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,198I was, am and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clanSorriest 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 appearsLike an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood,Once, and well remembered still: I'm startled in my solitudeEver and anon by—what's the sudden mocking light that breaksOn me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakesWhile 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 guessWealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wallWarn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice—call199Hero! 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 beforeT'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermorePoor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By-and-byJob 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 stillMarks 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 orb200Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorbRay by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eyeDrawing 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 pileAs his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile.Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From withoutScrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates aboutTowers—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 ofcannonade:'Tis when foes are foiled and fighting's finished that vile rains invade,Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holesFit 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 lean201Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between.As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishmentBy the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers wentWhere a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throwTry 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 evidenceI maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whitWorth your Alexanders, Cæsars, 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 wideCircle 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.202"When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plainAs another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal—curse it!—hereFreezing 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 thoughTracing, 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 untilOut 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 takeUmbrage 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 juvenile203Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile."DownI sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonistSomebody 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 feelQuite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize,I the scribe with him the warrior,—guessed no penman dared to raiseShadow of objection should the honor stay but playing endMore or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spendPractice strictly scientific on a booby born to stareAt—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 manœuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows.What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?'"Never did a thunder-clapCause 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."Whenhe found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!'204"'Well, you forced a card and cheated!'"'Possibly a factor's brain,Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deemWeighing words superfluous trouble:cheatto clerkly ears may seemJust 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 skullLets 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.'Endit! 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 expertMake a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert,Likelier hits the broader target!'205"Up we stood accordingly.As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to tryThen and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp outEvery spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled aboutBy that toying tempting teasing fool-fore-finger's middle joint,—Don't you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the pointOf such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his headWent my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead."Up he marched in flaming triumph—'twas his right, mind!—up, withinJust an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grinAs the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeatThat 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,206I 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 doorPossibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor,He effected disappearance—I'll engage no glance was sentThat way by a single starer, such a blank astonishmentSwallowed 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 pretextFor.... But where's the need of wasting time now? Nought requires delay:Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped awayPublicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeedDrum and fife must play the Rogue's March, rank and file be free to speedTardy 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!'207"I passed each speaker severally in review.When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knewOver 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 raisedIn arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed—Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to markSome 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-fiveYears ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive,208"Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breathBreathed 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,—grewOut of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back againBrought 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 prateLonger? 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 beWholly 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 rappedSuch a round of oaths—no matter! I'll endeavor to adaptTo our modern usage words he—well, 'twas friendly license—flungAt me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.209"You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nickInstantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick,—At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inchUndefended 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 spanDistant 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 fameBoth at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aimWhich 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 gainedSleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on stillRent 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 rough210Why, 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 climesRub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink,Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but thinkThere'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 caughtSomething like "Yes—courage: only fools will call it fear."If aughtComfort 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.
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,198I was, am and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clanSorriest 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 appearsLike an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood,Once, and well remembered still: I'm startled in my solitudeEver and anon by—what's the sudden mocking light that breaksOn me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakesWhile 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 guessWealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wallWarn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice—call199Hero! 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 beforeT'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermorePoor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By-and-byJob 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 stillMarks 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 orb200Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorbRay by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eyeDrawing 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 pileAs his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile.Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From withoutScrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates aboutTowers—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 ofcannonade:'Tis when foes are foiled and fighting's finished that vile rains invade,Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holesFit 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 lean201Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between.As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishmentBy the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers wentWhere a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throwTry 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 evidenceI maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whitWorth your Alexanders, Cæsars, 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 wideCircle 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.202"When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plainAs another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal—curse it!—hereFreezing 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 thoughTracing, 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 untilOut 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 takeUmbrage 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 juvenile203Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile.
"DownI sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonistSomebody 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 feelQuite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize,I the scribe with him the warrior,—guessed no penman dared to raiseShadow of objection should the honor stay but playing endMore or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spendPractice strictly scientific on a booby born to stareAt—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 manœuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows.What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?'
"Never did a thunder-clapCause 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.
"Whenhe found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!'
204"'Well, you forced a card and cheated!'
"'Possibly a factor's brain,Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deemWeighing words superfluous trouble:cheatto clerkly ears may seemJust 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 skullLets 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.'Endit! 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 expertMake a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert,Likelier hits the broader target!'
205"Up we stood accordingly.As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to tryThen and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp outEvery spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled aboutBy that toying tempting teasing fool-fore-finger's middle joint,—Don't you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the pointOf such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his headWent my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead.
"Up he marched in flaming triumph—'twas his right, mind!—up, withinJust an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grinAs the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeatThat 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,206I 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 doorPossibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor,He effected disappearance—I'll engage no glance was sentThat way by a single starer, such a blank astonishmentSwallowed 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 pretextFor.... But where's the need of wasting time now? Nought requires delay:Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped awayPublicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeedDrum and fife must play the Rogue's March, rank and file be free to speedTardy 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!'
207"I passed each speaker severally in review.When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knewOver 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 raisedIn arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed—Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to markSome 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-fiveYears ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive,208"Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breathBreathed 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,—grewOut of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back againBrought 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 prateLonger? 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 beWholly 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 rappedSuch a round of oaths—no matter! I'll endeavor to adaptTo our modern usage words he—well, 'twas friendly license—flungAt me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.
209"You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nickInstantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick,—At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inchUndefended 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 spanDistant 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 fameBoth at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aimWhich 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 gainedSleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on stillRent 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 rough210Why, 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 climesRub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink,Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but thinkThere'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 caughtSomething like "Yes—courage: only fools will call it fear."If aughtComfort 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.
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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:—
212All June I bound the rose in sheaves.Now, rose by rose, I strip the leavesAnd 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.
212All June I bound the rose in sheaves.Now, rose by rose, I strip the leavesAnd 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.
How many a month I strove to suitThese 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!
How many a month I strove to suitThese 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!
My whole life long I learned to love.This hour my utmost art I proveAnd 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!
My whole life long I learned to love.This hour my utmost art I proveAnd 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?
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,And the blue eyeDear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,And the blue eyeDear and dewy,And that infantine fresh air of hers!
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To think men cannot take you, Sweet,And enfold you,Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,And enfold you,Ay, and hold you,And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
You like us for a glance, you know—For a word's sakeOr a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
You like us for a glance, you know—For a word's sakeOr a sword's sake,All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.
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.
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.
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!
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!
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,Though we prayed you,Paid you, brayed youIn a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,Though we prayed you,Paid you, brayed youIn a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:Be its beautyIts sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:Be its beautyIts sole duty!Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
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And while the face lies quiet there,Who shall wonderThat I ponderA conclusion? I will try it there.
And while the face lies quiet there,Who shall wonderThat I ponderA conclusion? I will try it there.
As,—why must one, for the love foregone,Scout mere liking?Thunder-strikingEarth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
As,—why must one, for the love foregone,Scout mere liking?Thunder-strikingEarth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
Why, with beauty, needs there money be,Love with liking?Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?
Why, with beauty, needs there money be,Love with liking?Crush the fly-kingIn his gauze, because no honey-bee?
May not liking be so simple-sweet,If love grew there'Twould undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
May not liking be so simple-sweet,If love grew there'Twould undo thereAll that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
Is the creature too imperfect, say?Would you mend itAnd so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!
Is the creature too imperfect, say?Would you mend itAnd so end it?Since not all addition perfects aye!
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,Just perfection—Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,Just perfection—Whence, rejectionOf a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
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Shall we burn up, tread that face at onceInto tinder,And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?
Shall we burn up, tread that face at onceInto tinder,And so hinderSparks from kindling all the place at once?
Or else kiss away one's soul on her?Your love-fancies!—A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
Or else kiss away one's soul on her?Your love-fancies!—A sick man seesTruer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—Plucks a mould-flowerFor his gold flower,Uses fine things that efface the rose:
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—Plucks a mould-flowerFor his gold flower,Uses fine things that efface the rose:
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,Precious metalsApe the petals,—Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,Precious metalsApe the petals,—Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
Then how grace a rose? I know a way!Leave it, rather.Must you gather?Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away!
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.
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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 blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame,Your leave for one more last ride with me.
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 blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame,Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers;Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fixed me a breathing-while or twoWith 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 sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
My mistress bent that brow of hers;Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fixed me a breathing-while or twoWith 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 sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosomed, over-bowedBy many benedictions—sun's—And moon's and evening-star's at once217—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, 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.
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosomed, over-bowedBy many benedictions—sun's—And moon's and evening-star's at once217—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, 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.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmoothed itself out, a long-cramped scrollFreshening 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 wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmoothed itself out, a long-cramped scrollFreshening 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 wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
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 lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
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 lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
218
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.
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.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressedYou 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 sublimeThan we who never have turned a rhyme?Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressedYou 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 sublimeThan we who never have turned a rhyme?Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown greyWith notes and nothing else to say,219Is 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.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown greyWith notes and nothing else to say,219Is 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.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy 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.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy 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.
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life's best, with our eyes upturnedWhither life's flower is first discerned,We, fixed so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life's best, with our eyes upturnedWhither life's flower is first discerned,We, fixed so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
"James Lee's Wife" is also English in temper as the English name indicates suffi220ciently, 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.
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,This autumn morning! How he sets his bonesTo bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feetFor the ripple to run over in its mirth;Listening the while, where on the heap of stonesThe white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,This autumn morning! How he sets his bonesTo bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feetFor the ripple to run over in its mirth;Listening the while, where on the heap of stonesThe white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
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!
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!
221
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 Englishmis en scèneby 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 was222cultivated 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.
An English Manor House
An English Manor House
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.223Thus, 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."
224Perhaps 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 thetutor.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 gloomy225brow 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 obligeformed 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 to226learning 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 knightsans peur et sans reprochewho 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 of227high 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."