University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A SMITHY OUTSIDE A PALACE.
A Smith discovered, standing, meditatively, beside his anvil, with his hand on the hammer. During the following conversation he retires into his forge, and brings thence a golden crown, which he proceeds to burnish diligently.
Enter Porreo and Enyon.
Porreo.

My brother, the prince Ferrex, gave to the
page, Philander—is that his name?

Enyon.

So they call him.

Porreo.

You saw. Mind that!

Enyon.

Doubt not. I saw it—with my proper eyes.

Porreo.

Nay—smile not! You saw my brother, the
prince Ferrex, give to the page Philander a fair letter,
charging the boy solicitously to convey it to the hand of
my betrothed Marcella?

Enyon.

The politic Dunwarro's daughter—

Porreo.

Fiery angers! hide in the heart!

Enyon.

So be it. Let me state the argument.

Porreo.

Proceed.

Enyon.

Thou art the second son of Gorbudoc, the
potent monarch of this our valiant isle of Britain. For a
slight blemish of nature, which, in his royal esteem, misfitted
a polished court like this of Trinovant, the prudent
monarch consigned thee to the care of the wise and venerable

Clotyn, Duke of Cornwall, in whose far-removed halls
thou wert instructed, till the defect which banished thee
was (though unknown by thy distant father) happily in
great part mended.

Porreo.

Be quick.

Enyon.

Meanwhile, Dunwarro, son of Clotyn, being
widowed, and desiring business to supplant a lonely sorrow,
seeks here the court of Gorbudoc, leaving old Clotyn's, but
still entrusting his daughter, during his own absence, to the
guardianship of her grandsire. Thou and she thus grow
and are taught together, until affection ripens. Suddenly,
Dunwarro commands his daughter hither. What follows?

Porreo.

This! My presumptuous brother takes on
him, moved by Marcella's report of my proficiency, to call
our royal father to account for my banishment. Couriers
are sent to all the different counties and provinces of
Britain—one reaches Clotyn's court, demanding of the too-old
duke to take his share in judging the matter. The sage
duke consents to send his image—despatches the courier,
and then, secretly disguising me as a herald, cunningly
appoints me his missive.

Enyon.

Wherein his motive is right evident. But
touching thy brother's and her father's motives—(plague
on this state craft!)—room there is for much suspicion.

Smith
(singing).

Said the King to the Smith—

Porreo.

Hark! We are disturbed.

Enyon.

Let us retire to the grove yonder. Here they
are to pass.

[Exeunt.
Smith
(sings).

During the above, enter Dordan, unperceived.
Dordan
(in a feigned voice).
That is a good song.
Who made it, smith?

Smith.
Why, Dordan,
The jester of the court.

Dordan.
That fellow is
A poet.

Smith
(looking up).
Why, it is thyself. O Dordan!
The work is almost done.

Dordan.
What dost thou, smith?
What's left to do?

Smith.
Please your wise mirth, the burnish
That finishes the golden diadem,
And makes it ready for the consecration,
Which the impatient King is hastening on;
And has even now sent to me that pert page
(Philander I do think they call the boy),
With message to prepare myself and it
For the procession soon.

Dordan.
Thine old trade, smith,
Was better than thy new one.

Smith.
May that be?

Dordan.
It wrought the richer metal!

Smith.
How is that?

Dordan.
Your iron is a richer prize than gold.
Gold will not plough a field, nor dig a mine,
Nor point a lance, nor make the battle sword;
But iron will. 'Twill get what is worth more
Than gold; since gladly men give gold for grain,
And win the gold itself from cave and coffer.

Smith.
True, jester. 'Faith, I like not this new business—
Not I, for my part—niggling, peddling work!
A sturdy stroke on a good iron anvil,
With a sledge hammer, that is what likes me:
A thump like this.

[Striking the anvil with a hammer loudly.
Dordan.
Have mercy on my ears!

Smith.
Thy ears! they have no taste for music then.

Dordan.
Have? they have nothing—therefore, they have all.

Smith.
A perilous paradox.

Dordan.
He who has least
Is richest—that is, richest of the poorest;
For who has nought he is the only rich,
Rich in the way of excellence, truly rich.
Rich absolutely, infinitely rich.

Smith.
Resolve me this.

Dordan.
If he live on without
Your gold, your silver, and your precious stones,
Your sumptuous dresses and your royal feasts,
And want them not, content with what he is;
Then in himself is he a man so rich,
He can afford to do without their aid.
Or if his nature he extenuate,
So that he die, he shows a mine of wealth
That hath no need of any worldly thing,
Not even the body that he cared not for,
And left in scorn to who would bury it!

Smith.
Why, he, methinks, were greater fool than thou.

Dordan.
Not greater, smith! but fool almost as wise!

Smith.
Well! So thou thinkst the King himself is poorer,
Now that he hath this crown, than ere he had it?

Dordan.
Yes; for he hath two crowns, and will give away,
For gold, the iron.

Smith.
See, Philander comes.

Enter Philander.
Dordan.
Boy!

Philander.
Fool!

Dordan.
Fool!

Philander.
I?

Dordan.
A boy's a fool.

Philander.
As how?

Dordan.
Thy question shows it: he who asks a question
Shows ignorance of what he asks about,
And he who's ignorant is but a fool.

Philander.
Yet, if by asking he can answer gain,
'Twas wise in him to ask that he might know,
And knowledge make him wise.

Dordan.
'Tis nature's wisdom,
Not thine—and mightiest in the weakest. Women
And children both are curious, both be fools.

Philander.
What both?

Dordan.
Both; yet is nature wise in them.

Philander.
Then nature's wise in me?

Dordan.
Yes, pretty child.

Philander.
Child!

Dordan.
Scorn it not. 'Tis a great thing
That manhood seldom matches. Childhood's faith
Believes in all responses, and hence learns—
And, confident, proceeds to seek again,
By wonder, and the passion for the new,
Still urged—still satisfied! But manhood chills
The fount of admiration—ties itself
Within the bands of custom, and deceived
Or else deceiving, lives to doubt of all things;
Nor will be taught, though it too little knows.

Philander.
Why, then, the child's the wiser. Fool! thou'rt caught—
Hadst thou been curious as a boy must be,
According to thy pretty theorie,
My business here thou wouldst have questioned me.

[Rhyming.
Dordan.
I guess. The sage Dunwarro and his daughter,
'Tis known, are passing soon. Thou hast a letter
From princely Ferrex to the fair Marcella.

Philander.
They come. How shall I now, in secret wise,
Commend this scroll to her sweet hands and eyes?

Dordan.
How the knave rhymes! The fool shall stand thy friend.

Enter Dunwarro and Marcella.
Dordan.
Hail to thy wisdom!

Dunwarro.
To thy folly, greeting!
So now make way.

Dordan.
Thy pardon, sir; but fools
Can ne'er make way; they always lag behind-hand.

Dunwarro.
What wouldst thou, fool?

Dordan.
Know why thou callst me fool.
I know why thou art called the wise.

Dunwarro.
Then mayst thou
Why thou art called the simple.

Dordan.
Marry, may I?
Then I'll resolve the point, though it be knotty.

[During the following conversation, Philander delivers the letter to Marcella, which she reads. Enyon enters, and observes the action, but immediately, making a threatening gesture, retires.]
Dunwarro.
Thou art tedious.

Dordan.
I'll be brief. I am simple, sir,
Being natural. They call a fool a natural,
And therefore call me simple. 'Tis my simplicity
That makes me love the fields, the trees, the brooks,
The flowers, the rainbow, and the moon and stars;
Think they are something; trust both man and woman,
My fortune and the gods!

Dunwarro.
The fool's a poet.

Dordan.
The poet is a fool: for while he lives
On the ideal, as on air the lizard;
He leaves to grave Dunwarro, with bent brow,
To frown mankind to silence, lest they lie
When they do speak; to walk through wondering ranks
Cloaked in stern pride, apt to dispute all truth,
Decide all controversy, and despise
Instruction, pleasure, and whatever breathes
Of purer being; yes, to you he leaves
The world ye are sure of, for the heaven ye seek not.

Dunwarro.
Be witty, and not moral.

Dordan.
How! not moral?
Witty, not moral? why, your moralist's
Your only genuine fool. Smith! thinkst thou not
'Tis evil in thee, being a peaceful man,
To mould the tools of death?

Smith.
Why, what know I
More than the miner who the metal delved?
We work in our vocation.

Dunwarro.
Silence, sirrah!
Divest thee of that coxcomb! Vex no more
The nicer manners of our modern times
With antics coarse and stale. We need them not.

Dordan.
Most gladly I submit; hoping the state
Hath now no office which a fool doth hold.

Dunwarro.
Begone.

Dordan.
Philander, come. The time's unfit—
Meet is both knave and fool the statesman quit.

[Exeunt Philander and Dordan.
Dunwarro.
Smith! for the anvil and the furnace! In—
In, to the labour which I set thee now.

[Exeunt Smith, Dunwarro, and Marcella.
Re-enter Enyon and Porreo.
Enyon.
What we have seen confirms it!

Porreo.
Yes; the letter
Prince Ferrex gave the boy, he gave to her.

Enyon.
Prince Ferrex wished thee home to mock thy wildness.
They're leagued to wrong thee: from thy birth they've wronged thee,
A monarch's banished son. By what right wert thou,
Though rude of mien and slow of tongue, despatched,
An alien, into Cornwall? Now, returned,
Behold Marcella, by thy elder brother,
Won from thy vows. The fraud is flagrant, burns
With shameful glory, glows and glares with horror!
It was from her he heard of Porreo's change,
But little still he knew the graceful herald,
From Clotyn's halls, was Porreo's self. This sleight
I counselled; and another let me prompt.
Come! thou must doff this garb, and show again
Like a King's son. Time presses. I'll instruct thee.

[Exeunt.