Wilf. [After a pause.] I swear, by all the ties that bind a man, Divine or human,-never to divulge!

Sir E. Remember, you have sought this secret:-Yes,
Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you.

'Tis big with danger to you; and to me,
While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable.
Know, Wilford, that- -Oh, torture!
Wilf.
Dearest Sir!
Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly:
You had this trembling, it is scarce a week,
At Madam Helen's.

Sir E. Him. She knows it not ;-none know it.—

You are the first ordained to hear me say,

I am- -his murderer.

Wilf.

Sir E.

O horror!

His assassin.

Wilf. What! you that-mur-the murderer-I am choked. Sir E. Honour, thou blood-stained god! at whose red altar Sit war and homicide: Oh! to what madness

Will insult drive thy votaries! In truth,

In the world's range, there does not breathe a man

Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe

With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy,

Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me,

Stained me-Oh, death and shame!-the world looked on.
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down,
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro,
On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation,
In every fibre of my frame, cried Vengeance!

I left the room which he had quitted: Chance,
(Curse on the chance!) while boiling with my wrongs,
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street▬▬
I stabbed him to the heart- -and my oppressor
Rolled lifeless, at my foot.

Wilf.
Oh! mercy on me!
How could this deed be covered?

Sir E. Would you think it?

E'en at the moment when I gave the blow,
Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark,

I had all good men's love. But my disgrace,
And my opponent's death thus linked with it,
Demanded notice of the Magistracy.

They summoned me, as friend would summon friend,

To acts of import and communication.

We met and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour,

To put me on my trial. No accuser,

No evidence appeared, to urge it on

'Twas meant to clear my fame.

-How clear it then?

How cover it?-you say.-Why, by a lie

Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast,
Which truth once made her throne, to forge a lie,

This tongue to utter it ;-rounded a tale,

Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth;

So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court
Disturbed cool Justice in her judgment-seat,
By shouting "Innocence !" ere I had finished.
The court enlarged me; and the giddy rabble
Bore me, in triumph, home. Ay!-look upon me.-
I know thy sight aches at me.

Wilf. Heaven forgive you! It may be wrong-
Indeed I pity you.

Sir E. I disdain all pity.

I ask no consolation. Idle boy!

Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence
Was given to move thy pity?-Love of fame
(For still I cling to it) has urged me, thus
To quash thy curious mischief in its birth.
Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour,
Drove me to murder-lying;-'twould again!
My honesty, sweet peace of mind,—all, all,
Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it.-
Should Slander whisper o'er my sepulchre,
And my soul's agency survive in death,
I could embody it with heaven's lightning,
And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit
Should strike the blaster of my memory

Dead, in the church-yard. Boy, I would not kill thee;
Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger!

To check them there was no way left but this

Save one-your death:-you shall not be my victim.

Wilf. My death! What, to take my life ?-My life! to prop This empty honour?

Sir E. Empty? Grovelling fool!

Wilf. I am your servant, Sir, child of your bounty,

And know my obligation. I have been

Too curious, haply: 'tis the fault of youth

I ne'er meant injury: if it would serve you,
I would lay down my life; I'd give it freely:
Could you then have the heart to rob me of it?
You could not-should not.

Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved you, Reflection interposed, and held your arm.

But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it,
My innocence would give me strength to struggle,
And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand.
How would you look to find a peasant boy
Return the knife you levelled at his heart;
And ask you which in heaven would show the best,
A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty?

XIV. SCENE FROM THE TRAGEDY OF

66 ION."-Talfourd.

ADRASTUS on a couch asleep.

Enter ION, with a knife.

Ion. Why do I creep thus stealthily along

With trembling steps? Am I not armed by Heaven,
To execute its mandate on a king whom it hath doomed?
-He's smiling in his slumber,

As if some happy thought of innocent days

Played at his heart-strings: must I scare it thence

With Death's sharp agony? He lies condemned

By the high judgment of supernal Powers,

And he shall know their sentence.-Wake, Adrastus!

Collect thy spirits and be strong to die!

Adras. Who dares disturb my rest? Guards! Soldiers! Recreants:

Where tarry ye? Why smite ye not to earth

This bold intruder? Ha! no weapon here!

What wouldst thou with me, ruffian?

Ion. I am none;

But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand,
To take thy life, long forfeited.—Prepare!
Thy hour is come!

Adras. Villains! does no one hear?

Ion. Vex not the closing minutes of thy being
With torturing hope or idle rage; thy guards,
Palsied with revelry, are scattered senseless.
While the most valiant of our Argive youths
Hold every passage by which human aid

Could reach thee. Present death is the award
Of Powers who watch above me-while I stand
To execute their sentence.

Adras. Thou! I know thee

The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear
I poured the secrets of my bosom. Kill me,
If thou dar'st do it; but bethink thee first
How the grim memory of thy thankless deed
Will haunt thee to the grave!

Ion. It is most true;

Thou spar'dst my life, and therefore do the gods
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall
Seem the chance-forfeit of some single sin,
And not the great redress of Argos. Now-
Now, while I parley-spirits that have left,
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh
To rot untombed, glide by, and frown on me
Their slow avenger,—and the chamber swarms
With looks of Furies.-Yet a moment wait,
Ye dreadful prompters!If there is a friend,
Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token,
Speak thy last bidding.

Adras. I have none on earth.
If thou hast courage, end me!
Ion. Not one friend!

Most piteous doom!

Adras. Art melted?

Ion. If I am,

Hope nothing from my weakness; mortal arms,
And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round,

And we shall fall together. Be it so!

Adras. No; strike at once; my hour is come: in thee

I recognise the minister of Jove,

And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power.

Ion. Avert thy face!

Adras. No; let me meet thy gaze;

For breathing pity lights thy features up

Into more awful likeness of a form

Which once shone on me, and which now my sense
Shapes palpable-in habit of the grave;
Inviting me to the sad realm where shades
Of innocents, whom passionate regard
Linked with the guilty, are content to pace
With them the margin of the inky flood,

Mournful and calm ;-'tis surely there!-she waves
Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head,

As if to bless thee-and I bless thee too,

Death's gracious angel! Do not turn away.

[Adrastus kneels.]

Ion. Gods! to what office have ye doomed me !-Now!

[ION raises his arm to stab ADRASTUS. The voice of MEDON is heard without, calling, "ION! ION!"]

Adras. Be quick, or thou art lost!

[MEDON rushes in.]

Medon. Ion, forbear! Behold thy son, Adrastus!

[ION drops the knife and stands stupified with horror.]

Adras. What strange words

Are these which call my senses from the death

They were composed to welcome?" Son !" 'tis false

I had but one-and the deep wave rolls o'er him!

Medon. That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling,

One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight

In wicked haste to slay; I'll give thee proofs.
Adras. Great Jove, I thank thee!-Proofs !
Are there not here the lineaments of her

Who made me happy once-the voice, now still,
That bade the long-sealed fount of love gush out,
While with a prince's constancy he came
To lay his noble life down; and the sure,
The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow
Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me,
Armed for the traitor's deed ?-It is my child!
Ion. (kneeling.) Father!

Medon. The clang of arms!

Ion. (starting up.) They come! they come! They who are leagued with me against thy life, Here let us fall!

Adras. I will confront them yet.

Within I have a weapon which has drunk

A traitor's blood ere now; there will I wait for them.
No power less strong than death shall part us now!

[A noise without.]

XV.—THE KING AND THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.-Dodsley. King (alone.) No, no, this can be no public road, that's certain; I am lost, quite lost indeed. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect: I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. What is a king? Is he not wiser than another man? Not without his councillors, I plainly find. Is he not more powerful? I oft have been told so, indeed, but what now can my power command? Is he not greater and more magnificent? When seated on his throne, and surrounded with nobles and flatterers, perhaps, he may think so; but when lost in a wood, alas! what is he but a common man? His wisdom knows not which is north and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at; and his greatness the beggar would not bow to. And yet how oft are we puffed up with these false attributes? Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man.

[The report of a gun is heard.]

Hark! some villain sure is near! What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside then, and let manhood do it.

Miller (enters.) I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there?

King. No rogue, I assure you.

Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun?

King. Not 1, indeed.

Miller. You lie, I believe.

King. Lie! lie! How strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style! (aside.) Upon my word I don't.

Miller. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, have not you?

King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, indeed, and was afraid some robbers might be near.

Miller. I'm not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name?

King. Name!

Miller, Name! yes, name.

Why, you have a name, have not you? Where do you come from? What is your business here?

King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man. Miller. May be so, honest man; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer, I think: so, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold-to take you along with me, if you please.

King. With you! what authority have you to

Miller. The king's authority; if I must give you an account, sir, I am John Cockle, the Miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in this forest of Sherwood; and I will let no suspected fellow pass this way that cannot give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

King. I must submit to my own authority—(aside.) Very well, sir, I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it.

Miller. It's more than you deserve, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself.

King. I have the honour to belong to the king as well as you, and, perhaps, should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest; and the chase leading us to-day