Chapter 3

_An extensile landscape, with a road on the L; overhung with foliage. A Country Inn, U.E.R. Table, chairs, villagers sitting, a waiter bringing in refreshments during the symphony of the following_

GLEE and CHORUS.

Cold, oh! cold the March winds be; High up in a leafless tree The little bird sits and wearily twits, The woods with perjury: But the cuckoo-knave sings hold his stave, (Ever the spring comes merrily) And "O poor fool!" sings he-- For this is the way in the world to live, To mock when a friend hath no more to give, Whether in hall or tree!

[_The villagers retire severally._]

[_Enter WILLIAM, L._]

_Will._ So this publican hath ceased to be a sinner! To think now of old sophisticate Gurton being called Hezekiah Newborn. Gadso, he babbles of salvation like the tap his boy left running this morning to see the troop of cavaliers go by. Yet I marked the unregenerate Gurton swore round ere Newborn found his voice to upbraid sourly as becomes a saint. He hath been more civil since I heard him. O Newborn, how utterly shalt thou be damned!

[_Enter HOST._]

_Host._ The Lord be with thee, young man. It did seem to me that thou wert discoursing aloud in prayer. Doth thy master desire any creature-comfort?

_Will._ Master Gurton! thy belly hath kept pace with thy righteousness.

_Host._ Ha! Who told thee my carnal name? I prithee abstain. It doth remind me of the bonds of the flesh.

_Will._ Simply, thou art known to me. I am William Nutbrown.

_Host._ Nay! What, mine own friend Will, that had his bastard fathered on me? Why, he was a youth!

_Will._ He was! A youth of promise. Behold the fulfilment in these legs, this manly bosom!

_Host._ O wonderful! and to think I knew thee not! But thou art horribly, and as it were most monstrously improved? Will Nutbrown! to be sure--and whence comest thou?

_Will._ From the land of beccaficos, mine old Newborn! but thou understandest not--thou hast merely observed the increase of local timber and the decay of pigeon-houses. Thy sole chronicle hath been the ripe birth of undistinguishable curly-headed village children, and the green burial of undistinguished village bald old men hath been thine only lesson. Thou hast simply acquired amazement at the actions of the man of experience. Doth a quart measure still hold a quart?

_Host._ Alas! more--I will tell thee of it. These be sore times for us. You must know there hath been a Parliament commission of inquiry into weights and measures, and last Michaelmas a year, no! let me see--well, marry! there came down--

_Will._ Well, well, thou shalt finish anon.

_Host._ It went nigh to kill me.

_Will._ Thou shalt tell me all hereafter.

_Host._ Damnation! but I am glad. The Lord forgive me! I had nearly sworn.

_Will._ Thou hadst--nearly.

_Host._ And art thou a vessel of grace, or a brand given to the burning? Of a verity--

_Will._ Come, no lies with me! I shall doubt thee if thou cantest one word except in thy calling. Yet I saw by thy first look thou wert glad to see me; so give me thy hand, and I will shake it ere some one calls for a draught of ale, and thou dost relapse into the sordid and muddy calculation that makes thy daily self, and so forget that the friend of thy youth hath revisited thee. Nay, fear not, I will not betray thee to thy present customers. But first tell me, why thou art so changed: seeing that the cavaliers should be thy best friends?

_Host._ Friend Will! Twill tell thee--the cavaliers drink lustily, and of claret and sherris with spice, whereas, it is true, the elect chiefly do affect ale. But, O Will! your cavalier--not to speak of my keeping never a serving wench honest for a month, and I have daughters now grown--your best cavalier would ever pull out a long embroidered purse, with one gold piece in it, regarding which he would briskly swing it round, and jerking it together, replace in his doublet, saying between his hiccups, "Prithee, sweet Spigot!" or it may he, "Jolly Master Gurton! chalk it up; when the king hath his own again, I will repay thee;" or "I will go coin it from Noll's ruby nose," and would ride away singing, and in a fortnight the poor gentleman would surely be slain. And, as for your worst kind of cavalier, when I did gently remind him, he would swear and draw his rapier and make a fearful pass near my belly--that I was glad to see him depart with a skinful of mine own wine unpaid for. Moreover, Master Will, an he were handsome and a moon-raker, my wife, that is now at rest, would ever take his part, and cry shame on me for a cuckoldy villain to teaze a sweet, loyal gentleman so, that would pay when a could--moreover--

_Will._ Hold! Thy reasons are sufficient--Thou art, worthy Hezekiah! become a saint, to escape martyrdom. Methinks I see the gallant foin at thy belly.

[_Draws his sword and makes a feint at the Host._]

Sa! sa!

_Host._ Have a care--[_William makes feints._]

_Will._ I shall die! Gadzookers! thus, was it thus!--and thy wife--a cuckoldy villain--merely a figure of speech though, Master Gurton! Eh? Thou didst not suspect?

_Host._ Wilt thou be quiet; I see no jest.

_Will._ Nay, I'll be bound not. Sa! Sa!

_Host._ Laugh an thou likest; but put up thy toasting-iron.

_Will._ Well, thou hast reason for thanksgiving. But I think thy wife was right, if the poor gentleman's thrust was drunken, 'twas a compliment to thy wine. A scurvy rogue to ask for his money when he was poor, and thy wine did affect him.

_Host._ But to speak seriously, good Will, what bringeth thee here? Who is thy master! Can I assist thee in anything?

_Will._ Well, I pity thee, and will say no more. My master is young Arthur Walton. He hath returned. He gave up the fortune to his brother Basil.

_Host._ I thought he was settled abroad.

_Will._ No! no! He is here, and now he wanteth assistance from his brother; for we are in some present straits, and this Basil will have nought to say to him. What I shall want of thee is information of the family; and mayhap thy daughter will have to see Mistress Florence for us with a message.

[_Enter TAPSTER and two or three Roundhead Soldiers, L._]

_Tap._ Master, master! here be soldiers quartered on us.

_Will._ The Philistines be upon thee!

_Host._ O Lord!----be praised. See directly and water the double ale--Tell my daughter to lock up the Trinidado tobaccos--Haste!

[_Enter IRETON, HARRISON, and Soldiers, L.U.E._]

_Ire._ [_Reading Papers._] Give us to drink, good measure; for the flesh is thirsty. That we have shall be paid. Who is that fellow [_points to William_] with his sword drawn?

_Har._ Ha! a malignant.--Smite him!

_Sold._ Lo! he shall die.

_Host._ Hold! hold! 'tis an innocent youth. He did but draw his weapon to defy the evil one. He is strong in prayer. [_To William aside._] Speak quickly, an thou lovest thyself--something from Tobit, or the Psalmody.

_Har._ Thou hearest--Sin-Despise! touch not the youth. Lo, I myself have wrestled with the powers of darkness. [_To William._] In what shape cometh he?

_Will._ With horns, an't please you, [_Aside._] very like Master Newborn there.

_Har._ [_To himself._] With me 'tis different. In the curtain'd night, A Form comes shrieking on me, With such an edg'd and preternatural cry 'T would stir the blood of clustering bats from sleep, Tear their hook'd wings from out the mildew'd eaves, And drive them circling forth-- I tell ye that I fight with him until The sweat like blood puts out my burning eyes. Call you this dreaming?

_Will._ [_Aside to the Host._] Dost think the gentleman eats suppers?

_Ire._ A plague upon his damn'd repentant fancies!

_Har._ [_Still to himself._] 'Twas on the heath, As he did gripe and hold it from his breast, He cut my blade with fifty pallid fingers, On his knees, crying out He had at home an old and doating father; And yet I slew him! There was a ribbon round his neck That caught in the hilt of my sword. A stripling, and so long a dying? Why 'Tis most unnatural!

_Host._ [_Aside to William._] I would not have his conscience to be vintner to the Parliament.

_Will._ [_To Host._] Nor I, for my master to be a fat-witted Duke, and I his chief serving-man.

_Ire._ Here we need counsel, and he raves of dreams And devils. Yet, 'tis true, he fights as if He were possess'd by them. Come, Harrison! Will you not hear how fortune dawns upon us?--

_Har._ Ay! indeed-- Excuse me, Ireton, I was something absent; I think my health of late is shatter'd much. Sometimes I talk aloud. Did I not speak But now of Joab in the Bible, And how he did slay Abner?-- Thou know'st I read the Scripture very oft.

_A Trooper._ Ay! he goes to bed with it under his pillow, lest the evil one should prevail. Desborough told him of it.

_Har._ Heard you of Falkland's death?

_Ire._ At Newbury?-- I did. On either side, in this sad war The good and noble seem the ripest fruit, And so fall first.

_Har._ Thus let them perish, all That strive against the Lord. Is Cromwell nigh?--

_Ire._ He will be here anon.

_Har._ [_To himself._] The mighty men Of Israel slew _all_. It was a sin To spare the child in the womb. I am a fool To shiver thus to think that night must come. The lion trembles at the sun's eclipse, But, not for murder of the innocent lamb. Who walks across my grave?--

_Ire._ Come, let us go: I cannot pray or wrestle in the spirit; But let us talk of earthly fights and toils. I love fat quarters in a Bishopric As well as any preacher of us all.

_Har._ Come, men, to quarters-- In four hours' time we march To join Lord Essex--see your girths are slack'd, Your pistols prim'd, your beasts fed, and your souls Watching for grace, the word is "Kill and slay"-- 'Twere best all eat, for I will fast and pray.

[_Exeunt HARRISON and IRETON, R.S.E._]

_A Soldier._ [_To William._] I say, wilt thou discourse?

_2nd Sold._ Give him a text.

_3rd Sold._ He lacketh speech--He is a dumb Amalekite.

_1st Sold._ I will even awaken him with a prick of my sword.

_Host._ Nay! he is strong in the word. [_To William._] Preach something, if thou beest wise.

_Will._ What the devil!--

_3rd Sold._ Ay! uplift thy voice against Beelzebub.

_Host._ Thou couldst talk fast enough just now.

_Will._ Gurton! for this I will undo thee. Newborn! thou didst just now water thine ale. Hezekiah! thou dissemblest, which is more than thy wife used to do; for she feared thee not.

_Host._ I pity thee, and will say no more.

_1st Sold._ Here is a stool, let him mount thereon.

_Will._ These be ignorant knaves. I will practice on them. It may come to good. [_Mounts the stool._] The Lord leadeth his people through the wilderness to salvation, crinkeldom cum crankeldom. [_Mutters to himself._]

_Soldiers._ Hum!

_Will._ Of all thirsts, there be none like that after righteousness.--[_Mutters to himself._]

_Soldiers._ Hum!

_Will._ [Aside.] For strong ale, which I think hath to do with the conversion of this Gurton. [_Mutters to himself._]

_1st Sold._ Lift thy voice higher, that we stumble not in the dark.

_Will._ [_Aside._] I would I could remember a text--anything will do--[_Aloud._] The General Cromwell hath, they say, a red nose, and doth never spit white, which I look upon as a great sign, as was the burning bush to Moses!

_2nd Sold._ Ha! Blasphemest thou?

_3rd Sold._ He scoffeth!

_4th Sold._ Down with him.

_Host._ O fool! There will be blood spilt!

[_They drag WILLIAM down (the HOST vainly endeavouring to interfere) and buffet him; as Sin-Despise draws his sword, the trumpets sound outside to saddle._]

[_Enter HARRISON, R.S.E._]

_Har._ Why dally ye? Away! Smite hip and thigh. To horse, to horse! what ho! Zerubbabel! Mount, mount, I say, for bloody Goring's near-- To saddle, ho!

[_They immediately fall into line, and leave quickly, L. The trumpets are still heard sounding. Exeunt all but HOST and WILLIAM, who arranges his collar and adjusts himself._]

_Host._ [Breathless.] What thinkest thou of this?

_Will._ Think! what of? Thy late wife's virtue? I would she were here.

_Host._ These be now your civil wars: didst mark? he said all should have been paid. Now, with them that were here, there were some fourscore and ten quarts that might have been drunk, had they staid an hour or so; and now to ride off thirsty to be killed.

_Will._ Well, it might have been worse, for they might have drunk it, and departed in that military haste which precludes payment.

_Host._ Ay! ay! thou wilt have thy jest.

[_Exit into house._]

[_Enter ARTHUR WALTON, L._]

_Arth._ Where hast thou been so long?

[_To WILLIAM._]

_Will._ Truly at the burial of one Generosity!

_Arth._ And what manner of person was he?

_Will._ A fool in this world, but an angel of light in the next; if the word of God be true, which I remember to have heard in my childhood in the church there.

_Arth._ And how was he buried?

_Will._ About the setting of the sun, when he had no more to give. I saw none in the garb of mourning, though many wore long faces, because their gain was stopped.

_Arth._ And what wrote they on his tomb?

_Will._ Other names than his own. Extravagance, folly, imprudence, were the best terms there. One whom he had released from gaol, carved madness with a flint stone. There was but one would have painted his true name, but his tears defaced it--a humble dependent, who had been faithful to him, but whom he regarded not, being accustomed to his services.

_Arth._ Out! rogue! I have humoured thee too long, leave thy rascal allegory. Hast seen my brother?

_Will._ Ay, and thy cousin. She is a rare girl, and remembereth thee well. Thy brother is not attached to thee. He will give thee five hundred pounds if thou wilt swear to quit England for ever. He abuseth thee finely, saith thou art a debauched vagabond, which is an insult to me thy serving companion, whom he threatened with the stocks. Wilt thou not slay him?

_Arth._ O monstrous! Can it be? Fool that I have been. My father, thou wert right, indeed!

_Will._ Thy cousin would see thee. She is miserable about something, and will be here presently.

_Arth._ I will wither him with my reproaches.

_Will._ You have bad stuff to deal with. He will not become good suddenly, as in some stage-plays. You shall not frown him into a virtuous act. Nevertheless, abuse him, an 'twill do thee good. Look you, dear master, I will describe him. He hath a neat and cheerful aspect, and talketh very smoothly; nay, for a time he shall agree with everybody, that you shall think him the most good-natured fellow alive; he shall be as benevolent as a lawyer nursing his leg, whilst he listens to the tale of him whom his client oppresseth, and you shall win him just as easily. Let the question of gain put him in action, and the devil inside shall jump out, like an ape stirred up to malice. He affects, too, a vulgar frankness, which is often the mask of selfishness, as a man who helps himself first at table with a "ha! ha!" in a facetious manner, a jocose greediness, which is most actual, real earnest within.

_Arth._ Alas! If this be true, what chance have I? for such a one as thou describest would call charity herself a cheat, and deem the emotion of an angel morbid generosity.

_Will._ Bless you, he hath reasons! he would refuse tenpence to a starving wretch, because he owed ten pounds to his shoemaker, though he had ten thousand in his coffers at home. Yet would he still owe the ten pounds.

_Arth._ Nay, cease! I love not to hear it.

_Will._ And yet so meanly would he adopt appearances in the world's eye, that should he have to cross a muddy street where a beggar kept a passage clear with his besom, lest the gallants should soil their bravery, he would time his crossing, till one driven, or on horseback, should be near, that he might pass hurriedly on without giving him a groat, as in fear of being o'erridden. Like Judas--

_Arth._ Cease! cease! I bid thee cease!

_Will._ Thy cousin is very beautiful and gentle.

_Arth._ I will but see her, then my sword must carve my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.

[_Exit WILLIAM, R._]

O sweet hour! In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit For evening service of seraphic quires-- Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds, The heraldry of God, ere yet Time was. The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd In a sweet iris of delicious light, That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear, Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken. How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground, Till every tiny blade of glittering grass Was doubled by its shadow. Can it be, That evil hearts throb near a scene like this? And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought, To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy! For, O bright orb! That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees, Where a child's thought might grasp thee, Art thou not This night in thousand places hideous? To think Where thy pale beams _may_ revel--on the brow Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast And grating laugh, in murder's rolling eye, On death, corruption, on the hoary tomb, Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave, On gaping wounds, on strife,--the pantomime Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces-- Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution, In each foul corner busy as at play, With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay, Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!

[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]

_Will._ Sir, they come! Your collar is unfasten'd and your hair disorder'd. Let me--[_Attempts to adjust AUTHUR'S dress._]

_Arth._ Heed it not! I thought you knew me better.

_Will._ Just a moment.--

_Arth._ No! yet will I meet her softly. She is the only creature of her sex, For whom I feel some kindness; 'tis because I knew her ere I knew the world beside, And all the lie of passion, that is nurs'd For long in early blighted hearts alone, Whom rank possession of the thing they pin'd for, Had cured in one short month.--Well, I'll be kind, Nay more, affectionate--

[_Enter FLORENCE and BARBARA, R. He salutes her distantly._]

Fair mistress, thus I claim a young acquaintance, that hath grown Old in long absence.

_Flor._ [_Rushing to him_] Arthur! dearest. Arthur! How strange! Dear cousin! Sir! I wish'd to see you, Needing protection--nay! I was to blame, Too hasty, you must think me bold indeed!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] Is all her nature, art?--How beautiful! [_Aloud._] Dear Florence. [_Attempts to take her hand warmly, she bows._] I have scarcely words to speak. Cousin! I'll be your champion. [_Aloud._]

_Flor._ There is nought In which you can assist me? I have come Here, cousin, to entreat you, take this money. Indeed, you can repay me quite soon, when Your brother is more just. It is for him That I would give it--

_Arth._ For him? yes! you are Betroth'd?

_Flor._ My father wills so--

_Arth._ I need not This money--

_Flor._ Cousin, take it. You are proud. Will you refuse me?

_Arth._ 'Tis my character To doubt your sex, and yet from you I'd take it, But that I need it not in truth.

_Flor._ Why doubt us? Ah! cousin, I have heard you have been wild, And so think women false, as you deceive them.

_Arth._ That you have heard is false!

_Flor._ I thought so. Now I could indeed imagine it were true. Because, perchance, you've lightly won some hearts, Thus you must be severe and scoff at all, As if you had good reason!--It is proof Of an ungenerous mind or scatter'd heart.

_Arth._ Fair cousin, at your feet I would recant Mine error.

_Flor._ 'Tis polite, sir, thus to yield All your experience.

_Arth._ Nay, then! Do you not Believe a man may once love faithfully?

_Flor._ 'Twere base to doubt it--yet I think not you: You know you could not tell if it were true, Your love might be a jest. [_She goes up the stage._]

_Arth._ [_following FLORENCE._] By heaven! No.

[_WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward._]

_Will._ Young woman! I doubt not your attachment, nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned. Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.

_Barb._ Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What nonsense the man talks!

_Will._ This beard--what think you of it?

_Barb._ That it is red.

_Will._ Yet 'tis not for you.

_Barb._ I would humbly desire so.

_Will._ Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is much affected by the ladies of the south.

_Barb._ I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd thing here.

_Will._ What a rank prude is woman, thus to disguise her inclination. They call thee Barbara--Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception to thy sex?

_Barb._ [_Strikes him._] Take that, thou coxcomb!

[_Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR and FLORENCE advancing._]

_Arth._ Break not my dream. It is not late. The night Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade In distance from me. Florence, go not yet. I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear, To utter, and as many questions, Florence, To ask thee of thyself. Thou lovest not, Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst As much, nay more, this moment.

_Flor._ Did I so? Perchance I might have done; but then I love My father--

_Arth._ Tell me so again!

_Flor._ Indeed, I love My father!

_Arth._ Cruel! no, I'd have thee say If thou dost love my brother.

_Flor._ He's my cousin.

_Arth._ Or any one!

_Barb._ Dear lady, it is time.

_Flor._ Farewell, sir! yet I bid you take this purse 'Tis justice--nay, my will!

_Arth._ Oh, farewell, Florence May angels light thy feet, and all the stars From heaven race with envious beams to shed Celestial brightness on the path thou blessest.

[_Exit FLORENCE, R. ARTHUR gazes after FLORENCE. WILLIAM and BARBARA, coming down, L._]

_Will._ Sweet Bab, I love thee.

_Barb._ That is a man's saying.

_Will._ Thou wouldst not have it said by anything but a man. Thou wilt not forget?

_Barb._ There, yes! no! anything!

[_Tries to get away. WILLIAM gives BARBARA a kiss._]

_Barb._ Oh, dear, I must go. [_Exit R._]

_Arth._ She's gone!

_Will._ They are, sir!

_Arth._ What _they_--

_Will._ Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

_Arth._ Why stand here prating, then? Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road Is dangerous. I'll wait here. Leave them not Before they are safe in. [_Exit WILLIAM, R._] For thy sake, Florence, I will believe perfection's in thy sex. How much I might have said. Yes! I have been Imagination's wildest fool to deck With qualities that did beseem them not All the worst half of women. Thus we stoop To pick up hectic apples from the ground, Pierc'd by the canker or the unseen worm, And tasting deem none other grow but they, Whilst on the topmost branches of life's tree Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir Of bright Hesperides. Soft! Who comes here? Surely my rascal is not yet return'd-- The times are full of plotting. I will hide--

[_Stands aside. Voices heard._]

[_Enter four POACHERS, one carrying a fawn._]

_1st Poach._ I tell thee that I heard 'em bay.

_2nd Poach._ And I too! Curse me, but I thought his fangs did meet in the calf of my leg.

[_Enter POACHERS, L.U.E._]

_3rd Poach._ 'Tis like it was the tooth of a dog-bramble.

_2nd Poach._ Well, well; it is the nature of man to hunt forbidden deer.

_Arth._ [Aside] And to carve his name on benches.

_2nd Poach._ And while game be preserved, there will be the likes of we.

_3rd Poach._ Right too. But it is a mortal sin to make us men into dog's-meat, and to hunt us with foreign bloodhound varmint. Hast heard, friend Gregory, who stole my apples?

_4th Poach._ Not I!

_3rd Poach._ Would I could catch the thieving rascals! Look ye, the tree is mine, and it does but hang over the road a scantling; and, as sure as nights are dark, comes me some ragged pilferers, that have not to pay an honest drunkenness, and basely steal my apples.

_Arth._ [Aside] Oh, most benighted conscience of the villains!

_4th Poach._ Shall I lend thee my bull-bitch to watch thy tree? She hath a real gripe for a rascally thin leg. Your orphan, your cast-away, hath no chance with her, I warrant. A rare bitch!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] O gentle sophist! what a line is here; Lions tear wolves, wolves rend the stricken deer.

_3rd Poach._ Well, now, I thank thee, friend Gregory. Thou art a true man. I will so belabour and flay any of the cyder-blooded rascals, an thy bitch shall hold him; 'twill do a man good to hear of it.

_1st Poach._ I know the bitch. She'll kill them outright! These be right times. There be no inquests now, Master Gregory?

_4th Poach._ What's that to me more than you others? I did not murder him!

_1st Poach._ Who? The Puritan young gentleman whom Noll the brewer, that is general now, made such a stir about--

_3rd Poach._ As if plenty didn't die in these wars--

_1st Poach._ Or the girl, Gregory! eh? the girl by the well, with her finger cut, and her throat--

_4th Poach._ Damn thee, have done! She was dead, ere I found her, and I did but take--

_1st Poach._ The ring, thou wouldst say.

_2nd and 3rd Poach._ Come, confess now!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] This is black devilry. Alas! poor England! How many private, sleeping villanies Now wake to horrid life that else had slept, But for the times' most bloody anarchy?

_2nd Poach._ They say this Cromwell is near these parts.

_4th Poach._ I heard another speak! [_Loud_] I never saw the girl till she was brought in, I tell ye.

_2nd Poach._ I heard it too.

_1st Poach._ 'Twas a cricket, or some such fowl.

_3rd Poach._ There's some one near. Look sharp!

_4th Poach._ Let's beat about-- [_Loudly_] As for the girl, I saw her brought in. 'Twas a piteous sight--A love business, mark ye! I did not find her. [_They discover ARTHUR._]

_1st Poach._ Ha!

_4th Poach._ Silence him!

_3rd Poach._ Curse thee, what brings thee here?--

_Arth._ Offhands! ye know me not. [_To 4th POACHER._] Thou murderous dog! Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?--

[_4th POACHER staggers back._]

_4th Poach._ Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy; he will tell of ye all.

[_ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him._]

[_Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E._]

_Crom._ Who be these knaves? What, murder! Ha! then strike: Down with the sons of Belial!

[_Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly._]

The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [_To ARTHUR._] Another moment, and thy soul had fled-- Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so, And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus, That no one falls or lives, unless the God Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust Thou art of the good work.

[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]

_Will._ My master bloody?-- A dead man on the ground!--a knight of the road by his looks-- [_Sees CROMWELL._] What a grim stranger!

_Crom._ Sirrah! move That carrion. [_WILLIAM going up to his Master._]

_Will._ Sir! I wait on this gentleman. What a look! [_Aside._] I am sure he is either the devil, or some great Christian. [_Aloud._] I will, my Lord! [_Moves the body._] Come along! To think now this dead, two-legged thing should have been active enough just now to catch a four-footed live deer. No sooner does a man die, but you would think he had swallowed the lead of his coffin. Come along! Lord! how helpless it is! Why, he shall no more kick at his petty devouring, no, no more than if he were a dead king! [_Exit with body, U.E.L._]

_Crom._ Ha! 'Tis well said. Would that this blood had not been shed. 'Tis dreadful To send a soul destroy'd to plead against The frail destroyer. Yet I could not help it. [_TO ARTHUR._] How farest thou now?

_Arth._ Good sir, I thank you for My life so promptly sav'd--not courtesy, But breath did fall me.

_Crom._ 'Tis a fearful thing That I have done. A life! I might have struck Less fiercely. God forgive me for the deed. [_To Arthur._] Would he have slain thee?

_Arth._ 'Twas a murderer Most double-dyed in blood. I heard them speak His guilt.--

_Crom._ O, I could weep! and yet his death Had the best reason for't. Whence comest thou, sir?

_Arth._ I am but late returned unto this land.

[_Re-enter WILLIAM._]

_Will._ Yes! yes, from Italy, Rome, gracious sir! Us'd to these things, you see--

_Crom._ Peace, knave, thou scoffest! Revilest thou; because a fellow-sinner's dead? Shame be upon thee!

_Will._ [_Aside._] If I should be impertinent to him, 'twill be behind his back. He hath a quelling eye; although a man fear not. Now, amidst other brave men with swords, he would be as one that carried sword, and petronel to boot.

_Crom._ [_To Arthur._] I fain would hear from thee, young sir, More of the land from whence thou comest. 'Tis My hap, I thank God's holy will, to stay In this my country, lifting now her head From the curst yoke of proud Idolatry, Lately so vexing her, I thought to leave, A little while ago, her shores for ever, Unto the new Jerusalem, beyond The western ocean, where there are no kings, False worship, or oppression--but, no more. What say'st thou of this Italy? John Milton Loves well to speak romantic lore of Rome-- A poet, though a great and burning light. I would have knowledge of it to confound him; A sober joke, a piece of harmless mirth. What think'st thou then of Rome where Brutus liv'd?

_Arth._ 'Tis the decay of a once splendid harlot, Painting her ruin, that the enthusiast eye Lives on the recollection still, and thus The alms of passers by still meet her cravings. She stands, her scarr'd proud features mock'd with rags, Fixt at the end of a great thoroughfare, With shrill gesticulation, fawning ways, Clinging unto the traveller to sustain Her living foul decay, and death in life, She is the ghoul of cities; for she feeds Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.

_Crom._ Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind With such disgust.

_Arth._ Good, sir! I did scarce feel it, Till I return'd.

_Will._ Nay, sir! I do remember as we stood in the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy population idling within, whereby I did then liken it to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech against the land, where the only vocation of a nobleman is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.

_Arth._ Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.

_Crom._ Yet are there not amends in poetry, Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts Glowing on canvass, chisell'd in cold forms, The marbled dreams of sculptor's classic brain? Milton hath told of these.

_Arth._ Alas! 'tis but Corruption's gilding. 'Tis the trick of vice Full oft to pander in a graceful form; But when the finer chords of hearts are set In eyes glued to a dancer's feet, or ears Strain'd to the rapture of a squeaking fiddle, Think you 'tis well? Oh, say, should Englishmen Arrive at this, such price to set on art, Ne'er rivalling the untaught nightingale, That with their ears shut to wild misery, Deaf to starvation's groans, the prayer of want, The giant moan of hunger o'er the land, Till the sky darken with the face of angels, God's smiling ministers, averted--then! To buy a male soprano they should give His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames Might have their senses tickled with the trills Evolv'd from a soft, tumid, warbling throat-- Why then farewell to England and her glory!

_Crom._ Methinks the end of all things should be near, When that doth happen!

_Arth._ Did I hear aright That Milton was thy friend?

_Crom._ Yea! with the saints, That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven To set this nation free. He is my friend, And England's.

_Arth._ I in Italy did know That excellent man. Full often we have sat Upon the white and slippery marble limb Of some great ruin'd temple, whilst all round Was dipp'd in the warm, lustrous atmosphere We know not here, and purple eve did glow With shadows soft as beds of fallen roses, And he hath spoken in clear tones until He built up all again, and glory's home Grew glorious as ever. Then his voice Would sudden deepen into holy thought And mournful sweet philosophy, 'till all The air grew musical and my soul good. How well do I remember it. Yes! Milton was My honour'd tutor and my loving friend.

_Crom._ Came not his thoughts here often?--

_Arth._ Latterly, He would speak much of England, and of change Political, and coming strife and battles--

_Crom._ Ay! battles-- Hast thou not a sword, young man? Thou should'st be friend of righteousness to know That zealous patriot and pure-minded man, Of whom thou spakest; surely he hath taught thee More than mere classic lore--wisdom and faith To help this stricken people from the thrall Of their idolatrous, self-seeking rulers?

_Arth._ Fair sir! I know you not enough for this: I am a stranger to these hapless broils Between your sovereign and some of you. Yet let me thank you for this worthless life-- Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not The serf of custom to uphold a wrong, Or slave of tyrants to deny a right, Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart, Hating the deed he cannot estimate: As if, when some great exile to our land Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire, But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir, Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore, Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust, The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend, Haply now dead, or any other lie So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable, That weak men found it easier to believe Than the invention; while the bad in heart, By true worth most offended, felt relief, Protesting still they wish'd it were not so, With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask, Worn uselessly by hatred. Think me not Of these--nor yet too rash in sympathy. I would reflect well ere I draw the sword To fling the sheath away; I bid you now A kind farewell.

_Crom._ Full soon to meet array'd In arms, the instruments of Heaven together Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword. Are ours--now good night! [_With emotion._] Sir, this poor land Needs all her honest children--noble sorrow, And yet a cheerful spirit to assert The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth, Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice And perish flaming in the night of space, An atheist torch to warn the universe-- Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell!

[_Exit CROMWELL, L._]

_Arth._ A rude and uncurb'd martialist!--and yet A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not A hypocrite, too haggard is his face, Too deep and harsh his voice. His features wear No soft, diluted, and conventional smile Of smirk content; befitting lords, and dukes, Not men of nature's honoured stamp and wear-- How fervently he spake Of Milton. Strange, what feeling is abroad! There is an earnest spirit in these times, That makes men weep--dull, heavy men, else born For country sports, to slip into their graves, When the mild season of their prime had reach'd Mellow decay, whose very being had died In the same breeze that bore their churchyard toll, Without a memory, save in the hearts Of the next generation, their own heirs, When they in turn grew old and thought of dying-- Even such men as these now gird themselves With swords and Bibles, and, nought doubting, rush Into the world's undying chronicles! This struggle hath in it a solemn echo Of the old world, when God was present still In fiery columns, burning oracles: Ere earnest faith and new reality Had grown diluted, fading from the earth Through feeble ages of a mock existence, Whose Heaven and Hell were but as outer fables, That trouble not man's stage-like dream of life.

[_Exit into the Inn._]

END OF ACT I.