Keep back your bruisèd prisoner lest he shock
This wellbred lady’s nerves. Your pardon, ma’am;
But have you seen by chance the other one?
In this direction he was seen to run.
A man came here anon with bloody hands
And aspect that did turn my soul to snow.
’Twas he. What said he?
Begged for sanctuary.
I bade the man begone.
Most properly.
Saw you which way he went?
I cannot tell.
He seen me coming; and he done a bunk.
Peace, there. Excuse his damaged features, lady:
He’s Paradise; and this one’s Byron’s trainer,
Mellish.
Injurious copper, in thy teeth
I hurl the lie. I am no trainer, I.
My father, a respected missionary,
Apprenticed me at fourteen years of age
T’ the poetry writing. To these woods I came
With Nature to commune. My revery
Was by a sound of blows rudely dispelled.
Mindful of what my sainted parent taught,
I rushed to play the peacemaker, when lo!
These minions of the law laid hands on me.
A lovely woman, with distracted cries,
In most resplendent fashionable frock,
Approaches like a wounded antelope.
Where is my Cashel? Hath he been arrested?
I would I had thy Cashel by the collar:
He hath escaped me.
Praises be forever!
Why dost thou call the missing man thy Cashel?
He is mine only son.
Thy son!
My son.
I thought his mother hardly would have known him,
So crushed his countenance.
A ribald peer,
Lord Worthington by name, this morning came
With honeyed words beseeching me to mount
His four-in-hand, and to the country hie
To see some English sport. Being by nature
Frank as a child, I fell into the snare,
But took so long to dress that the design
Failed of its full effect; for not until
The final round we reached the horrid scene.
Be silent all; for now I do approach
My tragedy’s catastrophe. Know, then,
That Heaven did bless me with an only son,
A boy devoted to his doting mother—
Hark! did you hear an oath from yonder room?
Respect a brokenhearted mother’s grief,
And do not interrupt me in my scene.
Ten years ago my darling disappeared
(Ten dreary twelvemonths of continuous tears,
Tears that have left me prematurely aged;
For I am younger far than I appear).
Judge of my anguish when today I saw
Stripped to the waist, and fighting like a demon
With one who, whatsoe’er his humble virtues,
Was clearly not a gentleman, my son!
O strange event! O passing tearful tale!
I thank you from the bottom of my heart
For the reception you have given my woe;
And now I ask, where is my wretched son?
He must at once come home with me, and quit
A course of life that cannot be allowed.
Policeman: I do yield me to the law.
Oh, no.
My son!
My mother! Do not kiss me.
My visage is too sore.
The lady hid him.
This is a regular plant. You cannot be
Up to that sex. To Cashel. You come along with me.
Fear not, my Cashel: I will bail thee out.
Never. I do embrace my doom with joy.
With Paradise in Pentonville or Portland
I shall feel safe: there are no mothers there.
Ungracious boy—
Constable: bear me hence.
Oh, let me sweetest reconcilement make
By calling to thy mind that moving song:—
They say there is no other—
Forbear at once, or the next note of music
That falls upon thine ear shall clang in thunder
From the last trumpet.
A disgraceful threat
To level at this virtuous old man.
Oh, Cashel, if thou scorn’st thy mother thus,
How wilt thou treat thy wife?
There spake my fate:
I knew you would say that. Oh, mothers, mothers,
Would you but let your wretched sons alone
Life were worth living! Had I any choice
In this importunate relationship?
None. And until that high auspicious day
When the millennium on an orphaned world
Shall dawn, and man upon his fellow look,
Reckless of consanguinity, my mother
And I within the selfsame hemisphere
Conjointly may not dwell.
Ungentlemanly!
I am no gentleman. I am a criminal,
Redhanded, baseborn—
Baseborn! Who dares say it?
Thou art the son and heir of Bingley Bumpkin
FitzAlgernon de Courcy Cashel Byron,
Sieur of Park Lane and Overlord of Dorset,
Who after three months’ wedded happiness
Rashly fordid himself with prussic acid,
Leaving a tearstained note to testify
That having sweetly honeymooned with me,
He now could say, O Death, where is thy sting?
Sir: had I known your quality, this cop
I had averted; but it is too late.
The law’s above us both.
Not so, policeman.
I bear a message from The Throne itself
Of fullest amnesty for Byron’s past.
Nay, more: of Dorset deputy lieutenant
He is proclaimed. Further, it is decreed,
In memory of his glorious victory
Over our country’s foes at Islington,
The flag of England shall forever bear
On azure field twelve swanlike spots of white;
And by an exercise of feudal right
Too long disused in this anarchic age
Our sovereign doth confer on him the hand
Of Miss Carew, Wiltstoken’s wealthy heiress. General acclamation.
Was anything, sir, said about me?
Thy faithful services are not forgot:
In future call thyself Inspector Smith. Renewed acclamation.
I thank you, sir. I thank you, gentlemen.
My former opposition, valiant champion,
Was based on the supposed discrepancy
Betwixt your rank and Lydia’s. Here’s my hand.
And I do here unselfishly renounce
All my pretensions to my lady’s favor. Sensation.
What, Bashville! didst thou love me?
Madam: yes.
’Tis said: now let me leave immediately.
In taking, Bashville, this most tasteful course
You are but acting as a gentleman
In the like case would act. I fully grant
Your perfect right to make a declaration
Which flatters me and honors your ambition.
Prior attachment bids me firmly say
That whilst my Cashel lives, and polyandry
Rests foreign to the British social scheme,
Your love is hopeless; still, your services,
Made zealous by disinterested passion,
Would greatly add to my domestic comfort;
And
