  SOCIAL ASPECTS OF ENGLISH LIFE Browning's poetry presents no such complete panorama of phases of social life in England as it does of those in Italy, perhaps, because there is a poise and solidity about the English character which does not lend itself to so great a variety of mood as one may find in the peculiarly artistic temperament of the Italians, especially those of the Renaissance period. Even such irregular proceedings as murders have their philosophical after-claps which show their usefulness in the divine scheme of things, while unfortunate love affairs work such beneficent results in character that they are shorn of much of their tragedy of sorrow. There is quite a group of love-lyrics with no definite setting that might be put down as English in temper. It does not require much imagination to think of the lover who sings so lofty a strain in "One Way of Love" as English:— INow, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye. IIHow many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! IIIMy whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion—heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may—I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they! And is not this treatment of a "pretty woman" more English than not? A PRETTY WOMANIThat fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers, And the blue eye Dear and dewy, And that infantine fresh air of hers! IITo think men cannot take you, Sweet, And enfold you, Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet! IIIYou like us for a glance, you know— For a word's sake Or a sword's sake, All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know. IVAnd in turn we make you ours, we say— You and youth too, Eyes and mouth too, All the face composed of flowers, we say. VAll's our own, to make the most of, Sweet— Sing and say for, Watch and pray for, Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet! VIBut for loving, why, you would not, Sweet, Though we prayed you, Paid you, brayed you In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet! VIISo, we leave the sweet face fondly there: Be its beauty Its sole duty! Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there! VIIIAnd while the face lies quiet there, Who shall wonder That I ponder A conclusion? I will try it there. IXAs,—why must one, for the love foregone, Scout mere liking? Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone! XWhy, with beauty, needs there money be, Love with liking? Crush the fly-king In his gauze, because no honey-bee? XIMay not liking be so simple-sweet, If love grew there 'Twould undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? XIIIs the creature too imperfect, say? Would you mend it And so end it? Since not all addition perfects aye! XIIIOr is it of its kind, perhaps, Just perfection— Whence, rejection Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? XIVShall we burn up, tread that face at once Into tinder, And so hinder Sparks from kindling all the place at once? XVOr else kiss away one's soul on her? Your love-fancies! —A sick man sees Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! XVIThus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,— Plucks a mould-flower For his gold flower, Uses fine things that efface the rose: XVIIRosy rubies make its cup more rose, Precious metals Ape the petals,— Last, some old king locks it up, morose! XVIIIThen how grace a rose? I know a way! Leave it, rather. Must you gather? Smell, kiss, wear it—at last, throw away! "The Last Ride Together" may be cited as another example of the philosophy which an Englishman, or at any rate a Browning, can evolve from a more or less painful episode. THE LAST RIDE TOGETHERII said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me. IIMy mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? IIIHush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions—sun's— And moon's and evening-star's at once And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. IVThen we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. VFail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,—All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. VIWhat hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a stateman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. VIIWhat does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. VIIIAnd you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown grey With notes and nothing else to say, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. IXWho knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I signed the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. XAnd yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride? "James Lee's Wife" is also English in temper as the English name indicates suffi AMONG THE ROCKSIOh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. IIThat is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! Two of the longer poems have distinctly English settings: "A Blot in the Scutcheon" and "The Inn Album;" while, of the shorter ones, "Ned Bratts" has an English theme, and "Halbert and Hob" though not founded upon an English story has been given an English mis en scÈne by Browning. In the "Blot," we get a glimpse of Eighteenth Century aristocratic England. The estate over which Lord Tresham presided was one of those typical country kingdoms, which have for centuries been so conspicuous a feature of English life, and which through the assemblies of the great, often gathered within their walls, wielded potent influences upon political life. The play opens with the talk of a group of retainers, such as formed the household of these lordly establishments. It was not a rare thing for the servants of the great to be admitted into intimacy with the family, as was the case with Gerard. They were often people of a superior grade, hardly to be classed with servants in the sense unfortunately given to that word to-day. Besides the house and the park which figure in the play, such an estate had many acres of land devoted to agriculture—some of it, called the demesne, which was An English Manor House Pride in their ancient lineage was, of course, common to noble families, though probably few of them could boast as Tresham did that there was no blot in their escutcheon. Some writers have even declared that most of the nobles are descended from tradesmen. According to one of these "The great bulk of our peerage is comparatively modern, so far as the titles go; but it is not the less noble that it has been recruited to so large an extent from the ranks of honorable industry. In olden times, the wealth and commerce of London, conducted as it was by energetic and enterprising men was a prolific source of peerages. "Philip was to begin every day with lifting up his mind to the Almighty in hearty prayer, as well as feelingly digesting all he prayed for. He was also, early or late, to be obedient to others, so that in due time others might obey him. The secret of all success lay in a moderate diet with rare use of wine. A gloomy Furthermore, the brotherly and sisterly relations of Tresham and Mildred are not unlike those of Sir Philip Sidney and his sister Mary. They studied and worked together in great sympathy, broken into only by the tragic fate of Sir Philip. Although the education of women in those days was chiefly domestic, with a smattering of accomplishments, yet there were exceptional girls who aspired to The ideals of the Sidneys, it is true, were sixteenth-century ideals. Eighteenth-century ideals were proverbially low. England, then, had not recovered from the frivolities inaugurated after the Restoration. The slackness and unbelief among the clergy, and the looseness of morals in society were notorious, but this degeneration could not have been universal. There are always a few Noahs and their families left to repeople the world with righteousness after a deluge of degeneracy, and Browning is quite right in his portrayal of an eighteenth-century knight sans peur et sans reproche who defends the honor of his house with his sword, because of his high moral ideals. Besides, the Methodist revival led by the Wesleys gained constantly in power. It affected not only the people of the middle and lower classes, rescuing them from brutality of mind and manners, but it affected the established church for the better, and made its mark upon the upper classes. "Religion, long despised and contemned by the titled and the great" writes Withrow, "began to receive recognition and support by men high in the councils of the nation. Many ladies of Like all of his kind, no matter what the century, Tresham is more than delighted at the thought of an alliance between his house and the noble house to which Mertoun belonged. The youth of Mildred was no obstacle, for marriages were frequently contracted in those days between young boys and girls. The writer's English grand-father and mother were married at the respective ages of sixteen and fifteen within the boundaries of the nineteenth century. The first two scenes of the play present episodes thoroughly illustrative of the life lived by the "quality." Gerard, the warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc. 1st Retainer. Ye, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me! Gerard. Save your courtesies, my friend. 2nd Retainer.Now, Gerard, out with it! Gerard.What then? 2nd Retainer. What then? Why, you, she speaks to if she meets 3rd Retainer.I'll wager he has let Gerard.Ralph!
1st Retainer. Our retainers look as fine— 4th Retainer. He's only bowing, fool! 1st Retainer. That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade! 3rd Retainer. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop Gerard.—With Hugh 3rd Retainer. Out on you, crab! What next, what next? 1st Retainer. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they match 6th Retainer.Ay—ay! 2nd Retainer. Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, see 3rd Retainer.His eyes are blue: 4th Retainer.So young, and yet 5th Retainer.Here's Lord Tresham's self! 2nd Retainer.But you'd not have a boy 1st Retainer.Our master takes his hand— [Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs.] Good health, long life 6th Retainer. My father drove his father first to court, 2nd Retainer.God bless Gerard.Drink, my boys!
Gerard. That way? 2nd Retainer.Just so. Gerard.Then my way's here. [Goes. 2nd Retainer.Old Gerard 2nd Retainer. God help him! Who's for the great servant's hall 3rd Retainer.I!— 4th Retainer.I!— 1st Retainer.Have at you! Boys, hurrah! Scene II.—A Saloon in the Mansion.Enter Lord Thesham, Lord Mertoun, Austin, and Guendolen. Tresham. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more, Mertoun.Thanks! Tresham.—But add to that, Mertoun.I thank you—less Guendolen [apart to Austin]. Why, this is loving, Austin! Austin.He's so young! Guendolen. Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmise Austin.Hush! Guendolen. Mark him, Austin; that's true love! Tresham.We'll sit, my lord. Mertoun.But you, you grant my suit? Tresham.My best of words
Guendolen [aside to Austin].Note that mode Tresham.What's to say Mertoun.I thank you. Tresham.In a word, Mertoun.No more—thanks, thanks—no more! Tresham. This matter then discussed.... Mertoun.—We'll waste no breath Tresham. With less regret 't is suffered, that again Mertoun.We? again?— Tresham.So soon Mertoun. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. Tresham. So may it prove! Mertoun.You, lady, you, sir, take Guendolen and Austin. Thanks! Tresham.Within there! [Servants enter. Tresham conducts Mertoun to the door. Meantime Austin remarks,
Guendolen. That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shame Austin.Here's Thorold. Tell him so! Tresham [returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first! Guendolen.He's young. Tresham. What's she? an infant save in heart and brain. Guendolen.There's tact for you! Guendolen.—With lacking wit. Tresham. He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you? Guendolen. In standing straighter than the steward's rod Tresham. ... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself, Guendolen. Austin, how we must—! Tresham.Must what? Must speak truth, Guendolen.Witchcraft's a fault in him, Tresham.What's urgent we obtain Guendolen.Ne'er instruct me! Tresham.Come! The story of the love of Mildred and Mertoun is the universally human one, and belongs to no one country or no one period of civilization more than another, but the attitude of all the actors in the tragedy belongs distinctively to the phase of moral culture which we saw illustrated in the youth of Sir Philip Sidney, and is characteristic of English ways of thinking whenever their moral force comes uppermost, as for example in the Puritan thought of the Cromwellian era. The play is in a sense a problem play, though to most modern readers the tragedy of its ending is all too horrible a consequence of the sin. Dramatically and psychically, however, the tragedy is much more inevitable than that of Romeo and Juliet, whose love one naturally thinks of in the same connection. The catastrophe in the Shakespeare play is almost mechanically pushed to its conclusion through mere external blundering, easily to have been prevented. Juliet saw clearly where The ideal by which Tresham lives and moves and has his being is that of pride of birth, with honor and chastity as its watchwords. At the same time the idol of his life is his sister Mildred, over whom he has watched with a father's and mother's care. When the blow to his ideal comes at the hands of this much cherished sister, it is not to be wondered at that his reason almost deserts him. The greatest agony possible to the human soul is to have its ideals, the very food which has been the sustenance of its being, utterly ruined. The ideal may be a wrong one, or an impartial one, and through the wrack and ruin may dawn larger vision, but, unless the nature be a marvelously developed one the storm that breaks when an ideal is shattered is overwhelming. It would be equally true of Mildred that, nurtured as she had been and as young Eng An English Park One does not need to discuss whether murders were possible in English social life. They are possible in all life at all times as long as men and women allow their passions to overthrow their reason. The last act, however, illustrates the English poise already referred ACT IIIScene I.—The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under Mildred's window. A light seen through a central red pane.Enter Tresham through the trees. Again here! But I cannot lose myself. [He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause, enter Mertoun cloaked as before. Mertoun. Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat [The light is placed above in the purple pane. And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star! [As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue, Tresham arrests his arm. Unhand me—peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold. Tresham. Into the moonlight yonder, come with me! Mertoun.I am armed, fool! Tresham.Yes, Mertoun.That voice! [They advance. Tresham.You're armed: that's well. Declare Mertoun.(Tresham!—she is lost!) Tresham. Oh, silent? Do you know, you bear yourself Mertoun.I do conjure Lord Tresham—ay, [He throws off his disguises. Tresham.Mertoun! Mertoun.Hear me Tresham.Not one least word on your life! Mertoun.Not for my sake, Tresham.Ha ha, what should I Mertoun. 'Twixt him and me and Mildred, Heaven be judge! [He draws and, after a few passes, falls. Tresham. You are not hurt? Mertoun.You'll hear me now! Tresham.But rise! Mertoun. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!" Tresham.Not hurt? It cannot be! Mertoun.My lord— Tresham.How young he is! Mertoun. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet Tresham. Can you stay here till I return with help? Mertoun. Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boy Tresham.I do Mertoun.Wait and ponder that great word! Tresham.Mertoun, haste
[As he endeavors to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp. Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do? Tresham.Yes, be satisfied! Mertoun.And she sits there [A whistle is heard. Tresham. Ho, Gerard! Enter Gerard, Austin and Guendolen, with lights. No one speak! You see what's done. Mertoun.There's light— Tresham.I will bear these words to her. Mertoun. Now? Tresham.Now. Lift you the body, and leave me [As they half raise Mertoun, he turns suddenly. Mertoun. I knew they turned me: turn me not from her! [Dies. Guendolen [after a pause]. Austin, remain you here Tresham.Guendolen, I hear each word Guendolen.She will die. Tresham. Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hope Austin.Had we but arrived Tresham.There was no fight at all. Austin.Whither bear him? Tresham. Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next, [They bear out the body of Mertoun. Will she die, Guendolen? Guendolen. Where are you taking me? Tresham.He fell just here. Guendolen.What is done Tresham.Dear and ancient trees Scene II.—Mildred's chamber.Mildred alone. He comes not! I have heard of those who seemed Tresham [without]. Mildred! Mildred.Come in! Heaven hears me! Tresham.Mildred, I must sit. Mildred.Say it, Thorold—do not look Tresham.My thought? Mildred. All of it! Tresham.How we waded—years ago— Mildred.You call me kindlier by my name Tresham. It weighs so much upon my mind that I Mildred.Thorold? do you mock? Tresham. Forgive me, Mildred!—are you silent, Sweet? Mildred [starting up]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night? [Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty. Ah, this speaks for you! Tresham. He bade me tell you.... Mildred.What I do forbid Tresham. You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes: Mildred. Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True! Tresham.Death? You are dying too? Well said Mildred.Tell Guendolen Tresham.Him you loved: Mildred. Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done Tresham.No! No! Mildred.As I dare approach that Heaven [Falls on his neck. There! Do not think too much upon the past! [Dies. Tresham. I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am glad Guendolen [without]. Mildred! Tresham! [Entering with Austin.] Thorold, Tresham.Oh, better far than that! Guendolen.She's dead! Tresham.She threw them thus Austin.Leave her Guendolen.White Austin. A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth; Tresham.Something does weigh down Guendolen. Thorold—Thorold—why was this? Tresham. I said, just as I drank the poison off, Guendolen.Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close. Tresham. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller. Tresham. I said that: yet it did come. Should it come, [Dies. Guendolen [letting fall the pulseless arm]. Ah, Thorold, we can but—remember you! In "Ned Bratts," Browning has given a striking picture of the influence exerted by Bunyan upon some of his wicked contemporaries. The poet took his hints for the story from Bunyan himself, who tells it as follows in the "Life and Death of Mr. Badman." "At a summer assizes holden at Hertford, while the judge was sitting upon the bench, comes this old Tod into the Court, clothed in a green suit, with his leathern girdle in his hand, his bosom open, and all on a dung sweat, as if he had run for his life; and being come in, he spake aloud, as follows: 'My lord,' said he, 'here is the veriest rogue that breathes upon the face of the earth. I have been a thief from a child: when I was but a little one, I gave myself to rob orchards and to do other such like wicked things, and I have continued a thief ever since. My lord, there has not been a robbery committed these many years, within so many miles of this place, but I have either been at it, or privy to it.' The judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some Browning had the happy thought of placing this episode in Bedford amid the scenes of Bunyan's labors and imprisonment. Bunyan, himself, was tried at the Bedford Assizes upon the charge of preaching things he should not, or according to some accounts for preaching without having been ordained, and was sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment in the Bedford Jail. At one time it was thought that he wrote "Pilgrim's Progress" during this imprisonment, but Dr. Brown, in his biography of Bunyan conjectured that this book was not begun until a later and shorter imprisonment of 1675-76, in the town prison and toll-house on Bedford Bridge. Dr. Brown supposes that the portion of the book written in prison closes where Christian and Hopeful part from the shepherds on the Delectable Mountains. "At that point a break in the narrative is indicated—'So I awoke from my dream;' it is resumed with the words—'And I slept and dreamed again, and saw the same two pilgrims going down the mountains along the highway towards the city.' Already from the top of an Browning, however, adopts the tradition that the book was written during the twelve years' imprisonment, and makes use of the story of Bunyan's having supported himself during this time by making tagged shoe-laces. He brings in, also, the little blind daughter to whom Bunyan was said to be devoted. The Poet was evidently under the impression also that the assizes were held in a courthouse, but there is good authority for thinking that at that time they were held in the chapel of Herne. Nothing remains of this building now, but it was situated at the southwest corner of the churchyard of St. Paul, and was spoken of sometimes as the School-house chapel. Ned Bratts and his wife did not know, of course, that they actually lived in the land of the "Pilgrim's Progress." This has been pointed out only recently in a fascinating little book by A.J. Foster of Wootton Vicarage, Bedfordshire. He has been a pilgrim from The House Beautiful he identifies with Houghton House in the manor of Dame Ellen's Bury. This is one of the most interesting of the country houses of England, because of its connection with Sir Philip Sidney's sister, Mary Sidney. After the death of her husband, Lord Pembroke, James I. presented her with the royal manor of Dame Ellen's Bury, and under the guidance of Inigo Jones, it is generally supposed, Houghton House was built. It is in ruins now and covered with ivy. Trees have grown within the ruins themselves. Still it is one of the most beautiful spots in Bedfordshire. "In Bunyan's time," Mr. Foster writes, "we may suppose the northern slope of Houghton Park was a series of terraces rising one above another, and laid out in the stiff garden fashion of the time. A flight of steps, or maybe a steep path, would lead from one terrace to the next, and gradually the view over the plain of Bed From Houghton House there is a view of the Chiltern Hills. Mr. Foster is of the opinion that Bunyan had this view in mind when he described Christian as looking from the roof of the House Beautiful southwards towards the Delectable Mountains. He writes, "One of the main roads to London from Bedford, and the one, moreover, which passes through Elstow, crosses the hills only a little more than a mile east of Houghton House, and Bunyan, in his frequent journeys to London, no doubt often passed along this road. All in this direction was, therefore, to him familiar ground. Many a pleasant walk or ride came back to him through memory, as he took pen in hand to describe Hill Difficulty with its steep path and its arbor, and the House Beautiful with its guest-chamber, its large upper room looking eastward, its study and its armory. "Many a time did Bunyan, as he journeyed, look southwards to the blue Chilterns, and when the time came he placed together all that he had seen, as the frame in which he should set his way-faring pilgrim." Pleasant as it would be to follow with Mr. Foster his journey through the real scenes of The effect which "Pilgrim's Progress" had on these two miserable beings, may be taken as typical of the enormous influence wielded by Bunyan in his own time. The most innocent among us had overwhelming qualms in regard to our sins, as children when we listened to our mothers read the book. I remember having confessed some childish peccadillo that was weighing on my small mind as the first result of my thoroughly aroused sense of guilt. In these early years of the Twentieth Century, such a feeling seems almost as far removed as the days of Bunyan. A sense of guilt is not a distinguishing characteristic of the child of the present day, and it may also be doubted whether such reprobates as Ned and his wife would to-day be affected much if at all by the "Pilgrim's Progress." There was probably great personal magnetism in Bunyan himself. We are told that after his discharge from prison, his Browning's picture of Bunyan shows the instant effect of his personality upon Tab. "There sat the 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." And again "Then all at once rose he: His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see: Up went his hands." It is like a clever bit of stage business to make Ned and Tab use the shoe laces to tie up the hands of their victims, and to bring on by this means the meeting between Tab and Bunyan. Of course, the blind daughter's part is imaginary, but yet it seems to bring very vividly before us this well loved child. Another touch, quite in keeping with the time, John Bunyan Statue by J.E. Boehm Though Bunyan is not primarily the subject of this poem, it is an appreciative tribute "plays, Songs, ballads and the like: here's no such strawy blaze, But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare," Dowden puts in the colder language of criticism. "The 'Pilgrim's Progress' is a gallery of portraits, admirably discriminated, and as convincing in their self-verification as those of Holbein. His personages live for us as few figures outside the drama of Shakespeare live.... All his powers cooperated harmoniously in creating this book—his religious ardor, his human tenderness, his sense of beauty, nourished by the Scriptures, his strong common sense, even his gift of humor. Through his deep seriousness play the lighter faculties. The whole man presses into this small volume." "Halbert and Hob" belongs here merely for its wild North of England setting. We may imagine, if we choose, that this wild father and son dwelt in the beautiful country of Northumberland, in the North of England, 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 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 Completed 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. "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. 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 self-same 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, someone'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." 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! In the "Inn Album," a degenerate type of Nineteenth-Century Englishman is dissected with the keen knife of a surgeon, which Browning knows so well how to wield. The villain of this poem was a real personage, a Lord de Ros, a friend of the Duke of Wellington. The story belongs to the annals of crime and is necessarily unpleasant, but in order to see how Browning has worked up the episode it is interesting to know the bare facts as Furnivall gives them in "Notes and Queries" March 25, 1876. He says "that the gambling lord showed the portrait of the lady he had seduced and abandoned and offered his dupe an introduction to her, as a bribe to induce him to wait for payment of the money he had won; that the young gambler eagerly accepted the offer; and that the lady committed suicide on hearing of the bargain between them." Dr. Furnivall heard the story from some one who well remembered the sensation it had made in London THE INN ALBUMI"That oblong book's the Album; hand it here! Exactly! page on page of gratitude For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view! I praise these poets: they leave margin-space; Each stanza seems to gather skirts around, And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine, Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'er-sprawls And straddling stops the path from left to right. Since I want space to do my cipher-work, Which poem spares a corner? What comes first? 'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!' (Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!) Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold— 'If a fellow can dine On rumpsteaks and port wine, He needs not despair Of dining well here—' 'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme! That bard's a Browning; he neglects the form: But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense! Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide! I'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt. A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work! Three little columns hold the whole account: EcartÉ, after which Blind Hookey, then 'Tis easy reckoning: I have lost, I think." Two personages occupy this room Shabby-genteel, that's parlor to the inn Perched on a view-commanding eminence; —Inn which may be a veritable house Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste Till tourists found his coign of vantage out, And fingered blunt the individual mark And vulgarized things comfortably smooth. On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag; His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds; They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World. Grim o'er the mirror on the mantlepiece, Varnished and coffined, Salmo ferox glares —Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg. So much describes the stuffy little room— Vulgar flat smooth respectability: Not so the burst of landscape surging in, Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair Is, plain enough, the younger personage Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best. He leans into a living glory-bath Of air and light where seems to float and move The wooded watered country, hill and dale And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist, A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed pa Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close For hill-side shelter, make the village-clump This inn is perched above to dominate— Except such sign of human neighborhood, (And this surmised rather than sensible) There's nothing to disturb absolute peace, The reign of English nature—which mean art And civilized existence. Wildness' self Is just the cultured triumph. Presently Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place That knows the right way to defend itself: Silence hems round a burning spot of life. Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood, And where a village broods, an inn should boast— Close and convenient: here you have them both. This inn, the Something-arms—the family's— (Don't trouble Guillim; heralds leave our half!) Is dear to lovers of the picturesque, And epics have been planned here; but who plan Take holy orders and find work to do. Painters are more productive, stop a week, Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay, For tender sentiment,—themselves incline Rather to handsweep large and liberal; Then go, but not without success achieved —Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech, Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole, On this a slug, on that a butterfly. Nay, he who hooked the salmo pendent here, Also exhibited, this same May-month, 'Foxgloves: a study'—so inspires the scene, The air, which now the younger personage Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir I' the distance where the green dies off to grey, Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place; He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek. His fellow, the much older—either say A youngish-old man or man oldish-young— Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep In wax, to detriment of plated ware; Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards, Counters and all that's proper for a game. Circumstantial as the description of this parlor and the situation of the inn is, it is impossible to say which out of the many English inns Browning had in mind. Inns date back to the days of the Romans, who had ale-houses along the roads, the most interesting feature of which was the ivy garland or wreath of vine-leaves in honor of Bacchus, wreathed around a hoop at the end of a long pole to point out the way where good drink could be had. A curious survival of this in early English times was the "ale-stake," a tavern so called because it had a long pole projecting from the house front wreathed like the old Roman poles with furze, a garland of flowers or an ivy wreath. This decoration was called the "bush," and in time the London taverners so vied with each other in their attempt to attract attention by very long poles and very prominent bushes that in 1375 The poet says this inn was the "Something-arms," and had perhaps once been a house. Many inns were the "Something (?) arms" and certainly many inns had been houses. One such is the Pounds Bridge Inn on a secluded road between Speldhurst and Penshurst in Kent. It was built by the rector of Penshurst, William Darkenoll, who lived in it only three years, when it became an inn. The inn of the poem might have been a combination in Browning's memory of this and the "White Horse" at Woolstone, which is described as a queerly pretty little inn with a front distantly resembling a Chippendale bureau-bookcase. "It is tucked away under the mighty sides of White Horse Hill, Berkshire, and additionally overhung with trees and encircled with shrubberies and under- Inns have, from time immemorial, been the scenes of romances and tragedies and crimes. There have been inns like the "Castle" where the "quality" loved to congregate. The "inn album" of this establishment had inscribed in it almost every eighteenth-century name of any distinction. There have been inns which were noted as the resort of the wits of the day. Ben Jonson loved to take "mine ease in mine inn," and Dr. Johnson declared that a seat in a tavern chair was the height of human felicity. "He was thinking," as it has An English Inn The "inn album" or visitors' book is a feature of inns. In this country we simply sign our names in the visitors' book, but the "album" feature of the visitors' book of an English inn is its glory and too often its shame, for as Mr. Harper says, "Bathos, ineptitude, and lines that refuse to scan are the stigmata of visitors' book verse. There is Browning pokes fun at the poetry of his inn album, but at the same time uses it as an important part of the machinery in the action. His English "Iago" writes in it the final damnation of his own character—the threat by means of which he hopes to ruin his victims, but which, instead, causes the lady to take poison and the young man to murder "Iago." The presence of the two men at this particular inn is explained in the following bit of conversation between them. Because you happen to be twice my age And twenty times my master, must perforce No blink of daylight struggle through the web And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no! A very pretty piece of shuttle-work Was that—your mere chance question at the club— 'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide? I'm off for Paris, there's the Opera—there's The Salon, there's a china-sale,—beside Chantilly; and, for good companionship, There's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose We start together?' 'No such holiday!' I told you: 'Paris and the rest be hanged! Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights? I'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours? On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse The week away down with the Aunt and Niece? No help: it's leisure, loneliness and love. Wish I could take you; but fame travels A man of much newspaper-paragraph, You scare domestic circles; and beside Would not you like your lot, that second taste Of nature and approval of the grounds! You might walk early or lie late, so shirk Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er, And morning church is obligatory: No mundane garb permissible, or dread The butler's privileged monition! No! Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!' Whereon how artlessly the happy flash Followed, by inspiration! 'Tell you what— Let's turn their flank, try things on t'other side! Inns for my money! Liberty's the life! We'll lie in hiding: there's the crow-nest nook, The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about, Inn that's out—out of sight and out of mind And out of mischief to all four of us— Aunt At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart. And while I'm whizzing onward by first train, Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks And says I shun him like the plague) yourself— Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay Despite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,— Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait The faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,' Said I to you; said I to mine own self: 'Does he believe I fail to comprehend He wants just one more final friendly snack At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth, Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?' And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave? Your pupil does you better credit! No! I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pair At the big balance in my banker's hands,— Folded a cheque cigar-case-shape,—just wants Filling and signing,—and took train, resolved To execute myself with decency And let you win—if not Ten thousand quite, Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst Of firework-nosegay! Where's your fortune fled? Or is not fortune constant after all? You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think. You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height. How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!" The more refined man smiles a frown away. On the way to the station where the older man is to take the train they have another talk, in which each tells the other of his experience, but they do not find out yet that they have both loved the same woman. "Stop, my boy! Don't think I'm stingy of experience! Life —It's like this wood we leave. Should you and I Go wandering about there, though the gaps We went in and came out by were opposed As the two poles, still, somehow, all the same, By nightfall we should probably have chanced On much the same main points of interest— Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk, Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow, And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt. So in our lives; allow I entered mine Another way than you: 't is possible I ended just by knocking head against That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began By getting bump from; as at last you too May stumble o'er that stump which first of all Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure, Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise. I, early old, played young man four years since And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike Failure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!" "Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime, Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah But how should chits distinguish? She admired Your marvel of a mind, I'll undertake! But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is, When years have told on face and figure...." "Thanks, Mister Sufficiently-Instructed! Such No doubt was bound to be the consequence To suit your self-complacency: she liked My head enough, but loved some heart beneath Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top After my young friend's fashion! What becomes Of that fine speech you made a minute since About the man of middle age you found A formidable peer at twenty-one? So much for your mock-modesty! and yet I back your first against this second sprout Of observation, insight, what you please. My middle age, Sir, had too much success! It's odd: my case occurred four years ago— I finished just while you commenced that turn I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach. Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside, The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet (Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!) Good nature sticks into my button-hole. Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced On what—so far from 'rosebud beauty'.... Well— She's dead: at least you never heard her name; She was no courtly creature, had nor birth Nor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that, Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know, Artists would make an outcry: all the more, That she had just a statue's sleepy grace Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault (Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose Only the little flaw, and I had peeped Inside it, learned what soul inside was like. At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife— I wish,—now,—I had played that brute, brought blood To surface from the depths I fancied chalk! As it was, her mere face surprised so much That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares The cockney stranger at a certain bust With drooped eyes,—she's the thing I have in mind,— Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize— Such Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all! Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life long I've been a woman-liker,—liking means Loving and so on. There's a lengthy list By this time I shall have to answer for— So say the good folk: and they don't guess half— For the worst is, let once collecting-itch Possess you, and, with perspicacity, Keeps growing such a greediness that theft Follows at no long distance,—there's the fact! I knew that on my Leporello-list Might figure this, that, and the other name Of feminine desirability, But if I happened to desire inscribe, Along with these, the only Beautiful Here was the unique specimen to snatch Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said— 'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling then To tune of 'Haste, secure whate'er the cost This rarity, die in the act, be damned, So you complete collection, crown your list!' It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused By the first notice of such wonder's birth, Would break bounds to contest my prize with me The first discoverer, should she but emerge From that safe den of darkness where she dozed Till I stole in, that country-parsonage Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless, Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years She had been vegetating lily-like. Her father was my brother's tutor, got The living that way: him I chanced to see— Her I saw—her the world would grow one eye To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all! 'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterward Arrange for the disposal of the prize!' The devil's doing! yet I seem to think— Now, when all's done,—think with 'a head reposed' In French phrase—hope I think I meant to do All requisite for such a rarity When I should be at leisure, have due time To learn requirement. But in evil day— Bless me, at week's end, long as any year, The father must begin 'Young Somebody, Much recommended—for I break a rule— Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.' 'Young!' That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,' 'Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but —'Young!'" You are not married?" "I?" "Nor ever were?" "Never! Why?" "Oh, then—never mind! Go on! I had a reason for the question." "Come,— You could not be the young man?" "No, indeed! Certainly—if you never married her!" "That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see! Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistake Which, nourished with manure that's warranted To make the plant bear wisdom, blew out full In folly beyond field-flower-foolishness! The lies I used to tell my womankind, Knowing they disbelieved me all the time Though they required my lies, their decent due, This woman—not so much believed, I'll say, As just anticipated from my mouth: Since being true, devoted, constant—she Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain And easy commonplace of character. No mock-heroics but seemed natural To her who underneath the face, I knew Was fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judged Must correspond in folly just as far Beyond the common,—and a mind to match,— Not made to puzzle conjurers like me Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir, 'Trust me!' I said: she trusted. 'Marry me!' Or rather, 'We are married: when, the rite?' That brought on the collector's next-day qualm At counting acquisition's cost. There lay My marvel, there my purse more light by much Because of its late lie-expenditure: Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand— To cage as well as catch my rarity! So, I began explaining. At first word Outbroke the horror. 'Then, my truths were lies!' I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strange All-unsuspected revelation—soul As supernaturally grand as face Was fair beyond example—that at once Either I lost—or, if it please you, found My senses,—stammered somehow—'Jest! and now, Earnest! Forget all else but—heart has loved, Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!' Not she! no marriage for superb disdain, Contempt incarnate!" "Yes, it's different,— It's only like in being four years since. I see now!" "Well, what did disdain do next, Think you?" "That's past me: did not marry you!— That's the main thing I care for, I suppose. Turned nun, or what?" "Why, married in a month Of curate-creature, I suspect,—dived down, Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else— I don't know where—I've not tried much to know,— In short, she's happy: what the clodpoles call 'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the life Respectable and all that drives you mad: Still—where, I don't know, and that's best for both." "Well, that she did not like you, I conceive. But why should you hate her, I want to know?" "My good young friend,—because or her or else Malicious Providence I have to hate. For, what I tell you proved the turning-point Of my whole life and fortune toward success Or failure. If I drown, I lay the fault Much on myself who caught at reed not rope, But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith, Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thaw And I strike out afresh and so be saved. It's easy saying—I had sunk before, Disqualified myself by idle days And busy nights, long since, from holding hard On cable, even, had fate cast me such! You boys don't know how many times men fail Perforce o' the little to succeed i' the large, Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey, Collect the whole power for the final pounce. My fault was the mistaking man's main prize For intermediate boy's diversion; clap Of boyish hands here frightened game away Which, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at first I took the anger easily, nor much Subside, and teapot-tempests are akin. Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might be Somewhat amiss; precipitation, eh? Reason and rhyme prompt—reparation! Tiffs End properly in marriage and a dance! I said 'We'll marry, make the past a blank'— And never was such damnable mistake! That interview, that laying bare my soul, As it was first, so was it last chance—one And only. Did I write? Back letter came Unopened as it went. Inexorable She fled, I don't know where, consoled herself With the smug curate-creature: chop and change! Sure am I, when she told her shaveling all His Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed, Forgiveness evangelically shown, 'Loose hair and lifted eye,'—as some one says. And now, he's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!" "Well, but your turning-point of life,—what's here To hinder you contesting Finsbury With Orton, next election? I don't see...." Day by day o'er me the conviction—here Was life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go! —That with her—may be, for her—I had felt Ice in me melt, grow steam, drive to effect Any or all the fancies sluggish here I' the head that needs the hand she would not take And I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood— Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,— There she stands, ending every avenue, I might have gained had we kept side by side! Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids: The steam congeals once more: I'm old again! Therefore I hate myself—but how much worse Do not I hate who would not understand, Let me repair things—no, but sent a-slide My folly falteringly, stumblingly Down, down and deeper down until I drop Upon—the need of your ten thousand pounds And consequently loss of mine! I lose Character, cash, nay, common-sense itself Recounting such a lengthy cock-and-bull Adventure—lose my temper in the act...." "And lose beside,—if I may supplement The list of losses,—train and ten-o'clock! Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign! So much the better! You're my captive now! I'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thick This way—that's twice said; we were thickish, though, Even last night, and, ere night comes again, I prophesy good luck to both of us! For see now!—back to 'balmy eminence' Or 'calm acclivity,' or what's the word! Bestow you there an hour, concoct at ease A sonnet for the Album, while I put Bold face on, best foot forward, make for house, March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth— (Even white-lying goes against my taste After your little story). Oh, the niece Is rationality itself! The aunt— If she's amenable to reason too— Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect, If she grows gracious, I return for you; If thunder's in the air, why—bear your doom, Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dust Of aunty from your shoes as off you go By evening-train, nor give the thing a thought How you shall pay me—that's as sure as fate, Old fellow! Off with you, face left about! Yonder's the path I have to pad. You see, I'm in good spirits, God knows why! Perhaps Because the woman did not marry you —Who look so hard at me,—and have the right, One must be fair and own." The two stand still Under an oak. "Look here!" resumes the youth. "I never quite knew how I came to like You—so much—whom I ought not court at all; Nor how you had a leaning just to me Who am assuredly not worth your pains. For there must needs be plenty such as you Somewhere about,—although I can't say where,— Able and willing to teach all you know; While—how can you have missed a score like me With money and no wit, precisely each A pupil for your purpose, were it—ease Fool's poke of tutor's honorarium-fee? And yet, howe'er it came about, I felt At once my master: you as prompt descried Your man, I warrant, so was bargain struck. Now, these same lines of liking, loving, run Sometimes so close together they converge Life's great adventures—you know what I mean— In people. Do you know, as you advanced, It got to be uncommonly like fact We two had fallen in with—liked and loved Just the same woman in our different ways? I began life—poor groundling as I prove— Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not? There's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point, My shrewd old father used to quote and praise— 'Am I born man?' asks Sancho: 'being man, By possibility I may be Pope!' So, Pope I meant to make myself, by step And step, whereof the first should be to find A perfect woman; and I tell you this— If what I fixed on, in the order due Of undertakings, as next step, had first Of all disposed itself to suit my tread, And I had been, the day I came of age, Returned at head of poll for Westminster —Nay, and moreover summoned by the Queen At week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit, To form and head a Tory ministry— It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor been More strange to me, as now I estimate, Than what did happen—sober truth, no dream. I saw my wonder of a woman,—laugh, I'm past that!—in Commemoration-week. A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,— With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink; But one to match that marvel—no least trace, Least touch of kinship and community! The end was—I did somehow state the fact, Did, with no matter what imperfect words, One way or other give to understand Would she but take, but try them—any test Of will, and some poor test of power beside: So did the strings within my brain grow tense And capable of ... hang similitudes! She answered kindly but beyond appeal. 'No sort of hope for me, who came too late. She was another's. Love went—mine to her, Hers just as loyally to some one else.' Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law— Given the peerless woman, certainly Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match! I acquiesced at once, submitted me In something of a stupor, went my way. I fancy there had been some talk before Of somebody—her father or the like— To coach me in the holidays,—that's how I came to get the sight and speech of her,— But I had sense enough to break off sharp, Save both of us the pain." "Quite right there!" "Eh? Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all! Yes, I did sulk aloof and let alone The lovers—I disturb the angel-mates?" "Seraph paired off with cherub!" "Thank you! While I never plucked up courage to inquire Who he was, even,—certain-sure of this, That nobody I knew of had blue wings And wore a star-crown as he needs must do, Some little lady,—plainish, pock-marked girl,— Finds out my secret in my woful face, Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball, And pityingly pours her wine and oil This way into the wound: 'Dear f-f-friend, Why waste affection thus on—must I say, A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice— Irrevocable as deliberate— Out of the wide world? I shall name no names— But there's a person in society, Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown gray In idleness and sin of every sort Except hypocrisy: he's thrice her age, A by-word for "successes with the sex" As the French say—and, as we ought to say, Consummately a liar and a rogue, Since—show me where's the woman won without The help of this one lie which she believes— That—never mind how things have come to pass, And let who loves have loved a thousand times— All the same he now loves her only, loves Her ever! if by "won" you just mean "sold," That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp, Continuing descent from bad to worse, Must leave his fine and fashionable prey (Who—fathered, brothered, husbanded,—are hedged About with thorny danger) and apply His arts to this poor country ignorance Who sees forthwith in the first rag of man Her model hero! Why continue waste On such a woman treasures of a heart Would yet find solace,—yes, my f-f-friend— In some congenial—fiddle-diddle-dee?'" Exact the portrait which my 'f-f-friends' Recognize as so like? 'T is evident You half surmised the sweet original Could be no other than myself, just now! Your stop and start were flattering!" "Of course Caricature's allowed for in a sketch! The longish nose becomes a foot in length, The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,—still, Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts: And 'parson's daughter'—'young man coachable'— 'Elderly party'—'four years since'—were facts To fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though— That made the difference, I hope." "All right! I never married; wish I had—and then Unwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes! I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free. In your case, where's the grievance? You came last, The earlier bird picked up the worm. Suppose You, in the glory of your twenty-one, Had happened to precede myself! 't is odds But this gigantic juvenility, This offering of a big arm's bony hand— I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know— Had moved my dainty mistress to admire An altogether new Ideal—deem Idolatry less due to life's decline Productive of experience, powers mature By dint of usage, the made man—no boy That's all to make! I was the earlier bird And what I found, I let fall: what you missed Who is the fool that blames you for?" They become so deeply interested in this talk that the train is missed, and, in the meantime, the lady who now lives in the neighborhood as the wife of the hard-working country parson meets the young girl at the inn. They are great friends and have come there, at the girl's invitation, to talk over her prospective husband. She desires her friend to come to her home and meet her fiancÉ, but the lady, who is in constant fear of meeting "Iago," never goes anywhere, and proposes a meeting with him at the inn. While she waits, "Iago" comes in upon her. There is a terrible scene of recrimination between these two, the man again daring to prefer his love. The lady scorns him. Horror is added to horror when the young man appears at the door, and recognizes the woman he really loves. His faith in her and his love are shaken for a moment, but return immediately and he stands her true friend and lover. The complete despicableness of "Iago's" nature finally reveals itself in the lines he writes in the album and gives to the lady to read. The poem is too long to quote in full. The closing scene, however, will give the reader a good idea of The true nobility of soul of the younger man links him with Mertoun among Browning's heroes and represents the Englishman or the man of any country for that matter at his highest. Whether redemption for the older man would have been possible had the lady believed him in the inn parlor is doubtful. Such natures are like Ibsen's "Peer Gynt." They need to be put into a button mould and moulded over again. "Here's the lady back! So, Madam, you have conned the Album-page And come to thank its last contributor? How kind and condescending! I retire A moment, lest I spoil the interview, And mar my own endeavor to make friends— You with him, him with you, and both with me! If I succeed—permit me to inquire Five minutes hence! Friends bid good-by, you know." And out he goes. VIIShe, face, form, bearing, one Superb composure— "He has told you all? Yes, he has told you all, your silence says— What gives him, as he thinks the mastery Over my body and my soul!—has told He now exacts of me? A silent blush! That's well, though better would white ignorance Beseem your brow, undesecrate before— Ay, when I left you! I too learn at last —Hideously learned as I seemed so late— What sin may swell to. Yes,—I needed learn That, when my prophet's rod became the snake I fled from, it would, one day, swallow up —Incorporate whatever serpentine Falsehood and treason and unmanliness Beslime earth's pavement: such the power of Hell, And so beginning, ends no otherwise The Adversary! I was ignorant, Blameworthy—if you will; but blame I take Nowise upon me as I ask myself —You—how can you, whose soul I seemed to read The limpid eyes through, have declined so deep Even with him for consort? I revolve Much memory, pry into the looks and words Of that day's walk beneath the College wall, And nowhere can distinguish, in what gleams Only pure marble through my dusky past, A dubious cranny where such poison-seed Might harbor, nourish what should yield to-day This dread ingredient for the cup I drink. Do not I recognize and honor truth In seeming?—take your truth and for return, Give you my truth, a no less precious gift? You loved me: I believed you. I replied —How could I other? 'I was not my own,' —No longer had the eyes to see, the ears To hear, the mind to judge, since heart and soul Now were another's. My own right in me, Fronted the honest path, deflection whence Had shamed me in the furtive backward look At the late bargain—fit such chapman's phrase!— As though—less hasty and more provident— Waiting had brought advantage. Not for me The chapman's chance! Yet while thus much was true, I spared you—as I knew you then—one more Concluding word which, truth no less, seemed best Buried away forever. Take it now Its power to pain is past! Four years—that day— Those lines that make the College avenue! I would that—friend and foe—by miracle, I had, that moment, seen into the heart Of either, as I now am taught to see! I do believe I should have straight assumed My proper function, and sustained a soul, Nor aimed at being just sustained myself By some man's soul—the weaker woman's-want! So had I missed the momentary thrill Of finding me in presence of a god, But gained the god's own feeling when he gives Such thrill to what turns life from death before. 'Gods many and Lords many,' says the Book: You would have yielded up your soul to me —Not to the false god who has burned its clay In his own image. I had shed my love Like Spring dew on the clod all flowery thence, Not sent up a wild vapor to the sun that drinks and then disperses. Both of us Blameworthy,—I first meet my punishment— And not so hard to bear. I breathe again! Forth from those arms' enwinding leprosy At last I struggle—uncontaminate: That's all one plague-spot? Did you love me once? Then take love's last and best return! I think, Womanliness means only motherhood; All love begins and ends there,—roams enough, But, having run the circle, rests at home. Why is your expiation yet to make? Pull shame with your own hands from your own head Now,—never wait the slow envelopment Submitted to by unelastic age! One fierce throe frees the sapling: flake on flake Lull till they leave the oak snow-stupefied. Your heart retains its vital warmth—or why That blushing reassurance? Blush, young blood! Break from beneath this icy premature Captivity of wickedness—I warn Back, in God's name! No fresh encroachment here! This May breaks all to bud—No Winter now! Friend, we are both forgiven! Sin no more! I am past sin now, so shall you become! Meanwhile I testify that, lying once, My foe lied ever, most lied last of all. He, waking, whispered to your sense asleep The wicked counsel,—and assent might seem; But, roused, your healthy indignation breaks The idle dream-pact. You would die—not dare Confirm your dream-resolve,—nay, find the word That fits the deed to bear the light of day! Say I have justly judged you! then farewell To blushing—nay, it ends in smiles, not tears! Why tears now? I have justly judged, thank God!" He does blush boy-like, but the man speaks out, —Makes the due effort to surmount himself. How he could read my purpose which, it seems, He chose to somehow write—mistakenly Or else for mischief's sake. I scarce believe My purpose put before you fair and plain Would need annoy so much; but there's my luck— From first to last I blunder. Still, one more Turn at the target, try to speak my thought! Since he could guess my purpose, won't you read Right what he set down wrong? He said—let's think! Ay, so!—he did begin by telling heaps Of tales about you. Now, you see—suppose Any one told me—my own mother died Before I knew her—told me—to his cost!— Such tales about my own dead mother: why, You would not wonder surely if I knew, By nothing but my own heart's help, he lied, Would you? No reason's wanted in the case. So with you! In they burnt on me, his tales, Much as when madhouse-inmates crowd around, Make captive any visitor and scream All sorts of stories of their keeper—he's Both dwarf and giant, vulture, wolf, dog, cat, Serpent and scorpion, yet man all the same; Sane people soon see through the gibberish! I just made out, you somehow lived somewhere A life of shame—I can't distinguish more— Married or single—how, don't matter much: Shame which himself had caused—that point was clear, That fact confessed—that thing to hold and keep. Oh, and he added some absurdity —That you were here to make me—ha, ha, ha!— Still love you, still of mind to die for you, Ha, ha—as if that needed mighty pains! —What I am, what I am not, in the eye Of the world, is what I never cared for much. Fool then or no fool, not one single word In the whole string of lies did I believe, But this—this only—if I choke, who cares?— I believe somehow in your purity Perfect as ever! Else what use is God? He is God, and work miracles He can! Then, what shall I do? Quite as clear, my course! They've got a thing they call their Labyrinth I' the garden yonder: and my cousin played A pretty trick once, led and lost me deep Inside the briery maze of hedge round hedge; And there might I be staying now, stock-still, But that I laughing bade eyes follow nose And so straight pushed my path through let and stop And soon was out in the open, face all scratched, But well behind my back the prison-bars In sorry plight enough, I promise you! So here: I won my way to truth through lies— Said, as I saw light,—if her shame be shame I'll rescue and redeem her,—shame's no shame? Then, I'll avenge, protect—redeem myself The stupidest of sinners! Here I stand! Dear,—let me once dare call you so,—you said Thus ought you to have done, four years ago, Such things and such! Ay, dear, and what ought I? You were revealed to me: where's gratitude, Where's memory even, where the gain of you Discernible in my low after-life Of fancied consolation? why, no horse Once fed on corn, will, missing corn, go munch Mere thistles like a donkey! I missed you, Ay, did I,—by this token, that he taught So much beast-nature that I meant ... God knows Whether I bow me to the dust enough!... To marry—yes, my cousin here! I hope That was a master-stroke! Take heart of hers, And give her hand of mine with no more heart Than now you see upon this brow I strike! What atom of a heart do I retain Not all yours? Dear, you know it! Easily May she accord me pardon when I place My brow beneath her foot, if foot so deign, Since uttermost indignity is spared— Mere marriage and no love! And all this time Not one word to the purpose! Are you free? Only wait! only let me serve—deserve Where you appoint and how you see the good! I have the will—perhaps the power—at least Means that have power against the world. For time— Take my whole life for your experiment! If you are bound—in marriage, say—why, still, Still, sure, there's something for a friend to do, Outside? A mere well-wisher, understand! I'll sit, my life long, at your gate, you know, Swing it wide open to let you and him Pass freely,—and you need not look, much less Fling me a 'Thank you—are you there, old friend?' Don't say that even: I should drop like shot! So I feel now at least: some day, who knows? After no end of weeks and months and years You might smile 'I believe you did your best!' And that shall make my heart leap—leap such leap As lands the feet in Heaven to wait you there! Ah, there's just one thing more! How pale you look! Worst come to worst—if still there somehow be The shame—I said was no shame,—none! I swear!— In that case, if my hand and what it holds,— My name,—might be your safeguard now—at once— Why, here's the hand—you have the heart! Of course— No cheat, no binding you, because I'm bound, To let me off probation by one day, Week, month, year, lifetime! Prove as you propose! Here's the hand with the name to take or leave! That's all—and no great piece of news, I hope!" "Give me the hand, then!" she cries hastily. "Quick, now! I hear his footstep!" Hand in hand The couple face him as he enters, stops Short, stands surprised a moment, laughs away Surprise, resumes the much-experienced man. "So, you accept him?" "Till us death do part!" "No longer? Come, that's right and rational! I fancied there was power in common sense, But did not know it worked thus promptly. Well— At last each understands the other, then? Each drops disguise, then? So, at supper-time These masquerading people doff their gear, Grand Turk his pompous turban, Quakeress Her stiff-starched bib and tucker,—make-believe That only bothers when, ball-business done, Nature demands champagne and mayonnaise. Just so has each of us sage three abjured His and her moral pet particular And, cheek by jowl, we henceforth munch and joke! Go, happy pair, paternally dismissed To live and die together—for a month, From whatsoe'er the calm sweet solitude Selected—Paris not improbably— At month's end, when the honeycomb's left wax, —You, daughter, with a pocketful of gold Enough to find your village boys and girls In duffel cloaks and hobnailed shoes from May To—what's the phrase?—Christmas-come-never-mas! You, son and heir of mine, shall re-appear Ere Spring-time, that's the ring-time, lose one leaf, And—not without regretful smack of lip The while you wipe it free of honey-smear— Marry the cousin, play the magistrate, Stand for the country, prove perfection's pink— Master of hounds, gay-coated dine—nor die Sooner than needs of gout, obesity, And sons at Christ Church! As for me,—ah me, I abdicate—retire on my success, Four years well occupied in teaching youth —My son and daughter the exemplary! Time for me to retire now, having placed Proud on their pedestal the pair: in turn, Let them do homage to their master! You,— Well, your flushed cheek and flashing eye proclaim Sufficiently your gratitude: you paid The honorarium, the ten thousand pounds To purpose, did you not? I told you so! And you, but, bless me, why so pale—so faint At influx of good fortune? Certainly, No matter how or why or whose the fault, You blindly were resolved to welcome death In that black boor-and-bumpkin-haunted hole Of his, the prig with all the preachments! You Installed as nurse and matron to the crones And wenches, while there lay a world outside Like Paris (which again I recommend) In company and guidance of—first, this, Then—all in good time—some new friend as fit— What if I were to say, some fresh myself, As I once figured? Each dog has his day, And mine's at sunset: what should old dog do But eye young litters' frisky puppyhood? Oh I shall watch this beauty and this youth Frisk it in brilliance! But don't fear! Discreet, I shall pretend to no more recognize My quondam pupils than the doctor nods When certain old acquaintances may cross His path in Park, or sit down prim beside His plate at dinner-table: tip nor wink Scares patients he has put, for reason good, Under restriction,—maybe, talked sometimes Of douche or horsewhip to,—for why? because The gentleman would crazily declare His best friend was—Iago! Ay, and worse— The lady, all at once grown lunatic, In suicidal monomania vowed, To save her soul, she needs must starve herself! They're cured now, both, and I tell nobody. Why don't you speak? Nay, speechless, each of you Can spare,—without unclasping plighted troth,— At least one hand to shake! Left-hands will do— Yours first, my daughter! Ah, it guards—it gripes The precious Album fast—and prudently! On page the last: allow me tear the leaf! Pray, now! And afterward, to make amends, What if all three of us contribute each A line to that prelusive fragment,—help The embarrassed bard who broke out to break down Dumbfoundered at such unforeseen success? 'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot' You begin—place aux dames! I'll prompt you then! 'Here do I take the good the gods allot!' Next you, Sir! What, still sulky? Sing, O Muse! 'Here does my lord in full discharge his shot!' Now for the crowning flourish! mine shall be...." "Nothing to match your first effusion, mar What was, is, shall remain your masterpiece! Authorship has the alteration-itch! No, I protest against erasure. Read, My friend!" (she gasps out). "Read and quickly read 'Before us death do part,' what made you mine And made me yours—the marriage-license here! Decide if he is like to mend the same!" And so the lady, white to ghastliness, Manages somehow to display the page With left-hand only, while the right retains The other hand, the young man's,—dreaming-drunk He, with this drench of stupefying stuff, Eyes wide, mouth open,—half the idiot's stare And half the prophet's insight,—holding tight, All the same, by his one fact in the world— The lady's right-hand: he but seems to read— Does not, for certain; yet, how understand Unless he reads? For certain. Slowly, word by word, she reads Aloud that license—or that warrant, say. "'One against two—and two that urge their odds To uttermost—I needs must try resource! Madam, I laid me prostrate, bade you spurn Body and soul: you spurned and safely spurned So you had spared me the superfluous taunt "Prostration means no power to stand erect, Stand, trampling on who trampled—prostrate now!" So, with my other fool-foe: I was fain Let the boy touch me with the buttoned foil, And him the infection gains, he too must needs Catch up the butcher's cleaver. Be it so! Since play turns earnest, here's my serious fence. He loves you; he demands your love: both know What love means in my language. Love him then! Pursuant to a pact, love pays my debt: Therefore, deliver me from him, thereby Likewise delivering from me yourself! For, hesitate—much more, refuse consent— I tell the whole truth to your husband. Flat Cards lie on table, in our gamester-phrase! Consent—you stop my mouth, the only way.' "I did well, trusting instinct: knew your hand Had never joined with his in fellowship Over this pact of infamy. You known— As he was known through every nerve of me. Therefore I 'stopped his mouth the only way' But my way! none was left for you, my friend— The loyal—near, the loved one! No—no—no! Threaten? Chastise? The coward would but quail. Stamp out his slimy strength from tail to head, And still you leave vibration of the tongue. His malice had redoubled—not on me Who, myself, choose my own refining fire— But on poor unsuspicious innocence; And,—victim,—to turn executioner Also—that feat effected, forky tongue Had done indeed its office! One snake's 'mouth' Thus 'open'—how could mortal 'stop it'? "So!" A tiger-flash—yell, spring, and scream: halloo! Death's out and on him, has and holds him—ugh! But ne trucidet coram populo Juvenis senem! Right the Horatian rule! There, see how soon a quiet comes to pass! The youth is somehow by the lady's side. His right-hand grasps her right-hand once again. Both gaze on the dead body. Hers the word. "And that was good but useless. Had I lived The danger was to dread: but, dying now— Himself would hardly become talkative, Since talk no more means torture. Fools—what fools These wicked men are! Had I borne four years, Four years of weeks and months and days and nights, Inured me to the consciousness of life Coiled round by his life, with the tongue to ply,— But that I bore about me, for prompt use At urgent need, the thing that 'stops the mouth' And stays the venom? Since such need was now Or never,—how should use not follow need? Bear witness for me, I withdraw from life That blackens yet this Album—white again, Thanks still to my one friend who tears the page! Now, let me write the line of s upplement, As counselled by my foe there: 'each a line!'" And she does falteringly write to end. "I die now through the villain who lies dead, Righteously slain. He would have outraged me, So, my defender slew him. God protect The right! Where wrong lay, I bear witness now. Let man believe me, whose last breath is spent In blessing my defender from my soul!" And so ends the Inn Album. As she dies, Begins outside a voice that sounds like song, And is indeed half song though meant for speech Muttered in time to motion—stir of heart That unsubduably must bubble forth To match the fawn-step as it mounts the stair. "All's ended and all's over! Verdict found 'Not guilty'—prisoner forthwith set free, Mid cheers the Court pretends to disregard! Now Portia, now for Daniel, late severe, At last appeased, benignant! 'This young man— Hem—has the young man's foibles but no fault. He's virgin soil—a friend must cultivate. I think no plant called "love" grows wild—a friend May introduce, and name the bloom, the fruit!' Here somebody dares wave a handkerchief She'll want to hide her face with presently! Good-by then! 'Cigno fedel, cigno fedel, Addio!' Now, was ever such mistake— Ever such foolish ugly omen? Pshaw! Wagner, beside! 'Amo te solo, te Solo amai!' That's worth fifty such! But, mum, the grave face at the opened door!" And so the good gay girl, with eyes and cheeks Diamond and damask,—cheeks so white erewhile Because of a vague fancy, idle fear Chased on reflection!—pausing, taps discreet; And then, to give herself a countenance, Before she comes upon the pair inside, Loud—the oft-quoted, long-laughed-over line— "'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!' Open the door!" No: let the curtain fall! |
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