Part 1

THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER:

DEVOTED TO EVERY DEPARTMENT OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS.

Au gré de nos desirs bien plus qu'au gré des vents. _Crebillon's Electre_.

As _we_ will, and not as the winds will.

RICHMOND: T. W. WHITE, PUBLISHER AND PROPRIETOR. 1835-6.

{605}

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

VOL. II. RICHMOND, SEPTEMBER, 1836. NO. X.

T. W. WHITE, PROPRIETOR. FIVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM.

CROMWELL.

BY EDWARD LYTTON BULWER.[1]

[Footnote 1: This Tragedy is now in the press of Messieurs Saunders and Otley, (with whom Mr. Bulwer has made an exclusive arrangement for the issuing of his works here simultaneously with their appearance in England,) and will be published forthwith. We are indebted to the attention of these gentlemen for Act I, in anticipation, copied from the original MS.]

ACT I.

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?