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 Another Random Document on
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sneezing. Alas! cavalier parsons could quote and apply Scripture
language as ludicrously and blasphemously as roundhead ranters!
Thus, war had lately been the constant theme. It seemed to be
pleasant to Miss Evelyn; and when all the tender and the beautiful of
her sex were imploring success on the handsome king, she
supplicated a blessing upon the arms of the fierce republicans, and
when news came of victory on the side of the Royalists, the cloud
which passed over her brow betokened that she considered herself
as one of the vanquished.
One Sunday morning, Hans, after donning his holiday attire, entered
the little room in front, where they generally sat together, and found
his wife and Miss Evelyn unprepared to attend him to church.
“So, Rachel, you intend to preach at home?”
“Yea, Hans,” was the reply, “my lady and I have agreed to stay at
Bethel, and not go up to Zion. It is not safe for females to travel in
such dangerous times. Nor can I enjoy the privileges of Zion at
present. Whenever I enter the church, my thoughts are disquieted
within me. It is so near the castle, and I think more of cannons and
soldiers, than any thing else. Nor is the parson clothed with
salvation, he speaks always of war. God will indeed make this a
Bethel, and Rachel Skippon shall sing aloud for joy.”
“Yes, my dear friends,” said Mary Evelyn with enthusiasm, “how
delightfully shall we spend the Sabbath! the little glen behind, shall
be our church, where no roof but that canopy above, can intercept
our ascending praise. The flowers shall be our hymn books. Nay,
nay, they whisper of a Creator, but not of a Saviour. Even the lilies
which he pointed out so beautifully when on earth, are silent of Him!
How calm is every object around! In what a holy and sabbath repose
do the rays fall, as if they were the feet of angels, dancing so lightly
upon our earth!”
“Yes,” replied Hans, in true christian feeling, “the sabbath was made
for man, and not man for the sabbath. Take away this day, and we
could not tell what heaven is. And yet that profane prince proclaimed
sports thereon, and appointed that his book should be laid on the
pulpit, along with the book of life. But, I must away to the public
ordinances. Should war come to Lancaster, which side must I fall
into? Alas, Evelyn speaks so beautifully of the holy puritans, who
hate a tyrant over their consciences, that for some time I have
ceased to pray for him who is called King.”
“Hans,” replied the dame, with some warmth, “if I thought you could
be so foolish as to take the sword, as truly as I live, I would this
moment disable you from leaving the house. But you could not
mean this;—no, no. Well, you can go, and to entice you home, I
shall prepare some savoury meat, such as thy soul loveth, of which
you may eat in abundance, and praise the Lord. Wont you bid
farewell to your wife?”
She threw her arms around his neck, but the old man seemed
offended.
“Do you intend to disable me?” he asked, as he put her arms from
about him. “Thirty-five long years have I lived with you, and never
listened to such language. But since you have become Job’s wife, I
must be Job, and shew patience. Come, wife, kiss me,” and he gave
a loud and hearty laugh, which he suppressed when he remembered
that it was the sabbath.
“Fie, fie, Hans, to speak of kissing before a young lady! It is
unseemly.”
“Verily, dame, Miss Evelyn knew what kissing meant before. She
blushes—Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Good morning, dame. Hush,
just one, do not make a disturbance; it is the sabbath.”
The miller walked up the glen, and soon gained the highway. At
every step he beheld proofs of the bad effects of the “Book of
Sports.” No crowds were to be seen moving to church, but they were
loitering by the way, engaged in mirth and games.
“Ha!” exclaimed Hans, as he beheld an old man tottering on before
him,—“who can this be? I should know his gait, but then, his apparel
is changed. It is old Sir Robert; but before, he was always dressed
as a gay cavalier.”
The old knight turned round. His white locks hung over a plain-
fashioned coat, and his hat was stripped of the proud plume which
he had once sported. His age might be seventy, although his face
was rosy.
“Well, well, good miller,” he kindly said, “art thou alone also? I left
my beloved daughters at home, for I am fearful of the times.”
“You have nothing to fear, Sir Robert,” replied the miller, “in
Lancaster, since you are a Royalist.”
“A Royalist!” echoed the knight, and he shook his head. “Not much
of that now; no, no. The king has become a tyrant, and I disown his
cause. A gallant nephew of mine, a roundhead by principle, in a
battle of last month, was made prisoner, and the king gave him no
quarter—but death!”
“The taking away of life,” rejoined the miller, “Charles seems to
consider as his kingly prerogative.”
“His turn will come at last, Republicans say it shall, Death says it will.
And what is a King? The meanest beggar. The poor man may only
have one morsel of bread,—the king demands the half of it, and he
is not frightened, for all his pride, and by his thoughts of dirt and
scab to eat it. He,—a great man! Go to the treasury, and there you
will see the widow’s mite, and the starving man’s alms! and Charles
puts forth his white hand and takes them!”
“Yea, truly,” said Hans, “I am more independent in my cottage, than
Charles in his palace. I earn my bread by labour, but he just puts on
a few robes which we have all patched up with our own rags, blows
a whistle which we have bought for him, and plays with a toy which
he calls a sceptre, and for all this he receives his million.”
“Nay, good friend, you scorn a king too much. A king can work, and
deserve all his salary, by ruling well, and peaceably. But as for
Charles, he has taken the sword against that country, which he
solemnly swore to protect. He sets his royal head up against all the
sage senators of the nation. One man laughs at a Parliament! If his
father deserved the name of Solomon,—Charles has much more
justly earned that of Rehoboam: for under him all the tribes of Israel
have revolted. He has bound on the nation, grevious burdens, which
cannot be borne, and which he himself could not move, even with
his little finger. And as for my poor Lord Strange—of the Derby race
—why he’s a black hearted Papist. Were Cromwell to sweep down
upon him, the vain nobleman would gladly hie away to the Isle-of-
man. I wish no evil to him, but merely pray ‘the Lord rebuke him!’
would that the Eagle which brought a child to the family, were again
to descend and take this child wheresoever he lists!”
They walked on together. As they entered Lancaster, they were
struck at the unusual stillness and quiet of the streets. There were
no games and sports. The doors were shut, and no longer were
children sitting on the thresholds. The town seemed deserted, until
they came to the church gates, where crowds had assembled, all in
earnest conversation. The venerable structure arising to the morning
rays from the green hill, near to the castle, seemed like an angel
pleading against the uses and employments of the other. They are
both, evidently, of the same high antiquity, and standing, also, upon
romantic elevations, it might be imagined that they had been
founded to oppose each other. The parson, in one of his just similies,
had called the mount of the castle—Sinai, of which the flashes and
reports of the cannon were thunders and lightnings; whilst he
designated the mount of the church—Zion—where his own notes
were the still small whisperings of mercy, to listen unto which the
assembled tribes came up.
The crowds were gazing intently upon the castle, where the
sentinels had been doubled. A few were gay, and vapoured out jests
against the enemy, in the cavalier style of affected blasphemy and
dissipation.
“So,” said one whose hat was shaped in the fashion of one of the
turrets of the castle, high and tapering, but foppishly off the true
perpendicular, and who was lord of a neighbouring mansion, “those
cannons peer out from the loopholes in front like the piercing eyes of
a buxom damsel at the window, ogling and smiling. They’ll riddle the
breeches of the enemy. The governor assured me, yesterday, that as
the roundheads are so fond of Scripture, whenever they come, he
shall put a whole Bible in the mouth of the cannon, thus to quiet
them in the name of the Lord, and give them holy promise, precept,
and threat, line upon line, all at once. They shall be left to digest
them at their leisure.”
“Good, good, ha, ha,” replied a neighbour cavalier, “but then it will
scarcely be the Book of Life, you know.”
“Nay,” was the rejoinder, “you are out there. Come, let us reason
together. The Bible is the sword of the Spirit, it can kill, especially if
it were bound in a lead case, and thrown with fury. It is the savour
of death unto death, as they themselves would say. Savour! aye
there will be a pretty strong savour of powder on its pages! Nol
himself, although he had three warts at the end of his nose, instead
of one at the side, would smell it!”
“Could not the Royal Book of Sports,” slily said Sir Robert with a
smile of scorn on his aged features, “of which his present Majesty
has printed a new edition, be substituted in its place?”
“Good,” was the reply, “most excellent! Eh? would it not make rare
sport amongst the roundheads? It would verily enforce them to join
in a few games, such as dancing till they fell down. But, old knight,
be on your guard how you recommend that measure again. It has
been seconded and carried by a majority of affirmatives in
parliament with this amendment, of being burnt by the hands of the
common hangman, instead of being vomited forth by the cannon.”
“See,” whispered the knight to the miller. “Parliament does its duty
nobly, by purging itself from that mass of pollution. I attempted to
do my duty when the king wrote it, and it nearly cost me my head.
The crowned fool fumed like the smoke of that tobacco against
which he blew ‘A Royal Blast.’”
The church was crowded, and many were obliged to stand, for lack
of better accommodation. A few soldiers from the castle took their
place in the aisles, and during the reading of prayers, at every Amen
pronounced by the clerk, and responded to by the congregation,
they clashed their sheathed swords on the echoing pavement, and
then laughed to each other.
The parson arose to commence his discourse. His face had got a
rueful longitude, which assisted him to read his text with becoming
effect.
“And there shall be rumours of wars.”
His divisions, theologically speaking, were striking and impressive.
He mentioned, in regular succession, all the rumours which had
been afloat!
“First, my brethren, when I was in the neighbourhood of Manchester,
the skies had darkened, and all was still around, when I heard a
warlike drum. But greater woes were to succeed,—and I fled.”
He had proceeded through the divisions, and had come to the last.
“Lastly, my brethren,”—
He was interrupted by a loud report of a cannon fired from the
castle. All sprung to their feet. The soldiers rushed to the gate.
“Lastly, my brethren,—there is the cannon bringing rumours of
wars.”
His voice was drowned by another and another awful peal rumbling
over the church.
“The enemy! the enemy!” was the general cry. Hans was borne
irresistibly along with the crowd to the castle; and from its ramparts
they beheld a strong body of troops encamping at the distance of a
few miles.
The governor of the castle stood with his glass. After gazing long
and anxiously, he exclaimed, “Soldiers, haste, prepare for a siege.
The enemy will be strait upon us. They are Oliver Cromwell’s troops.”
“The cry was raised by the multitude, ‘Oliver Cromwell!’”
What terror seized even the bravest royalist at that plain name!
The military cleared the court of the frightened citizens, and all the
gates and avenues were strongly barricaded. The royal banner was
unfurled amid the shouts of the inhabitants, who now resolved to
rally.
“We are safe for one day,” exclaimed some. “Cromwell was never
known to be such a ruffian as to commence an attack, much less a
siege, on the Lord’s day.”
The miller, along with the knight, as speedily as possible retreated to
the extremity of the town, and proceeded homeward.
Sir Robert Bradley’s mansion was near the romantic vale of Lonsdale.
He was not a native of the county, but had retired there after a life
spent at the court of James, when he observed that that sovereign’s
successor, although young and inexperienced, could not brook
anything but honied words, and pleasant flattery, from his
councillors; and that to be faithful was to make him their enemy.
Nursed by two lovely and affectionate daughters, he enjoyed a
peaceful happiness he had never known amidst all the bustle,
intrigue, and rivalry of his younger days.
A few weeks ago, his nephew, who had joined the Parliamentary
troops, without his consent, and against his expressed wish, had
been captured in the field of battle, and the fate decreed by the
king, was death. The old knight had cursed the youthful roundhead,
but now, even more than his ancient fondness had returned for his
brother’s son, whom he had educated from a boy; and an uncle’s
blessing was given to the memory of the dead, whilst he imprecated
vengeance on the king. But there was one of the family to whom the
tidings came a darker message, and a more bitter loss. Not only
were the hopes, but the very existence of that one—dependant.
Sweet Madeline Bradley, the knight’s younger daughter, had been
betrothed to her cousin from childhood. They had tripped the same
path in the vale many a morn; and as many an eve they had bent to
unbuckle the old man’s shoes, their loving hands touching each
other, and their luxurious tresses failing together. And when
Madeline grew up into beautiful womanhood, when love mingles
with awe and worship, bashfulness and timidity only served to
explain their intimacy better. When she heard of his death, she
started not. Amidst the tears of her sister Sarah, and the grief of her
father for him who had been the family’s favourite, she wept not for
him who had been her lover. She raved not. Sir Robert thought that
she bore it lightly, till one evening at sunset, about a week after the
mournful news had been told her, he was seated in the arbour. He
heard a light step approaching, and then a low sweet voice, as if
afraid to be heard, making such a request, breathed its silvery
accents.
“Cousin, the night is so beautiful. Come, let us to the vale, if you
would rather not be alone, Cousin.”
And when her father stepped forth, the truth came to her
remembrance. Still she fainted not; but she became deadly pale, and
leaned for support against the young trees at the entrance. Alas!
her’s was a broken heart, although unknown; and the knight as he
blessed her in fondness at every return of the hour of rest, might
have read something in her deep blue eyes, raised so earnestly, that
would have told him that she was not certain whether she could
awake for him any more. With what regret she then parted from
him! She followed him to the door of his sleeping apartment, that a
latest farewell might be allowed. But the good knight saw not the
awful progress that death was making.
The miller and the knight, on their way home, conversed about the
arrival of the enemy.
“My good friend,” said Sir Robert, “trust me, that if the troops be
headed by Cromwell, the Governor of Lancaster Castle may yield at
discretion. What a deep, a burning enthusiasm, there is in that
wonderful man, although he be turned on the wrong side of forty! I
cannot but believe that it is the fire of heaven.”
“Verily,” replied Hans Skippon, “it will soon destroy the temples of
Baal. But here is the footpath leading to my quiet cottage. God grant
that the soldiers be not near it.”
They parted. The miller, on entering into the wide glen, started as he
beheld the roundhead soldiers there encamped. They were engaged
in religious services. A solemn hush, disturbed alone by the shrill
notes of the curlew and the plover, as they arose from the long
tufted grass, was over the band as they listened to the exhortations
of one of their preachers, who stood on a mass of grey rock. Hans
was inclined to join them in their sabbath employments, but he
dreaded lest he should be retained by them, and pressed into their
lists, although he might have been free from all fears upon the latter
point, as he would have been no acquisition to the disciplined
veterans of Cromwell. He, accordingly, avoided them by a circuitous
rout, on the back of a neighbouring hill, and without hindrance or
obstruction, at length reached his cottage. He paused at the door.
He heard a stranger’s voice. It was low and husky;—but,
unaccountably, by its very tones, he was spell-bound, and compelled
to listen.
“Maiden,” were the words, “thy sorrows and thy history, are those of
our mother country. I know that thou wert formed by God for
happiness, and was not England? Now she is bowed in the dust,—
but there is an outstretched rod for the oppressor, and an
outstretched arm of deliverance for the oppressed. Both gleam from
the clouds of her adversity, and soon, soon they reach those for
whom they are destined! Liberty cannot die while man has one
heart-string. My maiden, cheer is for thee. Thy father lost his head,
sayest thou? Others may lose theirs also.”
Hans, after these words were uttered, turned the latch, and walked
in. At the little window a soldier, not in the uniform of an officer, but
well accoutred, was sitting. He was gazing upon the vale without,
and his dark grey eye glowed, as it moved restlessly on all the
objects. The features were not finely formed: indeed, they might be
called coarse, though not plain, for a wild power was expressed.
From his broad and prominent forehead, the light red locks were put
back. His countenance, one moment, was so calm and sanctified,
that he might have been set down as a preacher of the gospel: but
the next, it was so troubled and fiery, that he appeared a fierce and
ambitious warrior.
Although his eye seemed upon the full stretch of resolution and
thought, his hand was placed softly upon the bending head of Mary
Evelyn, whom he had, evidently, been attempting to console. Old
Rachel was seated at a short distance from him, with a bible in her
hand, but many a look was stolen from its pages to the countenance
of the stranger. Her ears caught the sounds of her husband’s
footsteps.
“Hans,” she exclaimed, “is all well, that you have left the church so
soon? You have only been gathering crumbs beneath the table, like
a graceless dog. Woe, woe unto short sermons, and impatient
hearers! You have come home before the pudding is ready. What’s
the matter, Hans?”
But the miller neglected to answer the queries of his dame, being
employed in obsequiously bowing to the stranger.
“Friend, kneel not to me; I am only thy fellow-servant. See that thou
do it not. I am but Oliver Cromwell!”
As he pronounced the word but, there was a proud smile passed
over his features, and he arose from his seat for a moment, in that
air of command which was natural unto him. His proud bearing
attested that though he refused to receive homage, he considered
himself entitled to it.
Hans Skippon, on hearing the name of the stranger, bent down on
his knees.
“Nay, I kneel not to thee, but to the Most High, who hath raised thee
up for a horn unto his people.”
“I am, indeed, but an instrument in the Divine hands; and an atom,
created for working out the Divine counsels. I am but a small stone,
cut out of the mountains, to break down the image of the beast.
Good miller, arise from thy knees.”
“A very sensible advice,” muttered Rachel, who was not altogether
pleased with the lowly posture of her husband.
“Didst thou pass my troops?” inquired Cromwell, “and how were
they employed?”
“They were listening to the exhortations of a preacher, and the very
horses even seemed attentive, for they stood silent.”
“How different,” exclaimed the dame, “from all other soldiers, who
make the sabbath a day of wanton sport. They curse and swear like
the king himself. They stay at the wine-cup till their eyes are red,
and their great toes cannot balance the bulk above them. Put a cap
sideways on a monkey, teach him to say ‘damn,’ to look and be
wicked; take him to the king, and get him knighted, and he is a
good cavalier. Knight him with a sword! Bring him to me, and I
should do it to better purpose with a rough stick!”
Cromwell smiled at this ebullition of feeling. Throughout all his life
he was never known to laugh.
“You speak warmly, dame,” said he. “But since a sword is the only
weapon of knighthood, they shall have one. Here,” and he pointed to
his own, lying sheathed on the casement, “is the sword of Gideon.
That sword has been blessed as often as the food which I partake
of. But, miller, thou wert at church to-day. ’Tis well; yet I have a few
things to say against thee; I would thou wert either cold or hot.”
Rachel was looking in at the large pot on the fire, in which the
pudding was boiling, as she thought, too slowly. Her temper was
provoked, and she muttered, as she raised the pudding on the end
of a stick;
“I would thou wert either cold or hot.”
“I have a few things to say against thee, my trusty miller,” repeated
Cromwell.
“A few things to say against Hans,” exclaimed Rachel with much
warmth, while she left the pot, and faced round to Cromwell. “Take
care what thou sayest against Hans!”
“Pooh!” was the contemptuous answer. “Thou fumest; but I know
how to cork every bottle of ale, brisk though it be. I carry stoppers,
even for a woman—but beware.”
“A few things to say against Hans!” continued Rachel, but in a lower
voice,—“why, he’s a good husband, a good christian, and—”
“Too good a subject to King Charles,” added Cromwell with a frown.
“Woe unto you that still dwell in the tents of Ham. God shall enlarge
us and our borders; but woe be to you. And yet, you have kindly
given refuge to this lovely maiden, whose history I have heard, and
whose wrongs, God be my witness, I shall revenge. Because Rahab
kept the spies, she was allowed to enter the promised land, and
because you have kept this persecuted daughter of a brave man,
God will reward you!”
He paused, and then continued,—
“And wherefore should I induce you to leave this peaceful retreat,
and your rural occupations? A Sunday spent in the country would
almost suffice to put an end to war, and to make brethren of all
mankind!”
He turned his head, seemingly absorbed in his own reflections. His
eyes could not be seen. They were altogether buried beneath his
eye-brows and his massive forehead.
“In church,” replied Hans to the repeated inquiries of his dame, “we
were disturbed by the noise of the cannon firing from the castle. Ah!
it is no longer true that we can sit under our vine and fig-tree,—
none daring to make us afraid.”
“Fig-tree!” exclaimed Rachel, whose memory had not retained the
passage, and whose reason applied it in a literal sense, “why we
cannot even sit under the cherry-tree in the garden without
somebody troubling us. Miss Evelyn and I—draw nearer, Hans, and I
shall whisper it—were seated there, when this noble officer, attended
by five or six troopers, came to the gate. And yet, he has not
disturbed us much. I feel proud that he has come to our dwelling. As
he entered, his sword was clashing on the threshold, but he said,
‘Peace be unto this house.’ But go on; you mentioned a disturbance
in the church.”
“Yes, cannons were fired from the castle. They drowned the piping
of the parson. We all rushed out, and made for the castle. The
governor stood on the battlements, as motionless as a sack of flour.
But his eyes were fixed upon some distant object, and he exclaimed
‘Cromwell, Cromwell.’”
These words were repeated by the miller in a loud voice. Cromwell
started up. Hans turned his back and busied himself with an
examination of the pudding in the pot.
“Who called me by name. Who called me?”
No one answered.
“Yes, it was an angel’s voice! Stay,” and Cromwell took his boots
from off his feet. “Now speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.”
His eyes were wildly raised. Not one of his enemies could have
laughed at his grotesque appearance, for the face was expressive of
an unearthly communion. It was pale; the very breath of the angel
whom he imagined to be there, might have passed over it.
“Nay, thou wilt not stay! It is well. I could not execute a commission
of vengeance on the Sabbath.”
It is singular that this great man was often deluded by visions, and
communications from the other world. His sudden conversion from
extreme dissipation had invested him, in his own eyes, with
something of a wonder and a miracle. It was the same with
Mohammed. But although this was a weakness, it was the source of
his energies, and inflexible resolution. He could not believe that
these fancies were the dreams of youth; for he had already passed
the meridian of life. He knew that his bodily senses were becoming
blunted, and he therefore was willing to think that his spiritual
senses were more acute and could distinguish sounds and sights,
which were strange to all but his gifted self. But let not his enemies
mock him. He might assert and believe that he heard sounds urging
him to go to the field of battle, to dare more than any other warrior,
and usurper; but did he ever hear any urging him to fly, to leave
undone what he had resolved to do? Nay, had he actually heard
such, he would have rejected them. Religion,—the tones of every
angel above,—nay, the very voice of God himself, could not have
made Cromwell a coward!
At length they sat down to dinner. A large substantial pudding was
placed before them. In those days, the guests of the poor had not
each a knife and fork; nay, they had not each a plate. All things were
in common. The miller clasped his hands together and looked up for
a blessing. And here, let not our readers expect something long and
very piously expressed. The spirit of the times was too much
debased by blasphemous allusions, which are only redeemed from
condemnation by their quaintness.
“Hans,” whispered Rachel, “give us your best blessing. Let it be the
one in rhyme.”
A pause was made. Cromwell’s eyes were shut, and Hans solemnly
began,—
“Lord bless us! Devil miss us!
Rachel—bring the spoons to us!”

The good dame was hastening to comply with the request, when
Cromwell cried,
“Nay, miller, thou hast but asked a blessing on us. Let us ask a
blessing on the provisions. Your’s is but a vulture’s blessing,” and he
himself poured forth thanksgivings to God, for all his mercies.
After the repast, Cromwell spoke but little, except to Mary Evelyn, to
whose lot he promised better days. But the miller was a little curious
to know his intended movements, as it was not every day which
brought him such opportunities for looking into the future.
“They expect you at Lancaster, General,” said he turning to
Cromwell.
“And yet,” was the answer, “I shall prove that although they expect
me, they are not quite prepared for my reception. The walls of
Jericho must fall down. And saidst thou, pretty innocent,” as he
looked upon Miss Evelyn with a kind eye, “that the Governor of
Lancaster Castle, gave evidence against thy father, even to the
death?”
“He did, noble warrior. My father was an old friend of Charles. But he
could not support him in his tyrannic measures with the Parliament.
Whisperings went abroad that my father had agreed to assassinate
him. The Governor of Lancaster Castle was reported to have heard
him say, that if the king went further, the nation must purchase a
block, and that no nobleman who loved his country, would refuse to
be the executioner; and such evidence was given; it was false. Oh!
my poor father.”
Her eye rolled wildly around, as when in her moments of madness.
The miller and his dame perceived it, and went kindly to console her.
But the voice of Cromwell, though neither sweet nor full toned,
seemed to exercise a charm over her grief, as if he had been some
superior being; and instead of raving, she only fell into a fit of
insensibility.
“Leave her to me, good people. Now my pretty one, put your hands
in mine.”
He looked up solemnly, whilst he whispered,
“God above, heal her mind, and heal our mother country. Affection
may yet smile upon her, and kindness may cherish her, but she is a
wreck. The delapidated temple may have the earth around, as green
as ever, and the sky above, as holy and beautiful, but it is still a ruin.
Ho! my good friends, here, she breathes not. Her heart has stopped
its pulse against my breast. Throw the spring water upon her face.
Now she recovers. Look up, then, innocent one.”
In a few minutes she was able to thank him for his attentions.
“It is a painful subject, but although I hear it not mentioned, it is
ever present to my mind. Oh! it is wicked in me to cherish revenge
towards that man. I almost hate him. I almost wish him dead.”
“Blame not the wish. I have myself wished, nay prayed fervently for
hours at the still approach of midnight, that the man, Charles Stuart,
should die by our hands. He has braved the Parliament, and why
should the judges spare him?”
And yet this was the man who, in after years, dissolved the
Parliament by force, and took the keys home in his pocket. Charles
might not order his attendants in as eloquent and strong language,
to seize the offenders, as Cromwell used, when he told his servants
to take down, “that bauble,”—the mace; but the king was guilty of a
less constitutional crime than was the protector.
He continued, in tones of scorn, while malice darkened over his face,
—
“If Charles be bad, why, he deserves death; he is unfit to live. If he
be good, it is but meet that he should leave this vain and wicked
world for another more congenial to his piety, where he may inherit
a heavenly crown. Let him bid adieu, and there is no honest man
who could object to a monarchy in heaven! Often has Charles called
the crown, a crown of thorns. We shall ease him of it. Pity that his
tender and royal flesh should be scratched! Often has he called the
throne of England a cross. We shall take him down from the cross,
and bury him. Pity that he should, any longer, be a spectacle to
angels and to men! We shall free him of both his crown and his
throne!”
“But surely not of his life?” inquired Miss Evelyn, and the question
was repeated by Hans and Rachel Skippon.
It was unanswered:—and Cromwell relapsed into one of those silent
moods which came frequently over him, even at the commencement
of his public career, as well as afterwards, when he became Lord
Protector.
In all his conversation, Mary Evelyn had observed that there was
something of an innocent hypocrisy about him. He counterfeited
tender feelings, when it was evident, from his face, that he had
none; and at other times he restrained tender feelings, and
appeared what he was not—cold and indifferent. But in his
expressed hatred of the king, there could not be a doubt of his
sincerity. The awful sarcasm was in deadly earnest, and the very
words hissed, and hissed, as if they were coming from a full furnace
of burning wrath. Neither was his love for England at that time
insincere. Had his life been of as much value to it as his sword,
instead of taking up the one, he was willing to have resigned the
other.
A knocking was now made at the gate, and when Rachel went to it,
a soldier of the common rank inquired,—
“Tarrieth my lord in the house? Verily he hath chosen a peaceful
spot. The lines have fallen unto him in pleasant places. Lead me the
way.”
“Dost thou preach in the army?” inquired the dame.
“No madam; verily, verily I say unto you, that many shall be called
unto that work, but few chosen. But thou wonderest at the fluency
of my speech. Ah!—out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh. I only edify and exhort in private.”
The good dame could, with difficulty, refrain from laughing at the
uncouth soldier. He was tall and thin, and she afterwards remarked,
—had Goliath been still alive, the soldier would have been an
excellent sword for his huge hand. But he opened his lips so
oracularly, and strode so gravely, that these circumstances being
taken into consideration, along with his leanness, he was termed by
Cromwell himself, with no little blasphemy, when in an unusual fit of
jocularity and good humour, “the holy ghost!”
When they had gained the house, he made a low reverence to
Cromwell, repeating the words, “honour to whom honour is due,
fear to whom fear.”
“Well, my good soldier, what wouldst thou?”
“Will it please you, my lord, to walk forth in the cool of the day, and
commune with thy servants, our captains and officers?”
“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”
The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,
“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at his
form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not
handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.
“He will save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all his
greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”
“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel any
attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and yet,
but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”
The good dame here expressed what was the universal feeling of all
Cromwell’s supporters towards him. He had their confidence, but not
their affection. His own daughters, at one time, were proud of him,
but they were never fond. And in the glowing panegyric of Milton,
we can but trace a high admiration of Cromwell.
“Arthur Montressor,” said Mary to herself, “must not belong to
Cromwell’s troops, else he would surely have come to see me. He is
not false or faithless. Oh! when shall civil war be at an end, and we
know a home?”
Cromwell returned an hour before sunset. His step was slow. He was
in a quiet contemplative mood, evidently not thinking of war. His
head was uncovered, and he allowed the air to breathe its fragrance
upon it. He paused at the threshold, as if it were painful to enter a
dwelling after having wandered about the vale.
The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of May,
and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth it
seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to retreat
to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white cottage,
as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.
“My good friends,” said Cromwell “it is now time for our evening
devotions. Let them not be performed in a house made with hands,
but in the open air. And yet I would rather worship in your dwelling,
than in all the gorgeous temples, which speak too much of man, to
say any thing of God. But, let us to the garden.”
His eye beamed with a love for nature. He is said often to have
dwelt with rapture on the beauty of external objects, and to have
wished that his lot, however humble, had been cast in a pastoral
retirement, far from bustle and care. Nature had first given him
thoughts of liberty. It was not the lightning and the storm, which
inspired them. He cared not for the cold mountains, with their terrific
heads mantled in the tempest. He looked around upon lovely nature.
He called himself her son. It was not because she was free, but
because she was beautiful, that he swore never to be a slave. A
beautiful mother, and a son with a craven soul: it must not be!
They went forth to the garden. A pleasant arbour at the extremity,
topping the eminence, and shaded with trees, was their temple. The
balmy fragrance of eve rested on the bushes, and the glow of
coming twilight floated in the sky. Cromwell for a moment listened in
silence, as if the song of spirits, keeping their sabbath, was borne on
the gentle west wind.
“What a temple is this,” he said, “to worship God! I cannot endure to
enter churches, and there to gaze upon the gay gilded fluttering
sons of pride, clothed in purple and fine linen. But here, I can gaze
upon objects still more gaily adorned, and I dare not call them vain.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, catching fire and animation from the
republican. “Churches teach so much the lesson of our mortality.
Many graves are around us. But this temple teaches us of
immortality.”
“Thou speakest well, beauteous maiden. Mortality is a great lesson,
but immortality is one greater and more useful. Mortality teaches us
to trace our connections and relatives in the worm. But immortality
in God and angels! Sin brought the first to light, but Christ the
other.”
They all joined in singing a psalm. Mary Evelyn’s sweet voice, with
its low and tremulous sounds, occasionally induced Cromwell to be
silent and listen, while he kindly placed his hand upon hers. He next
read a portion of Scripture,—one of the Psalms—which he
afterwards commented upon, in his address to Parliament, as Lord
Protector of the Commonwealth. He then knelt down on the grass
and prayed, “Father above, we come to thee! We now bow at thy
feet: soon we shall lie in thine arms! Far above us, still thou hidest
not thy face. Excuse us in this act of adoration, for opening our eyes
to see the heavens, and for sinking our hands on the ground to feel
thy footstool. The moon and the stars may not arise, but the clouds
which conceal them, tell their tale. The flowers of the earth may
have withered, but the clods of the valley, beneath which their fair
young forms are buried, take their place, and speak to us of thee!”
Here he paused, as if overcome by the greatness of the Being whom
he addressed. But soon it was the strong republican who prayed,
and he raved about Israel; Israel’s God, and himself the deliverer of
both, as he presumed.
When he had concluded, he abruptly arose and left them. They
followed him into the house, after a few minutes, but he had gone
to his apartment for the night. As long however as they themselves
were awake, they heard him walking up and down.
On the following morning, the sun was not earlier in arising upon the
turrets of Lancaster Castle, than were the soldiers of the garrison.
They were in armour, and the cannons were all charged and
manned. The Governor was walking about to every post and every
circle, encouraging them to do their duty to the king and country.
His eyes were occasionally turned to the vale where Cromwell’s
troops were encamped.
“Do they yet move,” said a noble youth who now approached.
“Father, shall we able to hold out a siege against such a famed
general?”
“Is my son a traitor,” bitterly asked the governor. “If he be, then my
first duty of vengeance is against him. No! a king has blessed thee,
and wouldst thou fight against him who once took thee, an infant, in
his royal arms, and swore that thou wert like thy beautiful mother?
Thy mother! Ha, the subject and the name are unfit for me. Let me
not think of them.”
“Father,” proudly replied the youth, “thou doest me wrong. Not only
my sword, but my very life is pledged for the king’s interest. But to
war with Cromwell is to war with destiny. He can pray and he can
fight.”
“Let his troops come,” was the scornful answer, “and we shall quickly
send them upon their knees, to attend to their devotions. See, there
is spare room for a few thousands to pray upon the ground out
before us. They shall find room to stretch out their full length
carcass, and they may breathe out groans which cannot be uttered,
because they are dead!”
“They pray before they come to the battle. During it, you will not
find them once on their knees.”
“Ha! doubtest thou?” exclaimed the governor. “If they refuse to
kneel in loyalty to Charles while living, why, we shall allow them, in
death, to kneel to their mother earth, which they love so fondly,
‘dust to dust,’ as they themselves would say.”
“Not before their garments are rolled in blood!”
“Art thou a canting hypocrite too? Hast thou been baptized with the
said holy fire. It is the fire of rebellion. Satan was the first
roundhead. He spoke of liberty. He mentioned it in the high court of
parliament, but royalty conquered, and the good cavalier angels
pushed him and all his troops over the battlements. Let Cromwell
scale these turrets, we shall explain to him a precipitous descent. Let
him come.”
“Thou hast thy wish,” was the reply. “His troops are advancing. Now
for the action.”
“My brave boy,” said the governor, as he placed his hand upon the
head of his son, “forgive me for my harsh words. Thou art my only
child, my sole hope. Heaven bless thee and shield thee! But haste
my men, is all in readiness?”
In half-an-hour Cromwell’s troops were posted upon a neighbouring
hill, opposite the castle. A flag of truce was fixed.
A herald from the Roundheads now advanced; and being admitted
into the town, proceeded to the castle. The persons usually thus
employed were half preachers, and half warriors, who threatened
with the sword of the Lord, and of Gideon. The present messenger
of peace, belonged to this class. Obadiah Cook was his name, and as
he announced it to the governor, who appeared at the drawbridge,
all the soldiers gave a loud laugh.
“Friend,” said the governor, “is thy name Obadiah Cook?”
“It is, Sir Governor,” was the reply, “I am like that famous prophet,
who sheltered God’s servants from the wicked Ahaz. Oh! for a place
in the wilderness, that there my soul might fly away and be at rest!”
“What prevents it from flying? Surely not thy body, for it is so weak.
Indeed, Obadiah, thou seemest too like thy namesake of old, and art
too fond of cooking for the hundred prophets. Man, consider your
own wants.—But your errand, Obadiah?”
“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Are ye so deaf? The very
loop holes of that idolatrous castle, of that high-place of iniquity,
condemned by the Psalmist, take in my words. My master, Cromwell,
in the name of the Parliament of England, demands you to surrender
the castle, else it shall be razed to the ground, and there shall not be
one stone left upon another, which shall not be thrown down. Last
night, when I had retired to sleep, in the midst of my meditations, I
heard an angel flying through the sky, and crying with a loud voice
‘Babylon is fallen, Lancaster Castle is no more.’”
At this moment a ball whizzed over the head of Obadiah.
“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the sentinel,
who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted that it had
not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might have known
more accurately.
“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the sentinel.
“Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”
The herald continued,—
“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled to
eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender in
time.”
“Not so,” replied the governor, with a laugh, “we have better dainties
than that. We have as good ale, as ever Oliver himself brewed at
Huntingdon. Nay, I should like to have a chat with him, over some of
it. Sentinel, throw Obadiah a loaf.”
The herald, who did not seem by any means over-fed, caught the
descending bread, and stowed it about his person.
“Now, fool, return and tell Oliver that we despise his vengeance, and
laugh at his mercy.”
“Then,” exclaimed the angry and indignant messenger, “a voice
against Lancaster, a voice against the Castle, a voice against—”
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