ENGLAND. A RIDGE IN WESSEX [The time is a fine day in March 1805. A highway crosses the ridge, which is near the sea, and the south coast is seen bounding the landscape below, the open Channel extending beyond.]

SPIRITS OF THE YEARS Hark now, and gather how the martial mood Stirs England’s humblest hearts. Anon we’ll trace Its heavings in the upper coteries there.

SPIRIT SINISTER Ay; begin small, and so lead up to the greater. It is a sound dramatic principle. I always aim to follow it in my pestilences, fires, famines, and other comedies. And though, to be sure, I did not in my Lisbon earthquake, I did in my French Terror, and my St. Domingo burlesque.

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS THY Lisbon earthquake, THY French Terror. Wait. Thinking thou will’st, thou dost but indicate. [A stage-coach enters, with passengers outside. Their voices after the foregoing sound small and commonplace, as from another medium.]

FIRST PASSENGER There seems to be a deal of traffic over Ridgeway, even at this time o’ year.

SECOND PASSENGER Yes. It is because the King and Court are coming down here later on. They wake up this part rarely!... See, now, how the Channel and coast open out like a chart. That patch of mist below us is the town we are bound for. There’s the Isle of Slingers beyond, like a floating snail. That wide bay on the right is where the “Abergavenny,” Captain John Wordsworth, was wrecked last month. One can see half across to France up here.

FIRST PASSENGER Half across. And then another little half, and then all that’s behind—the Corsican mischief!

SECOND PASSENGER Yes. People who live hereabout—I am a native of these parts—feel the nearness of France more than they do inland.

FIRST PASSENGER That’s why we have seen so many of these marching regiments on the road. This year his grandest attempt upon us is to be made, I reckon.

SECOND PASSENGER May we be ready!

FIRST PASSENGER Well, we ought to be. We’ve had alarms enough, God knows. [Some companies of infantry are seen ahead, and the coach presently overtakes them.]

SOLDIERS [singing as they walk] We be the King’s men, hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; If he won’t sail, lest the wind should blow, We shall have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol! We be the King’s men, hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; If he be sea-sick, says “No, no!” We shall have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol! [The soldiers draw aside, and the coach passes on.]

SECOND PASSENGER Is there truth in it that Bonaparte wrote a letter to the King last month?

FIRST PASSENGER Yes, sir. A letter in his own hand, in which he expected the King to reply to him in the same manner.

SOLDIERS [continuing, as they are left behind] We be the King’s men, hale and hearty, Marching to meet one Buonaparty; Never mind, mates; we’ll be merry, though We may have marched for nothing, O! Right fol-lol!

THIRD PASSENGER And was Boney’s letter friendly?

FIRST PASSENGER Certainly, sir. He requested peace with the King.

THIRD PASSENGER And why shouldn’t the King reply in the same manner?

FIRST PASSENGER What! Encourage this man in an act of shameless presumption, and give him the pleasure of considering himself the equal of the King of England—whom he actually calls his brother!

THIRD PASSENGER He must be taken for what he is, not for what he was; and if he calls King George his brother it doesn’t speak badly for his friendliness.

FIRST PASSENGER Whether or no, the King, rightly enough, did not reply in person, but through Lord Mulgrave our Foreign Minister, to the effect that his Britannic Majesty cannot give a specific answer till he has communicated with the Continental powers.

THIRD PASSENGER Both the manner and the matter of the reply are British; but a huge mistake.

FIRST PASSENGER Sir, am I to deem you a friend of Bonaparte, a traitor to your country—-

THIRD PASSENGER Damn my wig, sir, if I’ll be called a traitor by you or any Court sycophant at all at all! [He unpacks a case of pistols.]

SECOND PASSENGER Gentlemen forbear, forbear! Should such differences be suffered to arise on a spot where we may, in less than three months, be fighting for our very existence? This is foolish, I say. Heaven alone, who reads the secrets of this man’s heart, can tell what his meaning and intent may be, and if his letter has been answered wisely or no. [The coach is stopped to skid the wheel for the descent of the hill, and before it starts again a dusty horseman overtakes it.]

SEVERAL PASSENGERS A London messenger! [To horseman] Any news, sir? We are from Bristol only.

HORSEMAN Yes; much. We have declared war against Spain, an error giving vast delight to France. Bonaparte says he will date his next dispatches from London, and the landing of his army may be daily expected. [Exit horseman.]

THIRD PASSENGER Sir, I apologize. He’s not to be trusted! War is his name, and aggression is with him! [He repacks the pistols. A silence follows. The coach and passengers move downwards and disappear towards the coast.]

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES Ill chanced it that the English monarch George Did not respond to the said Emperor!

SPIRIT SINISTER I saw good sport therein, and paean’d the Will To unimpel so stultifying a move! Which would have marred the European broil, And sheathed all swords, and silenced every gun That riddles human flesh.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES O say no more; If aught could gratify the Absolute ’Twould verily be thy censure, not thy praise!

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS The ruling was that we should witness things And not dispute them. To the drama, then. Emprizes over-Channel are the key To this land’s stir and ferment.—Thither we. [Clouds gather over the scene, and slowly open elsewhere.]