University of Virginia Library

II.

(A Room in the Tower of London.)
Monmouth, Lambourne.
Monmouth.
I thank you kindly for this visit, friend:
I thank you kindly. Wherefore do you wear
A false red beard, a patch upon your eye
And a grey wig above an youthful face?

Lambourne.
Of that anon, Lord Duke. At present tell
How all things fare with you.

Monmouth.
Things fare with me?
How should they fare with one condemned to death?
All night, I cling at the rough bars and wake:
Alternate, comes a burst of pallid moon
And a long lash of bitter, blinding rain
That beats upon me through the glassless space.
All day the same—four walls, four walls, four walls,
A grated window and a bolted door,
A flag-lined pavement where the eddying dust
Whirls in the gusty draughts from ev'ry chink—
And death before! I hear the steady tramp
Of yon black loon that watches there without:
I hear the breathless whirring of time's wings
From the great clock beside the turret-peak:
I hear the rain drip steadily in the court:
I hear a thousand echoes howling death.
O Lambourne! tis a frightful, ghastly thought!
Waiting for death, living for death! No end,
No issue but the tomb. Indeed my God,
Indeed I cannot bear it!

Lambourne.
What my Lord?
Had it been I, thin blooded scrivener,
That said such words, the marvel had been none,
But you—you who in both your fights have fought
As valliantly as men could ask of you,
As valliantly as Stuart blood required?

Monmouth.
In fight? Ah yes! who would not die in fight?
Long squadrons circle, closing on the foot:
Through sulphurous smoke the gleaming sabre cleaves:
And all the battle rings and flashes out,
A merry cadence, full of steely daring
And long, loud, warlike trumpet-blares:
An instrument, a fighting artifice,
No more a living, thinking man, you charge
And lash the whistling air with gleaming cuts.
Besides, sir, there is one great point therein:
In battle, no man thinks he will be killed:
A on his right, B on his left may fall;
But he, he feels, will sweep athwart the fight,
As woundless as Achilles. Whereas, here,
I am so certain that I am to die
That I can name to you the very hours,
Minutes and seconds that I have to live.
And I lie here, inactive, waiting death!
O Lambourne! Lambourne! it is agony!
You do not know how nearly mad I am;
Or, how I long to dash my weary life,
With one great blow, against the solid wall!
You talk of bravery: what is bravery here?
What can I do? But give me here a sword,
And I will cut a desperate, bloody way
And burst the fetters of this cattif fear.
But what can courage do in here? To wait,
See, drawing nearer, the grim hour of death,
And perish slowly, healthy all the time.
Bravery is active.

Lambourne.

Monmouth.
There! enough.
I was not there to see the sight with you,
And never more shall look upon such things:
It pains me sadly but to hear of them.

Lambourne.
And yet, Lord Duke, the Lady Wentworth there
Proposes to make stay; and with her face
To paint and render human all the house,
'Twill be the sweetest mansion in the world.

Monmouth.
How often must I ask you, sir, to cease?
Do you not see you lacerate my heart?
Have you no pity for my dreary days,
That you should make them blacker by contrast
With happy houses and long hours of hope?
Why should you thus torment me: never more
Shall fruitful summer don her leaves for me.

Lambourne.
What makes my Lord Duke say such cruel words?

Monmouth.
It needs no prophet, that to prophecy.

Lambourne.
I am a better prophet than my Lord.
My Lord has slopes of happy years to run.

Monmouth.
You mean that James will pardon me? Alas!
If that's my only hope, Despair as soon!

Lambourne.
Nor even that, though that were sure enough.
Hearken to me, Lord Duke: Why should your life,
Your life that's worth so much to all of us,
Be given to stay the gluttony of James?
Are there no other men, that for the ring
Of windy words, to make a worthy end,
Your life should go? I—I myself my Lord—
I that now speak to you—what worth is mine?
How would men miss me were mine ending made?
The world would go as easily and well,
If I were dead; but then, my Lord, if you—

Monmouth.
Upon your life, no more! Am I so base,
So sadly fall'n and damaged in your eyes,
That you insult me thus? Am I so vile,
So worthless that I am not fit to die?—
So cowardly that some one else must give
A better life to save my neck awhile
From the short discipline of shearing glaive?
I'll hear no more of this, sir—trust me that!
Do not mistake my meaning: I am glad,
Aye truly glad, to know I have a friend
So noble and devoted as to give
His life for mine; but now, no more of it.

Lambourne.
What means this rhapsody, Lord Duke? King James
Is almost sure to pardon: it is not
A life I give to save my monarch's life:
'Tis but my freedom that I pawn awhile,
With a dim chance of death, to let you go
And gather troops and monies to assist
In my escape? Were you, my Lord, to stay
And be immured in some dark prison-vault,
Who has an influence to move the mob,
Who power to charter and to arm enough
To set you free? Whereas if I am left,
A month or two I rot on mouldy straw:
Then comes King Monmouth with another band,
By old misfortune led to new success;
And I shall place the crown upon his head
In token of my services to him,
While trumpets blow and ring aloud to us,
And London is a-tip toe for my Lord.

Monmouth.
No more of it: your scheme, perchance, is good—
It might—it is—I mean it is, at least,
Well thought and worthy of a trial now
Were't not 'twould be a shame to let a man
So gallant, perish for so sad a Duke.

Lambourne.
I seem more noble to my Lord, perhaps,
Than is the case. What cause have I to love,
What reason to give liberty for you?
You never did me services; and I
Have had no means to learn your inmost heart;
And loyalty, methinks, is nearly done,
A flickering candle, blown by sudden draughts
That soon will cease. But what am I indeed?
I, a poor scrivener, scrivening for my bread,
I play my life, as many a soldier plays,
Against your grattitude in future days,
A full annuity, an idle age,
Perchance a title to bequeath my sons,
And fame to guild my race for many a year.

Monmouth.
You paint yourself too black: no more of this.

Lambourne.
And then, my Lord, what right have you to leave
The Lords and barons and the peasantry
Who fought to set you on your father's throne?
For them, as for yourself, as for her sake—
Her's, who has made your life a joy to you—
It is your duty to go forth this day.

Monmouth.
I'll hear no more of this. Have done, good sir.

Lambourne.
Aye, for her sake, if there were no one else.
Ah, my dear Lord, your life is not your own:
Your life is hers; for he who is beloved
Has nothing single: thoughts and words and deeds,
Which, in another, would be selfishness,
Are raised in him above the mire of self
And, doubly blessing, are made doubly blest.
How far from me that am but half a man—
A glass that strangely glasses but itself—
Most selfish in the hour of sacrifice!
I say again my Lord, your life's not yours:
There is another that requires your life:
Your death another word for hers, your life
Her real existence. O my Lord, I saw
The face grow pale, the breath stop half-way-drawn,
The tear drops forming in the violet eye—
But let me speak no more: I see how much
My words are hurting you: take this and read.

(Gives Henrietta's letter.
Monmouth.
What! she entice me to this shameful plan?

Lambourne.
Read on, Lord Duke: you see it is her hand.

Monmouth.
I see. She wishes—longs to have me free.
But I, sir, can I leave you here to die?
Some one more noble than myself to die?

Lambourne.
Die, my Lord? Why what say you now?
The other minute, were we not agreed
That James was sure to spare your life?

Monmouth.
Were we?
I thought—I had forgotten I had used the words.
It might perhaps be well, viewing the thing
In that way, to agree to this. 'Odslife!
If 'twere not for the cowardice, I think—

Lambourne.
The cowardice, Lord Duke? I rede you not.
'Twere cowardice alone if you should stay.
It is your duty to your noble friends,
Your duty to your fathers murdered blood,
Your duty to yourself, to hie you forth
And raise again your banner. If you stay
Meanly awaiting mean captivity,
For fear that men should think too harsh of thee,
That were the cowardice and nothing else.

Monmouth.
Almost you do persuade me—

Lambourne.
Hearken now,
I tell you plainly, if you do not flee,
There's one will die of it whom you love well:
Already she is paler, thinner, pinched,
Drawn in a little, like a man who waits
Wrapped up in expectation. She will die;
And you will be her murderer my Lord.

Monmouth.
Well—no, I think—Yes, damn the thing, come on.
Tear off your clothes: give me the beard and wig:
There—now the patch: I thank you—it is done.

Lambourne.
Ah! now Lord Duke, now is their something done!
I like that burst of hearty energy.
Take you this letter to your Lady fair,
And give it her when first you see her face.
Now Master Lambourne fare you well today:
I am beholden for this visit, sir: Good-b'ye!
To nineteen Irish Street, Duke!

Monmouth.
What have I done?
Take off the clothes again: take back thy wig:
I'll have no more on't. 'Tis a scurvy joke!
Take off the clothes, best friend I ever had,
Be you, once more, the writer, I the duke.

Lambourne.
I am the Duke now. Purchased with my life,
I prize my dignity fair scriv'ner. Go!
The Duke commands.

Monmouth.
Nay, I am not so base:
I know too well James will not pardon me.
Take off the clothes again and let me die.

Lambourne.
The sentry hears you, fidgets on his post.
Another word and you will have him in.
I shall be hanged for aiding your escape,
And you dishonoured in the worlds wide eyes:
Men pardon an escape, if you succeed
And brave again the battle; but if not,
If you are caught while in the very act,
They call you coward. And my life, I own,
I will not give for nothing. Get you gone;
Or both of us is lost, instead of one.

Monmouth.
O noblest man that ever trod the Earth!
O kindest friend that ever loved a man!
With force compelling me to save my life
At the expence of thine, by what great act
Can I keep dear the memory of thy love?

Lambourne.
Deliver me my letter: that is all.
Begone, good Master Lambourne I would pray
And God forgive me all my lies today.

(Exit M.