He does not curse his daughters in the least.
Be these his daughters? Lear is thinking of
His porridge chiefly. . is it getting cold

At Hampstead? will the ale be served in pots? Poor Lear, poor daughters? Bravo, Romney's play?

A murmur and a movement drew around;
A naked whisper touched us. Something wrong!
What's wrong! That black crowd, as an overstrained
Cord, quivered in vibrations, and I saw.
Was that his face I saw?.. his.. Romney Leigh's.
Which tossed a sudden horror like a sponge
Into all eyes, while himself stood white upon
The topmost altar-stair, and tried to speak,
And failed, and lifted higher above his head
A letter, . . as a man who drowns and gasps.

'My brothers, bear with me! I am very weak.
I meant but only good. Perhaps I meant
Too proudly, and God snatched the circumstance
And changed it therefore. There's no marriage-none
She leaves me,-she departs, --she disappears,—
I lose her. Yet I never forced her ‘ay,'
To have her 'no' so cast into my teeth

In manner of an accusation, thus.

My friends, you are all dismissed. Go, eat and drink According to the programme,-and farewell!'

He ended. There was silence in the church;
We heard a baby sucking in its sleep

At the farthest end of the aisle. Then spoke a man, 'Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef and drink Be not filched from us like the other fun;

For beer's spilt easier than a woman is!

This gentry is not honest with the poor;
They bring us up, to trick us.'—' Go it, Jim,'
A woman screamed back,-'I'm a tender soul;
I never banged a child at two years old

And drew blood from him, but I sobbed for it
Next moment,-and I've had a plague of seven.
I'm tender; I've no stomach even for beef.
Until I know about the girl that's lost,

That's killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt, at first,
The fine lord meant no good by her, or us.
He, maybe, got the upper hand of her
By holding up a wedding-ring, and then . .
A choking finger on her throat, last night,
And just a clever tale to keep us still,
As she is, poor lost innocent. Disappear!'
Who ever disappears except a ghost?
And who believes a story of a ghost?
I ask you, would a girl go off, instead
Of staying to be married? a fine tale!
A wicked man, I say, a wicked man!
For my part I would rather starve on gin
Than make my dinner on his beef and beer.'- -
At which a cry rose up-'We'll have our rights.
We'll have the girl, the girl! Your ladies there
Are married safely and smoothly every day,
And she shall not drop through into a trap
Because she's poor and of the people: shame!
We'll have no tricks played off by gentlefolks;
We'll see her righted.'

Through the rage and roar
I heard the broken words which Romney flung
Among the turbulent masses, from the ground
He held still, with his masterful pale face-
As huntsmen throw the ration to the pack,

Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog
In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up
With yelling hound jaws,-his indignant words,
His piteous words, his most pathetic words,
Whereof I caught the meaning here and there
By his gesture . . torn in morsels, yelled across,
And so devoured. From end to end, the church
Rocked round us like the sea in storm, and then
Broke up like the earth in earthquake. Men cried
out

'Police!'--and women stood and shrieked for God,
Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd of deer,
(For whom the black woods suddenly grow alive,
Unleashing their wild shadows down the wind
To hunt the creatures into corners, back
And forward) madly fled, or blindly fell,
Trod screeching underneath the feet of those
Who fled and screeched.

The last sight left to me

Was Romney's terrible calm face above

The tumult!-the last sound was 'Pull him down!
Strike-kill him!' Stretching my unreasoning arms,
As men in dreams, who vainly interpose
'Twixt gods and their undoing, with a cry
I struggled to precipitate myself

Head-foremost to the rescue of my soul

In that white face, . . till some one caught me back, And so the world went out,-I felt no more.

What followed, was told after by Lord Howe,
Who bore me senseless from the strangling crowd
In church and street, and then returned alone
To see the tumult quelled. The men of law
Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire,

VOL 11-10

And made all silent,-while the people's smoke
Passed eddying slowly from the emptied aisles.

Here's Marian's letter, which a ragged child
Brought running, just as Romney at the porch
Looked out expectant of the bride. He sent
The letter to me by his friend Lord Howe
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet

On which his well-known hand had left a word.
Here's Marian's letter.

Be patient with me.

'Noble friend, dear sain Never think me vile,

Who might to-morrow morning be your wife
But that I loved you more than such a name.
Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it once,-
My Romney.

'Tis so pretty a coupled word,

I have no heart to pluck it with a blot.

We say 'My God' sometimes, upon our knees,
Who is not therefore vexed: so bear with it..
And me.
I know I'm foolish, weak, and vain;
Yet most of all I'm angry with myself
For losing your last footstep on the stair,
The last time of your coming,-yesterday!
The very first time I lost step of yours,

(Its sweetness comes the next to what you speak) But yesterday sobs took me by the throat,

And cut me off from music.

'Mister Leigh,

You'll set me down as wrong in many things.

You've praised me, sir, for truth,-and now you'll

learn

I had not courage to be rightly true.

I once began to tell you how she came,

The woman.. and you stared upon the floor

In one of your fixed thoughts. . which put me out
For that day. After, some one spoke of me,
So wisely, and of you, so tenderly,

Persuading me to silence for your sake...
Well, well! it seems this moment I was wrong
In keeping back from telling you the truth:
There might be truth betwixt us two, at least,
If nothing else. And yet 'twas dangerous.
Suppose a real angel came from heaven
To live with men and women! he'd go mad,
If no considerate hand should tie a blind
Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thus with you:
You see us too much in your heavenly light;
I always thought so, angel,-and indeed
There's danger that you beat yourself to death
Against the edges of this alien world,
In some divine and fluttering pity.

Yes,

It would be dreadful for a friend of yours,
To see all England thrust you out of doors
And mock you from the windows. You might say,

Or think (that's worse), 'There's some one in the

house

I miss and love still.' Dreadful!

'Very kind, I pray you mark, was Lady Waldemar.

She came to see me nine times, rather ten-
So beautiful, she hurts me like the day

Let suddenly on sick eyes.

'Most kind of all,

Your cousin!-ah, most like you! Ere you came She kissed me mouth to mouth: I felt her soul Dip through her serious lips in holy fire.