as private guests to-day.Thanks for your gentle warning; may my weaknessTo such a sin be never tempted more!

[Exeunt Elizabeth and Lewis.]

C. Wal. Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, is it paid over and above with beef and ale? Weep not, tender-hearted Count! Though ‘generous hearts,’ my Lord, ‘and ladies’ tenderness, too oft forget’—Truly spoken! Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye discern coals of fire on Count Hugo’s head?

C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where?

C. Wal. Nay, I speak mystically,—there is nought there but what beer will quench before nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit [to a Page at the door], out of your burrow, and show these gentles to their lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. [They go out.]

C. Wal [alone]. Well:—if Hugo is a brute, he at least makes no secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; he wears his tushes outside, for a warning to all men. But for the rest!—Whited sepulchres! and not one of them but has half persuaded himself of his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save me from your small pedant,—your closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it will carry him. In experience, a child: in obstinacy, a woman: in nothing a man, but in logic-chopping: instead of God’s grace, a few schoolboy saws about benevolence, and industry, and independence—there is his metal. If the world will be mended on his principles, well. If not, poor world!—but principles must be carried out, though through blood and famine: for truly, man was made for theories, not theories for man. A doctrine is these men’s God—touch but that shrine, and lo! your simpering philanthropist becomes as ruthless as a Dominican. [Exit.]

SCENE IX

Elizabeth’s bower. Elizabeth and Lewis sitting together.

Song

Eliz. Oh that we two were MayingDown the stream of the soft spring breeze;Like children with violets playingIn the shade of the whispering trees!

Oh that we two sat dreamingOn the sward of some sheep-trimmed downWatching the white mist steamingOver river and mead and town!

Oh that we two lay sleepingIn our nest in the churchyard sod,With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth’s breast,And our souls at home with God!

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