Friar Tuck. I knew it! (He sings.) Veni Wakefeeld peramonum Donec Georgio fortior eram! Jenny (approaching). Please you, sirs, all is ready! Friar Tuck. Ah, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, that's good news! [WILL SCARLETT comes out of the hut with his arm round his mother. They all sit down at the table of turfs.] Shadow-of-a-Leaf (gliding timidly out of the ferns). Is there a place for me? Friar Tuck (singing as he settles his trencher in front of him). Hinc diverso curso, sero Quod audissem de Pindero Now, an you've heard enough of George-a-Green For drubbing you, black and blue,-give us the grace. To him, and his return from the Crusade, 66 Before we dine. That same wine-bibbing friar [All stand up except the KNIGHT.] Cries. The King and his return from the Crusade! [They drink and resume their seats.] Robin. You did not drink the health, Sir Knight. I hope You hold with Lion-Heart. Knight. You were too quick for me. These gauntlets off. Yes; I hold with him. I had not drawn But tell me, Lady Marian, When is your bridal day with Robin Hood? Marian. We shall be wedded when the King comes home From the Crusade. Knight. Ah, when the King comes home! That's music-all the birds of April sing In those four words for me-the King comes home. Marian. I am glad you love him, sir. Your helmet's locked and barred! Knight (laughing). Ha! ha! ha! But you're not eating! Will you not raise You see I am trapped! I did not wish to raise it! Hunger and thirst [He rises and removes his helmet, revealing the face Robin. The King! Outlaws. [They all leap to their feet.] The King! The King! But O, my liege, I should have known, when we were hard beset And hurled our foemen down, I should have known By treacherous hands again, I should have known Or else the King come home from the Crusade! Richard. Indeed there is one thing that might have told you, Robin-a lover's instinct, since it seems So much for you and Marian depends On my return. Shadow-of-a-Leaf. Sire, you will pardon me, You know not half the meaning of those words— [He leaps on a seat, and thrusts up the King's sword, Robin. Pardon him, sire, poor Shadow-of-a-Leaf has lost Shadow-of-a-Leaf. That's what Titania said you'd say,- On winter nights. Richard. Well, you've no need to pass The winter in these woods Shadow-of-a-Leaf. O, not that winter! Robin. Shadow-of-a-Leaf, be silent! [SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF goes aside and throws himself down sobbing among the ferns.] Richard. When even your cave Methinks can scarce be cheery. Huntingdon, To Court with us, where your true bridal troth Robin. Allan-a-Dale shall touch a golden string Richard. Allan-a-Dale? Reynold Greenleaf. Was to be wedded, sire, against her will Last May, to a rich old baron. Richard (munching). Pigeon-pie And malmsey-yes-a rich old baron-tell! Robin. Sire, on the wedding-day my merry men And, as the old man drew forth the golden ring, Allan-a-Dale. No feasting-song, sire, but the royal theme Of chivalry,—a song I made last night In yonder ruined chapel, telling how A war-worn knight, returning to the shrine Where first, a maiden knight, he watched his arms, Keeps vigil once again, a broken man, II. "Swift with Thy dawn," I said, And the world singing! Bless my bright plume for me, [SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF rises to his knees among the ferns.] III. "War-worn I kneel to-night Bless my dark arms for me, IV. "Keep Thou my broken sword V. "Keep, in Thy piercéd hands, VI. "Keep Thou the sullied mail, Lord, that I tender Here at Thine altar-rail ! Then let Thy splendour Touch it once ... and I go, Stainless to meet the foe!" [SHADOW-OF-A-LEAF rises to his feet and takes a step towards the minstrel ! MUSINGS LITERARY ANODYNES-ALFRED DE MUSSET AND LA SAND- A STRONG LOVE-INTEREST"-THE FRIENDS OF KINGS-CATHERINE THE GREAT-AN AMATORY EXPERT-VICTORIA LADY WELBY THERE has always been, there will probably always be, a kind of printed matter which bears the most distant relation either to literature or research. Devised as a kind of anodyne, it lulls to a happy forgetfulness those who are too tired to talk, too idle to play bridge. That is a modest office-if it be modestly discharged. There is a vast public which would not think very deeply, even if it could, and which desires such amusement as ink and paper may afford. For more than a century fiction has come to the aid of this vast public. Novels have been poured forth from the press in an unceasing, overwhelming stream. They have been nicely adjusted to the demand. Those who manufactured them have gladly given what was expected of them. The "problem" has given way to the cape and sword, the cape and sword in their turn have retreated before the jests of social comedy. Then from time to time the pseudo-profound has claimed a transitory popularity. The sorriest trash has appeared in the guise of emancipated theology, and Rome has yielded a rich harvest to the thoughtful tripper. The tripper indeed has reaped bravely where others have sown. We all know the hasty romance of the Latin Quarter dished up by a Cook's tourist within the limit of a monthly return-ticket; and we can be happy only in the thought that an ignorance of English prevents the most of Frenchmen from discovering the intolerable licence taken by our literary journeymen with their life and thought. To-day the undisputed reign of fiction is over. Of course we do not mean that there will be no more novels. As an eloquent method of expression, fiction will serve the masters unto the end of time. The request, "Tell us a story,' will always meet with a ready response from the artist. But henceforth the industrious hack, who saw in fiction a means of paying his butcher's bill, will not work without a rival. The concocter of sugared history, the vamper of sentimental biography, is hard upon the novelist's trail. He knows as well as any of them how to tickle the reader's palate. His confectionery is as sweet as syrup, and it looks as pretty as a birthday cake. And it possesses a value which none save historical novels possess. Great names are lavishly sprinkled up and down its pages. As you open |