Chapter I: Act I (1)

SCENE I.—A Room in Whitehall. At the back, folding doors hung with black crape. Henry Martin—Harrison—Ireton.

IRETON. Does the crowd gather still?

HARRISON. Ay! Round the door
The godless idle cluster; nor with ease
Can our good guards—the tried men of the Lord—
Ward off the gapers, that, with thirsty mouths,
Would drink, as something sacred, the mute air
Circling the dust of him that _was_ a king.

MARTIN. Ev'n as I passed the porch, a goodly cit,
Round and tun-bellied, plucked me by the robe:
‘Sir, can I see the king?’ quoth he. I frowned:—
‘There is no king!’ said I. ‘The man called Charles
Is the same clay as yours and mine. Lo! yonder
Lies, yet unburied, a brave draper's corpse;
Go ye and gaze on that!’ And so I passed.
Still the crowd murmured—‘We would see the king!’

IRETON. Ay, round the vulgar forms of royalty,
Or dead or quick, the unthinking millions press;
They love the very mummery of their chains,
And graceless walks unsceptred Liberty
To their coarse gaze. 'Twas a bold deed, that death!

HARRISON. A deed we ne'er had had the souls to do,
But for the audible mandates of the Lord.
I did not sleep seven nights before my hand
Signed that red warrant; and e'en now, methinks
Midnight seems darker and more sternly still
Than it was wont to do!

IRETON. A truce with this.
When saw ye last the General?

MARTIN. Scarce an hour
Hath joined the Past, since I did leave him praying.

IRETON. The pious Cromwell!—'Tis a blessed thing
To have a lodge above, and, when the air
Grows dim and rank on earth, to change the scene,
And brace the soul in thoughts that breathe of Heaven.
He bears him bravely then, that virtuous man?

MARTIN. Bravely; but with a graver, soberer mien
Than when we councilled on the deed now done.

IRETON. Yea, when he signed the warrant, dost thou mind
How, with the pen yet wet, he crossed thy face,
My honest Harry! ('twas a scurvy trick!)
And laughed till merry tears coursed down his cheek,
To see thy ruddy hues so streaked with black?
Ha! Ha!—and yet it was a scurvy trick!
And thou didst give him back the boon again,
And both laughed loud, like mad-caps at a school,
When the grim master is not by. I was
The man who, next to Cromwell, planned the act
Which sealed old England's freedom; yet that laugh
Made me look back—and start—and shudder!

MARTIN. Tush!
Thou know'st thy kinsman's merry vein what time
The humor's on him. I'll be sworn, nor he
Nor I thought lightlier of the solemn deed
For that unseemly moment;—'twas the vent
Of an excited pulse; and if our own,
The scaffold we were dooming to the Stuart,
We should have toyed the same.

HARRISON. Why prate ye thus—
Lukewarm and chill of heart? When Barak broke
The hosts of Sisera, after twice ten years
Of bondage, did the sons of Israel weep?
Or did they seek excuses for just mirth?
No; they sang out in honest joy—“Awake!
Captivity is captive! and the stars
Fought from their courses against Sisera.”
Our Sisera is no more—we will rejoice!

IRETON. (_aside to Martin_) Humor him Harry, or we 'scape not so
This saintly porcupine of homilies
Bristling with all the missiles of quotation:
Provoke him,—and he pricks you with a text.
(_aloud_) Right, holy comrade, thou hast well rebuked us.
But to return to earth. The General feels,
My Harry, how the eyes of the dumb world
Are fixed on us—how all of England's weal
Weighs on our shoulders, and with serious thought
Inclines him to the study of the HOUR:
For every moment now should womb designs,
And in the air we breathe the thundercloud
Hangs mute:—may Heaven disperse it on our foes!

MARTIN. Ireton, his soul foresees, and is prepared.
He will not patch new fortune with old fears,
Nor halt 'twixt doubt and daring. We have done
That which continued boldness can but bless;
And on the awful head we have discrowned
Must found our Capitol of Liberty!

HARRISON. (_who has been walking to and fro, muttering to himself,
suddenly turns round_)
Who comes? thou hast ill omen on thy brow.
Art thou—nay, pardon!—soldier of the Lord!

SCENE II.—To them Sir Hubert Cecil.

CECIL. Where is the General? Where the lofty Cromwell?

IRETON. Young Cecil! Welcome, comrade! Just from Spain?
What news I pray? The dust upon thy garb
Betokens weary speed.

CECIL. False heart, away!
Where is thy master, bloodhound?

IRETON. Art thou mad?
Is it to me these words?—Or that my sword
Were vowed to holier fields, this hand—— {606}

CECIL. (_fiercely_) That hand!
Look on it well. What stain hath marred its white
Since last we met? And you, most learned Martin,
And you, text-mouthing Harrison—what saws
Plucked from the rotten tombs of buried codes,
What devilish garblings from the holy writ,
Gave ye one shade of sanction for that deed
Which murdered England's honor in her king?

HARRISON. (_interrupting Martin and Ireton, as they are about to
reply_)
Peace! peace, my brethren! Leave to me the word:
Lo, my soul longs to wrestle with the youth.
I will expound to him. Thus saith the Lord——

CECIL. Blaspheme not! keep thy dark hypocrisies
To shroud thee from thyself! But peace, my heart!
I will not waste my wrath on such as these.
Most honest Ireton, did they tell me false,
Or is thy leader here? thy kinsman, Ireton?—
Oh God! hath stout-armed Cromwell come to this!—
The master deathsman of your gory crew?

IRETON. I would he were, young madman, to requite
Thy courteous quoting of his reverent name.
Go seek our England's David at his hearth,
And chide the arm that struck Goliah down.

HARRISON. I will wend with thee, rash idolator!
So newly turned to the false gods of Horeb;
My soul shall wrestle with thee by the way.

CECIL. (_to Harrison, who is about to follow him_)
Butcher, fall back!—there is a ghost behind thee,
That, with a hueless cheek and lifeless eye,
Forbids thee henceforth and for aye to herd
With men who murder not. And so farewell!
(_exit Cecil_)

HARRISON. (_looking fearfully around_)
A ghost! said he, a ghost?

MARTIN. Ay, General, ay;
And he who stands upon the deadly brink
Of Cromwell's ire, may well behold the ghosts
He goes so soon to join.
(_Enter a Puritan Soldier_)

SOLDIER. Worshipful Sirs,
The council of the faithful is assembled,
And the Lord President entreats your presence.

IRETON. Come, Martin; come, bold-hearted Harrison,
Bradshaw awaits.

HARRISON. Get thee behind me, Satan!
I fear thee not! thou canst not harm the righteous.
Ghost, quoth he! ghost! Seest thou a ghost, good Ireton?

IRETON. What, in broad day? Fie, General!

HARRISON. Satan walks
Daily and nightly tempting; but no more!
We'll to the council. Verily, my soul
Darkens at times the noon! The fiend is strong.
(_exeunt_)

SCENE III.—A Room in Cromwell's House. The Lady Claypole. Edith.

LADY CLAYPOLE. So leave we, then, the Past! The angry sky
Is cleared by that same thunderstroke which cleaves
The roof of kings; the dark time's crowning evil
Is o'er; the solemn deed, that stern men call
Necessity, is done;—now let us hope
A brighter day for England!

EDITH. Who knows Cromwell,
Knows him as one inflexibly austere
In what his head deems justice; but his heart
Is mild, and shrinks from the uncalled-for shedding
Ev'n of the meanest blood: yet would to Heaven,
For his own peace, that he had been less great,
Nor sate as judge in that most fearful court,
Where either voice was peril. What the world
Will deem his choice, lies doubtful in the clouds
That shade the time. Thank God that we are women!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Yea! in these hours of civil strife, when men
Know not which way lies conscience, and the night
Scares the soft slumbers from their haggard eyes
By schemes of what the morrow shall bring forth,
'Tis sweet to feel our weakness, and to glide
Adown the stream of our inactive thought!—
While, on the bank, towers crash and temples fall,
We sail unscath'd; and watch the unvex'd life
Mirror that peaceful heaven, earth cannot mar!
(_after a pause, with a smile_)
Yet scarce indeed unvex'd, while one wild power
Can rouse the tide at will, and wake the heart
To tempest with a sigh;—nay, blush not, Edith.

EDITH. I have no cause for blushes; and my cheek
Did wrong my thought, if it did speak of shame.
To love!—ah! 'tis a proud, a boastful joy,
If he we love is worthy of our love!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And that, in truth, is Cecil: with his name
Honor walks spotless, and this stormy world
Grows fair before his presence; in his tongue
Lurks no deceit; his smile conceals no frown:
Ev'n in his very faults, his lofty pride
And the hot frankness of his hasty mood,
There seems a heavenly virtue, by the side
Of men who stalk around, and, if they win
Truth to the soul, wear falsehood on the brow.

EDITH. Speak thus forever, dearest! for his praise
Makes thy voice music. Yes, he is all this;
And I, whose soul is but one thought of him,
Feel thought itself can compass not the girth
Of his wide merit. Was I not right to say
I could not blush to love him? Yet, methinks,
Well might I blush to feel that one like Cecil
Has love for Edith!

LADY CLAYPOLE. If, sweet coz, I cease
To praise him, it shall be for sweeter words
Ev'n than his praise!

EDITH. Impossible!

LADY CLAYPOLE. And yet,
Were I a maid that loved as Edith loves,
Tidings of him I loved were sweeter words
Ev'n than his praise.

EDITH. Tidings!—Oh, pardon, coz!—
Tidings from Spain?

LADY CLAYPOLE. No, Edith, not from Spain;
Tidings from London. Cecil is returned.
Just ere we met, his courier's jaded steed
Halted below. Sir Hubert had arrived,
And, on the instant, sought my father.

EDITH. Come!
And I to hear it from another's lips!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, coz, be just: with matters of great weight—
Matters that crave at once my father's ear— {607}
Be sure that he is laden.
(_Enter a Servant_)

SERVANT. Pardon, Madam!
Methought the General here!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Who asks my father?

SERVANT. Sir Hubert Cecil, just arrived from Spain,
Craves audience with his honor.

LADY CLAYPOLE. Pray his entrance.
Myself will seek the General. (_exit servant_)
Thank me, Edith!
If now I quit thee, wilt thou thank me less?

EDITH. I prithee stay!

LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, Friendship is a star
Fading before the presence of Love's sun.
Farewell! Again, those blushes!—Edith, fie!
(_exit Lady Claypole_)

SCENE IV.—Cecil and Edith.

CECIL. Where is the General?—Where—Oh, Heaven! my Edith?

EDITH. Is there no welcome in that word? Am I
Unlooked for at thy coming?

CECIL. Pardon, Madam!
I—I—(_aside_) Oh, God! how bitter is this trial!
Why do I love her less? Why fall I not
At her dear feet? Why stand I thus amazed?
Is this not Edith? No! 'tis Cromwell's niece;
And Cromwell is the murtherer of my king!

EDITH. ‘Pardon’ and ‘madam!’—do I hear aright?
Art thou so cold? Do I offend thine eyes?
Thou turn'st away thy face! Well, Sir, 'tis well!
Hubert! still silent! (_In a softer voice_) Hubert!

CECIL. Oh, for grace!
For heaven's dear grace! speak not in that sweet tone!
Be not so like that shape that _was_ my Edith!

EDITH. (_Gazing upon him with surprise and anger, turns as if to quit
the stage, and then aside_)
Sure he is ill! Keen travail and the cares
Of these unhappy times have touched the string
Of the o'erlabored brain. And shall I chide him?
_I_ who should soothe? (_Approaches and aloud_) Art thou not well,
dear Hubert?

CECIL. Well! well! the leaping and exultant health
Which makes wild youth unconscious of its clay,
Deeming itself all soul; the golden chain
Which link'd that earth, our passions—with that heaven,
Our hopes—why _this_ was to be _well!_ But now
One black thought from the fountain of the heart
Gushes eternally, till all the streams
Of all the world are poisoned,—and the Past
Hath grown one death, whose grim and giant shadow
Makes that chill darkness which we call ‘_the Future!_’
Where are my dreams of glory? Where the fame
Unsullied by one stain of factious crime?
And where—oh where!—the ever dulcet voice
That murmured, in the star-lit nights of war,
When the loud camp lay hushed, _thy_ holy name?
Edith is mine no more! (_taking her hand_) Yet let me gaze
Again upon thee! No! thou art not changed
Ah! would thou wert! In that translucent cheek
The roses tremble, stirr'd as by an air,
With the pure impulse of thy summer soul—
On thy white brow chaste conscience sits serene—
There is no mark of blood on this fair hand—
Yet Cromwell is thy kinsman!

EDITH. By the vows
That we have plighted, look not on me thus!
Speak not so wildly! Hubert, I am Edith!
Edith!—thine own! oh! am I not thine own?

CECIL. My own!—my Edith! Yes, the evil deeds
Of that bold man cast forth no shade on thee,
Albeit they gloom the world as an eclipse
Whose darkness is the prophecy of doom!

EDITH. Hush! hush! What! know'st thou not these walls have ears?
Speak'st thou of Cromwell thus, upon whose nod
Hang life and death?

CECIL. But not the _fear_ of death!

EDITH. What change hath chanc'd, since last we met, to blot
Thy champion and thy captain from thy grace?
Why, when we parted, was not thy last word
In praise of Cromwell? Was he not the star
By which thy course was lighted? Nay, so glowed
His name upon thy lips, that I—ev'n I—
Was vexed to think thou'dst so much love to spare!

CECIL. Ah, there's the thought—the bitter, biting thought!
Boy that I was, I pinned my faith to Cromwell;
For him forsook my kin; renounced my home,
My father's blessing, and my mother's love;
Gave up my heart to him, my thoughts, my deeds,—
Reduced the fire and freedom of my youth
Into a mere machine—a thing to act
Or to be passive as its master wills;
On his broad banner I affixed my name—
My heritage of honor; blindly bound
My mark and station in the world's sharp eye
To the unequal chances of his sword!
But then methought it was a freeman's blade,
Drawn, but with sorrow, for a nation's weal!

EDITH. And was it not so, Hubert?

CECIL. Was it? What!
When (with no precedent, from all the Past—
That solemn armory for decorous Murther!)
Some two score men assumed a people's voice,
And sullied all the labors of long years,
The laurels of a war for equal laws,
By one most tragic outrage of all law!
Oh, in that stroke 'twas not the foe that fell!
'Twas we who fought!—the pillar of our cause;
The white unsullied honor of our arms;
The temperate justice that disdains revenge;
The rock of law, from which war's standard waved;—
The certainty of RIGHT;—'twas these that fell!

EDITH. Alas! I half foreboded this, and yet
Would listen not to fear. But, Hubert, I—
If there be sin in that most doubtful deed—
_I_ have not shared the sin.

CECIL. No, Edith, no!
But the sin severs us! Will Cromwell give
The hand of Edith to his foe?

EDITH. His foe!
What madness, Hubert! In the gloomy past
Bury the wrong thy wrath cannot undo;
Think but in what the future can repair it.

CECIL. I do so, Edith; and, upon that thought,
I built the wall 'twixt Cromwell and my soul. {608}
The king is dead—but not the race of kings;
There is a second Charles! Oh, Edith, yet—
Yet may our fates be joined! Beyond the seas
Lives my lost honor—lie my only means
To prove me guiltless of this last bad deed!
Beyond the seas, oh, let our vows be plighted!
Fly with thy Cecil!—quit these gloomy walls,
These whited sepulchres, these hangman saints!
Beyond the seas, oh! let me find my bride,
Regain my honor, and record my love!

EDITH. Alas! thou know'st not what thou say'st. The land
Is lined with Cromwell's favorers. Not a step
But his eye reads the whereabout. From hence
Thou couldst not 'scape with life, nor I with honor!

CECIL. Ah, Edith, rob not Heaven of every star!
From home, and England, and ambition banished—
Banish me not from _thee_!

EDITH. What shall I say?
How act—where turn? Thy lightest word hath been
My law—my code of right; and now thou askest
That which can never be.

CECIL. Recall the word!
There's but one ‘never’ for the tongue of Love,
And that should be for parting—_never part_.
Oh, learn no other ‘never.’

EDITH. Must thou leave me?
Must thou leave England—thy old friends in arms—
The cause of Freedom—thy brave spirit's hope?
Must thou leave these? Is there no softer choice?

CECIL. None other—none!

EDITH. So honor bids thee act;
So honor conquers love! And is there, then,
No honor but for man? Bethink thee, Hubert,
Could I, unblushing, leave my kinsman's home,
The guardian of my childhood—the kind roof
Where no harsh thought e'er entered? For whate'er
Cromwell to others, he to me hath been
A more than parent. In his rudest hour
For me he wore no frown; no chilling word
Bade me remember that I had no father!
Shall I repay him thus:—desert his hearth
In his most imminent hour; betroth my faith
To one henceforth his foe; make my false home
With those who call him traitor; plight my hand
To him who wields a sword against his heart?—
That heart which sheltered me!—oh, never, Hubert!
If thou lov'st honor, love it then in Edith,
And plead no more.
(_enter Servant_)

SERVANT. The General hath sent word
That, just released from council, he awaits
Sir Hubert Cecil at Whitehall.

CECIL. I come!
(_exit Servant_)
So fare thee well!

EDITH. (_passionately_) Farewell!—and is that all?
And part we thus forever? Not unkindly?
Thou dost not love me less? Oh, say so, Hubert!
Turn not away; give me once more thine hand.
We loved each other from our childhood, Hubert;
We grew together; thou wert as my brother,
Till that name grew a dearer. I should seem
More cold—more distant; but I cannot. All
Pride, strength, reserve, desert me at this hour!
My heart will break! Tell me thou lov'st me still!

CECIL. Still, Edith, still!

EDITH. I'm answered—bless thee, Hubert!
One word! one parting word! For my sake, dearest,
Rein thy swift temper when thou speakest to Cromwell.
A word may chafe him from his steady mood
In these wild moments; and behind his wrath
There gleams the headsman's axe. Vex him not, Hubert!

CECIL. Fear not! This meeting hath unmanned my soul,
Swallowed up all the fierceness of my nature
As in a gulf! and he—this man of blood—
He hath been kind to thee! Nay fear not, Edith!
(_exit Cecil_)

EDITH. He's gone! O God support me! I have done
That which became thy creature. Give me strength!
A mountain crushes down this feeble heart;
Oh, give me strength to bear it, gentle Heaven!
(_exit_)

SCENE V—A Room at Whitehall; (the same as in Scene I) Enter Cromwell,
Ireton, and Martin.

CROMWELL. So be it, then! At Windsor, in the vaults
Of his long line, let Charles's ashes sleep.
To Hubert and to Mildmay we consign
The funeral cares; be they with reverence paid.
Whoever of the mourners of the dead,
The friends and whilom followers would assist
In the grave rite, to them be licence given
To grace the funeral with their faithful wo.
We spurn not the dead lion.

MARTIN. Nobly said.
Wouldst thou I have these orders straight conveyed
To the king's friends?

CROMWELL. Forthwith good Martin.
(_exit Martin_)
So
With those sad ashes rest our country's griefs.
Henry, no phœnix from them must spring forth;
No second Charles! Within the self-same vault
That shrouds that harmless dust we must inter
Kingly ambition; and upon that day
Proclaim it treason to declare a king
In the King's son! The crown hath passed away
From Saul, and from the godless house of Saul.

IRETON. The Parliament is fearful, and contains
In its scant remnant many who would halt
Betwixt the deed and that for which 'twas done.

CROMWELL. They must be seen to, Henry! Seek me out
This eve at eight; we must confer alone.
Strong meat is not for babes! But of this youth,
This haughty Cecil! Thou hast seen him then?
Is he, in truth, so hot?

IRETON. By my sword, yea!
That which I told thee of his speech fell short
Of its rash madness.

CROMWELL. 'Tis a goodly youth;
Brave and sound hearted, but of little faith,
Nor suited to the hunger of these times,
Which feeds on no half acts! And for that cause,
And in that knowledge, when we had designed
To bring the King to London, I dismissed him {609}
With letters into Spain. We must not lose him!
He is of noble birth; his house hath wealth;
His name is spotless:—he must not be lost!

IRETON. And will not be retained!

CROMWELL. Methinks not so.
He hath the folly of the eyes of flesh,
And loves my niece; by that lure shall we cage him.

IRETON. Yet he is of a race that, in these times,
Have fallen from the righteous.

CROMWELL. Ay, and so
The more his honest courage. In the day
When the king's power o'erflowed, and all true men
Joined in a dyke against the lawless flood,
His sire and I were co-mates—sate with Pym;
On the same benches—gave the self-same votes;
But when we drew God's sword against the king,
And threw away the sheath, his fearful heart
Recoiled before the act it had provoked;
And, halting neuter in the wide extremes,
Forbade his son to join us.

IRETON. But the youth—

CROMWELL. More bravely bent, forsook the inglorious sire,
And made a sire of Cromwell. In my host
There was not one that loved me more than Cecil!
Better in field than prayer, and more at home
Upon his charger than his knee, 'tis true;
But to all men their way to please the Lord!
To heaven are many paths!

IRETON. So near to thee,
And knew not of the end for which we fought?
Dreamt he it was against the man called king,
And not against the thing called kingly?

CROMWELL. So
The young man dreamed; and oft-times he hath said
When after battle he hath wiped his sword,
Oft hath he sighing said, ‘These sinful wars—
Brother with brother, father against son,
Strife with her country, victory o'er her children—
How shall they end? If to the hollow word
Of this unhappy king no truth is bound,
Shall the day come when he, worn out with blood,
Will yield his crown to his yet guiltless son,
And we made sure of freedom by firm laws,
Chain the calm'd lion to a peaceful throne?’

IRETON. The father's leaven still! most foolish hope
To plaster with cool prudence jarring atoms,
And reconcile the irreconcileable—
The rushing present with the mouldering past!

CROMWELL. Thou say'st it, Ireton! But the boy was young
And fond of heart; the times that harden us,
Make soft less thoughtful natures.
(_enter a Puritan Soldier_)

SOLDIER. Lo! your worship,
The youth hight Hubert Cecil waits thy pleasure!

CROMWELL. Friend, let him enter. Henry, leave us now!
At eight, remember!
(_exit Ireton_)
It hath lamely chanced
That Cecil should return upon the heat
And newness of these fierce events; a month
Had robbed him of their horror! While we breathe
Passion glides on to Memory:—and dread things,
That scared our thoughts but yesterday, take hues,
That smooth their sternness, from the silent morrow.
(_Enter Cecil—Cromwell leaning on his sword at the farther end of the
stage, regards him with a steadfast look and majestic mien_)
Well, sir, good day! What messages from Spain?
(_Cecil presents him despatches—Cromwell glances over them, looking,
from time to time, at Cecil_)

CECIL. (_aside_) What is there in this man that I should fear him?
Hath he some spell to witch us from ourselves,
And make our natures minion to his own?

CROMWELL. Plead they so warm for Stuart? 'tis too late!

CECIL. It is too late!

CROMWELL. Since last we parted, Hubert,
He, the high author of our civil wars,
Hath been their victim. 'Twas an evil, Hubert;
But so is justice ever when it falls
Upon a human life!

CECIL. God's mercy!—justice!
Why justice is a consequence of law—
Founded on law—begotten but by law!
By what law, Cromwell, fell the King?

CROMWELL. By all
The laws he left us! Prithee silence, Cecil!
Sir, I might threaten, but I will not:—hold!
And let us, with a calm and sober eye,
Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed.
Who spills man's blood, his blood by man be shed!
'Tis Heaven's first law—to that law we had come—
None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife,
That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor?
It was the Stuart:—so the Stuart fell!
A victim, in the pit himself had digged!
He died not, Sir, as hated kings have died,
In secret and in shade—no eye to trace
The one step from their prison to their pall;
He died i' the eyes of Europe—in the face
Of the broad Heaven—amidst the sons of England,
Whom he had outraged—by a solemn sentence,
Passed by a solemn court. Does this seem guilt?
(It might be error—mortal men will err!)
But _Guilt_ not thus unrobes it to the day;
Its deeds are secret, as _our_ act was public.
You pity Charles! 'tis well; but pity more
The tens of thousand honest humble men,
Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled
To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field!
Good Lord—when one man dies who wears a crown,
How the earth trembles—how the nations gape,
Amazed and awed!—but when that one man's victims,
Poor worms uncloth'd in purple, daily die,
In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet,
Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls
Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes:
Ye weep the ravening vulture when he bleeds,
And coldly gaze upon the countless prey
He gorged at one fell meal. Be still young man;
Your time for speech will come. So much for justice;
Now for yet larger duties: to our hands
The peace and weal of England were consigned;
These our first thought and duty. Should we loose
Charles on the world again, 'twere to unleash
Once more the Fiend of Carnage: should we guard {610}
His person in our prison, still his name
Would float, a wizard's standard, in the air,
Rallying fresh war on Freedom; a fit theme
To wake bad pity in the breasts of men;
A focus for all faction here at home,
And in the lewd courts of his brother kings.
So but one choice remained: it was that choice
Which (you are skilled methinks in classic lore,
And prize such precedent,) the elder Brutus
Made when he judged his children: such the choice
Of his descendant—when, within the senate
He sought to crush, the crafty Cæsar fell.

CECIL. Cæsar may find his type amidst the living;
And by that name our sons may christen Cromwell.

CROMWELL. Men's deeds are fair enigmas—let man solve them!
But men's dark motives are i' the Books of God.
(_In a milder tone_)
Cecil! thou wert as my adopted son.
Hast thou not still fought by my proper person—
Eat'n at my board—slept in my tent—conceived
From me thy rudiments and lore of war—
Hath not my soul yearned to thee—have I not
Brought thee, yet beardless, into mark and fame—
Given thee trust and honor—nay, to bind
Still closer to my sheltering heart thine own—
Have I not smiled upon thy love for Edith,
(For I, too, once was young,) and bid thee find
Thy plighted bride in my familiar kin—
And wilt thou, in this crisis of my fate,
When my good name stands trembling in the balance,
And one friend wanting may abase the scale,
Wilt thou thus judge me harshly—take no count
Of the swift eddies of the whirlpool time,
Which urge us on to any port for peace,
And set the brand of thy austere rebuke
Upon the heart that loved thee so? Fie! fie!

CECIL. Arouse thine anger, Cromwell! rate me, vent
Thy threats on this bare front—thy kindness kills me!

CROMWELL. Bear with me, son, as I would bear with thee!
Add not to these grim cares that press upon me.
Eke thou not out the evils of the time;
They are enow to grind my weary soul.
Restrain the harsher thoughts, that would reprove,
Until a calmer season, when 'tis given
To talk of what hath been with tempered minds;
And part we now in charity.

CECIL. O Cromwell,
If now we part, it is forever. Here
I do resign my office in thy hands;
Lay down my trust and charge,—

CROMWELL. [_hastily_] I'll not receive them;
Another time for this.

CECIL. There is no other.
I came to chide thee, Cromwell; ay, to chide,
Girt as thou art with power: but thou hast ta'en
The sternness from my soul, and made the voice
Of duty sound so grating to my ear,
That, for mine honor, I, who fear thee not,
Do fear my frailty, and will trust no more
My conscience to our meeting.

CROMWELL. Wouldst thou say
That thou wilt leave me?

CECIL. Yes.

CROMWELL. And whither bound?

CECIL. The king's no more; and in his ashes sleep
His faults. His son as yet hath wronged us not:
That son is now our king!

CROMWELL. Do I hear right?
Know'st thou, rash boy, those words are deadly? Know'st thou,
It is proclaimed “whoever names a king
In any man, by Parliament unsanctioned,
Is criminal of treason?”

CECIL. So 'tis said;
And those who said it, were themselves the traitors.

CROMWELL. This, and to me!—beware; on that way lies
My limit of forbearance.

CECIL. Call thy guards;
Ordain the prison; bring me to the bar;
Prepare the scaffold. This, great Cromwell, were
A milder doom than that which I adjudge
Unto myself. 'Tis worse than death to leave
The flag which waved above our dreams of freedom—
The Chief our reverence honored as a god—
The bride whose love rose-colored all the world—
But worse than many deaths—than hell itself,
To sin against what we believe the right.

CROMWELL. [_moved and aside_] And this bold soul I am about to lose!
[_Aloud_] If me thou canst forget, and all my love,
Remember Edith! Is she thy betrothed,
And wilt thou leave her too? Thou hid'st thy face.
Stay, Hubert, stay; I, who could order, stoop
And pray thee stay.

CECIL. No—no!

CROMWELL. [_with coldness and dignity_] Then have thy will.
Desert the cause of freedom at her need,—
False to thy chief, and perjured to thy love.
I do repent me that I have abased
Myself thus humbly. Go, Sir, you have leave;
I would not have one man in honest Israel
Whose soul hath hunger for the flesh of Egypt.

CECIL. [_approaching Cromwell slowly_] Canst thou yet make the
doubtful past appear
Done but in sorrowing justice?—canst thou yet
Cement these jarring factions—join in peace
The friends alike of royalty and freedom,
And give the state, secured by such good laws
As now we may demand, once more a king?

CROMWELL. A king! Why name that word? A head—a chief,
Perchance, the Commonwealth may yet decree!
Speak on!

CECIL. I care not, Cromwell, for the name;
But he who bears the orb and sway of power
Must, if for peace we seek, be chosen from
The Stuarts' lineage. Charles the First is dead:
Wilt thou proclaim his son?

CROMWELL. [_laughing bitterly_] An Exile, yes! A Monarch, never!

CECIL. Cromwell, fare thee well!
As friends we meet no more. May God so judge
As I now judge, believing thee as one
Whom a bold heart, and the dim hope of power,
And the blind wrath of faction, and the spur
Of an o'ermastering Fate, impel to what {611}
The Past foretells already to the Future.
Dread man, farewell.
[_exit Cecil_]

CROMWELL. [_after a pause_] So from my side hath gone
An upright heart; and in that single loss,
Methinks more honesty hath said farewell,
Than if a thousand had abjured my banners.
Charles sleeps, and feels no more the grinding cares,
The perils and the doubts that wait on POWER.
For him, no more the uneasy day,—the night
At war with sleep,—for him are hushed, at last,
Loud Hate and hollow Love. Reverse thy Law,
O blind compassion of the human heart!
And let not death which feels not, sins not—weeps not—
Rob Life of all that Suffering asks from Pity.
[_He paces to and fro the scene, and pauses at last opposite the
doors at the back of the stage_]
Lo! what a slender barrier parts in twain
The presence of the breathing and the dead—
The vanquisher and victim—the firm foot
Of lusty strength, and the unmoving mass
Of what all strength must come to. Yet once more,
Ere the grave closes on that solemn dust,
Will I survey what men have feared to look on.
[_He opens the doors—the coffin of the king on the back ground
lighted by tapers—Cromwell approaches it slowly, lifts the
pall, and gazes, as if on the corpse within_]
'Tis a firm frame; the sinews strongly knit;
The chest deep set and broad; save some grey hairs
Saddening those locks of love, no sign of age.
Had nature been his executioner
_He would have outlived me!_ and to this end—
This narrow empire—this unpeopled kingdom—
This six feet realm—the overlust of sway
Hath been the guide! He would have stretched his will
O'er that unlimited world which men's souls are!
Fettered the earth's pure air—for freedom is
That air to honest lips;—and here he lies,
In dust most eloquent—to after time
A never silent oracle for kings!
Was this the hand that strained within its grasp
So haught a sceptre? this the shape that wore
Majesty like a garment? Spurn that clay—
It can resent not; speak of royal crimes,
And it can frown not: schemeless lies the brain
Whose thoughts were sources of such fearful deeds.
What things are we, O Lord, when at thy will
A worm like this could shake the mighty world!
A few years since, and in the port was moored
A bark to far Columbia's forests bound;
And I was one of those indignant hearts
Panting for exile in the thirst for freedom;
Then, that pale clay (poor clay that was a king!)
Forbade my parting, in the wanton pride
Of vain command, and with a fated sceptre
Waved back the shadow of the death to come.
Here stands that baffled and forbidden wanderer,
Loftiest amid the wrecks of ruined empire,
Beside the coffin of a headless king!
He thrall'd my fate—I have prepared his doom:
He made me captive—lo! his narrow cell!
[_Advancing to the front of the stage_]
So hands unseen do fashion forth the earth
Of our frail schemes into our funeral urns;
So, walking dream-led in life's sleep, our steps
Move blindfold to the scaffold or the throne!—
Ay, to the _Throne!_ From that dark thought I strike
The light which cheers me onward to my goal.
Wild though the night, and angry though the winds,
High o'er the billows of the battling sea
My Spirit, like a bark, sweeps on to Fortune!

MEMOIRS OF MRS. HEMANS.[1]

[Footnote 1: From the Memoirs of Mrs. Hemans, by Chorley—now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, to whom we are indebted for some of the sheets.]

It will be yet more clearly seen, from further portions of Mrs. Hemans' correspondence, with what devotion and gratitude she regarded German literature; she spoke of its language as “rich and _affectionate_, in which I take much delight:”—how she gratefully referred to its study as having expanded her mind and opened to her new sources of intellectual delight and exercise. For a while, too, she may have been said to have written under the shadow of its mysticism; but this secondary influence had passed away some time before her death. It is not the lot of high minds, though they may pass through and linger in regions where thought loses itself in obscurity, to terminate their career there. The “Lays of many Lands,” most of which appeared in the New Monthly Magazine, then edited by Mr. Campbell, were, we are told by herself, suggested by Herder's “_Stimmen der Volker in Liedern_.” Her next volume was formed of a collection of these, preceded by “The Forest Sanctuary.”

Mrs. Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not altogether, the best of her works. She would sometimes say, that in proportion to the praise which had been bestowed upon others of her less carefully meditated and shorter compositions, she thought it had hardly met with its fair share of success: for it was the first continuous effort in which she dared to write from the fulness of her own heart—to listen to the promptings of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was suggested by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervor which almost _command_ corresponding results. I have heard Mrs. Hemans say, that the greater part of this poem was written in no more picturesque a retreat than a laundry, to which, as being detached from the house, she resorted for undisturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it, while in progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to tears at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone to speak with self-contentment of her own works; but, perhaps, _the one_ favorite descriptive passage was that picture of a sea burial in the second canto.

... She lay a thing for earth's embrace,
To cover with spring-wreaths. For earth's?—the wave
That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above her grave!

On the mid-seas a knell!—for man was there,—
Anguish and love, the mourner with his dead!
A long, low, tolling knell—a voice of prayer—
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread,—
And the pale shining Southern Cross on high, {612}
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky,
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red:—
Were these things round me? Such o'er memory sweep
Wildly when aught brings back that burial of the deep.

Then the broad lonely sunrise, and the plash
Into the sounding waves!—around her head
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash,
Then shut—and all was still....

The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition—the Auto da Fe—the dungeon—the flight, or in its delineation of the mental conflicts of its hero—or in its forest pictures of the free west, which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as I write, too strongly to be passed by. They are from a character of one of the martyr sisters.

And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.

But the entire episode of “Queen-like Teresa—radiant Inez”—is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse, which men of renown have failed to reach. The death of the latter, if, perhaps, it be a little too _romantic_ for the stern realities of the scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot be read without strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered. And most beautiful, too, are the sudden out-bursts of thankfulness—of the quick, happy consciousness of liberty with which the narrator of this ghastly sacrifice, interrupts the tale, to reassure himself—

Sport on, my happy child! for thou art free!

The character of the convert's wife, Leonor,—devotedly clinging to his fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart trembles before him, as though she were in the presence of a lost spirit,—is one of those, in which Mrs. Hemans' individual mode of thought and manner of expression are most happily impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly wrong in her own estimate of this poem: and on recently returning to it, I have been surprised to find, how well it bears the tests and trials with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works of the highest order of mind. But here, also, would criticism be impertinent.

The next work of Mrs. Hemans, and the one by which she is most universally known, was the “Records of Woman,” published in 1828. In this, to use her own words, “there is more of herself to be found” than in any preceding composition. But even the slightest analysis of these beautiful legends would be superfluous; suffice it to say, that they were not things of meditation, but imagined and uttered in the same breath; like every line that she wrote, as far as possible from being a studied exercise. It is true, that in some lyrics more than others, her individual feelings are eagerly put forth—in those, for instance, wherein aspirations after another world are expressed, or which breathe the weary pining language of home sickness, or in which she utters her abiding sense of the insufficiency of fame to satisfy a woman's heart, however its possession may gratify her vanity—or wherein she speaks with a passionate self-distrust of her own art, of the impossibility of performance to keep pace with desire. The fervor with which these were poured forth seriously endangered a frame already undermined by too ardent a spirit, whose consuming work had been aided by a personal self-neglect, childish to wilfulness. So perilously, indeed, was she excited by the composition of Mozart's Requiem, that she was prohibited by her physician from any further exercise of her art, for some weeks after it was written. Few more genuine out-bursts of feeling have been ever poured forth than the three following verses of that poem.

“Yet I have known it long:
Too restless and too strong
Within this clay hath been the o'ermastering flame;
Swift thought that came and went,
Like torrents o'er me sent
Have shaken as a reed, my thrilling frame.

Like perfumes on the wind,
Which none may stay or bind,
The beautiful comes floating through my soul;
I strive with yearning vain,
The spirit to detain
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll!

Therefore disturbing dreams
Trouble the secret streams,
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast;
Something far more divine
Than may on earth be mine,
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let it rest.”

Most of the poems above referred to, were written at Rhyllon; the last and most favorite of Mrs. Hemans' residence at Wales. Some of them will be found colored by a shadow which had recently passed over her lot—the death of her mother. To this, which she always felt as an irreparable loss, will be found not a few touching allusions in many following letters.

A small woodland dingle, near Rhyllon, was her favorite retreat: here she would spend long summer mornings to read, and project, and compose, while her children played about her. “Whenever one of us brought her a new flower,” writes one of them, “she was sure to introduce it into her next poem.” She has unconsciously described this haunt over and over again with affectionate distinctness; it is the scene referred to in the “Hour of Romance,” and in the sonnet which is printed among her “Poetical Remains.”

“Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing,
O far off grassy dell?—And dost thou see,
When southern winds first wake the vernal singing,
The star-gleam of the wood anemone?
Doth the shy ring-dove haunt thee yet—the bee
Hang on thy flowers, as when I breathed farewell
To their wild blooms? and round the beechen tree
Still in green softness, doth the moss bank swell?”

Many of the imaginations which floated through her brain in this retirement, were lost in the more interrupted and responsible life, which followed Mrs. Hemans' departure from Wales; when the breaking up of her household, on the marriage of one of her family, and the removal of another into Ireland, threw her exclusively upon her own resources, and compelled her to make acquaintance with an “eating, drinking, buying, bargaining” world with which, from her disposition and habits, she was ill-fitted to cope. One of these unfinished works was the “Portrait Gallery,” of which one episode, “The lady of the Castle,” is introduced in the “Records.”

{613}

CONCLUDING LECTURE

Of the Course on the Obstacles and Hindrances to Education, arising from the peculiar faults of Parents, Teachers and Scholars, and that portion of the Public immediately concerned in directing and controlling our Literary Institutions.

BY JAMES M. GARNETT.

Since the first lecture of the course on the obstacles to all correct education was delivered, so much time has elapsed, and so many of you, probably, have not heard the whole, that some farther recapitulation than was given when I last addressed you, seems necessary fully to understand what I still wish to say in conclusion.

It will be recollected, I hope, that I have endeavored to fix upon parents themselves much the greater portion of the guilt, as well as the folly of creating these obstacles; since _they_, and the _nurses_ whom they choose, are unquestionably the first moral and intellectual instructers of their children. I tried to prove that the deadly mischief was accomplished by a process commencing almost with their birth—a process which consists in checking or misdirecting the first dawnings of intellect and feeling in these helpless little beings; in teaching their heads, and neglecting their hearts; in cultivating sensual rather than intellectual appetites; in the irregularity of their moral discipline, which encourages or silently permits, at one time, the outbreaking of certain juvenile propensities, which, at another, they will severely punish; in performing this painful duty much oftener from caprice and wrath than sound judgment; in transferring their authority and their duties to others with far too little consideration; in their frequent changes of schools and teachers; in their reckless attacks upon the characters of both; in suffering their children often to choose for themselves—not only _where_, but _what_ and _how_ they shall be taught; in confounding the mere going to school and confinement in a school-room, with profitable study; in frequently disgusting their children with books in general, and all scholastic learning in particular, by making application to their lessons a punishment, rather than a pleasurable occupation; in preparing them for insubordination, by treating and speaking of the class of teachers as much inferior to themselves, and by taking part against the former, upon almost every occasion where complaints are made by either party; in making holidays seasons for feasting, idleness, and dissipation, rather than of rational recreation and agreeable diversity in the mode of intellectual and moral improvement; in educating their offspring for situations which they will probably never fill, and giving them tastes and desires never likely to be gratified, thereby disqualifying them at one and the same time, for attaining any of the real enjoyments of the present life within their reach, or for gaining the promised blessings of the life to come; but what is worse than all, in presenting a continual variance between their own precepts and practice, and substituting worldly motives as inducements to acquire knowledge, rather than the love and practice of wisdom and virtue, as absolutely essential to happiness, both in our present and future state of existence.

In speaking of the obstacles created by teachers as a class, I charged them with deficiency of moral courage in pursuing the course essential to the maintenance of that high station in society to which all well qualified teachers who faithfully discharge their duties are justly entitled. I accused them of making the business of teaching a mere stepping-stone to some other pursuit, rather than a regular profession for life; and, of course, neglecting the necessary means to give it that respectability and influence in society which it ought to have, and certainly would possess, if they took the same care to prepare themselves to become good teachers, that other men take to distinguish themselves in the particular professions which they have finally determined to pursue. Another charge against them was, that instead of always aiding each other as members of the same fraternity, their insane jealousy often operated in such a way, as to bring their whole class into disgrace and contempt; that their grand panacea for stimulating to study, is _emulation_—a nostrum, which may perhaps cure the disease of idleness, but will leave in its place those diabolical passions—jealousy, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; that their favorite punishments generally are corporeal ones, which can never do more than effect some temporary amendment of their pupil's conduct, without producing any in their bad principles; that the application of these punishments—these skin-deep remedies—is much oftener a process to work off the teacher's own angry passions, than to cure the pupil's faults—these last being considered rather as school annoyances, to be put out of the instructer's way with the least possible trouble and delay, than as deep-rooted diseases of the heart, requiring the utmost tenderness and skill in the methods of cure—diseases too, which must utterly destroy the sufferer's happiness, unless radically conquered. I also endeavored to show, that in their modes of teaching as well as in the books taught, they either obstinately follow the course in which they themselves have been taught, thereby precluding themselves from adopting any real improvements which the progress of society may produce; or they run wild in pursuit of every new project which the reckless spirit of innovation is so constantly obtruding on the public. It was likewise alleged against them, that their efforts, even when most zealously made, were too generally directed, solely to stocking the minds of their pupils with words, instead of being applied with still greater assiduity to fortifying their hearts with just principles of thought and action; that they made education to consist simply in what is called school learning, instead of rendering it a development as perfect as possible, of all our faculties, both intellectual and physical; hence the ascendancy given to mere scholastic and scientific acquirements, over those great moral and religious principles, without a thorough knowledge and practice of which, man, although educated, is little better than a beast of prey, furnished with increased powers of doing mischief. But the worst perhaps of all the faults ascribed to teachers, is, that they rarely manifest any particular interest in the moral and religious improvement of their pupils—any strong anxiety for their future happiness—any great solicitude for the correctness of their conduct, farther than the teacher's own ease and reputation are concerned; in a word, any of those kind, affectionate feelings towards them, which will almost invariably secure their warmest attachment, and at the same time establish an influence over them immeasurably more {614} powerful that can possibly be created by any other means.