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 had 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.[21]
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 revisit 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.
[21] Chorus in Œdipus Coloneus.