I. MARCHING ALONG

"Put not your trustIn 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 a169final 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.Straffordsitting with hisChildren. They sing.O bell 'andarePer barca in mare,Verso la seraDi Primavera!170William.The boat's in the broad moonlight all this while—Verso la seraDi Primavera!And the boat shoots from underneath the moonInto the shadowy distance; only stillYou 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 knowThere'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 likeEven 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.

Straffordsitting with hisChildren. They sing.

O bell 'andarePer barca in mare,Verso la seraDi Primavera!

170William.The boat's in the broad moonlight all this while—

Verso la seraDi Primavera!

And the boat shoots from underneath the moonInto the shadowy distance; only stillYou 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 knowThere'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 likeEven 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.

The Tower, London

171William.Why do men sayYou 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 fateOf better; and yet,—wherefore not feel sureThat Time, who in the twilight comes to mendAll the fantastic day's caprice, consignTo 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 enoughTo show what might have been.William.(I have no heartTo 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 runThat I forsook the People? Nothing more?Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt,Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves172Noisy to be enrolled,—will registerThe curious glosses, subtle notices,Ingenious clearings-up one fain would seeBeside that plain inscription of The Name—ThePatriotPym, or the Apostate Strafford![TheChildrenresume their song timidly, but break off.EnterHollisand anAttendant.Strafford.No,—Hollis? in good time!—Who is he?Hollis.OneThat must be present.Strafford.Ah—I understand.They will not let me see poor Laud alone.How politic! They'd use me by degreesTo solitude: and, just as you came in,I was solicitous what life to leadWhen Strafford's "not so much as ConstableIn the King's service." Is there any meansTo keep oneself awake? What would you doAfter this bustle, Hollis, in my place?Hollis.Strafford!Strafford.Observe, not but that Pym and youWill find me news enough—news I shall hearUnder a quince-tree by a fish-pond sideAt Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engagedMy newsman. Or, a better project now—What if when all's consummated, and the SaintsReign, 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 quietlyInto a tavern, hear a point discussed,As, whether Strafford's name were John or James—And be myself appealed to—I, who shall173Myself 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 placeIs 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 woldsSets all to-rights.Hollis.You cannot sure forgetA 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 affairDetains 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 fleshTo be pent up so long.Hollis.The King—I bearHis message, Strafford: pray you, let me speak!Strafford.Go, William! Anne, try o'er your song again![TheChildrenretire.174They shall be loyal, friend, at all events.I know your message: you have nothing newTo 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 Kingprefersto leave the door ajarAs though I were escaping—bids me trudgeWhile the mob gapes upon some show preparedOn the other side of the river! Give at onceHis order of release! I've heard, as wellOf certain poor manœuvres to avoidThe 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 hatLike Prynne's? Be smuggled into France, perhaps?Hollis, 'tis for my children! 'Twas for themI first consented to stand day by dayAnd give your Puritans the best of words,Be patient, speak when called upon, observeTheir rules, and not return them prompt their lie!What's in that boy of mine that he should proveSon to a prison-breaker? I shall stayAnd he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much,He too has children![Turning toHollis'sCompanion.] Sir, you feel for me!No need to hide that face! Though it have lookedUpon me from the judgment-seat ... I knowStrangely, that somewhere it has looked on me, ...Your coming has my pardon, nay, my thanks:For there is one who comes not.175Hollis.Whom forgive,As one to die!Strafford.True, all die, and all needForgiveness: 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 freeThis heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth?We'll end this! See this paper, warm—feel—warmWith 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 sitWhere Loudon sat, who came to prophesyThe certain end, and offer me Pym's graceIf I'd renounce the King: and I stood firmOn the King's faith. The King who lives....Hollis.To signThe warrant for your death.Strafford."Put not your trustIn 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[toStrafford]. As you hope grace and pardon in your need,Be merciful to this most wretched man.[Voices from within.Verso la seraDi Primavera176Strafford.You'll be good to those children, sir? I knowYou'll not believe her, even should the QueenThink they take after one they rarely saw.I had intended that my son should liveA stranger to these matters: but you areSo utterly deprived of friends! He tooMust 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 forgottenYour education, trials, much temptation,Some weakness: there escaped a peevish word—'Tis gone: I bless you at the last. You knowAll's between you and me: what has the worldTo do with it? Farewell!Charles[at the door]. Balfour! Balfour!EnterBalfour.The Parliament!—go to them: I grant allDemands. Their sittings shall be permanent:Tell them to keep their money if they will:I'll come to them for every coat I wearAnd every crust I eat: only I chooseTo 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:177Please 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, forgetYou 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 blockBecause of it. I shall walk lightly, sir!Earth fades, heaven breaks on me: I shall stand nextBefore God's throne: the moment's close at handWhen man the first, last time, has leave to layHis whole heart bare before its Maker, leaveTo clear up the long error of a lifeAnd 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 savedThrough me! Bear witness, no one could preventMy death! Lead on! ere he awake—best, now!All must be ready: did you say, Balfour,The crowd began to murmur? They'll be keptToo late for sermon at St. Antholin's!Now! But tread softly—children are at playIn the next room. Precede! I follow—EnterLadyCarlislewith manyAttendants.Lady Carlisle.Me!Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! The King?178[To theKing.] Well—as you ordered, they are ranged without,The convoy.... [seeing theKing'sstate.][ToStrafford.] You know all, then! Why I thoughtIt looked best that the King should save you,—CharlesAlone; 'tis a shame that you should owe me aught.Or no, not shame! Strafford, you'll not feel shameAt 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 lovedAs 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 amhersnow, and I will die. Beside,The lookers-on! Eliot is all aboutThis place, with his most uncomplaining brow.Lady Carlisle.Strafford!Strafford.I think if you could know how muchI love you, you would be repaid, my friend!Lady Carlisle.Then, for my sake!179Strafford.Even for your sweet sake,I stay.Hollis.Fortheirsake!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 notTo 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 boatIs 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![AsStraffordopens the door,Pymis discovered withHampden, Vane, etc.Straffordfalls back;Pymfollows slowly and confronts him.180Pym.Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sakeI still have labored for, with disregardTo my own heart,—for whom my youth was madeBarren, my manhood waste, to offer upHer 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 sheWould sanctify all means) even to the blockWhich waits for him. And saying this, I feelNo bitterer pang than first I felt, the hourI swore that Wentworth might leave us, but IWould never leave him: I do leave him now.I render up my charge (be witness, God!)To England who imposed it. I have doneHer 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 sayI never loved but one man—David notMore Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now:And look for my chief portion in that worldWhere 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 allI look for there; but in my inmost heart,Believe, I think of stealing quite awayTo walk once more with Wentworth—my youth's friendPurged from all error, gloriously renewed,And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed....181This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increaseToo hot. A thin mist—is it blood?—enwrapsThe 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 timeTo 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 tooDies, smothered up. Poor grey old little LaudMay 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 youA green and putrefying charnel, leftOur children ... some of us have children, Pym—Some who, without that, still must ever wearA darkened brow, an over-serious look,And never properly be young! No word?What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forthClothed from my heart, lapped round with horror tillShe's fit with her white face to walk the worldScaring kind natures from your cause and you—182Then 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 eachTo 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 exactThat service? I obey thee to the end.Strafford.O God, I shall die first—I shall die first!

171William.Why do men sayYou 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 fateOf better; and yet,—wherefore not feel sureThat Time, who in the twilight comes to mendAll the fantastic day's caprice, consignTo 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 enoughTo show what might have been.

William.(I have no heartTo 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 runThat I forsook the People? Nothing more?Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt,Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves172Noisy to be enrolled,—will registerThe curious glosses, subtle notices,Ingenious clearings-up one fain would seeBeside that plain inscription of The Name—ThePatriotPym, or the Apostate Strafford!

[TheChildrenresume their song timidly, but break off.

EnterHollisand anAttendant.

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

Hollis.OneThat must be present.

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

Hollis.Strafford!

Strafford.Observe, not but that Pym and youWill find me news enough—news I shall hearUnder a quince-tree by a fish-pond sideAt Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engagedMy newsman. Or, a better project now—What if when all's consummated, and the SaintsReign, 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 quietlyInto a tavern, hear a point discussed,As, whether Strafford's name were John or James—And be myself appealed to—I, who shall173Myself 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 placeIs 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 woldsSets all to-rights.

Hollis.You cannot sure forgetA 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 affairDetains 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 fleshTo be pent up so long.

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

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

[TheChildrenretire.

174They shall be loyal, friend, at all events.I know your message: you have nothing newTo 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 Kingprefersto leave the door ajarAs though I were escaping—bids me trudgeWhile the mob gapes upon some show preparedOn the other side of the river! Give at onceHis order of release! I've heard, as wellOf certain poor manœuvres to avoidThe 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 hatLike Prynne's? Be smuggled into France, perhaps?Hollis, 'tis for my children! 'Twas for themI first consented to stand day by dayAnd give your Puritans the best of words,Be patient, speak when called upon, observeTheir rules, and not return them prompt their lie!What's in that boy of mine that he should proveSon to a prison-breaker? I shall stayAnd he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much,He too has children![Turning toHollis'sCompanion.] Sir, you feel for me!No need to hide that face! Though it have lookedUpon me from the judgment-seat ... I knowStrangely, that somewhere it has looked on me, ...Your coming has my pardon, nay, my thanks:For there is one who comes not.

175Hollis.Whom forgive,As one to die!

Strafford.True, all die, and all needForgiveness: 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 freeThis heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth?We'll end this! See this paper, warm—feel—warmWith 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 sitWhere Loudon sat, who came to prophesyThe certain end, and offer me Pym's graceIf I'd renounce the King: and I stood firmOn the King's faith. The King who lives....

Hollis.To signThe warrant for your death.

Strafford."Put not your trustIn 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[toStrafford]. As you hope grace and pardon in your need,Be merciful to this most wretched man.

[Voices from within.

Verso la seraDi Primavera

176Strafford.You'll be good to those children, sir? I knowYou'll not believe her, even should the QueenThink they take after one they rarely saw.I had intended that my son should liveA stranger to these matters: but you areSo utterly deprived of friends! He tooMust 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 forgottenYour education, trials, much temptation,Some weakness: there escaped a peevish word—'Tis gone: I bless you at the last. You knowAll's between you and me: what has the worldTo do with it? Farewell!

Charles[at the door]. Balfour! Balfour!

EnterBalfour.

The Parliament!—go to them: I grant allDemands. Their sittings shall be permanent:Tell them to keep their money if they will:I'll come to them for every coat I wearAnd every crust I eat: only I chooseTo 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:177Please 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, forgetYou 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 blockBecause of it. I shall walk lightly, sir!Earth fades, heaven breaks on me: I shall stand nextBefore God's throne: the moment's close at handWhen man the first, last time, has leave to layHis whole heart bare before its Maker, leaveTo clear up the long error of a lifeAnd 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 savedThrough me! Bear witness, no one could preventMy death! Lead on! ere he awake—best, now!All must be ready: did you say, Balfour,The crowd began to murmur? They'll be keptToo late for sermon at St. Antholin's!Now! But tread softly—children are at playIn the next room. Precede! I follow—

EnterLadyCarlislewith manyAttendants.

Lady Carlisle.Me!Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! The King?178[To theKing.] Well—as you ordered, they are ranged without,The convoy.... [seeing theKing'sstate.][ToStrafford.] You know all, then! Why I thoughtIt looked best that the King should save you,—CharlesAlone; 'tis a shame that you should owe me aught.Or no, not shame! Strafford, you'll not feel shameAt 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 lovedAs 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 amhersnow, and I will die. Beside,The lookers-on! Eliot is all aboutThis place, with his most uncomplaining brow.

Lady Carlisle.Strafford!

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

Lady Carlisle.Then, for my sake!

179Strafford.Even for your sweet sake,I stay.

Hollis.Fortheirsake!

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 notTo 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 boatIs 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!

[AsStraffordopens the door,Pymis discovered withHampden, Vane, etc.Straffordfalls back;Pymfollows slowly and confronts him.

180Pym.Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sakeI still have labored for, with disregardTo my own heart,—for whom my youth was madeBarren, my manhood waste, to offer upHer 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 sheWould sanctify all means) even to the blockWhich waits for him. And saying this, I feelNo bitterer pang than first I felt, the hourI swore that Wentworth might leave us, but IWould never leave him: I do leave him now.I render up my charge (be witness, God!)To England who imposed it. I have doneHer 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 sayI never loved but one man—David notMore Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now:And look for my chief portion in that worldWhere 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 allI look for there; but in my inmost heart,Believe, I think of stealing quite awayTo walk once more with Wentworth—my youth's friendPurged from all error, gloriously renewed,And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed....181This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increaseToo hot. A thin mist—is it blood?—enwrapsThe 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 timeTo 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 tooDies, smothered up. Poor grey old little LaudMay 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 youA green and putrefying charnel, leftOur children ... some of us have children, Pym—Some who, without that, still must ever wearA darkened brow, an over-serious look,And never properly be young! No word?What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forthClothed from my heart, lapped round with horror tillShe's fit with her white face to walk the worldScaring kind natures from your cause and you—182Then 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 eachTo 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 exactThat 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.

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:183And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

The Tower: Traitors' Gate

God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor supTill you're—Chorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

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

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

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not hereChorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe 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?

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo 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!

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarlsTo 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!

184

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

185

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery grey,Chorus.—"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

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

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

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!"

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!"

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!"

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!"

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!"

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.

186An 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.

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,187As 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 biteOf 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 coopedUs peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped188By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sightAnd 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 dieGives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learnThat 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.189Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demureBetokens 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 griefThrough 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 grownWith 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 seekFor 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!190'Tis an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to dealWith 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 ParkesWhom 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 standsTo pay for her fault. 'Tis an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands."And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance shareThe folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!191Look 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 bruteWith 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 faceBandaged 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 handTo 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 grinAt 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 mine192Looked 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:Itouch 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 weightOn 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,193And 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 moreOf 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 likeBetrothalindeed! 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 aversShe 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!194And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grewHow 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 thenSuch 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 warmsThe 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 thickOf 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 bragYourself 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!"195And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the benchOf 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 knowIs—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 beginsAt 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 dreamedIn the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamedA 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 curseThat 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!196And 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 drinkOf water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

If I last as long at Methuselah I shall never forgive myself:But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph,187As 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 biteOf 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 coopedUs peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped188By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sightAnd 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 dieGives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learnThat 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.189Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demureBetokens 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 griefThrough 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 grownWith 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 seekFor 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!190'Tis an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to dealWith 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 ParkesWhom 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 standsTo pay for her fault. 'Tis an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance shareThe folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!191Look 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 bruteWith 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 faceBandaged 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 handTo 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 grinAt 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 mine192Looked 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:Itouch 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 weightOn 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,193And 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 moreOf 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 likeBetrothalindeed! 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 aversShe 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!

194And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grewHow 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 thenSuch 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 warmsThe 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 thickOf 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 bragYourself 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!"

195And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the benchOf 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 knowIs—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 beginsAt 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 dreamedIn the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamedA 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 curseThat 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!

196And 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 drinkOf 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 political197supremacy. 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.

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