and one could hear most piteous lamentations sounding along the rivers and the brooks which now so peacefully and gaily tumble through the wild paradise of your dear land; and that dark year in which so many perished, so many gallant, good and comely souls, has left but a vague memory that clouds the elemental minstrelry of shepherds with pleasing plaintiveness. Nothing, I swear, so saddens us amid life's animation as dreamy sounds that dreamy hearts repeat. Mary Oh, had I never sung beyond the threshold of the small cottage where my parents dwelt! Dearly they used to love their Mary's voice. Behind my song I felt as if I listened to my old self singing in the bright doorway: my voice was sweeter in those days: it was the golden voice of innocence. Louisa Such ditties are nowadays old-fashioned; but one still finds simple souls eager to melt when seeing a woman weep: they blindly trust her tears. She seems to be quite sure that her wet eyes are most enchanting; and if just as highly she ranked her laughter then you may be sure she'd always titter. Walsingham had chanced to praise the shrill-voiced Northern beauties; so forthwith she wails her head off. I do hate that yellow color of her Scottish hair. The Chairman Listen! I hear the sound of heavy wheels. A cart passes laden with dead bodies. It is driven by a Negro. The Chairman Aha, Louisa faints. I thought she had a warrior's heart judging by her expressions — but evidently cruelty is weaker than tenderness: strong passions shy at shadows. Some water, Mary, on her face. She's better. Mary Dear sister of my sorrow and dishonor, recline upon my breast. Louisa (regaining her senses) A dreadful demon appeared to me: all black with white eyes rolling, he beckoned me into his cart where lay piled bodies of dead men who all were lisping a horrible, a most unearthly tale. Oh, tell me please — was it a dream I dreamt or did the cart pass really? The Young Man Come, Louisa, laugh in away. Though all the street is ours — a quiet spot secure from death's intrusion, the haunt of revellers whom none may trouble — but… Well, you see, that black cart has the right to roll and creak down any street in chooses and we must let it go its way. Look here, friend Walsingham: to cut short all discussions that lead to women swooning, sing us something, sing us a liberal and lively song, — not one inspired by long mists of the Highlands but some unbridled bacchanalian stuff that sprung to life from wine-foam at a banquet. The Chairman Such songs I know not, but I have for you a hymn in honor of the plague. I wrote it the other night as soon as we had parted: I was possessed by a strange urge to rhyme which never had I felt before. So listen. My husky voice will suit this kind of poem. Several Voices A hymn! A hymn! Let's hear our chairman sing it! In honor of the Plague? Good. Bravo, bravo! The Chairman (sings) When mighty Captain Winter swoops upon us with his hoary troops, leading against us all his grim
