Among his familiars in this period,I might have mentioned one Charles Barton,formerly his fellow-student at Cambridge,now an amiable,cheerful,rather idle young fellow about Town;who led the way into certain new experiences,and lighter fields,for Sterling.His Father,Lieutenant-General Barton of the Life-guards,an Irish landlord,I think in Fermanagh County,and a man of connections about Court,lived in a certain figure here in Town;had a wife of fashionable habits,with other sons,and also daughters,bred in this sphere.These,all of them,were amiable,elegant and pleasant people;--such was especially an eldest daughter,Susannah Barton,a stately blooming black-eyed young woman,attractive enough in form and character;full of gay softness,of indolent sense and enthusiasm;about Sterling's own age,if not a little older.In this house,which opened to him,more decisively than his Father's,a new stratum of society,and where his reception for Charles's sake and his own was of the kindest,he liked very well to be;and spent,I suppose,many of his vacant half-hours,lightly chatting with the elders or the youngsters,--doubtless with the young lady too,though as yet without particular intentions on either side.
Nor,with all the Coleridge fermentation,was democratic Radicalism by any means given up;--though how it was to live if the Coleridgean moonshine took effect,might have been an abtruse question.Hitherto,while said moonshine was but taking effect,and coloring the outer surface of things without quite penetrating into the heart,democratic Liberalism,revolt against superstition and oppression,and help to whosoever would revolt,was still the grand element in Sterling's creed;and practically he stood,not ready only,but full of alacrity to fulfil all its behests.We heard long since of the "black dragoons,"--whom doubtless the new moonshine had considerably silvered-over into new hues,by this time;--but here now,while Radicalism is tottering for him and threatening to crumble,comes suddenly the grand consummation and explosion of Radicalism in his life;whereby,all at once,Radicalism exhausted and ended itself,and appeared no more there.
In those years a visible section of the London population,and conspicuous out of all proportion to its size or value,was a small knot of Spaniards,who had sought shelter here as Political Refugees.
"Political Refugees:"a tragic succession of that class is one of the possessions of England in our time.Six-and-twenty years ago,when Ifirst saw London,I remember those unfortunate Spaniards among the new phenomena.Daily in the cold spring air,under skies so unlike their own,you could see a group of fifty or a hundred stately tragic figures,in proud threadbare cloaks;perambulating,mostly with closed lips,the broad pavements of Euston Square and the regions about St.
Pancras new Church.Their lodging was chiefly in Somers Town,as Iunderstood:and those open pavements about St.Pancras Church were the general place of rendezvous.They spoke little or no English;knew nobody,could employ themselves on nothing,in this new scene.
Old steel-gray heads,many of them;the shaggy,thick,blue-black hair of others struck you;their brown complexion,dusky look of suppressed fire,in general their tragic condition as of caged Numidian lions.
That particular Flight of Unfortunates has long since fled again,and vanished;and new have come and fled.In this convulsed revolutionary epoch,which already lasts above sixty years,what tragic flights of such have we not seen arrive on the one safe coast which is open to them,as they get successively vanquished,and chased into exile to avoid worse!Swarm after swarm,of ever-new complexion,from Spain as from other countries,is thrown off,in those ever-recurring paroxysms;and will continue to be thrown off.As there could be (suggests Linnaeus)a "flower-clock,"measuring the hours of the day,and the months of the year,by the kinds of flowers that go to sleep and awaken,that blow into beauty and fade into dust:so in the great Revolutionary Horologe,one might mark the years and epochs by the successive kinds of exiles that walk London streets,and,in grim silent manner,demand pity from us and reflections from us.--This then extant group of Spanish Exiles was the Trocadero swarm,thrown off in 1823,in the Riego and Quirogas quarrel.These were they whom Charles Tenth had,by sheer force,driven from their constitutionalisms and their Trocadero fortresses,--Charles Tenth,who himself was soon driven out,manifoldly by sheer force;and had to head his own swarm of fugitives;and has now himself quite vanished,and given place to others.For there is no end of them;propelling and propelled!--Of these poor Spanish Exiles,now vegetating about Somers Town,and painfully beating the pavement in Euston Square,the acknowledged chief was General Torrijos,a man of high qualities and fortunes,still in the vigor of his years,and in these desperate circumstances refusing to despair;with whom Sterling had,at this time,become intimate.