The Yeomen of the Guard ; Or, The Merryman and his Maid A New and Original Opera, in Two Acts |
 | 1. | ACT I. |
| 2. |
 | The Yeomen of the Guard ; Or, The Merryman and his Maid |  |
ACT I.
Scene.—Tower Green. Phœbe discovered spinning.Song.—Phœbe.
She wanders to and fro;
Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,
And to all questions she replies,
With a sad heigho!
'Tis but a little word—“heigho!”
So soft, 'tis scarcely heard—“heigho!”
An idle breath—
Yet life and death
May hang upon a maid's “heigho!”
As owl mopes on a tree;
Although she keenly feels the smart,
She cannot tell what ails her heart,
With its sad “Ah me!”
'Tis but a foolish sigh—“Ah me!”
Born but to droop and die—“Ah me!”
Yet all the sense
Of eloquence
Lies hidden in a maid's “Ah me!”
Enter Wilfred.
Wil.
Mistress Meryll!
Phœ.
(looking up).
Eh! Oh! it's you, is it! You may go
away, if you like. Because I don't want you, you know.
Haven't you anything to say to me?
Phœ.
Oh yes! Are the birds all caged? The wild beasts all
littered down? All the locks, chains, bolts, and bars in good
order? Is the Little Ease sufficiently uncomfortable? The
racks, pincers, and thumbscrews all ready for work? Ugh!
you brute!
Wil.
These allusions to my professional duties are in doubtful
taste. I didn't become a head-jailor because I like head-jailing.
I didn't become an assistant-tormentor because I like
assistant-tormenting. We can't all be sorcerers, you know.
(Phœbe annoyed.)
Ah! you brought that upon yourself.
Phœ.
Colonel Fairfax is not a sorcerer. He's a man of science
and an alchemist.
Wil.
Well, whatever he is, he won't be one long, for he's to
be beheaded to-day for dealings with the devil. His master
nearly had him last night, when the fire broke out in the
Beauchamp Tower.
Phœ.
Oh, how I wish he had escaped in the confusion!
But take care; there's still time for a reply to his petition for
mercy.
Wil.
Ah! I'm content to chance that. This evening at half-past
seven—ah!
Phœ.
You're a cruel monster to speak so unfeelingly of the
death of a young and handsome soldier.
Wil.
Young and handsome! How do you know he's young
and handsome?
Phœ.
Because I've seen him every day for weeks past taking
his exercise on the Beauchamp Tower.
(Wilfred utters a cry
of agony.)
There, I believe you're jealous of him, now. Jealous
of a man I've never spoken to! Jealous of a poor soul who's to
die in an hour!
Wil.
I am! I'm jealous of everybody and everything. I'm
jealous of the very words I speak to you—because they reach
your ears—and I mustn't go near 'em!
Phœ.
How unjust you are! Jealous of the words you speak
to me! Why, you know as well as I do, that I don't even like
them.
Wil.
You used to like 'em.
Phœ.
I used to pretend I liked them. It was mere politeness
to comparative strangers.
Wil.
I don't believe you know what jealousy is! I don't
believe you know how it eats into a man's heart—and disorders
his digestion—and turns his interior into boiling lead. Oh, you
are a heartless jade to trifle with the delicate organization of the
human interior!
Chorus
(as Yeomen march on).
Tower Warders,
Under orders,
Gallant pikemen, valiant sworders!
Brave in bearing,
Foemen scaring,
In their bygone days of daring!
Ne'er a stranger
There to danger—
Each was o'er the world a ranger:
To the story
Of our glory
Each a bold contributory!
Chorus of Yeomen.
In the autumn of our life
Here at rest in ample clover,
We rejoice in telling over
Our impetuous May and June.
In the evening of our day,
With the sun of life declining,
We recall without repining,
All the heat of bygone noon.
Solo.— Sergeant.
This the autumn of our life,
This the evening of our day;
Weary we of battle strife,
Weary we of mortal fray.
But our year is not so spent,
And our days are not so faded,
But that we with one consent,
Were our lovèd land invaded,
Still would face a foreign foe,
As in days of long ago.
People.
Tower Warders,
Under orders, etc.
Yeomen.
In the autumn time of life, etc.
[Exeunt Crowd. Manent Yeomen.
Enter Dame Carruthers.
Dame.
A good day to you, Sergeant.
Serg.
Good day, Dame Carruthers. Busy to-day?
Dame.
Busy, ay! The fire in the Beauchamp last night has
given me work enough. A dozen poor prisoners—Richard
Colfax, Sir Martin Byfleet, Colonel Fairfax, Warren the
preacher-poet, and half a score others—all packed into one
die to-day, is to be removed to No. 14 in the Cold Harbour
Tower that he may have his last hour alone with his confessor;
and I've to see to that.
Serg.
Poor gentleman! He'll die bravely. I fought under
him two years since, and he valued his life as it were a feather!
Phœ.
He's the bravest, the handsomest, and the best young
gentleman in England! He twice saved my father's life; and
it's a cruel thing, a wicked thing, and a barbarous thing that so
gallant a hero should lose his head—for it's the handsomest
head in England!
Dame.
For dealings with the devil. Ay! if all were beheaded
who dealt with him, there'd be busy doings on Tower
Green.
Phœ.
You know very well that Colonel Fairfax is a student
of alchemy—nothing more, and nothing less; but this wicked
Tower, like a cruel giant in a fairy-tale, must be fed with
blood, and that blood must be the best and bravest in England,
or it's not good enough for the old Blunderbore. Ugh!
Dame.
Silence, you silly girl; you know not what you say.
I was born in the old keep, and I've grown grey in it, and,
please God, I shall die and be buried in it; and there's not a
stone in its walls that is not as dear to me as my own right
hand.
Made our merry land their own,
And the Saxons from the Conqueror were flying,
At his bidding it arose,
In its panoply of stone,
A sentinel unliving and undying.
Insensible, I trow,
As a sentinel should be,
Though a queen to save her head should come a-suing.
There's a legend on its brow
That is eloquent to me,
And it tells of duty done and duty doing.
And men may bleed and men may burn,
On London town and all its hoard
I keep my solemn watch and ward!”
The flower of the brave
Have perished with a constancy unshaken.
From the dungeon to the block,
From the scaffold to the grave,
Is a journey many gallant hearts have taken.
Round the heroes who have fought
For conscience and for home in all its beauty;
But the grim old fortalice
Takes little heed of aught
That comes not in the measure of its duty.
And men may bleed and men may burn,
On London town and all its hoard
It keeps its silent watch and ward!”
[Exeunt all but Phœbe and Sergeant Meryll.
Phœ.
Father! No reprieve for the poor gentleman?
Mer.
No, my lass; but there's one hope yet. Thy brother
Leonard, who, as a reward for his valour in saving his standard
and cutting his way through fifty foes who would have hanged
him, has been appointed a Yeoman of the Guard, will arrive
this morning; and as he comes straight from Windsor, where
the Court is, it may be—it may be—that he will bring the
expected reprieve with him.
Phœ.
Oh, that he may!
Mer.
Amen! For the Colonel twice saved my life, and I'd
give the rest of my life to save his! And wilt thou not be
glad to welcome thy brave brother, with the fame of whose
exploits all England is a-ringing?
Phœ.
Ay, truly, if he brings the reprieve.
Mer.
And not otherwise?
Phœ.
Well, he's a brave fellow indeed, and I love brave
men.
Mer.
All brave men?
Phœ.
Most of them, I verily believe! But I hope Leonard
will not be too strict with me—they say he is a very dragon of
virtue and circumspection! Now, my dear old father is kindness
itself, and—
Mer.
And leaves thee pretty well to thine own ways, eh?
Well, I've no fears for thee; thou hast a feather-brain, but
thou'rt a good lass.
Phœ.
Yes, that's all very true, but if Leonard is going to
tell me that I may not do this and I may not do that, and I
must not talk to this one, or walk with that one, but go
through the world with my lips pursed up and my eyes cast
down, like a poor nun who has renounced mankind—why, as
I have not renounced mankind, and don't mean to renounce
mankind, I won't have it—there!
Mer.
Nay, he'll not check thee more than is good for thee,
Phœbe!
Leon.
Father!
Mer.
Leonard! my brave boy! I'm right glad to see thee,
and so is Phœbe!
Phœ.
Ay—hast thou brought Colonel Fairfax's reprieve?
Leon.
Nay, I have here a despatch for the Lieutenant, but no
reprieve for the Colonel!
Phœ.
Poor gentleman! poor gentleman!
Leon.
Ay, I would I had brought better news. I'd give my
right hand—nay, my body—my life, to save his!
Mer.
Dost thou speak in earnest, my lad?
Leon.
Ay—I'm no braggart. Did he not save thy life?
and am I not his foster-brother?
Mer.
Then hearken to me. Thou hast come to join the
Yeomen of the Guard.
Leon.
Well!
Mer.
None has seen thee but ourselves?
Leon.
And a sentry, who took but scant notice of me.
Mer.
Now to prove thy words. Give me the despatch, and
get thee hence at once! Here is money, and I'll send thee
more. Lie hidden for a space, and let no one know. I'll convey
a suit of yeoman's uniform to the Colonel's cell—he shall
shave off his beard so that none shall know him, and I'll own
him as my son, the brave Leonard Meryll, who saved his flag
and cut his way through fifty foes who thirsted for his life.
He will be welcomed without question by my brother-yeomen,
I'll warrant that. Now, how to get access to his cell?
(To
Phœbe.)
The key is with thy sour-faced admirer, Wilfred
Shadbolt.
Phœ.
(demurely).
I think—I say, I think—I can get anything
I want from Wilfred. I think—I say, I think—you may
leave that to me.
Mer.
Then get thee hence at once, lad—and bless thee for
this sacrifice.
Phœ.
And take my blessing too, dear, dear Leonard!
Leon.
And thine, eh? Humph! Thy love is new-born,
wrap it up, lest it take cold and die.
Trio.—Leonard, Phœbe, Meryll.
Phœ.
Alas! I waver to and fro—
Dark danger hangs upon the deed!
All.
Dark danger hangs upon the deed!
Leon.
The scheme is rash and well may fail;
But ours are not the hearts that quail—
The hands that shrink—the cheeks that pale
In hours of need!
No, ours are not the hearts that quail,
The hands that shrink, the cheeks that pale
In hours of need!
Mer.
The air I breathe to him I owe:
My life is his—I count it naught!
That life is his—so count it naught!
Leon.
And shall I reckon risks I run
When services are to be done
To save the life of such an one?
Unworthy thought!
All.
And shall we reckon risks we run
To save the life of such an one?
Unworthy thought!
Phœ.
We may succeed—who can foretell—
May Heaven help our hope—farewell!
All.
We may succeed—who can foretell?
May Heaven help our hope—farewell!
[Leonard embraces Meryll and Phœbe, and then exit. Phœbe weeping.
Mer.
Nay, lass, be of good cheer, we may save him yet.
Phœ.
Oh, see, father—they bring the poor gentleman from
the Beauchamp! Oh, father! his hour is not yet come?
Mer.
No, no—they lead him to the Cold Harbour Tower to
await his end in solitude. But softly—the Lieutenant approaches!
He should not see thee weep.
Enter Fairfax, guarded. The Lieutenant enters, meeting him.
Lieut.
Halt! Colonel Fairfax, my old friend, we meet but
sadly.
Fair.
Sir, I greet you with all good-will; and I thank you
for the zealous care with which you have guarded me from the
pestilent dangers which threaten human life outside. In this
happy little community, Death, when he comes, doth so in
punctual and business-like fashion; and, like a courtly gentleman,
giveth due notice of his advent, that one may not be
taken unawares.
Lieut.
Sir, you bare this bravely, as a brave man should.
Fair.
Why, sir, it is no light boon to die swiftly and surely
at a given hour and in a given fashion! Truth to tell, I
would gladly have my life; but if that may not be, I have the
next best thing to it, which is death. Believe me, sir, my lot
is not so much amiss!
Phœ.
(aside to Meryll).
Oh, father, father, I cannot bear it?
Mer.
My poor lass!
Nay, pretty one, why weepest thou? Come, be comforted.
Such a life as mine is not worth weeping for.
(Sees
Meryll.)
Sergeant Meryll, is it not?
(To Lieutenant.)
May I greet my old friend?
(Shakes Meryll's hand.)
Why,
man, what's all this? Thou and I have faced the grim old
king a dozen times, and never has his majesty come to me in
such goodly fashion. Keep a stout heart, good fellow—we are
soldiers, and we know how to die, thou and I. Take my word
for it, it is easier to die well than to live well—for, in sooth,
I have tried both.
If so, it must befal
That Death, whene'er he call,
Must call too soon.
Though fourscore years he give,
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die,
Perchance, in June!
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it;
Soon as he's born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!
[At the end Phœbe is led off, weeping, by Meryll
Fair.
And now, Sir Richard, I have a boon to beg. I am
in this strait for no better reason than because my kinsman,
Sir Clarence Poltwhistle, one of the Secretaries of State, has
charged me with sorcery, in order that he may succeed to my
estate, which devolves to him provided I die unmarried.
Lieut.
As thou wilt most surely do.
Fair.
Nay, as I will most surely not do, by your worship's
grace! I have a mind to thwart this good cousin of mine.
Lieut.
How?
Fair.
By marrying forthwith, to be sure!
Lieut.
But, Heaven ha' mercy, whom wouldst thou marry?
Fair.
Nay, I am indifferent on that score. Coming Death
hath made of me a true and chivalrous knight, who holds all
and the worst-favoured of them is good enough for him. So,
my good Lieutenant, if thou wouldst serve a poor soldier who
has but an hour to live, find me the first that comes—my
confessor shall marry us, and her dower shall be my dishonoured
name and a hundred crowns to boot. No such poor
dower for an hour of matrimony!
Lieut.
A strange request. I doubt that I should be
warranted in granting it.
Fair.
Tut tut! There never was a marriage fraught with
so little of evil to the contracting parties. In an hour she'll
be a widow, and I—a bachelor again for aught I know!
Lieut.
Well, I will see what can be done, for I hold thy
kinsman in abhorrence for the scurvy trick he has played thee.
Fair.
A thousand thanks, good sir; we meet again on this
spot in an hour or so. I shall be a bridegroom then, and your
worship will wish me joy. Till then farewell.
(To guard.)
I am ready, good fellows.
[Exit with guard into Cold Harbour Tower.
Lieut.
He is a brave fellow, and it is a pity that he should
die. Now, how to find him a bride at such short notice?
Well, the task should be easy!
[Exit.
Enter Jack Point and Elsie Maynard, pursued by a crowd of Men and Women. Point and Elsie are much terrified; Point, however, assuming an appearanee of self-possession.
Chorus.
Jibe, joke, jollify!
Give us of your quality,
Come, fool, follify!
River runneth rapidly,
Into it we fling
Bird who doesn't sing!
In the art of merriment;
Into it we throw
Cock who doesn't crow!
And with all rapidity
Give us quip and quiddity—
Willy-nilly, O!
Into it we throw
Fool who doesn't follify,
Cock who doesn't crow!
(alarmed).
My masters, I pray you bear with us,
and we will satisfy you, for we are merry folk who would make
all merry as ourselves. For, look you, there is humour in all
things, and the truest philosophy is that which teaches us to
find it and to make the most of it.
Elsie
(struggling with one of the crowd).
Hands off, I say,
unmannerly fellow!
(Pushing him away.)
Point
(to 1st Citizen).
Ha! Didst thou hear her say,
“Hands off?”
1st Cit.
Ay, I heard her say it, and I felt her do it! What
then?
Point.
Thou dost not see the humour of that?
1st Cit.
Nay, if I do, hang me!
Point.
Thou dost not? Now observe. She said “Hands
off!” Whose hands? Thine. Off what? Off her. Why?
Because she is a woman. Now had she not been a woman,
thine hands had not been set upon her at all. So the reason
for the laying on of hands is the reason for the taking off of
hands, and herein is contradiction contradicted! It is the
very marriage of pro with con; and no such lopsided union
either, as times go, for pro is not more unlike con than man is
unlike woman—yet men and women marry every day with
none to say “Oh, the pity of it,” but I and fools like me!
Now wherewithal shall we please you? We can rhyme you
couplet, triolet, quatrain, sonnet, rondolet, ballade, what you
will. Or we can dance you saraband, gondolet, carole, pimpernel
or Jumping Joan.
Elsie.
Let us give them the singing farce of the Merryman
and his Maid—therein is song and dance too.
All.
Ay, the Merryman and his Maid!
Duet.—Point and Elsie.
Point.
I have a song to sing, O!
Elsie.
Sing me your song, O!
Point.
It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me, lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Elsie.
I have a song to sing, O!
Sing me your song, O!
Elsie.
It is sung with the ring
Of the songs maids sing
Who love with a love life-long, O!
It's the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud
Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me, lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, etc.
Point.
I have a song to sing, O!
Elsie.
Sing me your song, O!
Point.
It is sung to the knell
Of a churchyard bell,
And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!
It's a song of a popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Both.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me, lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, etc.
Elsie.
I have a song to sing, O!
Point.
Sing me your song, O!
Elsie.
It is sung with a sigh
And a tear in the eye,
For it tells of a righted wrong, O!
It's a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,
Who turned on her heel and tripped away
From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble heart that he did not prize.
So she begged on her knees, with downcast eyes,
For the love of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Both.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me, lackadaydee!
His pains were o'er, and he sighed no more,
For he lived in the love of a ladye!
1st Cit.
Well sung and well danced!
2nd Cit.
A kiss for that, pretty maid!
Ay, a kiss all round.
Elsie
(drawing dagger).
Best beware! I am armed!
Point.
Back, sirs—back! This is going too far.
2nd Cit.
Thou dost not see the humour of it, eh? Yet there
is humour in all things—even in this.
(Trying to kiss her.)
Elsie.
Help! help!
Enter Lieutenant, with guard. Crowd falls back.
Lieut.
What is this pother?
Elsie.
Sir, I sang to these folk, and they would have repaid
me with gross courtesy, but for your honour's coming.
Lieut.
(to Mob).
Away with ye! Clear the rabble.
(Guards
push crowd off, and go off with them.)
Now, my girl, who are
you, and what do you here?
Elsie.
May it please you, sir, we are two strolling players,
Jack Point and I, Elsie Maynard, at your worship's service.
We go from fair to fair, singing, and dancing, and playing brief
interludes; and so we make a poor living.
Lieut.
You two, eh? Are ye man and wife?
Point.
No, sir; for though I'm a fool, there is a limit to
my folly. Her mother, old Bridget Maynard, travels with us
(for Elsie is a good girl), but the old woman is a-bed with
fever, and we have come here to pick up some silver, to buy an
electuary for her.
Lieut.
Hark ye, my girl! Your mother is ill?
Elsie.
Sorely ill, sir.
Lieut.
And needs good food, and many things that thou
canst not buy?
Elsie.
Alas! sir, it is too true.
Lieut.
Wouldst thou earn a hundred crowns?
Elsie.
An hundred crowns! They might save her life!
Lieut.
Then listen! A worthy, but unhappy gentleman
is to be beheaded in an hour on this very spot. For sufficient
reasons, he desires to marry before he dies, and he hath asked
me to find him a wife. Wilt thou be that wife?
Elsie.
The wife of a man I have never seen!
Point.
Why, sir, look you, I am concerned in this; for though
I am not yet wedded to Elsie Maynard, time works wonders,
and there's no knowing what may be in store for us. Have
we your worship's word for it that this gentleman will die
to-day?
Lieut.
Nothing is more certain, I grieve to say.
Point.
And that the maiden will be allowed to depart the
very instant the ceremony is at an end.
The very instant. I pledge my honour that it shall
be so.
Point.
An hundred crowns?
Lieut.
An hundred crowns!
Point.
For my part, I consent. It is for Elsie to speak.
Trio.—Elsie, Point, Lieut.
Lieut.
How say you, maiden, will you wed
A man about to lose his head?
For half an hour
You'll be a wife,
And then the dower
Is yours for life.
A headless bridegroom why refuse?
If truth the poets tell,
Most bridegrooms, ere they marry, lose
Both head and heart as well!
Elsie.
A strange proposal you reveal,
It almost makes my senses reel.
Alas! I'm very poor indeed,
And such a sum I sorely need.
My mother, sir, is like to die,
This money life may bring,
Bear this in mind, I pray, if I
Consent to do this thing!
Point.
Though as a general rule of life
I don't allow my promised wife,
My lovely bride that is to be,
To marry any one but me,
Yet if the fee is promptly paid,
And he, in well-earned grave,
Within the hour is duly laid,
Objection I will waive!
Yes, objection I will waive!
All.
Temptation, oh temptation,
Were we, I pray, intended
To shun, whate'er our station,
Your fascinations splendid;
Or fall, whene'er we view you,
Head over heels into you!
Temptation, oh temptation, etc.
[During this, the Lieutenant has whispered to Wilfred (who has entered). Wilfred binds Elsie's eyes with a kerchief, and leads her into the Cold Harbour Tower.
Lieut.
And so, good fellow, you are a jester?
Point.
Ay, sir, and, like some of my jests, out of place.
Lieut.
I have a vacancy for such an one. Tell me, what are
your qualifications for such a post.
Marry, sir, I have a pretty wit. I can rhyme you
extempore; I can convulse you with quip and conundrum; I
have the lighter philosophies at my tongue's tip; I can be
merry, wise, quaint, grim, and sardonic, one by one, or all at
once; I have a pretty turn for anecdote; I know all the jests—
ancient and modern—past, present, and to come; I can riddle
you from dawn of day to set of sun, and, if that content you
not, well on to midnight and the small hours. Oh, sir, a pretty
wit, I warrant you—a pretty, pretty wit!
And quip and crank,
For lowly folk
And men of rank.
I ply my craft
And know no fear,
I aim my shaft
At prince or peer.
At peer or prince—at prince or peer,
I aim my shaft and know no fear!
That's subject to no academic rule;
You may find in it the jeering of a jest,
Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind;
I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find
A grain or two of truth among the chaff!
The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
But his laughter has an echo that is grim
When they're offered to the world in merry guise,
Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—
For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wise
Should always gild the philosophic pill!
Lieut.
And how came you to leave your last employ?
Point.
Why, sir, it was in this wise. My Lord was the
Archbishop of Canterbury, and it was considered that one of
my jokes was unsuited to His Grace's family circle. In truth I
ventured to ask a poor riddle, sir—Wherein lay the difference
between His Grace and poor Jack Point? His Grace was
pleased to give it up, sir. And thereupon I told him that
whereas His Grace was paid ten thousand pounds a year for
being good, poor Jack Point was good—for nothing. 'Twas
but a harmless jest, but it offended His Grace, who whipped
me and set me in the stocks for a scurril rogue, and so we
clergy.
Lieut.
But I trust you are very careful not to give offence.
I have daughters.
Point.
Sir, my jests are most carefully selected, and anything
objectionable is expunged. If your honour pleases, I will try
them first on you honour's chaplain.
Lieut.
Can you give me an example? Say that I had sat me
down hurriedly on something sharp?
Point.
Sir, I should say that you had sat down on the spur
of the moment.
Lieut.
Humph. I don't think much of that. Is that the
best you can do?
Point.
It has always been much admired, sir, but we will try
again.
Lieut.
Well, then, I am at dinner, and the joint of meat is
but half cooked.
Point.
Why then, sir, I should say—that what is underdone
cannot be helped.
Lieut.
I see. I think that manner of thing would be somewhat
irritating.
Point.
At first, sir, perhaps; but use is everything, and you
would come in time to like it.
Lieut.
We will suppose that I caught you kissing the kitchen
wench under my very nose.
Point.
Under her very nose, good sir—not under yours!
That is where I would kiss her. Do you take me? Oh, sir,
a pretty wit—a pretty, pretty wit!
Lieut.
The maiden comes. Follow me, friend, and we will
discuss this matter at length in my library.
Point.
I am your worship's servant. That is to say, I trust
I soon shall be. But, before proceeding to a more serious topic,
can you tell me, sir, why a cook's brain-pan is like an over-wound
clock?
Lieut.
A truce to this fooling—follow me.
Point.
Just my luck; my best conundrum wasted!
[Exeunt.
Enter Elsie from Tower, followed by Wilfred, who removes the bandage from her eyes.
Recitative and Ballad.—Elsie.
That bearest in thy circlet all the gladness
That lovers hope for, and that poets sing,
What bringest thou to me but gold and sadness?
To-day he dies! To-day, alas, he dies!
Ill fit a bride,
No sadder wife than I
The whole world wide!
Ah me! Ah me!
Yet maids there be
Who would consent to lose
The very rose of youth,
The flower of life,
To be, in honest truth,
A wedded wife,
No matter whose!
A widow I!
Ah, Heaven, he is too young,
Too brave to die!
Ah me! Ah me!
Yet wives there be
So weary worn, I trow,
That they would scarce complain,
So that they could
In half an hour attain
To widowhood,
No matter how!
[Exit Elsie as Wilfred comes down.
Wil.
(looking after Elsie).
'Tis an odd freak, for a dying
man and his confessor to be closeted alone with a strange singing
girl. I would fain have espied them, but they stopped up the
keyhole. My keyhole!
Enter Phœbe with Meryll, who carries a bundle. Meryll remains in the background, unobserved by Wilfred.
Phœ.
(aside).
Wilfred—and alone! Now to get the keys
from him.
(Aloud.)
Wilfred—has no reprieve arrived?
Wil.
None. Thine adored Fairfax is to die.
Phœ.
Nay, thou knowest that I have naught but pity for the
poor condemned gentlemen.
Wil.
I know that he who is about to die is more to thee than
I, who am alive and well.
Phœ.
Why, that were out of reason, dear Wilfred. Do they
not say that a live ass is better than a dead lion! No, I don't
mean that!
Wil.
They say that, do they?
Phœ.
It's unpardonably rude of them, but I believe they put
it in that way. Not that it applies to thee, who art clever
beyond all telling!
Oh yes; as an assistant tormentor.
Phœ.
As a wit, as a humorist, as a most philosophic commentator
on the vanity of human resolution.
[Phœbe slyly takes bunch of keys from Wilfred's waistband, and hands them to Meryll, who enters the Tower, unnoticed by Wilfred.
Wil.
Truly, I have seen great resolution give way under my
persuasive methods.
(Working a small thumbscrew.)
In the
nice regulation of a screw—in the hundredth part of a single
revolution lieth all the difference between stony reticence and
a torrent of impulsive unbosoming that the pen can scarcely
follow. Ha! ha! I am a mad wag.
Phœ.
(with a grimace).
Thou art a most light-hearted and
delightful companion, Master Wilfred. Thine anecdotes of the
torture-chamber are the prettiest hearing.
Wil.
I'm a pleasant fellow an I choose. I believe I am
the merriest dog that barks. Ah, we might be passing happy
together—
Phœ.
Perhaps. I do not know.
Wil.
For thou wouldst make a most tender and loving wife.
Phœ.
Ay, to one whom I really loved. For there is a
wealth of love within this little heart, saving up for—I wonder
whom? Now, of all the world of men, I wonder whom? To
think that he whom I am to wed is now alive and somewhere!
Perhaps far away, perhaps close at hand! And I know
him not! It seemeth that I am wasting time in not knowing
him.
Wil.
Now, say that it is I—nay! suppose it for the nonce.
Say that we are wed—suppose it only—say that thou art my
very bride, and I thy cheery, joyous, bright, frolicsome husband
—and that the day's work being done, and the prisoners stored
away for the night, thou and I are alone together—with a long,
long evening before us!
Phœ.
(with a grimace).
It is a pretty picture—but I scarcely
know. It cometh so unexpectedly—and yet—and yet—were I
thy bride—
Wil.
Ay!—wert thou my bride!
Phœ.
Oh, how I would love thee!
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle-dove—
Were I thy bride!
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The melancholy lute,
Were night owl's hoot
To my love-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I'd woo—
Were I thy bride!
Were as a carrion's cry
To lullaby
Such as I'd sing to thee,
Were I thy bride!
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, of course, you see
I'm not thy bride!
Wil.
No, thou'rt not—not yet! But, Lord, how she woo'd!
I should be no mean judge of wooing, seeing that I have been
more hotly woo'd than most men. I have been woo'd by maid,
widow, and wife. I have been woo'd boldly, timidly, tearfully,
shyly—by direct assault, by suggestion, by implication, by
inference, and by innuendo. But this wooing is not of the
common order: it is the wooing of one who must needs woo me,
if she die for it!
Mer.
(looking after them).
The deed is, so far, safely accomplished.
The slyboots, how she wheedled him! What a helpless
ninny is a love-sick man! He is but as a lute in a woman's
hands—she plays upon him whatever tune she will. But the
Colonel comes. I'faith he's just in time, for the Yeomen parade
here for his execution in two minutes.
Enter Fairfax, without beard and moustache, and dressed in Yeomen's uniform.
Fair.
My good and kind friend, thou runnest a grave risk
for me!
Mer.
Tut, sir, no risk. I'll warrant none here will recognize
you. You make a brave yeoman, sir! So—this ruff is too
high; so—and the sword should hang thus. Here is your
halbert, sir, carry it thus. The yeomen come. Now, remember,
you are my brave son, Leonard Meryll.
Fair.
If I may not bear mine own name, there is none other
I would bear so readily.
Mer.
Now, sir, put a bold face on it; for they come.
Enter Yeomen of the Guard.
Recitative.—Sergeant Meryll.
Ye Tower Yeomen, nursed in war's alarms,
Suckled on gunpowder, and weaned on glory,
Behold my son, whose all-subduing arms
Have formed the theme of many a song and story.
Forgive his aged father's pride; nor jeer
His aged father's sympathetic tear!
[Pretending to weep.
Chorus.
Leonard Meryll!
Leonard Meryll!
Dauntless he in time of peril!
Man of power,
Knighthood's flower,
Welcome to the grim old Tower!
To the Tower, welcome thou!
Recitative.—Fairfax.
Forbear, my friends, and spare me this ovation,
I have small claim to such consideration:
The tales that of my prowess have been stated
Are all prodigiously exaggerated!
Chorus.
'Tis ever thus!
Wherever valour true is found,
True modesty will there abound.
Wherever valour true is found,
True modesty will there abound.
Couplets.
1st Yeoman.
Didst thou not, oh, Leonard Meryll!
Standard lost in last campaign,
Rescue it at deadly peril—
Bear it bravely back again?
Chorus.
Leonard Meryll, at his peril,
Bore it bravely back again!
2nd Yeoman.
Didst thou not, when prisoner taken,
And debarred from all escape,
Face, with gallant heart unshaken,
Death in most appalling shape?
Chorus.
Leonard Meryll faced his peril,
Death in most appalling shape!
Fair.
Truly I was to be pitied,
Having but an hour to live,
I reluctantly submitted,
I had no alternative!
Oh! the facts that have been stated
Of my deeds of derring-do,
Have been much exaggerated,
Very much exaggerated,
Monstrously exaggerated!
Scarce a word of them is true!
Enter Phœbe. She rushes to Fairfax and embraces him.
Recitative.
Phœ.
Leonard!
Fair.
(puzzled).
I beg your pardon?
Phœ.
Don't you know me?
I'm little Phœbe!
Fair.
(still puzzled).
Phœbe? Is this Phœbe?
My little Phœbe? (Aside.)
Who the deuce may she be?
It can't be Phœbe, surely?
Wil.
Yes, 'tis Phœbe—
Thy sister Phœbe!
All.
Ay, he speaks the truth;
'Tis Phœbe!
Fair.
(pretending to recognize her).
Sister Phœbe!
Phœ.
Oh, my brother! (Embrace.)
Fair.
Why, how you've grown! I did not recognize you!
Phœ.
So many years! Oh, brother! (Embrace.)
Fair.
Oh, my sister!
Wil.
Ay, hug him, girl! There are three thou mayst hug—
Thy father and thy brother and—myself!
Fair.
Thyself, forsooth? And who art thou thyself?
Good sir, we are betrothed. (Fairfax turns inquiringly to Phœbe.)
Phœ.
Or more or less—
But rather less than more!
Wil.
To thy fond care
I do commend thy sister. Be to her
An ever-watchful guardian—eagle-eyed!
And when she feels (as sometimes she does feel)
Disposed to indiscriminate caress,
Be thou at hand to take those favours from her!
All.
Yes, yes,
Be thou at hand to take those favours from her!
Phœ.
(in Fairfax's arms).
Yes, yes,
Be thou at hand to take those favours from me!
Trio.—Wilfred, Fairfax, and Phœbe.
Wil.
To thy fraternal care
Thy sister I commend;
From every lurking snare
Thy lovely charge defend:
And to achieve this end,
Oh! grant, I pray, this boon—
She shall not quit thy sight:
From morn to afternoon—
From afternoon to night—
From seven o'clock to two—
From two to eventide—
From dim twilight to 'leven at night
She shall not quit thy side!
All.
Oh! grant, I pray, this boon, etc.
Phœ.
So amiable I've grown,
So innocent as well,
That if I'm left alone
The consequences fell
No mortal can foretell.
So grant, I pray, this boon—
I shall not quit thy sight:
From morn to afternoon—
From afternoon to night—
From seven o'clock till two—
From two till day is done—
From dim twilight to 'leven at night
All kinds of risk I run!
All.
So grant, I pray, this boon, etc.
Fair.
With brotherly readiness,
For my fair sister's sake,
At once I answer “Yes”—
That task I undertake—
My word I never break—
I freely grant that boon,
And I'll repeat my plight.
[Kiss.
From afternoon to night—
[Kiss.
From seven o'clock to two—
[Kiss.
From two to evening meal—
[Kiss.
From dim twilight to 'leven at night
That compact I will seal.
[Kiss.
All.
He freely grants that boon, etc.
[The Bell of St. Peter's begins to toll. The crowd enters; the block is brought on to the stage, and the Headsman takes his place. The Yeomen of the Guard form up, Fairfax and two others entering the White Tower, to bring the prisoner to execution. The Lieutenant enters and takes his place, and tells off Fairfax and two others to bring the prisoner to execution.
Chorus
—(to tolling accompaniment).
The prisoner comes to meet his doom;
The block, the headsman, and the tomb.
The funeral bell begins to toll—
May Heaven have mercy on his soul!
Solo.—Elsie, with Chorus.
Oh, Mercy, thou whose smile has shone
So many a captive on;
Of all immured within these walls,
The very worthiest falls!
Enter Fairfax and two other Yeomen from Tower in great excitement.
My lord! my lord! I know not how to tell
The news I bear!
I and my comrades sought the prisoner's cell—
He is not there!
All.
He is not there!
They sought the prisoner's cell—he is not there!
Trio.—Fairfax and Two Yeomen.
As escort for the prisoner
We sought his cell, in duty bound;
The double gratings open were,
No prisoner at all we found!
We hunted high, we hunted low,
We hunted here, we hunted there—
The man we sought, as truth will show,
Had vanished into empty air!
All.
Had vanished into empty air!
The man they sought with anxious care
Had vanished into empty air!
Girls.
Now, by our troth, the news is fair,
The man hath vanished into air!
As escort for the prisoner
They sought his cell in duty bound, etc.
Lieut.
Astounding news! The prisoner fled.
(To Wilfred).
Thy life shall forfeit be instead!
[Wilfred is arrested.
Wilfred.
My lord, I did not set him free,
I hate the man—my rival he!
[Wilfred is taken away.
Meryll.
The prisoner gone—I'm all agape!
Who could have helped him to escape?
Phœbe.
Indeed I can't imagine who!
I've no idea at all—have you?
Dame.
Of his escape no traces lurk
Enchantment must have been at work!
Elsie
(aside to Point).
What have I done! Oh, woe is me!
I am his wife, and he is free!
Point.
Oh, woe is you? Your anguish sink!
Oh, woe is me, I rather think!
Oh, woe is me, I rather think!
Yes, woe is me, I rather think!
Whate'er betide
You are his bride,
And I am left
Alone—bereft!
Yes, woe is me, I rather think
Yes, woe is me, I rather think!
Ensemble.
Lieutenant.
All frenzied with despair I rave,
The grave is cheated of its due.
Who is the misbegotten knave
Who hath contrived this deed to do?
Let search be made throughout the land,
Or my vindictive anger dread—
A thousand marks to him I hand
Who brings him here, alive or dead.
Elsie.
All frenzied with despair I rave,
My anguish rends my heart in two.
Unloved, to him my hand I gave;
To him, unloved, bound to be true!
Unloved, unknown, unseen—the brand
Of infamy upon his head:
A bride that's husbandless, I stand
To all mankind for ever dead!
Point.
All frenzied with despair I rave,
My anguish rends my heart in two.
Your hand to him you freely gave;
It's woe to me, not woe to you!
My laugh is dead, my heart unmanned,
A jester with a soul of lead!
A lover loverless I stand,
To womankind for ever dead!
[The others sing the Lieutenant's verse, with altered pronouns. At the end, Elsie faints in Fairfax's arms; all the Yeomen and populace rush off the stage in different directions, to hunt for the fugitive, leaving only the Headsman on the stage, and Elsie insensible in Fairfax's arms.
| The Yeomen of the Guard ; Or, The Merryman and his Maid | |