Part 19

“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?”