No More Learning

Poor father! . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 62:

1842.

Ill was I . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 63:

1842.

With tears whose course no effort could confine,
By high-way side forgetful would I sit 1798.

By the road-side forgetful would I sit 1802.

In the open air forgetful . . . 1836. ]


[Variant 64:

1836.

. . . my . . . 1798. ]



[Variant 65:

1836.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields,
And oft of cruelty the sky accused;
On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 1798.

I led a wandering life among the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
I liv'd upon what casual bounty yields, 1802. ]


[Variant 66:

1802.

The fields . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 67:

1836.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,
In tears, the sun towards that country tend 1798.

Three years thus wandering, . . . 1802. ]


[Variant 68:

1836.

And now across this moor my steps I bend-- 1798. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES


[Footnote A: In the 'Prelude', he says it was "three summer days. " See
book xiii. l. 337. --Ed. ]


[Footnote B: By an evident error, corrected in the first reprint of this
edition (1840). See p. 37. --Ed. [Footnote D of 'Descriptive Sketches',
the preceding poem in this text. ]]


[Footnote C: From a short MS. poem read to me when an under-graduate, by
my schoolfellow and friend Charles Farish, long since deceased. The
verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died
young. --W. W. 1842.

Charles Farish was the author of 'The Minstrels of Winandermere'. --Ed. ]


[Footnote D: Compare Milton's "grinding sword," 'Paradise Lost', vi. l.
329. --Ed. ]



* * * * *


SUB-FOOTNOTE


[Sub-Footnote i: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let
out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines
drawn from rock to rock. --W. W. 1798. ]





* * * * *





LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF
ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING [A] A BEAUTIFUL
PROSPECT


Composed 1795. --Published 1798


[Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared,
and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the
lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has
lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the
evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual
whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the
neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at
one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on
his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the
beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks
above the peninsula on which the Ferry House [B] stands. This property
afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr. Curwen. The site was
long ago pointed out by Mr. West, in his 'Guide', as the pride of the
Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station. " So much used I to be
delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years
before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from
Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a
servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the
pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the
islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and
I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be
thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these
notes. --I. F. ]


* * * * *


From 1815 to 1843 these 'Lines' were placed by Wordsworth among his
"Poems of Sentiment and Reflection. " In 1845, they were classed among
"Poems written in Youth. "--Ed.


* * * * *

THE POEM


Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs? [1]
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree [2] 10
With its dark arms to form a circling bower, [3]
I well remember. --He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 15
A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn,--against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away, [4]
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. --Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5]
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, [6]
Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis
Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it became 35
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself, [8]
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence 40
The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed, 45
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,--this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.


* * * * *



The place where this Yew-tree stood may be found without difficulty. It
was about three-quarters of a mile from Hawkshead, on the eastern shore
of the lake, a little to the left above the present highway, as one goes
towards Sawrey. Mr. Bowman, the son of Wordsworth's last teacher at the
grammar-school of Hawkshead, told me that it stood about forty yards
nearer the village than the yew which is now on the roadside, and is
sometimes called "Wordsworth's Yew. " In the poet's school-days the road
passed right through the unenclosed common, and the tree was a
conspicuous object. It was removed, he says, owing to the popular belief
that its leaves were poisonous, and might injure the cattle grazing in
the common. The present tree is erroneously called "Wordsworth's Yew. "
Its proximity to the place where the tree of the poem stood has given
rise to the local tradition. --Ed.


* * * * *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT


[Variant 1:

1832.

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 1798. ]


[Variant 2:

1836.

First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, 1798. ]


[Variant 3:

1800.

Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 1798. ]


[Variant 4:

1802.

. . . In youth, by genius nurs'd,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 1798.

. . . The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service: he was like a plant
Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,
But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,
Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,
With indignation did he turn away 1800. ]


[Variant 5:

1798.

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird
Piping along the margin of the lake; 1815.

The text of 1820 returned to that of 1798. [i]]


[Variant 6:

1820.

And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er. 1798. ]


[Variant 7:

1800.

. . . downward [ii] . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 8: This line was added by S. T. C. in the edition of 1800. ]


[Variant 9:

1827.

. . . and man himself, . . . 1798. ]


[Variant 10:

1836.

With mournful joy, to think . . . 1798. ]



* * * * *


FOOTNOTES TO THE TEXT


[Footnote A: Yet commanding, 1798-1805. ]


[Footnote B: The Ferry on Windermere. --Ed. ]



* * * * *


SUB-FOOTNOTES TO THE VARIANTS


[Sub-Footnote i: The final retention of the reading of 1798 was probably
due to a remark of Charles Lamb's, in 1815, in which he objected to the
loss of the "admirable line" in the first edition, "a line quite alive,"
he called it. Future generations may doubt whether the reading of 1798,
or that of 1815, is the better. --Ed. ]


[Sub-Footnote ii: An emendation by S. T. C. --Ed. ]





* * * * *





THE BORDERERS


A TRAGEDY


Composed 1795-6. --Published 1842


Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the
following composition, some eight or ten lines, [A] which I have not
scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It is
proper however to add, that they would not have been used elsewhere,
if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to publish this
Tragedy.

February 28, 1842. [B]


This Dramatic Piece, as noted in its title-page, was composed in
1795-6. It lay nearly from that time till within the last two or three
months unregarded among my papers, without being mentioned even to my
most intimate friends. Having, however, impressions upon my mind which
made me unwilling to destroy the MS. , I determined to undertake the
responsibility of publishing it during my own life, rather than impose
upon my successors the task of deciding its fate. Accordingly it has
been revised with some care; but, as it was at first written, and is
now published, without any view to its exhibition upon the stage, not
the slightest alteration has been made in the conduct of the story, or
the composition of the characters; above all, in respect to the two
leading Persons of the Drama, I felt no inducement to make any change.
The study of human nature suggests this awful truth, that, as in the
trials to which life subjects us, sin and crime are apt to start from
their very opposite qualities, so there are no limits to the hardening
of the heart, and the perversion of the understanding to which they
may carry their slaves. During my long residence in France, while the
Revolution was rapidly advancing to its extreme of wickedness, I had
frequent opportunities of being an eye-witness of this process, and it
was while that knowledge was fresh upon my memory, that the Tragedy of
'The Borderers' was composed. [C]


* * * * *


[Of this dramatic work I have little to say in addition to the short
printed note which will be found attached to it. It was composed at
Racedown, in Dorset, during the latter part of the year 1795, and in
the following year. Had it been the work of a later period of life, it
would have been different in some respects from what it is now. The
plot would have been something more complex, and a greater variety of
characters introduced to relieve the mind from the pressure of
incidents so mournful. The manners also would have been more attended
to. My care was almost exclusively given to the passions and the
characters, and the position in which the persons in the drama stood
relatively to each other, that the reader (for I had then no thought
of the stage) might be moved, and to a degree instructed, by lights
penetrating somewhat into the depths of our nature. In this endeavour,
I cannot think, upon a very late review, that I have failed. As to the
scene and period of action, little more was required for my purpose
than the absence of established law and government, so that the agents
might be at liberty to act on their own impulses. Nevertheless, I do
remember, that having a wish to colour the manners in some degree from
local history more than my knowledge enabled me to do, I read
Redpath's 'History of the Borders', but found there nothing to my
purpose. I once made an observation to Sir W. Scott, in which he
concurred, that it was difficult to conceive how so dull a book could
be written on such a subject. Much about the same time, but little
after, Coleridge was employed in writing his tragedy of 'Remorse'; and
it happened that soon after, through one of the Mr. Poole's, Mr.
Knight, the actor, heard that we had been engaged in writing plays,
and upon his suggestion, mine was curtailed, and I believe Coleridge's
also, was offered to Mr. Harris, manager of Covent Garden. For myself,
I had no hope, nor even a wish (though a successful play would in the
then state of my finances have been a most welcome piece of good
fortune), that he should accept my performance; so that I incurred no
disappointment when the piece was _judiciously_ returned as not
calculated for the stage. In this judgment I entirely concurred: and
had it been otherwise, it was so natural for me to shrink from public
notice, that any hope I might have had of success would not have
reconciled me altogether to such an exhibition. Mr. C.
's play was, as
is well known, brought forward several years after, through the
kindness of Mr. Sheridan. In conclusion, I may observe, that while I
was composing this play, I wrote a short essay, illustrative of that
constitution and those tendencies of human nature which make the
apparently 'motiveless' actions of bad men intelligible to careful
observers. This was partly done with reference to the character of
Oswald, and his persevering endeavour to lead the man he disliked into
so heinous a crime; but still more to preserve in my distinct
remembrance, what I had observed of transitions in character, and the
reflections I had been led to make, during the time I was a witness of
the changes through which the French Revolution passed. --I. F. ]


'The Borderers' was first published in the 1842 edition of
"Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years. " In 1845, it was
placed in the class of "Poems written in Youth. "--Ed.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE


MARMADUKE. \
OSWALD. |
WALLACE. |- Of the Band of
LACY. | Borderers.
LENNOX. |
HERBERT. /

WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE.
Host.
Forester.
ELDRED, a Peasant.
Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

IDONEA.
Female Beggar.
ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.




SCENE--Borders of England and Scotland

TIME--The Reign of Henry III.




ACT I

SCENE--Road in a Wood

WALLACE and LACY



LACY The Troop will be impatient; let us hie
Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray
Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border.
---Pity that our young Chief will have no part
In this good service.


WALLACE Rather let us grieve
That, in the undertaking which has caused
His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim,
Companionship with One of crooked ways,
From whose perverted soul can come no good
To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.


LACY True; and, remembering how the Band have proved
That Oswald finds small favour in our sight,
Well may we wonder he has gained such power
Over our much-loved Captain.


WALLACE I have heard
Of some dark deed to which in early life
His passion drove him--then a Voyager
Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
In Palestine?


LACY Where he despised alike
Mohammedan and Christian. But enough;
Let us begone--the Band may else be foiled.


[Exeunt. ]

[Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED]


WILFRED Be cautious, my dear Master!


MARMADUKE I perceive
That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle
About their love, as if to keep it warm.


WILFRED Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger,
For such he is--


MARMADUKE Your busy fancies, Wilfred,
Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?


WILFRED You know that you have saved his life.


MARMADUKE I know it.


WILFRED And that he hates you! --Pardon me, perhaps
That word was hasty.


MARMADUKE Fy! no more of it.


WILFRED Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden
To a proud Soul. --Nobody loves this Oswald--
Yourself, you do not love him.


MARMADUKE I do more,
I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience
Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
And enterprise--what perils hath he shunned?
What obstacles hath he failed to overcome?
Answer these questions, from our common knowledge,
And be at rest.


WILFRED Oh, Sir!


MARMADUKE Peace, my good Wilfred;
Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.


WILFRED May He whose eye is over all protect you!


[Exit. ]

[Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand)]


OSWALD This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.


MARMADUKE (looking at them)
The wild rose, and the poppy, and the nightshade:
Which is your favorite, Oswald?


OSWALD That which, while it is
Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal--
[Looking forward. ]
Not yet in sight! --We'll saunter here awhile;
They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.


MARMADUKE (a letter in his hand)
It is no common thing when one like you
Performs these delicate services, and therefore
I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald;
'Tis a strange letter this! --You saw her write it?


OSWALD And saw the tears with which she blotted it.


MARMADUKE And nothing less would satisfy him?


OSWALD No less;
For that another in his Child's affection
Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery,
He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
Which you've collected for the noblest ends,
Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
To guard the Innocent--he calls us "Outlaws";
And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
This garb was taken up that indolence
Might want no cover, and rapacity
Be better fed.


MARMADUKE Ne'er may I own the heart
That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.


OSWALD Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved,
Yet was I grievously provoked to think
Of what I witnessed.


MARMADUKE This day will suffice
To end her wrongs.


OSWALD But if the blind Man's tale
Should _yet_ be true?


MARMADUKE Would it were possible!
Did not the Soldier tell thee that himself,
And others who survived the wreck, beheld
The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
Upon the coast of Cyprus?


OSWALD Yes, even so,
And I had heard the like before: in sooth
The tale of this his quondam Barony
Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;
We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed; 'tis much
The Arch-Impostor--


MARMADUKE Treat him gently, Oswald:
Though I have never seen his face, methinks,
There cannot come a day when I shall cease
To love him. I remember, when a Boy
Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
That casts its shade over our village school,
'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea
Repeat her Father's terrible adventures,
Till all the band of play-mates wept together;
And that was the beginning of my love.
And, through all converse of our later years,
An image of this old Man still was present,
When I had been most happy. Pardon me
If this be idly spoken.


OSWALD See, they come,
Two Travellers!


MARMADUKE (points) The woman [1] is Idonea.


OSWALD And leading Herbert.


MARMADUKE We must let them pass--
This thicket will conceal us.


[They step aside. ]

[Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind. ]


IDONEA Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since
We left the willow shade by the brook-side,
Your natural breathing has been troubled.


HERBERT Nay,
You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
Our march of yesterday had better suited
A firmer step than mine.


IDONEA That dismal Moor--
In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
I never can forgive it: but how steadily
_You_ paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape! --
I thought the Convent never would appear;
It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods--
A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
And thankfully there rested side by side
Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,--
That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
To fling't away from you: you make no use
Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel
That you do press upon me. There--indeed
You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
On this green bank.


[He sits down. ]


HERBERT (after some time)
Idonea, you are silent,
And I divine the cause.


IDONEA Do not reproach me:
I pondered patiently your wish and will
When I gave way to your request; and now,
When I behold the ruins of that face,
Those eyeballs dark--dark beyond hope of light,
And think that they were blasted for my sake,
The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
For all this world can give.


HERBERT Nay, be composed:
Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
My frame, and I bethought me of two things
I ne'er had heart to separate--my grave,
And thee, my Child!


IDONEA Believe me, honoured Sire!
'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
Resound with music, could you see the sun,
And look upon the pleasant face of Nature--


HERBERT I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful
As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
I feel my strength returning. --The bequest
Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
We have thus far adventured, will suffice
To save thee from the extreme of penury;
But when thy Father must lie down and die,
How wilt thou stand alone?


IDONEA Is he not strong?
Is he not valiant?


HERBERT Am I then so soon
Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
Thou wouldst be leaning on a broken reed--
This Marmaduke--


IDONEA O could you hear his voice:
Alas! you do not know him. He is one
(I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul,
Which with the motion of a virtuous act
Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,
Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,
By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.


HERBERT Unhappy Woman!


IDONEA Nay, it was my duty
Thus much to speak; but think not I forget--
Dear Father! how _could_ I forget and live--
You and the story of that doleful night
When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,
You rushed into the murderous flames, returned
Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,
Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.


HERBERT Thy Mother too! --scarce had I gained the door,
I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
I felt thy infant brother in her arms;
She saw my blasted face--a tide of soldiers
That instant rushed between us, and I heard
Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.


IDONEA Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.


HERBERT Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time--
For my old age, it doth remain with thee
To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,
That when, on our return from Palestine,
I found how my domains had been usurped,
I took thee in my arms, and we began
Our wanderings together. Providence
At length conducted us to Rossland,--there,
Our melancholy story moved a Stranger
To take thee to her home--and for myself,
Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's
Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot
Where now we dwell. --For many years I bore
Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities
Exacted thy return, and our reunion.
I did not think that, during that long absence,
My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,
Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,
Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,
Traitor to both.


IDONEA Oh, could you hear his voice!
I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,
But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.


[Enter a Peasant]


PEASANT Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide,
Let me have leave to serve you!


IDONEA My Companion
Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel
Would be most welcome.


PEASANT Yon white hawthorn gained,
You will look down into a dell, and there
Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs;
The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man,
You seem worn out with travel--shall I support you?


HERBERT I thank you; but, a resting-place so near,
'Twere wrong to trouble you.


PEASANT God speed you both.


[Exit Peasant. ]


HERBERT Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed--
'Tis but for a few days--a thought has struck me.


IDONEA That I should leave you at this house, and thence
Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength
Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.


[Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA. ]

[Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD]


MARMADUKE This instant will we stop him--


OSWALD Be not hasty,
For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
He tempted me to think the Story true;
'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
That savoured of aversion to thy name
Appeared the genuine colour of his soul--
Anxiety lest mischief should befal her
After his death.


MARMADUKE
I have been much deceived.


OSWALD But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love
Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
Thus to torment her with _inventions! _--death--
There must be truth in this.


MARMADUKE Truth in his story!
He must have felt it then, known what it was,
And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
Had been a tenfold cruelty.


OSWALD Strange pleasures
Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
To see him thus provoke her tenderness
With tales of weakness and infirmity!
I'd wager on his life for twenty years.


MARMADUKE We will not waste an hour in such a cause.


OSWALD Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.


MARMADUKE Her virtues are his instruments. --A Man
Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,
May well deceive his Child--what! leave her thus,
A prey to a deceiver? --no--no--no--
'Tis but a word and then--


OSWALD Something is here
More than we see, or whence this strong aversion?
Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales
Have reached his ear--you have had enemies.


MARMADUKE Enemies! --of his own coinage.


OSWALD That may be,
But wherefore slight protection such as you
Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere. --
I am perplexed.


MARMADUKE What hast thou heard or seen?


OSWALD No--no--the thing stands clear of mystery;
(As you have said) he coins himself the slander
With which he taints her ear;--for a plain reason;
He dreads the presence of a virtuous man
Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart,
Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds
The punishment they merit. All is plain:
It cannot be--


MARMADUKE
What cannot be?


OSWALD Yet that a Father
Should in his love admit no rivalship,
And torture thus the heart of his own Child--


MARMADUKE Nay, you abuse my friendship!


OSWALD Heaven forbid! --
There was a circumstance, trifling indeed--
It struck me at the time--yet I believe
I never should have thought of it again
But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.


MARMADUKE What is your meaning?


OSWALD Two days gone I saw,
Though at a distance and he was disguised,
Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure
Resembled much that cold voluptuary,
The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows
Where he can stab you deepest.


MARMADUKE Clifford never
Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door--
It could not be.


OSWALD And yet I now remember,
That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue,
And the blind Man was told how you had rescued
A maiden from the ruffian violence
Of this same Clifford, he became impatient
And would not hear me.


MARMADUKE No--it cannot be--
I dare not trust myself with such a thought--
Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man
Not used to rash conjectures--


OSWALD If you deem it
A thing worth further notice, we must act
With caution, sift the matter artfully.


[Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD. ]


SCENE--The door of the Hostel

HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host


HERBERT (seated)
As I am dear to you, remember, Child!
This last request.


IDONEA You know me, Sire; farewell!


HERBERT And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea,
We must not part,--I have measured many a league
When these old limbs had need of rest,--and now
I will not play the sluggard.


IDONEA Nay, sit down.
[Turning to Host.
Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader,
[_Looking at the dog_.
We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
This charge of thine, then ill befall thee! --Look,
The little fool is loth to stay behind.
Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
Take care of him, and feed the truant well.


HOST Fear not, I will obey you;--but One so young,
And One so fair, it goes against my heart
That you should travel unattended, Lady! --
I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir? )
And for less fee than I would let him run
For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.


IDONEA You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard
Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,
A look of mine would send him scouring back,
Unless I differ from the thing I am
When you are by my side.


HERBERT Idonea, wolves
Are not the enemies that move my fears.


IDONEA No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest
Will bring me back--protect him, Saints--farewell!


[Exit IDONEA. ]


HOST 'Tis never drought with us--St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,
Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
Pity the Maiden did not wait awhile;
She could not, Sir, have failed of company.


HERBERT Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.


HOST (calling) Holla!


HERBERT No, no, the business must be done. --
What means this riotous noise?