SCENE I.

CROMWELL

A Drama, in Five Acts

by

ALFRED B. RICHARDS

Author of "CROESUS, King of Lydia," a Tragedy; "VANDYCK," a Play of

Genoa, "DEATH AND THE MAGDALEN," and other Poems; "THE DREAM

OF THE SOUL," and other Poems; "OXFORD UNMASKED;" Part II

of "BRITAIN REDEEMED;" and "POEMS, ESSAYS AND OPINIONS."

London:

Printed by Petter, Duff, and Co.

Playhouse Yard, Blackfriars

MDCCCLII

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

CROMWELL.

MILTON, his Secretary.

ARTHUR WALTON.

BASIL, his Half-Brother.

SIR SIMON NEVEL, their Uncle.

IRETON, Son-in-law of Cromwell.

HARRISON, )

DESBOROUGH, )

BRADSHAW, )

MARTEN, ) Parliamentarians.

LILBURNE, )

HACKER, )

LUDLOW, )

SIR HARRY VANE, )

WILLIAM, Servant to Arthur.

HEZEKIAH NEWBORN, Host.

PEARSON, Attendant on Cromwell.

WYCKOFF, Accomplice of Basil.

BOWTELL, an Ironside.

Cavaliers, Roundheads, Officers, Gentlemen, Soldiers,

Guests of the Inn, Poachers, Citizens, a Preacher,

Old Man, Trooper, Servants, Messengers, &c., &c.

THE LADY CROMWELL.

ELIZABETH, her Daughter.

FLORENCE NEVEL, Daughter of Sir Simon.

LADY FAIRFAX.

BARBARA, Maid of Florence.

Attendants, Women, &c.

CROMWELL.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

[_1st Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_A Lane near a Village. Afternoon._

_Enter ARTHUR WALTON and WILLIAM, R.S.E._

_Arthur._ Give me your arm, my feet tread heavily;

The sameness of this scene doth pierce my heart

With thronging recollections of the past.

There is nought chang'd--and what a world of care,

Of sorrow, passion, pleasure have I known,

Since but a natural part of this was I,

Whose voice is now a discord to the sounds

Once daily mellow'd in my youthful being.

Methinks I feel like one that long hath read

A strange and chequer'd story, and doth rise,

With a deep sigh to be _himself_ again.

_Will._ One would not think, Sir, how much blood had stain'd

Old England, since we left her, finding thus

All things so peaceful; but one thing I mark'd

As we did skirt the village.

_Arth._ What was that?

_Will._ The king's face was defac'd--the sign o' the inn

At jolly Master Gurton's--mind you not

How sad it look'd? Yet 'neath it I've been gay,

A time or two; 'tis not my fortune now:

Those bright Italian skies have even marr'd

My judgment of clear ale.

_Arth._ I'faith 'twill need

A marvellous scant repair.

_Will._ One jovial day

Of honest mud and wholesome English fog.

_Arth._ That sign! 'twas once the royal head of James;

Some thirsty limner passing made it Charles;

I've heard it said 'twas e'en our good Queen Bess,

By curious folk that trac'd her high starch'd ruff

In the quaint faded back of antique chair,

Her stomacher in Charles's shrivell'd vest--

Who in his turn is gone. Well, take this letter,

See the old knight; but not a word to him.

Stay, I forgot, my little rosy cousin

Should be a woman now; thus--full of wiles,

Glancing behind the man that trusts her love

To his best friend, and wanton with the girls

She troops with, in such trifling, foolish sort,

To turn the stomach of initiate man.

Fie! I care not to hear of her; yet ask

If she be well. Commend me to my brother;

Thou wilt not tarry--he will give thee gold,

And haste to welcome me--go! At the inn

We'll meet some two hours hence.

[_Exit R._]

_Will._ Hem! I doubt much

About this welcoming.--Sad human Nature!

This brother was a careful, godly youth

That kept accounts, and smiling pass'd a beggar,

Saying, "Good-morrow, friend," yet never gave.

Where head doth early ripen, heart comes late--

Therefore, I say, I doubt this welcoming. [_Exeunt._]

SCENE II.

[_Last Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_An Apartment in a Manor House._

_Enter BASIL WALTON and FLORENCE, R._

_Basil._ [_following Florence._] I'll break thy haughty spirit!

_Flor._ Will you, sir?--

'Tis base, ungentle, and unmannerly,

Because, forsooth, you covet my poor wealth,

Which likes me not, as I care not for it,

To persecute a helpless girl like me.

_Basil._ I will protect thee; but accept my love.

Nay, do not frown so.

_Flor._ Love! say'st thou? Profane,

Vile misuse of that sacred word. Away!

Touch not my hand with your cold fingers--Off!

_Basil._ Thou foolish child, wouldst throw thyself away

Upon some beggar? were he here, perchance

Thy cousin Arthur? Come, our lands unite,

Be prudent--

_Flor._ Prudent!

Oh, there is no match

Half so imprudent, as when interest

Makes two, in heart divided, one--no work

So vain, so mean, so heartless, dull and void,

As that of him who buys the hollow "yes"

From the pale lips where Love sits not enthron'd,

Nor fans with purple wing the bosom's fire.

Prudence! to waste a life, lose self-respect,

Or e'en the chance of love bestowed and met?--

_Basil._ Sweet cousin, wilt not love me?

_Flor._ No! nor wish

To hate thee, could I help it--therefore, go!

_Basil._ Well then I must-- [_Seizes her hand._]

_Flor._ For pity's sake; if not

I'll fly thee and my home.

_Basil._ Ha! leave your father,

Desert the old man in his hour of need?

Fine ethics, truly. [_Advances._]

_Flor._ Heaven! Leave me, sir--

There something tells me Arthur will return,

Whom you have cozen'd of his heritage,

And then he'll aid me.

_Basil._ [_Aside._] Hath she seen him then,

Or heard? I must beware--

[_A Servant enters and beckons him out, L._]

Nay! none can know.

[_Aside._] Doubtless a message from him--I must see

That they meet not, or else--

[_Aloud._] Adieu! fair cousin;

I trust you'll find your senses yet ere long.

[_Exit BASIL, L._]

_Flor._ Once more he's gone--O world! indeed thou art

Too oft the bad man's friend.

_Sir Sim._ [_Within._] Ho! nephew Basil,

Ho! Basil!

[_Enter SIR SIMON, R._]

Where's my nephew? [_To Florence._]

_Flor._ He has left

This moment, sir!

O listen, he is rude.

I cannot wed him,--Father! make me not

Unhappy--

_Sir Sim._ Nay! Thou know'st, indeed, my child,

How I do love thee. 'Tis a good young man,

And wealthy--no fool, like his brother. Fool,

Said I?--a madman, ape, dolt, idiot, ass,

An honourable ass to give the land

His weak sire left him, to our Basil--Ha!

_He'll_ give none back, I think !--no! no!

Come, girl!

Wouldst thou be foolish, too? I would not marry

For money only, understand--no! no!

That I abhor, detest, but in my life

I never saw a sweeter, properer youth.

You like him not? Tush! marriage doth bring liking.

Ay! love too--you are young!

_Flor._ But, I've enough--

Why wed at all?

_Sir Sim._ Girl! girl! I say, would'st drive

Thy father mad! A very handsome man,

A healthy fine young man--lands joining too!

Nay! I could curse you, wench! Not have him?

This

Comes from your mawkish sentiment. You are

No child of mine--

_Flor._ Dear father! Hear me!

_Sir Sim._ Mark!

You're not of legal age--I'll drive you forth.

I'd rather see you dead, here, at my feet,

Than baulk my counsels thus. Nay, try and see

If sentiment will feed you, trick you out.

O, who would be a father?

_Flor._ Have I not

E'er shown you love and duty?

_Sir Sim._ Then obey!

If I'd said nought--Oh! then you'd been in love

With him, against my will--

_Flor._ No, sir, indeed!

Spare me--I'll think--I'll try. Be kind to me!

_Sir Sim._ Well, well, child, 'tis not right to treat me thus:

If I were full of passion--harsh, unkind,

Your conduct were less cruel. But, you'll kill

The old man some day with your cruelty.

You don't care for him--not you; yet he acts

All for your good. Some day you'll think so when

You've lost him. Come, come, dry your tears, now kiss me;

I should die happy, were you married well.

I am old--all this agitation kills me.

_Flor._ Nay, father, talk not so.

_Sir Sim._ You should obey me.

Your mother never dar'd oppose me thus;

She swore obedience, and I made her keep it.

_Flor._ [_Aside._] My mother, she died young, and yet too old;

The breath of her whole life was one long sigh;

She look'd like her own mourning effigy.

Her sad "good morrow" was as others say

"Good night." We never saw her smile but once,

And then we wept around her dying couch,

For 'twas the dazzling light of joy that stream'd

Upon her from the opening gates of heaven;

That smile was parted, she so gently died,

Between the wan corpse and the fleeting spirit.

_Sir Sim._ [_Aside._] She looks just like her mother.

That pale face

Making its sad obedience a reproach.

If she would flout, sulk, scold, resist my will,

I'd make her have him ere the day grew cold.

_Flor._ Her very kisses chill'd our infant brows;

She pluck'd the very flowers of daily life

As from a grave where Silence only wept,

And none but Hope lay buried. Her blue eyes

Were like Forget-me-nots, o'er which the shade

Of clouds still lingers when the moaning storm

Hath pass'd away in night. It mattered not,

They were the home from which tears never wander'd.

_Sir Sim._ [_Aloud._] I shall lose patience shortly.

Oh, that gout!

Here, girl, assist me. Would you see me fall?

_Flor._ Well, father, leave me to myself awhile.

I would obey you if I could.

_Sir Sim._ That's right.

You know I'm rough, but then who loves you like

A father? You ought not to try me thus;

Indeed you ought not. Come, my dear, we'll go,

And find your cousin. [_FLORENCE hesitates._] Hey! not now? Beware,

'Tis better now! no nonsense. Come, come, come.

You know you can do what you please with me,

But then you must be more obedient--so!

[_Going slowly, R._]

Your hand! You do me harm, girl! with this strife.

Gently--your cousin never frets me thus. [_Exeunt, R._]

[_Enter BASIL reading a letter, WILLIAM following, L.

FLORENCE returns, R., and steals behind them, and

listens to their conversation._]

_Basil._ [_With a letter in his hand._] Good William,

thou shalt drink to me. [_Gives him money._]

And art thou still called thirsty William?

_Will._ What answer shall I bear to my master?

_Basil._ Thy master? 'Tis a good youth, though a

wild--I hope he be well. Yet, frankly, I would that

he had not just now returned. Our uncle is so violent,

and will not hear his name. Arthur hath been so

imprudent, loose, eh? William, I regret the old man

hath heard of these things.

_Will._ My master is a very Puritan, sir!

_Basil._ [_Aside._] Let his worth go begging, then--but

he will soon be bad as his fortunes demand. Your

poverty-stricken gentlemen were better on the coast of

Barbary than in this civilized country. And whatever

he do, he shall be judged harshly. [_Aloud to William._]

I doubt not--Lies, lies; I said so at the time. Then

you see my cousin Florence, a simple girl, trembles

at his very name. You cannot wonder at it;--such

stories have been told. Confess now, William, thy

master hath been a prodigal. Doth he pay thy wages?

Thou art scurvily clad. I have a place now--as it were.

_Will._ I desire no better, sir! I thank you, than

where I am.

_Basil._ Oh! I did not mean unless you had left my

brother first. Now, he desireth a thousand pound.

Simply I have it not. There is no rent paid now.

I would he had written rather than come. I will

give him five hundred that I have, if he will pledge

me his honourable word to leave England for five

years. Are there not wars abroad whereby men live?--

_Will._ And die!

_Basil._ I would I could see him. But I have

promised mine uncle not, and he cannot bear any shock

to his health. Go, tell him this.

_Will._ Worshipful Master Basil! you will excuse

me, but I must speak my master's mind. He saith

he hath signed away his inheritance to thee, and that

he expects this small gift, ere he comes among ye.

He is but in sorry plight of dress, and he hath ever

shown much affection for you.

_Basil._ Does he threaten? Hark ye, I owe him

nought. Let justice be done. The fortune was mine

by birth. Our father acted basely. My brother did

very properly restore it. Shall he boast of a bare act

of justice? He hath no claim on me. Shall I

furnish his profligacies, his expenses, his foreign

debaucheries, because I have gotten back mine own?

_Will._ You will not see him?--

_Basil._ No!

_Will._ Nor send him the money?--

_Basil_. No! except with the proviso I told thee of.

_Will._ You have no other message?--

_Basil._ No!

_Will._ Oh! Well, sir, I think the execution of my

barren commission needs no farther stay. Touching

that small portion of mammon wherewith thou wouldst

endow my master's passage across the seas, in his

name I will venture to refuse the gratility.

_Basil._ Wouldst jest, villain? There are stocks!

Back to the beggar that sent thee. [_Exit R._]

[_WILLIAM going, L., FLORENCE approaches him from behind._]

_Flor._ Good friend! I have heard something of

your discourse. I would fain see thy master.

_Will._ Art thou not his cousin, lady?

_Flor._ I am.

_Will._ He hath often spoken of thee far hence.

_Flor._ We were children together. Is his temper

sweet as it used to be? Hath he grown taller? I

have much to say to him. Is he sunburnt? Doth

he wear a beard? They say much ill of him.

_Will._ Lady! believe it not; [_aside_]--for I affect

much his society. [_Aloud._] He is a good master and

kind, though of a strange mood. For women, he

cannot abear them.

_Flor._ Indeed! Good friend, nevertheless I must

see your master. Bring me to him.

_Will._ I am going to the inn, where he awaits me.

Will it please you to meet me opposite the old barn in

two hours?

_Flor._ I will, I will, for I need his advice much.

I am sore distressed. Here is for thee. Lose no time!

[_Gives him money._] Farewell! [_Exit R._]

_Will._ By'r lady, angels! both of them. [_Exit L._]

SCENE III.

_An extensile landscape, with a road on the L;

overhung with foliage. A Country Inn, U.E.R. Table,

chairs, villagers sitting, a waiter bringing in

refreshments during the symphony of the following_

GLEE and CHORUS.

Cold, oh! cold the March winds be;

High up in a leafless tree

The little bird sits and wearily twits,

The woods with perjury:

But the cuckoo-knave sings hold his stave,

(Ever the spring comes merrily)

And "O poor fool!" sings he--

For this is the way in the world to live,

To mock when a friend hath no more to give,

Whether in hall or tree!

[_The villagers retire severally._]

[_Enter WILLIAM, L._]

_Will._ So this publican hath ceased to be a sinner!

To think now of old sophisticate Gurton being called

Hezekiah Newborn. Gadso, he babbles of salvation

like the tap his boy left running this morning to see

the troop of cavaliers go by. Yet I marked the

unregenerate Gurton swore round ere Newborn found his

voice to upbraid sourly as becomes a saint. He hath

been more civil since I heard him. O Newborn,

how utterly shalt thou be damned!

[_Enter HOST._]

_Host._ The Lord be with thee, young man. It did

seem to me that thou wert discoursing aloud in

prayer. Doth thy master desire any creature-comfort?

_Will._ Master Gurton! thy belly hath kept pace

with thy righteousness.

_Host._ Ha! Who told thee my carnal name? I

prithee abstain. It doth remind me of the bonds of

the flesh.

_Will._ Simply, thou art known to me. I am William

Nutbrown.

_Host._ Nay! What, mine own friend Will, that had

his bastard fathered on me? Why, he was a youth!

_Will._ He was! A youth of promise. Behold the

fulfilment in these legs, this manly bosom!

_Host._ O wonderful! and to think I knew thee not!

But thou art horribly, and as it were most monstrously

improved? Will Nutbrown! to be sure--and whence

comest thou?

_Will._ From the land of beccaficos, mine old

Newborn! but thou understandest not--thou hast merely

observed the increase of local timber and the decay of

pigeon-houses. Thy sole chronicle hath been the ripe

birth of undistinguishable curly-headed village

children, and the green burial of undistinguished village

bald old men hath been thine only lesson. Thou hast

simply acquired amazement at the actions of the man

of experience. Doth a quart measure still hold a quart?

_Host._ Alas! more--I will tell thee of it. These be

sore times for us. You must know there hath been a

Parliament commission of inquiry into weights and

measures, and last Michaelmas a year, no! let me

see--well, marry! there came down--

_Will._ Well, well, thou shalt finish anon.

_Host._ It went nigh to kill me.

_Will._ Thou shalt tell me all hereafter.

_Host._ Damnation! but I am glad. The Lord

forgive me! I had nearly sworn.

_Will._ Thou hadst--nearly.

_Host._ And art thou a vessel of grace, or a brand

given to the burning? Of a verity--

_Will._ Come, no lies with me! I shall doubt thee

if thou cantest one word except in thy calling. Yet

I saw by thy first look thou wert glad to see me; so

give me thy hand, and I will shake it ere some one

calls for a draught of ale, and thou dost relapse into

the sordid and muddy calculation that makes thy

daily self, and so forget that the friend of thy youth

hath revisited thee. Nay, fear not, I will not betray

thee to thy present customers. But first tell me, why

thou art so changed: seeing that the cavaliers should

be thy best friends?

_Host._ Friend Will! Twill tell thee--the cavaliers

drink lustily, and of claret and sherris with spice,

whereas, it is true, the elect chiefly do affect ale. But,

O Will! your cavalier--not to speak of my keeping

never a serving wench honest for a month, and I have

daughters now grown--your best cavalier would ever

pull out a long embroidered purse, with one gold piece

in it, regarding which he would briskly swing it round,

and jerking it together, replace in his doublet, saying

between his hiccups, "Prithee, sweet Spigot!" or it

may he, "Jolly Master Gurton! chalk it up; when the

king hath his own again, I will repay thee;" or "I

will go coin it from Noll's ruby nose," and would ride

away singing, and in a fortnight the poor gentleman

would surely be slain. And, as for your worst kind of

cavalier, when I did gently remind him, he would

swear and draw his rapier and make a fearful pass

near my belly--that I was glad to see him depart

with a skinful of mine own wine unpaid for.

Moreover, Master Will, an he were handsome and a

moon-raker, my wife, that is now at rest, would ever take

his part, and cry shame on me for a cuckoldy villain

to teaze a sweet, loyal gentleman so, that would pay

when a could--moreover--

_Will._ Hold! Thy reasons are sufficient--Thou art,

worthy Hezekiah! become a saint, to escape

martyrdom. Methinks I see the gallant foin at thy belly.

[_Draws his sword and makes a feint at the Host._]

Sa! sa!

_Host._ Have a care--[_William makes feints._]

_Will._ I shall die! Gadzookers! thus, was it

thus!--and thy wife--a cuckoldy villain--merely a figure

of speech though, Master Gurton! Eh? Thou didst

not suspect?

_Host._ Wilt thou be quiet; I see no jest.

_Will._ Nay, I'll be bound not. Sa! Sa!

_Host._ Laugh an thou likest; but put up thy toasting-iron.

_Will._ Well, thou hast reason for thanksgiving.

But I think thy wife was right, if the poor

gentleman's thrust was drunken, 'twas a compliment to

thy wine. A scurvy rogue to ask for his money

when he was poor, and thy wine did affect him.

_Host._ But to speak seriously, good Will, what

bringeth thee here? Who is thy master! Can I

assist thee in anything?

_Will._ Well, I pity thee, and will say no more. My

master is young Arthur Walton. He hath returned.

He gave up the fortune to his brother Basil.

_Host._ I thought he was settled abroad.

_Will._ No! no! He is here, and now he wanteth

assistance from his brother; for we are in some

present straits, and this Basil will have nought to say

to him. What I shall want of thee is information of

the family; and mayhap thy daughter will have to

see Mistress Florence for us with a message.

[_Enter TAPSTER and two or three Roundhead Soldiers, L._]

_Tap._ Master, master! here be soldiers quartered on us.

_Will._ The Philistines be upon thee!

_Host._ O Lord!----be praised. See directly and

water the double ale--Tell my daughter to lock up

the Trinidado tobaccos--Haste!

[_Enter IRETON, HARRISON, and Soldiers, L.U.E._]

_Ire._ [_Reading Papers._] Give us to drink, good

measure; for the flesh is thirsty. That we have shall

be paid. Who is that fellow [_points to William_] with

his sword drawn?

_Har._ Ha! a malignant.--Smite him!

_Sold._ Lo! he shall die.

_Host._ Hold! hold! 'tis an innocent youth. He

did but draw his weapon to defy the evil one. He is

strong in prayer. [_To William aside._] Speak quickly,

an thou lovest thyself--something from Tobit, or the

Psalmody.

_Har._ Thou hearest--Sin-Despise! touch not the

youth. Lo, I myself have wrestled with the powers

of darkness. [_To William._] In what shape cometh he?

_Will._ With horns, an't please you, [_Aside._] very

like Master Newborn there.

_Har._ [_To himself._] With me 'tis different. In the curtain'd night,

A Form comes shrieking on me,

With such an edg'd and preternatural cry

'T would stir the blood of clustering bats from sleep,

Tear their hook'd wings from out the mildew'd eaves,

And drive them circling forth--

I tell ye that I fight with him until

The sweat like blood puts out my burning eyes.

Call you this dreaming?

_Will._ [_Aside to the Host._] Dost think the gentleman eats suppers?

_Ire._ A plague upon his damn'd repentant fancies!

_Har._ [_Still to himself._] 'Twas on the heath,

As he did gripe and hold it from his breast,

He cut my blade with fifty pallid fingers,

On his knees, crying out

He had at home an old and doating father;

And yet I slew him!

There was a ribbon round his neck

That caught in the hilt of my sword.

A stripling, and so long a dying? Why

'Tis most unnatural!

_Host._ [_Aside to William._] I would not have his

conscience to be vintner to the Parliament.

_Will._ [_To Host._] Nor I, for my master to be a

fat-witted Duke, and I his chief serving-man.

_Ire._ Here we need counsel, and he raves of dreams

And devils. Yet, 'tis true, he fights as if

He were possess'd by them.

Come, Harrison!

Will you not hear how fortune dawns upon us?--

_Har._ Ay! indeed--

Excuse me, Ireton, I was something absent;

I think my health of late is shatter'd much.

Sometimes I talk aloud. Did I not speak

But now of Joab in the Bible,

And how he did slay Abner?--

Thou know'st I read the Scripture very oft.

_A Trooper._ Ay! he goes to bed with it under his

pillow, lest the evil one should prevail. Desborough

told him of it.

_Har._ Heard you of Falkland's death?

_Ire._ At Newbury?--

I did. On either side, in this sad war

The good and noble seem the ripest fruit,

And so fall first.

_Har._ Thus let them perish, all

That strive against the Lord.

Is Cromwell nigh?--

_Ire._ He will be here anon.

_Har._ [_To himself._] The mighty men

Of Israel slew _all_. It was a sin

To spare the child in the womb.

I am a fool

To shiver thus to think that night must come.

The lion trembles at the sun's eclipse,

But, not for murder of the innocent lamb.

Who walks across my grave?--

_Ire._ Come, let us go:

I cannot pray or wrestle in the spirit;

But let us talk of earthly fights and toils.

I love fat quarters in a Bishopric

As well as any preacher of us all.

_Har._ Come, men, to quarters--

In four hours' time we march

To join Lord Essex--see your girths are slack'd,

Your pistols prim'd, your beasts fed, and your souls

Watching for grace, the word is "Kill and slay"--

'Twere best all eat, for I will fast and pray.

[_Exeunt HARRISON and IRETON, R.S.E._]

_A Soldier._ [_To William._] I say, wilt thou discourse?

_2nd Sold._ Give him a text.

_3rd Sold._ He lacketh speech--He is a dumb Amalekite.

_1st Sold._ I will even awaken him with a prick of my sword.

_Host._ Nay! he is strong in the word. [_To William._]

Preach something, if thou beest wise.

_Will._ What the devil!--

_3rd Sold._ Ay! uplift thy voice against Beelzebub.

_Host._ Thou couldst talk fast enough just now.

_Will._ Gurton! for this I will undo thee.

Newborn! thou didst just now water thine ale. Hezekiah!

thou dissemblest, which is more than thy wife used

to do; for she feared thee not.

_Host._ I pity thee, and will say no more.

_1st Sold._ Here is a stool, let him mount thereon.

_Will._ These be ignorant knaves. I will practice

on them. It may come to good. [_Mounts the stool._] The

Lord leadeth his people through the wilderness to

salvation, crinkeldom cum crankeldom. [_Mutters to himself._]

_Soldiers._ Hum!

_Will._ Of all thirsts, there be none like that after

righteousness.--[_Mutters to himself._]

_Soldiers._ Hum!

_Will._ [Aside.] For strong ale, which I think hath

to do with the conversion of this Gurton. [_Mutters

to himself._]

_1st Sold._ Lift thy voice higher, that we stumble

not in the dark.

_Will._ [_Aside._] I would I could remember a

text--anything will do--[_Aloud._] The General Cromwell

hath, they say, a red nose, and doth never spit white,

which I look upon as a great sign, as was the burning

bush to Moses!

_2nd Sold._ Ha! Blasphemest thou?

_3rd Sold._ He scoffeth!

_4th Sold._ Down with him.

_Host._ O fool! There will be blood spilt!

[_They drag WILLIAM down (the HOST vainly

endeavouring to interfere) and buffet him; as

Sin-Despise draws his sword, the trumpets

sound outside to saddle._]

[_Enter HARRISON, R.S.E._]

_Har._ Why dally ye? Away! Smite hip and thigh.

To horse, to horse! what ho! Zerubbabel!

Mount, mount, I say, for bloody Goring's near--

To saddle, ho!

[_They immediately fall into line, and leave

quickly, L. The trumpets are still heard

sounding. Exeunt all but HOST and WILLIAM, who

arranges his collar and adjusts himself._]

_Host._ [Breathless.] What thinkest thou of this?

_Will._ Think! what of? Thy late wife's virtue?

I would she were here.

_Host._ These be now your civil wars: didst

mark? he said all should have been paid. Now, with them

that were here, there were some fourscore and ten

quarts that might have been drunk, had they staid

an hour or so; and now to ride off thirsty to be killed.

_Will._ Well, it might have been worse, for they

might have drunk it, and departed in that military

haste which precludes payment.

_Host._ Ay! ay! thou wilt have thy jest.

[_Exit into house._]

[_Enter ARTHUR WALTON, L._]

_Arth._ Where hast thou been so long?

[_To WILLIAM._]

_Will._ Truly at the burial of one Generosity!

_Arth._ And what manner of person was he?

_Will._ A fool in this world, but an angel of light in

the next; if the word of God be true, which I

remember to have heard in my childhood in the church

there.

_Arth._ And how was he buried?

_Will._ About the setting of the sun, when he had

no more to give. I saw none in the garb of

mourning, though many wore long faces, because their gain

was stopped.

_Arth._ And what wrote they on his tomb?

_Will._ Other names than his own. Extravagance,

folly, imprudence, were the best terms there. One

whom he had released from gaol, carved madness with

a flint stone. There was but one would have painted

his true name, but his tears defaced it--a humble

dependent, who had been faithful to him, but whom

he regarded not, being accustomed to his services.

_Arth._ Out! rogue! I have humoured thee too

long, leave thy rascal allegory. Hast seen my brother?

_Will._ Ay, and thy cousin. She is a rare girl, and

remembereth thee well. Thy brother is not attached

to thee. He will give thee five hundred pounds if

thou wilt swear to quit England for ever. He abuseth

thee finely, saith thou art a debauched vagabond,

which is an insult to me thy serving companion,

whom he threatened with the stocks. Wilt thou not

slay him?

_Arth._ O monstrous! Can it be? Fool that I

have been. My father, thou wert right, indeed!

_Will._ Thy cousin would see thee. She is miserable

about something, and will be here presently.

_Arth._ I will wither him with my reproaches.

_Will._ You have bad stuff to deal with. He will

not become good suddenly, as in some stage-plays.

You shall not frown him into a virtuous act. Nevertheless,

abuse him, an 'twill do thee good. Look you,

dear master, I will describe him. He hath a neat

and cheerful aspect, and talketh very smoothly; nay,

for a time he shall agree with everybody, that you

shall think him the most good-natured fellow alive;

he shall be as benevolent as a lawyer nursing his leg,

whilst he listens to the tale of him whom his client

oppresseth, and you shall win him just as easily.

Let the question of gain put him in action, and the

devil inside shall jump out, like an ape stirred up to

malice. He affects, too, a vulgar frankness, which is

often the mask of selfishness, as a man who helps

himself first at table with a "ha! ha!" in a facetious

manner, a jocose greediness, which is most actual,

real earnest within.

_Arth._ Alas! If this be true, what chance have

I? for such a one as thou describest would call charity

herself a cheat, and deem the emotion of an angel

morbid generosity.

_Will._ Bless you, he hath reasons! he would refuse

tenpence to a starving wretch, because he owed ten

pounds to his shoemaker, though he had ten thousand

in his coffers at home. Yet would he still owe the

ten pounds.

_Arth._ Nay, cease! I love not to hear it.

_Will._ And yet so meanly would he adopt appearances

in the world's eye, that should he have to cross

a muddy street where a beggar kept a passage clear

with his besom, lest the gallants should soil their

bravery, he would time his crossing, till one driven,

or on horseback, should be near, that he might pass

hurriedly on without giving him a groat, as in fear

of being o'erridden. Like Judas--

_Arth._ Cease! cease! I bid thee cease!

_Will._ Thy cousin is very beautiful and gentle.

_Arth._ I will but see her, then my sword must carve

my fortunes. Did she speak kindly of me? Alas! I

need some welcoming. Go seek her. It is time.

[_Exit WILLIAM, R._]

O sweet hour!

In yonder heaven deep the stars are lit

For evening service of seraphic quires--

Eternal pomp of serried, blazing worlds,

The heraldry of God, ere yet Time was.

The moon hangs low, her golden orb impearl'd

In a sweet iris of delicious light,

That leaves the eye in doubt, as swelling die

Round trills of music on the raptur'd ear,

Where it doth fade in blue, or softly quicken.

How, through each glade, her soft and hallowing ray

Stole like a maiden tiptoe, o'er the ground,

Till every tiny blade of glittering grass

Was doubled by its shadow.

Can it be,

That evil hearts throb near a scene like this?

And yet how soon comes the Medusa, Thought,

To chill the heart's blood of sweet fantasy!

For, O bright orb!

That glid'st along the fringe of those tall trees,

Where a child's thought might grasp thee,

Art thou not

This night in thousand places hideous? To think

Where thy pale beams _may_ revel--on the brow

Of ghastly wanderers, with the frozen breast

And grating laugh, in murder's rolling eye,

On death, corruption, on the hoary tomb,

Or the fresh earth-mould of a new-made grave,

On gaping wounds, on strife,--the pantomime

Of lying lips, and pale, deceitful faces--

Ay! searching every scene of rank pollution,

In each foul corner busy as at play,

With new horror gilding vice, disease, decay,

Boast not, pale moon! to me thy harlot ray!

[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]

_Will._ Sir, they come!

Your collar is unfasten'd and your hair disorder'd.

Let me--[_Attempts to adjust AUTHUR'S dress._]

_Arth._ Heed it not! I thought you knew me better.

_Will._ Just a moment.--

_Arth._ No! yet will I meet her softly.

She is the only creature of her sex,

For whom I feel some kindness; 'tis because

I knew her ere I knew the world beside,

And all the lie of passion, that is nurs'd

For long in early blighted hearts alone,

Whom rank possession of the thing they pin'd for,

Had cured in one short month.--Well, I'll be kind,

Nay more, affectionate--

[_Enter FLORENCE and BARBARA, R. He salutes her distantly._]

Fair mistress, thus

I claim a young acquaintance, that hath grown

Old in long absence.

_Flor._ [_Rushing to him_] Arthur! dearest. Arthur!

How strange! Dear cousin! Sir! I wish'd to see you,

Needing protection--nay! I was to blame,

Too hasty, you must think me bold indeed!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] Is all her nature, art?--How beautiful!

[_Aloud._] Dear Florence. [_Attempts to take her hand warmly,

she bows._] I have scarcely words to speak.

Cousin! I'll be your champion. [_Aloud._]

_Flor._ There is nought

In which you can assist me? I have come

Here, cousin, to entreat you, take this money.

Indeed, you can repay me quite soon, when

Your brother is more just. It is for him

That I would give it--

_Arth._ For him? yes! you are

Betroth'd?

_Flor._ My father wills so--

_Arth._ I need not

This money--

_Flor._ Cousin, take it. You are proud.

Will you refuse me?

_Arth._ 'Tis my character

To doubt your sex, and yet from you I'd take it,

But that I need it not in truth.

_Flor._ Why doubt us?

Ah! cousin, I have heard you have been wild,

And so think women false, as you deceive them.

_Arth._ That you have heard is false!

_Flor._ I thought so. Now

I could indeed imagine it were true.

Because, perchance, you've lightly won some hearts,

Thus you must be severe and scoff at all,

As if you had good reason!--It is proof

Of an ungenerous mind or scatter'd heart.

_Arth._ Fair cousin, at your feet I would recant

Mine error.

_Flor._ 'Tis polite, sir, thus to yield

All your experience.

_Arth._ Nay, then! Do you not

Believe a man may once love faithfully?

_Flor._ 'Twere base to doubt it--yet I think not you:

You know you could not tell if it were true,

Your love might be a jest. [_She goes up the stage._]

_Arth._ [_following FLORENCE._] By heaven! No.

[_WILLIAM and BARBARA come forward._]

_Will._ Young woman! I doubt not your attachment,

nor wonder at your love; but it cannot be returned.

Principle forbids; and this heart is blighted.

_Barb._ Plighted, or not, I want none of it. What

nonsense the man talks!

_Will._ This beard--what think you of it?

_Barb._ That it is red.

_Will._ Yet 'tis not for you.

_Barb._ I would humbly desire so.

_Will._ Do you know, lively rustic, that the beard

of Mars, the god of war, is auburnly inclined? It is

much affected by the ladies of the south.

_Barb._ I would they had it then, for it is an abhorr'd

thing here.

_Will._ What a rank prude is woman, thus to

disguise her inclination. They call thee

Barbara--Bab! restrain not thy fancy. Come, hang round my neck

and love me. What! wouldst thou be an exception

to thy sex?

_Barb._ [_Strikes him._] Take that, thou coxcomb!

[_Runs up the stage, WILLIAM follows, ARTHUR

and FLORENCE advancing._]

_Arth._ Break not my dream. It is not late. The night

Will lose her beauty as thy footsteps fade

In distance from me. Florence, go not yet.

I had a thousand loyal thoughts, I swear,

To utter, and as many questions, Florence,

To ask thee of thyself. Thou lovest not,

Thou canst not love my brother; for thou saidst

As much, nay more, this moment.

_Flor._ Did I so?

Perchance I might have done; but then I love

My father--

_Arth._ Tell me so again!

_Flor._ Indeed, I love

My father!

_Arth._ Cruel! no, I'd have thee say

If thou dost love my brother.

_Flor._ He's my cousin.

_Arth._ Or any one!

_Barb._ Dear lady, it is time.

_Flor._ Farewell, sir! yet I bid you take this purse

'Tis justice--nay, my will!

_Arth._ Oh, farewell, Florence

May angels light thy feet, and all the stars

From heaven race with envious beams to shed

Celestial brightness on the path thou blessest.

[_Exit FLORENCE, R. ARTHUR gazes after

FLORENCE. WILLIAM and BARBARA, coming down, L._]

_Will._ Sweet Bab, I love thee.

_Barb._ That is a man's saying.

_Will._ Thou wouldst not have it said by anything

but a man. Thou wilt not forget?

_Barb._ There, yes! no! anything!

[_Tries to get away. WILLIAM gives BARBARA a kiss._]

_Barb._ Oh, dear, I must go. [_Exit R._]

_Arth._ She's gone!

_Will._ They are, sir!

_Arth._ What _they_--

_Will._ Mistress Florence and Barbara, sir!

_Arth._ Why stand here prating, then?

Go follow; see no harm comes, quick, the road

Is dangerous. I'll wait here. Leave them not

Before they are safe in. [_Exit WILLIAM, R._]

For thy sake, Florence,

I will believe perfection's in thy sex.

How much I might have said. Yes! I have been

Imagination's wildest fool to deck

With qualities that did beseem them not

All the worst half of women. Thus we stoop

To pick up hectic apples from the ground,

Pierc'd by the canker or the unseen worm,

And tasting deem none other grow but they,

Whilst on the topmost branches of life's tree

Hangs fruitage worthy of the virgin choir

Of bright Hesperides. Soft! Who comes here?

Surely my rascal is not yet return'd--

The times are full of plotting. I will hide--

[_Stands aside. Voices heard._]

[_Enter four POACHERS, one carrying a fawn._]

_1st Poach._ I tell thee that I heard 'em bay.

_2nd Poach._ And I too! Curse me, but I thought

his fangs did meet in the calf of my leg.

[_Enter POACHERS, L.U.E._]

_3rd Poach._ 'Tis like it was the tooth of a dog-bramble.

_2nd Poach._ Well, well; it is the nature of man

to hunt forbidden deer.

_Arth._ [Aside] And to carve his name on benches.

_2nd Poach._ And while game be preserved, there

will be the likes of we.

_3rd Poach._ Right too. But it is a mortal sin to

make us men into dog's-meat, and to hunt us with

foreign bloodhound varmint. Hast heard, friend

Gregory, who stole my apples?

_4th Poach._ Not I!

_3rd Poach._ Would I could catch the thieving

rascals! Look ye, the tree is mine, and it does but hang

over the road a scantling; and, as sure as nights are

dark, comes me some ragged pilferers, that have not to

pay an honest drunkenness, and basely steal my apples.

_Arth._ [Aside] Oh, most benighted conscience of

the villains!

_4th Poach._ Shall I lend thee my bull-bitch to watch

thy tree? She hath a real gripe for a rascally thin

leg. Your orphan, your cast-away, hath no chance

with her, I warrant. A rare bitch!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] O gentle sophist! what a line is here;

Lions tear wolves, wolves rend the stricken deer.

_3rd Poach._ Well, now, I thank thee, friend

Gregory. Thou art a true man. I will so belabour and

flay any of the cyder-blooded rascals, an thy bitch

shall hold him; 'twill do a man good to hear of it.

_1st Poach._ I know the bitch. She'll kill them

outright! These be right times. There be no inquests

now, Master Gregory?

_4th Poach._ What's that to me more than you

others? I did not murder him!

_1st Poach._ Who? The Puritan young gentleman

whom Noll the brewer, that is general now, made

such a stir about--

_3rd Poach._ As if plenty didn't die in these wars--

_1st Poach._ Or the girl, Gregory! eh? the girl by

the well, with her finger cut, and her throat--

_4th Poach._ Damn thee, have done! She was dead,

ere I found her, and I did but take--

_1st Poach._ The ring, thou wouldst say.

_2nd and 3rd Poach._ Come, confess now!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] This is black devilry. Alas! poor England!

How many private, sleeping villanies

Now wake to horrid life that else had slept,

But for the times' most bloody anarchy?

_2nd Poach._ They say this Cromwell is near these parts.

_4th Poach._ I heard another speak! [_Loud_] I never

saw the girl till she was brought in, I tell ye.

_2nd Poach._ I heard it too.

_1st Poach._ 'Twas a cricket, or some such fowl.

_3rd Poach._ There's some one near. Look sharp!

_4th Poach._ Let's beat about--

[_Loudly_] As for the girl, I saw her brought in. 'Twas

a piteous sight--A love business, mark ye! I did not

find her. [_They discover ARTHUR._]

_1st Poach._ Ha!

_4th Poach._ Silence him!

_3rd Poach._ Curse thee, what brings thee here?--

_Arth._ Offhands! ye know me not. [_To 4th POACHER._]

Thou murderous dog!

Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?--

[_4th POACHER staggers back._]

_4th Poach._ Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy;

he will tell of ye all.

[_ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him._]

[_Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E._]

_Crom._ Who be these knaves? What, murder!

Ha! then strike:

Down with the sons of Belial!

[_Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly._]

The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [_To ARTHUR._]

Another moment, and thy soul had fled--

Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so,

And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus,

That no one falls or lives, unless the God

Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust

Thou art of the good work.

[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]

_Will._ My master bloody?--

A dead man on the ground!--a knight of the road

by his looks-- [_Sees CROMWELL._]

What a grim stranger!

_Crom._ Sirrah! move

That carrion. [_WILLIAM going up to his Master._]

_Will._ Sir! I wait on this gentleman.

What a look! [_Aside._] I am sure he is either the

devil, or some great Christian. [_Aloud._] I will, my

Lord! [_Moves the body._] Come along! To think

now this dead, two-legged thing should have been

active enough just now to catch a four-footed live

deer. No sooner does a man die, but you would

think he had swallowed the lead of his coffin. Come

along! Lord! how helpless it is! Why, he shall no

more kick at his petty devouring, no, no more than if

he were a dead king! [_Exit with body, U.E.L._]

_Crom._ Ha! 'Tis well said.

Would that this blood had not been shed.

'Tis dreadful

To send a soul destroy'd to plead against

The frail destroyer. Yet I could not help it.

[_TO ARTHUR._]

How farest thou now?

_Arth._ Good sir, I thank you for

My life so promptly sav'd--not courtesy,

But breath did fall me.

_Crom._ 'Tis a fearful thing

That I have done. A life! I might have struck

Less fiercely. God forgive me for the deed.

[_To Arthur._] Would he have slain thee?

_Arth._ 'Twas a murderer

Most double-dyed in blood. I heard them speak

His guilt.--

_Crom._ O, I could weep! and yet his death

Had the best reason for't.

Whence comest thou, sir?

_Arth._ I am but late returned unto this land.

[_Re-enter WILLIAM._]

_Will._ Yes! yes, from Italy, Rome, gracious sir!

Us'd to these things, you see--

_Crom._ Peace, knave, thou scoffest!

Revilest thou; because a fellow-sinner's dead?

Shame be upon thee!

_Will._ [_Aside._] If I should be impertinent to him,

'twill be behind his back. He hath a quelling eye;

although a man fear not. Now, amidst other brave men

with swords, he would be as one that carried sword,

and petronel to boot.

_Crom._ [_To Arthur._] I fain would hear from thee, young sir,

More of the land from whence thou comest. 'Tis

My hap, I thank God's holy will, to stay

In this my country, lifting now her head

From the curst yoke of proud Idolatry,

Lately so vexing her, I thought to leave,

A little while ago, her shores for ever,

Unto the new Jerusalem, beyond

The western ocean, where there are no kings,

False worship, or oppression--but, no more.

What say'st thou of this Italy? John Milton

Loves well to speak romantic lore of Rome--

A poet, though a great and burning light.

I would have knowledge of it to confound him;

A sober joke, a piece of harmless mirth.

What think'st thou then of Rome where Brutus liv'd?

_Arth._ 'Tis the decay of a once splendid harlot,

Painting her ruin, that the enthusiast eye

Lives on the recollection still, and thus

The alms of passers by still meet her cravings.

She stands, her scarr'd proud features mock'd with rags,

Fixt at the end of a great thoroughfare,

With shrill gesticulation, fawning ways,

Clinging unto the traveller to sustain

Her living foul decay, and death in life,

She is the ghoul of cities; for she feeds

Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.

_Crom._ Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind

With such disgust.

_Arth._ Good, sir! I did scarce feel it,

Till I return'd.

_Will._ Nay, sir! I do remember as we stood in

the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy

population idling within, whereby I did then liken it

to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of

maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech

against the land, where the only vocation of a nobleman

is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.

_Arth._ Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.

_Crom._ Yet are there not amends in poetry,

Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts

Glowing on canvass, chisell'd in cold forms,

The marbled dreams of sculptor's classic brain?

Milton hath told of these.

_Arth._ Alas! 'tis but

Corruption's gilding. 'Tis the trick of vice

Full oft to pander in a graceful form;

But when the finer chords of hearts are set

In eyes glued to a dancer's feet, or ears

Strain'd to the rapture of a squeaking fiddle,

Think you 'tis well? Oh, say, should Englishmen

Arrive at this, such price to set on art,

Ne'er rivalling the untaught nightingale,

That with their ears shut to wild misery,

Deaf to starvation's groans, the prayer of want,

The giant moan of hunger o'er the land,

Till the sky darken with the face of angels,

God's smiling ministers, averted--then!

To buy a male soprano they should give

His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames

Might have their senses tickled with the trills

Evolv'd from a soft, tumid, warbling throat--

Why then farewell to England and her glory!

_Crom._ Methinks the end of all things should be near,

When that doth happen!

_Arth._ Did I hear aright

That Milton was thy friend?

_Crom._ Yea! with the saints,

That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven

To set this nation free. He is my friend,

And England's.

_Arth._ I in Italy did know

That excellent man. Full often we have sat

Upon the white and slippery marble limb

Of some great ruin'd temple, whilst all round

Was dipp'd in the warm, lustrous atmosphere

We know not here, and purple eve did glow

With shadows soft as beds of fallen roses,

And he hath spoken in clear tones until

He built up all again, and glory's home

Grew glorious as ever. Then his voice

Would sudden deepen into holy thought

And mournful sweet philosophy, 'till all

The air grew musical and my soul good.

How well do I remember it.

Yes! Milton was

My honour'd tutor and my loving friend.

_Crom._ Came not his thoughts here often?--

_Arth._ Latterly,

He would speak much of England, and of change

Political, and coming strife and battles--

_Crom._ Ay! battles--

Hast thou not a sword, young man?

Thou should'st be friend of righteousness to know

That zealous patriot and pure-minded man,

Of whom thou spakest; surely he hath taught thee

More than mere classic lore--wisdom and faith

To help this stricken people from the thrall

Of their idolatrous, self-seeking rulers?

_Arth._ Fair sir! I know you not enough for this:

I am a stranger to these hapless broils

Between your sovereign and some of you.

Yet let me thank you for this worthless life--

Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join

So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not

The serf of custom to uphold a wrong,

Or slave of tyrants to deny a right,

Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul

Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart,

Hating the deed he cannot estimate:

As if, when some great exile to our land

Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire,

But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir,

Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore,

Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust,

The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend,

Haply now dead, or any other lie

So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable,

That weak men found it easier to believe

Than the invention; while the bad in heart,

By true worth most offended, felt relief,

Protesting still they wish'd it were not so,

With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask,

Worn uselessly by hatred.

Think me not

Of these--nor yet too rash in sympathy.

I would reflect well ere I draw the sword

To fling the sheath away; I bid you now

A kind farewell.

_Crom._ Full soon to meet array'd

In arms, the instruments of Heaven together

Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword.

Are ours--now good night! [_With emotion._]

Sir, this poor land

Needs all her honest children--noble sorrow,

And yet a cheerful spirit to assert

The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth,

Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice

And perish flaming in the night of space,

An atheist torch to warn the universe--

Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell!

[_Exit CROMWELL, L._]

_Arth._ A rude and uncurb'd martialist!--and yet

A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not

A hypocrite, too haggard is his face,

Too deep and harsh his voice. His features wear

No soft, diluted, and conventional smile

Of smirk content; befitting lords, and dukes,

Not men of nature's honoured stamp and wear--

How fervently he spake

Of Milton. Strange, what feeling is abroad!

There is an earnest spirit in these times,

That makes men weep--dull, heavy men, else born

For country sports, to slip into their graves,

When the mild season of their prime had reach'd

Mellow decay, whose very being had died

In the same breeze that bore their churchyard toll,

Without a memory, save in the hearts

Of the next generation, their own heirs,

When they in turn grew old and thought of dying--

Even such men as these now gird themselves

With swords and Bibles, and, nought doubting, rush

Into the world's undying chronicles!

This struggle hath in it a solemn echo

Of the old world, when God was present still

In fiery columns, burning oracles:

Ere earnest faith and new reality

Had grown diluted, fading from the earth

Through feeble ages of a mock existence,

Whose Heaven and Hell were but as outer fables,

That trouble not man's stage-like dream of life.

[_Exit into the Inn._]

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

[_2nd Grooves._]

_A large Barn with folding doors. In it a number of

Cavaliers drinking at various rude tables. Some

women are interspersed among them. Many are

playing at dice, &c. Their arms are piled in a corner._

_1st Cav._ [_Sings_]

Noll's red nose,

In a bumper here goes

To Beelzebub his own master;

With the pikes at his flank

Of our foremost rank,

And the devil to find him plaster,

Fairfax and Harrison,

On them our malison.

But drink and sing

A health to the KING--

Gentlemen! steady,

Fill, now be ready.

_All._ He _shall_ have his own again!

[_Shouting and huzzaing._]

_A Cav._ A _toast_! gentlemen. "Noll's nose a-fire,

and the devil's youngest daughter to baste it with

aqua-vitae!"

_All._ Ha! ha!

_A Cav._ Would that Goring's moonrakers might

come across the snuffling organ and cut it off. We

would have it by way of _pavillon_. Thou, Frank

Howard! shouldst carry it as senior cornet. Thou

wouldst be like curly-headed David with the spoils

of the Philistine drum-major Goliah. Led on by

its light we'd march direct to Whitehall, our trumpets

sending dismay to the virtue of the starched coifs of

the round rosy rogues of London.

_A Cav._ [_Arranging his love-lock._] Plague on't, I

don't think their virtue would tremble at the chance.

_Anoth. Cav._ Lord! what rumpling of sober

dimities! Poor little plump partridges, they cannot help

their forced puritanism.--But all women are for king

and cavalier in their hearts.

[_Two Cavaliers advance with angry gestures to

the front of the stage._]

_1st Cav._ I tell thee, Wilmington! 'twas I she did regard.

_2nd Cav._ And I tell thee that thou thinkest wrong.

I know she loves me.

_1st Cav._ Did she tell thee so?

_2nd Cav._ This kerchief was hers.

_1st Cav._ Bah! Thou didst steal it from thy

mother, boy! Go home and return it to her.

_2nd Cav._ Ha!

_3rd Cav._ Who is this piece of goods--she at the

White Dragon?

_1st Cav._ Nay, a mercer's daughter. Wouldst like

the address? She entertaineth well.

_2nd Cav._ How! 'Tis false!

_1st Cav._ I met her yestereen, and she said thou

shouldst have been a canting Psalmsinger. Thou art

so innocent a youth.

_2nd Cav._ Hell's fire! I'll not bear this. I tell

thee she waved her hand to me from her lattice, and

dropped this kerchief.

_1st Cav._ And to me she gave her garter when I left her.

_2nd Cav._ To hang thyself? Nay, thou liest!

_1st Cav._ [_Strikes him down._] Take that, thou fool!

[_He rises, they draw. Closing in of the

Cavaliers near, confusion._]

_3rd Cav._ Hold, gentlemen! 'Tis a mere wanton!

I believe these wenches are dowered by old Noll to

set our young hot-bloods by the ears. Hold! 'Tis

not worth!

[_They continue tonight. The 2nd Cavalier is wounded._]

_A Cavalier, richly dressed, who has entered, L., in the

meanwhile, and made inquiring gestures._

_Cav._ For _whose_ sake?

O shame! shame!

The King--

The Queen needs all your blood, and ye must shed it

In shameless broils like these!

Thus the dear blood that should, if spilt it be,

Dye our white spotless cause with its rich crimson,

Must now for every muslin thing that spites

Her prentice-lover, making fools of you.

And O ye others, loyal gentlemen!

I weep indeed for England and our King,

To see ye all, in this the perilous gasp

Of hardy enterprize, yourselves forget,

Like Circe's brutish swine. I tell ye now,

While ye are lost in drunken quarrelling,

Cromwell is near.

_3rd or 4th Cav._ The King shall have his own.

Lillibullero!

_Cav._ I say, thee General Cromwell

Is on the road with some four hundred men,

And will surprise us. [_Confused movement to arm._]

_1st Cav._ [_Who has continued to drink._] Ha! What

does it concern thee with thy preaching? Dost thou

want ought here? [_Touching his sword-hilt._] I care

not for thee or Noll. Would he were here, and a

matter of four thousand to back him. [_Draws._] Sa! sa! canst

fight as well as talk? Wilt take up the

bilbo? Come, adopt the weapon of him I have sliced.

Come, be nimble, sir, jig. I would fain go visit the

haulage of my fancy.

[_A confused noise without._]

_Cav._ Too late! O gentlemen! here, Willsden, is

thy sword. Varley, arouse thee! The enemy!

Away, women! Come, gentlemen--this table--a

barricade, so-- [_1st Cavalier stands in his way._] Off,

fool! [_Hurls him aside._]

_A tremendous explosion; the wide doors behind are

burst in by a petard; the barn falls, and discovers

a view of York. Enter CROMWELL with IRONSIDES

through the break._

_Crom._ Yield, sons of Belial!

_Cav._ O Charles, my king!

'Tis time to die, ere see thy cause thus lost!

[_Throws himself on the pikemen._]

Here, cavaliers! a blow, one blow, 'tis Noll

The butcher, brewer Noll, that in your songs

Ye send to hell so often. Send him now,

If ye be men, not cowards. What! at loss!

[_1st Cavalier staggers against him as he parries

two or three pikemen, and he receives a mortal

stroke, and falls. During this the other

cavaliers are struck down or disarmed._]

Alas! I might have reach'd him, but betray'd

By our own rotten conduct, die--Oh, had I words

Now could I prophesy--destruction--Charles!

My king! [_Dies._]

_Crom._ There _is_ no king save one, and He

Is with us! [_Points to 1st Cavalier._]

Yon poor wretch--what saith he?

Nay!

Strike not his mouth.

_1st Cav._ I defy thee, Satan! I'll back my rapier,

an' thou wilt fight, Brewer! Curse on thy muddy

veins, thou hast no honourable desperation in thee.

Come, if thou beest a man, give up thy odds. What,

ho! Excalibur!

[_Makes a rush to get at CROMWELL_]

_Crom._ It seemeth that

The ungodly fret. Go, place him in the stocks.

I charge ye harm him not--

But give him ale,

Wine, and a scurvy song-book--Such as he

Do make us triumph. Fie, fie, Cornet Dean!

Well, stop his mouth, an't please ye; come, away!

[_Trumpets sound._]

This is a gift of God, see burial

Unto the dead--now on to Marston Moor.

[_Exeunt U.E.R._]

[_Enter WILLIAM, U.E.L._]

_Will._ So my master hath at last turned roundhead

with a vengeance, and therefore I, to whom the rogue

is necessary, am here, on the brink of nowhere. To

think that so much merit may be quenched by the

mechanical art of a base gunner, who hath no fear in

his actions; for I take it that a discreet reverence for

the body we live in, which the vulgar term fear,

shows the best proof of the value of the individual.

Egad! life here is as cheap as the grass on an empty

common, where there is no democracy of goose to

hiss at the kingly shadow of a single ass in God's

sunshine. My master hath not done well; for he

must have known that I could not leave him without

a moral guide and companion--to die, too, with the

sin of my unpaid wages on his conscience. Well,

pray heaven, there come soon a partition of the crown

jewels amongst us, after which I will withdraw this

right arm from a cause I cannot approve; but to

cherish principles one should not lack means;

therefore, [_taking the feather from his cap and throwing

it down_] lie thou there, carnal device! and I will go

look for a barber and be despoiled, like a topsy-turvy

Samson, not to lose strength, but to gain it. I thank

heaven that our camp did yesterday fall in dry places,

for there were many of these sour-visaged soldiers

called me Jonah, and I did well to escape ducking

in a horse-pond. Soft, here be some of them coming.

Yestere'en I committed sacrilege in a knapsack, and

stole a small Bible from amid great plunder for my

salvation. Now will I feign to read it, and I doubt

not the sin will be pardoned, for self-preservation is

the second law of nature, as I have generally observed

fornication to be the first!

_Enter a party of Soldiers, R._

[_Looking up._] These be some of Oliver's Ironsides;

every one of whom is, as David, a man of war and a

prophet; truly they are more earnest and sober than

the others.

_1st Troop._ To-morrow we shall sup in York.

_Will._ [Aside.] How the man of war identifies

himself with the remnant of those that shall sup.

_2nd Troop._ Not so--for this morning, when a

surrender was demanded, they would have hanged

our messenger. That raging Beelzebub, Rupert, in

expected hourly to the relief. [_Distant firing._]

There! there! he is come.

_1st Troop._ What say the generals?

_2nd Troop._ Our own Cromwell is very prompt;

but the rest chafe much, and the Scots are sore backsliders.

_3rd Troop._ I would we might be led on and the

trumpets sounded, that the walls of yon Jericho

might fall about their ears, and deliver them into our

hands alive.

_Will._ Worthy martialist! may I speak?

_1st Troop._ Ay so?

_Will._ Is the King there in person?

_2nd Troop._ Surely not; he is in that city of

abomination, Oxford.

[_Here CROMWELL enters, U.E.R., with his face covered._]

_Will._ Is it not true that ye did ask them that

guard the city to yield it in the King's name?

_2nd Troop._ I heard the message: it was so worded.

_Will._ 'Tis an excellent contradiction, to fight for

and against. If ye should meet the King now in

battle, would you fire on him with your pistols, or

cleave him with your swords?

_1st Troop._ Nay!

_Crom._ [_Discovering himself._] But I say, yea!

_Will._ [Without seeing CROMWELL.] What, in his

own name, kill him for himself, for his own sake, as

it were? I would fain argue that with your general--[_sees

CROMWELL._]--another time. Farewell, worthy sirs!

_Crom._ Stay, thou base knave! I'll have thee whipped without

The army of the saints. Hearken ye all!

Charles Stuart I would gladly smite to death:

Not as a king, but as a man that fights

Against the honour, conscience of the king,

And the true rights of all his loving subjects.

Is any here the muscles of whose arm

Grow slack to think he may meet such an one

In arms to-morrow? Let him home to-day,

God and his country have no need of him.

_Soldiers._ A Cromwell! Cromwell!

Lead on, we'll slay the king.

_Crom._ I did but say

If ye should meet him, ye would not turn back.

_Soldiers._ No! No!

_Crom._ Nor slur the onset?

_Soldiers._ No!

_Crom._ Nor spare

A courtier for his likeness to the King?

_Soldiers._ No! No!

_Crom._ Why then ye are mine own, [_observing the soldiers._]

My brave and trusty Ironsides! See here

Are some right honest faces I have known

From childhood, and they'll follow me to death,

If needed.--Let the paltry Scot go hence,

And even Fairfax rein his charger back--

We'll on unto the breach. The Lord Himself

Will ride in thunder with our mail-clad host:

The proudest head that ever wore a crown

Shall not withstand us.--Strike! and spare not! Ho!

Down with the curs'd of God!

_Soldiers._ A Cromwell! Cromwell!

Let us come on!

_Crom._ The sun that stood in Heaven,

Until his beams grew red with two days' blood

Of slaughtered Canaan, shall see them flee

like chaff before us--

_Soldiers._ Joshua! cry aloud,

A Joshua!--

_Crom._ These gay Philistine lords

That fight for Dagon, will ye fly them, or

Hurl them and Dagon down?--

_Soldiers._ A Samson! Samson!

[_Distant cannon heard. Cheering from the Soldiers._]

_Will._ [_Aside._] Here's gory enthusiasm! Now

whilst every man is ready to preach individually on

his own account, and the whole collectively are about

to sing a psalm, I will endeavour to steal away

unperceived, lest any of them, imagining himself

somewhere between Deuteronomy and Kings, should take

it upon himself to proclaim that I come from Gibeon,

and so--

_Crom._ [_To William._] Hither! sirrah! It is well I

know the master that thou servest, or else thy back

had paid the license of thy speech. Tell him I would

speak with him two hours hence in his own quarters.

[_Exit William, U.E.L._] Good friend, [_to a soldier_] I

am thirsty in the flesh. Get me, I prithee, a cup of thine

ale. [_Soldier goes out._] [_To another soldier._] Give me

thy pipe, Ruxton! is it right Trinidado?--[_To them

all._] Think ye now, the generals fare better than ye

do--I mean now, Desborough or Rossiter, or our

brave Ireton?

_A Soldier._ Ay! do they. But just now we saw a

store of good things carried into Desborough's tent.

Lo! there goes Jepherson and Fight-the-good-Fight

Egerton this instant to feast on the fat things of the

earth. [_Here the soldier gives him a cup of ale._]

_Crom._ [_Pausing ere he drinks._] What is thy

name, friend?

_A Soldier._ [_Near._] Born-again Rumford.

_Crom._ A babe, I do protest, a babe of grace. See

you not, he cannot speak himself. [_Drinks, and

throws the remainder over Born-again Rumford's

beard. Returns the cup and prepares his pipe._] Now,

Born-again! I think thou art baptized again! [_The

soldiers laugh._] So there is feasting and gluttony

amongst our captains. Hearken ye, I shall call a

conference straightway. When the generals be come,

which they will do with sore grumbling, then do ye

fall to and spare not! I will stand between you and

the fierce wrath of them that be spoiled. Three rolls

on the kettledrum shall be the signal. See that ye

leave nothing. [_Going, L._]

[_As he goes he strikes his pipe on the back of the

corslet of one of the soldiers; so that the

ashes fall on his neck._]

_Sol._ Now may the devil!

_Crom._ Ho! swearest thou?--fy! fy! for shame,

Orderly officer! set Hezekiah Sin-Despise down in

thy book five shillings for an oath. Truly Sin-Despise

is no fitting name for thee, but rather

'Overcome-by-Sin.' Come, as I did tempt thy railing,

I will pay thy fine. [_Gives him money._] Tush! grin not so,

man. I thought my Ironsides were proof against fire

as well as steel. [_Exit, L._]

_Shouts of the Soldiers._ Live, Cromwell! live, our

worthy general!

[_WILLIAM re-enters and joins the Soldiers. Exeunt, B._]

_Enter ARTHUR reading a letter, U.E.L._

"----and so, cousin, I am very miserable, and if

you have this influence with the General Cromwell,

whose fair daughter I do so well remember, get me a

home with her; for, alas! I can stay no longer here.

And yet my father? But to wed with one that I

despise, it is impossible, and all things are prepared,

I look to you alone for rescue. Farewell. _Florence._"

I will! I will "Postscript. I hear you are

engaged in these dreadful wars. Pray heaven! you

have chosen aright; for I know not. But peril not

your life more than becomes true valour; for I have

heard you are dear to many. Adieu!" _I_ dear to

many?--let's see, there is my faithful serving-man--poor

fellow, he likes not this life, and doth assume

an amusing kind of fear, but I do believe thinking

more of me than himself. Well then; I had a dog;

but he was lost the night of our passage, when but

for his inveterate barking, for which I beat him, I

had surely been drowned in the cabin, where I slept,

when the vessel was stranded--he loved me; but for

more--I know them not.

O dearest Florence! were I lov'd indeed by thee,

There were indeed a bright star in the sky,

To guide my shatter'd bark of destiny! [_Retires, U.R._]

_Enter CROMWELL, IRETON, DESBOROUGH, and others,

U.E.L., ARTHUR joins them._

_Crom._ Thus, gentlemen, the reports being ended, I

would but detain you a short while in prayer.

_Des._ Nay! as I said before, we are fatigued, and

the body needs refreshment.

_Ire._ [Apart to Cromwell.] How the pampered boar frets!

_Crom._ [_To Desborough._] Will you to my tent?--I

can give you a soldier's fare, with a soldier's welcome,

a crust and cup of ale, and we can discourse what

remains.

_An Officer._ Indeed we are engaged; but if the

General Cromwell would honour us--

_Crom._ I thank you, I have supped ere you have dined.

[_Drum rolls. A loud shout of merriment and clatter is heard._]

_Des._ What is that--in my tent too!

[_Looking off, R. WILLIAM comes forward, R._]

By Heaven! rank mutiny. I'll have them shot.

_Will._ Nay! worthy sir, knock out the priming of

your wrath from the matchlock of your vengeance,

and abide till to-morrow, when you shall see many

a stout fellow and gormandizer to boot levelled. [_To

Cromwell._] Great Sir! they complain that the wine

is thin.

_Crom._ Go purchase some strong waters. [_Gives

him money._] I must not have my fellows' stomachs

unsettled. Here, thou graceless knave.

_Will._ An't please you, we had no time for grace;

but we return thanks to you, under Heaven.

_Des._ This then is your work, General Cromwell!

Call you this discipline?

_Crom._ [_To the Soldiers as they enter, R._] Go hence,

you rascals.

[_Soldiers entering with whooping and shouts._]

Sound bugles! fall in! quick march!

[_The Soldiers march round and fall in a line in perfect order,

WILLIAM bringing up the rear, shouldering a bone._]

_Ire._ [_To Arthur Walton._] See you now the bent

of this? How he doth make them his own? I tell

you that the day will come, this host shall follow him

alone, ay! and perchance England--

_Crom._ [_To Desborough, who has remained apart,

indignant._] Come, Desborough! if thou hast digested

thine indignation--[_Taking Desborough's arm, kindly._]

_Ire._ As he will never his dinner.

_Crom._ Thou wilt unto my tent, where is store of

wholesome food.

_Enter HARRISON, L., hurriedly._

_Har._ I fear they will not sally forth; our host

Meanwhile will melt away. Despondency

Sits heavy on my soul.

[_Firing is heard from the town._]

_Ire._ If they abide

In York, we'd best draw off. [_Exit ARTHUR, L._]

_Crom._ But Rupert! Rupert!

Wilt he not fight--The fiery-headed fool

Will rush out on us from yon fenced town,

And then--Whom have we here?

[_An Orderly hastens in._]

_Ord._ The earl doth bid you

Prepare for instant action; Rupert and Newcastle

Are forth outside the gates.

_Crom._ Said I not so?--

Their hearts are hardened by the Lord of hosts.

[_Musketry in the distance._] [_To an officer entering._]

Did you not hear me when I said "Bring up the

fascines?" How shall we cross the ditch? Do you

not heed? Quick, man!

_Offi._ Even as Balaam said to Balak, Lo! I will but

speak what the Lord hath put in my mouth. [_Turning

to the Soldiers._] Wherefore, I say, O brethren,

be ye as they the Lord set apart to Gideon--

_Crom._ [_Striking him with his pistol butt._] Take

that, thou babbling fool! this is no fitting time to

preach. Ho! Jepherson. Bring up the facines.

_Enter ARTHUR, L., to CROMWELL._

_Arth._ Fairfax is beaten, and our right wing scattered.

_Crom._ Hist! dismay not these. Doth Rupert follow them?

_Arth._ He doth fight fiercely.

_Crow._ Then will I meet him. Victor to victor, we

will close together. Ho! forward!

[_Another Officer enters._]

_Offi._ The musketry of Belial hath mowed our

ranks, and the sons of Zeruiah--

_Crom._ Tush, tell me not of Zeruiah, or, by the

Eternal, I will smite thee! Speak in English.

_Offi._ The Scotch are in disorder. Lucas, and

Porter, and the malignant Goring are playing havoc

with them. Newcastle, with his white coats, is

winning on us at the pike's point.

_Crom._ That's what is done. What is to do? What

says the General?

_Offi._ That you charge Rupert.

_Crom._ Why did you not speak sooner?

I am dead

To hear you drawl thus. Righteous Lambert, on!

Bring up the regiments.

Tell brave Frizell,

He shall see sport anon--

[_A Soldier gives him his morion._]

I will not wear it!

I cannot see around--

[_A heavy discharge of cannon heard without._]

Ho! Desborough,

Here is a dinner for thee. See thou carve it

Right well. On! on! a Cromwell for a Rupert!

_Soldiers._ The Lord and Cromwell!

_Crom._ Nay, not thus: shout rather

"God and his people! England! Liberty!"

[_Exeunt L._]

[_Different parties of wounded Soldiers enter U.E.L;

some being assisted, and others staggering; the scene

becomes dark and obscured with clouds of smoke.

Several Soldiers fall down._]

[_Enter WILLIAM, R., meeting a wounded Trooper, L._]

_Troop._ How goes the day? Why art thou not

with the saints, that are now fighting?

_Will._ I was about to fight; but they waited not

for me. It is all over now. The king hath no more

chance than a butterfly three days at sea amongst a

covey of Mother Carey's chickens. I would pursue,

but lack spurs and a horse, or you should not find me

here; [_Aside._] or within ten miles of it.

_Troop._ Get me some water, friend!

_Will._ Ah! you would have watered me in a pond

two days since; but here--this is better than water.

[_The Soldier takes a flask from him._]

_Troop._ I think thou saidst that the malignants

were smitten. Praised be the Lord! Yet I would I

had not seen my father's white hairs amid yon

accursed red coats. I parried a stroke from him that

must have jarred the old man's arm.

[_Falls back exhausted._]

_Will._ An' this be not a lesson! I have no father

that is a malignant, and could therefore only undergo

simple murder. However, [_touching the hilt of his

sword_] rest thou there! in Mercy's hallowed name--nay

more, as rashness is animal, so a due timidity

is soul, which is mind, and I have a great mind to

run away, and mind being soul, I think I have a

greater soul than Alexander.

[_A loud discharge of cannon, L._]

Now if it were not for that, this foolish brute, my

body, might rush off in that direction, but it don't,

for a great mind prevents it, therefore--

[_Stage more dark. He runs off in an opposite

direction to the shot, R. More wounded enter

and fall down, U.E.L._]

_Enter an Old Man in the King's uniform, of red coats, L._

_Old Man._ I thought the day was ours. The headlong Rupert

Swept all before him, like the wind that bends

The thin and unkind corn, his men were numb

With slaying, and their chargers straddling, blown

With undue speed, as they had hunted that

Which could not turn again--e'en thus was Rupert,

When round to meet his squadrons came a host

Like whirlwind to the wind.

There was a moment that the blood-surge roll'd

Hither and thither, while you saw in the air

Ten thousand bright blades, and as many eyes

Of flame flashed terribly. Then Rupert stay'd

His hot hand in amazement,

And all his blood-stain'd chivalry grew pale:

The hunters, chang'd to quarry, fled amain,

I saw the prince's jet-black, favourite barb

Thrown on her haunches; then away, away,

Her speed did bear him safe. Then there came one,

A grisly man, with head all bare and grey,

That shouted, "Smite and scatter, spare not, ho!

Ye chosen of the Lord!" and they did smite,

As on the anvil; till the plumed helms

Of all our best bent down. Alas! alas!

That I should see this day---

[_Looks about and finds his son._]

What's this, my son!

Wounded? my disobedient child?

I thought of him

But now in charging, as I met a foe

That beat my sword-arm down--had he been there

I had not suffer'd--nay, what colours these?

_Against_ the king?--he is my son; I'll bear

Him off, and win him to his king and me.

[_Takes him up, several cross the stage flying.

Musketry from L. to R. A shot strikes the

Old Man, who falls. Several officers and

soldiers enter fighting with swords and firearms._]

_CROMWELL enters pursuing, L. to R._

_Crom._ Strike home! spare none! The father with the son,

That fights for tyranny. [To a Trooper.] Give me thy sword!

Mine own is hack'd with slaying--

Where is Rupert?

The haughty Rupert now?--

Where is this king,

That tempts the God of battles?--Are they gone,

That cost these precious lives?

[_Here the sun breaks out in splendour and lights

up the battle-ground behind._]

"Let God arise,

And let his enemies be scattered!"

END OF ACT II.

ACT III.

SCENE, I.

[_1st Grooves._]

_An apartment in Cromwell's house._

_Enter CROMWELL, ARTHUR, the LADY ELIZABETH, L._

_Crom._ To have a home, that is no fitting home,

Is worse than the sad orphan's part, who gathers

His lean crumbs from the world's wide eager table,

And pares the flint-stones borne in stranger breasts,

To eke him out against the cruel winds--

[_Crosses to his daughter._]

Thou say'st she was thy playmate--

Come, thou hast

Mov'd the stern soldier to thy woman's will.

Go, sir! [To Arthur.] and fetch this Florence from her roof.

There should be no such scandal done in England,

As the loud insult of a marriage forc'd

Before God's altar.

_Arth._ If they do oppose?

_Crom._ Thy brother is a worker in my hands,

Leave him to me; the old man loves his wealth

Too well. I say, go quickly, and return

With speed direct--I'd have thee near me, [_Aside._] for

Thy noble confidence that dares to speak

The first-fruits of thy mind,--

I have regard [_Aloud._]

For thee, young man, see that you keep it warm

As now--but mind, no swords, as ye are brothers--

Not e'en reproach.--Sweet heart, when foolish mercy

[_To his daughter._]

Doth beg an idle tale from thy dear lips,

Perchance thou'lt seek thy father--until then,

All good be with thee! [_Crosses to R._]

Sir! I will direct [_To Arthur._]

A present escort for you.

[_Exit CROMWELL, R._]

_Arth._ Lady! deem

My heart coin'd into words to thank you nothing

For payment of this service.

_Eliz._ Sympathy

Is just as often born of happiness,

As bitter suffering of the world's contempt.

Within the magic circle of a home,

Happy and loved as mine is,

The heart is touched with pity's gentle wand

To do her lightest bidding--

But in this,

There is no kind emotion worth the name;

For I would see my school-fellow and friend

To talk old nothings, something still to us,

And look beneath the lashes of her eyes,

To learn her plaint against the selfish world,

And read her trust in Heaven--

Is she fair

As childhood promised ?--[_Looking archly at Arthur._]

Do you know, I think

You love her more than cousinship demands?

_Arth._ Nay! she is worthy of all love.

_Eliz._ Well, well, sir!

I shall know when I see you both together.

_Exeunt ELIZABETH, R., ARTHUR, L._

SCENE II.

[_1st Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_A Hall in a Manor House.--Discovered SIR SIMON,

in an easy chair, supported by servants, BASIL and

FLORENCE attending._

_Sir Sim._ I am thy father. Would'st kill me, girl?

O dear! I saw Master Stacker, the court physician

that was, to-day. [Coughs.] Oh, I am very ill.

_Flor._ Dear father! what said he?

_Sir Sim._ That I have a disease of the heart. Now

I don't agree with him. There he is mistaken. Why

I might die instantly with a disease of the heart.

He is a clever man, but quite mistaken there. You

see, my heart never beats fast, but when I am

agitated, and I was out of breath this morning with

the stairs--O dear! [_Places his hand to his heart._]

Thou dost agitate me, girl--but there is no disease

here--no! no! I am very ill--but I shall not die

yet!

_Flor._ Dear father! pray be careful.

_Sir Sim._ Now, had he said 'twas asthma--'tis a

long-lived complaint. I have known very old men

with asthma. Our chirurgeon, Master Gilead Stubbs,

said I was asthmatic, and we have been much together.

Many a good flagon of claret have we drank, and

should he not know my constitution?

_Basil._ Uncle!

_Sir Sim._ Yes, yes, I know. [_To Florence._] Come,

thou must marry him. Curse on this physician. I

never felt so before. [_Places his hand to his heart._]

_Flor._ Oh, father; do not urge this suit!

_Sir Sim._ Girl! I will leave thee nought if thou

dost not--save my curse!

_Flor._ No, no!

_Sir Sim._ All my hopes----'Tis very odd. Stop,

stop! I have a pain here, here! Wilt thou promise?

_Basil._ Murderess!

_Flor._ I will do all. O God!

_Enter ARTHUR, L._

_Sir Sim._ Who is this? 'Tis their father! I

promised him that Arthur should wed my daughter.

He is come to claim her, and see, he beckons me--

[_Falls back and dies in the chair, servants bear him off, R._]

_Basil._ Dead, dead! I am frustrated.

_Flor._ Oh, Arthur! look to my father.

_Arth._ [_Returning and supporting her._] Thou hast

no father, Florence! I have a home for thee, with

one that's young and gentle like thyself. [_She faints._]

_Basil._ Mark, thou art my brother! I swear [_Aside._]

I will have vengeance! At the moment too

She yielded. Beggar, thus to thwart me--Oh,

If I dar'd, I could smite him, as he smiles

On that unconscious, pretty piece of goods.

[_Retires, L., surly, looking at ARTHUR. Servants

come in with BARBARA._]

_Arth._ Take her unto her chamber 'till we leave.

[_Servants take FLORENCE off, exeunt, R., all but BASIL._]

_Enter WYCKOFF stealthily to BASIL, L._

_Wyck._ As for your brother, in these troublesome

times, as I said, it were less trouble to put him out of

the way in a broil. Colour it with the affectation of

party spirit, and, as you are on both sides, in a

manner, it matters not on which you disagree. You

might draw swords yourselves, and have me and one

or two stout fellows near, who would rush in and stab

him, as it were, to prevent mischief between you.

_Basil._ I tell you, it will not do. He is a favourite

with Cromwell. How often am I to tell you that I

would not break with Noll. There are secrets! You

see one does not know yet which side will prevail.

_Wyck._ Well, I cannot help you. If, now, it were

to circumvent a woman, to betray a saucy piece of

virtue--then I would go great lengths in deception;

remind me that I tell thee a story will make thee

laugh. 'Twas ere my trip to America. I would

have sold her to the plantations. 'Sblood, will not

that do for him?--

_Basil._ I tell there is better.

_Wyck._ Doth he know that by your father's disposition

of the property, his relinquishment of it in your

favour is void! I say, the old fellow knew thee well,

eh? [_Laughs._]

_Basil._ Curse on thy ribald jests; keep them for the

girls thou betrayest. No, no, he knows nothing.

_Wyck._ Let me tell thee of the girl. She loved a

mean fellow that was her father's apprentice, and

perspired in good behaving. A tremulous young

man; with hissing red cheeks and a clump hand that

looked through his fingers during evening prayers at

the maid-servants, as they knelt; yet cried "Amen"

with a reverence, and had the gift to find his own

bedchamber afterward. It was a mercy to pave her

from him, for they had surely procreated fools. Yet

she liked not the sea, and one night she fell overboard

in a calm, and the sharks had a white morsel. She

walked in her sleep. I wish, though, she had left

her ear-rings behind.

_Basil._ Hush! hush!

_Wyck._ Thus it is to be such a fellow as you. You

pretend to be so tender-hearted. Well, I never wished

to kill my brother. If I had one I could love him,

unless he were a damned scrupulous sinner, that

makes faces at doing what he is always wishing.

Why, hark you, with your peccadilloes, you resemble

a monkey over a hot dish of roasted chestnuts; you

keep grinning round with your mouth watering, till

they get cold, before you taste.

_Basil._ I tell thee that I hate him and fear him

not. Would that his blood might freeze upon my

door-step on a December night! If he were here

now, I would stab him before thee.

_Wyck._ Ay, in the back.

_Basil._ But I have a plan that shall undo him most

securely. Come in here, and I will tell thee over a

stoup of right claret.

_Wyck._ Now you speak reason; for I am but a

dry rogue, and am never fit for much early in the

morning, without I sit up all night. [_Exeunt, L._]

SCENE III.

[_Last Cut._] [_2nd Grooves._]

_A handsomely fitted Chamber in London.--A practicable

window in F._

_Enter ARTHUR WALTON, FLORENCE, the LADY ELIZABETH CROMWELL._

_Eliz._ [_To Arthur._] Urge not your suit through me, when she is here.

Give half Love's reasons that to me you gave,

Why she should not be cruel, and I think

You'll hardly find her so--[_To Florence._]

Nay! be not scornful,

You know I can betray you--[_Goes to the window._]

_Flor._ Oh, be silent!

_Arth._ Dear cousin, will you forth to walk? The day

Is fine.

Eliz. [_Running to the window._] I do protest it has

been raining long.

_Arth._ To-morrow I must leave--

_Flor._ To-morrow, really?

Shall you be absent long? Adieu, then, sir.

[_Going._]

_Arth._ Distraction! I deserve not this unkindness.

Florence, why spurn my love thus?--

_Flor._ Nay, I think

But just escaped one brother's persecution, 'tis

Too bad another should annoy me.

_Arth._ Pardon,

Madam, my cousin; henceforth I'll not grieve you.

[_Going._]

_Flor._ Stay!

_Arth._ [_Rushing to her._] What is it?

_Flor._ Nothing, but I think you promis'd

To ride my horse; you know she is too gay;

Nay, 'tis no matter if you have forgotten.

It is no wonder, since you walked so long

With those two foreign ladies yesterday:

The youngest dresses somewhat out of taste

To suit our English fancy. Did you not

The other evening speak of English dress

As something prudish, not quite to your taste?

Are you going far to-morrow?--

_Arth._ They are not foreign,

I do assure you; I have known them long,

The daughters of my honour'd friend, John Milton.

_Eliz._ [_Aside._] She knows it well as he does.

_Flor._ No? Indeed?

_Arth._ [_Pointing to Elizabeth._] Ask her.

_Flor._ I am not curious, sir, to hear

With whom you walk; but, if you mention them,

Of course 'tis natural I speak of it--

Elizabeth!

Will you come here and answer him! he talks

Of one old Milton's daughters, when I'd ask

About the fashions.

_Eliz._ [_With emotion, at the window._] See, there goes another

Doom'd to the block; the excellent Laud scarce cold

Within his grave--

It makes me heart-sick, girl!

To live, when just men die, that love their king,

And I, his daughter, _his_, that wills it so,

And does not stir to save them--nay, approves,

Condemns, and sanctions;

O 'tis dreadful! dreadful!

_Arth._ [_To FLORENCE._] Is she thus often!

_Flor._ Ay, too often thus

Of late she suffers. [_Runs to her._]

Dear Elizabeth!

There, Walton, go!

_Arth._ And may I hope?--

_Flor._ Is this a time?

Do you not see she is ill?--

You will return,

Ere long--go, call a servant!

[_He looks at her, she waves her hand impatiently,

he goes out. Exit ARTHUR, L._]

_Eliz._ [_Points to the window._] Is it gone?--

He was quite young. Think you my father sat

In judgment on him?

_Flor._ Know you not he is

Now with the army?

_Eliz._ True! true!

[_Passes her hand over her brow._] It is o'er.

Where is your cousin gone?

_Flor._ Who?

_Eliz._ Arthur Walton.

_Flor._ Oh! he has left.

_Eliz._ Your answer to him?

_Flor._ None.

_Eliz._ Out, flirt! I found you weeping, and you told me

You lov'd him--

_Flor._ Did I? I'd forgotten it.

_Eliz._ Well, you will lose him thus.

_Flor._ Then, he's not worth

The keeping, in my thought.

_Eliz._ You have done wrong.

I know the business he is gone upon.

You may not see him more--

_Flor._ I don't believe it,

Although he said it.

_Eliz._ Girl! he hath to do

A secret and most dangerous mission.

_Flor._ What!

In truth!--I'll call him back to speak to you.

[_Runs to the window._]

Ah! he has gallop'd off so fast without

Once turning. Ah! to danger--Oh, wretch! wretch!

Fool that I am. [_Weeps._]

_Eliz._ [_To FLORENCE._] Poor child!

You love him, then?

_Flor._ Oh! yes, I love him all--

All, for I am not vain. There is no thought

Dividing the wild worship of my soul.

_Eliz._ And yet you spoke so carelessly, and trifled

With this the noblest and the best oblation,

A woman--but a poor divinity,

I fear at best, my Florence!--may receive,

The heart of a true gentleman. I mean

No creature of dull circumstance, himself

A mean incumbrance on his own great wealth.

How oft before their lovers women try

To seem what they are not--if true their hearts,

As thine is, apes not more fantastic show--

If mean and paltry, frankness is the flag

'Neath which they trim their pirate, little bark

To capture their rich prize--

_Flor._ Enough! enough!

I know it all, I cannot help it, if

He were here now, I could not choose but do it.

I have a head-ache. I must weep alone.

I pray you to excuse me for an hour.

[_She goes out, R.S.E._]

_Eliz._ Poor girl! how needless is the pain she gives

Two true and faithful hearts--and I myself,

That never had the chance to love, or heart

To give away, yet seem to know so well

What it must be.--Oh, were I Florence now,

Could I have dealt so harshly with him?--No!

Why, one would think I lov'd him. She said so

But yesterday. Indeed I love them both--

Him for his love of her. Elizabeth!

Why burns thy cheek thus?--Yet a transient thought

Might stain the wanderings of a seraph's dream,

And thou art mortal woman. Oh, beware!

Dwell not on "might have," "could;" since "cannot be"

Points from thy past to thy futurity. [_Exit, L._]

SCENE IV.

[_4th Grooves._]

_A rustic Garden, with an Arbour in F. A Table, on

which are Books, Papers, &c._

_Enter ARTHUR, U.E.R._

_Arth._ She's soul-less like the rest, and I am but

A tame romantic fool to worship her--

I will not see her more, and thus the faults

Which, from her beauty, seem'd like others' charms,

Shall give her semblance of a Gorgon--

No!

Rather her beauty will so soften down

In sweet forgetfulness of all beside,

That growing frenzied at the loss I find

E'en shipwreck'd hope were better than despair.

Here comes my friend.

_Enter MILTON slowly, L._

_Arth._ Good even, Master Milton.

_Mil._ Ha! is it thou? my poor eyes are grown dim,

Methinks, with ever gazing back upon

The glorious deeds of ages long flown by.

Welcome, dear friend--most welcome to these arms.

Nay! it is kind to seek me thus--

Thine eyes

Are bright still; yet thy cheek is furrow'd more

Than should be; thou'rt not happy--Nay, I know,

Like all true hearts that beat in English breasts,

Thine must be most unhappy in these times--

_Arth._ I am so--

_Mil._ Thou hast fought well. I have heard it--

_Arth._ From Cromwell?

_Mil._ Yes, from him--

_Arth._ It is of him

That I would speak, as well as of this cause

That we call Freedom.

I have doubts of all

That urge this cruel war--Where is the end?

I fight against a tyrant, not a king

To set a tyrant up, or what is worse,

A hundred tyrants. Think you it may be

A struggle for the power they feign to hate!

_Mil._ What have you seen to make you think so!

_Arth._ Much!

The spirit of a demon host that strives

Each for himself against the common good,

Rather than that true patriot zeal of Rome

We us'd to read of--hatred, jealousy,

With the black ferment of the hungry mob

To gain by loss of others; and the aim

Of one man, more than all, seems set upon

An elevation high, as Hell is deep;

For such, if gain'd, the fit comparison.

_Mil._ The common error of a generous mind,

To do no good, and shrink within itself,

Sick of the jostling of the wolfish throng.

Your cause is just; though devils fight for it,

Heaven with its sworded angels doth enlist them:

So works a wise and wondrous Providence.

_Arth._ Tell me, what think you then of Cromwell?

Is he

Ambitious, cruel, eager, cunning, false,

Slave to himself and master sole of others?

Is his religion but as puppet-wires,

To set a hideous idol up of self,

Like some fierce God of Ind? Or is he but

A fiery pillar leading the sure way--

Arriv'd, content to die by his own light,

As others lived upon his burning truth,

And struggled to him from surrounding darkness?

_Mil._ There is much good in him, yet not all good;

And yet believe the cause he seeks divine.

Listen! this is the worst 'twere possible

To speak of him. He is a man,

Whom Heaven hath chosen for an instrument,

Yet not so sanctified, to such high use,

That all the evil factions of the heart,

Ambition, worldly pride, suspicion, wrath,

Are dead within him--and thus, mark you how

Wisdom doth shine in this, more than if pure,

With unavailing; excellent tears and woe,

He pray'd afar in dim and grottoed haunt

To quench the kingdom's foul iniquities--

An interceding angel had not done it

So well as this fierce superstitious man.

_Arth._ But if the king be prisoner and were slain?

_Mil._ I trust not that; yet kings are not divine--

_Arth._ Nor churches, temples, still ye would not rend

The altar vow'd to Heaven.

_Mil._ No, but purge

The living fire upon it, when the name

Is brutish and discolour'd.--When kings fail,

Let's bastardize the craven to his breed,

And hurl him recreant down!

_Arth._ But not destroy--

_Mil._ 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn.

_Arth._ In this I am not with you; yet I grant

So far 'tis well. I trust a different end.

The king, that hath much noble feeling in him,

Will yield; and then we will give back again

His just prerogative--

_Mil._ It may be so.

Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?--The same weakness

That yielded there is obstinacy now,

To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood

That through the melancholy Stuart's veins

Doth creep and curdle--

_Arth._ You do make me sad--

_Mil._ Nay, there is sadness in the noble task

Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here

As full of sorrow for the king; as thou--

Hating the sour and surly Presbyter

And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament.

He parted from me in an angry mood

Because I coldly met his warm desire

That Charles might reign again--

_Arth._ Indeed! Is't so?

_Enter a Servant to MILTON, R._

_Serv._ There is a messenger would see you, sir!

_Mil._ I will be back anon, pray rest awhile.

[_Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON._]

_Arth._ He should be right, that is so wise and good,

Living like some angelic visitant,

Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim

By all the fierce and angry discord round.

So one in sober mood and pale high thought

Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within

The riot warm of wassailing, and hears

All the dwarf Babel of their common talk,

As each small drunken mind floats to the top

And general surface of the senseless din;

Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul

Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd

To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears

With common sense, his dull and morning guide;

And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter,

And gleams of fitful mirth shine on the brow

Of moody souls, and careless gay men look

Fierce melodrama on their friends around;

While talk obscene and loyalty mark all;

Then good or bad emotions meet the eye,

Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white

Glistens more keenly, moisten'd by the stain

Of liquor widely spilt.

_Re-enter Servant, R._

_Serv._ Sir! will you enter?

'Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here.

[_Exeunt, R._]

SCENE V.

[_1st Cut._] [_3rd Grooves._]

_A Room in GURTON'S Alehouse. Night._

_Enter WILLIAM, with a letter in his hand, S.E.R._

_Will._ So now, a letter from my Master to his

cousin, and then, of course, an answer to that. I had

need go get myself fitted like Mercury, with wings

at his heels. To be the lacquey of a man that hath

quarrelled with his mistress! And to know the final

issue all the time, that it is sure to be made up

between them. And to hear him mutter "the last,"

between his teeth, while sealing it. He was to have

journeyed this evening, too, but the General Cromwell,

with a face very red and perturbed, and a nose

as it were of lava; his wart being ignited like the

pimple of a salamander, hath been desiring to see

him instantly. There is something going to happen

among them. Well, in these confused days,

Since I'm of those that have got nought to lose,

Perchance I may step in some richer shoes!

[_Exit, L._]

_Enter the HOST, partly undressed, in his sleep,

with a candle in his hand. He walks carefully

about the Room, and then exit, U.E.R.

On the other side, as he goes out, enter

WYCKOFF and BASIL, S.E.L._

_Basil._ I thought I heard a noise.

_Wyck._ 'Tis an old house, and probably there is a

Parliament of grey rats busy. I mind well aboard

ship, as I did once visit the hold, where we had store

of ingots and bales of wealthy goods, I saw them

sitting. I ordered the long boat to be cast loose and

got ready, but said nothing, except to a few; for I

knew something would happen; and sure enough in

three days was a leak--whew! I hear the bubbling

of the water now in my head--here I am, you see----

_Basil._ And the rest?--

_Wyck._ Are there! [_Points downwards._]

In the long-boat we found a very old rat; a tough

morsel; but we ate him, and drank sea-water. We

were forced to throw the gold overboard! [_Looks

around._] Is there nothing we can get to swig now?--

_Basil._ They are all abed.

_Wyck._ I hate the sound of snoring, when I am

about at night. It puts one in mind of groans. Shall

I rouse the host?--

_Basil._ No! no! to business--first to hide these papers.

_Wyck._ Ay! and about thy brother.

_Basil._ You see these letters addressed to me

in his name by Sir Marmaduke Langdale, touching

the rising in the North, I will place them under yon

plank in the floor. 'Tis already loosened. Then,

when he is accused to Cromwell, who hath strong

doubts of him--I have seen to that; besides, I know

him, he doth fear for the king, and will incense them

all--I will have them found, and then--

_Wyck._ Why thou art Satan's trump-card! Mind

I have been thy faithful tool, thy messenger, and

love thee--thou mayest as well sign me the paper

thou didst speak of--five hundred a year--I will then

eschew dice and go live virtuously with a woman and

repent my youthful misdeeds. I am not like thee, to

sin when I have plenty.

_Basil._ Yes! yes! but come, assist--[_They lift up a

plank, U.E.L., in the floor, and deposit papers; as

they do so, enter HOST, still asleep, U.E.R. He goes

to a cup-board, which he opens, and then pouring out

a glass of spirits--drinks, and gives a kind of satisfied

grunt._] Hold! we are seen. [_Draws a dagger._]

_Wyck._ [_Springing up._] The devil! where is my

knife?--Hist! Do you not see?--he sleeps. I have

seen this before. Did I not tell you of the girl?--I

have heard them teaze him about this. [_To Basil._] Be

quiet, fool! [_They watch the HOST; he takes a pitcher of

water and pours into the flask he had been drinking

from._] The damned old thief! I could have sworn

it yesterday. He waters his strong drink. That's

why I have not been so well here. I have a cursed

cholic these three days, and missed the warm nip it

should give my stomach. The poisonous old dog!

_Basil._ Are you sure?

_Wyck._ Look at his eyes. You shall see me flourish

my blade before them, and he shall not wink. But

don't touch him. [_He goes up to him and menaces

him._] 'Tis all safe; he will go now. [_The HOST

replaces the things, and goes slowly out, U.E.R. The

clock strikes twelve._] Come, let us see where he puts

his keys. [_They steal out after him._]

SCENE VI.

[_Last Grooves._]

_A large apartment dimly lighted. Tables with

writing materials. A practicable door and stairs in

L.F., practicable doors, R. and L.U.E.'S, chairs, &c._

_CROMWELL enters, R., very much agitated, followed by

his daughter ELIZABETH. After pacing across and

back, he stops short in the middle of the stage and

speaks._

_Crom._ Have I not promis'd thee that I will save him,

If he will save himself? [_To his daughter._]

_Eliz._ Thou hast, dear father.

And then, with blessings on thy righteous name,

Rejecting all they offer thee, vain titles,

And selfish, mean, dishonourable honours,

Thou wilt return unto our natural home

At Huntingdon, and I will read to thee,

As I was wont. Thy hair then will not whiten

So fast, and sometimes thou wilt have a smile

Upon thy countenance, that grows so stern

Of late, I hardly dare look up to thee,

And call thee "dearest father"--

Shall it be?

Did the king speak thee fair?

_Crom._ [_Gloomily._] Too fair, too fair!

E'en to be honest fair. Our good John Milton

Speaks bitter words. He saith Lord Strafford grac'd

Right well the block, that put his trust in him.

What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?

_Eliz._ 'Twas not the fault of Charles that Strafford died.

_Crom._ It was his fault to sign--

He should have died

Himself first. Daughter! urge me not--I'll do

What the Lord wills in this. Go! mind the household,

Thou little Royalist.

_Eliz._ Nay! father, hear me--

_Crom._ Away, puss! Where are Richard and thy husband?

_Eliz._ I will not leave thee, 'till thou promisest--

_Crom._ As the Lord liveth, is it not enough

To struggle with a royal hypocrite,

To keep his feet from falling, 'mid dissension,

On all sides, worse than chaos, liker hell!

To be thus baited, by one's own pale household,

Prating of what they may not understand?

Thy brother Richard with his heavy step,

Ploughing his way from book-cas'd room to room,

With eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish,

And just as silent; then thy mother with

Her tearful and beseeching look, that moves

Like a green widow in a mourning trance,

The very picture of "God help us all;"

And thou, with sickly whining worse than they,

Do ye think I shall do murder?

Why not go

At once unto the foe, and there be spurn'd

By Henrietta, that false Delilah?--

Or plot my death for loyalty? What is

A father in your minds weigh'd with a king?

Yet what is "king" to you? ye were not bred

To lick his moral sores in ecstasy,

And bay like hounds before the royal gate

On all the world beside--Go hence! go hence!

I would be left alone--

_Eliz._ O father, hold!

And pardon me for my distracted thought.

Thou knowest best, and I am wrong indeed:

I did but pine to see thee more with us,

To see thee happier--

_Crom._ My child, my child!

Mercy shall look with eyes like thine on me

Though justice frown beside. [_Takes her hand._]

Look up, my child!

Ask what thou wilt except our country's shame.

[_Cromwell hands Elizabeth off, R., and remains

looking after her._]

_Enter, R.D.U.E., MILTON, IRETON, BRADSHAW, MARTEN,

HARRISON (who brings a saddle and places it upon

the table), LILBURNE, ARTHUR WALTON, LUDLOW.

Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time._

_Brad._ [_A letter in his hand. To VANE and

HACKER, who have just entered._] So, gentlemen--Had

you been here just now, you would have heard

at length, this precious information, which our worthy

General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before

us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse

with France--a rare betrayal, and richly worded too.

'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had

been at Dover.

_Vane._ I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.

_Har._ The royal Judas! [_Cromwell comes forward._]

_Crom._ O sirs! It is but

A king's prerogative to break his faith.

We are not fitting judges of this thing.

_Har._ But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!

_Crom._ Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor!

Peace.

_Ireton._ Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.

_Brad._ [_After placing the letter in the saddle._]

There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather,

Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour,

The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge

Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.

_Har._ Why cry ye not, "God save our righteous King"?

_Crom._ Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept

Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd,

I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd

The hope of Israel---

_Vane._ It is true, indeed,

He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.

_Mar._ I say the King of England henceforth is

An alien in blood, a bitter traitor--

What doth he merit of us?

_Ireton._ This! 'Tis right

That one man die for all, and that the nation

For one man perish not--

_Crom._ Ho! what? son Ireton.

_Vane._ Alas! indeed he merits not to live.

_Brad._ What say ye?

_Ireton._ Death!

_Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker._ [_Severally._] Death!

Death!

_Brad._ I think, Sir Harry,

You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death,"

Why then we are agreed--

Stay! General Cromwell,

There was no word from you--

_Crom._ I thought to save

My breath; ye were so eager.

_Arth._ Hold, a moment.

I do desire your ears--

_Crom._ Our _ears_? Your _years_

Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders,

Till they have said--

We would hear Master Milton:

He hath to speak. [_To Milton._]

What think you of the man,

The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd

In Ireland against our English throats?

Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch?

_Mil._ Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy,

To make God's different worship, damning means

Of an unholy war between his people;

To be the beggar of his people's blood,

To set that crown upon his false, weak brow,

His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow,

From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire,

To fit him ne'er again.--

_Crom._ A right good figure!

Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire?

_Mar._ They say his queen, our foreign, English queen,

Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason

Why his crown fits him not.

_Mil._ Oh, it was base

To use such means to gain such selfish end!

So I have heard,

There _have_ been men, in such a hapless clime,

As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men,

With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces,

That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat,

By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame;

Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread,

Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still

The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart

Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.--

Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain,

Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha!

Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll

Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime;

And this with Liberty upon their lips,

Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence,

And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek,

And promises, as if they were as gods,

And no God held the forked bolt above!

Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred,

Religion, and the peasant's moody want,

To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins,

Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood;

Brazening the conscious lie unto the world

That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake,

Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank,

Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips;

That men had need to coin fresh words to mean

The holy things with stale use so defil'd.

_Arth._ But Charles hath not done _this_! Our poet friend,

Full of the knowledge of all times, hath painted

A picture all in vain.

_Vane._ But he hath done

A mischief similar--I see the point--

Hath he not arm'd the bigot, ghastly wretch,

To stab our English lives? hath he not sown

A crop of wild sedition, discord, hate,

Using the vain creed of the rabble herd

To wage this war against us?

_Ire._ Hath he not

Tamper'd with France, our curst fantastic foe,

And natural enemy?

_Brad._ Did he not first

Unfurl his bloody standard to the winds

At Nottingham, since when peace hath not smil'd

On all this tortur'd land?

_Har._ And are we not,

The servants of the Lord, betray'd, despis'd,

Insulted, wrong'd, by this false Ahab?--Come,

Let him stand forth before his peers--the people,

And die the death!--

Cromwell, what sayest thou?

Why dost _thou_ lack speech?

_Crom._ I am mute to think

Of what ye all say--words--ye dare not do it--

I say ye dare not, though ye were to die

Not doing, what your gross and eager speech

Makes easier than to cough, or spit, or cry

"God save the King;"--but ere your thought hath fled

A rood, a yard into the empty air,

Dissolv'd is your high counsel, and Dismay

Whips all the noble blood that fir'd your cheeks

To the pale mantle of a creamy fear.

Fie! fie! ye dare not do it--nay, son Ireton,

What, Harrison so boisterous? keep your frowns

To look upon his trial, since 'tis so--

[_Pointing to IRETON._]

Now hath he not a traitorous brow like his,

Perchance, that did stab Caesar? those were days

When men did e'en as much as they dar'd hint at.

_Har._ I said not _stab_, but bring him to the block:

Let God's eye be upon the multitude,

Theirs on the scaffold, the attesting sun

Shine on the bare axe and th' uncover'd head.

It is no coward act, lest he might sin;

For he hath sinn'd, until our very dreams

Bid England's tyrant die.

_Arth._ Oh, hear me yet:

I had not join'd you, save I thought he sinn'd;

I had not counselled, fought with you like brothers,

But that I deem'd your cause was just, and honour'd

Of good men and of God--I had not given

My childish prejudice and old belief

To carry arms against my country's king,

But for the sake of mercy and of justice,

And here I take my stand.

_Crom._ Why then stand there, till we come back again.

'Tis time to part--Come, Ludlow!

_Arth._ Hath he not

Virtues that might rebuke us all?--ay, virtues

More excellent in him than all his subjects, since

All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own.

'Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth

The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel

Shouts forth with hungry voice, "Long live the King!"

_Crom._ O wise and excellent argument, that

There should be no more kings.

Why spoil a man

That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose,

To make a king that cannot help but sin?

Let there be no more kings.

_Arth._ Then kill not Charles,

For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.

_Crom._ Hum, perchance--

_Arth._ _He_ hath done us no offence,

Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here.

I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man,

And none shall question, whilst his feeble race

And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise

The fair proportions of our Commonwealth

On the decay of kings, not on the death

Of one weak monarch.--

What! doth any here

Wish that himself be king?

_Crom._ He raves!

_Vane._ Nay! listen!

He hath much reason.

_Crom._ [_Throws a cushion at Ludlow._] Ho! there regicide!

Have at thee! [_Confusion._]

_Arth._ [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then--Hear!

[_MILTON and others commence leaving. LUDLOW

pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down

stairs, pursued by the former._]

_Arth._ [_To Milton._] Nay! nay! my friend.

_Milt._ Another time.

This is not seemly.

_Har._ Surely, doth the Lord

Need us elsewhere. Who holdeth forth below?

[_They all go but Arthur._]

_Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs._

_Crom._ I do protest that I am out of breath--

Yet I commend thy reasoning.

_Arth._ But, my Lord.--

_Crom._ That rascal, Ludlow!

_Arth._ Will the trial be?

_Crom._ 'Twould justify us much.

_Arth._ But if he die--

_Crom._ [_In a hurried tone and walking off._]

It is not thy affair, or mine--Why now--

Let's talk anon, I'm tir'd. Hast thou seen

My daughter Frances?--fares she well to-day?

Give me thine arm--I do admire thy reasons.

You see, these angry fanatics boil over;

'Twill simmer down anon--The king must live.

And yet he hath done much--wrought evil work,

And so--

[_Exeunt. CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly._]

END OF ACT III.

ACT IV

SCENE I.

[_2nd Grooves._]

_GURTON'S Ale House._

_Host and Guests._

_Host._ So they say the king is to die. Well, his

head hath swung at my door many a year, and I

cannot say but that there was custom. Good day to

you, Master Gilead Stubbs, you have a good mile to

walk. Shall the boy go with you?

_Mast. Stubbs._ Nay! nay! I thank you, I will

with Master Jesson here. You have lost the Captain.

Where is he?--

_Host._ What, that Wyckoff? Gone, and his score

left unpaid. Moreover, I think 'twas he that hid

my keys.

_A Guest._ Ah! how was it?

_Host._ I have never lost them before. It was in

my secret place, and yon Wyckoff had to do with it.

He was drunk the morning I missed them without

being served. I am glad he is gone.

_Guests._ Good day, Master Newborn, good day.

_Host._ The Lord be with ye; [_Exeunt Guests._] and

make sound vessels of ye! [_Aside._] for the holding of

good liquor. This is the best company I have had for

long. How restless I feel. I cannot help thinking of

my dream, that Wyckoff and the other would have

slain me, and 'twas in this very room. Let me see, I

dreamt too they hid something--this plank seems

loose. I could fancy now this were the fag-end of my

dream--[_Lifts the Plank._] What is here?--As I live,

my keys, and a bundle of papers.-- [_Reads._] "To

Master Arthur Walton?" Why, he hath not been here,

for long. If now it 'twere Basil his brother and the

Captain had left them here--from Sir Marmaduke

Langdale too. Here is something wrong. I feel

choked. Let me put them back. Why now, I could

swear I had seen them placed there. It is very odd.

And to think of my keys too. I could fancy they

were only skeletons. Yet I know their jingle well.

I'll to my brewer now, and, as there is no one here, I

say [_looks round_] God keep the poor king's head on

his shoulders, and may it be long ere he die on his

bier! [_Exit, R._]