Cromwell: A Drama, in Five Acts — A Closer Reading

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Richards, Alfred Bate, 1820-1876 Project Gutenberg 2004 Not confirmed
Cromwell, Oliver, 1599-1658 -- Drama Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 34,489
Reading time 150 min
Text sections 4

The source record for Cromwell: A Drama, in Five Acts — A Closer Reading measures this digital text at 34,489 words, 2 hr 30 min estimated reading time, and 4 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 12.4 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

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Alfred Bate Richards's 1852 verse drama portrays Oliver Cromwell through dense, Shakespearean blank verse, domestic conflict, and symbolic stagecraft, with Milton as secretary and a subplot involving Arthur Walton's return from exile.
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They were the home from which tears never wander'd.

_Sir Sim._ [_Aloud._] I shall lose patience shortly. Oh, that gout! Here, girl, assist me. Would you see me fall?

_Flor._ Well, father, leave me to myself awhile. I would obey you if I could.

_Sir Sim._ That's right. You know I'm rough, but then who loves you like A father? You ought not to try me thus; Indeed you ought not. Come, my dear, we'll go, And find your cousin. [_FLORENCE hesitates._] Hey! not now? Beware, 'Tis better now! no nonsense. Come, come, come. You know you can do what you please with me, But then you must be more obedient--so! [_Going slowly, R._] Your hand! You do me harm, girl! with this strife. Gently--your cousin never frets me thus. [_Exeunt, R._]

[_Enter BASIL reading a letter, WILLIAM following, L. FLORENCE returns, R., and steals behind them, and listens to their conversation._]

_Basil._ [_With a letter in his hand._] Good William, thou shalt drink to me. [_Gives him money._] And art thou still called thirsty William?

_Will._ What answer shall I bear to my master?

_Basil._ Thy master? 'Tis a good youth, though a wild--I hope he be well. Yet, frankly, I would that he had not just now returned. Our uncle is so violent, and will not hear his name. Arthur hath been so imprudent, loose, eh? William, I regret the old man hath heard of these things.

_Will._ My master is a very Puritan, sir!

_Basil._ [_Aside._] Let his worth go begging, then--but he will soon be bad as his fortunes demand. Your poverty-stricken gentlemen were better on the coast of Barbary than in this civilized country. And whatever he do, he shall be judged harshly. [_Aloud to William._]

I doubt not--Lies, lies; I said so at the time. Then you see my cousin Florence, a simple girl, trembles at his very name. You cannot wonder at it;--such stories have been told. Confess now, William, thy master hath been a prodigal. Doth he pay thy wages? Thou art scurvily clad. I have a place now--as it were.

_Will._ I desire no better, sir! I thank you, than where I am.

_Basil._ Oh! I did not mean unless you had left my brother first. Now, he desireth a thousand pound. Simply I have it not. There is no rent paid now. I would he had written rather than come. I will give him five hundred that I have, if he will pledge me his honourable word to leave England for five years. Are there not wars abroad whereby men live?--

_Basil._ I would I could see him. But I have promised mine uncle not, and he cannot bear any shock to his health. Go, tell him this.

_Will._ Worshipful Master Basil! you will excuse me, but I must speak my master's mind. He saith he hath signed away his inheritance to thee, and that he expects this small gift, ere he comes among ye. He is but in sorry plight of dress, and he hath ever shown much affection for you.

_Basil._ Does he threaten? Hark ye, I owe him nought. Let justice be done. The fortune was mine by birth. Our father acted basely. My brother did very properly restore it. Shall he boast of a bare act of justice? He hath no claim on me. Shall I furnish his profligacies, his expenses, his foreign debaucheries, because I have gotten back mine own?

_Will._ You will not see him?--

_Will._ Nor send him the money?--

_Basil_. No! except with the proviso I told thee of.

_Will._ You have no other message?--

_Will._ Oh! Well, sir, I think the execution of my barren commission needs no farther stay. Touching that small portion of mammon wherewith thou wouldst endow my master's passage across the seas, in his name I will venture to refuse the gratility.

_Basil._ Wouldst jest, villain? There are stocks! Back to the beggar that sent thee. [_Exit R._]

[_WILLIAM going, L., FLORENCE approaches him from behind._]

_Flor._ Good friend! I have heard something of your discourse. I would fain see thy master.

_Will._ Art thou not his cousin, lady?

_Will._ He hath often spoken of thee far hence.

_Flor._ We were children together. Is his temper sweet as it used to be? Hath he grown taller? I have much to say to him. Is he sunburnt? Doth he wear a beard? They say much ill of him.

_Will._ Lady! believe it not; [_aside_]--for I affect much his society. [_Aloud._] He is a good master and kind, though of a strange mood. For women, he cannot abear them.

_Flor._ Indeed! Good friend, nevertheless I must see your master. Bring me to him.

The play opens with Arthur Walton, returned from exile, remarking on the unchanged English landscape: 'The sameness of this scene doth pierce my heart / With thronging recollections of the past.' His servant William notes that the king's face has been defaced from the inn sign—a quiet emblem of regime change. Richards uses such small, tangible details to signal political upheaval without direct declaration. The dialogue, in blank verse, carries a deliberate, reflective weight, as when Arthur compares himself to one who 'long hath read / A strange and chequer'd story, and doth rise, / With a deep sigh to be himself again.'

This drama does not present Cromwell as a monolithic hero. Instead, Richards builds him through domestic friction: in Act I, scene vi, Cromwell is 'very much agitated' as his daughter Elizabeth pleads for mercy. His outburst—'Do ye think I shall do murder?'—reveals a man torn between public duty and private conscience, while his description of Richard as having 'eye as dull as huckster's three-day's fish' shows a sharp, almost comic contempt for his own household.

Diction and the Weight of Blank Verse

Richards writes in unrhymed iambic pentameter, but he varies the rhythm to signal emotional states. Cromwell's speeches are often broken by dashes and exclamations: 'Too fair, too fair! / E'en to be honest fair.' The repetition and halting syntax suggest a mind under pressure. In contrast, Arthur's opening lines are measured and melancholic, with enjambments that mimic weary footsteps: 'Give me your arm, my feet tread heavily; / The sameness of this scene doth pierce my heart.'

The verse also carries biblical and political echoes. Cromwell quotes scripture—'What saith the Scripture of the faith of princes?'—and uses legalistic phrasing ('As the Lord liveth, is it not enough / To struggle with a royal hypocrite'). Richards avoids archaic padding; even minor characters speak with purpose. The host's silent watering of spirits is a comic counterpoint, rendered in prose-like stage directions, while the conspirators Wyckoff and Basil speak in clipped, nervous lines that contrast with Cromwell's rhetorical grandeur.

Dialogue as Political and Personal Conflict

Richards uses dialogue to dramatize ideological struggle within intimate settings. The confrontation between Cromwell and Elizabeth is the play's emotional core: she calls him 'dearest father' and pleads for a return to 'our natural home / At Huntingdon,' while he accuses her of 'sickly whining.' Their exchange is not mere exposition; it enacts the tension between public duty and private affection. Cromwell's line 'What is a father in your minds weigh'd with a king?' encapsulates the central dilemma.

Elsewhere, dialogue reveals character through indirection. Arthur's instructions to William—'See the old knight; but not a word to him'—and his dismissive remarks about his cousin Florence ('full of wiles') hint at a backstory of betrayal and romantic disappointment. The eavesdropping scene between Basil and Wyckoff, with its focus on the host's adulterated drink, injects a note of low comedy that offsets the high political drama. Richards balances registers: the lofty verse of Cromwell's soliloquies sits alongside the earthy complaints of soldiers and servants.

Stagecraft and Symbolic Setting

Richards's stage directions are unusually detailed for a closet drama, specifying '1st Cut' and '2nd Grooves'—theater terminology for wing positions. The settings are emblematic: a lane near a village, a dimly lit apartment with 'tables with writing materials,' a hidden plank in the floor. These are not mere backdrops but active elements. The defaced inn sign—once James, then Charles, now blank—is a visual shorthand for regime change. The hidden papers under the floorboards suggest conspiracy and secrecy.

Lighting and movement reinforce mood. Cromwell enters 'very much agitated' and paces 'across and back' before speaking. The stage direction 'practicable door and stairs' indicates that characters physically ascend or descend, perhaps symbolizing shifts in power or perspective. Richards also uses props: the host's flask of watered spirits, the dagger drawn by Basil, the letter Arthur carries. These objects carry narrative weight without needing explanation. The clock striking twelve in the conspirators' scene marks a temporal pivot, heightening tension.

Recurring Details and Thematic Threads

Several motifs recur across the excerpts. The idea of reading and interpretation appears early: Arthur compares his life to 'a strange and chequer'd story,' and later Cromwell speaks of Milton's 'bitter words.' The act of reading—whether of scripture, letters, or faces—becomes a metaphor for judgment. The word 'fair' is used ironically: Cromwell says the king spoke 'Too fair, too fair!' implying deceit. Elizabeth calls herself a 'little Royalist,' a term that domesticates political allegiance.

Another thread is the contrast between England and abroad. Arthur and William have returned from 'bright Italian skies,' but William longs for 'honest mud and wholesome English fog.' This nostalgia for a flawed homeland runs counter to the play's revolutionary setting. Cromwell's reference to 'Henrietta, that false Delilah' links foreign influence with moral corruption. The excerpts also show a preoccupation with inheritance and lineage: Arthur's 'little rosy cousin' who 'should be a woman now,' and Cromwell's worry about his son Richard's dullness. These details ground the political drama in family dynamics.

Readers should attend to Richards's manipulation of verse form: the blank verse is not uniform but shifts with character and situation. The play rewards attention to stage directions, which are as carefully crafted as the dialogue. Because the excerpts are incomplete, the full arc of Arthur's subplot and the resolution of Cromwell's conflict with Elizabeth remain uncertain. Approach the drama as a poetic exploration of conscience under political pressure, not as a historical chronicle. The language itself—its rhythms, repetitions, and silences—carries the argument.

There’s something about Richards’s Cromwell—that quiet ache of exile in Arthur Walton—that lingered with me long after the final act. It made me think of Rada: A Drama of War in One Act — Context and Discussion, where the same lonely weight of homecoming presses down, though with far fewer words. Strange, how two such different plays can share one heartbeat.

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