Are Night and Silence, pleasant onesthe while

If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass.

Dobson. Well, I never 'eärd the likes o' that afoor.

Wilson. (Aside.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never comes to church, I thought better of him.

Edgar. What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear?

'As flies to the Gods; they kill us for

their sport.'

Dobson. (Aside.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaämed of hissen, but noän o' the parishes goäs by that naäme 'ereabouts.

Edgar. The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves,

Have past for ever.

It is Nature kills,

And not for her sport either. She knows nothing.

Man only knows, the worse for him! for why

Cannot he take his pastime like the flies? And if my pleasure breed another's pain, Well is not that the course of Nature too, From the dim dawn of Being - her main law

Whereby she grows in beauty that her flies

Must massacre each other? this poor Nature!

Dobson. Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'eäd now; but I weänt.

Edgar. A Quietist taking all things easily why

Dobson. 'Good daäy then, Dobson!' Civil-spoken i'deed! Why, Wilson, tha 'eärd 'im thysen - the feller couldn't find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as farms five hoonderd haäcre.

Wilson. You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson.

Dobson. Noä, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taäkes 'im for a Lunnun swindler, and a burn fool.

Wilson. He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular every Saturday. Dobson. Yeäs; but I haätes 'im.

Enter STEER, FARM MEN and WOMEN.

Steer (goes and sits under apple tree). Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva?

Dobson. Noä, Mr. Steer.

Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom 'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saäme to you, my men. I taäkes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed - what's the newspaäper word, Wilson? - celebrate to celebrate my birthdaäy i' this fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saäy niver master 'ed better men: fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye sometimes, the fault, mebbe, wur as much mine as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen, niver men 'ed a better master and I knaws what men be, and what masters be, fur I wur nobbut a laäbourer, and now I be a landlord -burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goäs, I be a gentleman, thaw I beänt naw scholard, fur I 'edn't naw time to maäke mysen a scholard while I wur maäkin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha' taäen good care to turn out boäth my darters right down fine laädies.

Dobson. An' soä they be.

1st Farming Man. Soä they be! soä they be!

2nd Farming Man.

boath on 'em!

The Lord bless

Enter EVA.

Wheer 'asta been?

Eva (timidly). Many happy returns of the day, father.

Steer. They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oäpes they'll be 'appy.

Dobson. Why, tha looks haäle anew to last to a hoonderd.

Steer. An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd? Haäle! why shouldn't I be haäle? fur thaw I be heighty this very daäy, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's prick of paäin; an' I can taäke my glass along wi' the youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oân wedding-daäy, an' then I wur turned huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haäle? I ha' plowed the ten-aäcre- it be mine now-afoor ony o' ye wur burn — ye all knaws the ten-aäcre- I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straäit as a line right i' the faäce o' the sun, then back ageän, a-follering my oän shadder then hup ageän i' the faäce o' the sun.

Eh! how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daäys, and the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh! if I could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut the smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maäde ma live as long as Jerusalem.

Steer. Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me thou'll put one word fur another as I does.

Dobson. But, Steer, thaw thou be haäle anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now wi' the roomatics i' the knee.

Steer. Roomatics! Noä; I laäme't my knee last night running arter a thief. Beänt there house-breakers down i' Littlechester, Dobson- doänt ye hear of ony?

Dobson. Ay, that there be. Immanuel Goldsmith's was broke into o' Monday night, and ower a hoonderd pounds' worth o' rings stolen.

Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the winder- that's the winder at the end o' the passage, that goäs by thy chaumber. (Turning to Eva.) Why, lass, what maäkes tha sa red? Did 'e git into thy chaumber?

Eva. Father!

Steer. Well, I runned arter thief the dark, and fell ageän coalscuttle ar my kneeä gev waäy or I'd ha' cotche 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got thre the winder ageän.

Eva.

Got thro' the window again?

Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of s foot i' the flower-bed; now theer be noar o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur 1 cotched 'im once a-stealin' coäls, an' I sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot # the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't t

seeams to me the mark wur maade by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at Eva.) Why, now, what maäkes tha sa white?

Eva. Fright, father! Steer. Maäke thysen eäsy. I'll he the winder naäiled up, and put Towse under it.

Eva (clasping her hands). No, no father! Towser'll tear him all to pieces Steer. Let him keep awaäy, then; but coom, coom! let's be gawin'. ha' broached a barrel of aäle i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a dance.

They

Eva. (Aside.) Dance! small heart have I to dance. I should seem to be dancing upon a grave.

Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the premises?

Dobson. Hallus about the premises! Steer. So much the better, so much the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes 'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im; look for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for us arter dinner.

Steer. Coom along then, all the rest o'ye! Churchwarden be a-coomin', thaw me and 'im we niver 'grees about the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw he niver mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I telled 'im; and Blacksmith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings; and Baäker, thaw I sticks to hoäm-maäde but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em wel come; and I've hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the taäters, and the mangles, and

Dobson (who is going, turns). Squire!
if so be you be a squire.
Edgar. Dobbins, I think.

Dobson. Dobbins, you thinks; and I hinks ye weärs a Lunnun boot. Edgar. Well?

Dobson. And I thinks I'd like to aäke the measure o' your foot.

Edgar. Ay, if you'd like to measure your own length upon the grass.

Dobson. Coom, coom, that's a good un. Why, I could throw four o' ye; but I promised one of the Misses I wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weänt.

[Exit into barn.

Edgar. Jealous of me with Eva! Is it so?

Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I

Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be

Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that

The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him

A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd

May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage!

That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold,

Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester,

He, too, would oust me from his will, if I

Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself

The storm is hard at hand will sweep away

Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage

One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman,

Following their best affinities, will each Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears;

Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fear

Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need

Of veiling their desires.

Conventionalism,

Who shrieks by day at what she does by night,

Would call this vice; but one time's vice may be

The virtue of another; and Vice and Virtue

Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter

Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf

Of never-dawning darkness?

Enter EVA.

My sweet Eva, Where have you lain in ambush all the morning?

They say your sister, Dora, has return'd,
And that should make you happy, if you
love her!
But you look troubled.

Eva.
Oh, I love her so,
I was afraid of her, and I hid myself.

My sister far away - and you, a gentle

man,

Told me to trust you: yes, in every. thing -

That was the only true love; and I trusted

Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you.

How could you-oh, how could you? - nay, how could I?

But now you will set all right again, and I

Shall not be made the laughter of the village,

And poor old father not die miserable.
Dora (singing in the distance).

O joy for the promise of May, of
May,

O joy for the promise of May. Edgar. Speak not so loudly; that must be your sister.

You never told her, then, of what has past Between us.