CHAPTER III.

Poesy! thou sweet'st contentThat e'er Heaven to mortals lent,Though they as a trifle leave theeWhose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;Though thou be to them a scornThat to nought but earth are born;Let my life no longer beThan I am in love with thee.George Wither.

George Wither.

There are two things that to a marvellous degree bring people under subjection—moral and corporeal fear. The most dissolute are held in restraint by the influence of moral worth, and there are few who would engage in a quarrel, if they were certain that defeat or death would be the consequence. Cromwell obtained, and we may add, maintained his ascendency over the people of England, by his earnest and continually directed efforts towards these two important ends. His court was a rare example of irreproachable conduct, from which all debauchery and immorality were banished; while such washis deep and intimate, though mysterious, acquaintance with every occurrence throughout the Commonwealth, its subjects had the certainty of knowing that, sooner or later, whatever crimes they committed would of a surety reach the ear of the Protector. His natural abilities must always have been of the highest order, though in the early part of his career he discovered none of those extraordinary talents that afterwards gained him so much applause, and worked so upon the affections of the hearers and standers by. His mind may be compared to one of those valuable manuscripts that had long been rolled up and kept hidden from vulgar eyes, but which exhibits some new proof of wisdom at each unfolding. It has been well said by a philosopher, whose equal the world has not known since his day, "that a place showeth the man." Of a certainty Cromwell had no sooner possessed the opportunity so to do, than he showed to the whole world that he was destined to govern. "Some men achieve greatness, some men are born to greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." With Cromwell, greatness was achieved. He was the architect of his own fortunes, owing little to, what is called, "chance," less to patronage, and still less to crime, if we except the one sad blot upon the page of his own history, as connected with that of his country. There appears in his character but a small portion of that which is evil, blended with much that is undoubtedly good. Although his public speeches were, for the most part, ambiguous—leaving others to pick out his meaning—or more frequently still, having no meaning to pick out—being words, words, words—strung of mouldy sentences, scriptural phrases, foolish exclamations, and such like; yet, when necessary, he showed that he could sufficiently command his style, delivering himself with so much energy, pith, propriety, and strength of expression, that it was commonly said of him, under such circumstances, "every word he spoke was a thing." But the strongest indication of his vast abilities was, the extraordinary tact with which he entered into, dissected, and scrutinised the nature of human kind. No man ever dived into the manners and minds of those around him with greater penetration, or more rapidly discovered their natural talents and tempers. If he chanced to hear of a person fit for his purpose, whether as a minister, a soldier, an artisan, a preacher, or a spy—no matter how previously obscure—hesent for him forthwith, and employed him in the way in which he could be made most useful, and answer best the purpose of his employer. Upon this most admirable system (a system in which, unhappily, he has had but few imitators among modern statesmen,) depended in a great degree his success. His devotion has been sneered at; but it has never been proved to have been insincere. With how much more show of justice may we consider it to have been founded upon a solid and upright basis, when we recollect that his whole outward deportment spoke its truth. Those who decry him as a fanatic ought to bethink themselves thatreligion was the chivalry of the age in which he lived. Had Cromwell been born a few centuries earlier, he would have headed the Crusades, with as much bravery, and far better results than our noble-hearted, but wrong-headed "Cœur de Lion." It was no great compliment that was passed on him by the French minister, when he called the Protector "the first captain of the age." His courage and conduct in the field were undoubtedly admirable: he had a dignity of soul which the greatest dangers and difficulties rather animated than discouraged, and his discipline and government of the army, in all respects, was the wonder of the world. It was no diminution of this part of his character that he was wary in his conduct, and that, after he was declared Protector, he wore a coat-of-mail concealed beneath his dress. Less caution than he made use of, in the place he held, and surrounded as he was by secret and open enemies, would have deserved the name of negligence. As to his political sincerity, which many think had nothing to do with his religious opinions, he was, to the full, as honest as the first or second Charles.

Of a truth, that same sincerity, it would appear, is no kingly virtue! Cromwell loved justice as he loved his own life, and wherever he was compelled to be arbitrary, it was only where his authority was controverted, which, as things then were, it was not only right to establish for his own sake, but for the peace and security of the country over whose proud destinies he had been called to govern. "The dignity of the crown," to quote his own words, "was upon the account of the nation, of which the king was only the representative head, and therefore, the nation being still the same, he would have the same respect paid to his ministers as if he had been a king." England ought to write the name of Cromwell in letters of gold,when she remembers that, within a space of four or five years, he avenged all the insults that had been lavishly flung upon her by every country in Europe throughout a long, disastrous, and most perplexing civil war. Gloriously did he retrieve the credit that had been mouldering and decaying during two weak and discreditable reigns of nearly fifty years' continuance—gloriously did he establish and extend his country's authority and influence in remote nations—gloriously acquire the real mastery of the British Channel—gloriously send forth fleets that went and conquered, and never sullied the union-flag by an act of dishonour or dissimulation!

Not a single Briton, during the Protectorate, but could demand and receive either reparation or revenge for injury, whether it came from France, from Spain, from any open foe or treacherous ally;—not an oppressed foreigner claimed his protection but it was immediately and effectually granted. Were things to be compared to this in the reign of either Charles? England may blush at the remembrance of the insults she sustained during the reigns of the first most amiable, yet most weak—of the second most admired, yet most contemptible—of these legal kings. What must she think of the treatment received by the Elector Palatine, though he was son-in-law to King James? And let her ask herself how the Duke of Rohan was assisted in the Protestant war at Rochelle, notwithstanding the solemn engagement of King Charles under his own hand! But we are treading too fearlessly upon ground on which, in our humble capacity, we have scarcely the right to enter. Alas! alas! the page of History is but a sad one! and the Stuarts and the Cromwells, the Roundheads and the Cavaliers, the pennons and the drums, are but part and parcel of the same dust—the dust we, who are made of dust, animated for a time by a living spirit, now tread upon! Their words, that wrestled with the winds and mounted on the air, have left no trace along that air whereon they sported;—the clouds in all their beauty cap our isle with their magnificence, as in those by-gone days;—the rivers are as blue, the seas as salt;—the flowers, those sweet things! remain fresh within our fields as when God called them into existence in Paradise—and are bright as ever. But the change is over us, as it has been over them: we, too, are passing. O England! what should this teach? Even three things—wisdom, justice, and mercy.Wisdom to watch ourselves, and then our rulers, so that we neither do nor suffer wrong;—justice to the memory of the mighty dead, whether born to thrones or footstools;—mercy, inasmuch as we shall deeply need it from our successors.

We must not longer trifle with or mingle among forbidden themes, but turn to that which lightens many a heart, and creates of its own power a magic world of pure and perfect enjoyment.

Many there were, before and during those troublous times, who, heedless of the turmoils that were taking place around them, sang, as birds will sometimes sing, during the pauses of a thunder-storm. We would fain con over the names of a few of those who live with the memories of peace, and hope, and love, and joy—as so many happy contrasts to the wars and intrigues, that sin, and its numberless and terrible attendants, have brought upon this cheerful, and beautiful, and abundantly gifted earth.

A blessing on sweet Poesy! whether she come to us mounted on the gallant war-horse, trumpet-tongued, awakening our souls and senses unto glory, hymning with Dryden some bold battle-strain that makes us crow of victories past, present, and to come;—or with a scholar's trim and tasselled cap, a flowing gown of raven hue, and many tales of Chaucer's—quaint, but pleasing—good reading under some old tree close by a quiet brook, where minnows sport and dart with silver flight beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices are spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides like a monarch in his azure kingdom;—or, better still, mounted on a green dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, looking for encounter with some Christian knight, who, "full of sad feare and ghastley dreariment," would nathless risk life, honour, all—for his faire ladie love. Beloved Spenser! age withers not thy beauty.

Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish day is past, and the young modest flowers, which refused their perfume to the sun, that, with his hot and fiery beams, sought to command their incense, now welcome back the evening, and become prodigal of sweetness;—within some rustic temple, clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren hath formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trembles not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath ofheaven plays with those blossoms of the sun—the painted butterflies—that fold their wings and fain would sleep till morning. There let her come, and with her bring more blessed children of the olden time,—

"Whose namesIn Fame's eternal volume live for aye."

The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, if not our sweetest sonneteer; and Michael Drayton, with his apt crest—Mercury's bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams. Old Fletcher, floating towards his Purple Island, in the same graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful, it may be sombre, brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle in all its purple glory; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, and his gay bonnet, graced by the heron's plume; his voice subdued by sorrow, but still sweet and free, singing of "Sion's flowers"—Drummond of Hawthornden! welcome from bonny Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who fling their music on the breezy air, that floats along in melody.

Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail—beauty in all thy lines, so quaint yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse—although a poet and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must we contrast thee with the weathercock of the rhyming folk, bowing to kings, protector, lords, and all that could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many there be among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller's practice, and amble in his ill-chosen path; how few have the redeeming gift that was his so largely!

And thou must not be forgotten, "O rare Ben Jonson!" for whom a single sentence doth suffice. And him, "the melancholy Cowley!" let him come too, with his honeyed wisdom: it will be still the sweeter if we think upon his stern bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he owes his fame,—

"Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,————And that too after death:—"

let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is but a sorry politician after all.

Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high with those old masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet song,—

"Blessings be with them and eternal praise,The poets!"

Bring them all, all, from the ancient of days, who have gained this "praise eternal," to those of our own age, who have laboured for, and will also obtain it. And chiefly among such as have sweetly carolled among us—still more, if ye be young and warm-hearted, with the affections pure and true within you—bring the dear lays of a poet—a ladye poet—a poet who will hold rank among the best, when life shall have given place to immortality.—How gladly do I add the tribute of admiration to the gift of friendship.—In her own eloquent words may we give our thoughts utterance.

"Methinks it is not much to die—To die, and leave behindA spirit in the hearts of men,A voice amid our kind;When Fame and Death, in unison,Have given a thousand lives for one."Our thoughts, we live again in them,Our nature's noblest part;Our life in many a memory,Our home in many a heart:When not a lip that breathes our strain,But calls us into life again."

"Methinks it is not much to die—To die, and leave behindA spirit in the hearts of men,A voice amid our kind;When Fame and Death, in unison,Have given a thousand lives for one.

"Our thoughts, we live again in them,Our nature's noblest part;Our life in many a memory,Our home in many a heart:When not a lip that breathes our strain,But calls us into life again."

But fail not, above all, to bring the one who comprehends the whole; whose name is to be found in every school-boy book, written in living letters—words that breathe; to whom the hearts of multitudes were as one most simple instrument, which he could tune and tone unto his pleasure. The birds taught him their language—the forest leaves had life within their veins, and talked with him of Nature's mysteries. The broad sea sent its homage by a thousand sprites, fresh from their coral beds, who watched him in his dreams, or by those sylvan glens wherein he wandered—riding the salt-sea foam, or the light spray of the wild cataract, they sung the melodies of river and of ocean into his soul. The beings of air, that, atom-like, float in the clearest ether, bathe in the liquid dew, or drink their nectar from the honey-bells of the wild heather bloom, called him their brother, and prated of their tricks ingay familiarity. Oh, world! art thou the self-same world that Shakspeare trod upon?

And there's another too, who stands alone in his sublimity—who dared the mysteries of Paradise, and communed with angels—angels both of hell and heaven—a giant-master, yet a man of beauty, wisdom, simplicity, knowledge. Behold him as he sits, within the tapestried chamber at Hampton Court! 'Tis the same room in which the Protector sat last night; but how changed its aspect, just by the presence of that one man! How different is the feeling with which we regard men of great energy and men of great talent. Milton, blind—blind, powerless as to his actions, overwhelming in his genius, grasping all things and seeing into them, not with the eyes of flesh, but those of mind, altering the very atmosphere wherein we move, stilling the air that we may hear his oracles!

The room is one of most curious fashion, and hung with the oldest tapestry in England, lighted on either side by long and narrow windows, that are even now furnished as in the time of the old cardinal who built them. On the low seat formed within the wall the poet sat. Who would suffer a thought of the ambitious Wolsey or the sensual Henry to intrude where once they held gay revels and much minstrelsy in their most tyrant pastimes? Cromwell, the great Protector, even Cromwell is forgotten in the more glorious company of one both poor and blind! He sat, as we describe him, within the embrasure of the narrow window; the heat and brightness of the summer sun came full upon his head, the hair upon which was full and rich as ever, parted in the centre, and falling in waving curls quite to his shoulders; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, but their expression was as if communing with some secret spirit, enlivening thus his darkness; he seemed not old nor young, for the lines upon his face could not be considered wrinkles—tokens were they of care and thought—such care and such thought as Milton might know and feel.

He was habited with extraordinary exactness; his linen of the finest quality, and his vest and doublet put on with an evident attention to even minute appearance. His hands of transparent whiteness were clasped, as if he were attending to some particular discourse; he was alone in that vast chamber,—yet not alone, for God was with him—not in outward form, but in inward spirit. It was the Sabbath-day, and everobserved in the Protector's family with respect and reverence. The morning-meeting was over, and Cromwell in his closet, "wrestling," as he was wont to term it, "with sin." Silence reigned through all the courts—that due and reverend silence which betokens thoughtfulness, and attention to one of the Almighty's first commands—"Keep holy the Sabbath-day," given when he ordained that man should rest from his labours in commemoration that he himself set an example of repose after calling the broad earth into existence and beauty. The poet sat but for a little time in that wide silence; yet who would not give a large portion of their every-day existence to have looked on him for those brief moments, moments which for their full feeling might play the part of years in our life's calendar? Blessed holy time!—when we can look on genius, and catch the gems that fall from its lips! Yet Milton spoke not—he only looked; and still his looks were heavenward—turned towards that Heaven from whence they caught their inspiration. He heard the sound of coming footsteps, and loving quiet on that holy day, withdrew to his own chamber. How empty now appeared the tapestried hall! as when some great eclipse shuts to the golden portals of the sun, and steeps the earth in darkness!

Soon after Milton's departure, the Protector entered, in conversation with his secretary, Thurloe; and although it was the Sabbath, there was an air of anxiety and eagerness about him, which made his step more hurried, more abrupt than usual. He suddenly stopped, and said,—

"Pray God that Colonel Jones and the troop arrived in time! Lady Frances, methinks, must have known something—seen something—however, now all shall be investigated. Pray God they arrived in time!"

He then took from a large pocket-book a set of tablets, and having read therein for a few minutes, suddenly turning to Thurloe, exclaimed, "What! is this indeed the tenth?"

"Even so," replied the secretary.

"Then have I business which requires immediate attention," said his Highness. "Behold! I had nearly forgotten both the promise and the appointment; but spare nor haste nor trouble! Under the archway, at the left-hand side of Gray's Inn, after you pass the house whose corners are bound with white stones, the walls being of red brick—under thatarch you will see a man—now mark me—a man wearing a green cloak, the collar being of velvet; and, to distinguish him the more perfectly, you will perceive that his hat is banded by a small blue riband, of the narrowest breadth: his left hand will be uncovered, and placed upon his breast, and on its centre finger will be a broad hoop ring of jet. Be there exactly as the clock of St. Paul's strikes three-quarters past four; and speak thou no word, nor make sign, except to put this bill into his hand, which, as thou seest, is for twenty thousand pounds, payable to the bearer at Genoa."

"Is it your Highness's pleasure that I take no receipt?"

"It is not needed—you can return hither by the evening meal."

The secretary bowed, and withdrew; and at the same moment, the trampling of many horses sounded in the paved court-yard; and looking from the window, Cromwell beheld the arrival of Colonel Jones, and his prisoner, Sir Willmott Burrell.

The base and guilty bribes of guiltier menShall be thrown back, and Justice look as whenShe loved the earth, and feared not to be soldFor that which worketh all things to it, gold.Ben Jonson.

The base and guilty bribes of guiltier menShall be thrown back, and Justice look as whenShe loved the earth, and feared not to be soldFor that which worketh all things to it, gold.

Ben Jonson.

"The course of justice must not be delayed, although it be the Sabbath," said the Protector; and, having hastily ascertained that his officer had arrived at Cecil Place in time to prevent the intended marriage, he immediately ordered that Colonel Jones and Sir Willmott Burrell should be at once ushered into his presence. At the same time he despatched one of his pages to command the attendance of Manasseh Ben Israel.

When the knight entered, he was received by Cromwell with his usual show of courtesy. He appeared, however, with a downcast look, his hands folded over his bosom, and his mind made up to the approaching contest with one whom he well knew to be as profound and accomplished a dissimulator ashimself, when dissimulation was the weapon wherewith he designed to fight.

Sir Willmott briefly apologised for his travel-worn and soiled habiliments, and displayed a due portion of surprise and indignation at being torn from his bride in the midst of the marriage ceremony. The Jew trembled with agitation, and would have interrupted the Protector's more slow, but not less sure, proceedings, had he not been prevented by a timely check from Cromwell, who bent his brow towards him with a peculiar and warning expression.

"It cannot be supposed, Sir Willmott," he observed, in a calm, and even friendly tone, "but that I regret exceedingly being compelled to trouble you in this manner, and at such a time. You will be made aware that I have been called upon to perform a double duty; first, to my worthy and excellent friend Manasseh Ben Israel, with the nature of whose suspicions (it maketh a Christian soul shudder to think upon it) you are already acquainted—and next, to the lady who was about to become your wife. Her Highness has long and truly loved her; and she is, moreover, somewhat related (although only after the Episcopalian fashion) to my most beloved daughter. I was, therefore, bound to have especial care concerning the maiden's bridal."

"The Lady Frances Cromwell could have informed your Highness that Mistress Constantia was, of her own free will, a party to the ceremony."

"I do not dispute it. Now our business is to satisfy the mind of our friend here, as to your alleged conduct towards his only child. It is a noble matter in our laws, and one that we may well be proud of, that, by God's blessing, every man is considered innocent until he be proven guilty. The Lord forbid that I should lay aught of sin unto your charge!—you, who have appeared at all times a sure and a safe prop unto our Commonwealth. Doubtless you saw the lady—Zillah: say you not, worthy Rabbi, that the maiden's name was Zillah?"

"Even so," replied the Jew, with a bitter sigh; "she was named after her mother."

"You, doubtless, saw her, and, struck by her beauty, which we hear was most marvellous, paid her more courtesy than was quite fitting in a betrothed man. But Satan lays many snaresfor the unwary, and beauty is a peril that few men altogether escape. Verily, it is of the evil one. But there are excuses; at least there may be excuses, especially in such a land as France, where temptation assumes every seducing form; and a young woman, like this lady, might have been easily led to believe your courtliness to be that of the heart, whereas it was only that of the manner."

The rabbi stood aghast, his friend Cromwell talked in a tone so much more moderate than he had expected—he knew not what to think. Even Burrell, who had anticipated a thunder-storm, was deceived by the calm; and, after considering a moment that the Protector would not speak thus if he had really received any communication from Hugh Dalton, replied, breathing freely for the first time since he received the mandate to appear at Hampton Court,—

"It is possible she might have been led to such belief, though, as I have before assured her father, I had no intention so to mislead his daughter. It is very hard to be suspected of a crime so base; and——"

"But innocence wears a robe of such pure light," interrupted the Protector, "that it will shine in the darkest night, as yours will, if you are innocent. Know you how the fair Jewess became possessed of this picture? Nay, I should hesitate to think harshly of you, even if you had given it to her, which you might have done in pure friendliness, although the world—it is a harsh and ill-judging world—might condemn you on such ground. But we have ourselves suffered so much from its wrong judgment, as to have learned mercy towards others. Friendship, excellent, right, true friendship, may exist between man and woman in our advanced—ay, and in our young years. Why should it not? Or, as the picture is of excellent painting, and the young lady, it would seem, desired accomplishment in that useless art, you might have lent it her as a study—or——"

"I certainly did not give it," replied Burrell; "but I have some idea of having lent it, with sundry Flemish drawings. Your Highness may remember that several gentlemen, attached to the embassy at Paris, came away hastily. I was one of those."

Hereupon the Rabbi would have spoken, for he remembered how Sir Willmott had told him that the picture was not his;but the Protector again stayed him, seeking to entangle Burrell in a web of his own weaving.

"You visited the lady frequently?"

"Not very frequently. I told Manasseh Ben Israel, when first he injured me by this most unjust suspicion, that I did not often see her, and when I did, it was to ascertain if there were any letters she desired to transmit to England."

"Not from the carnal desire of paying her homage?"

"How could your Highness suppose it was?"

"You but now confessed she might so have interpreted your civilities. But—know you aught of one Hugh Dalton, a free-trader?"

"Know—know—know, your Highness? I know him for a most keen villain!" replied the Master of Burrell warmly.

"Indeed!—But you scorned not to employ him."

Burrell was silent; for, though he had journeyed full fifty miles, he had not been able to form any plan of defence, if Cromwell should really be aware of the arrangements entered into in the cavern of the Gull's Nest Crag. Such he now dreaded was the fact, not only from the appearance of a paper the Protector drew forth, but from the fact that the seeming calmness was fading from his brow. All that remained was stoutly to deny its being in his hand-writing: it was a case that finesse could in no way serve.

"Did your Highness mean that I employed this man?" he said at last, with a clever mingling of astonishment and innocence in his voice and manner.

During a brief pause that followed, the eye of Cromwell was, as it were, nailed upon his countenance.

"I do mean, Sir Willmott Burrell, that you scorned not to employ this man. Know you this hand-writing?"

Sir Willmott's worst fears were confirmed.

"Permit me," he said, glancing over the document; then, looking from it with most marvellous coolness, he raised his eyes, exclaiming, "Sir, there is a plot for my destruction! This hand-writing is so well feigned, that I could have sworn it my own, had I not known the total impossibility that it could so be!"

"I have seen your hand-writing before:—write now, sir."

Burrell obeyed—took the pen in his hand, and Cromwell noted that it trembled much.

"Sir Willmott, I believe you in general place your paper straight?"

"Please your Highness, I do; but I am not cool—not collected enough to act as calmly as at my own table. The knowledge in whose presence I sit, might agitate stronger nerves than mine. Behold, sir, the villain counterfeited well; theWis exact, even in the small hair-stroke—thett's are crossed at the same distance, and thell's are of the height of mine:—a most villanous, but most excellent counterfeit!"

"Which?" inquired the Protector: "which mean ye is the counterfeit—the writing or the writer?——Without there!—Call in Robin Hays. Sir Willmott Burrell, Sir Willmott Burrell! the Lord deliver me from such as thou art!" he continued, swelling and chafing himself into anger, 'pricking the sides of his intent,' that so he might overwhelm the dastard knight. "We doubted, sir, at first, but we doubt no longer. Sir, you have robbed that old man of his daughter! You have, by so doing, perjured your own soul, and brought most foul dishonour upon England. I once heard you talk of patriotism: a true patriot loves his country too well to commit a dishonourable action! Sir, I have learned that you were married to the Jewish girl."

"Please your Highness," interrupted Manasseh at length, "I do not wish the marriage: if there be, as we suppose, a marriage, I wish it not kept; I only want my wretched and deluded child."

"Your pardon, good Rabbi. I am protector of the rights, and not the fantasies, of those who inhabit England, and I hold no sinecure. You may well turn pale, Master of Burrell!—O Lord! that such should dwell in the tents of Judah!—that such should remain sound in life and limb, blessed with carnal and fleshly comforts!—that such reptiles should crawl among us—be fed by the same food, warmed by the same sun, as just men! No, no, Manasseh; if therehasbeen a marriage, as sure as the Almighty governs heaven, it shall be kept! Nay, Sir Willmott Burrell, never dare to knit your brows. Justice, sir, justice to the uttermost, is what I desire in this country! Dost remember the fate of Don PantaleonSa, the Portugal ambassador's brother—a knight of Malta, and a person eminent in many great actions? Dost remember him, I say—that he died the death of a murderer, according to the Scripture, 'he that sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' Justice shall be satisfied!—Not that I seek to confound you without a hearing. But here comes one, once a retainer of your own, who can point out where the lady is."

Robin Hays, little conscious of the fate that had befallen Barbara, entered with much alacrity, for he was glad of anything that afforded him change of place.

"What, Robin Hays!" said Burrell. "Methinks your Highness has assembled most creditable witnesses against me—a Jew, and a thing like that!"

"No sneering, sir. This person asserts that Zillah Ben Israel came over in the Fire-fly."

"Ah! with Hugh Dalton," said Sir Willmott, thrown off his guard at what he conceived the Skipper's utter faithlessness; then muttering, "I thought——"

"No matter what. Methinksthisconfirms the document you denied," observed the Protector, whose rage had somewhat subsided. "No, not with Hugh Dalton, as you imagine, Sir Willmott, but with a man of the name of Jeromio, an Italian. The description answers in every respect—the dark eye, the black hair, the sallow aspect—all."

"Indeed!" said Colonel Jones, who had been present during the examination, leaning against one of the window-frames, and taking much note of all that passed. "Indeed! then doth the Lord work marvellously, and wonderful is his name! for it was to all appearance a foreign woman, or rather fiend—one with a pale cheek and jetty locks, who interrupted the bridal at Cecil Place, and slew the fair young maid that waited on Mistress Cecil!"

"Why told ye not this before?" inquired Cromwell hastily, while the Rabbi advanced towards the soldier with great eagerness as the Protector spoke. But there was another whose blood ran icy cold as the words of Colonel Jones were uttered. He stood for a moment as if suddenly smitten with some cruel malady, the next touch of which would be death; then he pushed boldly past Sir Willmott, and grasping the soldier'sarm, said in a broken husky voice, "In God's name, who was slain?"

"A modest-looking maid, whom they called Barbara,—yes, Barbara was the name."

Robin spoke not again, nor did he move from the Colonel's side, though his hand relaxed its grasp: he stood and looked like a creature to whom the grave had refused rest—a being whose breath and blood were frozen and congealed, at the moment when life and its energies were most needed; strong passion, powerful feeling were upon his countenance, and remained there as if the spell of some magician had converted him to stone. The effect which this scene produced upon the Protector was evidence that he had a heart where the milk of human kindness flowed, and must once have flowed abundantly, however circumstances might have chilled its generous source. Deeply anxious as he was as to the result of the investigation, running full tilt at the difficulty he encountered, having the means of overwhelming the Master of Burrell within his reach, he suffered the Jew to continue a series of questions to Colonel Jones, while he spoke to Robin—soothing and caressing him as a father would have soothed and caressed an afflicted child. But this unbending of his sterner nature was lost upon the unhappy Ranger; he could not have replied if he would; all his faculties were suspended, and he remained in silence and without motion, unconscious of the Protector's condescending kindness.

"'Tis ever thus," ejaculated Oliver, looking upon the sad figure now by his side. "'Tis ever thus; there never was a noble heart but the blight fell on it; doubtless he loved the maid: the Lord be with us! He is seized—pray the Almighty not for death." He struck his dagger on a hand-bell that lay upon the table, ordered that his own surgeon should attend Robin with all due speed, and then walked kindly by his side to the opened door, where he delivered him to a favourite attendant. Those in the ante-room who had witnessed Cromwell's gentleness to Robin Hays were profuse in their offers of assistance to one, whom, but a little while before, they had jested at and insulted. Courtiers are as ripe in republics as in king-governed countries. Your sycophants bow to the power, and not to the person. Dress but a dog in royalrobes, and call him Emperor—Protector—King, and thousands will rejoice loudly if he but wag his tail.

Cromwell returned to his investigation, and interspersed his questionings with much bitterness of remark—the more so as he feared his chain of evidence was in some degree incomplete, although no moral doubt could remain on the mind of any person as to the Master of Burrell's guilt. Colonel Jones failed not to show how anxious Sir Willmott had been that Zillah should escape, and the Rabbi's agitation bordered on madness when he contemplated the new crime into which his wretched daughter had been led.

"Brand me as you please; think of me in your good judgment as you will. I am a free man; free to go as to come; and as your Highness cannot detain me on legal grounds, I am at liberty to depart."

Sir Willmott had scarcely finished the sentence, when Gracious Meanwell, having first knocked, and received permission to enter, advanced with a small and peculiar-looking packet in his hand; it was composed of slips of parchment, and the direction was in printed, not written letters.

"I crave your Highness's pardon; but a sailor-like lad brought this to the great gate, and would take no denial, but that it should be given immediately to your Highness, saying that he found it hanging in some out-o'-the way place, betwixt heaven and earth, far off in the Isle of Shepey, and seeing that it was directed to your Highness, he came straightway to deliver it; he prevailed on the porters to forward it up, which they did, knowing that your Highness wishes nothing of the sort to be kept back."

While Meanwell spoke, Cromwell was undoing or rather tearing open the parcel; and the man was about to withdraw with all the court observance which the Protector would not lack.

"The manifestation of the Lord! The manifestation of his righteous judgments! His ways are clear in Israel, and mighty is his name!—Look here, Colonel Jones; my worthy friend Manasseh Ben Israel, behold! Is it not wonderful! Gracious Meanwell, see that the bearer of this be well cared for, but safely kept. We will speak with him ourselves. Of a truth it is wonderful!"

Such were the words of Cromwell as he scanned, with arapid but scrutinising glance, each of the several papers contained in the parcel;—first, a certificate of marriage between Sir Willmott Burrell and Zillah Ben Israel, as performed by one Samuel Verdaie a monk residing at the Benedictine Friary in the "Faubourg St. Antoine," at Paris—next, many letters from the said Sir Willmott Burrell to the Jewess—and lastly, a love document given before their marriage, wherein he pledged himself to marry Zillah, and to use his influence with Cromwell (whom he facetiously termedvieux garçon), to induce her father to pardon the undutiful step she was about to take.

"This is also a counterfeit, Sir Willmott, I presume," continued the Protector, pointing to the document; "nor is this in your hand-writing—nor this—and this is not your seal—and there is no such person as Samuel Verdaie—nor such place as the Benedictine Friary, or Paris, I suppose? What! have you lost the power of speech? Shame! shame! shame! and the curse of shame fall upon you! It is such men as you—such crimes as yours, that bring disgrace upon England. Sad will be the day for her, when she sinks in the estimation of the world as a moral nation. Behold her, a small speck in the immensity of the globe; yet great is her name among the kingdoms of the earth! A Briton carries, or ought to carry, ten times the influence of any other man, because our power is over the mind, over the respect, over the veneration of mankind. Go to, sir, you are no Englishman! Behold, how ill prosper your evil contrivances! Sir, I say again, you have robbed that old man of his daughter.—What sayyou?"

"It was to spare that old man's feelings I denied the act," said Sir Willmott, again rallying, yet wanting the courage that forms a respectable villain; "it was to spare him. But the marriage is nought! a Popish priest, a Protestant gentleman, and a Jewess! I knew not your Highness would sanction such unholy rites. Besides, despite all this, the Lady Constantia will wed me yet."

"By the holy heavens, she shall not!" exclaimed Cromwell, forgetting the Puritan Protector in the soldier, the soberness of the age in the energy of the moment; then as suddenly adding, "The Lord forgive me! the Lord blot out mine iniquities! See what it is to have to do with sinners!"

"Shall not!" repeated Burrell, who was as much of thebully as the coward, and still trusted his cause to the knowledge of Constantia's filial affection, and her readiness to sacrifice all for her father; "let the lady decide."

"So be it; though I hardly think it—there must be some hidden motive. Yet no, Sir Willmott Burrell, I will not,—even ifshe will,Iwill it otherwise. Ah! think ye to control me? Didst ever hear of one Cony? or of Maynard Twisden, and Wyndham, his counsel? What if I imprison ye, Sir Willmott, till this Jewess be found, and compel ye to wed her again, even here in England! What say ye now?"

"Would you have me wed a murderess?" inquired the villain, in a calm tone.

"My child is not that," said the heart-broken father, who had been examining the papers, with overpowering anxiety.

"What! good Manasseh?" inquired Cromwell.

"That which he did call her," replied the Jew.

"There needs no farther parley. Colonel Jones, we will ourself accompany our worthy friend to the Isle of Shepey, and investigate more minutely this most unhappy business. You will take all requisite care of Sir Willmott Burrell, who goes with us—willing or unwilling—Perhaps he would like to appeal from our decree? To-night we will set forth, so as to arrive at King's-ferry before to-morrow's sunset; for we must stay an hour at Whitehall, and say a word in passing to Colonel Lilburne, at Eltham."

"How does your Highness travel?"

"As befits our state," replied the Protector. "Worthy Rabbi, be not cast down; all may yet be well."

"Your Highness is ever kind; but justice is inflexible. My child!—that which he called my child, rings in mine ear—pierces it! O Father Abraham! I knew not the curse that fell upon Israel until this day!"

"All may yet be well, I say again," observed the Protector, "know ye not what was said by the prophet of old—the prophet of the Lord—'Now thus saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, fear not!'"

"May I return and commune with your Highness?" craved Colonel Jones, as he escorted Burrell to the door—"there is much that I would mention, although this is the Lord's day."

"Ay, certainly.—Gracious Meanwell! I would speak with him who brought this parcel."

A lad was introduced; but he could tell nothing, except that passing along the crags of the Gull's Nest, (the Protector started at the name,) he saw the packet dangling in the air; he pulled at it, and it came easily away in his hand; and finding it directed to his Highness, he had been recommended to bring it forthwith—that he had ridden part of the way in company with some who were coming as far as Gravesend, and had 'lifted' him. He looked like what he was, part oyster-dredger, part smuggler. Cromwell saw nothing in him that would justify detention, and dismissed him with a liberal gratuity.

"We shall solve the mysteries of this Gull's Nest Crag before we leave the island," thought the Protector, and then proceeded to the almost hopeless task of comforting the humbled and afflicted "Master in Israel."

Where I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely drawThe air, imprison'd also, close and damp,Unwholesome draught.But here I feel amends,The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet,With day-spring born.Milton.

Milton.

My readers will, doubtless, be more interested in visiting Robin Hays than in noting the preparations made and the order observed by the Protector for his intended journey. When Cromwell put his state upon him, he did it with all dignity; there was no sparing of expense, no scant of attendants, no lack of guards—boldly and bravely were his arrangements formed; for he wisely knew that plainness and simplicity, although they may be understood and appreciated by the high-minded, are held in contempt by the low and the uneducated, because imagined to be within their own attainment. Had Cincinnatus ruled in England, he would never have abandoned a kingdom for a ploughshare; such an act would have been looked upon, at least by more than half the nation, as proceeding from weakness rather than from true strength of mind. The English, notwithstanding all their talk aboutequality, have not enthusiasm enough to understand or to feel the greatness that slights, and even scorns, magnificence! a gilded pageant wins their hearts; and a title overturns their understandings. We will here hazard the assertion, that if Cromwell had listened to a very powerful party, and had accepted, instead of having declined the name, while he possessed the station of a "King," he would have conquered all the obstacles by which he was surrounded, and have bequeathed a throne to his son, that in all human probability would have been continued in his family, even to our own day. We must leave this sentence, startling though it may be, without the arguments necessary to support it; certain it is, however, that so thought the Protector himself, who considered that the people of England, like the Israelites of old, would never be at rest until they had "a king to rule over them."

It would be a vain attempt to describe the sufferings of Robin Hays, from the moment when the news of Barbara's death fell upon him like a thunderbolt, and he quitted the presence of the Protector without the power of reply. He was sensible of only one feeling—awake to only one emotion—his heart echoed but to one sensation—his eyes burned within their sockets—all things before him were confused; and there was but a single image present to his mind. As if in compassion to his personal deformity, Nature had endowed him with a degree of sentiment and refinement perfectly at war with his habits and pursuits. But in his case, such compassion was, if we may so speak, cruelty. Had he been born to a higher station, it might have been a blessing—in his present sphere it was a curse—a curse which the Ranger had felt most constantly and most acutely. He had been laughed at by such as Roupall, who exulted in the possession of mere brute strength; and he had been sneered and scouted at by the giddy and the vain, who, dreading his sarcasms, repaid themselves by finding out his one vulnerable point, and probing it to the quick. Barbara had stolen into his heart unconsciously, as a sweet and quiet stream insinuates itself through the bosom of some rugged mountain, softening and fertilising so gently, that its influence is seen and acknowledged while its power is unaccounted for and its source unknown. The belief that the young Puritan entertained an affection for him, was a belief he hardly dared to cherish; but there were timeswhen he did cherish it; and it was at such times only that his turbulent and restless mind was enabled to find repose: then the memory of her kindness, her gentleness, her tenderness, would come upon him like sleep to the eyes of the weary—like a fresh well in a sandy desert—like a gentle spring after a stormy winter—in a word, like woman's love, where it is most hoped, but least looked for. Whenever he indulged the idea of her affection, he felt like one uplifted above the world—its base sorrows and still baser joys;—earth had for him but one sound of comfort—it was the name of her he loved! but one promise of happiness; and from her it was never for a moment severed—hope, love, faith, centred in her—she was his world, and though his wandering employments might summon him elsewhere, it was in her presence alone that he relished, or even felt existence. At times, when the acidity of his nature forced him to distrust her smiles, and he upbraided her though she deserved it not, hours of penitence could not blot out from his own remembrance the act of weakness and injustice: he pondered upon it long after the gentle girl had forgotten that ever unkind word had passed between them. Beings of a gross and fettered nature cannot conceive of a love so pure as that which Barbara felt for the mis-shapen Robin—so perfectly devoid of earthly passion, yet so faithful—so exalted—so devoted—so engrossing! She had looked so long on his deformities, that she had ceased to perceive them; and often paused and wondered what people meant by flouting at his plainness. But the excellent and gentle girl was now to the unfortunate Ranger only as a dream of the past—vanished from off the earth like a sweet perfume, or a sweeter melody, with the memory of which comes the knowledge that it can be enjoyed no more.

After he had been conveyed to another chamber, the physician ordered restoratives and immediate bleeding;—but time did more than the leech's art; and the first wish he formed was, that he might once more wend his way to the Isle of Shepey, and gaze again, and for the last time, upon the form of her he loved.

Once aroused from his torpor, the means of effecting his escape was the first thing he considered. He had been removed to one of the lower rooms, and his apartment could not be termed a prison, though the door was fastened on theouter side—for the window was not more than ten feet from the ground, and unbolted; it looked out into the garden, and the sentinel placed beside that portion of the building had a longer range than was usually allotted to the palace guard. Robin soon observed that the lawn beneath was planted with rich clusters of young trees. The hour for evening prayer had arrived; so that the household would be most probably engaged, and the garden free fromvisitors. He looked from the window; it was one of the loveliest days of summer—a day that at any other time he would have welcomed with all the enthusiasm of a true lover of nature; so warm the air, so sweet the flowers, so silently flitted the small insects, as if dreading to disturb the repose of the sunbeams that slept on the green turf. Nothing could be more unlike the vicinity of a court; the very sentry seemed to tread it as hallowed ground—his step was scarcely heard along the soft grass.

Robin did not attempt to assume any disguise.

"I shall walk boldly when I get out of the garden," he thought, "and if I am taken before Cromwell, I will say why I desire liberty; I only wish to see her once more, and then farewell to all! the red cross against my name, in Oliver's dark book, may be dyed still redder—in my heart's blood!"

Although his arm was stiff from the bleeding he had undergone but an hour before, he watched till the soldier's back was turned, and dropped from the window. He had scarcely time to conceal himself beneath a row of evergreens when the sentinel turned on his path. Robin crept on, from tuft to tuft—now under the shadow of a tree—now under that of a turret, until he found himself close to a high wall which flanked the side next the river; and then he became sorely perplexed as to the method of his further escape. To the right was a gate which, from its position, he judged led into one of the outer courts, and, notwithstanding his first resolve of braving his way, habit and consideration induced him to prefer the track least frequented or attended with risk. At the extremity of the wall, where it turned at a right angle to afford an opening for a gateway, grew an immense yew-tree, solitary and alone, like some dark and malignant giant, stretching out its arms to battle with centuries and storms; softened by no shadow, cheered by no sunbeam, enlivened by no shower, no herb or flower flourished beneath its ban, but thereit towered, like the spirit of evil in a smiling world. The wall, too, was overgrown with ivy—the broad ivy, whose spreading leaves hide every little stem that clasps the bosom of the hard stone, and, with most cunning wisdom, extracts sustenance from all it touches. Robin's keen eye scanned well every nook and corner, and he then mounted the tree, conceiving he might, with little difficulty, descend on the other side, as he perceived that the branches bent over the wall. He had hardly reached midway, when a voice, whose tones he well remembered, fell upon his ear, and for a moment called back his thoughts from their sad and distant wanderings. He paused: the sound was not from the garden, nor the roof. After much scrutiny, he discovered a small aperture of about a foot square, that was originally a window, but latterly had been choked by the matted ivy which overspread its bars. The voice was as of one who has tasted the weariness of life, and would fain put away the cup that was all bitterness. It sung, but the song was more a murmur than a lay, sorrowful as the winter's wind that roams through the long and clustering grass in some old churchyard, telling,—

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