Colonel Everard experienced the truth contained in the verses of the
quaint old bard whom we have quoted above. Amid private grief, and
anxiety for a country long a prey to civil war, and not likely to fall
soon under any fixed or well-established form of government, Everard
and his father had, like many others, turned their eyes to General
Cromwell, as the person whose valour had made him the darling of the
army, whose strong sagacity had hitherto predominated over the high
talents by which he had been assailed in Parliament, as well as over
his enemies in the field, and who was alone in the situation to _settle
the nation_, as the phrase then went; or, in other words, to dictate
the mode of government. The father and son were both reputed to stand
high in the General’s favour. But Markham Everard was conscious of some
particulars, which induced him to doubt whether Cromwell actually, and
at heart, bore either to his father or to himself that good-will which
was generally believed. He knew him for a profound politician, who
could veil for any length of time his real sentiments of men and
things, until they could be displayed without prejudice to his
interest. And he moreover knew that the General was not likely to
forget the opposition which the Presbyterian party had offered to what
Oliver called the Great Matter—the trial, namely, and execution of the
King. In this opposition, his father and he had anxiously concurred,
nor had the arguments, nor even the half-expressed threats of Cromwell,
induced them to flinch from that course, far less to permit their names
to be introduced into the commission nominated to sit in judgment on
that memorable occasion.
This hesitation had occasioned some temporary coldness between the
General and the Everards, father and son. But as the latter remained in
the army, and bore arms under Cromwell both in Scotland, and finally at
Worcester, his services very frequently called forth the approbation of
his commander. After the fight of Worcester, in particular, he was
among the number of those officers on whom Oliver, rather considering
the actual and practical extent of his own power, than the name under
which he exercised it, was with difficulty withheld from imposing the
dignity of Knights-Bannerets at his own will and pleasure. It therefore
seemed, that all recollection of former disagreement was obliterated,
and that the Everards had regained their former stronghold in the
General’s affections. There were, indeed, several who doubted this, and
who endeavoured to bring over this distinguished young officer to some
other of the parties which divided the infant Commonwealth. But to
these proposals he turned a deaf ear. Enough of blood, he said, had
been spilled—it was time that the nation should have repose under a
firmly-established government, of strength sufficient to protect
property, and of lenity enough to encourage the return of tranquillity.
This, he thought, could only be accomplished by means of Cromwell, and
the greater part of England was of the same opinion. It is true, that,
in thus submitting to the domination of a successful soldier, those who
did so, forgot the principles upon which they had drawn the sword
against the late King. But in revolutions, stern and high principles
are often obliged to give way to the current of existing circumstances;
and in many a case, where wars have been waged for points of
metaphysical right, they have been at last gladly terminated, upon the
mere hope of obtaining general tranquillity, as, after many a long
siege, a garrison is often glad to submit on mere security for life and
limb.
Colonel Everard, therefore, felt that the support which he afforded
Cromwell, was only under the idea, that, amid a choice of evils, the
least was likely to ensue from a man of the General’s wisdom and valour
being placed at the head of the state; and he was sensible, that Oliver
himself was likely to consider his attachment as lukewarm and
imperfect, and measure his gratitude for it upon the same limited
scale.
In the meanwhile, however, circumstances compelled him to make trial of
the General’s friendship. The sequestration of Woodstock, and the
warrant to the Commissioners to dispose of it as national property, had
been long granted, but the interest of the elder Everard had for weeks
and months deferred its execution. The hour was now approaching when
the blow could be no longer parried, especially as Sir Henry Lee, on
his side, resisted every proposal of submitting himself to the existing
government, and was therefore, now that his hour of grace was passed,
enrolled in the list of stubborn and irreclaimable malignants, with
whom the Council of State was determined no longer to keep terms. The
only mode of protecting the old knight and his daughter, was to
interest, if possible, the General himself in the matter; and revolving
all the circumstances connected with their intercourse, Colonel Everard
felt that a request, which would so immediately interfere with the
interests of Desborough, the brother-in-law of Cromwell, and one of the
present Commissioners, was putting to a very severe trial the
friendship of the latter. Yet no alternative remained.
With this view, and agreeably to a request from Cromwell, who at
parting had been very urgent to have his written opinion upon public
affairs, Colonel Everard passed the earlier part of the night in
arranging his ideas upon the state of the Commonwealth, in a plan which
he thought likely to be acceptable to Cromwell, as it exhorted him,
under the aid of Providence, to become the saviour of the state, by
convoking a free Parliament, and by their aid placing himself at the
head of some form of liberal and established government, which might
supersede the state of anarchy, in which the nation was otherwise
likely to be merged. Taking a general view of the totally broken
condition of the Royalists, and of the various factions which now
convulsed the state, he showed how this might be done without bloodshed
or violence. From this topic he descended to the propriety of keeping
up the becoming state of the Executive Government, in whose hands
soever it should be lodged, and thus showed Cromwell, as the future
Stadtholder, or Consul, or Lieutenant-General of Great Britain and
Ireland, a prospect of demesne and residence becoming his dignity. Then
he naturally passed to the disparking and destroying of the royal
residences of England, made a woful picture of the demolition which
impended over Woodstock, and interceded for the preservation of that
beautiful seat, as a matter of personal favour, in which he found
himself deeply interested.
Colonel Everard, when he had finished his letter, did not find himself
greatly risen in his own opinion. In the course of his political
conduct, he had till this hour avoided mixing up personal motives with
his public grounds of action, and yet he now felt himself making such a
composition. But he comforted himself, or at least silenced this
unpleasing recollection, with the consideration, that the weal of
Britain, studied under the aspect of the times, absolutely required
that Cromwell should be at the head of the government; and that the
interest of Sir Henry Lee, or rather his safety and his existence, no
less emphatically demanded the preservation of Woodstock, and his
residence there. Was it a fault of his, that the same road should lead
to both these ends, or that his private interest, and that of the
country, should happen to mix in the same letter? He hardened himself,
therefore, to the act, made up and addressed his packet to the
Lord-General, and then sealed it with his seal of arms. This done, he
lay back in the chair; and, in spite of his expectations to the
contrary, fell asleep in the course of his reflections, anxious and
harassing as they were, and did not awaken until the cold grey light of
dawn was peeping through the eastern oriel.
He started at first, rousing himself with the sensation of one who
awakes in a place unknown to him; but the localities instantly forced
themselves on his recollection. The lamp burning dimly in the socket,
the wood fire almost extinguished in its own white embers, the gloomy
picture over the chimney-piece, the sealed packet on the table—all
reminded him of the events of yesterday, and his deliberations of the
succeeding night. “There is no help for it,” he said; “it must be
Cromwell or anarchy. And probably the sense that his title, as head of
the Executive Government, is derived merely from popular consent, may
check the too natural proneness of power to render itself arbitrary. If
he govern by Parliaments, and with regard to the privileges of the
subject, wherefore not Oliver as well as Charles? But I must take
measures for having this conveyed safely to the hands of this future
sovereign prince. It will be well to take the first word of influence
with him, since there must be many who will not hesitate to recommend
counsels more violent and precipitate.”
He determined to intrust the important packet to the charge of
Wildrake, whose rashness was never so distinguished, as when by any
chance he was left idle and unemployed; besides, even if his faith had
not been otherwise unimpeachable, the obligations which he owed to his
friend Everard must have rendered it such.
These conclusions passed through Colonel Everard’s mind, as, collecting
the remains of wood in the chimney, he gathered them into a hearty
blaze, to remove the uncomfortable feeling of dullness which pervaded
his limbs; and by the time he was a little more warm, again sunk into a
slumber, which was only dispelled by the beams of morning peeping into
his apartment.
He arose, roused himself, walked up and down the room, and looked from
the large oriel window on the nearest objects, which were the untrimmed
hedges and neglected walks of a certain wilderness, as it is called in
ancient treatises on gardening, which, kept of yore well ordered, and
in all the pride of the topiary art, presented a succession of
yew-trees cut into fantastic forms, of close alleys, and of open walks,
filling about two or three acres of ground on that side of the Lodge,
and forming a boundary between its immediate precincts and the open
Park. Its enclosure was now broken down in many places, and the hinds
with their fawns fed free and unstartled up to the very windows of the
silvan palace.
This had been a favourite scene of Markham’s sports when a boy. He
could still distinguish, though now grown out of shape, the verdant
battlements of a Gothic castle, all created by the gardener’s shears,
at which he was accustomed to shoot his arrows; or, stalking before it
like the Knight-errants of whom he read, was wont to blow his horn, and
bid defiance to the supposed giant or Paynim knight, by whom it was
garrisoned. He remembered how he used to train his cousin, though
several years younger than himself, to bear a part in those revels of
his boyish fancy, and to play the character of an elfin page, or a
fairy, or an enchanted princess. He remembered, too, many particulars
of their later acquaintance, from which he had been almost necessarily
led to the conclusion, that from an early period their parents had
entertained some idea, that there might be a well-fitted match betwixt
his fair cousin and himself. A thousand visions, formed in so bright a
prospect, had vanished along with it, but now returned like shadows, to
remind him of all he had lost—and for what?—“For the sake of England,”
his proud consciousness replied,—“Of England, in danger of becoming the
prey at once of bigotry and tyranny.” And he strengthened himself with
the recollection, “If I have sacrificed my private happiness, it is
that my country may enjoy liberty of conscience, and personal freedom;
which, under a weak prince and usurping statesman, she was but too
likely to have lost.”
But the busy fiend in his breast would not be repulsed by the bold
answer. “Has thy resistance,” it demanded, “availed thy country,
Markham Everard? Lies not England, after so much bloodshed, and so much
misery, as low beneath the sword of a fortunate soldier, as formerly
under the sceptre of an encroaching prince? Are Parliament, or what
remains of them, fitted to contend with a leader, master of his
soldiers’ hearts, as bold and subtle as he is impenetrable in his
designs! This General, who holds the army, and by that the fate of the
nation in his hand, will he lay down his power because philosophy would
pronounce it his duty to become a subject?”
He dared not answer that his knowledge of Cromwell authorised him to
expect any such act of self-denial. Yet still he considered that in
times of such infinite difficulty, that must be the best government,
however little desirable in itself, which should most speedily restore
peace to the land, and stop the wounds which the contending parties
were daily inflicting on each other. He imagined that Cromwell was the
only authority under which a steady government could be formed, and
therefore had attached himself to his fortune, though not without
considerable and recurring doubts, how far serving the views of this
impenetrable and mysterious General was consistent with the principles
under which he had assumed arms.
While these things passed in his mind, Everard looked upon the packet
which lay on the table addressed to the Lord-General, and which he had
made up before sleep. He hesitated several times, when he remembered
its purport, and in what degree he must stand committed with that
personage, and bound to support his plans of aggrandizement, when once
that communication was in Oliver Cromwell’s possession.
“Yet it must be so,” he said at last, with a deep sigh. “Among the
contending parties, he is the strongest—the wisest and most moderate—
and ambitious though he be, perhaps not the most dangerous. Some one
must be trusted with power to preserve and enforce general order, and
who can possess or wield such power like him that is head of the
victorious armies of England? Come what will in future, peace and the
restoration of law ought to be our first and most pressing object. This
remnant of a parliament cannot keep their ground against the army, by
mere appeal to the sanction of opinion. If they design to reduce the
soldiery, it must be by actual warfare, and the land has been too long
steeped in blood. But Cromwell may, and I trust will, make a moderate
accommodation with them, on grounds by which peace may be preserved;
and it is to this which we must look and trust for a settlement of the
kingdom, alas! and for the chance of protecting my obstinate kinsman
from the consequences of his honest though absurd pertinacity.”
Silencing some internal feelings of doubt and reluctance by such
reasoning as this, Markham Everard continued in his resolution to unite
himself with Cromwell in the struggle which was evidently approaching
betwixt the civil and military authorities; not as the course which, if
at perfect liberty, he would have preferred adopting, but as the best
choice between two dangerous extremities to which the times had reduced
him. He could not help trembling, however, when he recollected that his
father, though hitherto the admirer of Cromwell, as the implement by
whom so many marvels had been wrought in England, might not be disposed
to unite with his interest against that of the Long Parliament, of
which he had been, till partly laid aside by continued indisposition,
an active and leading member. This doubt also he was obliged to swallow
or strangle, as he might; but consoled himself with the ready argument,
that it was impossible his father could see matters in another light
than that in which they occurred to himself.