University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Childe Harold.

It was on the evening of the twenty-sixth of
June, some five years later than the date of Milton's
letter, urging upon Sir Edgar Ardenne the propriety
of his return to England—yet, since he had dictated
it, the poet had received no line or token from
his friend. After the peace which closed the long
and hard-fought struggle with the Hollanders, and
decided the supremacy of England on the seas,
throwing up his commission, Ardenne had left the
navy; nor, since that day, had any tidings been received
of one who had, a little time before, so occupied
the general mouth, and played a part so
eminent in that great drama—the World's History.
Such is renown!—such popular applause!—such
human gratitude! The man who had preserved
the life of Oliver on Winsley field!—who had secured
his victory on Marston Moor!—who had, to
the abandonment of all that could have rendered

his own life happy, laboured as the most strenuous
and faithful of that great being's followers, so long
as he believed him true—to England—and to himself!—who,
with a yet harder sacrifice, quitted his
side the very moment he perceived the dawning
symptoms of ambition in one whom he had loved
and honoured—as men but rarely love and honour!
This man was now forgotten—forgotten by the
land for which he had so deeply suffered—forgotten
by the friend he had so deeply served!

The past anniversary of this day had been a day
of splendour and rejoicing—the night had been one
of joy, festivity, and mirth. From every steeple in
the huge metropolis the merry bells had chimed
with their most jovial notes—from park and tower
the loud voice of the cannon thundered in noisy
concert—from every casement tapers, and lamps,
and torches sent forth unwonted radiance—and
from each court and square huge bonfires streamed
heavenward, while by their light the multitude sat
feasting and carousing, to the health of the Protector.
The past anniversary of this day had witnessed
the superb and solemn ceremonial of his installation
to that office which he had filled with so
much dignity and honour to himself, with so much
profit and advancement to his country, during the
four preceding years. With all the glorious preparation,
the pride, and pomp, and circumstance
which decks the coronation of a monarch, with proclamation
of the kings at arms, and homage of bareheaded
lords, and acclamations of the multitude,
and addresses from the delegates of foreign potentates,
Oliver had been decorated with a robe of purple
more splendidly elaborate than the attire of any
former king; he had been girded with the rich
sword of state; he had received a sceptre, massive
with solid gold, with which to sway the destinies

of England; a noble copy of the Holy Writ, whereby
to wield that sceptre rightly. Generals had
borne his train; the parliament had sanctioned his
investiture as performed by its speaker; the people
had assented! In all but name, that “feather in
the hat,” which adds not any thing to him who wears
it—that “toy and bawble,” which he had oftentimes
rejected, partly in politic accordance to the prejudices
of his more fanatical advisers, partly in superstitious,
although unconfessed, obedience to the
prophetic voice which had forewarned him of his
coming greatness—the citizen of Huntingdon was
now the King of England!

Great, powerful, triumphant, unresisted! His
every project splendidly successful! His every
wish fulfilled! His love of glory—thirst of power
—ambition to be First—all satisfied, if not, indeed,
insatiate! His boast, that he would make the name
of Englishman as potent and as far revered as ever
was the style of antique Roman, completed to the
letter! The country, which he governed, raised
from the deepest degradation to the loftiest fame!
His navies irresistible — his armies everywhere
victorious—his alliance courted—and his enmity
most humbly deprecated by dynasties which, but
one century before—and that, too, when the most
mighty of her former sovereigns, the manly-minded
virgin queen, had filled her throne—regarded
England as a mere speck on the bosom of the sea;
hard, it is true, of access, and difficult to conquer;
but powerless abroad, and exercising scarce a shadow
either of influence or power among the mightier
royalties of Europe! Was Cromwell happy?

In a high chamber of his more than royal residence,
while all without was rife with demonstrations
of respect for his affeered and legal dignity,
Oliver sat alone. Sumptuously, though still plainly

clad, in an entire suit of sable velvet, the jewelled
sword of state which had been, on that same day of
the foregoing year, buckled to his side, lying upon
the board before him, and bearing in his altered
mien—altered most strangely, and adapted to his
altered station—that grave majestic dignity which
had replaced the bluntness of his soldier-bearing—
musing in solitude and silence, the greatest man in
England passed the first anniversary of his assured
and titled greatness. There was, however, now no
glow of exultation on that pale cheek and careworn
brow—no curl of triumph on the lip—no flash of
gratified ambition in the downcast eye! Lines
deeper and sterner than the wrinkles of advancing
age were seared into that massive forehead—a
shadow gloomy and sad had veiled that hollow eye
—exhaustion, weariness of heart, sickness of spirit,
were written visibly in the pale caverns of that haggard
cheek! There was a trifling sound—a casual
rustling in the large apartment, a thousand such as
which each hour brings to unsuspicious ears—he
started to his feet!—he thrust his hand into his
bosom!—he bent a searching and disquiet eye into
each corner of the room, which was so strongly lighted
that not a shadow could be seen in its most distant
angle!—he listened as the condemned prisoner
listens for the foot of the law's last minister. The
sound came not again—and he resumed his seat;
but, as he did so, a sharp and jingling clash told
that beneath the civic garb there lurked a shirt
of steel; and the light glittered on the butt of a
concealed pistol, just rendered visible by the derangement
of his doublet. The soldier of a hundred
fields—the vanquisher and scorner of a thousand
perils—he who had ridden to the fray as to
the banquet—he who had stood all dauntless and
unflinching among a storm of bullets, that cut down
all around him—wore hidden armour—shook at an
empty sound! A pile of papers lay before him on
the table—threats from anonymous assassins—
hints from concealed and faithfull spies, dwellers
at every court in Europe—despatches intercepted
—private correspondence opened and searched—
and, on the top of all, a pamphlet, fresh from the
press, with the leaves partly cut, and a broad-bladed
dagger, which he had used to open them, lying
upon it, as if to mark the place! It bore the ominous
and fearful title, Killing no Murder!
After a long pause, during which, though seated,
he still watched with an acute and anxious ear for
a recurrence of the sound that had disturbed him,
he again took up the pamphlet, and with a painful
and intense fixedness of study, that marked the harrowing
interest he took in its minutest arguments,
perused its closely-printed pages. Midnight had
long passed ere he finished it—with a deep sigh he
closed and laid it down again—a sigh not of regret,
but of relieved suspense, such as men heave when
the catastrophe of some exciting tragedy is over!
“The villain!” he exclaimed; “the perilous and
subtle villain! Damnable arguments! Accursed
perversion of the talents and the intellect, which
God giveth unto man for good!” He rose, and
paced the apartment to and fro, with steps now
faltering and slow, now hurried, short, and rapid!
“ `And my own muster-roll'—he says—`contains
the names of those who burn to emulate the glory
of the younger Brutus—who do aspire to the honour
of delivering their country'—and by what—
what but my secret murder?”—his brow became
more gloomy than before; and yet again, after a
little space, it kindled with its ancient animation.
“A lie!” he cried, aloud, and in a tone of triumph;
“I do believe, a lie!—a wicked and malignant
lie! framed but to break my rest! It cannot be—
it cannot—that my brave fellows—my own ironsides—my
followers in a hundred battles can be but
true and loyal! and yet”—he went on, the momentary
gleam of spirit fading—“and yet it doth crave
wary walking!—ay! and, as Milton would say in
his classic tongue, fas est et ab hoste doceri! But
I will watch—yea! watch with my sword drawn
and my light burning—surely the Lord of Hosts
will shield his servant from the midnight dagger
as from the open-smiting sword! I will trust no
man!—no! not one! Harrison hath looked cold
on me of late, and prated much of Ehud and of
Saul! and Fleetwood thwarts me! Hacker, who
was my friend, is now my bitter foe! And they
have dared to liken me to Ahab, and to cry `Ha!
ha! Hast thou slain, and dost thou take possession?'
And Ormond hath come over, as I learn today—another
Syndercombe and Sexby business!
The snares are set—are set, I say, on every side!—
pitfalls are digged for my feet, and arrows whetted
privily against me! And wherefore? They cannot
say that I have wronged one man in England
—that I have wrung one penny from their purses,
or shed one drop of blood, save in due course of
law. They cannot charge me with bloodthirstiness,
for I have been long-suffering and merciful—ay!
even to a fault!—but I will be so now no longer—
Slingsby must come to trial, ay, and Hewet—and,
if condemned, as the Lord liveth, they shall die!
die as murderers and common stabbers—die, I say,
soul and body! They cannot say that England is
not free, and powerful, and happy as never was she
heretofore!—and yet they hate me!—ay, and take
counsel for my deatlr!—and poison all hearts—
even of my own friends—against me! `and I shall
perish,' this base fellow prophesieth, `like dung
from off the earth—and they that look upon my
greatness shall ask of me, `Where is he?' ” He
paused in his distempered walk, and, falling on his
knees, burst into a passion of loud sobs and tears
—“My God,” he cried—“my God, why hast thou
thus forsaken me? Oh yield not up thy servant to
the power of the ungodly, nor suffer the blashemers
to prevail against him. For surely it is thou—
thou, Lord—who hast thrust on me this undesired
greatness; who hast compelled me, though reluctant
and rebellious, to wear these trappings of authority—when,
as thou knowest—even thou, who
knowest all things—far rather I had dwelt by a
woodside and tended sheep, than been the ruler of
this stiff-necked and ungrateful generation. But
thou hast done this violence to my affections, thou
hast disposed of thy servant for the best in thine
own sight, as from the beginning it was written
down—yea! thou didst send thy minister to warn
him of thy pleasure when but a child, foolish and
unregenerate, and a slave to sin! Thou didst redeem
him from the power of Satan, and sure he was in
grace—and he that is in thy grace once can never
more relapse! Lo! by my hand thou didst strike
down the man Charles Stuart, putting it nightly
and by day into my soul, `thou shalt not suffer him
to live'—and thou hast set me up, not for my own
pleasure nor at my request, but at thine own singular
especial choice, for the advancement of thy cause,
the welfare and the safety of thy church!—and
thou hast made me, as thou promisedst of yore,
though not a king, THE First in England! And
yet thou dost abandon now thy servant—thou dost
yield up thy true and faithful one—who, for thy
cause, hath yielded up his all—to the delusions of
the enemy—the power of the Evil One! I ask not,
in this merciful?—but is this just, O Lord? Thou
knowest well how I have served thee, neither
grudgingly nor with eye service—but in all purity
and truth of spirit—and now, even now, Lord,
when thou hast, as it seems, forgotten me, I turn to
thee alone for aid, to thee for succour and for justice!
Let me not perish utterly—let not my blood, which
has flowed ever at thy bidding freely, be spilled by
a base stabber!—let me not be cast forth from the
high place whereon thou hast seated me, as a thing
worthless and despised; but let me die, when thou
hast done with me, in fulness of my fame, either
upon my deathbed, thence passing peaceably into
thy presence, or gallantly upon my charger's back
amid the blare of trumpets—”

A step was heard without—a low tap at the door
—instantly he rose from his knee, holding the Bible,
which he had opened as he commenced his
wild and almost impious prayer, in one hand, while
with the other he grasped the hilt of the short
massy sword beside him—“Enter!” he said, in a
stern calm voice; and, at the word, one of his bodyguards
stepped in, announcing that a stranger was
below, craving to speak privately on matters of
great import with his highness.

“What like is he?” Oliver asked, sharply—“a
stranger, ha! Is he a tall pale man, with a deep
scar on his right cheek—a mantle of blue broad
cloth with a red cape, a slouched hat and red
feather?”

“Even so, please your highness,” replied the
soldier.

“And doth he wear his right hand gloved, resting
upon the hilt of a long tuck, and three rings on
the fingers of his left?”

“Of a truth I observed not,” the messenger began.

“Begone then, instantly—demand his name—not

that it matters—but mark his hands, I tell thee—
they should be as I tell thee. On the forefinger
of the left a plain gold hoop, and a large seal-ring
of cornelian, with a small guard of jet upon the
second. If it be so, say to him I will go now no
farther in that matter, but will send one to confer
with him at three hours past noon to-morrow, at
the place which he wots of. If it be not as I say
to you, secure him on the peril of your life, and
have him away forthwith to the Gatehouse!—but
in neither case trouble me any more this night.
Begone!” and, as the soldier left the room, he
muttered something to himself inaudibly—drew
out no fewer than three pistols from different parts
of his attire, looked closely to the flints and priming,
extinguished all the lights save one, locked, double
locked, and barred the outer door—then raised the
tapestry in a corner of the room, opened a panel
in the wainscoting, and, gliding through it into a devious
passage in the thickness of the wall, stole
like a guilty thing to a remote bedchamber, different
from that in which he had slept the preceding
night, known only to one old and trusted servitor.