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It was a beautiful and tranquil evening; the
broad bright hunter's moon was riding through the
cloudless firmament, bathing the whole expanse of
heaven with a radiance so pervading, that the
myriad stars were wellnigh quenched in her more
lustrous glory. It was one of those evenings on
which we cannot gaze without comparing the pure
and passionless quiet of the world above with the
fierce solicitudes, the selfish strife, the angry turmoil
of the world around us—one of those evenings
which at any time must infuse a sentiment of
peaceful melancholy into every bosom, even of the
wild and worldly; but which has at no time so
deep an influence on the spirit as when contemplated
from the near vicinity of some large city
The contrast between the chaste paleness of those
celestial lamps, and the ruddy glare of the terrene
and lurid fires glancing from many a casement,—
between the perfect calm alert, unbroken save by
the gentle murmur of the wind, and the confused
uproar below, rife with the din of commerce, the
dissonance of mingled tongues, and now a distant
scream, and now a burst of unmelodious laughter,
must needs impress more strongly on the mind

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than aught of homily or lecture, that loathing of
the mortal world, and the base things its tenants;—
that ardent and inexplicable yearning after something
of truer and more substantial happiness than
we can here conceive,—that wish for “wings like
a dove, that we might flee away and be at rest,”—
which constitutes perhaps the most essential difference,
as exhibited on earth, between ourselves and
the yet lower animals, content to fatten and to
perish. Such was not improbably the strain of
thought into which the aspect of the night had led
one—a man, not yet advanced beyond the prime
of life, of elegant though low proportions—who
stood gazing heavenward as he leaned against the
low wall of a pleasant garden, which, girt about
with its tall hedges of clipped box or hornbeam, its
gay parterres, and its pleached bowery walks, a
fair suburban villa; situate in what was then, as
now, termed Aldersgate, though at that period not
a densely-peopled thoroughfare, but a long straggling
street, half town half country, with leafy
elms lining the public way, and many a cultivated
nursery and many a grassy paddock intervening
between the scattered dwellings of the retired
trader or the leisure-loving man of letters. The
countenance of this person, as it was directed
upward with a pensive wistful gaze toward the
melancholy planet, receiving the full flood of its
lustre, was singular for softness and attraction.
He wore no covering on his head, and his luxuriant
tresses of light brown hair, evenly parted on
the foretop, hung down in silky waves quite to his
shoulders. The hues of his complexion, delicately
coloured as a woman's, and the somewhat sleepy
expression of his full gray eye, accorded well with
the effeminate arrangement of his locks, and indeed
entitled him to be considered eminently handsome;

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for there was so much of intellect and of imagination
in the forehead, low but expansive, and so
many lines of thought about the slightly-sunken
cheeks, now faintly traced and transient, but which
would, with the advance of years, increase to furrows,
that the softer traits, while adding to the
beauty, detracted nothing from the dignity and
manhood of his aspect. His form, though low
and small, was yet compact and muscular, affording
promise of that powerful agility which is paramount
even to superior strength in the use and skill of
weapons. Neatly clad enough in a loose coat of
dark gray cloth, with vest and hose of black, cut
plainly without lace or fringe; and, above all, not
wearing even the common walking-sword, at that
time carried throughout Europe by all of gentle
rank, the meditative loiterer would have excited
little or no attention among the greater body of
mankind, ever caught by the glitter, and deluded
by the glare, but careless as it is undiscerning of
true merit, when harbingered to its opinion by
naught of pride or circumstance. He might have
been an artisan or merchant of the city, but that
the slouched hat, lying with a staff of ebony beside
him on the wall, distinguished him from the flatcapped
dwellers to the east of Temple Bar; while
his hands, which were delicately white, and tender
as a lady's, showed that they had never been exercised
in the ungentle labour of a mechanic calling.
But, stronger even than these tokens, there was
that vivid and inexplicable impress of exalted
genius, that looking forth of the immortal spirit
from the eyes, that strange mixture of quiet melancholy
with high enthusiasm, pervading all his features,
which must have made it evident to any
moderately keen observer, that figure or decoration

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could be but of small avail when considered as the
mere appendages to such a mind.

He stood a while in silence, though his lips moved
at intervals, perusing the bright wanderers of heaven
with a gaze so fixed and yearning as though his
spirit would have looked through them, the windows
of the firmament, into the very tabernacle and
abode of the Omnipotent. At length he spoke articulately,
in a voice deep, slow, majestic, and melodious,
but in the unconscious tones of one who
meditates or prays aloud, without reference or
respect to aught external.

“Beautiful light,” he said; “beautiful lamp of
heaven—what marvel that the blinded and benighted
heathen should ignorantly worship thee? What
marvel that a thousand altars, in a thousand ages,
should have sent up their fumes of adoration unto
thee the mooned Ashtaroth, unto thee the Tauriform
Diana, unto thee the nightly visitant of the young-eyed
Endymion? What marvel that to those who
knew not, neither had they heard of the One, Uncreate,
Invisible, Eternal, thou shouldst have seemed
meet Deity to whom to bend the knee,—thou firstborn
offspring of his first-created gift—thou blessed
emanation from his own ethereal glory—when I,
his humble follower, his ardent though unworthy
worshipper,—when I, an honest though an erring
Christian, do strive in vain to wean my heart from
love of thee; indoctrinating so my spirit that I
may kiss the rod with which, I am assured too
well, HE soon will chastise me, in changing the
fair light, that glorious essence in which my soul
rejoiceth, for one black, everlasting, self-imparted
midnight? Yet so it shall be. A few more revolutions
of these puissant planets,—a few more mutations
of the sweet-returning seasons,—and to me
there shall be no change again on earth for ever!

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No choice between the fairest and the foulest! No
difference of night or day! No charm in the rich
gorgeousness of flowery summer above the sere
and mournful autumn! No cheery aspect in the
piled hearth of winter! No sweet communion
with the human eye compassionate! No intercourse
with the great intellects of old, dead, yet
surviving still in their sublime and solid pages!”
He paused for a space, as though he were too
deeply moved to trust his thoughts to language;
but, after a moment, drawing his hand across his
eyes—“But if it be so,” he continued, “as I may
not doubt it will—if his fiat be pronounced against
me of dark corporeal blindness, what duty yet remains?
What—but to labour that the blindness
be not mental also? What—but to treasure up
even now, during my brief-permitted time, such
stores of hoarded wisdom as may in part suffice,
like to the summer-gathered riches of the industrious
and thrifty bee, to nourish and to cheer me
at the coming of my senseless season? What—
but to profit, even as best I may, by those good
opportunities which his great mercy hath vouch-safed
to me; to sow the seed even now, during the
fertile autumn, that by his blessing it may swell
and germinate during the brumal darkness of the
approaching winter, and in his good time give forth
to light a crop improved and gloriously surpassing
that from which it sprung? What—but to give
thanks alway, and to praise the tender-heartedness
and love of Him, to whom it were no harder task
to plunge the mind in lunatic and senseless stupor,
than to seal up the fount of light to the poor eye.
Of Him, who, giving all the thousand blessings I
enjoy, judges it fitting to deprive me but of one,
haply that from its single loss others may fructify,
and bear good harvest to my use? Wherefore, oh

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merciful and mighty One, be it unto me as thou
willest, and thou only. And oh! above all things,
be it unto me, as now, so alway, humbly to cry,
and happily, Thy will be done.”

Even as the pious scholar brought his meditations
to a close, the footsteps of one advancing,
though still unseen, through the mazes of the
shrubbery, were heard upon the crisp and crackling
gravel; and, ere he had resumed his hat,
which was steeple-crowned and of the puritanic
fashion, the intruder made his appearance, in the
guise of an humbly-clad and grave-eyed servingman,
who announced, in phrase ungarnished by
much form of reverence toward his master, the
presence of three gentlemen within, praying to
speak with him.

“In faith,” returned the other, “in faith, good
Andrew, 'tis an unseasonable hour for visitants!
Who be these gentles?”

“Master Cromwell is among them,” answered
the attendant; “but of the rest I know not, save
that I heard the name of St. John pass between
them. They await your coming in the summer
parlour.”

Without farther query or reply, the scholar, as
if satisfied that his presence was indeed required,
traversed the garden with quick steps; and entering
the house, a small but cheerful dwelling,
through an entrance hung round with maps and
charts of statistics or chronology, passed to the
chamber in which his guests expected him. It
was a pleasant room, with a bay-window looking
upon the garden, but cheaply decorated with
hangings of green serge, to which a splendid organ,
by the first maker of the day, and a choice
collection of rare books, several of the number
being papyri of great worth, afforded a remarkable

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contrast. In the recess formed by the window
there stood a reading-desk, curiously carved in
old black oak, with cushions of green velvet,
somewhat the worse for wear, supporting a noble
folio Bible in the Greek text of Geneva. The
table was loaded with a heterogeneous mass of
books and papers, an original manuscript of the
Bacchæ of Euripides, reposing on a Hebrew copy
of the Septuagint, and a stray duodecimo of Petrarch's
sonnets, marking the place at which the
reader had closed the pages of a huge tome of
controversial divinity; while, on a marble slab
opposite the chimney, lay a couple of foils, with
their wire masks and gloves, partially hidden by
the draperies of a threadbare mantle of black velvet;
a violin, a guitar, some written music, and,
peering out from beneath the whole, the iron basket-hilt
and glittering scabbard of a heavy broadsword.

In this the student's sanctum, he found the three
gentlemen who had been announced, evidently engaged
in whispered conversation of deep import,
for they did not perceive the presence, till he had
stood for a moment or two almost beside them, of
their host; who had thus ample opportunity of
examining their persons, by the light of a brazen
lamp of antique form, with several burners, which
hung from the ceiling immediately above the abstracted
group. Nearly opposite the door, with
his searching eyes fixed upon another of the company,
who was speaking with considerable emphasis,
though in an under tone, stood the same
individual who had assisted Ardenne on the night
of his adventure near to Royston; wearing the
very garb in which he had appeared on that occasion,
save that, for his riding-boots, he had substituted
a pair of coarse gray woollen stockings,

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drawn tight to the mid-thigh, with ill-blacked
shoes of calfskin, laced to the instep, and bearing
neither rose nor buckle. The speaker, to whose
words he lent so careful heed, was a tall and slender
person, handsomely, though gloomily, attired
in a full suit of black, with silken hose and velvet
cloak to match, a mourning rapier hanging at his
side, though evidently worn for fashion rather than
for use. His countenance, though not of pleasant
favour, much less such as could be termed handsome,
was nevertheless one from which men could
not easily withdraw their eyes, possessing attributes
of unquestionable talent, though accompanied
by an expression which none so dull but they would
wish to fathom. His eyes, which were large and
black, had a bright and flashing glance when
under influence of excitement almost painful to
the beholder; while a continual, and, as it would
seem, involuntary sneer, sat on his thin and writhing
lip. His hair, black as the raven's wing, was
long and curling, though not worn after the flowing
fashion of the cavaliers; but the most remarkable
trait of his aspect was the immoveable gloom
which overshadowed his dark saturnine features
with a cloud so constant, that it has been recorded
of him, that seldom, even in his moments of hilarity,
was he beheld to smile. The remaining person
of the trio was a finer and more comely man than
either of his comrades; fairly proportioned, though
not above the middle height, with a brow rather
full than lofty, a quick and penetrating eye, and an
intelligent expression, thoughtful rather than grave,
and with no touch of sternness or morosity on his
noble features, lighted up, as they were from time
to time, by a smile of singular and cheerful sweetness.
He was habited as became a gentleman, in
a rich garb of marone-coloured velvet, his costly

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sword suspended from a scarf of good white taffeta,
and a white feather in his beaver; the whole—
though plain enough, if compared with the luxurious
bravery of the cavaliers, whose dresses would
oftentimes have been too cheaply rated at a year's
income of their patrimony—conveying an idea of
absolute magnificence, when viewed beside the
simple habiliments of his fellow-visiters. After he
had surveyed this group for a few moments' space,
satisfied apparently with the survey, the master
of the house stepped forward, startling them slightly
by his motion, and cutting short their converse.

“Give you good evening, Master Cromwell,” he
said, addressing himself to the most slovenly-apparelled
of the company; “it shames me to have
caused you wait my coming.”

“Not so, good sir,” returned the other; “it is
we rather who have trespassed on your studies,
coming thus at an hour surely unseasonable. But,
of a truth, I had forgotten—I pray you, Master
Milton,” for it was no other than the immortal
poet, who had deplored, in such heartfelt yet unrepining
language, the advent of that dread calamity,
which had already been predicted to him by
the first physicians of the day as the sure consequence
of his persisting in his arduous and unremitted
labours,—“I pray you, Master Milton,
know these most worthy and God-fearing gentlemen!
This,” motioning with his hand toward the
taller and more gloomy figure, “this, my good
friend, Master Oliver St. John; and this, my well-beloved
and trusty cousin, honest John Hampden.”

“Of a truth, Master Cromwell,” replied the
poet—in those days better known by his magnificent
and stately prose, for a controversial writer
of unequalled power, than by the slight though
beautiful effusions of poetry which hitherto he had

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cast forth merely as the erratic sports of leisure
moments, stolen from graver studies, and not yet
as the sublime continuous soarings of his unrivalled
genius,—“of a truth, Master Cromwell, I owe
you more of thanks than I am wont to offer, that
you have brought to my poor dwelling these, the
most constant and the noblest cultivators of that
fair vineyard, to the renewal and reform of which
I too, an humble fellow-tiller, have devoted my
unworthy labours!” And he turned to the companions
of his friend, esteemed already by all the
worshippers of freedom as the wisest, the purest,
and the best of her adorers!—as the pilots, who
might alone be trusted to hold the shattered helm
of state aright, amid the terrors, the confusion, and
the storm of the approaching crisis!—as the champions,
who had already reared the banner of undaunted
opposition to all that was corrupt, or bigoted,
or arbitrary, in religious or in civil rule!—as
the leaders, who, above all others, were endowed
with the talent, and the worth, and, more than
these, with the unflinching energy to wring the
iron sceptre of usurped prerogative from the high
hand that wielded it with such despotic sway!
He greeted them with words savouring more of
courteous deference than of that plain-spoken and
uncompromising brevity, on the use of which his
party prided themselves so deeply in their intercourse
of man with man. There was, however,
nothing of vain or worldly adulation, much less of
that fawning sycophancy, that low servile man-worship,
for which the courtiers of the day were
so deservedly contemned by the stern puritans, in
his frank though reverential bearing.

After a few seconds spent in civilities, which
were accepted, as indeed they were intended, for
the befitting homage of one surpassing intellect to

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others, though in a different sphere, of not inferior
merit—homage, degrading not the giver, while it
added to the real dignity of the receiver,—the party
fell into the ordinary demeanour of men familiar,
if not with the persons, at least with the minds and
principles each of the other; and the conversation
flowed as quietly on the accustomed topics of the
time as though the speakers had been in the
daily wont of mingling in the same social intercourse.
There was, however, not only naught of
levity or license, but naught of common import or
every-day occurrence, in the interchanged ideas of
those high spirits, devoted, one and all, to the
same pursuit of patriotism, and equally engrossed
in the quick-succeeding incidents of fearful and
pervading interest, which rendered every hour of
that eventful year a great historic epoch.

“Have ye received aught new from Ireland,”
inquired the poet—“ye of the lower house, touching
this perilous and damnable rebellion?”

“Ay, of a surety have we!” answered Cromwell,
“full confirmation—full, ay, and overflowing
all that we had heard before!”

“All Ulster is in one light blaze,” cried St. John,
his dark eye flashing with indignant fire; “the
forts all captured, and that most subtle villain, Phelim
O'Neil, wading knee-deep—with thirty thousand
fanatic and phrensied papists—knee-deep in
Protestant and English gore! Connaught and Leinster
revelling in red-handed massacre, and the five
counties of the Pale, arrayed by the lords-justices
to quell the insurrection, united to their brother
rebels!”

“None may conceive the horrors—none may
enumerate the sufferings—or recount the wretched
sufferers,” continued Hampden, a deep shade of
melancholy settling down on his fine lineaments;

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“at the least reckoning, twenty thousand of our
brethren, men, women, and children, yea, the very
infants at the breast, have porished! No insult,
no atrocity, that Romish perfidy could plan, or
fiendish cruelty perform—no last extremity of
famine, cold, or torture, has been spared to their
defenceless victims by the barbarian Irish—the
very priests setting the torch of midnight conflagration
to the planter's dwelling, and hounding on
their furious followers to massacre and havoc!”

“But of the king, fair sirs?”

“Well hast thou said, John Milton,” interrupted
the harsh voice of Cromwell before the other
had concluded his inquiry; “well has thou said
and truly! 'tis of that man of Belial! ay, root and
branch of him, and his self-seeking carnal cavaliers!”

“It is, we fear, too true—” said Hampden, in reply
to the bewildered looks of the anxious auditor;
“it is, we fear, too true! O'Neil, in his dark proclamation,
boasts openly his own authority from
the great seal of Scotland. Sir William St. Leger,
trusty alike and brave, hath, as we learn, dismissed
his levies, and laid down the arms he had
assumed on the first outbreak of the rebels, at
sight of a commission, with Charles Stuart's manual
sign, held by that murderous bigot Lord Musquerry.”

“And last, not least,” sneered Oliver St. John,
“Mac Mahon hath confessed, at shrewd solicitation
of the rack, that the original scheme of this
rebellion was brought to Ireland, from our gracious
king and governor, by Dillon and the members
of the late committee.”

“Of a truth,” said Cromwell, in reply to the
words of his milder cousin, “of a truth, there may
be cause for fear, ay, and for grief—yet

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wherefore? Verily 'tis a hard thing to rejoice, to rejoice
in the midst of slaughter and abomination!
Yet who shall deem or boast himself to know of
that which is to come, save He that holdeth the
end, I say the end and the accomplishment of all
things, in the hollow of his hand? But I will tell
ye this—yea, but mistake me not,—this will I
avouch to ye, that I fear not, but do rejoice! 'Tis
a sad thing, in truth, that an anointed king, even a
king in Israel, should arm his hand against his
people, and turn away his countenance from the
well-beloved of the Lord, inclining his ear likewise
unto the idolatries of the beast, and unto the
charmings of the Moabitish woman; yea, and
pour out the vials of his wrath upon the heads of
the sons of righteousness! But, of a surety, it is
not for a man to judge save thus—for I will speak
even as it is put into my mouth,—save thus—that,
to a man foreweaponed and forewarned, less dangerous
is an open enemy—yea, if he be mightier
by tenfold,—than one who lurketh privily beneath
the vesture of a friend, looking in secret whom he
may devour!”

“Forewarned indeed ye are,” replied the poet,
musingly, “and your own fault 'twill be if ye be
not foreweaponed likewise; for, in good sooth, I do
believe the lives of none are safe—the lives and liberties
of none who dare uplift their voices in defence
of England's constitution or the church's purity.”

“And is it not to this end,” cried Oliver, “and is
it not to this end that we are watching, even now,
with our loins girded, and our lights burning,
watching unto the protection of those that are defenceless,
and unto the enlightening of those that
sit in darkness? And is it not to this end that we
have now come to thee, John Milton, trusting to
gain a strong ally—even a valiant, and a

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heartwhole, and a spirit-serving soldier!—seeking to
learn form thee—so far as it is for man to learn
of man, yet neither confident in worldly wisdom,
which is ignorance before the Lord, nor relying
altogether on the judgment of a fellow-worm, how
excellent soever he may be in the gifts of carnal
knowledge,—seeking, I say, to learn from thee
the character and principles of one with whom
we do believe that you so long have communed as
to know the thoughts of his heart, ay, and to interpret
the workings of his inward man!”

“Such is indeed our object,” continued Hampden,
while St. John fixed his searching eye upon
the beautiful features of the listener with keen
and interested scrutiny; “such is indeed our object
in this untimely visit. We have but now received
intelligence of the decease of that shrewd
counsellor and honest patriot, Elias Chaloner, the
fellow-townsman of my worthy cousin Cromwell,
and lately member for the godly town of Huntingdon;
and, with this same intelligence, the great
charge has been laid upon us, by the zealous
burghers of the place, of commending to their
choice a person who shall honourably fill the post
of him that is departed.”

“And how? you would ask, John Milton,”
Cromwell broke in, “for I can read the query on
your brow—how, you would ask, can you assist
us in this matter? Verily thus—for it hath been
suggested to our souls when we were seeking out
the Lord in prayer, yea, wrestling with him in the
spirit, that he should guide us to a sure election,—
it was,—I tell you truth, I do profess,—borne in
upon the ears of our minds, as with an audible and
spoken voice, `Ye shall call to aid the man—
even the young man—Edgar Ardenne—”'

“With whom,” interrupted St. John, evidently

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

weary of the prolix, verbose haranguing of the
other, “with whom, as we are well assured, you,
Master Milton, have mingled much in foreign
travel, having thereby good opportunity to judge
of his opinions and to learn his heart. We would
hear from you, therefore, worthy sir, whether this
gentleman of high extraction, born of a race devotedly,
I had wellnigh said slavishly, loyal—whether
this gentleman be indeed, as we would wish to
find him, a firm, uncompromising lover of his
country—one who would pledge himself, and
keep his plight religiously, to advance the views
and serve the interests of our party! May it
please you, tell us fully what of yourself you
know, and what may be your judgment of this
your fellow-traveller—and, above all, whether he
may be wrought, and by what means, to further
our purposes!”

“For years,” replied the poet, after a moment's
pause, “for years have I been wont to read the
living minds of men with even more of study than I
have expended on their embalmed and written
thoughts—for years!—and never—I can say it
honestly and freely, for I do believe I know his
inmost aspirations even as I am conscious of my
own—never have I found, or even read of such a
head, combined with such a heart, as that of Edgar
Ardenne. A worshipper of wisdom, of liberty, of
truth—purer and far more fervently devoted than
the great spirits of the old republics! A scholar
in the study, and that too of the ripest—an orator
in the forum, strong, stirring, and persuasive—a
soldier in the field, well tried, and as well proven!
An adorer of all that is beautiful, but one who sees
no beauty save in virtue! A Christian, fervent
and sincere, yet tolerant, and of much charity!
Ambitious—but ambitious only to do good! If

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

ever there was born a man wholly unselfish, that
man is Edgar Ardenne. Such—and on my judgment
well may you rely—such is the man whom
you would take into your counsels. Gain him,
then—gain him, if ye may—for certainly as Edgar
Ardenne could achieve aught to benefit his
country, though every hope, every feeling, every
passion of his soul were listed to oppose it, so certainly
would he tread hope, feeling, passion, into
the very dust beneath his feet. He has a head so
clear, he cannot fail to see the right—he has a
heart so true, he would not fail—though at the
price of all he holds most dear—to follow it. Beware,
however,—beware, if ye decide to gain him,
how you show aught of doubt, much less suspicion!—
proffer to him the seat for Huntingdon untrammelled!
say not a word of party—not a word of
opposition to the court—make ye not one condition—
ask not one pledge!—for had ye heaven
itself to tender him, and were to tender it, so bribing
him—ay, were it even to act well—my life!
he would refuse even heaven! If, therefore, ye
can resolve unpledged to trust him, seek not to
sound his views—for as well might ye assay to
fathom the most central depths of ocean;—seek not
to bind his actions—for as well might ye go forth
to chain the subtle and pervading lightning;—but
proffer to him, in plain terms, the seat—at the free
choice of the burghers—and if he do accept it, as
well I trust he will, be sure there is no man in
England that better knows the duties of a member
in the commons House of Parliament, or trulier will
discharge them!”

“You have described,” replied the calm and
meditative Hampden, “you have indeed described
a man, such as there are but few this side
the grave! Your words, too, tally well with

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

the surmises I have formed from his known
actions!”

“And would you then,” asked the moody St.
John, “would you then set so great a matter on
the casting of a die? Do you not know that even
now we have but a majority—not over-strong nor
over-certain?—that many have been already won
or put to silence—that Hyde and his moderate partisans
daily gain strength, and only lack occasion
to join the court in open and unblushing servitude?
Know you not that Falkland wavers, and that, if
he go over, ten votes at least will instantly apostatize?
and would you then elect this cavalier, for
such in truth he is, on vague hopes and uncertain
indications?”

“I said not so,” replied Hampden, quickly; “I
said not so! but only that I believe him wise and
honest! Farther I will say now, that—if, on any
terms, we shall decide to recommend him to the
choice of the electors—my voice is for so doing
with nothing of restriction! If he be honest, it
needs not to bind him by a promise—if otherwise,
'twere madness to suppose that promises will bind
him! But on this matter we will speak more
anon—we have already trespassed over long upon
the leisure and the patience of our honourable
host.”

St. John replied not; and Cromwell, who had
perhaps made up his mind already, had fallen into
a long and rambling exposition of some doctrinal
point, wholly remote from the subject in question,
to which Milton listened with a tranquil smile playing
about his well-turned lip, and with the aim apparently
of discovering what was the meaning, if there
indeed were any, of the wild and ill-digested oratory
of the member for Cambridge, at this time just
beginning to attract the notice of the house, though

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no one could perhaps assign a cause for his increasing
influence. For a short space the others
spoke apart, warmly, though in an under tone—
Hampden, as it seemed, urging on his grave confederate
some dubious or unpalatable measure; the
energy of his manner gradually rising, while the
opposition of his friend waxed fainter, until the
habitual sneer departed from his lip, and the accustomed
cloud partially yielded to an opener and more
cheery aspect. “Be it so!” he said at length, raising
his voice, as the discussion was finished by his
assent; “be it so, if you will—and, in faith, I believe
you are in the right on't! Now, Master
Cromwell,” he continued, turning toward him as
he spoke, “it lacks but a scant hour of midnight,
and our host's oil, I trow, is wont to lend its light
to purposes of more importance than our farther
converse! Give you good night, fair sir,” he
added, with a short inclination to the poet, as,
gathering his cloak about him, he led his comrades,
after brief ceremony, into the moon-lit
streets; while he whom he had last addressed
applied himself, in solitary diligence, to the exercise
of his pen, slight instrument of mightiest powers,
whether for good or evil, and, in the hand of
the philosopher, prime mover of more potent revolutions
than its dread rival and confederate—the
mortal sword!

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