“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._


                               SCENE II.

 On the ramparts of Bawn co Pagh Castle. Vergli and Verita, the latter
   in male attire, are pacing up and down conversing earnestly.

 _Vergli_ (passionately): “And they are captives, while I stand here
   free! Alas! ’tis terrible. What _can_ I do? Isola, you a captive and
   condemned, Vulnar likewise and faithful Scrutus, too? Condemned to
   die for giving me my life! Shades of Iniquity! Horrible fact! Isola,
   whom I love, condemned to death, Vulnar, whose home protects this
   wanderer, Scrutus, who was the first to stand by me, All doomed to
   die, all doomed to die _for me_.”

                                                             [_He sobs._

 _Verita._ “Not so, Vergli. Fret not. They fight for Truth, Of which you
   are the representative; They die that you may live to win that prize
   And give it, from them, to posterity. Vergli, live to reward their
   sacrifice, Live to see triumph—that for which they’ll die I know I
   echo dear Isola’s thoughts, Do you not feel them hov’ring round you
   now?”

 _Vergli._ “Yes, they steal round me, gently kissing me, Bidding me be a
   hero not a cur. Dearest Isola, I shall work for you And win the Right
   we both desire so much. To go to you, to die by your dear side, That
   is _the wish_ of Vergli’s yearning heart; To live for you, to win the
   Truth you love, Shall be _the duty_ done for you and Right.”

 _Verita._ “Spoken as heroes speak, noble Vergli, Your answ’ring words
   will cheer Isola’s heart; They’ll flood with light her prison’s
   lonely cell And bring her happiness and restful peace. Now will I
   start for Infantlonia. There! The sun is sinking, all is red _and
   gold_, The colours flood the far off western sky. Red is Blood’s
   sign, but Gold’s the sign of Truth, And Martyr’s blood _shall_ win
   Truth’s victory.”

                                   [_She bids Vergli farewell and goes._

 _Vergli_ (solus): “Mine be the task to wake a sleeping world And force
   it to espouse the cause of Truth. Merani, Mother! Dost thou hear thy
   son? Thy dear lips taught him Truth. Thy noble words Live all
   unfading in his Memory. Thou art not dead. Thy life is with me now. I
   am thyself, I am thy property. What I do that thou doest, Mother
   mine, My voice is but the echo of thy own. And you, Isola, your
   thought hovers near Mixing with ours, making mine doubly strong. Oh!
   Thought amalgamate with subtle force, Flood me with pow’r to think
   and to express And to enforce it on Humanity. Thought, mighty
   Thought, essence of God Divine, Wax great and multiply. Attain the
   Truth.”

                                [_He enters the Castle of Bawn co Pagh._


                               SCENE III.

 In the exercising ground of the Prison of Holdfast. Vulnar, Fortunatus
   and Scrutus are at exercise. The first two have halted and are
   engaged in conversation. It is the day before their trial.

 _Vulnar._ “This I assume is the _last_ chance I’ll have To speak to
   you, Isola. Without doubt The verdict will be Guilty, sentence Death.
   My lawyer tells me that the angry wave Of that most fickle Judge,
   Public Opinion, Is rabid for our instant execution! We are, in fact,
   condemned before being tried; A wave of anger has possessed the land,
   Fostered, encouraged by the powers that be. Ah! well, t’will soon be
   o’er. I fear not death, To die beside you is enough for me. Vulnar
   asks not a better fate, indeed, But to be faithful to the very end—
   To Love, to Justice and to mighty Truth, All three the seraphs of a
   perfect Life. Forgive me, Isola, for breathing love, But I _have_
   loved you faithfully and well. To feel you feel this and forgive
   Vulnar, Would make his last days peaceful and content. He could not
   help his love, it came on him Long long ago when he was yet a boy; He
   loved this love and hugged it very tight, And nurtured it, until it
   grew so strong He knew no mortal pow’r could sever it; The sapling
   had become, in fact, an oak— An oak impervious to ev’ry storm. Kind
   Isola, I know that you forgive And do not blame Vulnar for loving
   you.”

 _Isola._ “Why do men love me thus? What is the spell Which makes them
   love with such unselfish love? Oh! Vulnar, could I blame _you_ for
   such love? Rather, I thank you for your brave devotion. Kind Vulnar,
   loving friend of Escanior, ’Tis good, indeed, to have so true a
   friend; If it to you is joy to have loved me, Believe me, ’tis a joy
   to me, Vulnar. I would not sell your love for all the world; I would
   not barter it for Life itself. Such love in man is so uncommon, rare,
   To own a gem so rare is wealth, indeed. Yes, Death is nigh, that
   death men fear so much. Why do they fear it, if their God is good?
   Why fear to go to what is loving, kind? If God is as a father, they
   should laugh And clap with joy their hands at sight of Death. This
   they do not, but fear it fearfully. Why? Because they have made an
   untrue heav’n; A cruel hell, a hydra-headed God Whom they call Good
   and yet fear to approach, Whom they adore and yet seek to evade!
   Small wonder seeing they are human and This God is most inhuman. Oh!
   fair Truth Prevail, prevail, come quickly and prevail. Well, Vulnar,
   Life is fair and Life is Life— To us who know that Thought can never
   die And is the soul of Life, we fear not Death; Because we feel ’tis
   but an open door Where Life rejoins the Thought which cannot die, And
   starts afresh upon Life’s pilgrimage. I will not say farewell, we’ll
   meet again, You and my fair-haired, blue-eyed Escanior; We’ll meet,
   our forceful thought attracting us To be together. Yes, to be, to
   be.”

 _Warder_ (approaching): “Time’s up for exercise. Back to your cells.
   Silence. No further speaking is allowed.”

                                             [_All re-enter the prison._


                               SCENE IV.

 In the Palace of Sham, the Infantlonian residence of the Ardrigh.
   Sanctimonious and Conception sit together in the study of His
   Graciousness.

 _Conception._ “Your Graciousness, I’ve thought of everything. None but
   the Prince of Bernia and that jade Whom they call Verita, possess the
   fact That Isola is Fortunatus, too. Charged with conspiracy, both are
   in gaol; There they shall stop till Isola is dead. His Majesty has no
   suspicion, has he?”

 _Sanctimonious._ “No, none, Conception. We’ll take care of that, I and
   Sirocco, the Prime Minister. Now that Vulnar and his accomplices—
   Scrutus and Fortunatus—are condemned, The danger of detection is
   quite nil. I trust to you, of course, to keep the truth Barred in the
   prison till they are no more. ’Tis fortunate they led their own
   defence, And that Isola scorned to plead her sex And so secure a
   respite for herself. Yes, Fortunatus, you shall hang, indeed, And I’m
   revenged on Lady Isola!”

 _Conception_ (starting): “Your Graciousness, the Prince of Scota’s
   there Staring at you with all his might and main, Where did he spring
   from? Is’t a shadow wraith? God! how his features mirror Isola’s.”

 _Sanctimonious_ (testily): “’Tis but a child. He often stays with me,
   Comes for instruction. Plays in the Garden. Nothing to fear from him.
   A mere, mere child. How now, my son, what stops you in your play?”

 _Prince Bernis._ “A voice called me. I thought it was Mamma’s.
   ‘Bernis,’ it said, ‘Come, darling, come here quick!’ I ran so fast. I
   thought it was Mamma.”

        [_Enter Prince Bernis’s nurse by same window as he had entered._

 _Nurse._ “Fie, Bernis! Fie! I’ve called you sev’ral times.”

 _Prince Bernis._ “I thought it was Mamma and ran in here.”

 _Nurse._ “Hush! Do not speak of Lady Isola. Make salutation to His
   Graciousness, Then come with me, we must be going home.”

 _Sanctimonious._ “My blessing on you, Prince. Be a good boy. Come again
   soon and have a game of play.” [_Exit Prince Bernis and Nurse._ (To
   Conception) “’Tis fortunate he is a little child And would not
   understand what I was saying.”

 _Conception_ (uneasily): “I hope he did not, but his eyes were wide,
   They seemed to me to be Isola’s eyes.”

 _Sanctimonious._ “Tut! tut! you are a fool, Conception. The Prince of
   Scota is a baby still.”

 _Conception._ “Some babies are too sharp, your Graciousness. However,
   you know best. _I am a fool._”

 _Sanctimonious._ “To-morrow they will die, I wish ’twas o’er. I shall
   not freely breathe till their breath’s gone.”

 _Conception_ (rising): “Sharp on the stroke of eight they’ll die
   to-morrow. Your Graciousness may eat in peace at nine.”

 _Sanctimonious._ “Well spoken, man. Unparalleled Conception.”

                                                     [_Exit Conception._


                                SCENE V.

 In a condemned cell in the Prison of Holdfast. Fortunatus is seated at
   a small wooden table writing. Close to him a warder sits reading.

 _Fortunatus_ (writes): “When these words reach you, Hector, o’er the
   tide Which leads from Death to Life I shall be moving. This Thought,
   which now inhabiting my brain Sends forth to you this message, will
   have sped Forward to mingle with Escanior’s. Yet e’er it leaves its
   human canopy, It wafts you the last words of Isola. These are they
   ‘Be you just and merciful, Become a king in _deed_ rather than name,
   Work _with_ your people and for them, Hector; Let King mean brother,
   treat all men as such. Sweep from the statute book all useless law,
   All law which harrows progress, or degrades. See to it that the young
   shall learn the Truth, Learn to be useful, moral, just and _kind_— To
   give to every living thing that breathes The right which Nature gives
   it, Happiness. Train up the youth to say “Thou shalt not kill,” To
   say it _and to practise it as well_. Abolish War and raise up
   Arbitration. See that each child is taught a trade, or shewn How to
   use hands given for work and use. See that all men have opportunity
   To work and win the fruits of honest toil. Let all work be
   Co-operative and Give unto woman what you give to man. Let principles
   of Fair Play animate All laws and regulations of the State; Let
   Reason guide their framing, not the lust Of gold, or greed, or
   selfishness. _Be fair._ Let it be ordered “_Privilege shall die, Just
   laws alone rule o’er the Destinies Of Man and beast._” Crush Cruelty
   to earth. See to it that _the base, ignoble crime_ Cursed
   Vivisection, be swept _clean_ away— _Totally_ abolished, treated _as
   a crime_, And stains no more the fame of our dear land.’ One last
   word, Hector. Watch o’er our Bernis, Make him a hero not a bauble
   prince; Let him be what Isola bore him for, To be an honest and an
   upright man. And with this last word let me bid you rise And call
   unto your side your first-born son, Give him the right to be that
   which _he is_— The Prince of Scota and your rightful heir. Farewell,
   Hector! For Right and Truth I die, See to it that I do not die in
   vain.”

 _Warder._ “Will you not take some rest? The hour grows late. I counsel
   you, young Fortunatus, sleep.”

 _Fortunatus_, rising, lies down on his bed. Then he turns on his back,
   puts his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling, mentally
   saying: “Bernis, my darling, be Isola’s child. Good-bye, my little
   man. Be kind. Be true. Use thought to think right things, be just, be
   brave; Be mother’s child, reflection of Isola.”

                                                               [_Sleeps_


                               SCENE VI.

 The Palace of Dreaming in Infantlonia. King Hector tosses restlessly in
   his bed and mutters to himself: “Grey dawn is coming, bringing in its
   hand Death for the three _who saved my son from death_, And I have
   signed the warrant for their deaths— I, the _lone_ King of poor
   Saxscoberland. Oh! Isola, had you been by my side, Had you been
   _reigning_ jointly with me now As you declared you had the right to
   reign, Such foul injustice never had been done. Isola, noble Isola,
   divorced, Driven from Hector’s side by unjust law, Come to me, drive
   away the imp Remorse Which grinning sits before me, mocking me.”

 _Enter Prince Bernis_ (in his nightdress, peeping in): “Papa, mamma
   _is_ calling. I heard her. _Who_ is Isola? Is it mamma, papa?”

 _Hector_ (springing up): “What brings _you_ here, my child? Bernis,
   what is’t? By all the Gods! _What is it_, Bernis boy?”

 _Prince Bernis._ “Mamma called me to come here. I have come. Where is
   mamma? Is mamma Isola? Nurse calls her _Lady_ Isola, papa; But,
   yesterday, I heard His Gaysiousness Say ‘Isola _was_ Fortunatus.’
   Who? Papa say, who is Fortunatus, and How can he be my dear mamma,
   Isola?”

 _Hector_ (seizing the boy and staring at him): “He said that Fortunatus
   _was Isola_? Speak, Bernis, did His Graciousness _say that_?”

 _Prince Bernis._ “Oh! yes, papa. Conception said it, too. I heard the
   Ardrigh and Conception say it. Tell me, papa, where is mamma and why
   Is she called Fortunatus by them both, And nurse calls her the _Lady_
   Isola?”

 _King Hector_ (dressing hastily): “Oh! God Almighty, I shall be too
   late. ’Tis twenty-nine miles to the prison gates. They die at eight.
   ’Tis now far after six. Almighty God! How reach Holdfast in time? Oh!
   for the pow’r to flash the word ‘Reprieved’ Into the hands of
   Holdfast’s Governor. Surely the Universe holds property Able to send
   forth silent messages.” (To the child) “Run back to bed, my darling,
   run, Bernis; Papa is going to try to save Mamma. No. I can’t take
   you, run to bed, Bernis. Almighty God! _can I get there in time?_”

                                             [_He rushes from his room._


                             END OF ACT V.

[Illustration]




                              _ACT SIXTH._


[Illustration]


                                SCENE I.

 Early morning in the condemned cell where Isola lies sleeping. In one
   corner of it a warder sits, with his head sunk on his chest, asleep.
   The first sign of day dawn is stealing through the barred window.

 _Isola_ (gradually awaking, says dreamily): “’Tis somewhat hard my
   rugged, earthy couch, Yet the brown heather nurtures Liberty. I’d
   rather nestle in its arms, than lie Cushioned and canopied on regal
   couch.” [_Wakes more fully, and starts up into a sitting posture, as
   consciousness and remembrance return._ “’Tis neither, though. Memory
   has returned. Morning is breaking on my last one here. In a few hours
   my deathless Counterpart Will meet once more my loved Escanior.
   Escanior! I am coming, Escanior! They sought to part us. We shall
   meet again.” (She looks at the dim light in the cell, and says):
   “’Tis a lone scene. A dreary aspect. _Cold._” [_Shivers._ “Bare
   walls, grey dawn, a flick’ring light at play A drowsy gaoler, with
   his sleeping head, Nodding upon his almost soulless breast. What is
   he but a thing mechanical, The tool of icy and unfeeling law? Law,
   _sacred_ law! _No matter how unjust._ An idol to be viewed with
   veneration! Yes, Death _is_ nigh, nigh unto Isola. It has no terror
   for her, still she fain Would turn aside its grip from _dear_ Vulnar,
   And faithful Scrutus, too, if possible. Why should _they_ die for
   saving Hector’s son? Hector, _awake_! _Save them_, preserve _their_
   lives. What is their crime? Did they not save Vergli, Half-brother of
   our little Bernis? Hark! Far off I hear a clock tower tolling six.
   Just two hours more. Bernis, _awake_? _My child._ Bernis, _arouse
   your father_, bid him _save_, Bid him give Scrutus and Vulnar their
   lives. It matters not for me, but for these two, Bernis awake him,
   bid him _think of them_. My little boy, make haste. _Time glides
   along; It waits for no one, peasant, peer, or king._”

                      [_Enter another gaoler, the drowsy one starts up._

 _Gaoler._ “The pastor’s here. Would you converse with him? And let him
   shrift your soul from coal black sin? What will you have to eat? Name
   your desire, And I will see it is attended to. You must be hungry,
   aye, and thirsty too, For two whole days food has not passed your
   lips, Nor water either. Are you not famishing?”

 _Fortunatus._ “Ask the wild bird, deprived of Liberty, And caged inside
   a narrow prison cell, Either to eat of seed or drink of water! I am
   not hungry friend, I need no food, Nor do I need the pastor’s aid to
   shrive My soul of some imaginary sins. Let me be left in peace. ’Tis
   all I ask, And when the hour arrives for me to die, I’ll leave this
   cage ever so joyfully.”

 _Gaoler._ “You’re a queer lot, you evolutionists. I would not like to
   die, at all, at all, And without eating, or a steadying dram To keep
   the nerves together. Think of it! It is to me incomprehensible. Queer
   fish indeed these evolutionists.”

 _Isola_ (musingly to herself): “Hector _might_ wake. My voice _may_
   have reached him, Those thoughts of mine _might_ possibly strike
   home! Somehow I feel he’ll wake and send reprieve. Send it, yes, but
   will it arrive in time? I’ll claim the privilege of dying first. Each
   moment saved is precious. _Dear_ Vulnar, Your staunch fidelity to me
   and Truth, Merits not death, but Honour, Liberty. And you, too,
   Scrutus, you so faithful. No, You do not merit such a punishment.
   Hector! Art coming? Give these men their lives.”


                               SCENE II.

 On the scaffold. An immense crowd is assembled outside the prison of
   Holdfast. The three prisoners have been pinioned, and have reached
   the spot of execution.

 _Fortunatus_ (to the hangman): “I claim the privilege of dying first,
   Being the youngest of us three condemned, So man, make me your first
   experiment, And take your time, don’t hurry, be composed. Tut man,
   don’t tremble! What is there to fear? Learn from young Fortunatus how
   to die. Adjust the rope. There! Steady. Hark! _I_ hear. [_Listens._
   ’Tis the far echo of a horse’s feet, Surely, yes surely, _both_ will
   now be saved, I _feel_ it, _bless thee_ Hector, Vic——”

 _A tremendous roar is heard outside. The words_ “Reprieve, Reprieve,
   the King himself! The King!” _suddenly penetrate to the scaffold. A
   minute later and the King hurries thereon_.

 _King Hector._ “Reprieved! Governor hear! They are reprieved!”
   [_Staring at the group._ “Two only here? _Where_ is young
   Fortunatus?”

 _The Hangman._ “Dead, Sire! The word ‘reprieve’ reached me too late,
   The sound arrived just as I pulled the bolt. His last words were
   ‘Bless thee Hector, Victory!’ I heard them uttered as he fell below,
   His death was speedy, instantaneous.”

 _Hector_, laying both hands on Vulnar’s shoulder and bowing his head on
   them, sobs out: “Isola! Isola! too late! too late! Oh! Isola forgive.
   I rode _my_ best. I rode not as a King, _but as a man_ Whose heart
   was bursting to reach you in time. I rode the horse you used to love
   so well. The chestnut Saladin. He cleft the air, He seemed to fly
   like arrow from the bow. _He did his utmost. I did mine._ Alas! Fate
   was against us. Fate inexorable.”

 _The Governor_ of Holdfast prison exclaiming to himself: “Isola!
   Fortunatus, Isola? By all the gods! This is a pretty pass. [_To a
   Warder._ Haste man! Cut down young Fortunatus. See. Quick! bear the
   body to my private rooms. Explain the situation to my wife. Tell her
   to lay Isola on the bed. Apprise her that the King is here. The King!
   A pretty pass! A tragedy indeed!”

 _Vulnar_ (to the hangman): “Unpinion me and Scrutus. Do it sharp, man.”
   [_A pause._ Turning to the King and taking his hand: “Oh! sire,
   grieve not, you did your very best. Would I had died first, and saved
   Isola. I never dreamed of a reprieve. Brave heart! She died to give
   me life. She died for Truth. Sire, see to it she did not die in vain.
   Her last words, ‘Bless thee Hector. Victory!’ Shall ring into your
   soul and make you just, Oh! yes, they shall. Her name will gain the
   day, Isola dead, _shall_ win bright Victory.”

 _King Hector_ (still sobbing): “Take me to Isola. Isola! I tried to
   save thee, but I came too late. I strove with human might to be in
   time, _The human heart was beating in my breast_. All royal mummery
   had left my side, It was _the man_ and not the King that strove,
   Though Kings _can_ feel, _they are just human beings_, Albeit
   barbaric customs make them dolls. And I, I loved thee Isola. _I did._
   Who could help loving one so kind, so true?” (To Vulnar) “Vulnar,
   where is she? Take me to her side, I tried to save her, but I came
   _too late_.”

                                                                [_Sobs._

 _Vulnar_ (linking the King’s arm in his and signing to the Governor,
   standing close by, to lead forward): “Come, sire, I’ll take your
   Majesty to her. Take comfort thinking how she blest you, sire; Mourn
   not for her, she died as she had lived, With valiant heart beating
   for others’ woes. Death had no terrors for her, sire, indeed, It
   cannot claim the soul of Isola, Her deathless Thought, that which
   made her a pow’r, Lives on and will live on eternally. Doubtless ’tis
   roving with Escanior’s, She loved him, loved no other all her life,
   I, his old Comrade, testify to this, I who e’er worshipped where her
   feet have trod. And yet she’ll hover round you sire again, And
   influence your heart to make the Cause, For which she died,
   triumphant everywhere. She claimed to reign with you, see to it Sire
   That her loved voice _shall_ wake this world again.”

 They follow the Governor to his private apartments, and this latter and
   Vulnar silently stand aside as the King enters the one in which Isola
   has been laid.

 _King Hector_ (solus): “Yes, she _is_ dead. Isola, thou art gone, _That
   which o’ertakes all men_ has come to thee. Vulnar spoke rightly, when
   he said that thou, Dead should ne’erless obtain the Victory. Yes,
   thou hast won it. Here, I swear to thee, All thou did’st die for
   shall be realised, Right shall prevail, and _Men shall own their
   own_, There shall be no more disinherited. Saxscober’s Constitution
   shall become The constitution of a people free, And I will be their
   real, not dummy King, Their brother worker, their companion. While
   Life is left to me to work, I’ll work, I’ll make Saxscoberland a
   dreamland scene, It shall reflect thy dream dear Isola, _Its face
   shall be the mirror of thy soul_. Vergli shall aid me. My first act
   shall be To do him justice and proclaim him heir; Our little Bernis
   shall not act the thief, He shall be what thou sought’st to keep the
   child, A human being, not a puppet slave. He shall be his brave
   mother’s substitute, In him already shines thy deathless soul. Isola,
   thou hast won, I swear it, _Love_. Thy _death has won_ Saxscober’s
   Liberty,”

 He bends over and kisses her forehead. Then leaves the room. Meeting
   Vulnar outside, he says: “Vulnar, I leave _her body_ in your care.
   Treat her as you would treat a _reigning_ Queen. She shall reign over
   fair Saxscoberland In deed, in fact, in true reality. Unto the other
   nations of our Erth Her message shall be borne and shall prevail, The
   bright example of Saxscoberland Shall move the smaller fry to
   imitate, A bright example has its magnetism, And draws men to solicit
   its embrace. Hector is clasping Isola’s. No force Shall ever tear it
   from his grasp. No fear! I leave you, Vulnar. Do your part. I go. My
   share in Evolution has begun. With Vergli I will lead its sacred
   cause, With him will realize Isola’s dream.”

[He wrings Vulnar’s hand, and calling the Governor to him walks away by
   his side.

 _Vulnar._ “Is it a dream or Truth’s reality? Can it be fact or is it
   only fancy? Isola dead, I living, Scrutus free, Vergli no longer
   outlawed, but our Prince? It seems a dream, and yet ’tis not a dream,
   ’Tis true, and Isola has triumphed. Sure! My love! my love! Who died
   to save Vulnar, Who died for noble Truth, which he upheld, And dying,
   won Saxscober’s liberty. Yes, it is won. Though Opposition strong
   Will struggle to retain the law of Might, Right shall prevail, and
   noble Truth prevail, That Right and Truth for which Isola died.”

 [He beckons Scrutus, who is standing near, to follow him, and goes out.
   In the streets around the prison loud cheers can be heard. They are
   given to King Hector, who is driving away in the Governor’s carriage.
   So far, the death of Fortunatus and the fact that Fortunatus is
   Isola, has not transpired. Vulnar interviews the Governor, and makes
   every preparation for the removal of Isola’s body to the residence of
   her brother, The Prince of Bernia.


                               SCENE III.

 The fortress Castle of Bawn co Pagh. A voice sings: “Where Liberty with
   Love entwines its arms, Its Life possesses vast, magnetic charms;
   Cold, lifeless Licence is not liberty, To be a King means not that
   you are free. Laws docked of Nature are not Freedom’s joys, But just
   mechanical and puppet toys, Laughed at by men, who scorn their puny
   sway, And treat them as just made to disobey. ’Tis Love whose occult
   Pow’r alone conceives What properties makes freedom. She receives
   Into her gentle bosom Truth’s mandate And guided by it learns how to
   create Those laws which fashion Liberty divine, And which alone from
   Love’s soft eyes can shine. Oh! Love, thou child of the Almighty
   Pow’r, Seductive as the sweetest scented flow’r, Thy influence is
   paramount to save, Teaching men to be just, be fair, be brave, To be
   the sons of Liberty and thee, True mates who can alone produce the
   free, Those free, whose eyes are fixed on Love’s bright Star,
   Speaking to them in flashes from afar. Be thou my guide all through
   my mortal Life, Holding thy hand let me destroy the strife Which
   Cruelty creates and scatters round, Sowing its poisoned grain in
   fertile ground. I will, by aid of thee, uproot this grain, Upon it
   Fire’s consuming powers rain, Burn it to ashes, sow instead thy seed
   Which shall Love’s golden luscious harvest breed, Whose sustenance
   shall nourish and inspire Kindness to triumph over Selfish ire.”

 _Vergli_ (coming to the ramparts and looking over them): “Do my ears
   mock me? Sure, ’tis Vulnar’s voice, None other owns such subtle
   melody. Is it your Spirit serenading me, Comrade in arms, friend of
   my boyhood, too? Vulnar, sure voice like yours is quite unique, You
   have no rival, so it must be you. You have no equal, whose melodious
   touch Sends through the being thrills of ecstacy. Vulnar, where are
   you? Is your presence nigh, In body or in spirit calling me? It seems
   to me as though Isola’s voice Whispers unto me, ‘Vergli, Victory,’
   And now I hear song rippling from your lips, Song such as Vulnar’s
   lips alone can frame, Song in whose melody, immortal Truth Mingles
   with mortal utterance in tune.”

 _Enter Vulnar_: “Hail, Prince of Scota. Welcome to my home. Welcome,
   Prince Vergli, to our Bawn co Pagh.”

 _Vergli_ (seizing his hand): “Vulnar alive! Vulnar not dead? Not gone?
   Are my eyes clear, or am I dreaming dreams? Vulnar saluting me as
   Hector’s heir, Calling me Prince of Scota? Hark! _I_ hear. Whispers
   are whispering within my brain, I hear Isola’s voice addressing me.
   It comes from Vulnar, yet _it is her_ voice. ‘Vergli,’ it says, ‘Hail
   Vict’ry? You are free.’”

 _Vulnar._ “Yes, Vergli, it is Victory indeed. From Isola, whom both of
   us adore, I bear you the last word her dear lips framed, She died
   while utt’ring it. ’Twas ‘Victory.’”

 _Vergli._ “Isola dead! And you alive, Vulnar? Can it be possible? Speak
   man. Explain.”

 Vulnar recounts events to Vergli. The latter listens in silence, then
   exclaims: “Isola dead. Happy Escanior. You revel in a being we have
   lost. Lost, yet not lost, for Isola is nigh. Around me is her
   presence. Ev’rywhere! Her Thought permeates my soul, entrancing it,
   The breath of Memory is on my brow, Within my brain her voice is
   speaking Love, Love, velvet Love, to Vergli and Vulnar. Yes, Vulnar,
   love to you, and love to me, For Isola is Love itself. Her Life Was
   one long act of love. Cold Cruelty Was the sole thing she hated on
   our Erth.”

 _Vulnar._ “Sir, Diamond Truth falls from inspired lips, Your words are
   echoes of that attribute. There was no hate or fear in Isola, Save of
   the awful demon Cruelty, And him she feared and hated cordially. Her
   words through Hector, my dear lord, The King, I bear you now. ‘Come,
   take your own, Vergli, You are The Prince of Scota, true born son Of
   Noble Merani. Saxscober’s heir.’ Hail Sir, as such, no _courtly_
   homage mine. But just acknowledgment of brotherhood, There is but one
   nobility, one claim, Which I acknowledge as nobility, And that is
   Merit, child of Perfect Thought, That perfect thought which love
   alone can frame. Lo! sinks the sun behind the Bawn co Pagh. Amidst a
   perfect sea of yellow gold, Whence shoots aloft a fan of brilliant
   rays, Blue, opal, green and purple in their hues. Mark the ascending
   stream. Is it not fair, This portrait of the fireworks of Heaven? Is
   not the scene symbolic of that Thought Which sinks in Death only to
   rise again?”

 _Vergli._ “’Tis so, for Thought is Life, Eternal Life, Soul of the
   Body, Master of the mind, Its eyes look through the eyes of human
   sight And speak their eloquence, fervid though mute, There is more
   meaning in one soulful glance, Than reams of words from mere material
   lips. But come, Vulnar. Gladden your people’s hearts, They mourn you
   as amid the gallant dead. Rejoicing will awake the Bawn co Pagh And
   ring its echoes over hill and dale. I love them well, these hillmen.
   They are true. They’ve treated me as though I were a King, And
   yielded me a kindness exquisite. I might have been the lord of Bawn
   co Pagh, Instead of what I was, a hunted thing.”

 _Vulnar._ “Sir, you were to them what you are to me, The Prince of
   Scota, though a hunted thing. They honoured you as such. The
   brotherhood You preach for practice, they gave unto you, You were
   their brother, they your brothers, too, And thus fraternal love they
   meted out, My people and myself are one in all Upon the heather
   slopes, amidst the dales, And all around the fortress Bawn co Pagh,
   We preach and practise Brotherhood in Men, Love is our guiding Star,
   our motive Pow’r, The Love for which our dear Isola died.”

                                         [_Both enter the Bawn co Pagh._


                               SCENE IV.

 In the _Hall of Magnitude_. This, the most magnificent public building
   in Infantlonia, is packed from floor to ceiling with an immense
   crowd, all assembled to hear the proclamation of King Hector,
   proposing a new Constitution to his people, the repeal of old and
   effete laws, and the substitution in their place of laws suited to
   the immediate requirements of the times. It has been announced that
   Vergli, Prince of Scota, will be its mouthpiece, and the excitement
   and expectation of the vast throng is intense. Enter Vergli, attended
   by the Prince of Bernia and Vulnar, Lord of Avenamore, various high
   functionaries and friends, amongst whom are Maxim, Scrutus and
   Verita. A scene of wild enthusiasm greets him, and the welcome
   accorded him is unprecedented in the annals of Saxscoberland, as ever
   having been accorded to any other public favourite or prince of the
   Saxscober dynasty.

 _Vergli_ (raising his hand to command silence) exclaims: “To some men,
   moments come into their lives, Which toiling for, they little dreamt
   to see. Though I have toiled for Right, I never thought That _I_
   should see its triumph and behold Dawn breaking in upon the brains of
   men. I thought to sow good seed and see it root, But dared not hope
   to reap the golden grain. Yet lo! we stand with sickles in our hands,
   Ready to reap the produce of our toil. It seems quite wonderful, it
   seems a dream, Yet ’tis not so, my friends. See you this scroll, It
   is the message of my lord, the King, A message to his people far and
   wide, Wherever floats Saxscober’s crimson flag, There will these
   words be wafted to our kin, And indirectly through them to the world.
   It is my proud and honoured task to-day To be the mouthpiece of
   Saxscober’s King. Yet ere I read his words I fain would say They are
   an echo of another’s voice, Who pleaded hard to have them realized,
   And died to win the Cause of Right and Truth. Hector shall reign, but
   by his side shall _reign_ The deathless voice which pleaded thus for
   them, While memory remains let none forget The glorious victory of
   Isola.”

 Tumultuous cheering greets this assertion. When silence is restored,
   Vergli proceeds to read King Hector’s message to his people. It reads
   as follows:


             “TO MY PEOPLE.

   “We stand upon the meeting of two ways. One leads to Peace and
   Comfort, Right and Truth, The other to the very opposite. Which shall
   we take, my people, which pursue? I counsel that the first shall be
   our choice. Counselling this, I now propose to you, An altered and a
   higher constitution, A Magna Charter giving Human Rights, Not to a
   few, but unto _ev’ryone_, The fact of birth into this life, the sole,
   The only proof of right to such a claim, Shall be required, and
   opportunity To every human being shall be given To live, and thrive,
   and never be in want. The Slums of Infantlonia and elsewhere _Must_
   by the law become prohibited. All men _must_ dwell in decent
   tenements, In towns there must be gardens for the people, Each child,
   no matter what its birth, shall learn To be a useful member of the
   state, By being taught a trade, of which it can Make choice itself
   approved of by its parents. When work is scarce, the State must give
   employment, Not the nigh penal work of the Poor House, But work where
   work shall be Co-operative, Men reaping as they sow, their proper
   share. Co-operative law must be the law, Wherever groups of human
   beings work, It is not right that one should benefit And on men’s
   toil become a millionaire, Reaping where others have not had a share
   Except in paltry doles, which we call wage. Vast ownership in land or
   property Should bear its duty of ‘wealth in excess,’ And be a taxable
   commodity. Wealth must contribute to the public good. A millionaire
   is an unjust creation, The base result of wasted human toil, The
   offspring of a living Man Machine, Made to produce this creature’s
   holiday. Co-operative law disgorges wealth And makes it useful and
   distributable, Men who grow rich upon excessive toil, And give not to
   that toil its proper share, Are Master Murderer millionaires, unfit
   To be the holders of this hoarded wealth, Which, miser-like, they
   neither spend nor share. Only one remedy can heal this sore, It is
   that which we call Co-operation. So long as angry Nations stand like
   dogs, Facing each other with their grinders showing, Saxscoberland
   must be prepared for war, And spend thereon, alas! much of its
   wealth, But, be it my Life’s task to advocate The institution of
   Appealing Courts, Where Arbitration shall decide disputes And deftly
   patch up human differences. If our Erth’s Governments would all agree
   To melt their armies and wage bloodless war In all things
   International; then war Could never raise its grinning head again,
   Starved by the disappearance of its food— The human flocks and herds
   we breed and raise, Fatten and decorate expensively, In order to
   provide this Monster’s feast. Be it my task to plead that he shall
   die, My people, _help me_ to exterminate him. We are the greatest
   Nation on our Erth, Surely, if we _are earnest_ in endeavour, We can
   accomplish this desired end? Co-operate with me and let us strive,
   And we _shall_ be successful in the end. Now to the matter of our
   Government, Saxscober calls its ruler a Monarch. What’s in a word? A
   mere form of letters. Hereditary is this Monarchy, Yet we unjustly
   give the male first call And make the eldest male born our Monarch.
   This is unjust. While Primogeniture Is the acknowledged law of
   Saxscober, The heir shall be the eldest born, and sex Should not be
   made a Disinherited. Let this injustice be removed at once. And give
   each Sex equality of rights, Let law applying to all Succession Be
   altered to deny sex privilege— Which we so arrogantly arrogate.
   Another point connected with this matter Earnestly demands an
   alteration, Children should not usurp a parent’s power; Children
   should not stand in a parent’s place. The parents both should be the
   ruling pow’r, And so remain until Death takes them hence. ’Tis
   monstrous that a child should occupy The place that parent has a
   right to fill. Out on such partial, inconsiderate law, Born of
   immatured brains and puny thought. The King and Queen should both be
   reigning powers And the survivor hold the reins till death. This law,
   applying as it did of yore When William, Prince of Citron, was
   consort— And this law should apply to all _Succession_. Perish the
   unjust law which gives the child The right to occupy its parent’s
   place. This being so, let Monarchs have fair play— Let them be human
   beings not mere dolls, Let them have pow’r to vote and speak with
   you, Let them be otherwise than dressed-up shapes To be the objects
   of barbaric shows. Let the cheers greeting Monarchs be sincere, Given
   as to a fellow-worker, pray; Not to mute flesh and blood nonentities
   But part of an acting Constitution. Monarchs should not be absolute,
   but free, Co-operation be the principle. I counsel, too, the House of
   Bores should be Elective like the House of Commonpersons, And that no
   Righ or Ardrigh have a seat Claiming such as our Spiritual peers.
   This brings me to the matter of the Church And the religion which now
   reigns supreme. There should be no State Church, but liberty To every
   man to feel that his own creed Was not an outcast one and unendowed.
   Let conscience have its freedom and all creeds Be self-supporting,
   not ignored by State, While one alone is bolstered up as right. I
   counsel, therefore, Disestablishment; First giving compensation to
   the Clergy. Let all men pray in secret and display Fade, as should
   fade barbaric practices. Force not upon your Sovereigns the disgrace
   Of swearing false allegiance to a lie, What greater Moral crime than
   to exclaim ‘I do believe that which I don’t believe’? Is not such
   utterance a sacrilege? Away, my people, with the reign of Lie, Let
   Truth prevail, let Honest Truth be law. Another urgent law requires
   attention, The Marriage law I mean. Marriage should be The Act which
   makes the Man and Woman one, Accompanied by the solemn declaration ‘I
   am thy husband and thou art my wife,’ ‘I am thy wife and thou art my
   husband,’ Uttered in presence of two witnesses. This is the law of
   Scota and is fair, But Saxen law insists on marriage ties Being tied
   by its religious ceremony; Which makes the Woman utter slavish words,
   Which self-respecting women hate and loathe And some have absolutely
   scorned to say. My Merani refused to utter them And was, in
   consequence, adjudg’d unwed By the exacting laws of Saxenland. I say
   that she _was_ wed by law of God, And, being wed, was lawfully my
   wife; The son she bore is Prince of Scota now, Made so by a late Act
   of Parliament, Specially drafted and passed into law At my most
   earnest prayer and intercession. It is my hope that our new
   Parliament Will sweep away every impediment To civil marriage, and
   destroy the law Which forces royalty to wed with such, Ordaining that
   the heir shall royal be. ’Tis an unnatural law and maketh sad The
   wedded life of many Sovereigns. In all we do let us be natural, Laws
   born of selfishness or ignorance Flout Nature and create unhappiness.
   Laws, to be fair, must recognise the fact That all men must have
   Opportunity, And none shall be a Disinherited. Parliament is
   dissolved and I appeal, With all my heart, unto my countrymen To give
   me unmistakable response That my desire for justice shall prevail. By
   law, my women subjects cannot vote, More shame to such a law is all I
   say; Next Parliament shall sweep that law away And give us one with
   equal rights for all. Capacity and Merit are the tests Of human
   fitness which should e’er prevail; Nature and circumstances will
   select The fittest to perform Life’s many functions, Seek not to
   _force_ on women Motherhood— A vast mistake _which breeds the puny
   Man_. Some women are not fit to bear a child, Some men are unfit to
   be Sires at all; To breed unhealthy offspring is a Crime Which our
   religion has concealed from men. To bring disease into the world is
   bad, To force this on a child is a foul shame. It is a sacred trust
   which Nature gives, That trust of giving Life, and should command The
   reverence of those to whom ’tis giv’n; Let this be plainly taught to
   either sex, Bring up the sexes to respect each other. Give lessons in
   the schools how Health is made And how ’tis kept, and how it bringeth
   joy. When Men believe that sickness need not be, That human beings
   can be well and strong By living lives in keeping with good sense, A
   Nation of fair beings will arise With senses purified and thought
   increased— And knowledge drawing nearer day by day To those veiled
   secrets of the Universe Which we believe so foolishly are closed, And
   hidden mysteries for aye and aye; Hidden from feeble sight and
   clouded brain, From Thought as yet in an imperfect state, But when
   the Mind becomes a mighty pow’r Its eyes _will_ penetrate the misty
   veil And clearly read what now it cannot do. Let education,
   therefore, elevate; Let it accomplish a vast revolution By giving
   children Nature’s noble truths, And focussing them on their pliant
   brains. _Teach Kindness in the schools._ Before all things Teach _its
   vast virtue_ to the youthful mind. Let _the religion_ taught, _be
   just this thing_ Mingled with Justice, Fair Play and Sweet Love;
   _Love to all things that feel_ and, like ourselves, Are sentient and
   possess the gift of Life. Perish, Cold Cruelty! _the hugest bar To
   Progress and Perfection_ on this Erth. Thus, have I spoken to my
   countrymen, And ask them to return a Parliament Which shall not fear
   to work for Evolution; Strike down oppressive laws, creating those
   Which shall inaugurate The Golden Age Of Peace, Good Health and
   Happiness to all— That living _Life_ for which Isola died.”

                                           [_Loud and prolonged cheers._

 _Vergli._ “This is King Hector’s message, countrymen, In which the
   Spirit of Isola breathes— A Spirit whose chief element was love, Love
   the Creator of true happiness. Let this appeal go forth throughout
   the world And pierce into the brains and hearts of men. It shall
   prevail, because it is The Truth. It shall bear fruit, because it is
   pure seed. It shall establish its real Sovereignty, Because it is
   Reality not Sham. If all true hearts declare _it shall prevail_ And
   _work_ to bring about the Victory, That Victory will come with leaps
   and bounds, And bring rejoicing into ev’ry heart. Ah! yes, it _will_
   come. It was prophesied By lips whose last word echoed Victory, It
   was Isola’s message to the world Wherever moan The Disinherited.
   Arouse, ye Children of Saxscoberland, Hark to her Spirit speaking out
   aloud. The sound is Hector’s but his words are hers, His Message but
   the Echo of Isola’s.”

 [_As Vergli ceases speaking, the immense audience rises and cheers him
   again and again with intense enthusiasm. Acquiescence in the King’s
   wishes is carried unanimously, and the meeting comes to an end._


                 “RESULTANT.”

 Once, long ago, Death came and took my soul And bore it far away
   through boundless space, And left Earth turning round within that
   space Moving along its path of Evolution. “Where takest thou me,
   Death?” my soul enquired. “To look on Life where perfect laws
   prevail,” Made answer he whom my Earth fears so much. And so I sped
   with Death on to a world Where everywhere Love and Delight prevailed.
   Death called it Erth. It was like my own Earth, And yet how different
   in every way. Everywhere Peace prevailed and Love enthralled, The Men
   were handsome and the Women fair. Bright fields of waving grain and
   fruits and flow’rs Made beautiful the human dwelling-places. There
   was no blood apparent anywhere— The moans of vivisected animals, The
   groans of millions slaughtered to make food, The awful cruelties of
   War and Strife, Had no existence on this planet Erth. Women and Men
   did not disgrace each other, But revelled in a sweet companionship,
   Sharing in _all_ things as the sexes should. The children’s schools
   did not divide each sex But taught to both a pure and natural law, So
   that the very thought, in after-life, Of Prostitution had no place or
   part Within the brains of Nature’s true nurselings. Health was
   apparent in the multitude; Vast kitchens, groaning stomachs were
   unknown; Hunger alone proclaimed the feeding hour And pure and
   bloodless food gave sustenance, Partaken of in moderation and Never
   indulged in after hunger ceased. On Erth the secret of Real Health
   was known, To eat as Nature bade and not to gorge. And everywhere
   pure air prevailed and dwelt By night and day within a people’s
   lungs, And dwelling-places overlooked fair scenes, The people living
   on their own loved land And drawing from its nurture health and
   strength. There lived on this bright Erth a King and Queen Whose
   names were Escanior and Isola, Who loved each other, whom the people
   loved And who in turn truly loved their people. Said Death unto my
   Soul: “In ages past Thought woke the mind of Isola the first, She
   whom the Erthians call their deathless Queen, Because the Spirit
   which lit up her mind Lives on and permeates the whole of Erth. This
   Isola lived when this Erth was gross, Cruel and Sensual, and fed on
   lies. She, too, loved a fair youth—Escanior called— Whom uncouth men
   murdered before her eyes, Giving her to a King to be his slave, And
   hold degrading post as Consort Queen. But Isola’s spirit would _not_
   be a slave, And so with others she opposed foul Wrong And, dying for
   the Right, won the King’s heart To raise aloft the flag of Evolution.
   Rest here awhile and I will tell the tale Of how Isola lived, and
   ruled, and died; But lives again in the resultant thought Which found
   its birth in her evolving pow’r.” I sat and listened while Death told
   the tale, And learned how Erth had answered Hector’s prayer, And
   given him and Vergli, and Vulnar The pow’r to build on Erth a perfect
   State Which it has been my joy to look upon, And which here, or
   elsewhere, I’ll see again. For Thought is Life, it cannot die, it
   lives, And, in my Memory, I see that scene, Not in a dream but in
   Reality, When Vision wakes to Life my Thoughtful Soul. As Erth is, so
   shall this Earth be in time When Men believe the words of Isola.

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                        COMPANION VOLUME TO IJAIN.


        READY, PART I. AND PART II. OF LADY FLORENCE DIXIE’S BOOK:




                          The Songs of a Child.


                  IT CONTAINS THREE COLOURED PORTRAITS.

   _May be ordered of Messrs. W. H. SMITH & SON, 186, Strand, W.C.; J.
       MENZIES, Edinburgh; or of any other Bookseller or Library._

                          PRICE FIVE SHILLINGS.

 _or from Charles Scribner’s Sons, 153–757, Fifth Avenue, New York. Price
                                =2= dols._


      _The following are a few reviews of_ PART I. _and of_ PART II.

_The Leamington Spa Courier and Warwickshire Standard_ of Jan. 31st,
1902, concluding a long review, writes:—“Lack of space prevents us
giving one tithe of its fine passages. In the ‘Death of Robespierre’ we
have a lurid scene from the Reign of Terror that might have come from
the pen of a Macaulay or an Aytoun. Another vivid historical picture is
to be found in the story of Nigel Bruce, brother of the heroic King
Robert Bruce. The death-song of Wallace has the true heroic ring. For
romance, tragic yet delightful, we must turn to the ‘Lure Witch of the
Alpine Glen’—a very fine poem. Pantheists will appreciate ‘A Child’s
Search for God.’... Perhaps the most delightful and refreshing of the
longer poems is an exquisitely told narrative of the Bavarian Highlands
(‘The Wandering Waif and the King’).... And ‘I Wandered in the Market’
is a powerful plea for the dumb-stricken animal. For an original and
pleasingly put advocacy of the sacred rights of bird and beast, ‘The
Judgment of Airielle’ stands prominent.... This book is really a real,
living, human production, and one which must ever be a joy to the man or
woman whom the cares of this world have not robbed of all that is
natural and unaffected.”

_The Literary World_ of Dec. 30th remarks:—“‘Esterelle; or, The Lure
Witch of the Alpine Glen,’ fills fifty-six pages, and contains passages
that would do no discredit to poets of riper age and more mature mind.
Pathetic and beautiful thoughts are expressed on every page.”

_The Yorkshire Herald_, Jan. 2nd, 1902, concludes an appreciative
review:—“Her longer pieces are written with power and poetic fervour,
and had the gifted authoress devoted her talents solely to the
composition of poetry, the world of literature would have been all the
richer for it.”

_The Banff Journal_, Feb. 1st, 1902, concluding a long review,
says:—“The book possesses elements which will ensure for the name of the
gifted authoress a permanent place among the poets of the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries.”

In a lengthy review _The Dumfries Standard_ says:—“The whole volume is
richer in the promise of poetic greatness than most great poets can show
at so early an age; better than any extract the book itself will be, and
for the nobility of its sentiment, for the vein of genuine poetry that
is in it we have no word too cordial to recommend it.”—Dec. 4th, 1901.

“Ouida” writes:—“I am much moved by the pathos and beauty of many of
your poems. Thanks from my heart for the ‘Prayer for the Dogs,’ and
‘Janet Lees’ is lovely. It should be reprinted everywhere, and
‘Averille.’”—Dec. 3rd, 1901.

Marie Corelli says:—“Your charming book of poems which I find very
fascinating.”—Dec. 6th, 1901.

_The Herald of the Golden Age_ for December says:—“This volume of poems
contains many gems of thought. There is a freshness and versatility
about the book that is quite unique. There can be no doubt that the
author possesses the poetic gift in a most marked degree.”

_The Northern Scot_ of Feb. 15th, 1902, says:—“The whole volume is rich
in poetic greatness, and the yearnings of the child’s soul are
beautifully and pathetically expressed in every page. It is a
fascinating book.”

A Sailor writes from one of H. M. ironclads, Feb. 2nd, 1902:—“We know
many of the ‘Songs of a Child’ by heart. I can say every word of ‘Love
Knots’ and ‘Why I Kissed the Soldier Boy’ and ‘Towards Sadowa.’ I have
never touched a drop of drink since I read ‘Drink’s Curse.’ God bless
the child who wrote these songs.”

A soldier writes from one of tho blockhouses in South Africa:—“Will you
let another ‘soldier boy’ thank you for that grand poem ‘Why I Kissed
the Soldier Boy’? It goes to every soldier’s heart straight as a die. I
simply love it. It is human to the backbone. What a splendid poem ‘The
Lure Witch of the Alpine Glen’ is; and I have read ‘The Wandering Waif
and the King’ over and over again. How I and my mates have laughed over
‘The Raid of Ruby Roses’ from Sandringham. We all hope Part II. will
soon find its way here.”

Under date June 15th, 1902, Mr. George Jacob Holyoake writes:—“Dear Lady
Florence, ‘Abel Avenged’ is a splendid heresy, splendidly set forth. It
supplies what Milton omits, and what only a free spirit could conceive,
only an intrepid mind could express. The wealth of thought in that epic
and in the ‘Sceptic’s Defence’ is wonderful.”

_The Herald of the Golden Age_ for June says:—“This additional volume of
poems, written by Lady Florence Dixie between the ages of twelve and
seventeen years, is a phenomenal production for one so young, and it
will, apart from the additional poems which are still awaiting
publication, establish her reputation as a poet. The dramatic tragedy,
entitled ‘Abel Avenged,’ evidences the doubts which orthodox religious
teaching produces in the minds of many children. It reminds one so
strongly of Milton’s style and depth of thought as to make one wonder
how a girl of fourteen could have been the author. Some of the poems
which are written in lighter vein are very charming and idyllic; two of
the best of these are ‘Before the lights come in,’ and ‘King Taija.’ A
strong humanitarian note is sounded in the poem entitled ‘A Ramble in
Hell,’ which is an impassioned protest against the iniquities of
Vivisection, and demonstrates how early in life the gifted authoress
became a champion on the rights of animals.”

In a long review of an advance copy of the book in _The Agnostic
Journal_ of May 10, “Saladin” remarks in his “At Random” sketch:—“The
lyric [of the poem ‘Saladin’] is deft and musical, but it is the little
schoolgirl’s chivalrous treatment of him who was Christendom’s most
formidable foe that entitles the lines to distinction. To try a person
or a cause by his or its intrinsic merits, and not in the light of the
extrinsic prejudices with which it has come to be encrusted, is, in
addition to the function of a poet, the deed of a heroine.... The
child’s precocious rejection of religious orthodox is recorded in the
ambitious dramatic effusion, ‘Abel Revenged,’ an earnest and gifted
child’s succedaneum for Byron’s ‘Cain.’ The assault upon Orthodoxy is,
of course, delivered not from the critical or historical, but from the
moral side. The teaching of the Church is impugned on the ground of its
incompatibility with truth and justice, and—nobly characteristic of the
writer—for its disregard of the sufferings of sentient creatures.... Any
really educated lady of rank and fortune can secretly hold unpopular
tenets, but it takes a Douglas to avow them. The volume here is of
gold.”

_The Dumfries Standard_, under date June 28, says:—“These poems exhibit
a degree of intellectual daring and a maturity of speculative thought in
the realms of religion and morals that are amazing, and a literary
talent hardly less so. In ‘Abel Avenged’ one reads with a feeling of
astonishment the inexorable directness of the child’s logic and the
skill with which she discharges her function of critic in the action of
a drama.”

_The Northern Weekly_ of July 19 remarks:—“‘Songs of a Child’ shows a
passionate love of Nature, high ideals and a noble longing for truth,
and sympathy with all living things.... ‘A Ramble in Hell’ you cannot
forget once you have read it. Lady Florence has fronted the riddle of
the Universe in many poems and asked questions that are daring and
heterodox. ‘The Sceptic’s Defence’ is full of questions prompted by the
mystery and the misery of the world. ‘Abel Avenged’ is amazing as the
production of one so young.”

_Young Oxford_ for July says:—“In these songs the golden thread of
genius runs alike through tender lyric and daring drama. That a girl of
fourteen should have written ‘Abel Avenged’ is one of the marvels of
literature. Orthodoxy has created more than one epic, but let us hope
that never again will it have opportunity to fashion one from the brain
and nerve tissue of a child, for in the vigorous, sympathetic sketch of
‘Cain’ we see a free, truthful spirit beating in defiant despair against
the bars of a narrow theology ... the old belief in a vengeful deity
were not dead, surely it would be killed by the remorseless logic of the
child whose ponderings resulted thus.”

In a letter dated May 1, the Editor of _The Golden Age_ writes:—“Please
accept my warmest thanks for the pleasure you have given me, and let me
offer you my sincerest congratulations. The world has certainly been the
poorer in consequence of the delay in the publication of the poems, for
they are both beautiful and remarkable in many ways, to say nothing of
the helpful thought and sentiment contained in them. If ‘Abel Avenged’
had been issued as a lost manuscript (re-discovered) by Milton, no one
would have doubted the authenticity. Are you Milton re-incarnated? I
wonder! The manner in which you have thought out the deepest problems of
life and handled them in this poem and in ‘The Sceptic’s Defense’ is
remarkable.”

Reviewing an advance copy of this book, _The Literary Guide_ for May
says:—“The perusal of the Second Part of Lady Florence Dixie’s poems
increases our astonishment at the extraordinary development of her
mental powers in early life. The present volume possesses special
interest.... Her poetic drama, ‘Abel Avenged’ was written at the age of
fourteen, and one knows not whether to be most astounded at the boldness
of the language or the fact that at so early a period of life the doubts
and obstinate questionings which the work reveals should have arisen at
all. The chief personage is Cain, whose character is conceived with
striking power and sympathy.... Lady Florence Dixie is a writer who
dares to think for herself—one who can, moreover, express her ideas with
refreshing vigour and in most cases in unmistakable clearness. The
Poetry of Revolt and the Poetry of Sympathy for animal life are
distinctly enriched by the publication of this volume. To have performed
such a service is an achievement of which any author might be proud.
That it should have been done by a child is one of the most remarkable
facts in present-day literature.”

_The Review of Reviews_ for July says:—“There is great pathetic interest
attaching to these poems and to the opening chapters of ‘Ijain,’ ... and
there is something touching in the longing desire so manifest in every
page of Lady Florence’s writings to save other children from the misery
through which she has emerged.... The story of Lady Florence’s
pilgrimage from the first plank in her atheistic platform to her present
position is told in ‘The Story of Ijain,’ which promises to be of
considerable interest. It is a kind of demonstration in vivisectional
anatomy of the living soul, from which most people would shrink ... and
those who read it cannot fail to sympathise even if they do not agree.”

AN AMERICAN APPRECIATION.—_The Boston Press Writer_, the organ of the
American Press Writers’ Association, Nov. 1902, says:—“We always like to
think of the great Iconoclasts as a Roman Gladiator, striding into the
arena armed with sword and shield hurling defiance at Cæsar and the
world; but what picture can imagination conjure up when a child steps
upon the scene and throws down the gauntlet which defies Cæsar and all
the world. Kindness steals up from every page like perfume from a
flower.... After reading the rubbish called poetry published to-day in
newspaper and magazine; oceans of words nicely joined together, but a
desert of ideas; it is refreshing to reach this oasis called ‘Songs of a
Child.’ Sweet mingling of sentiment and philosophy.... You will find
that which rings as true as ‘A MAN’S A MAN, FOR A’ THAT.’... Why should
Humanity wait till its best friends have departed for ever, before
paying them a fitting tribute. Let us while they are still with us,
gather from the fields of thought the fairest flowers they have sown,
and weave them in a chaplet—‘Let us wreath the living brow.’ All
thinkers, liberal, progressive people, friends of ‘The New Thought,’ and
those who love Humanity and worship truth, should purchase this book and
place it in their libraries where it belongs, beside Burns, Byron and
Shelley.”

The Rev. J. P. Hopps, in _The Coming Day_, writes:—“A truly astonishing
book is ‘Songs of a Child and other Poems,’ by ‘Darling,’ (Lady Florence
Dixie), published by The Leadenhall Press, London, in two parts, now
issued in one volume. The writings of this wonderful child, the story of
whose childhood is promised, suggest the presence and inspiration of a
master spirit, fierce for freedom, daring in criticism, and splendid in
spiritual adventure. The poems are full of dash and fire, whether
treating of Nature and her wild delights or the mind-world with all its
possibilities of rapture and depression, joy and anguish, trust and
horror. But the wonder of it! The strenuous ‘Dramatic Tragedy’ of ‘Abel
Avenged’ was written at fourteen and a half, and the militant ‘Sceptic’s
Defence’ at sixteen—both crammed with the rankest imaginable heresies.
Throughout the whole book there is hardly a line—perhaps not a
line—which is mere composition. It is all powder and shot, and morning
and evening stars.”

_The Daily Chronicle_, Quebec, says:—“The poems represent the lyrical
activity of Lady Florence from the age of ten years to seventeen, and
they are presented to the public in the form in which they first
appeared, untouched and unrevised. Many of them are really so good, so
musical, so original in choice of topic, so vigorous in execution, so
rich in allusion, and often, so spirited, that one may well wonder how
so youthful a poet could turn out such work, and such creations. In the
compass of six hundred pages we have here the product of her pen for
seven years,—only a selection from a mass of manuscripts.”

                              PUBLISHERS:
     The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, London, E.C.
       Charles Scribner’s Sons, 153–157, Fifth Avenue, New York.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                       READY.     SECOND EDITION.




                                 IJAIN;

                                  or,

                        The Evolution of a Mind.


            WITH THREE COLOURED PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATION.


 _May be ordered from W. H. SMITH & SON, 186, Strand, London, W.C., or
                      any Bookseller or Library._

                         PRICE FOUR SHILLINGS.

    _and CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, 153–157, Fifth Avenue, New York._

                     PRICE ONE-AND-A-HALF DOLLARS.

In an Epilogue on IJAIN “Saladin” (W. Stewart Ross) writes:—

“The breezy freshness of Ijain’s character is replete with simple but
insinuating charm. Her spirit, genial and generous, was never meant for
a cage. Hardly emerged from her cradle, her unsophisticated commonsense,
on its own initiative, anticipated the propositions of ‘the Higher
Criticism.’ She looked upon the dogmas of the popular faith, not through
conventionally-coloured spectacles, but with the vision of her own
clear, honest, fearless eyes; and the Father of Mercy have mercy upon
Dogma when it is thus surveyed!

                  *       *       *       *       *

“When Ijain first threw down her play-things and began to regard the
world on her own account, with her new, not second-hand, type of mind,
she found, to her distress, that, before she had come into the world at
all, everything had been cut and dried for her. The thinking had all
been done for her by heads in the grave; and, to question the findings
of those heads in the grave meant obloquy here, and hell elsewhere.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Ijain laid down these play-things that she might, without undue
distraction, think this finality over—and it did not meet with her
endorsement. There was nothing in her of the rebel for rebellion’s sake;
but there was much in her of the mettle of the martyr for Truth’s sake.
She adopted the more than Golden Rule, ‘To thine own self be true.’ She
took it for granted that it is with our own individual faculties we must
work out our own salvation, and that not with fear and trembling, but
with modest self-reliance and simple sincerity. She precociously grasped
the principle of Human Brotherhood, involving a repudiation of all
racial and credal prejudice. In the whole composition of the little
heroine there is no vestige of the braggart. There is the mortification
of finding herself in an environment in which all the vital questions of
existence had been finally settled thousands of years before she had
been born, and that by credulous hierophants thousands of years behind
the highest tide-mark of the intelligence of the present hour.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“The record of Ijain, with inimitable directness and simplicity,
exemplifies what everyone who really knows and sympathizes with children
knows, that the mind of the child is, naturally, in revolt against our
popular dogmas, ay, and in revolt against theism itself as held by the
orthodox. The affirmation that it was not Jesus, but Nigel, that, in a
certain crisis, saved Ijain from drowning, is an argument as forceful as
it is simple; and the mind, till, by the Nans and Miss O’Learies, it has
been warped and sophisticated, does not in an anthropomorphic deity find
the Œdipus to read the riddle of the cosmos. The child instinctively
knows what the philosopher, after his mind has been subjected to
theologic distortion, requires all his mental faculties to rediscover,
and all his moral courage to avow. Ijain, susceptibly intuitive child
though she was, did _not_ find the god-idea instinctive. She anticipated
Darwin, which at the time, she had not read.

    ‘The belief in God has often been advanced as not only the greatest,
    but the most complete of all the distinctions between men and the
    lower animals. It is, however, impossible, as we have seen, to
    maintain that this belief is innate or instinctive to man. On the
    other hand, a belief in all pervading spiritual agencies seems to be
    universal; and apparently follows from a considerable advance in
    man’s reason, and from a still greater advance in his faculties of
    imagination, curiosity and wondre. I am aware that the assumed
    instinctive belief in God has been used by many persons as an
    argument for his existence. But this is a rash argument, as we
    should thus be compelled to believe in the existence of many cruel
    and malignant spirits, only a little more powerful than man; for the
    belief in them is far more general than in a beneficent deity.’

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Moreover, in the immaculate simplicity of her soul, Ijain anticipated
an admission in one of the sermons of John Wesley which probably she has
not read even up to the present hour.

    ‘After all that has been so plausibly written concerning “the innate
    idea of God”; after all that has been said of its being common to
    all men, in all ages and nations, it does not appear that man has
    naturally any more idea of God than any of the beasts of the field;
    he has no knowledge of God at all; no fear of God at all; neither is
    God in all his thoughts. Whatever change may afterwards be wrought
    (whether by grace of God, or his own reflections, or by education),
    he is by nature a mere Atheist.’

                  *       *       *       *       *

“And, even were the orthodox deity taken for granted, with her girlish
heart and tender sympathy with every living creature, Ijain’s whole
nature rose in revolt against the savage truculence of the deity of the
churches. She, instinctively, endorsed the sentiments of the philosopher
of Ferney:—

    ‘Whoever dares to say “God has spoken to me,” is criminal before God
    and men; for would God, the common father of all men, have
    communicated himself to an individual? God to walk! God to talk! God
    to write upon a little mountain! God to become man! God-man to die
    upon the cross! Ideas worthy of a _Punch_! To invent all these
    things is the last degree of rascality; to believe them, the extreme
    of brutal stupidity!’

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Yes, Ijain, if, in the reading of the Riddle of the Universe, we must
postulate deity, let us have GOD expressive of the ripest knowledge, the
loftiest aspirations, the most transcendental spiritual vision of modern
humanity, not the coarse and barbaric eidolon of credulous and
unlettered savages. In respect of our intelligence, in mercy upon our
feelings, give us GOD up to date.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“The lesson the ‘story’ teaches is that

                    He prayeth best who loveth best,
                    All things both great and small;

that the world, in its noblest aspect, is an arena for generous and
unselfish endeavour; that, in service to your brother man, you are
offering the very service to God that any god born of a noble and
spiritual ideal would most readily accept. Ijain’s lesson is, Help Man,
and, if it so please you, call it worshiping God. The most divine of all
the sayings attributed to the Nazarine is, in regard to a kindly,
helpful deed, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”


                              PUBLISHERS:
     The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, London, E.C.
       Charles Scribner’s Sons, 153–157, Fifth Avenue, New York.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




[Illustration]

                       _EXTRACTS FROM BOOK LIST_

                                   OF

                       The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:

                      _By Permission Dedicated to_

   =H.R.H. The Duchess of Cornwall and York, now Princess of Wales.=

  Upwards of one hundred and eighty beautifully engraved illustrations
                        from original drawings.

 THE CHILDREN’S LONDON. By CHARLOTTE THORPE. Illustrated by WM. LUKER,
   Jr. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C.
   [Half-a-Guinea, _net_.

 Large paper edition, strictly limited to 250 earliest printed copies,
              each signed and numbered, One Guinea, _net_.


       _By Command Dedicated to Her late Majesty Queen Victoria._

 LONDON CITY SUBURBS, dealing with the great residential belt of London.
   By PERCY FITZGERALD. Three Hundred Picturesque Views from Original
   Drawings by W. LUKER, JR. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Two Guineas.


      _By Command Dedicated to Her late Majesty the Queen-Empress._

 _Upwards of 300 Superb Illustrations (some beautifully hand-coloured)._

 KENSINGTON: PICTURESQUE AND HISTORICAL. By W. J. LOFTIE, B.A., F.S.A.,
   Author of a “History of London,” &c., &c. Illustrated by W. LUKER,
   JUN., from Original Drawings carefully finished on the spot and
   engraved in Paris. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Three Guineas.


 THE SIGNS OF OLD LOMBARD STREET. By F. G. HILTON PRICE, DIR., S.A.
   Illustrations by JAMES WEST and others. New and Revised Edition.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [Six
   Shillings.

[Illustration]


                   PART I OF THE HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED


 SONGS OF A CHILD AND OTHER POEMS. By “DARLING” (LADY FLORENCE DOUGLAS,
   now LADY FLORENCE DIXIE), with introductory Poem by the first LORD
   LYTTON, the famous novelist. Popular Edition, with coloured portrait
   of the Author when a child. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall Street, E.C. Out of print. [Two-and-Sixpence.

 Edition de Luxe, beautifully bound in White Vellum, and with coloured
                     portrait, Seven-and-Sixpence.


 SONGS OF A CHILD AND OTHER POEMS. By “DARLING” (LADY FLORENCE DOUGLAS,
   now LADY FLORENCE DIXIE). Parts I and II together, in one volume,
   with three portraits beautifully printed in colours. LONDON: The
   Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [Five Shillings.


 THE STORY OF IJAIN, OR THE EVOLUTION OF A MIND. By LADY FLORENCE DIXIE.
   With Epilogue by “Saladin.” (W. STEWART ROSS) and four illustrations
   beautifully printed in colours. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
   50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [Five Shillings.


 ISOLA; OR THE DISINHERITED. A Drama in Six Acts. By LADY FLORENCE
   DIXIE. With Foreword by GEORGE JACOB HOLYOAKE. Coloured Frontispiece.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [Half-a-Crown.


 A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE KEMP AND KEMPE FAMILIES OF GREAT BRITAIN AND
   HER COLONIES, with Arms, Pedigrees, Portraits, Illustrations of
   Seats, &c. By FRED. HITCHIN-KEMP. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
   50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [Two Guineas net.


 STREAMLETS FROM THE FOUNT OF POESY. By N. B. GAZDER, B.A.,
   Barrister-at-Law. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Three-and-Sixpence.


 SONGS OF THE MORNING: LYRICS FOR MUSIC. By EDWARD TESCHEMACHER. LONDON:
   The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C.
   [Two-and-Sixpence.


 LOVE, SPORT, AND A DOUBLE EVENT. By W. B. GILPIN, Author of
   “Ranchland,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Three-and-Sixpence.


 ECHOES: A MUSICAL BIRTHDAY BOOK. By the HON. MRS. BRETT. Frontispiece
   by EVERARD HOPKINS. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Twelve-and-Sixpence.

[Illustration]


 BRIDGE CONDENSED. BY COLIN SMITH. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
   50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One Shilling


                              ILLUSTRATED.

 NOVEL NOTES. BY JEROME K. JEROME, author of “The Idle Thoughts of an
   Idle Fellow,” “On the Stage—and Off,” &c. LONDON: The Leadenhall
   Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Three-and-Sixpence.

                 Edition not Illustrated, One Shilling.


 THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW: A BOOK FOR AN IDLE HOLIDAY.
   One-hundred-and-forty-third Edition. By JEROME K. JEROME, Author of
   “On the Stage—and Off.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Half-a-Crown.

 “The _Idle Thoughts_ by JEROME, with his special private views, Is a
   book all busy people should undoubtedly peruse.”—_Punch._

              Cheap Edition, Paper Wrapper, One Shilling.


 ON THE STAGE—AND OFF. The brief career of a would-be actor. Sixteenth
   Edition. By JEROME K. JEROME. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One Shilling.


                        NEW EDITION, ILLUSTRATED

 ON THE STAGE—AND OFF. The brief career of a would-be actor. By JEROME
   K. JEROME. With One Hundred Illustrations by KENNETH M. SKEAPING.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [Half-a-Crown.


 MADAME MARIE, SINGER. By ESTER DALE. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
   50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [Three-and-Sixpence.


 THE FITZDOODLE MEMOIRS. By LORD ADOLPHUS FITZDOODLE. LONDON: The
   Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [One Shilling.


 THE BOOK OF DELIGHTFUL AND STRANGE DESIGNS being One Hundred facsimile
   Illustrations of the Art of the Japanese Stencil-Cutter to which the
   Gentle Reader is introduced by one ANDREW W. TUER, F.S.A. LONDON: The
   Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Six Shillings.

[Illustration]




       Illustrated Shilling Series of Forgotten Children’s Books.


                           PUBLISHERS’ NOTE.

The little books printed about a hundred years ago “for the amusement of
little masters and misses” must now be looked for in the cabinets of the
curious. The type is quaint, the illustrations quainter and the grayish
tinted paper abounds in obtrusive specks of embedded dirt. For the
covers, gaudy Dutch gilt paper was used, or paper with patchy blobs of
startlingly contrasted colours laid on with a brush by young people. The
text, always amusing, is of course redolent of earlier days.

[Illustration]


 1. THE DAISY; OR, CAUTIONARY STORIES IN VERSE, adapted to Ideas of
   Children from Four to Eight Years Old. 1807.

Reprints of this laughter-laden little book, written by Mrs. ELIZABETH
TURNER, followed each other right up to about 1850: in the reprint of
the illustrated first (1807) edition before the reader, nothing is
omitted and nothing is added.


 2. THE COWSLIP; OR MORE CAUTIONARY STORIES IN VERSE. By the author of
   that much-admired little work, entitled THE DAISY. 1811.


 3. NEW RIDDLE-BOOK. BY JOHN-THE-GIANT-KILLER, Esquire. 1778.

[Illustration]


 GUIDE FOR LITERARY BEGINNERS. By JOHN OLDCASTLE. LONDON: The Leadenhall
   Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [One Shilling.

“We can remember nothing of the kind so capable from first to
last.”—_Notes and Queries._


                     “_Forgotten Children’s Books_”
                                  AND
                   “_Old-Fashioned Children’s Books_”
                    _ARE QUITE INDEPENDENT VOLUMES_.

 STORIES FROM OLD-FASHIONED CHILDREN’S BOOKS. Brought together and
   introduced to the Reader by ANDREW W. TUER, F.S.A. Adorned with 250
   amusing cuts. Nearly 500 pages: handsomely and attractively bound.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Six
   Shillings.

“A compendium of delightful stories.”—_Saturday Review._

[Illustration:

  THE PROUD BOY.
]

[Illustration]


 SIX STORIES RELATED BY MAX V. POCHHAMMER. With an appreciation by
   EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN. Illustrated by AMBROSE DUDLEY. I. The
   Minister’s Marriage. II. The Soldier’s Stratagem. III. A Perplexing
   Patient. IV. The Professor’s Peril. V. The Sailor’s Sacrifice. VI.
   “No!” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [Three-and-Sixpence.


   _SMILES AND LAUGHTER IN EVERY PAGE. A BOOK FOR CHILDREN AND THEIR
                                ELDERS._

 PAGES AND PICTURES FROM FORGOTTEN CHILDREN’S BOOKS. Brought together
   and introduced to the Reader by ANDREW W. TUER, F.S.A. Four hundred
   illustrations; five hundred pages, handsomely bound, top edge gilt,
   silk book-marker. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall
   Street, E.C. [Six Shillings.

            One hundred large paper copies at a Guinea, net.

[Illustration:

  Two Belles, one of the Past and the other of the Present Age.
]

[Illustration]


 THE SOCIALISM OF TO-DAY. By ÉMILE DE LAVELEYE, Member of the Royal
   Academy of Belgium, &c., &c. Translated into English by GODDARD H.
   ORPEN, Barrister-at-Law. Together with an account of Socialism in
   England by the translator. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall Street. E.C. [Six Shillings.


              In three stately quarto volumes, with maps.

 FULHAM OLD AND NEW: BEING AN EXHAUSTIVE HISTORY OF THE ANCIENT PARISH
   OF FULHAM. Profusely illustrated. By CHAS. JAS. FÈRET, F.R.G.S., F.R.
   HIST: SOC. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street,
   E.C. [Three Guineas.

  A few copies are reserved in sheets, and can be had interleaved for
           manuscript additions, bound in cloth at £4 4s. od.


 THE PRINCIPLES OF WARFARE. By H. O. BLAKER. LONDON: The Leadenhall
   Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C. [One Shilling.

“The author of these essays, feeling that a proper understanding of the
great principles which govern warfare is absolutely necessary to anyone
who would study the progress of the war in South Africa from any other
than a mere ‘win or lose’ standpoint, has ventured to place before the
public, in as small a compass as possible, an outline of those main
truths, the thorough knowledge of which is essential to the successful
conduct of a campaign. He hopes that—drawn as they are from experience
and from the recognised and standard works on the subject, by great
military writers—they may be found of some service in explaining the
intricacies of strategy, tactics and field fortification.”


 ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE: OR A JEST IN SOBER EARNEST: Ninth Edition.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press. Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One
   Shilling.

A manual by means of which the Portuguese author, who has struggled with
the difficulties of the English language by aid of dictionary and
phrase-book, proposes to teach its complexities to his fellow
countrymen. The solemn good faith of the writer crowns the
unapproachable grotesqueness of his composition.

“Excruciatingly funny.”—_The World._


 ENGLISH AS SHE IS SPOKE: OR A JEST IN SOBER EARNEST. “HER SECONDS
   PART.” (new matter.) LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One Shilling.

An unlimited mine of salt for diners-out.

“Deliciously humorous.”—_Detroit Free Press._

[Illustration]


 ENGLISH COUNTY SONGS. (Words and Music.) Collected and Edited by LUCY
   E. BROADWOOD and J. A. FULLER MAITLAND, M.A., F.S.A. LONDON: The
   Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Six Shillings.


[Illustration: TEMPTATION!]

 FIFTY HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED PEN-AND-INK SKETCHES by PHIL MAY. LONDON:
   The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One Shilling.

[Illustration]


 1,000 QUAINT CUTS FROM BOOKS OF OTHER DAYS. Including amusing
   illustrations from Children’s Story Books, Fables, Chap-books, &c.,
   &c., a Selection of Pictorial Initial Letters and Curious Designs and
   Ornaments from Original Wooden Blocks belonging to The Leadenhall
   Press. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [One-and-Fourpence.

       A limited number printed on one side of the paper only at
                          Two-and-Eightpence.

[Illustration]


 THE BUSINESSES OF A BUSY MAN. By R. S. WARREN BELL. LONDON:
   The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [Three-and-Sixpence.


 JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND. (Cheap Edition.) Translated from the French
   by the Author, MAX O’RELL. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One Shilling.

     Upwards of two hundred thousand copies have been disposed of.


 JOHN BULL JUNIOR: or FRENCH AS SHE IS TRADUCED. Enlarged from “_Drat_
   the Boys!” By MAX O’RELL, author of “John Bull and his Island,” &c.
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One
   Shilling.

[Illustration]


 BABY’S RECORD: WITH SPACES FOR MOTHER’S NOTES ABOUT HER BABY. As used
   by the Royal Mother of the future King of England. Compiled by the
   Rev. R. I. WOODHOUSE, M.A. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall Street, E.C. [One Shilling.

[Illustration:

  THE DAINTIEST OF DAINTY BOOKS.
]

[Illustration:

  “BABY’S RECORD will in many cases prove an invaluable aid to the
    family doctor in the treatment of ailments in later life.”
]

[Illustration]

                             BABY’S RECORD.

                           _EDITION DE LUXE._

A limited number of Large Paper Copies, in an extremely choice and novel
white vellum and green morocco binding, with silk ties, at One Guinea
nett.

Each copy contains a couple of genuine Bartolozzi engravings, printed
direct from the original copperplates, one of which (the frontispiece)
is delicately hand-coloured.

                   An acceptable Christening Present.

[Illustration]


 HORN-BOOK JINGLES. By Mrs. ARTHUR GASKIN. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press,
   Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Three-and-Sixpence.

A delightful book (which will be loved by the little ones) based on the
old-fashioned and now extinct A B C horn-book. Every page is beautifully
illustrated, and both illustrations and jingles are by that clever
artist, Mrs. Arthur Gaskin (Georgie Cave France).

[Illustration: YOU ASK TOO MUCH FOR YOUR HORN-BOOKS TO-DAY THREE
HA’PENCE EACH IS A GREAT DEAL TO PAY]


 _DRAT_ THE BOYS! or, RECOLLECTIONS OF AN EX-FRENCH MASTER IN ENGLAND.
   By MAX O’RELL, author of “John Bull and his Island,” &c., &c. LONDON:
   The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Two
   Shillings.




[Illustration]

     A QUAINT OLD TREASURY OF DECORATIVE DRAWINGS FOR LEADED GLASS.

          (100 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND DESCRIPTIVE TEXT.)

 A BOOKE OF SVNDRY DRAVGHTES, _Principaly serving for Glasiers_: And not
   Impertinent for Plasterers, and Gardiners: be sides sundry other
   professions: _whereunto is annexed the manner how to anniel in Glas:
   And also the true forme of the Fornace, and the secretes thereof_. By
   WALTER GIDDE. London, 1615. [Quarto.] LONDON: The Leadenhall Press,
   Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.

 Bound in strong limp parchment, with leather thongs at side (facsimile
                of the original binding) [Six Shillings.

An original copy of this book (published in 1615) is worth its weight in
gold, and is now almost impossible to procure. The specimen cuts shewn
below are portions of pages reduced.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                  THE BEST BOOK OF ALPHABETS PUBLISHED

 A NEW SHILLING BOOK OF ALPHABETS, PLAIN AND ORNAMENTAL, ANCIENT AND
   MODERN. For the use of Architects, Clergymen, Decorators, Designers,
   Draughtsmen, Teachers, &c. With a curiously interesting Alphabet
   (capitals and small letters) in facsimile from an original MS.
   written by Charles I., together with his writing-master’s “copy.”
   LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C. [One
   Shilling.

]

“It is a noticeable feature of this collection of alphabets and
ornaments that it has been selected entirely and solely from the
material in everyday use at the Leadenhall Press.”—_The Art Printer._


[Illustration]

                        SEVENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND.

 OLD LONDON STREET CRIES AND THE CRIES OF TO-DAY. With heaps of quaint
   cuts, including hand-coloured frontispiece. By ANDREW W. TUER,
   F.S.A., author of “Bartolozzi and his Works,” &c., &c. LONDON: The
   Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street. E.C. [One Shilling.


 THAT HEADSTRONG BOY: A FREAK OF HIS AND WHAT CAME OF IT. By EDWARD
   KENT. LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall-street, E.C.
   [Six Shillings.


 A LAWFUL CRIME: A STORY OF TO-DAY. By EDWARD KENT, Author of “That
   Headstrong Boy.” LONDON: The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50,
   Leadenhall-street, E.C. [Six Shillings.

[Illustration]

                        THE AUTHOR’S PAPER-PAD.

          =Quarto size=, 7 × 8½    =6d.= each. =5/-= per doz.
          =Half size= (for pocket) =3d.=   „   =3/-=    „

If to be forwarded by post, send 2d. extra for postage of single Pad,
and 9d. for postage of one dozen Pads: on pocket size Pads, postage of
single Pad, 1d., and of one dozen Pads, 6d. The postage on one
Pad-Holder is 2d., and on Pad-Holder and one Pad together, 8d.


The sheets may be secured after removal by passing a string or tape
through the eyelet hole.

                           “_With bad paper, one’s best is impossible._”

            (_Punch_ is responsible for this transposition!)




[Illustration: THE HAIRLESS AUTHOR’S _trs_: PAPER-PAD (REGISTERED)]


                 _Issued by The Leadenhall Press, Ltd_:

CONTAINS, in block form, fifty sheets of strong _hairless_ paper, over
which—being of unusual but not painful smoothness—the pen slips with
perfect freedom. Easily detachable, the size of the sheets is about 7 ×
8½, and the price is only that charged for common scribbling paper.

_THE AUTHOR’S HAIRLESS PAPER-PAD_ may be comfortably used, whether at
the desk, held in the hand, or resting on the knee. As being most
convenient for both author and compositor, the paper is ruled the narrow
way, and of course on one side only.

“_With paper and ink and well directed brains at one end, and a printing
press at the other, we may look for the achievement of the greatest good
to the greatest number._”


“=The Pads are MOST USEFUL.”—F. C. BURNAND=, _of “Punch.”_

_The Rev. W. Gordon Baillie_ writes “With the AUTHOR’S PAD and a
fountain pen I can work ten times more easily.”


                     THE AUTHOR’S PAPER-PAD HOLDER

(for the larger size, of wood, for resting on the knee, 1/-
each)—suggested by _Punch_—is equally useful to the busy few who write
when travelling, and to stay-at-homes who dislike the restraint of desk
or table. It is intended that the wooden rim at the side of the AUTHOR’S
HAIRLESS PAPER-PAD HOLDER should be grasped by the left hand, the right
being free to travel over the whole surface of the paper from top to
bottom. The height of Pad and Holder will be kept uniform if each
written sheet is placed as torn off underneath the Pad, the base of
which is now thick blotting paper instead of the old and useless
cardboard. The ordinary sloped position when in use keeps Pad and Holder
together.




               The Best ==Book of Alphabets== Published.

[Illustration: _A NEW SHILLING_ Book of Alphabets Plain & =Ornamental=,
_Ancient_ and Modern, For the Use of Draughtsmen, Clergymen, Decorators,
Designers, ARCHITECTS, Teachers, &c.]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

With a curiously interesting and complete Alphabet (capitals and small
letters) in facsimile from an original MS. written by CHARLES I.,
together with his writing-master’s “copy.”

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

[Illustration: _Special facilities are possessed for printing Books,
Pamphlets, Prospectuses, Professional and Trading Announcements, &c., in
that high-class & attractive manner for which THE LEADENHALL PRESS has
been so long and favourably known. Estimates free of cost._]




[Illustration]

                         Specimens of Type from
                       The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
                  50, Leadenhall Street, London, E.C.

[Illustration]




                            Stickphast Paste

       for Sticking in Scraps, Joining and Repairing Papers, &c.
     3_d._, 6_d._ and 1_s._ with strong, useful Brush (not a Toy).
               Sold by Stationers, Chemists, Stores, &c.


[Illustration]

  ☛ Sample bottle, with strong useful brush (not a toy) for two stamps
                           (cost of postage).

 Stickphast Paste Factory, Sugar-Loaf Court, Leadenhall Street, London,
                                  E.C.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.