ACT SIXTH.
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.”