  FIRST SERIES The Dramatic Idyls, a group of poems which indicated a return to Browning's earlier manner, furnished the title for two successive volumes, the first series published in 1879, the second the year following. The poems in the first series were composed while Browning and his sister were sojourning in a mountain hotel near the summit of the SplÜgen Pass in the summer of 1878. So stimulated was Browning by the mountain air that he composed with extraordinary rapidity, even for him, bringing down upon himself his sister's determined caution. MARTIN RELPHMy grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago, On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow, Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe, And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason—so! If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself: But—God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph, As coward, coward I call him—him, yes, him! Away from me! Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be! What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue? People have urged, "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young! You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits: Besides it had maybe cost your life." Ay, there is the cap which fits! So, cap me, the coward,—thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good: The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food. See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends, The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends! For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I, Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why, When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite! I 'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight And take the example,—see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right. "You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to die Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy. Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn That peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King's concern. "Here 's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes: What call has a man of your kind—much less, a woman—to interpose? Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes—so much the worse! The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse. "Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago, And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know. Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news, From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes. "All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do! Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too. Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure Betokens the finger foul with ink: 't is a woman who writes, be sure! "Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'—good natural stuff, she pens? Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens, How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.' "But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grown With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own: And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek For the second Company sure to come ('t is whispered) on Monday week.' 'And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out: Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about! Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign: But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign! "That traitors had played us false, was proved—sent news which fell so pat: And the murder was out—this letter of love, the sender of this sent that! 'T is an ugly job, though, all the same—a hateful, to have to deal With a case of the kind, when a woman 's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel! "So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks, Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp: A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort—the scamp! "'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks, And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books, Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime, Or martial law must take its course: this day next week 's the time!' "Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice! He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice! His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she stands To pay for her fault. 'T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands. "And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware! Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives— Or sweethearts or what they may be—from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!" Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face—the brute With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit! He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear; He had but a handful of men, that 's true,—a riot might cost him dear. And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place. I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 't was his angel stretched a hand To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand. I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes, No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies— "Why did you leave me to die?"—"Because" ... Oh, fiends, too soon you grin At merely a moment of hell, like that—such heaven as hell ended in! Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line. Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,—for, of all eyes, only mine Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer, Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there. That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group: I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop! From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened: I touch ground? No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around! Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst—aught else but see, see, only see? And see I do—for there comes in sight—a man, it sure must be!— Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight On and on, anyhow onward—a man that's mad he arrives too late! Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head? Why does not he call, cry,—curse the fool!—why throw up his arms instead? O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay! Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"? And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain, And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,—time 's over, repentance vain! They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore. But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb, Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come! Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast? Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last? Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both, Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth. "Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting—that sounds like Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike? I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers! There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved: No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she 's saved! And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break—plain it grew How the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true. It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions' den! And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms— The license and leave: I make no doubt—what wonder if passion warms The pulse in a man if you play with his heart?—he was something hasty in speech; Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech! And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,—what followed but fresh delays? For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways! And 't was "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick Of the redcoats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!" Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You brag Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!" Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still, With their "Wait you must,—no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!" And a borough there was—I forget the name—whose Mayor must have the bench Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French! It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly know Is—rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror—so! When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm begins At his work once more. Had cowardice proved—that only—my sin of sins! Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose ... But mad I am, needs must be! Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see! Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamed In the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"—while gleamed A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace, He the savior and she the saved,—bliss born of the very murder-place! No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse! Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'T was ever the coward's curse That fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still, —A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,—loved Vincent, if you will! And her—why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more: The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before. So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drink Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think. PHEIDIPPIDES?a??ete, ????e?. First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! Gods of my birthplace, dÆmons and heroes, honor to all! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise —Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the Ægis and spear! Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be, your peer. Now, henceforth and forever,—O latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call! Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come! Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink, Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die, Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink? How,—when? No care for my limbs!—there's lightning in all and some— Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood Quivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood: "Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!" No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! "Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend? Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake! Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods! Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast: Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend." Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had mouldered to ash! That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back, —Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile? Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! "Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to enwreathe Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! Rather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to thy wild waste tract! Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe, Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: "Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey— Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge Better!"—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are? There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan! Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof: All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curl Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. "Halt, Pheidippides!"—halt I did, my brain of a whirl: "Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began: "How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? "Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me! Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith: When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea, Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!' "Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'" (Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear —Fennel—I grasped it a-tremble with dew—whatever it bode) "While, as for thee" ... But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto— Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. Parnes to Athens—earth no more, the air was my road: Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, Whose limbs did duty indeed,—what gift is promised thyself? Tell it us straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!" Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength Into the utterance—"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' "I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,— Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and then,—no Athens to save,— Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,— Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—so!" Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield, Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay, Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss! So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute Is still "Rejoice!"—his word which brought rejoicing indeed. So is Pheidippides happy forever,—the noble strong man Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well; He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute: "Athens is saved!"—Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. HALBERT AND HOBHere is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den, In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut, Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these—but— Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees Softens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were these. Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob; But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob: Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed, Hated or feared the more—who knows?—the genuine wild-beast breed. Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside; But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide, In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curled The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world. Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow, Came father and son to words—such words! more cruel because the blow To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse: For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last The son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast. "Out of this house you go!" (there followed a hideous oath)— "This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both! If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spell In the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!" Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak Untouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy broke One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-blade Of the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed. Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes, Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighs All of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands, Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands. Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born: And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log! If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!" Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floor Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,— Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill. Then the father opened eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,— Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,— He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came, They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same. "Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago, For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so— My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heard A voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word, "For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! Untrod Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God! I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blame Nor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!" Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat. They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no note Took either of each, no sign made each to either: last As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed. At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place, With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face: But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned. When he went to the burial, some one's staff he borrowed,—tottered and leaned. But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. "There! At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer." A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest. So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest. "Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear, That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear! IVÀN IVÀNOVITCH"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ, "Make a simple hatchet serve as a tool-box serves with us. Arm but each man with his axe, 'tis a hammer and saw and plane And chisel, and—what know I else? We should imitate in vain The mastery wherewithal, by a flourish of just the adze, He cleaves, clamps, dovetails in,—no need of our nails and brads,— The manageable pine: 'tis said he could shave himself With the axe,—so all adroit, now a giant and now an elf, Does he work and play at once!" Quoth my friend the Russ to me, "Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may be You never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind, By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind, Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all, We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small, Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 'tis old to you As the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true." In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woods Emerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes. Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine, From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line. Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growth Of pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving loth Man's inch of masterdom,—spot of life, spirt of fire,— To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expire Throughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resume Its ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb: Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to South This highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouth To Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirt Of fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirt By wall and wall of pine—unprobed undreamed abyss. Early one winter morn, in such a village as this, Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode IvÀn IvÀnovitch, the carpenter, employed On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the hole Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. About him, watched the work his neighbors sheepskin-clad; Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play, Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge Of the hamlet—horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? What's here?" cried all as—in, up to the open space, Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,— Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held—"DmÌtri's wife! Back without Dmitri too! and children—where are they? Only a frozen corpse!" They drew it forth: then—"Nay, Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: Home again, this rough jaunt—alone through night and snow— What can the cause be? Hark—Droug, old horse, how he groans: His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends For outside cold,—sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares Up at us in your face? You know friends—which is which? I'm VÀssili, he's SergeÌ, IvÀn IvÀnovitch"— At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard, Took in full light and sense and—torn to rags, some dream Which hid the naked truth—O loud and long the scream She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed— "LoukÈria, LoÙscha!"—still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. At last her lips formed speech. "IvÀn, dear—you indeed! You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede, Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty—let his might Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! But this time yesterday, IvÀn, I sat like you, A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, A babe inside my arms, close to my heart—that's lost In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?" When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way. "Maybe, a month ago,—was it not?—news came here, They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' So, friends here helped us off—IvÀn, dear, you the first! How gay we jingled forth, all five—(my heart will burst)— While DmÌtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track! "Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, When yesterday—behold, the village was on fire! Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried DmÌtri, 'men must do The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat Each building in its path,—I needs must stay for that,— But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, Cover the couple close,—you'll have the babe to hug. No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! Once home and with our friend IvÀn IvÀnovitch, All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me, So I but find as safe you and our precious three! Off, Droug!'—because the flames had reached us, and the men Shouted 'But lend a hand, DmÌtri—as good as ten!' "So, in we bundled—I, and those God gave me once; Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red In that unnatural day—yes, daylight, bred between Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow, Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind While we escaped outside their border! "Was that—wind? Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough's Only the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight! Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rate There's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learn The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn— "'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge! An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side, Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide The four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass: They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass! But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches ... How utter the rest? O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue, How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among The wraps and the rags! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead! StepÀn, he shall never have you for a meal,—here's your mother instead! No, he will not be counselled—must cry, poor StiÒpka, so foolish! though first Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors have called him the worst: He was puny, an undersized slip,—a darling to me, all the same! But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. I loved him with heart and soul, yes—-but deal him a blow for a fault, He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault, Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams,—who can hold Fast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows—as I foretold! The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore—and then His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst Or two, or three—God sends we beat them, arrive the first! A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,—God knows which Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine! "O misery! for while I settle to what near seems Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams— Point and point—the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire The furies? And yet I think—I am certain the race is slack, And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why? We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,—gallop, reach home, and die, Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap For life—we call a sledge! TeriÒscha, in my lap! Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings Here—of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ... Flings? I flung? Never! But think!—a woman, after all, Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, TerentiÌ! "How now? What, you still head the race, Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face? There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again? All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! My fist—why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God, Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod The earth till out they scratch some corpse—mere putrid flesh! Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? TerentiÌ—God, feel!—his neck keeps fast thy bag Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared The relics were to save from danger! "Spurned, not spared! 'Twas through my arms, crossed arms, he—nuzzling now with snout, Now ripping, tooth and claw—plucked, pulled TerentiÌ out, A prize indeed! I saw—how could I else but see?— My precious one—I bit to hold back—pulled from me! Up came the others, fell to dancing—did the imps!— Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is gray, and limps: Who knows but old bad MÀrpha—she always owed me spite And envied me my births—skulks out of doors at night And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst —No strength, old crone,—not she!—to crawl forth half a verst! "Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes The endmost snow: 'tis dawn, 'tis day, 'tis safe at home! We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,— Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we hear, Tough Droug and I,—my babe, my boy that shall be man, My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! 'Take that!' we'll stab you with,—'the tenderness we met When, wretches, you danced round,—not this, thank God—not this! Hellhounds, we balk you!' "But—Ah, God above!—Bliss, bliss,— Not the band, no! And yet—yes, for Droug knows him! One— This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!' His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: He 's off and after us,—one speck, one spot, one ball Grows bigger, bound on bound,—one wolf as good as all! Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! Now for it—now! Ah me! I know him—thrice-accurst Satan-face,—him to the end my foe! "All fight 's in vain: This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. I fall—fall as I ought—quite on the babe I guard: I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I—one inch! Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!—see! It grinds—it grates the bone. O KÌrill under me, Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win: I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in, Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels, Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf And bloom and seed unborn? "That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus,—how or when or why—I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you 'd see the roof Which holds my three—my two—my one—not one? "Life 's mixed With misery, yet we live—must live. The Satan fixed His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. IvÀn IvÀnovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling. Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears —What good they do! Life 's sweet, and all its after-years, IvÀn IvÀnovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!" Down she sank. Solemnly IvÀn rose, raised his axe,—for fitly, as she knelt, Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung,—dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow—no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core (Neighbors were used to say)—cast-iron-kernelled—which Taxed for a second stroke IvÀn IvÀnovitch. The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" Then stooping, peering round—what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe. Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps. At length, still mute, all move: one lifts—from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine—the head: two more TRAYThis poem describes an actual incident witnessed in Paris by a friend of Browning's, and with accuracy of detail. The poem was written as a protest against vivisection, which the poet called "an infamous practice." He was early associated with Miss Frances Power Cobbe in her efforts to prevent vivisection; and he was a vice-president of the "Victoria Street Society for the Protection of Animals." Dr. Berdoe says, "He always expressed the utmost abhorrence of the practices which it opposes." To Miss Cobbe he wrote in 1874: "You have heard, 'I take an equal interest with yourself in the effort to suppress vivisection.' I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this I know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two." He goes even so far as to say that the person not willing to sign the petition against vivisection certainly could not be numbered among his friends. To Miss Stackpoole he wrote in April, 1883: "I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection." G. W. Cooke. Written from memory of Bunyan's story of old Tod in The Life and Death of Mr. Badman. 'T was Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer's Day: A broiling blasting June,—was never its like, men say. Corn stood sheaf-ripe already, and trees looked yellow as that; Ponds drained dust-dry, the cattle lay foaming around each flat. Inside town, dogs went mad, and folk kept bibbing beer, While the parsons prayed for rain. 'T was horrible, yes—but queer: Queer—for the sun laughed gay, yet nobody moved a hand To work one stroke at his trade: as given to understand That all was come to a stop, work and such worldly ways, And the world's old self about to end in a merry blaze, Midsummer's day moreover was the first of Bedford Fair; With Bedford Town's tag-rag and bobtail a-bowsing there. But the Court House, Quality crammed: through doors ope, windows wide, High on the Bench you saw sit Lordships side by side. There frowned Chief Justice Jukes, fumed learned Brother Small, And fretted their fellow Judge: like threshers, one and all, Of a reek with laying down the law in a furnace. Why? Because their lungs breathed flame—the regular crowd forbye— From gentry pouring in—quite a nosegay, to be sure! How else could they pass the time, six mortal hours endure Till night should extinguish day, when matters might haply mend? Meanwhile no bad resource was—watching begin and end Some trial for life and death, in a brisk five minutes' space, And betting which knave would 'scape, which hang, from his sort of face. So, their Lordships toiled and moiled, and a deal of work was done (I warrant) to justify the mirth of the crazy sun, As this and t' other lout, struck dumb at the sudden show Of red robes and white wigs, boggled nor answered "Boh!" When asked why he, Tom Styles, should not—because Jack Nokes Had stolen the horse—be hanged: for Judges must have their jokes, And louts must make allowance—let 's say, for some blue fly Which punctured a dewy scalp where the frizzles stuck awry— Else Tom had fleered scot-free, so nearly over and done Was the main of the job. Full-measure, the gentles enjoyed their fun, As a twenty-five were tried, rank puritans caught at prayer In a cow-house and laid by the heels,—have at 'em, devil may care!— And ten were prescribed the whip, and ten a brand on the cheek, And five a slit of the nose—just leaving enough to tweak. Well, things at jolly high-tide, amusement steeped in fire, While noon smote fierce the roof's red tiles to heart's desire, The Court a-simmer with smoke, one ferment of oozy flesh, One spirituous humming musk mount-mounting until its mesh Entoiled all heads in a fluster, and Serjeant Postlethwayte —Dashing the wig oblique as he mopped his oily pate— Cried "Silence, or I grow grease! No loophole lets in air? Jurymen,—Guilty, Death! Gainsay me if you dare!" —Things at this pitch, I say,—what hubbub without the doors? What laughs, shrieks, hoots and yells, what rudest of uproars? Bounce through the barrier throng a bulk comes rolling vast! Thumps, kicks,—no manner of use!—spite of them rolls at last Into the midst a ball, which, bursting, brings to view Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too: Both in a muck-sweat, both ... were never such eyes uplift At the sight of yawning hell, such nostrils—snouts that sniffed Sulphur, such mouths agape ready to swallow flame! Horrified, hideous, frank fiend-faces! yet, all the same, Mixed with a certain ... eh? how shall I dare style—mirth The desperate grin of the guess that, could they break from earth, Heaven was above, and hell might rage in impotence Below the saved, the saved! "Confound you! (no offence!) Out of our way,—push, wife! Yonder their Worships be!" Ned Bratts has reached the bar, and "Hey, my Lords," roars he, "A Jury of life and death, Judges the prime of the land, Constables, javelineers,—all met, if I understand, To decide so knotty a point as whether 't was Jack or Joan Robbed the henroost, pinched the pig, hit the King's Arms with a stone, Dropped the baby down the well, left the tithesman in the lurch, Or, three whole Sundays running, not once attended church! What a pother—do these deserve the parish-stocks or whip, More or less brow to brand, much or little nose to snip,— When, in our Public, plain stand we—that 's we stand here I and my Tab, brass-bold, brick-built of beef and beer, —Do not we, slut? Step forth and show your beauty, jade! Wife of my bosom—that 's the word now! What a trade We drove! None said us nay: nobody loved his life So little as wag a tongue against us,—did they, wife? Yet they knew us all the while, in their hearts, for what we are —Worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged—search near and far! Eh, Tab? The peddler, now—o'er his noggin—who warned a mate To cut and run, nor risk his pack where its loss of weight Was the least to dread,—aha, how we two laughed a-good As, stealing round the midden, he came on where I stood With billet poised and raised,—you, ready with the rope,— Ah, but that 's past, that 's sin repented of, we hope! Men knew us for that same, yet safe and sound stood we! The lily-livered knaves knew too (I 've balked a d——) Our keeping the 'Pied Bull' was just a mere pretence: Too slow the pounds make food, drink, lodging, from out the pence! There 's not a stoppage to travel has chanced, this ten long year, No break into hall or grange, no lifting of nag or steer, Not a single roguery, from the clipping of a purse To the cutting of a throat, but paid us toll. Od's curse! When Gypsy Smouch made bold to cheat us of our due, —Eh, Tab? the Squire's strong-box we helped the rascal to— I think he pulled a face, next Sessions' swinging-time! He danced the jig that needs no floor,—and, here 's the prime, 'T was Scroggs that houghed the mare! Ay, those were busy days! "Well, there we flourished brave, like scripture-trees called bays, Faring high, drinking hard, in money up to head —Not to say, boots and shoes, when ... Zounds, I nearly said— Lord, to unlearn one's language! How shall we labor, wife? Have you, fast hold, the Book? Grasp, grip it, for your life! See, sirs, here 's life, salvation! Here 's—hold but out my breath— When did I speak so long without once swearing? 'Sdeath, No, nor unhelped by ale since man and boy! And yet All yesterday I had to keep my whistle wet While reading Tab this Book: book? don't say 'book'—they 're plays, Songs, ballads, and the like: here 's no such strawy blaze, But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare! Tab, help and tell! I 'm hoarse. A mug! or —no, a prayer! Dip for one out of the Book! Who wrote it in the Jail —He plied his pen unhelped by beer, sirs, I 'll be bail! "I 've got my second wind. In trundles she—that 's Tab. 'Why, Gammer, what 's come now, that—bobbing like a crab On Yule-tide bowl—your head 's a-work and both your eyes Break loose? Afeard, you fool? As if the dead can rise! Say—Bagman Dick was found last May with fuddling-cap Stuffed in his month: to choke 's a natural mishap!' 'Gaffer, be—blessed,' cries she, 'and Bagman Dick as well! I, you, and he are damned: this Public is our hell: We live in fire: live coals don't feel!—once quenched, they learn— Cinders do, to what dust they moulder while they burn!' "'If you don't speak straight out,' says I—belike I swore— 'A knobstick, well you know the taste of, shall, once more, Teach you to talk, my maid!' She ups with such a face, Heart sunk inside me. 'Well, pad on, my prate-apace!' "'I 've been about those laces we need for ... never mind! If henceforth they tie hands, 't is mine they 'll have to bind. You know who makes them best—the Tinker in our cage, Pulled-up for gospelling, twelve years ago: no age To try another trade,—yet, so he scorned to take Money he did not earn, he taught himself the make Of laces, tagged and tough—Dick Bagman found them so! Good customers were we! Well, last week, you must know, His girl,—the blind young chit, who hawks about his wares,— She takes it in her head to come no more—such airs These hussies have! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace,— "I 'll to the jail-bird father, abuse her to his face!" So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then, Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den— Patmore, they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch— Both arms akimbo, in bounce with a good round oath Ready for rapping out: no "Lawks" nor "By my troth!" "'There sat my man, the father. He looked up: what one feels When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels! He raised his hand ... Hast seen, when drinking out the night, And in, the day, earth grow another something quite Under the sun's first stare? I stood a very stone. "'"Woman!" (a fiery tear he put in every tone), "How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport, Violence—trade? Too true! I trust no vague report. Her angel's hand, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear. What has she heard!—which, heard shall never be again. Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the—wain Or reign or train—of Charles!" (His language was not ours: 'T is my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers.) "Bread, only bread they bring—my laces: if we broke Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf's first crumb would choke!" "'Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he: His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see: Up went his hands: "Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul! So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole, Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound With dreriment about, within may life be found, A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before, Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core, Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found? Who says 'How save it?'—nor 'Why cumbers it the ground?' Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf, Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf! Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof! And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof, Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by, Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die! What then? 'Look unto me and be ye saved!' saith God: 'I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod! Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, —although As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!'" "'There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand Is—that, if I reached home, 't was through the guiding hand Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets And out of town and up to door again. What greets First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon? A book—this Book she gave at parting. "Father's boon— The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself: He cannot preach in bonds, so,—take it down from shelf When you want counsel,—think you hear his very voice! "'Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice! Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more, Be saved like me, bald trunk! There 's greenness yet at core, Sap under slough! Read, read!' "Let me take breath, my lords! I 'd like to know, are these—hers, mine, or Bunyan's words? I 'm 'wildered—scarce with drink,—nowise with drink alone! You 'll say, with heat: but heat 's no stuff to split a stone Like this black boulder—this flint heart of mine: the Book— That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here 's the fist that shook His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear! You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back, Good Master Christmas? Nay,—yours was that Joseph's sack, —Or whose it was,—which held the cup,—compared with mine! Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine, Adultery ... nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung! One word, I 'll up with fist ... No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue! "I 'm hasting to the end. The Book, sirs—take and read! You have my history in a nutshell,—ay, indeed! It must off, my burden! See,—slack straps and into pit, Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there—a plague on it! For a mountain 's sure to fall and bury Bedford Town, 'Destruction'—that 's the name, and fire shall burn it down! Oh, 'scape the wrath in time! Time 's now, if not too late. How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate? Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful— But it 's late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago Town, wife, and children dear ... Well, Christmas did, you know!— Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel's strength On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length! Have at his horns, thwick—thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof— Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love's sake, keep aloof Angels! I 'm man and match,—this cudgel for my flail,— To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat's wing and serpent's tail! A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding Into the deafest ear except—hope, hope 's the thing? Too late i' the day for me to thrid the windings: but There 's still a way to win the race by death's short cut! Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts? No, straight to Vanity Fair,—a fair, by all accounts, Such as is held outside,—lords, ladies, grand and gay,— Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say. And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out To die in the market-place—St. Peter's Green 's about The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives, Pricked him with swords,—I 'll swear, he 'd full a cat's nine lives,— So to his end at last came Faithful,—ha, ha, he! Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see, Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all: He 's in, he 's off, he 's up, through clouds, at trumpet-call, Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate-! Odds my life— Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife? Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab—do the same by her! O Master Worldly-Wiseman ... that 's Master Interpreter, Take the will, not the deed! Our gibbet 's handy, close: Forestall Last Judgment-Day! Be kindly, not morose! There wants no earthly judge-and-jurying: here we stand— Sentence our guilty selves: so, hang us out of hand! Make haste for pity's sake! A single moment's loss Means—Satan 's lord once more: his whisper shoots across All singing in my heart, all praying in my brain, 'It comes of heat and beer!'—hark how he guffaws plain! 'To-morrow you 'll wake bright, and, in a safe skin, hug Your sound selves, Tab and you, over a foaming jug! You 've had such qualms before, time out of mind!' He 's right! Did not we kick and cuff and curse away, that night When home we blindly reeled, and left poor humpback Joe I' the lurch to pay for what ... somebody did, you know! Both of us maundered then, 'Lame humpback, —never more Will he come limping, drain his tankard at our door! He 'll swing, while—somebody' ... Says Tab, 'No, for I 'll peach!' 'I 'm for you, Tab,' cries I, 'there 's rope enough for each!' So blubbered we, and bussed, and went to bed upon The grace of Tab's good thought: by morning, all was gone! We laughed—'What 's life to him, a cripple of no account?' Oh, waves increase around—I feel them mount and mount! Hang us! To-morrow brings Tom Bearward with his bears: One new black-muzzled brute beats Sackerson, he swears: (Sackerson, for my money!) And, baiting o'er, the Brawl They lead on Turner's Patch,—lads, lasses, up tails all,— I 'm i' the thick o' the throng! That means the Iron Cage, —Means the Lost Man inside! Where 's hope for such as wage War against light? Light 's left, light 's here, I hold light still, So does Tab—make but haste to hang us both! You will?" I promise, when he stopped you might have heard a mouse Squeak, such a death-like hush sealed up the old Mote House. But when the mass of man sank meek upon his knees, While Tab, alongside, wheezed a hoarse "Do hang us, please!" Why, then the waters rose, no eye but ran with tears, Hearts heaved, heads thumped, until, paying all past arrears Of pity and sorrow, at last a regular scream outbroke Of triumph, joy, and praise. My Lord Chief Justice spoke, First mopping brow and cheek, where still, for one that budged, Another bead broke fresh: "What Judge, that ever judged Since first the world began, judged such a case as this? Why, Master Bratts, long since, folks smelt you out, I wis! I had my doubts, i' faith, each time you played the fox Convicting geese of crime in yonder witness-box— Yea, much did I misdoubt, the thief that stole her eggs Was hardly goosey's self at Reynard's game, i' feggs! Yet thus much was to praise—you spoke to point, direct— Swore you heard, saw the theft: no jury could suspect— Dared to suspect,—I 'll say,—a spot in white so clear: Goosey was throttled, true: but thereof godly fear Came of example set, much as our laws intend; And, though a fox confessed, you proved the Judge's friend. What if I had my doubts? Suppose I gave them breath, Brought you to bar: what work to do, ere 'Guilty, Death' Had paid our pains! What heaps of witnesses to drag From holes and corners, paid from out the County's bag! Trial three dog-days long! Amicus CuriÆ—that 's Your title, no dispute—truth-telling Master Bratts! Thank you, too, Mistress Tab! Why doubt one word you say? Hanging you both deserve, hanged both shall be this day! The tinker needs must be a proper man. I 've heard He lies in Jail long since: if Quality's good word Warrants me letting loose,—some householder, I mean— Freeholder, better still,—I don't say but—between Now and next Sessions ... Well! Consider of his case, I promise to, at least: we owe him so much grace. Not that—no, God forbid!—I lean to think as you, The grace that such repent is any jail-bird's due: I rather see the fruit of twelve years' pious reign— AstrÆa Redux, Charles restored his rights again! —Of which, another time! I somehow feel a peace Stealing across the world. May deeds like this increase! So, Master Sheriff, stay that sentence I pronounced On those two dozen odd: deserving to be trounced Soundly, and yet ... well, well, at all events dispatch This pair of—shall I say, sinner-saints?—ere we catch Their jail-distemper too. Stop tears, or I 'll indite All weeping Bedfordshire for turning Bunyanite!" So, forms were galloped through. If Justice, on the spur, Proved somewhat expeditious, would Quality demur? And happily hanged were they,—why lengthen out my tale?— Where Bunyan's Statue stands facing where stood his Jail. |
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