Prologue

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day

Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun

Up to the people: thither flock'd at noon

His tenants, wife and child, and thither half

The neighbouring borough with their Institute

Of which he was the patron. I was there

From college, visiting the son,—the son

A Walter too,—with others of our set.

      And me that morning Walter show'd the house,

Greek, set with busts: from vases in the hall

Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names,

Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay

Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park,

Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time;

And on the tables every clime and age

Jumbled together; celts and calumets,

Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans

Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries,

Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere,

The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs

From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls,

Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer,

His own forefathers' arms and armour hung.

      And 'this' he said 'was Hugh's at Agincourt;

And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon:

A good knight he! we keep a chronicle

With all about him'—which he brought, and I

Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights

Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings

Who laid about them at their wills and died;

And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd

Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate,

Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls.

      And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,' he said,

'To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth

And sister Lilia with the rest.' We went

(I kept the book and had my finger in it)

Down thro' the park: strange was the sight to me;

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd sown

With happy faces and with holiday.

There moved the multitude, a thousand heads:

The patient leaders of their Institute

Taught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stone

And drew, from butts of water on the slope,

The fountain of the moment, playing now

A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls,

Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball

Danced like a wisp: and somewhat lower down

A man with knobs and wires and vials fired

A cannon: Echo answer'd in her sleep

From hollow fields: and here were telescopes

For azure views; and there a group of girls

In circle waited, whom the electric shock

Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter: round the lake

A little clock-work steamer paddling plied

And shook the lilies: perch'd about the knolls

A dozen angry models jetted steam:

A petty railway ran: a fire-balloon

Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves

And dropt a fairy parachute and past:

And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph

They flash'd a saucy message to and fro

Between the mimic stations; so that sport

With Science hand in hand went; otherwhere

Pure sport; a herd of boys with clamour bowl'd

And stump'd the wicket; babies roll'd about

Like tumbled fruit in grass; and men and maids

Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' light

And shadow, while the twangling violin

Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead

The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime

Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end.

      Strange was the sight and smacking of the time;

And long we gazed, but satiated at length

Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt,

Of finest Gothic, lighter than a fire,

Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave

The park, the crowd, the house; but all within

The sward was trim as any garden lawn:

And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth,

And Lilia with the rest, and Ralph himself,

A broken statue propt against the wall,

As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport,

Half child half woman as she was, had wound

A scarf of orange round the stony helm,

And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk,

That made the old warrior from his ivied nook

Glow like a sunbeam: near his tomb a feast

Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests,

And there we join'd them: then the maiden Aunt

Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd

An universal culture for the crowd,

And all things great; but we, unworthier, told

Of college: he had climb'd across the spikes,

And he had squeez'd himself betwixt the bars,

And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs; and one

Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men

But honeying at the whisper of a lord;

And one the Master, as a rogue in grain

Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory.

      But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw

The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought

My book to mind: and opening this I read

Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang

With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her

That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls,

And much I prais'd her nobleness, and 'Where,'

Ask'd Walter, 'lives there such a woman now?'

      Quick answered Lilia 'There are thousands now

Such women, but convention beats them down:

It is but bringing up; no more than that:

You men have done it: how I hate you all!

O were I some great Princess, I would build

Far off from men a college of my own,

And I would teach them all things: you should see.'

      And one said smiling 'Pretty were the sight

If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt

With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans,

And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.

I think they should not wear our rusty gowns,

But move as rich as emperor moths, or Ralph

Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear,

If there were many Lilias in the brood,

However deep you might embower the nest,

Some boy would spy it.'

At this upon the sward

She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot:

'That's your light way; but I would make it death

For any male thing but to peep at us.'

      Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd;

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,

And sweet as English air could make her, she:

But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her,

And 'petty Ogress', and 'ungrateful Puss',

And swore he long'd at college, only longed,

All else was well, for she-society.

They boated and they cricketed; they talk'd

At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics;

They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans;

They rode; they betted; made a hundred friends,

And caught the blossom of the flying terms,

But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place,

The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke,

Part banter, part affection.

'True,' she said

'We doubt not that. O yes, you miss'd us much.

I'll stake my ruby ring upon it you did.'

      She held it out; and as a parrot turns

Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye,

And takes a lady's finger with all care,

And bites it for true heart and not for harm,

So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd

And wrung it. 'Doubt my word again!' he said.

'Come, listen! here is proof that you were miss'd:

We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read;

And seven took one tutor. Never man

So moulder'd in a sinecure as he:

For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet,

And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms,

We did but talk you over, pledge you all

In wassail; often, like as many girls—

Sick for the hollies and the yews of home—

As many little trifling Lilias—play'd

Charades and riddles as at Christmas here,

And what's my thought and when and where and how,

And often told a tale from mouth to mouth

As here at Christmas.'

'I remember that:

A pleasant game,' she said: 'I liked it more

Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest.

But these—what kind of tales did men tell men,

I wonder, by themselves?'

A half-disdain

Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips:

And Walter nodded at me; 'He began,

The rest would follow, so we tost the ball:

What kind of tales? why, such as served to kill

Time by the fire in winter.‘

'Kill him now!

Tell one' she said: 'kill him in summer too.'

And 'tell one' cried the solemn maiden aunt.

'Why not a summer's as a winter's tale?

A tale for summer, as befits the time;

And something it should be to suit the place,

Grave, moral, solemn, like the mouldering walls

About us.'

Walter warp'd his mouth at this

To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd

And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling mirth

An echo, like an April woodpecker,

Hid in the ruins; till the maiden aunt

(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face

With colour) turn'd to me:'Well—as you will—

Just as you will,' she said; 'be, if you will,

Yourself your hero.'

'Look then' added he

'Since Lilia would be princess, that you stoop

No lower than a prince.'