Although Cuthbert Noble was by degrees gaining a little experience in his new and unsuitable calling, yet it must be confessed that a little of his enthusiasm evaporated under the necessary process of being drilled and taught his exercise; and not only so, but he began to be very much puzzled and perplexed at the opinions and the conduct of many with whom he was now to live and to act. The Colonel of the regiment in which he had received his appointment was, indeed, a man eminently worthy of respect and esteem. He was a devout, reserved person, of a noble and grave presence,—an approved soldier, and a sincere and sound patriot. He considered himself to be opposing the crown upon strict constitutional principles; and, being conscientiously attached to the Presbyterian form of church government, desired the overthrow of the prelacy, and the total abolition of episcopacy. Nevertheless, he viewed with distaste and a cold sufferance the extravagant proceedings of the various independent sects now loose upon society; and discouraged, as far as he could, without danger to the one great and common cause, the practices which already obtained in the ranks of the Parliament levies. Every vain and intoxicated fanatic, who had the power of uttering a few dozen unconnected and rambling sentences without book, claimed for his shallow babbling the authority of inspiration, and asserted his gift of speech as a divine commission, by which he was called to the office of a preacher of the word of God. His own religion was serious, practical, intelligible; and he had a sternness of sound judgment, before which all flighty pretensions and false confidences fell down or fled away. His name was Maxwell: he had been a friend of the father of Francis Heywood, and was very well acquainted with Francis. Owing to this circumstance Cuthbert was favourably introduced to him, and was always very considerately treated; but their characters, their ages, and their relative situations in the regiment, made it impossible for them to become intimate with each other. Moreover, the earliest and latest waking thoughts of Colonel Maxwell were wholly taken up with the very important duties of preparing his corps by strict discipline and close training for the day of trial, which could not be very far distant; therefore Cuthbert was left, soon after he joined, to make out as well as he could with the society of the captain of his company and his brother lieutenant. At first, indeed, for a very few days, he had enjoyed the comfort of having Francis Heywood in the same quarters, but the horse had marched down to Northampton, and they were thus separated. Now the captain of Cuthbert’s company had been a master butcher, of the name of Ruddiman, about forty years of age: a fine portly man, standing about six feet three inches in height, with ample chest and broad shoulders, little eyes, red cheeks, a low forehead, and coarse greasy black hair. He had a fist that would fell a bullock, and a voice that would frighten a herd of them. In spite of the very hardening influence of his calling, he had nothing unkind in his temper. He had thrived greatly in his business, was honest and just in all his dealings, a good husband, a good father, and a good citizen—with a house full of children, and a pretty pasture farm in the county of Hertfordshire. He was as bold as he was strong; but was here, nevertheless, solely in obedience to the wishes of an active, ambitious, meddling wife, who was a bitter, censorious, religious politician, and whose pride it was that her husband should be a down-king man, and a captain in the Parliament army. The good captain himself, meanwhile, barring his wife’s sovereign will, and the honour of the title, would much rather have looked after his business at home; or, at all events, have been permitted to join a horse regiment, though only as a sergeant. But Mrs. Ruddiman had decided otherwise, and had told him that, if he only served for a few weeks or months as a captain, and looked well about him, he might get made a commissary and get a contract, and make his fortune. This last consideration was not without its weight; for Master Ruddiman had always a keen eye to the main chance. The brother lieutenant of Cuthbert was a very different sort of personage. He was a thin man, of middle stature, with a pale face and red hair, under thirty years of age. His trade had been that of a dyer: he had rendered conspicuous service at the last election, in securing the return of a Puritan to Parliament, and had been rewarded thus: he was needy, and the pay of his humble rank an object to him. He had great fluency of words, and was a raving Independent of the most virulent order. His name was Elkanah Sippet: he was ignorant, irritable, and vain. He knew a little Latin, with which he was wont to garnish his talk when he wanted to pass off for a scholar, and puzzle big Captain Ruddiman; and he could fill his mouth with Scripture phrases and texts when he wished to impress Cuthbert with a favourable notion of his piety. Ruddiman and Sippet hated each other with about as natural and as cordial a hatred as might consist with their being on the same side in this contest. Neither of them could understand or like poor Cuthbert; but both took refuge from the uneasy contempt with which they regarded each other, by endeavouring to conciliate his good opinion, or rather his preference.
To choose between them was easy: Ruddiman was worth a dozen Sippets in the qualities of his nature; nor was there any thing of the hypocrite in him. He was dull, and slow of comprehension; therefore he seldom suffered himself to speak about religion, but passively knelt and passively listened to the long prayers and longer preachings of the chaplain. He had been so stupified and subdued at home about points of faith and church government by his wife’s brother, a warm and wordy brazier, the godly elder of the congregation to which his wife belonged, that he yielded, partly for the sake of peace, and partly in distrust of his own reason. Thus, in plain fact, he feared God truly for himself, and received the interpretations of Scripture delivered by the clergy, and the lay elders of his sect, with a submission as implicit, and an apprehension as confused, as the Italian peasant listens to the Latin oration of a Franciscan friar. His politics were more simple; and he was in the habit of expressing what he felt about them by always calling the King the man Charles Stuart, and all the principal leaders of the Parliament party right honest and God-fearing worthies. “A man’s a man,” he would say: “I don’t see why any one should be called lord over another; and as for bishops, bless us, why should they live in palaces, and hold forth about taxes in the House of Lords?—Don’t you think that’s wrong, Master Noble, quite wrong? Why it is writ in the Bible that the kingdom of Christ is not of this world.” To this political creed Cuthbert would give assent; but a quick memory whispered to his inner man, “Why then do my servants fight?” As for his brother lieutenant, his tone was always rancorous and unchristian: he was of a mean and narrow mind, without charity and without patience; selfish and tricky, and, withal, quite intent on rising upon the ruin of his betters. He felt a sort of inferiority in the presence of Cuthbert that a little awed him; but his nature would break out occasionally. It was no small advantage to Cuthbert that his two companions had seen him, for a few days, often walking and conversing with Francis Heywood, whose soldierly appearance had attracted general attention among the troops. Moreover, though far indeed from the aptitude desired by Colonel Maxwell, the intelligence of Cuthbert in the field of exercise was greater than that of either Ruddiman or Sippet. Perhaps, after all, the greatest trial of Cuthbert arose from the manners of those with whom he was now compelled, by the distribution of quarters, to live night and day. As officers of the same company, Captain Ruddiman, Sippet, and himself, took their meals together, and he was compelled to occupy a stretcher in the same sleeping chamber with Sippet. Now Ruddiman was a very gross and unclean feeder, and had a most disgusting habit of hawking and spitting on the floor all day long; while Sippet, who secretly indulged in the too frequent use of strong waters, always stunk of spirits, and snored through his nights so loudly, as very seriously to disturb the rest of Cuthbert: nor was it possible, with so irritating an accompaniment, to comfort his wakeful hours with those meditations with which he had often solaced his night watches at Milverton while confined by his wound. However, his spirit, though fretted, did not sink under these annoyances: he rose constantly with the first glimmer of dawn: he did his utmost to perfect himself in all matters of drill and discipline. He gave his best attention to all his instructors, and he performed all his duties with manly cheerfulness, and in the best possible spirit. Colonel Maxwell saw this with silent satisfaction; but he was not a man for lavish praises and sudden intimacies, nor was he without a clear perception that Cuthbert would never make a thorough soldier; indeed his immovable gravity was sometimes very near being altogether conquered by a burst of laughter at the mode in which Cuthbert exhibited the solemn earnestness of his desire to learn his exercises thoroughly, and to command his men properly.
One day, for instance, very soon after Cuthbert’s arrival, as he rode through the different squads of recruits who were learning their facings, he found Cuthbert in one corner of the field, with his head in the air, and a corporal giving him private instructions; and, unperceived by the former, he heard the following strange query:—“Now, my brave man, pray have the goodness to explain to me, very exactly, how it is, that is, upon what principle it is, that, if I place my feet in this extraordinary manner, I shall come to what you call ‘the right about face?’”
“Principle! God save you, master! I know nothing at all about principles; but I know, if you do as I bid you, and put the ball of your right toe to your left heel, and raise the fore part of your feet, and come smartly, heel round, on your two heels, and bring back your right sharply and square with the left, you will come to the right about like a man and a musketeer.”
Again, at an after period, as the Colonel passed the spot where a company of pikemen was parading under the orders of Cuthbert, the warlike student, who was just fresh from the perusal of a military treatise in Greek, having taken post at a farther distance than usual in the front, and noticing a little whispering and unsteadiness, called out with most innocent seriousness,—“Silence, men, silence: the Lacedæmonians never spoke in the ranks.”
The pikemen seeing the Colonel near became silent, rather in respect to his presence than obedience to their simple-hearted lieutenant, and wondered the while what county militia these Lacedæmonians might be. The commanding officer, averting his head to conceal his irrepressible smiles, went forward; and Cuthbert, quite unconscious of any thing strange or ridiculous, proceeded to number off, and prove his pikemen according to the intricate system of the slow and cumbrous movements of those days.
Never, however, was a human being more thoroughly out of his element than Master Cuthbert as lieutenant in this said company of pikemen under the orders of Captain Ruddiman. He could contrive, indeed, a little leisure and a little solitude most days; but even those brief seasons of meditation and enjoyment were often broken in upon by a sergeant hurrying after him to say that perhaps eleven set of new straps for back and breast pieces were wanting, or that two pikes were broken, and three men had lost the scabbards of their tucks.
Moreover, he could hardly find a private path or walk near St. Albans, where he did not come suddenly upon a few military sinners, who had stolen out of the sight of their preaching officers and praying comrades to have a game of trap-ball, tip-cat, or the greater abominations of cross and pile, pitch and hustle, and chuck farthing. Nay, upon one occasion, he surprised a little party under a buttress of the abbey playing at primero, trump, put, or beat the knave out of doors, with two dollys sitting in their company, of whom it might be plainly seen that they had no business in a garrison of Puritans. But he was in these moments usually in too absorbed a mood to take notice of and reprove these transgressors, and was quite as anxious to turn away his eyes as the soldiers were to see them so averted.
One day, as he wandered into the abbey a little before sunset, and was standing lost in thought before the monument of Lord Bacon, and contemplating the fine alabaster effigy of that great philosopher, he heard himself gently addressed by name, and turning to the speaker, he recognised, with as much surprise as delight, his worthy and invaluable friend Randal, the surgeon of Warwick, to whose skilful care and kind treatment he held himself indebted, under God, for his life.
Their pleasure at meeting was mutual, and was increased when they found that they were again providentially brought together, and held commissions in the same corps. Randal had offered his services to the Parliament, and had been appointed the surgeon of this levy. Henceforth Cuthbert would enjoy the comfort of his society and the advantage of his counsel. They agreed instantly to live and mess together; and, after a long and interesting conversation about Milverton, the Heywoods, and his friend Juxon, they walked together to the Colonel’s quarter, where Randal had been invited to sup; and Cuthbert returned, in high spirits, and with a heart full of joy and thanksgiving, to take his own meal with Ruddiman and Sippet, and to make known to them his intention of leaving their mess, and living in future with his old friend Randal. Ruddiman was sincerely vexed, ate less, and hawked rather more than usual, and proposed as an arrangement, not unnatural, that the surgeon should join their party instead of this breaking up; and Lieutenant Sippet, who wished much to avoid being left alone with Ruddiman, very earnestly seconded this proposal; observing, that he thought it a very proper subject for most serious consideration, and that they ought to seek the Lord for guidance, that they might plainly discern his will in this important matter.
This, Cuthbert said, he deemed to be an occasion on which so solemn a proceeding was altogether uncalled for and improper. Sippet misquoted and misapplied a shower of texts, which, in a sadder mood, would have made poor Cuthbert’s head ache. Ruddiman did not see what they were to pray about, for his part, and thought a man might do his duty to God and his neighbour very well without so much prayer. “But if you must pray,” said he, “Friend Sippet, pray to be kept from putting your mouth so often to that stone bottle of strong waters at the corner of your bed, and from snoring so loud every night, man. Why, though I am next room, you waked me this morning before cock-crow; and I doubt if Master Noble has had a sound night’s sleep since he joined us.” Cuthbert hastily wished them good night, and withdrew; so in what manner the wrathful Sippet resented this affront, or whether he did so at all, he never heard.
CHAP. V.
Although the good parson of Cheddar was as yet unmolested, and continued his ministrations in peace, he was far too sagacious not to perceive the growing strength of Parliament, and never partook of those extravagant hopes, which, upon the arrival of the Marquis of Hertford, at the city of Wells, animated so many of the gentlemen and the clergy in Somersetshire. But he gave such attendance at the meetings of a public nature as was necessary to show plainly the part which he had taken,—and he set a faithful example of loyalty in his parish. The son and the son-in-law of old Blount the franklin, and most of the yeomen of Cheddar, offered their services to the Marquis, and repaired to his quarters well mounted and armed.—It was a deeply mortifying reflection to Noble and his wife that their son Cuthbert had joined the forces of the Parliament, and was already in arms against his king. Their spirits were far more depressed by this consideration than by any other. Compared to this heavy trial all others, which could possibly arrive, seemed light and undeserving of careful or anxious deprecation; but for this one chastisement, they humbled themselves before God daily with tears and supplications. Nevertheless they sorrowed not as without hope, and they did not murmur. They knew that their prayers were poured out before a Father of mercies, who heareth always, and gives or withholds the blessing implored, with a wisdom that cannot err, and with a mysterious love.
Therefore they were enabled to preserve a calm and resigned aspect before the village, and before their household, though plain Peter and the good maidens were not to be deceived as to their silent sufferings; for master did not notice the flowers and birds in the garden so much now, and walked up and down thinking, instead of talking pleasant; and mistress had not looked after her fruit-preserves and her home-made wines this year with the heart she used to do; and, worst sign of all, the dinner was often carried away hardly touched by either. The apprehensions of Noble as to the progress of disaffection to the royal cause proved but too well founded. The private agents and emissaries of the Parliament party wrought underhand to persuade the people, that, by the commission of array, a great part of the estates of all substantial yeomen and freeholders would be taken from them, alleging, that some lords had said that “twenty pounds by the year was enough for every peasant to live on;” and they further said, that all the meaner and poorer sort of people were appointed by the same commission to pay a tax of one day’s labour in every week to the King. These reports, however little deserving of credit, were received by the more ignorant with implicit belief, and circulated by the interested and designing with most persevering activity. The people were thus taught that, if they did not adhere to the Parliament, and submit to the ordinance for the militia, they would soon be no better than slaves to the lords, and the victims of a most cruel oppression.
The ignorance and credulity of the vulgar were by these arts widely and successfully imposed upon; but the population of Cheddar was preserved from these corrupting falsehoods by the prudence of Noble. He early obtained a copy of the commission of array, which was written in Latin, and having translated it with fidelity, distributed copies from house to house. The word of the good parson was ever held in reverence by his flock, therefore, with few exceptions, and those confined to the worst characters in the village, his account of the matter was received as true; while in many other places the crafty supporters of the levelling party, taking advantage of the commissions being in Latin, translated it into what English they pleased, and abused simple folk in the manner related.
While the Marquis of Hertford maintained himself at Wells all things continued quiet at Cheddar; but as Noble had foreseen, there was soon a very powerful party brought against him, and he was compelled to retire, before the increasing forces and the active officers of the Parliament, to Sherborne, in Dorsetshire.
Master Daws, the artful and the covetous enemy of Noble, who had been already baffled in his endeavour to drag him before a committee, and whose eyes were steadily fixed upon the living of Cheddar, had not been inactive while the Royalists lay at Wells.
He had, it is true, seldom ventured from home for fear his precious carcass might receive some weighty mark of the wrath or merriment of a royal trooper, though he might have gone to and fro in his clerical garb as safe as an innocent child: but conscience made a coward of him; for he had employed the period of his confinement to his house in preparing certain lying and inflammatory papers, which, through the agency of a near relation, who was a scrivener’s clerk at Bristol, he procured to be secretly printed in that city. These papers were of the most indecent and outrageous nature, directed chiefly against prelacy, and all supporters of the church of England and the episcopal form of government. Now, this scrivener’s clerk, though he knew and despised the hypocrisy of Master Daws, and laughed at all religion, whether real or pretended, lent himself as a most ready agent in this charitable work. “There are diversities of gifts, my dear Matty,” said his crafty uncle Daws in the letter which accompanied his manuscript libels,—“diversities of gifts, but the same spirit:—thou hast a lively wit, and a playful hand with thy pencil; prithee put a little device of some facetious kind at the head of each of these papers,—such an one as may be easily struck off in a wood-cut of the kind, which the profane Italians call caricature: but what need I say more? Thou knowest what I would have:—see thou do it. I wish to have them done before Cheddar fair, which is held, thou knowest, at the latter end of September. They are a bigoted, base, priest-ridden herd of swine in that parish, and as blind as the moles and the bats:—we must let in a little light on them:—see thou do it broadly.”
The sharp-visaged, pale-faced nephew grinned as he read his worthy uncle’s epistle, and secretly resolved at once to gratify the mean desire expressed in it, and to amuse himself, at his uncle’s expense, when it was too late for him to make any alteration should he detect it. Of the ungainly figure, and the hideous features of his uncle, he had caricatures without number; and as they were so strongly marked, that the rudest engraver of a wooden block could not fail to copy them faithfully, he determined that the long visage of Daws himself should find a place in his performance.
The fair-day of Cheddar was that one day in the year which was always most trying to Noble. All the other holydays were home festivals, and were kept by the villagers among themselves, being seldom intruded on by strangers; but the annual fair always brought with it a herd of idle vagabonds from Bristol, and other towns within a convenient distance, and seldom terminated without many profligate, disgusting scenes, or an open brawl. The state of public affairs, and the presence of a Puritan force in Somersetshire, had such an effect on the fairs throughout the county this autumn, that they were in general but thinly attended, and little or no business was done among the farmers and dealers, by whom they were commonly frequented.
Nevertheless, fairs were too important in the social economy to the convenience of the people to be wholly suspended. Therefore, on the appointed morning, early in September, a pleasant peal of five bells (not as yet silenced by force or law) gave due notice from the tower of Cheddar church that the day of fairings and gilt gingerbread had arrived; but although a certain quantity of booths had been erected, only one, and that but scantily supplied, was set apart for the profane display of those glittering temptations. Among the farm servants standing for hire, there were no stout young carters with their whips, no hale shepherds with their crooks and green sprigs in their hats; and though there was no lack of maids, yet, as they crowded together, they looked lonesome and sad, and their bonny brown hair was not tied up with ribands. The few children present were held fast by the hand, and led by their parents to see the common purchases made for the household; but even in these matters the traffic was dull. There were, indeed, a few cattle; a few pens of sheep; some piles of Cheddar and other Somersetshire cheese; a store of salted meats; one stall with fair garnishes of pewter for the cupboard; another with wooden bowls, and trenchers, and vessels for the dairy; and one great one, at which groceries, cloths, linens, and articles of hardware, were promiscuously set forth, and where the neighbouring housewives were wont to lay in their store of useful necessaries for the coming year. But now it was so uncertain what a day might bring forth, that not many cared to make their annual outlay.
It might be supposed, that, in such unsettled times, mountebanks, tumblers, and conjurers could hardly reckon on a sufficient harvest of pence to find them in beer and shoe leather; but some of them still ventured their exhibitions, and with a ready wit practised boldly, wherever they came, upon the popular prejudices of the hour, and lent themselves to the crafty suggestions of the designing, who well knew that the vulgar mind may be artfully seduced to join in the ridicule of those very persons and things, which, in its better moments, it has respected.
Now the nephew of Daws had been a most willing and active agent in forwarding the objects of his uncle; for he had not only procured his libellous papers to be printed, but he had provided them each with a caricature engraving on wood; and he had, in like manner, caused certain ribald songs to be headed for distribution at Cheddar fair; so that they who could not read the slanders and calumnies contained in the printed matter might see them pictured to their senses. Nor did he stop here; but he procured a base fellow, the son of a drunken saddler, who was a noted posture master in Bristol, to carry these papers and prints to Cheddar on the fair day, and to commend them to the people. This knave, taking with him a merriman and a fire-eater to assist him in attracting a crowd, repaired thither, and about noon began his operations on a scaffold near the market cross. They had been followed by a rabble of disorderly persons, among whom the report of some fun at Cheddar fair had been already spread by the rogues engaged on the occasion.
Master Daws, who had been advised by his nephew of the preparations that were made for bringing the church and its ministers into contempt before the population of Cheddar, walked to the village at an early hour in company with his nephew, under the pretence of buying a hundred weight of cheese and a salted mutton; and, though the day was fine, he took care to appear in the blue Geneva cloak, which was commonly worn by the Puritan divines. Having engaged an upper room in a public house facing the market place, he had no sooner stalked through the vacant crowd, and made his purchases, than he retired to feast his malignant envy from the window of this chamber.
The sound of the pipe and tabor, and the nasal tones of Master Merriman, soon gathered all the idle folk in the fair round the mountebank’s scaffold. The fool began with their favourite egg-dance; and they stood with gaping mouths to see him hop about on one leg, and then, being blindfolded, dance backwards and forwards between the eggs without touching one of them: their mouths gaped yet wider, as this performer was succeeded by the fire-eater, who, after commencing by the trick of drawing forth from his mouth yard after yard of ribands, as if his stomach had been a riband loom, put a bundle of lighted matches into his mouth, and blew the smoke of the sulphur through his nostrils. Last came the posture-master, whose art consisted in making all sorts of uncouth faces, and exhibiting in a natural but shocking manner every species of deformity and dislocation. Now he showed a huge rising of his left shoulder; now shifted the deformity into the other; now represented a humpback; accompanying these changes of his figure with sundry comical contortions of countenance, to which the crowd responded in roars of laughter. Having thus got them into good humour for his purpose, he went on to imitate the cries and voices of sundry animals and birds; the crow of the cock, the gabble of the geese, the gobble of the turkey, the quaak of the duck, the squeak of the sucking pig, the bleat of the lamb, the grunt of the old sow, and the braying of the ass. The crowd was on the broad grin while he went through these imitations. He now therefore disappeared for a minute, leaving the merriman to amuse them, by way of interlude, with a jocular dance, and returned in robes made of coarse materials to imitate those of a bishop. His figure was stuffed out to Falstaff-like proportions; his hands were crossed with due gravity; he had plumpers in his cheeks; and he forthwith began to intone an anthem with burlesque solemnity. The words were in mockery of the coronation anthem; and the petition for the growth of the King’s beard, and the shaving thereof, was delivered in all those varieties of note which he had before given when mimicking the animals of the farm-yard. He thus excited the mirth of the rabble vastly. He closed this mischievous performance by a comic song about tithes; and, after imitating the squeak of a sucking pig, and the clack of a hen, he produced upon the stage, by sleight of hand, as if from his paunch, a basket filled with curious samples of the small tithe, in which the tenth egg was not forgotten. His place was now taken by the mountebank, who professed to be appointed grand physician to the state, and purifier of the church. The fool stood by his side making all the uncouth faces which he could think of, taken, it must be confessed, most chiefly from the sour kill-joys of the time; and holding a large bundle of printed papers, each headed by a wood-cut, he distributed them down among the people for due consideration of pence and farthings dropped into his cap. These papers, though ridiculous devices were prefixed to them, contained a venom of no laughable matter, and were eagerly bought up.
The nephew of old Daws had been at little pains to rack his invention for the subject of these curious cuts. On one, he had engraven the figure of a fox, vested in canonicals, with a crosier in his hand and a mitre on his head, hanging upon a tree, with a flock of geese and other fowl beneath chattering at him; on another, he had represented a fox in chains, with his right paw on a bag of money, and a monkey at prayers by his side, trying to steal it away. On the next was given the figure of a wolf in sheep’s clothing, bearing a close resemblance to his own uncle, puffing a large fire with a pair of bellows, on which was inscribed “Groans and sighs;” while above was depicted an owl, with a wolf and a lamb joining in prayers. By a self-deception not uncommon, Master Daws had not the slightest suspicion that the said wolf bore any likeness to himself, and, to the secret diversion of his nephew, he gave a most ghastly smile of approval as he looked over the rude caricatures, three of which we have described. The time was now come for directing the wayward crowd to a stronger expression of their contempt for the church than laughter. Accordingly, the nephew of Daws descended among them, and proposed that they should burn a bishop’s effigy before the parson’s house. While the effigy was preparing, the people stood in groups reading the papers; and sundry charitable suggestions were made by the baser among them. “Let’s get into his cellar,” said one, “and drink a little of the sacrament wine.”—“Let’s lay hold of the church plate,” said another:—“Or give the parson a ride on old Bruin here,” was the cruel proposal of a third, pointing to a huge bear in a string, led by a wandering showman. All things were soon ready; and, led by the posture master in front, and guided behind by the mischievous nephew of Master Daws, off the rabble moved, noisy and half drunk, and ready for all evil. They had no sooner reached the yew-tree in the churchyard, and were advancing towards the wicket, than out rushed an old beggar, stumping on his wooden leg, followed by plain Peter and two more old labourers, and immediately behind them, as if in pursuit, a fine young bull. The old beggar, who was no other than the worn-out veteran before mentioned, shouted, “Mad bull!” at the top of his voice, with an earnestness and passion that made him at once believed; and the crowd fled, tumbling over each other, as they ran, in inextricable confusion: nor were they allowed time to detect the deception practised on them; for the old soldier and plain Peter slipping behind the frightened beast, and goading him forward, he performed his friendly office as well as the maddest of all bulls, and very effectually dispersed the mob, and defeated their base and cruel intentions for that day. Master Daws, who had from his post of observation at the window witnessed the scenes in the market-place with the most malignant satisfaction, as soon as the crowd marched off towards the vicarage with the effigy, and he saw the coast clear, could not repress his curiosity, and, stealing down, followed afar off to watch their operations. In the luckless moment of their panic and flight, he was so terrified and puzzled, that he could not regain the house, but ran with the crowd, and was thrown down by a pig; nor was this the worst, for it so happened that a man, leading a monkey, fell at the same moment, and jocko flew upon Daws and bit his right ear, till he screamed for agony: beyond this, however, and the tearing of his clothes, he sustained no injury. A worse fate waited the posture-master, the bear being infuriated at the hubbub, and having broken away from his master, seized him fiercely, and embraced him in a hug so fatal, that it produced contortions of countenance and a dislocation of bones very different from those he had so lately been exhibiting, and left him a cripple for life. The warning of his master’s danger had been communicated to plain Peter, that very morning, by the grateful old soldier, who had come to that fair with no other intention than rendering this service, he having heard a whisper of the intended doings in a tap at Bristol. It so chanced that old Noble was confined to the house by a sprain of the ankle, and his mistress was not well; so Peter kept from them all mention of these fears. The stratagem he adopted for putting the mob to flight was suggested by the old soldier, and cheerfully aided by a neighbouring farmer and two of his servants. Thus was the worthy parson protected in peace, and kept safe from the strife of tongues and the violence of a base rabble, throughout a day that was very threatening: unconscious himself how Daws had been undermining him, he had passed it in a frame of mind more than usually composed.
Daws and his nephew continued their retreat without staying to pay their reckoning at the public-house. The greater part of the crowd, finding themselves on the road to Axbridge, proceeded there, to make up for their disappointment at Cheddar by a riot at that place instead. So few, indeed, returned, after they had got beyond the reach of danger, to find out the truth of it, and they squabbled so much among themselves, that Master Blount and the villagers were able to prevent further disturbance at that time. Before evening all the strange rabble departed; and the sun set on Cheddar as tranquilly as in happier times.
CHAP. VI.
The prediction of Juxon concerning the city of Coventry proved correct:—not only was the disposition of the inhabitants such as he described, but the Parliamentarians, whose vigilance and activity were very great, sent forward a small force to assist the citizens in defending the place,—and the King had the mortification of summoning it in vain. The gates were shut against him, and the burghers sent out a message of defiance. His Majesty came to Stoneleigh Abbey the same afternoon, much dejected; and being there joined by several of the most considerable gentlemen in the county, he decided on raising his standard at Nottingham, which was accordingly done on the 25th of August; but he found that place much emptier than he expected, and learned that the army of the Parliament, composed of horse, foot, and cannon, was at Northampton. His own few cannon and stores were, as yet, at quarters in York; and the levy gathered immediately under his own person was at this moment very inconsiderable. Among the cavaliers, who had brought their contingent of horsemen for the royal service, was Sir Charles Lambert, with young Arthur Heywood and a small troop of stout yeomanry. The age of boyhood is so impressible, that the mind readily admits an omen for good or for evil; and Arthur felt, and was angry with himself for feeling, uncomfortable, because the very first evening of its erection the royal standard was blown down by a violent storm of wind and rain.
A short time was now consumed in messages between the King and the two Houses; but on neither side were the negotiations conducted in a spirit which could issue otherwise than they did. The declaration of the two Houses to the kingdom was a trumpet note that gave no uncertain sound, and it was answered to by the King with a princely courage.
He now removed to Derby; and having clear information that Shrewsbury was at his devotion, continued his march to that town; and, collecting all his forces in that strong and pleasant situation, was enabled to organise them for taking the field in security, and to keep up his correspondence with Worcester,—a city zealously affected to the royal cause. Soon after the King left Nottingham, the Earl of Essex marched from Northampton with his whole army towards Worcester, and, as he traversed Warwickshire, placed garrisons of foot both in Warwick and Coventry. It so chanced that, by these dispositions, the regiment to which Cuthbert belonged was stationed for a time at Warwick.
Sir Oliver Heywood had been disappointed of his wishes by an attack of gout so very severe, that it quite disabled him; and although he had contrived to present himself before the King at Stoneleigh, the effort had thrown him back, and reduced him to the helplessness of a cripple. He was therefore compelled to forego his intention of repairing to Nottingham and joining the levy. Under these circumstances he was willing to remain shut up at Milverton House, and to abide all chances and all consequences which might follow on that course, when the army of the Parliament should enter the county. But Juxon warmly represented to him the great imprudence of this unnecessary risk, and advised him to seek a temporary residence in a more protected situation. With a wise forethought he recommended Oxford; observing that it was at present occupied for the King; and, if his Majesty could make head against his enemies, would undoubtedly become the royal quarters, in the event of his not being fortunate enough to recover the capital before winter. It was true that in the interval which must pass before the King could take the field, and advance in strength, the University of Oxford might be exposed to a visit of some division of the Parliamentary forces; but it was not probable that private families lodging there without show would be seriously molested:—whereas it was almost certain that the country mansion of any Royalist of like consideration with himself would be subjected to a visitation of a very insulting and rude nature. Sir Oliver yielded to this sensible advice; and as soon as the King quitted Nottingham he departed from Milverton. Jane and Sophia Lambert accompanied Katharine Heywood to Oxford; and Juxon having escorted the party on their first day’s journey, took leave of them with the best composure which he could, and, without betraying the depth and tenderness of his solicitude by one look or tone of dejection, returned with all speed to Old Beech.
It was near midnight when he approached the village; and by the obscure light of a moonless but clear sky he discerned in the lane before him two men moving about at a point where another road crossed it. As a gate on his right hand opened into a large field, he dismounted, and leading in his horse, fastened it to a hedge-stake, and stole forward softly on foot by a pathway, leading to the point where the roads crossed. Just as he reached the spot, a disturbed bird nestled in a bush. “Who goes there?” said a gruff voice. Juxon remained perfectly still, and saw two sentinels, one a pikeman, and the other a musketeer, who now ceased their pacing, and stood halted, fronting the lane end.
“It is nobody,” replied the comrade of the soldier who had given the challenge:—“this is the second time thou hast been fooled to-night.”
“Thou art the fool, deaf dunderhead, and wouldst not hear a troop of horse till they were down on thee:—what dost thou know of the wars, bumpkin? I tell thee I heard a horse at the far end of yon lane as clear as I hear thy clapper; and there may be royal troopers closer than we think for. Dost mind? when I fire, take to thy scrapers, and join the post at the barn.”
“Well, call me bumpkin as you will, you may be right: I warn’t thinking about horses, nor listening, you see. Your ears are sharp enough for both;—a plague o’ the Parliament folk;—I was thinking about them pretty bodies that wear white caps and yellow kerchiefs. I was to ha’ been wed, man, at Michaelmas, but for all this to do about the litia: what’s the King done to me?”
“Why you talk like a fool: hold your tongue.—Who goes there?” again roared the old musketeer,—but Juxon kept a breathless silence.—“You talk like a fool. Pay is pay, and victuals victuals, and one side as good as t’ other; and ours will be the best for booty, man.”
“Booty! what’s that?”
“Why you must be a queer simpleton not to know: why money, and plate, and rich gear, and wines, and grub of all sorts; all’s fish that comes to net, man: that’s the best part of a soldier’s life.”
“Why what’s he got to do with them things, if they beynt his’n?”
“Beynt his’n!” said the old soldier with a tone of contempt: “why make ’em his’n.”
“Why that’s what I call plain picking and stealing; and it’s taught in the Catechiz that you musn’t do that.”
“Ay, that’s all very well for brats at a parson’s village school; but that wo’n’t do for them that know better. Besides, the Catechiz, as you call it, is no good now; it’s all wrong foundation.”
“Well, while I ha’ got hands to get my living I don’t want gold nor silver: I never heard one of your rich folk whistle in all my born days; and as for your madams, why my Madge has a laughing face that shames them. Dang it, I wish I were back with her, and you might soldier and the Roundheads might preach long enough afore I’d come among ye.”
“Why I don’t say any thing for those fellows that pray and preach; and sometimes I am afraid they’ll stand between a good soldier and his right, and wo’n’t let him have his fair share of plunder. There’s that grave, demure leeftenant they call Cuthbert drove me and two more out of the parson’s orchard this very afternoon before I mounted duty. He looks too sharp after other people’s business, that godly rogue; and if ever I catch him tripping in a thick smoke, I’ll give him a rap on the sconce shall make him sleep sound enough ever after.”
“Thou shalt never hurt a hair of his head while I am by,” said the rustic soldier: “he’s a kind, fair-spoken gentleman as ever stepped in shoe-leather.”
“Tut! you’re both of a kidney—both fools alike—I’ve been throwing away my breath on. Keep your own path, and keep moving,” said the musketeer, and resumed his own cross beat in a surly silence.
Warned by this adventure that Parliament soldiers were quartered for the night in Old Beech, and by the mention of Cuthbert’s name, and the anecdote connected with it, that he had a friend among the hostile party, who would, as far as possible, protect his interests, Juxon instantly resolved to pass round by another road, and put up at a detached farm-house a quarter of a mile to the north of the village, where he could gain more accurate information of their doings, and judge how to act in the morning. He was turning about quietly, to steal off and get back to his horse, when his attention was again arrested by the musketeer saying suddenly and bluntly to the pikeman, “You want to be off home, I’m sure.”
“You’re right enough there, and no conjurer:—I told you so.”
“I mean, you want to desert.”
“No, I doant.”
“Yes you do, and you’ll run off when the fighting comes.”
“No I wunt: there’s no man shall ever say that Bob Hazel gave back in a fair stand-up fight.”
“Well, then, you’ll change your side as soon as we come near the King’s troops, and fight on the other.”
“Why for the matter o’ that, I didn’t choose my side, to be sure, any more than if I had been called by him that won the toss at football; but now I’m in for it, I’ll fight it out with the best of them on my own side.”
“That’s more than I’ll say,” muttered the musketeer: “I’m always for the uppermost cause and the best paymaster: after the first battle we shall see which has the good luck.”
They were again silent, and Juxon moved away, and regaining his horse led it round by paths and gaps well known to himself to the farm-house above mentioned. He found the farmer out and on the watch, and his family had not gone to bed. The information which he here obtained of the conduct of the Parliament troops in Old Beech was very satisfactory. They had been peaceable and orderly, and had done violence to no man. The commanding officer, it seems, had taken up his quarters at the rectory, and a safeguard was appointed to protect the church from injury. It was reported that they would march forwards the next morning, or in the course of the day. But although the Colonel had maintained a strict control over the soldiers during the day, the farmer was naturally afraid that in the course of the night some evil-disposed marauders might visit the farm, and therefore all his people kept watch. Juxon’s horse was instantly put up,—and before the large fire in the farmer’s kitchen a homely but welcome supper was cheerfully provided. Although fatigued, he was far too restless to sleep; and when he had refreshed himself with a little food and a cup of strong ale he went out again, and walked towards the village. In the clear gloom of night it presented the fine outline of a picturesque cluster of habitations, of which the principal feature was the small church, with its ancient tower, looking black and solemn. To the surprize, however, of Juxon, a light, the only one to be seen in all the dark mass of buildings, gleamed steadily from the window of his chancel. The sight attracted him; and under the impulse of curiosity, to see what the guard might be doing, he crossed the intervening fields, leaped over the wall of the churchyard, and gained the window without seeing or being noticed by any one. A lamp in the chancel had been lighted, and threw around an illumination, faint indeed, but sufficient to show very distinctly to the eyes of Juxon the reverend figure within. Directly opposite the window, with his face so slightly averted towards a monument on the same side, that not a feature nor an expression was lost, stood a tall grave person in a clerical habit. His features were noble and sad: his eyes were very bright, but severe withal; and his complexion was pale as marble. He wore a small skullcap of black velvet; and beneath it his hair fell, on either side, in a large wavy mass, and lay upon the broad white collar that turned over his narrow and close-buttoned cassock. His upper lip was shaded with a small quantity of the blackest hair; a tuft of the same filled the indenture beneath his under lip, and thus the pallor of his long thin cheeks, and of his high forehead, appeared more deadly. His pale hand, which held a closed volume, was pressed against his bosom; and he stood so very motionless, and so deeply absorbed in meditation, that a less healthy fancy than that of Juxon would have deemed him some ghostly visitant, permitted, during the witching hour of night, to haunt that holy place. The slow heavy tread of a man in arms, turning the distant corner of the church, warned Juxon to conceal himself; and passing quickly round under the altar window to the other side, he came to the small door of the chancel. It stood ajar; and pushing it gently, he entered, and again closing it, found himself in the presence of the venerable stranger, and alone with him. He turned at the sound of Juxon’s entrance without abruptness or discomposure; but as the light showed him an unknown face, and an athletic form in garments dusty with travel, he demanded of him in a tone of authority how he had come thither, and what was his business.
“But yesterday,” said Juxon, “I might have asked that question of thee: but a day has brought forth a sudden change; and the shepherd must enter his own fold by stealth, or with the permission of others.”
“I understand thee. Thou art the minister of this place: thou hast nothing to fear: I have watched in thy sanctuary, and no one has violated or defiled it. You may go home to your own chamber in peace: it was allotted as my quarter by the commander of this band, but I resolved to keep a vigil here, and would continue it alone. Go, and God speed thee. We shall march in the morning; and I pray that you may be kept safe in all future visitations.”
“March!—have I heard aright? Does such an one as you march in the ranks of rebels? Does a minister of the Gospel preach war, and that against the Lord’s anointed?”
“Against the person of the King we do not war: we fight against his false and dangerous friends. The sword of the Lord is with us, and it must go through the land; but we march as mourners to the field of blood. Witness these walls that have heard my groanings, yon tomb that has been watered by my tears. In that tomb lie the ashes of my grandfather, who was the first Protestant of his race. The Reformation, begun by the godly men of that day, has never yet been completed: that work remains for us.”
“Miserable delusion!” cried Juxon aloud; “miserable delusion! Is it by kindling and diffusing the false fire of fanaticism? is it in arms? is it by a path of blood that you move? Then is your work a work of evil, and your light darkness.”
“So called they the work and the light of our forefathers, when they led them forth, and burned them at the stake. You have a zeal for the church, but not according to knowledge. I have heard of you from your friend Cuthbert Noble.”
“Call him not friend of mine: give to all things their right names. He that stands in arms against his king is a traitor; and if he had lain in my heart’s core, I would pluck him out, and cast him from me.”
At this moment, a man in arms entered the small door of the chancel, and taking off his steel cap, advanced towards Juxon, and put forth his hand:—it was Cuthbert Noble. He was much altered in his appearance: his countenance was severe and sad, but resolute withal; and his corslet, with the broad buff girdle beneath, had produced a change in his aspect and bearing incredible to the mind of Juxon, if he had not witnessed it with his eyes.
“Do you refuse my hand? do you turn away from me, Juxon? I have not deserved this at your hands,” said Cuthbert, still stretching forth his hand. Juxon turned his face and looked steadfastly upon him.
“Cuthbert,” said he with a slow, grave utterance, “I and your revered father are upon the same side, and we fill the same sacred office. Even now, perhaps, his fold is broken into by some furious zealots, who will not show the same lingering compunction which is now, for a moment, sparing mine. No, Cuthbert, the hand that grasps a sword, and wields it against my king, shall never more be clasped with friendliness by me.”
Cuthbert’s hand fell down, and his knees shook, and his whole frame trembled with the strength of his emotion.
“Dare to repent,” added Juxon, observing the internal struggle,—“dare to repent. Here in the house of God, and before the altar of God, lay down the arms of rebellion, and go home to comfort, and, if possible, to protect, your father and mother.”
What effect this appeal might have had upon Cuthbert had he been alone with Juxon, and subjected to all the strength with which it would have been urged home upon him, we cannot say; for it was no sooner spoken, than the Puritan chaplain fell upon his knees, and poured forth a prayer for the cause of the Parliament, which, by its solemn tone and intense fervency, commanded the silent and breathless attention of both. It was evident that this petitioner, with an enthusiasm that has been felt perhaps in common by some of every creed and party under the cope of heaven, identified the particular cause which he himself had espoused with that of truth and of God. Before he had uttered the first brief sentence of adoration, Cuthbert had fallen down in a lowly posture of worship,—and his spirit was soon carried by his leader in prayer whithersoever he would.
Juxon leaned his head against the wall where he stood, and kept his eyes fixed on them. He had before him one of those rarely endowed beings on whom gifts without measure had been poured:—for a quarter of an hour he listened, with a painful and solemn interest, to a flow of real eloquence. The petitions touched in succession every point at issue. They justified, as by divine command, the appeal to arms, and proclaimed the end thereof to be reformation and peace. They recognised the sacredness of the King’s anointed head; and they ended in a prophetic anticipation of the days of millennial glory, and the universal reign of a manifested God.
In the course of the prayer he had not forgotten to pray for all mankind, and especially for all those enemies who now stood opposed to them in the present contest, and again in a yet more especial manner for the near and dear relations, whose wishes and entreaties they were now called on to resist, and whose hearts they might now afflict. Painting this resistance most truly, as the highest order of self-denial, he urged it as a sacred duty, and a sacrifice well pleasing to the Lord.
Juxon saw by the expression of Cuthbert’s mouth the new and stronger resolutions he was making;—nor did it surprise him to see that, when they rose together at the conclusion of this fervent prayer, the chaplain took Cuthbert by the hand, that was passively yielded, and led him forth from the church without either of them addressing one word to himself. They looked at him, indeed, with seriousness, if not with compassion, and they moved their lips, but the whispered ejaculations of their hearts had no voice; and their departing footsteps were the only sounds that broke the silence of the place and of the hour.