Where I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
The 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
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 about equality, 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 times when
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.