Charles. You can hinder, then, The introduction of this Bill?

Pym. I can.

Charles. He is my friend, sir: I have wronged him: mark you, Had I not wronged him, this might be. You think Because you hate the Earl ... (turn not away, We know you hate him)—no one else could love Strafford: but he has saved me, some affirm. Think of his pride! And do you know one strange, One frightful thing? We all have used the man As though a drudge of ours, with not a source Of happy thoughts except in us; and yet Strafford has wife and children, household cares, Just as if we had never been. Ah sir, You are moved, even you, a solitary man Wed to your cause—to England if you will!

Pym. Yes—think, my soul—to England! Draw not back!

Charles. Prevent that Bill, sir! All your course seems fair Till now. Why, in the end, 'tis I should sign The warrant for his death! You have said much I ponder on; I never meant, indeed, Strafford should serve me any more. I take The Commons' counsel; but this Bill is yours— Nor worthy of its leader: care not, sir, For that, however! I will quite forget You named it to me. You are satisfied?

Pym. Listen to me, sir! Eliot laid his hand, Wasted and white, upon my forehead once; Wentworth—he's gone now!—has talked on, whole nights, And I beside him; Hampden loves me: sir, How can I breathe and not wish England well, And her King well?

Charles. I thank you, sir, who leave That King his servant. Thanks, sir!

Pym. Let me speak! —Who may not speak again; whose spirit yearns For a cool night after this weary day: —Who would not have my soul turn sicker yet In a new task, more fatal, more august, More full of England's utter weal or woe. I thought, sir, could I find myself with you, After this trial, alone, as man to man— I might say something, warn you, pray you, save— Mark me, King Charles, save——you! But God must do it. Yet I warn you, sir— (With Strafford's faded eyes yet full on me) As you would have no deeper question moved —"How long the Many must endure the One," Assure me, sir, if England give assent To Strafford's death, you will not interfere! Or——

Charles. God forsakes me. I am in a net And cannot move. Let all be as you say!

Enter Lady CARLISLE.

Lady Carlisle. He loves you—looking beautiful with joy Because you sent me! he would spare you all The pain! he never dreamed you would forsake Your servant in the evil day—nay, see Your scheme returned! That generous heart of his! He needs it not—or, needing it, disdains A course that might endanger you—you, sir, Whom Strafford from his inmost soul.... [Seeing PYM.] Well met! No fear for Strafford! All that's true and brave On your own side shall help us: we are now Stronger than ever. Ha—what, sir, is this? All is not well! What parchment have you there?

Pym. Sir, much is saved us both.

Lady Carlisle. This Bill! Your lip Whitens—you could not read one line to me Your voice would falter so!

Pym. No recreant yet! The great word went from England to my soul, And I arose. The end is very near.

Lady Carlisle. I am to save him! All have shrunk beside; 'Tis only I am left. Heaven will make strong The hand now as the heart. Then let both die!

In the last act Browning has drawn upon his imagination more than in any other part of the play. Strafford in prison in the Tower is the center around which all the other elements of the drama are made to revolve. A glimpse, the first, of the man in a purely human capacity is given in the second scene with Strafford and his children. From all accounts little Anne was a precocious child and Browning has sketched her accordingly. The scene is like a gleam of sunshine in the gathering gloom.

The genuine grief felt by the historical Charles over the part he played in the ruin of Strafford is brought out in an interview between Strafford and Charles, who is represented as coming disguised to the prison. Strafford who has been hoping for pardon from the King learns from Hollis, in the King's presence, that the King has signed his death warrant. He receives this shock with the remark which history attributes to him.

"Put not your trust In princes, neither in the sons of men, In whom is no salvation!"

History tells us of two efforts to rescue Strafford. One of these was an attempt to bribe Balfour to allow him to escape from the tower. This hint the Poet has worked up into the episode of Charles, calling Balfour and begging him to go at once to Parliament, to say he will grant all demands, and that he chooses to pardon Strafford. History, however, does not say that Lady Carlisle was implicated in any plan for the rescue of Strafford, of which Browning makes so much. According to Gardiner, she was by this time bestowing her favors upon Pym. Devotion to the truth here on Browning's part would have completely ruined the inner unity of the play. Carlisle, the woman ready to devote herself to Strafford's utmost need, while Strafford is more or less indifferent to her is the artistic compliment of Strafford the man devoted to the unresponsive King. The failure of the escape through Pym's intervention is a final dramatic climax bringing face to face not so much the two individual men as the two principles of government for which England was warring, the Monarchical and the Parliamentary. To the last, Strafford is loyal to the King and the Kingly idea, while Pym crushing his human feelings under foot, calmly contemplates the sacrifice not only of Strafford, but even of the King, if England's need demand it.

In this supreme moment of agony when Strafford and Pym meet face to face both men are made to realize an abiding love for each other beneath all their earthly differences. "A great poet of our own day," writes Gardiner, "clothing the reconciling spirit of the nineteenth century in words which never could have been spoken in the seventeenth, has breathed a high wish. On his page an imaginary Pym, recalling an imaginary friendship, looks forward hopefully to a reunion in a better and brighter world."

SCENE II.—The Tower.

STRAFFORD sitting with his Children. They sing.

O bell 'andare Per barca in mare, Verso la sera Di Primavera!

William. The boat's in the broad moonlight all this while—

Verso la sera Di Primavera!

And the boat shoots from underneath the moon Into the shadowy distance; only still You hear the dipping oar—

Verso la sera,

And faint, and fainter, and then all's quite gone, Music and light and all, like a lost star.

Anne. But you should sleep, father; you were to sleep.

Strafford. I do sleep, Anne; or if not—you must know There's such a thing as....

William. You're too tired to sleep?

Strafford. It will come by-and-by and all day long, In that old quiet house I told you of: We sleep safe there.

Anne. Why not in Ireland?

Strafford. No! Too many dreams!—That song's for Venice, William: You know how Venice looks upon the map— Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?

William. You've been to Venice, father?

Strafford. I was young, then.

William. A city with no King; that's why I like Even a song that comes from Venice.

Strafford. William!

William. Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the King? But I'll see Venice for myself one day.

Strafford. See many lands, boy—England last of all,— That way you'll love her best.



William. Why do men say You sought to ruin her then?

Strafford. Ah,—they say that.

William. Why?

Strafford. I suppose they must have words to say, As you to sing.

Anne. But they make songs beside: Last night I heard one, in the street beneath, That called you.... Oh, the names!

William. Don't mind her, father! They soon left off when I cried out to them.

Strafford. We shall so soon be out of it, my boy! 'Tis not worth while: who heeds a foolish song?

William. Why, not the King.

Strafford. Well: it has been the fate Of better; and yet,—wherefore not feel sure That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend All the fantastic day's caprice, consign To the low ground once more the ignoble Term, And raise the Genius on his orb again,— That Time will do me right?

Anne. (Shall we sing, William? He does not look thus when we sing.)

Strafford. For Ireland, Something is done: too little, but enough To show what might have been.

William. (I have no heart To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks! Oh, I so hate the King for all he says!)

Strafford. Forsook them! What, the common songs will run That I forsook the People? Nothing more? Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt, Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves Noisy to be enrolled,—will register The curious glosses, subtle notices, Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see Beside that plain inscription of The Name— The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford!

[The Children resume their song timidly, but break off.

Enter HOLLIS and an Attendant.

Strafford. No,—Hollis? in good time!—Who is he?

Hollis. One That must be present.

Strafford. Ah—I understand. They will not let me see poor Laud alone. How politic! They'd use me by degrees To solitude: and, just as you came in, I was solicitous what life to lead When Strafford's "not so much as Constable In the King's service." Is there any means To keep oneself awake? What would you do After this bustle, Hollis, in my place?

Hollis. Strafford!

Strafford. Observe, not but that Pym and you Will find me news enough—news I shall hear Under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side At Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engaged My newsman. Or, a better project now— What if when all's consummated, and the Saints Reign, and the Senate's work goes swimmingly,— What if I venture up, some day, unseen, To saunter through the Town, notice how Pym, Your Tribune, likes Whitehall, drop quietly Into a tavern, hear a point discussed, As, whether Strafford's name were John or James— And be myself appealed to—I, who shall Myself have near forgotten!

Hollis. I would speak....

Strafford. Then you shall speak,—not now. I want just now, To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place Is full of ghosts.

Hollis. Nay, you must hear me, Strafford!

Strafford. Oh, readily! Only, one rare thing more,— The minister! Who will advise the King, Turn his Sejanus, Richelieu and what not, And yet have health—children, for aught I know— My patient pair of traitors! Ah,—but, William— Does not his cheek grow thin?

William. 'Tis you look thin, Father!

Strafford. A scamper o'er the breezy wolds Sets all to-rights.

Hollis. You cannot sure forget A prison-roof is o'er you, Strafford?

Strafford. No, Why, no. I would not touch on that, the first. I left you that. Well, Hollis? Say at once, The King can find no time to set me free! A mask at Theobald's?

Hollis. Hold: no such affair Detains him.

Strafford. True: what needs so great a matter? The Queen's lip may be sore. Well: when he pleases,— Only, I want the air: it vexes flesh To be pent up so long.

Hollis. The King—I bear His message, Strafford: pray you, let me speak!

Strafford. Go, William! Anne, try o'er your song again!

[The Children retire.

They shall be loyal, friend, at all events. I know your message: you have nothing new To tell me: from the first I guessed as much. I know, instead of coming here himself, Leading me forth in public by the hand, The King prefers to leave the door ajar As though I were escaping—bids me trudge While the mob gapes upon some show prepared On the other side of the river! Give at once His order of release! I've heard, as well Of certain poor manoeuvres to avoid The granting pardon at his proper risk; First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords, Must talk a trifle with the Commons first, Be grieved I should abuse his confidence, And far from blaming them, and.... Where's the order?

Hollis. Spare me!

Strafford. Why, he'd not have me steal away? With an old doublet and a steeple hat Like Prynne's? Be smuggled into France, perhaps? Hollis, 'tis for my children! 'Twas for them I first consented to stand day by day And give your Puritans the best of words, Be patient, speak when called upon, observe Their rules, and not return them prompt their lie! What's in that boy of mine that he should prove Son to a prison-breaker? I shall stay And he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much, He too has children! [Turning to HOLLIS'S Companion.] Sir, you feel for me! No need to hide that face! Though it have looked Upon me from the judgment-seat ... I know Strangely, that somewhere it has looked on me, ... Your coming has my pardon, nay, my thanks: For there is one who comes not.

Hollis. Whom forgive, As one to die!

Strafford. True, all die, and all need Forgiveness: I forgive him from my soul.

Hollis. 'Tis a world's wonder: Strafford, you must die!

Strafford. Sir, if your errand is to set me free This heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth? We'll end this! See this paper, warm—feel—warm With lying next my heart! Whose hand is there? Whose promise? Read, and loud for God to hear! "Strafford shall take no hurt"—read it, I say! "In person, honor, nor estate"—

Hollis. The King....

Strafford. I could unking him by a breath! You sit Where Loudon sat, who came to prophesy The certain end, and offer me Pym's grace If I'd renounce the King: and I stood firm On the King's faith. The King who lives....

Hollis. To sign The warrant for your death.

Strafford. "Put not your trust In princes, neither in the sons of men, In whom is no salvation!"

Hollis. Trust in God! The scaffold is prepared: they wait for you: He has consented. Cast the earth behind!

Charles. You would not see me, Strafford, at your foot! It was wrung from me! Only, curse me not!

Hollis [to STRAFFORD]. As you hope grace and pardon in your need, Be merciful to this most wretched man.

[Voices from within.

Verso la sera Di Primavera

Strafford. You'll be good to those children, sir? I know You'll not believe her, even should the Queen Think they take after one they rarely saw. I had intended that my son should live A stranger to these matters: but you are So utterly deprived of friends! He too Must serve you—will you not be good to him? Or, stay, sir, do not promise—do not swear! You, Hollis—do the best you can for me! I've not a soul to trust to: Wandesford's dead, And you've got Radcliffe safe, Laud's turn comes next: I've found small time of late for my affairs, But I trust any of you, Pym himself— No one could hurt them: there's an infant, too. These tedious cares! Your Majesty could spare them. Nay—pardon me, my King! I had forgotten Your education, trials, much temptation, Some weakness: there escaped a peevish word— 'Tis gone: I bless you at the last. You know All's between you and me: what has the world To do with it? Farewell!

Charles [at the door]. Balfour! Balfour!

Enter BALFOUR.

The Parliament!—go to them: I grant all Demands. Their sittings shall be permanent: Tell them to keep their money if they will: I'll come to them for every coat I wear And every crust I eat: only I choose To pardon Strafford. As the Queen shall choose! —You never heard the People howl for blood, Beside!

Balfour. Your Majesty may hear them now: The walls can hardly keep their murmurs out: Please you retire!

Charles. Take all the troops, Balfour!

Balfour. There are some hundred thousand of the crowd.

Charles. Come with me, Strafford! You'll not fear, at least!

Strafford. Balfour, say nothing to the world of this! I charge you, as a dying man, forget You gazed upon this agony of one ... Of one ... or if ... why you may say, Balfour, The King was sorry: 'tis no shame in him: Yes, you may say he even wept, Balfour, And that I walked the lighter to the block Because of it. I shall walk lightly, sir! Earth fades, heaven breaks on me: I shall stand next Before God's throne: the moment's close at hand When man the first, last time, has leave to lay His whole heart bare before its Maker, leave To clear up the long error of a life And choose one happiness for evermore. With all mortality about me, Charles, The sudden wreck, the dregs of violent death— What if, despite the opening angel-song, There penetrate one prayer for you? Be saved Through me! Bear witness, no one could prevent My death! Lead on! ere he awake—best, now! All must be ready: did you say, Balfour, The crowd began to murmur? They'll be kept Too late for sermon at St. Antholin's! Now! But tread softly—children are at play In the next room. Precede! I follow—

Enter Lady CARLISLE with many Attendants.

Lady Carlisle. Me! Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! The King? [To the KING.] Well—as you ordered, they are ranged without, The convoy.... [seeing the KING'S state.] [To STRAFFORD.] You know all, then! Why I thought It looked best that the King should save you,—Charles Alone; 'tis a shame that you should owe me aught. Or no, not shame! Strafford, you'll not feel shame At being saved by me?

Hollis. All true! Oh Strafford, She saves you! all her deed! this lady's deed! And is the boat in readiness? You, friend, Are Billingsley, no doubt. Speak to her, Strafford! See how she trembles, waiting for your voice! The world's to learn its bravest story yet.

Lady Carlisle. Talk afterward! Long nights in France enough, To sit beneath the vines and talk of home.

Strafford. You love me, child? Ah, Strafford can be loved As well as Vane! I could escape, then?

Lady Carlisle. Haste! Advance the torches, Bryan!

Strafford. I will die. They call me proud: but England had no right, When she encountered me—her strength to mine— To find the chosen foe a craven. Girl, I fought her to the utterance, I fell, I am hers now, and I will die. Beside, The lookers-on! Eliot is all about This place, with his most uncomplaining brow.

Lady Carlisle. Strafford!

Strafford. I think if you could know how much I love you, you would be repaid, my friend!

Lady Carlisle. Then, for my sake!

Strafford. Even for your sweet sake, I stay.

Hollis. For their sake!

Strafford. To bequeath a stain? Leave me! Girl, humor me and let me die!

Lady Carlisle. Bid him escape—wake, King! Bid him escape!

Strafford. True, I will go! Die, and forsake the King? I'll not draw back from the last service.

Lady Carlisle. Strafford!

Strafford. And, after all, what is disgrace to me? Let us come, child! That it should end this way! Lead them! but I feel strangely: it was not To end this way.

Lady Carlisle. Lean—lean on me!

Strafford. My King! Oh, had he trusted me—his friend of friends!

Lady Carlisle. I can support him, Hollis!

Strafford. Not this way! This gate—I dreamed of it, this very gate.

Lady Carlisle. It opens on the river: our good boat Is moored below, our friends are there.

Strafford. The same: Only with something ominous and dark, Fatal, inevitable.

Lady Carlisle. Strafford! Strafford!

Strafford. Not by this gate! I feel what will be there! I dreamed of it, I tell you: touch it not!

Lady Carlisle. To save the King,—Strafford, to save the King!

[As STRAFFORD opens the door, PYM is discovered with HAMPDEN, VANE, etc. STRAFFORD falls back; PYM follows slowly and confronts him.

Pym. Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sake I still have labored for, with disregard To my own heart,—for whom my youth was made Barren, my manhood waste, to offer up Her sacrifice—this friend, this Wentworth here— Who walked in youth with me, loved me, it may be, And whom, for his forsaking England's cause, I hunted by all means (trusting that she Would sanctify all means) even to the block Which waits for him. And saying this, I feel No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour I swore that Wentworth might leave us, but I Would never leave him: I do leave him now. I render up my charge (be witness, God!) To England who imposed it. I have done Her bidding—poorly, wrongly,—it may be, With ill effects—for I am weak, a man: Still, I have done my best, my human best, Not faltering for a moment. It is done. And this said, if I say ... yes, I will say I never loved but one man—David not More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now: And look for my chief portion in that world Where great hearts led astray are turned again, (Soon it may be, and, certes, will be soon: My mission over, I shall not live long,)— Ay, here I know I talk—I dare and must, Of England, and her great reward, as all I look for there; but in my inmost heart, Believe, I think of stealing quite away To walk once more with Wentworth—my youth's friend Purged from all error, gloriously renewed, And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed.... This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increase Too hot. A thin mist—is it blood?—enwraps The face I loved once. Then, the meeting be!

Strafford. I have loved England too; we'll meet then, Pym. As well die now! Youth is the only time To think and to decide on a great course: Manhood with action follows; but 'tis dreary, To have to alter our whole life in age— The time past, the strength gone! As well die now. When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right—not now! Best die. Then if there's any fault, fault too Dies, smothered up. Poor grey old little Laud May dream his dream out, of a perfect Church, In some blind corner. And there's no one left. I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym! And yet, I know not: I shall not be there: Friends fail—if he have any. And he's weak, And loves the Queen, and.... Oh, my fate is nothing— Nothing! But not that awful head—not that!

Pym. If England shall declare such will to me....

Strafford. Pym, you help England! I, that am to die, What I must see! 'tis here—all here! My God, Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire, How thou wilt plague him, satiating hell! What? England that you help, become through you A green and putrefying charnel, left Our children ... some of us have children, Pym— Some who, without that, still must ever wear A darkened brow, an over-serious look, And never properly be young! No word? What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forth Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror till She's fit with her white face to walk the world Scaring kind natures from your cause and you— Then to sit down with you at the board-head, The gathering for prayer.... O speak, but speak! ... Creep up, and quietly follow each one home, You, you, you, be a nestling care for each To sleep with,—hardly moaning in his dreams. She gnaws so quietly,—till, lo he starts, Gets off with half a heart eaten away! Oh, shall you 'scape with less if she's my child? You will not say a word—to me—to Him?

Pym. If England shall declare such will to me....

Strafford. No, not for England now, not for Heaven now,— See, Pym, for my sake, mine who kneel to you! There, I will thank you for the death, my friend! This is the meeting: let me love you well!

Pym. England,—I am thine own! Dost thou exact That service? I obey thee to the end.

Strafford. O God, I shall die first—I shall die first!

* * * * *

A lively picture of Cavalier sentiment is given in the "Cavalier Tunes"—which ought to furnish conclusive proof that Browning does not always put himself into his work. They may be compared with the words set to Avison's march given in the last chapter which presents just as sympathetically "Roundhead" sentiment.

I. MARCHING ALONG

I

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.



II

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're—

CHORUS.—Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

III

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here

CHORUS.—Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

IV

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

CHORUS.—March we along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!

II. GIVE A ROUSE

I

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!

II

Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once?

CHORUS.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!

III

To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him?

CHORUS.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles!

III. BOOT AND SADDLE

I

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,

CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

II

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—"

CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

III

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,"

CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

IV

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they?"

CHORUS.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Though not illustrative of the subject in hand, "Martin Relph" is included here on account of the glimpse it gives of an episode, interesting in English History, though devoid of serious consequences, since it marked the final abortive struggle of a dying cause.

An imaginary incident of the rebellion in the time of George II., forms the background of "Martin Relph," the point of the story being the life-long agony of reproach suffered by Martin who let his envy and jealousy conquer him at a crucial moment. The history of the attempt of Charles Edward to get back the crown of England, supported by a few thousand Highlanders, of his final defeat at the Battle of Culloden, and of the decay henceforth of Jacobitism, needs no telling. The treatment of spies as herein shown is a common-place of war-times, but that a reprieve exonerating the accused should be prevented from reaching its destination in time through the jealousy of the only person who saw it coming gives the episode a tragic touch lifting it into an atmosphere of peculiar individual pathos.

MARTIN RELPH

My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago, On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow, Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe, And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason—so!

If I last as long at Methuselah I shall never forgive myself: But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph, As coward, coward I call him—him, yes, him! Away from me! Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue? People have urged "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young! You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits: Besides it had maybe cost you life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!

So, cap me, the coward,—thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good: The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food. See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends, The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I, Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why, When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!

I'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight And take the example,—see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right.

"You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to die Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy. Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn That peasants should stick to their plough-tail, leave to the King the King's concern.

"Here's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes: What call has a man of your kind—much less, a woman—to interpose? Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes—so much the worse! The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

"Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago, And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know. Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news, From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

"All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do! Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too. Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure Betokens the finger foul with ink: 'tis a woman who writes, be sure!

"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'—good natural stuff, she pens? Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens, How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.'

"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grown With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own: And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek For the second Company sure to come ('tis whispered) on Monday week.'

"And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder you see, was out: Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about! Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign: But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

"That traitors had played us false, was proved—sent news which fell so pat: And the murder was out—this letter of love, the sender of this sent that! 'Tis an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to deal With a case of the kind, when a woman's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks, Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp: A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort—the scamp!

"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks, And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books, Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime, Or martial law must take its course: this day next week's the time!'

"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice! He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice! His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she stands To pay for her fault. 'Tis an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware! Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives— Or sweethearts or what they may be—from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"

Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face—the brute With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit! He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear; He had but a handful of men, that's true,—a riot might cost him dear.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place. I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 'twas His angel stretched a hand To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes, No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies— "Why did you leave me to die?"—"Because...." Oh, fiends, too soon you grin At merely a moment of hell, like that—such heaven as hell ended in!

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line. Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,—for, of all eyes, only mine Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer, Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group: I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop! From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened: I touch ground? No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst—aught else but see, see, only see? And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!— Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight On and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late!

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head? Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead? O take his fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay! Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he's mad to say?"

And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain, And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time's over, repentance vain! They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb, Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come! Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast? Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

Dead! dead as she, by the self-same shot: one bullet has ended both, Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth. "Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting—that sounds like Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers! There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved: No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she's saved!

And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grew How the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true. It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lion's den!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms— The license and leave: I make no doubt—what wonder if passion warms The pulse in a man if you play with his heart?—he was something hasty in speech; Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,—what followed but fresh delays? For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways! And 'twas "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick Of the red-coats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!"

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You brag Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!" Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still, With their "Wait you must;—no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"

And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the bench Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French! It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly know Is—rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror—so!

When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay bite me! The worm begins At his work once more. Had cowardice proved—that only—my sin of sins! Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose.... But mad I am, needs must be! Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!

Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamed In the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamed A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace, He the savior and she the saved,—bliss born of the very murder-place!

No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse! Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'Twas ever the coward's curse That fear breeds fancies in such: such take their shadow for substance still, —A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,—loved Vincent, if you will!

And her—why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more: The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before. So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drink Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

This poem, on an incident in Clive's life, is also included on account of its English historical setting.

The remarkable career of Robert Clive cannot be gone into here. Suffice it to refresh one's memory with a few principal events of his life. He was born in Shopshire in 1725. He entered the service of the East India Company at eighteen and was sent to Madras. Here, on account of his falling into debt, and being in danger of losing his situation, he twice tried to shoot himself. The pistol failed to go off, however, and he became impressed with the idea that some great destiny was awaiting him. His feeling was fully realized as his subsequent career in India shows. At twenty-seven, when he returned to England he had made the English the first military power in India. On his return to India (1755-59) he took a further step and secured for the English a political supremacy. Finally, on his last visit, he crowned his earlier exploits by putting the English dominance on a sounder basis of integrity than it had before been.

The incident related in the poem by the old man, Browning heard from Mrs. Jameson, who had shortly before heard it from Macaulay at Lansdowne House. Macaulay mentions it in his essay: "Of his personal courage he had, while still a writer [clerk] given signal proof by a desperate duel with a military bully who was the terror of Fort St. David."

The old gentleman in the poem evidently mixed up his dates slightly, for he says this incident occurred when Clive was twenty-one, and he represents him as committing suicide twenty-five years afterwards. Clive was actually forty-nine when he took his own life.

CLIVE

I and Clive were friends—and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives—egad, England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak— "Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades—" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, I was, am and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive—he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished! Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings,—silence, save for biscuit-crunch, Black, unbroken,—thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life appears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still: I'm startled in my solitude Ever and anon by—what's the sudden mocking light that breaks On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask—aloud, I do believe, God help me!—"Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us—" (Us,—you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) "—One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "Got no end of wealth and honor,—yet I stood stock still no less?" —"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice—call Hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says the land's the Lord's: Louts them—what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before T'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By-and-by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still Marks a man,—God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. You've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin: Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in! True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage—ah, the brute he was! Why, that Clive,—that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,— He sustained a siege in Arcot.... But the world knows! Pass the wine.

Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear"! Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear.

We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorb Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eye Drawing near, bear what had burned else, now no blaze—all majesty. Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle's new: None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about Towers—the heap he kicks now! turrets—just the measure of his cane! Will that do? Observe moreover—(same similitude again)— Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'Tis when foes are foiled and fighting's finished that vile rains invade, Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes Fit to build in like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. So Clive crumbled slow in London—crashed at last.

A week before, Dining with him,—after trying churchyard-chat of days of yore,— Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between. As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throw Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let's venture some good rattling question!" So— "Come, Clive, tell us"—out I blurted—"what to tell in turn, years hence, When my boy—suppose I have one—asks me on what evidence I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit Worth your Alexanders, Caesars, Marlboroughs and—what said Pitt?— Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"—I want to say— "Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away —In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess— Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness! Come! what moment of the minute, what speck-center in the wide Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!) If a friend has leave to question,—when were you most brave, in short?"

Up he arched his brows o' the instant—formidably Clive again. "When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plain As another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal—curse it!—here Freezing when my memory touches—ugh!—the time I felt most fear. Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear—anyhow, Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now."

"Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek, Ticket up in one's museum, Mind-Freaks, Lord Clive's Fear, Unique!"

Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. When he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will, Some blind jungle of a statement,—beating on and on until Out there leaps fierce life to fight with.

"This fell in my factor-days. Desk-drudge, slaving at St. David's, one must game, or drink, or craze. I chose gaming: and,—because your high-flown gamesters hardly take Umbrage at a factor's elbow if the factor pays his stake,— I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, Captain This and Major That, men high of color, loud of voice, Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile.

"Down I sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonist Somebody whose name's a secret—you'll know why—so, if you list, Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel! Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel Quite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize, I the scribe with him the warrior,—guessed no penman dared to raise Shadow of objection should the honor stay but playing end More or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spend Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare At—not ask of—lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,— Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!'

"I rose. 'Such the new manoeuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows. What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?'

"Never did a thunder-clap Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap, As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack) Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black.

"When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!'

"'Well, you forced a card and cheated!'

"'Possibly a factor's brain, Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deem Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! When a gentleman is joked with,—if he's good at repartee, He rejoins, as do I—Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull Lets in light and teaches manners to what brain it finds! Choose quick— Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!'

"'Well, you cheated!'

"Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace! No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space! Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, Fly the sword! This clerk's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then! Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert, Likelier hits the broader target!'

"Up we stood accordingly. As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out Every spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled about By that toying tempting teasing fool-fore-finger's middle joint,— Don't you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead.

"Up he marched in flaming triumph—'twas his right, mind!—up, within Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grin As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?'

"'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. As for me, my homely breeding bids you—fire and go to Hell!'

"Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist, Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list, I can't! God's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No! There's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,—so, I did cheat!'

"And down he threw the pistol, out rushed—by the door Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, He effected disappearance—I'll engage no glance was sent That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking—mute they stood as mice.

"Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'Rogue and rascal! Who'd have thought it? What's to be expected next, When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext For.... But where's the need of wasting time now? Nought requires delay: Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed Drum and fife must play the Rogue's March, rank and file be free to speed Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear —Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,—never fear, Mister Clive, for—though a clerk—you bore yourself—suppose we say— Just as would beseem a soldier!'

"'Gentlemen, attention—pray! First, one word!'

"I passed each speaker severally in review. When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knew Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,—why, then——

"'Some five minutes since, my life lay—as you all saw, gentlemen— At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised In arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed— Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to mark Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark, Guess at random,—still, for sake of fair play—what if for a freak, In a fit of absence,—such things have been!—if our friend proved weak —What's the phrase?—corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!" Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each, To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech —To his face, behind his back,—that speaker has to do with me: Me who promise, if positions change and mine the chance should be, Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!'

"Twenty-five Years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive, "Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you. All I know is—Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,—grew Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,— That's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate. Ugh—the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate Longer? You've my story, there's your instance: fear I did, you see!"

"Well"—I hardly kept from laughing—"if I see it, thanks must be Wholly to your Lordship's candor. Not that—in a common case— When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, I should underrate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. Fear I naturally look for—unless, of all men alive, I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive. Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death—the whole world knows— Came to somewhat closer quarters." Quarters? Had we come to blows, Clive and I, you had not wondered—up he sprang so, out he rapped Such a round of oaths—no matter! I'll endeavor to adapt To our modern usage words he—well, 'twas friendly license—flung At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.

"You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, —At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inch Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,—not to flinch —That needs courage, you'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man, Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span Distant from my temple,—curse him!—quietly had bade me 'There! Keep your life, calumniator!—worthless life I freely spare: Mine you freely would have taken—murdered me and my good fame Both at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these, He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please? Nay, I'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained— Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. I so had gained Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will."

"Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate —No, by not one jot nor tittle,—of your act my estimate. Fear—I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough— Call it desperation, madness—never mind! for here's in rough Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face —None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times, Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes Rub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink, Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think There's advantage in what's left us—ground to stand on, time to call 'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over—do not leap, that's all!"

Oh, he made no answer,—re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught Something like "Yes—courage: only fools will call it fear." If aught Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard, Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "Fearfully courageous!"—this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned. I'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed—we'll hope condoned.



CHAPTER IV

SOCIAL ASPECTS OF ENGLISH LIFE

Browning's poetry presents no such complete panorama of phases of social life in England as it does of those in Italy, perhaps, because there is a poise and solidity about the English character which does not lend itself to so great a variety of mood as one may find in the peculiarly artistic temperament of the Italians, especially those of the Renaissance period. Even such irregular proceedings as murders have their philosophical after-claps which show their usefulness in the divine scheme of things, while unfortunate love affairs work such beneficent results in character that they are shorn of much of their tragedy of sorrow. There is quite a group of love-lyrics with no definite setting that might be put down as English in temper. It does not require much imagination to think of the lover who sings so lofty a strain in "One Way of Love" as English:—

I

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye.

II

How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

III

My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion—heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may—I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!

And is not this treatment of a "pretty woman" more English than not?

A PRETTY WOMAN

I

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers!

II

To think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you, Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

III

You like us for a glance, you know— For a word's sake Or a sword's sake, All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

IV

And in turn we make you ours, we say— You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers, we say.

V

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet— Sing and say for, Watch and pray for, Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!

VI

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed you In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!

VII

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there: Be its beauty Its sole duty! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

VIII

And while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion? I will try it there.

IX

As,—why must one, for the love foregone, Scout mere liking? Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

X

Why, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee?

XI

May not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'Twould undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

XII

Is the creature too imperfect, say? Would you mend it And so end it? Since not all addition perfects aye!

XIII

Or is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection— Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

XIV

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder, And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

XV

Or else kiss away one's soul on her? Your love-fancies! —A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!

XVI

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,— Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose:

XVII

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals,— Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

XVIII

Then how grace a rose? I know a way! Leave it, rather. Must you gather? Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!

"The Last Ride Together" may be cited as another example of the philosophy which an Englishman, or at any rate a Browning, can evolve from a more or less painful episode.

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

I

I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

III

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions—sun's— And moon's and evening-star's at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

V

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,—All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI

What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a stateman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

VII

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

VIII

And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown grey With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I signed the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

X

And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

"James Lee's Wife" is also English in temper as the English name indicates sufficiently, though the scene is laid out of England. This wife has her agony over the faithless husband, but she plans vengeance against neither him nor the other women who attract him. She realizes that his nature is not a deep and serious one like her own, and in her highest reach she sees that her own nature has been lifted up by means of her true and loyal feeling, that this gain to herself is her reward, or will be in some future state. The stanzas giving this thought are among the most beautiful in the poem.

AMONG THE ROCKS

I

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

II

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

Two of the longer poems have distinctly English settings: "A Blot in the Scutcheon" and "The Inn Album;" while, of the shorter ones, "Ned Bratts" has an English theme, and "Halbert and Hob" though not founded upon an English story has been given an English mis en scene by Browning.

In the "Blot," we get a glimpse of Eighteenth Century aristocratic England. The estate over which Lord Tresham presided was one of those typical country kingdoms, which have for centuries been so conspicuous a feature of English life, and which through the assemblies of the great, often gathered within their walls, wielded potent influences upon political life. The play opens with the talk of a group of retainers, such as formed the household of these lordly establishments. It was not a rare thing for the servants of the great to be admitted into intimacy with the family, as was the case with Gerard. They were often people of a superior grade, hardly to be classed with servants in the sense unfortunately given to that word to-day.

Besides the house and the park which figure in the play, such an estate had many acres of land devoted to agriculture—some of it, called the demesne, which was cultivated for the benefit of the owner, and some land held in villeinage which the unfree tenants, called villeins, were allowed to till for themselves. All this land might be in one large tract, or the demesne might be separate from the other. Mertoun speaks of their demesnes touching each other. Over the villeins presided the Bailiff, who kept strict watch to see that they performed their work punctually. His duties were numerous, for he directed the ploughing, sowing and reaping, gave out the seed, watched the harvest, gathered and looked after the stock and horses. A church, a mill and an inn were often included in such an estate.



Pride in their ancient lineage was, of course, common to noble families, though probably few of them could boast as Tresham did that there was no blot in their escutcheon. Some writers have even declared that most of the nobles are descended from tradesmen. According to one of these "The great bulk of our peerage is comparatively modern, so far as the titles go; but it is not the less noble that it has been recruited to so large an extent from the ranks of honorable industry. In olden times, the wealth and commerce of London, conducted as it was by energetic and enterprising men was a prolific source of peerages. Thus, the earldom of Cornwallis was founded by Thomas Cornwallis, the Cheapside merchant; that of Essex by William Capel, the draper; and that of Craven by William Craven, the merchant tailor. The modern Earl of Warwick is not descended from 'the King-maker,' but from William Greville, the woolstapler; whilst the modern Dukes of Northumberland find their head, not in the Percies, but in Hugh Smithson, a respectable London apothecary. The founders of the families of Dartmouth, Radnor, Ducie, and Pomfret were respectively a skinner, a silk manufacturer, a merchant tailor, and a Calais merchant; whilst the founders of the peerages of Tankerville, Dormer, and Coventry were mercers. The ancestors of Earl Romney, and Lord Dudley and Ward, were goldsmiths and jewelers; and Lord Dacres was a banker in the reign of Charles I., as Lord Overstone is in that of Queen Victoria. Edward Osborne, the founder of the dukedom of Leeds, was apprentice to William Hewet, a rich cloth worker on London Bridge, whose only daughter he courageously rescued from drowning, by leaping into the Thames after her, and eventually married. Among other peerages founded by trade are those of Fitzwilliam, Leigh, Petre, Cowper, Darnley, Hill, and Carrington."

Perhaps the imaginary house of Tresham may be said to find its closest counterpart in the Sidney family, for many generations owners of Penshurst, and with a traditional character according to which the men were all brave and the women were all pure. Sir Philip Sidney was himself the type of all the virtues of the family, while his father's care for his proper bringing up was not unlike Tresham's for Mildred. In the words of a recent writer: "The most famous scion of this Kentish house was above all things, the moral and intellectual product of Penshurst Place. In the park may still be seen an avenue of trees, under which the father, in his afternoon walks with the boy, tested his recollection of the morning's lessons conned with the tutor. There, too, it was that he impressed on the lad those maxims for the conduct of life, afterwards emphasized in the correspondence still extant among the Penshurst archives.

"Philip was to begin every day with lifting up his mind to the Almighty in hearty prayer, as well as feelingly digesting all he prayed for. He was also, early or late, to be obedient to others, so that in due time others might obey him. The secret of all success lay in a moderate diet with rare use of wine. A gloomy brow was, however, to be avoided. Rather should the youth give himself to be merry, so as not to degenerate from his father. Above all things should he keep his wit from biting words, or indeed from too much talk of any kind. Had not nature ramparted up the tongue with teeth and the lips with hair as reins and bridles against the tongue's loose use. Heeding this, he must be sure to tell no untruth even in trifles; for that was a naughty custom, nor could there be a greater reproach to a gentleman than to be accounted a liar. Noblesse oblige formed the keynote of the oral and written precepts with which the future Sir Philip Sidney was paternally supplied. By his mother, too, Lady Mary Dudley, the boy must remember himself to be of noble blood. Let him beware, therefore, through sloth and vice, of being accounted a blemish on his race."

Furthermore, the brotherly and sisterly relations of Tresham and Mildred are not unlike those of Sir Philip Sidney and his sister Mary. They studied and worked together in great sympathy, broken into only by the tragic fate of Sir Philip. Although the education of women in those days was chiefly domestic, with a smattering of accomplishments, yet there were exceptional girls who aspired to learning and who became brilliant women. Mildred under her brother's tutelage bid fare to be one of this sort.

The ideals of the Sidneys, it is true, were sixteenth-century ideals. Eighteenth-century ideals were proverbially low. England, then, had not recovered from the frivolities inaugurated after the Restoration. The slackness and unbelief among the clergy, and the looseness of morals in society were notorious, but this degeneration could not have been universal. There are always a few Noahs and their families left to repeople the world with righteousness after a deluge of degeneracy, and Browning is quite right in his portrayal of an eighteenth-century knight sans peur et sans reproche who defends the honor of his house with his sword, because of his high moral ideals. Besides, the Methodist revival led by the Wesleys gained constantly in power. It affected not only the people of the middle and lower classes, rescuing them from brutality of mind and manners, but it affected the established church for the better, and made its mark upon the upper classes. "Religion, long despised and contemned by the titled and the great" writes Withrow, "began to receive recognition and support by men high in the councils of the nation. Many ladies of high rank became devout Christians. A new element of restraint, compelling at least some outward respect for the decencies of life and observances of religion, was felt at court, where too long corruption and back-stair influence had sway."

Like all of his kind, no matter what the century, Tresham is more than delighted at the thought of an alliance between his house and the noble house to which Mertoun belonged. The youth of Mildred was no obstacle, for marriages were frequently contracted in those days between young boys and girls. The writer's English grand-father and mother were married at the respective ages of sixteen and fifteen within the boundaries of the nineteenth century.

The first two scenes of the play present episodes thoroughly illustrative of the life lived by the "quality."

ACT I

SCENE I.—The interior of a lodge in LORD TRESHAM'S park. Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command a view of the entrance to his mansion.

GERARD, the warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc.

1st Retainer. Ye, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me! —What for? Does any hear a runner's foot Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry? Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant? But there's no breeding in a man of you Save Gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet, Old Gerard!

Gerard. Save your courtesies, my friend. Here is my place.

2nd Retainer. Now, Gerard, out with it! What makes you sullen, this of all the days I' the year? To-day that young rich bountiful Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match With our Lord Tresham through the country side, Is coming here in utmost bravery To ask our master's sister's hand?

Gerard. What then?

2nd Retainer. What then? Why, you, she speaks to if she meets Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart The boughs to let her through her forest walks You, always favorite for your no deserts You've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun sues To lay his heart and house and broad lands too At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeeze Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss One congee of the least page in his train, You sit o' one side—"there's the Earl," say I— "What then," say you!

3rd Retainer. I'll wager he has let Both swans be tamed for Lady Mildred swim Over the falls and gain the river!

Gerard. Ralph! Is not to-morrow my inspecting day For you and for your hawks?

4th Retainer. Let Gerard be! He's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock. Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look! Well done, now—is not this beginning, now, To purpose?

1st Retainer. Our retainers look as fine— That's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himself With his white staff! Will not a knave behind Prick him upright?

4th Retainer. He's only bowing, fool! The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.

1st Retainer. That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade!

3rd Retainer. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop Of silk and silver varlets there, should find Their perfumed selves so indispensable On high days, holidays! Would it so disgrace Our family, if I, for instance, stood— In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks, A leash of greyhounds in my left?—

Gerard. —With Hugh The logman for supporter, in his right The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears!

3rd Retainer. Out on you, crab! What next, what next? The Earl!

1st Retainer. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they match The Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the six— They paw the ground—Ah Walter! and that brute Just on his haunches by the wheel!

6th Retainer. Ay—ay! You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear, At soups and sauces: what's a horse to you? D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst So cunningly?—then, Philip, mark this further; No leg has he to stand on!

1st Retainer. No? That's comfort.

2nd Retainer. Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, see The Earl at least! Come, there's a proper man, I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, Has got a starrier eye.

3rd Retainer. His eyes are blue: But leave my hawks alone!

4th Retainer. So young, and yet So tall and shapely!

5th Retainer. Here's Lord Tresham's self! There now—there's what a nobleman should be! He's older, graver, loftier, he's more like A House's head.

2nd Retainer. But you'd not have a boy —And what's the Earl beside?—possess too soon That stateliness?

1st Retainer. Our master takes his hand— Richard and his white staff are on the move— Back fall our people—(tsh!—there's Timothy Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties, And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!) —At last I see our lord's back and his friend's; And the whole beautiful bright company Close round them—in they go!

[Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs.]

Good health, long life Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House!

6th Retainer. My father drove his father first to court, After his marriage-day—ay, did he!

2nd Retainer. God bless Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl! Here, Gerard, reach your beaker!

Gerard. Drink, my boys! Don't mind me—all's not right about me—drink!

2nd Retainer [aside]. He's vexed, now, that he let the show escape! [To GERARD.] Remember that the Earl returns this way.

Gerard. That way?

2nd Retainer. Just so.

Gerard. Then my way's here.

[Goes.

2nd Retainer. Old Gerard Will die soon—mind, I said it! He was used To care about the pitifullest thing That touched the House's honor, not an eye But his could see wherein: and on a cause Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong, Such point decorous, and such square by rule— He knew such niceties, no herald more: And now—you see his humor: die he will!

2nd Retainer. God help him! Who's for the great servant's hall To hear what's going on inside? They'd follow Lord Tresham into the saloon.

3rd Retainer. I!—

4th Retainer. I!— Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door, Some hint of how the parley goes inside! Prosperity to the great House once more! Here's the last drop!

1st Retainer. Have at you! Boys, hurrah!

SCENE II.—A Saloon in the Mansion.

Enter LORD THESHAM, LORD MERTOUN, AUSTIN, and GUENDOLEN.

Tresham. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more, To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name —Noble among the noblest in itself, Yet taking in your person, fame avers, New price and lustre,—(as that gem you wear, Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, Seems to re-kindle at the core)—your name Would win you welcome!—

Mertoun. Thanks!

Tresham. —But add to that, The worthiness and grace and dignity Of your proposal for uniting both Our Houses even closer than respect Unites them now—add these, and you must grant One favor more, nor that the least,—to think The welcome I should give;—'tis given! My lord, My only brother, Austin: he's the king's. Our cousin, Lady Guendolen—betrothed To Austin: all are yours.

Mertoun. I thank you—less For the expressed commendings which your seal, And only that, authenticates—forbids My putting from me ... to my heart I take Your praise ... but praise less claims my gratitude, Than the indulgent insight it implies Of what must needs be uppermost with one Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask, In weighed and measured unimpassioned words, A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied, He must withdraw, content upon his cheek, Despair within his soul. That I dare ask Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham, I love your sister—as you'd have one love That lady ... oh more, more I love her! Wealth, Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know, To hold or part with, at your choice—but grant My true self, me without a rood of land, A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, Grant me that lady, and you ... Death or life?

Guendolen [apart to AUSTIN]. Why, this is loving, Austin!

Austin. He's so young!

Guendolen. Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmise He never had obtained an entrance here, Were all this fear and trembling needed.

Austin. Hush! He reddens.

Guendolen. Mark him, Austin; that's true love! Ours must begin again.

Tresham. We'll sit, my lord. Ever with best desert goes diffidence. I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. That I am wholly satisfied with you On this occasion, when a falcon's eye Were dull compared with mine to search out faults, Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give Or to refuse.

Mertoun. But you, you grant my suit? I have your word if hers?

Tresham. My best of words If hers encourage you. I trust it will. Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way?

Mertoun. I ... I ... our two demesnes, remember, touch; I have been used to wander carelessly After my stricken game: the heron roused Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,—or else Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight And lured me after her from tree to tree, I marked not whither. I have come upon The lady's wondrous beauty unaware, And—and then ... I have seen her.

Guendolen [aside to AUSTIN]. Note that mode Of faltering out that, when a lady passed, He, having eyes, did see her! You had said— "On such a day I scanned her, head to foot; Observed a red, where red should not have been, Outside her elbow; but was pleased enough Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk Be lessoned for the future!

Tresham. What's to say May be said briefly. She has never known A mother's care; I stand for father too. Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems— You cannot know the good and tender heart, Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free As light where friends are—how imbued with lore The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet The ... one might know I talked of Mildred—thus We brothers talk!

Mertoun. I thank you.

Tresham. In a word, Control's not for this lady; but her wish To please me outstrips in its subtlety My power of being pleased: herself creates The want she means to satisfy. My heart Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. Can I say more?

Mertoun. No more—thanks, thanks—no more!

Tresham. This matter then discussed....

Mertoun. —We'll waste no breath On aught less precious. I'm beneath the roof Which holds her: while I thought of that, my speech To you would wander—as it must not do, Since as you favor me I stand or fall. I pray you suffer that I take my leave!

Tresham. With less regret 't is suffered, that again We meet, I hope, so shortly.

Mertoun. We? again?— Ah yes, forgive me—when shall ... you will crown Your goodness by forthwith apprising me When ... if ... the lady will appoint a day For me to wait on you—and her.

Tresham. So soon As I am made acquainted with her thoughts On your proposal—howsoe'er they lean— A messenger shall bring you the result.

Mertoun. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renew A converse ne'er to disunite again.

Tresham. So may it prove!

Mertoun. You, lady, you, sir, take My humble salutation!

Guendolen and Austin. Thanks!

Tresham. Within there!

[Servants enter. TRESHAM conducts MERTOUN to the door. Meantime AUSTIN remarks,

Here I have an advantage of the Earl, Confess now! I'd not think that all was safe Because my lady's brother stood my friend! Why, he makes sure of her—"do you say, yes"— "She'll not say, no,"—what comes it to beside? I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech, For Heaven's sake urge this on her—put in this— Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,— Then set down what she says, and how she looks, And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath) "Only let her accept me, and do you And all the world refuse me, if you dare!"

Guendolen. That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shame I was your cousin, tamely from the first Your bride, and all this fervor's run to waste! Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? The Earl's a fool.

Austin. Here's Thorold. Tell him so!

Tresham [returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first! How seems he?—seems he not ... come, faith give fraud The mercy-stroke whenever they engage! Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl? A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth, As you will never! come—the Earl?

Guendolen. He's young.

Tresham. What's she? an infant save in heart and brain. Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you ... Austin, how old is she?

Guendolen. There's tact for you! I meant that being young was good excuse If one should tax him....

Tresham. Well?

Guendolen. —With lacking wit.

Tresham. He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?

Guendolen. In standing straighter than the steward's rod And making you the tiresomest harangue, Instead of slipping over to my side And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady, Your cousin there will do me detriment He little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see, In my old name and fame—be sure he'll leave My Mildred, when his best account of me Is ended, in full confidence I wear My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"....

Tresham. ... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself, Of me and my demerits." You are right! He should have said what now I say for him. Yon golden creature, will you help us all? Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you —You are ... what Austin only knows! Come up, All three of us: she's in the library No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede!

Guendolen. Austin, how we must—!

Tresham. Must what? Must speak truth, Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him! I challenge you!

Guendolen. Witchcraft's a fault in him, For you're bewitched.

Tresham. What's urgent we obtain Is, that she soon receive him—say, to-morrow— Next day at furthest.

Guendolen. Ne'er instruct me!

Tresham. Come! —He's out of your good graces, since forsooth, He stood not as he'd carry us by storm With his perfections! You're for the composed Manly assured becoming confidence! —Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you ... I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled With petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come!

The story of the love of Mildred and Mertoun is the universally human one, and belongs to no one country or no one period of civilization more than another, but the attitude of all the actors in the tragedy belongs distinctively to the phase of moral culture which we saw illustrated in the youth of Sir Philip Sidney, and is characteristic of English ways of thinking whenever their moral force comes uppermost, as for example in the Puritan thought of the Cromwellian era.

The play is in a sense a problem play, though to most modern readers the tragedy of its ending is all too horrible a consequence of the sin. Dramatically and psychically, however, the tragedy is much more inevitable than that of Romeo and Juliet, whose love one naturally thinks of in the same connection. The catastrophe in the Shakespeare play is almost mechanically pushed to its conclusion through mere external blundering, easily to have been prevented. Juliet saw clearly where Mildred does not, that loyalty to a deep and true love should triumph over all minor considerations, so that in her case the tragedy is, in no sense, due to her blindness of vision. In the "Blot," lack of perception of the true values in life makes it impossible for Mildred or Tresham to act otherwise than they did. But having worked out their problem according to their lights, a new light of a more glorious day dawns upon them.

The ideal by which Tresham lives and moves and has his being is that of pride of birth, with honor and chastity as its watchwords. At the same time the idol of his life is his sister Mildred, over whom he has watched with a father's and mother's care. When the blow to his ideal comes at the hands of this much cherished sister, it is not to be wondered at that his reason almost deserts him. The greatest agony possible to the human soul is to have its ideals, the very food which has been the sustenance of its being, utterly ruined. The ideal may be a wrong one, or an impartial one, and through the wrack and ruin may dawn larger vision, but, unless the nature be a marvelously developed one the storm that breaks when an ideal is shattered is overwhelming.

It would be equally true of Mildred that, nurtured as she had been and as young English girls usually are, in great purity, even ignorance of all things pertaining to life, the sense of her sin would be so overwhelming as to blind her to any possible means of expiation except the most extreme. And indeed may it not be said that only those who can see as Mertoun and Guendolen did that genuine and loyal love is no less love because, in a conventional sense, it has sinned,—only those would acknowledge, as Tresham, indeed, does after he has murdered Mertoun, how perfect the love of Mildred and Mertoun was. Sin flourishes only when insincerity tricks itself out in the garb of love, and on the whole it is well that human beings should have an abiding sense of their own and others insincerity, and test themselves by their willingness to acknowledge their love before God and man. There are many Mildreds but few Mertouns. It is little wonder that Dickens wrote with such enthusiasm of this play that he knew no love like that of Mildred and Mertoun, no passion like it.