The garden beds I wandered byOne bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterflyA-sitting on a thorn,A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.I thought that life could have no stingTo infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.Said I, "What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore?With garden fair and sunlight freeAnd flowers in goodly store--"But he only turned away from meAnd burst into a roar.Cried he, "My legs are thin and fewWhere once I had a swarm!Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view--Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform!"At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,"You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly!""I do not want to fly," said he,"I only want to squirm!"And he drooped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm;"I do not want to be a fly!I want to be a worm!"O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this,--The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.
Five mites of monads dwelt in a round dropThat twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.To the naked eye they lived invisible;Specks, for a world of whom the empty shellOf a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.One was a meditative monad, called a sage;And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought:"Tradition, handed down for hours and hours,Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world,Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence,When I am very old, yon shimmering domeCome drawing down and down, till all things end?"Then with a weazen smirk he proudly feltNo other mote of God had ever gainedSuch giant grasp of universal truth.One was a transcendental monad; thinAnd long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused:"Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-Souls!Made in the image"--a hoarse frog croaks from the pool--"Hark! 'twas some god, voicing his glorious thoughtIn thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice,And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.Some taste they have like ours, some tendencyTo wiggle about, and munch a trace of scum."He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gasThat burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone.One was a barren-minded monad, calledA positivist; and he knew positively:"There is no world beyond this certain drop.Prove me another! Let the dreamers dreamOf their faint gleams, and noises from without,And higher and lower; life is life enough."Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, hungrilyHe seized upon an atom of bug and fed.One was a tattered monad, called a poet;And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang:"Oh, the little female monad's lips!Oh, the little female monad's eyes!Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!"The last was a strong-minded monadess,Who dashed amid the infusoria,Danced high and low, and wildly spun and doveTill the dizzy others held their breath to see.But while they led their wondrous little livesÆonian moments had gone wheeling by.The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed;A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry.The little ghost of an inaudible squeakWas lost to the frog that goggled from his stone;Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful oxComing to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged,Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.
[Abridged.]
LEODOGRAN, the King of Cameliard,Had one fair daughter, and none other child;And she was fairest of all flesh on earth,Guinevere, and in her his one delight.For many a petty king ere Arthur cameRuled in this isle and, ever waging warEach upon other, wasted all the land;And still from time to time the heathen hostSwarm'd over seas, and harried what was left.And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,Wherein the beast was ever more and more,But man was less and less. . . .
And thus the land of Cameliard was waste,Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein,And none or few to scare or chase the beast;So that wild dog and wolf and boar and bearCame night and day, and rooted in the fields,And wallow'd in the gardens of the King.
. . . . . And King LeodogranGroan'd for the Roman legions here againAnd Caesar's eagle. . . . .
He knew not whither he should turn for aid.But--for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd,. . . . . . . . . --the KingSent to him, saying, 'Arise and help us thou!For here between the man and beast we die.'And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms,But heard the call and came; and GuinevereStood by the castle walls to watch him pass;But since he neither wore on helm or shieldThe golden symbol of his kinglihood,But rode, a simple knight among his knights,And many of these in richer arms than he,She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw,One among many, tho' his face was bare.But Arthur, looking downward as he past,Felt the light of her eyes into his lifeSmite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'dHis tents beside the forest. Then he draveThe heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell'dThe forest, letting in the sun, and madeBroad pathways for the hunter and the knightAnd so returned.For while he linger'd there,A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the heartsOf those great lords and barons of his realmFlashed forth and into war; for most of these,Colleaguing with a score of petty kings,Made head against him crying: "Who is heThat should rule us? Who hath proven himKing Uther's son?"And, Arthur, passing thence to battle, feltTravail, and throes and agonies of the life,Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere,And thinking as he rode: "Her father saidThat there between the man and beast they die.Shall I not lift her from this land of beastsUp to my throne and side by side with me?What happiness to reign a lonely king?
. . . . But were I join'd with her,Then might we live together as one life,And reigning with one will in everythingHave power on this dark land to lighten it,And power on this dead world to make it live."
When Arthur reached a field of battle brightWith pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the worldWas all so clear about him that he sawThe smallest rock far on the faintest hill,And even in high day the morning star.
. . . . But the Powers who walk the world,Made lightnings and great thunders over him,And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might,And mightier of his hands with every blow,And leading all his knighthood, threw the kings.
So like a painted battle the war stoodSilenced, the living quiet as the dead,And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord.
Then quickly from the foughten field he sent. . . . . . . . . Sir Bedivere. . . . . . . . . to King Leodogran,Saying, "If I in aught have served thee well,Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife."Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heartDebating--"How should I that am a king,However much he holp me at my need,Give my one daughter saving to a king,And a king's son"?--lifted his voice, and call'dA hoary man, his chamberlain, to whomHe trusted all things, and of him requiredHis counsel: "Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?"
Then while the King debated with himself,
. . . . . there came to Cameliard,
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent;Whom . . . . . . . . the KingMade feast for, as they sat at meat:
'Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his menReport him! Yea, but ye--think ye this king--So many those that hate him, and so strong,So few his knights, however brave they be--Hath body enow to hold his foeman down?''O King,' she cried, 'and I will tell thee: few,Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him;For I was near him when the savage yellsOf Uther's peerage died, and Arthur satCrowned on the dais, and all his warriors cried,"Be thou the King, and we will work thy willWho love thee," Then the King in low deep tones,And simple words of great authority,Bound them by so straight vows to his own selfThat when they rose, knighted from kneeling, someWere pale as at the passing of a ghost,Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakesHalf blinded at the coming of a light.'But when he spake, and cheer'd his Table RoundWith large, divine, and comfortable words,Beyond my tongue to tell thee--I beheldFrom eye to eye thro' all their Order flashA momentary likeness of the King;
'And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast witAnd hundred winters are but as the handsOf loyal vassals toiling for their liege.'And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,Who knew a subtler magic than his own--Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mistOf incense curl'd about her, and her faceWellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom;But there was heard among the holy hymnsA voice as of the waters, for she dwellsDown in a deep--calm, whatsoever stormsMay shake the world--and when the surface rolls,Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.'Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thoughtTo sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd,Fixing full eyes of question on her face,'The swallow and the swift are near akin,But thou art closer to this noble prince,Being his own dear sister;'
. . . . . . . . 'What know I?For dark my mother was in eyes and hair,And dark in hair and eyes am I; . .. . . . yea and dark was Uther too,Wellnigh to blackness; but this king is fairBeyond the race of Britons and of men.'But let me tell thee now another tale:
. . . . . . . . on the nightWhen Uther in Tintagil past awayMoaning and wailing for an heir, MerlinLeft the still King, and passing forth to breathe,
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deepsIt seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereofA dragon wing'd and all from stem to sternBright with a shining people on the decks,And gone as soon as seen. . . . . . He. . . . . .watch'd the great sea fall,Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deepAnd full of voices, slowly rose and plungedRoaring, and all the wave was in a flame:And down the wave and in the flame was borneA naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet,Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, "The King!"
And presently thereafter follow'd calm,Free sky and stars: "And this same child," he said,"Is he who reigns." . . . .
. . . . . . And ever since the LordsHave foughten like wild beasts among themselves,So that the realm has gone to wrack; but now,This year, when Merlin--for his hour had come--Brought Arthur forth, and sat him in the hall,Proclaiming, "Here is Uther's heir, your King,"A hundred voices cried: "Away with him!No king of ours!" . . . . .
. . . . Yet Merlin thro' his craft,And while the people clamor'd for a king,Had Arthur crown'd; but after, the great lordsBanded, and so brake out in open war.
. . . . and Merlin in our timeHath spoken also, . . . . .Tho' men may wound him that he will not die,But pass, again to come, and then or nowUtterly smite the heathen under foot,Till these and all men hail him for their king.'. . . . . King Leodogran rejoiced,But musing 'Shall I answer yea or nay?'Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,Dreaming a slope of land that ever grew,Field after field, up to a height, the peakHaze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,Now looming, and now lost; and on the slopeThe sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,Stream'd to the peak, and mingled with the hazeAnd made it thicker; while the phantom kingSent out at times a voice; and here or thereStood one who pointed toward the voice, the restSlew on and burnt, crying, 'No king of ours,No son of Uther, and no king of ours;'Till with a wink his dream was changed, the hazeDescended, and the solid earth becameAs nothing, but the king stood out in heaven,Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent
Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he lovedAnd honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forthAnd bring the Queen, and watched him from the gates:And Lancelot past away among the flowers--For then was latter April--and return'd--Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere.To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint,Chief of the church in Britain, and beforeThe stateliest of her altar-shrines, the KingThat morn was married, while in stainless white,The fair beginners of a noble time,And glorying in their vows and him, his knightsStood around him, and rejoicing in his joy.Far shone the fields of May thro' open door,The sacred altar blossom'd white with May,The sun of May descended on their King,They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen,Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymnsA voice as of the waters, while the twoSware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love.And Arthur said, 'Behold, thy doom is mine.Let chance what will, I love thee to the death!'To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes,'King and my Lord, I love thee to the death!'And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake:'Reign ye, and live and love, and make the worldOther, and may the Queen be one with thee,And all this Order of thy Table RoundFulfil the boundless purpose of their King!'
And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:--'Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May!!Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away!Blow thro' the living world--"Let the King reign!"'Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm?Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe on helm,Fall battle-axe, and flash brand! Let the King reign!'Strike for the King and live! his knights have heardThat God hath told the King a secret word.Fall battle-axe and flash brand! Let the King reign!
'Strike for the King and die! and if thou diest,The king is king, and ever wills the highest.Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King reign!
'The King will follow Christ, and we the King,In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing.Fall battle-axe, and clash brand! "Let the King reign!"And Arthur and his knighthood for a spaceWere all one will, and thro' that strength the KingDrew in the petty princedoms under him,Fought, and in twelve great battles overcameThe heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign'd.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,High in her chamber up a tower to the eastGuarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;Which first she placed where morning's earliest rayMight strike it, and awaken her with the gleam;Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for itA case of silk, and braided thereuponAll the devices blazon'd on the shieldIn their own tinct, and added, of her wit,A border fantasy of branch and flower,And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.Nor rested thus content, but day by dayLeaving her household and good father, climb'dThat eastern tower, and entering barr'd the door,Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arms,Now made a pretty history to herselfOf every dint a sword had beaten in it,And every scratch a lance had made upon it,Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;That at Cearleon; this at Camelot;And ah, God's mercy what a stroke was there!And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but GodBroke the Strong lance and roll'd his enemy down,And saved him; so she lived in fantasy.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
PART I.
On either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs byTo many-tower'd CamelotAnd up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The Island of Shalott.Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes, dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe lady of Shalott.By the margin, willow-veil'd,Slide the heavy barges trail'dBy slow horses; and unhail'dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail'dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerly,From the river winding clearly,Down to tower'd Camelot;And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairyLady of Shalott."PART II.There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving thro' a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot;There the river eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market-girls,Pass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbot on an ambling pad,Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,Goes by to tower'd Camelot;And sometimes thro' the mirror blueThe knights come riding two and two;She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed:"I am half sick of shadows" saidThe Lady of Shalott.PART III.A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley sheaves,The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel'dTo a lady in his shield,That sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the Golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot;And from his blazon'd baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather.The helmet and the helmet-featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot;As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow'dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed into the crystal mirror,"Tirra lirra" by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," criedThe Lady of Shalott.PART IV.In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods are waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower'd Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe Lady of Shalott.And down the river's dim expanseLike some bold seer in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance--With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right--The leaves upon her falling light--Thro' the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot;And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Til' her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darken'd wholly,Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died.The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,Dead-pale between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her nameThe Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott."
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
If I had the time to find a placeAnd sit me down full face to faceWith my better self, that cannot showIn my daily life that rushes so:It might be then I would see my soulWas stumbling still towards the shining goal,I might be nerved by the thought sublime,--If I had the time!If I had the time to let my heartSpeak out and take in my life a part,To look about and to stretch a handTo a comrade quartered in no-luck land;Ah, God! If I might but just sit stillAnd hear the note of the whip-poor-will,I think that my wish with God's would rhyme--If I had the time!If I had the time to learn from youHow much for comfort my word could do;And I told you then of my sudden willTo kiss your feet when I did you ill;If the tears aback of the coldness feignedCould flow, and the wrong be quite explained,--Brothers, the souls of us all would chime,If we had the time!
RICHARD BURTON.
Introduction.—Sir John Falstaff has received a commission from the King to raise a company of soldiers to fight in the King's battles. After drafting a number of well-to-do farmers, whom he knows will pay him snug sums of money rather than to serve under him, he pockets their money and proceeds to fill his company from the riff-raff of the country through which he passes.
The scene is a village green before Justice Shallow's house. The Justice has received word from Sir John that he is about to visit him, and desires him to call together a number of the villagers from which recruits may be selected.
These villagers are now grouped upon the green, with Justice Shallow standing near.
Bardolph, Sir John Falstaff's corporal, enters and addresses Justice Shallow.
Bardolph.—Good morrow, honest gentlemen. I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow?
Shallow.—I am Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of this county, and one of the King's justices of the peace. What is your good pleasure with me?
Bardolph.—My captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff, a tall gentlemen, by heaven, and a most gallant leader.
Shallow.—He greets me well, sir. I knew him a good backsword man. How doth the good Knight now? Look! here comes good Sir John.(Enter Falstaff.) Give me your good hand, give me your worship's good hand. By my troth you look well and bear your years very well; welcome, good Sir John.
Falstaff.—I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert Shallow. Fie, this is hot weather, gentlemen. Have you provided me with half a dozen sufficient men?
Shallow.—Marry have we, sir.
Falstaff.—Let me see them, I beseech you.
Shallow.—Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Where's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so, so, so, so; yea, marry sir.—Ralph Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy?
Mouldy.—Here, an't please you.
Shallow.—What think you, Sir John? A good limbed fellow: young, strong, and of good friends.
Falstaff.—Is thy name Mouldy?
Mouldy.—Yea, an't please you.
Falstaff.—'Tis the more time thou wert used.
Shallow.—Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i' faith! Things that are mouldy lack use; very singular good! Well said, Sir John, very well said. Shall I prick him, Sir John?
Falstaff.—Yes, prick him.
Mouldy.—I was pricked well enough before, an' you could have let me alone; my old dame will be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery; you need not to have pricked me; there are other men fitter to go out than I.
Shallow.—Peace, fellow, peace! Stand aside; know you where you are? For the next, Sir John; let me see.—Simon Shadow?
Falstaff.—Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under. He's like to be a cold soldier.
Shallow.—Where's Shadow?
Shadow.—Here, sir.
Falstaff.—Shadow, whose son art thou?
Shadow.—My mother's son, sir.
Falstaff.—Thy mother's son! Like enough, and thy father's shadow. Prick him. Shadow will serve for summer.
Shallow.—Thomas Wart!
Falstaff.—Where's he?
Wart.—Here, sir!
Falstaff.—Is thy name Wart?
Wart.—Yea, sir.
Falstaff.—Thou art a very ragged wart.
Shallow.—Ha, ha, ha! Shall I prick him down, Sir John?
Falstaff.—It were superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back and the whole frame stands upon pins; prick him no more.
Shallow.—Ha, ha, ha! you can do it, sir; you can do it; I commend you well.—Francis Feeble.
Feeble.—Here, sir.
Falstaff.—What trade art thou, Feeble?
Feeble.—I'm a woman's tailor, sir.
Falstaff.—Well, good woman's tailor, wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as thou hast done in a woman's petticoat?
Feeble.—I will do my good will, sir; you can have no more.
Falstaff.—Well said, good woman's tailor! Well said, courageous Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove, or most magnanimous mouse. Prick me the woman's tailor well, Master Shallow; deep, Master Shallow.
Feeble.—I would Wart might have gone, too, sir.
Falstaff.—I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.
Feeble.—It shall suffice, sir.
Falstaff.—I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next?
Shallow.—Peter Bullcalf, o' the green.
Falstaff.—Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf.
Bullcalf.—Here, sir.
Falstaff.—Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till he roar again.
Bullcalf.—O Lord! Good my lord captain,—
Falstaff.—What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?
Bullcalf.—O Lord, sir! I'm a diseased man.
Falstaff.—What disease hast thou?
Bullcalf.—A terrible cold, sir, a cough, sir.
Falstaff.—Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will have away with thy cold. Is here all?
Shallow.—Here is two more than your number. You must have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner.
Falstaff.—Come, I will go drink with you.
(Exit Sir John and Justice Shallow.)
Bullcalf.—(Approaching Bardolph.) Good Master Corporate Bardolph, stand my friend; and here's four Harry ten shillings in French crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I'd as lief be hanged, sir, as to go; and yet for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I did not care, for my own part, so much.
Bardolph.—(Pocketing the money.) Go to; stand aside.
Feeble.—By my troth, I care not.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
AT THE LODGINGS OF MR. AND MRS. MICAWBER.
Introduction.—The scene opens in the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Mr. Micawber at this time is suffering under, what he terms, "A temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities," and is out looking for something to turn up.
Mrs. Micawber is at home attending to the twins, one of which she is holding in her arms, the other is in the cradle near by, and various of the children are scattered about the floor.
Mrs. Micawber has been bothered all the morning by the calling of creditors;—at last she exclaims, as she trots the babe in her arms:—
(Mrs. Micawber.) Well, I wonder how many more times they will be calling! However, it's their fault. If Mr. Micawber's creditors won't give him time, they must take the consequences. Oh! there is some one knocking now! I believe that's Mr. Heep's knock. ItisMr. Heep! Come in, Mr. Heep. We are very glad to see you. Come right in.
Heep.—Is Mr. Micawber in?
Mrs. Mic.—No, Mr. Heep. Mr. Micawber has gone out. We make no stranger of you, Mr. Heep, so I don't mind telling you Mr. Micawber's affairs have reached a crisis. With the exception of a heel of Dutch cheese, which is not adapted to the wants of a young family,—and including the twins,—there is nothing to eat in the house.
Heep.—How dreadful! (Aside.) The very man for my purpose. (Explanation. At this moment there is a noise heard on the landing. Micawber himself rushes into the room, slamming the door behind him.)
Micawber.—(Not seeing Heep.) The clouds have gathered, the storm has broken, and the thunderbolt has fallen on the devoted head of Wilkins Micawber! Emma, my dear, the die is cast. All is over. Leave me in my misery!
Mrs. Mic.—I'll never desert my Micawber!
Mic.—In the words of the immortal Plato, "It must be so, Cato!" But no man is without a friend when he is possessed of courage and shaving materials! Emma, my love, fetch me my razors! (Recovers himself) sh—sh! We are not alone! (Gayly) Oh, Mr. Heep! Delighted to see you, my young friend! Ah, my dear young attorney-general, in prospective, if I had only known you when my troubles commenced, my creditors would have been a great deal better managed than they were! You will pardon the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision with a minion of the law,—in short, with a ribald turncock attached to the waterworks. Emma, my love, our supply of water has been cut off. Hope has sunk beneath the horizon! Bring me a pint of laudanum!
Heep.—Mr. Micawber, would you be willing to tell me the amount of your indebtedness?
Mic.—It is only a small matter for nutriment, beef, mutton, etc., some trifle, seven and six pence ha'penny.
Heep.—I'll pay it for you.
Mic.—My dear friend! You overpower me with obligation! Shall I admit the officer? (Turns and goes to the door, opens it.) Enter myrmidon! Hats off, in the presence of a solvent debtor and a lady. (Heeps pays the officer and dismisses him.)
Heep.—Now, Mr. Micawber, I suppose you have no objection to giving me your I.O.U. for the amount.
Mic.—Certainly not. I am always ready to put my name to any species of negotiable paper, from twenty shillings upward. Excuse me, Heep, I'll write it. (Goes through motion of writing it on leaf of memo, book. Tears it out and hands it to Heep.) I suppose this is renewable on the usual term?
Heep.—Better. You can work it out. I come to offer you the position of clerk in my partner's office—the firm of Wickfield and Heep.
Mic.—What! A clerk! Emma, my love, I believe I may have no hesitation in saying something has at last turned up!
Heep.—You will excuse me, Mrs. Micawber, but I should like to speak a few words to your husband in private.
Mrs. Mic.—Certainly! Wilkins, my love, go on and prosper!
Mic.—My dear, I shall endeavor to do so to an unlimited extent! Ah, the sun has again risen—the clouds have passed—the sky is clear, and another score may be begun at the butcher's.—Heep, precede me. Emma, my love.Au Revoir.
(A gallant bow to Mrs. Micawber.)
CHARACTERS.OLD FISHERMAN PEGGOTTY,HAM PEGGOTTY,DAVID COPPERFIELD.
Introduction.—The scene is the interior of the "Old Ark"; the time is evening. The rain is falling outside, yet inside the old ark all is snug and comfortable. The fire is burning brightly on the hearth, and Mother Gummidge sits by it knitting. Ham has gone out to fetch little Em'ly home from her work,—and the old fisherman sits smoking his evening pipe by the table near the window. They are expecting Steerforth and Copperfield in to spend the evening. Presently a knock is heard and David enters. Old Peggotty gets up to greet him.
Old Peg.—Why! It's Mas'r Davy? Glad to see you, Mas'r Davy, you're the first of the lot! Take off that cloak of yours if it's wet and draw right up to the fire. Don't you mind Mawther Gummidge, Mas'r Davy; she's a-thinkin' of the old 'un. She allers do be thinkin of the old 'un when there's a storm a-comin' up, along of his havin' been drowned at sea. Well, now, I must go and light up accordin' to custom. (He lights a candle and puts it on the table by the window.) Theer we are! Theer we are! A-lighted up accordin' to custom. Now, Mas'r Davy, you're a-wonderin' what that little candle is for, ain't yer? Well, I'll tell yer. It's for my little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't o'er light or cheerful arter dark, so when I'm home here along the time that Little Em'ly comes home from her work, I allers lights the little candle and puts it there on the table in the winder, and it serves two purposes,—first, Em'ly sees it and she says: "Theer's home," and likewise, "Theer's Uncle," fur if I ain't here I never have no light showed. Theer! Now you're laughin' at me, Mas'r Davy! You're a sayin' as how I'm a babby. Well, I don't know but I am. (Walks towards table.) Not a babby to look at, but a babby to consider on. A babby in the form of a Sea Porky-pine.
See the candle sparkle! I can hear it say—"Em'ly's lookin' at me! Little Em'ly's comin'!" Right I am for here she is! (He goes to the door to meet her; the door opens and Ham comes staggering in.)
Ham.—She's gone! Her that I'd a died fur, and will die fur even now! She's gone!
Peggotty.—Gone!!
Ham.—Gone! She's run away! And think how she's run away when I pray my good and gracious God to strike her down dead, sooner than let her come to disgrace and shame.
Peggotty.—Em'ly gone! I'll not believe it. I must have proof—proof.
Ham.—Read that writin'.
Peggotty.—No! I won't read that writin'—read it you, Mas'r Davy. Slow, please. I don't know as I can understand.
David.—(Reads) "When you see this I shall be far away."
Peggotty.—Stop theer, Mas'r Davy! Stop theer! Fur away! My Little Em'ly fur away! Well?
David.—(Reads) "Never to come back again unless he brings me back a lady. Don't remember, Ham, that we were to be married, but try to think of me as if I had died long ago, and was buried somewhere. My last love and last tears for Uncle."
Peggotty.—Who's the man? What's his name? I want to know the man's name.
Ham.—It warn't no fault of yours, Mas'r Davy, that I know.
Peggotty.—What! You don't mean his name's Steerforth, do you?
Ham.—Yes! His name is Steerforth, and he's a cursed villain!
Peggotty.—Where's my coat? Give me my coat! Help me on with it, Mas'r Davy. Now bear a hand theer with my hat.
David.—Where are you going, Mr. Peggotty?
Peggotty.—I'm a goin' to seek fur my little Em'ly. First, I'm going to stave in that theer boat and sink it where I'd a drownded him, as I'm a living soul; if I'd a known what he had in him! I'd a drownded him, and thought I was doin' right! Now I'm going to seek fur my Little Em'ly throughout the wide wurrety!