The Saint's Tragedy Part 3

Wal. A very pretty quarrel! matter enough To spoil a waggon-load of ash-staves on, And break a dozen fools' backs across their cantlets.

What's Lewis doing?

Isen. Oh--befooled,-- Bewitched with dogs and horses, like an idiot Clutching his bauble, while a priceless jewel Sticks at his miry heels.

Wal. The boy's no fool,-- As good a heart as hers, but somewhat given To hunt the nearest b.u.t.terfly, and light The fire of fancy without hanging o'er it The porridge-pot of practice. He shall hear or--

Isen. And quickly, for there's treason in the wind.

They'll keep her dower, and send her home with shame Before the year's out.

Wal. Humph! Some are rogues enough for't.

As it falls out, I ride with him to-day.

Isen. Upon what business?

Wal. Some shaveling has been telling him that there are heretics on his land: Stadings, wors.h.i.+ppers of black cats, baby-eaters, and such like. He consulted me; I told him it would be time enough to see to the heretics when all the good Christians had been well looked after. I suppose the novelty of the thing smit him, for now nothing will serve but I must ride with him round half a dozen hamlets, where, with G.o.d's help, I will show him a mansty or two, that shall astonish his delicate chivalry.

Isen. Oh, here's your time! Speak to him, n.o.ble Walter.

Stun his dull ears with praises of her grace; p.r.i.c.k his dull heart with shame at his own coldness.

Oh right us, Count.

Wal. I will, I will: go in And dry your eyes. [Exeunt separately.]

SCENE II

A Landscape in Thuringia. Lewis and Walter riding.

Lewis. So all these lands are mine; these yellow meads-- These village greens, and forest-fretted hills, With dizzy castles crowned. Mine! Why that word Is rich in promise, in the action bankrupt.

What faculty of mine, save dream-fed pride, Can these things fatten? Ma.s.s! I had forgot: I have a right to bark at trespa.s.sers.

Rare privilege! While every fowl and bush, According to its destiny and nature (Which were they truly mine, my power could alter), Will live, and grow, and take no thought of me.

Those firs, before whose stealthy-marching ranks The world-old oaks still dwindle and retreat, If I could stay their poisoned frown, which cows The pale shrunk underwood, and nestled seeds Into an age of sleep, 'twere something: and those men O'er whom that one word 'owners.h.i.+p' uprears me-- If I could make them lift a finger up But of their own free will, I'd own my seizin.

But now--when if I sold them, life and limb, There's not a sow would litter one pig less Than when men called her mine.--Possession's naught; A parchment ghost; a word I am ashamed To claim even here, lest all the forest spirits, And bees who drain unasked the free-born flowers, Should mock, and cry, 'Vain man, not thine, but ours.'

Wal. Possession's naught? Possession's beef and ale-- Soft bed, fair wife, gay horse, good steel.--Are they naught?

Possession means to sit astride of the world, Instead of having it astride of you; Is that naught? 'Tis the easiest trade of all too; For he that's fit for nothing else, is fit To own good land, and on the slowest dolt His state sits easiest, while his serfs thrive best.

Lewis. How now? What need then of long discipline, Not to mere feats of arms, but feats of soul; To courtesies and high self-sacrifice, To order and obedience, and the grace Which makes commands, requests, and service, favour?

To faith and prayer, and pure thoughts, ever turned To that Valhalla, where the virgin saints And stainless heroes tend the Queen of heaven?

Why these, if I but need, like stalled ox To chew the gra.s.s cut for me?

Wal. Why? Because I have trained thee for a knight, boy, not a ruler.

All callings want their proper 'prentice time But this of ruling; it comes by mother-wit; And if the wit be not exceeding great, 'Tis best the wit be most exceeding small; And he that holds the reins should let the horse Range on, feed where he will, live and let live.

Custom and selfishness will keep all steady For half a life.--Six months before you die You may begin to think of interfering.

Lewis. Alas! while each day blackens with fresh clouds, Complaints of ague, fever, crumbling huts, Of land thrown out to the forest, game and keepers, Bailiffs and barons, plundering all alike; Need, greed, stupidity: To clear such ruin Would task the rich prime of some n.o.ble hero-- But can I nothing do?

Wal. Oh! plenty, Sir; Which no man yet has done or e'er will do.

It rests with you, whether the priest be honoured; It rests with you, whether the knight be knightly; It rests with you, whether those fields grow corn; It rests with you, whether those toiling peasants Lift to their masters free and loyal eyes, Or crawl, like jaded hacks, to welcome graves.

It rests with you--and will rest.

Lewis. I'll crowd my court and dais with men of G.o.d, As doth my peerless namesake, King of France.

Wal. Priests, Sir? The Frenchman keeps two counsellors Worth any drove of priests.

Lewis. And who are they?

Wal. G.o.d and his lady-love, [aside] He'll open at that--

Lewis. I could be that man's squire.

Wal [aside] Again run riot-- Now for another cast, [aloud] If you'd sleep sound, Sir, You'll let priests pray for you, but school you never.

Lewis. Ma.s.s! who more fitted?

Wal. None, if you could trust them; But they are the people's creatures; poor men give them Their power at the church, and take it back at the ale-house: Then what's the friar to the starving peasant?

Just what the abbot is to the greedy n.o.ble-- A scarecrow to lear wolves. Go ask the church plate, Safe in knights' cellars, how these priests are feared.

Bruised reeds when you most need them.--No, my Lord; Copy them, trust them never.

Lewis. Copy? wherein?

Wal. In letting every man Do what he likes, and only seeing he does it As you do your work--well. That's the Church secret For breeding towns, as fast as you breed roe-deer; Example, but not meddling. See that hollow-- I knew it once all heath, and deep peat-bog-- I drowned a black mare in that self-same spot Hunting with your good father: Well, he gave One jovial night, to six poor Erfurt monks-- Six picked-visaged, wan, bird-fingered wights-- All in their rough hair s.h.i.+rts, like hedgehogs starved-- I told them, six weeks' work would break their hearts: They answered, Christ would help, and Christ's great mother, And make them strong when weakest: So they settled: And starved and froze.

Lewis. And dug and built, it seems.

Wal. Faith, that's true. See--as garden walls draw snails, They have drawn a hamlet round; the slopes are blue, Knee-deep with flax, the orchard boughs are breaking With strange outlandish fruits. See those young rogues Marching to school; no poachers here, Lord Landgrave,-- Too much to be done at home; there's not a village Of yours, now, thrives like this. By G.o.d's good help These men have made their owners.h.i.+p worth something.

Here comes one of them.

Lewis. I would speak to him-- And learn his secret.--We'll await him here.

[Enter Conrad.]

Con. Peace to you, reverend and war-worn knight, And you, fair youth, upon whose swarthy lip Blooms the rich promise of a n.o.ble manhood.

Methinks, if simple monks may read your thoughts, That with no envious or distasteful eyes Ye watch the labours of G.o.d's poor elect.

Wal. Why--we were saying, how you cunning rooks Pitch as by instinct on the fattest fallows.

Con. For He who feeds the ravens, promiseth Our bread and water sure, and leads us on By peaceful streams in pastures green to lie, Beneath our Shepherd's eye.

Lewis. In such a nook, now, To nestle from this noisy world--

Con. And drop The burden of thyself upon the threshold.

Lewis. Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly roofs!

Con. Rich dreams,--and more; their dreams will find fulfilment-- Their discipline breeds strength--'Tis we alone Can join the patience of the labouring ox Unto the eagle's foresight,--not a fancy Of ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds; Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, yours, Sir, Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth, Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains, Cast by for the next bauble!

Lewis. 'Tis too true!