FOOTNOTES:[L]For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual form of the poem.
[L]For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual form of the poem.
Onceupon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door."'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door,—Only this, and nothing more."Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore;For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,Nameless here forevermore.And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrill'd me—fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber-door;This it is, and nothing more."Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,That I scarce was sure I heard you";—here I open'd wide the door;—Darkness there, and nothing more.Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering,fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore?"This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "Lenore!"Merely this, and nothing more.Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,—Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore:—'Tis the wind, and nothing more."Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he,But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door;Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door;—Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sureno craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightlyshore;—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;For we can not help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door,—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,With such name as "Nevermore."But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he utter'd, not a feather then he flutter'd,Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before:On the morrowhewill leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful DisasterFollow'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,Of—'Never—Nevermore.'"But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust,and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous birdof yore—Meant in croaking "Nevermore."This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core:This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er;But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,Sheshall press—ah! nevermore.Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseencenserSwung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angelshe hath sent thee—Respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee hereashore,Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,On this home by Horror haunted,—tell me truly, I implore,Is there—isthere balm in Gilead? tell me—tell me, I implore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore,—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore."Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd,upstarting,—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from offmy door!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on thefloor:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
Onceupon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,—While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door."'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door,—Only this, and nothing more."
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow,—sorrow for the lost Lenore;For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrill'd me—fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,—Some late visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber-door;This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,That I scarce was sure I heard you";—here I open'd wide the door;—Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering,fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore?"This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "Lenore!"Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before."Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice;Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,—Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore:—'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he,But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door;Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door;—Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sureno craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightlyshore;—Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;For we can not help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber-door,—Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he utter'd, not a feather then he flutter'd,Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before:On the morrowhewill leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful DisasterFollow'd fast, and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore,—Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,Of—'Never—Nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust,and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous birdof yore—Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burn'd into my bosom's core:This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er;But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,Sheshall press—ah! nevermore.
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseencenserSwung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angelshe hath sent thee—Respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee hereashore,Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,On this home by Horror haunted,—tell me truly, I implore,Is there—isthere balm in Gilead? tell me—tell me, I implore!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore,—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore."Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shriek'd,upstarting,—"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from offmy door!"Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on thefloor:And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted—nevermore!
Wecan be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of David Swan.We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his nativeplace to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events which he did not dream of.While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide-awake, and passed to an fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose hearts werebrimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity upon David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance of dead-drunkenness by the road-side. But censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan.He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linch-pin had fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up, all of a sudden."How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depth he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind.""And youth besides," said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness."The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him."Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him?""To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing of the youth's character.""That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. "This innocent sleep!"While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, who fell asleep in poverty."Shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady, persuasively."The coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind.The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchantthrew himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap.The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty young girl came along with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused—is there any harm in saying it?—her garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as any rose, that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bed-chamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering overhead—buzz, buzz, buzz—now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him from the maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air."He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet.How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl amongits phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a perfect love—him only could she receive into the depths of her heart—and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again."How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl.She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came.Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune—the best of fortunes—stolen so near, that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow—"Hist!—Do you see that bundle under his head?"The other villain nodded, winked, and leered."I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocket-book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons' pocket.""But how if he wakes?" said the other.His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded."So be it!" muttered the second villain.They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast."I must take away the bundle," whispered one."If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain."Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind.""Let's take a drink, and be off," said the other.The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth.Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn.He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burthened it. Now he stirred—now moved his lips, without a sound—now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber—and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him."Hallo, driver! Take a passenger?" shouted he."Room on top!" answered the driver.Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood—all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life, to render foresight even partially available?
Wecan be but partially acquainted even with the events which actually influence our course through life, and our final destiny. There are innumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come close upon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying their near approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a page from the secret history of David Swan.
We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age of twenty, on the high road from his nativeplace to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer's day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after the heavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events which he did not dream of.
While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide-awake, and passed to an fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor to the left, and knew not that he was there; some merely glanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy thoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whose hearts werebrimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluity upon David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wrought poor David into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awful instance of dead-drunkenness by the road-side. But censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan.
He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linch-pin had fallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While the coachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant trod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up, all of a sudden.
"How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depth he draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind."
"And youth besides," said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness."
The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a mother to him.
"Providence seems to have laid him here," whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him?"
"To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing of the youth's character."
"That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yet earnestly. "This innocent sleep!"
While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall a burthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, who fell asleep in poverty.
"Shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady, persuasively.
"The coach is ready, sir," said the servant, behind.
The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchantthrew himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap.
The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a pretty young girl came along with a tripping pace, which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that caused—is there any harm in saying it?—her garter to slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as any rose, that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bed-chamber, and for such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. But there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wandering overhead—buzz, buzz, buzz—now among the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, and drove him from the maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deed accomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with a dragon in the air.
"He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet.
How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl amongits phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a perfect love—him only could she receive into the depths of her heart—and now her image was faintly blushing in the fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam upon his life again.
"How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl.
She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when she came.
Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a wayside acquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had good fortune—the best of fortunes—stolen so near, that her garments brushed against him; and he knew nothing of the matter.
The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered to his fellow—
"Hist!—Do you see that bundle under his head?"
The other villain nodded, winked, and leered.
"I'll bet you a horn of brandy," said the first, "that the chap has either a pocket-book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons' pocket."
"But how if he wakes?" said the other.
His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk, and nodded.
"So be it!" muttered the second villain.
They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast.
"I must take away the bundle," whispered one.
"If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.
But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.
"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must be close behind."
"Let's take a drink, and be off," said the other.
The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth.Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was withdrawn.
He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of toil had burthened it. Now he stirred—now moved his lips, without a sound—now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David's slumber—and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all his ideas about him.
"Hallo, driver! Take a passenger?" shouted he.
"Room on top!" answered the driver.
Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without so much as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood—all, in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be regularity enough in mortal life, to render foresight even partially available?
Shewas not as pretty as women I know,And yet all your best made of sunshine and snowDrop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days—My Kate.Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face:And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—My Kate.Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke:When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—My Kate.I doubt if she said to you much that could actAs a thought or suggestion: she did not attractIn the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her—My Kate.She never found fault with you, never impliedYour wrong by her right; and yet men at her sideGrew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole townThe children were gladder that pull'd at her gown—My Kate.None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall;They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all;If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant,But the charm of her presence was felt when she went—My Kate.The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,She took as she found them, and did them all good:It always was so with her: see what you have!She has made the grass greener even here ... with her grave—My Kate.My dear one!—when thou wast alive with the rest,I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best:And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy partAs thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart—My Kate?
Shewas not as pretty as women I know,And yet all your best made of sunshine and snowDrop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days—My Kate.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face:And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—My Kate.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke:When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—My Kate.
I doubt if she said to you much that could actAs a thought or suggestion: she did not attractIn the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her—My Kate.
She never found fault with you, never impliedYour wrong by her right; and yet men at her sideGrew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole townThe children were gladder that pull'd at her gown—My Kate.
None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall;They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all;If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant,But the charm of her presence was felt when she went—My Kate.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,She took as she found them, and did them all good:It always was so with her: see what you have!She has made the grass greener even here ... with her grave—My Kate.
My dear one!—when thou wast alive with the rest,I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best:And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy partAs thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart—My Kate?
ORose, who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet,But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,—Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn odor up the lane to last all day,—If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee.The sun that used to smite thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urnTill beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,—If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.The fly that 'lit upon theeTo stretch the tendrils of its tiny feetAlong thy leafs pure edges after heat,—If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.The heart doth recognize thee,Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.Yes, and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose, than to any roses boldWhich Julia wears at dances, smiling cold:—Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!
ORose, who dares to name thee?No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet,But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,—Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.
The breeze that used to blow theeBetween the hedgerow thorns, and take awayAn odor up the lane to last all day,—If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee.
The sun that used to smite thee,And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urnTill beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,—If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.
The dew that used to wet thee,And, white first, grow incarnadined becauseIt lay upon thee where the crimson was,—If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.
The fly that 'lit upon theeTo stretch the tendrils of its tiny feetAlong thy leafs pure edges after heat,—If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.
The bee that once did suck thee,And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.
The heart doth recognize thee,Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.
Yes, and the heart doth owe theeMore love, dead rose, than to any roses boldWhich Julia wears at dances, smiling cold:—Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!
Spiritthat breathest through my lattice, thouThat cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,And swelling the white sail. I welcome theeTo the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea.Nor I alone;—a thousand bosoms roundInhale thee in the fulness of delight;And languid forms rise up, and pulses boundLivelier at coming of the wind of night;And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouseThe wide old wood from his majestic rest,Summoning from the innumerable boughsThe strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast;Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bowsThe shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass.The faint old man shall lean his silver headTo feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,And dry the moisten'd curls that overspreadHis temples, while his breathing grows more deep;And they who stand about the sick man's bedShall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,And softly part his curtains to allowThy visit, grateful to his burning brow.Go,—but the circle of eternal change,Which is the life of nature, shall restore,With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dreamHe hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
Spiritthat breathest through my lattice, thouThat cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,And swelling the white sail. I welcome theeTo the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea.
Nor I alone;—a thousand bosoms roundInhale thee in the fulness of delight;And languid forms rise up, and pulses boundLivelier at coming of the wind of night;And languishing to hear thy grateful sound,Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight.Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!
Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouseThe wide old wood from his majestic rest,Summoning from the innumerable boughsThe strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast;Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bowsThe shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass.
The faint old man shall lean his silver headTo feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,And dry the moisten'd curls that overspreadHis temples, while his breathing grows more deep;And they who stand about the sick man's bedShall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,And softly part his curtains to allowThy visit, grateful to his burning brow.
Go,—but the circle of eternal change,Which is the life of nature, shall restore,With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dreamHe hears the rustling leaf and running stream.
Andso we have now nothing more;—and Oliver has nothing more. His Speakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more or less victorious, to utter the great God's-Message that was in him,—have here what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise victorious after struggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters the Eternities; and rests upon his armsthere.Oliver's look was yet strong; and young for his years, which were Fifty-nine last April. The "Three-score and ten years," the Psalmist's limit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of others there, might have been anticipated for him: Ten Years more of Life;—which, we may compute, would have given another History to all the Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to be otherwise. Oliver's health, as we might observe, was but uncertain in late times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course of life had not been favorable to health! "A burden too heavy for man!" as he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil; inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand; toil, peril, and sorrow manifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part: those robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had been gradually eaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but with its foundations undermined; which has not long to stand; the fall of which, on any shock, may be sudden.—The Manzinis and Ducs de Crequi, with their splendors, and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street-populations and general public, had not yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there had begun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite interest there. The Lady Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all the world, had fallen sick we know not when; lay sick now,—to death, as it proved. Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most harassing to mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a human creature. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those July days, a house of sorrow; pale Death knocking there, as at the door of the meanest hut. "She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit." Yes:—and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxious Mother, anxious Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Frances weeping anew in her weeds. "For the last fourteen days" his Highness had been by her bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public business whatever. Be still, my Child; trust thou yet in God: in the waves of the Dark River, there too is He a God of help!—On the 6th day of August she lay dead; at rest forever. My young, my beautiful, my brave! She is taken from me; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Name of the Lord!—...In the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third and last interview with Oliver.—.... George dates nothing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather-parings of his old shop: but we judge it may have been about the time when the Manzinis and the Ducs de Crequi were parading in their gilt coaches, That George and two Friends "going out of Town," on a summer day, "twoof Hacker's men" had met them,—taken them, brought them to the Mews. "Prisoners there awhile:"—but the Lord's power was over Hacker's men; they had to let us go. Whereupon:"The same day, taking boat I went down" (up) "to Kingston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton-Court Park; and before I came to him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and felt a waft" (whiff) "of death go forth against him."——Or in favor of him, George? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing for this man, now or heretofore! I fancy he has been looking, this long while, to give it up, whenever the Commander-in-Chief required. To quit his laborious sentry-post; honorably lay-up his arms, and be gone to his rest:—all Eternity to rest in, O George! Was thy own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree; clad permanently in leather? And does kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds instead of stitching coarse shoes, make it merrier? The waft of death is not againsthim, I think,—perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell-Gwynn Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have come in upon us! My unfortunate George——"a waft of death go forth against him; and when I came to him, he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the Sufferings of Friends before him, and had warned him according as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So I returned to Kingston; and, the next day, went up to Hampton Court to speak farther with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited on him, told me the Doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him more."Friday the 20th of August 1658, this was probably the day on which George Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton Park with his Guards, for the last time. That Friday, as we find, his Highness seemed much better: but on the morrow a sad change had taken place; feverish symptoms, for which the Doctors rigorously prescribed quiet. Saturday to Tuesday the symptoms continued ever worsening: a kind of tertian ague, "bastard tertian" as the old Doctors name it; for which it was ordered that his Highness should return to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in that complaint. On Tuesday accordingly he quitted Hampton Court;—never to see it more."His time was come," says Harvey; "and neither prayers nor tears could prevail with God to lengthen out his life and continue him longer to us. Prayers abundantly and incessantly poured out on his behalf, both publicly and privately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way. Besides many a secret sigh,—secret and unheard by men, yet like the cry of Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold on God, than many spoken supplications. All which,—the hearts of God's People being thus mightily stirred up,—did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes in all; yea some thoughts in himself, that God would restore him.""Prayers public and private:" they are worth imagining to ourselves. Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and Godly Persons; "Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a company of others, in an adjoining room"; in Whitehall, and elsewhere over religious London and England, fervent outpourings of many a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the nobleness of this man was known; and his worth to the Puritan Cause was evident. Prayers,—strange enough to us; in a dialect fallen obsolete, forgotten now. Authentic wrestlings of ancient Human Souls,—who were alive then, with their affections, awestruck pieties; with their Human Wishes, risen to betranscendent, hoping to prevail with the Inexorable. All swallowed now in the depths of dark Time; which is full of such, since the beginning!—Truly it is a great scene of World-History, this in old Whitehall: Oliver Cromwell drawing nigh to his end. The exit of Oliver Cromwell and of English Puritanism; a great Light, one of our few authentic Solar Luminaries, going down now amid the clouds of Death. Like the setting of a great victorious Summer Sun; its course now finished. "So stirbt ein Held," says Schiller, "So dies a Hero! Sight worthy to be worshipped!"—He died, this Hero Oliver, in Resignation to God; as the Brave have all done. "We could not be more desirous he should abide," says the pious Harvey, "than he was content and willing to be gone." The struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days....On Monday August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm of wind.... It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in the sickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Official person entered to enquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be his Highness's Successor? The Successor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for; it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper: not a good name; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten years more been granted, Richard might have becomea fitter man; might have been cancelled, if palpably unfit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name,—and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen? None knows. On the Thursday night following, "and not till then," his Highness is understood to have formally named "Richard",—or perhaps it might only be some heavy-laden "Yes, yes!" spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe'squestion"Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much moment;—giving color probably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer!—...Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet [Harvey] was himself in attendance on his Highness; and has preserved a trait or two; with which let us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. The wearied one, "that very night before the Lord took him to his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking:"'Truly God is good; indeed He is; He will not'——Then his speech failed him, but as I apprehended, it was, 'He will not leave me.' This saying, 'God is good,' he frequently used all along; and would speak it with much cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of his pains.—Again he said: 'I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to God and His People: but my work is done. Yet God will be with His People.'"He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself. And there being something to drink offered him, he was desired To take the same, and endeavor to sleep.—Unto which he answered: 'It is not my design to drink or sleep; but my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.'—"Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy expressions, implying much inward consolation and peace; among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing words,annihilatingand judging himself. And truly it was observed, that a public spirit to God's Cause did breathe in him,—as in his lifetime, so now to his very last."When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless; between three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday 3rd September 1658. "The consternation and astonishment of all people," writes Fauconberg, "are inexpressible; their hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poor Wife,—I know not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly quieted, she bursts out again into a passion that tears her very heart in pieces."—Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Life-battle right nobly done. Seest thou not,"The storm is changed into a calm,At His command and will;So that the waves which raged beforeNow quiet are and still!"Then aretheyglad,—because at restAnd quiet now they be:So to the haven He them bringsWhich they desired to see.""Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord;" blessed are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. "Amen, saith the Spirit,"—Amen. "They do rest from their labors, and their works follow them.""Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver Cromwell's works have done and are still doing! We have had our "Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called "glorious"; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious;and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's ears are not now slit-off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallowtide, they are gone, or with immense velocity going. Oliver's works do follow him!—The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities; remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least avails in the matter.—But we have to end here.Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing far-shining, miraculous to its own Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, iskingless, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can now none be found;—and nothing is left but to recall the old disowned Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and Two Centuries ofHypocrisis(or Play-actingnotso-called), and put-up with all that, the best we may. The Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant, like an Eagle through the storms, "mewing her mighty youth," as John Milton saw her do: the Genius of England, much liker a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a whole skin mainly, stands with itsotherextremity Sunward; with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, andsoawaits theissue. The issue has been slow; but it is now seen to have been inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day,—in a terribleà-posteriorimanner, if not otherwise!—--Awake before it come to that; gods and men bid us awake! The Voices of our Fathers, with thousand-fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake.
Andso we have now nothing more;—and Oliver has nothing more. His Speakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more or less victorious, to utter the great God's-Message that was in him,—have here what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise victorious after struggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters the Eternities; and rests upon his armsthere.
Oliver's look was yet strong; and young for his years, which were Fifty-nine last April. The "Three-score and ten years," the Psalmist's limit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those of others there, might have been anticipated for him: Ten Years more of Life;—which, we may compute, would have given another History to all the Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to be otherwise. Oliver's health, as we might observe, was but uncertain in late times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course of life had not been favorable to health! "A burden too heavy for man!" as he himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil; inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand; toil, peril, and sorrow manifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part: those robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had been gradually eaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but with its foundations undermined; which has not long to stand; the fall of which, on any shock, may be sudden.—
The Manzinis and Ducs de Crequi, with their splendors, and congratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street-populations and general public, had not yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there had begun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite interest there. The Lady Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all the world, had fallen sick we know not when; lay sick now,—to death, as it proved. Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most harassing to mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a human creature. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those July days, a house of sorrow; pale Death knocking there, as at the door of the meanest hut. "She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit." Yes:—and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxious Mother, anxious Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Frances weeping anew in her weeds. "For the last fourteen days" his Highness had been by her bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any public business whatever. Be still, my Child; trust thou yet in God: in the waves of the Dark River, there too is He a God of help!—On the 6th day of August she lay dead; at rest forever. My young, my beautiful, my brave! She is taken from me; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Name of the Lord!—...
In the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third and last interview with Oliver.—.... George dates nothing; and his facts everywhere lie round him like the leather-parings of his old shop: but we judge it may have been about the time when the Manzinis and the Ducs de Crequi were parading in their gilt coaches, That George and two Friends "going out of Town," on a summer day, "twoof Hacker's men" had met them,—taken them, brought them to the Mews. "Prisoners there awhile:"—but the Lord's power was over Hacker's men; they had to let us go. Whereupon:
"The same day, taking boat I went down" (up) "to Kingston, and from thence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about the Sufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton-Court Park; and before I came to him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw and felt a waft" (whiff) "of death go forth against him."——Or in favor of him, George? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thing for this man, now or heretofore! I fancy he has been looking, this long while, to give it up, whenever the Commander-in-Chief required. To quit his laborious sentry-post; honorably lay-up his arms, and be gone to his rest:—all Eternity to rest in, O George! Was thy own life merry, for example, in the hollow of the tree; clad permanently in leather? And does kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds instead of stitching coarse shoes, make it merrier? The waft of death is not againsthim, I think,—perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O George, when the Nell-Gwynn Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have come in upon us! My unfortunate George——"a waft of death go forth against him; and when I came to him, he looked like a dead man. After I had laid the Sufferings of Friends before him, and had warned him according as I was moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So I returned to Kingston; and, the next day, went up to Hampton Court to speak farther with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited on him, told me the Doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him more."
Friday the 20th of August 1658, this was probably the day on which George Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton Park with his Guards, for the last time. That Friday, as we find, his Highness seemed much better: but on the morrow a sad change had taken place; feverish symptoms, for which the Doctors rigorously prescribed quiet. Saturday to Tuesday the symptoms continued ever worsening: a kind of tertian ague, "bastard tertian" as the old Doctors name it; for which it was ordered that his Highness should return to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in that complaint. On Tuesday accordingly he quitted Hampton Court;—never to see it more.
"His time was come," says Harvey; "and neither prayers nor tears could prevail with God to lengthen out his life and continue him longer to us. Prayers abundantly and incessantly poured out on his behalf, both publicly and privately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way. Besides many a secret sigh,—secret and unheard by men, yet like the cry of Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold on God, than many spoken supplications. All which,—the hearts of God's People being thus mightily stirred up,—did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes in all; yea some thoughts in himself, that God would restore him."
"Prayers public and private:" they are worth imagining to ourselves. Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and Godly Persons; "Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a company of others, in an adjoining room"; in Whitehall, and elsewhere over religious London and England, fervent outpourings of many a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the nobleness of this man was known; and his worth to the Puritan Cause was evident. Prayers,—strange enough to us; in a dialect fallen obsolete, forgotten now. Authentic wrestlings of ancient Human Souls,—who were alive then, with their affections, awestruck pieties; with their Human Wishes, risen to betranscendent, hoping to prevail with the Inexorable. All swallowed now in the depths of dark Time; which is full of such, since the beginning!—Truly it is a great scene of World-History, this in old Whitehall: Oliver Cromwell drawing nigh to his end. The exit of Oliver Cromwell and of English Puritanism; a great Light, one of our few authentic Solar Luminaries, going down now amid the clouds of Death. Like the setting of a great victorious Summer Sun; its course now finished. "So stirbt ein Held," says Schiller, "So dies a Hero! Sight worthy to be worshipped!"—He died, this Hero Oliver, in Resignation to God; as the Brave have all done. "We could not be more desirous he should abide," says the pious Harvey, "than he was content and willing to be gone." The struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days....
On Monday August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm of wind.... It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in the sickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Official person entered to enquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be his Highness's Successor? The Successor is named in a sealed Paper already drawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such and such a place. The Paper was sent for, searched for; it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper: not a good name; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had ten years more been granted, Richard might have becomea fitter man; might have been cancelled, if palpably unfit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood's name,—and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen? None knows. On the Thursday night following, "and not till then," his Highness is understood to have formally named "Richard",—or perhaps it might only be some heavy-laden "Yes, yes!" spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe'squestion"Richard?" The thing is a little uncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much moment;—giving color probably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer!—...
Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet [Harvey] was himself in attendance on his Highness; and has preserved a trait or two; with which let us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as a Thanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. The wearied one, "that very night before the Lord took him to his everlasting rest," was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking:
"'Truly God is good; indeed He is; He will not'——Then his speech failed him, but as I apprehended, it was, 'He will not leave me.' This saying, 'God is good,' he frequently used all along; and would speak it with much cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of his pains.—Again he said: 'I would be willing to live to be farther serviceable to God and His People: but my work is done. Yet God will be with His People.'
"He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself. And there being something to drink offered him, he was desired To take the same, and endeavor to sleep.—Unto which he answered: 'It is not my design to drink or sleep; but my design is, to make what haste I can to be gone.'—
"Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy expressions, implying much inward consolation and peace; among the rest he spake some exceeding self-debasing words,annihilatingand judging himself. And truly it was observed, that a public spirit to God's Cause did breathe in him,—as in his lifetime, so now to his very last."
When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless; between three and four in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday 3rd September 1658. "The consternation and astonishment of all people," writes Fauconberg, "are inexpressible; their hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poor Wife,—I know not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly quieted, she bursts out again into a passion that tears her very heart in pieces."—Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Life-battle right nobly done. Seest thou not,
"The storm is changed into a calm,At His command and will;So that the waves which raged beforeNow quiet are and still!"Then aretheyglad,—because at restAnd quiet now they be:So to the haven He them bringsWhich they desired to see."
"The storm is changed into a calm,At His command and will;So that the waves which raged beforeNow quiet are and still!
"Then aretheyglad,—because at restAnd quiet now they be:So to the haven He them bringsWhich they desired to see."
"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord;" blessed are the valiant that have lived in the Lord. "Amen, saith the Spirit,"—Amen. "They do rest from their labors, and their works follow them."
"Their works follow them." As, I think, this Oliver Cromwell's works have done and are still doing! We have had our "Revolutions of Eighty-eight," officially called "glorious"; and other Revolutions not yet called glorious;and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's ears are not now slit-off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The tyrannous Star-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallowtide, they are gone, or with immense velocity going. Oliver's works do follow him!—The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities; remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least avails in the matter.—But we have to end here.
Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, laboriously built together by this man, and made a thing far-shining, miraculous to its own Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, iskingless, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can now none be found;—and nothing is left but to recall the old disowned Defender with the remnants of his Four Surplices, and Two Centuries ofHypocrisis(or Play-actingnotso-called), and put-up with all that, the best we may. The Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant, like an Eagle through the storms, "mewing her mighty youth," as John Milton saw her do: the Genius of England, much liker a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a whole skin mainly, stands with itsotherextremity Sunward; with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, andsoawaits theissue. The issue has been slow; but it is now seen to have been inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day,—in a terribleà-posteriorimanner, if not otherwise!—--Awake before it come to that; gods and men bid us awake! The Voices of our Fathers, with thousand-fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake.