3.4. CHAPTER IV.
OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for
the night at the inn, opposite the ascent to the
Castle. We could not again visit the halls and
familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit. We had
already left for ever the glades of Windsor, and all
of coppice, flowery hedgerow, and murmuring stream,
which gave shape and intensity to the love of our
country, and the almost superstitious attachment with
which we regarded native England. It had been our
intention to have called at Lucy's dwelling in
Datchet, and to have re-assured her with promises
of
aid and protection before we repaired to our quarters
for the night. Now, as the Countess of Windsor and I
turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we
saw the children, who had just stopped in their
caravan, at the inn-door. They had passed through
Datchet without halting. I dreaded to meet them, and to
be the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were
still occupied in the hurry of arrival, I suddenly left
them, and through the snow and clear moon-light air,
hastened along the well known road to Datchet.
Well known indeed it was. Each cottage stood on its
accustomed site, each tree wore its familiar
appearance. Habit had graven uneraseably on my memory,
every turn and change of object on the road. At a short
distance beyond the Little Park, was an elm half blown
down by a storm, some ten years ago; and still, with
leafless snow-laden branches, it stretched across the
pathway, which wound through a meadow, beside a shallow
brook, whose brawling
was silenced by frost—that
stile, that white gate, that hollow oak tree, which
doubtless once belonged to the forest, and which now
shewed in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose
fanciful appearance, tricked out by the dusk into a
resemblance of the human form, the children had given
the name of Falstaff;—all these objects were as well
known to me as the cold hearth of my deserted home,
and every moss-grown wall and plot of orchard ground,
alike as twin lambs are to each other in a stranger's
eye, yet to my accustomed gaze bore differences,
distinction, and a name. England remained, though
England was dead—it was the ghost of merry England
that I beheld, under those greenwood shade passing
generations had sported in security and ease. To this
painful recognition of familiar places, was added a
feeling experienced by all, understood by none—a
feeling as if in some state, less visionary than a
dream, in some past real existence, I had seen all I
saw, with precisely the same feelings as I now
beheld
them—as if all my sensations were a duplex mirror of a
former revelation. To get rid of this oppressive sense
I strove to imagine change in this tranquil spot—this
augmented my mood, by causing me to bestow more
attention on the objects which occasioned me pain.
I reached Datchet and Lucy's humble abode—once noisy
with Saturday night revellers, or trim and neat on
Sunday morning it had borne testimony to the labours
and orderly habits of the housewife. The snow lay high
about the door, as if it had remained unclosed for many
days.
"What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?"
I muttered to myself as I looked at the dark casements.
At first I thought I saw a light in one of them, but it
proved to be merely the refraction of the moon-beams,
while the only sound was the crackling branches as the
breeze whirred the snow flakes from them—the moon
sailed high and unclouded in the interminable ether,
while the shadow of the cottage lay black on the
garden behind. I entered this by the open
wicket, and
anxiously examined each window. At length I detected a
ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one
of the upper rooms—it was a novel feeling, alas! to
look at any house and say there dwells its usual
inmate—the door of the house was merely on the latch:
so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase. The
door of the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw
Lucy sitting as at work at the table on which the light
stood; the implements of needlework were about her,
but her hand had fallen on her lap, and her eyes, fixed
on the ground, shewed by their vacancy that her
thoughts wandered. Traces of care and watching had
diminished her former attractions—but her simple dress
and cap, her desponding attitude, and the single candle
that cast its light upon her, gave for a moment a
picturesque grouping to the whole. A fearful reality
recalled me from the thought—a figure lay stretched
on the bed covered by a sheet—her mother was dead,
and Lucy, apart from all the
world, deserted and alone,
watched beside the corpse during the weary night. I
entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at first
drew a scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation;
but she recognised me, and recovered herself, with the
quick exercise of self-control habitual to her. "Did
you not expect me?" I asked, in that low voice which
the presence of the dead makes us as it were
instinctively assume.
"You are very good," replied she, "to have come
yourself; I can never thank you sufficiently; but it is
too late."
"Too late," cried I, "what do you mean? It is not too
late to take you from this deserted place, and conduct
you to—"
My own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made
me turn away, while choking grief impeded my speech. I
threw open the window, and looked on the cold, waning,
ghastly, misshaped circle on high, and the chill white
earth beneath—did the spirit of sweet Idris sail
along
the moon-frozen crystal air?—No, no, a more genial
atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely hers!
I indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then
again addressed the mourner, who stood leaning against
the bed with that expression of resigned despair, of
complete misery, and a patient sufferance of it, which
is far more touching than any of the insane ravings or
wild gesticulation of untamed sorrow. I desired to draw
her from this spot; but she opposed my wish. That class
of persons whose imagination and sensibility have never
been taken out of the narrow circle immediately in
view, if they possess these qualities to any extent,
are apt to pour their influence into the very
realities which appear to destroy them, and to cling to
these with double tenacity from not being able to
comprehend any thing beyond. Thus Lucy, in desert
England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the usual
ceremonies of the dead, such as were customary to the
English country people, when
death was a rare
visitant, and gave us time to receive his dreaded
usurpation with pomp and circumstance—going forth in
procession to deliver the keys of the tomb into his
conquering hand. She had already, alone as she was,
accomplished some of these, and the work on which I
found her employed, was her mother's shroud. My heart
sickened at such detail of woe, which a female can
endure, but which is more painful to the masculine
spirit than deadliest struggle, or throes of
unutterable but transient agony.
This must not be, I told her; and then, as further
inducement, I communicated to her my recent loss, and
gave her the idea that she must come with me to take
charge of the orphan children, whom the death of Idris
had deprived of a mother's care. Lucy never resisted
the call of a duty, so she yielded, and closing the
casements and doors with care, she accompanied me back
to Windsor. As we went she communicated to me the
occasion of her mother's death.
Either by some
mischance she had got sight of Lucy's letter to Idris,
or she had overheard her conversation with the
countryman who bore it; however it might be, she
obtained a knowledge of the appalling situation of
herself and her daughter, her aged frame could not
sustain the anxiety and horror this discovery
instilled—she concealed her knowledge from Lucy, but
brooded over it through sleepless nights, till fever
and delirium, swift forerunners of death, disclosed the
secret. Her life, which had long been hovering on its
extinction, now yielded at once to the united effects
of misery and sickness, and that same morning she had
died.
After the tumultuous emotions of the day, I was glad to
find on my arrival at the inn that my companions had
retired to rest. I gave Lucy in charge to the
Countess's attendant, and then sought repose from my
various struggles and impatient regrets. For a few
moments the events of the day floated in disastrous
pageant through my brain, till sleep bathed it in
forgetfulness;
when morning dawned and I awoke, it
seemed as if my slumber had endured for years.
My companions had not shared my oblivion. Clara's
swollen eyes shewed that she has passed the night in
weeping. The Countess looked haggard and wan. Her firm
spirit had not found relief in tears, and she suffered
the more from all the painful retrospect and agonizing
regret that now occupied her. We departed from Windsor,
as soon as the burial rites had been performed for
Lucy's mother, and, urged on by an impatient desire to
change the scene, went forward towards Dover with
speed, our escort having gone before to provide horses;
finding them either in the warm stables they
instinctively sought during the cold weather, or
standing shivering in the bleak fields ready to
surrender their liberty in exchange for offered corn.
During our ride the Countess recounted to me the
extraordinary circumstances which had
brought her so
strangely to my side in the chancel of St. George's
chapel. When last she had taken leave of Idris, as she
looked anxiously on her faded person and pallid
countenance, she had suddenly been visited by a
conviction that she saw her for the last time. It was
hard to part with her while under the dominion of this
sentiment, and for the last time she endeavoured to
persuade her daughter to commit herself to her nursing,
permitting me to join Adrian. Idris mildly refused,
and thus they separated. The idea that they should
never again meet grew on the Countess's mind, and
haunted her perpetually; a thousand times she had
resolved to turn back and join us, and was again and
again restrained by the pride and anger of which she
was the slave. Proud of heart as she was, she bathed
her pillow with nightly tears, and through the day was
subdued by nervous agitation and expectation of the
dreaded event, which she was wholly incapable of
curbing.
She confessed that at this period her hatred
of me knew no bounds, since she considered me as the
sole obstacle to the fulfilment of her dearest wish,
that of attending upon her daughter in her last
moments. She desired to express her fears to her son,
and to seek consolation from his sympathy with, or
courage from his rejection of, her auguries.
On the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked
with him on the sea beach, and with the timidity
characteristic of passionate and exaggerated feeling
was by degrees bringing the conversation to the desired
point, when she could communicate her fears to him,
when the messenger who bore my letter announcing our
temporary return to Windsor, came riding down to them.
He gave some oral account of how he had left us, and
added, that notwithstanding the cheerfulness and good
courage of Lady Idris, he was afraid that she would
hardly reach Windsor alive.
"True," said the Countess, "your fears are just, she is
about to expire!"
As she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow
of the cliff, and she saw, she averred the same to me
with solemnity, Idris pacing slowly towards this cave.
She was turned from her, her head was bent down, her
white dress was such as she was accustomed to wear,
except that a thin crape-like veil covered her golden
tresses, and concealed her as a dim transparent mist.
She looked dejected, as docilely yielding to a
commanding power; she submissively entered, and was
lost in the dark recess.
"Were I subject to visionary moods," said the venerable
lady, as she continued her narrative, "I might doubt my
eyes, and condemn my credulity; but reality is the
world I live in, and what I saw I doubt not had
existence beyond myself. From that moment I could not
rest; it was worth my existence to see her once again
before she died; I knew that I
should not accomplish
this, yet I must endeavour. I immediately departed for
Windsor; and, though I was assured that we travelled
speedily, it seemed to me that our progress was
snail-like, and that delays were created solely for my
annoyance. Still I accused you, and heaped on your head
the fiery ashes of my burning impatience. It was no
disappointment, though an agonizing pang, when you
pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express
the abhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the
triumphant impediment to my dearest wishes. I saw her,
and anger, and hate, and injustice died at her bier,
giving place at their departure to a remorse (Great
God, that I should feel it!) which must last while
memory and feeling endure."
To medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and
new-born mildness from producing the same bitter fruit
that hate and harshness had done, I devoted all my
endeavours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our
party
was a melancholy one; each was possessed by regret for
what was remediless; for the absence of his mother
shadowed even the infant gaiety of Evelyn. Added to
this was the prospect of the uncertain future. Before
the final accomplishment of any great voluntary change
the mind vacillates, now soothing itself by fervent
expectation, now recoiling from obstacles which seem
never to have presented themselves before with so
frightful an aspect. An involuntary tremor ran through
me when I thought that in another day we might have
crossed the watery barrier, and have set forward on
that hopeless, interminable, sad wandering, which but a
short time before I regarded as the only relief to
sorrow that our situation afforded.
Our approach to Dover was announced by the loud
roarings of the wintry sea. They were borne miles
inland by the sound-laden blast, and by their
unaccustomed uproar, imparted a feeling of insecurity
and peril to our stable
abode. At first we hardly
permitted ourselves to think that any unusual eruption
of nature caused this tremendous war of air and water,
but rather fancied that we merely listened to what we
had heard a thousand times before, when we had watched
the flocks of fleece-crowned waves, driven by the
winds, come to lament and die on the barren sands and
pointed rocks. But we found upon advancing farther,
that Dover was overflowed—many of the houses were
overthrown by the surges which filled the streets, and
with hideous brawlings sometimes retreated leaving the
pavement of the town bare, till again hurried forward
by the influx of ocean, they returned with
thunder-sound to their usurped station.
Hardly less disturbed than the tempestuous world of
waters was the assembly of human beings, that from the
cliff fearfully watched its ravings. On the morning of
the arrival of the emigrants under the conduct of
Adrian, the sea had been serene and glassy, the slight
ripples refracted the sunbeams, which shed their
radiance through the clear blue frosty air. This
placid appearance of nature was hailed as a good
augury for the voyage, and the chief immediately
repaired to the harbour to examine two steamboats which
were moored there. On the following midnight, when all
were at rest, a frightful storm of wind and clattering
rain and hail first disturbed them, and the voice of
one shrieking in the streets, that the sleepers must
awake or they would be drowned; and when they rushed
out, half clothed, to discover the meaning of this
alarm, they found that the tide, rising above every
mark, was rushing into the town. They ascended the
cliff, but the darkness permitted only the white crest
of waves to be seen, while the roaring wind mingled its
howlings in dire accord with the wild surges. The
awful hour of night, the utter inexperience of many who
had never seen the sea before, the wailing of women
and cries of children added to the horror of the
tumult.
All the following day the same scene continued. When
the tide ebbed, the town was left dry; but on its flow,
it rose even higher than on the preceding night. The
vast ships that lay rotting in the roads were whirled
from their anchorage, and driven and jammed against the
cliff, the vessels in the harbour were flung on land
like sea-weed, and there battered to pieces by the
breakers. The waves dashed against the cliff, which if
in any place it had been before loosened, now gave way,
and the affrighted crowd saw vast fragments of the near
earth fall with crash and roar into the deep. This
sight operated differently on different persons. The
greater part thought it a judgment of God, to prevent
or punish our emigration from our native land. Many
were doubly eager to quit a nook of ground now become
their prison, which appeared unable to resist the
inroads of ocean's giant waves.
When we arrived at Dover, after a fatiguing day's
journey, we all required rest and sleep;
but the scene
acting around us soon drove away such ideas. We were
drawn, along with the greater part of our companions,
to the edge of the cliff, there to listen to and make
a thousand conjectures. A fog narrowed our horizon to
about a quarter of a mile, and the misty veil, cold
and dense, enveloped sky and sea in equal obscurity.
What added to our inquietude was the circumstance that
two-thirds of our original number were now waiting for
us in Paris, and clinging, as we now did most
painfully, to any addition to our melancholy remnant,
this division, with the tameless impassable ocean
between, struck us with affright. At length, after
loitering for several hours on the cliff, we retired
to Dover Castle, whose roof sheltered all who breathed
the English air, and sought the sleep necessary to
restore strength and courage to our worn frames and
languid spirits.
Early in the morning Adrian brought me the welcome
intelligence that the wind had changed: it had been
south-west; it was now
north-east. The sky was stripped
bare of clouds by the increasing gale, while the tide
at its ebb seceded entirely from the town. The change
of wind rather increased the fury of the sea, but it
altered its late dusky hue to a bright green; and in
spite of its unmitigated clamour, its more cheerful
appearance instilled hope and pleasure. All day we
watched the ranging of the mountainous waves, and
towards sunset a desire to decypher the promise for the
morrow at its setting, made us all gather with one
accord on the edge of the cliff. When the mighty
luminary approached within a few degrees of the
tempest-tossed horizon, suddenly, a wonder! three other
suns, alike burning and brilliant, rushed from various
quarters of the heavens towards the great orb; they
whirled round it. The glare of light was intense to
our dazzled eyes; the sun itself seemed to join in the
dance, while the sea burned like a furnace, like all
Vesuvius a-light, with flowing lava beneath. The horses
broke loose from their stalls in terror—a
herd of
cattle, panic struck, raced down to the brink of the
cliff, and blinded by light, plunged down with
frightful yells in the waves below. The time occupied
by the apparition of these meteors was comparatively
short; suddenly the three mock suns united in one, and
plunged into the sea. A few seconds afterwards, a
deafening watery sound came up with awful peal from the
spot where they had disappeared.
Meanwhile the sun, disencumbered from his strange
satellites, paced with its accustomed majesty towards
its western home. When—we dared not trust our eyes
late dazzled, but it seemed that—the sea rose to meet
it—it mounted higher and higher, till the fiery globe
was obscured, and the wall of water still ascended the
horizon; it appeared as if suddenly the motion of
earth was revealed to us—as if no longer we were ruled
by ancient laws, but were turned adrift in an unknown
region of space. Many cried aloud, that these were no
meteors, but globes of burning matter, which had set
fire to the earth, and
caused the vast cauldron at our
feet to bubble up with its measureless waves; the day
of judgment was come they averred, and a few moments
would transport us before the awful countenance of the
omnipotent judge; while those less given to visionary
terrors, declared that two conflicting gales had
occasioned the last phaenomenon. In support of this
opinion they pointed out the fact that the east wind
died away, while the rushing of the coming west
mingled its wild howl with the roar of the advancing
waters. Would the cliff resist this new battery? Was
not the giant wave far higher than the precipice?
Would not our little island be deluged by its
approach? The crowd of spectators fled. They were
dispersed over the fields, stopping now and then, and
looking back in terror. A sublime sense of awe calmed
the swift pulsations of my heart—I awaited the
approach of the destruction menaced, with that solemn
resignation which an unavoidable necessity instils.
The ocean every moment assumed a more terrific
aspect,
while the twilight was dimmed by the rack which the
west wind spread over the sky. By slow degrees however,
as the wave advanced, it took a more mild appearance;
some under current of air, or obstruction in the bed
of the waters, checked its progress, and it sank
gradually; while the surface of the sea became
uniformly higher as it dissolved into it. This change
took from us the fear of an immediate catastrophe,
although we were still anxious as to the final result.
We continued during the whole night to watch the fury
of the sea and the pace of the driving clouds, through
whose openings the rare stars rushed impetuously; the
thunder of conflicting elements deprived us of all
power to sleep.
This endured ceaselessly for three days and nights. The
stoutest hearts quailed before the savage enmity of
nature; provisions began to fail us, though every day
foraging parties were dispersed to the nearer towns. In
vain we schooled ourselves into the belief, that there
was nothing out of the common
order of nature in the
strife we witnessed; our disasterous and overwhelming
destiny turned the best of us to cowards. Death had
hunted us through the course of many months, even to
the narrow strip of time on which we now stood; narrow
indeed, and buffeted by storms, was our footway
overhanging the great sea of calamity—
As an unsheltered northern shore
Is shaken by the wintry wave—
And frequent storms for evermore,
(While from the west the loud winds rave,
Or from the east, or mountains hoar)
The struck and tott'ring sand-bank lave. [3]
It required more than human energy to bear up against
the menaces of destruction that every where surrounded
us.
After the lapse of three days, the gale died away, the
sea-gull sailed upon the calm bosom of the windless
atmosphere, and the last yellow leaf on the topmost
branch of the oak hung without motion. The sea no
longer broke with
fury; but a swell setting in steadily
for shore, with long sweep and sullen burst replaced
the roar of the breakers. Yet we derived hope from the
change, and we did not doubt that after the interval of
a few days the sea would resume its tranquillity. The
sunset of the fourth day favoured this idea; it was
clear and golden. As we gazed on the purple sea,
radiant beneath, we were attracted by a novel
spectacle; a dark speck—as it neared, visibly a
boat—rode on the top of the waves, every now and then
lost in the steep vallies between. We marked its course
with eager questionings; and, when we saw that it
evidently made for shore, we descended to the only
practicable landing place, and hoisted a signal to
direct them. By the help of glasses we distinguished
her crew; it consisted of nine men, Englishmen,
belonging in truth to the two divisions of our people,
who had preceded us, and had been for several weeks at
Paris. As countryman was wont to meet countryman in
distant lands, did we greet our visitors on their
landing, with outstretched hands and gladsome welcome.
They were slow to reciprocate our gratulations. They
looked angry and resentful; not less than the chafed
sea which they had traversed with imminent peril,
though apparently more displeased with each other than
with us. It was strange to see these human beings, who
appeared to be given forth by the earth like rare and
inestimable plants, full of towering passion, and the
spirit of angry contest. Their first demand was to be
conducted to the Lord Protector of England, so they
called Adrian, though he had long discarded the empty
title, as a bitter mockery of the shadow to which the
Protectorship was now reduced. They were speedily led
to Dover Castle, from whose keep Adrian had watched the
movements of the boat. He received them with the
interest and wonder so strange a visitation created.
In the confusion occasioned by their angry demands for
precedence, it was long before we could discover the
secret meaning of this strange scene. By degrees,
from
the furious declamations of one, the fierce
interruptions of another, and the bitter scoffs of a
third, we found that they were deputies from our colony
at Paris, from three parties there formed, who, each
with angry rivalry, tried to attain a superiority over
the other two. These deputies had been dispatched by
them to Adrian, who had been selected arbiter; and they
had journied from Paris to Calais, through the vacant
towns and desolate country, indulging the while violent
hatred against each other; and now they pleaded their
several causes with unmitigated party-spirit.
By examining the deputies apart, and after much
investigation, we learnt the true state of things at
Paris. Since parliament had elected him Ryland's
deputy, all the surviving English had submitted to
Adrian. He was our captain to lead us from our native
soil to unknown lands, our lawgiver and our preserver.
On the first arrangement of our scheme of emigration,
no continued separation of our members was
contemplated, and the command of the whole body in
gradual ascent of power had its apex in the Earl of
Windsor. But unforeseen circumstances changed our plans
for us, and occasioned the greater part of our numbers
to be divided for the space of nearly two months, from
the supreme chief. They had gone over in two distinct
bodies; and on their arrival at Paris dissension arose
between them.
They had found Paris a desert. When first the plague
had appeared, the return of travellers and merchants,
and communications by letter, informed us regularly of
the ravages made by disease on the continent. But with
the encreased mortality this intercourse declined and
ceased. Even in England itself communication from one
part of the island to the other became slow and rare.
No vessel stemmed the flood that divided Calais from
Dover; or if some melancholy voyager, wishing to assure
himself of the life or death of his relatives, put
from the French shore to return among us, often the
greedy ocean swallowed his little craft, or after a day
or two he was infected by the disorder, and died before
he could tell the tale of the desolation of France. We
were therefore to a great degree ignorant of the state
of things on the continent, and were not without some
vague hope of finding numerous companions in its wide
track. But the same causes that had so fearfully
diminished the English nation had had even greater
scope for mischief in the sister land. France was a
blank; during the long line of road from Calais to
Paris not one human being was found. In Paris there
were a few, perhaps a hundred, who, resigned to their
coming fate, flitted about the streets of the capital
and assembled to converse of past times, with that
vivacity and even gaiety that seldom deserts the
individuals of this nation.
The English took uncontested possession of Paris. Its
high houses and narrow streets were lifeless. A few
pale figures were to be distinguished
at the accustomed
resort at the Tuileries; they wondered wherefore the
islanders should approach their ill-fated city—for in
the excess of wretchedness, the sufferers always
imagine, that their part of the calamity is the
bitterest, as, when enduring intense pain, we would
exchange the particular torture we writhe under, for
any other which should visit a different part of the
frame. They listened to the account the emigrants gave
of their motives for leaving their native land, with a
shrug almost of disdain—"Return," they said, "return
to your island, whose sea breezes, and division from
the continent gives some promise of health; if
Pestilence among you has slain its hundreds, with us it
has slain its thousands. Are you not even now more
numerous than we are?—A year ago you would have found
only the sick burying the dead; now we are happier; for
the pang of struggle has passed away, and the few you
find here are patiently waiting the final blow. But
you, who are not content to die, breathe no longer the
air of France, or soon you will only be a part of her
soil."
Thus, by menaces of the sword, they would have driven
back those who had escaped from fire. But the peril
left behind was deemed imminent by my countrymen; that
before them doubtful and distant; and soon other
feelings arose to obliterate fear, or to replace it by
passions, that ought to have had no place among a
brotherhood of unhappy survivors of the expiring world.
The more numerous division of emigrants, which arrived
first at Paris, assumed a superiority of rank and
power; the second party asserted their independence. A
third was formed by a sectarian, a self-erected
prophet, who, while he attributed all power and rule to
God, strove to get the real command of his comrades
into his own hands. This third division consisted of
fewest individuals, but their purpose was more one,
their obedience to their leader more entire,
their
fortitude and courage more unyielding and active.
During the whole progress of the plague, the teachers
of religion were in possession of great power; a power
of good, if rightly directed, or of incalculable
mischief, if fanaticism or intolerance guided their
efforts. In the present instance, a worse feeling than
either of these actuated the leader. He was an
impostor in the most determined sense of the term. A
man who had in early life lost, through the indulgence
of vicious propensities, all sense of rectitude or
self-esteem; and who, when ambition was awakened in
him, gave himself up to its influence unbridled by any
scruple. His father had been a methodist preacher, an
enthusiastic man with simple intentions; but whose
pernicious doctrines of election and special grace had
contributed to destroy all conscientious feeling in his
son. During the progress of the pestilence he had
entered upon various schemes, by which to acquire
adherents and power. Adrian had discovered and defeated
these attempts; but Adrian was absent; the wolf
assumed the shepherd's garb, and the flock admitted
the deception: he had formed a party during the few
weeks he had been in Paris, who zealously propagated
the creed of his divine mission, and believed that
safety and salvation were to be afforded only to those
who put their trust in him.
When once the spirit of dissension had arisen, the most
frivolous causes gave it activity. The first party, on
arriving at Paris, had taken possession of the
Tuileries; chance and friendly feeling had induced the
second to lodge near to them. A contest arose
concerning the distribution of the pillage; the chiefs
of the first division demanded that the whole should be
placed at their disposal; with this assumption the
opposite party refused to comply. When next the latter
went to forage, the gates of Paris were shut on them.
After overcoming this difficulty, they marched in a
body to the Tuileries. They found that their enemies
had been already expelled
thence by the Elect, as the
fanatical party designated themselves, who refused to
admit any into the palace who did not first abjure
obedience to all except God, and his delegate on
earth, their chief. Such was the beginning of the
strife, which at length proceeded so far, that the
three divisions, armed, met in the Place Vendome, each
resolved to subdue by force the resistance of its
adversaries. They assembled, their muskets were loaded,
and even pointed at the breasts of their so called
enemies. One word had been sufficient; and there the
last of mankind would have burthened their souls with
the crime of murder, and dipt their hands in each
other's blood. A sense of shame, a recollection that
not only their cause, but the existence of the whole
human race was at stake, entered the breast of the
leader of the more numerous party. He was aware, that
if the ranks were thinned, no other recruits could fill
them up; that each man was as a priceless gem in a
kingly crown, which if destroyed, the earth's deep
entrails could yield no
paragon. He was a young man,
and had been hurried on by presumption, and the notion
of his high rank and superiority to all other
pretenders; now he repented his work, he felt that all
the blood about to be shed would be on his head; with
sudden impulse therefore he spurred his horse between
the bands, and, having fixed a white handkerchief on
the point of his uplifted sword, thus demanded parley;
the opposite leaders obeyed the signal. He spoke with
warmth; he reminded them of the oath all the chiefs had
taken to submit to the Lord Protector; he declared
their present meeting to be an act of treason and
mutiny; he allowed that he had been hurried away by
passion, but that a cooler moment had arrived; and he
proposed that each party should send deputies to the
Earl of Windsor, inviting his interference and offering
submission to his decision. His offer was accepted so
far, that each leader consented to command a retreat,
and moreover agreed, that after the approbation of
their several parties had been
consulted, they should
meet that night on some neutral spot to ratify the
truce. At the meeting of the chiefs, this plan was
finally concluded upon. The leader of the fanatics
indeed refused to admit the arbitration of Adrian; he
sent ambassadors, rather than deputies, to assert his
claim, not plead his cause.
The truce was to continue until the first of February,
when the bands were again to assemble on the Place
Vendome; it was of the utmost consequence therefore
that Adrian should arrive in Paris by that day, since
an hair might turn the scale, and peace, scared away by
intestine broils, might only return to watch by the
silent dead. It was now the twenty-eighth of January;
every vessel stationed near Dover had been beaten to
pieces and destroyed by the furious storms I have
commemorated. Our journey however would admit of no
delay. That very night, Adrian, and I, and twelve
others, either friends or attendants, put off from the
English shore, in the boat that had brought over
the
deputies. We all took our turn at the oar; and the
immediate occasion of our departure affording us
abundant matter for conjecture and discourse, prevented
the feeling that we left our native country,
depopulate England, for the last time, to enter deeply
into the minds of the greater part of our number. It
was a serene starlight night, and the dark line of the
English coast continued for some time visible at
intervals, as we rose on the broad back of the waves.
I exerted myself with my long oar to give swift impulse
to our skiff; and, while the waters splashed with
melancholy sound against its sides, I looked with sad
affection on this last glimpse of sea-girt England, and
strained my eyes not too soon to lose sight of the
castellated cliff, which rose to protect the land of
heroism and beauty from the inroads of ocean, that,
turbulent as I had lately seen it, required such
cyclopean walls for its repulsion. A solitary sea-gull
winged its flight over our heads, to seek its nest in
a cleft of the precipice. Yes, thou shalt re-
visit the
land of thy birth, I thought, as I looked invidiously
on the airy voyager; but we shall, never more! Tomb of
Idris, farewell! Grave, in which my heart lies
sepultured, farewell for ever!
We were twelve hours at sea, and the heavy swell
obliged us to exert all our strength. At length, by
mere dint of rowing, we reached the French coast. The
stars faded, and the grey morning cast a dim veil over
the silver horns of the waning moon—the sun rose broad
and red from the sea, as we walked over the sands to
Calais. Our first care was to procure horses, and
although wearied by our night of watching and toil,
some of our party immediately went in quest of these
in the wide fields of the unenclosed and now barren
plain round Calais. We divided ourselves, like seamen,
into watches, and some reposed, while others prepared
the morning's repast. Our foragers returned at noon
with only six horses—on these, Adrian and I, and four
others, proceeded on our journey towards
the great
city, which its inhabitants had fondly named the
capital of the civilized world. Our horses had become,
through their long holiday, almost wild, and we crossed
the plain round Calais with impetuous speed. From the
height near Boulogne, I turned again to look on
England; nature had cast a misty pall over her, her
cliff was hidden—there was spread the watery barrier
that divided us, never again to be crossed; she lay on
the ocean plain,
In the great pool a swan's nest.
Ruined the nest, alas! the swans of Albion had passed
away for ever—an uninhabited rock in the wide Pacific,
which had remained since the creation uninhabited,
unnamed, unmarked, would be of as much account in the
world's future history, as desert England.
Our journey was impeded by a thousand obstacles. As our
horses grew tired, we had to seek for others; and hours
were wasted, while we
exhausted our artifices to allure
some of these enfranchised slaves of man to resume the
yoke; or as we went from stable to stable through the
towns, hoping to find some who had not forgotten the
shelter of their native stalls. Our ill success in
procuring them, obliged us continually to leave some
one of our companions behind; and on the first of
February, Adrian and I entered Paris, wholly
unaccompanied. The serene morning had dawned when we
arrived at Saint Denis, and the sun was high, when the
clamour of voices, and the clash, as we feared, of
weapons, guided us to where our countrymen had
assembled on the Place Vendome. We passed a knot of
Frenchmen, who were talking earnestly of the madness of
the insular invaders, and then coming by a sudden turn
upon the Place, we saw the sun glitter on drawn swords
and fixed bayonets, while yells and clamours rent the
air. It was a scene of unaccustomed confusion in these
days of depopulation. Roused by fancied wrongs, and
insulting scoffs, the opposite
parties had rushed to
attack each other; while the elect, drawn up apart,
seemed to wait an opportunity to fall with better
advantage on their foes, when they should have
mutually weakened each other. A merciful power
interposed, and no blood was shed; for, while the
insane mob were in the very act of attack, the females,
wives, mothers and daughters, rushed between; they
seized the bridles; they embraced the knees of the
horsemen, and hung on the necks, or enweaponed arms of
their enraged relatives; the shrill female scream was
mingled with the manly shout, and formed the wild
clamour that welcomed us on our arrival.
Our voices could not be heard in the tumult; Adrian
however was eminent for the white charger he rode;
spurring him, he dashed into the midst of the throng:
he was recognized, and a loud cry raised for England
and the Protector. The late adversaries, warmed to
affection at the sight of him, joined in heedless
confusion,
and surrounded him; the women kissed his
hands, and the edges of his garments; nay, his horse
received tribute of their embraces; some wept their
welcome; he appeared an angel of peace descended among
them; and the only danger was, that his mortal nature
would be demonstrated, by his suffocation from the
kindness of his friends. His voice was at length heard,
and obeyed; the crowd fell back; the chiefs alone
rallied round him. I had seen Lord Raymond ride
through his lines; his look of victory, and majestic
mien obtained the respect and obedience of all: such
was not the appearance or influence of Adrian. His
slight figure, his fervent look, his gesture, more of
deprecation than rule, were proofs that love, unmingled
with fear, gave him dominion over the hearts of a
multitude, who knew that he never flinched from danger,
nor was actuated by other motives than care for the
general welfare. No distinction was now visible
between the two parties, late ready
to shed each
other's blood, for, though neither would submit to the
other, they both yielded ready obedience to the Earl
of Windsor.
One party however remained, cut off from the rest,
which did not sympathize in the joy exhibited on
Adrian's arrival, or imbibe the spirit of peace, which
fell like dew upon the softened hearts of their
countrymen. At the head of this assembly was a
ponderous, dark-looking man, whose malign eye surveyed
with gloating delight the stern looks of his followers.
They had hitherto been inactive, but now, perceiving
themselves to be forgotten in the universal jubilee,
they advanced with threatening gestures: our friends
had, as it were in wanton contention, attacked each
other; they wanted but to be told that their cause was
one, for it to become so: their mutual anger had been
a fire of straw, compared to the slow-burning hatred
they both entertained for these seceders, who seized a
portion of the world to come, there to entrench and
incastellate themselves, and to issue
with fearful
sally, and appalling denunciations, on the mere common
children of the earth. The first advance of the little
army of the elect reawakened their rage; they grasped
their arms, and waited but their leader's signal to
commence the attack, when the clear tones of Adrian's
voice were heard, commanding them to fall back; with
confused murmur and hurried retreat, as the wave ebbs
clamorously from the sands it lately covered, our
friends obeyed. Adrian rode singly into the space
between the opposing bands; he approached the hostile
leader, as requesting him to imitate his example, but
his look was not obeyed, and the chief advanced,
followed by his whole troop. There were many women
among them, who seemed more eager and resolute than
their male companions. They pressed round their leader,
as if to shield him, while they loudly bestowed on him
every sacred denomination and epithet of worship.
Adrian met them half way; they halted: "What," he
said, "do you seek? Do you require any thing of
us that
we refuse to give, and that you are forced to acquire
by arms and warfare?"
His questions were answered by a general cry, in which
the words election, sin, and red right arm of God,
could alone be heard.
Adrian looked expressly at their leader, saying, "Can
you not silence your followers? Mine, you perceive,
obey me."
The fellow answered by a scowl; and then, perhaps
fearful that his people should become auditors of the
debate he expected to ensue, he commanded them to fall
back, and advanced by himself. "What, I again ask,"
said Adrian, "do you require of us?"
"Repentance," replied the man, whose sinister brow
gathered clouds as he spoke. "Obedience to the will of
the Most High, made manifest to these his Elected
People. Do we not all die through your sins, O
generation of unbelief, and have we not a right to
demand of you repentance and obedience?"
"And if we refuse them, what then?" his opponent
inquired mildly.
"Beware," cried the man, "God hears you, and will smite
your stony heart in his wrath; his poisoned arrows
fly, his dogs of death are unleashed! We will not
perish unrevenged—and mighty will our avenger be, when
he descends in visible majesty, and scatters
destruction among you."
"My good fellow," said Adrian, with quiet scorn, "I
wish that you were ignorant only, and I think it would
be no difficult task to prove to you, that you speak of
what you do not understand. On the present occasion
however, it is enough for me to know that you seek
nothing of us; and, heaven is our witness, we seek
nothing of you. I should be sorry to embitter by strife
the few days that we any of us may have here to live;
when there," he pointed downwards, "we shall not be
able to contend, while here we need not. Go home, or
stay;
pray to your God in your own mode; your friends
may do the like. My orisons consist in peace and good
will, in resignation and hope. Farewell!"
He bowed slightly to the angry disputant who was about
to reply; and, turning his horse down Rue Saint Honore,
called on his friends to follow him. He rode slowly, to
give time to all to join him at the Barrier, and then
issued his orders that those who yielded obedience to
him, should rendezvous at Versailles. In the meantime
he remained within the walls of Paris, until he had
secured the safe retreat of all. In about a fortnight
the remainder of the emigrants arrived from England,
and they all repaired to Versailles; apartments were
prepared for the family of the Protector in the Grand
Trianon, and there, after the excitement of these
events, we reposed amidst the luxuries of the departed
Bourbons.
[3]
Chorus in Oedipus Coloneus.