The Buccaneer - A Tale

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.