LYDIA. How well he speaks!

There is a silver trumpet in his lips That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood.

I would 'twere mingled with mine own!

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

What now?

BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait: The horses will take cold.

LYDIA. I do beseech him A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth!

The third cla.s.s pa.s.senger unchidden rides Whither and when he will: obsequious trams Await him hourly: subterranean tubes With tireless coursers whisk him through the town; But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms: We wait upon their colds, and frowst all day Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay.

BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road, And thence t' th' Angel--

_Enter_ CASHEL

LYDIA. Let us haste, my love: The coachman is impatient.

CASHEL. Did he guess He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait Pompei's sentinel. Let us away.

This day of deeds, as yet but half begun, Must ended be in merrie Islington. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ CASHEL.

BASHVILLE. G.o.ds! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone.

Now let me lift the cover from my soul.

O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence!

How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman: She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven, She stoops below me; condescends upon This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits, Writ in my character from my last place, Would d.a.m.n me into ostlerdom. And yet There's an eternal justice in it; for By so much as the ne'er subdued Indian Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian Precedence take of me. "_Ich dien._" d.a.m.nation!

I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp."

And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold.

Because I love her I have blacked her boots; Because I love her I have cleaned her knives, Doing in this the office of a boy, Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks And does the meanest chares, I've shared the pa.s.sions Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride To give her place the greater alt.i.tude By lowering mine, and of her dignity To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace As love for such a one as I would be For such a one as she; and now! and now!

A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos!

To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville: Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself, So heavenly high of her? Let what will come, My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb.

SCENE II

_The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators.

In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring before it. A balcony above on the right_, _occupied by persons of fashion_: _among others_, LYDIA _and_ LORD WORTHINGTON.

_Flourish._ _Enter_ LUCIAN _and_ CETEWAYO, _with Chiefs in attendance_.

CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?

LUCIAN. It is.

CETEWAYO. Are these anaemic dogs the English people?

LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions, The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories, And by the million patent kitchen ranges Of happy English homes.

CETEWAYO. When first I came I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars Of some infernal G.o.d. I now perceive The English dare not look upon the sky.

They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot To cover them.

LUCIAN. You cannot understand The greatness of this people, Cetewayo.

You are a savage, reasoning like a child.

Each pallid English face conceals a brain Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear.

There is not one of all the thousands here But, if you placed him naked in the desert, Would presently construct a steam engine, And lay a cable t' th' Antipodes.

CETEWAYO. Have I been brought a million miles by sea To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber, Men become civilized through twin diseases, Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined Become the grisly parents of Invention.

Why does the trembling white with frantic toil Of hand and brain produce the magic gun That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu Dares look his foe i' the face; fights foot to foot; Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now; Makes life a long reality, and death A moment only! whilst your Englishman Glares on his burning candle's winding-sheets, Counting the steps of his approaching doom.

And in the murky corners ever sees Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty: In the which anguish an unnatural edge Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises Strange frauds by which to filch unearned gold, Mad crafts by which to slay unfaced foes, Until at last his agonized desire Makes possibility its slave. And then-- Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!-- Th' importunate clutching of the coward's hand From wearied Nature Devastation's secrets Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man Is blown explosively from off the globe; And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves O'er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth Stammer the words "Survival of the Fittest."

Enough of this: I came not here to talk.

Thou say'st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death.

Let them be brought.

LUCIAN. They fight not to the death, But under strictest rules: as, for example, Half of their persons shall not be attacked; Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down, Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further, That frequent opportunities of rest With succor and refreshment be secured them.

CETEWAYO. Ye G.o.ds, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand: Personified Pusillanimity Hath ta'en thee from the bravest of the brave!

LUCIAN. Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts That Brave and English mean the self-same thing!

CETEWAYO. Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise They will be carried by their nurses, lest Some barking dog or b.u.mbling bee should scare them.

CETEWAYO _takes his state_. _Enter_ PARADISE

LYDIA. What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews Presage destruction to his adversaries?

LORD WORTHINGTON. 'Tis Paradise.

LYDIA. He of whom Cashel spoke?

A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why Did Cashel leave us at the door?

_Enter_ CASHEL

LORD WORTHINGTON. Behold!

The champion comes.

LYDIA. Oh, I could kiss him now, Here, before all the world. His boxing things Render him most attractive. But I fear Yon villain's fists may maul him.

WORTHINGTON. Have no fear.

Hark! the king speaks.

CETEWAYO. Ye sons of the white queen: Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to.

PARADISE. Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke What gets his living honest by his fists.

I may not have the polish of some toffs As I could mention on; but up to now No man has took my number down. I scale Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three; And at Bill Richardson's Blue Anchor pub Am to be heard of any day by such As likes the job. I don't know, governor, As ennythink remains for me to say.

CETEWAYO. Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead.

Methinks he looks scornfully on thee.

[_To_ CASHEL] Ha! dost thou not so?