The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 10, September, 1836

[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.