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26. woman is a perilous shelter, and does oftentimes blight the
happiness of those whom it was most innocently designed to cheer
and to defend.
It had been arranged that Cuthbert should depart before eight
in the morning. By that hour his horse was already saddled in the
stable, and the boy Arthur was in the stable-yard watching minutely
all the preparations for the journey. The strapping on of the vallise,
and of the holsters especially moved him on the present occasion,
although he had seen the very same thing done a hundred times for
others without curiosity or disquiet. What from the liveliness of his
fancy, and the affectionateness of his disposition, the images of
lonely ways and evil robbers made him fetch his breath quicker than
usual. The good tempered groom, perceiving this by the youth’s
questions, began to allay his fears by saying, that “nobody would
ever let or hinder a poor scholar like Master Cuthbert, and, besides
that, God took care of all good persons; so there was no ill chance
for such an one, but that he would go and come as safe as the
King’s own majesty;” which was the simple groom’s notion of the
most perfect security on earth.
Meanwhile Cuthbert himself was taking a last melancholy gaze
at the gallery, the hall, the summer and winter parlour, and the
various objects of interest which they contained. The pictures, the
books, the organ, the virginals, the lute, were all most intimately
associated in his mind with her, whom to have seen and known was
of itself a blessing.
In vain the grey-haired butler, Philip, pressed him to partake of
breakfast, and cautioned him against a weary way and an empty
stomach. He pecked like a sick bird at the substantial venison pasty,
and sipped at the warm tankard with a word the while now to the
old domestic, and now to young Arthur, who had come in, and sat
opposite him, in that vacant and natural sorrow which belongs to the
broken moments of such a parting.
At last Cuthbert descended the hall steps, which were full of the
warm-hearted servants; and, pressing the hand of his affectionate
pupil, mounted his horse and rode away.
27. The day was cold and wet: nothing could be more gloomy or
comfortless than his long and lonely ride. He met only one train of
pack-horses, and a few single travellers on horseback, throughout
the day. He baited his animal at a wayside alehouse, where he found
nobody but a cross old woman and a deaf hostler; and it was not till
the dusk of evening that he reached the town of Aylesbury, where
he proposed sleeping.
Within five miles of this place he was overtaken by a gentleman
on horseback, who fell into conversation with him; and who, being
like himself on a journey to town, offered to join company with him
that night at the inn.
Although it would have been far more agreeable to Cuthbert to
have proceeded alone, yet the appearance of the stranger was so
prepossessing, and his manners were so frank and courteous, that it
was not possible to shake off his company without rudeness.
Moreover, his speech had already shown him to be a man of gentle
breeding, and that Cambridge had once reckoned him among her
students,—so they rode forward together.
At the entrance of the town, hard by one of the first houses in
the street, sat a cobbler working and singing in his hutch. The
companion of Cuthbert here pulled his bridle; and, turning his
beast’s nose almost into it, called out, in a loud jolly tone, “Ho,
Crispin! canst tell me the way to the church?”
“No,” said the cobbler, throwing up an indifferent glance, and
then stooping again over his last.
“Art deaf, or hast lost thy wits, old surly?” said the traveller:
“you know what a church is, don’t you?”
“I know what it is not,” replied the old cobbler bluntly, without
looking off his work.
“What is it not, sirrah?”
“It is not a great stone building standing alone in the middle of
a town,” said the cobbler raising his head, and looking his
interrogator full in the face.
28. “Thou hast more wit than good humour, knave,” said our
Cavalier.
“And thou words than good breeding,” retorted the sturdy
artisan.
“I see the stocks of this place are little used, or you should try
how they fitted. You have not much fear, methinks, of the wooden
collar. Didst ever see a pillory?”
“I have, and a godly man in it; and I shall not soon forget the
sight. Are you answered, my court bird?”
“You are a prick-eared knave; and, if I were not tired and
hungry, you should smart for your saucy answers.”
By this time a neighbour or two stood forth from the adjoining
houses; and the horseman, turning to the nearest, said, “Prithee,
friend, canst thou tell me the way to the Boar’s Head, which is next
to the church, as I think?”
“It is so, true enough,” answered the man, “and well placed, to
my thought; for thou wilt be sure to find the parson on the bench of
it, or it may be in the skittle yard wrangling with cheating Bob, and
staggering at his own cast:—ride straight on—you can’t miss it.”
“A pretty nest of godly rogues I have got into,” said the
traveller: “there will be an iron gag for your foul mouths soon.” With
this he struck spurs into his steed: the beast broke into a smart
canter,—that of Cuthbert started in like manner; and they were
instantly carried beyond the jeers and the loud laughter of the
humorous old cobbler and his neighbours. Of this little scene
Cuthbert had been the silent spectator; indeed the dialogue was so
short, and so rapidly spoken, that there was no room for any
question or remark of his;—and his companion having observed a
silver crest upon the holsters of Cuthbert, did not doubt that he was
a church and king man,—especially as there had not dropped from
him a single expression which savoured of the Puritan.
Mine host of the Boar’s Head, a big and portly personage with
bloated cheeks, received our weary guests with a cheerful welcome;
and led the way to a large travellers’ parlour, where, in an ample
29. fire-place, huge logs were blazing on the hearth. The seats on either
side were already occupied by guests, before whom, on small three-
legged tables, their repasts were smoking.
At one of these sat two persons, whose appearance was that of
military men:—the younger of the two was very handsome, and of a
commanding figure. No sooner did the gentleman in Cuthbert’s
company approach the fire than this martial youth rose, and
addressing him by the name of Fleming, shook him cordially by the
hand. The ear of Cuthbert did not catch the name by which,
promptly responding to the recognition, Fleming replied, nor did he
learn it throughout the evening. However, another small table was
immediately drawn near, and covered. Eggs, sausages, and broiled
bones were served up hastily; and, after Cuthbert and his
companion had satisfied the keen appetites which they had gotten
by a long journey in cold rain and on miry roads, a large jug of burnt
claret was placed before them; and the following conversation
between the two acquaintances was listened to by Cuthbert in silent
astonishment:—
“Well, Frank, you have not forgotten old times, I hope. I trust
that we shall teach the volunteer gentry how to handle a sword after
the fashion of the old Swedish troopers before long:—they made
sorry work of it in the north last year; and for my part I was half
ashamed to ride among such a rabble!”
“What made you go at all then?” said the youthful soldier.
“Why, to say truth, Frank, I found my life in the country very
dull, and my old father’s hunting companions as heavy as lead; and I
heartily wished myself back in Germany, where I might hear a
trumpet once more:—so when I heard that the King was going
against the Scots away I posted to court, and waited upon his
Majesty, and got a commission.”
“I hope, Fleming, you made yourself master of the quarrel
before you offered your services.”
“Look you, Frank, I remember you was always as grave as a
judge about war, and examined sides, and would know the rights of
all that was done. That was never my way. I left Cambridge at
30. nineteen, and went to the camp of Gustavus, as eager and as blind
as a young colt; and so again now:—wherever the King’s standard
flies all must be right; besides, I hate these pricked-eared Puritans,
and yon Scotch psalm singers that wo’n’t use the Prayer Book.”
“It seems, however, that they can use the broad sword, and
with good effect, if accounts speak true.”
“There you have me,” rejoined the cheerful and light-hearted
campaigner,—“there you have me. I never felt shame as a soldier till
this Scotch campaign. Our tall fellows always turned their backs first,
and retreated true runaway fashion:—you could never make them
fire their pistols, and wheel off orderly; and it was well for them that
they had raw Scots troopers at their tails instead of Pappenheim’s
cuirassiers.”
“It is clear enough that you must have run too,” said the young
soldier, laughing, “or you would not be here to tell the story.”
“To be sure I did,—but not without leaving the mark of my
sword in the cheek of a stout Scotsman that pressed me a little too
close and unmannerly. However, live and learn is a wise saying.
When the King fairly raises a proper army, instead of a set of
footmen and servants, commanded by courtiers and parsons, there
will be warmer sport than we had in the north.”
“It will be sorry and grave sport, methinks, comrade, when
Englishmen stand up against Englishmen, and little pleasure to see
an old fellow-soldier in the ranks opposite.”
“Odd’s life, I shall never see you enact rebel.”
“Rebel is a rough word:—suppose we change the subject.”
The conversation was now continued on various indifferent
matters till the hour for rest. Cuthbert himself made but few
observations, and was strangely exercised in his mind by
contemplating the characters before him. In addition to those
already named, there was one other traveller at a table by himself,
who had partaken of no better fare than a bowl of oatmeal porridge,
and who sat intent over a small closely printed book, without once
opening his lips, and seldom even raising his eyes. The companion
31. of Cuthbert often looked contemptuously askance at him, and
indulged in many a fling against the Puritans; but the silent stranger
either did not or would not hear these rude jests, and, as they met
with no encouragement from any one present, they fell flat and
powerless. At length the time of going to bed came; and the host
appeared to conduct his guests to their chambers. Our host, having
a quick eye to the quality of the parties, placed the Cavalier captain
in his best chamber; the two military-looking men in the next; and
the pale stranger in a small cold garret with Cuthbert.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, and the foot of
the landlord was heard descending the stairs, the stranger
approached Cuthbert and invited him to join in prayer.
“To me,” said the stranger, with a face of the most earnest
gravity, “to me is committed that rare and precious gift, the
discerning of spirits: I see thou art a God-fearing youth:—as soon as
thou didst enter the parlour I smelled the perfume of the angelic
nature; even as also the sulphur and the brimstone of Tophet in the
three sons of Belial, who are gone to lie down under the power of
Beelzebub, and to sleep with evil spirits for company.”
“Friend,” said Cuthbert, “I do not understand you: it is not my
custom to join in prayer with an unknown stranger; there is thy bed,
and here is mine:—let us lie down upon them in peace, and
commune with our own hearts and be still.”
“Verily,” rejoined the stranger, “thou art afraid:—it is no wonder:
—thou art but a mere babe of grace, and thine eyes do see but
dimly the glories of my high calling;—but I tell thee thou art a
chosen vessel of the Lord,—and even now I feel my bowels moved
towards thee, and the spirit of prayer is upon me, and I must
wrestle with the powers of darkness to deliver thy poor soul from
the snare of the fowler. This is my command,—and even now I am
appointed unto thee for an angel of defence, and the fight is begun.”
The stranger now threw himself upon his knees, and poured
forth a long, rambling and blasphemous petition,—the words of
which made Cuthbert shudder.
32. However, as he had been already told that there was no other
chamber or bed vacant, and as he was greatly fatigued, he lay down
to sleep, silently commending himself to the care of God, and
endeavouring to substitute a feeling of pity for the deep disgust with
which this crazy chamber-fellow inspired him.
The last sounds of which he was conscious before his heavy
eyes became sealed in forgetfulness were groanings from the
adjoining bed—nor did he awake in the morning till it was broad
daylight. He looked around—the chamber was empty;—at this he felt
thankful: and, supposing that his last odd companion had travelled
forward at an earlier hour, he arose, and proceeded to dress himself;
but he instantly discovered that his purse was gone. He went forth
on the stairs, and called loudly for the landlord. It was some time
before he made his appearance; and when he did so, he listened to
the tale with hard indifference, and coarse incredulity.
“Ah! that’s an old story, my devil’s scholar, but it wo’n’t go down
with me:—you shan’t budge from the Boar’s Head till you pay your
shot, I can tell you; and your nag shall go to the market cross before
I let you ride off without paying for provender.”
Cuthbert’s fury was roused to the uttermost; but his hot words
were only laughed at by the rosy Boniface, who soon left him. He
slipped on his clothes with all haste, and came down into the guest
parlour, where the Cavalier and the two military men were already
seated at breakfast by a cheerful fire. He stated his case before
them all with the warm earnestness of truth. The Cavalier picked his
teeth and whistled; but the younger of the other two seemed very
much to sympathise in the embarrassment of Cuthbert, which in fact
was more serious than he himself apprehended; for mine host came
presently into the parlour to say, that his horse and his vallise were
taken away by his chamber-fellow before dawn.
“It was all a made up thing,” said the landlord in a storm of
passion. “I saw they were a couple of hypocritical rogues, and
packed ’em together for safety’s sake—’twould only be thief rob
thief, I knew:—but it’s my belief they take the horse turn by turn,
and steal in company; for yon old one has left half a bottle of strong
33. waters and the leg of a cold goose at his bed-foot:—come, young
knave,” he added, attempting to take Francis by the collar, “come
with me afore the justice. He’ll find thee a lodging in our cage.”
With a force to which indignation gave strength, Cuthbert threw
back the fat bully against the wall, and turning to the Cavalier, who
had rode with him part of his yesterday’s journey,—
“You may remember, sir,” he said, “that when you joined me, I
told you that I came from the neighbourhood of Warwick, and was
on my journey to London. I told you, moreover, that I was a member
of the University of Cambridge:—the silver crest on my holsters was
the crest of Sir Oliver Heywood of Milverton, in whose house I have
resided for this year past, as tutor to his nephew’s son. The animal,
in fact, is Sir Oliver’s property, and was kindly lent me for the
journey:—if you will answer for me to this landlord, and give me a
crown piece to travel on with, I will faithfully repay you when I reach
town. My name, sir, is Cuthbert Noble, son of Mr. Noble, rector of
Cheddar, in Somerset.”
“A pack of stuff, good master,” said the angry landlord to the
Cavalier,—“don’t you be made a fool of; don’t be bamboozled by a
smooth trumped up cock and a bull story like this: if the horse is Sir
Oliver Heywood’s, they have stolen it, and change riders on the road
to Smithfield, where they will turn it into a purse of nobles before
night. Marry, I’ll go for constables, and, as you are honest gentlemen
and true, hold the knave fast in your keeping till I come back again.”
Before, however, he could leave the room, as much to his
astonishment and shame as to the surprise and relief of Cuthbert,
the younger of the two travellers, whom his companion the Cavalier
had last night claimed acquaintance with, came forward in a very
open and cordial manner, and assured Cuthbert of his readiness to
assist him.
“I am connected,” said the noble looking youth, “with the family
at Milverton, nor is the name of Master Cuthbert Noble unknown to
me. My purse is at your service; and I shall be glad of your company
on the road. Though I have no horse to offer you, post-horses can
be easily procured at every stage.”
34. Thus was Cuthbert at once released from a perplexity, and
introduced to the friendship of Francis Heywood.
35. CHAP. XVI.
The great vicissitude of things amongst men is the
vicissitude of sects and religions; for those orbs rule in men’s
minds most.
Bacon.
On the third of November, 1640, the fatal Long Parliament began.
On the 12th, the Earl of Strafford was impeached of treason, and
committed to the Black Rod. The Lords denied him bail and council;
and he was, in a few days more, commanded into close
imprisonment in the Tower. One hundred thousand pounds were
now voted to the Scots, and borrowed of the city of London. Ship
money was soon questioned by the Parliament, and voted an illegal
tax; and, in fine, all grievances and abuses were loudly proclaimed,
and resolutely brought forward, by intrepid and patriotic men; of
whom the best and noblest did certainly never contemplate, at that
time, the sad and humiliating close of the labours and the authority
of that memorable and august assembly. August, of a truth, that
assembly may be called, in which a Hampden and a Falkland stood,
at after moments, opposed in debate; and in which, in the following
year, the grand remonstrance of the Commons was the subject of
grave deliberation for thirty hours, and was only carried, at last, by a
majority of nine voices.
But to return to our story. It may be supposed that Cuthbert
Noble was no indifferent or unmoved spectator of the great public
events which every day brought forth in the winter of 1640. With his
serious and peculiar notions, the questions that affected liberty of
conscience and church reform were those which most deeply
interested him; and when, upon the morning of the 23d of
November, Prynne and Burton entered triumphantly into
Westminster, followed by many thousands of the people, Cuthbert
36. was foremost in the crowd; and not a zealot among them was more
wildly excited than himself.
Laughter and tears succeeded to each other, as those around
expressed their rude sympathy;—now in remarks quaint and comical
—now in pious commiseration, or in the stern tones of indignant and
just anger.
“Which is old Prynne?” said one.—“That’s he,” said his
neighbour, “with his black head clipped close, looking, for all the
world, like a skull-cap.”—“See how the old boy grins.”—“He’s no
beauty.”—“Hurrah! hurrah!”—“Can you hear, old boy?”—“I wonder if
a man can hear without his ears.”—“To be sure a’ can, all the
better.”—“Well, he can’t have the ear-ache no more.”—“Don’t talk so
unfeeling.”—“Look, poor dear good man, he is as white as a
sheet.”—“That is prison and hunger.”—“This is your bishops’ work—
od rot ’em—their turn shall come.”
With such vulgarities were mixed the solemn tones and pious
expressions of many a sincere Christian, giving utterance to praise
and thanksgiving for the deliverance of these persecuted men;
while, here and there, a strong voice would be heard, above the
crowd, denouncing the tyranny of the church and the crown in
coarse language, in which the Establishment was likened to the
whore of Babylon,—and the Archbishop of Canterbury was pointed
out to the vengeance of the rabble.
Such language would, in a moment of calm reflection, have
been utterly revolting to the feelings of Cuthbert. He would have
shut his ears to the base and bloody cry, and hurried away from the
wretches who gave it utterance, as from the company of sinners,
whose feet were already planted in the paths of wickedness, and
were swift to shed blood. But now, though such fierce cries gave a
jar to his better dispositions and nobler nature, they were regarded
as the natural ebullitions of an irritated mob; and he stood among
them as a partaker of their guilt by the sanction of his presence.
Nothing is so blind—nothing is so deaf—nothing can stoop so
low—as party spirit;—and at no period of English history was this
more fully exemplified than at that of which we are now speaking.
37. The Cavaliers, on their side, were not without the support of a
rabble of their own; and by these, the slang of the tavern, the bear
garden, and the brothel, was exhausted to furnish epithets of scorn,
contempt, and ridicule, by which they might insult their fanatical
opponents.
To the mental eye of Cuthbert the two victims of a severe and
intolerant hierarchy stood out in large and disproportionate grandeur,
—filling all the foreground of the picture upon which he now gazed
to the exclusion of all other objects.
He saw them bearing the evident marks of torture and
degradation on their mutilated forms. They had been thus treated,
according to his notion, for a mere error in judgment—they were
sufferers for conscience-sake:—his heart grew hot within him,—and
he would have called down fire from heaven on the heads of their
oppressors.
He accompanied the crowd all through Westminster; and, in the
eagerness of his excited mood, pressed in once close to the horse of
Prynne, that he might utter a “God save you, master!” to the stern
Puritan, face to face.
There was a keen twinkle of triumph in the little eyes of the
sour precisian, which showed that he felt his day of revenge would
soon come, and that it would be his turn to play inquisitor towards
his late haughty oppressor.
However, he would have been more than human had he been
superior to such an infirmity, after sustaining injuries so great.
It happened on the day of this public entry of Prynne and
Burton that Cuthbert was alone in the quarter of Westminster; and
having remained a long time gazing on the show, he went into a
tavern in a narrow street behind the Abbey to refresh.
After satisfying his hunger over a fine joint of roast beef in
company with a grave looking lawyer, who sat opposite him at the
same table, with a roll of parchments and papers by his side, the
man of law proposed a cup of canary to the health of Masters
Prynne and Burton, in which he was readily seconded by Cuthbert.
38. “Ah,” said the stranger bitterly, “this is a different kind of
procession to the fool’s mummery which they made us play seven
years ago, before the wanton queen and her dancing French
gentlemen.”
“What! you mean the mask of the inns of court, on Candlemas-
day, seven years ago?” asked Cuthbert.
“Just so: that was got up to tickle the court party, and trample
down Prynne and his book; but tables are turning.”
“Well, though I think they were very tyrannical about Prynne, I
did not like his book; and never saw any harm in a mask or an
interlude.”
“Why, to judge by your looks, you could only have been a boy
when that mask was given, and perhaps you did not see it.”
“That is true; but I read the account of it that was printed, and
surely it was a brave and glorious show; and, methinks, there were
some witty hints given his Majesty in the anti-masks, which he might
be the wiser for.”
“The man Charles Stuart,” said the stranger, “will never be the
better for hints.”
It was the first time that Cuthbert had ever heard from any lips
so irreverent a mention of the King, and he coloured and was silent.
“I say he will never be the better for hints,—though it is true
that some of them were broad enough, and too humorous for
offence; but you have forgotten that there was one anti-mask got up
by the serviles to insult the poor. If it may not have a sneer of
ridicule for poverty and misfortune, the pleasure of the proud
wanteth its best relish.”
“I do not understand you,” said Cuthbert; “of what speak you,
master?”
“Of that which has been played in joke, and shall come to pass
in earnest. Little they thought, with their gibes and their mockery,
that they were but foreshowing events, which the turn of the wheel
is even now bringing to pass. I do remember all their gilded chariots
and rich apparel, and gay liveries; and in the midst of that costly
39. show, there rode an anti-mask of cripples and beggars, clothed in
rags, and mounted on sorry lean jades, gotten out of dust carts,
with dirty urchins snapping tongs and shovels before them for music,
—and thus was the noble music, and thus were the gallant horses,
and the velvets and silks and spangled habits, made more pleasing
to the painted court Jezebels by the pitiful contrast. Shall not the
Lord visit for these things?” he added, raising his voice, and
changing the tone of it to a solemn sternness: “Yea, verily, he shall
visit:—in his hand there is a cup,—and the dregs thereof shall be
drunk out by the oppressors,—and the sword shall go through the
land, and it shall be drunk with blood.”
The severe inference thus forced by the speaker from a trifling
circumstance, of which the joyous projectors of the interlude
thought perhaps very differently, and which might have been so
turned by a playful mind, as a caricature against the foreign
musicians, then so much about court; or, again, by a thoughtful
mind, as a memento of those dark realities of human misery which
invite and demand compassion. This inference was at once received
by Cuthbert as just. It touched a chord in his heart that immediately
responded, and he was played upon as a lute by his companion; till,
at last, the latter opening a roll of parchment requested him to put
down his name as a subscriber to the necessities of a few godly and
persecuted men now suffering imprisonment for the great cause of
liberty of conscience, and whose families were quite destitute.
From his slender purse Cuthbert instantly took the few crowns it
contained, and only reserving sufficient money to pay for his dinner,
shook his new acquaintance heartily by the hand, and set forth on
his way to the city, where he lodged, with a heart glowing with the
love of God, of his country, and of mankind. His evil angel had only
to appear clothed like an angel of light, and Cuthbert would follow,
nothing doubting, whithersoever he was led. The false fire, which
glimmered over the dangerous quagmire of gloomy fanaticism, was
mistaken by Cuthbert for light from Heaven; and by the frequent
perusal of controversies on religion, and a constant attendance on
the private ministries of those fierce zealots, who were urging
40. forward the overthrow of the Established Church, he became at
length totally bewildered. It was in vain that Francis Heywood
exposed to him the hypocrisy and inconsistency of some of those
wolves in sheep’s clothing by whom he was now continually
surrounded, to the neglect of Heywood’s own society and that of the
higher and better order of the Parliamentarian supporters. He
listened with pity to remonstrances which he considered as
proceeding from a man of the world, and a deceived soul wandering
in darkness; nevertheless his affectionate disposition survived the
strength of his reason. He looked up to and loved Francis Heywood
as a model of what the natural man might attain to; and as in their
political views they were altogether agreed, they very often met.
The ardent Francis might indeed have well doubted of the
soundness of a political creed which numbered among its supporters
such diversified and crazy characters as those whom he saw daily
embrace it: but although he was not able to endure their
sanctimonious professions, and morose manners, he viewed them as
instruments necessary to the present warfare of principles; and,
having returned from America on purpose to stand up for the
popular rights, he remained steadfastly at his post, watching with
intense interest the proceedings of parliament, and eager for the
moment when those services, which he came to offer, might be
required in the field.
In one particular the lives of Francis Heywood and of Cuthbert
Noble during the two following years corresponded well. Never were
those hard duties which self-denial enjoins, practised with a more
resolute and cheerful virtue. The means of both were slender; and
they supported themselves by the exercise of their respective talents
with credit and success.
Cuthbert attended daily in the families of two or three
merchants of the Puritan party as classical tutor to their boys; while
Francis Heywood, reserving with great care the sum necessary to
purchase a good charger, and military equipments, whenever he
might need them, maintained his current expenses by the drawing of
maps, plans, and views illustrative of the late campaigns of Gustavus
41. Adolphus, and of the actual warfare in Germany which was then
carrying on. These drawings found a sufficient sale, among the
curious in such matters, to remunerate the light labour of producing
them; and though the printseller, who purchased them from Francis,
told him that gentlemen, very capable of advancing his interests,
had made inquiries after him, yet he was forbidden by Francis to
disclose his residence, or to answer any questions about him. His
leisure from this easy occupation was employed in useful studies or
in manly exercises. He daily frequented a school of arms, not for
instruction, indeed, for he was a master of all weapons, but for
health and diversion; and for the same end he went often to the
grand manège in the quarter of the court; where he was so great a
favourite with the chevalier, who taught the graces of horsemanship,
that he was asked as a kindness to exercise the most spirited and
beautiful animals of his stud in the open country:—an offer which,
from the delight he took in the amusement of schooling a young and
high bred horse, he very often accepted.
Francis Heywood was not unknown to many families with whom
his father had been intimate; and by some of them, notwithstanding
his fortunes and his politics, and by others on account of them, he
was invited to several houses, where he might have enjoyed all the
pleasures and the refinements of social life; but he very rarely
accepted their invitations, not merely from mistaken pride, but from
a disrelish of scenes which would always so strongly and painfully
suggest to him the happy intercourse he had once enjoyed in that
domestic circle, of which his adored Katharine was at once the
charm and the idol.
Upon this sweet memory, in lonely hours of leisure, his mind
would feed, and he would discourse of it, not indeed in words, but in
the soft breathings of his lute; till, suddenly, by the strong effort of a
manly will, he would tear himself from the dangerous indulgence,
and sit closely down to his writing desk, that he might complete the
minute journal of public events which he kept for his father, and
despatched, as opportunities offered, to New England.
42. To the review of these grave subjects he brought a generous
spirit; and it was not without an occasional pang that he related the
progress and triumph of the cause to which he was sincerely
attached.
He could not but exult to see the principles of government
openly examined, and the just rights and liberties of the people
clearly defined.
He looked with veneration upon the labours of the Commons;
and he watched with jealousy the advisers of the crown, and the
sycophants about the court. He saw many abuses rectified, many
grievances redressed. He saw the iniquitous Star Chamber and the
High Commission Court abolished,—and a noble security against a
return of misgovernment and tyranny in the famous bill for a
triennial parliament.
This last measure, the main pillar of the new constitution, was
received by the whole nation with rejoicings; and when it passed
solemn thanks were presented to his Majesty by both houses of
parliament. But the sincerity of the court party and the moderation
of the reformers were alike suspicious. The passions, the prejudices,
and the interests of conflicting parties had been too rudely aroused
by discussion to subside without an explosive collision; and it was
evident to Francis that the struggle between the prerogatives of the
crown and the privileges of parliament would never terminate
without an appeal to arms.
He shuddered to see the scaffold stained with the blood of
Strafford; and though he was among those who clamoured against
the minister, he profoundly commiserated the man, as the
abandoned victim of his party,—and in his heart he despised Charles
for signing the death-warrant of his favourite.
44. CHAP. XVII.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
Milton.
The affliction of the good parson of Cheddar at the strange and
painful conduct of his son Cuthbert was heavy to bear. However,
from a sense of duty to his weaker partner, he made great efforts to
preserve his wonted serenity and composure in her presence; but
when alone he was bowed down in the dust.
Nothing could possibly present a greater contrast to the tone of
religious profession which was, at this period, obtaining a wide
reception among men than that in which old Noble lay prostrate in
his closet before his God.
He had ever been a meek and cheerful Christian; but there were
depths of humiliation which he had not as yet fathomed; and he
would have fainted at the waves of trouble, which his prescient eye
saw rolling onward, if he had not felt the hand, which led him down
into the deep, was that of a heavenly Father, if he had not heard a
voice that whispered in his ear, “It is I, be not afraid.”
In vain did he exhaust his heart in sound, pious, and
affectionate remonstrances, meditated and penned in the spirit of
prayer, that he might recall his dear and wandering child to the
bosom of the church, or, at all events, so far recover him from gross
delusions as to see him join that upright and devout portion of the
community, which, though differing from the discipline of the church,
maintained a pure and practical doctrine.
45. In vain did he press the return of Cuthbert to Cheddar, by every
argument which parental love could suggest.
The letters of Noble and his wife were replied to in the words of
love; but the fruit of his new persuasion was an obstinate self-will;
and while he implored them, at great length, to consider his views,
and urged the danger of despising them, he evinced to others, what
was not perhaps suspected by himself, a degree of spiritual pride
only to be exceeded by the strength of his delusion.
He had adopted the notions of those fanatics who were styled
Fifth-monarchy Men, and who ranged themselves where, indeed,
any sect, however extravagant, might have found a place, under the
banner of the Independents.
It was some consolation to these troubled parents to hear from
the Philips’s, their relations, and also from other friends, that the life
and the conduct of Cuthbert were, as regarded all moral and social
duties, a credit to any theory, and such as became the pure precepts
of the Gospel.
His intellect was clear upon every other subject, except on that
which, if it be rashly touched, seems to be guarded by invisible
angels, who put forth their hands and smite the daring intruder with
madness. “Oppression,” saith the preacher, “will make a wise man
mad;“—a truth abundantly proved by the events, which, leading first
to a secret and salutary reform, ended at last in a bloody revolution
and an iron rule.
It may be added, that he who seeketh to meddle with the
hidden mysteries of unfulfilled prophecy is often smitten with
blindness and confusion for his presumption. Thus it was with
Cuthbert:—sensible, amiable, and affectionate in all the relations of
life, he was now the subject of a monomania, and turned a deaf ear
to the voice of truth and wisdom, though it spoke with all the
authority and all the earnestness of a father.
These were not times in which a minister could leave his parish
for a distant journey, nor, indeed, was it at all likely that the
presence of his parents would have effected that change in the
46. sentiments or the course of Cuthbert, which their admirable and
Christian letters had failed to produce.
Time wore on gloomily enough, even in the peaceful parsonage
at Cheddar. Many a time as old Noble paced his garden amid
sunbeams and flowers, praising that “mercy which endureth for
ever,” his thanksgivings ended in tears and lamentations, not for his
domestic troubles, but for the great evils which he feared and
expected would befall the church and the nation.
Laud was already paying the penalty of his mistaken, but
certainly conscientious, severity, in a prison, from whence it might
be plainly foretold he would at length be conducted to the block.
The bishops’ votes in parliament were taken away, and the deans
and chapters were already voted against in the Commons, although
their spoliation had not yet taken place, neither were the cathedral
services as yet discontinued. As regularly, therefore, as the Thursday
came round, Noble, if not prevented by a special call of duty at
home, made his weekly visit to the fair city of Wells; where he in the
first instance always bent his steps to the cathedral, and joined the
congregation assembled for morning service.
It was on a saint’s day, in the summer of 1641, that, as usual,
he proceeded to that venerable and glorious temple, and took his
seat in the vacant stall which it was his wont to occupy. Directly
opposite he observed a tall uncouth man of harsh features and a
sour countenance, sitting very upright, and glancing a severe and
restless eye at the organ, the first tones of which were pealing
through the long aisles, as the dean, the prebends, and other
officers of the choir, preceded by the vergers with their maces,
slowly entered, and reverently took their seats.
The service began, and was conducted with that solemn
decency, and with those clear fine chants, which dispose most hearts
to a subdued feeling of intense devotion.
There is a something in sacred music which does wonderfully
compose the mind, and cleanse it of all earthly-rooted cares. Upon
the stranger above mentioned, however, it produced no such effect.
He sat erect, cold, and contemptuous: he put aside the Book of
47. Common Prayer with a rude thrust; and taking a small volume from
his pocket opened it with ostentatious gravity, and, not joining in the
worship that he witnessed, either by response, gesture, or any
conformity of posture with those around him, sat, now casting his
eyes on the page of his book, now severely around, and now raising
them to Heaven after a manner that left nothing but the jaundiced
whites visible.
This strange conduct disturbed, irritated, or amused the
observers, according to the impression that was made upon them.
Some of the prebends and vicars choral looked red and angry. The
dean was greatly distressed, and knew not what to do. At first he
called the verger, with a design to remove the intruder; but, upon
second thoughts, he feared that a yet greater interruption and
indecency might take place if such a course was attempted, he
therefore commanded his feelings with as much dignity as he could.
But his grave frowns were totally without power upon the youthful
choristers, whose laughter would have been loud and audible, but
for the thick folds of the surplice with which they stuffed their
rebellious and aching jaws.
Noble himself was mournfully agitated, and prayed in the spirit
with that deep and melancholy fervour which hath no outward
expression but the abased eyes.
By degrees, the congregation recovered their composure, and
never was an anthem performed with more earnest solemnity, or a
sweetness more touching to the inmost soul, than the “Ne Irascaris,”
the “Be not Wroth,” or “Bow thine Ear” of the famous composer Bird.
At the words “Sion, thy Sion is wasted and brought low,” which are
set to a tender and solemn passage, and are sung very soft and
slow, the effect was sublime. Moved by the deep pathos of the
expression, the cheeks of Noble, as of a few others present, were
bathed in tears.
But the stranger remained in his seat without rising, and
perused his book with a kind of resolved and insulting inattention to
it all.
48. The service was not permitted to close without this mysterious
personage marking his contempt of it yet farther, by rising suddenly,
while all the congregation were on their knees, and stalking slowly
down the middle of the aisle with a loud and measured stamp of his
great thick boots.
He wore by his side a long heavy-looking sword, and had
certainly the air of a man who could use it, if he chose, with little
fear and no favour.
Noble joined the clergy in the chapter-room directly after the
morning prayers were ended, and there learned that there had been
a riot the night before in the streets, excited by some mischievous
emissary from London; and that some of the rabble had burned a
bishop in effigy, in the close just under the windows of the dean. It
seemed, however, that this outrage had been committed by a band
of low persons, who had come up from Bristol to attend a fair, and
had brought with them sundry printed papers and ribald songs to
distribute in the lanes and alleys of the city: the object of which was
to bring the church and clergy into public contempt.
However, it so happens that, for the most part, the inhabitants
of a cathedral town take a great pride in the edifice itself, whatever
may be their indifference to religion. Those magnificent structures
are the first wonders upon which the eyes of the human beings,
born and suckled beneath their shadow, are taught to gaze. They
are noble and solemn features in the scene of early life; and are
printed so indelibly on the mind, that, let the native of a cathedral
city wander where he will, the recollection of the venerable temple
goes with him, associated, in his memory, with his birthplace, his
holydays, his truant hours, with the merry music of festival bells,
with the pride of having often seen strangers and travellers, both of
high and low degree, walk about its walls, and linger in its spacious
aisles, with pleasure and admiration.
Therefore a party among the common people was easily roused
to take up sticks and stones against the insulting mischief-makers,
who were thus at last driven away from the city with great tumult.
49. It was the very day following this riot that the offensive
adventure in the cathedral, which we have just related, occurred. As
no doubt existed in the minds of the clergy assembled in the
chapter-room that the extraordinary person, who had just committed
so gross and indecent an outrage in a place of public worship, was,
in some measure, connected with the disturbance of the preceding
day, they resolved to make an immediate complaint to the Mayor of
Wells, that the obnoxious individual might be taken up, and
committed to prison, or otherwise punished for his offence.
Some little time had been lost in their consultations; and they
came forth from the cathedral in a body, with the intention of
despatching two of the prebends, already deputed for that purpose,
to wait upon the mayor, when, to their surprise and mortification,
they saw the object of their anger approaching them on horseback.
As he drew near, it was evident that the opportunity of arresting him
was already lost. He rode a very powerful young horse of generous
breed and fine action—and he sat upon him as on a throne.
“Look ye,” said he, as he drew up close to the astonished group,
—“Look ye, Scribes and Pharisees! hypocrites!—ye love greetings in
the market-place—take mine:—the time is come to set your houses
in order—even now the decree is gone forth—the sword is now
sharpening that shall pass through the land:—it glitters, look ye.” So
saying, with a grim smile he drew the blade of his own half out of
the scabbard, and let it fall again with a forcible rattle.
The dean, who was a bold and athletic man, disregarding this
fierce action, made an active effort to seize the bridle of the Puritan’s
steed; but the wary rider with a jerk of the reins threw up the
animal’s head, and at the same moment touching his flank with the
spur made him give a plunge forward that scattered the frightened
priests a few yards on either side. Nevertheless, the dean
remonstrated in very angry terms against his insulting abuse; as did
others, who were, like himself, courageous. They did not, however,
succeed either in stopping the fanatic or in driving him away:—a
small mob was gathering in the cathedral yard, and the fiery zealot
continued his address.
50. “What mean ye, ye priests of Baal, by your silks, and your
satins, and your hoods, and your scarfs, and your square caps, and
your surplices, and all your fooleries? what mean your boy choristers
that bleat like young kids, and your men choristers that bellow like
oxen? what means your grunting organ? Is it thus you worship God,
as though he were an idol and an abomination, and his temple like
that of the heathen? It should be a house of prayer, and ye have
made it a den of thieves, and all its services vain and lewd
mummeries. I cry, Fie upon you!—Wo, wo, wo!—Ye shall see me
again when the blast of the trumpet soundeth, and mine eye shall
not pity. I will smite, I will not spare you. Have ye not preached
blasphemies? have ye not broken and polluted the holy Sabbath with
your sports and your harlotries? have ye not shed the blood of God-
fearing men? yea, verily. Now hear my warning:—come out of her,
come out of her, my people. There are among you, even among your
priests, some whom the Lord hath chosen:—yet again I call to you,
Come out of her, come out of Babylon, that ye perish not with her.
To me is appointed this cry:—every where I must lift up my voice
thus, till the day of vengeance come. Wo shall be the portion of
those who hear me not!”
An insane delight gleamed in his dark eyes, a convulsive energy
distorted his features, and seemed to affect and agitate his whole
form. The crowd drew closer to him: the resolute dean beckoning
them forward, again advanced with the intention of seizing him,
when he suddenly gave his horse the head; and touching the high
spirited beast with both spurs, he was borne out of their sight at a
few rapid bounds, and was very soon beyond all danger of pursuit.
Several of the mob ran round the corner after him jeering and
cheering; but the clergy went their ways, by twos and threes, and
talked over the uncomfortable though diseased words of the fanatic
with much gravity and discomposure.
Many painful extravagancies of a fanatic character had been
already committed in various parts of the country; and in London
many scandalous scenes had been enacted, expressive of a
contempt for the Established Church and her ministers.
51. The prelates and dignitaries were the especial marks of popular
hatred; but, hitherto, nothing approaching to the indecency and
outrage above recorded had occurred in the neighbourhood and
under the eye of Noble.
Again he could have wished Cuthbert to have been present, as
he had formerly wished that he could have witnessed the
unmannerly and unchristian bearing of Master Daws, the morose
and designing curate, whose interview with Noble we have in a
former part of this story related.
“Surely,” thought the mild man of peace,—“Surely such things
would open his eyes to the spirit that is abroad, and to the aim and
end of these violent men, who would purify our venerable church as
with fire, and wash away her few stains with the blood and the tears
of her faithful children.”
After partaking of a dinner, with little appetite, in the house of
his friend, where the party assembled formed but a sad society, and
where the time passed in the discussion of more grave and anxious
matters than those upon which they were commonly engaged in
these innocent weekly meetings, the worthy parson mounted his old
mare, and rode back slowly to Cheddar. His thoughts were so
profoundly and mournfully absorbed by reflections on the very
startling occurrences of the morning, that he saw not the clouds
which were gathering overhead, until he was awakened to observe
them by a sudden and loud clap of thunder. The sunshine was
suddenly obscured by a deep gloom. A few heavy rain drops fell
upon him, and were soon followed by a thick and rushing deluge of
such rain as falls in summer tempests. The sky was covered with a
mass of clouds black as a funeral pall. Every moment flashes of
angry lightning passed across it in vivid and arrowy forms; while
thunder followed, peal after peal rolling in quick and troubled
succession. Noble had just entered the defile or pass by which
Cheddar is approached; and as the narrow road lies in the bottom of
a chasm, on either side of which the rocks rise many hundred feet
with a terrific grandeur, the horrid gloom—the lurid and ghastly
lights—and the prolonged echoes with which the roar of the thunder
52. was borne from crag to crag—gave a tenfold awfulness to the storm,
and sublimely shadowed forth the power of Jehovah.
Amid this war of elements the meek parson felt almost happy:—
his frightened beast had stopped beneath a rock that inclined
somewhat over the road, though not sufficiently to afford any shelter
from the rain. He was drenched to the skin himself, and as he could
not urge his animal forward he dismounted; but the wet and the
delay were forgotten, were disregarded. There are moments of
communion with the Deity, which, when they are accorded to his
feeble children, cause their spirits to be rapt in seraphic love. The
adoration that is born of a faith trembling yet holding fast is the
sublimest human worship:—“the firmest thing in this inferior world is
a believing soul.” And he that can lift up his voice with the Psalmist,
and, amid the horrors of a tempest, can say, “Praise the Lord, O my
soul; and all that is within me praise his holy name,” hath, as it
were, a sublime foretaste of that great and terrible day of the Lord,
when the Christian shall witness the final and everlasting triumph of
his Redeemer over sin and death,—and shall behold his salvation
draw nigh.
53. CHAP. XVIII.
With that the mighty thunder dropt away
From God’s unwary arm, now milder grown,
And melted into tears.
Giles Fletcher.
In such a spirit Noble endured the pelting of the storm, and listened
to the rolling of the thunder, and gazed upon the dread illumination
which flashed at intervals on the desolate and dreary rocks around
him. The fury of this summer tempest was soon exhausted:—the
exceeding blackness of the clouds gave place to a lighter, though a
sunless, sky; the claps of thunder were few and distant, and the
lightning became a faint and harmless coruscation. The rain was thin
and transparent; and Noble continued his way on foot, followed by
his old mare, whose docility was that of an aged dog. They had not
proceeded above two hundred yards when the mare gave a sudden
start, and ran up a heap of loose stones on the right of the road. On
the left of it, at the foot of a tremendous precipice, Noble descried
the object which had alarmed her, and which, but for her fright, he
should have passed without notice. A man lay upon the ground
bleeding. Noble immediately crossed to the spot, and stooping
down, he recognised the person of the stern fanatic, whose conduct
at Wells has been related in the foregoing chapter. He was
insensible, but did not, upon examination, appear to have sustained
any injury more serious than a severe and stunning bruise; as well
as a cut on the forehead from a sharp flint. From the prints of his
horse’s feet, it seemed evident, at first, that he had been thrown
where he then lay, and had fainted; but on looking again, Noble
observed that his pockets were turned inside out, and that his sword
and cartridge belt were gone; for he remembered in the morning to
have remarked his arms very particularly, and to have been struck by
the circumstance of a man of his rigid ungraceful figure sitting so
54. admirably on horseback, and managing the young animal which he
rode with such a light and easy hand. Moreover, he now saw that
the impressions of the horse’s hoofs had been made before the rain
had fallen. His first care was to endeavour to restore the sufferer
from his swoon. This he soon effected by chafing the body to restore
circulation, and by applying to the nostrils a pungent preparation,
which he always carried about with him, as a preservative from
infection, when his duties called him to visit the sick beds of those
who were afflicted with any disease considered pestilential. When
Noble had satisfied himself that the unfortunate man was a little
recovered by the returning consciousness in his eyes, and the
regularity of his breathing, he went after his mare. She had not
strayed far, and he soon brought her back, and after a while he had
the satisfaction to observe that the wounded traveller was able to
move and sit up. He now persuaded and assisted him to get upon
the patient beast, and supporting him in the saddle with his hand,
moved off slowly towards Cheddar. Half a mile on they met plain
Peter, who had come out to look for his master, and was wondering
and uncomfortable at the unusual lateness of his return.
The sight explained itself; and the honest domestic expressing
some sorrow for the sufferer, but more for his master, took his place
on the other side of the mare, and aided Noble in the task of
supporting the stranger, who was so weak and exhausted that he
could hardly be held upon the saddle by their joint exertions for the
rest of the road.
Although not a syllable had been uttered by the object of their
care, that was intelligible to either, and although Noble had not
mentioned a word about having seen him at Wells, still Peter had an
instinctive dislike to the man’s features and his dress—from both of
which he pronounced him a Puritan. He went so far as to provoke an
angry rebuke from his master for opposing the benevolent resolution
of the latter to take him to his own house.
“Surely,” said Peter, “a pallet at the Jolly Woodman will serve his
turn:—he’ll be well enough taken care of by Dame Crowther: why