I and Clive were friends—and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad.
Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives—egad,
England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak—
"Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades—" with a tongue thrust in your cheek!
Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man,
198
I was, am and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan
Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame;
While the man Clive—he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game,
Conquered and annexed and Englished!
Never mind! As o'er my punch
(You away) I sit of evenings,—silence, save for biscuit-crunch,
Black, unbroken,—thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years,
Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life appears
Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood,
Once, and well remembered still: I'm startled in my solitude
Ever and anon by—what's the sudden mocking light that breaks
On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes
While I ask—aloud, I do believe, God help me!—"Was it thus?
Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us—"
(Us,—you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be)
"—One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see)
"Got no end of wealth and honor,—yet I stood stock still no less?"
—"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess
Wealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wall
Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice—call
199
Hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words,
Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says the land's the Lord's:
Louts them—what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring,
All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king?
Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before
T'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore
Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By-and-by
Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I.
Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still
Marks a man,—God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill.
You've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin:
Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in!
True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass;
Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage—ah, the brute he was!
Why, that Clive,—that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,—
He sustained a siege in Arcot.... But the world knows! Pass the wine.
Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear"!
Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear.
We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb
200
Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorb
Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eye
Drawing near, bear what had burned else, now no blaze—all majesty.
Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle's new:
None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe
'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile
As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile.
Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without
Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about
Towers—the heap he kicks now! turrets—just the measure of his cane!
Will that do? Observe moreover—(same similitude again)—
Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade:
'Tis when foes are foiled and fighting's finished that vile rains invade,
Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes
Fit to build in like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles.
So Clive crumbled slow in London—crashed at last.
A week before,
Dining with him,—after trying churchyard-chat of days of yore,—
Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean
201
Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between.
As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment
By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went
Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throw
Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let's venture some good rattling question!" So—
"Come, Clive, tell us"—out I blurted—"what to tell in turn, years hence,
When my boy—suppose I have one—asks me on what evidence
I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit
Worth your Alexanders, Cæsars, Marlboroughs and—what said Pitt?—
Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"—I want to say—
"Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away
—In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess—
Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness!
Come! what moment of the minute, what speck-center in the wide
Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified?
(Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!)
If a friend has leave to question,—when were you most brave, in short?"
Up he arched his brows o' the instant—formidably Clive again.
202
"When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plain
As another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal—curse it!—here
Freezing when my memory touches—ugh!—the time I felt most fear.
Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear—anyhow,
Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now."
"Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek,
Ticket up in one's museum, Mind-Freaks, Lord Clive's Fear, Unique!"
Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though
Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago.
When he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will,
Some blind jungle of a statement,—beating on and on until
Out there leaps fierce life to fight with.
"This fell in my factor-days.
Desk-drudge, slaving at St. David's, one must game, or drink, or craze.
I chose gaming: and,—because your high-flown gamesters hardly take
Umbrage at a factor's elbow if the factor pays his stake,—
I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice,
Captain This and Major That, men high of color, loud of voice,
Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile
203
Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile.
"Down I sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonist
Somebody whose name's a secret—you'll know why—so, if you list,
Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel!
Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel
Quite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize,
I the scribe with him the warrior,—guessed no penman dared to raise
Shadow of objection should the honor stay but playing end
More or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spend
Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare
At—not ask of—lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,—
Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!'
"I rose.
'Such the new manœuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows.
What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?'
"Never did a thunder-clap
Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap,
As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack)
Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black.
"When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!'
204"'Well, you forced a card and cheated!'
"'Possibly a factor's brain,
Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deem
Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem
Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see!
When a gentleman is joked with,—if he's good at repartee,
He rejoins, as do I—Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full!
Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull
Lets in light and teaches manners to what brain it finds! Choose quick—
Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!'
"'Well, you cheated!'
"Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around.
To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground.
'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace!
No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space!
Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen,
Fly the sword! This clerk's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then!
Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert
Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert,
Likelier hits the broader target!'
205 "Up we stood accordingly.
As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try
Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out
Every spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled about
By that toying tempting teasing fool-fore-finger's middle joint,—
Don't you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point
Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head
Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead.
"Up he marched in flaming triumph—'twas his right, mind!—up, within
Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grin
As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat
That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?'
"'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well.
As for me, my homely breeding bids you—fire and go to Hell!'
"Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist,
Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list,
206
I can't! God's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No!
There's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,—so,
I did cheat!'
"And down he threw the pistol, out rushed—by the door
Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor,
He effected disappearance—I'll engage no glance was sent
That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment
Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking—mute they stood as mice.
"Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice!
'Rogue and rascal! Who'd have thought it? What's to be expected next,
When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext
For.... But where's the need of wasting time now? Nought requires delay:
Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away
Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed
Drum and fife must play the Rogue's March, rank and file be free to speed
Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear
—Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,—never fear,
Mister Clive, for—though a clerk—you bore yourself—suppose we say—
Just as would beseem a soldier!'
"'Gentlemen, attention—pray!
First, one word!'
207 "I passed each speaker severally in review.
When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knew
Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,—why, then——
"'Some five minutes since, my life lay—as you all saw, gentlemen—
At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised
In arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed—
Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to mark
Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark,
Guess at random,—still, for sake of fair play—what if for a freak,
In a fit of absence,—such things have been!—if our friend proved weak
—What's the phrase?—corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!"
Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest?
Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each,
To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech
—To his face, behind his back,—that speaker has to do with me:
Me who promise, if positions change and mine the chance should be,
Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!'
"Twenty-five
Years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive,
208
"Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath
Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death,
For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you.
All I know is—Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,—grew
Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again
Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,—
That's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate.
Ugh—the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate
Longer? You've my story, there's your instance: fear I did, you see!"
"Well"—I hardly kept from laughing—"if I see it, thanks must be
Wholly to your Lordship's candor. Not that—in a common case—
When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face,
I should underrate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve!
'Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve.
Fear I naturally look for—unless, of all men alive,
I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive.
Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death—the whole world knows—
Came to somewhat closer quarters."
Quarters? Had we come to blows,
Clive and I, you had not wondered—up he sprang so, out he rapped
Such a round of oaths—no matter! I'll endeavor to adapt
To our modern usage words he—well, 'twas friendly license—flung
At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.
209"You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick
Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick,
—At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inch
Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,—not to flinch
—That needs courage, you'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man,
Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span
Distant from my temple,—curse him!—quietly had bade me 'There!
Keep your life, calumniator!—worthless life I freely spare:
Mine you freely would have taken—murdered me and my good fame
Both at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim
Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these,
He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please?
Nay, I'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained—
Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. I so had gained
Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still
Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will."
"Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate
—No, by not one jot nor tittle,—of your act my estimate.
Fear—I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough—
Call it desperation, madness—never mind! for here's in rough
210
Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace.
True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face
—None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times,
Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes
Rub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink,
Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think
There's advantage in what's left us—ground to stand on, time to call
'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over—do not leap, that's all!"
Oh, he made no answer,—re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught
Something like "Yes—courage: only fools will call it fear."
If aught
Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard,
Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word
"Fearfully courageous!"—this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned.
I'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed—we'll hope condoned.
211
CHAPTER IV
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:—
I
212
All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, 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.
II
How 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!
III
My 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 WOMAN
I
That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
And the blue eye
Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!
213
II
To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
And enfold you,
Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!
III
You 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.
IV
And in turn we make you ours, we say—
You and youth too,
Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.
V
All'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!
VI
But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
Though we prayed you,
Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar—for you could not, Sweet!
VII
So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:
Be its beauty
Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!
214
VIII
And while the face lies quiet there,
Who shall wonder
That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.
IX
As,—why must one, for the love foregone,
Scout mere liking?
Thunder-striking
Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone!
X
Why, with beauty, needs there money be,
Love with liking?
Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey-bee?
XI
May not liking be so simple-sweet,
If love grew there
'Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?
XII
Is the creature too imperfect, say?
Would you mend it
And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!
XIII
Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
Just perfection—
Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?
215
XIV
Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
Into tinder,
And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?
XV
Or else kiss away one's soul on her?
Your love-fancies!
—A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!
XVI
Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,—
Plucks a mould-flower
For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose:
XVII
Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,
Precious metals
Ape the petals,—
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!
XVIII
Then 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.
216
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
I
I 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.
II
My 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?
III
Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions—sun's—
And moon's and evening-star's at once217—
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.
IV
Then 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.
V
Fail 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.
218
VI
What 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.
VII
What 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.
VIII
And 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,
219
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
"Greatly his opera's strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end!"
I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.
IX
Who 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.
X
And 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 suffi220ciently,
though the scene is laid out of England.
This wife has her agony over the faithless
husband, but she plans vengeance against
neither him nor the other women who attract
him. She realizes that his nature is not a
deep and serious one like her own, and in her
highest reach she sees that her own nature has
been lifted up by means of her true and loyal
feeling, that this gain to herself is her reward,
or will be in some future state. The stanzas
giving this thought are among the most beautiful
in the poem.
AMONG THE ROCKS
I
Oh, 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.
II
That 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!
221
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 was222
cultivated for the benefit of the owner, and
some land held in villeinage which the unfree
tenants, called villeins, were allowed to till
for themselves. All this land might be in
one large tract, or the demesne might be separate
from the other. Mertoun speaks of their
demesnes touching each other. Over the
villeins presided the Bailiff, who kept strict
watch to see that they performed their work
punctually. His duties were numerous, for
he directed the ploughing, sowing and reaping,
gave out the seed, watched the harvest, gathered
and looked after the stock and horses.
A church, a mill and an inn were often
included in such an estate.
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.223
Thus, the earldom of Cornwallis was founded
by Thomas Cornwallis, the Cheapside merchant;
that of Essex by William Capel, the
draper; and that of Craven by William Craven,
the merchant tailor. The modern Earl of
Warwick is not descended from 'the King-maker,'
but from William Greville, the
woolstapler; whilst the modern Dukes of Northumberland
find their head, not in the Percies,
but in Hugh Smithson, a respectable London
apothecary. The founders of the families of
Dartmouth, Radnor, Ducie, and Pomfret were
respectively a skinner, a silk manufacturer,
a merchant tailor, and a Calais merchant;
whilst the founders of the peerages of Tankerville,
Dormer, and Coventry were mercers.
The ancestors of Earl Romney, and Lord
Dudley and Ward, were goldsmiths and jewelers;
and Lord Dacres was a banker in the
reign of Charles I., as Lord Overstone is in
that of Queen Victoria. Edward Osborne,
the founder of the dukedom of Leeds, was
apprentice to William Hewet, a rich cloth
worker on London Bridge, whose only daughter
he courageously rescued from drowning, by
leaping into the Thames after her, and eventually
married. Among other peerages founded
by trade are those of Fitzwilliam, Leigh, Petre,
Cowper, Darnley, Hill, and Carrington."
224
Perhaps the imaginary house of Tresham
may be said to find its closest counterpart in
the Sidney family, for many generations
owners of Penshurst, and with a traditional
character according to which the men were
all brave and the women were all pure. Sir
Philip Sidney was himself the type of all the
virtues of the family, while his father's care
for his proper bringing up was not unlike
Tresham's for Mildred. In the words of a
recent writer: "The most famous scion of
this Kentish house was above all things, the
moral and intellectual product of Penshurst
Place. In the park may still be seen an
avenue of trees, under which the father, in
his afternoon walks with the boy, tested his
recollection of the morning's lessons conned
with the tutor. There, too, it was that he
impressed on the lad those maxims for the
conduct of life, afterwards emphasized in the
correspondence still extant among the Penshurst
archives.
"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 gloomy225
brow was, however, to be avoided. Rather
should the youth give himself to be merry,
so as not to degenerate from his father. Above
all things should he keep his wit from biting
words, or indeed from too much talk of any
kind. Had not nature ramparted up the
tongue with teeth and the lips with hair as
reins and bridles against the tongue's loose
use. Heeding this, he must be sure to tell
no untruth even in trifles; for that was a
naughty custom, nor could there be a greater
reproach to a gentleman than to be accounted
a liar. Noblesse oblige formed the keynote
of the oral and written precepts with which
the future Sir Philip Sidney was paternally
supplied. By his mother, too, Lady Mary
Dudley, the boy must remember himself to
be of noble blood. Let him beware, therefore,
through sloth and vice, of being accounted
a blemish on his race."
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 to226
learning and who became brilliant women.
Mildred under her brother's tutelage bid fare
to be one of this sort.
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 of227
high rank became devout Christians. A new
element of restraint, compelling at least some
outward respect for the decencies of life and
observances of religion, was felt at court, where
too long corruption and back-stair influence
had sway."
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."