# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 50

CHAPTER XXIII.
"I look into the mist of future years, And gather comfort from the eternal law." Wilson.
Having claimed our privilege of carrying our readers to scenes, however far apart, which bear upon our narrative, we must now show the effect of Cromwell's death on our other actors; and cross the Irish channel, to where Henry, the younger son of the Protector, resided, the government of Ireland having been intrusted to his charge.
It was an evening of much festivity and some mirth—things often more opposed than their near neighbourhood would indicate; but Henry, who desired to conciliate, had collected round the board a numerous assemblage, who, whatever heartburning might be hidden by the embroidered vest, or what less kindly feeling might lurk beneath ​the apparent smile, at any rate came to the feast, and talked loud and drank freely. Enough was done to pass the meeting off as one marked by extreme cordiality and unbounded hilarity,—common phrases, which imply so little, and are used so much.
Among the guests was one, a young and handsome man, of that appearance which his own sex would pronounce gentlemanlike, and the other, interesting. He was dressed in deep mourning, and looked pale and sad, as if the sense of a recent loss was still strong within him; while his fair though somewhat wan complexion was made more striking by the contrast with the bright profusion of hair that parted on his brow, and, hanging in long curls down his shoulders, might have vied with those of any native chieftain who held his freedom and the golden length of his locks synonymous. He was seated next an elderly officer, to whom he paid a degree of attention which was refused to the gayer sallies of a younger companion on the other side. Still it was obvious that his attention was the result of that good feeling which is the best politeness; for when the old man became at last engaged in a warm discussion with his neighbour, touching the merits and demerits of chain armour, Robert Evelyn (for it was ​he) looked relieved by being again able to sit in silence and in thought.
It is curious to mark the many shapes taken by mental suffering. With some it at once assumes the mask and the manner, puts on smiles, and forces the gay and brilliant word. These are they who are sensitively alive to the opinions of others, who, having once been called animated, deem that they have a character to sustain. Such shrink with morbid susceptibility from its being supposed how much they really feel; and vanity—vanity, by the by, in its most graceful and engaging form, usually native to such characters—aids them to support the seeming. They cannot endure being thought less agreeable; and only in solitude give way to the regret which oppresses them—then exaggerated to the utmost. Ah! none know the misery of such solitude but those who have felt it. The reaction of forced excitement is terrible; pale, spiritless, and exhausted, we are left suddenly alone with our memory, which on the instant acquires an almost magical power of creation; every sorrowful passage in existence is retraced anew, every mortification rises up in double bitterness; slights are magnified, and even invented,—they almost seem deserved; for we are ashamed of ourselves for having acted a part. We ​feel lonely, neglected, miserable, aggrieved; and all that but one half-hour before we had been, exerting ourselves to attain, appears to be utterly worthless.
It is easy to say that such a state of mind is morbid and mistaken; but before we can change our feelings, we must change our nature; and a temperament of this sensitive and excitable kind is of all others the most difficult, nay, impossible, to alter and to subdue.
Evelyn's character was completely the opposite to this; he was naturally grave and reserved, and too little interested by the generality of mankind to be solicitous about their suffrage. More vanity would have made him more amiable, but it would have been at his own expense. He did not, could not, lightly attach himself; but when he did, it was with all the energy and depth of a passionate and melancholy nature—one of those attachments which are the destiny of a life. He was more given to reflection than to imagination—hence he dwelt more on the past than on the future; and with such tempers, impressions once admitted are deep and lasting.
With Evelyn, all the poetry of his mind was bestowed on the days which had been; those to come were mere matter of calculation. Placed in ​such and such circumstances, which were but rational to suppose, such and such results would ensue. He was prepared to meet them, but he delighted in no fanciful creations concerning them; he looked back when he indulged in the tender romance of the heart. His father's death was but recent; and no loss can be so severe as our first,—till then, scarcely had we believed in death; now its presence darkens the world; we are haunted by a perpetual fear, for ever whispering of the instability of humanity.
Evelyn took the earliest opportunity of withdrawing from the hall, and, while waiting for the interview which he wished with Henry Cromwell, paced slowly up and down one of the terraces that looked towards the sea. During the preceding days the weather had been unusually stormy; and though the wind had sunk down from its terrific violence, and the giant waves subsided to their wonted level, yet, both on sky and ocean, there were the many slight signs of the late turmoil. The waves heaved with an unquiet motion, while flakes of froth floated upon them, and gleams of phosphoric light scintillated in the distance.
All things in nature are types of humanity; and Evelyn pleased himself with tracing a likeness in the tremulous sea to man's own agitated ​bosom, shaken with the conflict of contending passion, and trembling with exhaustion rather than repose; while a thousand vain cares and feverish hopes are rocked to and fro on the restless surface. The heavens were equally unsettled; the dense purple, lighted by the large bright moon, was broken by huge masses of clouds—some dark, as if the thunder still lingered in their gloomy recesses, while others, fragile and snowy, seemed to harbour nothing rougher than a summer shower, enough to bathe but not to spoil the rose.
The general aspect of midnight is calm and solemn; the lulled spirits unconsciously are subdued by the deep repose. Not so this night. The keen air from the water made exercise necessary to circulate the blood; and somewhat of cheerful exertion is connected with a fresh gale and a quick walk. The light, too, was wavering and uncertain, as the heavy vapours sailed by and obscured the moon; and her mirror, the ocean, at one moment glittered with her silvery beam, and the next was left in total darkness.
The scene greatly harmonised with the young Englishman's mood; from its wearing a likeness to the human lot in general, he, by a common process, began to associate it with the fate peculiarly ​his own. Even so had his past mingled gloom and brightness, and so unquiet and troubled was his actual life. Still present to his mind rose one beloved face—beloved in spite of all. In vain he said to himself, "How lightly did she give me up!" He felt aggrieved, but not the less did he feel that for him there existed no other. Never again could he love woman as he had loved Francesca Carrara. Vainly he strove to banish that sweet face, which rose too vividly to his memory; he could not fix his thoughts on the many important points which needed consideration in his present position. Highly trusted, and for his father's sake, by the Protector, he knew all the need there was to prove himself worthy of such confidence; still, to-night one vain and fond regret reigned paramount.
But his reverie was interrupted by hurried steps; he turned, and saw Henry Cromwell, white with some strong agitation, and so absorbed in his own thoughts that at first he did not observe Evelyn. He caught sight of him suddenly, and anxiously grasping his arm, exclaimed, "Have you heard the intelligence? The Lord Protector is no more!"
Evelyn stood speechless. The awe of a great man's death struck upon his heart; and even the ​mighty consequences were forgotten in the single idea of Cromwell being dead. One by one the important results rose up within his mind, and he felt that the present was the epoch in his companion's life,—was he prepared to meet it? Henry Cromwell's first words proved that he was not. "I am half inclined," said he, in a hesitating voice, "to proclaim Charles Stuart." Half inclined!—that little phrase contains the secrets of all failures: it is the strong will, which knows nothing of hesitation, that masters the world. His father had no half-inclinings.
"Proclaim Charles Stuart!" exclaimed Evelyn. "Impossible!—it were the basest outrage upon your father's memory. Do you dare, before his body is cold in the grave, thus to declare his life to have been a crime, and his authority a tyranny—to which you submitted from fear, and now seize the first moment of denying? Will you act in such instant and direct opposition to all that he held necessary and right? Will you brand him as a usurper?"
Henry stood silent, but unconvinced; for a weak mind is not easily dislodged from its first impulse—retaining from cowardice what it caught from surprise.
​ "I am sure," resumed he, "we might make our own terms with Charles."
"Do you remember," asked Evelyn, "what the late Protector said, when urged to descend from the station which he worthily filled?—'Charles Stuart cannot forgive his father's death; and if he could, he were unworthy of the throne.' I believe he could and would easily forgive, or rather forget his father's fate; but the same selfish indifference would equally pervade all his actions—and England needs a sovereign of far other metal."
"My brother Richard, perhaps?" replied Henry, with a sneer.
"Good God!" exclaimed his companion. "Why cannot genius transmit itself?—a worthier heritage than king ever left. How many great designs are unfinished—how many noble projects untried—because death smites down the mind capable of conceiving and executing them! Alas! such a mind passes away, and leaves no successor. Henry Cromwell, what a debt does your father's memory claim at your hands!—it demands from you its justification. The high and prosperous state of our country has been the best answer to all cavillers at his power; for when has ​power been more nobly exercised? It remains for you to show that his influence extends for good even beyond the grave."
His enthusiasm carried his companion along with it.
"My sway here," he said, after a pause, "seems firmly enough established. Men have now seen too much of change to desire it more; and their security and mine are combined. I can detain the principal persons assembled in the lodge to-night as hostages."
"Yes," answered Evelyn; "And such a breach of faith will inevitably destroy the very confidence which it must be your object to create. Suspicion never obtains more than the mockery of security."
"At all events, there is no necessity of announcing the Protector's demise to-night."
"Out upon any temporising policy!" returned Evelyn; "concealment always implies fear; and dread is God's blessing to our enemies. Go at once to the hall, and dismiss your guests with the intelligence of your father's death, and your brother's accession."
The companions separated; the younger Cromwell to execute his most unwelcome mission, while Evelyn remained for a time pacing up and down, ​lost in meditation on the events which a few months would probably unfold. Like most young men whose imagination exercises itself in politics, he was a republican. Every age has its own enthusiasm; and it was only of late years that enthusiasm had taken the direction of liberty. The ideal of liberty—now the excitement of the day—had arisen from three sources. First, from the religious discussions, which led to an extent and to conclusions of which the original agitators of such discussions little dreamed. To claim a right of thinking for yourself in one instance, ends by claiming that right in many; and when the habit of examination is once introduced, the folly of any exclusive privilege is soon manifest; for most privileges have commenced in some necessity of the time, and a positive benefit has accrued from their exercise to the many as well as to the individual. But, unfortunately, the privilege often remains after its necessity has passed away; and for a space holds on by the vain yet strong tenure of habit. Some unusual abuse awakens unusual attention; the right is questioned, while the power to enforce it is weakened, and then alteration becomes inevitable. The despotic power vested in the church during the darker ages was the only check upon that lawless era, and was far more ​useful than its assailants now admit. The ecclesiastical republic afforded the only opening for intellectual talent—the mental, that counterbalanced the feudal, aristocracy; but for its decrees, the very name of peace would have been unknown in Europe; and mighty was the protection afforded to the weak, while charity and support to the poor was exercised on a scale far beyond the poor-rates and subscriptions of the present day. We are well prepared to allow that this vast authority was often directed to evil; but what human authority has not been abused?—and the Roman Church was a human institution, growing out of human circumstances and human exigencies. The moment its empire was no longer needed, that moment it was impugned. In vain persecution strove to keep down the fast-growing intelligence of the age. The authority was not required, and it fell before the more liberal faith which suited the period; while the habits of investigation and inquiry which men had acquired soon extended from religions to all other subjects.
There was also a second class among whom notions of freedom had sprung up in their most tangible and useful form—we allude to the mercantile ranks. For a long and stormy period after the downfall of the Roman empire, war ​was the business of the world; the sword alone obtained and secured property. This state of things could not last; one species of barter led to another; and finally arose a set of men solely devoted to trade. Wealth acquired by commerce must always bring with it its portion of intelligence, and a desire of security. We would not lightly lose what we have hardly earned. Security can be obtained but by defined rights, and these can be ensured only by equitable laws. Out of these principles arose the various struggles which convulsed Europe during the middle ages. The feudal potentates still strove to retain their military despotism after its necessity had passed away; and the people of cities and ports, daily more conscious of their wants and powers, resisted that authority which had become so intolerable. Abuses are never remedied till actually unbearable. Liberty has been called the daughter of the mountains—she ought rather to be styled the daughter of commerce; for her best and most useful rights have been founded and defended by states embarked in trade.
There was a third class, small indeed when compared to those vast multitudes actuated by fanaticism or interest, but destined to exercise the most beneficial and lasting influence—the reflecting ​and theoretic few, who saw in universal freedom the only tie between man and his kind—the only rational hope whereon to ground the dissemination of equitable principles among the human race.
At the time of which we are writing, the classics, so lately thrown open for study and delight, were the universal source whence the young student drew his faith and inspiration. The glorious republics of Greece and Rome, seen through the halo which genius has flung round them, seemed the very models of that perfection whose belief ever haunts the mind capable of exertion.
History, it is said, is the past teaching by example. Alas, that example has perpetuated many dazzling errors! How many false principles have been laid down, how much delusion supported, by reference to the glories of Athens and of Rome! It remained for a later time to observe that those so-called republics were but aristocracy in its most oppressive form; and what are now the people were then positive slaves; to say nothing of how utterly unsuitable their form of government would be to our differing creed, climate, and manners. But it was to them that the wisest philosophers of that day turned for examples of legislation, and instances of patriotism; and it may well be excused in one young and ardent as Evelyn, if he ​dreamt that his native country might emulate the graceful refinement of the Athenian, and the sterner virtue of the Roman.
Evelyn expected nothing from Richard Cromwell; but he believed that good might grow out of evil; and the very weakness which would throw the power into the people's hands, might by them be so used as to lay the foundations of a more secure and free government than had yet been known. Moreover, he held any ill lighter than the return of the Stuarts to that throne for which long experience had shown their house to be so unfitted,
"The parliament," thought Evelyn, "will feel their strength, and the past has surely taught them how to use it."
Perhaps the great charm of a republic to the young mind is, the career which it seems to lay open to all, and whose success depends upon personal gifts; while their exercise seems more independent when devoted to the people rather than to the monarch. They forget that tyranny and caprice are the attributes of the many as well as of the one,—that the ingratitude of the mob is as proverbial as that of the court; and that an equal subserviency is required by either. But the poetry of the afar off is around the patriotism of the classic ages, and its record is left on the most glorious ​pages wherein human intellect ever shed its halo over human action. Evelyn dwelt upon the noble page with that feverish enthusiasm, that fiery element, whence all that is great originates; but which so often consumes where it kindles, or, thwarted by small and unworthy circumstances, exhausts itself in the vain endeavour.
He continued to pace the terrace, till a page brought him a summons from Henry Cromwell, whom he found in a small closet, busied in writing despatches.
"I want your aid," he exclaimed, in an animated tone. "All has gone right. The terror of my father's name is still about us; there was not even a murmur of dissent when I announced Richard Lord Protector of England; and yet, do you know, the name of Charles Stuart almost rose to my lips!"
"There was a time," said Evelyn, "when I felt a deep sympathy for the exiled prince—I pitied him as one deprived of his just heritage; but a crown cannot, and ought not to be transmitted like an estate. The prodigal heir can only waste his own substance, and the punishment falls, as it should, upon himself; but the prince has an awful responsibility,—the welfare of others is required at his hands; his faults and his follies take ​a wide range, and not with him does their suffering end. I saw too much of Charles Stuart at Paris ever to wish him on the throne of his ancestors. His undignified and profligate exile—needy suitor to-day to the only heiress of the royal French blood, and to-morrow to one of the nieces of the Italian adventurer, Mazarin. Utterly neglectful of what he owes to the kingdom which he hopes to regain, Charles has learned but adversity's worst lesson—expediency. He inherits his nature from his mother—worthy descendant of the subtle Medici,—selfish, indolent, ungrateful, and false. He will look on our fair country but as the treasury of an idle and dissipated court. I, for one, will forsake land, heritage, and home, rather than swear fealty to Charles Stuart."
"What do you do, lingering there?" demanded Henry Cromwell of the page who had loitered in the room. "Leave us, and wait in the ante-chamber."
The page obeyed in silence, and left the closet; and the friends pursued their discourse, one of them little aware how carefully his words had been recorded. It was far advanced in the night before they separated; but almost every arrangement had been made for their future proceedings. It is curious to note, that amid the schemings of ​policy, and the pressure of business, no time had been found for the pouring forth of that natural grief which would seem the inevitable tribute to be paid to a parent's loss: no; all the feelings had been stern, active, and on-looking. Ambition and affection rarely go together; the great must pay their penalty, and be content with fear instead of love. The ordinary death-bed is surrounded with sorrow and with tears; but upon the decease of a man like Cromwell, the future—busy, anxious, plotting, and dangerous—engrosses every thought.