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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33085-8.txt b/33085-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dbc2fc4 --- /dev/null +++ b/33085-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2857 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Bashville, by Bernard Shaw + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Admirable Bashville + or, Constancy Unrewarded + +Author: Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: July 5, 2010 [EBook #33085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + THE ADMIRABLE + BASHVILLE + + OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED + + BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL BYRON'S + PROFESSION DONE INTO A STAGE PLAY + IN THREE ACTS, AND IN BLANK VERSE, + WITH A NOTE ON MODERN PRIZE FIGHTING + + By + + BERNARD SHAW + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + BRENTANO'S + 1913 + + Price 40 cents net + + + + + WORKS OF BERNARD SHAW + + Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols. _Net_, $2.50 + Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant. 2 vols. _Net_, $2.50 + John Bull's Other Island and Major Barbara. _Net_, $1.50 + Man and Superman _Net_, $1.25 + Three Plays for Puritans _Net_, $1.25 + The Doctor's Dilemma, Getting Married, and + The Shewing-Up of Blanco Posnet. _Net_, $1.50 + The Quintessence of Ibsenism $1.00 + Cashel Byron's Profession $1.25 + An Unsocial Socialist $1.25 + The Irrational Knot $1.50 + The Author's Apology _Net_, .60 + The Perfect Wagnerite $1.25 + Love Among the Artists $1.50 + The Admirable Bashville: A Play _Net_, .50 + + _Postage or Express, Extra_ + + * * * * * + + BRENTANO'S + + Fifth Avenue and 27th Street New York + + + + +THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + + "Over Bashville the footman I howled with derision and delight. I + dote on Bashville: I could read of him for ever: _de Bashville je + suis le fervent_: there is only one Bashville; and I am his devoted + slave: Bashville est magnifique; mais il n'est gučre possible." + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + + + THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED + BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL + BYRON'S PROFESSION DONE INTO A + STAGE PLAY IN THREE ACTS AND + IN BLANK VERSE · WITH A NOTE + ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING · BY + BERNARD SHAW + + [Illustration] + + + BRENTANO'S · NEW YORK + MCMXIII + + + + +This play has been publicly performed within the United Kingdom. It is +entered at Stationers' Hall and The Library of Congress, U. S. A. + +_Copyright, 1901, by Herbert S. Stone and Company_ + +_Copyright, 1907, by Bernard Shaw_ + +All rights reserved + + + + +PREFACE + + +The Admirable Bashville is a product of the British law of copyright. As +that law stands at present, the first person who patches up a stage +version of a novel, however worthless and absurd that version may be, +and has it read by himself and a few confederates to another confederate +who has paid for admission in a hall licensed for theatrical +performances, secures the stage rights of that novel, even as against +the author himself; and the author must buy him out before he can touch +his own work for the purposes of the stage. + +A famous case in point is the drama of East Lynne, adapted from the late +Mrs. Henry Wood's novel of that name. It was enormously popular, and is +still the surest refuge of touring companies in distress. Many authors +feel that Mrs. Henry Wood was hardly used in not getting any of the +money which was plentifully made in this way through her story. To my +mind, since her literary copyright probably brought her a fair wage for +the work of writing the book, her real grievance was, first, that her +name and credit were attached to a play with which she had nothing to +do, and which may quite possibly have been to her a detestable travesty +and profanation of her story; and second, that the authors of that play +had the legal power to prevent her from having any version of her own +performed, if she had wished to make one. + +There is only one way in which the author can protect himself; and that +is by making a version of his own and going through the same legal +farce with it. But the legal farce involves the hire of a hall and the +payment of a fee of two guineas to the King's Reader of Plays. When I +wrote Cashel Byron's Profession I had no guineas to spare, a common +disability of young authors. What is equally common, I did not know the +law. A reasonable man may guess a reasonable law, but no man can guess a +foolish anomaly. Fortunately, by the time my book so suddenly revived in +America I was aware of the danger, and in a position to protect myself +by writing and performing The Admirable Bashville. The prudence of doing +so was soon demonstrated; for rumors soon reached me of several American +stage versions; and one of these has actually been played in New York, +with the boxing scenes under the management (so it is stated) of the +eminent pugilist Mr. James J. Corbett. The New York press, in a somewhat +derisive vein, conveyed the impression that in this version Cashel Byron +sought to interest the public rather as the last of the noble race of +the Byrons of Dorsetshire than as his unromantic self; but in justice to +a play which I never read, and an actor whom I never saw, and who +honorably offered to treat me as if I had legal rights in the matter, I +must not accept the newspaper evidence as conclusive. + +As I write these words, I am promised by the King in his speech to +Parliament a new Copyright Bill. I believe it embodies, in our British +fashion, the recommendations of the book publishers as to the concerns +of the authors, and the notions of the musical publishers as to the +concerns of the playwrights. As author and playwright I am duly obliged +to the Commission for saving me the trouble of speaking for myself, and +to the witnesses for speaking for me. But unless Parliament takes the +opportunity of giving the authors of all printed works of fiction, +whether dramatic or narrative, both playwright and copyright (as in +America), such to be independent of any insertions or omissions of +formulas about "all rights reserved" or the like, I am afraid the new +Copyright Bill will leave me with exactly the opinion both of the +copyright law and the wisdom of Parliament I at present entertain. As a +good Socialist I do not at all object to the limitation of my right of +property in my own works to a comparatively brief period, followed by +complete Communism: in fact, I cannot see why the same salutary +limitation should not be applied to all property rights whatsoever; but +a system which enables any alert sharper to acquire property rights in +my stories as against myself and the rest of the community would, it +seems to me, justify a rebellion if authors were numerous and warlike +enough to make one. + +It may be asked why I have written The Admirable Bashville in blank +verse. My answer is that I had but a week to write it in. Blank verse is +so childishly easy and expeditious (hence, by the way, Shakespear's +copious output), that by adopting it I was enabled to do within the week +what would have cost me a month in prose. + +Besides, I am fond of blank verse. Not nineteenth century blank verse, +of course, nor indeed, with a very few exceptions, any post-Shakespearean +blank verse. Nay, not Shakespearean blank verse itself later than the +histories. When an author can write the prose dialogue of the first +scene in As You Like It, or Hamlet's colloquies with Rosencrantz and +Guildenstern, there is really no excuse for The Seven Ages and "To be or +not to be," except the excuse of a haste that made great facility +indispensable. I am quite sure that any one who is to recover the charm +of blank verse must frankly go back to its beginnings and start a +literary pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I like the melodious sing-song, the +clear simple one-line and two-line sayings, and the occasional rhymed +tags, like the half closes in an eighteenth century symphony, in Peele, +Kyd, Greene, and the histories of Shakespear. How any one with music in +him can turn from Henry VI., John, and the two Richards to such a mess +of verse half developed into rhetorical prose as Cymbeline, is to me +explicable only by the uncivil hypothesis that the artistic qualities in +the Elizabethan drama do not exist for most of its critics; so that they +hang on to its purely prosaic content, and hypnotize themselves into +absurd exaggerations of the value of that content. Even poets fall under +the spell. Ben Jonson described Marlowe's line as "mighty"! As well put +Michael Angelo's epitaph on the tombstone of Paolo Uccello. No wonder +Jonson's blank verse is the most horribly disagreeable product in +literature, and indicates his most prosaic mood as surely as his shorter +rhymed measures indicate his poetic mood. Marlowe never wrote a mighty +line in his life: Cowper's single phrase, "Toll for the brave," drowns +all his mightinesses as Great Tom drowns a military band. But Marlowe +took that very pleasant-sounding rigmarole of Peele and Greene, and +added to its sunny daylight the insane splendors of night, and the cheap +tragedy of crime. Because he had only a common sort of brain, he was +hopelessly beaten by Shakespear; but he had a fine ear and a soaring +spirit: in short, one does not forget "wanton Arethusa's azure arms" +and the like. But the pleasant-sounding rigmarole was the basis of the +whole thing; and as long as that rigmarole was practised frankly for the +sake of its pleasantness, it was readable and speakable. It lasted until +Shakespear did to it what Raphael did to Italian painting; that is, +overcharged and burst it by making it the vehicle of a new order of +thought, involving a mass of intellectual ferment and psychological +research. The rigmarole could not stand the strain; and Shakespear's +style ended in a chaos of half-shattered old forms, half-emancipated new +ones, with occasional bursts of prose eloquence on the one hand, +occasional delicious echoes of the rigmarole, mostly from Calibans and +masque personages, on the other, with, alas! a great deal of filling up +with formulary blank verse which had no purpose except to save the +author's time and thought. + +When a great man destroys an art form in this way, its ruins make +palaces for the clever would-be great. After Michael Angelo and Raphael, +Giulio Romano and the Carracci. After Marlowe and Shakespear, Chapman +and the Police News poet Webster. Webster's specialty was blood: +Chapman's, balderdash. Many of us by this time find it difficult to +believe that pre-Ruskinite art criticism used to prostrate itself before +the works of Domenichino and Guido, and to patronize the modest little +beginnings of those who came between Cimabue and Masaccio. But we have +only to look at our own current criticism of Elizabethan drama to +satisfy ourselves that in an art which has not yet found its Ruskin or +its pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the same folly is still academically +propagated. It is possible, and even usual, for men professing to have +ears and a sense of poetry to snub Peele and Greene and grovel before +Fletcher and Webster--Fletcher! a facile blank verse penny-a-liner: +Webster! a turgid paper cut-throat. The subject is one which I really +cannot pursue without intemperance of language. The man who thinks The +Duchess of Malfi better than David and Bethsabe is outside the pale, not +merely of literature, but almost of humanity. + +Yet some of the worst of these post-Shakespearean duffers, from Jonson +to Heywood, suddenly became poets when they turned from the big drum of +pseudo-Shakespearean drama to the pipe and tabor of the masque, exactly +as Shakespear himself recovered the old charm of the rigmarole when he +turned from Prospero to Ariel and Caliban. Cyril Tourneur and Heywood +could certainly have produced very pretty rigmarole plays if they had +begun where Shakespear began, instead of trying to begin where he left +off. Jonson and Beaumont would very likely have done themselves credit +on the same terms: Marston would have had at least a chance. Massinger +was in his right place, such as it was; and one would not disturb the +gentle Ford, who was never born to storm the footlights. Webster could +have done no good anyhow or anywhere: the man was a fool. And Chapman +would always have been a blathering unreadable pedant, like Landor, in +spite of his classical amateurship and respectable strenuosity of +character. But with these exceptions it may plausibly be held that if +Marlowe and Shakespear could have been kept out of their way, the rest +would have done well enough on the lines of Peele and Greene. However, +they thought otherwise; and now that their freethinking paganism, so +dazzling to the pupils of Paley and the converts of Wesley, offers +itself in vain to the disciples of Darwin and Nietzsche, there is an +end of them. And a good riddance, too. + +Accordingly, I have poetasted The Admirable Bashville in the rigmarole +style. And lest the Webster worshippers should declare that there is not +a single correct line in all my three acts, I have stolen or paraphrased +a few from Marlowe and Shakespear (not to mention Henry Carey); so that +if any man dares quote me derisively, he shall do so in peril of +inadvertently lighting on a purple patch from Hamlet or Faustus. + +I have also endeavored in this little play to prove that I am not the +heartless creature some of my critics take me for. I have strictly +observed the established laws of stage popularity and probability. I +have simplified the character of the heroine, and summed up her +sweetness in the one sacred word: Love. I have given consistency to the +heroism of Cashel. I have paid to Morality, in the final scene, the +tribute of poetic justice. I have restored to Patriotism its usual place +on the stage, and gracefully acknowledged The Throne as the fountain of +social honor. I have paid particular attention to the construction of +the play, which will be found equal in this respect to the best +contemporary models. + +And I trust the result will be found satisfactory. + + + + The Admirable Bashville; or, Constancy Unrewarded + + ACT I + + _A glade in Wiltstoken Park_ + + + _Enter_ LYDIA + + LYDIA. Ye leafy breasts and warm protecting wings + Of mother trees that hatch our tender souls, + And from the well of Nature in our hearts + Thaw the intolerable inch of ice + That bears the weight of all the stamping world. + Hear ye me sing to solitude that I, + Lydia Carew, the owner of these lands, + Albeit most rich, most learned, and most wise, + Am yet most lonely. What are riches worth + When wisdom with them comes to show the purse bearer + That life remains unpurchasable? Learning + Learns but one lesson: doubt! To excel all + Is, to be lonely. Oh, ye busy birds, + Engrossed with real needs, ye shameless trees + With arms outspread in welcome of the sun, + Your minds, bent singly to enlarge your lives, + Have given you wings and raised your delicate heads + High heavens above us crawlers. + + [_A rook sets up a great cawing; and the other birds + chatter loudly as a gust of wind sets the branches + swaying. She makes as though she would shew them + her sleeves._ + + Lo, the leaves + That hide my drooping boughs! Mock me--poor maid!-- + Deride with joyous comfortable chatter + These stolen feathers. Laugh at me, the clothed one. + Laugh at the mind fed on foul air and books. + Books! Art! And Culture! Oh, I shall go mad. + Give me a mate that never heard of these, + A sylvan god, tree born in heart and sap; + Or else, eternal maidhood be my hap. + + [_Another gust of wind and bird-chatter. She sits on + the mossy root of an oak and buries her face in her + hands._ CASHEL BYRON, _in a white singlet and + breeches, comes through the trees_. + + CASHEL. What's this? Whom have we here? A woman! + + LYDIA [_looking up_]. Yes. + + CASHEL. You have no business here. I have. Away! + Women distract me. Hence! + + LYDIA. Bid you me hence? + I am upon mine own ground. Who are you? + I take you for a god, a sylvan god. + This place is mine: I share it with the birds, + The trees, the sylvan gods, the lovely company + Of haunted solitudes. + + CASHEL. A sylvan god! + A goat-eared image! Do your statues speak? + Walk? heave the chest with breath? or like a feather + Lift you--like this? [_He sets her on her feet._ + + LYDIA [_panting_]. You take away my breath! + You're strong. Your hands off, please. Thank you. Farewell. + + CASHEL. Before you go: when shall we meet again? + + LYDIA. Why should we meet again? + + CASHEL. Who knows? We _shall_. + That much I know by instinct. What's your name? + + LYDIA. Lydia Carew. + + CASHEL. Lydia's a pretty name. + Where do you live? + + LYDIA. I' the castle. + + CASHEL [_thunderstruck_]. Do not say + You are the lady of this great domain. + + LYDIA. I am. + + CASHEL. Accursed luck! I took you for + The daughter of some farmer. Well, your pardon. + I came too close: I looked too deep. Farewell. + + LYDIA. I pardon that. Now tell me who you are. + + CASHEL. Ask me not whence I come, nor what I am. + You are the lady of the castle. I + Have but this hard and blackened hand to live by. + + LYDIA. I have felt its strength and envied you. Your name? + I have told you mine. + + CASHEL. My name is Cashel Byron. + + LYDIA. I never heard the name; and yet you utter it + As men announce a celebrated name. + Forgive my ignorance. + + CASHEL. I bless it, Lydia. + I have forgot your other name. + + LYDIA. Carew. + Cashel's a pretty name, too. + + MELLISH [_calling through the wood_]. Coo-ee! Byron! + + CASHEL. A thousand curses! Oh, I beg you, go. + This is a man you must not meet. + + MELLISH [_further off_]. Coo-ee! + + LYDIA. He's losing us. What does he in my woods? + + CASHEL. He is a part of what I am. What that is + You must not know. It would end all between us. + And yet there's no dishonor in't: your lawyer, + Who let your lodge to me, will vouch me honest. + I am ashamed to tell you what I am-- + At least, as yet. Some day, perhaps. + + MELLISH [_nearer_]. Coo-ee! + + LYDIA. His voice is nearer. Fare you well, my tenant. + When next your rent falls due, come to the castle. + Pay me in person. Sir: your most obedient. [_She curtsies and goes._ + + CASHEL. Lives in this castle! Owns this park! A lady + Marry a prizefighter! Impossible. + And yet the prizefighter must marry her. + + _Enter_ MELLISH + + Ensanguined swine, whelped by a doggish dam, + Is this thy park, that thou, with voice obscene, + Fillst it with yodeled yells, and screamst my name + For all the world to know that Cashel Byron + Is training here for combat. + + MELLISH. Swine you me? + I've caught you, have I? You have found a woman. + Let her shew here again, I'll set the dog on her. + I will. I say it. And my name's Bob Mellish. + + CASHEL. Change thy initial and be truly hight + Hellish. As for thy dog, why dost thou keep one + And bark thyself? Begone. + + MELLISH. I'll not begone. + You shall come back with me and do your duty-- + Your duty to your backers, do you hear? + You have not punched the bag this blessed day. + + CASHEL. The putrid bag engirdled by thy belt + Invites my fist. + + MELLISH [_weeping_]. Ingrate! O wretched lot! + Who would a trainer be? O Mellish, Mellish, + Trainer of heroes, builder-up of brawn, + Vicarious victor, thou createst champions + That quickly turn thy tyrants. But beware: + Without me thou art nothing. Disobey me, + And all thy boasted strength shall fall from thee. + With flaccid muscles and with failing breath + Facing the fist of thy more faithful foe, + I'll see thee on the grass cursing the day + Thou didst forswear thy training. + + CASHEL. Noisome quack + That canst not from thine own abhorrent visage + Take one carbuncle, thou contaminat'st + Even with thy presence my untainted blood + Preach abstinence to rascals like thyself + Rotten with surfeiting. Leave me in peace. + This grove is sacred: thou profanest it. + Hence! I have business that concerns thee not. + + MELLISH. Ay, with your woman. You will lose your fight. + Have you forgot your duty to your backers? + Oh, what a sacred thing your duty is! + What makes a man but duty? Where were we + Without our duty? Think of Nelson's words: + England expects that every man---- + + CASHEL. Shall twaddle + About his duty. Mellish: at no hour + Can I regard thee wholly without loathing; + But when thou play'st the moralist, by Heaven, + My soul flies to my fist, my fist to thee; + And never did the Cyclops' hammer fall + On Mars's armor--but enough of that. + It does remind me of my mother. + + MELLISH. Ah, + Byron, let it remind thee. Once I heard + An old song: it ran thus. [_He clears his throat._] Ahem, Ahem! + + [_Sings_]--They say there is no other + Can take the place of mother-- + + I am out o' voice: forgive me; but remember: + Thy mother--were that sainted woman here-- + Would say, Obey thy trainer. + + CASHEL. Now, by Heaven, + Some fate is pushing thee upon thy doom. + Canst thou not hear thy sands as they run out? + They thunder like an avalanche. Old man: + Two things I hate, my duty and my mother. + Why dost thou urge them both upon me now? + Presume not on thine age and on thy nastiness. + Vanish, and promptly. + + MELLISH. Can I leave thee here + Thus thinly clad, exposed to vernal dews? + Come back with me, my son, unto our lodge. + + CASHEL. Within this breast a fire is newly lit + Whose glow shall sun the dew away, whose radiance + Shall make the orb of night hang in the heavens + Unnoticed, like a glow-worm at high noon. + + MELLISH. Ah me, ah me, where wilt thou spend the night? + + CASHEL. Wiltstoken's windows wandering beneath, + Wiltstoken's holy bell hearkening, + Wiltstoken's lady loving breathlessly. + + MELLISH. The lady of the castle! Thou art mad. + + CASHEL. 'Tis thou art mad to trifle in my path. + Thwart me no more. Begone. + + MELLISH. My boy, my son, + I'd give my heart's blood for thy happiness. + Thwart thee, my son! Ah, no. I'll go with thee. + I'll brave the dews. I'll sacrifice my sleep. + I am old--no matter: ne'er shall it be said + Mellish deserted thee. + + CASHEL. You resolute gods + That will not spare this man, upon your knees + Take the disparity twixt his age and mine. + Now from the ring to the high judgment seat + I step at your behest. Bear you me witness + This is not Victory, but Execution. + + [_He solemnly projects his fist with colossal force + against the waistcoat of_ MELLISH _who doubles up like + a folded towel, and lies without sense or motion_. + + And now the night is beautiful again. + + [_The castle clock strikes the hour in the distance._ + + Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! + It strikes in poetry. 'Tis ten o'clock. + Lydia: to thee! + + [_He steals off towards the castle._ MELLISH _stirs and groans_. + + + + + ACT II + + + SCENE I + + _London. A room in Lydia's house_ + + _Enter_ LYDIA _and_ LUCIAN + + + LYDIA. Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house. + Of late you have been chary of your visits. + + LUCIAN. I have been greatly occupied of late. + The minister to whom I act as scribe + In Downing Street was born in Birmingham, + And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman, + Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave, + Must reunite, though all the time my heart + Yearns for my gentle coz's company. + + LYDIA. Lucian: there is some other reason. Think! + Since England was a nation every mood + Her scribes have prepositionally split; + But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth. + + LUCIAN. There is a man I like not haunts this house. + + LYDIA. Thou speak'st of Cashel Byron? + + LUCIAN. Aye, of him. + Hast thou forgotten that eventful night + When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House + To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse, + He placed a single finger on my chest, + And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine + Had not a chair received my falling form. + + LYDIA. Pooh! That was but by way of illustration. + + LUCIAN. What right had he to illustrate his point + Upon my person? Was I his assistant + That he should try experiments on me + As Simpson did on his with chloroform? + Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo + He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone. + This very morning my official chief, + Tapping with friendly forefinger this button, + Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm + Flat upon the Colonial Office floor. + + LYDIA. Fancies, coz. + + LUCIAN. Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits! + Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance + Of Vitus! What could any one have thought? + Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven, + I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink. + + LYDIA. What ho, without there! Bashville. + + BASHVILLE [_without_]. Coming, madam. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + LYDIA. My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. [_Exit_ BASHVILLE. + + LUCIAN. Some wet!!! Where learnt _you_ that atrocious word? + This is the language of a flower-girl. + + LYDIA. True. It is horrible. Said I "Some wet"? + I meant, some drink. Why did I say "Some wet"? + Am I ensorceled too? "Some wet"! Fie! fie! + I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me. + Oh, Lucian, how could I have said "Some wet"? + + LUCIAN. The horrid conversation of this man + Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness. + + LYDIA. Nay, he speaks very well: he's literate: + Shakespear he quotes unconsciously. + + LUCIAN. And yet + Anon he talks pure pothouse. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + BASHVILLE. Sir: your potion. + + LUCIAN. Thanks. [_He drinks._] I am better. + + A NEWSBOY [_calling without_]. Extra special _Star_! + Result of the great fight! Name of the winner! + + LYDIA. Who calls so loud? + + BASHVILLE. The papers, madam. + + LYDIA. Why? + Hath ought momentous happened? + + BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. [_He produces a newspaper._ + All England for these thrilling paragraphs + A week has waited breathless. + + LYDIA. Read them us. + + BASHVILLE [_reading_]. "At noon to-day, unknown to the police, + Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs, + Th' Australian Champion and his challenger, + The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged + I' the mercantile marine, fought to a finish. + Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer + Acted as referee." + + LYDIA. Lord Worthington! + + BASHVILLE. "The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes + To hold the bottle for his quondam novice; + Whilst in the seaman's corner were assembled + Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob. + Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt, + 'Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken, + Looked none the worse in the Australian's corner. + The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack: + His colors freely sold amid the crowd; + But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue----" + + LYDIA. _Whose_, did you say? + + BASHVILLE. Cashel's, my lady. + + LYDIA. Lucian: + Your hand--a chair-- + + BASHVILLE. Madam: you're ill. + + LYDIA. Proceed. + What you have read I do not understand; + Yet I will hear it through. Proceed. + + LUCIAN. Proceed. + + BASHVILLE. "But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue + Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve, + When, with a smile of confidence upon + His ocean-beaten mug----" + + LYDIA. His mug? + + LUCIAN [_explaining_]. His face. + + BASHVILLE [_continuing_]. "The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch, + But found the champion there already. Both + Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers + Of their encouraged backers. Two to one + Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil; + And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed, + Found takers everywhere. No time was lost + In getting to the business of the day. + The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land + On Byron's dicebox; but the seaman's reach, + Too short for execution at long shots, + Did not get fairly home upon the ivory; + And Byron had the best of the exchange." + + LYDIA. I do not understand. What were they doing? + + LUCIAN. Fighting with naked fists. + + LYDIA. Oh, horrible! + I'll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end? + Was Cashel hurt? + + LUCIAN [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Skip to the final round. + + BASHVILLE. "Round Three: the rumors that had gone about + Of a breakdown in Byron's recent training + Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time + He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful, + Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend. + At this point six to one was freely offered + Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington + Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose + A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain, + Take down the number of the Panley boy. + The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is, + Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel + Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor, + Who, not to be denied, followed him up, + Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers." + + LYDIA. Oh stop--no more--or tell the worst at once. + I'll be revenged. Bashville: call the police. + This brutal sailor shall be made to know + There's law in England. + + LUCIAN. Do not interrupt him: + Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next? + + BASHVILLE. "Forty to one, the Dutchman's friends exclaimed. + Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself + A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet + Was booked, when, at the reeling champion's jaw + The sailor, bent on winning out of hand, + Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert, + When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left, + Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick----" + + LUCIAN. Death and damnation! + + LYDIA. Oh, what does it mean? + + BASHVILLE. "The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man." + + LYDIA. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel! + + BASHVILLE. "A scene of indescribable excitement + Ensued; for it was now quite evident + That Byron's grogginess had all along + Been feigned to make the market for his backers. + We trust this sample of colonial smartness + Will not find imitators on this side. + The losers settled up like gentlemen; + But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste + In taking old Ned Skene upon his back, + And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter, + Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd + The perfect pink of his condition"--[_a knock_]. + + LYDIA [_turning pale_]. Bashville + Didst hear? A knock. + + BASHVILLE. Madam: 'tis Byron's knock. + Shall I admit him? + + LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring! + Oh, monstrous! Say you're out. + + LYDIA. Send him away. + I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep + Secrets from ME? I'll punish him. Pray say + I'm not at home. [BASHVILLE _turns to go_.] Yet stay. I am afraid + He will not come again. + + LUCIAN. A consummation + Devoutly to be wished by any lady. + Pray, do you _wish_ this man to come again? + + LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill. + He should have told me. I will ne'er forgive him. + Say, Not at home. + + BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [_Exit._ + + LYDIA. Stay-- + + LUCIAN [_stopping her_]. No, Lydia: + You shall not countermand that proper order. + Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind, + The thousands at your bank, and, above all, + Your unassailable social position + Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn? + + LYDIA. Nay, coz: you're prejudiced. + + CASHEL [_without_]. Liar and slave! + + LYDIA. What words were those? + + LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE _running: he shuts the door and locks it_. + + BASHVILLE. Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion + Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped; + But when he rises, woe betide us all! + + LYDIA. Who bade you treat my visitor with violence? + + BASHVILLE. He would not take my answer; thrust the door + Back in my face; gave me the lie i' the throat; + Averred he felt your presence in his bones. + I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him; + Then fled to bar your door. + + LYDIA. O lover's instinct! + He felt my presence. Well, let him come in. + We must not fail in courage with a fighter. + Unlock the door. + + LUCIAN. Stop. Like all women, Lydia, + You have the courage of immunity. + To strike _you_ were against his code of honor; + But _me_, above the belt, he may perform on + T' th' height of his profession. Also Bashville. + + BASHVILLE. Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst. + Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh + The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine, + A second battle should he do this day: + Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress + Give me the word: instant I'll take him on + Here--now--at catchweight. Better bite the carpet + A man, than fly, a coward. + + LUCIAN. Bravely said: + I will assist you with the poker. + + LYDIA. No: + I will not have him touched. Open the door. + + BASHVILLE. Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open. + + [BASHVILLE _opens the door_. _Dead silence._ CASHEL + _enters, in tears_. _A solemn pause._ + + CASHEL. You know my secret? + + LYDIA. Yes. + + CASHEL. And thereupon + You bade your servant fling me from your door. + + LYDIA. I bade my servant say I was not here. + + CASHEL [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man? + Hadst thou but said, "She bade me tell thee this," + Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy. + + LYDIA. Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him "drunk with slaughter"? + Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe? + + CASHEL [_to_ LUCIAN]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur + Against professional resentment, saves thee. + O coward, to traduce behind their backs + Defenceless prizefighters! + + LUCIAN. Thou dost avow + Thou art a prizefighter. + + CASHEL. It was my glory. + I had hoped to offer to my lady there + My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes, + My undefeated record; but I knew + Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked. + + LYDIA. Another secret? + + LUCIAN. Is there worse to come? + + CASHEL. Know ye not then my mother is an actress? + + LUCIAN. How horrible! + + LYDIA. Nay, nay: how interesting! + + CASHEL. A thousand victories cannot wipe out + That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it: + My earliest lesson was the player's speech + In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself + More like a mobled queen than like a man + Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer! + What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? + + LUCIAN. Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba + Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin, + Know that she is to me, and I to her, + What never canst thou be. I do defy thee; + And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give, + Outside I will await thee. + + LYDIA. I forbid + Expressly any such duello. Bashville: + The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom, + And bid the driver hie to Downing Street. + No answer: 'tis my will. [_Exeunt_ LUCIAN _and_ BASHVILLE. + And now, farewell. + You must not come again, unless indeed + You can some day look in my eyes and say: + Lydia: my occupation's gone. + + CASHEL. Ah, no: + It would remind you of my wretched mother. + O God, let me be natural a moment! + What other occupation can I try? + What would you have me be? + + LYDIA. A gentleman. + + CASHEL. A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop + To be the thing that bets on me! the fool + I flatter at so many coins a lesson! + The screaming creature who beside the ring + Gambles with basest wretches for my blood, + And pays with money that he never earned! + Let me die broken-hearted rather! + + LYDIA. But + You need not be an idle gentleman. + I call you one of Nature's gentlemen. + + CASHEL. That's the collection for the loser, Lydia. + I am not wont to need it. When your friends + Contest elections, and at foot o' th' poll + Rue their presumption, 'tis their wont to claim + A moral victory. In a sort they are + Nature's M. P.s. I am not yet so threadbare + As to accept these consolation stakes. + + LYDIA. You are offended with me. + + CASHEL. Yes, I am. + I can put up with much; but--"Nature's gentleman"! + I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but + Must beg to be excused. + + LYDIA. But surely, surely, + To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners + With naked knuckles, is no work for you. + + CASHEL. Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates + That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns + Than these that lie, antimacassarly, + Asprent thy drawingroom. As well demand + Why I at birth chose to begin my life + A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent, + Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse's nuisance? + Or why I do propose to lose my strength, + To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede + Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally + Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave? + Only one thing more foolish could have been, + And that was to be born, not man, but woman. + This was thy folly, why rebuk'st thou mine? + + LYDIA. These are not things of choice. + + CASHEL. And did I choose + My quick divining eye, my lightning hand, + My springing muscle and untiring heart? + Did I implant the instinct in the race + That found a use for these, and said to me, + Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine? + + LYDIA. But there are other callings in the world. + + CASHEL. Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers, + Thy poet friends to stoop o'er merchants' desks + And pen prose records of the gains of greed. + Tell bishops that religion is outworn, + And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker + Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit + His fraudulent pedantries, and do i' the world + The thing he would teach others. Then return + To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed; + And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too, + Will throw my championship. + + LYDIA. But 'tis so cruel. + + CASHEL. Is it so? I have hardly noticed that, + So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand, + That many a two days' bruise hath ruthless given, + Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years, + Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport. + I am too squeamish for your dainty world, + That cowers behind the gallows and the lash, + The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil + Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies! + Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance + To Nature; cowering if one say to them + "What will the servants think?" Your gentlemen! + Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom + Flutter of wing and singing in the wood + Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men! + Groping for cures in the tormented entrails + Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these + To change their occupations? Find you mine + So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe + An air so petty and so poisonous. + + LYDIA. But find you not their manners very nice? + + CASHEL. To me, perfection. Oh, they condescend + With a rare grace. Your duke, who condescends + Almost to the whole world, might for a Man + Pass in the eyes of those who never saw + The duke capped with a prince. See then, ye gods, + The duke turn footman, and his eager dame + Sink the great lady in the obsequious housemaid! + Oh, at such moments I could wish the Court + Had but one breadbasket, that with my fist + I could make all its windy vanity + Gasp itself out on the gravel. Fare you well. + I did not choose my calling; but at least + I can refrain from being a gentleman. + + LYDIA. You say farewell to me without a pang. + + CASHEL. My calling hath apprenticed me to pangs. + This is a rib-bender; but I can bear it. + It is a lonely thing to be a champion. + + LYDIA. It is a lonelier thing to be a woman. + + CASHEL. Be lonely then. Shall it be said of thee + That for his brawn thou misalliance mad'st + Wi' the Prince of Ruffians? Never. Go thy ways; + Or, if thou hast nostalgia of the mud, + Wed some bedoggéd wretch that on the slot + Of gilded snobbery, _ventre ŕ terre_, + Will hunt through life with eager nose on earth + And hang thee thick with diamonds. I am rich; + But all my gold was fought for with my hands. + + LYDIA. What dost thou mean by rich? + + CASHEL. There is a man, + Hight Paradise, vaunted unconquerable, + Hath dared to say he will be glad to hear from me. + I have replied that none can hear from _me_ + Until a thousand solid pounds be staked. + His friends have confidently found the money. + Ere fall of leaf that money shall be mine; + And then I shall possess ten thousand pounds. + I had hoped to tempt thee with that monstrous sum. + + LYDIA. Thou silly Cashel, 'tis but a week's income. + I did propose to give thee three times that + For pocket money when we two were wed. + + CASHEL. Give me my hat. I have been fooling here. + Now, by the Hebrew lawgiver, I thought + That only in America such revenues + Were decent deemed. Enough. My dream is dreamed. + Your gold weighs like a mountain on my chest. + Farewell. + + LYDIA. The golden mountain shall be thine + The day thou quit'st thy horrible profession. + + CASHEL. Tempt me not, woman. It is honor calls. + Slave to the Ring I rest until the face + Of Paradise be changed. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + BASHVILLE. Madam, your carriage, + Ordered by you at two. 'Tis now half-past. + + CASHEL. Sdeath! is it half-past two? The king! the king! + + LYDIA. The king! What mean you? + + CASHEL. I must meet a monarch + This very afternoon at Islington. + + LYDIA. At Islington! You must be mad. + + CASHEL. A cab! + Go call a cab; and let a cab be called; + And let the man that calls it be thy footman. + + LYDIA. You are not well. You shall not go alone. + My carriage waits. I must accompany you. + I go to find my hat. [_Exit._ + + CASHEL. Like Paracelsus, + Who went to find his soul. [_To_ BASHVILLE.] And now, young man, + How comes it that a fellow of your inches, + So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit, + Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me + On your next evening out. I'll make a man of you. + Surely you are ambitious and aspire---- + + BASHVILLE. To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore, + By Heaven, I will draw yours. + + [_He hits_ CASHEL _on the nose, and runs out_. + + CASHEL [_thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger + to his nose_, _and studying the blood on it_]. + + Too quick for _me_! + There's money in this youth. + + _Re-enter_ LYDIA, _hatted and gloved_. + + LYDIA. O Heaven! you bleed. + + CASHEL. Lend me a key or other frigid object, + That I may put it down my back, and staunch + The welling life stream. + + LYDIA. [_giving him her keys_]. Oh, what _have_ you done? + + CASHEL. Flush on the boko napped your footman's left. + + LYDIA. I do not understand. + + CASHEL. True. Pardon me. + I have received a blow upon the nose + In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else + I shall be total gules. [_He hurries out._ + + LYDIA. How well he speaks! + There is a silver trumpet in his lips + That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose + Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood. + I would 'twere mingled with mine own! + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + What now? + + BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait: + The horses will take cold. + + LYDIA. I do beseech him + A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth! + The third class passenger unchidden rides + Whither and when he will: obsequious trams + Await him hourly: subterranean tubes + With tireless coursers whisk him through the town; + But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms: + We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day + Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay. + + BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road, + And thence t' th' Angel-- + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + LYDIA. Let us haste, my love: + The coachman is impatient. + + CASHEL. Did he guess + He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait + Pompei's sentinel. Let us away. + This day of deeds, as yet but half begun, + Must ended be in merrie Islington. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ CASHEL. + + BASHVILLE. Gods! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone. + Now let me lift the cover from my soul. + O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence! + How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman: + She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt + Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven, + She stoops below me; condescends upon + This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits, + Writ in my character from my last place, + Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet + There's an eternal justice in it; for + By so much as the ne'er subduéd Indian + Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian + Precedence take of me. "_Ich dien._" Damnation! + I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp." + And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold. + Because I love her I have blacked her boots; + Because I love her I have cleaned her knives, + Doing in this the office of a boy, + Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks + And does the meanest chares, I've shared the passions + Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride + To give her place the greater altitude + By lowering mine, and of her dignity + To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed + Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace + As love for such a one as I would be + For such a one as she; and now! and now! + A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos! + To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville: + Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself, + So heavenly high of her? Let what will come, + My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb. + + + SCENE II + + _The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators. + In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring + before it. A balcony above on the right_, _occupied + by persons of fashion_: _among others_, LYDIA _and_ + LORD WORTHINGTON. + + _Flourish._ _Enter_ LUCIAN _and_ CETEWAYO, _with Chiefs in attendance_. + + CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen? + + LUCIAN. It is. + + CETEWAYO. Are these anćmic dogs the English people? + + LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions, + The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke + Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories, + And by the million patent kitchen ranges + Of happy English homes. + + CETEWAYO. When first I came + I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars + Of some infernal god. I now perceive + The English dare not look upon the sky. + They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot + To cover them. + + LUCIAN. You cannot understand + The greatness of this people, Cetewayo. + You are a savage, reasoning like a child. + Each pallid English face conceals a brain + Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton + And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear. + There is not one of all the thousands here + But, if you placed him naked in the desert, + Would presently construct a steam engine, + And lay a cable t' th' Antipodes. + + CETEWAYO. Have I been brought a million miles by sea + To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber, + Men become civilized through twin diseases, + Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined + Become the grisly parents of Invention. + Why does the trembling white with frantic toil + Of hand and brain produce the magic gun + That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu + Dares look his foe i' the face; fights foot to foot; + Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now; + Makes life a long reality, and death + A moment only! whilst your Englishman + Glares on his burning candle's winding-sheets, + Counting the steps of his approaching doom. + And in the murky corners ever sees + Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty: + In the which anguish an unnatural edge + Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises + Strange frauds by which to filch unearnéd gold, + Mad crafts by which to slay unfacéd foes, + Until at last his agonized desire + Makes possibility its slave. And then-- + Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!-- + Th' importunate clutching of the coward's hand + From wearied Nature Devastation's secrets + Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man + Is blown explosively from off the globe; + And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves + O'er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth + Stammer the words "Survival of the Fittest." + Enough of this: I came not here to talk. + Thou say'st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare + Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death. + Let them be brought. + + LUCIAN. They fight not to the death, + But under strictest rules: as, for example, + Half of their persons shall not be attacked; + Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down, + Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further, + That frequent opportunities of rest + With succor and refreshment be secured them. + + CETEWAYO. Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand: + Personified Pusillanimity + Hath ta'en thee from the bravest of the brave! + + LUCIAN. Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind + Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts + That Brave and English mean the self-same thing! + + CETEWAYO. Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise + They will be carried by their nurses, lest + Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them. + + CETEWAYO _takes his state_. _Enter_ PARADISE + + LYDIA. What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews + Presage destruction to his adversaries? + + LORD WORTHINGTON. 'Tis Paradise. + + LYDIA. He of whom Cashel spoke? + A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why + Did Cashel leave us at the door? + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Behold! + The champion comes. + + LYDIA. Oh, I could kiss him now, + Here, before all the world. His boxing things + Render him most attractive. But I fear + Yon villain's fists may maul him. + + WORTHINGTON. Have no fear. + Hark! the king speaks. + + CETEWAYO. Ye sons of the white queen: + Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to. + + PARADISE. Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke + What gets his living honest by his fists. + I may not have the polish of some toffs + As I could mention on; but up to now + No man has took my number down. I scale + Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three; + And at Bill Richardson's Blue Anchor pub + Am to be heard of any day by such + As likes the job. I don't know, governor, + As ennythink remains for me to say. + + CETEWAYO. Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have + If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead. + Methinks he looks scornfully on thee. + [_To_ CASHEL] Ha! dost thou not so? + + CASHEL. Sir, I do beseech you + To name the bone, or limb, or special place + Where you would have me hit him with this fist. + + CETEWAYO. Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear + Thine adversary will disfigure it. + + CASHEL. There's a divinity that shapes our ends + Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves. + + THE MASTER OF THE REVELS. Paradise, a professor. + Cashel Byron, + Also professor. Time! [_They spar._ + + LYDIA. Eternity + It seems to me until this fight be done. + + CASHEL. Dread monarch: this is called the upper cut, + And this a hook-hit of mine own invention. + The hollow region where I plant this blow + Is called the mark. My left, you will observe, + I chiefly use for long shots: with my right + Aiming beside the angle of the jaw + And landing with a certain delicate screw + I without violence knock my foeman out. + Mark how he falls forward upon his face! + The rules allow ten seconds to get up; + And as the man is still quite silly, I + Might safely finish him; but my respect + For your most gracious majesty's desire + To see some further triumphs of the science + Of self-defence postpones awhile his doom. + + PARADISE. How can a bloke do hisself proper justice + With pillows on his fists? + + [_He tears off his gloves and attacks_ CASHEL _with his bare knuckles_. + + THE CROWD. Unfair! The rules! + + CETEWAYO. The joy of battle surges boiling up + And bids me join the mellay. Isandhlana + And Victory! [_He falls on the bystanders._ + + THE CHIEFS. Victory and Isandhlana! + + [_They run amok. General panic and stampede. The ring is swept away._ + + LUCIAN. Forbear these most irregular proceedings. + Police! Police! + + [_He engages_ CETEWAYO _his umbrella_. _The balcony + comes down with a crash. Screams from its + occupants. Indescribable confusion._ + + CASHEL [_dragging_ LYDIA _from the struggling heap_]. + My love, my love, art hurt? + + LYDIA. No, no; but save my sore o'ermatchéd cousin. + + A POLICEMAN. Give us a lead, sir. Save the English flag. + Africa tramples on it. + + CASHEL. Africa! + Not all the continents whose mighty shoulders + The dancing diamonds of the seas bedeck + Shall trample on the blue with spots of white. + Now, Lydia, mark thy lover. [_He charges the Zulus._ + + LYDIA. Hercules + Cannot withstand him. See: the king is down; + The tallest chief is up, heels over head, + Tossed corklike o'er my Cashel's sinewy back; + And his lieutenant all deflated gasps + For breath upon the sand. The others fly + In vain: his fist o'er magic distances + Like a chameleon's tongue shoots to its mark; + And the last African upon his knees + Sues piteously for quarter. [_Rushing into_ CASHEL'S _arms_.] + Oh, my hero: Thou'st saved us all this day. + + CASHEL. 'Twas all for thee. + + CETEWAYO. [_trying to rise_]. Have I been struck by lightning? + + LUCIAN. Sir, your conduct + Can only be described as most ungentlemanly. + + POLICEMAN. One of the prone is white. + + CASHEL. 'Tis Paradise. + + POLICEMAN. He's choking: he has something in his mouth. + + LYDIA [_to_ CASHEL]. Oh Heaven! there is blood upon your hip. + You're hurt. + + CASHEL. The morsel in yon wretch's mouth + Was bitten out of me. + + [_Sensation._ LYDIA _screams and swoons in_ CASHEL'S _arms_. + + + + + ACT III + + _Wiltstoken. A room in the Warren Lodge_ + + LYDIA _at her writing table_ + + + LYDIA. O Past and Present, how ye do conflict + As here I sit writing my father's life! + The autumn woodland woos me from without + With whispering of leaves and dainty airs + To leave this fruitless haunting of the past. + My father was a very learnéd man. + I sometimes think I shall oldmaided be + Ere I unlearn the things he taught to me. + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN + + POLICEMAN. Asking your ladyship to pardon me + For this intrusion, might I be so bold + As ask a question of your people here + Concerning the Queen's peace? + + LYDIA. My people here + Are but a footman and a simple maid; + And both have craved a holiday to join + Some local festival. But, sir, your helmet + Proclaims the Metropolitan Police. + + POLICEMAN. Madam, it does; and I may now inform you + That what you term a local festival + Is a most hideous outrage 'gainst the law, + Which we to quell from London have come down: + In short, a prizefight. My sole purpose here + Is to inquire whether your ladyship + Any bad characters this afternoon + Has noted in the neighborhood. + + LYDIA. No, none, sir. + I had not let my maid go forth to-day + Thought I the roads unsafe. + + POLICEMAN. Fear nothing, madam: + The force protects the fair. My mission here + Is to wreak ultion for the broken law. + I wish your ladyship good afternoon. + + LYDIA. Good afternoon. [_Exit_ POLICEMAN. + A prizefight! O my heart! + Cashel: hast thou deceived me? Can it be + Thou hast backslidden to the hateful calling + I asked thee to eschew? + O wretched maid, + Why didst thou flee from London to this place + To write thy father's life, whenas in town + Thou might'st have kept a guardian eye on him-- + What's that? A flying footstep-- + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + CASHEL. Sanctuary! + The law is on my track. What! Lydia here! + + LYDIA. Ay: Lydia here. Hast thou done murder, then, + That in so horrible a guise thou comest? + + CASHEL. Murder! I would I had. Yon cannibal + Hath forty thousand lives; and I have ta'en + But thousands thirty-nine. I tell thee, Lydia, + On the impenetrable sarcolobe + That holds his seedling brain these fists have pounded + By Shrewsb'ry clock an hour. This bruiséd grass + And cakéd mud adhering to my form + I have acquired in rolling on the sod + Clinched in his grip. This scanty reefer coat + For decency snatched up as fast I fled + When the police arrived, belongs to Mellish. + 'Tis all too short; hence my display of rib + And forearm mother-naked. Be not wroth + Because I seem to wink at you: by Heaven, + 'Twas Paradise that plugged me in the eye + Which I perforce keep closing. Pity me, + My training wasted and my blows unpaid, + Sans stakes, sans victory, sans everything + I had hoped to win. Oh, I could sit me down + And weep for bitterness. + + LYDIA. Thou wretch, begone. + + CASHEL. Begone! + + LYDIA. I say begone. Oh, tiger's heart + Wrapped in a young man's hide, canst thou not live + In love with Nature and at peace with Man? + Must thou, although thy hands were never made + To blacken others' eyes, still batter at + The image of Divinity? I loathe thee. + Hence from my house and never see me more. + + CASHEL. I go. The meanest lad on thy estate + Would not betray me thus. But 'tis no matter. [_He opens the door._ + Ha! the police. I'm lost. [_He shuts the door again._ + Now shalt thou see + My last fight fought. Exhausted as I am, + To capture me will cost the coppers dear. + Come one, come all! + + LYDIA. Oh, hide thee, I implore: + I cannot see thee hunted down like this. + There is my room. Conceal thyself therein. + Quick, I command. [_He goes into the room._ + With horror I foresee, + Lydia, that never lied, must lie for thee. + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN, _with_ PARADISE _and_ MELLISH _in + custody_, BASHVILLE, _constable_s, _and others_ + + POLICEMAN. Keep back your bruiséd prisoner lest he shock + This wellbred lady's nerves. Your pardon, ma'am; + But have you seen by chance the other one? + In this direction he was seen to run. + + LYDIA. A man came here anon with bloody hands + And aspect that did turn my soul to snow. + + POLICEMAN. 'Twas he. What said he? + + LYDIA. Begged for sanctuary. + I bade the man begone. + + POLICEMAN. Most properly. + Saw you which way he went? + + LYDIA. I cannot tell. + + PARADISE. He seen me coming; and he done a bunk. + + POLICEMAN. Peace, there. Excuse his damaged features, lady: + He's Paradise; and this one's Byron's trainer, + Mellish. + + MELLISH. Injurious copper, in thy teeth + I hurl the lie. I am no trainer, I. + My father, a respected missionary, + Apprenticed me at fourteen years of age + T' the poetry writing. To these woods I came + With Nature to commune. My revery + Was by a sound of blows rudely dispelled. + Mindful of what my sainted parent taught, + I rushed to play the peacemaker, when lo! + These minions of the law laid hands on me. + + BASHVILLE. A lovely woman, with distracted cries, + In most resplendent fashionable frock, + Approaches like a wounded antelope. + + _Enter_ ADELAIDE GISBORNE + + ADELAIDE. Where is my Cashel? Hath he been arrested? + + POLICEMAN. I would I had thy Cashel by the collar: + He hath escaped me. + + ADELAIDE. Praises be for ever! + + LYDIA. Why dost thou call the missing man _thy_ Cashel? + + ADELAIDE. He is mine only son. + + ALL. Thy son! + + ADELAIDE. My son. + + LYDIA. I thought his mother hardly would have known him, + So crushed his countenance. + + ADELAIDE. A ribald peer, + Lord Worthington by name, this morning came + With honeyed words beseeching me to mount + His four-in-hand, and to the country hie + To see some English sport. Being by nature + Frank as a child, I fell into the snare, + But took so long to dress that the design + Failed of its full effect; for not until + The final round we reached the horrid scene. + Be silent all; for now I do approach + My tragedy's catastrophe. Know, then, + That Heaven did bless me with an only son, + A boy devoted to his doting mother---- + + POLICEMAN. Hark! did you hear an oath from yonder room? + + ADELAIDE. Respect a broken-hearted mother's grief, + And do not interrupt me in my scene. + Ten years ago my darling disappeared + (Ten dreary twelvemonths of continuous tears, + Tears that have left me prematurely aged; + For I am younger far than I appear). + Judge of my anguish when to-day I saw + Stripped to the waist, and fighting like a demon + With one who, whatsoe'er his humble virtues, + Was clearly not a gentleman, my son! + + ALL. O strange event! O passing tearful tale! + + ADELAIDE. I thank you from the bottom of my heart + For the reception you have given my woe; + And now I ask, where is my wretched son? + He must at once come home with me, and quit + A course of life that cannot be allowed. + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + CASHEL. Policeman: I do yield me to the law. + + LYDIA. Oh, no. + + ADELAIDE. My son! + + CASHEL. My mother! Do not kiss me. + My visage is too sore. + + POLICEMAN. The lady hid him. + This is a regular plant. You cannot be + Up to that sex. [_To_ CASHEL] You come along with me. + + LYDIA. Fear not, my Cashel: I will bail thee out. + + CASHEL. Never. I do embrace my doom with joy. + With Paradise in Pentonville or Portland + I shall feel safe: there are no mothers there. + + ADELAIDE. Ungracious boy-- + + CASHEL. Constable: bear me hence. + + MELLISH. Oh, let me sweetest reconcilement make + By calling to thy mind that moving song:-- + + [_Sings_] They say there is no other-- + + CASHEL. Forbear at once, or the next note of music + That falls upon thine ear shall clang in thunder + From the last trumpet. + + ADELAIDE. A disgraceful threat + To level at this virtuous old man. + + LYDIA. Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn'st thy mother thus, + How wilt thou treat thy wife? + + CASHEL. There spake my fate: + I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers, + Would you but let your wretched sons alone + Life were worth living! Had I any choice + In this importunate relationship? + None. And until that high auspicious day + When the millennium on an orphaned world + Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look, + Reckless of consanguinity, my mother + And I within the self-same hemisphere + Conjointly may not dwell. + + ADELAIDE. Ungentlemanly! + + CASHEL. I am no gentleman. I am a criminal, + Redhanded, baseborn-- + + ADELAIDE. Baseborn! Who dares say it? + Thou art the son and heir of Bingley Bumpkin + FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron, + Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset, + Who after three months' wedded happiness + Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid, + Leaving a tearstained note to testify + That having sweetly honeymooned with me, + He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting? + + POLICEMAN. Sir: had I known your quality, this cop + I had averted; but it is too late. + The law's above us both. + + _Enter_ LUCIAN, _with an Order in Council_ + + LUCIAN. Not so, policeman + I bear a message from The Throne itself + Of fullest amnesty for Byron's past. + Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant + He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed, + In memory of his glorious victory + Over our country's foes at Islington, + The flag of England shall for ever bear + On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white; + And by an exercise of feudal right + Too long disused in this anarchic age + Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand + Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken's wealthy heiress. [_General acclamation._ + + POLICEMAN. Was anything, sir, said about me? + + LUCIAN. Thy faithful services are not forgot: + In future call thyself Inspector Smith. [_Renewed acclamation._ + + POLICEMAN. I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen. + + LUCIAN. My former opposition, valiant champion, + Was based on the supposed discrepancy + Betwixt your rank and Lydia's. Here's my hand. + + BASHVILLE. And I do here unselfishly renounce + All my pretensions to my lady's favor. [_Sensation._ + + LYDIA. What, Bashville! didst thou love me? + + BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. + 'Tis said: now let me leave immediately. + + LYDIA. In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course + You are but acting as a gentleman + In the like case would act. I fully grant + Your perfect right to make a declaration + Which flatters me and honors your ambition. + Prior attachment bids me firmly say + That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry + Rests foreign to the British social scheme, + Your love is hopeless; still, your services, + Made zealous by disinterested passion, + Would greatly add to my domestic comfort; + And if---- + + CASHEL. Excuse me. I have other views. + I've noted in this man such aptitude + For art and exercise in his defence + That I prognosticate for him a future + More glorious than my past. Henceforth I dub him + The Admirable Bashville, Byron's Novice; + And to the utmost of my mended fortunes + Will back him 'gainst the world at ten stone six. + + ALL. Hail, Byron's Novice, champion that shall be! + + BASHVILLE. Must I renounce my lovely lady's service, + And mar the face of man? + + CASHEL. 'Tis Fate's decree. + For know, rash youth, that in this star crost world + Fate drives us all to find our chiefest good + In what we _can_, and not in what we _would_. + + POLICEMAN. A post-horn--hark! + + CASHEL. What noise of wheels is this? + + LORD WORTHINGTON _drives upon the scene in his four-in-hand_, + _and descends_ + + ADELAIDE. Perfidious peer! + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Sweet Adelaide---- + + ADELAIDE. Forbear, + Audacious one: my name is Mrs. Byron. + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Oh, change that title for the sweeter one + Of Lady Worthington. + + CASHEL. Unhappy man, + You know not what you do. + + LYDIA. Nay, 'tis a match + Of most auspicious promise. Dear Lord Worthington, + You tear from us our mother-in-law-- + + CASHEL. Ha! true. + + LYDIA.--but we will make the sacrifice. She blushes: + At least she very prettily produces + Blushing's effect. + + ADELAIDE. My lord: I do accept you. [_They embrace. Rejoicings._ + + CASHEL [_aside_]. It wrings my heart to see my noble backer + Lay waste his future thus. The world's a chessboard, + And we the merest pawns in fist of Fate. + [_Aloud._] And now, my friends, gentle and simple both, + Our scene draws to a close. In lawful course + As Dorset's deputy lieutenant I + Do pardon all concerned this afternoon + In the late gross and brutal exhibition + Of miscalled sport. + + LYDIA [_throwing herself into his arms_]. Your boats + are burnt at last. + + CASHEL. This is the face that burnt a thousand boats, + And ravished Cashel Byron from the ring. + But to conclude. Let William Paradise + Devote himself to science, and acquire, + By studying the player's speech in Hamlet, + A more refined address. You, Robert Mellish, + To the Blue Anchor hostelry attend him; + Assuage his hurts, and bid Bill Richardson + Limit his access to the fatal tap. + Now mount we on my backer's four-in-hand, + And to St. George's Church, whose portico + Hanover Square shuts off from Conduit Street, + Repair we all. Strike up the wedding march; + And, Mellish, let thy melodies trill forth + Broad o'er the wold as fast we bowl along. + Give me the post-horn. Loose the flowing rein; + And up to London drive with might and main. [_Exeunt._ + + + + +NOTE ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING + + +In 1882, when this book was written, prizefighting seemed to be dying +out. Sparring matches with boxing gloves, under the Queensberry rules, +kept pugilism faintly alive; but it was not popular, because the public, +which cares only for the excitement of a strenuous fight, believed then +that the boxing glove made sparring as harmless a contest of pure skill +as a fencing match with buttoned foils. This delusion was supported by +the limitation of the sparring match to boxing. In the prize-ring under +the old rules a combatant might trip, hold, or throw his antagonist; so +that each round finished either with a knockdown blow, which, except +when it is really a liedown blow, is much commoner in fiction than it +was in the ring, or with a visible body-to-body struggle ending in a +fall. In a sparring match all that happens is that a man with a watch in +his hand cries out "Time!" whereupon the two champions prosaically stop +sparring and sit down for a minute's rest and refreshment. The +unaccustomed and inexpert spectator in those days did not appreciate the +severity of the exertion or the risk of getting hurt: he underrated them +as ignorantly as he would have overrated the more dramatically obvious +terrors of a prizefight. Consequently the interest in the annual +sparrings for the Queensberry Championships was confined to the few +amateurs who had some critical knowledge of the game of boxing, and to +the survivors of the generation for which the fight between Sayers and +Heenan had been described in The Times as solemnly as the University +Boat Race. In short, pugilism was out of fashion because the police had +suppressed the only form of it which fascinated the public by its +undissembled pugnacity. + +All that was needed to rehabilitate it was the discovery that the glove +fight is a more trying and dangerous form of contest than the old +knuckle fight. Nobody knew that then: everybody knows it, or ought to +know it, now. And, accordingly, pugilism is more prosperous to-day than +it has ever been before. + +How far this result was foreseen by the author of the Queensberry Rules, +which superseded those of the old prize-ring, will probably never be +known. There is no doubt that they served their immediate turn +admirably. That turn was, the keeping alive of boxing in the teeth of +the law against prizefighting. Magistrates believed, as the public +believed, that when men's knuckles were muffled in padded gloves; when +they were forbidden to wrestle or hold one another; when the duration of +a round was fixed by the clock, and the number of rounds limited to what +seems (to those who have never tried) to be easily within the limits of +ordinary endurance; and when the traditional interval for rest between +the rounds was doubled, that then indeed violence must be checkmated, so +that the worst the boxers could do was to "spar for points" before three +gentlemanly members of the Stock Exchange, who would carefully note the +said points on an examination paper at the ring side, awarding marks +only for skill and elegance, and sternly discountenancing the claims of +brute force. It may be that both the author of the rules and the +"judges" who administered them in the earlier days really believed all +this; for, as far as I know, the limit of an amateur pugilist's romantic +credulity has never yet been reached and probably never will. But if so, +their good intentions were upset by the operation of a single new rule. +Thus. + +In the old prize-ring a round had no fixed duration. It was terminated +by the fall of one of the combatants (in practice usually both of them), +and was followed by an interval of half a minute for recuperation. The +practical effect of this was that a combatant could always get a respite +of half a minute whenever he wanted it by pretending to be knocked down: +"finding the earth the safest place," as the old phrase went. For this +the Marquess of Queensberry substituted a rule that a round with the +gloves should last a specified time, usually three or four minutes, and +that a combatant who did not stand up to his opponent continuously +during that time (ten seconds being allowed for rising in the event of a +knock-down) lost the battle. That unobtrusively slipped-in ten seconds +limit has produced the modern glove fight. Its practical effect is that +a man dazed by a blow or a fall for, say, twelve seconds, which would +not have mattered in an old-fashioned fight with its thirty seconds +interval,[1] has under the Queensberry rules either to lose or else +stagger to his feet in a helpless condition and be eagerly battered into +insensibility by his opponent before he can recover his powers of +self-defence. The notion that such a battery cannot be inflicted with +boxing gloves is only entertained by people who have never used them or +seen them used. I may say that I have myself received, in an accident, a +blow in the face, involving two macadamized holes in it, more violent +than the most formidable pugilist could have given me with his bare +knuckles. This blow did not stun or disable me even momentarily. On the +other hand, I have seen a man knocked quite silly by a tap from the most +luxurious sort of boxing glove made, wielded by a quite unathletic +literary man sparring for the first time in his life. The human jaw, +like the human elbow, is provided, as every boxer knows, with a "funny +bone"; and the pugilist who is lucky enough to jar that funny bone with +a blow practically has his opponent at his mercy for at least ten +seconds. Such a blow is called a "knock-out." The funny bone and the +ten-seconds rule explain the development of Queensberry sparring into +the modern knocking-out match or glove fight. + +[1] In a treatise on boxing by Captain Edgeworth Johnstone, +just published, I read, "In the days of the prize-ring, fights lasted +for hours; and the knock-out blow was unknown." This statement is a +little too sweeping. The blow was known well enough. A veteran +prizefighter once described to me his first experience of its curious +effect on the senses. Only, as he had thirty seconds to recover in +instead of ten, it did not end the battle. The thirty seconds made the +knock-out so unlikely that the old pugilists regarded it as a rare +accident, not worth trying for. The glove fighter tries for nothing +else. Nevertheless knock-outs, and very dramatic ones too (Mace by King, +for example), did occur in the prize-ring from time to time. Captain +Edgeworth Johnstone's treatise is noteworthy in comparison with the +earlier Badminton handbook of sparring by Mr. E. B. Michell (one of the +Queensberry champions) as throwing over the old teaching of prize-ring +boxing with mufflers, and going in frankly for glove fighting, or, to +put it classically, cestus boxing. + +This development got its first impulse from the discovery by sparring +competitors that the only way in which a boxer, however skilful, could +make sure of a verdict in his favor, was by knocking his opponent out. +This will be easily understood by any one who remembers the pugilistic +Bench of those days. The "judges" at the competitions were invariably +ex-champions: that is, men who had themselves won former competitions. +Now the judicial faculty, if it is not altogether a legal fiction, is at +all events pretty rare even among men whose ordinary pursuits tend to +cultivate it, and to train them in dispassionateness. Among pugilists it +is quite certainly very often non-existent. The average pugilist is a +violent partisan, who seldom witnesses a hot encounter without getting +much more excited than the combatants themselves. Further, he is usually +filled with a local patriotism which makes him, if a Londoner, deem it a +duty to disparage a provincial, and, if a provincial, to support a +provincial at all hazards against a cockney. He has, besides, personal +favorites on whose success he bets wildly. On great occasions like the +annual competitions, he is less judicial and more convivial after dinner +(when the finals are sparred) than before it. Being seldom a fine boxer, +he often regards skill and style as a reflection on his own +deficiencies, and applauds all verdicts given for "game" alone. When he +is a technically good boxer, he is all the less likely to be a good +critic, as Providence seldom lavishes two rare gifts on the same +individual. Even if we take the sanguine and patriotic view that when +you appoint such a man a judge, and thus stop his betting, you may +depend on his sense of honor and responsibility to neutralize all the +other disqualifications, they are sure to be exhibited most extremely by +the audience before which he has to deliver his verdict. Now it takes a +good deal of strength of mind to give an unpopular verdict; and this +strength of mind is not necessarily associated with the bodily hardihood +of the champion boxer. Consequently, when the strength of mind is not +forthcoming, the audience becomes the judge, and the popular competitor +gets the verdict. And the shortest way to the heart of a big audience is +to stick to your man; stop his blows bravely with your nose and return +them with interest; cover yourself and him with your own gore; and +outlast him in a hearty punching match. + +It was under these circumstances that the competitors for sparring +championships concluded that they had better decide the bouts themselves +by knocking their opponents out, and waste no time in cultivating a +skill and style for which they got little credit, and which actually set +some of the judges against them. The public instantly began to take an +interest in the sport. And so, by a pretty rapid evolution, the +dexterities which the boxing glove and the Queensberry rules were +supposed to substitute for the old brutalities of Sayers and Heenan were +really abolished by them. + +Let me describe the process as I saw it myself. Twenty years ago a poet +friend of mine, who, like all poets, delighted in combats, insisted on +my sharing his interest in pugilism, and took me about to all the boxing +competitions of the day. I was nothing loth; for, my own share of +original sin apart, any one with a sense of comedy must find the arts of +self-defence delightful (for a time) through their pedantry, their +quackery, and their action and reaction between amateur romantic +illusion and professional eye to business. + +The fencing world, as Moličre well knew, is perhaps a more exquisite +example of a fool's paradise than the boxing world; but it is too +restricted and expensive to allow play for popular character in a +non-duelling country, as the boxing world (formerly called quite +appropriately "the Fancy") does. At all events, it was the boxing world +that came under my notice; and as I was amused and sceptically +observant, whilst the true amateurs about me were, for the most part, +merely excited and duped, my evidence may have a certain value when the +question comes up again for legislative consideration, as it assuredly +will some day. + +The first competitions I attended were at the beginning of the eighties, +at Lillie Bridge, for the Queensberry championships. There were but few +competitors, including a fair number of gentlemen; and the style of +boxing aimed at was the "science" bequeathed from the old prize-ring by +Ned Donnelly, a pupil of Nat Langham. Langham had once defeated Sayers, +and thereby taught him the tactics by which he defeated Heenan. There +was as yet no special technique of glove fighting: the traditions and +influence of the old ring were unquestioned and supreme; and they +distinctly made for brains, skill, quickness, and mobility, as against +brute violence, not at all on moral grounds, but because experience had +proved that giants did not succeed in the ring under the old rules, and +that crafty middle-weights did. + +This did not last long. The spectators did not want to see skill +defeating violence: they wanted to see violence drawing blood and +pounding its way to a savage and exciting victory in the shortest +possible time (the old prizefight usually dragged on for hours, and was +ended by exhaustion rather than by victory). So did most of the judges. +And the public and the judges naturally had their wish; for the +competitors, as I have already explained, soon discovered that the only +way to make sure of a favorable verdict was to "knock out" their +adversary. All pretence of sparring "for points": that is, for marks on +an examination paper filled up by the judges, and representing nothing +but impracticable academic pedantry in its last ditch, was dropped; and +the competitions became frank fights, with abundance of blood drawn, and +"knock-outs" always imminent. Needless to add, the glove fight soon +began to pay. The select and thinly attended spars on the turf at Lillie +Bridge gave way to crowded exhibitions on the hard boards of St. James's +Hall. These were organized by the Boxing Association; and to them the +provinces, notably Birmingham, sent up a new race of boxers whose sole +aim was to knock their opponent insensible by a right-hand blow on the +jaw, knowing well that no Birmingham man could depend on a verdict +before a London audience for any less undeniable achievement. + +The final step was taken by an American pugilist. He threw off the last +shred of the old hypocrisy of the gloved hand by challenging the whole +world to produce a man who could stand before him for a specified time +without being knocked out. His brief but glorious career completely +re-established pugilism by giving a world-wide advertisement to the fact +that the boxing glove spares nothing but the public conscience, and that +as much ferocity, bloodshed, pain, and risk of serious injury or death +can be enjoyed at a glove fight as at an old-fashioned prizefight, +whilst the strain on the combatants is much greater. It is true that +these horrors are greatly exaggerated by the popular imagination, and +that if boxing were really as dangerous as bicycling, a good many of its +heroes would give it up from simple fright; but this only means that +there is a maximum of damage to the spectator by demoralization, +combined with the minimum of deterrent risk to the poor scrapper in the +ring. + +Poor scrapper, though, is hardly the word for a modern fashionable +American pugilist. To him the exploits of Cashel Byron will seem +ludicrously obscure and low-lived. The contests in which he engages are +like Handel Festivals: they take place in huge halls before enormous +audiences, with cinematographs hard at work recording the scene for +reproduction in London and elsewhere. The combatants divide thousands of +dollars of gate-money between them: indeed, if an impecunious English +curate were to go to America and challenge the premier pugilist, the +spectacle of a match between the Church and the Ring would attract a +colossal crowd; and the loser's share of the gate would be a fortune to +a curate--assuming that the curate would be the loser, which is by no +means a foregone conclusion. At all events, it would be well worth a +bruise or two. So my story of the Agricultural Hall, where William +Paradise sparred for half a guinea, and Cashel Byron stood out for ten +guineas, is no doubt read by the profession in America with amused +contempt. In 1882 it was, like most of my conceptions, a daring +anticipation of coming social developments, though to-day it seems as +far out of date as Slender pulling Sackerson's chain. + +Of these latter-day commercial developments of glove fighting I know +nothing beyond what I gather from the newspapers. The banging matches of +the eighties, in which not one competitor in twenty either exhibited +artistic skill, or, in his efforts to knock out his adversary, succeeded +in anything but tiring and disappointing himself, were for the most part +tedious beyond human endurance. When, after wading through Boxiana and +the files of Bell's Life at the British Museum, I had written Cashel +Byron's Profession, I found I had exhausted the comedy of the subject; +and as a game of patience or solitaire was decidedly superior to an +average spar for a championship in point of excitement, I went no more +to the competitions. Since then six or seven generations of boxers have +passed into peaceful pursuits; and I have no doubt that my experience is +in some respects out of date. The National Sporting Club has arisen; and +though I have never attended its reunions, I take its record of three +pugilists slain as proving and enormous multiplication of contests, +since such accidents are very rare, and in fact do not happen to +reasonably healthy men. I am prepared to admit also that the +disappearance of the old prize-ring technique must by this time have +been compensated by the importation from America of a new glove-fighting +technique; for even in a knocking-out match, brains will try conclusions +with brawn, and finally establish a standard of skill; but I notice that +in the leading contests in America luck seems to be on the side of +brawn, and brain frequently finishes in a state of concussion, a loser +after performing miracles of "science." I use the word luck advisedly; +for one of the fascinations of boxing to the gambler (who is the main +pillar of the sporting world) is that it is a game of hardihood, +pugnacity and skill, all at the mercy of chance. The knock-out itself is +a pure chance. I have seen two powerful laborers batter one another's +jaws with all their might for several rounds apparently without giving +one another as much as a toothache. And I have seen a winning pugilist +collapse at a trifling knock landed by a fluke at the fatal angle. I +once asked an ancient prizefighter what a knock-out was like when it did +happen. He was a man of limited descriptive powers; so he simply pointed +to the heavens and said, "Up in a balloon." An amateur pugilist, with +greater command of language, told me that "all the milk in his head +suddenly boiled over." I am aware that some modern glove fighters of the +American school profess to have reduced the knock-out to a science. But +the results of the leading American combats conclusively discredit the +pretension. When a boxer so superior to his opponent in skill as to be +able practically to hit him where he pleases not only fails to knock him +out, but finally gets knocked out himself, it is clear that the +phenomenon is as complete a mystery pugilistically as it is +physiologically, though every pugilist and every doctor may pretend to +understand it. It is only fair to add that it has not been proved that +any permanent injury to the brain results from it. In any case the +brain, as English society is at present constituted, can hardly be +considered a vital organ. + +This, to the best of my knowledge, is the technical history of the +modern revival of pugilism. It is only one more example of the fact that +legislators, like other people, must learn their business by their own +mistakes, and that the first attempts to suppress an evil by law +generally intensify it. Prizefighting, though often connived at, was +never legal. Even in its palmiest days prizefights were banished from +certain counties by hostile magistrates, just as they have been driven +from the United States and England to Belgium on certain occasions in +our own time. But as the exercise of sparring, conducted by a couple of +gentlemen with boxing gloves on, was regarded as part of a manly +physical education, a convention grew up by which it became practically +legal to make a citizen's nose bleed by a punch from the gloved fist, +and illegal to do the same thing with the naked knuckles. A code of +glove-fighting rules was drawn up by a prominent patron of pugilism; and +this code was practically legalized by the fact that even when a death +resulted from a contest under these rules the accessaries were not +punished. No question was raised as to whether the principals were paid +to fight for the amusement of the spectators, or whether a prize for the +winner was provided in stakes, share of the gate, or a belt with the +title of champion. These, the true criteria of prizefighting, were +ignored; and the sole issue raised was whether the famous dictum of Dr. +Watts, "Your little hands were never made, etc.," had been duly +considered by providing the said little hands with a larger hitting +surface, a longer range, and four ounces extra weight. + +In short, then, what has happened has been the virtual legalization of +prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. And this is exactly what +public opinion desires. We do not like fighting; but we like looking on +at fights: therefore we require a law which will punish the prizefighter +if he hits us, and secure us the protection of the police whilst we sit +in a comfortable hall and watch him hitting another prizefighter. And +that is just the law we have got at present. + +Thus Cashel Byron's plea for a share of the legal toleration accorded to +the vivisector has been virtually granted since he made it. The +legalization of cruelty to domestic animals under cover of the +anesthetic is only the extreme instance of the same social phenomenon as +the legalization of prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. The +same passion explains the fascination of both practices; and in both, +the professors--pugilists and physiologists alike--have to persuade the +Home Office that their pursuits are painless and beneficial. But there +is also between them the remarkable difference that the pugilist, who +has to suffer as much as he inflicts, wants his work to be as painless +and harmless as possible whilst persuading the public that it is +thrillingly dangerous and destructive, whilst the vivisector wants to +enjoy a total exemption from humane restrictions in his laboratory +whilst persuading the public that pain is unknown there. Consequently +the vivisector is not only crueller than the prizefighter, but, through +the pressure of public opinion, a much more resolute and uncompromising +liar. For this no one but a Pharisee will single him out for special +blame. All public men lie, as a matter of good taste, on subjects which +are considered serious (in England a serious occasion means simply an +occasion on which nobody tells the truth); and however illogical or +capricious the point of honor may be in man, it is too absurd to assume +that the doctors who, from among innumerable methods of research, +select that of tormenting animals hideously, will hesitate to come on a +platform and tell a soothing fib to prevent the public from punishing +them. No criminal is expected to plead guilty, or to refrain from +pleading not guilty with all the plausibility at his command. In +prizefighting such mendacity is not necessary: on the contrary, if a +famous pugilist were to assure the public that a blow delivered with a +boxing glove could do no injury and cause no pain, and the public +believed him, the sport would instantly lose its following. It is the +prizefighter's interest to abolish the real cruelties of the ring and to +exaggerate the imaginary cruelties of it. It is the vivisector's +interest to refine upon the cruelties of the laboratory, whilst +persuading the public that his victims pass into a delicious euthanasia +and leave behind them a row of bottles containing infallible cures for +all the diseases. Just so, too, does the trainer of performing animals +assure us that his dogs and cats and elephants and lions are taught +their senseless feats by pure kindness. + +The public, as Julius Cćsar remarked nearly 2000 years ago, believes on +the whole, just what it wants to believe. The laboring masses do not +believe the false excuses of the vivisector, because they know that the +vivisector experiments on hospital patients; and the masses belong to +the hospital patient class. The well-to-do people who do not go to +hospitals, and who think they benefit by the experiments made there, +believe the vivisectors' excuses, and angrily abuse and denounce the +anti-vivisectors. The people who "love animals," who keep pets, and +stick pins through butterflies, support the performing dog people, and +are sure that kindness will teach a horse to waltz. And the people who +enjoy a fight will persuade themselves that boxing gloves do not hurt, +and that sparring is an exercise which teaches self-control and +exercises all the muscles in the body more efficiently than any other. + +My own view of prizefighting may be gathered from Cashel Byron's +Profession, and from the play written by me more than ten years later, +entitled Mrs. Warren's Profession. As long as society is so organized +that the destitute athlete and the destitute beauty are forced to choose +between underpaid drudgery as industrial producers, and comparative +self-respect, plenty, and popularity as prizefighters and mercenary +brides, licit or illicit, it is idle to affect virtuous indignation at +their expense. The word prostitute should either not be used at all, or +else applied impartially to all persons who do things for money that +they would not do if they had any other assured means of livelihood. The +evil caused by the prostitution of the Press and the Pulpit is so +gigantic that the prostitution of the prize-ring, which at least makes +no serious moral pretensions, is comparatively negligible by comparison. +Let us not forget, however, that the throwing of a hard word such as +prostitution does not help the persons thus vituperated out of their +difficulty. If the soldier and gladiator fight for money, if men and +women marry for money, if the journalist and novelist write for money, +and the parson preaches for money, it must be remembered that it is an +exceedingly difficult and doubtful thing for an individual to set up his +own scruples or fancies (he cannot himself be sure which they are) +against the demand of the community when it says, Do thus and thus, or +starve. It was easy for Ruskin to lay down the rule of dying rather than +doing unjustly; but death is a plain thing: justice a very obscure +thing. How is an ordinary man to draw the line between right and wrong +otherwise than by accepting public opinion on the subject; and what more +conclusive expression of sincere public opinion can there be than market +demand? Even when we repudiate that and fall back on our private +judgment, the matter gathers doubt instead of clearness. The popular +notion of morality and piety is to simply beg all the most important +questions in life for other people; but when these questions come home +to ourselves, we suddenly discover that the devil's advocate has a +stronger case than we thought: we remember that the way of righteousness +or death was the way of the Inquisition; that hell is paved, not with +bad intentions, but with good ones; that the deeper seers have suggested +that the way to save your soul is perhaps to give it away, casting your +spiritual bread on the waters, so to speak. No doubt, if you are a man +of genius, a Ruskin or an Ibsen, you can divine your way and finally +force your passage. If you have the conceit of fanaticism you can die a +martyr like Charles I. If you are a criminal, or a gentleman of +independent means, you can leave society out of the question and prey on +it. But if you are an ordinary person you take your bread as it comes to +you, doing whatever you can make most money by doing. And you are really +shewing yourself a disciplined citizen and acting with perfect social +propriety in so doing. Society may be, and generally is, grossly wrong +in its offer to you; and you may be, and generally are, grossly wrong +in supporting the existing political structure; but this only means, to +the successful modern prizefighter, that he must reform society before +he can reform himself. A conclusion which I recommend to the +consideration of those foolish misers of personal righteousness who +think they can dispose of social problems by bidding reformers of +society reform themselves first. + +Practically, then, the question raised is whether fighting with gloves +shall be brought, like cockfighting, bear-baiting, and gloveless fist +fighting, explicitly under the ban of the law. I do not propose to argue +that question out here. But of two things I am certain. First, that +glove fighting is quite as fierce a sport as fist fighting. Second, that +if an application were made to the Borough Council of which I am a +member, to hire the Town Hall for a boxing competition, I should vote +against the applicants. + +This second point being evidently the practical one, I had better give +my reason. Exhibition pugilism is essentially a branch of Art: that is +to say, it acts and attracts by propagating feeling. The feeling it +propagates is pugnacity. Sense of danger, dread of danger, impulse to +batter and destroy what threatens and opposes, triumphant delight in +succeeding: this is pugnacity, the great adversary of the social impulse +to live and let live; to establish our rights by shouldering our share +of the social burden; to face and examine danger instead of striking at +it; to understand everything to the point of pardoning (and righting) +everything; to conclude an amnesty with Nature wide enough to include +even those we know the worst of: namely, ourselves. If two men +quarrelled, and asked the Borough Council to lend them a room to fight +it out in with their fists, on the ground that a few minutes' hearty +punching of one another's heads would work off their bad blood and leave +them better friends, each desiring, not victory, but _satisfaction_, I +am not sure that I should not vote for compliance. But if a syndicate of +showmen came and said, Here we have two men who have no quarrel, but who +will, if you pay them, fight before your constituency and thereby make a +great propaganda of pugnacity in it, sharing the profits with us and +with you, I should indignantly oppose the proposition. And if the +majority were against me, I should try to persuade them to at least +impose the condition that the fight should be with naked fists under the +old rules, so that the combatants should, like Sayers and Langham, +depend on bunging up each other's eyes rather than, like the modern +knocker-out, giving one another concussion of the brain. + +I may add, finally, that the present halting between the legal +toleration and suppression of commercial pugilism is much worse than the +extreme of either, because it takes away the healthy publicity and sense +of responsibility which legality and respectability give, without +suppressing the blackguardism which finds its opportunity in shady +pursuits. I use the term commercial advisedly. Put a stop to boxing for +money; and pugilism will give society no further trouble. + + +LONDON, 1901. + + * * * * * + + +THREE PLAYS + +BY BRIEUX + +(Member of the French Academy) + +MATERNITY + +DAMAGED GOODS + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF +MONSIEUR DUPONT + +WITH PREFACE BY BERNARD SHAW + +_Translated into English_ + +By Mrs. BERNARD SHAW, ST. JOHN HANKIN +and JOHN POLLOCK + +_12mo. Cloth, price $1.50 net_ + + +"In that kind of comedy," writes BERNARD SHAW, "which is so true to life +that we have to call it tragi-comedy, and which is not only an +entertainment but a history and a criticism of contemporary morals, +BRIEUX is incomparably the greatest writer France has produced since +Moliere." + +The three plays in this volume are a first instalment into English of +the work of a man who has been admitted into the French Academy for his +splendid achievements, and who is recognized by the best thinkers in +Europe as one of the profoundest moral forces expressing itself as +literature to-day. + +No earnest man or woman can read these plays without being deeply moved +and deeply touched. One of the plays was read by Brieux himself, at the +special invitation of the pastor, from the pulpit of a church in Geneva. + + +BERNARD SHAW'S PLAYS + +The following Plays by Bernard Shaw are issued in separate volumes, +bound in stiff paper wrappers. + +_Price 40 cents net per volume_ + + +WIDOWERS' HOUSES + +THE PHILANDERER + +MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION + +ARMS AND THE MAN + +CANDIDA + +YOU NEVER CAN TELL + +THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + +THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE + +CĆSAR AND CLEOPATRA + +CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION + +MAN AND SUPERMAN + +JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND + +MAJOR BARBARA + +THE MAN OF DESTINY, AND HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND + +THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA + +GETTING MARRIED + +THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET + +PRESS CUTTINGS + + +BRENTANO'S + +Fifth Avenue and 27th Street New York + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Bashville, by Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + +***** This file should be named 33085-8.txt or 33085-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/0/8/33085/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Admirable Bashville + or, Constancy Unrewarded + +Author: Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: July 5, 2010 [EBook #33085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h1>THE ADMIRABLE<br /> +BASHVILLE</h1> + +<h2>OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED</h2> + +<p class="block">BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL BYRON'S<br /> +PROFESSION DONE INTO A STAGE PLAY<br /> +IN THREE ACTS, AND IN BLANK VERSE,<br /> +WITH A NOTE ON MODERN PRIZE FIGHTING</p> + +<h3 class="top5">By</h3> + +<h2>BERNARD SHAW</h2> + +<p class="c"><img src="images/ill_logo.png" +width="125" +height="229" +alt="image of logo not available" +title="logo Brentanos" +/></p> + +<h2>NEW YORK<br />BRENTANO'S<br />1913</h2> + +<p class="c">Price 40 cents net</p> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h2>WORKS OF</h2> + +<h1>BERNARD SHAW</h1> + +<hr style="width:70%;" /> +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="works of Shaw"> +<tr><td align="left">Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols.</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>, </td><td align="left">$2.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant. 2 vols.</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left">$2.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">John Bull's Other Island and Major Barbara.</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left">$1.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Man and Superman</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left">$1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Three Plays for Puritans</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left">$1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Doctor's Dilemma, Getting Married, and The Shewing-Up of Blanco Posnet. </td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left">$1.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Quintessence of Ibsenism</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.00</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Cashel Byron's Profession</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">An Unsocial Socialist</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Irrational Knot</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Author's Apology</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left"> .60</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Perfect Wagnerite</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.25</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">Love Among the Artists</td><td align="left"> </td><td align="left">$1.50</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left">The Admirable Bashville: A Play</td><td align="left"><i>Net</i>,</td><td align="left"> .50</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="3" align="center"><i>Postage or Express, Extra</i></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr style="width:70%;" /> + +<h2>BRENTANO'S</h2> + +<p class="c">Fifth Avenue and 27th Street <span style="margin-left: 2em;">New York</span></p> +</div> + +<p><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a></p> + +<h2 class="top15">THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE</h2> + +<table summary="rls"> +<tr><td> "Over Bashville the footman I howled with derision<br />and delight. I +dote on Bashville: I could read of him<br />for ever: <i>de Bashville je +suis le fervent</i>: there is only<br />one Bashville; and I am his devoted +slave: Bashville<br />est magnifique; mais il n'est gučre possible."</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="smcap" align="right">Robert Louis Stevenson.</td></tr> +</table> + +<p class="block" style="margin-top:20%;"><span class="lg">THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE</span><br /> +OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED<br /> +BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL<br /> +BYRON'S PROFESSION DONE INTO A<br /> +STAGE PLAY IN THREE ACTS AND<br /> +IN BLANK VERSE · WITH A NOTE<br /> +ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING · BY<br /> +BERNARD SHAW</p> + +<p class="c"><img src="images/ill_logo.png" +width="125" +height="229" +alt="image of logo not available" +title="logo Brentanos" +style="margin:5% auto 5% auto;" +/></p> + +<p class="c"><b>BRENTANO'S · NEW YORK<br /> +MCMXIII</b></p> + +<p class="c top15 sml">This play has been publicly performed within the United Kingdom. It is +entered at Stationers' Hall and The Library of Congress, U. S. A.</p> + +<p class="c sml"><i>Copyright, 1901, by Herbert S. Stone and Company</i><br /> +———<br /> +<i>Copyright, 1907, by Bernard Shaw</i><br /> +———<br /> +All rights reserved</p> + +<p><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="contents" +style="border:1px solid black;padding:5%;margin-top:5%;"> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#PREFACE">Preface</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#ACT_I">Act I</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#ACT_II">Act II</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#ACT_III">Act III</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"><a href="#NOTE">Note on Modern Prizefighting</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<h3><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h3> + +<p>The Admirable Bashville is a product of the British law of copyright. As +that law stands at present, the first person who patches up a stage +version of a novel, however worthless and absurd that version may be, +and has it read by himself and a few confederates to another confederate +who has paid for admission in a hall licensed for theatrical +performances, secures the stage rights of that novel, even as against +the author himself; and the author must buy him out before he can touch +his own work for the purposes of the stage.</p> + +<p>A famous case in point is the drama of East Lynne, adapted from the late +Mrs. Henry Wood's novel of that name. It was enormously popular, and is +still the surest refuge of touring companies in distress. Many authors +feel that Mrs. Henry Wood was hardly used in not getting any of the +money which was plentifully made in this way through her story. To my +mind, since her literary copyright probably brought her a fair wage for +the work of writing the book, her real grievance was, first, that her +name and credit were attached to a play with which she had nothing to +do, and which may quite possibly have been to her a detestable travesty +and profanation of her story; and second, that the authors of that play +had the legal power to prevent her from having any version of her own +performed, if she had wished to make one.</p> + +<p>There is only one way in which the author can protect himself; and that +is by making a version of his own<a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a> and going through the same legal +farce with it. But the legal farce involves the hire of a hall and the +payment of a fee of two guineas to the King's Reader of Plays. When I +wrote Cashel Byron's Profession I had no guineas to spare, a common +disability of young authors. What is equally common, I did not know the +law. A reasonable man may guess a reasonable law, but no man can guess a +foolish anomaly. Fortunately, by the time my book so suddenly revived in +America I was aware of the danger, and in a position to protect myself +by writing and performing The Admirable Bashville. The prudence of doing +so was soon demonstrated; for rumors soon reached me of several American +stage versions; and one of these has actually been played in New York, +with the boxing scenes under the management (so it is stated) of the +eminent pugilist Mr. James J. Corbett. The New York press, in a somewhat +derisive vein, conveyed the impression that in this version Cashel Byron +sought to interest the public rather as the last of the noble race of +the Byrons of Dorsetshire than as his unromantic self; but in justice to +a play which I never read, and an actor whom I never saw, and who +honorably offered to treat me as if I had legal rights in the matter, I +must not accept the newspaper evidence as conclusive.</p> + +<p>As I write these words, I am promised by the King in his speech to +Parliament a new Copyright Bill. I believe it embodies, in our British +fashion, the recommendations of the book publishers as to the concerns +of the authors, and the notions of the musical publishers as to the +concerns of the playwrights. As author and playwright I am duly obliged +to the Commission for saving me the trouble of speaking for myself, and +to the <a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>witnesses for speaking for me. But unless Parliament takes the +opportunity of giving the authors of all printed works of fiction, +whether dramatic or narrative, both playwright and copyright (as in +America), such to be independent of any insertions or omissions of +formulas about "all rights reserved" or the like, I am afraid the new +Copyright Bill will leave me with exactly the opinion both of the +copyright law and the wisdom of Parliament I at present entertain. As a +good Socialist I do not at all object to the limitation of my right of +property in my own works to a comparatively brief period, followed by +complete Communism: in fact, I cannot see why the same salutary +limitation should not be applied to all property rights whatsoever; but +a system which enables any alert sharper to acquire property rights in +my stories as against myself and the rest of the community would, it +seems to me, justify a rebellion if authors were numerous and warlike +enough to make one.</p> + +<p>It may be asked why I have written The Admirable Bashville in blank +verse. My answer is that I had but a week to write it in. Blank verse is +so childishly easy and expeditious (hence, by the way, Shakespear's +copious output), that by adopting it I was enabled to do within the week +what would have cost me a month in prose.</p> + +<p>Besides, I am fond of blank verse. Not nineteenth century blank verse, +of course, nor indeed, with a very few exceptions, any post-Shakespearean +blank verse. Nay, not Shakespearean blank verse itself later than the +histories. When an author can write the prose dialogue of the first +scene in As You Like It, or Hamlet's colloquies with Rosencrantz and +Guildenstern, there is really no excuse for The Seven Ages and "To be or +not to be,"<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a> except the excuse of a haste that made great facility +indispensable. I am quite sure that any one who is to recover the charm +of blank verse must frankly go back to its beginnings and start a +literary pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I like the melodious sing-song, the +clear simple one-line and two-line sayings, and the occasional rhymed +tags, like the half closes in an eighteenth century symphony, in Peele, +Kyd, Greene, and the histories of Shakespear. How any one with music in +him can turn from Henry VI., John, and the two Richards to such a mess +of verse half developed into rhetorical prose as Cymbeline, is to me +explicable only by the uncivil hypothesis that the artistic qualities in +the Elizabethan drama do not exist for most of its critics; so that they +hang on to its purely prosaic content, and hypnotize themselves into +absurd exaggerations of the value of that content. Even poets fall under +the spell. Ben Jonson described Marlowe's line as "mighty"! As well put +Michael Angelo's epitaph on the tombstone of Paolo Uccello. No wonder +Jonson's blank verse is the most horribly disagreeable product in +literature, and indicates his most prosaic mood as surely as his shorter +rhymed measures indicate his poetic mood. Marlowe never wrote a mighty +line in his life: Cowper's single phrase, "Toll for the brave," drowns +all his mightinesses as Great Tom drowns a military band. But Marlowe +took that very pleasant-sounding rigmarole of Peele and Greene, and +added to its sunny daylight the insane splendors of night, and the cheap +tragedy of crime. Because he had only a common sort of brain, he was +hopelessly beaten by Shakespear; but he had a fine ear and a soaring +spirit: in short, one does not forget "wanton Arethusa's azure arms"<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a> +and the like. But the pleasant-sounding rigmarole was the basis of the +whole thing; and as long as that rigmarole was practised frankly for the +sake of its pleasantness, it was readable and speakable. It lasted until +Shakespear did to it what Raphael did to Italian painting; that is, +overcharged and burst it by making it the vehicle of a new order of +thought, involving a mass of intellectual ferment and psychological +research. The rigmarole could not stand the strain; and Shakespear's +style ended in a chaos of half-shattered old forms, half-emancipated new +ones, with occasional bursts of prose eloquence on the one hand, +occasional delicious echoes of the rigmarole, mostly from Calibans and +masque personages, on the other, with, alas! a great deal of filling up +with formulary blank verse which had no purpose except to save the +author's time and thought.</p> + +<p>When a great man destroys an art form in this way, its ruins make +palaces for the clever would-be great. After Michael Angelo and Raphael, +Giulio Romano and the Carracci. After Marlowe and Shakespear, Chapman +and the Police News poet Webster. Webster's specialty was blood: +Chapman's, balderdash. Many of us by this time find it difficult to +believe that pre-Ruskinite art criticism used to prostrate itself before +the works of Domenichino and Guido, and to patronize the modest little +beginnings of those who came between Cimabue and Masaccio. But we have +only to look at our own current criticism of Elizabethan drama to +satisfy ourselves that in an art which has not yet found its Ruskin or +its pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the same folly is still academically +propagated. It is possible, and even usual, for men professing to have +ears and a sense of poetry to<a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a> snub Peele and Greene and grovel before +Fletcher and Webster—Fletcher! a facile blank verse penny-a-liner: +Webster! a turgid paper cut-throat. The subject is one which I really +cannot pursue without intemperance of language. The man who thinks The +Duchess of Malfi better than David and Bethsabe is outside the pale, not +merely of literature, but almost of humanity.</p> + +<p>Yet some of the worst of these post-Shakespearean duffers, from Jonson +to Heywood, suddenly became poets when they turned from the big drum of +pseudo-Shakespearean drama to the pipe and tabor of the masque, exactly +as Shakespear himself recovered the old charm of the rigmarole when he +turned from Prospero to Ariel and Caliban. Cyril Tourneur and Heywood +could certainly have produced very pretty rigmarole plays if they had +begun where Shakespear began, instead of trying to begin where he left +off. Jonson and Beaumont would very likely have done themselves credit +on the same terms: Marston would have had at least a chance. Massinger +was in his right place, such as it was; and one would not disturb the +gentle Ford, who was never born to storm the footlights. Webster could +have done no good anyhow or anywhere: the man was a fool. And Chapman +would always have been a blathering unreadable pedant, like Landor, in +spite of his classical amateurship and respectable strenuosity of +character. But with these exceptions it may plausibly be held that if +Marlowe and Shakespear could have been kept out of their way, the rest +would have done well enough on the lines of Peele and Greene. However, +they thought otherwise; and now that their freethinking paganism, so +dazzling to the pupils of Paley and the converts of Wesley, offers +itself<a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a> in vain to the disciples of Darwin and Nietzsche, there is an +end of them. And a good riddance, too.</p> + +<p>Accordingly, I have poetasted The Admirable Bashville in the rigmarole +style. And lest the Webster worshippers should declare that there is not +a single correct line in all my three acts, I have stolen or paraphrased +a few from Marlowe and Shakespear (not to mention Henry Carey); so that +if any man dares quote me derisively, he shall do so in peril of +inadvertently lighting on a purple patch from Hamlet or Faustus.</p> + +<p>I have also endeavored in this little play to prove that I am not the +heartless creature some of my critics take me for. I have strictly +observed the established laws of stage popularity and probability. I +have simplified the character of the heroine, and summed up her +sweetness in the one sacred word: Love. I have given consistency to the +heroism of Cashel. I have paid to Morality, in the final scene, the +tribute of poetic justice. I have restored to Patriotism its usual place +on the stage, and gracefully acknowledged The Throne as the fountain of +social honor. I have paid particular attention to the construction of +the play, which will be found equal in this respect to the best +contemporary models.</p> + +<p>And I trust the result will be found satisfactory.<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></p> + +<h3>The Admirable Bashville; or, Constancy Unrewarded</h3> + +<table summary="play" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" border="0"><tr><td> + +<p class="nind"><span style="margin-left:10em;font-size:120%;"><a name="ACT_I" id="ACT_I"></a>ACT I</span></p> + +<p class="nind"><span style="margin-left:7em;"><i>A glade in Wiltstoken Park</i></span></p> + +<p class="nind"> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Lydia.</span> Ye leafy breasts and warm protecting wings</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of mother trees that hatch our tender souls,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And from the well of Nature in our hearts</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thaw the intolerable inch of ice</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That bears the weight of all the stamping world.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hear ye me sing to solitude that I,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lydia Carew, the owner of these lands,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Albeit most rich, most learned, and most wise,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Am yet most lonely. What are riches worth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When wisdom with them comes to show the purse bearer</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That life remains unpurchasable? Learning</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Learns but one lesson: doubt! To excel all</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is, to be lonely. Oh, ye busy birds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Engrossed with real needs, ye shameless trees</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With arms outspread in welcome of the sun,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your minds, bent singly to enlarge your lives,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Have given you wings and raised your delicate heads</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">High heavens above us crawlers.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>A rook sets up a great cawing; and the other birds</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>chatter loudly as a gust of wind sets the branches</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>swaying. She makes as though she would shew them</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>her sleeves.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 19em;">Lo, the leaves</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That hide my drooping boughs! Mock me—poor maid!—<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Deride with joyous comfortable chatter</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">These stolen feathers. Laugh at me, the clothed one.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Laugh at the mind fed on foul air and books.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Books! Art! And Culture! Oh, I shall go mad.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give me a mate that never heard of these,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A sylvan god, tree born in heart and sap;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or else, eternal maidhood be my hap.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>Another gust of wind and bird-chatter. She sits on</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>the mossy root of an oak and buries her face in her</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>hands.</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel Byron</span>, <i>in a white singlet and</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>breeches, comes through the trees</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> What's this? Whom have we here? A woman!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA</span> [<i>looking up</i>]. Yes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> You have no business here. I have. Away!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Women distract me. Hence!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Bid you me hence?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am upon mine own ground. Who are you?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I take you for a god, a sylvan god.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This place is mine: I share it with the birds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The trees, the sylvan gods, the lovely company</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of haunted solitudes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> A sylvan god!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A goat-eared image! Do your statues speak?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Walk? heave the chest with breath? or like a feather</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lift you—like this? [<i>He sets her on her feet.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA</span> [<i>panting</i>]. You take away my breath!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You're strong. Your hands off, please. Thank you. Farewell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Before you go: when shall we meet again?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Why should we meet again?<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Who knows? We <i>shall</i>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That much I know by instinct. What's your name?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Lydia Carew.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Lydia's a pretty name.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where do you live?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I' the castle.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>thunderstruck</i>]. Do not say</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You are the lady of this great domain.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I am.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Accursed luck! I took you for</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The daughter of some farmer. Well, your pardon.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I came too close: I looked too deep. Farewell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I pardon that. Now tell me who you are.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Ask me not whence I come, nor what I am.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You are the lady of the castle. I</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Have but this hard and blackened hand to live by.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I have felt its strength and envied you. Your name?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have told you mine.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> My name is Cashel Byron.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I never heard the name; and yet you utter it</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As men announce a celebrated name.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Forgive my ignorance.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> I bless it, Lydia.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have forgot your other name.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Carew.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cashel's a pretty name, too.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH</span> [<i>calling through the wood</i>]. Coo-ee! Byron!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> A thousand curses! Oh, I beg you, go.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is a man you must not meet.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH</span> [<i>further off</i>]. Coo-ee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> He's losing us. What does he in my woods?<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> He is a part of what I am. What that is</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You must not know. It would end all between us.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And yet there's no dishonor in't: your lawyer,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who let your lodge to me, will vouch me honest.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am ashamed to tell you what I am—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">At least, as yet. Some day, perhaps.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH</span> [<i>nearer</i>]. Coo-ee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> His voice is nearer. Fare you well, my tenant.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When next your rent falls due, come to the castle.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pay me in person. Sir: your most obedient. [<i>She curtsies and goes.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Lives in this castle! Owns this park! A lady</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Marry a prizefighter! Impossible.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And yet the prizefighter must marry her.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mellish</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ensanguined swine, whelped by a doggish dam,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is this thy park, that thou, with voice obscene,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fillst it with yodeled yells, and screamst my name</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For all the world to know that Cashel Byron</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is training here for combat.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Swine you me?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I've caught you, have I? You have found a woman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let her shew here again, I'll set the dog on her.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will. I say it. And my name's Bob Mellish.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Change thy initial and be truly hight</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hellish. As for thy dog, why dost thou keep one</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And bark thyself? Begone.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> I'll not begone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You shall come back with me and do your duty—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your duty to your backers, do you hear?<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You have not punched the bag this blessed day.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> The putrid bag engirdled by thy belt</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Invites my fist.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH</span> [<i>weeping</i>]. Ingrate! O wretched lot!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who would a trainer be? O Mellish, Mellish,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Trainer of heroes, builder-up of brawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Vicarious victor, thou createst champions</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That quickly turn thy tyrants. But beware:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Without me thou art nothing. Disobey me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And all thy boasted strength shall fall from thee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With flaccid muscles and with failing breath</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Facing the fist of thy more faithful foe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'll see thee on the grass cursing the day</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou didst forswear thy training.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Noisome quack</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That canst not from thine own abhorrent visage</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Take one carbuncle, thou contaminat'st</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Even with thy presence my untainted blood</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Preach abstinence to rascals like thyself</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rotten with surfeiting. Leave me in peace.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This grove is sacred: thou profanest it.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hence! I have business that concerns thee not.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Ay, with your woman. You will lose your fight.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Have you forgot your duty to your backers?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, what a sacred thing your duty is!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What makes a man but duty? Where were we</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Without our duty? Think of Nelson's words:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">England expects that every man——</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Shall twaddle</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">About his duty. Mellish: at no hour</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Can I regard thee wholly without loathing;<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But when thou play'st the moralist, by Heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My soul flies to my fist, my fist to thee;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And never did the Cyclops' hammer fall</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On Mars's armor—but enough of that.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It does remind me of my mother.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Ah,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Byron, let it remind thee. Once I heard</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An old song: it ran thus. [<i>He clears his throat.</i>] Ahem, Ahem!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>Sings</i>]—They say there is no other</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">Can take the place of mother—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am out o' voice: forgive me; but remember:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thy mother—were that sainted woman here—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would say, Obey thy trainer.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Now, by Heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Some fate is pushing thee upon thy doom.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Canst thou not hear thy sands as they run out?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They thunder like an avalanche. Old man:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Two things I hate, my duty and my mother.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why dost thou urge them both upon me now?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Presume not on thine age and on thy nastiness.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Vanish, and promptly.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Can I leave thee here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thus thinly clad, exposed to vernal dews?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come back with me, my son, unto our lodge.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Within this breast a fire is newly lit</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whose glow shall sun the dew away, whose radiance</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall make the orb of night hang in the heavens</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unnoticed, like a glow-worm at high noon.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Ah me, ah me, where wilt thou spend the night?<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Wiltstoken's windows wandering beneath,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wiltstoken's holy bell hearkening,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wiltstoken's lady loving breathlessly.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> The lady of the castle! Thou art mad.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> 'Tis thou art mad to trifle in my path.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thwart me no more. Begone.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> My boy, my son,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'd give my heart's blood for thy happiness.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thwart thee, my son! Ah, no. I'll go with thee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'll brave the dews. I'll sacrifice my sleep.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am old—no matter: ne'er shall it be said</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mellish deserted thee.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> You resolute gods</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That will not spare this man, upon your knees</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Take the disparity twixt his age and mine.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now from the ring to the high judgment seat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I step at your behest. Bear you me witness</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is not Victory, but Execution.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>He solemnly projects his fist with colossal force</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>against the waistcoat of</i> <span class="smcap">Mellish</span> <i>who doubles up like</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>a folded towel, and lies without sense or motion</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And now the night is beautiful again.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>The castle clock strikes the hour in the distance.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It strikes in poetry. 'Tis ten o'clock.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lydia: to thee!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>He steals off towards the castle.</i> <span class="smcap">Mellish</span> <i>stirs and groans</i>.<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /></p> + +<p class="nind top15"><span style="margin-left:10em;font-size:120%;"><a name="ACT_II" id="ACT_II"></a>ACT II</span></p> + +<p class="nind"><span style="margin-left: 12em;">S<span class="smcap">cene I</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;"><i>London. A room in Lydia's house</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Lucian</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of late you have been chary of your visits.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> I have been greatly occupied of late.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The minister to whom I act as scribe</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In Downing Street was born in Birmingham,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Must reunite, though all the time my heart</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yearns for my gentle coz's company.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Lucian: there is some other reason. Think!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Since England was a nation every mood</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Her scribes have prepositionally split;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> There is a man I like not haunts this house.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Thou speak'st of Cashel Byron?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Aye, of him.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hast thou forgotten that eventful night</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He placed a single finger on my chest,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Had not a chair received my falling form.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> What right had he to illustrate his point</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Upon my person? Was I his assistant<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That he should try experiments on me</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As Simpson did on his with chloroform?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This very morning my official chief,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tapping with friendly forefinger this button,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Flat upon the Colonial Office floor.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Fancies, coz.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Vitus! What could any one have thought?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> What ho, without there! Bashville.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE</span> [<i>without</i>]. Coming, madam.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. [<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Some wet!!! Where learnt <i>you</i> that atrocious word?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is the language of a flower-girl.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> True. It is horrible. Said I "Some wet"?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I meant, some drink. Why did I say "Some wet"?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Am I ensorceled too? "Some wet"! Fie! fie!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, Lucian, how could I have said "Some wet"?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> The horrid conversation of this man</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Nay, he speaks very well: he's literate:<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shakespear he quotes unconsciously.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> And yet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Anon he talks pure pothouse.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Sir: your potion.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Thanks. [<i>He drinks.</i>] I am better.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">A NEWSBOY</span> [<i>calling without</i>]. Extra special <i>Star</i>!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Result of the great fight! Name of the winner!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Who calls so loud?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> The papers, madam.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Why?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath ought momentous happened?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam: yes. [<i>He produces a newspaper.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All England for these thrilling paragraphs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A week has waited breathless.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Read them us.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE</span> [<i>reading</i>]. "At noon to-day, unknown to the police,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Th' Australian Champion and his challenger,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I' the mercantile marine, fought to a finish.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Acted as referee."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Lord Worthington!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To hold the bottle for his quondam novice;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whilst in the seaman's corner were assembled</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt,<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Looked none the worse in the Australian's corner.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His colors freely sold amid the crowd;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue——"</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> <i>Whose</i>, did you say?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Cashel's, my lady.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Lucian:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your hand—a chair—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam: you're ill.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Proceed.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What you have read I do not understand;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Proceed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When, with a smile of confidence upon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His ocean-beaten mug——"</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> His mug?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN</span> [<i>explaining</i>]. His face.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE</span> [<i>continuing</i>]. "The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But found the champion there already. Both</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of their encouraged backers. Two to one</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Found takers everywhere. No time was lost</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In getting to the business of the day.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On Byron's dicebox; but the seaman's reach,<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Too short for execution at long shots,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Did not get fairly home upon the ivory;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Byron had the best of the exchange."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I do not understand. What were they doing?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Fighting with naked fists.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, horrible!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was Cashel hurt?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>]. Skip to the final round.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "Round Three: the rumors that had gone about</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of a breakdown in Byron's recent training</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">At this point six to one was freely offered</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Take down the number of the Panley boy.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who, not to be denied, followed him up,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh stop—no more—or tell the worst at once.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'll be revenged. Bashville: call the police.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This brutal sailor shall be made to know</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There's law in England.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Do not interrupt him:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "Forty to one, the Dutchman's friends exclaimed.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was booked, when, at the reeling champion's jaw</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The sailor, bent on winning out of hand,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick——"</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Death and damnation!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, what does it mean?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> "A scene of indescribable excitement</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ensued; for it was now quite evident</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That Byron's grogginess had all along</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Been feigned to make the market for his backers.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">We trust this sample of colonial smartness</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will not find imitators on this side.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The losers settled up like gentlemen;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In taking old Ned Skene upon his back,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The perfect pink of his condition"—[<i>a knock</i>].</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA</span> [<i>turning pale</i>]. Bashville</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Didst hear? A knock.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam: 'tis Byron's knock.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall I admit him?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Reeking from the ring!<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, monstrous! Say you're out.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Send him away.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Secrets from <span class="smcap">ME</span>? I'll punish him. Pray say</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I'm not at home. [<span class="smcap">Bashville</span> <i>turns to go</i>.] Yet stay. I am afraid</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He will not come again.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> A consummation</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Devoutly to be wished by any lady.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pray, do you <i>wish</i> this man to come again?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He should have told me. I will ne'er forgive him.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Say, Not at home.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Yes, madam. [<i>Exit.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Stay—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN</span> [<i>stopping her</i>]. No, Lydia:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You shall not countermand that proper order.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The thousands at your bank, and, above all,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your unassailable social position</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Nay, coz: you're prejudiced.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>without</i>]. Liar and slave!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> What words were those?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> The man is drunk with slaughter.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span> <i>running: he shuts the door and locks it</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But when he rises, woe betide us all!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Who bade you treat my visitor with violence?<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> He would not take my answer; thrust the door</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Back in my face; gave me the lie i' the throat;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Averred he felt your presence in his bones.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Then fled to bar your door.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> O lover's instinct!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He felt my presence. Well, let him come in.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">We must not fail in courage with a fighter.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Unlock the door.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Stop. Like all women, Lydia,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You have the courage of immunity.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To strike <i>you</i> were against his code of honor;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But <i>me</i>, above the belt, he may perform on</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">T' th' height of his profession. Also Bashville.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A second battle should he do this day:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give me the word: instant I'll take him on</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Here—now—at catchweight. Better bite the carpet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A man, than fly, a coward.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Bravely said:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will assist you with the poker.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> No:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I will not have him touched. Open the door.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<span class="smcap">Bashville</span> <i>opens the door</i>. <i>Dead silence.</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>enters, in tears</i>. <i>A solemn pause.</i><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> You know my secret?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Yes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> And thereupon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You bade your servant fling me from your door.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I bade my servant say I was not here.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hadst thou but said, "She bade me tell thee this,"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him "drunk with slaughter"?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">LUCIAN</span>]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Against professional resentment, saves thee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O coward, to traduce behind their backs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Defenceless prizefighters!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Thou dost avow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou art a prizefighter.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> It was my glory.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I had hoped to offer to my lady there</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My undefeated record; but I knew</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Another secret?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Is there worse to come?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Know ye not then my mother is an actress?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> How horrible!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Nay, nay: how interesting!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> A thousand victories cannot wipe out</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My earliest lesson was the player's speech<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">More like a mobled queen than like a man</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Know that she is to me, and I to her,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What never canst thou be. I do defy thee;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Outside I will await thee.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I forbid</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Expressly any such duello. Bashville:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And bid the driver hie to Downing Street.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No answer: 'tis my will. [<i>Exeunt</i> <span class="smcap">Lucian</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And now, farewell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You must not come again, unless indeed</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You can some day look in my eyes and say:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lydia: my occupation's gone.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Ah, no:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It would remind you of my wretched mother.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O God, let me be natural a moment!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What other occupation can I try?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What would you have me be?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> A gentleman.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To be the thing that bets on me! the fool</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I flatter at so many coins a lesson!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The screaming creature who beside the ring</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Gambles with basest wretches for my blood,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And pays with money that he never earned!<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let me die broken-hearted rather!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> But</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You need not be an idle gentleman.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I call you one of Nature's gentlemen.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> That's the collection for the loser, Lydia.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am not wont to need it. When your friends</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Contest elections, and at foot o' th' poll</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rue their presumption, 'tis their wont to claim</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A moral victory. In a sort they are</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nature's M. P.s. I am not yet so threadbare</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As to accept these consolation stakes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> You are offended with me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Yes, I am.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I can put up with much; but—"Nature's gentleman"!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Must beg to be excused.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> But surely, surely,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With naked knuckles, is no work for you.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Than these that lie, antimacassarly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Asprent thy drawingroom. As well demand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why I at birth chose to begin my life</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse's nuisance?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or why I do propose to lose my strength,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Only one thing more foolish could have been,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And that was to be born, not man, but woman.<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This was thy folly, why rebuk'st thou mine?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> These are not things of choice.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> And did I choose</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My quick divining eye, my lightning hand,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My springing muscle and untiring heart?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Did I implant the instinct in the race</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That found a use for these, and said to me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> But there are other callings in the world.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thy poet friends to stoop o'er merchants' desks</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And pen prose records of the gains of greed.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tell bishops that religion is outworn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His fraudulent pedantries, and do i' the world</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The thing he would teach others. Then return</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will throw my championship.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> But 'tis so cruel.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Is it so? I have hardly noticed that,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That many a two days' bruise hath ruthless given,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I am too squeamish for your dainty world,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That cowers behind the gallows and the lash,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To Nature; cowering if one say to them<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"What will the servants think?" Your gentlemen!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Flutter of wing and singing in the wood</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Groping for cures in the tormented entrails</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To change their occupations? Find you mine</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An air so petty and so poisonous.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> But find you not their manners very nice?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> To me, perfection. Oh, they condescend</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With a rare grace. Your duke, who condescends</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Almost to the whole world, might for a Man</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pass in the eyes of those who never saw</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The duke capped with a prince. See then, ye gods,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The duke turn footman, and his eager dame</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sink the great lady in the obsequious housemaid!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, at such moments I could wish the Court</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Had but one breadbasket, that with my fist</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I could make all its windy vanity</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Gasp itself out on the gravel. Fare you well.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I did not choose my calling; but at least</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I can refrain from being a gentleman.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> You say farewell to me without a pang.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> My calling hath apprenticed me to pangs.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is a rib-bender; but I can bear it.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It is a lonely thing to be a champion.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> It is a lonelier thing to be a woman.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Be lonely then. Shall it be said of thee</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That for his brawn thou misalliance mad'st</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wi' the Prince of Ruffians? Never. Go thy ways;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Or, if thou hast nostalgia of the mud,<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wed some bedoggéd wretch that on the slot</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of gilded snobbery, <i>ventre ŕ terre</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will hunt through life with eager nose on earth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And hang thee thick with diamonds. I am rich;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But all my gold was fought for with my hands.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> What dost thou mean by rich?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> There is a man,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hight Paradise, vaunted unconquerable,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath dared to say he will be glad to hear from me.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have replied that none can hear from <i>me</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Until a thousand solid pounds be staked.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His friends have confidently found the money.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ere fall of leaf that money shall be mine;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And then I shall possess ten thousand pounds.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I had hoped to tempt thee with that monstrous sum.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Thou silly Cashel, 'tis but a week's income.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I did propose to give thee three times that</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For pocket money when we two were wed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Give me my hat. I have been fooling here.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now, by the Hebrew lawgiver, I thought</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That only in America such revenues</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Were decent deemed. Enough. My dream is dreamed.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your gold weighs like a mountain on my chest.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Farewell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> The golden mountain shall be thine</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The day thou quit'st thy horrible profession.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Tempt me not, woman. It is honor calls.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Slave to the Ring I rest until the face</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Paradise be changed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam, your carriage,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ordered by you at two. 'Tis now half-past.<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Sdeath! is it half-past two? The king! the king!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> The king! What mean you?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> I must meet a monarch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This very afternoon at Islington.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> At Islington! You must be mad.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> A cab!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Go call a cab; and let a cab be called;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And let the man that calls it be thy footman.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> You are not well. You shall not go alone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My carriage waits. I must accompany you.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I go to find my hat. [<i>Exit.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Like Paracelsus,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who went to find his soul. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>.] And now, young man,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How comes it that a fellow of your inches,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On your next evening out. I'll make a man of you.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Surely you are ambitious and aspire——</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By Heaven, I will draw yours.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>He hits</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span> <i>on the nose, and runs out</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Cashel</span> [<i>thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>to his nose</i>, <i>and studying the blood on it</i>].</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Too quick for <i>me</i>!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There's money in this youth.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span>, <i>hatted and gloved</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> O Heaven! you bleed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Lend me a key or other frigid object,<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That I may put it down my back, and staunch</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The welling life stream.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> [<i>giving him her keys</i>]. Oh, what <i>have</i> you done?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Flush on the boko napped your footman's left.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I do not understand.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> True. Pardon me.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have received a blow upon the nose</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I shall be total gules. [<i>He hurries out.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> How well he speaks!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There is a silver trumpet in his lips</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I would 'twere mingled with mine own!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Bashville</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 21em;">What now?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam, the coachman can no longer wait:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The horses will take cold.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I do beseech him</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The third class passenger unchidden rides</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whither and when he will: obsequious trams</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Await him hourly: subterranean tubes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With tireless coursers whisk him through the town;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road,<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And thence t' th' Angel—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Let us haste, my love:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The coachman is impatient.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Did he guess</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Pompei's sentinel. Let us away.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This day of deeds, as yet but half begun,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Must ended be in merrie Islington. [<i>Exeunt</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Gods! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now let me lift the cover from my soul.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">She stoops below me; condescends upon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Writ in my character from my last place,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There's an eternal justice in it; for</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By so much as the ne'er subduéd Indian</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Precedence take of me. "<i>Ich dien.</i>" Damnation!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because I love her I have blacked her boots;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because I love her I have cleaned her knives,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Doing in this the office of a boy,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And does the meanest chares, I've shared the passions</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To give her place the greater altitude</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By lowering mine, and of her dignity</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As love for such a one as I would be</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For such a one as she; and now! and now!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So heavenly high of her? Let what will come,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11.5em;"><span class="smcap">Scene II</span></span> +<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> <i>In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> <i>before it. A balcony above on the right</i>, <i>occupied</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> <i>by persons of fashion</i>: <i>among others</i>, <span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>and</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"> <span class="smcap">Lord Worthington</span>.</span><br /></p> + +<p class="nind"><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Flourish.</i> <i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Lucian</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Cetewayo</span>, <i>with Chiefs in attendance</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> It is.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Are these anćmic dogs the English people?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Mislike us not for our complexions,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And by the million patent kitchen ranges<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of happy English homes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> When first I came</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of some infernal god. I now perceive</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The English dare not look upon the sky.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To cover them.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> You cannot understand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The greatness of this people, Cetewayo.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You are a savage, reasoning like a child.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Each pallid English face conceals a brain</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There is not one of all the thousands here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But, if you placed him naked in the desert,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would presently construct a steam engine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And lay a cable t' th' Antipodes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Have I been brought a million miles by sea</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Men become civilized through twin diseases,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Become the grisly parents of Invention.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why does the trembling white with frantic toil</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of hand and brain produce the magic gun</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dares look his foe i' the face; fights foot to foot;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Makes life a long reality, and death</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A moment only! whilst your Englishman</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Glares on his burning candle's winding-sheets,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Counting the steps of his approaching doom.<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And in the murky corners ever sees</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the which anguish an unnatural edge</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Strange frauds by which to filch unearnéd gold,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mad crafts by which to slay unfacéd foes,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Until at last his agonized desire</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Makes possibility its slave. And then—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Th' importunate clutching of the coward's hand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From wearied Nature Devastation's secrets</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is blown explosively from off the globe;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">O'er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Stammer the words "Survival of the Fittest."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Enough of this: I came not here to talk.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou say'st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let them be brought.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> They fight not to the death,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But under strictest rules: as, for example,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Half of their persons shall not be attacked;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That frequent opportunities of rest</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With succor and refreshment be secured them.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Personified Pusillanimity</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath ta'en thee from the bravest of the brave!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That Brave and English mean the self-same thing!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">They will be carried by their nurses, lest</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Cetewayo</span> <i>takes his state</i>. <i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Paradise</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Presage destruction to his adversaries?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LORD WORTHINGTON.</span> 'Tis Paradise.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> He of whom Cashel spoke?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Did Cashel leave us at the door?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LORD WORTHINGTON.</span> Behold!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The champion comes.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, I could kiss him now,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Here, before all the world. His boxing things</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Render him most attractive. But I fear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yon villain's fists may maul him.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">WORTHINGTON.</span> Have no fear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hark! the king speaks.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Ye sons of the white queen:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">PARADISE.</span> Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What gets his living honest by his fists.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I may not have the polish of some toffs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As I could mention on; but up to now</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">No man has took my number down. I scale<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And at Bill Richardson's Blue Anchor pub</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Am to be heard of any day by such</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As likes the job. I don't know, governor,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As ennythink remains for me to say.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Methinks he looks scornfully on thee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span>] Ha! dost thou not so?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Sir, I do beseech you</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To name the bone, or limb, or special place</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where you would have me hit him with this fist.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thine adversary will disfigure it.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> There's a divinity that shapes our ends</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">THE MASTER OF THE REVELS.</span> Paradise, a professor.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cashel Byron,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Also professor. Time! [<i>They spar.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Eternity</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">It seems to me until this fight be done.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Dread monarch: this is called the upper cut,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And this a hook-hit of mine own invention.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The hollow region where I plant this blow</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is called the mark. My left, you will observe,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I chiefly use for long shots: with my right</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Aiming beside the angle of the jaw</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And landing with a certain delicate screw</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I without violence knock my foeman out.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mark how he falls forward upon his face!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The rules allow ten seconds to get up;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And as the man is still quite silly, I<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Might safely finish him; but my respect</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For your most gracious majesty's desire</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To see some further triumphs of the science</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of self-defence postpones awhile his doom.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">PARADISE.</span> How can a bloke do hisself proper justice</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With pillows on his fists?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>He tears off his gloves and attacks</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span> <i>with his bare knuckles</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">THE CROWD.</span> Unfair! The rules!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> The joy of battle surges boiling up</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And bids me join the mellay. Isandhlana</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And Victory! [<i>He falls on the bystanders.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">THE CHIEFS.</span> Victory and Isandhlana!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>They run amok. General panic and stampede. The ring is swept away.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Forbear these most irregular proceedings.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Police! Police!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>He engages</i> <span class="smcap">Cetewayo</span> <i>his umbrella</i>. <i>The balcony</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>comes down with a crash. Screams from its</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>occupants. Indescribable confusion.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>dragging</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>from the struggling heap</i>].</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My love, my love, art hurt?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> No, no; but save my sore o'ermatchéd cousin.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">A POLICEMAN.</span> Give us a lead, sir. Save the English flag.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Africa tramples on it.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Africa!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Not all the continents whose mighty shoulders</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The dancing diamonds of the seas bedeck</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall trample on the blue with spots of white.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now, Lydia, mark thy lover. [<i>He charges the Zulus.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Hercules<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cannot withstand him. See: the king is down;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The tallest chief is up, heels over head,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tossed corklike o'er my Cashel's sinewy back;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And his lieutenant all deflated gasps</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For breath upon the sand. The others fly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In vain: his fist o'er magic distances</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like a chameleon's tongue shoots to its mark;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the last African upon his knees</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sues piteously for quarter. [<i>Rushing into</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel's</span> <i>arms</i>.] Oh, my hero:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou'st saved us all this day.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> 'Twas all for thee.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CETEWAYO.</span> [<i>trying to rise</i>]. Have I been struck by lightning?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Sir, your conduct</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Can only be described as most ungentlemanly.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> One of the prone is white.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> 'Tis Paradise.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> He's choking: he has something in his mouth.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA</span> [<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span>]. Oh Heaven! there is blood upon your hip.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You're hurt.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> The morsel in yon wretch's mouth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was bitten out of me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>Sensation.</i> <span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>screams and swoons in</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel's</span> <i>arms</i>.<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a></span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="nind top15"><span style="margin-left:10em;font-size:120%;"><a name="ACT_III" id="ACT_III"></a>ACT III</span></p> + +<p class="nind"> +<span style="margin-left: 4.5em;"><i>Wiltstoken. A room in the Warren Lodge</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5.5em;"><span class="smcap">Lydia</span> <i>at her writing table</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> O Past and Present, how ye do conflict</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As here I sit writing my father's life!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The autumn woodland woos me from without</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With whispering of leaves and dainty airs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To leave this fruitless haunting of the past.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My father was a very learnéd man.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I sometimes think I shall oldmaided be</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ere I unlearn the things he taught to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Asking your ladyship to pardon me</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For this intrusion, might I be so bold</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As ask a question of your people here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Concerning the Queen's peace?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> My people here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Are but a footman and a simple maid;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And both have craved a holiday to join</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Some local festival. But, sir, your helmet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Proclaims the Metropolitan Police.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Madam, it does; and I may now inform you</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That what you term a local festival</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is a most hideous outrage 'gainst the law,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Which we to quell from London have come down:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In short, a prizefight. My sole purpose here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is to inquire whether your ladyship<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Any bad characters this afternoon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Has noted in the neighborhood.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> No, none, sir.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I had not let my maid go forth to-day</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thought I the roads unsafe.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Fear nothing, madam:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The force protects the fair. My mission here</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is to wreak ultion for the broken law.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I wish your ladyship good afternoon.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Good afternoon. [<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 13em;">A prizefight! O my heart!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cashel: hast thou deceived me? Can it be</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou hast backslidden to the hateful calling</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I asked thee to eschew?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 14em;">O wretched maid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Why didst thou flee from London to this place</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To write thy father's life, whenas in town</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou might'st have kept a guardian eye on him—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">What's that? A flying footstep—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Sanctuary!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The law is on my track. What! Lydia here!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Ay: Lydia here. Hast thou done murder, then,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That in so horrible a guise thou comest?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Murder! I would I had. Yon cannibal</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hath forty thousand lives; and I have ta'en</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But thousands thirty-nine. I tell thee, Lydia,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On the impenetrable sarcolobe</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That holds his seedling brain these fists have pounded</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By Shrewsb'ry clock an hour. This bruiséd grass</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And cakéd mud adhering to my form<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I have acquired in rolling on the sod</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Clinched in his grip. This scanty reefer coat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For decency snatched up as fast I fled</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When the police arrived, belongs to Mellish.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis all too short; hence my display of rib</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And forearm mother-naked. Be not wroth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Because I seem to wink at you: by Heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Twas Paradise that plugged me in the eye</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Which I perforce keep closing. Pity me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My training wasted and my blows unpaid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sans stakes, sans victory, sans everything</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I had hoped to win. Oh, I could sit me down</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And weep for bitterness.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Thou wretch, begone.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Begone!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I say begone. Oh, tiger's heart</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wrapped in a young man's hide, canst thou not live</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In love with Nature and at peace with Man?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Must thou, although thy hands were never made</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To blacken others' eyes, still batter at</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The image of Divinity? I loathe thee.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hence from my house and never see me more.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> I go. The meanest lad on thy estate</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would not betray me thus. But 'tis no matter. [<i>He opens the door.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ha! the police. I'm lost. [<i>He shuts the door again.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 15em;">Now shalt thou see</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My last fight fought. Exhausted as I am,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To capture me will cost the coppers dear.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come one, come all!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, hide thee, I implore:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I cannot see thee hunted down like this.<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There is my room. Conceal thyself therein.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Quick, I command. [<i>He goes into the room.</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 11em;">With horror I foresee,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lydia, that never lied, must lie for thee.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Policeman</span>, <i>with</i> <span class="smcap">Paradise</span> <i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Mellish</span> <i>in</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>custody</i>, <span class="smcap">Bashville</span>, <i>constable</i>s, <i>and others</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Keep back your bruiséd prisoner lest he shock</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This wellbred lady's nerves. Your pardon, ma'am;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But have you seen by chance the other one?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In this direction he was seen to run.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> A man came here anon with bloody hands</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And aspect that did turn my soul to snow.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> 'Twas he. What said he?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Begged for sanctuary.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I bade the man begone.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Most properly.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Saw you which way he went?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I cannot tell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">PARADISE.</span> He seen me coming; and he done a bunk.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Peace, there. Excuse his damaged features, lady:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He's Paradise; and this one's Byron's trainer,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mellish.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Injurious copper, in thy teeth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I hurl the lie. I am no trainer, I.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My father, a respected missionary,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Apprenticed me at fourteen years of age</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">T' the poetry writing. To these woods I came</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With Nature to commune. My revery</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was by a sound of blows rudely dispelled.<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mindful of what my sainted parent taught,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I rushed to play the peacemaker, when lo!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">These minions of the law laid hands on me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> A lovely woman, with distracted cries,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In most resplendent fashionable frock,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Approaches like a wounded antelope.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Adelaide Gisborne</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Where is my Cashel? Hath he been arrested?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> I would I had thy Cashel by the collar:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He hath escaped me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Praises be for ever!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Why dost thou call the missing man <i>thy</i> Cashel?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> He is mine only son.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ALL.</span> Thy son!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> My son.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> I thought his mother hardly would have known him,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So crushed his countenance.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> A ribald peer,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lord Worthington by name, this morning came</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With honeyed words beseeching me to mount</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">His four-in-hand, and to the country hie</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To see some English sport. Being by nature</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Frank as a child, I fell into the snare,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But took so long to dress that the design</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Failed of its full effect; for not until</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The final round we reached the horrid scene.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Be silent all; for now I do approach</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My tragedy's catastrophe. Know, then,<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That Heaven did bless me with an only son,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A boy devoted to his doting mother——</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Hark! did you hear an oath from yonder room?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Respect a broken-hearted mother's grief,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And do not interrupt me in my scene.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Ten years ago my darling disappeared</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">(Ten dreary twelvemonths of continuous tears,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tears that have left me prematurely aged;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For I am younger far than I appear).</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Judge of my anguish when to-day I saw</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Stripped to the waist, and fighting like a demon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With one who, whatsoe'er his humble virtues,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was clearly not a gentleman, my son!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ALL.</span> O strange event! O passing tearful tale!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> I thank you from the bottom of my heart</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For the reception you have given my woe;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And now I ask, where is my wretched son?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He must at once come home with me, and quit</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A course of life that cannot be allowed.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Policeman: I do yield me to the law.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, no.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> My son!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> My mother! Do not kiss me.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My visage is too sore.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> The lady hid him.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">This is a regular plant. You cannot be</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Up to that sex. [<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Cashel</span>] You come along with me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Fear not, my Cashel: I will bail thee out.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Never. I do embrace my doom with joy.<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With Paradise in Pentonville or Portland</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I shall feel safe: there are no mothers there.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Ungracious boy—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Constable: bear me hence.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">MELLISH.</span> Oh, let me sweetest reconcilement make</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By calling to thy mind that moving song:—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">[<i>Sings</i>] They say there is no other—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Forbear at once, or the next note of music</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That falls upon thine ear shall clang in thunder</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From the last trumpet.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> A disgraceful threat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To level at this virtuous old man.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn'st thy mother thus,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">How wilt thou treat thy wife?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> There spake my fate:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would you but let your wretched sons alone</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Life were worth living! Had I any choice</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In this importunate relationship?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">None. And until that high auspicious day</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">When the millennium on an orphaned world</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Reckless of consanguinity, my mother</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And I within the self-same hemisphere</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Conjointly may not dwell.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Ungentlemanly!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> I am no gentleman. I am a criminal,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Redhanded, baseborn—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Baseborn! Who dares say it?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou art the son and heir of Bingley Bumpkin</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron,<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Who after three months' wedded happiness</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Leaving a tearstained note to testify</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That having sweetly honeymooned with me,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Sir: had I known your quality, this cop</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I had averted; but it is too late.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The law's above us both.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 9em;"><i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Lucian</span>, <i>with an Order in Council</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Not so, policeman</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I bear a message from The Throne itself</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of fullest amnesty for Byron's past.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In memory of his glorious victory</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Over our country's foes at Islington,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The flag of England shall for ever bear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And by an exercise of feudal right</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Too long disused in this anarchic age</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken's wealthy heiress. [<i>General acclamation.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> Was anything, sir, said about me?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> Thy faithful services are not forgot:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In future call thyself Inspector Smith. [<i>Renewed acclamation.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LUCIAN.</span> My former opposition, valiant champion,<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Was based on the supposed discrepancy</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Betwixt your rank and Lydia's. Here's my hand.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> And I do here unselfishly renounce</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All my pretensions to my lady's favor. [<i>Sensation.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> What, Bashville! didst thou love me?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Madam: yes.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">'Tis said: now let me leave immediately.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You are but acting as a gentleman</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the like case would act. I fully grant</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your perfect right to make a declaration</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Which flatters me and honors your ambition.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Prior attachment bids me firmly say</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rests foreign to the British social scheme,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your love is hopeless; still, your services,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Made zealous by disinterested passion,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Would greatly add to my domestic comfort;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And if——</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Excuse me. I have other views.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I've noted in this man such aptitude</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For art and exercise in his defence</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That I prognosticate for him a future</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">More glorious than my past. Henceforth I dub him</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The Admirable Bashville, Byron's Novice;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And to the utmost of my mended fortunes</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Will back him 'gainst the world at ten stone six.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ALL.</span> Hail, Byron's Novice, champion that shall be!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">BASHVILLE.</span> Must I renounce my lovely lady's service,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And mar the face of man?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> 'Tis Fate's decree.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For know, rash youth, that in this star crost world<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Fate drives us all to find our chiefest good</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In what we <i>can</i>, and not in what we <i>would</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">POLICEMAN.</span> A post-horn—hark!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> What noise of wheels is this?</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Lord Worthington</span> <i>drives upon the scene in his four-in-hand</i>, <i>and descends</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Perfidious peer!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LORD WORTHINGTON.</span> Sweet Adelaide——</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> Forbear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Audacious one: my name is Mrs. Byron.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LORD WORTHINGTON.</span> Oh, change that title for the sweeter one</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of Lady Worthington.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Unhappy man,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You know not what you do.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span> Nay, 'tis a match</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of most auspicious promise. Dear Lord Worthington,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">You tear from us our mother-in-law—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> Ha! true.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA.</span>—but we will make the sacrifice. She blushes:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">At least she very prettily produces</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Blushing's effect.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">ADELAIDE.</span> My lord: I do accept you. [<i>They embrace. Rejoicings.</i></span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL</span> [<i>aside</i>]. It wrings my heart to see my noble backer</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lay waste his future thus. The world's a chessboard,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And we the merest pawns in fist of Fate.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">[<i>Aloud.</i>] And now, my friends, gentle and simple both,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our scene draws to a close. In lawful course</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As Dorset's deputy lieutenant I<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Do pardon all concerned this afternoon</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In the late gross and brutal exhibition</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of miscalled sport.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">LYDIA</span> [<i>throwing herself into his arms</i>]. Your boats</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">are burnt at last.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">CASHEL.</span> This is the face that burnt a thousand boats,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And ravished Cashel Byron from the ring.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">But to conclude. Let William Paradise</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Devote himself to science, and acquire,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By studying the player's speech in Hamlet,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A more refined address. You, Robert Mellish,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To the Blue Anchor hostelry attend him;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Assuage his hurts, and bid Bill Richardson</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Limit his access to the fatal tap.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Now mount we on my backer's four-in-hand,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And to St. George's Church, whose portico</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Hanover Square shuts off from Conduit Street,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Repair we all. Strike up the wedding march;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And, Mellish, let thy melodies trill forth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Broad o'er the wold as fast we bowl along.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Give me the post-horn. Loose the flowing rein;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And up to London drive with might and main. [<i>Exeunt.</i></span><br /> +</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="NOTE" id="NOTE"></a>NOTE ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING</h3> + +<p><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a></p> + +<p>In 1882, when this book was written, prizefighting seemed to be dying +out. Sparring matches with boxing gloves, under the Queensberry rules, +kept pugilism faintly alive; but it was not popular, because the public, +which cares only for the excitement of a strenuous fight, believed then +that the boxing glove made sparring as harmless a contest of pure skill +as a fencing match with buttoned foils. This delusion was supported by +the limitation of the sparring match to boxing. In the prize-ring under +the old rules a combatant might trip, hold, or throw his antagonist; so +that each round finished either with a knockdown blow, which, except +when it is really a liedown blow, is much commoner in fiction than it +was in the ring, or with a visible body-to-body struggle ending in a +fall. In a sparring match all that happens is that a man with a watch in +his hand cries out "Time!" whereupon the two champions prosaically stop +sparring and sit down for a minute's rest and refreshment. The +unaccustomed and inexpert spectator in those days did not appreciate the +severity of the exertion or the risk of getting hurt: he underrated them +as ignorantly as he would have overrated the more dramatically obvious +terrors of a prizefight. Consequently the interest in the annual +sparrings for the Queensberry Championships was confined to the few +amateurs who had some critical knowledge of the game of boxing, and to +the survivors of the generation for which the fight between Sayers and +Heenan had been described in The Times as solemnly as the University +Boat Race. In short, pugilism was out of fashion because the police had +suppressed the only form of it which fascinated the public by its +undissembled pugnacity.</p> + +<p>All that was needed to rehabilitate it was the discovery that the glove +fight is a more trying and dangerous form of contest than the old +knuckle fight. Nobody knew that then: everybody knows it, or ought to +know it, now. And, accordingly, pugilism is more prosperous to-day than +it has ever been before.</p> + +<p>How far this result was foreseen by the author of the Queensberry Rules, +which superseded those of the old prize-ring, will probably never be +known. There is no doubt that they served their immediate turn +admirably. That turn was, the keeping alive of boxing in the teeth of +the law against prizefighting. Magistrates believed, as the public +believed, that when men's knuckles were muffled in padded gloves; when +they were forbidden to wrestle or hold one another; when the duration of +a round was fixed by the clock, and the number of rounds limited to what +seems (to those who have never tried) to be easily within the limits of +ordinary endurance; and when the traditional interval for rest between +the rounds was doubled, that then indeed violence must be checkmated, so +that the worst the boxers could do was to "spar for points" before three +gentlemanly members of the Stock Exchange, who would carefully note the +said points on an examination paper at the ring side, awarding marks +only for skill and elegance, and sternly discountenancing the claims of +brute force. It may be that both the author of the rules and the +"judges" who administered them in the earlier days really believed all +this; for, as far as I know, the limit of an amateur pugilist's romantic +credulity has never yet been reached and probably never will. But if so, +their good intentions were upset by the operation of a single new rule. +Thus.</p> + +<p>In the old prize-ring a round had no fixed duration. It was terminated +by the fall of one of the combatants (in practice usually both of them), +and was followed by an interval of half a minute for recuperation. The +practical effect of this was that a combatant could always get a respite +of half a minute whenever he wanted it by pretending to be knocked down: +"finding the earth the safest place," as the old phrase went. For this +the Marquess of Queensberry substituted a rule that a round with the +gloves should last a specified time, usually three or four minutes, and +that a combatant who did not stand up to his opponent continuously +during that time (ten seconds being allowed for rising in the event of a +knock-down) lost the battle. That unobtrusively slipped-in ten seconds +limit has produced the modern glove fight. Its practical effect is that +a man dazed by a blow or a fall for, say, twelve seconds, which would +not have mattered in an old-fashioned fight with its thirty seconds +interval,[<a href="#footnote">*</a><a name="anchor" id="anchor"></a>] has under the Queensberry rules either to lose or else +stagger to his feet in a helpless condition and be eagerly battered into +insensibility by his opponent before he can recover his powers of +self-defence. The notion that such a battery cannot be inflicted with +boxing gloves is only entertained by people who have never used them or +seen them used. I may say that I have myself received, in an accident, a +blow in the face, involving two macadamized holes in it, more violent +than the most formidable pugilist could have given me with his bare +knuckles. This blow did not stun or disable me even momentarily. On the +other hand, I have seen a man knocked quite silly by a tap from the most +luxurious sort of boxing glove made, wielded by a quite unathletic +literary man sparring for the first time in his life. The human jaw, +like the human elbow, is provided, as every boxer knows, with a "funny +bone"; and the pugilist who is lucky enough to jar that funny bone with +a blow practically has his opponent at his mercy for at least ten +seconds. Such a blow is called a "knock-out." The funny bone and the +ten-seconds rule explain the development of Queensberry sparring into +the modern knocking-out match or glove fight.</p> + +<p><a name="footnote" id="footnote"></a>[<a href="#anchor">*</a>] In a treatise on boxing by Captain Edgeworth Johnstone, +just published, I read, "In the days of the prize-ring, fights lasted +for hours; and the knock-out blow was unknown." This statement is a +little too sweeping. The blow was known well enough. A veteran +prizefighter once described to me his first experience of its curious +effect on the senses. Only, as he had thirty seconds to recover in +instead of ten, it did not end the battle. The thirty seconds made the +knock-out so unlikely that the old pugilists regarded it as a rare +accident, not worth trying for. The glove fighter tries for nothing +else. Nevertheless knock-outs, and very dramatic ones too (Mace by King, +for example), did occur in the prize-ring from time to time. Captain +Edgeworth Johnstone's treatise is noteworthy in comparison with the +earlier Badminton handbook of sparring by Mr. E. B. Michell (one of the +Queensberry champions) as throwing over the old teaching of prize-ring +boxing with mufflers, and going in frankly for glove fighting, or, to +put it classically, cestus boxing.</p> + +<p>This development got its first impulse from the discovery by sparring +competitors that the only way in which a boxer, however skilful, could +make sure of a verdict in his favor, was by knocking his opponent out. +This will be easily understood by any one who remembers the pugilistic +Bench of those days. The "judges" at the competitions were invariably +ex-champions: that is, men who had themselves won former competitions. +Now the judicial faculty, if it is not altogether a legal fiction, is at +all events pretty rare even among men whose ordinary pursuits tend to +cultivate it, and to train them in dispassionateness. Among pugilists it +is quite certainly very often non-existent. The average pugilist is a +violent partisan, who seldom witnesses a hot encounter without getting +much more excited than the combatants themselves. Further, he is usually +filled with a local patriotism which makes him, if a Londoner, deem it a +duty to disparage a provincial, and, if a provincial, to support a +provincial at all hazards against a cockney. He has, besides, personal +favorites on whose success he bets wildly. On great occasions like the +annual competitions, he is less judicial and more convivial after dinner +(when the finals are sparred) than before it. Being seldom a fine boxer, +he often regards skill and style as a reflection on his own +deficiencies, and applauds all verdicts given for "game" alone. When he +is a technically good boxer, he is all the less likely to be a good +critic, as Providence seldom lavishes two rare gifts on the same +individual. Even if we take the sanguine and patriotic view that when +you appoint such a man a judge, and thus stop his betting, you may +depend on his sense of honor and responsibility to neutralize all the +other disqualifications, they are sure to be exhibited most extremely by +the audience before which he has to deliver his verdict. Now it takes a +good deal of strength of mind to give an unpopular verdict; and this +strength of mind is not necessarily associated with the bodily hardihood +of the champion boxer. Consequently, when the strength of mind is not +forthcoming, the audience becomes the judge, and the popular competitor +gets the verdict. And the shortest way to the heart of a big audience is +to stick to your man; stop his blows bravely with your nose and return +them with interest; cover yourself and him with your own gore; and +outlast him in a hearty punching match.</p> + +<p>It was under these circumstances that the competitors for sparring +championships concluded that they had better decide the bouts themselves +by knocking their opponents out, and waste no time in cultivating a +skill and style for which they got little credit, and which actually set +some of the judges against them. The public instantly began to take an +interest in the sport. And so, by a pretty rapid evolution, the +dexterities which the boxing glove and the Queensberry rules were +supposed to substitute for the old brutalities of Sayers and Heenan were +really abolished by them.</p> + +<p>Let me describe the process as I saw it myself. Twenty years ago a poet +friend of mine, who, like all poets, delighted in combats, insisted on +my sharing his interest in pugilism, and took me about to all the boxing +competitions of the day. I was nothing loth; for, my own share of +original sin apart, any one with a sense of comedy must find the arts of +self-defence delightful (for a time) through their pedantry, their +quackery, and their action and reaction between amateur romantic +illusion and professional eye to business.</p> + +<p>The fencing world, as Moličre well knew, is perhaps a more exquisite +example of a fool's paradise than the boxing world; but it is too +restricted and expensive to allow play for popular character in a +non-duelling country, as the boxing world (formerly called quite +appropriately "the Fancy") does. At all events, it was the boxing world +that came under my notice; and as I was amused and sceptically +observant, whilst the true amateurs about me were, for the most part, +merely excited and duped, my evidence may have a certain value when the +question comes up again for legislative consideration, as it assuredly +will some day.</p> + +<p>The first competitions I attended were at the beginning of the eighties, +at Lillie Bridge, for the Queensberry championships. There were but few +competitors, including a fair number of gentlemen; and the style of +boxing aimed at was the "science" bequeathed from the old prize-ring by +Ned Donnelly, a pupil of Nat Langham. Langham had once defeated Sayers, +and thereby taught him the tactics by which he defeated Heenan. There +was as yet no special technique of glove fighting: the traditions and +influence of the old ring were unquestioned and supreme; and they +distinctly made for brains, skill, quickness, and mobility, as against +brute violence, not at all on moral grounds, but because experience had +proved that giants did not succeed in the ring under the old rules, and +that crafty middle-weights did.</p> + +<p>This did not last long. The spectators did not want to see skill +defeating violence: they wanted to see violence drawing blood and +pounding its way to a savage and exciting victory in the shortest +possible time (the old prizefight usually dragged on for hours, and was +ended by exhaustion rather than by victory). So did most of the judges. +And the public and the judges naturally had their wish; for the +competitors, as I have already explained, soon discovered that the only +way to make sure of a favorable verdict was to "knock out" their +adversary. All pretence of sparring "for points": that is, for marks on +an examination paper filled up by the judges, and representing nothing +but impracticable academic pedantry in its last ditch, was dropped; and +the competitions became frank fights, with abundance of blood drawn, and +"knock-outs" always imminent. Needless to add, the glove fight soon +began to pay. The select and thinly attended spars on the turf at Lillie +Bridge gave way to crowded exhibitions on the hard boards of St. James's +Hall. These were organized by the Boxing Association; and to them the +provinces, notably Birmingham, sent up a new race of boxers whose sole +aim was to knock their opponent insensible by a right-hand blow on the +jaw, knowing well that no Birmingham man could depend on a verdict +before a London audience for any less undeniable achievement.</p> + +<p>The final step was taken by an American pugilist. He threw off the last +shred of the old hypocrisy of the gloved hand by challenging the whole +world to produce a man who could stand before him for a specified time +without being knocked out. His brief but glorious career completely +re-established pugilism by giving a world-wide advertisement to the fact +that the boxing glove spares nothing but the public conscience, and that +as much ferocity, bloodshed, pain, and risk of serious injury or death +can be enjoyed at a glove fight as at an old-fashioned prizefight, +whilst the strain on the combatants is much greater. It is true that +these horrors are greatly exaggerated by the popular imagination, and +that if boxing were really as dangerous as bicycling, a good many of its +heroes would give it up from simple fright; but this only means that +there is a maximum of damage to the spectator by demoralization, +combined with the minimum of deterrent risk to the poor scrapper in the +ring.</p> + +<p>Poor scrapper, though, is hardly the word for a modern fashionable +American pugilist. To him the exploits of Cashel Byron will seem +ludicrously obscure and low-lived. The contests in which he engages are +like Handel Festivals: they take place in huge halls before enormous +audiences, with cinematographs hard at work recording the scene for +reproduction in London and elsewhere. The combatants divide thousands of +dollars of gate-money between them: indeed, if an impecunious English +curate were to go to America and challenge the premier pugilist, the +spectacle of a match between the Church and the Ring would attract a +colossal crowd; and the loser's share of the gate would be a fortune to +a curate—assuming that the curate would be the loser, which is by no +means a foregone conclusion. At all events, it would be well worth a +bruise or two. So my story of the Agricultural Hall, where William +Paradise sparred for half a guinea, and Cashel Byron stood out for ten +guineas, is no doubt read by the profession in America with amused +contempt. In 1882 it was, like most of my conceptions, a daring +anticipation of coming social developments, though to-day it seems as +far out of date as Slender pulling Sackerson's chain.</p> + +<p>Of these latter-day commercial developments of glove fighting I know +nothing beyond what I gather from the newspapers. The banging matches of +the eighties, in which not one competitor in twenty either exhibited +artistic skill, or, in his efforts to knock out his adversary, succeeded +in anything but tiring and disappointing himself, were for the most part +tedious beyond human endurance. When, after wading through Boxiana and +the files of Bell's Life at the British Museum, I had written Cashel +Byron's Profession, I found I had exhausted the comedy of the subject; +and as a game of patience or solitaire was decidedly superior to an +average spar for a championship in point of excitement, I went no more +to the competitions. Since then six or seven generations of boxers have +passed into peaceful pursuits; and I have no doubt that my experience is +in some respects out of date. The National Sporting Club has arisen; and +though I have never attended its reunions, I take its record of three +pugilists slain as proving and enormous multiplication of contests, +since such accidents are very rare, and in fact do not happen to +reasonably healthy men. I am prepared to admit also that the +disappearance of the old prize-ring technique must by this time have +been compensated by the importation from America of a new glove-fighting +technique; for even in a knocking-out match, brains will try conclusions +with brawn, and finally establish a standard of skill; but I notice that +in the leading contests in America luck seems to be on the side of +brawn, and brain frequently finishes in a state of concussion, a loser +after performing miracles of "science." I use the word luck advisedly; +for one of the fascinations of boxing to the gambler (who is the main +pillar of the sporting world) is that it is a game of hardihood, +pugnacity and skill, all at the mercy of chance. The knock-out itself is +a pure chance. I have seen two powerful laborers batter one another's +jaws with all their might for several rounds apparently without giving +one another as much as a toothache. And I have seen a winning pugilist +collapse at a trifling knock landed by a fluke at the fatal angle. I +once asked an ancient prizefighter what a knock-out was like when it did +happen. He was a man of limited descriptive powers; so he simply pointed +to the heavens and said, "Up in a balloon." An amateur pugilist, with +greater command of language, told me that "all the milk in his head +suddenly boiled over." I am aware that some modern glove fighters of the +American school profess to have reduced the knock-out to a science. But +the results of the leading American combats conclusively discredit the +pretension. When a boxer so superior to his opponent in skill as to be +able practically to hit him where he pleases not only fails to knock him +out, but finally gets knocked out himself, it is clear that the +phenomenon is as complete a mystery pugilistically as it is +physiologically, though every pugilist and every doctor may pretend to +understand it. It is only fair to add that it has not been proved that +any permanent injury to the brain results from it. In any case the +brain, as English society is at present constituted, can hardly be +considered a vital organ.</p> + +<p>This, to the best of my knowledge, is the technical history of the +modern revival of pugilism. It is only one more example of the fact that +legislators, like other people, must learn their business by their own +mistakes, and that the first attempts to suppress an evil by law +generally intensify it. Prizefighting, though often connived at, was +never legal. Even in its palmiest days prizefights were banished from +certain counties by hostile magistrates, just as they have been driven +from the United States and England to Belgium on certain occasions in +our own time. But as the exercise of sparring, conducted by a couple of +gentlemen with boxing gloves on, was regarded as part of a manly +physical education, a convention grew up by which it became practically +legal to make a citizen's nose bleed by a punch from the gloved fist, +and illegal to do the same thing with the naked knuckles. A code of +glove-fighting rules was drawn up by a prominent patron of pugilism; and +this code was practically legalized by the fact that even when a death +resulted from a contest under these rules the accessaries were not +punished. No question was raised as to whether the principals were paid +to fight for the amusement of the spectators, or whether a prize for the +winner was provided in stakes, share of the gate, or a belt with the +title of champion. These, the true criteria of prizefighting, were +ignored; and the sole issue raised was whether the famous dictum of Dr. +Watts, "Your little hands were never made, etc.," had been duly +considered by providing the said little hands with a larger hitting +surface, a longer range, and four ounces extra weight.</p> + +<p>In short, then, what has happened has been the virtual legalization of +prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. And this is exactly what +public opinion desires. We do not like fighting; but we like looking on +at fights: therefore we require a law which will punish the prizefighter +if he hits us, and secure us the protection of the police whilst we sit +in a comfortable hall and watch him hitting another prizefighter. And +that is just the law we have got at present.</p> + +<p>Thus Cashel Byron's plea for a share of the legal toleration accorded to +the vivisector has been virtually granted since he made it. The +legalization of cruelty to domestic animals under cover of the +anesthetic is only the extreme instance of the same social phenomenon as +the legalization of prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. The +same passion explains the fascination of both practices; and in both, +the professors—pugilists and physiologists alike—have to persuade the +Home Office that their pursuits are painless and beneficial. But there +is also between them the remarkable difference that the pugilist, who +has to suffer as much as he inflicts, wants his work to be as painless +and harmless as possible whilst persuading the public that it is +thrillingly dangerous and destructive, whilst the vivisector wants to +enjoy a total exemption from humane restrictions in his laboratory +whilst persuading the public that pain is unknown there. Consequently +the vivisector is not only crueller than the prizefighter, but, through +the pressure of public opinion, a much more resolute and uncompromising +liar. For this no one but a Pharisee will single him out for special +blame. All public men lie, as a matter of good taste, on subjects which +are considered serious (in England a serious occasion means simply an +occasion on which nobody tells the truth); and however illogical or +capricious the point of honor may be in man, it is too absurd to assume +that the doctors who, from among innumerable methods of research, +select that of tormenting animals hideously, will hesitate to come on a +platform and tell a soothing fib to prevent the public from punishing +them. No criminal is expected to plead guilty, or to refrain from +pleading not guilty with all the plausibility at his command. In +prizefighting such mendacity is not necessary: on the contrary, if a +famous pugilist were to assure the public that a blow delivered with a +boxing glove could do no injury and cause no pain, and the public +believed him, the sport would instantly lose its following. It is the +prizefighter's interest to abolish the real cruelties of the ring and to +exaggerate the imaginary cruelties of it. It is the vivisector's +interest to refine upon the cruelties of the laboratory, whilst +persuading the public that his victims pass into a delicious euthanasia +and leave behind them a row of bottles containing infallible cures for +all the diseases. Just so, too, does the trainer of performing animals +assure us that his dogs and cats and elephants and lions are taught +their senseless feats by pure kindness.</p> + +<p>The public, as Julius Cćsar remarked nearly 2000 years ago, believes on +the whole, just what it wants to believe. The laboring masses do not +believe the false excuses of the vivisector, because they know that the +vivisector experiments on hospital patients; and the masses belong to +the hospital patient class. The well-to-do people who do not go to +hospitals, and who think they benefit by the experiments made there, +believe the vivisectors' excuses, and angrily abuse and denounce the +anti-vivisectors. The people who "love animals," who keep pets, and +stick pins through butterflies, support the performing dog people, and +are sure that kindness will teach a horse to waltz. And the people who +enjoy a fight will persuade themselves that boxing gloves do not hurt, +and that sparring is an exercise which teaches self-control and +exercises all the muscles in the body more efficiently than any other.</p> + +<p>My own view of prizefighting may be gathered from Cashel Byron's +Profession, and from the play written by me more than ten years later, +entitled Mrs. Warren's Profession. As long as society is so organized +that the destitute athlete and the destitute beauty are forced to choose +between underpaid drudgery as industrial producers, and comparative +self-respect, plenty, and popularity as prizefighters and mercenary +brides, licit or illicit, it is idle to affect virtuous indignation at +their expense. The word prostitute should either not be used at all, or +else applied impartially to all persons who do things for money that +they would not do if they had any other assured means of livelihood. The +evil caused by the prostitution of the Press and the Pulpit is so +gigantic that the prostitution of the prize-ring, which at least makes +no serious moral pretensions, is comparatively negligible by comparison. +Let us not forget, however, that the throwing of a hard word such as +prostitution does not help the persons thus vituperated out of their +difficulty. If the soldier and gladiator fight for money, if men and +women marry for money, if the journalist and novelist write for money, +and the parson preaches for money, it must be remembered that it is an +exceedingly difficult and doubtful thing for an individual to set up his +own scruples or fancies (he cannot himself be sure which they are) +against the demand of the community when it says, Do thus and thus, or +starve. It was easy for Ruskin to lay down the rule of dying rather than +doing unjustly; but death is a plain thing: justice a very obscure +thing. How is an ordinary man to draw the line between right and wrong +otherwise than by accepting public opinion on the subject; and what more +conclusive expression of sincere public opinion can there be than market +demand? Even when we repudiate that and fall back on our private +judgment, the matter gathers doubt instead of clearness. The popular +notion of morality and piety is to simply beg all the most important +questions in life for other people; but when these questions come home +to ourselves, we suddenly discover that the devil's advocate has a +stronger case than we thought: we remember that the way of righteousness +or death was the way of the Inquisition; that hell is paved, not with +bad intentions, but with good ones; that the deeper seers have suggested +that the way to save your soul is perhaps to give it away, casting your +spiritual bread on the waters, so to speak. No doubt, if you are a man +of genius, a Ruskin or an Ibsen, you can divine your way and finally +force your passage. If you have the conceit of fanaticism you can die a +martyr like Charles I. If you are a criminal, or a gentleman of +independent means, you can leave society out of the question and prey on +it. But if you are an ordinary person you take your bread as it comes to +you, doing whatever you can make most money by doing. And you are really +shewing yourself a disciplined citizen and acting with perfect social +propriety in so doing. Society may be, and generally is, grossly wrong +in its offer to you; and you may be, and generally are, grossly wrong +in supporting the existing political structure; but this only means, to +the successful modern prizefighter, that he must reform society before +he can reform himself. A conclusion which I recommend to the +consideration of those foolish misers of personal righteousness who +think they can dispose of social problems by bidding reformers of +society reform themselves first.</p> + +<p>Practically, then, the question raised is whether fighting with gloves +shall be brought, like cockfighting, bear-baiting, and gloveless fist +fighting, explicitly under the ban of the law. I do not propose to argue +that question out here. But of two things I am certain. First, that +glove fighting is quite as fierce a sport as fist fighting. Second, that +if an application were made to the Borough Council of which I am a +member, to hire the Town Hall for a boxing competition, I should vote +against the applicants.</p> + +<p>This second point being evidently the practical one, I had better give +my reason. Exhibition pugilism is essentially a branch of Art: that is +to say, it acts and attracts by propagating feeling. The feeling it +propagates is pugnacity. Sense of danger, dread of danger, impulse to +batter and destroy what threatens and opposes, triumphant delight in +succeeding: this is pugnacity, the great adversary of the social impulse +to live and let live; to establish our rights by shouldering our share +of the social burden; to face and examine danger instead of striking at +it; to understand everything to the point of pardoning (and righting) +everything; to conclude an amnesty with Nature wide enough to include +even those we know the worst of: namely, ourselves. If two men +quarrelled, and asked the Borough Council to lend them a room to fight +it out in with their fists, on the ground that a few minutes' hearty +punching of one another's heads would work off their bad blood and leave +them better friends, each desiring, not victory, but <i>satisfaction</i>, I +am not sure that I should not vote for compliance. But if a syndicate of +showmen came and said, Here we have two men who have no quarrel, but who +will, if you pay them, fight before your constituency and thereby make a +great propaganda of pugnacity in it, sharing the profits with us and +with you, I should indignantly oppose the proposition. And if the +majority were against me, I should try to persuade them to at least +impose the condition that the fight should be with naked fists under the +old rules, so that the combatants should, like Sayers and Langham, +depend on bunging up each other's eyes rather than, like the modern +knocker-out, giving one another concussion of the brain.</p> + +<p>I may add, finally, that the present halting between the legal +toleration and suppression of commercial pugilism is much worse than the +extreme of either, because it takes away the healthy publicity and sense +of responsibility which legality and respectability give, without +suppressing the blackguardism which finds its opportunity in shady +pursuits. I use the term commercial advisedly. Put a stop to boxing for +money; and pugilism will give society no further trouble.</p> + +<p>London, 1901.</p> + +<div class="bbox"> + +<h2>THREE PLAYS</h2> +<p class="c">BY BRIEUX<br /> +(Member of the French Academy)<br /> +<br /> +MATERNITY<br /> +DAMAGED GOODS<br /> +THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF<br /> +MONSIEUR DUPONT<br /> +<br /> +WITH PREFACE BY BERNARD SHAW<br /> +<br /> +<i>Translated into English</i><br /> +By Mrs. BERNARD SHAW, ST. JOHN HANKIN<br /> +and JOHN POLLOCK<br /> +<br /> +<i>12mo. Cloth, price $1.50 net</i><br /> +</p> + +<hr style="width: 80%;" /> + +<p>"In that kind of comedy," writes BERNARD SHAW, "which is so true to life +that we have to call it tragi-comedy, and which is not only an +entertainment but a history and a criticism of contemporary morals, +BRIEUX is incomparably the greatest writer France has produced since +Moliere."</p> + +<p>The three plays in this volume are a first instalment into English of +the work of a man who has been admitted into the French Academy for his +splendid achievements, and who is recognized by the best thinkers in +Europe as one of the profoundest moral forces expressing itself as +literature to-day.</p> + +<p>No earnest man or woman can read these plays without being deeply moved +and deeply touched. One of the plays was read by Brieux himself, at the +special invitation of the pastor, from the pulpit of a church in Geneva.</p> + +<hr style="width: 80%;" /> + +<h2>BRENTANO'S</h2> + +<p class="c">Fifth Avenue and 27th Street <span style="margin-left: 2em;">New York</span></p> +</div> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h1>BERNARD SHAW'S<br />PLAYS</h1> + +<p>The following Plays by Bernard Shaw are issued in separate volumes, +bound in stiff paper wrappers.</p> + +<p class="c"><i>Price 40 cents net per volume</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 80%;" /> + +<ul><li>WIDOWERS' HOUSES</li> + +<li>THE PHILANDERER</li> + +<li>MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION</li> + +<li>ARMS AND THE MAN</li> + +<li>CANDIDA</li> + +<li>YOU NEVER CAN TELL</li> + +<li>THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE</li> + +<li>THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE</li> + +<li>CĆSAR AND CLEOPATRA</li> + +<li>CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION</li> + +<li>MAN AND SUPERMAN</li> + +<li>JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND</li> + +<li>MAJOR BARBARA</li> + +<li>THE MAN OF DESTINY, AND HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND</li> + +<li>THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA</li> + +<li>GETTING MARRIED</li> + +<li>THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET</li> + +<li>PRESS CUTTINGS</li> +</ul> + +<hr style="width:70%;" /> + +<h2>BRENTANO'S</h2> + +<p class="c">Fifth Avenue and 27th Street <span style="margin-left: 2em;">New York</span></p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Bashville, by Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + +***** This file should be named 33085-h.htm or 33085-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/0/8/33085/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Admirable Bashville + or, Constancy Unrewarded + +Author: Bernard Shaw + +Release Date: July 5, 2010 [EBook #33085] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + THE ADMIRABLE + BASHVILLE + + OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED + + BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL BYRON'S + PROFESSION DONE INTO A STAGE PLAY + IN THREE ACTS, AND IN BLANK VERSE, + WITH A NOTE ON MODERN PRIZE FIGHTING + + By + + BERNARD SHAW + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + BRENTANO'S + 1913 + + Price 40 cents net + + + + + WORKS OF BERNARD SHAW + + Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols. _Net_, $2.50 + Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant. 2 vols. _Net_, $2.50 + John Bull's Other Island and Major Barbara. _Net_, $1.50 + Man and Superman _Net_, $1.25 + Three Plays for Puritans _Net_, $1.25 + The Doctor's Dilemma, Getting Married, and + The Shewing-Up of Blanco Posnet. _Net_, $1.50 + The Quintessence of Ibsenism $1.00 + Cashel Byron's Profession $1.25 + An Unsocial Socialist $1.25 + The Irrational Knot $1.50 + The Author's Apology _Net_, .60 + The Perfect Wagnerite $1.25 + Love Among the Artists $1.50 + The Admirable Bashville: A Play _Net_, .50 + + _Postage or Express, Extra_ + + * * * * * + + BRENTANO'S + + Fifth Avenue and 27th Street New York + + + + +THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + + "Over Bashville the footman I howled with derision and delight. I + dote on Bashville: I could read of him for ever: _de Bashville je + suis le fervent_: there is only one Bashville; and I am his devoted + slave: Bashville est magnifique; mais il n'est guere possible." + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + + + + + THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + OR, CONSTANCY UNREWARDED + BEING THE NOVEL OF CASHEL + BYRON'S PROFESSION DONE INTO A + STAGE PLAY IN THREE ACTS AND + IN BLANK VERSE . WITH A NOTE + ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING . BY + BERNARD SHAW + + [Illustration] + + + BRENTANO'S . NEW YORK + MCMXIII + + + + +This play has been publicly performed within the United Kingdom. It is +entered at Stationers' Hall and The Library of Congress, U. S. A. + +_Copyright, 1901, by Herbert S. Stone and Company_ + +_Copyright, 1907, by Bernard Shaw_ + +All rights reserved + + + + +PREFACE + + +The Admirable Bashville is a product of the British law of copyright. As +that law stands at present, the first person who patches up a stage +version of a novel, however worthless and absurd that version may be, +and has it read by himself and a few confederates to another confederate +who has paid for admission in a hall licensed for theatrical +performances, secures the stage rights of that novel, even as against +the author himself; and the author must buy him out before he can touch +his own work for the purposes of the stage. + +A famous case in point is the drama of East Lynne, adapted from the late +Mrs. Henry Wood's novel of that name. It was enormously popular, and is +still the surest refuge of touring companies in distress. Many authors +feel that Mrs. Henry Wood was hardly used in not getting any of the +money which was plentifully made in this way through her story. To my +mind, since her literary copyright probably brought her a fair wage for +the work of writing the book, her real grievance was, first, that her +name and credit were attached to a play with which she had nothing to +do, and which may quite possibly have been to her a detestable travesty +and profanation of her story; and second, that the authors of that play +had the legal power to prevent her from having any version of her own +performed, if she had wished to make one. + +There is only one way in which the author can protect himself; and that +is by making a version of his own and going through the same legal +farce with it. But the legal farce involves the hire of a hall and the +payment of a fee of two guineas to the King's Reader of Plays. When I +wrote Cashel Byron's Profession I had no guineas to spare, a common +disability of young authors. What is equally common, I did not know the +law. A reasonable man may guess a reasonable law, but no man can guess a +foolish anomaly. Fortunately, by the time my book so suddenly revived in +America I was aware of the danger, and in a position to protect myself +by writing and performing The Admirable Bashville. The prudence of doing +so was soon demonstrated; for rumors soon reached me of several American +stage versions; and one of these has actually been played in New York, +with the boxing scenes under the management (so it is stated) of the +eminent pugilist Mr. James J. Corbett. The New York press, in a somewhat +derisive vein, conveyed the impression that in this version Cashel Byron +sought to interest the public rather as the last of the noble race of +the Byrons of Dorsetshire than as his unromantic self; but in justice to +a play which I never read, and an actor whom I never saw, and who +honorably offered to treat me as if I had legal rights in the matter, I +must not accept the newspaper evidence as conclusive. + +As I write these words, I am promised by the King in his speech to +Parliament a new Copyright Bill. I believe it embodies, in our British +fashion, the recommendations of the book publishers as to the concerns +of the authors, and the notions of the musical publishers as to the +concerns of the playwrights. As author and playwright I am duly obliged +to the Commission for saving me the trouble of speaking for myself, and +to the witnesses for speaking for me. But unless Parliament takes the +opportunity of giving the authors of all printed works of fiction, +whether dramatic or narrative, both playwright and copyright (as in +America), such to be independent of any insertions or omissions of +formulas about "all rights reserved" or the like, I am afraid the new +Copyright Bill will leave me with exactly the opinion both of the +copyright law and the wisdom of Parliament I at present entertain. As a +good Socialist I do not at all object to the limitation of my right of +property in my own works to a comparatively brief period, followed by +complete Communism: in fact, I cannot see why the same salutary +limitation should not be applied to all property rights whatsoever; but +a system which enables any alert sharper to acquire property rights in +my stories as against myself and the rest of the community would, it +seems to me, justify a rebellion if authors were numerous and warlike +enough to make one. + +It may be asked why I have written The Admirable Bashville in blank +verse. My answer is that I had but a week to write it in. Blank verse is +so childishly easy and expeditious (hence, by the way, Shakespear's +copious output), that by adopting it I was enabled to do within the week +what would have cost me a month in prose. + +Besides, I am fond of blank verse. Not nineteenth century blank verse, +of course, nor indeed, with a very few exceptions, any post-Shakespearean +blank verse. Nay, not Shakespearean blank verse itself later than the +histories. When an author can write the prose dialogue of the first +scene in As You Like It, or Hamlet's colloquies with Rosencrantz and +Guildenstern, there is really no excuse for The Seven Ages and "To be or +not to be," except the excuse of a haste that made great facility +indispensable. I am quite sure that any one who is to recover the charm +of blank verse must frankly go back to its beginnings and start a +literary pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. I like the melodious sing-song, the +clear simple one-line and two-line sayings, and the occasional rhymed +tags, like the half closes in an eighteenth century symphony, in Peele, +Kyd, Greene, and the histories of Shakespear. How any one with music in +him can turn from Henry VI., John, and the two Richards to such a mess +of verse half developed into rhetorical prose as Cymbeline, is to me +explicable only by the uncivil hypothesis that the artistic qualities in +the Elizabethan drama do not exist for most of its critics; so that they +hang on to its purely prosaic content, and hypnotize themselves into +absurd exaggerations of the value of that content. Even poets fall under +the spell. Ben Jonson described Marlowe's line as "mighty"! As well put +Michael Angelo's epitaph on the tombstone of Paolo Uccello. No wonder +Jonson's blank verse is the most horribly disagreeable product in +literature, and indicates his most prosaic mood as surely as his shorter +rhymed measures indicate his poetic mood. Marlowe never wrote a mighty +line in his life: Cowper's single phrase, "Toll for the brave," drowns +all his mightinesses as Great Tom drowns a military band. But Marlowe +took that very pleasant-sounding rigmarole of Peele and Greene, and +added to its sunny daylight the insane splendors of night, and the cheap +tragedy of crime. Because he had only a common sort of brain, he was +hopelessly beaten by Shakespear; but he had a fine ear and a soaring +spirit: in short, one does not forget "wanton Arethusa's azure arms" +and the like. But the pleasant-sounding rigmarole was the basis of the +whole thing; and as long as that rigmarole was practised frankly for the +sake of its pleasantness, it was readable and speakable. It lasted until +Shakespear did to it what Raphael did to Italian painting; that is, +overcharged and burst it by making it the vehicle of a new order of +thought, involving a mass of intellectual ferment and psychological +research. The rigmarole could not stand the strain; and Shakespear's +style ended in a chaos of half-shattered old forms, half-emancipated new +ones, with occasional bursts of prose eloquence on the one hand, +occasional delicious echoes of the rigmarole, mostly from Calibans and +masque personages, on the other, with, alas! a great deal of filling up +with formulary blank verse which had no purpose except to save the +author's time and thought. + +When a great man destroys an art form in this way, its ruins make +palaces for the clever would-be great. After Michael Angelo and Raphael, +Giulio Romano and the Carracci. After Marlowe and Shakespear, Chapman +and the Police News poet Webster. Webster's specialty was blood: +Chapman's, balderdash. Many of us by this time find it difficult to +believe that pre-Ruskinite art criticism used to prostrate itself before +the works of Domenichino and Guido, and to patronize the modest little +beginnings of those who came between Cimabue and Masaccio. But we have +only to look at our own current criticism of Elizabethan drama to +satisfy ourselves that in an art which has not yet found its Ruskin or +its pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the same folly is still academically +propagated. It is possible, and even usual, for men professing to have +ears and a sense of poetry to snub Peele and Greene and grovel before +Fletcher and Webster--Fletcher! a facile blank verse penny-a-liner: +Webster! a turgid paper cut-throat. The subject is one which I really +cannot pursue without intemperance of language. The man who thinks The +Duchess of Malfi better than David and Bethsabe is outside the pale, not +merely of literature, but almost of humanity. + +Yet some of the worst of these post-Shakespearean duffers, from Jonson +to Heywood, suddenly became poets when they turned from the big drum of +pseudo-Shakespearean drama to the pipe and tabor of the masque, exactly +as Shakespear himself recovered the old charm of the rigmarole when he +turned from Prospero to Ariel and Caliban. Cyril Tourneur and Heywood +could certainly have produced very pretty rigmarole plays if they had +begun where Shakespear began, instead of trying to begin where he left +off. Jonson and Beaumont would very likely have done themselves credit +on the same terms: Marston would have had at least a chance. Massinger +was in his right place, such as it was; and one would not disturb the +gentle Ford, who was never born to storm the footlights. Webster could +have done no good anyhow or anywhere: the man was a fool. And Chapman +would always have been a blathering unreadable pedant, like Landor, in +spite of his classical amateurship and respectable strenuosity of +character. But with these exceptions it may plausibly be held that if +Marlowe and Shakespear could have been kept out of their way, the rest +would have done well enough on the lines of Peele and Greene. However, +they thought otherwise; and now that their freethinking paganism, so +dazzling to the pupils of Paley and the converts of Wesley, offers +itself in vain to the disciples of Darwin and Nietzsche, there is an +end of them. And a good riddance, too. + +Accordingly, I have poetasted The Admirable Bashville in the rigmarole +style. And lest the Webster worshippers should declare that there is not +a single correct line in all my three acts, I have stolen or paraphrased +a few from Marlowe and Shakespear (not to mention Henry Carey); so that +if any man dares quote me derisively, he shall do so in peril of +inadvertently lighting on a purple patch from Hamlet or Faustus. + +I have also endeavored in this little play to prove that I am not the +heartless creature some of my critics take me for. I have strictly +observed the established laws of stage popularity and probability. I +have simplified the character of the heroine, and summed up her +sweetness in the one sacred word: Love. I have given consistency to the +heroism of Cashel. I have paid to Morality, in the final scene, the +tribute of poetic justice. I have restored to Patriotism its usual place +on the stage, and gracefully acknowledged The Throne as the fountain of +social honor. I have paid particular attention to the construction of +the play, which will be found equal in this respect to the best +contemporary models. + +And I trust the result will be found satisfactory. + + + + The Admirable Bashville; or, Constancy Unrewarded + + ACT I + + _A glade in Wiltstoken Park_ + + + _Enter_ LYDIA + + LYDIA. Ye leafy breasts and warm protecting wings + Of mother trees that hatch our tender souls, + And from the well of Nature in our hearts + Thaw the intolerable inch of ice + That bears the weight of all the stamping world. + Hear ye me sing to solitude that I, + Lydia Carew, the owner of these lands, + Albeit most rich, most learned, and most wise, + Am yet most lonely. What are riches worth + When wisdom with them comes to show the purse bearer + That life remains unpurchasable? Learning + Learns but one lesson: doubt! To excel all + Is, to be lonely. Oh, ye busy birds, + Engrossed with real needs, ye shameless trees + With arms outspread in welcome of the sun, + Your minds, bent singly to enlarge your lives, + Have given you wings and raised your delicate heads + High heavens above us crawlers. + + [_A rook sets up a great cawing; and the other birds + chatter loudly as a gust of wind sets the branches + swaying. She makes as though she would shew them + her sleeves._ + + Lo, the leaves + That hide my drooping boughs! Mock me--poor maid!-- + Deride with joyous comfortable chatter + These stolen feathers. Laugh at me, the clothed one. + Laugh at the mind fed on foul air and books. + Books! Art! And Culture! Oh, I shall go mad. + Give me a mate that never heard of these, + A sylvan god, tree born in heart and sap; + Or else, eternal maidhood be my hap. + + [_Another gust of wind and bird-chatter. She sits on + the mossy root of an oak and buries her face in her + hands._ CASHEL BYRON, _in a white singlet and + breeches, comes through the trees_. + + CASHEL. What's this? Whom have we here? A woman! + + LYDIA [_looking up_]. Yes. + + CASHEL. You have no business here. I have. Away! + Women distract me. Hence! + + LYDIA. Bid you me hence? + I am upon mine own ground. Who are you? + I take you for a god, a sylvan god. + This place is mine: I share it with the birds, + The trees, the sylvan gods, the lovely company + Of haunted solitudes. + + CASHEL. A sylvan god! + A goat-eared image! Do your statues speak? + Walk? heave the chest with breath? or like a feather + Lift you--like this? [_He sets her on her feet._ + + LYDIA [_panting_]. You take away my breath! + You're strong. Your hands off, please. Thank you. Farewell. + + CASHEL. Before you go: when shall we meet again? + + LYDIA. Why should we meet again? + + CASHEL. Who knows? We _shall_. + That much I know by instinct. What's your name? + + LYDIA. Lydia Carew. + + CASHEL. Lydia's a pretty name. + Where do you live? + + LYDIA. I' the castle. + + CASHEL [_thunderstruck_]. Do not say + You are the lady of this great domain. + + LYDIA. I am. + + CASHEL. Accursed luck! I took you for + The daughter of some farmer. Well, your pardon. + I came too close: I looked too deep. Farewell. + + LYDIA. I pardon that. Now tell me who you are. + + CASHEL. Ask me not whence I come, nor what I am. + You are the lady of the castle. I + Have but this hard and blackened hand to live by. + + LYDIA. I have felt its strength and envied you. Your name? + I have told you mine. + + CASHEL. My name is Cashel Byron. + + LYDIA. I never heard the name; and yet you utter it + As men announce a celebrated name. + Forgive my ignorance. + + CASHEL. I bless it, Lydia. + I have forgot your other name. + + LYDIA. Carew. + Cashel's a pretty name, too. + + MELLISH [_calling through the wood_]. Coo-ee! Byron! + + CASHEL. A thousand curses! Oh, I beg you, go. + This is a man you must not meet. + + MELLISH [_further off_]. Coo-ee! + + LYDIA. He's losing us. What does he in my woods? + + CASHEL. He is a part of what I am. What that is + You must not know. It would end all between us. + And yet there's no dishonor in't: your lawyer, + Who let your lodge to me, will vouch me honest. + I am ashamed to tell you what I am-- + At least, as yet. Some day, perhaps. + + MELLISH [_nearer_]. Coo-ee! + + LYDIA. His voice is nearer. Fare you well, my tenant. + When next your rent falls due, come to the castle. + Pay me in person. Sir: your most obedient. [_She curtsies and goes._ + + CASHEL. Lives in this castle! Owns this park! A lady + Marry a prizefighter! Impossible. + And yet the prizefighter must marry her. + + _Enter_ MELLISH + + Ensanguined swine, whelped by a doggish dam, + Is this thy park, that thou, with voice obscene, + Fillst it with yodeled yells, and screamst my name + For all the world to know that Cashel Byron + Is training here for combat. + + MELLISH. Swine you me? + I've caught you, have I? You have found a woman. + Let her shew here again, I'll set the dog on her. + I will. I say it. And my name's Bob Mellish. + + CASHEL. Change thy initial and be truly hight + Hellish. As for thy dog, why dost thou keep one + And bark thyself? Begone. + + MELLISH. I'll not begone. + You shall come back with me and do your duty-- + Your duty to your backers, do you hear? + You have not punched the bag this blessed day. + + CASHEL. The putrid bag engirdled by thy belt + Invites my fist. + + MELLISH [_weeping_]. Ingrate! O wretched lot! + Who would a trainer be? O Mellish, Mellish, + Trainer of heroes, builder-up of brawn, + Vicarious victor, thou createst champions + That quickly turn thy tyrants. But beware: + Without me thou art nothing. Disobey me, + And all thy boasted strength shall fall from thee. + With flaccid muscles and with failing breath + Facing the fist of thy more faithful foe, + I'll see thee on the grass cursing the day + Thou didst forswear thy training. + + CASHEL. Noisome quack + That canst not from thine own abhorrent visage + Take one carbuncle, thou contaminat'st + Even with thy presence my untainted blood + Preach abstinence to rascals like thyself + Rotten with surfeiting. Leave me in peace. + This grove is sacred: thou profanest it. + Hence! I have business that concerns thee not. + + MELLISH. Ay, with your woman. You will lose your fight. + Have you forgot your duty to your backers? + Oh, what a sacred thing your duty is! + What makes a man but duty? Where were we + Without our duty? Think of Nelson's words: + England expects that every man---- + + CASHEL. Shall twaddle + About his duty. Mellish: at no hour + Can I regard thee wholly without loathing; + But when thou play'st the moralist, by Heaven, + My soul flies to my fist, my fist to thee; + And never did the Cyclops' hammer fall + On Mars's armor--but enough of that. + It does remind me of my mother. + + MELLISH. Ah, + Byron, let it remind thee. Once I heard + An old song: it ran thus. [_He clears his throat._] Ahem, Ahem! + + [_Sings_]--They say there is no other + Can take the place of mother-- + + I am out o' voice: forgive me; but remember: + Thy mother--were that sainted woman here-- + Would say, Obey thy trainer. + + CASHEL. Now, by Heaven, + Some fate is pushing thee upon thy doom. + Canst thou not hear thy sands as they run out? + They thunder like an avalanche. Old man: + Two things I hate, my duty and my mother. + Why dost thou urge them both upon me now? + Presume not on thine age and on thy nastiness. + Vanish, and promptly. + + MELLISH. Can I leave thee here + Thus thinly clad, exposed to vernal dews? + Come back with me, my son, unto our lodge. + + CASHEL. Within this breast a fire is newly lit + Whose glow shall sun the dew away, whose radiance + Shall make the orb of night hang in the heavens + Unnoticed, like a glow-worm at high noon. + + MELLISH. Ah me, ah me, where wilt thou spend the night? + + CASHEL. Wiltstoken's windows wandering beneath, + Wiltstoken's holy bell hearkening, + Wiltstoken's lady loving breathlessly. + + MELLISH. The lady of the castle! Thou art mad. + + CASHEL. 'Tis thou art mad to trifle in my path. + Thwart me no more. Begone. + + MELLISH. My boy, my son, + I'd give my heart's blood for thy happiness. + Thwart thee, my son! Ah, no. I'll go with thee. + I'll brave the dews. I'll sacrifice my sleep. + I am old--no matter: ne'er shall it be said + Mellish deserted thee. + + CASHEL. You resolute gods + That will not spare this man, upon your knees + Take the disparity twixt his age and mine. + Now from the ring to the high judgment seat + I step at your behest. Bear you me witness + This is not Victory, but Execution. + + [_He solemnly projects his fist with colossal force + against the waistcoat of_ MELLISH _who doubles up like + a folded towel, and lies without sense or motion_. + + And now the night is beautiful again. + + [_The castle clock strikes the hour in the distance._ + + Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! Hark! + It strikes in poetry. 'Tis ten o'clock. + Lydia: to thee! + + [_He steals off towards the castle._ MELLISH _stirs and groans_. + + + + + ACT II + + + SCENE I + + _London. A room in Lydia's house_ + + _Enter_ LYDIA _and_ LUCIAN + + + LYDIA. Welcome, dear cousin, to my London house. + Of late you have been chary of your visits. + + LUCIAN. I have been greatly occupied of late. + The minister to whom I act as scribe + In Downing Street was born in Birmingham, + And, like a thoroughbred commercial statesman, + Splits his infinities, which I, poor slave, + Must reunite, though all the time my heart + Yearns for my gentle coz's company. + + LYDIA. Lucian: there is some other reason. Think! + Since England was a nation every mood + Her scribes have prepositionally split; + But thine avoidance dates from yestermonth. + + LUCIAN. There is a man I like not haunts this house. + + LYDIA. Thou speak'st of Cashel Byron? + + LUCIAN. Aye, of him. + Hast thou forgotten that eventful night + When as we gathered were at Hoskyn House + To hear a lecture by Herr Abendgasse, + He placed a single finger on my chest, + And I, ensorceled, would have sunk supine + Had not a chair received my falling form. + + LYDIA. Pooh! That was but by way of illustration. + + LUCIAN. What right had he to illustrate his point + Upon my person? Was I his assistant + That he should try experiments on me + As Simpson did on his with chloroform? + Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo + He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone. + This very morning my official chief, + Tapping with friendly forefinger this button, + Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm + Flat upon the Colonial Office floor. + + LYDIA. Fancies, coz. + + LUCIAN. Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits! + Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance + Of Vitus! What could any one have thought? + Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven, + I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink. + + LYDIA. What ho, without there! Bashville. + + BASHVILLE [_without_]. Coming, madam. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + LYDIA. My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. [_Exit_ BASHVILLE. + + LUCIAN. Some wet!!! Where learnt _you_ that atrocious word? + This is the language of a flower-girl. + + LYDIA. True. It is horrible. Said I "Some wet"? + I meant, some drink. Why did I say "Some wet"? + Am I ensorceled too? "Some wet"! Fie! fie! + I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me. + Oh, Lucian, how could I have said "Some wet"? + + LUCIAN. The horrid conversation of this man + Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness. + + LYDIA. Nay, he speaks very well: he's literate: + Shakespear he quotes unconsciously. + + LUCIAN. And yet + Anon he talks pure pothouse. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + BASHVILLE. Sir: your potion. + + LUCIAN. Thanks. [_He drinks._] I am better. + + A NEWSBOY [_calling without_]. Extra special _Star_! + Result of the great fight! Name of the winner! + + LYDIA. Who calls so loud? + + BASHVILLE. The papers, madam. + + LYDIA. Why? + Hath ought momentous happened? + + BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. [_He produces a newspaper._ + All England for these thrilling paragraphs + A week has waited breathless. + + LYDIA. Read them us. + + BASHVILLE [_reading_]. "At noon to-day, unknown to the police, + Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs, + Th' Australian Champion and his challenger, + The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged + I' the mercantile marine, fought to a finish. + Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer + Acted as referee." + + LYDIA. Lord Worthington! + + BASHVILLE. "The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes + To hold the bottle for his quondam novice; + Whilst in the seaman's corner were assembled + Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob. + Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt, + 'Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken, + Looked none the worse in the Australian's corner. + The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack: + His colors freely sold amid the crowd; + But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue----" + + LYDIA. _Whose_, did you say? + + BASHVILLE. Cashel's, my lady. + + LYDIA. Lucian: + Your hand--a chair-- + + BASHVILLE. Madam: you're ill. + + LYDIA. Proceed. + What you have read I do not understand; + Yet I will hear it through. Proceed. + + LUCIAN. Proceed. + + BASHVILLE. "But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue + Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve, + When, with a smile of confidence upon + His ocean-beaten mug----" + + LYDIA. His mug? + + LUCIAN [_explaining_]. His face. + + BASHVILLE [_continuing_]. "The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch, + But found the champion there already. Both + Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers + Of their encouraged backers. Two to one + Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil; + And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed, + Found takers everywhere. No time was lost + In getting to the business of the day. + The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land + On Byron's dicebox; but the seaman's reach, + Too short for execution at long shots, + Did not get fairly home upon the ivory; + And Byron had the best of the exchange." + + LYDIA. I do not understand. What were they doing? + + LUCIAN. Fighting with naked fists. + + LYDIA. Oh, horrible! + I'll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end? + Was Cashel hurt? + + LUCIAN [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Skip to the final round. + + BASHVILLE. "Round Three: the rumors that had gone about + Of a breakdown in Byron's recent training + Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time + He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful, + Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend. + At this point six to one was freely offered + Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington + Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose + A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain, + Take down the number of the Panley boy. + The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is, + Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel + Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor, + Who, not to be denied, followed him up, + Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers." + + LYDIA. Oh stop--no more--or tell the worst at once. + I'll be revenged. Bashville: call the police. + This brutal sailor shall be made to know + There's law in England. + + LUCIAN. Do not interrupt him: + Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next? + + BASHVILLE. "Forty to one, the Dutchman's friends exclaimed. + Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself + A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet + Was booked, when, at the reeling champion's jaw + The sailor, bent on winning out of hand, + Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert, + When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left, + Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick----" + + LUCIAN. Death and damnation! + + LYDIA. Oh, what does it mean? + + BASHVILLE. "The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man." + + LYDIA. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel! + + BASHVILLE. "A scene of indescribable excitement + Ensued; for it was now quite evident + That Byron's grogginess had all along + Been feigned to make the market for his backers. + We trust this sample of colonial smartness + Will not find imitators on this side. + The losers settled up like gentlemen; + But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste + In taking old Ned Skene upon his back, + And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter, + Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd + The perfect pink of his condition"--[_a knock_]. + + LYDIA [_turning pale_]. Bashville + Didst hear? A knock. + + BASHVILLE. Madam: 'tis Byron's knock. + Shall I admit him? + + LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring! + Oh, monstrous! Say you're out. + + LYDIA. Send him away. + I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep + Secrets from ME? I'll punish him. Pray say + I'm not at home. [BASHVILLE _turns to go_.] Yet stay. I am afraid + He will not come again. + + LUCIAN. A consummation + Devoutly to be wished by any lady. + Pray, do you _wish_ this man to come again? + + LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill. + He should have told me. I will ne'er forgive him. + Say, Not at home. + + BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [_Exit._ + + LYDIA. Stay-- + + LUCIAN [_stopping her_]. No, Lydia: + You shall not countermand that proper order. + Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind, + The thousands at your bank, and, above all, + Your unassailable social position + Before this soulless mass of beef and brawn? + + LYDIA. Nay, coz: you're prejudiced. + + CASHEL [_without_]. Liar and slave! + + LYDIA. What words were those? + + LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE _running: he shuts the door and locks it_. + + BASHVILLE. Save yourselves: at the staircase foot the champion + Sprawls on the mat, by trick of wrestler tripped; + But when he rises, woe betide us all! + + LYDIA. Who bade you treat my visitor with violence? + + BASHVILLE. He would not take my answer; thrust the door + Back in my face; gave me the lie i' the throat; + Averred he felt your presence in his bones. + I said he should feel mine there too, and felled him; + Then fled to bar your door. + + LYDIA. O lover's instinct! + He felt my presence. Well, let him come in. + We must not fail in courage with a fighter. + Unlock the door. + + LUCIAN. Stop. Like all women, Lydia, + You have the courage of immunity. + To strike _you_ were against his code of honor; + But _me_, above the belt, he may perform on + T' th' height of his profession. Also Bashville. + + BASHVILLE. Think not of me, sir. Let him do his worst. + Oh, if the valor of my heart could weigh + The fatal difference twixt his weight and mine, + A second battle should he do this day: + Nay, though outmatched I be, let but my mistress + Give me the word: instant I'll take him on + Here--now--at catchweight. Better bite the carpet + A man, than fly, a coward. + + LUCIAN. Bravely said: + I will assist you with the poker. + + LYDIA. No: + I will not have him touched. Open the door. + + BASHVILLE. Destruction knocks thereat. I smile, and open. + + [BASHVILLE _opens the door_. _Dead silence._ CASHEL + _enters, in tears_. _A solemn pause._ + + CASHEL. You know my secret? + + LYDIA. Yes. + + CASHEL. And thereupon + You bade your servant fling me from your door. + + LYDIA. I bade my servant say I was not here. + + CASHEL [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Why didst thou better thy instruction, man? + Hadst thou but said, "She bade me tell thee this," + Thoudst burst my heart. I thank thee for thy mercy. + + LYDIA. Oh, Lucian, didst thou call him "drunk with slaughter"? + Canst thou refrain from weeping at his woe? + + CASHEL [_to_ LUCIAN]. The unwritten law that shields the amateur + Against professional resentment, saves thee. + O coward, to traduce behind their backs + Defenceless prizefighters! + + LUCIAN. Thou dost avow + Thou art a prizefighter. + + CASHEL. It was my glory. + I had hoped to offer to my lady there + My belts, my championships, my heaped-up stakes, + My undefeated record; but I knew + Behind their blaze a hateful secret lurked. + + LYDIA. Another secret? + + LUCIAN. Is there worse to come? + + CASHEL. Know ye not then my mother is an actress? + + LUCIAN. How horrible! + + LYDIA. Nay, nay: how interesting! + + CASHEL. A thousand victories cannot wipe out + That birthstain. Oh, my speech bewrayeth it: + My earliest lesson was the player's speech + In Hamlet; and to this day I express myself + More like a mobled queen than like a man + Of flesh and blood. Well may your cousin sneer! + What's Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba? + + LUCIAN. Injurious upstart: if by Hecuba + Thou pointest darkly at my lovely cousin, + Know that she is to me, and I to her, + What never canst thou be. I do defy thee; + And maugre all the odds thy skill doth give, + Outside I will await thee. + + LYDIA. I forbid + Expressly any such duello. Bashville: + The door. Put Mr. Webber in a hansom, + And bid the driver hie to Downing Street. + No answer: 'tis my will. [_Exeunt_ LUCIAN _and_ BASHVILLE. + And now, farewell. + You must not come again, unless indeed + You can some day look in my eyes and say: + Lydia: my occupation's gone. + + CASHEL. Ah, no: + It would remind you of my wretched mother. + O God, let me be natural a moment! + What other occupation can I try? + What would you have me be? + + LYDIA. A gentleman. + + CASHEL. A gentleman! I, Cashel Byron, stoop + To be the thing that bets on me! the fool + I flatter at so many coins a lesson! + The screaming creature who beside the ring + Gambles with basest wretches for my blood, + And pays with money that he never earned! + Let me die broken-hearted rather! + + LYDIA. But + You need not be an idle gentleman. + I call you one of Nature's gentlemen. + + CASHEL. That's the collection for the loser, Lydia. + I am not wont to need it. When your friends + Contest elections, and at foot o' th' poll + Rue their presumption, 'tis their wont to claim + A moral victory. In a sort they are + Nature's M. P.s. I am not yet so threadbare + As to accept these consolation stakes. + + LYDIA. You are offended with me. + + CASHEL. Yes, I am. + I can put up with much; but--"Nature's gentleman"! + I thank your ladyship of Lyons, but + Must beg to be excused. + + LYDIA. But surely, surely, + To be a prizefighter, and maul poor mariners + With naked knuckles, is no work for you. + + CASHEL. Thou dost arraign the inattentive Fates + That weave my thread of life in ruder patterns + Than these that lie, antimacassarly, + Asprent thy drawingroom. As well demand + Why I at birth chose to begin my life + A speechless babe, hairless, incontinent, + Hobbling upon all fours, a nurse's nuisance? + Or why I do propose to lose my strength, + To blanch my hair, to let the gums recede + Far up my yellowing teeth, and finally + Lie down and moulder in a rotten grave? + Only one thing more foolish could have been, + And that was to be born, not man, but woman. + This was thy folly, why rebuk'st thou mine? + + LYDIA. These are not things of choice. + + CASHEL. And did I choose + My quick divining eye, my lightning hand, + My springing muscle and untiring heart? + Did I implant the instinct in the race + That found a use for these, and said to me, + Fight for us, and be fame and fortune thine? + + LYDIA. But there are other callings in the world. + + CASHEL. Go tell thy painters to turn stockbrokers, + Thy poet friends to stoop o'er merchants' desks + And pen prose records of the gains of greed. + Tell bishops that religion is outworn, + And that the Pampa to the horsebreaker + Opes new careers. Bid the professor quit + His fraudulent pedantries, and do i' the world + The thing he would teach others. Then return + To me and say: Cashel: they have obeyed; + And on that pyre of sacrifice I, too, + Will throw my championship. + + LYDIA. But 'tis so cruel. + + CASHEL. Is it so? I have hardly noticed that, + So cruel are all callings. Yet this hand, + That many a two days' bruise hath ruthless given, + Hath kept no dungeon locked for twenty years, + Hath slain no sentient creature for my sport. + I am too squeamish for your dainty world, + That cowers behind the gallows and the lash, + The world that robs the poor, and with their spoil + Does what its tradesmen tell it. Oh, your ladies! + Sealskinned and egret-feathered; all defiance + To Nature; cowering if one say to them + "What will the servants think?" Your gentlemen! + Your tailor-tyrannized visitors of whom + Flutter of wing and singing in the wood + Make chickenbutchers. And your medicine men! + Groping for cures in the tormented entrails + Of friendly dogs. Pray have you asked all these + To change their occupations? Find you mine + So grimly crueller? I cannot breathe + An air so petty and so poisonous. + + LYDIA. But find you not their manners very nice? + + CASHEL. To me, perfection. Oh, they condescend + With a rare grace. Your duke, who condescends + Almost to the whole world, might for a Man + Pass in the eyes of those who never saw + The duke capped with a prince. See then, ye gods, + The duke turn footman, and his eager dame + Sink the great lady in the obsequious housemaid! + Oh, at such moments I could wish the Court + Had but one breadbasket, that with my fist + I could make all its windy vanity + Gasp itself out on the gravel. Fare you well. + I did not choose my calling; but at least + I can refrain from being a gentleman. + + LYDIA. You say farewell to me without a pang. + + CASHEL. My calling hath apprenticed me to pangs. + This is a rib-bender; but I can bear it. + It is a lonely thing to be a champion. + + LYDIA. It is a lonelier thing to be a woman. + + CASHEL. Be lonely then. Shall it be said of thee + That for his brawn thou misalliance mad'st + Wi' the Prince of Ruffians? Never. Go thy ways; + Or, if thou hast nostalgia of the mud, + Wed some bedogged wretch that on the slot + Of gilded snobbery, _ventre a terre_, + Will hunt through life with eager nose on earth + And hang thee thick with diamonds. I am rich; + But all my gold was fought for with my hands. + + LYDIA. What dost thou mean by rich? + + CASHEL. There is a man, + Hight Paradise, vaunted unconquerable, + Hath dared to say he will be glad to hear from me. + I have replied that none can hear from _me_ + Until a thousand solid pounds be staked. + His friends have confidently found the money. + Ere fall of leaf that money shall be mine; + And then I shall possess ten thousand pounds. + I had hoped to tempt thee with that monstrous sum. + + LYDIA. Thou silly Cashel, 'tis but a week's income. + I did propose to give thee three times that + For pocket money when we two were wed. + + CASHEL. Give me my hat. I have been fooling here. + Now, by the Hebrew lawgiver, I thought + That only in America such revenues + Were decent deemed. Enough. My dream is dreamed. + Your gold weighs like a mountain on my chest. + Farewell. + + LYDIA. The golden mountain shall be thine + The day thou quit'st thy horrible profession. + + CASHEL. Tempt me not, woman. It is honor calls. + Slave to the Ring I rest until the face + Of Paradise be changed. + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + BASHVILLE. Madam, your carriage, + Ordered by you at two. 'Tis now half-past. + + CASHEL. Sdeath! is it half-past two? The king! the king! + + LYDIA. The king! What mean you? + + CASHEL. I must meet a monarch + This very afternoon at Islington. + + LYDIA. At Islington! You must be mad. + + CASHEL. A cab! + Go call a cab; and let a cab be called; + And let the man that calls it be thy footman. + + LYDIA. You are not well. You shall not go alone. + My carriage waits. I must accompany you. + I go to find my hat. [_Exit._ + + CASHEL. Like Paracelsus, + Who went to find his soul. [_To_ BASHVILLE.] And now, young man, + How comes it that a fellow of your inches, + So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit, + Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me + On your next evening out. I'll make a man of you. + Surely you are ambitious and aspire---- + + BASHVILLE. To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore, + By Heaven, I will draw yours. + + [_He hits_ CASHEL _on the nose, and runs out_. + + CASHEL [_thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger + to his nose_, _and studying the blood on it_]. + + Too quick for _me_! + There's money in this youth. + + _Re-enter_ LYDIA, _hatted and gloved_. + + LYDIA. O Heaven! you bleed. + + CASHEL. Lend me a key or other frigid object, + That I may put it down my back, and staunch + The welling life stream. + + LYDIA. [_giving him her keys_]. Oh, what _have_ you done? + + CASHEL. Flush on the boko napped your footman's left. + + LYDIA. I do not understand. + + CASHEL. True. Pardon me. + I have received a blow upon the nose + In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else + I shall be total gules. [_He hurries out._ + + LYDIA. How well he speaks! + There is a silver trumpet in his lips + That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose + Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood. + I would 'twere mingled with mine own! + + _Enter_ BASHVILLE + + What now? + + BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait: + The horses will take cold. + + LYDIA. I do beseech him + A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth! + The third class passenger unchidden rides + Whither and when he will: obsequious trams + Await him hourly: subterranean tubes + With tireless coursers whisk him through the town; + But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms: + We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day + Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay. + + BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road, + And thence t' th' Angel-- + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + LYDIA. Let us haste, my love: + The coachman is impatient. + + CASHEL. Did he guess + He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait + Pompei's sentinel. Let us away. + This day of deeds, as yet but half begun, + Must ended be in merrie Islington. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ CASHEL. + + BASHVILLE. Gods! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone. + Now let me lift the cover from my soul. + O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence! + How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman: + She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt + Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven, + She stoops below me; condescends upon + This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits, + Writ in my character from my last place, + Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet + There's an eternal justice in it; for + By so much as the ne'er subdued Indian + Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian + Precedence take of me. "_Ich dien._" Damnation! + I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp." + And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold. + Because I love her I have blacked her boots; + Because I love her I have cleaned her knives, + Doing in this the office of a boy, + Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks + And does the meanest chares, I've shared the passions + Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride + To give her place the greater altitude + By lowering mine, and of her dignity + To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed + Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace + As love for such a one as I would be + For such a one as she; and now! and now! + A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos! + To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville: + Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself, + So heavenly high of her? Let what will come, + My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb. + + + SCENE II + + _The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators. + In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring + before it. A balcony above on the right_, _occupied + by persons of fashion_: _among others_, LYDIA _and_ + LORD WORTHINGTON. + + _Flourish._ _Enter_ LUCIAN _and_ CETEWAYO, _with Chiefs in attendance_. + + CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen? + + LUCIAN. It is. + + CETEWAYO. Are these anaemic dogs the English people? + + LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions, + The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke + Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories, + And by the million patent kitchen ranges + Of happy English homes. + + CETEWAYO. When first I came + I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars + Of some infernal god. I now perceive + The English dare not look upon the sky. + They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot + To cover them. + + LUCIAN. You cannot understand + The greatness of this people, Cetewayo. + You are a savage, reasoning like a child. + Each pallid English face conceals a brain + Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton + And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear. + There is not one of all the thousands here + But, if you placed him naked in the desert, + Would presently construct a steam engine, + And lay a cable t' th' Antipodes. + + CETEWAYO. Have I been brought a million miles by sea + To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber, + Men become civilized through twin diseases, + Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined + Become the grisly parents of Invention. + Why does the trembling white with frantic toil + Of hand and brain produce the magic gun + That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu + Dares look his foe i' the face; fights foot to foot; + Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now; + Makes life a long reality, and death + A moment only! whilst your Englishman + Glares on his burning candle's winding-sheets, + Counting the steps of his approaching doom. + And in the murky corners ever sees + Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty: + In the which anguish an unnatural edge + Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises + Strange frauds by which to filch unearned gold, + Mad crafts by which to slay unfaced foes, + Until at last his agonized desire + Makes possibility its slave. And then-- + Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!-- + Th' importunate clutching of the coward's hand + From wearied Nature Devastation's secrets + Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man + Is blown explosively from off the globe; + And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves + O'er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth + Stammer the words "Survival of the Fittest." + Enough of this: I came not here to talk. + Thou say'st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare + Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death. + Let them be brought. + + LUCIAN. They fight not to the death, + But under strictest rules: as, for example, + Half of their persons shall not be attacked; + Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down, + Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further, + That frequent opportunities of rest + With succor and refreshment be secured them. + + CETEWAYO. Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand: + Personified Pusillanimity + Hath ta'en thee from the bravest of the brave! + + LUCIAN. Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind + Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts + That Brave and English mean the self-same thing! + + CETEWAYO. Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise + They will be carried by their nurses, lest + Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them. + + CETEWAYO _takes his state_. _Enter_ PARADISE + + LYDIA. What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews + Presage destruction to his adversaries? + + LORD WORTHINGTON. 'Tis Paradise. + + LYDIA. He of whom Cashel spoke? + A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why + Did Cashel leave us at the door? + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Behold! + The champion comes. + + LYDIA. Oh, I could kiss him now, + Here, before all the world. His boxing things + Render him most attractive. But I fear + Yon villain's fists may maul him. + + WORTHINGTON. Have no fear. + Hark! the king speaks. + + CETEWAYO. Ye sons of the white queen: + Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to. + + PARADISE. Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke + What gets his living honest by his fists. + I may not have the polish of some toffs + As I could mention on; but up to now + No man has took my number down. I scale + Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three; + And at Bill Richardson's Blue Anchor pub + Am to be heard of any day by such + As likes the job. I don't know, governor, + As ennythink remains for me to say. + + CETEWAYO. Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have + If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead. + Methinks he looks scornfully on thee. + [_To_ CASHEL] Ha! dost thou not so? + + CASHEL. Sir, I do beseech you + To name the bone, or limb, or special place + Where you would have me hit him with this fist. + + CETEWAYO. Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear + Thine adversary will disfigure it. + + CASHEL. There's a divinity that shapes our ends + Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves. + + THE MASTER OF THE REVELS. Paradise, a professor. + Cashel Byron, + Also professor. Time! [_They spar._ + + LYDIA. Eternity + It seems to me until this fight be done. + + CASHEL. Dread monarch: this is called the upper cut, + And this a hook-hit of mine own invention. + The hollow region where I plant this blow + Is called the mark. My left, you will observe, + I chiefly use for long shots: with my right + Aiming beside the angle of the jaw + And landing with a certain delicate screw + I without violence knock my foeman out. + Mark how he falls forward upon his face! + The rules allow ten seconds to get up; + And as the man is still quite silly, I + Might safely finish him; but my respect + For your most gracious majesty's desire + To see some further triumphs of the science + Of self-defence postpones awhile his doom. + + PARADISE. How can a bloke do hisself proper justice + With pillows on his fists? + + [_He tears off his gloves and attacks_ CASHEL _with his bare knuckles_. + + THE CROWD. Unfair! The rules! + + CETEWAYO. The joy of battle surges boiling up + And bids me join the mellay. Isandhlana + And Victory! [_He falls on the bystanders._ + + THE CHIEFS. Victory and Isandhlana! + + [_They run amok. General panic and stampede. The ring is swept away._ + + LUCIAN. Forbear these most irregular proceedings. + Police! Police! + + [_He engages_ CETEWAYO _his umbrella_. _The balcony + comes down with a crash. Screams from its + occupants. Indescribable confusion._ + + CASHEL [_dragging_ LYDIA _from the struggling heap_]. + My love, my love, art hurt? + + LYDIA. No, no; but save my sore o'ermatched cousin. + + A POLICEMAN. Give us a lead, sir. Save the English flag. + Africa tramples on it. + + CASHEL. Africa! + Not all the continents whose mighty shoulders + The dancing diamonds of the seas bedeck + Shall trample on the blue with spots of white. + Now, Lydia, mark thy lover. [_He charges the Zulus._ + + LYDIA. Hercules + Cannot withstand him. See: the king is down; + The tallest chief is up, heels over head, + Tossed corklike o'er my Cashel's sinewy back; + And his lieutenant all deflated gasps + For breath upon the sand. The others fly + In vain: his fist o'er magic distances + Like a chameleon's tongue shoots to its mark; + And the last African upon his knees + Sues piteously for quarter. [_Rushing into_ CASHEL'S _arms_.] + Oh, my hero: Thou'st saved us all this day. + + CASHEL. 'Twas all for thee. + + CETEWAYO. [_trying to rise_]. Have I been struck by lightning? + + LUCIAN. Sir, your conduct + Can only be described as most ungentlemanly. + + POLICEMAN. One of the prone is white. + + CASHEL. 'Tis Paradise. + + POLICEMAN. He's choking: he has something in his mouth. + + LYDIA [_to_ CASHEL]. Oh Heaven! there is blood upon your hip. + You're hurt. + + CASHEL. The morsel in yon wretch's mouth + Was bitten out of me. + + [_Sensation._ LYDIA _screams and swoons in_ CASHEL'S _arms_. + + + + + ACT III + + _Wiltstoken. A room in the Warren Lodge_ + + LYDIA _at her writing table_ + + + LYDIA. O Past and Present, how ye do conflict + As here I sit writing my father's life! + The autumn woodland woos me from without + With whispering of leaves and dainty airs + To leave this fruitless haunting of the past. + My father was a very learned man. + I sometimes think I shall oldmaided be + Ere I unlearn the things he taught to me. + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN + + POLICEMAN. Asking your ladyship to pardon me + For this intrusion, might I be so bold + As ask a question of your people here + Concerning the Queen's peace? + + LYDIA. My people here + Are but a footman and a simple maid; + And both have craved a holiday to join + Some local festival. But, sir, your helmet + Proclaims the Metropolitan Police. + + POLICEMAN. Madam, it does; and I may now inform you + That what you term a local festival + Is a most hideous outrage 'gainst the law, + Which we to quell from London have come down: + In short, a prizefight. My sole purpose here + Is to inquire whether your ladyship + Any bad characters this afternoon + Has noted in the neighborhood. + + LYDIA. No, none, sir. + I had not let my maid go forth to-day + Thought I the roads unsafe. + + POLICEMAN. Fear nothing, madam: + The force protects the fair. My mission here + Is to wreak ultion for the broken law. + I wish your ladyship good afternoon. + + LYDIA. Good afternoon. [_Exit_ POLICEMAN. + A prizefight! O my heart! + Cashel: hast thou deceived me? Can it be + Thou hast backslidden to the hateful calling + I asked thee to eschew? + O wretched maid, + Why didst thou flee from London to this place + To write thy father's life, whenas in town + Thou might'st have kept a guardian eye on him-- + What's that? A flying footstep-- + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + CASHEL. Sanctuary! + The law is on my track. What! Lydia here! + + LYDIA. Ay: Lydia here. Hast thou done murder, then, + That in so horrible a guise thou comest? + + CASHEL. Murder! I would I had. Yon cannibal + Hath forty thousand lives; and I have ta'en + But thousands thirty-nine. I tell thee, Lydia, + On the impenetrable sarcolobe + That holds his seedling brain these fists have pounded + By Shrewsb'ry clock an hour. This bruised grass + And caked mud adhering to my form + I have acquired in rolling on the sod + Clinched in his grip. This scanty reefer coat + For decency snatched up as fast I fled + When the police arrived, belongs to Mellish. + 'Tis all too short; hence my display of rib + And forearm mother-naked. Be not wroth + Because I seem to wink at you: by Heaven, + 'Twas Paradise that plugged me in the eye + Which I perforce keep closing. Pity me, + My training wasted and my blows unpaid, + Sans stakes, sans victory, sans everything + I had hoped to win. Oh, I could sit me down + And weep for bitterness. + + LYDIA. Thou wretch, begone. + + CASHEL. Begone! + + LYDIA. I say begone. Oh, tiger's heart + Wrapped in a young man's hide, canst thou not live + In love with Nature and at peace with Man? + Must thou, although thy hands were never made + To blacken others' eyes, still batter at + The image of Divinity? I loathe thee. + Hence from my house and never see me more. + + CASHEL. I go. The meanest lad on thy estate + Would not betray me thus. But 'tis no matter. [_He opens the door._ + Ha! the police. I'm lost. [_He shuts the door again._ + Now shalt thou see + My last fight fought. Exhausted as I am, + To capture me will cost the coppers dear. + Come one, come all! + + LYDIA. Oh, hide thee, I implore: + I cannot see thee hunted down like this. + There is my room. Conceal thyself therein. + Quick, I command. [_He goes into the room._ + With horror I foresee, + Lydia, that never lied, must lie for thee. + + _Enter_ POLICEMAN, _with_ PARADISE _and_ MELLISH _in + custody_, BASHVILLE, _constable_s, _and others_ + + POLICEMAN. Keep back your bruised prisoner lest he shock + This wellbred lady's nerves. Your pardon, ma'am; + But have you seen by chance the other one? + In this direction he was seen to run. + + LYDIA. A man came here anon with bloody hands + And aspect that did turn my soul to snow. + + POLICEMAN. 'Twas he. What said he? + + LYDIA. Begged for sanctuary. + I bade the man begone. + + POLICEMAN. Most properly. + Saw you which way he went? + + LYDIA. I cannot tell. + + PARADISE. He seen me coming; and he done a bunk. + + POLICEMAN. Peace, there. Excuse his damaged features, lady: + He's Paradise; and this one's Byron's trainer, + Mellish. + + MELLISH. Injurious copper, in thy teeth + I hurl the lie. I am no trainer, I. + My father, a respected missionary, + Apprenticed me at fourteen years of age + T' the poetry writing. To these woods I came + With Nature to commune. My revery + Was by a sound of blows rudely dispelled. + Mindful of what my sainted parent taught, + I rushed to play the peacemaker, when lo! + These minions of the law laid hands on me. + + BASHVILLE. A lovely woman, with distracted cries, + In most resplendent fashionable frock, + Approaches like a wounded antelope. + + _Enter_ ADELAIDE GISBORNE + + ADELAIDE. Where is my Cashel? Hath he been arrested? + + POLICEMAN. I would I had thy Cashel by the collar: + He hath escaped me. + + ADELAIDE. Praises be for ever! + + LYDIA. Why dost thou call the missing man _thy_ Cashel? + + ADELAIDE. He is mine only son. + + ALL. Thy son! + + ADELAIDE. My son. + + LYDIA. I thought his mother hardly would have known him, + So crushed his countenance. + + ADELAIDE. A ribald peer, + Lord Worthington by name, this morning came + With honeyed words beseeching me to mount + His four-in-hand, and to the country hie + To see some English sport. Being by nature + Frank as a child, I fell into the snare, + But took so long to dress that the design + Failed of its full effect; for not until + The final round we reached the horrid scene. + Be silent all; for now I do approach + My tragedy's catastrophe. Know, then, + That Heaven did bless me with an only son, + A boy devoted to his doting mother---- + + POLICEMAN. Hark! did you hear an oath from yonder room? + + ADELAIDE. Respect a broken-hearted mother's grief, + And do not interrupt me in my scene. + Ten years ago my darling disappeared + (Ten dreary twelvemonths of continuous tears, + Tears that have left me prematurely aged; + For I am younger far than I appear). + Judge of my anguish when to-day I saw + Stripped to the waist, and fighting like a demon + With one who, whatsoe'er his humble virtues, + Was clearly not a gentleman, my son! + + ALL. O strange event! O passing tearful tale! + + ADELAIDE. I thank you from the bottom of my heart + For the reception you have given my woe; + And now I ask, where is my wretched son? + He must at once come home with me, and quit + A course of life that cannot be allowed. + + _Enter_ CASHEL + + CASHEL. Policeman: I do yield me to the law. + + LYDIA. Oh, no. + + ADELAIDE. My son! + + CASHEL. My mother! Do not kiss me. + My visage is too sore. + + POLICEMAN. The lady hid him. + This is a regular plant. You cannot be + Up to that sex. [_To_ CASHEL] You come along with me. + + LYDIA. Fear not, my Cashel: I will bail thee out. + + CASHEL. Never. I do embrace my doom with joy. + With Paradise in Pentonville or Portland + I shall feel safe: there are no mothers there. + + ADELAIDE. Ungracious boy-- + + CASHEL. Constable: bear me hence. + + MELLISH. Oh, let me sweetest reconcilement make + By calling to thy mind that moving song:-- + + [_Sings_] They say there is no other-- + + CASHEL. Forbear at once, or the next note of music + That falls upon thine ear shall clang in thunder + From the last trumpet. + + ADELAIDE. A disgraceful threat + To level at this virtuous old man. + + LYDIA. Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn'st thy mother thus, + How wilt thou treat thy wife? + + CASHEL. There spake my fate: + I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers, + Would you but let your wretched sons alone + Life were worth living! Had I any choice + In this importunate relationship? + None. And until that high auspicious day + When the millennium on an orphaned world + Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look, + Reckless of consanguinity, my mother + And I within the self-same hemisphere + Conjointly may not dwell. + + ADELAIDE. Ungentlemanly! + + CASHEL. I am no gentleman. I am a criminal, + Redhanded, baseborn-- + + ADELAIDE. Baseborn! Who dares say it? + Thou art the son and heir of Bingley Bumpkin + FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron, + Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset, + Who after three months' wedded happiness + Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid, + Leaving a tearstained note to testify + That having sweetly honeymooned with me, + He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting? + + POLICEMAN. Sir: had I known your quality, this cop + I had averted; but it is too late. + The law's above us both. + + _Enter_ LUCIAN, _with an Order in Council_ + + LUCIAN. Not so, policeman + I bear a message from The Throne itself + Of fullest amnesty for Byron's past. + Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant + He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed, + In memory of his glorious victory + Over our country's foes at Islington, + The flag of England shall for ever bear + On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white; + And by an exercise of feudal right + Too long disused in this anarchic age + Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand + Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken's wealthy heiress. [_General acclamation._ + + POLICEMAN. Was anything, sir, said about me? + + LUCIAN. Thy faithful services are not forgot: + In future call thyself Inspector Smith. [_Renewed acclamation._ + + POLICEMAN. I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen. + + LUCIAN. My former opposition, valiant champion, + Was based on the supposed discrepancy + Betwixt your rank and Lydia's. Here's my hand. + + BASHVILLE. And I do here unselfishly renounce + All my pretensions to my lady's favor. [_Sensation._ + + LYDIA. What, Bashville! didst thou love me? + + BASHVILLE. Madam: yes. + 'Tis said: now let me leave immediately. + + LYDIA. In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course + You are but acting as a gentleman + In the like case would act. I fully grant + Your perfect right to make a declaration + Which flatters me and honors your ambition. + Prior attachment bids me firmly say + That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry + Rests foreign to the British social scheme, + Your love is hopeless; still, your services, + Made zealous by disinterested passion, + Would greatly add to my domestic comfort; + And if---- + + CASHEL. Excuse me. I have other views. + I've noted in this man such aptitude + For art and exercise in his defence + That I prognosticate for him a future + More glorious than my past. Henceforth I dub him + The Admirable Bashville, Byron's Novice; + And to the utmost of my mended fortunes + Will back him 'gainst the world at ten stone six. + + ALL. Hail, Byron's Novice, champion that shall be! + + BASHVILLE. Must I renounce my lovely lady's service, + And mar the face of man? + + CASHEL. 'Tis Fate's decree. + For know, rash youth, that in this star crost world + Fate drives us all to find our chiefest good + In what we _can_, and not in what we _would_. + + POLICEMAN. A post-horn--hark! + + CASHEL. What noise of wheels is this? + + LORD WORTHINGTON _drives upon the scene in his four-in-hand_, + _and descends_ + + ADELAIDE. Perfidious peer! + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Sweet Adelaide---- + + ADELAIDE. Forbear, + Audacious one: my name is Mrs. Byron. + + LORD WORTHINGTON. Oh, change that title for the sweeter one + Of Lady Worthington. + + CASHEL. Unhappy man, + You know not what you do. + + LYDIA. Nay, 'tis a match + Of most auspicious promise. Dear Lord Worthington, + You tear from us our mother-in-law-- + + CASHEL. Ha! true. + + LYDIA.--but we will make the sacrifice. She blushes: + At least she very prettily produces + Blushing's effect. + + ADELAIDE. My lord: I do accept you. [_They embrace. Rejoicings._ + + CASHEL [_aside_]. It wrings my heart to see my noble backer + Lay waste his future thus. The world's a chessboard, + And we the merest pawns in fist of Fate. + [_Aloud._] And now, my friends, gentle and simple both, + Our scene draws to a close. In lawful course + As Dorset's deputy lieutenant I + Do pardon all concerned this afternoon + In the late gross and brutal exhibition + Of miscalled sport. + + LYDIA [_throwing herself into his arms_]. Your boats + are burnt at last. + + CASHEL. This is the face that burnt a thousand boats, + And ravished Cashel Byron from the ring. + But to conclude. Let William Paradise + Devote himself to science, and acquire, + By studying the player's speech in Hamlet, + A more refined address. You, Robert Mellish, + To the Blue Anchor hostelry attend him; + Assuage his hurts, and bid Bill Richardson + Limit his access to the fatal tap. + Now mount we on my backer's four-in-hand, + And to St. George's Church, whose portico + Hanover Square shuts off from Conduit Street, + Repair we all. Strike up the wedding march; + And, Mellish, let thy melodies trill forth + Broad o'er the wold as fast we bowl along. + Give me the post-horn. Loose the flowing rein; + And up to London drive with might and main. [_Exeunt._ + + + + +NOTE ON MODERN PRIZEFIGHTING + + +In 1882, when this book was written, prizefighting seemed to be dying +out. Sparring matches with boxing gloves, under the Queensberry rules, +kept pugilism faintly alive; but it was not popular, because the public, +which cares only for the excitement of a strenuous fight, believed then +that the boxing glove made sparring as harmless a contest of pure skill +as a fencing match with buttoned foils. This delusion was supported by +the limitation of the sparring match to boxing. In the prize-ring under +the old rules a combatant might trip, hold, or throw his antagonist; so +that each round finished either with a knockdown blow, which, except +when it is really a liedown blow, is much commoner in fiction than it +was in the ring, or with a visible body-to-body struggle ending in a +fall. In a sparring match all that happens is that a man with a watch in +his hand cries out "Time!" whereupon the two champions prosaically stop +sparring and sit down for a minute's rest and refreshment. The +unaccustomed and inexpert spectator in those days did not appreciate the +severity of the exertion or the risk of getting hurt: he underrated them +as ignorantly as he would have overrated the more dramatically obvious +terrors of a prizefight. Consequently the interest in the annual +sparrings for the Queensberry Championships was confined to the few +amateurs who had some critical knowledge of the game of boxing, and to +the survivors of the generation for which the fight between Sayers and +Heenan had been described in The Times as solemnly as the University +Boat Race. In short, pugilism was out of fashion because the police had +suppressed the only form of it which fascinated the public by its +undissembled pugnacity. + +All that was needed to rehabilitate it was the discovery that the glove +fight is a more trying and dangerous form of contest than the old +knuckle fight. Nobody knew that then: everybody knows it, or ought to +know it, now. And, accordingly, pugilism is more prosperous to-day than +it has ever been before. + +How far this result was foreseen by the author of the Queensberry Rules, +which superseded those of the old prize-ring, will probably never be +known. There is no doubt that they served their immediate turn +admirably. That turn was, the keeping alive of boxing in the teeth of +the law against prizefighting. Magistrates believed, as the public +believed, that when men's knuckles were muffled in padded gloves; when +they were forbidden to wrestle or hold one another; when the duration of +a round was fixed by the clock, and the number of rounds limited to what +seems (to those who have never tried) to be easily within the limits of +ordinary endurance; and when the traditional interval for rest between +the rounds was doubled, that then indeed violence must be checkmated, so +that the worst the boxers could do was to "spar for points" before three +gentlemanly members of the Stock Exchange, who would carefully note the +said points on an examination paper at the ring side, awarding marks +only for skill and elegance, and sternly discountenancing the claims of +brute force. It may be that both the author of the rules and the +"judges" who administered them in the earlier days really believed all +this; for, as far as I know, the limit of an amateur pugilist's romantic +credulity has never yet been reached and probably never will. But if so, +their good intentions were upset by the operation of a single new rule. +Thus. + +In the old prize-ring a round had no fixed duration. It was terminated +by the fall of one of the combatants (in practice usually both of them), +and was followed by an interval of half a minute for recuperation. The +practical effect of this was that a combatant could always get a respite +of half a minute whenever he wanted it by pretending to be knocked down: +"finding the earth the safest place," as the old phrase went. For this +the Marquess of Queensberry substituted a rule that a round with the +gloves should last a specified time, usually three or four minutes, and +that a combatant who did not stand up to his opponent continuously +during that time (ten seconds being allowed for rising in the event of a +knock-down) lost the battle. That unobtrusively slipped-in ten seconds +limit has produced the modern glove fight. Its practical effect is that +a man dazed by a blow or a fall for, say, twelve seconds, which would +not have mattered in an old-fashioned fight with its thirty seconds +interval,[1] has under the Queensberry rules either to lose or else +stagger to his feet in a helpless condition and be eagerly battered into +insensibility by his opponent before he can recover his powers of +self-defence. The notion that such a battery cannot be inflicted with +boxing gloves is only entertained by people who have never used them or +seen them used. I may say that I have myself received, in an accident, a +blow in the face, involving two macadamized holes in it, more violent +than the most formidable pugilist could have given me with his bare +knuckles. This blow did not stun or disable me even momentarily. On the +other hand, I have seen a man knocked quite silly by a tap from the most +luxurious sort of boxing glove made, wielded by a quite unathletic +literary man sparring for the first time in his life. The human jaw, +like the human elbow, is provided, as every boxer knows, with a "funny +bone"; and the pugilist who is lucky enough to jar that funny bone with +a blow practically has his opponent at his mercy for at least ten +seconds. Such a blow is called a "knock-out." The funny bone and the +ten-seconds rule explain the development of Queensberry sparring into +the modern knocking-out match or glove fight. + +[1] In a treatise on boxing by Captain Edgeworth Johnstone, +just published, I read, "In the days of the prize-ring, fights lasted +for hours; and the knock-out blow was unknown." This statement is a +little too sweeping. The blow was known well enough. A veteran +prizefighter once described to me his first experience of its curious +effect on the senses. Only, as he had thirty seconds to recover in +instead of ten, it did not end the battle. The thirty seconds made the +knock-out so unlikely that the old pugilists regarded it as a rare +accident, not worth trying for. The glove fighter tries for nothing +else. Nevertheless knock-outs, and very dramatic ones too (Mace by King, +for example), did occur in the prize-ring from time to time. Captain +Edgeworth Johnstone's treatise is noteworthy in comparison with the +earlier Badminton handbook of sparring by Mr. E. B. Michell (one of the +Queensberry champions) as throwing over the old teaching of prize-ring +boxing with mufflers, and going in frankly for glove fighting, or, to +put it classically, cestus boxing. + +This development got its first impulse from the discovery by sparring +competitors that the only way in which a boxer, however skilful, could +make sure of a verdict in his favor, was by knocking his opponent out. +This will be easily understood by any one who remembers the pugilistic +Bench of those days. The "judges" at the competitions were invariably +ex-champions: that is, men who had themselves won former competitions. +Now the judicial faculty, if it is not altogether a legal fiction, is at +all events pretty rare even among men whose ordinary pursuits tend to +cultivate it, and to train them in dispassionateness. Among pugilists it +is quite certainly very often non-existent. The average pugilist is a +violent partisan, who seldom witnesses a hot encounter without getting +much more excited than the combatants themselves. Further, he is usually +filled with a local patriotism which makes him, if a Londoner, deem it a +duty to disparage a provincial, and, if a provincial, to support a +provincial at all hazards against a cockney. He has, besides, personal +favorites on whose success he bets wildly. On great occasions like the +annual competitions, he is less judicial and more convivial after dinner +(when the finals are sparred) than before it. Being seldom a fine boxer, +he often regards skill and style as a reflection on his own +deficiencies, and applauds all verdicts given for "game" alone. When he +is a technically good boxer, he is all the less likely to be a good +critic, as Providence seldom lavishes two rare gifts on the same +individual. Even if we take the sanguine and patriotic view that when +you appoint such a man a judge, and thus stop his betting, you may +depend on his sense of honor and responsibility to neutralize all the +other disqualifications, they are sure to be exhibited most extremely by +the audience before which he has to deliver his verdict. Now it takes a +good deal of strength of mind to give an unpopular verdict; and this +strength of mind is not necessarily associated with the bodily hardihood +of the champion boxer. Consequently, when the strength of mind is not +forthcoming, the audience becomes the judge, and the popular competitor +gets the verdict. And the shortest way to the heart of a big audience is +to stick to your man; stop his blows bravely with your nose and return +them with interest; cover yourself and him with your own gore; and +outlast him in a hearty punching match. + +It was under these circumstances that the competitors for sparring +championships concluded that they had better decide the bouts themselves +by knocking their opponents out, and waste no time in cultivating a +skill and style for which they got little credit, and which actually set +some of the judges against them. The public instantly began to take an +interest in the sport. And so, by a pretty rapid evolution, the +dexterities which the boxing glove and the Queensberry rules were +supposed to substitute for the old brutalities of Sayers and Heenan were +really abolished by them. + +Let me describe the process as I saw it myself. Twenty years ago a poet +friend of mine, who, like all poets, delighted in combats, insisted on +my sharing his interest in pugilism, and took me about to all the boxing +competitions of the day. I was nothing loth; for, my own share of +original sin apart, any one with a sense of comedy must find the arts of +self-defence delightful (for a time) through their pedantry, their +quackery, and their action and reaction between amateur romantic +illusion and professional eye to business. + +The fencing world, as Moliere well knew, is perhaps a more exquisite +example of a fool's paradise than the boxing world; but it is too +restricted and expensive to allow play for popular character in a +non-duelling country, as the boxing world (formerly called quite +appropriately "the Fancy") does. At all events, it was the boxing world +that came under my notice; and as I was amused and sceptically +observant, whilst the true amateurs about me were, for the most part, +merely excited and duped, my evidence may have a certain value when the +question comes up again for legislative consideration, as it assuredly +will some day. + +The first competitions I attended were at the beginning of the eighties, +at Lillie Bridge, for the Queensberry championships. There were but few +competitors, including a fair number of gentlemen; and the style of +boxing aimed at was the "science" bequeathed from the old prize-ring by +Ned Donnelly, a pupil of Nat Langham. Langham had once defeated Sayers, +and thereby taught him the tactics by which he defeated Heenan. There +was as yet no special technique of glove fighting: the traditions and +influence of the old ring were unquestioned and supreme; and they +distinctly made for brains, skill, quickness, and mobility, as against +brute violence, not at all on moral grounds, but because experience had +proved that giants did not succeed in the ring under the old rules, and +that crafty middle-weights did. + +This did not last long. The spectators did not want to see skill +defeating violence: they wanted to see violence drawing blood and +pounding its way to a savage and exciting victory in the shortest +possible time (the old prizefight usually dragged on for hours, and was +ended by exhaustion rather than by victory). So did most of the judges. +And the public and the judges naturally had their wish; for the +competitors, as I have already explained, soon discovered that the only +way to make sure of a favorable verdict was to "knock out" their +adversary. All pretence of sparring "for points": that is, for marks on +an examination paper filled up by the judges, and representing nothing +but impracticable academic pedantry in its last ditch, was dropped; and +the competitions became frank fights, with abundance of blood drawn, and +"knock-outs" always imminent. Needless to add, the glove fight soon +began to pay. The select and thinly attended spars on the turf at Lillie +Bridge gave way to crowded exhibitions on the hard boards of St. James's +Hall. These were organized by the Boxing Association; and to them the +provinces, notably Birmingham, sent up a new race of boxers whose sole +aim was to knock their opponent insensible by a right-hand blow on the +jaw, knowing well that no Birmingham man could depend on a verdict +before a London audience for any less undeniable achievement. + +The final step was taken by an American pugilist. He threw off the last +shred of the old hypocrisy of the gloved hand by challenging the whole +world to produce a man who could stand before him for a specified time +without being knocked out. His brief but glorious career completely +re-established pugilism by giving a world-wide advertisement to the fact +that the boxing glove spares nothing but the public conscience, and that +as much ferocity, bloodshed, pain, and risk of serious injury or death +can be enjoyed at a glove fight as at an old-fashioned prizefight, +whilst the strain on the combatants is much greater. It is true that +these horrors are greatly exaggerated by the popular imagination, and +that if boxing were really as dangerous as bicycling, a good many of its +heroes would give it up from simple fright; but this only means that +there is a maximum of damage to the spectator by demoralization, +combined with the minimum of deterrent risk to the poor scrapper in the +ring. + +Poor scrapper, though, is hardly the word for a modern fashionable +American pugilist. To him the exploits of Cashel Byron will seem +ludicrously obscure and low-lived. The contests in which he engages are +like Handel Festivals: they take place in huge halls before enormous +audiences, with cinematographs hard at work recording the scene for +reproduction in London and elsewhere. The combatants divide thousands of +dollars of gate-money between them: indeed, if an impecunious English +curate were to go to America and challenge the premier pugilist, the +spectacle of a match between the Church and the Ring would attract a +colossal crowd; and the loser's share of the gate would be a fortune to +a curate--assuming that the curate would be the loser, which is by no +means a foregone conclusion. At all events, it would be well worth a +bruise or two. So my story of the Agricultural Hall, where William +Paradise sparred for half a guinea, and Cashel Byron stood out for ten +guineas, is no doubt read by the profession in America with amused +contempt. In 1882 it was, like most of my conceptions, a daring +anticipation of coming social developments, though to-day it seems as +far out of date as Slender pulling Sackerson's chain. + +Of these latter-day commercial developments of glove fighting I know +nothing beyond what I gather from the newspapers. The banging matches of +the eighties, in which not one competitor in twenty either exhibited +artistic skill, or, in his efforts to knock out his adversary, succeeded +in anything but tiring and disappointing himself, were for the most part +tedious beyond human endurance. When, after wading through Boxiana and +the files of Bell's Life at the British Museum, I had written Cashel +Byron's Profession, I found I had exhausted the comedy of the subject; +and as a game of patience or solitaire was decidedly superior to an +average spar for a championship in point of excitement, I went no more +to the competitions. Since then six or seven generations of boxers have +passed into peaceful pursuits; and I have no doubt that my experience is +in some respects out of date. The National Sporting Club has arisen; and +though I have never attended its reunions, I take its record of three +pugilists slain as proving and enormous multiplication of contests, +since such accidents are very rare, and in fact do not happen to +reasonably healthy men. I am prepared to admit also that the +disappearance of the old prize-ring technique must by this time have +been compensated by the importation from America of a new glove-fighting +technique; for even in a knocking-out match, brains will try conclusions +with brawn, and finally establish a standard of skill; but I notice that +in the leading contests in America luck seems to be on the side of +brawn, and brain frequently finishes in a state of concussion, a loser +after performing miracles of "science." I use the word luck advisedly; +for one of the fascinations of boxing to the gambler (who is the main +pillar of the sporting world) is that it is a game of hardihood, +pugnacity and skill, all at the mercy of chance. The knock-out itself is +a pure chance. I have seen two powerful laborers batter one another's +jaws with all their might for several rounds apparently without giving +one another as much as a toothache. And I have seen a winning pugilist +collapse at a trifling knock landed by a fluke at the fatal angle. I +once asked an ancient prizefighter what a knock-out was like when it did +happen. He was a man of limited descriptive powers; so he simply pointed +to the heavens and said, "Up in a balloon." An amateur pugilist, with +greater command of language, told me that "all the milk in his head +suddenly boiled over." I am aware that some modern glove fighters of the +American school profess to have reduced the knock-out to a science. But +the results of the leading American combats conclusively discredit the +pretension. When a boxer so superior to his opponent in skill as to be +able practically to hit him where he pleases not only fails to knock him +out, but finally gets knocked out himself, it is clear that the +phenomenon is as complete a mystery pugilistically as it is +physiologically, though every pugilist and every doctor may pretend to +understand it. It is only fair to add that it has not been proved that +any permanent injury to the brain results from it. In any case the +brain, as English society is at present constituted, can hardly be +considered a vital organ. + +This, to the best of my knowledge, is the technical history of the +modern revival of pugilism. It is only one more example of the fact that +legislators, like other people, must learn their business by their own +mistakes, and that the first attempts to suppress an evil by law +generally intensify it. Prizefighting, though often connived at, was +never legal. Even in its palmiest days prizefights were banished from +certain counties by hostile magistrates, just as they have been driven +from the United States and England to Belgium on certain occasions in +our own time. But as the exercise of sparring, conducted by a couple of +gentlemen with boxing gloves on, was regarded as part of a manly +physical education, a convention grew up by which it became practically +legal to make a citizen's nose bleed by a punch from the gloved fist, +and illegal to do the same thing with the naked knuckles. A code of +glove-fighting rules was drawn up by a prominent patron of pugilism; and +this code was practically legalized by the fact that even when a death +resulted from a contest under these rules the accessaries were not +punished. No question was raised as to whether the principals were paid +to fight for the amusement of the spectators, or whether a prize for the +winner was provided in stakes, share of the gate, or a belt with the +title of champion. These, the true criteria of prizefighting, were +ignored; and the sole issue raised was whether the famous dictum of Dr. +Watts, "Your little hands were never made, etc.," had been duly +considered by providing the said little hands with a larger hitting +surface, a longer range, and four ounces extra weight. + +In short, then, what has happened has been the virtual legalization of +prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. And this is exactly what +public opinion desires. We do not like fighting; but we like looking on +at fights: therefore we require a law which will punish the prizefighter +if he hits us, and secure us the protection of the police whilst we sit +in a comfortable hall and watch him hitting another prizefighter. And +that is just the law we have got at present. + +Thus Cashel Byron's plea for a share of the legal toleration accorded to +the vivisector has been virtually granted since he made it. The +legalization of cruelty to domestic animals under cover of the +anesthetic is only the extreme instance of the same social phenomenon as +the legalization of prizefighting under cover of the boxing glove. The +same passion explains the fascination of both practices; and in both, +the professors--pugilists and physiologists alike--have to persuade the +Home Office that their pursuits are painless and beneficial. But there +is also between them the remarkable difference that the pugilist, who +has to suffer as much as he inflicts, wants his work to be as painless +and harmless as possible whilst persuading the public that it is +thrillingly dangerous and destructive, whilst the vivisector wants to +enjoy a total exemption from humane restrictions in his laboratory +whilst persuading the public that pain is unknown there. Consequently +the vivisector is not only crueller than the prizefighter, but, through +the pressure of public opinion, a much more resolute and uncompromising +liar. For this no one but a Pharisee will single him out for special +blame. All public men lie, as a matter of good taste, on subjects which +are considered serious (in England a serious occasion means simply an +occasion on which nobody tells the truth); and however illogical or +capricious the point of honor may be in man, it is too absurd to assume +that the doctors who, from among innumerable methods of research, +select that of tormenting animals hideously, will hesitate to come on a +platform and tell a soothing fib to prevent the public from punishing +them. No criminal is expected to plead guilty, or to refrain from +pleading not guilty with all the plausibility at his command. In +prizefighting such mendacity is not necessary: on the contrary, if a +famous pugilist were to assure the public that a blow delivered with a +boxing glove could do no injury and cause no pain, and the public +believed him, the sport would instantly lose its following. It is the +prizefighter's interest to abolish the real cruelties of the ring and to +exaggerate the imaginary cruelties of it. It is the vivisector's +interest to refine upon the cruelties of the laboratory, whilst +persuading the public that his victims pass into a delicious euthanasia +and leave behind them a row of bottles containing infallible cures for +all the diseases. Just so, too, does the trainer of performing animals +assure us that his dogs and cats and elephants and lions are taught +their senseless feats by pure kindness. + +The public, as Julius Caesar remarked nearly 2000 years ago, believes on +the whole, just what it wants to believe. The laboring masses do not +believe the false excuses of the vivisector, because they know that the +vivisector experiments on hospital patients; and the masses belong to +the hospital patient class. The well-to-do people who do not go to +hospitals, and who think they benefit by the experiments made there, +believe the vivisectors' excuses, and angrily abuse and denounce the +anti-vivisectors. The people who "love animals," who keep pets, and +stick pins through butterflies, support the performing dog people, and +are sure that kindness will teach a horse to waltz. And the people who +enjoy a fight will persuade themselves that boxing gloves do not hurt, +and that sparring is an exercise which teaches self-control and +exercises all the muscles in the body more efficiently than any other. + +My own view of prizefighting may be gathered from Cashel Byron's +Profession, and from the play written by me more than ten years later, +entitled Mrs. Warren's Profession. As long as society is so organized +that the destitute athlete and the destitute beauty are forced to choose +between underpaid drudgery as industrial producers, and comparative +self-respect, plenty, and popularity as prizefighters and mercenary +brides, licit or illicit, it is idle to affect virtuous indignation at +their expense. The word prostitute should either not be used at all, or +else applied impartially to all persons who do things for money that +they would not do if they had any other assured means of livelihood. The +evil caused by the prostitution of the Press and the Pulpit is so +gigantic that the prostitution of the prize-ring, which at least makes +no serious moral pretensions, is comparatively negligible by comparison. +Let us not forget, however, that the throwing of a hard word such as +prostitution does not help the persons thus vituperated out of their +difficulty. If the soldier and gladiator fight for money, if men and +women marry for money, if the journalist and novelist write for money, +and the parson preaches for money, it must be remembered that it is an +exceedingly difficult and doubtful thing for an individual to set up his +own scruples or fancies (he cannot himself be sure which they are) +against the demand of the community when it says, Do thus and thus, or +starve. It was easy for Ruskin to lay down the rule of dying rather than +doing unjustly; but death is a plain thing: justice a very obscure +thing. How is an ordinary man to draw the line between right and wrong +otherwise than by accepting public opinion on the subject; and what more +conclusive expression of sincere public opinion can there be than market +demand? Even when we repudiate that and fall back on our private +judgment, the matter gathers doubt instead of clearness. The popular +notion of morality and piety is to simply beg all the most important +questions in life for other people; but when these questions come home +to ourselves, we suddenly discover that the devil's advocate has a +stronger case than we thought: we remember that the way of righteousness +or death was the way of the Inquisition; that hell is paved, not with +bad intentions, but with good ones; that the deeper seers have suggested +that the way to save your soul is perhaps to give it away, casting your +spiritual bread on the waters, so to speak. No doubt, if you are a man +of genius, a Ruskin or an Ibsen, you can divine your way and finally +force your passage. If you have the conceit of fanaticism you can die a +martyr like Charles I. If you are a criminal, or a gentleman of +independent means, you can leave society out of the question and prey on +it. But if you are an ordinary person you take your bread as it comes to +you, doing whatever you can make most money by doing. And you are really +shewing yourself a disciplined citizen and acting with perfect social +propriety in so doing. Society may be, and generally is, grossly wrong +in its offer to you; and you may be, and generally are, grossly wrong +in supporting the existing political structure; but this only means, to +the successful modern prizefighter, that he must reform society before +he can reform himself. A conclusion which I recommend to the +consideration of those foolish misers of personal righteousness who +think they can dispose of social problems by bidding reformers of +society reform themselves first. + +Practically, then, the question raised is whether fighting with gloves +shall be brought, like cockfighting, bear-baiting, and gloveless fist +fighting, explicitly under the ban of the law. I do not propose to argue +that question out here. But of two things I am certain. First, that +glove fighting is quite as fierce a sport as fist fighting. Second, that +if an application were made to the Borough Council of which I am a +member, to hire the Town Hall for a boxing competition, I should vote +against the applicants. + +This second point being evidently the practical one, I had better give +my reason. Exhibition pugilism is essentially a branch of Art: that is +to say, it acts and attracts by propagating feeling. The feeling it +propagates is pugnacity. Sense of danger, dread of danger, impulse to +batter and destroy what threatens and opposes, triumphant delight in +succeeding: this is pugnacity, the great adversary of the social impulse +to live and let live; to establish our rights by shouldering our share +of the social burden; to face and examine danger instead of striking at +it; to understand everything to the point of pardoning (and righting) +everything; to conclude an amnesty with Nature wide enough to include +even those we know the worst of: namely, ourselves. If two men +quarrelled, and asked the Borough Council to lend them a room to fight +it out in with their fists, on the ground that a few minutes' hearty +punching of one another's heads would work off their bad blood and leave +them better friends, each desiring, not victory, but _satisfaction_, I +am not sure that I should not vote for compliance. But if a syndicate of +showmen came and said, Here we have two men who have no quarrel, but who +will, if you pay them, fight before your constituency and thereby make a +great propaganda of pugnacity in it, sharing the profits with us and +with you, I should indignantly oppose the proposition. And if the +majority were against me, I should try to persuade them to at least +impose the condition that the fight should be with naked fists under the +old rules, so that the combatants should, like Sayers and Langham, +depend on bunging up each other's eyes rather than, like the modern +knocker-out, giving one another concussion of the brain. + +I may add, finally, that the present halting between the legal +toleration and suppression of commercial pugilism is much worse than the +extreme of either, because it takes away the healthy publicity and sense +of responsibility which legality and respectability give, without +suppressing the blackguardism which finds its opportunity in shady +pursuits. I use the term commercial advisedly. Put a stop to boxing for +money; and pugilism will give society no further trouble. + + +LONDON, 1901. + + * * * * * + + +THREE PLAYS + +BY BRIEUX + +(Member of the French Academy) + +MATERNITY + +DAMAGED GOODS + +THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF +MONSIEUR DUPONT + +WITH PREFACE BY BERNARD SHAW + +_Translated into English_ + +By Mrs. BERNARD SHAW, ST. JOHN HANKIN +and JOHN POLLOCK + +_12mo. Cloth, price $1.50 net_ + + +"In that kind of comedy," writes BERNARD SHAW, "which is so true to life +that we have to call it tragi-comedy, and which is not only an +entertainment but a history and a criticism of contemporary morals, +BRIEUX is incomparably the greatest writer France has produced since +Moliere." + +The three plays in this volume are a first instalment into English of +the work of a man who has been admitted into the French Academy for his +splendid achievements, and who is recognized by the best thinkers in +Europe as one of the profoundest moral forces expressing itself as +literature to-day. + +No earnest man or woman can read these plays without being deeply moved +and deeply touched. One of the plays was read by Brieux himself, at the +special invitation of the pastor, from the pulpit of a church in Geneva. + + +BERNARD SHAW'S PLAYS + +The following Plays by Bernard Shaw are issued in separate volumes, +bound in stiff paper wrappers. + +_Price 40 cents net per volume_ + + +WIDOWERS' HOUSES + +THE PHILANDERER + +MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION + +ARMS AND THE MAN + +CANDIDA + +YOU NEVER CAN TELL + +THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE + +THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE + +CAESAR AND CLEOPATRA + +CAPTAIN BRASSBOUND'S CONVERSION + +MAN AND SUPERMAN + +JOHN BULL'S OTHER ISLAND + +MAJOR BARBARA + +THE MAN OF DESTINY, AND HOW HE LIED TO HER HUSBAND + +THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA + +GETTING MARRIED + +THE SHEWING-UP OF BLANCO POSNET + +PRESS CUTTINGS + + +BRENTANO'S + +Fifth Avenue and 27th Street New York + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Bashville, by Bernard Shaw + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE BASHVILLE *** + +***** This file should be named 33085.txt or 33085.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/0/8/33085/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif, Fox in the Stars and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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