THE FIRST SCENE.
THE COMING OF THE CENTURIES.
The Prolocutor robed as in the manner of the Doctor in the old Moralities, with inkhorn and pen at his girdle, with a wreath of the poets' bays about his head, and holding in his hand a vellum scroll, enters upon his place and speaks.
THE PROLOCUTOR.
Here in this scroll I hold is writ a story, the story of the Edwards of England; how they came to their kingship and how their people held them. Of this story, though somewhat already ye know, yet ye shall now have an hour's rendering a fuller telling, and as the Ten Centuries of England pass with pomp and play before you, pass with music that touches the heart strings, and in movement stately, sober and glad for the lust of the eye, ye shall gather in epitome all that is best and noblest of the time of their coming and going. Each Century brings her meinie, each Edward brings his lesson.
Here shall ye see in dumb show, not only the passing of Kings, but symboled in music, rhyme and movement, those inner things in human history to which the Present is ever as a child, but which the Time to come knows, and sees with the grey eye of discernment. Nothing do we know but what exists, and a little of what has been, nothing do we need to know but the Beauty that exists, and the great abundance of the Beauty that has been.
In this Masque of the crowning, behold then a little of the Beauty that is, behold in presentation, abundance of the Beauty that was. Shall ye ask what Beauty, and History that like a crystal cup contains it, stand for? Know then that it is for the sweeter, the nobler, the diviner living of life for all. On the summits of the Past do we get the outlook into the future, & as the vision grows clearer there comes to us the gift of prophecy—the divine prophecy, the interpretation of the meaning of God.
Follow then to my calling, like some wizard who unlocks strange things and wonderful, the Ten Centuries of England, each with her symbol, her meaning in Time; follow after them the wild Imps of Progress ever present, ever destructive, ever creating in their own despite, Life out of Death; follow the kings, the Edwards, in whose honour this Masque is presented. There shall be music and rhyming for you, mad and lyrical, & the energies of Progress shall come as they are felt; the energies of Progress ever present, ever destroying, ever creating in their own despite, Life out of Death.
And in the end of all ere the Present is played to you in the symbol of the crowning of the King, shall then be danced and piped to you by the children an antimasque, in allegory of the Time. Life is brief, and briefer are its moments of discernment, therefore take of it now what you can, and let us go together into the region of historic phantasy. See—see them as they come passing across this little world stage the Ten Centuries of England!
The Ten Centuries of England pass slowly across the inner scene in dumb show, they are veiled and hooded in long flowing robes; when the last Century has passed the music begins, and after some twenty bars they re-enter on the outer scene singing the song following:
THE SONG.
A thousand years, a thousand years,
Passionless mummers here below,
Our silent passing by appears
But as the shadow of a show
Enacted in sublimer spheres
Remote from human joy or tears.
Silent we come and silent go,
Bearing the pall of pomp and pride,
Here as we pass in pageant slow,
The Present, straining, eager-eyed,
Searches the Past, and strives to know
What seed our shadowy fingers sow.
They fling seed before them, & as it falls, a cloud-like incense rises, behind which they slowly move, and thus continue their singing:
What seed, what seed, sweet blossomings,
Perfume of each perfected hour,
Murmur of life and throb of wings,
All as the pulse of some far power
That still to rhythmic purpose brings
The unfathomable scheme of things.
The timeless pulse of some far power
Moves, as it moves us all, and sears
The falling leaf with gold, 'tis our
Charge to collect and crown the years,
And though we hungrily devour,
We save in thought each perfect flower.
A thousand years, a thousand years,
Each Century its part to play;
Mark as the misty curtain clears,
What form, what symbol, what array,
What thought the soul of man endears
With each, mark each as it appears.
At this their veils and robes fall from them and they stand revealed as here following:
The Eleventh Century; a warrior to symbolise the Norman Conquest.
The Twelfth Century; a pilgrim as symbolising the crusading movement.
The Thirteenth Century; a bishop as standing for the power of the Mediæval Church.
The Fourteenth Century; a preaching friar as meaning the charity and faith of the Middle Ages.
The Fifteenth Century; an abbot as expressive of their splendid fulfilment.
