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Updated: June 10, 2025
Now lean this way nearer to me, lest the breeze may catch a single word of mine and bear it farther. John, I love!" She saw the half-surprised, half-incredulous smile which played around John Heywood's lips. "Oh," continued she, passionately, "you believe me not. You consider my fourteen years, and you think the child knows nothing yet of a maiden's feelings.
Heywood's voice trembled with joyful excitement. "Look, these bags; not sand-bags at all! It's powder, old chap, powder! Their whole supply. Wait a bit oh, by Jove, wait a bit!" He scurried back into the hill like a great rat, returned as quickly and swiftly, and with eager hands began to uncoil something on the clay threshold. "Do you know enough to time a fuse?" he whispered.
Then your name's what is it again? Hackh, isn't it? Heywood's mine. So you take Zimmerman's place. He's off already, and good riddance. He was a bounder! Charming spot you've come to! I daresay if your Fliegelmans opened a hong in hell, you might possibly get a worse station." Without change of manner, he uttered a few gabbling, barbaric words.
"Thank you so much, Maurice," she answered, perhaps dryly. "You're a dear, to climb all those dreadful stairs." "Oh!" said Heywood, with his gray eyes fastened on Rudolph, "no trouble." All three went down the dark well together. When the company were mounted, and trooping downhill through the camphor shadow, Heywood's pony came sidling against Rudolph's, till legging chafed legging.
As the quotation given subsequently proves, the Scotch witches were in the habit of speaking of the frequenters of a particular sabbath as "the sisters;" and in Heywood's "Witches of Lancashire," one of the characters says about a certain act of supposed witchcraft, "I remember that some three months since I crossed a wayward woman; one that I now suspect."
You'll follow the path along the bank, and move along carefully, until you reach Heywood's stacks. Conceal yourself behind one of them, until we come down with the boat, and keep a sharp lookout on all that you see passing in and round the farm. Now remember, Collins, not a shot, unless it be to save your life, or else you will get us all into a scrape."
The two best, if the reader would obtain his own idea of Heywood's undoubted ability, are A Woman killed with Kindness, a pathetic story of domestic life, and The Fair Maid of the West, a melodrama with plenty of fighting of the popular kind. Dekker is in pleasing contrast with most of the dramatists of the time.
In 1830 the movement against the use of intoxicating liquors began or rather it was about that year that the movement was strong enough to lead a small number of country merchants to abandon the trade. When I went into Mr. Heywood's store, he had one hogshead of New England rum. That was sold, and there the business ended.
As to the authorship of the play, though I should be loth to speak with positiveness, I feel bound to put forward a claim for Thomas Heywood. Through all Heywood's writings there runs a vein of generous kindliness: everywhere we see a gentle, benign countenance, radiant with love and sympathy.
On one occasion the late Lord Sefton, who was through life a first-rate whip, drove up to Heywood's bank in his usual dashing style. Dr. Solomon was tooling along behind his lordship, and desirous of emulating his mode of handling the reins and whip, gave the latter such a flourish as to get the lash so firmly fixed round his neck as to require his groom's aid to release him from its folds.
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