This work of _Coeur-de-Lion_he prosecuted steadfastly in his new home;and indeed employed on it henceforth all the available days that were left him in this world.As was already said,he did not live to complete it;but some eight Cantos,three or four of which I know to possess high worth,were finished,before Death intervened,and there he had to leave it.Perhaps it will yet be given to the public;and in that case be better received than the others were,by men of judgment;and serve to put Sterling's Poetic pretensions on a much truer footing.I can say,that to readers who do prefer a poetic diet,this ought to be welcome:if you can contrive to love the thing which is still called "poetry"in these days,here is a decidedly superior article in that kind,--richer than one of a hundred that you smilingly consume.
In this same month of June,1843,while the house at Ventnor was getting ready,Sterling was again in London for a few days.Of course at Knightsbridge,now fallen under such sad change,many private matters needed to be settled by his Father and Brother and him.
Captain Anthony,now minded to remove with his family to London and quit the military way of life,had agreed to purchase the big family house,which he still occupies;the old man,now rid of that encumbrance,retired to a smaller establishment of his own;came ultimately to be Anthony's guest,and spent his last days so.He was much lamed and broken,the half of his old life suddenly torn away;--and other losses,which he yet knew not of,lay close ahead of him.In a year or two,the rugged old man,borne down by these pressures,quite gave way;sank into paralytic and other infirmities;and was released from life's sorrows,under his son Anthony's roof,in the fall of 1847.--The house in Knightsbridge was,at the time we now speak of,empty except of servants;Anthony having returned to Dublin,I suppose to conclude his affairs there,prior to removal.John lodged in a Hotel.
We had our fair share of his company in this visit,as in all the past ones;but the intercourse,I recollect,was dim and broken,a disastrous shadow hanging over it,not to be cleared away by effort.
Two American gentlemen,acquaintances also of mine,had been recommended to him,by Emerson most likely:one morning Sterling appeared here with a strenuous proposal that we should come to Knightsbridge,and dine with him and them.Objections,general dissuasions were not wanting:The empty dark house,such needless trouble,and the like;--but he answered in his quizzing way,"Nature herself prompts you,when a stranger comes,to give him a dinner.
There are servants yonder;it is all easy;come;both of you are bound to come."And accordingly we went.I remember it as one of the saddest dinners;though Sterling talked copiously,and our friends,Theodore Parker one of them,were pleasant and distinguished men.All was so haggard in one's memory,and half consciously in one's anticipations;sad,as if one had been dining in a will,in the crypt of a mausoleum.Our conversation was waste and logical,I forget quite on what,not joyful and harmoniously effusive:Sterling's silent sadness was painfully apparent through the bright mask he had bound himself to wear.Withal one could notice now,as on his last visit,a certain sternness of mood,unknown in better days;as if strange gorgon-faces of earnest Destiny were more and more rising round him,and the time for sport were past.He looked always hurried,abrupt,even beyond wont;and indeed was,I suppose,overwhelmed in details of business.
One evening,I remember,he came down hither,designing to have a freer talk with us.We were all sad enough;and strove rather to avoid speaking of what might make us sadder.Before any true talk had been got into,an interruption occurred,some unwelcome arrival;Sterling abruptly rose;gave me the signal to rise;and we unpolitely walked away,adjourning to his Hotel,which I recollect was in the Strand,near Hungerford Market;some ancient comfortable quaint-looking place,off the street;where,in a good warm queer old room,the remainder of our colloquy was duly finished.We spoke of Cromwell,among other things which I have now forgotten;on which subject Sterling was trenchant,positive,and in some essential points wrong,--as I said I would convince him some day."Well,well!"answered he,with a shake of the head.--We parted before long;bedtime for invalids being come:he escorted me down certain carpeted backstairs,and would not be forbidden:we took leave under the dim skies;--and alas,little as I then dreamt of it,this,so far as I can calculate,must have been the last time I ever saw him in the world.
Softly as a common evening,the last of the evenings had passed away,and no other would come for me forevermore.
