His life is forfeit! He insults the Dane!
Guth.
(To Edric, mistaking identity)
Villain! thy life is forfeit!
(crossing to L. C.)
Edric.
(L.)
Sold again!
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(R. C.)
Nay! 'tis yon captive who insults you there,
I would humiliate behind my chair,
Would force to carry lap-dogs—parcels—books,
The other one, more humble in his looks,
From honorable death I would not save.
Edric.
(aside)
Go it!
Ina.
The one that I would make my slave
Is the proud upstart—not the harmless sappy.
Guth.
(maudlin, joins the hands of Oswith and Ina)
Bless you my children! Take her and be happy!
(The Danes look indignant)
Hald.
(R.)
But Odin's sacrifice—to thus make light of it!
Guth.
Settle it as you please!—Let's make a night of it!
Finale to Scene—“Puritani.”
Hald.
What is the odds, pray, so long as you are quite felicitous,
We've come to England, and here we mean to stay;
Alfred has vanished, and doesn't seem inclined to visit us,
Under which circumstances, all we have to say,
(spoken)
Is—
Chorus.
Now then, my weary Danes,
Come let's be cheery, Danes.
Foot it, put it, trip it, keep it up till break of day.
Rum tiddidy, rum tiddidy, &c.
Ina.
(to Oswith)
'Twas but to save you, I framed my scheme of intervention,
Oswith.
I'm more in danger now, than from the stake or knife;
Edric.
All in connexion with the circumstance that I've to mention,
(spoken)
Is—
I've no partner—no end—no aim in life!
(Guthrum falls, C.)
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Hald.
Hold hard, my cheery Danes,
Guthrum is weary, Danes,
Bear him off to honour's bed, in Scandinavia's way!
Rum tiddidy, rum tiddidy, &c.
(Guthrum is lifted on to a litter made by Soldiers, with their battle axes (or on a large shield), and is carried off, R., all following in procession—Oswith leading Ina, and Edric sneaking after them, his head drooping, and his chained hands behind him, guarded by Haldane)
| Alfred the Great ; or, The Minstrel King | |