Plays / Being: An unhistorical pastoral: A romantic farce: Bruce, a chronicle play: Smith, a tragic farce: and Scaramouch in Naxos, a pantomime.

Produced by C. P. Boyko
PLAYS by John Davidson
Being: An Unhistorical Pastoral: A Romantic Farce: Bruce, A Chronicle Play: Smith, A Tragic Farce: and Scaramouch in Naxos, A Pantomime
London: Elkin Mathews and John Lane Chicago: Stone and Kimball
1894
AN UNHISTORICAL PASTORAL (Glasgow, 1877)
PERSONS Alardo, King of Belmarie. Rupert, Alardo's Son. Conrad, } Guido, } Felice, } Nobles of Belmarie. Bruno, } Torello, } Cinthio, Conrad's Son. Sebastian, a Sea-Captain. Scipio, } Ivy, } Rustics. Green, } Celio, a Shepherd. Oberon. Puck. Eulalie. Faustine, Guido's Daughter. Sylvia, a Shepherdess. Onesta, Faustine's Maid. Martha. Titania. A Servant. Fairies. Mayers. Officers.
In Grenade, at the siege had he be Of Algesir, and ridden in Belmarie. Chaucer.
Enter Alardo and Conrad.
Alardo. Safe, sound, on land, and our own land at last. How long, Conrad, have we been seafarers? Conrad. On our disastrous and untimely cruise, In early spring we merrily embarked. The trees are greener now than when we sailed, More softly breathes the air: my lord, I think About this time last year our ills began, A honeymoon on ocean's breast gone by. If I be right—for judgment here is wide, Since in escapes from icebergs, pirates, perils Of krakens, quicksands, bloody cannibals, Storms merciless, and nights of many days— The married life of those who wed the deep— All reckoning was lost—hoar, doting time Repeats the seasons' epic where our ears Ceased to attend the world-old history, One year's discordant interlude between. Alardo. Well-tempered discord strengthens: if my son Be but alive and well, life's music glides In sweeter, richer cadence for this crash. If in deep ocean's unrobbed tomb, or white And all unsepulchred, on some bleak coast His bones lie withering, discord is the theme Shall din my hearing to eternity. Do you remember when the envious wave, Begrudging me so beautiful a boy, With swift abduction snatched him from the poop, And swept him from our ken? Mind you his cry That pierced the howling storm, nor through that shield Did with a gentler wound transfix our ears? Saw you his begging hand finger the air, Then vanish, lastly visible of him? Conrad. 'Tis deeply graven in my memory. Alardo. Ay, as a moving picture's strong impress; But I was of it—you, a looker-on. I watched the sneaking waves, the subtle waves, The sly, the pitiless, the sinewy waves, Swarm from the cuttle-sea like suckers lithe, And steal my son to feed its hungry maw. Conrad. Indeed, my lord, not to that tongueless grief Which seized you then, and held you captive long, Was I prisoner; but I sorrowed both For your bereavement and my own past lost. Alardo. O, you, too, mourn a son! Conrad. In infancy One was reft from me. Alardo. Blessed then are you That know him in Elysium; but I Have no sweet sunshine gleaming through my tears. I would not have mine dead e'en to gain heaven; But life may now be hell: on yon rude shores Near which we drifted when my son was lost, They say that human fiends cavern to prey On hunted ships the tinchel-waves drive in, Torturing the voyagers for ransom; some Transporting slaves to burning Afric climes: Each imaged pang impales my inmost heart. Conrad. I said my loss was past, yet, in a sort, I suffer fresh bereavement every day; And might with uncurbed fancy harrow up, As you do yours, my fatherly regard, But that it boots not to imagine ill, Where equal chance shows good luck may betide. My child was lost or stolen, drowned or devoured, I brood not which; but, in most hopeful mood, Think soon to see him well; more sluggish thoughts Would joy to find him any how or where: And so, piecemeal, my hope is back repulsed To find content in sure news of his death. Alardo. Was it a while ago your son was lost? Conrad. Full fifteen years; his age, one half that sum. Alardo. Fifteen unsevered years may cool me too, But grief and I are fresh and all uncloyed; We drain the utmost sadness that we can. Conrad. I bore grief just so passionate a love; But long before you slight her as I do, Doubt not that dear joy will seduce your heart: Your quick-found son will give her to your arms. Alardo. How did you lose your son, good Conrad, say? Conrad. Indeed I cannot. One soul-sickening night Nowhere was he discovered. Every haunt Where curious childhood oft had wandered him Appeared as wistful for his sight as we; The mourning echoes called with us his name. He was my only son—Heaven grant he is! Alardo. For you conjecture had an airy stretch, And hope full complement of anchors strong; My thoughts are hedged, my only grapnel drags. Your son was lost from vague remembrance; death Plucked mine with bony grasp from out my eyes. Seven years you had a son; and twice that term Has tamed your sorrow's force: my Rupert's eyes Had viewed a score of summers: by this count A century should see me bow to fate; But I'll be traitor till death vindicate The all-commanding rule of destiny. Conrad. Permit me, sir: such is your present thought.— Holds your intent to travel in disguise Thence to our court: to hear what rumour goes Concerning us; toward you what mind is borne; To note your subjects' state; with parent's care To mark what merits praise, what needs reproof, And understand the country's inmost soul? Alardo. I purpose so. Our lives, however short, And full of toil, have time enough for grief. Yet stay, my lord: here comes one who shall tell Which is the pleasantest, most peopled way. In him, moreover, we will broach the fame Of our long ventures in a time so brief.—