SCENE I.

“THE LAST WATCH.”

“Lo! sinks the sun beneath the Bawn co Pagh

Amidst a perfect sea of yellow gold.”

—Act VI., Scene III.—“_Isola._”

[Illustration:

FORTUNATUS ON THE HEIGHTS OF AVENAMORE

]

“The youth upon whose head a price is set,

—Young Fortunatus—_is this Isola_, ...

And leads as _Fortunatus the unknown_.”

—Act IV., Scene III.—“_Isola._”

ISOLA;

or,

THE DISINHERITED.

A

Revolt for Woman and all the disinherited.

BY

LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,

WITH REMARKS THEREON

BY

GEORGE JACOB HOLYOAKE, ESQ.

“Heed not the human sneer, the world lives on

Long after those who jeer are dead and gone.

And the ripe products of the fertile brain,

Will live and reproduce fair fruit again.

Thus thou shalt sow, though other hands will reap,

Perchance long after thou hast sunk to sleep.

But, fear not. Thought is _Life. It cannot die_,

And men _will_ honour _what they now deny_.”

(“The Coming of Alastor,” in _The Songs of a Child_.)

[Illustration]

LONDON:

The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C.

_Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd:_

_New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 153–157, Fifth Avenue._

[Illustration]

THE LEADENHALL PRESS, LTD:

50, LEADENHALL STREET, LONDON. E.C.

T 4,793.

Dedication.

TO

GEORGE JACOB HOLYOAKE, ESQ.,

IN ADMIRATION

OF

HIS LONG AND COURAGEOUS FIGHT

AGAINST

SUPERSTITION, INJUSTICE, AND OPPRESSION,

AND OF

HIS FEARLESS DETERMINATION EVER TO SPEAK

AND UPHOLD

The Truth,

THIS DRAMA, LIKEWISE APPEALING FOR JUSTICE TO ALL

LIVING THINGS AND THE RECOGNITION OF TRUTH,

IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY

THE AUTHOR.

_FIRST PREFACE._

[Illustration]

Isola demands the practice of the true laws of the only true God.

The drama demands Justice for _all living things_, from Ruler to

Subject, _of either sex_, and for the brute Creation.

It advocates the Reign of Truth and the destruction of Humbug.

Look at the World and what the latter has produced!

Let Truth take the place of The Lie.

Let rational laws in Church and State prevail, fashioned in accordance

with the laws of the Universe.

Shall Progress be deterred by antiquated ideas and opinions founded on

imperfect Knowledge?

No. The antiquated ideas and opinions must be swept away. The result

will be Freedom.

_Florence Dixie._

1877.

_SECOND PREFACE._

[Illustration]

Isola first appeared in _Young Oxford_ in September, 1902, and ran in

serial form for six months through that publication. The drama itself

was written many years ago. It is not for me to deal with its merits or

demerits. These are handled generously by the true-hearted and honest

gentleman to whom I have the honour to dedicate the piece. At nineteen

or twenty the heart is more concerned with ideals, than the brain with

thoughts of literary excellence. The soul, longing to uphold Truth and

destroy Falsehood, forgets the p’s and q’s of literary etiquette, and I

fear influences the pen to give premier consideration to the former.

The drama, Isola, opposes many established customs, but if these rest

their claim to existence on antiquated and erroneous ideas, they must be

remorsely uprooted. Man cannot make _lasting_ laws. That is in Nature’s

power alone, for Progress, Research and enlarged Thought Force will not

be bound by the cramped and immature ideas of gloomy ages gone.

Superstition has persecuted many, but the time has come to repudiate it,

for in its wake follows Misery, and to it is due the sorrows of Mankind.

In my preface to _Young Oxford_ occurs the following paragraph:

“Let us in imagination soar above our Earth and look down on it

revolving in space, and then look round on that infinite space, in which

myriads of other worlds are also revolving. As we look down on our

Earth, shall we not see upon its surface the glories of Nature’s beauty,

and the hideous scars inflicted thereon by Man? As we look down on these

unsavory sights, and realise how contemptible they are, shall we not

resolve to eradicate them and make the picture one of peace, contentment

and joy? Instead of looking down on blood, carnage, cruelty, torture,

suffering and _injustice_, let us look down on the reverse, and in order

to do so, let us realise the simple, rational and natural ideas of

‘Isola.’ Advanced, are they? Not a bit of it. Unusual? Maybe. But

because they are unusual does not make them wrong. Nothing Natural can

be aught but right, for it is the offspring of Nature, the only true

God. _‘Isola’ demands the practice of the true laws of the only true

God._”

I shall always stand by this assertion.

* * * * *

In conclusion, I desire to make the following statement. My publishers

have pointed out to me that in some of the names of places and countries

I have chosen, there might arise cause for the belief that my characters

in Isola are drawn from life. I am glad to here state frankly that, in

so far as royal personages are concerned, they are purely fictitious and

concern no living human being whatever. Customs and etiquettes I

certainly openly attack. Who would not who desires, as I do, to see

justice done, not only to the poor disinherited human and suffering

non-human, but also to our disinherited and manacled rulers? The unjust

laws in regard to woman I also vigorously attack, and for Superstitious

_Falsehood_ I have no reverence whatever. Nevertheless, judge me as they

may, let no one accuse me of Mockery or Infidelity, for I innately

worship the Inscrutable and believe in Nature, both of which are God

alone. Let us have “_Truth at any price_,” no matter what idols we have

to cast down to attain it. In the attainment of Truth, Justice, Love and

Kindness shall rule in the place of Selfishness, Cruelty and Greed, and

Fair Play be meted out to all.

_Florence Dixie._

[Illustration]

Characteristics of the Drama.

[Illustration]

Though I cannot but be gratified by the Dedication of this Drama to me,

it does not, and was not intended to influence my judgment. Its noble

and unusual aims of “demanding Justice _for every living thing_, from

Ruler to Subject, _of either sex_, and for the brute creation and

advocating the reign of Truth and destruction of Imposture”—could not

fail to command my sympathy and admiration. Written when the authoress

was a girl, the drama is a marvel of thought and power. I know of no

one, save Shelley, who, at so early an age was troubled about the

questions she discusses with such generous passionateness. Apart from

immaturities of expression, natural to immaturity of years, the Drama is

a wonderful piece of writing. But the occasional youthfulness of style

creates the greater surprise at the maturity of conception and often

original expression.

The Drama opens with what George Henry Lewes entitled the great problem

of “Life and Mind.” The first words Isola speaks are:

“Vast attribute of the Eternal mind. Thought, and thy clinging twin,

fair Memory. Art thou and she imperishable parts Of Life and Matter?”

Here is a perfect philosophic theory excellently put. Surely never Queen

before was set to answer such questions.

Isola is a Lady Macbeth of a nobler kind, but has the same undaunted

spirit. She is bold but tender—and only inflexible for the Right. Her

conception of womanly independence is _original in literature_. The

legal and ecclesiastical restrictions woven about her, which limit her

freedom and frustrate her equality, are discerned with great acumen and

described with great power. Such indignation at wrong; such energy and

eloquence in its denunciation, such devotion, sacrifice and unbewailing

courage—constitute the Rebel Queen a new inspiration. Rugged expressions

which occur here and there, seem congenial to the rugged and impetuous

times in which the scenes are laid. Even there there is gold in the

quartz. Keats tells us that Columbus when he first saw new lands from

the peak of Darien, viewed them with “glad surprise.” In like manner the

reader comes upon fresh unexpected sentences. The moral interest of the

Drama has great charm. Every speech, however impassioned, has a certain

quality of restraint; amid fiery denunciation of regal and legal wrong,

there is no insurgency against law, but against _unjust_ law Isola

abdicates her throne in generosity to her rival. Her love of justice and

right brings her to the scaffold, which she contemplates with quiet

heroism, in which there is no fear, or flutter of fear—neither bravado

nor shrinking. No hysterical word escapes her. No word of reproach, such

as Madame Roland uttered, is spoken by Isola. Her sole desire is to save

others and to serve the cause of right. As the tragic death of a woman,

capable both of heroism and reflection, the last hours of Fortunatus are

memorable.

The reader will not need to be told of the felicity in the invention of

names; nor of the spirited scenes in the public Hall, where the orators

of the People speak; nor of the intrigues of courts, nor the conspiracy

of priests—which make these pages alive with interest. The speech of

Merani on the consciousness of her approaching death, has queenly

dignity, as well as flashes of true poetry. The reader will see in the

“Last Watch” of Fortunatus on the heights of Avenamore, the beauty, the

dignity, the determination without defiance, of Isola. Intellectual

intrepidity in defence of the Right, is the soul of the Drama of the

Disinherited.

_G. J. Holyoake._

[Illustration]

_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ._

[Illustration]

_Hector._ King of Saxa, Scota and Bernia (and the Saxscober people[1])

forming the kingdom of Saxscoberland in the planet _Erth_.

_Isola._ Queen Consort.

_Bernis._ Prince of Scota, their son.

_Merani._ The so-called Mistress of the King, but claiming to be

his wife, having married him by the civil law of Scota

(long previous to his union with Isola) while refusing

to go through the religious ceremony, which the law of

Saxscoberland adjudges necessary to constitute a legal

marriage.[2]

_Vergli._ Their son, claiming to be Prince of Scota.

_Maxim._ Vergli’s school and college friend.

_Larar._ King Hector’s equerry.

_Shafto._ Prince of Bernia. Brother of Isola.

_Vulnar._ A noble of Bernia.

_Sanctimonious._ Ardrigh of Saxscoberland.

_Conception._ Chief of “Peerers.”

_Judath._ A spy and informer.

_Scrutus._ A leader of the “Evolutionary Party” under Vergli.

_Verita._ A leader also of the same party.

_Azalea._ One of Merani’s attendants.

_Volio._ _Arflec._ Conspirators.

&c., &c., &c.

Footnote 1:

No suggestion whatever is intended in the selection of these names.

(1877)

Footnote 2:

The situation is created to enable the Author to deal with the

degrading position assigned to woman in the _Religious Marriage

Service_, which position that service forces her to agree to accept

and enjoins her to obey. (1877)

Isola; or, The Disinherited.

_PROLOGUE._

Isola, Princess of Bernia, loves Escanior, one of her father’s youthful

bodyguard. The Prince of Bernia has, however, promised her in marriage

to his liege lord and sovereign, Hector, paramount King of the _Saxens_,

_Scotas_ and _Ernas_, inhabitants of the three islands _Saxa_, _Scota_

and _Bernia_, situated in the _Emerald_ Ocean, in the _Planet Erthris,

or Erth_, and together forming the Kingdom of Saxscoberland. Isola and

Escanior attempt flight, but are pursued by the Prince of Bernia, and

captured in their boat, whereupon the Prince condemns Escanior to

instant death, and he is stabbed and flung into the sea, his unhappy

love, Isola, being borne away to become the wife of Hector, King of the

Saxscober people, and shortly afterwards the nuptials are celebrated.

* * * * *

_Isola_, Queen of the Saxscobers, sitting alone soliloquises: “Vast

attribute of the Eternal mind, Thought, and thy clinging twin, fair

Memory, Art thou and she imperishable parts Of Life and Matter, or

but sudden sparks Born to expire and never live again? What art thou

Thought and what is Memory If not the factors of undying Life, Which

draws from Death fresh force to recreate And fashion new existence

from Decay? Oh! Thought; oh! Memory, _Ye cannot die_, Ye can but sink

to sleep in Death’s cold arms To wake again, a recreated force, Part

of a universe which cannot end, Because its function is to recreate,

Evolving Life from Nature’s boundless store, Nature the all Eternal,

only God, Creator of all things known and unknown, The Great

Inscrutable, which mind alone Shall understand when it is perfected.

Escanior; Oh! Escanior, where art thou? Fair Memory recalls thee to

thy love, Isola, who will never yield her heart To mortal man, for it

is thine alone. My golden haired, my blue-eyed Escanior! They

murdered thee before these starting eyes, They forced me to become

another’s bride, They forced that horror on my shrinking soul And

left me to endure its fearful pain. One thing they could not do. They

could not take My heart away, or force it to vibrate For any other

but thy own dear self, My murdered love, my vanished Escanior.

Thought! speak to me. Ah! tell me where his is, What part of Nature

is his woven with? When will my body, mingling with the Earth Quit

this curst slavery and twine once more Its arms around the Love that

cannot die? Oh! Thought so penetrating, so divine, Fathom for me the

Knowledge that I seek. Shew me where I can find Escanior, Tell me and

I will burst my prison bars, And seek with him the liberty I crave.”

_Hector_, King of the Saxscobers, joins her exclaiming: “Dreaming again

Isola. Truth, thou art A sorry bride for a great King _to own_, A

King whom many virgins yearned to win, And whom thou shrinkest from

with mute appeal In thy sad eyes that I should let thee be. Hast thou

no sense of honour? Where the vows Which Holy Church commanded thee

to make To love me, _and obey_ and reverence me, Yes, me thy Lord and

Master, thou my slave? Hast thou then no respect for pledges given,

And priestly exhortation? How is it Thou shun’st me as thou dost,

breaking the vows Thou mad’st to God to be my loving mate?”

_Isola._ “Hector, _I_ made _no vow, my lips were mute_, _I_ did _not_

utter the accursed lie, Which would have fallen from them, had I

vowed To love, and honour, and obey a man I could not love or honour.

Nor would I Lose self respect by swearing to _obey_ One who should be

my equal and co-mate, But _not_ my Lord and Master, I his slave. What

care _I_ for your Holy Church, or for The priestly exhortations of

its _Men_? Why should these _Mockers of the laws of God_, Make laws

for Women, whom they treat as naught? Tell me not Hector, that their

words are God’s, God’s laws are not immoral as theirs are, For God is

Nature, God is not that fiend Which priestly doctrine has set up on

high And bidden us remember and adore. Remember what has never been,

nor is? Adore a myth ladened with cruel crimes, The base conception

of ignoble minds? Never! Isola worships one _true_ God, The vast,

inscrutable, unfathomed force, _Which nothing but a perfect mind

shall solve, Which nothing but Perfection shall attain_. Hector, you

call yourself a mighty King, A ruler wise and just, guided by laws

Called by their framers Righteous. Go to, King! I tell you _they are

rotten to the core_, Fruits of a tree _planted by priests_ and men

_Without the aid of Woman’s guiding hand_. Small wonder they are

false and trample down The heads of Justice, Mercy and Great Truth.

As well might Man attempt alone the task Of making Life without the

Woman’s aid, As seek to frame those human laws, which bind

Communities together and enforce Their will upon _the disinherited_.

For _all around, these outlaws of our Erth_ Wander and prowl in

seething discontent. Men, women, children, all are victims of

Unnatural laws, Nature’s base antichrists. Am I not a poor

disinherited? Is not that lonely woman far away, That woman dwelling

in fair Scota’s isle, Whom, ere you tied with me ignoble ties, You

treated as a wife, who bore you seed, And loved you Hector as I love

you not, Is she not too a Disinherited, One of the outlaws fashioned

by your laws? Is not the son she bore you, Vergli called, Your

rightful heir? Is not the child you force On me, by Nature

illegitimate, Although the priests declare it blest by God? Why did

you leave her to dishonour me? I did not seek to be your crownèd

slave, I loved but one, my dear Escanior, They murdered him and tore

me from his side To be your lawful, sacred prostitute! Out on the

creed that dares to order thus, Out on it, and its superstitious

cant, Out on the monstrous God _it_ has set up And made the Sponsor

of its ranting lies. No, Hector, such a creed will never stand, Or be

professed by _thinking_, honest hearts. ’Twas only made to gull the

ignorant, And sway the superstitious multitude. _All round you cry

the disinherited, Go lift the loads from off the poor oppressed,

Strike down all civil and religious laws Which mock at Nature and

withhold from Man Those rights which Nature gives to everyone._”

_Hector._ “Isola, prate no longer blasphemy, Cease thy revilings of the

Orthodox, Merani was not wed by Holy Church, Who judges her unwedded,

and her son, Vergli, my first born, illegitimate. I bow to Holy

Church, the fount of God And its behests I cannot disobey. Vergli is

not my heir, the child from thee Will be _The_ Prince of Scota, if a

son, And dost _thou_ dare to question _his_ true right, Thou _his

own_ mother and King Hector’s wife, Thou the crowned Queen of mighty

Saxscober? Cease woman, nor defame God’s holy name, That God who

fashioned Woman out of Man. Who are the Disinherited of Erth?

Would’st have men equal, and to women give Those sacred rights which

Holy Church declares Are man’s alone, given him by his God? Cease thy

revolt against the Orthodox, Bow to revealed religion and become A

lover of Conventionality. Isola, I command it, I, thy King, And, _as

thy husband, lord and master too_.”

_Isola._ “No, Hector, _I will never_ bow the knee To Humbug or to the

black fiend Untruth. I say _the_ Prince of Scota _is Vergli_ And not

the son that I, alas! may bear. Poor innocent! Born to commit a

wrong. What am I, the crowned Queen of Saxscober? A creature, a

dependent on _your_ life, Who bears the _empty_ title of a Queen

Without the powers which _should_ accompany it, And who at your

demise is ousted by The very child who prattles at her knee, Who thus

is early taught to scorn that part Of his own being, given him by

her, Far more a parent than his father even, Whom he calls mother.

No, no, Hector, King, Your slave I am, but most unwillingly, Give me

my freedom, _give to everyone The equal right to strive for and

attain_ _The opportunities, which Life affords To those who have the

chance to grasp their hands_. Unto the Orthodox _I_ will _not_ bow

And only one religion can command The homage of Isola. That which

Truth Proves unmistakably by Nature’s laws, To be revealed, I will

obey, but Cant And rant, and superstition, out on them! Isola shuns

them as she would a plague.”

[_Rises and walks slowly away._

_Hector, solus._ “How now! Revolt is in the son and air! Vergli

protesting, and Isola’s ire Roused and evolving disobedience. I must

assert my sole prerogative, And call unto my aid most Holy Church,

Which will not brook of disobedience. Vergli, _the disinherited_

indeed! Isola too a _disinherited_! The poor, _the disinherited of

Erth_! ’Tis Revolution, ’tis Revolt indeed, Which must be checked at

once and instantly. Vergli, Isola shall not mock at me.”

[_Retires pondering._

[Illustration]

_ACT FIRST._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.

The Palace of Dreaming, in the Metropolis of Infantlonia, capital of

the Island of Saxa, which with Scotia and Bernia, forms the Saxscober

Sovereignty.

TIME: Midnight; outside the Palace Gates.

_Vergli._ Solus, looking through them: “Home of my fathers, where I

claim the right To live, and by the law Fair Play, to be The Prince

of Scota. By that law I am My fathers heir, and the young fledgling

boy, Who steals from me the title I should hold, Mocks at me, I, the

Disinherited! Ay, disinherited; for he and I Are both the offspring

of a common sire, Who called me son, long prior to the day When my

young brother first beheld the light, And took the title which is

mine alone. Does not this base injustice cast a slur Upon my most

beloved mother’s name? Did she not wed my sire by Scota’s law? Am I

not part of her as well as him? By what _unnatural_ law is she denied

The right to bear the title of The Queen? Does not the very act,

which weds the two, And by the law of Nature makes them one, Proclaim

a union most legitimate? Yet ye, Oh! Prelates, hold aloft a _book,

Concocted in the gloomy ages gone_, By men as selfish and unjust as

ye, Who flaunt the Act of Nature, and declare It wicked and

unbinding, unless blest By superstitious Mummery, conceived By the

immoral Prophets of the Past. They dare to call my pure-souled mother

bad. Dub her a wanton, robe her name in shame! Curses upon them and

the ranting Cant Which voices such a foul and hideous lie. Away with

it! Perdition to its name, I will for ever be its fiercest foe; I,

who love Nature, the true, only God, I, Vergli, the poor _bastard_

son of him Who lives in legalized Adultery With the unhappy and

degraded slave, Which his priest-ridden Creed has called The Queen, I

swear to fight it to its very death. I vow it! I, the Disinherited.”—

_Enter Maxim_, who has overheard the last words. “What, Vergli here?

‘The Disinherited!’ Sighing o’er wrongs. Planning Revolution. Dost

know King Hector is abroad to-night, And will return this way without

a doubt? What will he say if he should find thee here? Put thee in

prison, man, most probably. Oh! thou art rash to venture thus, as

’twere Into the precincts of The Lion’s den, The person of The

Disinherited.”

_Vergli._ “Maxim, that’s why I came; I fain would speak With my liege

lord and King, and Father too, I would plead just once more for my

own rights And crave respect for my dear Mother’s name. She lies sore

sick, sick unto very death, That Mother, dearer to me than my life,

She, who should be our fair Saxscober’s Queen, Not as is poor Isola,

a mere slave, But reigning all conjointly with my sire, I, the

presumptive heir to him and her And not the _forced usurper of her

rights_.”

_Maxim._ “Oh! these are dreams, Vergli; thou dream’st strange dreams;

Woman is but the appanage of man, _At least our priestly tutors tell

us so. ’Tis they who have assigned that place to her._ Would’st thou

make her Man’s equal? Have a care, Freedom to Woman would doom

Privilege, And that we have secured from ages old By help of

Superstition and false gods, Who bade the Woman bow the knee to Man.

Mind’st thou how in the days that have gone by Thou had’st a sister,

little Merani? She was thy elder by a year or more, Did she live now,

would’st put her in thy place And as the eldest born declare her

heir, Princess of Scota and prospective Queen Of fair Saxscober,

leaving out thyself As a nonentity and younger born?”

_Vergli._ “Aye, that I would. Fervently I say it, _So long as

Primogeniture is law, Consistency_ declares _the eldest born_, And

_not the male first-born alone_, the heir. Saxscober’s laws do not

deny the right To Woman to inherit, when no boy Stands in the way

depriving her of such. Why should a Woman therefore lose this right

Because a younger brother sees the light? No Maxim, if Merani were

alive, I’d dub her Scota’s Princess and declare That she was the true

heiress of this realm.”

_Maxim._ “Ah! well Vergli; I see thy point, _’tis just_, But Justice

_is not loved by many men_. He who would see it reign, _is seldom

found_; ’Tis but a selfish creature, average man! And yet methinks

_he is not all_ to blame, Why do not Women teach him in his youth The

principle of Justice to their sex?”

_Vergli._ “Because _they know no better_. They are slaves _Drilled to

believe_ the priestly fashioned laws Part of Divine instruction and

command. In the dark ages gone, the prophets knew That Woman, to be

held in check, must bend Prostrate before the superstitious spell

Which has enveloped her with obscure mist And hidden from her sight

The Promised Land. And so, poor thing, she hugs her chains and drills

Her very children to believe them just, And if amidst these children,

a girl child Dares to dispute this creed, the world aghast Gapes at

her shouting, ‘How so miscreant! What! _You_ say; _You_ are

disinherited? Presume _you_ thus to question _God’s_ decree And the

most holy spouter of His Will, _The Great Saint Saul, so chivalrous,

so just_, Who bade the Woman sanctify herself By humbly subjecting

herself to man.’ ‘But,’ cries the child, and Maxim you will know I

quote Isola’s words, which she has dared To fling broadcast upon a

gaping world, ‘But I deny that _such a God exists_, And that he ever

lived to say such things. He is the fabrication of those men

Progenitors of _Chivalrous Saint Saul_! As chivalrous and just as

that _Good Man_, Who, I declare, at every turn of speech Insults the

woman and proclaims her slave.’ Thus speaks Isola, poor Isola, who

Bore the young boy who holds the name I claim Of ‘Prince of Scota,’

unto my own sire; And thus assisted, though unwillingly, In rivetting

upon my mother’s neck, And on that of her sex the cruel chains, Cast

round them by a man-made, man-shaped God, And rivetted upon them by

_Saint_ Saul! Small wonder that Isola’s loud protest _Has roused some

of the disinherited_, As it has spurred me also to revolt; Aye, here

I stand, ‘The Disinherited,’ In spirit speaking to that lonely soul,

Dwelling within _that Palace’s cold Prison_, And join with her my cry

against foul Wrong. But hark! Voices! Maxim retire. The King.”

[Maxim glides away. Enter King Hector and a boon companion].

_King Hector_, catching sight of Vergli; “Thou Vergli? Thou art rash

and most presuming To test my patience thus. What wantest thou?”

_Vergli._ “To speak with thee, my father and my King.”

_King Hector._ “Of what avail? I know before thou speakest”——

_Vergli_ (interposing). “_My_ Mother’s dying, sire. I bear to thee Her

farewell message and some words of love.”

_King Hector_ (starting). “Dying! What say’st thou, Vergli? Here Larar,

Precede me, I will follow on anon.”

_Larar._ “Yes Sire.” [_Retires._

_Vergli_ (turning to King Hector): “Father! For thus I learnt to call

thee, e’re Thou taught’st me that my mother had no rights And that I

was a Disinherited. I come to bear to thee her dying words. ‘Tell

him,’ she whispered, ‘that I love him still, Hector, my rightful

husband before God. Tell him Merani’s dying thoughts forgive, Forgive

him for the Wrong he has upheld By wedding Isola and scorning me. But

tell him also, Vergli, _that no creed Can sanctify a Sin, nor any

law_, No matter how ’tis worded, _alter God_, God, who is Nature

indestructible. _I_ am _his wife_ by the true law of God, _He_ is _my

husband_ by that self-same law, And by that law _thou_ art the

rightful heir, So long as Primogeniture is law, For Merani thy sister

is no more. Were she alive, however, I declare Her right to be _the

heir_, a prior one To thine, my son. In this _we_ are agreed. Go tell

thy father Merani’s last words, And pray him to do justice to

Vergli.’ Father, I pray thee harken to those words, Be just, be

brave; Oh! Father, be a King In deed as well as name, be that, and

more, Be a true Man, dear Nature’s genuine son, And not the creature

of unnatural laws, The offspring of a superstitious creed.”

_King Hector_ (aside). “My son is eloquent, his words convince, And yet

I dare not flout _the_ Church or State, Which bids me worship and

obey them both.”

_To Vergli._ “How now, mad youth, I bid thee once for all Cease this

revolt against established law, And yield obedience to our Mother

Church. My views are dreams; all Revolution is The outcome of

fantastic, rebel thought. Thou and Isola, both are dreaming fools,

Doubtless I’ll find her in a mood like thine, Which I intend to crush

relentlessly. Beware, rash lad, try me no more. Be wise. I warn thee,

Vergli, but for the last time.”

[_He turns on his heel, leaving Vergli alone._

[Illustration]

SCENE II.

A large room on an upper floor in a housed, situate in a side street,

leading off the populous thoroughfare and district of Stairway. The

room is full of men and women, of poor but respectable class. They

are listening to a somewhat eccentric looking man, who is addressing

them; Scrutus by name.

TIME: Early Dawn.

_Scrutus_ (pleadingly). “Be honest, comrades, show that which men lack,

The Courage of their own convictions. Hark! _Truth’s silver voice is

pleading for you_ now. ’Tis Vergli, Hector’s son, who has flung down

The gauntlet of defiance against Wrong. Vergli, himself, a

disinherited; ’Tis he who has proclaimed our sacred rights, The

rights which human beings claim by right, Right, moral and divine,

and by divine I mean, as you all know, by Nature’s law. What are

these rights? They are to live and be, _To have access to

Opportunity_, To eat a wholesome meal once in the day, To be afforded

work and honest toil, To be assured the idle shall not loaf, To know

the infirm shall have free succour, The aged live in comfortable

homes, To be assured likewise that every sex Shall have a voice in

governing our land, That Privilege shall never be usurped, And that

_in Merit only, rank shall find Its resting place_, which is its

rightful due. We have the Human Right likewise to rule Our lives by

laws divine. Vergli has said, And Vergli speaks with reason, ‘that no

law Should bind Humanity but Human law, Which law is Nature,

therefore Perfection.’ A natural religion is our right, Religion

founded by the laws of God, Not Superstition’s God, as made by

priests, But God as Nature represents this force, Whose laws no

man-made creed can controvert. Rest certain, Nature orders all things

best, And when we seek to flout her, sorrow comes. Look round ye,

comrades. Nature is oppressed, On every side the disinherited Roam

speechless, mutely wond’ring whence their pain, _Begging as Charity

what is their right_; Right filched from them by those who mock and

scout As wicked and immoral, Nature’s laws.”

_Verita_ (interposing, speaks): “Scrutus is right, he voices Vergli’s

words, Words which are gold and silver in our ears. If we would win

the common rights detailed We must combine, and practice what we

preach. What do we seek to win? Just human rights, And to be governed

by diviner laws Than now prevail. Our revolution is The evolution of

both Thought and Mind, Which working upwards yearns to find the

Truth. Wander in Stairway’s slums. Is Truth found there? No, nothing

but a huge and monster lie, The offspring of a Superstitious creed,

That creed which Sanctimonious bids us hug, And which is bolstered up

by Church and State. What has it done for us, that boasted creed? Why

made us the poor disinherited, The outcasts of a sham Society, In

which Sham’s influence is paramount; And when we cry ‘Reform,’

retorts ‘Revolt,’ And dubs our movement ‘Social Revolution.’ Our

noble Vergli calls it ‘Moral Force,’ Seeking a level where it can

abide, And influence entire Society. And thus it is, dear comrades,

without doubt, And therefore to attain it we must work, Using all

forces which we can command. We seek _not Anarchy, that’s not our

creed, We ask for Human rights and Human laws, For true religion, and

not Superstition_.”

_A Voice._ “I hear a step. Surely it is Vergli’s.”

[_Enter Vergli. All rise and greet him with looks of affection._

_Vergli._ “The top of the morning! to you, kind friends, Our burrow

then is not evacuated?”

_A Voice._ “No, noble Vergli! but the ferrets prowl And sniff around

its entrance, seeking prey, The secret ‘peerers’ of our sharp Ardrigh

Are searching for that which they may devour. Vergli’s ‘free lances,’

who are just the nuts Which Sanctimonious loves to gobble up, Having

first pulverised to dust their shells. But every dog enjoys its day.

We will Open his grace’s eyes, and make them stare When Vergli is

returned to Parliament, And his most graciousness’s abject slave Is

given the ‘good-bye’ by Stairway’s votes.”

_Vergli._ “How goes it, Scrutus? How now, Verita, Are you and he making

good headway still? Shall we succeed this time? How go the funds?

Low, I’m afraid? What no? Why do you smile And shake your head and

laugh so pleasantly?”

_Verita._ “Because the silver lining of _our cloud_ Is shining

brightly. Stairway is aroused, And Isola has filled our purse with

gold. She sent it secretly ‘_for Vergli’s cause_,’ But _we_ know well

it is Isola’s gift. That poor Isola, pining, as the lark Pines in its

gilded cage, with eyes intent Upon the Heav’n its cagèd spirit

craves.”

_Vergli._ “Isola, ah! yes, she _is_ Vergli’s friend, The heart of that

poor captive beats with love For all the disinherited of Erth, Be

they of human or of brute creation, Knowing that _All Creation_ has

its rights, The dumb brute and the voluble human. From both of which

the sanctimonious laws, Which rule Society, have filched their dues.

Isola is in heart and deed a Queen, Not that gay puppet which man

dresses up In tawdry garments trimmed with tinsel daubs, Pulling the

strings which make the puppet dance The weird, fantastic jig his

fancy loves, But what a monarch should be, a kind friend, The

people’s Maypole, round which Joy is rife And laughter is not drowned

in Suff’ring’s tears. Yet our false laws deny _her_ human rights,

Class her with the poor idiot whose dulled brain, Diseased by causes

physical, is mute, And cannot use the right, which nature gives To

all the human family of this erth, No matter of which sex its items

are, That right to think, and speak, and fashion laws Demanded by

Necessity. Progress Demands new laws, and busy evolution Will not be

bound by antiquated thought, Whose crude ideas no longer satisfy The

ever moving forces of Mankind. Yet Isola, proud Sanctimonious says,

Has not the right to vote or represent, Or be that, which she is, a

human being! Is she not—leastwise Sanctimonious says,— An offcast of

the man, piece of his bone, That piece, _a rib_, filched by God from

his side, Which he can pet, mal-use, treat as a thing Dependent on

him, not of much account, Unless it be to pander to his wants

Physical or Political, a slave. Bone of his bone? Ha! Ha! a

splintered bone? Or stay! _Perhaps_ the long sought missing link, The

bone of that lost tail! _I have it now_; Oh! happy thought! Oh!

Sanctimonious, What will you pay me for this missing link? No wonder

_we_ have searched for it in vain, Seeing your Deity made use of it

To fashion her, to whom no doubt _He_ said, ‘Woman, thou art indeed

_the tail of Man_.’[3] A _vast_ idea, is it not, Verita? Are you not

fascinated by the thought? Just ponder it. Bone of his bone. Sublime!

_The missing link_ between the ape and man.”

_Verita_ (laughing). “Oh! thought divine! Who dares to question now The

wondrous evolutionary power Which fashions thought, and from an

Embryo Will turn it into a discerning God. Haste Vergli! Haste! Give

Scientists the clue, Oh! Physiologists, examine quick The _rib_ made

woman. Surely a mistake! A slip of pen, a literary ‘mot.’ If only you

can reconcile that tale _And get the rib to waive its ancient

claims_, And find in Woman’s bones a trace of that Most noble Relic

of primeval man, Then you and Sanctimonious can embrace And stitch up

all your little differences, Hold a most amicable, state Pow Wow,

Issue a new and Authorised edition Of a revised and up-to-date

religion, Smoking together fragrant Pipes of Peace. But Vergli, apart

from joking, good news! Ay excellent the news I have received. Isola

has assured your cause success By sending us the sinews that we

lacked. I have no fear. Vergli, you’ll be returned, The Sanctimonious

nominee o’erturned, Next Parliament will hail you an M.P.”

_Vergli._ “Verita, Scrutus, kindly comrades, thanks, For your brave

work on my behalf. I swear To labour in your service to the last,

Whether I represent you as M.P. Or lead you forward to fair Freedom’s

goal, As King in deed and not alone in name. Take Vergli’s gratitude.

He ne’er forgets. His aim will be to reign within your hearts, And

reap his people’s love, faithful and true. And now, good morning to

you, see the sun Is clasping in its rays those shamefaced clouds

Which Night is beckoning, as off she flies, To leave to Day an equal

spell of rule As she has held. We must not linger here, A sadder

scene demands my presence now, So let us leave our burrow solitary,

And go our diff’rent ways as silently As we came here. We

disinheriteds Will bear in mind our motto and watchwords, ‘Forward’

to fight for ‘Liberty and Truth.’”

Footnote 3:

The doctrine of the formation of woman out of a man’s rib is one

degrading to her, and calculated to foster the belief held by many

men, that the wife is the husband’s property. Since my esteemed

ancestress “The Rib” was made an institution she has been treated as a

chattel.—_Author._

SCENE III.

_Glen Glory on the Firth of Glory._

A cottage overlooking the Firth, in the island of Scota. The cottage is

covered with climbing roses and creepers, and flowers abound in rich

profusion. The cottage nestles amidst stately trees, and grassy

glades surround it, and in these glades rabbits and pheasants feed in

perfect peace and security. In this woodland retreat every kind of

bird finds a home, and their song gives glory to their joy and

happiness. Here, too, the roe deer dwells amidst the bracken and the

squirrel is permitted to revel in Life amongst the dark pines which

rear aloft their spreading branches. A rippling burn runs through the

whole Glen, making its way towards the sea, and its waters shelter

the shy brown trout, who leads, as far as man is concerned, an

undisturbed existence. Life is sacred in Glen Glory by order of its

Mistress, Merani.

_Merani_ (stretched on a couch in her bedroom, close to an open window.

She is alone. Time: Evening): “So this is Death? How quietly it

comes, Creeping like Evening’s shadows slowly on. I feel its presence

drawing very nigh, Its cold breath hovering around my face, Like the

chill wind which heralds in a storm. God of my heart! _I_ do _not_

fear its touch; _It is from Thee it comes, so must be right_, The

Pow’r that rules all things, that put me here And takes me hence,

will clasp me in its arms And make _me still a part of endless Life_,

Part of the Mighty Universe divine, Part _of that matter

indestructible, Whose very death creates and recreates, Fashioning

Life from out of all decay_. Oh! Life, thou art a strange enigma

here. Marred by the vices and the sins of Man, Distorted by his

weird, fantastic creed Which shapes a most impossible, dread God And

makes him parent of unnatural laws. This is the God who judges me

outcast, A prostitute, a disinherited, Because I would not utter

shameful vows, And call myself the slave of e’en a King. And yet by

the true laws, of the _true_ God, Nature, the one and only God I own,

I am the wife of Hector, as he is The husband, whom I loved, and

loving still Claim as my wedded co-mate, though he has Proclaimed me

outcast and forced to his side That poor Isola, loved of Escanior,

Fair Escanior to whom her heart was wed, Who died before her eyes

unwillingly, For life was sweet to him when she was nigh, _And bright

to her so long as he was near_. Ah! well, we suffer when we cast

defiance At Nature, so must willing hands strike down The

superstitions and the lies of Men, And fight to win fair Justice and

bright Truth. Vergli, my son, dear Scota’s rightful prince, Have I

not given thee these thoughts of mine? Yes, and have bidden thee

spread them afar And labour to achieve Success for them. Vergli, it

seems to me thou drawest nigh Often we think of those who think of

us, What binds together sudden intercourse, Community of thought?

Spirits blending? What hidden force of interchanging thought Brings

this about? Oh! Science thou art dense, Thou hast a vast immensity to

learn. Clear out the Charnel House of thy dull brain And flood it

with that penetrating thought Which some have sneered at as

Imagination. Where would all Truth have been but for its aid?

Sometimes its shapes are vague and most obscure, As all conception

is, e’en Life itself, Which from a speck becomes a thinking brain,

Fruit of the tiny atom first conceived. Thus shall Thought be the

ovule of a Life At present far beyond our comprehension. A life whose

thought, in Evolution’s arms Shall far transcend the ovule of to-day,

Bringing us knowledge that _shall_ pierce _the veil_ That veil which

hides the secret of Creation.”

Enter an Attendant, exclaiming: “Lady Merani, your son is here, just

come.”

_Merani._ “See dear Azalea to his needs, and then Bid him come to his

mother’s side. The lights are growing dim and darkness steals Across

the vision of these once bright eyes. Ah! ’tis his voice, ’tis

Vergli’s, dearest boy, So without tarrying thou seekest me? Azalea

you may leave us quite alone, It is my last ‘alone’ with my dear

son.”

_Vergli_ (kissing her): “Mother, I bore thy message to my sire. If I

mistake not, it struck home a shaft Which made him wince although he

held high head And bade me bow to the inevitable. But fear not

mother, _Truth and Right shall win_, I’ll work for it unto my latest

breath. I’ll plant the seed _thou gav’st me_. It may be I shall not

reap the harvest it _shall_ bring. But other hands can reap where I

have sown And in the reaping _thou_ shalt win the day.”

_Merani._ “It matters little who will reap the grain, So it _is_

reaped. Our work is Evolution, In which all Nature, that is God,

directs The ceaseless ever active spinning wheels Which weave the

vast materials of space Into forms _known_ to us, _and all unknown_.

Here I, advancing into that unknown, Upon whose threshold I shall

shortly stand, Counsel thee Vergli to work endlessly To find the

Truth of all things by research And by _developing the Thought of

Man_. But Thought will never soar to heights sublime, Those heights

where dwell the knowledge that we seek, Save in the brain of

recreated Man, By which I mean the Human perfected. It is not perfect

to be full of lust, It is not perfect to have cruel hearts, It is not

perfect to oppress the weak, Or to deny to all and everything The

rights which Nature gives them as their own. The perfect man will not

delight in war, Nor crave to make his food of bleeding flesh, The

_Vivisection Hell_ and Slaughter House, The pastime known as ‘Sport’

and other crimes, Which Superstition and imperfect Man Have hitherto

upheld and countenanced, Will cease to be and our fair Erth become

That which Perfection shall attain for Man, An Eden Garden, one in

fact, not myth, A world where love and kindness shall hold sway. Thus

shalt thou toil towards that far off goal. Vergli, my son, be just,

be merciful, Treat every living thing that breathes and feels As kith

and kin, nor seek to disinherit That living life of Life’s fair

heritage, Nor filch from Life its dearest privilege, The right to

live and to enjoy its own. Work to make Man divine _in heart and

form_, Teach him that beauty is assured to all Who shall be born of

well selected mates. Teach him that ’tis _a crime to the unborn_ To

breed _unhealthy_ offspring _or oppress_ Woman with childbirth’s

_oft-recurring strain_. Quality, not Quantity, should be the aim,

_And every child should be the fruit of love, And not of lust,

incontinence or greed_, Which latter is ungoverned Passion’s child.

Vergli, my son, these are thy Mother’s words, The mother who has

lived and nurtured thee. Thou wilt be true, I feel it, for I know

Thou art in truth born of my very bone. See Evening fades. Upon

horizon’s face Soft lights are dying, slowly, as I die; Dying, but

only to be born again As all is born anew in Nature’s arms. Behind

the fading evening, darksome Night Looms like a ghost, and yet a

fair-faced wraith. Around whom brilliant worlds irradiate And glorify

the endless Universe. Behind dark Night I see the face of Dawn, Dawn,

dimpled-cheeked and rosy like a child, Dawn that proclaims the birth

of a new day, The offspring of Eternal Evolution. There is no end,

Vergli, there is _no end_, Who dares to say the infinite can die?

Science? Ah: Science, quit your A. B. C. _And learn to read until you

find the Truth_. Vergli, dear Son, thy Mother sinks to sleep _Good

night_, but some day it will be good morning. Kiss me, Merani’s eyes

are courting sleep, The Sleep which Death awards to everyone. The

Sleep which _must_ awake, as certainly As cycle wheel goes ever

turning round. Bury me, Vergli, where the wild flow’rs bloom. Kill

not a single bud to deck my grave; No faded wreaths let any man lay

there. Let Nature only whisper with soft voice When Merani rests in

the lap of Erth. Hold my hand, Vergli; see, I have no fear. Oh!

Death, where is thy terror or thy sting?”

[_Dies._

_Vergli_ (kneeling down beside his Mother’s couch): “No, Mother. Fear

of Death is not for thee, Or for those others who, like thee, believe

That Nature’s laws are part of the divine, And the divine, the great

Inscrutable, And the Inscrutable, the only God, Which Human minds

cannot distort or mar, Because they cannot formulate the thought

Which shall conceive thee as thou art indeed. I bow before thee, vast

creating force, And will not dare to mock thy Majesty By sculpturing

thee in any kind of form. Yes, Mother, I will plough and sow the

grain Which thou hast counselled me to cultivate. And it _shall_

root, and grow, and multiply Until the world _shall_ shine with

golden corn, And Man _shall_ reap and feast upon this grain, And wax

beneath its potent nourishment, A Hercules in Thought and Perfect

Love, Parents of Knowledge that we hunger for. Oh! future Thought!

Oh! Perfect Love! true mates, Creators of that Truth we yearn to

find. I see ye, yes I see ye, though afar, The time _will_ come when

we _shall_ clasp your hands And revel in the Knowledge yet unknown.”

[_He rises, closes his Mother’s eyes and leaves the room._

END OF ACT I.

[Illustration]

_ACT SECOND._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.

A large Meeting Hall in Stairway, densely filled with people. The

election of a member, for that district, to the House of Privilege,

is over, the votes have been counted, and Vergli, to the intense

surprise of _the party_, influenced by Sanctimonious, the Ardrigh of

Saxscober, and which has hitherto been the paramount power in

Stairway, has been declared to be the returned candidate. The crowded

meeting is awaiting his arrival, to hear an address from him.

[Enter Vergli, Scrutus, Verita, Maxim and Members of Vergli’s Election

Committee. He receives an immense ovation. The chair is taken by

Verita, who, on silence being obtained, rises and introduces the new

Member of Privilege for Stairway in the following speech:

_Verita._ “Friends; Right has triumphed. Vergli is returned. The Cause

of Progress, Human love and Truth Has made another bound, and left

behind The prison ground wherein it was confined. For what does

Vergli’s advent here portend? Why, that the voice of Reason shall be

heard, Not trembling in the slums, or whispering In muffled accents

its convincing words; But ringing through the House of Privilege,

Echoing in the Chamber of the _Bores_, Re-echoing in the press and

through our land, Filling the brains of Men with new-born thought,

Thought, recreated from a vanished past, Whose sombre clouds are

hastening away, And with them the dark ages which they clothed. _Now_

have the people won their voice a place, And soon that voice, falling

from Vergli’s lips, Will cry aloud the human rights of Man, Which

term, of course, includes the Woman too. Vergli is Woman’s friend,

undoubtedly. His creed does not coerce her with its weight, No

Saulite dictum soils his honest lips, To him the human rights are not

controlled By that _inhuman_ thief, Sex Privilege. His mission here

is to assist the weak, To lift the suffering from out the mire, To

give to all a chance of Happiness. To see appalling Contrasts shall

not live, To order Labour to protect itself, And Capital to share

with Labour’s toil The golden grain accruing from the two, Instead of

fabricating Millionaires.”

_A Voice._ “Fat-stomached monsters! Greedy Cormorants!”

[_Cheers and laughter._

_Verita._ “You wrong the Cormorant! _He_ fills his pouch, To satiate

hunger legitimate. ‘Fat-stomached Misshapes!’ _That_, I grant they

are, Sinners, beside which all the lordly Bores, Are saints

immaculate and preferable. Toil is ennobling, ease contemptible,

‘Away with such!’ That is our Vergli’s cry. But let him speak. We’ll

listen to his voice, Hearken to accents that we love so well. I yield

to our new representative, One who is such in deed, as well as name.”

_Vergli_ (rising). “Comrades, my thanks to you of either sex, My

cordial gratitude for all your toil, Which has resulted in a victory.

Nor can I pass from Gratitude’s fond side, Till I have bidden her

seek that of one, Whose heart is with us, though it beats behind The

gilded barrier of Palace walls. Ye know that dauntless spirit,

nameless here, Nameless, because its mention would entail Suffering

on one, whose name our hearts revere. [_Murmurs of assent._ And yet

one other I would speak of, too. One, who since last ye fondly

greeted me, Has sunk to sleep in Nature’s kind embrace; My Mother,

Merani, who taught Vergli To make the Cause of all who suffer woe,

His own. To save the disinherited, And preach the Gospel of Fair Play

and Truth. [_Murmurs of assent._ The Gospel of Fair Play means equal

laws, And equal opportunities to all, Women and Men, to live an

honoured life, To toil, _but reap the fruits of honest toil_. Fair

Play demands _that men who sow shall reap_, Not toil to bolster up a

selfish Log! For instance, let us take as an example Two men of

Property. One owns a mill, The other owns a coal mine. Both pay well.

How should these owners work their properties? Is not the wages

system a mistake? Would not Co-operation simplify And bind together

owner, workman, all? Let him who owns and those who work, receive

Their fair division of the profits reaped. The owner gives the land

and the machines To work the raw material, yielding gain. Let this be

calculated as his toil, And grain, _proportionate to such_, bestowed,

While those, whose labour has produced the grain, Receive their fair

share of the profits too. Thus all would have an interest in the

work, And feel they laboured not, nor toiled in vain. Strikes and

disputes would fade like restless dreams, And Brotherhood would knit

the hearts of men. Fair Play demands that money for the State Shall

be collected, so that all shall pay, And pay in due proportion to

their means, Allowance given for the right to live. He who earns just

sufficient for his needs Should not be asked to give his daily bread,

But all who profit by their toil should yield Unto the State their

equitable share; Commodities required in daily life, And necessary to

the weal of Man, Should not be taxable, but free as air, And luxuries

alone be charged upon. Fair Play demands that Squalor shall not be,

That bread and wholesome food shall be Man’s due, That able-bodied

persons shall not loaf, That none shall be denied the right to work,

That habitations must be fit abodes, Not dens of Misery and

Pestilence, That cruelty to man or to the brute Shall be a most

severely punished Crime, For Cruelty to anything that feels Is Crime

undoubtedly. We have no right, No right, I say, and say it solemnly,

To mete out pain to any sentient thing. The Gospel of Fair Play

demands this. Hark! Comrades, its far-famed tenets sound aloud ‘Thou

shalt not kill,’ ‘Be merciful, be just,’ ‘Do unto others what ye

would have done Unto yourselves.’ These are Fair Play’s commands. He

who would reap the grain of Happiness Must sow as he would reap. _He

must be just._ And now I would point out that Truth derides, Derides

with scorn all priestly superstition. If priests would be, they

_must_ adhere to Truth, They must not seek to bolster up a lie. Truth

only dwells in Nature. She abides With her sole God, the endless

Universe. Go, seek her there, and not in fairy tales, Proclaim her as

she is, not cloaked in sham. Truth is a meteor leading on to more,

Leading to where abounding knowledge reigns. Where Truth is not,

Falsehood alone can be. Comrades, I pray ye, give your hearts to

Truth And let your reasoning be drilled by her. Laws or Religions

founded on a lie Cannot be good, nay more, they are pernicious. Laws

born of Truth must be what men should frame. I go to struggle to

attain this end. Now, let me map a programme and a creed, Both of

which shall be our unerring guide, And which shall ultimately Freedom

win And give to all the disinherited That which is theirs, their own,

their simple right, The right of all things living to enjoy And to

preserve their lives in Comfort’s arms. But first take in the fact

that Human Life, And much of brute creation can exist, And is

intended to exist on grain, On fruit, on vegetables, likewise herbs,

And not upon the bleeding, tortured flesh Of animals, _bred_ for

immoral use, As such flesh-eating is, when Nature’s laws Proclaim Man

and a part of brute Creation Intended to be non-carnivorous. _I urge

this point upon you._ All around Land bids you live upon her

wholesome fruit. Throughout the world the _natural food_ of Man Teems

in unbounded wealth awaiting him. Let him put forth his hand, and

pluck, and eat. _Rememb’ring always also Moderation._ Kill not for

food, and where Necessity Demands the sacrifice of sentient life,

Kill with all kindness and with due regard To Physical—and

Mental—feelings. Pain Is a nerve-racking, dread experience,

Especially unto the dumb Creation, Who cannot question, yet are

forced to bear That dread experience, all unwillingly. Our programme

then must be to fashion laws Akin to Nature for the people’s good, To

overturn the thief, Sex Privilege, To make all property, when worked

by toil Co-operative in the profits shared, _And land, the birthright

of the Human race_. Wealth must remember what its duties are, And

never hoard its substance greedily. Taxation must be regulated by Far

juster and more equitable laws Than now prevail. Justice must reign,

and though Equality can never be until All men are perfect, we must

have a care That ghastly contrasts are impossible. To Woman give all

reverence. Hark! ye, Men, The crime of Prostitution, is a crime In

Vergli’s eyes worse than foul murder’s act. Woman and Man were born

to be together, But Nature’s tie should bind the two as one. It is

_the_ marriage service, which no creed Should dare to trample on or

overturn. See here I stand a disinherited, _I am the_ Prince of

Scota, yet denied By that false creed of Sanctimonious, The right to

call myself legitimate. By that same creed my mother was condemned

And called a Prostitute, while Isola, Who did not wish to wed my

father, holds The empty title of a Consort Queen And stands by him

his legal prostitute. Oh! hideous travesty of Nature’s law, Oh!

hateful doctrine of a priestly creed. Call it not God’s, for Nature

cries it Shame! And Nature is alone the real, true God. So now I

leave ye bent on Evolution. Men have declared us Revolutionists, Not

so, we are but Evolutionists, Evolving Order out of Chaos, and

Creating where Creation is required. Let us be true unto our

principles, Come weal, come woe, stick to them everyone, And if we

work and practise what we preach, Assuredly shall Victory be ours.”

[_Amidst a scene of intense enthusiasm, Vergli declares the meeting at

an end and leaves the hall with his supporters._

SCENE II.

The Palace of Dreaming, in the city of Infantlonia. King Hector and

Sanctimonious, Ardrigh of Saxscober, are seated alone in the King’s

Audience Chamber. It is the afternoon of a June day.

_Sanctimonious_ (earnestly). “Sire, he is dangerous to Church and

State, He seeks to fling defiance at us both; He would o’erturn our

laws and ancient faith, And he possesses much the rabble’s love. This

last concoction, called Humanity, Dares to exalt and glorify his

name, And cast opprobrium on my saintly self, Because I represent the

ancient creed— The creed I learnt upon my mother’s knee, From nurse

and tutor, pastor and divine, Until at length I grew to think it

true. Of course between us, Sire, and these four walls, I do not

_now_ believe it _honestly_, Nor more than you do, Sire, or anyone,

Who thinks the matter out. Ne’erless ’tis best To steadfastly

proclaim its sanctity, And force its worship on our youth and men,

Especially our women folk, for these Are Church’s most devoted

friends. Its foes Are more amongst the men, and yet methinks Queen

Isola has opened Woman’s eyes To a degree disastrous, dangerous.

Sire, I would pray your august Majesty To lay your strict commands

upon the Queen That she abstain and instantly from this. Her precepts

are the Evolutionists’. My chief of Peerers secretly reports, That

Isola devotes her privy purse To bolster up these revolutionaries. I

warn you, Sire, their principles will sap The privileges of the

Church and State, And tumble them about our startled forms. Though

Vergli is your son, he bastard is, But strenuously resists this law

of ours. And now he has a powerful ally, Who will support him in the

House of Bores, Isola’s brother, Prince of Bernia.”

_King Hector_ (starting). “What Bernia dead? _What_ Sanctimonious?”

_Sanctimonious._ “So says the Chief of Peerers, Sire, to-day, He bore

me secret news. Fear not, ere long It will be quite officially

confirmed. Shafto is now the Prince of Bernia, An evolutionist in

heart and soul, Spit of Isola and of self-same mood, Indomitable and

outspoken too.”

_King Hector_ (smiling sadly). “And honest I suppose, but as you say

This is not part of your concocted creed, Whose tenets we _must_ own,

though in our hearts We scorn them and the lie they bolster up. My

part is one most difficult to play, I would be honest, yet may not be

so. The _in_fluence of poor, dead Merani Surrounds my soul and

whispers in my heart. Merani dead? If so, her spirit lives, For day

and night I hear it whispering, It tells me to be fair and to be

just, To clear her name of that _un_just reproach, Which falsely

termed _religious_ laws ordain Shall be hurled at the Woman who

declines To take the marriage vows ordained by them. And in my heart,

Ardrigh, I must confess I look on Merani as my true wife, And Vergli

as the rightful, royal heir. Isola did not love me. All her heart Was

given to the noble Escanior. Yet Arco, Prince of Bernia, her stern

sire, Slew him and forced her to become my Queen. But in my heart,

and in your own you know That she is nothing but a prostitute, A

slave, leased to me by unnatural laws Whom I dishonour, calling her

_my wife_! And now I must coerce her to obey! You call on me to bid

this toy of mine, This royalized and legalized machine, This Queen in

name, but not in deed, this slave! To bend her neck and bow to

bearing rein, That cruel goad and foe of Nature’s form, Nature, so

fair when undeformed by man. ’Tis a hard part to play, Ardrigh,

indeed. My humblest subject need not envy me, I’d rather far be

honest yokel man Than a false Monarch of Saxscober land.”

_Sanctimonious._ “Sentiment, Sire; nothing but sentiment. Monarchs must

not allow so soft a thing To take possession of their hearts. You

reign. You are a King, and being such, _must_ rule And shape your

conduct by Saxscober’s laws.”

_King Hector._ “A sorry fate to have been born a King, Or rather, I

should say, ‘the shade of one!’ My dullest Bores may vote, but I am

mute, The gilded Puppet of a huge machine! Isola is my slave, but I

am worse, I am the slave of an Automaton. But lo! I hear Isola’s

voice outside, She comes to tell me of fierce Arco’s death, And of

her brother Shafto’s accession, What——”

_Sanctimonious_ (rising hurriedly). “Excuse the interruption, Sire, the

Queen Loves not the presence of the Chief Ardrigh; Her tongue is

cutting, though ’tis courteous, And I would fain escape its moral

sting. With your permission, Sire, I will retire Through the aperture

or the secret door, Which leads from here into the private room,

Where you conduct your personal affairs, And correspondence intimate.

But, Sire, Remember to admonish Isola, Bear in your mind that you are

still _The King_, And sink all individuality; Be true to Church and

State, uphold their laws, And force the Queen to humbly bow to them.”

[_He retires hurriedly through the secret door._

_Enter Isola_, saying: “Hector, I thought old Sanctimonious Filled up

the Audience Chamber’s narrow space; Is he not here? Whither has he

vanished? Into that Heaven, where I am denied The right of entry,

being Infidel? Or has he gone to Purgatory, where Repentant souls are

burning off their sins? Or—dare I say it, Hector? To that Hell, Which

God, _the God of Sanctimonious_, Has made to torture wicked infidels,

And all such carrion, though of his Creation?”

_Hector_ (sternly): “Isola, thou art over bold. Conform, And yield

respect to our religious faith. What matters it if thou art infidel,

And worship Nature’s God? Thou art my Queen, My Consort, my annointed

property, My Co-mate on the throne of Saxscober. Now, understand that

thou art this indeed, And _must_, as Queen, obey the laws of Church,

As well as those of State. Defy me not. By those same laws I am thy

master, girl, And will enforce submission. Yield it now. Goad me not

to Coercion. I would fain Reign with thee peacefully and happily.”

_Isola_ (passionately). “Hector, by an opponent law of Truth, I am your

queen and slave, a consort queen, A gilded, dressed-up slave, not

reigning, Sire, But just a sort of bauble, like a crown, A State-kept

mother of your progeny, Each one of whom is given right to reign

According to succession, while I am Declared to be a cast off

‘Dowager’! Is this right, Hector? No, ’tis infamy. A consort’s fate

is pitiable indeed, Whatever be the sex of the Misshape, But of the

two, the female one is most, Because Maternal rights are not her own.

Mind you not, Hector, of that male consort, Of Queen Magenta, Prince

of Citron called? _He_ would not be _her_ gilded bauble sire, But

shared with her the right to reign as King, As I should share that

right with you indeed, Were I your lawful Queen and wedded wife, And

you my lawful mate, which I deny, Because by Nature’s law, poor

Merani, Before you stole me from my Escanior, Was your true Queen,

and Vergli your true heir, She having lived with you as wife,

although She would not take those _church-made_ marriage vows, Born

of the creed preached by the great Saint Saul! Nor did you ask her

to, because by law E’en had she wedded you by Saint Saul’s creed, A

rotten civil law denies to her The right to take the title of the

Queen. Because she was not a princess before She mated with you! Out

on all such laws! Fruits of a creed the child of Selfishness, Mated

with ill-omened Superstition. No, Hector; Isola will not conform, She

treats with scorn such laws of Church and State, Nature’s true laws

alone will she obey, She will not own a creed which is a lie, She

will not practise laws which are unjust; Your slave she is, but most

unwillingly. She casts defiance on unnatural law, Isola is an

‘Evolutionist’—”

_Hector_ (aside). “And I, too, in a way; for although reared And dosed

with selfish and ignoble tenets, _Deep in my heart_ I _feel_ Isola

_right_, And that her dauntless spirit pleads for this. _She_ is

_not_ Man’s opponent, _but his friend_, His _true_ Co-mate, loving

Companion, Who only asks of him Justice and Truth. Oh! sorry fate,

that I must strive with her, And force submission where ’tis now

withheld. Yet must I do so. ’Tis my Kingly fate To be a tyrant and to

act the Sham.”

_To Isola._ “Isola, cease thy sentimental moans, Our age demands not

feeling, but a Show; Give it a pageant, be it royal Pomp, Or a

procession of dressed-up divines, And it will cheer them lustily and

long. I am a ruling Puppet, thou my Queen, Our business is to play

our sep’rate roles, I as the Public’s slave, and thou as mine. It is

the Law and Custom of our land; We are bound by them. Them we must

obey.”

(Pauses and then continues): “Understand this. Thou must obey our laws,

Both civil and ecclesiastical. Thou must not be an Evolutionist, Thou

must be what thou art, my _Consort Queen_. And play thy part upon the

royal stage. Defy me not, Isola, bear in mind I am thy King, thy

Master _by the law_.”

_Isola_ (defiantly). “No need to tell me, for I know it well. But I

defy you, Hector, and your law. A fig for all such false authority. I

never sought to be your slave, nor asked To dangle at your side a

bauble toy. Do as you will, but _I_ will _not_ conform, Nor bow to

sham conventionality. Arco is dead, Shafto is Bernia’s prince, Let me

return to Bernia’s hills and dales, Give me my freedom once again, I

pray— If not, I’ll take it, Hector. Ponder well. Do as I ask; if not,

I warn you, King. I will _not_ act the part of decked out slave.”

[_Retires._

SCENE III.

A rambling Castle, situated high up on the hillside of Rostraveen

Mountain, overlooking the Lakes of Killareen. It is the Castle of

Killareen, the Highland home of the Princes of Bernia. Shafto, Prince

of that name, is at this time occupying it, and from his eyrie

stronghold has defied the orders of his liege lord and King, to yield

up to the latter, Isola, who has fled from Saxa Isle and claimed the

protection of her brother, in consequence of having refused to act

the part of a Consort Queen to King Hector, or to acknowledge her

child by him as the Prince of Scota, averring that Vergli is the

rightful heir. She has refused to act the part of Queen Consort on

the principle that no reigning rights are attached to the dignity

making of her a mere nonentity, such a principle being contrary to

the Evolutionary principles of the Evolutionist Party, of which

Vergli, Member of Privilege for Stairway, is the leader, Isola being

a member thereof. Divorce proceedings have, in consequence, been

commenced against her.

_Isola_ (leaning on the stone parapet of the Castle ramparts,

overlooking the lakes below, sings to herself): “Is there a fate on

ev’ry life Which weaves o’er each its darksome thread? Is there a

bosom free from strife? Is there a heart that has not bled? There are

in life some gleams of joy, But Sorrow’s darker shadows fall, And

tho’ sweet moments we enjoy, Pain lays its cruel grasp on all.”

_Enter Vulnar._ “A sad song, Lady Isola, methinks! Come, let me cheer

your heart with lighter lay. Laughter and joy should shine in eyes so

clear, And smiles oblige the pearly teeth to show; It is not good to

mourn, and Life is young, Laugh while you can, and cast aside

despair, A sorry imp to irritate _your_ heart; Oh! Lady Isola, chase

it away. [_Sings_

Love the enchanter Hovers all near, Longing to cheer thee But

full of fear, Fear of offending What it loves best, Pining to give

thee Joy’s perfect rest. ‘_Wilt thou not love me?_’ Love whispers

low, ‘Let my caresses, On thee bestow Dreams of allurement, Visions

of bliss, May not my fond lips Give thine one kiss?’ Hearts were not

made sure, To pine alone? Drive away sorrow, Mourning begone! Call up

love _once more_, He will respond, Lady tie _once more_ Heaven’s

sweet bond.”

_Isola._ “Vulnar, your voice is beautiful and rare, Where is the heart

to whom you sing these words? Oh! yes, the bond of love is Heaven’s

tie, Yet, when ’tis snapped, Hell’s chasms yawn below. ’Tis a fair

world, and all might be so gay, Laughter and song, playing with

gentle love, Were it not for bad laws and customs vile, And evil

teaching meted out to youth. How happy had my lot been but for these.

Nature gave me a birthright passing fair, First Life, then health,

the power to love and feel, The opportunity to taste of each. Had

Nature had her way, my path all strewn With fragrant flow’rs, would

have been smooth indeed! But human selfishness makes mock of Truth,

And rules life with one endless, searing lie. Thus it swooped down

upon Isola’s path And makes the way, indeed, all stones and crags.

Your song is sweet, Vulnar, but mine _more true_, I simply sang of

stern reality.”

_Vulnar._ “Lady Isola, Hector claims divorce, And, doubtless, will

obtain it speedily. Thus will the laws which bind you as his wife,

Release you from the union you abhor. Freedom will then be yours. Ah!

may I hope That you will love Vulnar as he loves you? Lady Isola, I

have loved you long, Loved you all secretly, more than my life, Loved

you since I was but a boy in years, Loved you in silence when

Escanior Found favour in your eyes and won your heart. He was my

friend, and your joy my whole life. I would not try to steal your

love from him. But he is gone, passed to the Great Unknown, Passed

o’er the boundless Ocean of Life’s space. Whither? Who knows? Beyond

our mortal ken. Will you not try to give Vulnar your love? He would

not force it on you, Isola, But be content to wait and hope for it.

At any rate, his whole love would be yours, His heart no other

Woman’s property.”

_Isola._ “Kind Vulnar, _Nature’s Nobleman_ indeed. Ah! if such as you

ask for were but there, It would go forth from my poor heart to you.

But, Vulnar, what you seek no longer hides Its coy head in Life’s

throbbing mechanism. Isola’s heart held love for one alone, That love

went roving with Escanior, When the cold dagger drove him from the

side Of Isola beneath the Ocean wave. I cannot give you what is mine

no more, Vulnar, ’tis gone. It is with Escanior, Wedded with his, all

indissoluble, Part of his being, as his was of mine. His love lives

with me, ’tis imperishable; ’Twill guide me to the Great Unknown some

day, There to unite with my own love again. Vulnar, your heart so

noble and so kind Will understand and feel with Isola.”

_Vulnar._ “Lady Isola, if the love I seek Has passed away to rove with

Escanior, Will you not give Vulnar the right he craves, The right to

love you and to live for you? He will not ask for that which cannot

be, Nor would he steal such love from Escanior, But give him just the

right to care for you, To be with you through Life’s lone Pilgrimage.

Ah! do not drive me from your side, I pray, I only ask to be with

you. No more.”

_Isola._ “No, Vulnar, ’tis impossible, I say; _To mate where love is

not is Hell enough_, But then at least, indifference can dull And

make one callous and like frigid stone. But _no true Woman_ could

_treat thus_, a man So noble and so kind as you, Vulnar. Men such as

you are not so numerous, Hearts such as yours are jewels scarce and

rare. Isola would not wrong you as you ask; No, Vulnar, seek a fitter

mate than me. And yet, if you will give her Friendship’s aid, She’ll

cherish it as the most precious gift Which Vulnar’s Generosity can

give, The dearest treasure left to her on earth.”

_Vulnar._ “’Tis yours, Isola, given heart and soul, Nothing you asked

of me could I refuse; At least I ask but one return for it, It is

that, though you cannot love Vulnar, He may be licensed to love

Isola, All silently as in the past he’s loved, Loved with a love he

feels can never die, A love which, unobtrusive, yet shall stand The

test of time, faithful unto the end.”

_Isola._ “Brave heart, so tender and so true, pure soul, If gratitude

for love so infinite Will give you solace, then indeed ’tis yours,

Isola’s heart _is_ grateful to Vulnar.”

_Enter the Prince of Bernia, exclaiming_: “What, Vulnar here? Vulnar,

news just to hand apprises me That Vergli is arrested, charged with

Crime, The Crime, conspiring against Church and State. ’Twas in the

House of Privilege he cast Defiance at their laws and pleaded hard

For a reform of both, which he declared Must be both sweeping and

far-reaching too. The overturning of his Labour Bill— Wherein

Co-operation is enforced Upon employers who amass large hoards, By

taking all the profits of men’s toil, Giving but wages in return,

instead Of that which is the toiler’s rightful due, A share of Toil’s

returns—aroused his ire. Because, I’m told when this same Bill was

lost, Defeated by a large majority, The sneers and jeers, and cheers

which hailed the fall Of his much-cherished infant, maddened him. He

rose, and in impassioned accents, hurled The vials of his wrath on

Church and State, So that men shouted ‘Treason!’ Wonder reigned, And

all agape, demanded his arrest. This has been done, and Vergli is in

gaol, A bad look-out for Evolutionism.”

_Vulnar._ “’Tis that, indeed, a cause has oft been lost By shutting up

the brains that nurtured it, And closing lips that told it how to

act. Vergli had power, his words were all inspired, They rose upon

his lips like Heaven’s dew, And fell from them in show’rs of

sparkling rain. He said they were Merani’s whisperings, A Woman’s

voice, of which his was the echo; I doubt it not, believing, as I do

That Woman, disinherited by laws As false as they are wrong and

execrable, Has Mission, greater than to be a slave, That Mission to

be Man’s true comforter By guiding him along the path of Truth, Not

grovelling and fawning at his feet. Let her rise up and speak aloud

that Truth, Let her assault base Superstition’s lie; ’Tis

Superstition which has made her slave, The hideous lie of teachings

orthodox. ’Tis they who have brought sorrow upon Man, Degrading

Womanhood, in whose downfall Is swaddled up Humanity’s drear woes.

[_Sings._

“Behold! thy handiwork, Oh! man, The outcome of thy cursed laws,

He who that wreck unmoved can scan, No friend of Woman is. Her cause

Shivers and writhes within thy grasp, Thou death-importing, human

asp; Thou who would’st seal her fate, I charge thee with her bitter

woe, ’Tis thou who thus hast dragged her low, Hast doomed her to this

state.

“Look at her in her form _divine_, A triumph of fair Nature’s

art; Look at her in those clothes of thine Condemned to play the

monkey’s part. Alas! from girlhood’s wasted days Base Superstition’s

cruel ways Hold her in slavery! One aim in life _consumes her soul_,

It is her one and only role, To grovel at thy knee.

“Where are her rights? She boasts of none, She is thy slave, by

priests controlled; And as the Sculptor moulds his stone, So mouldest

thou her soul. Look at that soul, caged and confined, Bound helpless

where it long has pined, A dreary sight forlorn. With future empty,

cramped and void, No hope to keep her spirit buoy’d, A toy which men

adorn!

“Oh! Woman, wake. Behold the dawn Rising from out that bank of

clouds. No longer grovel, cringe or fawn To Superstition, which

enshrouds Thy liberty. Awake! Awake! I bid thee for thine own dear

sake Cast off these cruel chains. Rise from thy many thousand years

Of degradation. Wipe thy tears, Truth’s golden Dawn remains.”

_Isola._ “Vulnar, your invocation is not vain, Have I not half

fulfilled it hitherto? See, I will act as you invoke, indeed. Vergli

in prison! I will take his place, And carry on the War for Right and

Truth. Shafto, go prove your title to be Prince, Speak out the truth

unto your fellow Bores, Arouse the gilded chamber where it sleeps,

And shake those dressed-up tyrants called divines. Make Sanctimonious

tremble in his shoes, Shiver the awful Serpent they have raised And

bid them practise Sacrilege no more. Brave Vulnar, you will stand by

me, I know. Vergli in prison! Echoes of Merani! Your whisperings

shall play upon my lips, I’ll shout them loudly into deafened ears,

And make them ring throughout our wide wide Erth. Dear Erth, so

beautiful, and yet how wronged By Superstition’s monster-featured

creed.”

_Shafto and Vulnar._ “Agreed, agreed! Both of us are agreed!”

END OF ACT II.

[Illustration]

_ACT THIRD._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.

A small room, sparsely furnished, in the Prison of Grillaway. The room

is the cell of a first class misdemeanant. The windows are barred and

look out on to exercising ground, which is surrounded by high walls.

The cell in question is that of Vergli, who is confined therein.

_Vergli, Solus_: “Saxscober a free country? No, indeed! A slave of

mummified and ancient laws, Created by the undeveloped brains Of men

emerging from the feudal state. Must Evolutionism be controlled By

relics of a past barbaric age, When human beings had no right to

think And fashioned rules to suit their daily needs? What right have

dead men to control us now? Must we be governed by their narrow

vision? Shall rotten laws be solely the support Of an increasing

substance, whose new needs Require the nourishment of true reform?

Oh! prison bars, ye gaolers mute and dumb, Guess ye the torture which

consumes my soul, Longing for freedom, longing for the pow’r To

strike to earth Injustice and Untruth, And raise upon their ruins

fairer scenes? Alas! for Evolutionism, who Will keep our party solid?

Who will lead, Now I am a caged pris’ner in this hole? Scrutus and

Verita will do their best, Good faithful hearts, yet lacking

influence, And minus that great pow’r which can enthuse And weld

together diff’rent characters. Well, I must seek to use the pow’r of

Thought, And draw towards me that which my heart loves, Isola, can I

make thee think of me? Can I enthuse thee to take Vergli’s place? The

people love thee, thou can’st lead them well, If thou wilt take the

lead, I have no fear. Isola, thou whom this lone heart adores,

Although thou can’st not love me in return, Thy heart being wedded to

Escanior, Wilt thou not fill the place I cannot fill? See, I will

waft to thee intense desire, And by the force of thought fill up thy

soul With the ambitions influencing me.”

He seats himself as he speaks, and leaning his head in his hand, seeks

to attract Isola to think of him andtake up his cause by stepping

into the breach which he has been forced to abandon. Suddenly he

looks up, and intense relief is in his face as he exclaims: “A great

calm fills my soul. I seem to hear The whisper of an inward voice,

which says: ‘Vergli, fear not, Isola fills the breach And will uphold

your cause till you are free.’ Is it a dream or glad reality? I feel

it is the latter. As my thought Has sped into the mind of Isola, So

has hers come to mine and brought me cheer, And filled my spirit with

intense relief. Oh! Thought so wonderful, which has evolved A mind

from matter and, endowed with life By this same matter, can

magnetic-like Attract to us flashes of hidden things, As thou

increasest in us, wilt thou not Vibrate into us knowledge now

unknown, Knowledge of space and of infinity, Of what has been, and of

what is to be, By some attractive force whose law is vague And still

quite undeveloped in our minds, Yet, all the same, a law as positive

As that great law which rules the Universe? If this attractive law

can magnetise Mind unto mind, will it not magnetise Those hidden

facts which, still unknown, ne’erless Are facts which Thought will

some day penetrate And draw into our minds, thus fashioning A

knowledge now unrealised, unknown. Yes, mighty, _energetic, living

Force_— Give it what name you will, it matters not— Thy pow’r will

wax so great within our brains As to attract to us that which we

seek. As Thought meets Thought, or draws it from afar, As I have

drawn the thought of Isola, So shall this unseen, veiled, but true

reality Conquer the secrets of the Universe And give Materialists the

light they need. Develop it, all _scientific_ men! It is as much a

substance, though unseen, As any of the unseen substances Which

influence Creation’s mighty laws. Have you not studied much those

things we see, And drawn conclusions from the truths unveiled? Go,

study now the Unseen, cultivate That undeveloped faculty, whose sight

_Will_ penetrate the mysteries of Life And open up the mists

enshrouding death. Oh! learned men, how unlearned yet ye are. ‘What!

Thought a substance?’ sneeringly you ask. ‘I think it is,’ all humbly

I reply, ‘It is a thing which, though unseen, vibrates With delicate

pulsation all its own. Thought is the substance which shall solve the

past And open wide the future to our eyes.’ Yes, Isola, my soul no

longer fears, I feel that thou, attracted by this force, Wilt do as I

desire and do it well. A woman who has buried Superstition And

scorned to make herself the slave of Man, Albeit she is his loving

friend and mate, Can lead and will lead on Humanity To win its

freedom, and to recreate Noble conditions, elevating all By

evolutionary principles. I feel thy answer to my mute appeal Circling

around me like a soft, soft wind, Caressing with kind kiss my anxious

brain And soothing it as sleep lulls tired thought. For thought being

real and not imaginary, A substance not a shadow, form unseen Of

ethereal property, _can_ tire and hang Limp and all unemotional at

times, Or dulled by over-use of its great pow’r Which sleep and rest

restore unfailingly. My thanks Isola. From afar thy thoughts Have

come to cheer me in my prison cell, My soul’s at peace. I hear thy

whispered words ‘I come, Vergli, fear not, All shall be well.’”

_Enter a Warder._ “Your pardon, Sir, your lawyer’s clerk is here, He

bears an order of admittance, too— Is it your pleasure I should show

him in? He bade me say his mission was of note, Requiring your

immediate attention.”

_Vergli._ “Pray show him in, my friend; I’ll see him now, ’Tis not so

lively here that I should shun Or shirk communion with a fellow man,

Even although it be a lawyer’s clerk, Whose visits mean a bill of

long proportions, When that which he may do, or may not do, Is done

or left undone. Oft’ner the last! Methinks if we paid by results, the

Clique Known as solicitors and barristers Would find their present

lucrative profession, Somewhat the contrary! ‘No fish; no pay,’ Would

make these gentlemen a bit more keen And less inclined to pile up the

expenses! Poor Vergli! But for thee, kind Isola, He could not have

engaged the services Of one of these noteworthy gentlemen, To pick

his pocket so to line his own! However, here he comes. I will attend

And learn the purport of his mission here. Good evening, Sir.

_Vergli_ you wish to see? He am I, and the Prince of Scota, too.”

[_Enter Maxim disguised as a Solicitor’s Clerk._

_Warder._ “I’ll leave you to yourselves. A Trinity Is rarely company,

and often breeds That most ungainly infant, Controversy. Ring, when

you have adjusted your affairs.”

_Maxim._ “Hist! Vergli; I am Maxim. Have a care. Ears are awake and

eyes wide open, too. Secrets are not well kept in prison walls, There

are too many listeners about. In a few days your trial will take

place, Counsel is offered by the Government; Your grave Solicitor

refused, howe’er, And said that ‘_Vergli would defend himself_.’ I

just think that he will, and rightly, too; For one speech from his

lips is worth ten score Of speeches from the windbags of the bar, Who

set much store upon their oratory— Pricing it highly, changing briefs

to gold And turning inside out their clients’ pockets.”

_Vergli_ (laughing): “’Tis true, young clerk. Society’s odd ways Are

manifold; but, all drift down the tide Whereon the bark of Might

o’er-rides poor Right Seated in her frail skiff, and runs her down.

‘Out of my Way!’ cries Might. ‘Am I not large? Are you not frail and

of no consequence? The weak should die, the strong alone prevail And

Might rule over Right.’ This is the law, Or rather as it is

administered. And how can it be ever otherwise, Until to Earth we

strike the selfish creed, Which prating loud a few great Moral

Truths, Forthwith defies them, and sets up a reign Of Superstition

and of Mummery? Then, when men like myself would strike it down And

change those civil laws which owe their birth To priestcraft and

religious tyranny, Who in the past were Sires of many sins, They are

cast into prison instantly And doomed therein to waste Life’s

precious days. Oh! when will Man learn to be kind to Man And practise

brotherhood throughout the world?”

_Maxim._ “Not yet awhile; but some day it will come, As sure as Night

comes after Day, and Day Follows on Night, ever unerringly. But,

Vergli, you’ll prepare your own defence, Although I fear nothing will

clear your crime; The Ardrigh knows acquittal means his doom, And

ev’ry influence which he commands Will be exerted to o’erthrow your

cause And bolster up his own. Alas! I fear That nothing will avert

your punishment. Think, Vergli, of the Pow’rs that you oppose, Think

of the forces all arrayed in line Ready to crush you to the earth, to

kill. ’Tis an unequal fight. Oh! Vergli, pause! Think of the future,

think of liberty, Think of the horrid doom which will be yours. Be

wise and claim King Hector’s clemency, Humble yourself to say the

word ‘Forgive’; Plead guilty, crave his Mercy, quit _the Cause_ Of

which you have so rashly made adoption.”

_Vergli._ “Hush! Maxim. Hush! ‘Never!’ is my reply, I mean to fight the

Ogre Superstition, I mean to cry aloud the _Woes of Man_ Born of that

ancient and insensate lie, I mean to ask for Justice. If I fall

Others will rise to fill the breach I quit. I war not against law and

order, or Against the King and Government. I fight Against oppressive

customs and beliefs, And social tyrannies which weigh men down,

Making both men and women common slaves— Especially the latter. What

I seek Is to give _all_ Life’s _opportunity_. I prate not of the word

Equality I know, that until Man attains Perfection, Equality is quite

impossible; But give to all that pressing human right, The right to

live, to work and to enjoy The recompense which is the due of toil,

And opportunity to claim it, too. No, Maxim, tempt me not; my mind’s

made up, I fight for _all_ the disinherited.” [_Rings._

_Enter Warder_: “You rang, Sir. Have you finished with your clerk?”

_Vergli._ “Yes, thank you, warder. Business is arranged, To-morrow

follows my Solicitor.” (To Maxim) “Remember to enjoin on him to

come.”

_Maxim._ “I will not fail. He’ll come assuredly.”

[_Exit Maxim._

SCENE II.

A small villa standing in a pretty garden, surrounded by a high wall,

in a quiet part of the suburbs of Elsington, and not far from the

public gardens and the King’s Palace of that name. In a sitting room

in the villa, seated at an escritoire, is Isola. She is no longer

Queen of the Saxscober people, King Hector having obtained a divorce;

and she is secretly engaged in carrying on the evolutionary agitation

of which Vergli, before his arrest, was the leader. It is the day of

his trial on a charge of conspiring against the Church and State laws

of the Kingdom of Saxscober. Isola is dressed in male attire; her

long hair has been cut off and now curls about her head in short

tresses. Her disguise is complete and her appearance that of a slight

youth.

_Enter Verita_ (similarly disguised). She closes the door and says:

“The trial is proceeding. Vergli’s speech Was something too

magnificent for words, It held the Court enthralled, spellbound and

mute; A dropping pin might have been heard, indeed, So still sat

silence on the list’ning crowd. Truly he rose unto the great occasion

And looked the Prince of Scota ev’ry inch. Majestic wrath fell from

his scornful lips And bitter and sarcastic were his words. He seemed

inspired. Thought flowed like running stream, Sparkling his wit, full

of convulsing humour; Then pathos and hard-headed Fact spoke out And

touched and forced conviction each in turn. If eloquence and truth

could save Vergli, ’Twould not be long before our chief was free; And

yet, Oh! Lady Isola, I feel That he is doomed. The verdict will be

‘Guilty.’”

_Isola._ “Hush, Verita, you must not name me thus; Remember I am

‘Fortunatus’ now. Yes Fortunatus, evolutionist, Deputed by Vergli to

lead his cause. What matter if the wise men find him Guilty? We’ll

save him e’er he reaches Grillaway. All is arranged, Vulnar is on the

spot; The prison van goes down a quiet street Ere entering the

crowded thoroughfare; A carriage and fleet-footed horses wait, And

Vergli will be many miles away When they are searching for him in the

town, Making conjecture as to where he is! Hasten now, Verita, back

to the Court, Tell Scrutus that I go to join Vulnar, Bid him apprize

us of the verdict quick, He knows where we will be. Ready, Waiting;

He knows full well the part he has to play, Now go. Heav’n grant the

Verdict will be fair.”

[_Exit Verita._

SCENE III.

In the High Court of Justice. The Judge has completed his summing up.

The jury, after a brief delay, have found the prisoner guilty of

conspiring against the Church and State, a crime in Saxscober

punishable with death. The usual question has been put “Say, prisoner

at the bar, have you any reason to give why sentence should not be

passed upon you?” and Vergli, who has been standing with folded arms,

unfolds them and bows his head slightly in assent. The hum of voices

in the Court, which had broken out when the foreman of the jury had

uttered the word “Guilty,” at once subsides and a great silence falls

as Vergli begins to speak.

_Vergli._ “Reason to give against my murder? Yes. For Murder it will be

assuredly. What right have you to take from me God’s breath, Because

I seek to see His laws prevail? What is my crime? To have demanded

Truth? Truth in religion in the place of Sham? Yes, I have asked for

that and pleaded, too, For a vast Revolution in the laws. I claim to

be King Hector’s eldest son, The heir apparent to the Monarchy; I am

the Prince of Scota, Prince Bernis By Natural law is not the King’s

wife’s son. I claim that my dear Mother was that wife, I claim that

she with Hector should have reigned, Reigned as a reigning not a

Consort Queen; I claim the parents’ right, _of either sex_, To reign

before their children. Out on laws Which make a _child usurp its

Mother’s place_, Or, if a female be an elder child, Ousts her from

heirship on account of sex! Imbecile law! Worthy of priestly craft,

Worthy of Superstition and Saint Saul, Of men bedridden with such

mistresses As are these soulless and unnatural laws. All law is bad

which Nature has not framed, Be it of Civil or Religious sex, And all

Religion is a cursèd lie Whose God is otherwise than Nature’s form.

Away with your man-shaped and cruel God, In whose own image you

declare you’re made, Faith! He must be an ugly Barbary Ape, If the

majority of men reflect His Godlike features in their ill-formed

masks. But here I fling to Earth the Monster creed With which you

mystify our early years, Distort our reason, warp our faculties; And

make that fatal transformation scene In Human character, which would

be kind And sensible and brotherly in love, Were it not for the

Orthodox tirade That moulds it with false teachings and precepts

Throughput the whole of Life’s sad Pilgrimage. What right have you to

make of Life a hell? To disinherit men of their just rights? Follow

out Nature. To the fittest give The right to lead, to rule, to

fashion law. The fittest should survive, the unfit pass Into the

force that can evolve anew A better Life from Mediocrity. Men should

not starve while others feast and laugh. By what Almighty Law of

Nature’s God Do men step into Life outcasts and slaves? Why? Yes,

why? I ask; for Opportunity Is Man’s inherent right. Sex should not

be The disability you’ve made of it. Give all an equal opportunity,

The fittest will arise and lead and rule, And make this world a

heaven where now ’tis hell. Let all men work from Monarch to workman,

Let all reap benefit from honest toil. Let Life be made Co-operative

and See to it that Injustice shall be slain. Build up a new religion

based on Love, Away with Cruelty to Man _or Beast_; Beasts have their

rights just every much as Man, Are they not our own kin, our mute,

dumb friends? We have no right to torture them for sport, For

Scientific purposes or food. Blood was not made for Man’s

consumption. Grain And fruit, and vegetables, and nuts and herbs Are

what God Nature gives him for his food; And Health demands he should

adopt as such. Give us a kind religion. Let the Truth Be the magnetic

influence of our lives. Let Sham and Superstition be condemned As

false and hideous idols of the past. Down with all law in Church and

State which kills The holy rights of Nature, our _true God_. Oh!

Woman, wake! Crush the black snake Untruth. Wake! Woman, wake! And

you shall wake the _World_. Are these the sentiments which merit

death?” [_Cries of_ “No! No!” _and_ “Yes! Yes!” “Should they not

rather live eternally? Are they not _true_? Is not all Truth divine?

What! Treason is it to condemn a lie? What made the lie? God? No.

Just little Man. Man, still in an imperfect, undrilled state. Shall

lies or laws based on them be immortal? Not so, I say. They must be

executed. Vergli will be their executioner. Is he a Revolutionist?

No, no. He is an Evolutionist. That’s all. Kill him? You cannot!

Thought will _never_ die, _It is a part of Immortality_. Silence this

body? That which gives it life You cannot kill, because it is of God.

It is that which is speaking to you now. Silence it? Never! ’Tis

eternal Life. For _Thought is Life_ and Life which cannot die, It is

the Soul and deathless part of Man.”

[He ceases speaking. Loud applause breaks out which is with difficulty

suppressed. The judge assumes the Black Cap and pronounces the death

sentence. It is received in contemptuous silence by Vergli and gloomy

silence in the Court.

As the prisoner is led away, _Verita_ manages to pass near him and

whispers: “Hist! Vergli! Isola is all prepared. Fear not! Ere long

thou shalt be free as air.”

[_She goes quickly away as she speaks._

SCENE IV.

A quiet side street in the City of Infantlonia, leading from the

crowded thoroughfare of _Rolling Motion_ to that of _Drifting Tide_.

Off this side street runs a mews, the stables lining one side

thereof, and a long wall facing them the other. This wall encloses a

garden, lying at the back of an unpretentious house looking into the

quiet street. It has been purchased by Vulnar, Lord of Avenamore, in

the principality of Bernia; and is occupied by one Fortunatus, the

youthful leader of the Evolutionist Party.

_Fortunatus_ (entering the garden from a room on the ground floor):

“Time’s dragging slowly. Scrutus should be here To tell us what the

verdict is. Methinks ’Twill be one quite in keeping with the faith

Which cries aloud ‘Judge not,’ and yet condemns Unceasingly all those

who mock at it. Vergli _will be_ condemned. Of course he will, Or I

have much misjudged the character Of the fierce opposition of that

clique Called ‘Church and State,’ which rules our destinies. Vergli

will be condemned. A gibbet tree Will be the offering of barbarism—

That ugly child, offspring of Superstition, Who crushes thought and

dulls the intellect, Degrades the Woman and deforms the Man. Man who

might be so noble, but for it. Let them condemn you, Vergli. Have no

fear, We’ll save you, Prince of Scota. Escanior Loved you, Vergli;

Isola loves you too, Because Escanior loved you, and because You will

not trample Woman to the ground And bid her hearken to the great

Saint Saul. You know her degradation is Man’s shame. You scout the

orders of Most Holy Church. You advocate Fair Play to all Mankind,

Mercy and tenderness unto the brute. You are a Man, as every Man

should be— Brave, without fear, yet tender, loving, kind. Vergli,

e’en if I feared the hand of Death, I’d grasp it eagerly to set you

free. Let them condemn you. Freedom shall be yours, E’en though I

lose thereby Sweet Liberty.”

A shrill whistle sounds in the street. Isola quickly draws one of these

from her breast pocket and blows a clear note upon it, then passes

rapidly through a door leading from the garden into the mews. The

movement of many men’s feet can be heard therein. From afar a

rumbling sound is heard, and the rapid trot of horses sends its

echoes ahead. In the mews stand Vulnar and Fortunatus. Past them

rushes a wild, eccentric looking man, singing:

“The Canyons are coming, They are not afar, The pigeons are

homing, Go forth to the war, Strike hard for the freedom Of God’s

noble son; They’d give him a cold tomb, We’ll give him Life’s Sun.”

_Vulnar_ (in a low voice): “Ready, men! Ready! Hold yourselves alert!

Hark! ’tis the rumble of the prison wheels. Make ready to rush forth

at the first sign From Fortunatus. Watch his every move, You know the

signal. Steady! Vergli’s life Hangs in the balance. All depends on

you. Hark! It comes nearer, that revolving sound, That rumbling and

that rapid, ringing trot, Hush now; all eyes on Fortunatus!

Hush-sh-sh.”

Fortunatus, standing near the entrance to the mews, looks round

suddenly, and drops a handkerchief. Instantly a score or more of men

rush out into the street. A prison van, surrounded by mounted police,

comes by at a rapid trot. The head of every horse is seized, and

revolvers held pointed at their riders, others emptying the holsters

of their captives. Vulnar, Scrutus, and Fortunatus make straight for

the door of the van and demand, from the policeman inside,

admittance. He refuses.

_Vulnar._ “Then, stand back, man, care for your life, have care! We’ll

fire and smash the lock. Here, Volio, boy, Fire through the keyhole;

quick, no time to lose, So ho! well done, you’ve shivered it in two.

Open the door. Be quick. Vergli, art there? God bless thee, Vergli;

we’d all die for thee.”

Vergli is hurried into the mews by Vulnar, Fortunatus and Scrutus, and

disappears from sight. At the same time the reins are taken off the

van horses, and bridles slipped off those of the mounted men. All is

confusion, during which the conspirators, all of whom are masked,

slip away unobserved. Some time elapses before the rescue becomes

known. Policemen hurry to the spot. The van is entered and the

policeman inside is found to be dead. He had not taken Vulnar’s

warning, and the bullet which smashed the lock had entered his heart.

(This rescue scene is taken from a notable one some ten years

ago.)[4]

END OF ACT III.

[Illustration]

Footnote 4:

Bears reference to the Fenian rescue of Colonel Kelly and Deasy, in

1867.

_Author’s Note, 1877._

_ACT FOURTH._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.

In the gilded Chamber of the House of Bores. That usually empty Chamber

is full, and the galleries around, crowded. The centre of attraction

is Bernia’s Prince, Shafto, who has entered the lists in defence of

his feudatory subject, Vulnar, lord of Avenamore, who has been

attained of high treason, for aiding and abetting the rescue of

Vergli.—Vulnar and Vergli are at large, as also Fortunatus. Against

all three a warrant for arrest is out.

_The Prince of Bernia_: “Is it a crime to speak the truth? Methinks We

live amidst a sea of seething lies, Wallowing therein like the

proverbial whale, Who with a guzzle, down which e’en a prawn Is

passed with difficulty, swallowed up, Miraculously, of course, a

tough old seer, Who proved, however, indigestible, So that the whale

emitted him again, Unchewed, whole and unmasticated. Oh! What lies we

wallow in and teach our Youth, The whole time crying like a

hypocrite, ‘Speak not a lie, ’tis an abomination.’ Just so my Bores,

that’s how I class it too, And so I’ll speak the Truth just for a

change. ’Tis rather foreign to these gilded walls, But try and give

it courteous reception. I see His Graciousness the Arch Ardrigh,

Looking a bit ungracious and severe, I pray him don a less depressing

mien, Religion should incarnate scenes of peace, Not war, resentment,

animosity! Now to my subject. You condemn Vulnar, Lord of the

boreship of fair Avenamore, Attaint him traitor to our lord the King,

Because he rescued from a cruel death The King’s own son, bone of his

very bone. You dub him and young Fortunatus, too, Murd’rers,

assassins. How so? Did they plan Murder or assassination either? Not

so. But while engaged in rescuing The prisoner from the van,

unluckily, A bullet, fired by some conspiritor, Into the key lock,

having done its work, Passed on and most unfortunately lodged Within

the heart of the policeman Grett, Killing him as a natural

consequence. For this you call these men foul murderers, If they be

such then soldiers are assassins. _Malice aforethought surely is

alone The only sculptor of the murderer?_ You bid me bar my

principality Against Vulnar, and Fortunatus too, And war against them

as state enemies. But I assert they are not such, but friends,

Faithful to Hector, our liege lord and King. My bores, I know Vergli;

his soul is high He simply works for Justice and for Truth, He

advocates fair play to every man, To every living, moving, sentient

thing. His creed is, ‘Follow Nature, It is God, Inscrutable, but not

impossible.’ The God to whom you offer sacrifice And before whom you

kneel like hypocrites, Is an impossible, a defamed God, A brazen

serpent reared aloft by Man, Dyspeptic Man, who dreamed a nightmare

dream, And forthwith called it the Almighty God! Almighty lie! I call

it, yes, my bores, Lie of Nightmare and of Indigestion. Vergli would

purge our stomachs of this lie, And heal the wounds its foul disease

has wrought. Bring peace on earth and goodwill to the world. _Why_

should we live to kill, and to oppress? Why should a small majority

laugh loud, Wrapped in the lap of luxury and ease, While the majority

lives in trouble And writhes within the arms of poverty? Why should I

wear fine clothes and eat good food, My brother in the street wear

rags and starve? Vergli would end this, and moreover give To Woman

the inherent rights she claims, _Which your dyspeptic creed has

filched from her_, Making of her the puppet that she is. Vergli

claims to be Prince of Scota too, He says that Merani was Hector’s

wife. Nature, the One, true God, declares this too. Is Vergli wrong

for clinging to the Right? My bores, I, Shafto, Prince of Bernia,

cry, He is not wrong. He is the soul of truth, The soul of honour and

of equity, The enemy of Selfish Privilege. He does not ask for the

impossible, He does not prate of Man’s equality, He is not of the

Anarchist brigade Whose _muddle puddle_ laws would chaos breed. He

simply asks that _all_ men born should live, And have _the

opportunity_ to thrive, And _not be born_ the disinherited. Just

pause a moment. _Let us think._ Suppose, Just for the sake of

argument I pray, That when we die, our Soul, which I believe Is out

of matter forming Mind and Thought, Should peradventure take

possession of A life in an embryo state, and step Either into this

sphere, or say, elsewhere. Would you not like to think that soul of

yours Will not become the tenant of a slave, A Disinherited, a

Misery, But rather a free mortal born to live And make the most of

Nature’s Gift of Life? Remember, ‘every mongrel has its day,’ If Life

is as I say, you may become One of the disinherited of Erth. Or of

that distant planet we call ‘Light,’ And who, perhaps, calls us ‘The

Moon.’ Just now, A whisper in my ear says its real name Is Earth, and

that our Erth is called ‘The Moon’ By this same Earth whom we have

christened ‘Light.’ That whisper is a thought, a solid touch, Which

woos my mind, making its presence felt. E’en as a soft wind plays

upon my cheek, Telling me that it is a _thing_ of Life, Although

invisible to that thick mass, That shape Material or Body called,

Which is the Tabernacle of the Mind, And of that ethereal substance

known as thought, That loadstone which shall draw truths Unknown,

Once we develop perfect tenements, Worthy of _Thought increased a

millionfold, With power to read the past, the future, All_, And

fathom what to our embryo minds Is now a veiled and hidden mystery.

My bores, Vergli and Vulnar you condemn, And youthful Fortunatus

likewise stands, Marked as an object for the hangman’s rope. Would

you commit so terrible _a crime_ As to deprive those three of

Nature’s breath, For acts which _are not crimes_? Pause, think, my

bores, Are they deserving of a death so drear? I pray you, join your

signatures to mine, Ay, every member of The House of Bores,

Entreating the King’s Gracious Majesty To pardon and accord fair

Liberty To Vergli, Fortunatus, and Vulnar. They are not felons; two

are noble men, One, a brave youth, full of enthusiasm. Treat them no

more as disinheriteds, But as three loyal subjects of our King. My

bores, I, Prince of Bernia, sue for them: Most earnestly I pray you

grant my prayer.”

[_Sits down._

_Sanctimonious_ (who has risen): “And I as earnestly beseech you all To

turn a deaf ear to Prince Shafto’s prayer. Vergli is an attainted

criminal, Condemned to death for treason to the State, And treason

likewise to Most Holy Church, Vulnar and Fortunatus are condemned By

that great voice, Public Opinion, called; My bores, away with

Sentiment, face Fact. What are the facts justly condemning them?

Vergli has sought to overturn the State, And sweep our Church away.

Absolutely! ’Tis treason to our Sovereign lord, the King. He is the

head of both our Church and State. Treason demands the penalty of

Death, And Vergli stood condemned of this foul crime, And sentenced

to the punishment it merits. When Vulnar, Fortunatus, and some more

Defied the law and rescued him from death, Dealing death to another

in the act. The blood of Grett is on their hands and heads, He died a

brave man in the cause of duty. These rebels shot him down. They

murdered him. They took his life that Vergli’s might be saved. Yet

Bernia’s prince would see them pardoned! Faith! ’Twould be foul

sacrilege to pardon such. Our constitution rests on Church and State,

My bores, protect it most tenaciously.”

[_Sits down._

_Prime Minister_ (Sirocco, lord of Darbytire) rising: “My bores; the

Ardrigh’s words are golden grail, Dropping from Heaven like the Manna

food. Eat up his words and treasure them as truth, Truth, the

protector of your native land. The awful fiend of Revolution lives,

Scotched, but not killed. Vergli would overturn Not only Church and

State, but revered law, Make free of other people’s property, Turn

Woman into Man, and make men Slaves, Abolish wages, crown

Co-operation. Think what his wild schemes would impose on us. Think

how the Millionaire would suffer, too? Co-operation! Why, ’twould

give all men _The right to claim employment, and to share_ _The

profits of these human Storage Ants_! What call you this, my bores,

but Spoilation, That spoilation spelling Thievery? To pardon Vergli,

Vulnar, and the Youth Would mean surrender to dishonesty. And that

_the least_. Behold! our noble Church, A relic of the ancient days of

old, Part of a great _tradition_ threatened now. It is the fabric of

Morality, And all the notions that we love and cherish. True, it has

not opposed the fiend of War, And it has dabbled over much in blood;

But these are peccadilloes. Wink at them! We must not show up Godly

indiscretions. So, too, it is a most important fact That men _must_

toil, that other men may reap, That animals _must_ moan, that we may

laugh. To seek to overthrow these saintly laws, Laws nestling in our

Church’s _tender_ arms, Would mean destruction of the principle,

‘Might is our Right,’ which we laboriously Have made an Axiom of, and

_must_ uphold. No, no, my bores, Stand to your guns. Be firm. You

have the press and nation at your back. Capital must not be robbed by

Sentiment. The Brotherhood of Man is dreadful fudge, The God of

Nature far too practical. Don’t let the people get the wind of them,

They’d start full cry upon the scent. Oh! dear, The notion even, is

too terrible; Banish it as a thing impossible. The House of Common

persons has declined To sign this base petition to the King, Why

should the House of Bores act otherwise? It is its bounden duty to

the State, As also to the Holy Church of Erth, To give a stern denial

to the prayer Which Bernia’s prince addresses here to-day. I call on

you, my bores, to now uphold _The great traditions of

Saxscoberland_.”

* * * * *

The prayer of The Prince of Bernia is rejected.

SCENE II.

A rugged glen in the Highlands of Scota. The glen forms portion of a

pass, lying between two high hills, respectively called Cairnghlu and

Dhugla, which dominates this pass, known by the name of “The Pass

Ghlugla.” A rapid torrent threads its way through the valley below,

passage through which is only possible by the pass above. In a large

cave in this pass, attended by a few faithful followers, Vergli,

Isola, and Vulnar, together with Scrutus and Verita, have concealed

themselves, their adherents guarding both entrances to the pass. News

has been brought that two large forces of militia have been sent to

apprehend them, one advancing from either side.

_Vergli_ (solus, standing at the Cave’s entrance): “’Tis a strange

life! We cross its threshold first, With little understanding in our

brains. Then suddenly, into that empty Cave Steps an immortal soul,

which we call Thought, Turning the empty cave into a Mind. From that

mind, Thought is ever issuing, In ripples, like a calm, pellucid sea,

Or in tumultuous waves of reasoning, Diffusing all around its magic

spell. Some brains receive but little of this thought, While others

are o’er-charged with its great force, And magnetise the weaker

brains of men, Who yield obedience to the stronger pow’r. Is it this

pow’r which gives me followers, Willing to risk their fortunes for my

sake? Or are my principles the motive force Which causes them to

fight for Vergli’s cause? A bit of both, I fancy. Still, I think It

is the thought pow’r that attracts them most, A glance from me,

accompanied by a thought Silently wished within my active brain, Will

often gain for me that which I seek, Without recourse to _viva voce_

speech. Ah! well; If Thought _can_ concentrate itself In force

sufficient to attract success, I’ll send wave after wave abroad, in

quest Of kindred and reciprocating thought, Which shall respond to my

far-reaching call, Seemingly soundless and invisible. Is my call

soundless? Yet ’twill penetrate And ring my message in the brains of

men. Therefore it must have something kin to sound, Something in

Nature like a zephyr sprite, Whose wings float round us, yet we hear

them not, Whose lips caress us, though we see them not, Spirits we

feel, but cannot hear or see, Life living, yet in form invisible.”

He pauses, then continues: “Oh! come to me, Success, ye whom I woo,

_Not that success_ for which Men strive so much. Not empty adulation

and renown. I care as little for the world’s false praise As I care

for its paltry condemnation. The true Success I ask to come to me, Is

that the Truth, whose flag I hold aloft, And Justice and kind Love

shall triumph o’er The reign of Falsehood, Cruelty, and Hate. For

this I send forth thought waves far and wide, May their returning

tide bring back to me My bride, Success, whom I court from afar. Yes,

she will come. I feel it. She _will_ come, Although across an angry,

tossing sea.” [_Looking up at the summit of Dhugla he apostrophises

it._ “Summit of Dhugla, Peak of misty clouds, Around whose brow the

golden eagles soar, Upon whose breast the sentient form of Life,

Called animal Creation, finds support; Like unto me thou soarest

heavenwards, With glance fixed on the guide Excelsior, Whose hand

points ever upwards, bidding us Pierce Space unending, and Immortal

Truth. Summit of Dhugla, as thou wooest Heav’n, So woo I Truth, which

my fair bride, Success, Shall bring me as her peerless wedding gift.”

[_Enter Vulnar and Fortunatus._

_Vulnar._ “Vergli, the enemy are closing in, Our scouts apprise me of

their near approach. To try and hold this pass against such odds

Would be a folly; tactical mistake, And blunder irretrievable indeed.

We must disperse, and that without delay; The hillmen love you.

Whisper of your name Assures the wand’rer hospitality. Let us, while

it is possible, disperse, The winter soon will be upon us now, These

passes quite impassable. Hark! Sir, A distant bugle call! Its winding

note From out Kilsonan’s valley, steals aloft. We can, of course,

stay here and fight it out, Leaving our bodies for the Corbies’

sport; Yet killing is not noble Vergli’s aim, But Life around which

Freedom twines her arms, Rather his object. Thus I counsel flight,

_Not craven flight_, but _politic retreat_, And a reunion midst

securer scenes. Let us disperse and make for Avenamore, There,

through the winter, though I am outlawed, I’ll guarantee you full

security. The Men of Avenamore will stand by me. Take Scrutus and

Arflec, both are experts In Scota’s hills and Bernia’s rugged paths,

And I will steer, with all my craftiest skill, A safe course thither

both for Verita And Fortunatus. They may trust in me, And for the

rest, our followers can disperse.”

_Vergli._ “So be it, Vulnar. Pass the word around, Brother-in-arms, so

faithful, trusty, true. Fair-well! until we meet again, brave heart.

Noble Vulnar, _Nature’s true nobleman_. Take Vergli’s thanks. ’Tis

all he has to give, Take them, they are the echoes of his heart,

Where Gratitude is not a foreigner. Now go. Pass the word quickly

round. Farewell!”

[_He wrings Vulnar’s hand, who returns a silent clasp, and goes out._

_Vergli_ (to Fortunatus): “And you, too, I must part from, Isola. You,

who have made my wanderings so fair, You, who have braved

imprisonment and death To save Vergli and hold aloft his cause. Hard

is the utterance of the word farewell, When those to whom we say it

are beloved, As you, Oh! Lady Isola, _are_ loved By Vergli with

respectful, reverent love. He knows your love is with Escanior, And

not for him, but tender friendship giv’n, As you have given yours to

me, _is_ sweet, And plays a soft light on Life’s rugged path.

Farewell, Isola; soon to meet again, Amidst the crags of far-famed

Avenamore. Farewell! may all the blessings of _our God_ Fall on your

shoulders, _dearest_ Isola.”

_Fortunatus._ “Farewell, Vergli. I thank you for your love, Man’s love

is rarely generous and pure, Capable of Unselfishness, and true; ’Tis

not my fault I cannot make return Of love so tender and so

chivalrous. But mine is with Escanior, bound to his. Wedded with him

for all eternity. Yes, we will meet again at Avenamore, Vulnar, and

I, and Verita will come. Have hope, have confidence, though skies are

dark, Behind the clouds shines the resplendent sun, Our cause _shall_

triumph yet. In Sunburst’s glow We’ll see it someday clasping

Victory.”

_Enter Verita_: “Hear you the bugle of the men of war? Vergli, Scrutus

awaits you, and Arflec. Lady Isola, Vulnar bids you haste, Ere long

escape will be impossible. He waits you by the Pass’s eastern side,

Scrutus and Arflec will be by the western; Hasten to join them,

Vergli. Hark! ’tis near, King Hector’s men of war are very nigh.”

[_Exit Vergli, Fortunatus and Verita._

SCENE III.

The Palace of Magnificence, situated in the town of Rowanberry, and the

residence of the Ardrigh of Saxscoberland. In the private sanctum of

the Ardrigh two men are seated. One is His Graciousness himself, the

other the head of his “secret service peerers,” these being a body of

men kept by Sanctimonious for the purpose of keeping vigilant watch

over the interests of the State Religion of the country. The two men

are engaged in earnest conversation.

_Sanctimonious._ “And so, Conception, from your fertile brain You have

evolved a plan to lay them low?” [_He draws nearer to Conception._

“While Vergli, Fortunatus, or Vulnar Remain at large, destruction

threatens us. Destroy this trinity and dangerous force Of Will, and

thought, and optimistic hope, And all will flow serenely once again.

The torpid languour of the working men Will soon return to lull them

all to sleep, As in the good old days gone by, when I Ruled o’er the

roost in undisputed sway. Now tell me of the plan you have evolved,

And _who_ the Genius is who’ll take the helm And steer its course

into the bay Success. Tell me, Conception, I am all attention.”

_Chief Peerer Conception._ “Your Graciousness, ’tis nothing new indeed;

An old, old plan, in origin quite human, Just the old story,

treachery, ha, ha, The counterpart of the malignant Lie, That lie

which bolsters up the most of Life And bids uncanny Truth to hide her

head. The Genius who will pilot in this case, Is one called Judath.

In his black lined soul, The love of gold is the abiding lust, Which

rules him to exclusion of aught else. I have informed him that the

price I set On Vergli’s head is twenty thousand crowns, On that of

Fortunatus, half that sum, On Vulnar’s head the half of that again,

And if the _three together_ he can bag, The sum of forty thousand

shall be his. Your Graciousness, his eyes gleamed like a coal, A

wolfish, hungry glare arose in them, The cunning of the fox leapt

from their depths And ogled me with side look, amorous glance. His

yellow teeth grinned at me as he said, ‘Sir, I will claim the forty

thousand crowns, Yea, ’ere the winter snows have clothed the earth,

They’ll hang before grey cloaked November’s gone, And _Judath shall

have forty thousand crowns_.’ Your Graciousness, had you but heard

his voice, And seen his face, and looked into his eyes, You would

have felt, as I felt, ‘All is well.’ Have I done well? The job’s a

bit high priced, But worth the coin, I think, your Graciousness.”

_Sanctimonious._ “Worth it, Conception? Rather! Double! More! The peril

threatened is of magnitude, And forty thousand is the minimum Which I

would pay to see it rooted up. Just think what Disestablishment would

mean, A mine of wealth let loose amongst the mob; Vergli would have

that wealth distributed And sunk in his Co-operative scheme For

giving every toiler a part share, According to his toil, of the State

funds. His heathen propaganda would destroy Not only emoluments, but

instal Amongst the public free-lance teaching, and Abolish that most

necessary vice Called prostitution, which is the result Of both our

civil and religious laws, The first safeguarding it as politic, The

latter in accordance with the faith Held by our creed that Woman is

that thing Which I’ve heard termed the ‘After-Birth of Man,’ But

which I’d rather call God’s ‘After Thought,’ Or ‘Second Thought,’

creation from a rib! Man being fashioned in the shape of God, Is

naturally _the_ Superior Life, And Woman, but a bauble After Thought,

Made for Man’s Comfort, and his Pleasure too, Is of no consequence,

except as slave, As wife obedient, or as prostitute. And Vergli dares

to say we preach a lie, And strives to waken Woman to the truth,

Proclaiming her Man’s equal, shouting out She is not part of Man’s

Almighty rib! Conception, just conceive the blasphemy! Conception,

realize the rolling wave Of unbelief, which will o’erspread the land,

Once Woman takes to heart that this is true. Great Scot! She’ll sweep

us off our noble legs, She’ll cast the Saintly Rib into the fire,

Cremate it on the instant without Shame, And dare to ask for Equal

Rights with Man. What should we do? Alack! What should we do? Man’s

infidelity we can despise, So long as Woman grovels in Belief, But if

_she_ cease the Stomach Crawling farce, We are undone! Alas! we are

undone! And so, Conception, forty thousand crowns, Is not too much to

pay to kill this snake, This awful offspring of the Satan myth, Which

we invented to uphold the slur Cast on the Woman by our Holy Creed.

No, at all costs, keep _sight_ from Woman’s eyes, Once she obtains

it, like a cataract Will fall on us her wild and angry wrath,

Sweeping away the Fable of the past, Which we have held aloft six

thousand years, Moulding from it our creed, our faith, our laws, And

forcing Man to hail it as Divine.”

_Conception._ “True. Woman sleeps. She knows not of her pow’r, That

pow’r which would make her a ‘Woman Free.’ _And those who would awake

her must be slain, For they are deadly enemies to us._ Vergli _is_

dangerous, and Isola As dangerous as he is, of a certain.”

_Sanctimonious_ (contemptuously): “Oh! Isola, her teeth have all been

drawn, She’s pining far away in Killareen. The outcast of our King,

divorced from him, Denied access e’en to her little child, Prince

Bernis, Prince of Scota, Hector’s heir. She is of no account, her

name is dead, Bernia’s dishonoured Princess! in good sooth. She

scorned me, bit at me, questioned my right To sit upon the freedom of

her sex. I think I’ve taught her just a _little_ lesson!”

_Conception._ “Your Graciousness is over-confident. Listen, but keep it

secret from our King. The youth, upon whose head a price is set,

Young Fortunatus, is this Isola. Ha! Ha! You start, turn pale, and

look distressed, Small wonder, for you know Isola’s heart, You know

it is undaunted, brave, and warm, A combination irresistible. She has

concealed identity from all, Successfully hoodwinked the populace,

And leads as _Fortunatus the Unknown_. It is my business to assist

this blind, King Hector would not hang _his_ Isola! He loves her,

though she was so coy to him, Mourning for that Adonis, Escanior,

Friend of her childhood and her budding years, And then her lover,

love which she returned. King Hector would not harm her. As you know,

In spite of long sojourn with Merani, Isola’s presence fascinated

him, Double her age. He might have been her sire, She held him an

admirer, ne’er-the-less, Although his love repelled her. Escanior

Being the only idol she adored. So ‘Mum’s’ the word, your

Graciousness. Keep dark That Fortunatus is fair Isola. The former is

the hangman’s property, The latter still the King’s heart’s property,

He’d rather cast his crown into the sea Than sign a Warrant

sanctioning _her_ death.”

_Sanctimonious._ “Fear not, Conception, I will not betray, The secret

you so wisely would conserve. So _you_ defy me still, young Isola,

_You_ still make sport of Sanctimonious? Well, well, I bide my time.

’Tis drawing near. Dulcet will be the gift it brings. Revenge!”

_Conception._ “Your Graciousness. Judath awaits outside, Would just a

word with him enamour you? May be that you would like to see this

pearl, Offer him counsel, or give silent hint By eye glance, that

success is your desire. Judath hath keen perception, he can read The

outward _and the inner face of man_. Convey to him occultly the

desire, Irradiating this veiled feature. He, Judath, the prince of

traitors, Peerer true, Schemer, Informer, Genius masterful, Will

paint your wish upon _his_ inner face, And keep that face ever before

his eyes. Is it your pleasure that I call him in?”

_Sanctimonious._ “It is indeed. Call him, Conception, pray.”

_Enter Judath._ (He bows low): “Humble obeisence! Your Graciousness.”

_Conception._ “Judath, you are commended. The Ardrigh Knows of your

mission. He bids you succeed. You know the saying well, that ‘gold

makes gold,’ Now take in the suggestion. Look at him. His glance

alone will satisfy your soul.”

_Sanctimonious_ (aside): “God! _What_ a hunger lurks within his eyes,

It has the aspect of the famished wolf, ’Tis a dread Tyrant, this

consuming thirst, This human lust for Gold; Entrancing Gold! The need

of it makes criminals. Its pow’r Commands the Adoration of the World,

Its influence is paramount. Its sway Absolute and undisputed even.”

(To Judath, suggestively): “Yes, ‘Gold makes gold,’ assuredly my man.

The Man who earns some forty thousand crowns, Is surely _likely_ to

make one fourth more. A grandee such as forty thousand is, Will

certainly not lack attendant kin.” (Looking at him meaningly) “Ten

thousand is A comely bride for forty thousand crowns.”

_Judath_ (earnestly): “He’ll marry her! Fear not, your Graciousness. A

vision is before me. _There it is!_ _A scaffold! See_, and on it five

men stand; A hangman and a holy comforter, Vergli, and Fortunatus,

and Vulnar, These last three, all are pinioned, and await The doom

they’ve earned, and which I’ve brought on them. Yes, I, Judath,

Conception’s arch informer, I, who _shall_ win the _forty thousand

crowns_,” (Looking at the Ardrigh cunningly) “_And claim for this

brave sum a winsome bride_, I can assure your Graciousness, that I,

Yes, _I will_ bring the culprits to their doom.”

_Sanctimonious._ “Our blessing shall be on you, Judath. Gold! Yes, Gold

shall line your pockets for the deed. Bring but these men into the

hangman’s hands, Give me the power to breathe in peace once more, And

for that gift, gold shall be yours indeed.” (Aside) “_The gold you

cannot take away with you._”

_Conception._ “Enough. Judath, you are dismissed. Work well, And bring

his Graciousness the trinity.” [_Exit Judath._ (To Sanctimonious)

“Obeisence, your Graciousness. I go.”

_Sanctimonious._ “Blessings on you, inimitable gem.”

[_Exit Conception._

(Solus) “Yes, Vergli, Fortunatus, and Vulnar, I’ll teach you not to

meddle with the State, I’ll teach you not to meddle with the Church,

The Rights of Man! A pure Religion! Faugh! You dreaming dreamers of

Idealism. Shall brotherhood and love usurp the reign Of selfishness,

and cruelty, and blood? Never! _while our Almighty Creed prevails_.”

[_Goes out._

END OF ACT IV.

[Illustration]

_ACT FIFTH._

[Illustration]

SCENE I.

The royal Castle of Belmadhu in Scota. King Hector is seated in a

garden tent facing some high heathery hills. Close to him his little

son Bernis, Prince of Scota, is playing. The King is reading a letter

from Isola.

_Prince Bernis._ “Papa, _where_ is Mamma? Bernis wants her, Papa, Nurse

says Mamma has gone away. Where is she gone to? Bernis _wants_ Mamma.

Papa! _send_ for Mamma. _Tell_ her to come. _Tell_ her, Papa, that

‘Bernis is _so_ dull.’ He wants Mamma to come and play with him.

Papa! (wistfully). _Will_ you _please_ tell Mamma to come? Papa,

Mamma loves Bernis _very_ much; Papa, Bernis loves Mamma _so so_

much. Papa, _please_ give him his Mamma again.”

_King Hector_ (wearily and aside): “Poor child, what can I say? What

have I done? Brought thee, unasked, into a world of pain; _To act_

the puppet of a gaping crowd, Who nurture thee to be their gaudy toy.

Born to the _slavery_ of a royal crown, Thou must indeed learn to

forego thy will.” (To the child) “Mamma’s away. Gone to see Uncle

Shafto. Bernis must be a big boy. Play alone. _He_ should not want

Mamma _to play_ with him. Bernis must learn to be _a Prince_ indeed,

And just forget he is a _human being_.”

_Prince Bernis._ “What is a _Prince_, Papa? Is it a _thing_? And what’s

a Hooman Being? Please tell me.”

_King Hector._ “A Prince is just a man turned inside out, He’s just a

man but made to look unlike one; A human being feels, and speaks, and

acts; A Prince is merely an Automaton.”

_Prince Bernis_ (earnestly): “I _don’t_ want to become a Prince, Papa;

I _won’t_ let them pull Bernis inside out. I _want_ to be a hooman

being _please_. Bernis _shan’t_ be a nasty Tumaton.”

_King Hector._ “Fie, Bernis, you are not a Prince at all; A little

_gutter snipe_, that’s what you are.” (Aside) “Spit of Isola, every

inch of him, A most unorthodox, unroyal slave; Wants to be human! Not

a People’s toy. Oh! Isola, why have you bred this thing?”

_Prince Bernis_ (clapping his hands): “A _gutter snipe_, Papa? What

fun! what fun! Am I a _gutter snipe, really_, Papa? Then I may make

mud pies and play leap frog, And pull these stiff clothes off and

wear nice rags. Oh! yes, I _know_ the _gutter snipes_ do that,

Because I’ve seen them. Yes, I _have_, Papa. I’m going to look for

Nurse and tell her so. Nursie, dear Nursie, I’m a _gutter snipe_!”

[_He runs off to look for his Nurse, shouting the last words again and

again._

_King Hector._ “Laugh on poor little ‘would-be gutter snipe,’ Laugh and

love Nature whilst thou canst, my boy; ’Twill soon be torn from thee

to fabricate That Human being docked of Liberty. Now to Isola’s

letter. What says she! This offcast woman, whom I once called wife.”

(Reads aloud) “Let me speak to you, Hector. I _will_ speak. You must

and shall do justice to Vergli, You must and shall acknowledge him as

heir, You must and shall honour Merani’s name, You must and shall

teach Bernis to be true, Each day I’ll send this message to you,

King, Until it takes possession of your heart, And though I am no

longer nigh to speak, I’ll cry it to you daily from afar. And this,

too, will I cry each day be sure— You shall not always be a puppet

King, But lead your people and your Government To do away with

antiquated law, And cast aside a false and senseless creed, Which

bolsters up innumerable wrongs And rushes in the face of Evolution.

Hector, you must give freedom to Vulnar, He has a noble soul a kindly

heart. What is his crime? He freed your son from death. He is an

outlaw for that reason, King, You shall not punish him who saved your

son. You shall cast off your shackles and be just, You shall not

teach our child to be a thief, Or act a lie, or filch his brother’s

name. Bernis, of course, _by law_ is yours, Hector; A _man_-made law

gives him to you not me, But Nature’s law declares that he is mine

Far beyond yours. Yes, Bernis is _my_ child. I did not want him. He

was forced on me. I did not marry you of my free will. They killed

Escanior and you purchased me To be your _law_ wife, Church-blessed

chattel slave. But all this cannot alter the great fact That Bernis

is our child and, though by law You take him and deny my right to

him, I am his Mother. Yes, he is my child By an inexorable sacred

law, Which man-made laws may flout but cannot kill; And so I tell

you, Hector, guard the child, Make him what Isola would have made

him. I do not _plead_ with you I say _you shall_, You shall bring up

my child as I desire. Yes, you may smile and scoff at Isola, Think

you _she_ cannot read your inmost heart? Deep down therein _there is_

a fount of love Which royal schooling has both checked and plugged,

But which is bubbling at its source ne’erless. It shall o’ercome your

royal slavery And make you a just Ruler, not a tool. Thus, Hector,

shall I speak to you each day, You’ll hear my voice whisp’ring around

your brain And fear not they shall find an entrance there.”

_Hector_ (laying the letter down): “Isola, thy words are ever

whispering, They haunt my mind at all and every hour. Undoubtedly I

loved you, Merani, And by God’s law you were my wife, indeed; And

Vergli _is_ the Prince of Scota, too. But I was reared _not_ to think

in this way, And so I did not know the crime I did, When I bought

Isola, yes, bought that girl, And raised her up my puppet, Consort

Queen. Poor Merani forgive me. Dead days rise And come again from out

that vanished past When we were lovers, and for love of me, You

braved the world’s cold scorn and stood by me My Nature-wedded wife,

faithful and true, Loving and helpful, yet too proud to swear The

senseless formula prescribed by law, Which ordered you to swear to be

my slave. Yet were we man and wife by register, Which took our

promise to be man and wife, And married us before the God of Heav’n.

Then State expediency tore me away And gave me a girl wife, unwilling

bride, Who loved another and denied me love— Yet whom the law gave me

as lawful Queen. I loved Isola, Merani forgive; I could not help it.

Yet _she_ wronged you not. She always spoke of you with true respect

And said _you were_ my wife, she but a slave. Then you went forward.

After that she bowed To Natural law and called herself my wife. But

her proud spirit would not brook restraint, Nor act the puppet part

of Consort Queen. When I and Sanctimonious sought to force This part

undignified upon her, she Left me and sought the refuge of her home.

I claimed her back, but Bernia’s Prince refused To yield his sister

up; and so our Church And State divorced her, made her an outcast And

left, of course, the child to be my care. Merani, you so kind, with

heart so large, Will understand and will forgive the King. Oh! sorry

fate. How long must I sham on? How long must I approve what I detest,

And be a slave? What! sign my son’s death warrant? Never! I will not

murder my own child. Thank goodness he escaped, and yet, alas! If

they should catch young Fortunatus and Arrest Vulnar, the law will

hang these men As murderers of the policeman Grett; And I shall sign

approving warrant, I, The father of Vergli whose life they saved. Was

ever man more sorely tried than I? Oh! sorry, sorry fate to be a

King.”

_Enter Larrar_: “Sire, there is most important news arrived.” (Reads)

“‘Three masterly arrests have just been made— Of Vulnar, Scrutus and

young Fortunatus. One of their followers turned traitor and Betrayed

the hiding place where Vergli lurked. Young Fortunatus, though

entrapped himself, Managed to send a warning to Vergli; He and Vulnar

and Scrutus stood their ground And held the entrance to their chief’s

retreat. Fearing that Vergli would refuse to fly And leave the others

to their fate, the youth Resorted to a subterfuge, saying Vergli must

meet them on the Bawn co Pagh, Whither they were retiring. He knew

well That once on Bawn co Pagh, the citadel And fortress of Vulnar,

Vergli was safe And midst a band of men true to his cause; But for

this cunning message here detailed, Vergli would have returned to aid

his friends And been entrapped and made a prisoner. E’en as it was

the others might have fled, But had they done so would have doomed

Vergli; And so they fought it out and thus gained time, But were at

length o’ercome and captive made.’ The name of him who worked this

clever ruse By which this mountain hiding place was found, Is Judath,

who feigned fealty to their cause But turned informer and betrayed

them all.”

_King Hector_ (aside): “Curses upon him. Black-souled son of Hell,

Monster of foul and base iniquity.” (To Larrar) “So, so, they’ve

caught the three who murdered Grett; Now will the law avenge itself,

the mob Wreak its all-fathomless resentment on The men whom Judath

has so deftly nailed. And I, yes I, must bow with smothered love

Crying within my bosom to my soul, And sign the rights of these men

to fair life Away into the black abyss of wrong. Larrar, what piteous

fate e’er made me King?”

_Larrar._ “Not fate, Sire. You can cast the title off And just become

an ordinary man. Children like dolls, the grown-up child likewise

Makes you its doll and pays you for your trouble. What are you, Sire,

but the paid servant of A government of nondescript creation? You do

its work and call yourself a King. I am your servant, but you in your

turn Are mine, because I am part of that state Which pays the piper

to pipe forth _its tune_. Vergli would have the King part of the

State, The chairman, so to say, one with real pow’r. Paid, but a real

King, not a mere cypher To whom men bow, although but to a slave.

Were you a real King you could speak your mind And guide your peers

and people to be fair, Or influence them to espouse the right. I say

not Kings should be all absolute, But they should be Chairmen of the

State. At least this is the creed preached by Vergli And long ago his

words converted me, I am at heart an Evolutionist.”

_King Hector_ (aside): “And I, too. _Who_ would be the farce I am?” (To

Larrar) “Larrar, you are presuming. Have a care, Kings’ _waiting-men_

are servants, too, you know; A waiting groom and waiting lord are

paid. If I’m a puppet, all who wait on me Are puppets, too! What

shall we call the thing Which this queer puppet-mixture has evolved?

Merry-go-round or Humbug spinning round? I think the latter, ’tis

more suitable; For Humbug is in the ascendant now And Sham the Idol

of Society, And over all King Hector spreads his wings; Shall they be

free wings or their pinioned stumps?”

[_He walks towards the Castle, musing._