BOOK I.
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My life has been so restless and adventurous that I
go back with delight to my early years, spent at the
old home of my family in Warwickshire, England.
Cecil Court was a peaceful, charming old place, on
the banks of the Avon, low-pitched, built of brick,
with Elizabethan windows, a flower-decorated terrace,
and approached by a broad avenue overshadowed by
lofty elms. You entered a large hall running from front
to rear, with a winding staircase on the right, the balustrade,
like the wainscoting, of heavy oak, carved and
darkened by age. On the right was the sitting-room,
with polished oak floor, tall-backed chairs, a wide fireplace
with huge old andirons, a tall mantelpiece, and
a dozen portraits on the walls. This apartment was,
properly speaking, the dining-room, the drawing-rooms
occupying the opposite wing, but in progress of time
it had come to be used as the sitting-room, and our old
neighbors invariably went thither unannounced to find
my father. On the second floor were the chambers,
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which were numerous and furnished in the style of the
reign of Queen Elizabeth.
The family estate was by no means large, consisting
indeed of but a few hundreds of acres, cultivated by
two or three old tenants, grown gray-headed on the
place. My father had never given his assent, however,
to any diminution of the size of the old Cecil Court
park,—an extensive chase of the freshest and greenest
turf, dotted with century oaks, beneath which the cattle
grazed undisturbed, and a few deer wandered, tame
and confiding. Seen from a distance, through the
waving foliage of its great trees, Cecil Court was a
peaceful and attractive picture. On the right, beyond
a green hillock, gleamed the still waters of a pond and
the dancing waves of a little stream. The sylvan
scene was calm and friendly, and you would have said
that life here was as tranquil and serene as the slow
movement of the white clouds floating over the blue
sky.
Our household was small, consisting only of my
father, my elder brother Harry, my younger sister
Cicely, an old housekeeper, and a few old servants,
whose heads had turned white in the service of the
family, and who performed their duties with the regularity
and more than the silence of machines. I often
think now that a large part of the happiness of human
beings depends upon the possession of such silent old
household attendants. Never a word was uttered nor
an order given. Comfort, kindness, and silence reigned,
and the exact wine my father wished was placed at his
elbow, without a word addressed to the old majordomo
waiting, calm and silent, behind his chair.
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Do not fancy from this picture, worthy reader, that
the Cecils were very well-to-do in the world. We
had barely enough; and although the country-people
called my father “the Squire,” and took off their hats
to him with the profoundest deference, that was more
a tribute to his kindly nature, which made all love him,
than to his possessions. The estate had once been
very large, but had dwindled away. Still, we had
enough to live upon as gentlefolks, and my father's
fondness for reading and study caused him to forget
the narrowness of his fortunes. He was a very tall
and distinguished-looking person, with long gray hair,
which he powdered and tied with a ribbon, a broad
and lofty forehead, blue eyes full of candor and simplicity,
and lips wearing habitually a smile of great
sweetness. His dress was plain, but about his whole
appearance there was an air of grace and distinction
which never changed. His manner was the same to a
peer of the realm and to a plowman,—his bow to the
last as courteous as to the first. In a word, good
reader, my father was a gentleman of extreme pride,
simplicity, and naturalness,—thought himself, I dare
say, as good as the peer, and perhaps in many things
no better than the plowman.
I do not remember my dear mother, who died in my
infancy, taking away with her, people said, much of
the sunshine of my father's life,—for to the last they
were more like young lovers than old married people.
For her, my father kept his courtliest bows and his
sweetest smiles. The great aim of his life seemed to
be to make her happy; and when she died, the old
neighbors said that he went about as though he had
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lost something without which he could not live. This,
however, was before my time, and when I first remember
him my father had regained his calmness, at least.
His smile was full of sadness, but of great sweetness
too, as I have said. Once I found him in tears, gazing
at a withered flower my dear mother had given him
upon their wedding-day; but such evidences of emotion
were infrequent. I recall him now, most clearly,
sitting in his great arm-chair, reading a folio containing
the dramas of his friend and neighbor Mr. Shakspeare,
whom he knew in his own younger days, and
esteemed highly.
A few words will introduce my brother Harry and
my sister Cicely. Harry was a year or two my senior,
a brave, handsome youth, full of sunshine and gayety,
who had hunted every fox in the county from his boyhood,
and ended by entering that select company of
young gentlemen, the Queen's Guardsmen, at Hampton
Court. In doing so, he had consulted both his own
wishes and his love for me. The revenues of Cecil
Court were insufficient to send us both to Oxford, and,
as I was destined for the law, Harry declared that I
should go, he becoming a guardsman. I accordingly
went to Oxford, and Harry to London,—I became a
fellow-commoner of Baliol College, and he a gay
young gallant. When this history opens, I had just
returned to Cecil Court, and Harry was in the Guards.
Of Cicely, my little sister, I shall say nothing at
this time, and scarce more of that important personage,
the writer of these memoirs. The said gentleman,
Edmund Cecil by name, was a country youth
who fancied himself a great philosopher; liberal in
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politics, but a monarchist for all that, and by no means
pleased with the near prospect of becoming a denizen
of the Inns of Court at London. It would have
pleased him far better to have remained at Cecil Court
in idleness,—reading, dreaming, wandering about the
old park, and shaping cloud-castles for his own entertainment.
He was, in truth, a most useless and incapable
person, content to let the current waft him,
without using his oars, and asking only silence and
liberty to peruse the pages of Mr. William Shakespeare,
for whom he had inherited his father's fondness.
Such a life was impossible, however; and one day
my father informed me that he had made every arrangement
for my entrance at the Inns of Court. My lodgings
had been engaged in Essex Court, with young
Master John Evelyn, and nothing now prevented me
from commencing the study of my future profession.
“'Tis the best career I can think of for my boy,”
my father said, with his sweet smile, now filled with
tenderness. “Cecil Court goes to Harry, but perchance
you will be Chief Justice some day, my son.
So take the old sword yonder,—every gentleman
should wear a sword,—the best horse in the stable, and
Dick the hostler will ride with you to London.”
My heart sank at the very phrase “Inns of Court,”
but there was some consolation in that magical word
“London.”
“I will be ready at daylight, sir,” I said, taking my
father's hand and kissing it.
“That is well, my boy; and I need give you few
counsels. Be a good man, my dear; be honest and
true. Study hard; for remember 'tis the educated brain
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that rules the world. Avoid as far as possible the
political commotions just beginning; for neither on
the king's side nor the parliament's is the full right.
The Cecils must be of the royal party, if the issue
comes; but his majesty construes his prerogative far
too liberally for my views. With him you must side
nevertheless, if honor will let you, and you side with
either. But remember that the Cecil honor is above
and before all,—even that of the king, who is, after
all, but the first gentleman of his kingdom.”
My father stopped, and laid his hand upon my
head.
“God bless my boy!” he said, in a faltering voice;
and, turning away, he went out of the room, leaving me
in tears.
At daylight I set out for London. The whole household
had assembled to bid me good-by, and the old
servants uttered many earnest blessings, for in their
eyes I was yet but a child. Then my father pressed
my hand closely, Cicely put her arms around my neck
and kissed me, her face wet with tears, I mounted,
waved my hand, and, followed by joyous Dick the
hostler, went forth into the future.
My father stood on the old porch until I was out of
sight. Reaching an eminence distant half a mile from
the hall, it again appeared, and my dear father was
standing there still. My heart went back to him, and
to all the familiar localities I was bidding farewell to.
With something strange in my throat which seemed
about to choke me, I gazed long from the hill on the
fields and forests of my childhood; then, turning my
horse's head, I set forward at a gallop,—Dick the
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hostler made his best effort to keep up with me,—and
Cecil Court disappeared from my eyes.
I was afloat upon the surge of that ocean which is
called the great world.
As though to indicate the adventurous character of
the career I was to run, a singular incident befell me
on this the first day of my journey.
But first I will attempt, reader, to present you with
an outline of myself as I thus went forth from the
family nest,—a callow fledgeling, scarce winged as yet,—
gazing around me eagerly on the fertile lands, on
the old minsters and castles, and the fields so soon to
be trampled.
The Edmund Cecil who thus rode to seek his fortune,
was a youth of twenty-three, slight, active, with
brown eyes, and hair of the same color; and he wore
a dark cloth riding-habit, chamois boots, a hat with a
black feather, and the old family sword clattering
against his hunting-spurs. A downy mustache and
royale, after the fashion of the time, set off the face,—
a face in which, I think, hope and happiness must have
shone; for the youth found something charming in the
idea of London, whither he was going, and bestrode
with delight his favorite hunter from the Cecil Court
stables. There were not many there now; the Cecils
were poor; but what was poverty to the young
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knighterrant? Youth was stronger,—youth, the source of
nearly every joy; to return to which to-day, when my
pulse rarely throbs, I would give all the experience
and wisdom I have since acquired! Experience?
Wisdom? The tints of autumn are charming, and the
sunset is of solemn beauty; but spring is sweeter than
autumn, the dawn fresher than evening! My old age
is happy, and I am content with it. But oh for the
curls and roses, the eye and pulse, of twenty!
I passed Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire, and slept at
the Cat and Bagpipes, an inn in the small town of Wendover.
I had just descended at sunrise, and was about
to resume my journey, when a traveling-carriage, coming
from the north and drawn by four spirited horses,
rattled up to the door, and through the window I
caught sight of an exquisite face. It was that of a
young lady apparently about twenty, her countenance
half concealed by a cloak and hood. I could
still discern its outlines, however; and its rare beauty
was unmistakable. The cheeks were rosy, the eyes
large and earnest, the lips mild and full of a charming
innocence and sweetness. Such was the occupant of
the coach,—a woman, evidently her attendant, being
the sole other person visible.
The coach stopped, and the driver leaped down.
“Fresh horses for London!” he cried to the portly
landlord, who had hastened out.
At the sound of that voice I started, and my whole
attention was now concentrated upon the speaker. He
was a mere coachman, at least in costume,—huge overall,
plain beaver, a handkerchief bundled around his
throat, and heavy top-boots. I went closer, and looked
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under the low hat. The coachman was my brother
Harry, of the Queen's Guardsmen!
Our eyes met, and he turned quickly, endeavoring
to conceal his face. I began to laugh, and called out,—
“Don't you know me, Harry?”
Thereat the supposed coachman turned, and whispered,—
“'Ware hawks, Ned!—on secret service for her
majesty!”
He said no more, but went to the coach and seemed
to propose that the young lady should breakfast therein;
for, in compliance with a rapid order, food was brought,
and she ate hastily.
Meanwhile fresh horses were rapidly attached;
the postilion mounted; Harry cracked his whip with
the air of a born Jehu, and the carriage set off, the
horses going at a gallop.
Harry had carefully avoided a private interview. He
had simply whispered, in passing me,—
“I will see you in London.”
Ten minutes afterwards, the carriage had disappeared
over the crest of a hill, leaving me standing in the
middle of the street gazing after it.
I hastened to follow; but it was half an hour before
I got to saddle. I then rode on rapidly, but did not
catch up with the carriage. It had disappeared like
a dream,—a visionary equipage drawn by phantom
horses.
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London was visible, as I approached, from a great
distance, with its canopy of smoke; and I cantered
gayly into the famous city, making my way, after inquiries
of wayfarers, towards Essex Court, where my
lodgings had been engaged.
In front of the palace of Whitehall, with which I
was familiar from one other visit in my boyhood to
London, a very great crowd had assembled. So dense
was the mass of human beings that I pushed my horse
through it with difficulty, followed by Dick the hostler;
and the appearance of this crowd was singular. It consisted,
apparently, of apprentices of the various trades
in the City, their hair cut extremely short; and almost
all carried in their hands staves upon which were placards
bearing the word “Liberty.” The great mass of
human beings uttered vociferous cries, and kept their
eyes fixed upon the palace, in front of which I now
saw a long row of carriages drawn up, with the royal
arms upon the panels.
“What is the cause of this excitement, sir?” I said
to a burly individual standing near me.
“The tyrant is about to fly with his family, and we
are come to stop him,” was the stern reply.
“The tyrant, sir?” I said.
“Others call him Charles the First of England.”
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“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed, “'tis not possible
that violence is meant by his majesty's faithful
subjects to his person and his family!”
My interlocutor looked fixedly at me, and, tightening
the grasp on his stick, was apparently about to take
the offensive, when a great wave bore him ten feet from
me. A hand caught my bridle, and my horse was
thrown on his haunches. A moment afterwards, hoofstrokes
were heard: a detachment of the king's body-guard
pushed their horses through the crowd, the
procession of coaches filled with ladies followed, and
another detachment brought up the rear.
I had been swept away, still on horseback, by the
great wave, and was looking at the carriages, when I
recognized in one of them the face of the young lady
whom I had encountered at Wendover. She was clad
in velvet and laces now, and was even more beautiful.
I was gazing at the calm, proud face, conscious of little
save her very great loveliness, when a man rushed up
to the coach,—it was my burly friend with the staff,—
thrust the “Liberty” placard into the young lady's
face, and uttered some words apparently of insult; for
the calm face quickly flushed. This proceeding enraged
me; and, leaping to the ground, I grasped the person
guilty of this indignity by one of his ears, dragging
him violently back. He uttered a yell of anger at this
unceremonious assault, turned, and caught me by the
throat; and, although I had drawn and directed my
sword's point towards his breast, I was about to be
dragged down and trampled under foot by the crowd,
when a voice near me cried,—
“Hold hard, Ned! We are coming.”
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It was the voice of Harry, who rode at the head of
the detachment of horse in rear.
“You will please allow me to pass, good people,”
he said, in his loud, hearty voice. “I don't want to
ride against anybody; and, as this gentleman is my
brother—”
He pushed at my big opponent, struck him with his
horse's chest, and drew me, hot and furious, towards him.
“'Ware hawks, Ned!” he said, laughing. “There's
Dick brandishing his arms and holding your horse.
Mount, and fall in with the Guards! or I think these
worthies will eat you up!”
Dick had pushed through and reached my side, still
clinging to my horse's bridle. I threw myself into the
saddle, and took my place in the line,—Dick imitating
me. No further violence was offered any one; and an
hour afterwards the procession of coaches, containing,
as I now ascertained, the queen, the royal family, and
maids of honor, issued from London.
Then I saw rising before me the imposing walls of
Hampton Court; the procession passed through the
park; the Guards were drawn up in a double line, and
between these walls of silk, plumes, and steel, the queen
and the rest entered the palace.
I was looking with interest and admiration upon the
bevy of beautiful young ladies as they passed in and
disappeared, when the voice of Harry beside me said,—
“What was the trouble about yonder, Ned?”
I told him all.
“Oho! Well, that's like a Cecil! And it was the
fair Miss Frances Villiers whose knight you became,”
“Is her name Frances Villiers?”
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“Yes; her Majesty's favorite maid of honor.”
“Well, I think I did right, Harry—”
“You won the right to enter the guards of her
majesty; and I'll apply for your appointment before
I sleep, Ned. Come on! follow me to the guard-room.”
The guard-room at Hampton Court was an apartment
of large extent, with tables against the wall beneath
the tall windows, and around these tables a
number of the gay young gallants of the Guards were
already engaged at dice,—laughing, jesting, and exchanging
comments on the events of the morning.
Harry had just made me acquainted with some of
his friends,—and I could see at a glance that he was a
favorite with the mercurial young gentlemen of the
Guards,—when an usher entered, glided to him, and
spoke in a low tone.
“Wait here, Ned,” he said. “I am sent for.” And
taking his gray beaver, with its floating plume, he
followed the usher.
He was absent for a quarter of an hour, during which
time the guard-room resounded with jests, laughter, the
rattle of dice, and the clatter of flagons on the tables.
I was gazing at this animated scene, when Harry touched
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me on the shoulder, made a sign to me to follow him,
and, leading the way, conducted me through a long
corridor to the left wing of the palace.
“You are about to enjoy the satisfaction of being
thanked for your chivalric gallantry, Ned, by the
prettiest pair of lips at the court of England,” said
my brother, laughing. “Come on! Be firm, but
determined; modest, but devoted!”
And, still with his gay laugh, Harry opened a door,
beyond which, in a small but richly-decorated apartment,
I saw seated the young lady of the inn at
Wendover.
“I have the honor of presenting my brother Edmund,
Miss Villiers,” Harry said, bowing low, with his plume
trailing on the floor. “He begs to assure you of his
very profound respect.” And Harry discreetly fell back.
The young lady inclined her head graciously, in response
to my low bow, and I observed in her bearing
the same air of calmness and repose. Nothing seemed
to shake this singular serenity.
“I fear you make quite a court ceremony of this
interview with a simple maid of honor, Mr. Cecil,”
she said to Harry; and it is impossible to conceive
anything sweeter and calmer than the accents of her
voice. Raising her great, limpid eyes to my face, she
added, “Mr. Cecil has informed me that it was yourself
to whom I was indebted for assistance to-day, sir;
and I thank you sincerely.”
The beautiful girl abashed me. I could only bow
low again, when Harry's gay voice interposed.
“Ned is overcome, Miss Villiers. In a word, accept
the devotion of the Cecil family at large; and should
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you kindly take us under your ladyship's protection,
secure my brother's appointment to a place in the
Guards.”
I could not protest that I was about to become
one of the long-robe fraternity,—to be frank, I was
quite ashamed of the fact,—and, with a throb of satisfaction,
remained silent.
“Mr. Cecil wishes an appointment?” said Miss
Villiers. “I am sure he may secure that.”
“He is discreet as well as brave,” Harry said,
quietly. “He saw and recognized me at Wendover.”
The young lady turned her head quickly, and a
slight color came to her face.
“I am sorry, sir,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “I had
hoped—”
“That no one save myself and her majesty was
informed of that escapade? But think, Miss Villiers, I
alone was to blame.”
He turned to me, and added, “This is the best
time and place to inform you frankly, Ned, of the
meaning of that encounter. It is due to Miss Villiers,
who has not ceased to cherish sentiments of
displeasure towards me. Know, then, that Miss
Villiers is confidential maid of honor to her majesty,
and that her devotion knows no bounds. Well, her
majesty desired, recently, to send an oral message to
his majesty, who is in Scotland. The times are troubled
and dangerous; written communications are liable to
be intercepted: in a word, Miss Villiers offered to go
to Scotland and convey the message in person. Am I
right, Miss Villiers? and have I your permission to
proceed?”
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“Yes, sir,” returned the young lady, with the slight
color still in her cheeks. “I even desire that Mr.
Cecil shall be informed of the meaning of that singular
adventure.”
“I see that your displeasure continues, madam,”
said Harry; “but I can only submit. Pardon me, I
pray you, for still speaking of you in your presence as
though you were absent.”
He bowed, and went on, addressing himself to me.
“Her majesty accepted the offer of Miss Villiers,
and it was arranged that she should travel with a lady's
maid only, but the coach was to be driven by an old
and trusted servitor. When it left London it was I,
however, who drove, and for a simple reason. A
young lady would necessarily be exposed, traveling
thus alone, to peril; so I locked up the old servitor,
mounted the seat of the coach, and it was only when
it had proceeded a day's journey, nearly, that Miss
Villiers perceived the ruse. I need not say that she
was very angry, and perhaps justly angry. But the
die was cast; the message was pressing. The coach
continued its way, and beyond Doncaster the advantage
of being driven by an able-bodied young man in place
of an infirm old servitor became apparent, did it not,
madam?”
And, with lurking enjoyment of his triumph in his
handsome eyes, Harry turned to the young lady.
“Continue, sir,” she said.
“Footpads, Ned!” Harry said, laughing. “The
coach was attacked. The coachman heroically discharged
his pistols and unhorsed one of the knights
of the road; the rest fled. The coach imitated them,
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and we reached Scotland, to return speedily over the
same ground London-ward. In traveling, no time was
lost. The coach was driven on day and night, as you
may understand from the fact that we reached Wendover
as you were coming down to breakfast. Peste!
as her majesty's French maids say, I have not yet
caught up with my lost sleep. I nod in the saddle,
and snore while rattling the dice! To conclude, Miss
Villiers most generously made my peace with her
majesty. I am becoming a court favorite, they tell me;
and after the assault of the footpads I regained, and
still enjoy, the luxury of a good conscience and an
exalted opinion of myself.”
It was impossible to resist Harry's gayety. A smile
came to Miss Villiers's lips, and she said,—
“Mr. Cecil was born to be an advocate in the courts
of law. He will end by forcing me to thank him for
locking up the queen's servitor.”
“No, madam,” said Harry, bowing low, and speaking
with an earnestness in strong contrast to his former
levity; “I shall be content if you pardon a very audacious
escapade—”
As he uttered the words, an usher summoned Miss
Villiers to attend the queen. She rose, and for the
first time I observed the queenly outline of her person.
There was something regal in her; a slight bend in her
neck gave her appearance an indescribable grace. She
smiled faintly, inclined her head, and, gliding rather
than walking, disappeared.
“By heavens, she's a queen!” exclaimed Harry.
“Come, Ned, and rest easy; from this moment you
are as good as one of her majesty's Guards. My pockets
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are full of gold; I make you a present of your uniform!
Long live her majesty—and her maids of
honor!”
I shared Harry's bed that night, and was waked by
the trumpet sounding reveillé.
The Guardsmen paraded in the court,—stiff, motionless,
sitting their horses in line, and answering gruffly
to their names as the roll was called. The gay gallants
of the guard-room were turned to wooden figures;
but at the order to return to quarters they again broke
forth into jests and laughter.
As Harry came in, his rapier rattling against his
boots, I saw that he held a paper in his hand.
“Here is what one of the queen's ushers has just
brought, Ned,” he said.
I looked at the paper; it was my appointment to a
place in the queen's Guards.
“You see Miss Villiers stands by her friends, Ned,”
said Harry. “Come and don one of my old uniforms.
From this moment you are a Guardsman!”
He laughed, and put his arm round my neck. Of
all the faces I ever saw, Harry's came nearest sunshine
when he thus laughed.
The day passed in a round of excitement. I did not
reflect upon the scant respect paid my father in thus
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cavalierly turning my back on the profession for which
he had destined me. Had the eyes of Frances Villiers
already worked their magic on me? I know not; but
I hailed the change in my destiny with delight. Let
me add here, as I shall pass soon to stirring events,
that my dear father manifested no displeasure at the
unceremonious step thus taken, but sent me his full approval;
and I had no sooner received my appointment
then I set about my arrangements. These were speedily
made. The tailor of the Guardsmen, in Rosemary Lane,
near the Tower, came and took my measure for my
uniform,—in the mean while I donned an old one of
Harry's;—Dick the hostler declared his strong wish
to remain and attend to my horses, and so behold me
suddenly a full-fledged guardsman of the queen!
I was to commence my duties more speedily than I
supposed. I had just entered the guard-room, about
noon, when Harry came in, and I could see that he was
angry.
“What is the matter?” I said.
He drew my arm through his own, and dragged me
rather than led me out.
“The matter is insolence and cruelty, Ned!” he
said, with a sort of growl peculiar to him when anything
moved him. “The crop-eared knaves in parliament
have insulted her majesty!”
“Insulted?”
“Judge! Here comes to-day a messenger with a
paper from that rascal Pym and the rest, that her majesty
`must surrender her young family into their hands
during the absence of the king, lest she should take an
opportunity of making papists of them.”'
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“And her majesty has replied?”
“That her sons were under tuition of their governors,
who were not papists: she obeyed the will of her
husband that they should not be brought up in her religion.
And this is not all!”
“What more, Harry?”
“Secret information has just arrived that a parliamentary
order has been sent to a magistrate near Oatlands,
where the royal family now are, to be ready
with a part of the militia in the park of the palace to-night,—
where he would be joined by a body of cavalry,—
and await further orders.”
“They mean to seize on the royal family!”
Harry burst out into such oaths as I will not record.
“At their peril!” he said. “I say no more now,
but—”
The trumpet was heard without, sounding “Boots
and Saddles,” and the palace was in commotion. Harry
was hastening out, when an usher came in, looking
rapidly around.
“I am ordered to summon the first two gentlemen
of the Guards I meet, to her majesty's presence,” he
said.
“Come on, Ned!”
Harry was already rushing after the usher. I followed.
We passed along a great corridor, through a magnificent
suite of apartments, then into an antechamber,
where, at a sign from the usher, Harry paused, while
we were being announced.
“Let them come in!” exclaimed a voice in a decided
French accent.
A moment afterwards I had followed my brother
-- 027 -- p511-032
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into a large apartment richly furnished and half filled
with maids of honor, among whom stood a lady clad
in black, with a pallid face and piercing eyes. This
lady, I heard afterwards, was the secret enemy of her
majesty, Lady Carlisle.
In one corner, near a prie-dieu, stood a father confessor
in black robes. On the carpet gamboled a small
black dog, the famous Mitte, so intimately associated
with her majesty's wanderings and perils.
Lastly, at a table, where she wrote rapidly, sat the
queen.
Her majesty Queen Henrietta Maria—or “Mary,”
as King Charles and his followers always called her—
seemed to labor under great emotion.
She was a very beautiful person of about thirty,
of an exquisite clear brunette complexion, with glossy
brown hair, and large black eyes which sparkled like
stars. It was impossible not to admire her extreme
delicacy of features and the noble and imposing air
of her whole person. I am not skillful in costume, and
rarely recall what a human being wears, but I remember
the rich brocade the queen wore that day, the full lace
ruffles, the little cape, called a berthe, I think, and the
bodice finished around the bosom and at the waist
with a purple band. A string of pearls confined her
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magnificent brown hair; on her bosom lay a cross suspended
from a necklace: it was in this very costume,
I think, that she was drawn by the great painter Vandyke,
and inspired in Mr. Edmund Waller, the poet,
the fine lines,—
“Beauty hath crown'd you, and you must have been
The whole world's mistress, other than a queen!”
When I first saw “the whole world's mistress,” on that
autumn day at Hampton Court, she was in a rage;
the fine eyes flashed, and the clear brunette face was
crimson with anger.
“The messengers!” she said, without looking up,
and continuing to write rapidly.
The usher respectfully approached and uttered a few
words. The queen raised her head, and one of her
slender and beautiful hands went rapidly and nervously
to the cross upon her bosom. She had opened her
lips to speak, when a second usher entered and
asked an audience for some one whose name I did not
hear.
“The magistrate! the very one! Admit him!”
came from the queen, quickly.
The usher hastened out, and soon returned with a
portly, red-faced justice, who bowed low.
“I crave permission to lay this order before your
majesty,” said the justice. “It is from the parliament,
and directs me to summon the militia and patrol Oatlands
Park.”
“Obey your order, sir!” exclaimed the queen.
“I must disobey your majesty. Nothing will ever
-- 029 --
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induce me to obey any order other than her own or
the king's.”
The queen rose with a brilliant flash of her proud
eyes.
“Thanks, sir! thanks! His majesty shall know of
this. But return and do exactly what the parliament
has dictated, and be tranquil. We shall further explain
this: at present return and obey your orders.”
There was no room for reply. The magistrate left
the apartment, and the queen resumed her seat and
wrote a few more lines.
“This to Lord Digby, in London,” she said, extending
a paper towards Harry, who bowed low as he
received it.
“This to its address,” the queen added; and as she
held out the paper her eyes met my own.
I thought I heard at the same moment a faint murmur
from Miss Villiers, who stood near the queen.
“It is well; lose no time, Mr. Cecil.”
I retired blushing with delight at this utterance of
my name by the queen. She was so beautiful as she
sat there with that ring of rose-buds, her maids of honor,
around her, that the sternest Puritan, I think, would
have flushed with pleasure as I did.
Harry and myself left the court-yard at the same
moment, at a gallop.
“Huzza for Queen Mary!” he cried, as he disappeared.
The note to Lord Digby, as I afterwards ascertained,
contained an urgent request that his lordship would
muster his friends and proceed on that very night
to Oatlands Park. The letter borne by myself was
-- 030 --
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addressed to a gentleman residing some miles from
Hampton Court, who possessed a stud of horses
famous for blood and speed,—the queen designing to
make use of them in bearing off her children, if necessary,
to France.
I soon reached the old manor-house of the gentleman
in question,—Colonel Edward Cooke, of the royal
forces. Colonel Cooke was a tall and stately old
cavalier, with piercing eyes, a stern expression, but
slightly ameliorated by the ghost of a smile, and the
bearing of a thorough soldier.
“Say to her majesty, sir,” he said, with a bow, as
he read the note in his great hall, “that all I possess
is at her command,—including my heart and sword,—
both by day and by night.”
With this reply, which I saw, from the sudden flash
of the eye, came from the speaker's heart, I returned
to Hampton Court; and the response of Colonel Cooke
was conveyed to her majesty by Miss Frances Villiers,
who was installed in the antechamber as a sort of
adjutant-general.
“Her majesty bids me thank you, Mr. Cecil,” the
young lady said, coming out again and gazing at me
with her great calm eyes. “I counsel you to sup now:
the Guards will move in half an hour.”
As she spoke, the trumpet sounded “To horse!”
the Guards rapidly drew up in the court-yard; and, with
a decided gnawing in his stomach, Mr. Edmund Cecil
took his place in the line.
Every man was fully armed, and an expedition of
some sort was evidently on the tapis.
-- 031 -- p511-036
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As night fell, an odd cavalcade left Hampton Court.
It consisted of a number of coaches, containing her
majesty and the ladies of her suite; behind these the
Guards; and behind the Guards a motley rout of
ushers, footmen, serving-men of every description, and
even scullions from the kitchens,—all, with scarce an
exception, bearing arms of some sort. So quaint was
this armament, indeed, that it was difficult to restrain
one's laughter. The serving-men carried cleavers and
carving-knives, and the scullions had caught up the
spits and other weapons more useful in peace than in
war. Altogether, the spectacle was a comedy, whose
fantastic humor still moves me, as it returns to my
memory.
What did it mean, everybody asked himself, and
whither was her majesty going? The reply was that
she was “going to spend the evening in the park at
Oatlands;” and doubtless it was her majesty's desire
that her household should go too, as she had ordered
their attendance, with the singular direction that every
one should be armed!
No one of this generation will ever look upon Oatlands,—
the ancient dower residence and favorite resort
of the queens of England for so many reigns,—with
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its old walls, its moat and fosses, its shady park and
secluded landscape. It was leveled to the ground
during the civil wars, and is only a name now; but on
that autumn evening of 1641 it was yet untouched.
As the queen entered the vast park and drew near the
ancient building, frowning from behind its moat and
with the drawbridge up, the great oaks waved their
variegated arms above the queer cavalcade,—their tops
silvered by the first rays of the rising moon.
Suddenly the trumpet of the Guards rang out; and as
the queen's coach stopped before the drawbridge, the
palace front became alive with faces. Then the drawbridge
was seen to descend, the coaches entered, and
the Guards, followed by the motley rout, clattered over
the bridge.
The queen was assisted from her coach by a tall and
bland-looking gentleman of about sixty, richly clad,—
Lord Harry Jermyn, as I soon discovered, her grand
equerry and confidential secretary.
Lord Jermyn smiled, and uttered a few words.
“It is well, my lord,” her majesty replied. “Have
my palfrey saddled, and be ready to attend me.”
The broad portals of the palace then swallowed the
bevy of fair ladies; the Guards, followed by their nondescript
allies, recrossed the drawbridge, and were drawn
up in the park; and, to return to myself, I remained
for half an hour suffering the pangs of starvation.
Then, in the half-gloom, horses' hoofs were heard
upon the drawbridge, a lady's scarf glimmered in the
moonlight, and the queen appeared, mounted upon her
palfrey, attended by Lord Jermyn, who rode at her side.
The queen rode straight to the officer commanding
-- 033 --
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her Guards, and gave him an order. He immediately
turned, and ordered,—
“Attention! Form squads of three, passing off
from the right, and patrol the park. If any suspicious
characters are encountered, arrest them, and report
with them here. March!”
At the word, the Guards separated into squads, and
scattered in every direction. I followed with two companions
a by-way winding through the densest portion
of the park; and we were riding on, keeping a good
lookout, when the trampling of hoofs was heard in
front. I was in advance of my companions, and, drawing
rein, ordered, “Halt!”
The tramp drew nearer, and in the moonlight I saw
advancing a body of about one hundred horsemen. I
repeated the order to halt, and drew my pistol, cocking
it. The column halted, and a single horseman rode
forward.
“This is a patrol?” the horseman said, in a commanding
voice.
“Yes. What party is that?”
“Friends of the queen. Permit us to pass.”
“Impossible, sir. I do not know you,” I replied.
“Move aside!” was the response, in a haughty tone;
and, as he spoke, the horseman advanced upon me.
“Halt, or you are dead!” I said, putting my pistol
to his breast; whereat he paused, in some astonishment.
“I am Lord Digby, come hither by the queen's
order,” he said, gruffly.
“I do not know your lordship. You have, doubtless,
your order on your person?”
“I have.” And, drawing his sword with one hand,
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
he presented with the other the queen's letter. A glance
at it in the bright moonlight terminated every doubt.
“Pass, my lord,” I said, bowing. “Your lordship
will appreciate my course. Our orders are imperative
to stop all persons.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Edmund Cecil, of her majesty's Guards, my lord.”
His lordship simply saluted, and ordered, “Forward!”
as I rode into the wood with my companions.
I had made an enemy of Lord Digby, it seemed; but
then I had carefully obeyed orders; and, careless of
the consequences, I continued to patrol the park with
my two companions.
Nothing suspicious met our eyes, and we were returning
in the direction of the palace, when I saw,
through a vista in the trees, a party of about twenty
horsemen. We rode at once towards them; and one
of my companions demanded who they were. No
reply was made; and I rode in advance, repeating the
question. The group of horsemen grew agitated, and
moved to and fro. The movement unmasked one of
the party, who carried a fat buck across the saddle in
front of him.
“You are poachers, assailing the king's deer!” I
cried. “Halt, and give yourselves up!”
A shot replied. It issued from a sort of blunderbuss
in the hands of one of the party, and the bullet passed
through the rim of my gray beaver. I fired in return,
and drove my horse at the owner of the blunderbuss,
reached his side, closed in with him, and recognized
the burly young man who had insulted Miss Villiers on
the way to Hampton Court.
-- 035 --
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I had clutched him by the throat, and had nearly
dragged him from the saddle, when he struck me a
heavy blow on the temple, which threw me to the
ground. As I fell, I heard cries and the trample of
hoofs; the poachers fled; and I saw around me a confused
crowd, in the midst of which the bright moonlight
fell upon the flashing eyes and enraged face of
the queen. It was the lioness, ready to protect
her young,—to contend in person, if necessary, with
those bent on robbing her of her children. The
beautiful face was superb in its wrath and defiance:
it towered above me for a moment, and then I lost
consciousness.
I was lying on a couch in the palace when I regained
my senses, and some one was bathing an ugly wound
on my temple, which bled freely. As all traces of it,
save a slight scar, have disappeared for thirty years or
more, I will not weary the reader with a tedious account
of this particular “broken head.” One incident
remains unalterably in my memory, however. A
beautiful face appeared for an instant at the door, and
a low, sweet voice said,—
“Her majesty desires to know if Mr. Cecil's hurt is
dangerous.”
The leech replied in the negative, and the face disappeared;
but a blessed influence remained with me.
It was the voice of Frances Villiers which had uttered
those low words,—the eyes of the beautiful girl which
had sent their healing balm into my heart. I fell
asleep soon afterwards, and dreamed of the face.
From that moment I seldom lost sight of it, waking or
sleeping: in a word, Frances Villiers began to be, what
-- 036 -- p511-041
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
she very soon became, the sole object of my waking
thoughts and my dreams.
Such had been the events of the night in Oatlands
Park. The lioness had mounted guard over her offspring,
defying her enemies; and the long moonlight
night passed undisturbed.
On the next morning I got up, buckled on my
sword, and reported for duty. Harry came up and
hugged me with ardor.
“Here's the hero of the encounter!” he cried, “the
only human being everybody talks of—”
“Even her majesty,” said a grave and courtly voice
behind me; and, turning round, I saw Lord Digby.
His lordship smiled with an air of great courtesy, and
held out his hand.
“I have come to compliment your good soldiership,
Mr. Cecil, in persistently halting me in the park last
night,” he said. “You serve her majesty as she ought
to be served, and I offer you my compliments, sir.”
He bowed, and passed on, leaving me charmed at my
sudden importance! I seemed about to become somebody!
A lucky accident had raised me from obscurity,
and I had even attracted the attention of her
majesty,—who from that moment, as the reader will
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
perceive, remembered my name and honored me with
her august regard.
The court returned on the same evening to Hampton
Court; but before the cortége left Oatlands an
incident of a very comic nature occurred,—one which
made everybody laugh, and introduced an afterwards
famous personage.
I had just risen from the mess-table in the guard-room,
where I had dined, when shouts of laughter from
the great hall of the palace, where her majesty was also
dining, attracted our attention. So loud and unceremonious
was this laughter that it drew us irresistibly
towards the door. I hastened thither with the rest,
glanced through the half-open door, and at first was
almost unable to believe my eyesight.
Her majesty sat at table with her maids of honor
and attendant lords, and on the broad board, immediately
in front of her plate, knelt a figure scarce two
feet in height,—a manikin clad in full cavalier costume,
with top-boots, a minute sword at his side, with a
plumed beaver in one hand, and the other hand upon
his heart.
Behind the dwarf was seen a huge pie, from which
he had popped up, I soon discovered, at the moment
when the pastry was cut. The queen had started back
in utter amazement, but the dwarf had respectfully
stepped towards her plate. There he had stopped,
fallen upon one knee, and offered his respectful homage
to her majesty, his hand resting devotedly upon his
heart.
As I reached the door and took in this odd spectacle,
the shouts of laughter, defying all ceremony,
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
ceased. Her majesty turned towards Lord Jermyn, and
said, in high good humor,—
“We owe this surprise to you, my lord.”
Lord Jermyn, with his bland and courtly smile, returned,—
“Your majesty has concluded justly: the comedy
comes after the melodrame. This little gentleman is
one of your majesty's most faithful subjects, and, knowing
your majesty's taste for small people, I have planned
this surprise.”
The queen gazed with suppressed smiles at the dwarf,
and then at Lord Jermyn.
“Thanks, my lord. We accept your gift, and take
into our service—how call you him?”
“Geoffrey Hudson, your majesty.”
The queen extended her hand and drew the small
sword of the manikin from its scabbard. With the
same expression of struggling merriment, she then
touched the dwarf's shoulder with the weapon, and
said,—
“Rise, Sir Geoffrey Hudson: we take you into our
service.”
The manikin rose, and made a bow so profound
that his head nearly touched the table. He was scarce
two feet, as I have said, in height.
“I thank your majesty,” he said, in a small, piping
voice, “and will endeavor to serve her faithfully, however
small my stature.”
A great laugh saluted the words, and the dwarf's
face flushed with anger, as he darted quick glances
around him.
“I recommend caution to gentlemen who would
-- 039 -- p511-044
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
avoid Sir Geoffrey's sword-thrust!” said Lord Jermyn,
laughing.
And Sir Geoffrey having leaped nimbly to the floor,
where he walked up and down with great gravity and
dignity, the banquet proceeded and terminated.
When her majesty set out on her return to Hampton
Court in the afternoon, I observed that the singular
manikin had been furnished with a seat among the
maids of honor in one of the coaches. The taste for
such strange beings was at that epoch a passion almost:
thus, the young ladies welcomed him warmly, instead
of betraying any aversion; and on the arrival of the
queen at Hampton Court he was supplied with an
apartment, and became formally a member of the royal
household.
He will reappear more than once in the progress of
these memoirs; and an event which I shall relate in its
place will show that, small as this strange human insect
might be, his sting was mortal.
I was quite charmed with the new course which my
life had now taken, and—thinking continuously of a
young lady with great, calm eyes—grew sedulous of
my personal appearance, and thought of my tailor.
Going to try on my new uniform, I met with two
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
personages, the one fantastic, the other terrible; and
of these I shall now speak.
The name of the tailor was Joyce, and his shop was
not far from the Tower. The gentlemen of the Guards
had made him the fashion, by a species of caprice:
he had sent to take my measure, on receiving a message
from Harry; and the emissary, when leaving me,
requested with an air of importance that I would come
to his master's shop and try on the uniform “during
the process of its construction,” as nothing caused Mr.
Joyce such pain as to supply gentlemen with ill-fitting
garments.
I hastened therefore, a day or two after the events
just described, to visit the shop of Mr. Joyce, tailor,
in Rosemary Lane. Leaving my horse in the Guardsmen's
stables at Whitehall, I proceeded on foot; and it
was nearly evening when I at last reached Rosemary
Lane, where a tall house toppling forward was pointed
out to me as the shop of the tailor.
He was at work as I entered,—a small, important-looking
man, snipping viciously with a great pair of
shears,—and greeted me with a nonchalant air, very
unusual in a tradesman. Summoning an apprentice, he
gave him an order, and, taking no further notice of me,
strolled to the doorway. His hands were thrust beneath
his coat-skirts, he carried his nose in the air, and only
returned to the lower world, as 'twere, when his apprentice
brought the half-finished coat.
At a sign from him the apprentice approached me.
I removed my coat, and tried on the new garment.
He of the elevated nose then walked around me and
surveyed me from all sides.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
“Take up in the waist,” he said to the apprentice.
“More—more—not so much—more—there.”
He then gazed at me from head to foot.
“If you would hold up your head,” he said,—
“there. The coat will fit. Be good enough to write
your name here.”
He laid a large ledger before me. I saw there the
names of Ireton and Cromwell.
“So you are court and parliament tailor indifferently?”
I remarked, laughing.
“Yes,” said Mr. Joyce, carelessly. “I make for
Guardsmen and parliament people, the court and the
Roundhead class, as the new term has it.”
“And your own politics?”
“Roundhead,” said Mr. Joyce, coolly.
He then drew his hands from beneath his coat-skirts,
informed me that my uniform would be sent me in three
days, turned his back on me, and began snipping away
again with his great shears.
Such was my first sight of this personage, who was
to become historic. I went out of his shop, half
angry and half amused. But night began to fall, I was
far from Whitehall, and the narrow and winding street—
a sort of ditch between the tall, toppling houses on
each side—was far from presenting a very cheerful appearance.
There was something decidedly cut-throatish
about it; and footpads then swarmed in London. A
dim lamp beginning to twinkle at long intervals, from
the ropes suspended across the street, only rendered
darkness visible, to use Mr. Milton's fine expression.
So I determined to issue from this suspicious-looking
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
place as soon as possible, and set forward, walking
rapidly towards the Tower.
I had gone about two hundred paces, when a roystering
party of apprentices apparently, armed with clubs,
came towards me, and, as they passed, one of them
jostled me rudely. As he did so, I looked at him;
our eyes met: it was the burly young man with whom
I had grappled in Oatlands Park.
“Fall on!” he shouted, suddenly. “I know this
popinjay, and you know him! He chased us in the
park,—and he pulled my ear, the fiend seize him!”
As he uttered these words, the speaker rushed upon
me, lifting his club to brain me.
“Hark! tackle to him, Hulet!” cried his friends;
“show him—”
A hoarse growl from my enemy drowned the rest.
He struck straight at me, and his associates closed in
on me at the same moment, reminding me of a pack of
hounds around a hare.
I was not precisely a hare, however, and I had my
rapier to meet the cudgel. With the determination to
give a good account of one or two of my assailants
at least, I lunged at the man called Hulet, and ran him
through the fleshy part of his arm. The wound seemed
to render him furious. He aimed a blow at my head
with his cudgel; I parried; the blow fell on my rapier,
and the treacherous iron snapped within a foot of the
hilt.
A loud cry followed; my assailants closed in upon
me, forced me to the wall, struck at me, keeping
out of reach of my sword-stump,—and I began to
realize that in a few moments I would probably be
-- 043 --
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knocked down and left senseless or dead on he paving-stones.
I looked hastily around. All the shops were closed.
I was in front of a gloomy-looking house, whose windows
were fast-barred, and against the door of this
house my assailants had now forced me.
“Kill him, Hulet!” rose in a wrathful shout, and
the whole party threw themselves upon me, aiming at
my head with their clubs. I endeavored in vain to
parry this storm of blows; my back was against the
door of the gloomy house; I lunged with my sword-stump,
shouting for the watch without result; then a
heavy blow fell upon my forehead, and I staggered,
dropping the stump of my weapon.
As I did so, the door against which I leaned opened
suddenly, and I felt myself dragged in. As the apprentices
rushed towards it, it was shut in their faces.
I then heard a bar fall, and a chain drawn across the
door. A voice said, “You are safe, sir,”—the voice
of a woman; and, half conscious, half fainting, with a
tremendous buzzing in my ears, I found myself led into
an apartment, where there was an arm-chair: into this
I fell, and the same voice said,—
“God be thanked! They have not killed you, sir!”
-- 044 -- p511-049
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I raised my languid eyes and gazed at the speaker.
She was a girl of about twenty, evidently of the middle
or lower class, but pale,—I might say aristocratic,—and
with large blue eyes, which looked at me with womanly
sweetness and a sort of sad sympathy.
In her face this air of sadness predominated. A deep
melancholy seemed to weigh upon her, banishing all
her smiles and roses.
“You are safe, sir,” she said, in the same low, sweet
voice. “These brawls are growing terribly common. If
I had not heard the noise of staves and the cries, you
might have been murdered.”
“I had indeed scarce a chance of preserving my life,
I think,” I returned; “but, thanks to your courage, I
am scarce hurt.”
“Your head, sir—”
“'Tis nothing; a little faintness.”
“I will prepare a reviving draught.”
And, with deft fingers, the maiden busied herself in
mingling a flagon of wine, sugar, and species, which she
presented to me with the same air of sad sweetness and
grace.
I had half emptied the draught, when a door in rear
of the apartment opened, and a man of tall stature,
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
carrying a little, curly-haired child upon his shoulder,
came into the room. At sight of me he stopped, almost
started, and seemed about to retire. Before he could
do so, the maiden went forward hastily, and spoke to
him in a low tone. Thereupon he bowed, and came
forward, saying, in a deep, melancholy, and tremulous
voice,—
“You are welcome, sir.”
The man's whole demeanor agreed with the voice.
Never have I seen a human being the victim, apparently,
of such profound and hopeless depression.
There was something sepulchral, almost, in the expression
of his long, thin face, around which fell hair once
black, but now threaded with silver. The eyes were
sunken in their sockets and surrounded with dark
rings. The thin lips wore an expression of utter discouragement.
His dress was simple, and not striking
in any particular,—that of a retired trader,—of dark
and plain stuff. His manner in advancing was almost
painfully hesitating and reluctant.
“My father, sir,” said the maiden, whose sadness
remained unchanged. “I have explained your presence;
and now you must require food, sir. You shall
have the best our poor house affords.”
The maiden proceeded then to busy herself spreading
food upon a small table, and, the man having taken
his seat opposite me, we entered into conversation.
Meanwhile, the child played about the room, turning
everything upside down and laughing gleefully. The
melancholy personage followed all these gambols with
a glance of sorrowful affection, leaning back in his
chair; when all at once I saw him rise quickly and
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
hasten towards the child, who had half opened the door
of a sort of closet in the wall.
The man dragged him back quickly, and hastily
closed the door. As he did so, I caught what appeared
to be the gleam of some bright steel object, and I know
not what sombre influence this abrupt movement of the
man exerted upon me. His pale face had flushed, his
bosom heaved; and, glancing accidentally at the maiden,
I saw that she was trembling and seemed about to burst
into tears.
What was the meaning of this strange scene? I
vainly asked myself that question. The man offered no
explanation. Resuming his seat, and holding the boy
on his knee now, he gradually grew composed again,
and continued the conversation in which we had been
engaged when he started up. It had related to the
public events of the time, and the struggle going on
between King Charles and his parliament.
“I know not which side you espouse, sir,” said the
man, in his melancholy and tremulous voice, “but I confess
to you that my sympathies are with his majesty.”
“And mine; but would he were well out of this
dangerous conflict!”
“His majesty will not rid himself of his enemies
until force is employed.”
“Force? Ah! you mean the exercise of the royal
right to try and punish. But that is perilous, 'tis said.
The superior strength seems on the other side. Witness
Strafford, on Tower Hill: these men tore him from the
very arms of the king.”
At the name of Strafford my host became as pale as
a corpse.
-- 047 --
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“Yes,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice.
“If they drank the blood of Strafford, that powerful
and resolute enemy, any man's head in the kingdom
may fall. 'Tis said that never was human being more
resolute than he; and the story is that his eyes opened
and his lips muttered some words even after his head
was severed.”
My host's pallor had become fearful.
“'Tis true,” he murmured. “I—saw him!”
“You were present at his execution?”
“Yes.”
“Sufficiently near to see plainly?”
“Sufficiently near.”
“Then this theory that life continues after decapitation
is well founded?”
“Yes.”
The voice seemed to issue from some sepulchral
vault. The man's eyes were fixed, almost stony.
“Life continues—for hours almost—after—decapitation,”
he said, in a slow, tremulous, monotonous
voice, with a strange absent intonation, as though the
speaker were soliloquizing. “The brain, when the neck
is severed, is like a besieged fortress,—besieged, but
not yet taken; the outposts are carried,—its communications
are cut off,—but life is there still;—the facial
muscles act,—the lips move,—the eyes open,—the volition
is maimed, but not paralyzed,—the teeth snap,—
the brows contract. I have—seen that!”
He stopped, his pale face bathed in cold sweat. At
the same moment the maiden, whose cheeks were as
wan almost as the speaker's, came to him, touched his
shoulder, and said, in a faint voice,—
-- 048 --
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“There, father; you frighten our guest. Supper is
ready.”
The man uttered a sigh almost as profound as a
groan. The maiden placed before me a small table,
upon which food was arranged, and, looking at the
man, added,—
“Your supper, father.”
He shrank back. “No, Janet,” he murmured; “it
would be disgraceful thus to take advantage of—”
He stopped.
“True,” the maiden said, turning away with a
quivering lip. “I had forgotten, father. I thought
that kindness offered and accepted made us equal.
Yes! yes! pardon me! We have no right to—”
The rest of the sentence was drowned in a sob. I
could scarce swallow a few mouthfuls. The strange
scene banished all desire for food. I rose, and
said,—
“Thanks for your hospitality, sir; and yours, my
kind, good friend. I have regained all my strength
now, and will take my departure, with warm thanks.
You have saved my life, I think, friends; and Heaven
will reward you.”
“God grant it!” came from the man, who rose, his
hand resting tenderly and watchfully on the bright
head of the child.
“Let me look and see if the street is safe before you
go, sir,” said the maiden.
She went to the door, and returned in a moment, informing
me that she saw no one.
I put on my beaver, and, going to the door, said,
“Thanks, friends, again; and now farewell.”
-- 049 --
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As I spoke, I extended my hand towards the tall
man, but he suddenly drew back.
“I cannot—touch your hand, sir!—As I could not
sup with you—”
I gazed at him in astonishment.
“It would be—disgraceful!”
His tones were broken, and the words seemed forced
from him.
“You do not know who I am,—and yet you came
near knowing.—My dear child opened that terrible
closet!”
“The closet?” I murmured, overcome with astonishment.
“I saw nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Save what appeared to be the gleam of steel.”
The man half thrust me towards the door behind him.
The maiden Janet bent down weeping, her face covered
by her hands.
“That steel was—shall I tell you, sir?”
A sort of convulsion passed over the speaker's face.
“Speak!” I said, almost trembling.
“It was the axe of the executioner! I could not sit
with you at table, or take your hand when you offered
it. I am Gregory Brandon, the headsman of London!”
As he uttered these words in a hoarse and stifled
voice, the headsman groaned. A moment afterwards
he had closed the door: I was alone in the dim-lit
thoroughfare: from behind the door I heard a second
groan, with which mingled the sobs of a woman.
-- 050 -- p511-055
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I issued from Rosemary Lane, passed beneath the
shadow of the Tower, which rose grim and lugubrious
above the houses, reached Whitehall, mounted, and
returned towards Hampton Court, plunged in thought,
and overcome by the strange scene which I had
witnessed.
I had been the guest of the headsman! But for this
terrible person's refusal to accept the hand I had offered,
my own would have clasped the bloody palm which
had severed so many necks.
I shuddered almost at the thought,—living over the
whole scene again. The hand resting so tenderly on
the bright curls of the child had struck off the proud
head of Strafford! Within a few feet of me, there in
that mysterious closet, was the frightful instrument
which had so often cut through flesh, blood-vessels, and
vertebræ, from whose keen, impassive edge human
blood had so often been wiped! Seated opposite me
in friendly talk, the talk of guest and host, was the
grim human being who had entered the cell of the
condemned as with the tramp of a fate, bound the firm
or trembling arms, hobbled the feet with the inexorable
cord, and, striking the victim on the shoulder when
the moment came, had muttered, in his hoarse voice,
“You belong to me now!”
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All the way to Hampton Court I was thinking of my
singular adventure; but as I came in front of the palace
a figure, visible through one of the tall windows, banished
every other thought. It was the figure of Frances
Villiers, standing erect in the full light of the flambeaux
flooding the apartment. She was clad in rich
brocade, cut low, so that her exquisite neck was clearly
revealed; the beautiful head, with the looped-up pearls,
was bent towards one fair shoulder. She was smiling
with her habitual expression of grave sweetness, and
apparently listening to some one.
I drew rein, and, concealed beneath the shadow of a
great oak, gazed long at the girl who had now become
more dear to me than my life. In a day, an hour, as
it were, I had come to love her with all the power of
my being. She had waked up my slumbering heart,
and henceforward I felt that she, and she alone, was
my queen!
Pardon this gush of romance, friend,—'tis an old
gray-head that indulges in it. Many decades have
flown since then; I am aged, and the bloom of life is
gone; but I remember, and will until I die, the beautiful
figure I gazed on that night through the windows
of the palace of Hampton Court.
I was still watching the exquisite figure, as it moved
to and fro in attendance on the queen, when a sudden
trampling was heard in the great avenue, and a party
of horsemen, three or four in number, came on at
headlong speed.
The incident aroused me from my reverie with something
like a shock. Who were these horsemen who
presumed to ride in so careless a manner towards the
-- 052 --
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palace? It was lèse-majesté, almost, to pay this small
respect to the queen. Could some partisans of the
parliament design an insult, or a raid on the deer?
Resolved to know, I spurred to meet them, and, interposing
myself in the way, ordered them to halt.
No attention whatever was paid to my order. On
the contrary, I was nearly ridden over. A cavalier,
richly clad in purple velvet slashed with satin, a deep
lace collar, and wearing a gray beaver with a feather,
rushed by me at full speed; the rest followed. They
all clattered to the great gateway, and then a sudden
commotion followed, to ascertain the character of
which I hastened to the palace.
The Guards were hastening to form line, and every
sword was brought to the salute. The cavalier in the
purple velvet habit had leaped to the ground. He was
a person of middle age, with curling hair worn long,
mustache and royale, large, mournful eyes, a long, thin
face, and a very graceful person. There was something
commanding in his air, and I was not long left
in doubt as to his identity. The palace was in commotion;
figures passed and repassed hurriedly in the
queen's apartment, at which I had been gazing; then,
as the cavalier of the velvet habit gave his bridle to
one of his attendant gentlemen, the great staircase
suddenly blazed, the flambeau-bearers descended, and
in the midst of her maids of honor, gathered round
her like a flock of doves, her majesty the queen was
seen to come rapidly down the staircase.
As she came, the melancholy face of the cavalier filled
with smiles. It was the expression of a husband who
loves his wife and returns after long absence. He
-- 053 -- p511-058
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hastened towards her; they met in the full light of the
flambeaux, and were clasped in a close embrace.
“Sweet heart!” exclaimed the cavalier, with glowing
cheeks.
“Dear heart!” was the queen's response, in a murmur,
and on the two faces I could see the sunshine of
the heart.
They then drew back, as though to avoid the eyes
of those around them, and passed up the great staircase
between a double line of lords and ladies, her
majesty leaning fondly on her companion's arm. The
light of the flambeaux fell upon them in a sort of
glory. They disappeared, and, as they were lost sight
of, a great shout rose, rolling through the palace,—
“Long live their majesties!”
I had seen King Charles I. at last. He had left his
escort on the road from Scotland, mounted his horse
like a common cavalier, and, attended by only a few
of his lords, had ridden straight to Hampton Court to
see Queen Mary.
Scandal said that their majesties had not been
always so devoted, or at least that furious storms had
swept the matrimonial skies.
From London, the young king, just married by
proxy, had hastened to Dover to meet the little queen
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
of sixteen; caught her in his arms when she offered to
kneel; and, in reply to her address, “Sire, I am come
into this your majesty's country to be at your command,”
exclaimed, “You have not fallen into the
hands of enemies and strangers, and I will be no longer
master myself than while I am servant to you.” And
then what the French call enfantillages followed. The
king, noticing that her head reached to his shoulder,
glanced at her feet to ascertain if her height were not
due to her high-heeled shoes. Whereupon the little
queen drew aside her skirt, exhibited her small feet
with all the coquetterie of a French girl, and said,
“Sire, I stand on my own feet; I have no help from
art: thus high am I, neither higher nor lower!”
This joy and laughter of the little daughter of the
famous Henry of Navarre was truly a strange contrast
to her after-woes. But then all was bright and smiling.
The fatal conflicts of the future threw no shadows before.
The youthful pair were greeted by great crowds upon
the Thames, and fêted everywhere; and no raven
croaked from the hollow tree to interrupt the joy,
romance, and sunshine of their nuptials.
I have seen the portrait of Queen Henrietta at this
period, painted by Vandyke, and the face and form
are exquisite. In the picture she has a fair complexion,
fine dark eyes, and hair of a chestnut color. The
slight and delicate figure is clad in a dress of white
satin, with a tightly-fitting bodice decorated with pink
ribbon; the sleeves full, with ruffles; the arms encircled
by bracelets. Around her neck she wears a fine
pearl necklace; a red ribbon twisted with pearls is
woven amid her glossy hair behind the head. 'Tis a
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
gracious, smiling maiden, full of youth and joy, on
whose forehead grief has never cast its shadow.
The shadow was approaching: private infelicities
preceded the public; the fond lovers were to come to
angry words, and criminations and recriminations.
All arose from the Catholic attendants of the queen,
who fostered in every manner the religious differences
between the pair, and went so far as openly to defy
the king. Under this he was restive; and one morning
his wrath burst forth. He came to the queen's
apartments at Whitehall, and found the French ladies
curveting and dancing in the presence of her majesty.
The scene shocked his ideas of dignity and ceremony:
he took the hand of the queen and conducted her to
his own apartment, where he locked her majesty in;
then he sent word by Lord Conway to the French
ladies to leave Whitehall and repair to Somerset House,
where they were to await his pleasure. Thereupon
rose a grand lament and the din of angry female
voices. Loud cries arose; defiant words were heard,—
in the midst of which a guard appeared, and with little
ceremony caused them to vacate the apartment, the
door of which was inexorably locked behind them.
A sad scene ensued between their majesties thereupon.
The queen ran to the window to bid her dear
French attendants farewell. The king drew her back,
saying, “Be satisfied; it must be so.” The queen
broke from him and rushed to the window, the panes
of which she struck so violently with her clenched
hands that the glass flew to pieces and crashed down
into the court. The king succeeded at last in drawing
her majesty away from the window,—the shocking
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
scene ended,—and the king wrote his grace the Duke
of Buckingham, “I command you to send all the
French away to-morrow out of the town,—if you can, by
fair means, but stick not long in disputing; otherwise
force them away, driving them away like so many wild
beasts, until you have shipped them, and so the devil
go with them.”
The command was obeyed: in the midst of a great
mob, hooting at and cursing the Frenchwomen, the
ladies were ejected from Somerset House. They retreated,
raging, scolding, gesticulating, and were sent
out of the country. The king had conquered.
There were other painful scenes. The king himself
related how, after retiring to bed with her majesty one
night, they had a passionate altercation as to the appointment
of the queen's revenue-officers. Read the
narrative: 'tis painful. The king, falling into a rage,
bade her majesty “remember to whom she spoke!”
To which she replied, with passionate weeping, that
“she was not of such base quality as to be used so!”
There is a long distance, you see, reader, between this
state of things and the scene I witnessed at Hampton
Court. In the one case it is husband and wife squabbling
and scolding like Jack and Gill fallen out; in
the other it is the fond pair embracing each other,
with “Dear heart!” “Sweet heart!” heard between
their kisses!
We old people have seen that often on our journey
through life! Alas! men and women grow angry,
are unjust and unkind, often; but happy are the married
pairs who truly love and cherish each other. The
sunshine comes after the storm; all clouds disappear;
-- 057 -- p511-062
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and even after that scene in which their majesties
struggled at the broken window in Whitehall, 'tis said
that the king and queen made friends speedily and
“were very jocund together!”
I was sent at daylight on the morning succeeding
the king's arrival, to bear a dispatch to Woodstock
Palace for her majesty, and, having fulfilled my duty,
determined to gallop across country and spend an
hour with my father at Cecil Court.
I shall not dwell upon this visit, which was a very
great pleasure to me,—home events are not of interest
to all,—but come to my first meeting with a very noble
as well as a very famous man, whom I encountered on
the highway, in Buckinghamshire, towards evening, on
my way back to London.
I had just emerged from a belt of woods, and saw
the sun setting across the beautiful fields, when a horseman
riding in front of me attracted my attention, and
I was very soon beside him.
He turned his head, and bade me good-day so courteously
that I checked my horse's speed and rode on
with him. He was a man of middle age, clad in a
rich dark pourpoint, and wearing a black hat and excellent
riding-boots. His figure was lofty and
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
commanding; his face very noble, and full of grave courtesy
and sweetness. When he spoke, his voice had
an extraordinary calmness and simplicity, which simplicity
was indeed plain in every detail of face, figure,
and bearing.
In ten minutes I felt entirely at my ease with the
stranger, and we rode on side by side, conversing
upon public events with perfect freedom.
“His majesty has returned from Scotland,” said my
companion. “I am glad to know that: her majesty
will be made happy by seeing him again.”
I smiled, and said, “You are plainly a royalist, and
not one of the new party, sir.”
My companion smiled in his turn. “I am scarce a
royalist in the ordinary meaning of the term, sir; but
sure 'tis a pleasure to all honest men to know that a
good husband is safely restored to his wife, and to contemplate
with satisfaction the little domestic picture
of their meeting.”
“Assuredly; and, after all, the king is not perhaps so
black as he is painted.”
“He is not, sir. It is the vice of partisan feeling to
drive men to extremes. His majesty, in my opinion,—
to be frank,—has committed very great faults. It is
scarce too harsh, I think, to say that his conceptions
of the royal prerogative, if carried out, would overturn
all civil liberty; but that is no proof that he is
cruel or licentious, or a despot from love of despotism.”
The words were uttered with great sadness.
“Shall I imitate your frankness, and utter my
thought plainly, sir?” I said.
“Surely.”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
“Were I his majesty, then, I should fear adversaries
holding your views more than all the Pyms, Cromwells,
and Hampdens in the world.”
“The Hampdens?” asked the stranger, smiling.
“Do you refer to Mr. John Hampden, the member
from Buckinghamshire?”
“The same, sir.”
“Is he so violent and dangerous a personage?”
“I do not know Mr. Hampden, but such is his
reputation.”
The stranger rode on for some moments in silence.
“I had not supposed that Mr. Hampden bore so
bad a character,” he said, at length. “What are the
grounds, I pray you, sir, of such an opinion of that
gentleman?”
“His prominence in opposition to the levying of
ship-money by his majesty. Mr. Hampden was the
first person of high position who opposed the royal
prerogative.”
“True,” the stranger said, somewhat sadly; “and
so the fellow-subjects of Mr. Hampden—honorable
gentlemen—think him violent, and a demagogue!
Pity!—but may we not regard Mr. Hampden's motives
as conscientious?”
“His friends do, doubtless,—not the adherents of
his majesty.”
“That sums up all, I fear, sir,” the stranger returned;
“and I will not undertake a defense of Mr. Hampden,—
of whom, however, it may be said with truth that he
risked a good estate rather than pay twenty shillings
without warrant of law for the exaction. Yes, his
friends will defend him, his adversaries denounce him,
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
as you say. To the first, he is a sincere lover of law
and liberty; to the second, a pestilent demagogue,
itching for notoriety and power. So be it: one day
his true character will doubtless be known.”
“Meanwhile, were I acquainted with Mr. Hampden,
I think I should give him some advice, sir,” I said.
“And pray what would be the advice?” my companion
said, smiling courteously.
“Not to act with Pym, Ireton, Cromwell, and other
extremists, who are ready to go all lengths.”
“`All lengths' is a strong expression, sir,” the
stranger returned, with his immovable grave sweetness.
“The gentlemen you name have the repute of aiming
only at a redress of grievances.”
“They will not stop there.”
“You would say—”
“That revolutions begin with the pen, and end with
the sword,—and shall I add something more terrible?”
“What?”
“With violence: the cup of the poisoner or the axe
of the headsman.”
My companion started, and his countenance grew
cold and stern in an instant. A flash darted from his
eyes, and his cheek became pale.
“That is a bitter charge against good men,” he said.
“What induces you to believe that any living Englishman
is ready to turn assassin?”
“The philosophy of revolutions,” I returned, “and
the history I have read.”
“And the political struggles of the period we live
in may result in the death of his majesty, you think,
by the hands of his own subjects?”
-- 061 --
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“`May' has many meanings, sir. 'Tis not impossible,—
is it?”
My companion rode on without uttering a word. A
mile at least was passed over thus, in profound silence.
Then the stranger raised his head, which had been
drooping. “You have broached a terrible idea,” he
said; “one which my mind never up to this time entertained.
I will not discuss it. I shrink from the very
thought with a species of horror. I can conceive that
Mr. Cromwell and others might oppose the king,—even
in open combat on the field of battle, perhaps; either
side may inaugurate that struggle, and the other will
accept the gage of defiance; but that the king's life
can ever be threatened with poison or the executioner's
axe on this soil of England,—that, sir, I will never believe,—
never! the thought is too frightful!”
“I hope 'tis only my fancy.”
“And I, sir. I cannot speak for others; but for one
of those you have named I can answer without hesitation.
He might oppose the king's adherents—even
the king himself—in battle; but he would sooner lay
down his own life than touch with a finger the person
of his majesty. I can answer for that person, I say;
and I have the best of all rights to do so,—for I am
that John Hampden of whom we have spoken.”
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I was so much astonished at this sudden revelation
of the identity of my traveling-companion, that I gazed
at him in stupid silence.
Thereupon the cordial smile returned to his fine
face, and he said,—
“We have conversed under a mask, as 'twere, sir;
and I take no umbrage at the opinions you have expressed
of a certain Mr. Hampden. I confess, even,
that the maxim noscitur a sociis bears with some justice
upon him, and perhaps justifies your views of him. But
now let us abandon these mooted subjects. We differ
in political views, but I dare to say that you are as true
and honest an English gentleman as any. I would fain
claim for myself the same character: I am called hospitable
at least, and there is my house through the oaks.
Will it please you, sir—see, the sun has set—to spend
the night with me?”
I refused, and then accepted. There was something
so gracious and noble in my companion's utterances
that I could not resist.
“Thanks, Mr. Hampden,” I said. “I accept your
hospitality as cordially as you offer it. I am named
Edmund Cecil,—a poor guardsman of the queen.”
“Of the Cecils of Warwickshire?”
“The same.”
-- 063 --
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“I know your father well, and esteem him highly,
Mr. Cecil. But here is my poor house.”
We entered a great park, and just at dusk came in
front of a large and handsome manor-house, built in
the Elizabethan style, and indicating wealth and consideration
in its proprietor.
In the great drawing-room I was presented to Mr.
Hampden's charming household; and in the faces which
greeted me with smiles, as in all the appointments of
the mansion, I observed that indefinable grace and distinction
which never deceives.
I had just returned the hospitable greetings of the
amiable family, when there came into the apartment a
robust personage, clad in a dark cloth suit entirely
without decoration, heavy boots covered with dust, and
an old slouch hat discolored by sun and rain. This
personage, despite the negligence of his attire, had yet
something lofty and imposing in the carriage of his
person: he advanced with an air of almost haughty
independence,—absorbed, it would seem from the absent
expression of his large eyes, in thoughts wholly
disconnected from his surroundings.
“The terrible Mr. Cromwell!” said my host, in a
low tone, smiling as he spoke. And I was presented
to the personage who so completely justified afterwards
the adjective now applied to him in jest.
Mr. Cromwell saluted me in an absent manner, and
then removed his hat, which he seemed to have forgotten.
I soon learned that he had just arrived from
Huntingdon, riding out of his way, to accompany Mr.
Hampden, his cousin, to London; and the evening
passed in desultory conversation. What chiefly
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
impressed me in this afterwards celebrated man was his
rough earnestness, the pith and force of his utterances,
which seemed to go right to the core of every subject,
and the occasional employment of scriptural names
and phrases in his conversation. I never before heard
Ahab, Baal, Og, and other Biblical personages alluded
to with such frequency or apparent gusto. And Mr.
Cromwell never smiled; he was profoundly in earnest,
and all his utterances were weighty. Even when
relating how an ape had snatched him from his cradle,
when an infant, and borne him, chattering, to the roof
of his father's house, and how he had been rescued
from drowning, when he had already sunk twice, and
his nose and mouth were filled with water, he did not
indulge in the faintest approach to a smile, but garnished
those narratives, like the rest of his discourse,
with names and allusions from the Old Testament
Scriptures.
This culminated when at bedtime he offered up a
prayer. It was an extraordinary prayer, deeply earnest
and devout; I might almost say passionate in its evident
outpouring from his inmost heart; but here too
were the inevitable Old Testament names and references.
When Mr. Cromwell rose from his knees, after
his long and fervent prayer, his eyes were as dreamy as
though fixed upon another world: he scarcely returned
the addresses of the family, and retired from the room
with the absent air of one who is walking in his sleep.
Such was the appearance of this extraordinary person
on that evening. He was commonplace; he became
terrible. He wore plain cloth; he came to wear royal
velvet. He was then Mr. Cromwell, unknown save as
-- 065 -- p511-070
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
a country member; he was to become known throughout
the world as the slayer of King Charles I., the Lord
Protector of England, and one of the greatest sovereigns
that ever sat upon the English throne.
On the next morning I bade Mr. Hampden and his
excellent household farewell, and, riding rapidly to
make up for lost time, arrived late in the evening at
Hampton Court.
As I dismounted in the court-yard of the palace,
Harry came out and hugged me after the French
fashion introduced by the followers of her majesty.
“Here's a laggard!” cried Harry. “What was the
attraction at Woodstock, Ned? Did you lose yourself
in the labyrinth built to hide Fair Rosamond?”
“I don't believe there is any labyrinth, Harry; and
I've been to Cecil Court.”
I proceeded to give my brother news of home, and
to describe my meeting with Mr. Hampden; then,
seeing signs of unwonted activity in the palace, I asked
their meaning.
“His majesty is to make his royal entry into London
to-morrow. You are just in time, Ned. We're
all going,—Guards, courtiers, maids of honor, dwarfs,
and all!”
-- 066 --
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“Dwarfs?”
“I mean that his worship Sir Geoffrey Hudson, now
become a great favorite with her majesty, will grace the
occasion with his presence, no less than the largest of
us. And do you know, Ned, this little manikin and
mere hop-o'-my-thumb is a decided character?”
“I should think as much.”
“I mean that he is no mere plaything, weak in head
as in body, like the rest of his pigmy species, but a man
in feeling, and in brain too,—grave, serious, and courageous.
His deformity is a source of deep mortification
to him; and when the maids of honor caress him
lap-dog fashion, he looks at them as though he would
bite them, uttering a singular sort of snarl, and plainly
resents their treatment of him as though he were a
plaything.”
“And towards the men?”
“He is stern and bitter. 'Tis the fashion to tease
him; and that sallow-faced Coftangry of the Guards
takes the lead. Hark! there they are in the guard-room
now. I hear the piping voice of the dwarf and
the gibing tones of Coftangry. Let us go see!”
We entered the guard-room, where a singular spectacle
presented itself. Some young noblemen of the
Guards—for half the company were lords—were standing
in a circle around some object upon the floor,
which I made out on a nearer approach to be the figure
of the dwarf. The manikin, who was less than two
feet in height, wore a very rich costume,—velvet cloak,
plumed beaver, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes
with large rosettes. At his side hung a miniature dress
sword, about the length of a knitting-needle; and his
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face flamed with anger, as he fixed his eyes spitefully
upon a tall, sallow-faced young gentleman with a
sneering expression of countenance, who was teasing
the pigmy for the general amusement.
“Come, come, your knightship,” said Coftangry,
with a sneer; “dance a galliard for our entertainment.
Hop, hop, Sir Hop-o'-my-thumb!”
“Were I a lady, sir,” said the dwarf, in his thin,
piping voice, “I know what I never should do.”
“What is that, pray?”
“I should never hop in a galliard with such a tallow-faced
anatomy as yourself!”
The retort raised a loud laugh. Coftangry was immensely
unpopular, and the dwarf had touched his
tender point,—his lath-like body and sallow complexion.
“'Twas but yesterday,” piped the dwarf, “that I
overheard two of her majesty's maids of honor conversing.
One said, `Who is this Coftangry, and how
do such people get to court?' `I know not,' returned
the other, `unless they are dug up and brought as
curiosities.”'
A second laugh came from the group, and Coftangry
grew furious.
“If you were not a wretched pigmy,” he cried,
losing his self-possession and giving way to anger, “I
would chastise you upon the spot!”
The dwarf bounded with rage.
“Chastise me? You dare not attempt it! I wear a
sword!” he shrilled.
“Ha, ha!” came from Coftangry, in forced merriment;
“a skewer, you would say!”
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The dwarf whipped out his weapon, and the circle
suddenly widened.
“No fighting in the palace, gentlemen!” cried one
of the young nobleman, with mock earnestness.
“True,” the dwarf growled, returning his sword to
its scabbard; “but this tallow-face has gibed at me,
and I return his insult—thus!”
With incredible agility, the pigmy leaped upon a
chair, thence to the long table near, and, before Coftangry
divined his intention, bestowed a violent slap
upon the Guardsman's face. It was delivered with all
the energy of hatred, and rang through the apartment.
Coftangry uttered a cry of rage.
“Woe to you, cur!” he shouted; and he was about
to smite the erect and defiant dwarf to the earth, when
a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harry's voice
said,—
“You don't mean to strike that little man, I hope,
sir? You will exterminate him!”
“Who are you?” growled Coftangry, wheeling
round.
“My name is Cecil, sir,” was the reply.
“Well, I counsel you, Mr. Cecil, to attend to your
own affairs!”
Harry flushed red, and went close to Coftangry.
“I make this my affair, sir,” he said, “since 'tis
always the business of a gentleman to protect the weak
from outrage.”
“You shall answer for this instrusion!”
“I am quite willing to do so, sir,” said Harry, in a
low tone. “The moon is shining; there is the park;
five minutes' walk will take us out of view.”
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Coftangry had, apparently, not expected a proposition
so sudden and direct. He was silent for a moment,
and became very pale, but he saw that all eyes were
fixed upon him. The consequence was that fifteen
minutes afterwards Harry and himself were standing
opposite each other, sword in hand, in a remote
portion of the park, a number of the Guardsmen
having accompanied the adversaries to witness the
encounter.
Such affairs were at that time of every-day occurrence,
and seldom resulted in more than a few scratches,
when the friends of the parties would declare that
honor was satisfied.
Such was the result on this occasion. It was a singular
encounter,—a very burlesque. Harry lunged,
expecting his opponent to parry. He did nothing of
the sort, and Harry ran his sword-hand on Coftangry's
point, wounding himself.
“'Tis plain you're no swordsman, sir; I will therefore
disarm without hurting you,” said my brother.
As he spoke, Coftangry's rapier flew twenty paces,
and Harry coolly returned his sword to its scabbard.
“Take your life, sir,” he said; “I have no use for
it. Good-evening, sir.”
And, winding a handkerchief around his bleeding
hand, he left the spot, accompanied by his friends.
Such was the termination of the impromptu duel;
beginning and ending in a few minutes, under the
moonlight in Hampton Court park. I have spoken
of it because it was the preface to a duel with more
deadly results; but that incident will be narrated in its
place.
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I pass to the king's entry into London now, and to
the great and unfortunate events which marked the few
succeeding days.
The royal entry into London was an imposing pageant.
The king rode in front on horseback, reining
in his spirited charger, decorated with rich housings;
and on his left hand rode the Prince of Wales, afterwards
his majesty Charles II., at that time a handsome
boy of eleven.
Behind the king came the queen, in her state-coach
drawn by six white horses, their heads and backs surmounted
by nodding plumes. And in the royal coach
also rode the children of her majesty, bright-faced
little ones, looking with ardent interest upon the crowd.
Then came the coaches, with the royal suite; behind, the
Guards; last of all a vast multitude following, crowding
close, and shouting, “God save the king!”
'Tis impossible to recall this scene, when that cry
was heard for the last time, without sadness and a
sinking of the heart. Alas! the dark hours were coming,
the shadow was even then descending upon those
human beings.
The procession reached Whitehall and disappeared;
then the crowd dispersed.
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I was just unbuckling my sword, when Harry, who
had entered the guard-room of the palace a moment
before me, said,—
“This hand of mine hurts confoundedly, Ned!
Serves me right for fighting with that awkward cub
Coftangry! It is swelling. I wish you would go ask
my friend Sir Theodore Mayherne to come look at it.”
“Sir Theodore Mayherne, Harry? Who is he?”
“Their majesties' household physician, and a great
friend of mine. He lives in Gray's Inn Lane, and is
a perfect wolf, but an excellent surgeon and gentleman.”
I set off at once to find the wolf, and soon reached
Gray's Inn Lane, where I was directed to a handsome
house and admitted by a servant in black. A moment
afterwards, a portly personage, with long gray hair flying
about his face, and the air of a lion interrupted in
his repast, entered the room like a hurricane.
“Your pleasure, sir!” thundered the lion, wolf, or
hurricane,—whichever the reader pleases.
“Sir Theodore Mayherne, I believe, sir?”
“An absurd question! Who else could I be?”
I smiled. “You might be a thunder-storm! if that
response be not too unceremonious, Sir Theodore.”
“Unceremonious? Not a bit! I hate ceremony!
A thunder-storm? Ha! ha!” And the portly person
shook. “That is the way I like people to talk to me,”
he added: “it's natural, expresses the thought. I'm sick
of mincing and cant, and bowing and scraping, and
French ways! What's your business?”
I saw that I had to do with an original who liked
coming to the point.
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“Harry Cecil, of the queen's guards, has hurt his
hand in a duel, and wishes you to come look at it.”
“Harry Cecil!—a crack-brained jackanapes! What
the devil have I to do with Harry Cecil? 'Tis as much
as I can do to patch up her majesty's nerves, broken
down by her popish fasts and vigils and penances
and all the rest of their devil's inventions!”
I rose and bowed. “Thanks, Sir Theodore. I will
tell Harry you are coming, then.” The thunder-storm
looked at me with a lurking smile. “He is at Whitehall,”
I added.
“Well, I'll come! These scatterbrains, with their
roystering and fighting, and drinking and swearing,—
mark my words, sir, the canting rascals of parliament
will clip their love-locks! Harry Cecil is one of the
worst of them,—your brother, from the likeness, no
doubt,—a pestilent rascal!” And, turning his back
upon me abruptly, Sir Theodore Mayherne, physician
to their majesties, disappeared from the apartment.
I left the house of the original character with whom
I had thus become acquainted, and was walking along
Gray's Inn Lane on my way back to Whitehall, when
there came forth from a handsome house a tall and
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noble-looking gentleman, in whom I recognized at once
my host of Buckinghamshire, Mr. Hampden.
“Give you good-day, Mr. Cecil,” he said, grasping
my hand with cordial regard: “it seems our fate to
encounter each other. What brings you to Gray's Inn
Lane, where I reside, on this chill morning?”
I explained my mission, and Mr. Hampden shook
his head.
“You young gentlemen are too fond of that sword-amusement,
I fear,” he said; “but 'tis, unfortunately,
out of my power to preach at length on this vice. I
once practiced it.”
“Is it possible?” I said, smiling; “the grave and
serious Mr. Hampden, of the parliament?”
“He was once as bad as the worst, Mr. Cecil! Let
us be honest! And I think even my good cousin Cromwell
must plead guilty to the same charge.”
“Mr. Cromwell! that enthusiast in matters of religion!”
“Was in his youth a roystering blade, fond of
catches at midnight and the foam of flagons! Thus
you see, Mr. Cecil, neither the grave Mr. Hampden
nor the pious Mr. Cromwell can with a very good
grace preach peace and order to the young gentlemen
of this generation! I know but one person who
seems to me immaculate,—a young man whose genius
will render his name more famous than all others of
his epoch. He lives in Aldersgate Street, and I am
going to visit him. Will it please you to accompany
me?”
“With great pleasure,” I said; and ten minutes'
walk brought us to a small house, set in a contracted
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garden. From within the house was heard the sound
of an organ.
“Our friend is playing upon his organ: 'tis his
favorite entertainment,” said my companion. “I
will use no ceremony, and enter, since he would never
hear our knocking.”
He opened the door as he spoke, and led the way to
an apartment on the right of the entrance. It was
poorly, almost meanly, furnished; in one corner stood
a small erect organ with green hangings above, and at
this organ sat a man of about thirty, playing a devotional
piece, in which he was so absorbed as not to
notice our entrance.
Mr. Hampden approached and touched him on the
shoulder. He turned his head, and I never saw a face
of more delicate beauty. The eyes were large and
thoughtful; the lips thin, with an expression of grave
austerity; the cheeks rosy, the high forehead as fair as
a woman's, and around this beautiful countenance fell
long fair hair, parted in the middle and reaching to the
shoulders.
He rose, and bowed with grave courtesy, taking Mr.
Hampden's offered hand.
“I have brought my friend Mr. Cecil to see you,
Mr. Milton,” said my companion.
Mr. Milton repeated his salute.
“Of her majesty's Guards, I believe, sir,” he said,
glancing at my uniform. “I witnessed the royal
entry to-day,—a very imposing spectacle.”
“You?” said Mr. Hampden. “Then wonders will
never cease. I had supposed you safe at home here,
composing your poems or treatises, Mr. Milton. What
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fancy now possesses you, and when will you carry out
your design of writing your epic on paradise lost by
our first parents?”
Mr. Milton shook his head somewhat sadly.
“Never, I fear,” he replied.
“Are you afraid that our father Adam would not
support you in your favorite theory?”
“What is that, Mr. Hampden?”
“Polygamy—that 'tis allowed in the Scriptures.”
“Do you deny that it is therein taught? The proof
is very easy,” said Mr. Milton, quietly.
“And so you, Mr. Milton, I, and our friend Mr.
Cecil have, each and all of us, the right to espouse two,
or ten, or twenty wives, if we fancy?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Milton; and he was going to open
an Old Testament Scriptures, when his friend stopped
him, smiling.
“I fear you will corrupt our consciences, my worthy
sir. We are not of the line of the patriarchs. Let us
leave polygamy and return to letters. You are engaged
in composing something other than political, I
trust. 'Tis so wearisome, that species of discussion.
Ah! here are some sheets. Is it permitted me to look
at them?”
Mr. Milton made a movement with his hand.
“'Tis only some rhymes of the woods and fields,”
he said. “I please myself in the din of this great city
by thus returning to my youth in fancy.”
Mr. Hampden had taken up the written sheets, and
now read aloud in his deep and musical voice a truly
exquisite passage from the afterwards celebrated poem
styled “L'Allegro,” a name no doubt bestowed upon
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it in consequence of Mr. Milton's fondness for the
Italian tongue. The reader was plainly an expert in
the difficult art of managing the human voice. A
charming sweetness marked his intonation, and the
glow upon his cheeks indicated the admiration with
which the lines of the poet—yet unknown—inspired
him.
The reading ended, and I, at least, was silent from
admiration. I think Mr. Hampden was pleased with
this expression of my face; for he said to me,—
“Is not that pure music, sir?”
He turned, as he spoke, to Mr. Milton, and said, in
his deep rich voice,—
“'Tis truly like a breath from the fields of England,
Mr. Milton, and the melody to my ear is wonderful.
But
`Sweetest Shakspeare, fancy's child,
Warbles his native wood-notes wild,'
does injustice to greater men, I think,—to Mr. Beaumont,
Mr. Fletcher, and rare Ben Jonson.”
“Such, I know, is the common opinion, Mr. Hampden,”
said the other; “but I cannot share it. The
brain that originated `The Tempest' and conceived
the wonderful tragedy of `Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,'
is, to my thinking, the greatest in our English
letters. Others are tall; Shakespeare is a giant, methinks.
I would be content, wellnigh, to have reached
gray hairs could I have seen and talked with him.”
I said with a smile, when my host thus spoke,—
“I think my father would exchange ages with you
upon that understanding, Mr. Milton. We live near
Startford-on-Avon, and Mr. Shakspeare was a good
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friend of my father when the latter was young. He
often came to Cecil Court, as our house is named, and
was excellent company, and full of smiles and sweetness,
I'm told. You cannot know him now, since he
is long dead; but if you will visit us you shall sit in
the chair he was accustomed to use, drink from his
favorite cup, and see his name which he wrote with
his own hand on a window-pane.”
“That would please me greatly, sir; but I am a
prisoner here, I fear. I teach children for bread, and
the birds have flown but recently. You must go?”
for I had risen some moments before. “Thanks for
your visit, Mr. Cecil,” said Mr. Milton; and, conducting
me to the door, he made me a bow of much
grace, in which he was imitated by Mr. Hampden,
who remained.
Such was my first interview with the afterwards
famous author of “Paradise Lost,” a poem so grand
that its fame must extend throughout the world. I
afterwards read with wonder those august verses, and
thought of the long-haired young author. His “Comus”
and “L'Allegro” and “Il Penseroso” pleased
me even more. The latter, published a few years afterwards,
have a singular charm for me. In reading them,
even now, a delightful freshness exhales from them; I
fall to dreaming under the influence of that exquisite
music, and forget the bitterness of the political partisan
in my admiration of the sublimest of the English poets.
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I returned to Whitehall; and on the same night
occurred an incident which revealed to me the secret
springs of one of those events which overturn monarchies.
It was nearly midnight, and I was passing beneath
the trees of St. James's Park, near the palace, when
the figures of two persons approached, and by the
bright moonlight I could see that they were in animated
conversation.
“I swear to your majesty that I speak upon sure
information!” said the voice of Lord Digby. I recognized
it without difficulty, though the speaker was
greatly moved.
“'Tis impossible!” replied the voice of the king,
which was equally unmistakable. “Impeach the queen?
Wherefore? 'Twould be too infamous and absurd,
Digby!”
“Infamous? Yes, your majesty! But absurd?”
“Have they aught against her?”
The other was silent.
“Speak!” the king said. “Whereon can impeachment
of her majesty rest?”
“Will your majesty permit me to speak without
ceremony?”
“Yes; speak plainly! You rack me, Digby! My
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heart sinks. Speak! How and why should these people
impeach my wife?”
“Her majesty is a papist, sire.”
“Content!—but that is naught. What more?”
“She is striving to convert her husband!”
“'Tis false! She has never attempted any such
thing!”
“They profess to believe it, no less, your majesty.”
“They will profess to believe anything to my prejudice
or hers! Aught more?”
“They declare that your alleged attacks on the
privileges of parliament are in consequence of her
majesty's arguments, and from the fact that you cannot
resist her appeals.”
“False! false! All false, Digby! Woe to these
slanderers!”
“They are powerful, your majesty.”
“I will show them that I too am powerful.”
“Beware, sire! Let an humble subject speak plainly.
They will crush you!”
“Crush me? 'Tis well, Digby. I will save them
the trouble by first crushing them!”
I had drawn aside to permit the king and his companion
to pass. Lost in the shadow, they did not perceive
me; but I could see the king's expression of wrath,
and Digby's unconcealed joy, as the moonlight fell
upon their faces.
“I will strike at the leaders in this infamous scheme!”
exclaimed the king. “I have the names here in my
heart!” He struck his breast as he spoke. “From
this moment I swear to strike them without mercy!”
As the king spoke, he passed beyond hearing, and a
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moment afterwards the two figures had disappeared in
the palace.*
Shall I relate what followed the incident in St. James's
Park? This is not a history of the reign of King
Charles I.; I would not repeat what is contained in the
great histories,—above all, would not discuss the squabbles
of king and parliament. But a few words are
necessary here, to explain after-events. It was King
Charles who defied his enemies first, and in a manner
most weak and imprudent.
In brief words, his majesty sent one of his household
to prefer a charge of treason against five prominent
members of the parliament. On the next day he demanded
the persons of the five; and, the parliament
refusing to surrender them, the king proceeded at the
head of an armed guard to arrest them in person.
It is said that the gods make lunatics of those whom
they are going to destroy. His majesty was acting
illegally, he was also acting madly. Time never was
when a king of England was an irresponsible despot,
unchecked by any law and competent to seize upon
the persons of its representatives. As yet, however,
respect for the kingly authority was great; and it was
thought best by the parliament that the five members
should escape. Time was given them for this by the
intrigues of Lady Carlisle, the black-eyed Venus whom
I had seen at Hampton Court. The king had just left
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Whitehall, and the queen in great agitation sat, watch
in hand, with her eyes on the dial. The king had
indicated an hour when—should no “ill news” come
from him—all would be well; and, the hour having
arrived, the queen exclaimed to Lady Carlisle,—
“Rejoice with me, for at this hour the king is, as I
have reason to hope, master of his realm; for Pym and
his confederates are arrested before now!”
The words are said to have caused Lady Carlisle to
give a great start. She was a friend, secretly, of the
enemies of the king. She invented some pretext now
to leave the queen's apartment; hastened out, sent a
messenger to warn the threatened members, and, owing
to delay in the movements of the king, the messenger
arrived in time.
When his majesty entered the Parliament House, the
birds had thus flown. A violent scene ensued. Loud
cries of “Privilege! privilege!” rang through the hall.
The Speaker knelt to his majesty, but refused to pledge
himself for the delivery of the accused, and the king
retired, discomfited.
With this crow-bar King Charles I. overturned his
throne. London suddenly blazed with rage at the
attempted arrests. Great crowds escorted the members
of parliament to the hall; the king retired ingloriously
to Hampton Court, and from thence sent word that
he would abandon the prosecution of the members and
respect parliamentary privileges!
Oh, inglorious! He was brave, and not deficient in
intelligence,—what made him thus act with such folly
and timidity? 'Twas not conviction of having acted
wrongfully: his majesty believed in his kingly
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prerogative always. Was it the spirit of intrigue, the
intent to temporize?
A great sovereign, observant of the right, would
never have begun that bad business. A resolute despot
would have marched upon the malcontents and crushed
them then and there. King Charles did neither. He
struck the tiger with his whip, and, when the animal
turned snarling, retreated before him. From that moment
he was doomed, and was king only in name.
This occurred wellnigh half a century since. King
and parliament are gone. I, an exile, am only musing
and thinking, “How strange was all that!”
The royal family had all gone back to Hampton
Court; and the queen was in despair, it is said, when
she learned that her indiscretion had prevented the
arrest of the members. Madame de Motteville, whom
I knew well afterwards,—her majesty's intimate friend,—
told me of the meeting of Charles and his queen
after the attempted arrest. The queen threw herself
into the king's arms, and with passionate tears upbraided
herself for her fault. In narrating the scene to Madame
de Motteville, she stopped, choked with tears, and
sobbed out praises of her husband's unaltered tenderness.
“Never did he treat me with less kindness,”
she faltered out, “than before it happened, though I
had ruined him.”
Events from this time rushed onward. It soon came
to be whispered through the palace that her majesty
was going on a visit to Holland, with the design of
conducting the princess-royal, then a child, to her
child-spouse the Prince of Orange.
The parliament had issued a circular to the nobility,
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calling on them to arm and prevent the king from
withdrawing farther than Hampton Court. Strange
to say, however, they scarcely opposed the projected
journey of the queen to Holland.
Before the queen's departure a singular event occurred,
and this event I shall now relate.
eaf511n1* Lingard, the parliamentary historian, alludes to the proposed impeachment
of the queen. He says, “Some hints had been dropped
by the patriots of an impeachment of the queen; the information was
conveyed to Charles, and urged him to the hazardous expedient of
arresting the six members.”—Editor.
I was posted one night on guard in the anteroom
to the queen's apartments, and, having been up very
late on the preceding night, leaned against the doorway,
half dozing.
From this condition I was aroused by a light footfall
approaching along the corridor; and a moment afterwards
the dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson, made his appearance,
laboring under great excitement.
My brother's espousal of his cause had made him the
friend of the whole Cecil family; and, seeing me, he
now stopped, and began to speak in a piping voice,
which indicated both agitation and anger.
“I have discovered who did all the mischief,” he
squeaked.
“What mischief?” I asked.
“Warning the parliament people that his majesty
was coming to arrest them.”
“Ah? Tell me.”
The dwarf looked guardedly around. Then he made
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signs that I should sit down on a bench under one of
the windows. I did so; and then the manikin mounted
with surprising agility to the sill of the window, where
his position enabled him to lean down close to my
ear.
“Coftangry!” he whispered.
“Is it possible? One of the queen's guardsmen!
What object—”
“He was the tool only.”
“The tool of whom?”
“My lady Carlisle.”
I stared at the small speaker. “It is not possible!”
I said.
“I know it!” was the venomous ejaculation. “Coftangry
is mad about her ladyship. Her eyes have turned
his head. I saw them together, whispering hurriedly
in one of the corridors, that day his majesty went to
the parliament. I saw Coftangry hasten out,—lost sight
of him,—but this evening discovered all.”
“In what manner?”
“I was lying beneath a couch in the antechamber to
the blue-room. Her ladyship came in with Coftangry,
and sat down on the couch. I heard every word they
said; he is mad about her; and she made him betray
the queen!”
It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of the
speaker. He was passionately in earnest; his eyes
blazed, and his small form trembled with excitement.
“An ugly affair!” I said; “and I will take prompt
action in the matter. The queen's guardsmen shall
not rest under the imputation of harboring a spy and
traitor in their ranks.”
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“No,” said the dwarf; “you must promise me to
leave the affair in my hands.”
“In your hands?”
“Yes. I exact that, Mr. Cecil,—for the moment, at
least.”
“What cours have you determined upon?”
“That is my affair.”
“I cannot make you any promise,” I said. “This
concerns her majesty.”
The dwarf knit his brows, and reflected for a moment.
At last he said,—
“When were you posted here, Mr. Cecil?”
“An hour and a half ago. But why do you ask?”
“What is the length of your watch?”
“Two hours. But how can that interest you?”
“It interests me greatly,” was the cool reply of the
dwarf. “And, as I have now told you all, Mr. Cecil,
I will bid you good-evening.”
As he uttered the words, he sprang to the floor with
his habitual agility, made me a bow full of grave courtesy,
and then hurried off in the direction of the
ground-floor of the palace. I looked after him in some
astonishment, unable to make out his design, and reflecting
upon the tenor of his statement.
So the subtle and brilliant glances of my lady Carlisle
had made Coftangry a traitor! Lured on by her
caressing eyes and ruby lips, he had sold faith and
honor! I was still meditating on this piteous exhibition
of a man's weakness, when footsteps approached.
It was the new guard coming to relieve me; and I
was soon free to return to the guard-room.
As I descended and approached the door, I heard a
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loud altercation. I hastened on, entered the guard-room,
and saw Coftangry and the dwarf facing each
other, both raging.
“You are a traitor! Are you a coward too?”
came in piping tones, full of wrath, from Hudson.
“Is this pigmy to continue thus to insult the queen's
guardsmen?” exclaimed Coftangry.
“This pigmy,” hissed the dwarf, “is as well-born
as you are!—is, moreover, a belted knight, which you
are not, and defies you to single combat!”
The words raised a storm in the guard-room; but
a large majority sided with the dwarf.
“He is right!” cried one. “Beware how you refuse
him, Coftangry. You will dishonor her majesty,
who has knighted him.”
The tumult continued for fifteen minutes longer;
then everything grew quiet. The dwarf had carried
his point. On the next morning at daylight, Coftangry
was to meet him in a secluded part of the park,
each on horseback with pistols, in order to equalize
the combatants.
I was a witness of the singular scene which duly followed
this arrangement.
Just as the first streak of dawn was seen above the
great oaks of the Hampton Court park, Coftangry
and Sir Geoffrey Hudson, his diminutive opponent,
made their appearance on horseback at the retired spot
selected for the encounter. Each was accompanied by
one friend; and a number of the Guardsmen who had
followed them formed a group near.
The countenance of Coftangry wore a satirical and
mocking expression, which, added to his sallow
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complexion, did not render him a very attractive spectacle.
He seemed to regard the whole affair as an “excellent
jest,” and, drawing his cloak around him, took his
place with an air of mingled amusement and disdain.
The dwarf was cool and determined. His eyes were
fixed upon his adversary with an expression of cold
menace. He wore a light velvet cloak, from beneath
which protruded his minute sword; over his brow
drooped a plumed hat. It seemed impossible that his
short legs could enable him even to retain his seat on
the big horse he rode; but he did retain it, holding
the reins and directing the animal with the ease of a
perfect horseman.
In five minutes all was arranged, and the adversaries
were placed near and facing each other. Then the
word was given, and the dwarf drew his pistol.
Coftangry, with a short laugh, drew—a squirt.
“Here is the weapon I have chosen to meet this
chivalric paladin!” he said. “I feared lest a pistol-bullet
might prove a cannon-ball to this sparrow!”
He raised the squirt, and, uttering a second laugh,
aimed at the dwarf.
“Ready!” he said.
A flush of rage rose to the face of Hudson.
“Are you a gentleman, or a clodhopper?” he
snapped. “Or simply a coward?”
“Come on!” cried Coftangry, with feigned laughter;
though it was easy to see how much the dwarf's words
stung him.
The dwarf looked towards his adversary's friend,
and, lowering his pistol, pointed with the other hand to
Coftangry. The gesture was full of such contempt that
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Coftangry turned pale. The words of the Guardsman
appearing as his second in the duel did not soothe him
much.
“If you wish any further aid of mine, Mr. Coftangry,”
said his friend, “you must conform to the
rules of combat, and meet Sir Geoffrey Hudson with
the weapons of a gentleman.”
“I have no pistol with me!” growled Coftangry, in
reply.
The dwarf threw back his cloak, and drew a second
pistol from his belt. He took both by the handles,—
they were small, but exquisitely chased and mounted,—
and, holding them out, said,—
“Here are pistols! Take one; I will take the
other.”
The words ended all further parley. It was not
possible to make longer any opposition. A moment
afterwards, Coftangry and the dwarf were sitting their
horses at the distance of fifteen paces from each other,
pistol in hand, and awaiting the word.
It was given, and a simultaneous report was heard,—
the crack of a popgun it seemed,—accompanied by a
puff of smoke.
The dwarf remained erect, curbing his startled horse
with a firm hand. Coftangry reeled, dropped his rein,
and fell from his horse.
All ran to him, and raised him up. The bullet had
pierced his heart. Five minutes afterwards, whilst
attempts were being made to stanch his wound, his
head fell back, a gurgling sound escaped from his lips,
and he expired.
Such was one of the most singular events I have
-- 089 --
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ever witnessed; and I have related all the details to
afford some idea of the strange complexion of affairs
at that epoch. The queen had taken into her household,
as a plaything, this pigmy of only two feet in
height: a full-grown man had mimicked him; he had
demanded satisfaction for the wrong; pistols fired from
horseback had equalized giant and pigmy; and it was
the bullet from the dwarf's pistol which penetrated
the full-grown man's heart. Such, I repeat, was this
strange event,—not the result of my fancy, but an
actual occurrence during the reign of his majesty
Charles I. The moral, I think, is, Do not laugh at
misfortune, and beware of the smallest insects, if their
sting is mortal!
The death of Coftangry created a great excitement
in the palace for two or three days. But there was no
one to punish. The dwarf had set spurs to his horse,—
if he wore spurs,—and disappeared. His unfortunate
victim was buried, and the event passed from all minds.
Memory of the dead is short in this world:—at courts,
I think, it is shortest of all!
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The queen's arrangements then in rapid progress for
her journey to Holland contributed largely to banish
the fate of Coftangry from all minds.
This proposed journey plunged me into veritable
despair. It was understood speedily that her Guards
would not accompany the queen,—that this body of
élite, under Lord Bernard Stuart, would remain with
the king. I was a member of the Guards, and must
continue with them, and thus for weeks, months,
years, it might be, would not see—Frances Villiers!
I fancy I see one of my grandchildren—some little
maiden of seventeen, let us say—smiling archly as
she reads the above words in her grandpapa's memoirs.
She will have seen, perchance, the old gentleman who
pens them, and will wonder if ever the flowers of
love bloomed under the snow of his hair. Yes, little
one! that snow had not yet fallen at the time I write
of: my life was in its springtime; the first violets
bloomed. I would have plucked all the world contained,
could I have done so, to make a bouquet du
corsage for Frances Villiers!
So I was really in despair when I thought I should
see her no more for a long time: her tranquil smile
which greeted me every day had become a sort of
necessity of my life. Harry, too, seemed full of gloom.
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“Hang it, Ned,” he said, “how will I be able to
sustain life, my boy, without a glance now and then
from the eyes of the fair Frances?” And it was only
long afterwards, as the reader will see, that I came to
understand what was hidden under that jest.
Thus I moped, seeing my sunshine about to leave
me; but 'tis certain that parting must take place in
life, and I summoned all my philosophy. I think Miss
Frances saw the gloom on the faces of the two Cecils;
but she said nothing, remained quite calm, and one
morning entered the coach which followed that bearing
her majesty towards Dover, with entire composure, and
naught more than her habitual composed sweetness.
The queen was thus en route for Holland, and King
Charles, surrounded by a party of noblemen and
followed by the queen's Guards, escorted the coach on
horseback.
The journey was to be marked by one or two incidents,—
affecting both his majesty and my humble
self.
As the cortége came in sight of Dover, where a
vessel awaited the queen, a party of horsemen was
seen rapidly approaching from the direction of London.
As the queen descended from her chariot on
the jetty, the horsemen reached the spot, and a tall
cavalier of dignified appearance, the leader apparently,
dismounted, gave his bridle to a man, and approached
the king, doffing his plain round hat as he did so.
His majesty looked at the new-comer over his shoulder,
and with an expression which indicated little satisfaction.
The dialogue which followed was brief and to
the point.
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“Sir William Strickland, I believe? Your good
pleasure, sir?”
The tone of the king was imperious, haughty, and
not a little disdainful.
“Your majesty will first permit me,” returned the
gentleman, “to assure your majesty of my very profound
respect.”
The king made a curt movement of the head.
“You come on the part of my parliament, doubtless,
sir?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Your errand, sir?”
“A very painful one, your majesty. I am commissioned
by the parliament to beg that before the
departure of her majesty the queen for Holland, the
law excluding the bishops from sitting as peers in the
House of Lords may receive your majesty's approval.”
The king's brow darkened more and more.
“In other words, unless I permit this iniquitous
scheme to become a law of the realm, the parliament
will not permit her majesty to depart for Holland?”
Sir William Strickland was silent.
“Is it not so, sir?” exclaimed the king, with rising
anger.
“I am unfortunate in being the bearer of a message
displeasing to your majesty,” was the diplomatic
reply.
A flush of anger and disdain rose to the face of the
king. Around him, all faces wore a similar expression.
The king hesitated. At that moment her majesty
touched his arm, drew him aside, and for some minutes
spoke with him in animated tones. The result was
-- 093 --
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that the king, with an expression of suppressed displeasure,
turned to Sir William Strickland, and said,—
“Be it as you and the parliament will, sir. You
have doubtless the required form for the passage of the
act by commission?”
Sir William bowed low, and, drawing a paper from
his breast, presented it with profound respect to the
king. As he did so, a clerkish-looking individual of
his party approached with pen and ink, which the
emissary presented to the king with the same air of
deference.
The king rapidly, and with a sort of flirt of the
pen, affixed his signature to the paper, and Sir William
received it from his hands with a low bow. The king
scarcely acknowledged it,—turned his back,—and a few
minutes afterwards the party of parliamentarians were
riding away.
“So much for that,” murmured the king. “Events
seem hastening.”
With these words, he seemed to dismiss the whole
scene from his mind. In half an hour her majesty,
with the princess and her suite, was on board the vessel
which was to bear her away, and the king and queen
parted from each other on the deck with a long embrance.
The eyes of the queen were filled with tears,
and the king's face flushed with emotion. A last embrace
was exchanged; the king went ashore again; the
vessel spread her sails.
The king, however, seemed unable to tear himself
from the sight of the queen. He sat his horse,
gazing at the vessel upon whose deck the queen stood
erect, waving her handkerchief; and this salute he
-- 094 --
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returned by raising and holding aloft his gray beaver,
with its floating plume. The handkerchief continued
to wave from the deck, and, as the course of the ship
was along the shore, the king, surrounded by his noblemen
and guards, rode along, keeping it in sight. In
this manner his majesty passed over a distance of four
leagues, ever keeping the ship in sight, and straining
his eyes to see the white speck moving to and fro upon
the deck.
At last a fresh breeze sprung up, and the bark flew
like a sea gull towards the open channel. From a lofty
cliff, and motionless in the keen winter's wind, the
king looked his last. Slowly the vessel faded,—then
it resembled a dark speck,—then it vanished. As it
disappeared, the king drew a long and labored breath,
let his head fall, and slowly turned his horse to retrace
his steps.
I shall always remember that scene; and think to-day,
as I thought then, that there is nothing more
respectable than the faithful love of husband and wife.
What are rank and power and wealth beside this?
And all wandering loves,—how mean and poor they
seem in presence of this beautiful and noble sentiment,
on which I think the All-seeing smiles!
Doubtless King Charles I. committed terrible errors
as a ruler; but for all that he was a good husband. A
court full of frail beauties could never induce him to
turn his eyes from the wife God had given him.
-- 095 -- p511-100
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An irritating incident followed close upon this painful
scene, and, as the reader will soon perceive, this
incident seriously affected my own person.
The king had just turned his horse's head to ride
back to London, when Sir William Strickland again
came on at the head of his party of horsemen, and,
reaching the spot, dismounted a second time, and approached
the king with the same air of deep respect.
The eyes of the king filled with sudden fire.
“What now, sir?” he exclaimed, in accents so abrupt
and haughty that they resembled a blow struck.
“I am deeply pained to offend your majesty,” began
Sir William Strickland.
“A truce to words and ceremony!” rejoined the
king. “You are not here, sir, as my friend or loyal
subject. Your business, sir! And I beg that you will
dispatch it briefly, as we are not in the mood to be
annoyed to-day.”
The emissary bowed low again, and said,—
“I would fain spare your majesty annoyance.
Briefly, a courier reached me on my way back to London,
bearing the paper I hold in my hand, which is
addressed to your majesty.”
The king caught the paper with a movement of rage
-- 096 --
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almost. His eye ran over it: suddenly he crumpled
it up and threw it upon the ground.
“Tell these people—” he began. Then he stopped,
and seemed to realize how unbecoming his anger must
appear. His eyes were fixed with a cold and haughty
expression upon Sir William Strickland.
“Do you know the contents of that paper, sir?” he
said.
“I do not, your majesty.”
“It is a `petition,'—everything is a `petition' now,—
in which the gentlemen of my parliament considerately
ask that I will not deprive them of the charms of my
company; they will be in despair if I absent myself
from London, and will be plunged into melancholy if
I even remove the Prince Charles from them. Will I
therefore, they say, `be pleased to reside nearer the
metropolis, and not take the prince away from them'?
It would afflict them, these tender-hearted gentlemen!'
Tis this that yonder paper contains, sir.”
The emissary inclined his head before the royal displeasure,
but was silent.
“The meaning is simple!” added the king, with disdain
in eye and lip. “My good subjects of the parliament
design making me and my son prisoners. They
have assailed my prerogative, they would lay hands on
my person. I am intractable, they would render me
docile. 'Tis an ingenious device, sir,—is it not?—this
humble `petition' of my humble subjects?”
Sir William Strickland bowed profoundly; but I
could see from the obstinate expression of his countenance
that he was unmoved.
“You do not reply, sir,” said the king, in the
-- 097 --
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same tone. “You do not think the device ingenious,
then?”
“Your majesty will pardon me for declaring that I
regard it as natural.”
“That is the opinion of Sir William Strickland,
Baronet?”
A slight color tinged the face of Sir William at these
words. With sudden embarrassment he bowed low,
but made no reply. The king gazed at him for a
moment in silence, and then said, coolly,
“I will reply to this petition within three days, sir.
Does that suffice, or am I compelled to respond here
and now?”
“That will assuredly answer every purpose; and I
now beg to take my leave of your majesty.”
With these words, Sir William Strickland, who had
begun to betray some signs of discomposure at the
threatening faces around him, made the king a profound
inclination, and, mounting his horse, rode
away.
The king gazed after him for a moment, and said to
a nobleman of his suite,—
“So pass away one's old friends to the enemy's
standard! 'Tis scarce two years since I made this gentleman
a baronet: I would not upbraid him with it,
but he had the grace to blush as he remembered it.
Well, a truce to all this. Things hasten more than
ever! Before three days have passed—”
He suddenly stopped, and the sentence remained
unfinished. Some scruple, if not some secret resolve,
seemed to check him,—the latter, it appeared.
“That message to the parliament may involve the
-- 098 --
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appearance of trick,” he muttered. “In three days, I
said. The message must be modified.”
He turned quickly to an officer of the Guard.
“Captain Hyde, take two or three gentlemen of the
Guard, and ride after Sir William Strickland. Say on
my part that I will make a speedy reply—use those words—
to the petition of the parliament, if it be not made
in three days.”
Captain Hyde bowed low, and turned to select two
or three of the Guard. I caught his eye, and he nodded;
then he indicated one other. A moment afterwards
we were all riding at full speed after Sir William Strickland,
whose party was visible on the crest of a hill in
our front.
The guardsmen of the queen possessed fine horses
and were hard riders. We went on at a pace which
would soon have borne us over the distance separating
us from Sir William Strickland, but this very rapidity
defeated our object: the emissary seemed to suspect
something, and also pressed forward at a rapid gallop.
Thus it was that the affair became a chase. The king
had followed us with the rest of his suite, and Sir
William now plainly regarded the aspect of things as
hostile. The war had begun!—the royal forces were
pressing the retreating representatives of parliament!
The speed of the Guardsmen's horses at last enabled
them to come up with the parliamentarians,—but I was
not present at the scene: I was in fact unaware of my
existence. My horse, a fine bay, had enabled me for
some time to keep the lead of the pursuing party: an
old fox-hunter, he went on at a thundering rush, when
unfortunately a stone in the road caused him to stumble
-- 099 --
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and fall. I rolled beneath him, his full weight fell
upon me, and I dislocated my shoulder.
I only remember thereafter that the king stopped
beside me, and raised my head: there was a group
around; then I fainted. Half an hour afterwards I
revived, and was dimly conscious that a surgeon was
setting my shoulder. Then I fainted again—was aware
that I was placed in a vehicle—the vehicle moved:
when I opened my eyes next, I was lying on a couch in
a lofty antechamber at Whitehall, and Harry was
sitting beside me, holding my hand and gazing at me
tenderly.
“So, Ned,” he said, “here you are yourself at last
again. How do you feel?”
“Badly, Harry; but not so very badly. This is
Whitehall?”
“Yes; we brought you here, the king's affairs summoning
him to London: arrived an hour since, just at
sunset, and you were so weak that you were laid upon
this couch. Better remain here, wrapped in your
cloak, until morning: I will watch beside you. Meanwhile,
Dick is riding post to Cecil Court to bring the
coach. 'Twill doubtless come speedily, and you must
go thither till your recovery.”
As Harry spoke, his name was pronounced at the
door: he was absent from my side a moment, and then,
returning, said, with some annoyance,—
“I must go on post for two hours, Ned. Then I
will return to you. Compose yourself to sleep: no one
will disturb you in this part of the palace; and the
moon through the oriel yonder will be sufficient
light.”
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“Content, Harry; I will sleep,” I said.
And, drawing my cloak around me with my well
arm, I closed my eyes.
Nearly two hours had passed, I think, after Harry's
disappearance, when I was aroused from my dreamy
half-slumber by footsteps on a side corridor leading to
the anteroom in which I lay. A moment afterwards
the door opened, a figure slowly entered, and this
figure paused in front of a portrait upon which the
moonlight fell in a flood of light. A second glance
told me that the new-comer was King Charles. He
was clad in a dressing-gown of velvet; his head, with
its long curling hair, was bare; and the pale, melancholy
face, with an unhappy light in the dark eyes, was
turned towards the portrait, upon which the king fixed
a long and absorbed look. So intense indeed was that
gaze that my eyes followed it and fell upon the portrait.
It represented a man past middle age, and the face
was an extraordinary one. Dark, harsh features; eyes
full of dauntless courage, mingled with a sort of stern
severity, and mournful foreboding, as it were, of some
approaching calamity; lips upon which were written an
unshrinking resolve, a will all iron; and in the poise
of the grand head something majestic, calm, and imposing;—
such was the portrait which the moonlight fell
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upon, and at which the king now gazed, standing
motionless as a statue in front of it.
At least ten minutes passed, and not a muscle of the
king's figure stirred. Then I saw his bosom heave, a
low groan issued from his lips, and he raised one hand
to his eyes, as though to brush away tears.
Whose was this portrait which had aroused such
terrible emotion? for the tears of kings are terrible,
and burn as they fall. I knew not, but was soon to
know. The king was still looking with the same absorbing
gaze upon the picture, when another figure appeared
at the door, remained there for a moment motionless,
then entered the apartment, treading noiselessly, and
stood beside the king. The shadow of the new-comer—
a man—was thrown upon the wall. The king started,
and turned with a wild look towards the man; then,
drawing a long, deep breath, Charles exclaimed, in a
broken voice,—
“Oh, Digby! methought that— I am unnerved
to-night, and this face—”
He turned again towards the portrait.
“The eyes haunt me,” he murmured, “the mournful
eyes of the man I sent to his death! Strafford!
Strafford! Would to God I had died before I grew a
coward and allowed cozening voices to persuade me to
your death!”
The king pressed his thin white hand to his forehead
as he spoke, and, interrupting Lord Digby, who essayed
to speak, added, in the same broken voice,—
“There are deeds that brand men as cowards in history.
I thought myself brave once, but I signed that
terrible warrant! It was forced from me, they tell me
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to console me. I resisted, protested, refused, they say,
but I signed at last! Well, that day, Digby, was the
blackest of my life. I was a forsworn gentleman! I
was a king, and I acted as a coward! I had the power
to say no, and I said yes. Strafford was my friend,—
faithful unto the death; and my return for all was to
send him to that death with my own hand!”
The speaker's emotion was overpowering as he
uttered these words. He covered his face with his
hands, and sobbed like a child. His frame shook. A
shudder passed through my own frame as I looked and
listened.
Lord Digby seemed to experience the same emotion,
and could scarce speak.
“I beseech your majesty,” he said at last, “to cease
this fearful talk, and retire from this apartment. What
evil spirit counseled your majesty to come hither?”
“No evil spirit, Digby, but the conscience in my
breast,” murmured the king.
“Your majesty exaggerates the part borne by yourself
in the death of Strafford. That signature to the
death-warrant was forced by enemies; the very bishops
counseled it: the good of the realm was paramount.”
“No good comes out of evil: 'twas cruel cowardice,
Digby, and has borne its fruits.”
“Cowardice! that word again? Who will dare call
your majesty a coward?”
“History!”
The word was uttered with a solemnity that thrilled
through me.
“Let us banish all glosses and party passion from
this question,” said the king, gloomily. “For the
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opinions of this generation I care little, esteeming them
but lightly. My reign is stormy and divides all minds;
royal prerogative and democratic power are at issue:
wonder not, then, that my bitter enemies charge me
with untold crimes. I am a tyrant, a violator of my
word, the author of the fearful Irish massacre; I am a
despot, reigning by fraud and falsehood and duplicity;
of all the monsters of history, Charles I. of England is
the most monstrous. And these charges, Digby, are
so bitterly insisted upon that all men's minds will soon
be poisoned against me. Well, I care not. I never
violated my word of gentleman yet. I claimed, as to
tonnage and the rest, what I thought my just and immemorial
prerogative only. When I heard of the Irish
murders, I shuddered like the most protestant of my
subjects. In my own heart I am guiltless of all this;
but history will bring against me another charge, and
of this I am guilty!”
He spoke in a low tone, motioning to Lord Digby
to be silent.
“I am guilty of that man's death,” he said, raising
his hand slowly, and pointing to the picture. “He
worked for me, fought for me, served me faithfully.
And I, who should have defended him, abandoned him
to his enemies. Of fraud, falsehood, tyranny, I am
guiltless: the charges pass me by as the idle wind. Of
Strafford's blood I am guilty! When that head, that
should have worn the crown, fell on Tower Hill,
Charles, the first of the name, of England, was forsworn!”
I could see in the moonlight that the king's forehead
was covered with drops of cold sweat. He had
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mastered himself by an immense effort, but the tears
and agony of the outer man a moment before seemed,
so to speak, to have struck inward. The wound bled
internally and was past cure.
The king continued to gaze for a long time upon
the portrait. At last his lips opened, and he muttered,
in tones almost inaudible,—
“Farewell, Strafford! 'Twere better to have lost my
crown than to have consented to your death! But the
deed is done. I carry in my breast an ineradicable
remorse! Smiles and happiness are not for me any
longer on this earth! Yet I go to my work. I am
king, and dare not shrink. You are no longer beside
me, with your great brain and fearless soul, to be my
strong tower of defense! I go on my path alone.
Farewell! Something tells me that I will ere long
rejoin you.”
As he uttered these words, the king went towards the
door, but, as though the great rugged head of the portrait,
with its dark eyes, still fascinated him, looked
over his shoulder at it as he moved away.
I shall never forget the face of the king as I saw it
then in the moonlight. It was deadly pale, and in the
eyes was that settled gloom which is seen in all his
portraits.
A moment afterwards he was gone with Lord Digby,
and the steps died away on the corridor.
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On the morning succeeding this strange scene, I was
removed to a bedchamber in the palace, and three
days afterwards my father arrived in the family chariot,
and I was borne from my couch to it.
My father followed; Harry bade me an affectionate
farewell; and then the old coach, with its four horses,
moved slowly away towards Cecil Court.
As I left the palace, I observed something which
forcibly arrested my attention. In the great court-yard
were drawn up the entire company of the queen's
Guard, with the servants in rear; and near the great
entrance stood grooms holding three horses, completely
equipped,—one of which I knew to be the favorite
riding-horse of the king. About the horses, the Guardsmen,
their retainers, everything and everybody, there
was something which indicated a long journey rather
than a brief ride.
I was still gazing back through the window of the
chariot at the line of Guardsmen, armed and ready,
when a great shout arose in front, and I turned in the
direction of the sound. The spectacle was striking.
As far as the eye could see, the street was crammed with
a great multitude, and in the centre of the thoroughfare
moved a procession, first of men and then of
women,—a procession strange, wild, fierce, with
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inflamed faces, violent gestures—moving furies. As I
afterwards discovered, they were the guild of porters,
the watermen of the Thames, beggars,—then forming a
distinct guild; and the women were from the markets,
brawny, masculine persons, with bare arms and furious
visages, clad in little better costume than their nondescript
associates. All were marching to the Parliament
House to offer their “petitions.”
For a moment, it seemed that the chariot and the
head of the great column would come in conflict. The
coachman, directed by my father, drew to one side,
however,—we were about to avoid the anticipated
collision,—when one of the multitude, uttering a
curse, caught the leaders by the bridle, and ordered
the coachman to turn about and retrace his steps.
“Why, the movement is impossible, friend,” said
my father, in his calm voice. “Should my horses
attempt to turn, they would trample upon some one.”
“Hear him!” shouted the man, one of the “beggars,”
and clad in rags: “he says he will trample upon
the people! Down with them!”
The words aroused a sort of fury in the crowd. The
horses were violently seized by the bridles; a rush was
made upon the ponderous coach, beneath which it
shook, and half turned over; in a moment it would have
been broken to pieces, in all probability, and its inmates
trampled under foot, when a commanding voice cried,
“Hold!” and a plain-looking personage forced his
way through the crowd.
His very appearance seemed to produce a magical
effect.
“Pym!”
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That name escaped from a hundred lips; and an
instant afterwards, Mr. Pym by a simple gesture, it
seemed, had cleared a space around the vehicle.
“Permit this gentleman to proceed on his way,”
said Mr. Pym. “No time is to be lost. Parliament
awaits the worthy porters and the rest with their petitions.”
A shout rose, and the crowd obeyed. The chariot
was no longer molested, and Mr. Pym, whom I saw
that day for the first and last time, disappeared. He
died soon afterwards, and, 'tis said, regretted his part
in the excesses of the parliament. I know not; but 'tis
certain that he was disinterested in his course: he
ruined his private fortune, and died poor.
The coach proceeded then without further molestation
upon its way, and we had just reached the suburbs
of London when the clatter of hoofs came behind
and rapidly approached. I glanced through the window:
it was the Guardsmen, moving at a quick trot.
At their head rode the king, and beside him the
Princes Charles and James, afterwards Charles II. and
James II. All were richly clad,—the boys like their
father,—but they wore their swords, and moved steadily
forward.
A moment, and the cavalcade had passed, Harry
waving his hand to me. We were now beyond the
city, and, instead of towards Hampton Court, the king's
party turned northward.
“Look! see the road his majesty takes, my son!”
said my father.
“It is the road to—”
“York! From this moment civil war begins!”
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My father's surmise was correct. Finding himself a
virtual prisoner at Whitehall or Hampton Court, the
king had resolved to free himself, had mounted his
horse in front of Whitehall, and, riding past the
great procession, which saluted him with threatening
murmurs, had left London, to take refuge at York.
I could take no part in the coming conflict. I was
in bed at Cecil Court, pale, feeble, wholly powerless
indeed, with a compound fracture of the shoulderblade.
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BOOK II.
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May of this troubled year 1642 came into the
world, and found me still weak and feeble,—scarce
able, indeed, to rise from my bed. As June approached,
however, I grew somewhat stronger, began to move
about the grounds, and slowly my hurt healed,—with
which came a sense of exquisite enjoyment.
I look back upon those summer days at Cecil Court
as among the happiest of my life. Everything was
charmingly fresh and buoyant; and my brief experience
of the bustle of courts had only intensified a
sentiment always powerful in me, my love for the scenes
and occupations of our English country life.
It is certain that one is born with this sentiment and
never loses it. I have seen all phases of life in my
time,—the splendid court at Versailles, the rush and
whirl of battle; have talked with dukes and countesses,
flirted the fans of court beauties, and taken part
in royal processions:—all the fine pageant of the life of
cities has passed before me, with waving banners, triumphant
music, gorgeous silks and velvets, and jewels,
and floating plumes; but the whole has been for me a
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mere phantasmagoria or idle picture. What I liked
better, and returned to with ever-increasing fondness,
was the calm, untroubled life of the fields and forests,—
the fields and forests of dear, ever-blessed England.
It was these fresh scenes that I looked on now from
the doorway of the old mansion of my fathers on the
banks of the Avon. My illness seemed to have sharpened
every faculty of enjoyment. Through my very
pores I seemed to absorb the delightful influences of
the vernal season. The songs of the birds in the elms,
the daisies starring the turf, the skylark circling in
the clouds,—all were sources of the sweetest happiness;
and I thrilled with an enjoyment which no words can
express.
The banks of the great river of Virginia, wherefrom
I write, are beautiful, and Virginia is surely a charming
country; but, go where you will, friend, there is
no place like home. A kind heaven made my home in
Old England,—with green turf, and blooming hedges,
and great trees, and cawing rooks swarming in and
out of their nests on the summits of the lofty oaks,
beside the little sheet of water on which some swans
sailed serenely to and fro. Every spot around the old
house had some family incident or memory of my own
youth connected with it. There were the apple-trees
where I had gathered the ripe red fruit in autumn;
there was the spot in the hedge where I had hung with
delight over the dove's nest, with its two milk-white
eggs; there was the crotch in the great apple-tree,
where I had robbed the blackbird's nest of its speckled
treasure; yonder the old pony had rolled me on the
grass, when an idle urchin; at the quiet nook in the
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little stream where the grass hung over the shadowy
pool, I had fished with a pin-hook and brought home
in triumph my willow twig full of trout. Thus every
locality was full of memories of my childhood. And
boyhood had its souvenirs, no less vivid and delightful.
The child had become a youth, and his heart had expanded
amid these same scenes. The dreams of the
great poets, the first vague thrills of romance, visions
of beauties with great soft eyes and flowing hair,—
these too were framed as it were by the green fields
and woods around Cecil Court. Stealing off in those
days to the banks of the little stream, I would throw
my line in the water where the shadow of a great elm
darkened the limpid surface, stretch myself on the
turf, with the leaves whispering over me, and hour
after hour of the long summer days would flit by like
dreams,—or call them birds, sailing away on silent
wings into the past. Then the blue sky was a wonder,
with its fleecy cloud-ships; the far coo of the dove
came to my ears like dreamy music; the water rippled;
the rooks cawed in the tops of the great elms:—I was
an English boy in my English home, filled in all my
being with the exquisite happiness which comes, to me
at least, only amid the dear scenes of Old England.
As I pass away from this tranquil and charming
period of my life,—I mean the days of my convalescence,
when the old scenes came back so vividly to
me, and I was a boy again,—I lean my head upon my
hand, muse idly as I remember, and again see the
youth lying on the turf beneath the oak, reading
Shakespeare's dramas, and thinking of his own life's
drama,—brief as yet, and just begun. See, I have
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written that great name, Shakespeare,—and that, too,
arouses many memories. The fame of my father's
neighbor and friend has grown quite gigantic now, but
at that time he was much less renowned,—indeed, I
might say, was little read. 'Tis so dangerous to one's
fame to be its cotemporary and move about in flesh
and blood! No man is great to those who talk with
him and see him laugh and eat his dinner! “That a
heaven-born genius?” you say: “absurd! 'tis only a
man like myself!” So those who lived near Mr.
Shakespeare were not so very enthusiastic about him.
He was delightful company, my father said, and of
excellent wit and humor; made you laugh very often,
and was altogether gay, and healthy, and natural; but
he was surprisingly simple, seemed never to have
imagined himself of much importance, thought little,
it would appear, of his dramas, and preferred Stratford,
where life was quite humdrum, to London, where
they fêted him and placed crowns upon his forehead.
He came often to see my father at Cecil Court;
laughed at everything and everybody, with a pleasant
wit which did not wound; took an interest in horses,
and calves, and the very spring flowers; smoked his
tobacco-pipe, and never alluded to Macbeth or Hamlet
in his life.
Such was Will Shakespeare, as old neighbors still
called him; and I think my father was one of the few
persons who divined the supreme genius of his writings.
I was early impressed with their charm, and read him
constantly: Titania and Miranda and Ophelia filled
my early dreams. Thus the soul of Shakespeare grew
as 'twere into my young life; and to-day, reading his
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great dramas on the banks of the York, 'tis not so much
Elsinore and Duncan's castle and Bosworth field I see,
as Cecil Court in England, where, stretched on the
turf, I looked upon all these visions!
Need I add that in that spring I saw other heroines
in my dreams than Shakespeare's? Frances Villiers!—
I write that name, and leave the picture of the disconsolate
lover to be painted by the imagination. I
will not dwell upon that. I grow old, alas! and romantic
writing from an old gentleman would make his
grandchildren laugh. 'Tis the grand privilege of
youth to be absurd gracefully,—to go into raptures
over Dulcinea, and talk nonsense as fresh and charming
as the passion it describes. Romance-writers share
that privilege, 'tis true; and were I composing a romance,
I might enlarge upon Frances Villiers and my
hero's feelings. If I were only writing the adventures
of an imaginary Mr. Edmund Cecil! Then the
reader should be told everything: my hero's heart
should be laid bare,—his romantic passion should gush
forth in burning words,—and behold, beloved reader,
you would have a love-romance to amuse you. But
this is my own life, you see. I grow ashamed when I
speak of my own feelings: would you like a third person
to be listening, whilst you poured out in some
shady nook the passion of your heart into the ears of
the chosen one? 'Tis thus a sort of shame which seals
my lips: enough that, asleep or awake, Frances was in
my thoughts.
The Cecils are light-hearted, and take trouble easily.
What unhappiness lives forever? what year is all
clouds? The sun will shine at length; and 'tis the
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happy constitution of my blood to divine it behind
the clouds, and think, “'Tis coming out soon!”
So fled the spring and early summer. I have told you
of my occupations and dreams at Cecil Court, and have
not said one word of the troubles of the time. They
did not find me indifferent; and twice I mounted my
horse to rejoin the king in the north, only to faint as
often, be borne home, and find my illness renewed. I
was thus forced to wait, but with impatience, throughout
that fiery summer which burnt into all hearts. My
quiet sports had become a weariness then, and more
than one event occurred even in our country nook
which indicated the tumult surging beyond.
To that I pass now. I have pleased myself by speaking
of those spring days at Cecil Court. It was but an
eddy in the torrent: the stream soon swept me on
again.
All at once, late in summer, came the intelligence
that his majesty had erected his standard at Nottingham,
and that his faithful subjects were flocking to him
by tens of thousands, to defend him against the “conspirators
of the Parliament.”
That version of affairs was somewhat glowing, as
events of speedy occurrence sufficiently proved; but
everybody placed credence then in the hopeful
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prospects of the king, and one of our neighbors, Sir Jervas
Ireton by name, galloped over to congratulate my
father. Sir Jervas was a large florid man, of portly
and imposing appearance. He was not very popular,
but was prominent in the county.
“Let us rejoice, Mr. Cecil,” he cried, shaking my
father's hand violently, with an up-and-down pump-handle
movement, “that his sacred majesty is about to
punish these pestilent knaves of the parliament!”
My father remained unimpressed, and did not seem
to share his visitor's enthusiasm.
“Is it so certain?” he said. “And after all, I
think, Sir Jervas, there are men in the parliament who
are not knaves.”
Sir Jervas stared. “You astound me! Then you
are one of the `Godly'!”
My father smiled. “I am for the king,” he said,
“but without believing him altogether in the right.”
Thereat, Sir Jervas exploded, and made an oration
of the most violent character. His majesty was a persecuted
saint! the parliament was a gang of miscreants!
every gentleman and honest man should
adhere to his majesty, who would soon show the rascals
that he had might as well as right on his side!
Then Sir Jervas puffed and rolled about, so to say,
in the excess of his ardor. He remained an hour
longer, blazing with loyalty and enthusiasm. Then he
mounted his horse and galloped off to congratulate
some other friend of the king.
As time wore on,—miserably spent by the reader's
humble servant in longing for strength to mount his
horse,—the royal prospects appeared day by day less
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promising. The number of the king's troops was ascertained
to be but small, his resources very limited, and
the enthusiasm in his cause far from general.
Followed thereupon a second visit from the worthy
Sir Jervas, who was much more moderate in his expressions,
and less convinced of the justice of the royal
cause. He had been mistaken, he said, in regarding
the merits of this unhappy misunderstanding as so
wholly on the side of his majesty. The collision between
king and parliament was truly unfortunate; the
royal authority should be vindicated in its just extent,
but he did not hesitate to say that a body of men so
virtuous, intelligent, and law-abiding as the great English
parliament could not be guilty of wrong or injustice.
The public troubles were distressing—most
distressing—to all good citizens, and it was to be hoped
that his majesty would not persist in armed opposition to
the peaceful execution of the laws of the realm. Thereupon
Sir Jervas Ireton bowed to my father, who had
listened without a word, and rode away. As he disappeared,
my father raised his finger, pointed after him,
and said to me,—
“There is a worthy personage who is going to turn
his coat.”
The reported forces of his majesty continued to
dwindle. It began to appear that the parliament was
the stronger; and one morning we heard that Sir Jervas
Ireton had gone to London on private business.
“He is going to ascertain which side to take,” my
father said.
But I had no time to think now of Sir Jervas, who,
as was shown afterwards, had been to London and
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returned. At last I was strong enough to mount my
horse, and prepared with ardor for my journey to join
the Guardsmen again.
I was soon ready. My valise was packed, my sword
burnished, my pistols loaded,—for it was said that the
country swarmed with friends of the parliament now,
prepared to arrest all who attempted to join the royal
forces,—and the evening preceding the day fixed on
for my departure came.
On this evening Sir Jervas Ireton reappeared at
Cecil Court.
The worthy Sir Jervas had evidently imbibed an undue
amount of claret. His countenance was rubicund,
and his eyes twinkled. Twice he called my father
“Cecil,” to that gentleman's extreme disgust, and
finally spoke of public affairs, up to that moment
passed over sub silentio, alluding to the king's friends
as “malignants,” bent on the destruction of “the
godly,” that is to say, the friends of the parliament.
My father bowed, but only said, with provoking
coolness,—
“Well, sir?”
“But the godly are more than a match for you malignants!”
cried the inebriated knight.
“You appear to take pleasure in bestowing
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nicknames on his majesty's friends, sir,” said my father,
coldly.
“Fight the devil with fire!” cried Sir Jervas, starting
up. “When a public ruler disregards all dictates
of morality and honor,—when pledge after pledge is
violated, and the liberty of the subject is in danger,—
when papists and heretics and murderous emissaries are
let loose upon an unoffending people,—what, I ask, sir,
can be the course of the friends of law and order?”
My father had remained calm until this moment.
Now his face flushed; but he controlled himself.
“'Tis distasteful to me to hear his majesty denounced
thus, Sir Jervas Ireton,” he said; “and you will pardon
me for adding that I esteem his supporters to be as
little `malignant' as your friends to be `godly.”'
“A month, or two at most, will decide which is
strongest!”
“Ah!” my father said, with some disdain; “then'
tis a question of strength, not right! The strongest
side is the right,—that to which all moral and prudent
gentlemen should adhere!”
Flushed with wine as he was, Sir Jervas understood,
and was stung by, the taunt.
“Your meaning, Mr. Cecil!” he said, red and irate.
“I mean,” returned my father, “that I had supposed
Sir Jervas Ireton to be a friend of his majesty.'
Tis scarce a month since you lauded him as the
model of a prince, and no insults were too gross for
the parliament people in your estimation, sir. Mr.
Hampden was a knave;—I was compelled to defend
that high-minded gentleman against your denunciations;
Mr. Pym was a wretch; Mr. Cromwell a
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hypocritical fanatic! Now these are the saints, and we
of his majesty's cause are the knaves! Well, beware,
Sir Jervas: there are friends of yours who will call you
turncoat. I will not, sir, for you are beneath my
roof!”
The knight started up at this, and exclaimed,—
“I leave your roof, but give you some counsel first.
The eyes of the godly are upon you—”
My father was on his feet too. “In your person,
doubtless, sir!” he said, in great wrath. “By heaven, I
am not too old, `malignant' though I be, to defend
my honor!”
With three strides he reached an old sword hanging
against the wall, and caught it down.
“This for you, sir, and the rest of the `godly,'—at
all hours, day or night!”
I had risen, half indignant, half laughing at the
drunken knight.
“Don't threaten him, sir,” I said to my father: “he
won't fight.”
And the truth of my words was speedily shown.
Five minutes had not passed before Sir Jervas was out
of the room and on horseback.
“The vulgar turncoat!” growled my father, replacing
his old sword on the wall. “A few moments more, and
I had spitted his carcase!”
“`'Tis better as it is,' as Will Shakspeare says,
sir,” I returned, laughing; “and even now this worthy
may annoy you in many ways, from his connection
with the `godly' in the neighborhood. I shall not be
present to aid you. I leave you at daylight. Now I
will go with Cicely to take leave of everything.”
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I called my little sister, who had been my companion
in all my rambles, and she came, with her pretty bright
face smiling behind its curls. In her eyes, however,
I could discern the traces of tears, and, as we walked
under the great trees towards the stream, she said, in a
low voice,—
“Oh, brother, why do you leave us? Must you go
so soon?”
“Yes, Cicely,” I said: “this is no time for the
Cecils to prove laggards. I see you have been upstairs
crying; but come, smile again. There is your
ardent admirer, Jervas Ireton the younger, coming to
meet you through the trees.”
Cicely pouted immensely, and said, “He is the
most disagreeable little wretch—”
And, as she spoke, the disagreeable little wretch approached,
smiling. It was, however, somewhat of an
injustice to characterize the young gentleman thus:
he was only weak. About twenty, with flaxen hair,
washed-out blue eyes, a feeble smile, Mr. Jervas Ireton
the younger was simply insignificant. He and Cicely
were old playmates, as the Ireton estate joined Cecil
Court, and the youth had long fancied himself consumed
with an ardent passion for the maiden.
“Oh, Cicely, and Mr. Ned,” he said, “I am very
glad to see you,—that is—”
He stammered, hesitated, and added,—
“That is, I would like to see you alone, Cicely.”
The damsel pouted hugely at these words, and
said,—
“What do you mean, Mr. Ireton?”
“There it is!” cried the young gentleman, plunged,
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it seemed, into despair. “Mr. Ireton! The next
thing it will be Captain Ireton!”
Cicely stared. “You a captain!”
“Yes,” moaned the youthful warrior, in lugubrious
tones, “a real captain. Sir Jervas managed it. A
real captain, with a new uniform, and just going away.
So I came,—it was the only opportunity I will have,—
you will not see me alone. Oh, Miss Cicely! don't
let me go without—without—without — one word,—
that is—”
Here “Captain” Ireton quite broke down, losing
all his self-possession. Cicely's head rose erect, and
her eyes were full of fire.
“Which side are you on, sir?” came suddenly from
the maiden.
“The—the—that is—I have no opinions myself
of any consequence,—of no consequence, I assure
you—”
“You are on the parliament's side!”
“Ye—e—s,” returned Captain Ireton, hanging his
head.
Cicely shot an exterminating glance at her admirer.
“Then you will please never presume to address me
again, sir!” she burst forth. “The Cecils are for the
king!” And the little maiden's eyes flamed.
“I—wish—I—was,” came from her heart-broken
admirer, “but,—well—'tis all over, I see, Cicely. I
will not say any more.—I wish—but my father will
have his way; he's a terrible old screw and tyrant!—
I have no opinions of any consequence; — but,
well—”
A gleam of intelligence appeared in the youth's eyes.
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“Sir Jervas has the opinions of the family!”
A few minutes afterwards he took a sorrowful farewell,
and went disconsolately away; and I walked with
Cicely until nightfall, when, arm in arm, my little sister
and myself returned in the grand moonlight which fell
upon the old hall in a flood of glory I shall never
forget.
I had supposed the adieus of Jervas Ireton the
younger to have been final; but on the very next morning,
just as I was about to get into the saddle, he reappeared.
The youth was clad in a superb purple uniform, the
colors of Lord Brook, and wore on his shoulder an
orange scarf, the badge of Lord Essex, commanding
all the parliament forces. He was thus an imposing
figure, in his purple and orange adornment, with the
huge feather in his hat, and sabre at his side; but more
imposing still was his retinue, which consisted of about
twenty mounted men, marching martially two abreast.
The affair really looked like war! Here was the disconsolate
lover of Cicely coming, it would seem, to
have an official interview with Cicely's brother and
mildly dissuade him from going to join the king.
My surmise was just.
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The martial youth halted his command in a voice of
thunder,—an order which they proceeded to obey by
huddling together and running against each other in
the wildest confusion,—and then, approaching me, he
said, in a mournful tone,—
“I hope Cicely's not risen, Mr. Ned; oh, I think
there she is, busy with your valise! How I wish I was
going with you!”
I could not refrain from laughter.
“Whereas it is I who am going with you,—or at least
you think so,” I said. “In other words, my good
Captain Jervas Ireton, you have brought that fine company
of serving-men and cobblers yonder, to arrest me
as an adherent of his majesty?”
The warrior hung his head.
“The old man is such a screw!—the greatest tyrant,
Mr. Ned, you ever saw! Of course he made me come.
Somebody told him you were going away to the king
this morning,—so he would not rest till he had me in
the saddle, with this tag-rag, on the way to seize you.”
I looked at the youth, measuring his stature, then at
his company. I could have broken him in two, despite
my weakness, with one arm; and the complexion of
his followers was far from martial.
“Well,” I said, bringing around my rapier and
pistol, “what do you propose to do, my good sir?”
“Oh, Mr. Ned! don't speak to me in that way!”
remonstrated the young gentleman.
“In what way?”
“So rough! Of course I am going to pretend to
arrest you—There is Cicely! Oh! the old man is
such a tyrant!”
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Cicely came out and stared in amazement. Then
her face flushed hot.
“What are you and these people here for, sir?” she
exclaimed.
“Nothing—nothing—that is—hem!—it's a mere
form, Cicely.”
“Please call me Miss Cecil, sir,” said the little
maiden, turning pale, but speaking with great hauteur.
“There again!—`Sir!”' exclaimed the prostrated
youth. “Oh, dont call me `Sir,' Cicely,—that is,
Miss Cecil!”
Cicely looked from the speaker to myself in amazement.
“Our young friend is only come to bid me good-by,
little sister,” I said.
“Yes, yes,—that's it!—and to wish you a happy
journey, Mr. Ned!” was the eager response; “in fact,
my own opinion is—if I had any—but I have none of
any consequence, I do assure you—”
I burst into a laugh, in which my father—who,
coming down the steps, had heard the last words, and
understood all—nearly joined.
“Come!” I said to the young warrior, “why not
choose to have some opinions? Go and fight for his
majesty: your bold followers will join you. There's
Hob, an old friend of mine, and Tom Diggs and Gregory
from Keynton. They don't know in the least what
they are going to fight for!”
The youth hung his head, and looked truly disconsolate.
“I don't think we can, Mr. Ned,—the old man
is such a screw. I have no opinions myself—but—
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confidentially—my sentiments are—`God save the
king!”'
He sank his voice as he uttered the words, and
added, in the same tone,—
“Could you make it convenient to ride out by the
back way, Mr. Ned?”
“No,” I said. “I propose riding through Keynton.”
The young man started.
“In company with Captain Ireton, at the head of his
bold troopers!”
The youth looked quite aghast; but the comedy of
the affair had taken possession of me,—I was in the gayest
spirits,—and the result was that ten minutes afterwards
I had bidden my father and Cicely farewell, and
was riding, followed by Dick Hostler, beside Captain
Ireton at the head of his company.
The spectacle must have been odd. I wore my rich
uniform of queen's guardsman, and my companion the
purple coat and orange scarf of the parliament. As
we entered Keynton, all eyes were fixed upon us; and
I gazed at it as attentively, for the village once so tranquil
was almost unrecognizable. The parliament ruled
there. The shopkeepers sat on their counters, haranguing
crowds; the blacksmith had shut up his forge, and
was laying down the law to the wheelwright, who seemed
to hold opposing views; the public room at the inn was
thronged with idlers, agog for news; and in one end
of the long porch, an emissary of the parliament, in
full regimentals, was ladling out drink and calling for
recruits.
“Oh, Mr. Ned!” exclaimed my companion, “what
are you going to do?”
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“I? I am going to do nothing,” I said, laughing,
“since there's nothing to be done!”
“But they see you!—there they come!—and oh,
good heavens!—there—there—is—”
Vox faucibus hæsit! The youth, dumb with terror,
pointed to the figure of Sir Jervas Ireton, coming
rapidly out of the inn, and approaching.
“I see you have him!” exclaimed Sir Jervas; “a
pestilent enemy of the good cause! The young bantling
now,—the old cock soon to join him!”
The ruddy features of the knight shone, as he drew
near. His unfortunate son shrank from him.
“Your servant, my good Mr. Cecil,” said the
knight, scornfully; “I am very glad to see you.”
“'Tis friendly, at least; but the sight of your worship
affects me differently,” I said, continuing my way.
“Stop!—halt, I say!—seize him!”
And the knight rushed upon me, catching my rein
violently.
I did not fancy the movement, and was in a bad
humor from the scene at dinner with my father. As
Sir Jervas Ireton, therefore, seized my bridle-rein to
arrest me, I dealt him a blow with my fist on the side
of the head, which caused him to stagger. The act
was visible to all, and twenty men darted at my horse.
Had they caught the bridle, I must have been down
under their feet the next moment. I guarded against
that by striking the spur into my horse's side and
whirling my rapier in front.
“Fire! fire on him!” I heard the furious Sir Jervas
cry to his son. And the reply of that warrior came as
clearly,—
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“Oh!—the pistols—they are not loaded!”
The words were followed by an explosion from the
porch of the inn; a bullet passed through my hat,
and I turned my head in that direction. Through the
smoke I caught a glimpse of the parliamentary emissary,
who wore a sergeant's badges, and in the close-cropped
hair, huge ears, and wide mouth, I recognized
my foe the man Hulet, from London.
A longer interview was impossible. I sent a bullet
from my pistol at the worthy, which did him no injury.
“Come, Dick, ride!” I then said; “the whole crew
are after us!”
And, turning in my saddle, I caught off my hat,
waved it around my head, and cried,—
“God save the king!”
That was some satisfaction, at least. Prudence counseled
speed now; and Dick and I went on rapidly
through the village, pursued by shots and the worshipful
Captain Ireton's dragoons. The shots did not strike
us, and we were better mounted than the village warriors.
A friendly wood presented itself; the shouts behind
us died gradually away; and, drawing rein, I went on
through the vale of the Red Horse, scarce glancing at
the heights of Edgehill, where I was soon to take part
in the first battle of the Great Civil War.
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The Almighty, who is also the All-merciful and Inscrutable,
sends tears, agony, and utter wretchedness
to private individuals; on nations he inflicts at stated
periods his great curse of civil war. The human being
visited by his displeasure is easily known by the pallor,
woe-begone look, and dejected 'havior of the visage;
the nation cursed by civil war is marked as clearly by
the hand of the Almighty.
In that summer of 1642, England was scarce recognizable.
The tranquil and smiling land of the past
was dead and gone. You seemed to move on the crust
of a volcano, and men's minds had caught the fierce
heat and were burnt up by fever. As I rode towards
Nottingham, I saw on all sides the traces of the evil
spirit of civil contention. In many a field the ripe
grain had fallen uncut and neglected. Over others
prowled tramps and beggars, firing on the game. The
highways were wellnigh deserted; and when you met a
chance wayfarer he eyed you sidewise with suspicious
glances, and the hand under the cloak, you felt, grasped
a concealed weapon. All the face of the land was torn
down. The fences were gone in many places, for the
war of cavalry-parties had already begun, and the cattle
wandered uncared for, trampling down the corn and
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meadow-lands. The villages were either deserted, or
hot-beds of agitation and gossip. In some, the shutters
were closed, and women glanced through the cracks
fearfully. In others, sullen glances or ardent questions
greeted you, as you adhered to one or the other
party.
England was thus transformed, in a day, as 'twere,
into a war-worn realm. Her people seemed to look
forward fearfully to some coming fate. Discussions in
parliament had ended; the sword had replaced debate;
the harsh thunder of cannon was about to drown the
roar of hostile multitudes.
The war, as I have said, had already begun. At
Northampton, Lord Essex, general of the parliament
forces, lay, I heard, with an army of about six thousand
men. And his horse were already scouring the
country between that place and Nottingham, where the
king had assembled a force scarce half as numerous as
his opponent's. Thus the petite guerre of cavalry had
begun, preluding the greater conflict of foot, and twice
I was chased by the enemy's foraging-parties, who very
nearly made me a prisoner. I succeeded in evading
them, nevertheless, and at near sunset reached the
pickets of the royal cavalry towards Nottingham.
My Guardsman's uniform would, I supposed, be
sufficient voucher for my loyalty, but the officer of the
picket regretted his inability to pass me within the
royal lines. He was ordered, he said, to arrest all
persons coming northward, and send them to headquarters.
This was reasonable, if not agreeable, and I
went on with the escort of two men, to whom I was
intrusted. We rode half a league, passed a large camp
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of dragoons on the edge of a forest, in which fires had
been kindled; then a tent on a grassy hill came in
view, and before this tent we halted.
Out of the tent, on the summit of which floated the
colors of the king, came a huge personage with a corporal's
badges on his arms, a long black beard, and an
air of authority.
“Your pisness?” said the new-comer, with a strong
German accent.
The guard informed him that I and my servant had
been arrested at the outer picket.
“Vait!”
And the giant retired into the tent, from which he
soon reappeared, with the guttural announcement,—
“Gome in!”
I entered, and found myself in presence of a young
man in a general's uniform, who was lying on a scarlet
cloak spread on the grass, and playing with a white
spaniel. The appearance of this officer was martial.
His boots were covered with dust, his face ruddy from
exposure, his eye keen and piercing, his bearing direct,
almost abrupt: from head to foot, in every trait of his
person, he was a soldier. On a camp couch in one
corner of the tent lay a rich belt, containing a fine
rapier, and from the holsters of a superb saddle near,
protruded the handles of two highly-decorated pistols.
The officer was plainly either of high rank, or with a
marked fondness for bright colors, or both. I have
found eminent soldiers careless of dress often, and
prone, indeed, to despise decoration as puerile. The
young general before me seemed to delight in such
things; to enjoy the bright colors, the pomp and
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splendor of war. You could see that he was all impulse,
promptness, and impetuosity. His glance was
that of the eagle, and the eyes seemed ready to flame.
It was plain that the first blast of the bugle would pour
fire into this man,—that the hand would dart to the
rapier, the spur clash on the stirrup, the simple soldier
would replace the general, and he would lead the
charge, sword in hand.
All this was plain at a glance. The young officer
responded with a look which took in every trait of my
person.
“Well,” he said, with a slight foreign accent, “who
are these?”
“Brisoners, your highness,” returned the heavily-bearded
giant.
“I am not highness; I am general,” said the officer,
briefly.
“Yes, sheneral.”
“Prisoners! This gentleman, from his uniform, is
one of the queen's guards.”
“Yes, highness,—dat is, sheneral.”
The officer had risen abruptly, repulsing his playful
white spaniel, who continued to fawn on him.
“You were arrested at my outer picket, sir?” he
said, looking straight at me.
“Yes, general. May I ask to whom I have the
honor to speak?”
“To General Rupert, commanding the horse of the
king's army.”
I bowed low to his royal highness Prince Rupert,
nephew of his majesty.
“Your arrest, sir,” said the prince, “was in
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obedience to my general order. Your name, if it please
you, and whence come you?”
“Edmund Cecil; and I am from near Keynton,
where I have lain ill recently, highness.”
“Say sheneral!” here came from behind the hand
of the huge corporal, who had edged towards me, and
gave me this intimation in tones of subdued thunder.
“Spare your counsel, Hans,” said the prince, briefly,
“and go find what horsemen are approaching.”
The giant disappeared, and the prince turned again
to me.
“What intelligence, Mr. Cecil? You have no
doubt looked and listened.”
“To little purpose, I fear, your highness. My lord
of Essex is at Northampton, with six thousand men,'
tis said.”
“Near seven thousand. But the state of the country,
sir?”
“'Tis in a fever,—the parliament recruiting everywhere.”
“And plundering.”
“'Tis so said, my lord.”
“I will essay to stop that.”
As he spoke, the sound of horses' feet was heard in
front of the tent, and an instant afterwards the gigantic
corporal ushered in a dignified young gentleman, thin
of figure, clad in civil dress, and with something sweet
and melancholy in his face.
“My lord Falkland! You are very welcome, my
lord,” said the prince, cordially pressing his hand.
Lord Falkland bowed, and said,—
“A message from his majesty, your highness.”
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They went to the opposite side of the tent, and
conversed for a few moments. The prince nodded.
“Say to his majesty that his order will be promptly
obeyed, my lord.”
The prince had scarce uttered these words, when a
prolonged bellowing was heard without, and this discordant
sound was followed by the neigh of horses.
The prince glanced at the huge corporal, made a gesture,
and the worthy went out. A few moments afterwards
he returned.
“Gaptured gattle and horses, highness,—dat is, sheneral!”
“Oh, highness!” said Lord Falkland, in a low, sad
voice, “this is very painful!”
Before the prince could reply, a young officer entered
the tent, saluted, and said,—
“Your orders have been obeyed, general.”
“The house is fired?”
“Yes, general; and you may see it burning.”
The prince went to the front of the tent: I followed.
A ruddy glare above the southern woods indicated a
conflagration.
“It is well,” said Rupert: “that will teach them a
lesson.”
A deep sigh came like an echo to the words. It had
issued from Lord Falkland, who was standing behind
the prince.
“Terrible! terrible!” murmured Falkland.
Prince Rupert wheeled round, with an angry flush
upon his brow.
“I make war!” he said, abruptly; “and war is not
rose-water!”
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“Pardon me,” was Falkland's low, sad response. “I
meant not to offend your highness.”
“And I am a hot-headed fool,” exclaimed Rupert,
grasping his visitor's hand; “else I had never taken
umbrage at words from the soul of honor—Falkland!”
He paused, and looked towards the conflagration.
“This seems harsh to you, my lord,” he said. “Well,'
tis just. The man whose house I have burned over his
head has been merciless to the families of my soldiers,
pointing them out to the vengeance of the parliamentary
troops. That was proved to me. Well, I
have punished him, have driven off his cattle and
burned his house. History will hate and curse me for
these things, if 'tis written by friends of the parliament.
So be it; but let me repeat, my lord,—war is
not rose-water.”
With these words, Prince Rupert re-entered the tent.
An hour afterwards I was in Nottingham, talking of
home and home-folks with my dear Harry. When we
fell asleep, side by side, we were still murmuring our
boyish talk, and Harry's sweet smile went with me
like sunshine into the dim and pleasant realm of dreams.
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It was about sunset on a superb evening, late in
October, that, looking from an upper window of Cecil
Court, beside my father and Cicely, I saw the royal
forces move in a long glittering line to the summit of
the eminence called Edgehill, near Keynton.
The foes were about to clash together. All attempts
to negotiate and compose the differences between king
and parliament had failed. Soon after my arrival at
Nottingham, the Earl of Southampton and his associate
commissioners, sent by King Charles to London, had
returned and reported that they had met with scant
courtesy, had received a written reply, and had been
ordered to depart from London without delay. When
the king read the parliament's missive, his face darkened,
and his ire was aroused. His antagonists demanded
his submission,—that they should control all
appointments, occupy all fortresses, and dictate all
public measures.
“Should I grant these demands,” the king exclaimed,
in great indignation, “I should remain but
the outside, the picture—but the sign—of a king!”
And I think he was right in that surmise. The parliament
distrusted him so, that they demanded extreme
concessions. To have yielded then were to have
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surrendered all. Instead of doing so, King Charles issued
a solemn proclamation to his army, in which he protested
the sincerity of his intent to observe the laws,
and called on his followers to march with him and put
the question to issue on the battle-field. The proclamation
was received by the army — then numbering
about ten thousand men—with enthusiasm; and then
the king moved from Nottingham southward to meet
Lord Essex, who promptly marched from Worcester
to accept battle.
Thus the royal forces came near, and were seen from
the windows of Cecil Court. It was a superb and warlike
spectacle. The ruddy light of sunset fell, in a sort
of glory, upon silken banners and bright scarfs, burnished
arms and glossy horses. Foot, horse, and artillery
moved slowly to the hill,—a splendid phantom, without
noise, save a stifled hum, and now and then a bugle-note
from the cavaliers of Rupert.
All at once a noise of hoofs on the avenue came up
to the window. I looked down, and saw the king,
Lord Falkland, and a few others spurring towards the
house.
“'Tis his majesty! He is coming to visit us,” I
said.
“The king will be most welcome,” was the response
of my father.
And, descending, he met the king at the great door,
and inclined profoundly.
“We have come to take possession of your house,
Mr. Cecil,” said the king.
“Your majesty does my poor house a very great
honor,” was my father's response, with a second
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inclination; and he ushered the king into the main reception-room
of the establishment, whither the Viscount
Falkland and some other noblemen followed him.
An excellent dinner was speedily served, and the
noble guests—kings and noblemen are but men, and
grow hungry, reader—evidently derived great satisfaction
therefrom. And let me pause here an instant,
to notice a peculiarity of my father's ménage. He
would always live as well, every day, as his fortunes
permitted, not starving his household for a month to
give a grand entertainment to invited company.
“'Tis but a mean manner of living at the best,” he
would say, “to keep your fine rooms and best food and
full dress for state occasions; to live in a cuddy, stint your
table, and go slovenly before your family, in order to
dress splendidly and make a show when strangers enter
your door. My family are as worthy of rich food and
the best apartments as any one, and I make my toilette
as scrupulously for my daughter Cicely as for my
Lady Duchess.”
He certainly carried out his philosophy. His dress
was ever the same in public and in private; the very
best apartments at Cecil Court were used every day,
and the table was spread daily with the best food.
Then the door was opened; every one was welcome,
whether rich or poor, high or low, titled personage
or plain countryman, all found a cordial welcome,
and were greeted equally by the master of the mansion.
I don't think my father was politer to one
than to another. He was a very proud and simple
gentleman of the old régime. On this evening he said
to the king, “Enter, your majesty: you are welcome,”
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as he would have uttered the same welcome to any
other visitor.
The king retired after dining to the reception-room,
which was thronged with noblemen and officers. Cecil
Court, without and within, had suddenly become a
general's headquarters. Couriers went and came, with
clashing heels and rattling spurs. Officers clad in
superb uniforms stood around the table, beside which
the king sat, writing orders or reading reports. In the
grounds without, horses were tethered, champing their
bits and stamping. In the grass-plat in front of the
hall had been set up the king's banner.
His chief officers had come at his summons. These
were Lord Lindesey, commanding-in-chief; Prince
Rupert, commanding the horse; Sir Jacob Astley, the
foot; Sir Arthur Aston, the dragoons; and Sir John
Heydon, the artillery. I forget the troop of Guards,
whose servants formed a second troop, always marching
with their masters. The first were under Lord
Bernard Stuart, the second under Sir William Killigrew.
The wealthiest young noblemen of the kingdom had
flocked to the Guards now: 'twas said, and with truth,
I think, that the estates and revenues of these young
private soldiers exceeded the estates and revenues of
all the members of parliament and the House of Lords,
when the seats of the two houses were full.
Among these gay young volunteers was one whose
name, when I heard it first at Nottingham, had made
me start. Walking arm in arm with Harry, I had
seen him beckon to a youth of about twenty, with
bright blue eyes, chestnut curls, laughing face, and
superbly clad.
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“Here's my brother Ned, Frank,” Harry said.
“Come and shake hands with him.”
And as the youth came forward, with an expression
of youthful buoyancy and sunshine in his face, Harry
added, to me,—
“This is Frank Villiers, brother of our fair friend
the maid of honor. We are sworn friends; and you
must be his friend too.”
The youth squeezed my hand cordially, looking at
me with his frank eyes and smile; and in ten minutes
we were familiar friends. Three days afterwards, I
seemed to have known him from his very childhood;
and now he had ridden with me to Cecil Court, and
was laughing with Cicely on the portico in the moonlight.
The king was busy until midnight, and then, rising,
exchanged a few words with Viscount Falkland, his
secretary of state.
“All is ready, you see, my lord,” he said, “and 'tis
probable we shall fight on the morrow. Come, summon
back your smiles: you seem woe-begone to-night.”
Lord Falkland sighed. “I know not what oppresses
me so, your majesty,” he said.
The king looked at him with a glance full of melancholy.
“'Tis that woman's heart you possess, my lord.
You shrink from battle and blood! See, I utter ungracious
words. I seem to impute weakness to Falkland,
the bravest of all the brave gentlemen of my
kingdom!”
“Your majesty knows—”
“That 'tis kindness, not weakness? Yes! Your
heart is bleeding, Falkland, at the blood and agony
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which to-morrow will bring. Well, my heart too
bleeds; but I am not the author of this conflict. I
shrink from the future; but I go on in my course.
The English monarchy shall not fall, in my person,
without a struggle, Falkland. And now good-night.”
My father, who waited, ushered the king to his apartment,
bearing a silver sconce before him. A few moments
after their disappearance, my father called me. I
went up rapidly, and the king, who sat beside a table,
upon which lay an open portfolio, said to me,—
“I have a service to ask of you, Mr. Cecil. Are you
well mounted?”
“Very well, your majesty.”
“I wish you to go to Holland.”
I bowed low, with a beating heart. The king had
turned to my father.
“Two gray-haired gentlemen like ourselves, Mr.
Cecil,” he said, “can understand each other. I would
write to my wife. To-night my thoughts have never
left her. I shall go into action to-morrow, and, like a
good husband, think of one who is thinking of me.”
Taking a pen as he spoke, the king began to write.
The letter, which filled two sheets, was at last finished
and securely sealed, the king stamping the wax with
a signet-ring which he wore. He then extended the
package towards me, but suddenly drew it back.
“No, I will wait until the event is decided to-morrow,
and add some lines,” he said. “'Twould be
cruel to write thus on the eve of battle, and leave her
majesty in doubt of everything,—perhaps to torture
herself with fears. Your pardon, Mr. Cecil,” he added
to my father: “I think aloud, but I take no shame to
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myself for my thoughts. To-night I am only a poor
husband thinking of his absent wife.”
He turned towards me, and added, “'Twould disappoint
you too, sir, if I'm not mistaken. Go into action
with your friends to-morrow. I shall see and share all.
And if you survive, come to me immediately after the
battle.”
I saluted and retired. Half an hour afterwards I was
in camp, and said to Harry, beside whom I lay,—
“I am going to Holland to-morrow, Harry. I shall
see her again,—Frances Villiers!”
As I uttered the words, “I shall see her again,—
Frances Villiers!” I felt Harry start.
“You say that in an ardent tone, Ned,” he replied.
“Is the prospect so delightful?”
I was silent, and felt a burning blush rush to my face
in the darkness.
“True!” I stammered. “I have never spoken of
this even to you, my dearest Harry. But 'tis out now!
Yes, I look forward to the moment when I shall see
Frances Villiers again with the wildest beating of the
heart. When the king said, `I wish you to go to Holland,'
the words were like music. How could I feel
aught but joy, or listen calmly, as his majesty spoke
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thus, Harry? The person I'll see there has long been
dearer to me than all else in this world!”
Followed a gushing oration, full of passionate love
and general froth and absurdity. What makes young
gentlemen when they are in love insist upon bestowing
their raptures, with a sort of drunken ardor, on the
nearest person? They grow maudlin when the fit is on
them, and talk on through the night-watches forever.
So I opened my heart to Harry, and told him all, as
we lay there on Edgehill,—how I had loved Frances
Villiers from our first meeting nearly, had dreamed of
her day and night when at Hampton Court, and had
sighed bitterly when she went away,—my sun, moon,
and starlight all combined! This, and all the rest! I
spare the reader, as I did not spare poor Harry. He
listened in silence for a long time, and scarce interrupted
me to the end. There was something strange
in his voice, I thought,—I did not note it then, but
remembered it afterwards.
“Well, Ned,” he said, at length, forcing a laugh, “I
see you are regularly a victim; but I don't wonder,
since the enchantress is the fair Miss Villiers, the empress
of all hearts!”
He laughed again; but the laugh was discordant.
“What ails you, Harry? Your laugh is strange!” I
said.
“Ails me? Nothing, Ned. What could ail me? I'm
not anxious about the fight to-morrow on Mr. Harry
Cecil's score, I swear to you. If I felt solicitude,'
twould be on Ned Cecil's account, brother.”
His voice had softened to the sweetest music: there
was no longer the tone of frolic laughter in it, but an
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earnest kindness and goodness that touched me to the
heart, as he ended with that word “brother,” never
employed save in moments of loving regard.
“Then we think of each other,” I said; “for I have
prayed for you, Harry! You are my only brother, and
the very best brother that man ever had!”
Harry's old kind laugh rang out.
“Good! Here we are making protestations,” he
said. “What's the advantage? Don't I know that you
love me, Ned, as I love you? Since we were children
we never have quarreled but once, when I beat you
and then went and sat on the steps and cried about it!
I'll back Ned Cecil for a brother against any man in
England! And now let's go to sleep; 'tis near day,
and the fight may open at dawn. So you go to Holland?—
Well, present my regards to the fair Miss
Frances. She's worth loving, Ned,—forward!—I mean
to be present at your wedding!”
The words were uttered in a low tone, and Harry
turned away, as though going to sleep. Suddenly he
wheeled round, and placed his arm around my neck.
“God bless my brother!” he said, in the same strange
tone: “that comes straight from my heart, Ned!—and
now good-night.”
A moment afterwards, a long heavy breathing seemed
to indicate that Harry slept. I knew afterwards that,
like myself, he lay awake until dawn. Then the bugle
sounded, and the camps were astir.
The day of battle had come,—the first battle of the
English Civil War.
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These memoirs, may it please the reader, are not
a history of the reign of his majesty King Charles I.,
nor even a narrative of the military occurrences of
the “Great Rebellion.” Guns will roar on the page,
bugles sound, and swords clash, sometimes; but 'tis
the adventures of Edmund Cecil which will chiefly
compose the story.
Therefore of Edgehill I present but a passing sketch;
and I think all battles had best be treated in that
manner. What are they but a hurly-burly of shouts,
explosions, and cheers or groans! The movements of
columns or wings are described in a few words; then
nothing is left but that confused struggle of the opposing
masses. I have been in many battles; and all
resemble each other in the one great feature of men in
clothes of different colors essaying to tear each other
to pieces.
The king's army, of about ten thousand men, was
drawn up on the slope of Edgehill. In the vale of the
Red Horse, beneath, the ten or fifteen thousand men
of Lord Essex confronted them in order of battle. All
day the opponents faced each other thus. Towards
sunset the battle began. With fluttering banners,
blasts of the bugle, and the roar of artillery, the royal
forces advanced to charge those of the parliament.
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Prince Rupert, on our right, commanding the horse,
began the struggle, as was thereafter his wont. He
charged the left wing of Lord Essex, consisting of a
strong body of cavalry; and, riding with the Guards
in front, I witnessed a singular incident. The troop
of horse we were charging suddenly fired their pistols
into the ground; their commanding officer spurred to
meet us, and made a parade-salute with his sabre to
Prince Rupert, with whom he exchanged a few words;
an instant afterwards the troop had wheeled and ranged
themselves on the side of the king. Sir Faithful Fortescue—
forced, 'twas said, to march with the parliament's
forces against his will—had changed his flag on
the day of battle, for which I, a royalist, could never
forgive him.
Struck thus by the whole weight of Rupert's horsemen,
the enemy's left wing gave way. A wild chaos
followed, the pursuers cutting down the fugitives as
they fled. They were followed nearly a league thus;
and Heaven knows how far the pursuit would have extended,
had not a thunder of shouts in the distance
recalled the prince to a sense of his indiscretion.
Sir Arthur Aston had broken the right of Lord Essex,
as Rupert had broken the left; but the infantry of the
king was thus stripped of its supports of horse. Sir
William Balfour, commanding the parliament's reserve
force, advanced; the lines clashed together furiously.
Lord Lindsey, our commander, was mortally wounded
and taken prisoner; and Sir Edmund Verney, bearing
the king's standard, fell dead,—the standard falling
into the enemy's hands.
Such was the state of things when Prince Rupert led
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back his horse from the ill-timed pursuit. He came
too late to be of much service. The king's standard
was recaptured; but the enemy continued to present
an unbroken front. Then night descended:—the two
armies retained their positions; the watch-fires blazed
in long lines within sight of each other in the vale of
the Red Horse:—the fight of Edgehill, which left
five thousand dead men on the field, had resulted in
success to neither side.
The sole ground for claiming a victory over the
parliament was the fact that Essex retired, and the
king advanced towards London afterwards. But this I
did not witness. I was on my way to Holland.
At midnight his majesty had delivered to me his
letter to the queen, containing, doubtless, additional
matter relating to the battle.
“This with speed to her majesty at the Hague,
Mr. Cecil,” the king said. “At Yarmouth a vessel
awaits you: here is my order to the captain. Travel
rapidly; and, if you are in peril, destroy the letter. A
good journey, sir! I would fain go in your place.”
I took the letter, bowing low, and ten minutes afterwards
was in the saddle.
A hand in the darkness was placed on my knee.
“You forget to bid me good-by, Ned!”
The voice was gentle,—almost tender. In my foolish
joy at the thought of seeing Frances Villiers, I had
quite forgotten my dearest Harry; but he had not forgotten
me.
His arm was placed around me: a few words, and
we had parted.
Of all persons after my father, I loved this one the
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best. 'Tis my pride and joy now to remember that he
too loved me.
But I did not think of Harry then; nor did I know
the full wealth of that noble heart and the extent of
my brother's self-sacrifice.
I passed across the country at full speed, avoiding
the enemy's scouting-parties, reached Yarmouth, found
the king's vessel—a small sloop—waiting, and gave the
captain the order. We put to sea at once, and, after a
stormy passage, saw the low shores of Holland appear
like a long green line on the water.
In due time I disembarked at the Hague and delivered
the king's letter to her majesty.
I went to Holland, expecting to return to England
at once. I remained there from October until the
month of February, 1643.
The queen had said to me, “I wish your assistance
here, Mr. Cecil. Remain, therefore; but do not fear:
you shall soon see England again.”
As her majesty thus spoke, sitting in an apartment
of the palace of the Princes of Orange, at the Hague,
her face glowed with animation, and her eyes were full
of courage.
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“You are a friend of the royal cause, sir, and a
gentleman of discretion, too,” her majesty was pleased
to add, smiling. “I shall therefore take you into our
confidence and inform you of our good fortune. See
this paper: we have the promise of these round sums
from the worthy burghers here.”
She held out a paper to me, and I perused its contents.
Rotterdam engaged to lend forty thousand
guilders, and the bank at the same city the sum of
twenty-five thousand more. The bank at Amsterdam
promised eight hundred and forty-five thousand more.
Merchants at the Hague, one hundred and sixty-six
thousand more. Another merchant's house offered two
hundred and thirteen thousand two hundred, on the
security of the queen's pearls. Six rubies were accepted
in pawn for forty thousand more. From the paper, in
a word, I learned how successful her majesty had been.
She had the promise of, and afterwards did actually
receive, from these various sources, more than two
millions of pounds sterling.
I raised my eyes from the paper, and fixed them
upon the animated face of the queen.
“The worthy burgomasters of this good country
have not surrendered without a desperate resistance,”
her majesty added, laughing. “They exhibited at
first little favor towards me, and, indeed, scant respect
for my person. They entered my presence with their
heads covered; threw themselves unbidden into chairs
before me; stared at me in the manner of persons
viewing some strange wild animal; and, when I spoke
of money, more than once turned their backs and
marched from the room.”
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“'Tis not possible!” I said. “And could your
majesty endure such treatment?”
“Without a word, Mr. Cecil. The worthy burghers
could not repulse me. I responded to all their discourtesy
with the sweetest smiles. I would not see the
beavers remaining on their heads; I had chairs brought
them, and begged they would be seated. Never was
bankrupt merchant more polite to those who could assist
him. And I have triumphed despite everything;
despite Sir Walter Strickland, the parliament's agent
here, a brother of Sir William, of the enemy's side in
England. I have triumphed, and shall soon set out for
England with an armament. His majesty's need is sore
there, and my assistance will not arrive too soon. The
gentlemen of the parliament seem inspired with a veritable
fury against us. I say us, since 'tis my pride to
have secured at least one-half their enmity! They exhaust
every effort, I am told. Plate, jewels, even the
thimbles and bodkins of the worthy burghers' wives,
pour into the treasury at Guildhall, to support the
`good cause.' Why then should not I, in my turn,
give my jewels? The good dames of London rush to
the assistance of Mr. Pym and Mr. Cromwell and
the leaders of the `godly.' A poor `malignant' wife,
then, may be pardoned for essaying to aid her husband!”
So spoke the queen. Whatever her faults, she was
assuredly a brave and devoted wife. Throughout all
those stormy times this fealty to her husband shines
clearly. At Newark, once, when the ladies petitioned
that she would not march till Nottingham was taken,
she replied,—
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“Ladies, affairs of this nature are not in our sphere.
I am commanded by the king to make all the haste to
him that I can. You will receive this advantage, at
least, by my answer, though I cannot grant your petition:
you may learn, by my example, to obey your
husbands!”
I see a charming French wit in that reply, and good
sense too, I think. I finish the sentence with trepidation,
knowing some fair dames who repudiate such
humility. 'Tis taught in the holy volume, but is going
out of fashion.
So I remained at the Hague until February, 1643,
before which time her majesty had not perfected her
arrangements for returning to England.
I shall say little of that time: the days followed and
resembled each other too. A flat country, and a flat
life there; or 'twould have been flat, the life I led,
but for the presence of a person who was very dear to
me. With one scene, in which this person bore part,
I will pass from Holland. I would omit even this,
willingly; but 'tis impossible.
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I pause, and lean my forehead on my hand, and
laugh. I did not laugh then: the scene I speak of did
not arouse my merriment.
It took place at Helvoetsluys, a country palace of
the Prince of Orange, whither the queen went on a
visit, towards the spring, taking her suite with her.
An old park, beyond which the sluggish waters of a
canal were seen,—the country around flat and prosaic;
the park bare and dreary with its leafless trees,—
amid such a scene I was walking at twilight with Frances
Villiers, and had just made a passionate speech, to which
the young lady had listened with a burning blush.
Through the mists that have gathered in all the years
since that moment, I can see her plainly. She wore a
dress of red brocade, and had thrown some furs around
her shoulders. From beneath a silken hood her great
eyes shone, half covered, as her head sank, by curls;
her cheeks were crimson with that sudden blush; and
the hand I held in my own was bent upward, with the
palm downward, so that the round white wrist was bent.
The hand tried to release itself, and some words came
in a sort of murmur from the lips, turned away from
me.
“Have pity on me! You know now that I love you
more than my life! You must have seen it all these
days. Now I speak, and await my fate!”
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Something like this escaped from the young man
holding the hand of the girl; and a long deep breath
which she drew, as though to relieve her bosom from
a weight upon it, filled the lover with delicious hope.
Alas!—
It came!—that reply which so many a gay gallant
has received in this world:
“I cannot!—oh, no! Why force me to this, Mr.
Cecil?”
She stopped, and all at once her confusion seemed
to disappear. Her head turned towards me; the great
eyes were full of calm goodness and sweetness; the
blushes had disappeared, and the hand was gently withdrawn.
“There is something terrible in this,” she murmured.
“Our interview is doubly unfortunate, Mr.
Cecil.”
“Terrible?—unfortunate?”
“Is it not unfortunate when—”
She paused.
“Speak!—you torture me,” I said.
“I would fain speak, Mr. Cecil,” she said, with
earnest feeling, “but I know not how to tell you all.'
Tis hard for a maiden to say what I desire to utter.
And yet—'tis better, is it not, ever to be frank and
open?”
“A thousand times better! Speak thus, I pray you!”
She raised her eyes, which had been cast down for an
instant, and they beamed with candor and goodness.
“We are friends; I value your friendship; will
you then permit me to speak as your friend, with the
unreserve even of a sister? Do not woo me, sir:
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'twould bring unhappiness: I have read in books that'
tis terrible when two brothers are rival suitors!”
Her face flushed again, and, as she thus spoke, she
turned towards the palace.
I followed in a sort of stupor. 'Tis terrible when
two brothers are rival suitors! Those words rang in
my brain, and confused me like a blow. Harry was a
suitor of Frances Villiers, then! I had never dreamed
of that, regarding them as friends only; now the announcement
came suddenly that I was my dear brother's
rival.
“God help me!” I groaned, at length; “why was
this concealed from me? What evil fate has placed me
in opposition to my dearest brother?”
“Evil indeed, sir!” murmured the young girl:
“were that brothers' love to be broken by me, I
should die of grief and shame.”
I walked on in silence beside her, and we drew near
the entrance to the palace. Suddenly she turned her
head and fixed her eyes upon me. The earnest glance
seemed to read all that was passing in my mind.
“There is something I should add,” she said, in a
low tone; “and I will not shrink now. Yes, your
brother is my suitor; but I have no heart for any one,
sir. My life—like my character, perhaps—is a strange
one, Mr. Cecil. I am an orphan, nearly alone in the
world: my life is dedicated to but one great sentiment,—
my love for the queen. I shall never marry. Forget
me! those are the last words I said to your brother,
Mr. Cecil.”
She went up the great staircase slowly, leaving me
standing at the foot.
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Then Harry loved her,—and he had bid me goodspeed
in my wooing!
My face must have flushed; a sudden warmth made
itself felt in my heart, as I remembered my brother's
last greeting when I left him.
“Well, 'tis fortunate,” I muttered, “that I have
received my quietus too! 'Twill make my course easier,
my resolution from this moment not to stand in the
path of my dear Harry. He abandons the field to me,—
I abandon it to him. My heart may break; at least
I shall not be dishonored.”
Do you smile, reader, and say that all this was romantic
and high-flown? Would that to-day my heart
were as fresh and true and unselfish as 'twas then, when
I gave up the love of a woman for the love I bore my
brother!
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BOOK III.
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These memoirs, fortunately, deal much more in incident
than in sentiment. All the love-making they
contain was made by my humble self, you see, friend;
and, looking back now, those scenes impress me as
exquisitely absurd.
Have your laugh, therefore, reader, at that interview
in the park at Helvoetsluys; then come with me to
some scenes which will possess more interest.
We are going to return to England. The queen
had received her two million pounds sterling. With
the larger portion she had bought artillery and other
munitions; and on a clear day of February, 1643, she
sailed from Scheveling, in a first-class ship, the Princess
Royal, with eleven transports,—the whole convoyed
by a war-fleet under command of Admiral Van
Tromp.
The weather had promised to be fine; but the heavens
speedily clouded over. Then a violent northeasterly
gale began to roar, and the seas to dash. With every
moment the wind seemed to become more violent;
and I shall never forget the ludicrous scenes which
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took place on the Princess Royal. There, every one,
save the queen, had fallen a prey to sea-sickness. The
ladies of her suite were tied in their small beds, I was
told, to secure them from the tossing of the ship. All
was wailing and moaning, prayers for deliverance, and
vows against again tempting the horrors of the great
deep. In the general confusion, scarce an attempt
was made to preserve etiquette. Those who essayed
to serve the queen rolled and fell as they approached
her,—thereby causing her to laugh heartily, with her
pleasant sense of humor.
The storm grew ever more violent; and now the
ship seemed about to founder. Then the ludicrous
character of the spectacle presented reached its highest
point. The ladies of the suite gave up hope, and
began to shout aloud their confessions to the attendant
priests. The priests were in wretched plight, as they
shared the terrible nausea; and as the strange confessions
were cried out at the top of the fair ladies' voices,
they vainly strove to pay attention,—pale, woe-begone,
and as wretched as their penitents.
In the midst of all sat the queen, looking on and
listening. At last the scene overpowered her, and she
burst into a hearty laugh.
“For shame, ladies!” she said. “See! there are
gentlemen at the door who hear you!”
And indeed several of the queen's gentlemen were
looking on, and listening to the strange revelations.
The queen shrugged her fair shoulders after the
French fashion, and added,—
“Well, I suppose the extremity of your fears takes
away the shame of confessing such misdeeds in public!”
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And, rising, she took a step forward to leave the
cabin. As she did so, the ship rolled suddenly, and
the queen would have fallen had I not hastened to her.
I received her in my arms, and she clung to me,—the
royal head upon my shoulder! The sea is terribly
democratic. The arms of a subject were around his
queen!—for a moment only, however: her majesty
regained her footing at once, and ascended to the
deck.
Here, leaning on the rail, and gazing with perfect
calmness upon the wild waters lashed to fury by the
storm, the queen uttered these words to the few persons
who had followed her:
“Comfort yourselves, mes chères!—queens of England
are never drowned!”
They were brave words; and 'twas a heart braver
than many a man's from which they came.
The tempest continued day and night for many
days; and finally the Princess Royal and the whole
fleet were beaten back to the coast of Holland,—all
but two of the vessels, which foundered in the tempest.
The queen was not discouraged. Her eyes were
fixed on England, and again the fleet set sail. This
time favoring winds blew, and the vessels ran rapidly
before them. At dawn one morning I heard a cry on
deck. I hastened up, and saw that the fleet had entered
Burlington Bay, on the coast of Yorkshire; and
on the hills, now in plain view, a considerable body of
the royal cavalry was drawn up in long line, ready to
welcome us.
The queen was not to land her stores and regain
his majesty, however, without further adventures; and
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I beg the reader not to suppose from that word “adventures”
that I feign these incidents. They are the
simple truth.
Her majesty had landed a portion of her stores, and
gone on shore with her suite, when an enemy suddenly
appeared and roughly saluted her. This enemy was
Admiral Batten, in command of a fleet of parliament
vessels; and the first intimation we had of his approach
was the thunder of guns.
The cannonade began at dawn one morning, before
the queen, who slept in a small house on the shore,
had risen. She was startled from slumber by the cries
of her ladies, and before she was well awake the houses
around were battered down, and two cannon-balls struck
the roof above her, crashing down through the ceilings.
There was thus no time for delay. Van Tromp
had engaged the enemy; but a part of their attentions
was bestowed upon the house the queen occupied, in
ignorance, I hope, of her presence, though Admiral
Batten was charged with firing on her majesty.
Scarce stopping to make any portion of her toilette,
the queen hastened from the threatened mansion. She
had thrown around her shoulders a flowered robe-de-chambre,
her brown hair fell in masses of curls around
her neck, and she had thrust her small white feet into
a pair of thin silken slippers, which scarce defended
them from the sharp flints of the way. Such was the
unceremonious guise in which the queen fled through
the street of Burlington. All at once she stopped.
I was near her majesty, and cried to her to hasten on.
“No, I cannot leave Mitte behind!” she said.
“Mitte!” I exclaimed.
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“My poor lap-dog, Mr. Cecil.”
“I beseech your majesty!—I will return and—”
The queen had scarce listened. She was back again
at the house ere I could turn round. I ran after her.
The street was raked by cannon-shot, and the hoarse
thunder resounded from the sea: with that thunder
suddenly mingled the yelp of a dog.
I had reached the door of the house just as the queen,
who had run up to her chamber and caught the lap-dog
from his place of repose on her own bed, made
her reappearance, clasping Mitte in her arms.
“I could not leave him to the mercy of the parliament,
Mr. Cecil! They have voted me guilty of high
treason, and might condemn him! What a tragedy, to
think of his perishing on Tower Hill!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “for your majesty
to jest at such a moment!”
As I spoke, a cannot-shot passed within a few feet of
the queen and entered a house near us.
“Hasten, your majesty!—I beseech you!”
“I am not afraid; but you see I am running, Mr.
Cecil!”
The beautiful face, with its flush of excitement, was
turned over the shoulder. The rosy lips were parted
over the white teeth by a smile; the dark eyes beamed
from behind the mass of brown hair— Pardon my
romantic enthusiasm, reader: Queen Mary was very
beautiful then, as she ran with her little bare feet and
laughed at the bullets.
They pursued her as she fled from the town into the
country. Reaching the fields, she crouched down with
her attendants in a ditch for protection. As she did
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so, a piteous cry resounded a few yards from her. A
servant of her suite had uttered the cry: he had been
torn in two by a cannon-ball.
All day the roar continued, and all day the queen
crouched down. As evening came, the parliament
ships sailed away, pursued by Van Tromp.
“And now the rest of my stores may land,” said
the queen; “and I'll go dress myself.”
The queen remained near Burlington for about ten
days, superintending the disembarkation of her arms
and stores.
I say near Burlington; not in the town. Her majesty
had removed thence to an old manor-house,
crowning a lofty hill, not far distant; and 'twas surely
a singular freak of fate that this house should be Boynton
Hall, the property of Sir William Strickland, the
emissary of parliament who intruded so inopportunely
upon the last meeting of the king and queen at Dover.
Sir William was in London, or with the parliamentary
forces; and her majesty established her headquarters
at Boynton Hall on the military principle, no doubt,
that it is permissible in time of war to live upon the
enemy.
It was a veritable general headquarters,—the old hall
in that spring of '43. Messengers went and came; the
queen sent off and received dispatches to and from the
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king, who faced the enemy near Oxford; a great
company of gentlemen of the region flocked to the
hall; and the result of the queen's courageous energy
was a general movement in favor of the king. The
queen greeted every one with warm cordiality and the
sweetest smiles. Arms were distributed on all sides
from her stores rapidly landing, and from what were
called “the queen's pledges” a very considerable addition
to her treasury resulted. These “pledges,”
which are, no doubt, still retained in many families,
were rings, lockets, and bracelet clasps, with the letters
H. M. R.,—standing for Henrietta Maria Regina,—in
delicate gold filigree-work, entwined in a monogram,
against a background of crimson velvet, covered with
thick crystal. These pledges were offered on all sides,
in return for loans. When the king had his own again,
the loans would be repaid on presentation of the
pledges. In this manner considerable sums were
added to the queen's military chest, and the work of
arming the adherents of the king's cause, and of laying
them under contribution too, went on rapidly.
The enthusiasm of the Yorkshire gentry in the queen's
behalf soon showed itself. One morning came the intelligence
that Sir Hugh Cholmondeley had delivered
Scarborough Castle to the king, and the Hothams, who
had shut the gates of Hull on the king, declared for
him.
The popularity of the queen reached its highest point
a few days afterwards, from the performance of an
action on her part equally generous and judicious.
One of the captains of the parliamentary fleet which
had bombarded the queen in Burlington had ventured
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on shore near that place, and been seized by friends of
the king. Men's minds were too much inflamed then
to pay much regard to law and justice. This officer
had simply performed his duty to his flag in firing on
the queen; but this construction of his conduct had
very few supporters. He was tried hastily, by a military
tribunal. The act of intending to fire on the
queen was or was not proved against him: the point
in controversy was quickly decided by ordering him to
be taken out and shot.
The queen, ever on horseback now, going to and
fro, met the procession. At the head walked the
parliamentary officer, with his hands bound, and an
armed escort beside him.
“The meaning of this? Stop!” said the queen. “I
command here!”
An officer of the royal force approached, and, doffing
his beaver, bowed low.
“'Tis the man who trained the cannon on your
majesty whilst in Burlington,” he said. “The act is
proved upon him; he has been tried and condemned—”
“And you would execute him? No! A thousand
times no, sir! He but followed his orders. I was an
enemy, and the king's flag was up.”
“But consider that this man very nearly put your
majesty to death.”
“Ah!” the queen said, “but I have forgiven him
all that; and, as he did not kill me, he shall not be
put to death on my account.”
The officer bowed his head.
“Release him,” said the queen.
The prisoner's arms were unbound, and he shook
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them to restore the circulation of the blood, interrupted
by the cords. Then he turned, and fixed his
eyes silently upon the glowing face of the queen.
“Thank her majesty for her royal goodness,” said
the person who had unbound him.
The officer of parliament turned scornfully towards
the speaker, and replied,—
“A truce to your advice, my good sir! 'Tis not
you who would have spared me. And I thank no one
for not committing murder on my person.”
A murmur of indignation was heard; but the adherent
of parliament laughed derisively.
The queen approached him, still mounted, and, gazing
at him earnestly, said, in her low, soft voice,—
“You are at liberty to go whither you will, sir; and
what you say is just. You owe me no thanks. You
might justly have died cursing me had I permitted this
cruel deed. You are an enemy, and a brave one.
Pity you cannot be my friend and the king's. But I
will not solicit you, save to entreat you not to persecute
one who would not harm you when she could.”
As the queen spoke, in her voice full of earnest feeling,
a flush came to the face of the officer. He fixed
a long, searching look upon the face of the queen,
opened his lips to speak, but uttered only some unintelligible
words; then he bowed low, doffing his round
hat, as the queen, saluting him in turn, rode on.
A week afterwards, this officer, with a number of
his men, had deserted to the king's standard. I say
deserted: it is always desertion to change your flag in
face of the enemy, whatever the merit of the cause
profiting by your change.
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This act of judicious clemency won all hearts, and
made the queen warm friends, even thawing the
somewhat frigid faces of the ladies at Boynton Hall,
who naturally embraced the parliament cause.
These ladies were now subjected to a somewhat rough
test of their equanimity. As the queen rose from dinner,
on the last day of her sojourn at Boynton Hall, she
paused a moment before leaving the room, looked at
the table covered with massive silver plate, and said,—
“I fear, ladies, 'twill be thought I am about to make
an ungracious return for the courtesies I have received;
but unhappily the king's affairs have come to that
pass that he requires pecuniary aid. And this,” here
her majesty glanced at a portrait of Sir William Strickland
on the wall, “through the disaffection and want
of duty on the part of some of those who ought to have
been among his most loyal supporters.”
The preface was ominous: the ladies listened in
silence.
“The parliament has refused,” continued the queen,
“to grant the supplies requisite for maintaining the
honor of the crown, and therefore money must be obtained
by other means. I am sorry thus to be under
the necessity of taking possession of Sir William Strickland's
plate. But do not regard this as a confiscation
of an enemy's goods, ladies, I pray you. I shall consider
it as a loan; and, as I trust the king will very
soon compose the disorders in these parts, I will restore
the plate, or at any rate its value in money, to Sir
William Strickland. Meanwhile, ladies, I will leave
at Boynton Hall, as a pledge of my royal intention
and a memorial of my visit, my own portrait.”
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At a sign from the queen, the door opened, and two
men brought in a superbly-framed life-size portrait of
herself. It represented her majesty clad in white, the
open sleeves caught up with broad green ribbon, the
bodice laced across with gold chains and ornamented
with pendent pearls. The hair was short and in frizzled
curls, after the French fashion called tête de mouton.
The back of the head was decorated with flowers, and
the dark eyes looked out from the delicate face with an
expression of exquisite candor and sweetness.
“I offer this pledge of my intent to restore what I
take, ladies,” said the queen. “'Tis hard necessity
which impels me: I pray you have charity. I am a
poor wife only, striving to aid my husband, and that,
you know, ladies, is a duty inculcated by Holy Writ.”
The lurking spirit of humor in the queen shone from
her eyes as she thus spoke. She saluted with a gracious
bend of the head, and left the apartment.
At dawn on the next day she was in the saddle, and,
followed by her suite, rode down the hill. Boynton
Hall was quiet again: her majesty had taken the field.
On a down a league distant, suddenly appeared,
drawn up in battle-array, a body of the king's horse.
Their arms flashed, and plumes and banners waved.
Then a ringing blast from the bugles saluted the queen,
and a fiery cavalier, young, superbly clad, and riding
a magnificent charger, came on at full gallop. Fifty
paces from the queen he checked his horse, throwing
him upon his haunches. Then, doffing his plumed
beaver, he saluted profoundly, and said,—
“Welcome to your majesty.”
“Thanks, my lord of Montrose,” was the queen's
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reply, as she saluted the famous Scot. “You are from
York?”
“With two thousand horse, your majesty, ready to
escort you thither.”
“Who commands there?”
“The Earl of Newcastle, your majesty.”
“I go to supersede him!” exclaimed the queen,
with joyous smiles. “See my reinforcements!”
And she pointed to her train following. It consisted
of six cannon, two large mortars, and two hundred
and fifty wagons loaded with money, plate, fire-arms,
rapiers, and munitions of all descriptions, just disembarked
from the fleet.
“With your escort of two thousand gallant cavaliers,
my lord, I doubt not I shall safely deliver my stores to
his majesty.”
“Your majesty will move towards York speedily?”
“I will move to-day,—this moment.”
“In that case I beg your majesty will enter the coach
I have brought for your use.”
“A coach?”
“A very convenient one, your majesty.”
The queen shook her head, laughing. “I shall not
need your coach, my lord: I have taken the field! I
am a soldier of the king's, and soldiers do not ride in
coaches. See this spirited little palfrey: I am at ease
upon him, and fear no fatigue. Shall I boast too that
I am as little afraid of an enemy? Should the forces
of the parliament attack you, my lord, I will take command
of the baggage. You see I am ready. We go
by Malton, do we not? Give the word to advance;
and God save the king!”
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The queen was now in front of the long-drawn
column of horse. They heard her words, and as she
rode at full speed to the head of the column, Montrose
galloping beside her, a thundering shout and the clash
of arms was heard. Two thousand men shouted,—
“God save Queen Mary!”
Queen Mary rode across the wolds to Malton, and
thence towards York, persisting still in her brave resolution
to share the hardships of her soldiers.
She would enter no chariot; paid attention neither
to wind nor sun nor storm; ate the rude fare of the
men, in bivouac among them,—and they came to adore
her almost. This delicate woman, lapped in down from
her childhood, and accustomed to all luxuries, cheerfully—
even gayly—endured every hardship, and marched,
and slept, and ate, and was ready to fight too, like the
humblest trooper of her forces.
The queen sat one evening in the doorway of her
small tent, which had been pitched beneath a large oak,
beside the road, in sight of the great camp. Around
her majesty were grouped the ladies and gentlemen of
her suite, and a number of officers, including the gallant
Montrose.
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All at once the queen stopped eating her hard bread,
and fixed her eyes on some object in the distance. It
was a horseman coming at full speed; and in five minutes
he had approached within a hundred yards of the
tent, when he threw himself from the saddle, affixed
his bridle to a bough, and, drawing near, doffed his
plumed hat, making a profound inclination.
I recognized Harry. He had evidently ridden hard;
and, as he came, he drew from his breast a packet.
“For your majesty,” he said, bending his knee, and
presenting the packet.
The queen caught it eagerly, and said,—
“You come from his majesty, Mr. Cecil?”
Harry blushed with pleasure at this recognition, and
bowed low.
“He is well?”
“Quite well, your majesty.”
“God be thanked!”
She had torn open the letter, and now read it by
the last rays of sunset. As she read, her face flushed.
Finishing, she raised her head, and her eyes were full
of indignation and martial fire. “Do you know the
ultimatum of the parliament, my lord?” she said to
Montrose.
“Submission, doubtless, your majesty,” replied the
soldier, coolly.
“You have guessed correctly, my lord. Yes, submission.
The Earl of Northumberland, the kinsman
of Lady Carlisle, who betrayed me, has had the courage
and the want of shame to visit his majesty as the commissioner
of parliament; and here is the narrative of
his errand!”
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She struck the paper with her finger.
“They demand but little!—they are moderate, these
good gentlemen! They simply request that his majesty
shall abolish episcopacy and the Church of England,
and give up to their tender mercies all who have aided
him in his rebellion against them.”
A growl from the circle saluted these words. All
faces darkened. The queen looked around her.
“You see, gentlemen, there is no retreat now for me
or for you. We are to die on Tower Hill, or on the
field of battle, fighting bravely. Which do you choose,
messieurs?”
The words raised a tumult. The queen listened with
glowing eyes to the hoarse noise around her. Suddenly
she caught, from the ground near, a small dress-sword,
and drew it. She wrapped a scarf around the hilt of
the bright steel weapon, and attached it to her slender
waist. Then, rising, she threw the scabbard from her
violently, and exclaimed,—
“Here is my answer!”
Two hours afterwards, I was riding towards Oxford
beside Harry, who bore back the queen's reply. I
had solicited and obtained this favor: to live beside
Frances Villiers had become an agony to me. We
had scarce interchanged more than a few words of
common politeness since the evening at Helvoetsluys:
to be near her, even, was wretchedness to me, and I
embraced the first opportunity to leave her.
And this voluntary absence from her side now made
it necessary to explain all to Harry. To his laughing
demand how it was possible that I had courage to separate
from the young lady, I replied,—
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“Little courage is requisite, Harry. I live in a
dream, yonder, near her,—in alternate torpor and
fever.”
“You have—”
“Yes, and she has rejected me; but that is the least
of it.”
“Rejected you? Oh, Ned!—my poor Ned!”
“Don't pity me, Harry. I am a man, and hearts
don't break in our family on such occasions. Something
more than a love-disappointment fevered me
yonder.”
“More?”
“The thought that you looked upon me, perchance,
as a poor weak creature that loved a woman more than
I loved my brother or my honor!”
“Your meaning, Ned! Who dares to say that you
love not your honor?”
“None, thank Heaven! You least of all must think
that, Harry. But listen! you shall know all. 'Tis
but recently that I learned the truth. You sacrificed
your love to me,—well, I sacrifice mine to you. She
told me all. Shame burned in me like fire, brother,
when I thought of your last words after Edgehill. Do
you think I'll let my brother break his heart for me?
I swear I will not! Go and love Frances Villiers more
than ever, and tell your love. Women are weather-cocks.
For myself, Harry, I'll go no more. My game
is played,—I have lost her; but I have your love,
Harry, and that's enough!”
I think a groan came as I finished. Harry leaned
over and put his arm on my shoulder. His eyes shone
through a sort of mist.
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“Didn't I say that night that I'd back Ned Cecil
for a brother against any man in England? Well,
brother, we are left to each other. For myself, I've
done with the fair Frances, who'll no more look at me
than at you, Ned. What bad taste! Well, court
her or not, as you fancy,—but remember one thing,
brother, she's not going to have an opportunity again
of becoming Mrs. Harry Cecil.”
I knew what the words meant,—that my brother
would not stand in my way; and I swore to myself that
I would not stand in his. I raised my head, after this
resolution, and looked at Harry, smiling.
“Miss Villiers won't be annoyed, it seems, by the
importunate Cecil family hereafter,” I said; and then,
by common consent, we spoke of other things, riding
on through the night.
Running the gauntlet of my lord Essex's cavalry
parties between York and Oxford, we finally reached
the latter place, and in one of the grand palaces of the
grand city saw his majesty again. He was pleased to
give me his hand to kiss, and to ask after the health
of my father. My detention in Holland had been
explained in the queen's dispatches; and now, losing
sight of me and all else, his majesty read the queen's
response to his letter.
As he read, the pale and melancholy face flushed red,
and the eyes grew soft. I see the king's face now,—
long, covered with the pallor of trouble, the lips surmounted
by the delicate mustache, the royale long and
pointed beneath the chin, and the eyes sometimes cold
and austere, but oftener full of brooding sadness.
“Doomed” was written on that countenance; 'twas
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only when he thought of the queen that fire came to
the eyes, and they flashed.
“My brave wife!” he murmured, as he refolded the
letter: “here at least is one heart that does not
despair.”
He turned to Harry and myself.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” he said; “'tis my happiness
to have near me friends so faithful as the Cecils. Faithful
hearts are pure gold in my eyes, and I lean upon
them. The times are dark, gentlemen, the issue of
this struggle doubtful; but, if we fall, let us fall with
honor,—as gentlemen should fall. That is my resolve.
My enemies are bitter. They hate my brave queen even
more than they hate me, and were she to fall into their
power their mad passion might lead them to take her
life, as they may take my own. Well, so let it be: the
more need that we should act like brave men. For
myself, I mean not to falter. As king, I defend my
crown; as gentleman, I defend my wife.”
As the king spoke, the door opened, and Viscount
Falkland entered, sad, with his air of gracious dignity
mixed with melancholy.
“A last proposition, your majesty,” he said. “I have
just received this note from Mr. Hampden, and beg to
lay it before your majesty.”
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As Lord Falkland spoke, he approached the king,
and, inclining his head with profound respect, presented
a letter.
“From Mr. Hampden?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The king perused the letter, and then, looking up,
said,—
“'Tis a forlorn hope, Falkland: nevertheless, you
must accept Mr. Hampden's proposal. Meet him,
therefore, with one attendant, as he requests. 'Twere
well to be private; and as these gentlemen present are
in the secret, take one of them.”
Lord Falkland, who had already saluted, with his air
of sweet courtesy, my brother and myself, turned now,
and said to me,—
“You have heard his majesty, Mr. Cecil. If it please
you, I should be glad to have you go with me.”
I bowed low, no little gratified to have my Lord
Falkland recall my face and name so long after our
chance meeting in Prince Rupert's tent near Nottingham.
“Your lordship does me very great honor,” I said,
“and may dispose of me now and always.”
“The speech of a gallant young cavalier!” was the
reply of the nobleman, with his air of smiling courtesy.
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“Be good enough to await me in an hour, sir: we will
then report.”
A moment afterwards, Harry and myself were in the
antechamber; and an hour afterwards, I was riding
beside Lord Falkland, who was attended only by an
ordinary groom, towards his palace of Great Tew, not
far from Oxford.
I shall always recall that ride with one whose great
figure illustrated the epoch. His converse riveted
me, and was inexpressibly charming. They say now,
in this new age, that all men are equal. Is that true?
Were there many human beings the equals of this one?
Friend, that doctrine of equality is a chimera. Some
men are born to command, as to draw all hearts. This
was one such, and the mere rank had naught to do
with it at all. Edmund Cecil was not the equal of
Lucius Cary; and a thousand demagogues cannot persuade
him to the contrary!
“It is needless to make a mystery of our errand,
Mr. Cecil,” he said. “The worthy Mr. Hampden, of
the parliament cause, requests a private interview with
me. He is pleased to say that my well-known moderation,
and his own sincere desire for peace, may unite
to effect something; and there is this satisfaction in
dealing with Mr. Hampden, that one may be confident
throughout all of his irreproachable honor.”
“I think of him as you do, my lord; and I once met
and conversed with him upon public affairs,” I said.
I narrated then my encounter with Mr. Hampden
on the high-road in Buckinghamshire; and when I had
finished, Lord Falkland said,—
“I recognize the worthy gentleman there, sir; and
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would to Heaven we could agree upon some terms, and
so end this terrible war. `Peace! peace!' is all my
lips seem able to utter in these dark days. Our poor,
bleeding country!”
He uttered the words slowly, his head drooping, and
a deep sigh issuing from his lips; and we rode on in
silence.
At last the magnificent grounds of Lord Falkland's
mansion of Great Tew opened before us; and, riding
through a great park full of deer, and dotted with century
oaks, towering above us in the sunset, we drew
near the stately edifice. I have seen in my time the
admired palaces of the noblemen of France, Holland,
and other lands; but sure the houses of the lords of
England surpass those of all other countries. In this
new land I pine sometimes for another sight of those
great old houses,—centuries old, built of massive material,
adorned with lavish splendor,—the abodes of a
race who have struck their roots deep into the soil of
Old England throughout ages,—who raise their heads
like great oaks in the sunshine and the storm, and who
will stand or fall, I think, with the strength and glory
of England.
The broad front of Great Tew, with its mullions,
armorial devices in stone, and battlements, rose fair in
the sunset; and Lord Falkland ushered me in, with
his smile of gracious courtesy, between a double line
of domestic servants, who seemed to crave some mark
of recognition from their master. It was not withheld.
For each he seemed to have a word; and I think he
addressed almost every one by name. 'Twas plain to
me that the master of the mansion was beloved by all
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who served him; and I can scarce convey an idea of
the atmosphere, so to speak, of kindness and affection,
throughout the stately old house.
An hour afterwards, dinner was served, and I had the
pleasure of being presented to Lady Alice Cary, his
lordship's niece,—a charming maiden of twenty,—
whose sparkling eyes seemed to be seeking on all sides
food for mirth or satire. It was the Beatrice of Will
Shakspeare. After an hour with her, I thought he
must have known her!
The interview with Mr. Hampden was to take place
at sunrise on the next morning, at a point designated,
a league or two distant; and Lord Falkland had just
summoned his head-groom to give him an order, when
a message from the king was announced, and Harry
entered the great reception-room.
“Welcome, Mr. Cecil,” said Lord Falkland,—one
of whose winning traits was to know the name of every
one. He extended his hand as he spoke,—the model
of a gracious host,—and then, turning towards Lady
Alice, presented Harry, who bowed low.
“A note from his majesty, my lord,” Harry said,
presenting a package, which Lord Falkland opened
and read. Finishing its perusal, he allowed the hand
holding the royal letter to fall over the red velvet arm
of his chair, and, looking down, murmured,—
“'Twas unnecessary.”
I afterwards ascertained that the king had written
to say that in the interview with Mr. Hampden there
must be no manner of discussion on the subject of surrendering
any of his friends to parliament. They had
heretofore demanded that he should give up his aiders
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and advisers. He wrote now to say, once for all, that
he would die, sword in hand, before adding another
name to that of Strafford.
“I will reply at once to his majesty, Mr. Cecil,”
said the nobleman. And, going to his library, he was
absent for half an hour, during which time Lady Alice
Cary did the honors with excellent grace and ease.
What trait is more rare? With two young gentlemen,
strangers but now, she was not stiff, but gracious and
even mirthful; and when Lord Falkland returned, he
interrupted something resembling a wit-combat between
Harry and our fair hostess.
But I linger upon this charming evening, the first
and last I ever spent with the great Lord Falkland.'
Tis one of the sweetest and saddest memories I have
treasured up. You remember the august orb of the
sun, slowly sinking in pensive splendor, when you are
never to see him rise more on earth.
Harry returned with Lord Falkland's reply; and by
midnight I was asleep in one of the great old chambers,
full of antique furniture, rich, massive, and used, perchance,
by kings in their day. At sunrise I was in
the saddle, and riding beside Lord Falkland. The
dewy morning smiled upon us; the air was fresh and
bracing; the March winds were chill, but the fields
were growing green; the first flowers seemed about to
peep out from the budding grass.
“See,” Lord Falkland said, “the face of nature
wears a peaceful smile! What a pity, Mr. Cecil, that
men should frown and cut each other's throats!”
“The most piteous of all piteous things, my dear
lord,” I replied.
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“And yet that is what we are doing in Old England
now. Men who but yesterday clasped hands, and sat
as brothers around the hearthstone, can find no better
means of composing their differences than to blow each
other to pieces with musketry and cannon!”
“Yonder is one who deprecates that as much as
you do, my lord,” I said; and I pointed to a mounted
gentleman who sat his horse motionless at a spot where
the road we traveled was crossed by another at right
angles. Behind this figure was another,—apparently
an atendant.
“'Tis Mr. Hampden,” said his lordship: “he
awaits us.”
The two noblemen—they were such, were they not,
reader?—advanced, and exchanged a warm grasp of
the hand.
“I am honored by your prompt compliance with the
request conveyed to you, my lord,” said Mr. Hampden.
“I esteem it an honor in my turn to meet Mr.
Hampden,” said Lord Falkland, with his gracious
courtesy. “I have come with only a single gentleman,—
an acquaintance of yours, I think, sir.”
“I know Mr. Cecil very well, and would fain call
him my friend,” said Mr. Hampden.
And he held out his hand to me, a friendly smile
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upon his noble face. That smile was extraordinarily
similar to Lord Falkland's. What was it that made
these two men resemble each other like brothers? I
think 'twas the great soul in the bosom of Hampden,
as in the bosom of Falkland.
They rode aside, walking their horses slowly over
the deserted road, and, reaching a great tree, dismounted
and engaged in earnest converse. The distance
was not so great that I could not discern every
detail of their appearance. They faced each other,
holding their bridles, and Mr. Hampden leaning one
hand on the pommel of his saddle. With his disengaged
hand, Lord Falkland made grave gestures.
The conversation seemed earnest, but slow and almost
solemn. I did not remove my eyes from them. The
personage attending Mr. Hampden was a taciturn
civilian of middle age, whose name I had not heard
distinctly when Mr. Hampden presented him to me.
Thus we remained silent, gazing at our principals.
In about two hours the interview terminated, and
the two gentlemen came back on foot, and leading the
horses, who hung their heads as though saddened like
their masters.
“Well, well, Mr. Hampden,” Lord Falkland said,
as he drew near, “God knoweth if good will come of
this free converse we have held; but may he give us
peace. I am a bad ambassador, I fear, sir. I would
fain, were I asked to draw up articles, take a sheet of
paper and write solely the word `Peace' upon it. That
would sum up all, in my eyes. `Do not let us wrangle
about terms,' I would say. Hearts opposed to each
other are bitter, and see things in other lights. But
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all may see how blessed peace—only peace!—would
prove to England. These terrible opposing flags,—
only to furl them, and extend the hands of brethren
towards each other! The roar of cannon drowns all.
Silence that fearful sound, and let us meet with mutual
forbearance. For myself, sir, I would give not only
my right hand, but my very heart's blood, to see
the sun of peace—blessed peace—rise over England
again!”
As these noble and earnest words were uttered by
Lord Falkland, I saw the face of Mr. Hampden flush,
and he bowed low with profound respect.
“I recognize in these words the great soul of your
lordship,” he murmured. “Would to God we had
more such men as yourself in England to-day!”
He was silent for an instant. Then he added,—
“What your lordship has done me the honor to
communicate, respecting his majesty's views and wishes,
will be repeated to the parliament as you desire, my
lord. Would to Heaven I could convey to the gentlemen
of that body the manner in which your lordship
has spoken! I think hatred and rivalry would shrink
away before the very tones! Now I will return.”
He paused again, and added, quickly,—
“Do you know, my lord, I have a presentiment?”
“A presentiment, Mr. Hampden?”
“That my days are numbered,—that I shall soon
leave this arena of contention. Have you never had
similar presentiments, my lord?”
“Last night,” was Lord Falkland's calm response,
and his eyes were fixed gravely upon the face of his
companion. “I know not if 'twere a dream or a
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waking vision,” he said, “but I saw myself lying dead
upon the battle-field last night.”
“Strange!” Hampden murmured: “my presentiment
came last night too. And I too saw myself fall.
Is not that singular, my lord?”
Lord Falkland shook his head with a sad smile.
“Naught is singular or strange to me in this world,”
he replied. “I believe in presentiments. I believe I
shall die soon; and I am not sorry, Mr. Hampden.”
He leaned towards the other, and added, in a low,
almost inaudible tone, the words, “We shall meet, I
trust.”
With a close pressure of the hand, the two men
mounted their horses, saluted each other, and rode
off in opposite directions.
It was their last greeting on earth; but I think they
have clasped hands yonder in heaven, the realm of
peace.
My memory is a gallery of pictures, dark or brilliant,
gay or sombre. Here is one of them, which I
look at through the mists of many years.
It was a night of June, flooded with moonlight;
and under the boughs of a great oak, not far from the
village of Chinnor, Prince Rupert stood leaning one
gauntleted hand upon the pommel of his saddle, and
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bending his head as though he were listening. Within
five paces of him stood Lord Falkland,—a calm, sad
figure in the bright moonlight. From the wood came
the stamping of cavalry horses, beside which stood or
lay their riders, bridle in hand, and ready to mount.
Prince Rupert had sallied out of Oxford, attacked
an outpost of the parliamentary army, and driven the
enemy; had then pushed on to Chinnor, where he
attacked and routed a second force; and now he was
waiting for a brief space that his men and horses might
rest before resuming their march back to Oxford.
Lord Falkland had ridden with the prince, more, it
would appear, from a desire to divert his mind from its
eternal brooding, than from any wish to take part in
the fighting of the expedition. Indeed, every one had
recently noted in my lord viscount a weary unrest. He
was sad unto death, and seemed unable to remain in
one place. His dress was almost slovenly; his fine
person was utterly neglected. The roar of guns alone
seemed to arouse in him a temporary sort of excitement;
and now in every encounter the men saw his
tall form in the midst of the smoke, an idle spectator
as 'twere, giving no orders, unarmed wholly, and inspired, '
twould seem, by nothing more than a languid
curiosity.
Those who knew this great man best, and talked with
him at that time, explained this indifference to me afterwards,
and I no longer wondered. Falkland was constitutionally
fearless, and despaired of his country. If
he did not seek death, he cared naught for it.
As the prince bent his head, listening, the far sound
of hoofs came from his right. He turned in that
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direction, and a flood of moonlight, passing through the
dense June foliage overhead, lit up his proud face and
figure. He wore his full-dress uniform, and the golden
decorations were dazzling. Around his waist was
knotted a red silk sash, rich, heavy, and with superb
tassels. His sword-hilt sparkled in the moonbeams.
On the heels of his fine cavalry boots glittered golden
spurs. Such was this young and headlong soldier.
From spurred heel to plumed beaver, in eye and lip
and attitude, he was all cavalier.
“They are moving, yonder,” he said to Lord Falkland,
“and I think your lordship will see some more
fighting.”
“I am sorry, highness,” was Falkland's sad reply.
“Well, we think differently, my lord. I am glad!”
was Rupert's impulsive reply.
His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he turned to
summon an attendant. The gigantic Hans, his huge
black beard grasped by his huge hand, stood like a
Scandinavian statue near.
“Hans!”
“Yes, highness.”
“I am general—!”
“Yes, sheneral.”
“Order the men to mount; and send me a staff-officer.”
Hans disappeared in the darkness, and in five minutes
the wood resounded with the noise of spurs,
stirrups, and broadswords, clashing together as the
troopers got into the saddle. At the same moment a
staff-officer hastened up, and the prince gave him an
order. I had come to report the result of a
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reconnoissance I had made beyond Chinnor, and was about
to go now, when the prince stopped me with a gesture.
“Remain. My staff-officers are absent, and I need
some one,” he said, briefly.
The prince then set out at a rapid gallop in the
direction of the sound we had heard, Lord Falkland
galloping in silence beside him, I following.
As we went on rapidly through the moonlight, the
sound in front grew more distinct. The distant bark
of dogs and crowing of cocks mingled with it.
“A man of brains commands the enemy's front,”
Rupert said, halting suddenly and listening. “A force
of horse is moving to cut me off at Chiselhampton
bridge; and unless I can pass Chalgrove before they
reach that point, I must cut my way through.”
“Your column is moving, highness.”
Falkland pointed over his shoulder, as he spoke, to
the long lines of the royal cavalry advancing steadily,
with their full forage-wagons—the object of the expedition—
in rear.
The prince nodded.
“The race is close, my lord, for all that, and not
decided yet.”
“For the bridge?”
“Yes. If I knew the enemy's force, I would not
care. My own is small, and theirs may be great. I
may be cut off from Chiselhampton bridge.”
“What will you do then, highness? I ask from idle
curiosity, merely: we civilians listen to soldiers with
respect.”
Prince Rupert turned quickly.
“You are no civilian! You are a soldier born, from
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crown to foot; soldier, soldier, my lord,—if soldier
means the clear brain, the fearless nerve, and the hero
heart! Well, I speak as soldier to soldier,—there is
no path to Oxford save over the bridge yonder.”
“Then—”
“Yes, my lord,—you will pardon my interruption,—
yes, I do not mean to surrender, and one thing is
always left to a soldier.”
“That is—?”
“To die, sword in hand,” said Rupert, laughing.
As he spoke, he turned to me.
“Order my column to take this road, inclining more
to the right, towards Chalgrove,” he said; “the men
to advance at a steady trot and prepare for action.”
He pointed to a country road coming into the main
highway. I saluted, went at full gallop to the head of
the column, and delivered the order; then I returned
to the prince, who was riding rapidly with Lord Falkland
over the road to the right.
The quick smiting of hoofs came more and more
clearly on the night breeze. The hostile columns were
rapidly converging towards Chiselhampton bridge.
“Here is Chalgrove,” said the prince, suddenly, as
he emerged upon a large field, bathed in moonlight.
“If we can pass ahead of them, then we need give
ourselves no further trouble. The bridge is gained.”
He was not to pass. As the prince, riding a short
distance in advance of his column, entered upon the
great field, a dark mass was seen advancing from the left
to cut him off. There was no longer any possibility of
reaching the bridge without a combat. Shouts from
both forces were heard,—line of battle was quickly
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formed,—and, sword in hand, at a thundering gallop,
the opponents rushed together.
It is hard to describe a fight under the daylight,—a
night combat is wholly indescribable. Shouts, cheers,
the clash of weapons, the crack of pistol and musquetoon,
horses rolling over, with wild shrieks, men dying
with curses on their lips, in the darkness,—that is the
aspect of a night encounter.
The fight at Chalgrove was such. A painter might
delineate the rushing, trampling, gleaming conflict; I
cannot. For the rest, a few moments after the collision,
I kept my eyes fixed upon one figure.
In front of the enemy, and superbly mounted, I saw
Mr.—now Colonel—Hampden. I knew afterwards that
the move to cut Prince Rupert off was due to his military
energy and brain: Chiselhampton bridge he saw was
the point to guard: a mounted force was speedily
moving; leaving his own infantry regiment, he took
command of the horse, and moved so rapidly as to cut
off his able opponent Rupert.
The prince, fighting in front of his men like a common
soldier, saw the great figure of Hampden.
“Who is that officer?” he said hurriedly to Lord
Falkland, who was calmly riding beside him.
“'Tis Colonel Hampden,—God preserve him!”
As Falkland spoke, I saw the figure of Hampden
reel in the saddle. He was within ten paces of us, and
the moonlight made everything plain.
As he reeled back, his eyes met those of Falkland.
“See! I am wounded—to the death, I fear, my lord,”
he cried, in a broken voice. “Remember—we shall
meet again!”
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As Hampden uttered these words, a sudden rush of
his own men carried him away. The parliament horse
had broken and were flying in wild disorder. When
we saw Hampden last, his head was drooping, and he
leaned for support on the neck of his horse, two men
assisting him from the field. He had received two
bullets, we afterwards heard, in the shoulder, the bone
of which was broken; and from these wounds he soon
afterwards died.
As his figure disappeared in the moonlight, followed
by his men in disordered retreat, I heard Lord Falkland
murmur,—
“Farewell, Hampden! Yes, we shall soon meet
again, I think.”
A bugle-note came like an echo. It was the recall
being sounded. Rupert moved on to the bridge,
crossed, and proceeded on his way to Oxford, after the
successful skirmish of Chalgrove field.
A skirmish;—but in that mean little encounter fell
one of the greatest men of England.
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Such is one of the pictures in that long gallery of
memory I spoke of. Shall I try to describe another?
The name of the first picture is “Chalgrove;” the
name of the second is “Newbury.”
It was the dewy dawn of a September morning, and
the forests were burning away, flushed with the fiery
hues of autumn. A dreamy and memorial sadness
seemed to fill the air, and not a breath of wind agitated
the foliage, as the light in the east deepened. It was
an enchanting landscape of field and forest and hamlet;
peace reigned over all, as I think it always seems
to reign on the eve of battle. And this day the semblance
was as deceptive as usual, for the royal and parliamentary
armies were in face of each other, and about
to close in in combat.
The king had prospered of late; but the tide seemed
turning. Rupert had stormed the battlements of Bristol
and reduced that city; but the king had been compelled
to raise the siege of Gloucester. My lord Essex
entered it, but saw best to retreat soon on London.
His majesty thereupon followed quickly. Suddenly
the opponents found themselves in face of each other
near Newbury. 'Twas the morning of the great battle
there that I have tried to describe,—a dreamy morn of
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September, when the coo of the ring-dove seemed an
appropriate sound, not the bellowing of cannon.
I emerged at full speed from a copse towards the royal
line of battle, having ridden as close as possible to tthe
enemy's front to ascertain their position.
“Good-morrow, Mr. Cecil,” said a calm voice near;
and, turning my head, I recognized Lord Falkland sitting
his horse motionless on a grassy knoll, from which he
looked with sad eyes towards the enemy.
I checked my horse and saluted profoundly.
“Do you know that your lordship flatters me very
greatly by recalling my face and name?” I said. “'Tis
a way to win hearts, were they not already your lordship's.”
The nobleman bowed.
“You do me an honor and a pleasure, Mr. Cecil.
But why should I not recall your name, and your face
too?”
“I am obscure, my lord; the king's secretary of state
might well lose sight of me.”
He shook his head.
“In this world, Mr. Cecil,” he said, “there is
neither high nor low. Is the worm on a leaf so much
higher than one on the ground? All are poor and
insignificant alike. 'Tis the heart that makes the
gentleman, not the star on the breast. And is there
anything nobler than to be a true gentleman? I know
of nothing. To be a peer of the realm is but
little.”
He turned his eyes towards the enemy, and was silent
for a moment.
“I moralize for your amusement, sir,” he said, “but
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I am somewhat sad to-day. I have been thinking of
poor Hampden and of our appointment.”
He uttered the last words in a low tone and with a
singular expression.
“You were present at our interview yonder;—did
you hear our last greeting, Mr. Cecil?”
“I heard it, my lord,” I replied, in a low voice.
“And again on Chalgrove field, last June, when that
great man was wounded to the death;—did you hear
the words he uttered?—`Remember, we shall meet again!'
he said; and do you know I think that meeting will be
soon?”
He smiled, as he spoke, with the sweet and noble
composure habitual to him.
“See, this is not a fancy of the moment, my friend,”
he said.
And, holding up his arm, he called my attention to
the extraordinary richness of the silk and velvet composing
his dress.
“I donned this fine suit,” he added, with the same
sad smile, “that the enemy, when I fall, shall not find
me look slovenly or indecent.”
“When you fall, my lord! I pray you choose your
phrases in presence of one who ventures to say that his
love for you is great. Say if you fall, not when, I
beseech your lordship.”
Falkland shook his head.
“Do you know the saying of the Orientals, my
friend,—`The word uttered is the master'? I have said
`when I fall;' I add `when I fall to-day.”'
My head drooped. In presence of this profound
composure and hopelessness I was powerless to struggle.
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“Your lordship smiles,” I murmured, at length. “I
know, as all England knows, that you are the bravest
of the brave; I did not know that so great an intelligence
yielded to fancies and presentiments.”
As I spoke thus, Lord Falkland turned his head and
looked at me with his extraordinary sweet smile. 'Twas
a face exquisitely noble that I looked upon at that
moment.
“God is good to his creatures in many ways, my
friend,” he said. “Shall I speak my whole heart, and
explain his goodness to me in forewarning me of my
death? The moment will be a happy one to me. I
am weary of these times, and foresee much misery to my
country; but I shall be spared that. My eyes will not
see it. I shall be out of it ere night.”
I think I must have sighed grievously, for Lord Falkland
added, quickly,—
“Do not lament thus, my friend. What is death?'
Tis a bugbear that frightens children or cowards, not
men. I fear it not. And yet 'twould be pardonable
were I to regret leaving the world. My station in it is
honorable; my taste for the pursuit of learning and
mental pleasures—the only true ones—is great; my
household I believe love me; and his majesty does me
the honor to confide in my faith, though I once strove
in parliament to deprive him of some powers deemed
by him his just prerogatives. I have loved liberty and
struggled to secure it. When its friends went farther
and attempted the overthrow of monarchy, I left them.
In that decision I have never wavered, and think that
falling under the royal flag I fall under the flag of
England. But I weary you, Mr. Cecil; and, what is
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worse, perhaps I detain you. You are a soldier on
duty; I only a poor civilian wandering to and fro and
musing. Farewell, sir! You are young, and God grant
you may see happier days. I am not old, but am rather
weary of my life. I shall disappear while the sky is
dark still, and not see the sun shine again.”
I pointed to the sun, which soared at that moment
above the forest.
“See, my lord,” I muttered, through tears that
seemed choking me, “there he is shining.”
“'Tis to set soon; and, short as that time will be, I
shall not see it.”
He turned his horse as he spoke, made me a salute
full of gracious kindness, and disappeared in the wood.
As I lost sight of him, a single cannon roared across the
fields. Echoing shouts rose from the woods far and
near as the grim sound was heard; and suddenly Rupert
at the head of his horsemen burst like a thunderbolt
upon the enemy.
I have no heart to enter minutely into the details of
the battle of Newbury. One picture only stays in my
memory, and will stay always. Prince Rupert's charge
broke the enemy's horse, but they rallied, and again he
made a headlong charge. Before this second charge
they fled, hotly pursued by Rupert; but suddenly we
came upon the enemy's infantry armed with their long
and deadly pikes, which pierced the bodies of the horses
or hurled their riders from the saddle.
From this hedge of steel the cavaliers of Rupert recoiled.
He was forced to fall back, and, riding beside
him, I saw his face flaming hot, his eyes flashing. With
hoarse and strident voice he endeavored to rally his
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men. In this he at length succeeded; and as he formed
a new line I heard loud exclamations near.
I turned my head quickly. At the same moment an
officer rode up to Prince Rupert.
“Well!” the prince exclaimed.
“Lord Falkland is shot, my lord!”
Without a word the prince went at full speed towards
the group pointed out. Scarce aware of the breach of
discipline, I spurred from the ranks of the Guards and
followed. At the spectacle which met my eyes a groan
forced its way from my bosom. The nobleman lay on
the sward, his head supported upon the shoulder of an
officer. His face was as pale as death, and his breast
was bloody. His eyes were closed, but his lips smiled.
“My lord! my lord! Speak, I pray you!” exclaimed
Prince Rupert, in a broken voice.
Falkland opened his eyes, and, from the position of
his head, saw me first.
“Ah! 'tis you who spoke, my friend,” he murmured.
“Well, see—my presentiment—!”
He ceased, breathing heavily; but in a moment he
resumed:
“I said—my heart bled—for my country, but I would
be out of it ere night.”
His eyes were fixed upon the blue sky above him.
“Here I am, friend,” he murmured; “I thought'
twould not be long.”
I alone knew to whom he addressed those words.
As they left Lord Falkland's lips, his head fell back,
and he expired. Even in death the noble face retained
its expression of exquisite sweetness, and the lips wore
the same sad smile.
-- 194 -- p511-199
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The battle of Newbury, like the combat of Chalgrove,
decided little, for Essex fell back in the night.
But Falkland was gone—like Hampden! Who could
take their places? For me, who knew them and loved
them as founts of honor, there were no others like them.
When they disappeared, I felt as though England were
accursed.
With a single incident in the autumn of 1643 I pass
on.
I was one of a mounted party on a reconnoitring
expedition south of Oxford, when we saw approaching
our woodland bivouac a party of three persons, consisting
of a tall sad-looking man and a very beautiful young
girl, with the trooper who had arrested them. It soon
appeared upon the highway.
As they drew nearer, I rose quickly from the grass
upon which I was lying, and looked at them attentively,
certain that the man and girl were old acquaintances.
The last rays of sunset illumined their figures as they
came,—they had now drawn near,—and I rose to my
feet, recognizing Gregory Brandon and his daughter
Janet.
The terrible headsman, with whom I had conversed
on that night of my adventure in Rosemary Lane,
seemed older, more melancholy, and more timid.
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Janet was even more beautiful; and there was something
saintly in the thin face with the white cheeks
and great soft eyes. She was perfectly calm; but her
father was trembling,—not so much from fear, I think,
as from a chronic disorder of the nerves.
The young girl, who was plainly but neatly clad,
looked around calmly. Her eyes fell upon me, and
were riveted for an instant to my face; then I saw a
slight color rise to her white cheeks.
“I see you recognize us, sir,” she said, in her low
sweet voice. “Please say that we are not enemies of
the king, but do not say aught more.”
The latter words were uttered in a whisper almost.
Her father evidently heard them, for he clasped his
hands and looked at me in a most beseeching manner.
“Who are these people?” said the young officer in
command of the reconnoitring party.
“Arrested on the high-road, lieutenant,” said the
man escorting them, touching his hat; “orders to stop
everybody and get information; found this old one and
young one out tramping, and brought 'em along.”
“Right!” said the young officer; and, turning to the
headsman,—
“Your name, and where were you going with this
damsel?” he asked.
“My name is Gregory, good sir, and I live with my
daughter yonder in the small house in the valley; we
were returning from a neighbor's when we were stopped
and brought here.”
“That account is straightforward, friend; but the
times are dangerous. You may belong to the other
faction; and I will keep you prisoner.”
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“Not my daughter too, sir!” exclaimed the headsman.
“Needs must, friend.”
The headsman looked at me with a beseeching expression,
and I interposed.
“This old man is known to me, lieutenant,” I said;
“I vouch for him, and propose that you apply the
cavalier test.”
“Good!—in case you vouch for him, Mr. Cecil;
and your proposal is fair.”
A flagon was quickly produced by one of the men
and filled with wine. This was handed to the headsman,
and the young lieutenant said,—
“What is the health that all good Englishmen drink
first?”
The headsman's face flushed quickly, and, raising the
flagon, he exclaimed,—
“God save King Charles!”
He emptied the flagon to the last drop, and the young
officer clapped him gayly on the back.
“That satisfies me, old man!” he said. “No one
can bring out a round `God save King Charles!' of
that sort, and be disloyal under all. You are free, and
your pretty daughter. Return home; and as you know
this worthy man, Mr. Cecil, I counsel you to go with
him and make him give you a good supper in return
for your championship.”
I was about to refuse, but the maiden Janet looked
at me significantly and made me a slight gesture. I
therefore saluted the lieutenant, detached the bridle of
my horse from the bough over which it hung, and, walking
beside the headsman and his daughter, went towards
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the small house which they had pointed out as their
dwelling.
“I humbly thank you, sir,” said the headsman, in his
earnest tremulous voice, when we were beyond hearing:
“you have been kind in procuring our release.”
“I try to repay the debt I owe you and your daughter,
sir,” I said. “But for her, I had perished one night in
London. You no longer live there?”
“I fled thence,” was the low reply. “My fearful
office of headsman became horrible in my eyes. Things
are growing frightful, and no one knows whose head
may fall.”
He groaned as he spoke.
“I know that that others know not,” he muttered,
in a terrified whisper. “The new leaders are merciless.
They are hungry for blood. Already they have resolved
to execute Archbishop Laud; and think! 'twas I who
must perforce, as headsman of London, sever the gray
head of that poor old man from the emaciated body!
You start, sir, and refuse to credit that, I see!—but
even worse may come.”
The speaker's voice was wellnigh inaudible as he
uttered the last words.
“You are a friend of the king,” he whispered: “when
you return, say to him, `Do not fall into the hands of
your enemies, or trust them.' The blood of nobles
and bishops is not enough to satisfy them.”
He turned fearfully pale.
“They thirst for his!”
It was rather an awe-struck murmur than aught else.
The thought seemed to overwhelm the speaker.
“So I fled from them,” he added, at length; “pike
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or dagger at my throat would force me to my terrible
office. For I am a coward, sir,—a wretched coward!
I should not resist them: so I fled from London. Here,
in the small house you see yonder, once my father's,
I have hid myself with my Janet. God grant that we
may lie here unnoted, and that I may not break my
oath!”
I looked at the speaker, whose brow was bathed in
icy sweat.
“Your oath! What oath?” I asked, struck by his
expression of terror.
“The oath of the headsman to perform his office
whenever an order is brought him,” he whispered.
“The oath is a fearful one, and binds soul and body.
From the moment the order comes, the condemned no
longer belongs to the law. The headsman enters his
cell, touches his shoulder, and says, `You now belong
to me!”'
I could not forbear recoiling from the personage
beside me. He had thus spoken often.
“You are right, sir,” he groaned. “I am accursed,
and dare not offer my bloody hand to an honest man.”
The girl turned her eyes swimming in tears upon
him.
“But you will shed no more blood, father,” she
murmured, in a broken voice. “The past is fearful;
but it is past, and will never return; and you have me,
father,—I will take your hand.”
With a burst of tears she caught one of his hands,
and, throwing her other arm around him, leaned sobbing
upon his bosom.
The headsman raised his eyes to heaven.
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“Thank God, this is left me!” he said; “the love
of the one I love best.”
We had come in front of the small house,—a cottage
under a large elm near the roadside.
“I will not ask you to come in and sup with the
headsman of London,” said the old man, in a low voice;
“but one is here now, very sick, and desirous of seeing
some one from the king's army.”
“A sick man?”
“Or child, sir; I know not which.”
“His name?”
“He calls himself Geoffrey Hudson.”
In a few moments I stood beside a bed, in which lay
the dwarf, who had disappeared suddenly after his fatal
duel with Coftangry in Hampton Court Park.
He was terribly emaciated, and resembled a puny
infant. His cheek-bones protruded, his sunken eyes
rolled in their cavernous hollows, and the white lips
drawn tightly across the teeth distorted the mouth into
a species of grin.
“Mr. Cecil!” he exclaimed, in his piping voice, as
soon as he saw me. “Is it possible an old friend has
discovered and visits me?”
“Yes,” I said, “by a singular chance. But how do
I find you here?”
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His explanation was very simple. After the death
of his adversary at Hampton Court, he had fled, fearing
punishment, and wandered about England awaiting
the moment when the fatal duel would be forgotten.
He had finally repaired, when the war broke out, to
the army of Prince Charles in the west; had enlisted
as a trooper, acquired the friendship of his commander,
and was sent, spite of a wound he had received, to
carry a message to the king, then near Reading.
On the way his wound had broken out afresh; and he
had fallen from his horse at the door of the excellent
Mr. Gregory: that good man and his daughter had
nursed him with tender care; but his wound had not
closed, his life seemed ebbing away; good fortune
had sent him at last, however, the sight of a friendly
face, and the means of forwarding his message, out of
date though it must be.
All this the dwarf communicated in a rapid and
feverish voice; he then gave me the message, which
was no longer of any importance: thereafter we conversed
on all the events which had taken place since
our last meeting.
During the conversation the maiden Janet passed in
and out, caring tenderly for the invalid; and it was
after her disappearance on one of these occasions that
the dwarf, who had been silent for some moments, said,
in a low voice,—
“I wish to live.”
I looked at him. His face had flushed.
“You say that in a singular tone,” I said.
He hesitated, and seemed anxious, but afraid, to
speak.
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“This maiden has made me cling to life,” he said,
at length, in a low voice.
“This maiden?”
“Yes; I love her with my whole being! I have only
lived since we met. You are a friend, even an old
friend; I am here dumb and alone on this bed: I must
speak to some one of this. Yes, the wretched, distorted
pigmy loves this rose-bud, who is an angel!”
The feverish eyes glowed brilliantly.
“She has watched over me like a sister,” he went
on; “she has supplied all my wants; her white hand has
smoothed my pillow, and I have felt her pitying tears
fall upon my face!”
“Well,” I said, with deep emotion at this love of
a deformed being for the daughter of one who was a
social outcast,—“well, your love is not strange. This
maiden is heavenly goodness in person.”
“And beautiful! very beautiful!”
“Yes,” I said.
“While I—”
The poor being stopped suddenly. An acute pang
seemed to distort his features.
“While I,” he added, in a low voice, “am a deformity,
a monster wellnigh,—a poor, wretched pigmy!”
He groaned piteously, and went on in a feverish
voice:
“And yet how can I avoid this? I am a man, however
small I be in stature, am I not? Has not a dwarf
eyes, and a heart, and blood, and loves and hatreds?
Does the height make the man?”
His face grew savage.
“I have killed many six-footers in my life!” he
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growled. “They despised me, but they fell before
me; and yet not one of them, not the meanest full-grown
man, but would have been preferred to me.”
I could find nothing to say, save,—
“Do not yield to these sad thoughts: 'twill retard
your recovery.”
“I care not whether I live or die,” said the poor
creature, groaning. “Can she ever love me? No,
no, no, no! Oh, thank God that you were not born a
deformed pigmy!—thank God for your limbs and
stature and human appearance! You are a man, not
a dwarf,—one a woman may love, not a cur she may
tread beneath her heel and despise! To love and be
laughed at! it is frightful, and drives me mad! She
does not laugh at me, but pities me, with the pity of a
woman for a pet lap-dog!”
His tones were so passionate and pathetic that I
could scarce find words to reply.
“At least,” I said, at length, “you have no rival;
you are spared that. And your love may melt her.”
“No rival? How know I that?” he exclaimed.
“Even now some one may be approaching who will
snatch her from me!—some man who will laugh to
scorn my deformed anatomy, and take from me all I
live for!”
He had scarce spoken when the young girl hastily
entered the apartment. “Save yourself, sir!” she exclaimed,
addressing me. “I see a party coming who
from their uniform must belong to the parliament!”
I rose and put on my hat.
“Farewell!” I said to the poor dwarf, extending my
hand. “And do not despair.”
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His small hand gripped mine, and he drew me down,
whispering,—
“You will say naught of this madness. If I recover,
I will return to court. If I die, at least 'twill be here.”
“I will say nothing; but you will not die.”
“Oh, hasten! hasten!” cried the young girl, looking
through the window. “They are almost at the
house! And there is that terrible man at their head,—
that Hulet, who has persecuted me daily, wellnigh, since
he chanced one day to come hither!”
I had not time to question the maiden. The party
of mounted parliamentarians were nearly at the door.
I had just time to seize the bridle of my horse and
throw myself into the saddle, when they charged me,
firing, and ordering me to surrender.
My response was to discharge my pistol at Hulet
and retreat at full gallop. They pursued me to the
edge of the woods, where they drew rein at last, returning
towards the house; and, going on at a gallop, I
met my friends, who had been alarmed by the shots,
coming to meet me. No time was lost in pursuing in
our turn. Our force outnumbered that of the enemy,
and we chased them for more than a mile. Then,
however, encountering at least a regiment coming to
their assistance, we were compelled to retreat, hotly pursued;
and, finding himself powerless to contend with
such a force, the officer commanding our party retired
to Oxford.
I had caught a glimpse, and only a glimpse, of a singular
drama. Other scenes were to be hidden; but a
strange chance was to show me the dénouement.
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BOOK IV.
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
The winter of 1643-44 dragged its slow steps
along,—a dreary time to us in camp, for the Guards
were now part of the regular army; and the coming of
spring was hailed by all with rapture. Regard it in
what light you may, war is disgusting when it means
“winter-quarters.” You mope in your tent, with the
rain dripping, dripping; no movement, sunshine, or
adventure cheers you; and the jests and old stories
become so wearisome at last! Even Harry's charming
good humor failed to cheer me.
For a long time now we had not uttered the name
of Frances Villiers, nor had we even seen her. Harry
never went near her, and I remained as faithful to my
resolution. Such was the singular result of the love of
two men for a woman. Neither would speak to her,—
poor damsel!
So the winter passed away. The king and queen
held their court at Oxford, undisturbed by hostilities.
Protracted negotiations filled up the time; but these
came to nothing: arms, and arms alone, it was seen,
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could decide the great issue. And with the coming of
spring both sides prepared to renew the struggle.
The queen's condition forbade her to remain near
her husband in the exciting time which approached.
She was near that period when the holy claims of maternity
render serenity, absence of anxiety, and physical
quiescence necessary. It was a long time, I heard
afterwards, before the king could persuade the queen
that a journey to the west was essential. She consented
to this with sobs and tears, and it was the saddest of
faces that was seen through the window of the royal
coach as it set forward, escorted by his majesty, one
April day, towards Abingdon.
I was one of the small troop of Guardsmen detailed
to accompany the king and queen. Half of the troop
preceded and half followed the three carriages which
held their majesties and the ladies of the queen's
suite. And among these ladies was Frances Villiers,—
calm, earnest, beautiful, devoted, as I had always
seen her.
More than once on the journey my eyes encountered
her own, but, after the first quiet and gracious salute
which the young lady bestowed upon me in response to
my own, no evidence of recognition was given on either
side. The fair one cared naught for me, or that passionate
love of hers for the queen dwarfed every other
sentiment.
At Abingdon their majesties parted,—the queen's
face streaming with tears, and the king's voice trembling.
For the last time I witnessed that profound and
almost passionate devotion of these two human beings.
They clung to each other for a moment; the wet faces
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touched: a heart-broken sob came from the lips of the
queen, and she leaned her head, like a suffering child,
on the bosom of Frances Villiers, watching through
tears the retreating figure of her husband.
I did not return with the king, but remained with
her majesty, in obedience to her commands to that effect.
The queen was pleased to say to his majesty, in my
presence, that I had proved myself one of the most
faithful and devoted of her servants; and I was commissioned
by the king to bear a letter from him immediately
to Sir Theodore Mayherne, formerly court
physician, returning with the great doctor to the queen
at Exeter.
On the next morning, accordingly, I set out for the
residence of the physician, a country-house in the
neighborhood of Salisbury, and, having the good fortune
to evade the enemy's horse, found him, and delivered
the king's note.
Sir Theodore Mayherne was more like a thunder-gust
than before; scowled terribly at me as I stretched my
weary limbs in an arm-chair; and his long gray hair
was tossed about his leonine head in a more eccentric
manner than ever.
“Here's a pretty kettle of fish!” he roared. “A
pretty pother her majesty is raising! This is no time
to be bearing children! Children! To be plagued
with them, when cutting throats is the fashion!”
I knew my host by this time, and only laughed.
“So the note I bring you, Sir Theodore, is a summons
to attend the queen?”
“A summons? Yes, it amounts to that. Read!”
I took the paper, and read these words:—
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“Mayherne:—
“For the love of me, go to my wife.
“C. R.”
“There it is!” thundered the leonine personage, as
I gave him back the king's letter. “`C. R.,'—Carolus
Rex! The time comes when men are stripped of their
trappings: here is a plain man who wants a doctor
for his wife!”
“So the worthy Sir Theodore Mayherne is one of
the godly?” I said, laughing. “I did not know that.”
“One of the devilish—if I belonged to the party of
such rogues!” growled the physician. “Curse every
one! If there's anything I despise more than a stuckup,
ruffling, dice-rattling court popinjay, it is a psalmsinging,
puritanical, hypocritical rascal. Now I'll go.”
This eloquent speech seemed to relieve Sir Theodore
amazingly. He ordered his carriage, put a change of
linen in a portmanteau, swallowed a hasty meal, and—
his groom riding my horse—we set out for Exeter. I
will not stop to repeat the eccentric physician's talk on
the way; and yet it was admirably entertaining. Never
have I seen so queer a mixture of traits. In the midst
of a tirade of withering scorn and denunciation of
something or somebody, he would burst out with a roar
of laughter, go on in a strain of the richest and broadest
humor, snatch a bottle of wine from the pocket of
the coach, thrust the neck into my very mouth, and,
slapping me on the back, salute me with, “Ho, my
learned Theban! drink! drink!” then take a sip
himself, thrust the bottle back, and begin denouncing,
storming, growling, laughing again. Never was such
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a strange mixture; never had profound science and
great faculties of head and heart been hidden beneath
so strange an outside.
Thus the journey passed, and we reached Exeter,
where the queen was to await Sir Theodore. We found
that she had just arrived, and had taken up her residence
in Bedford House, a large and commodious
edifice, where there was ample room for herself and
her suite.
What was my astonishment, as the coach of Sir
Theodore Mayherne drove into the court-yard, to see
Sir Geoffrey Hudson, the dwarf, whom I had last encountered
near Oxford, come walking forth gravely
from the royal apartments! I afterwards learned that
he had been ill throughout the winter, had finally
recovered and left the house of the headsman, and on
the very day of the queen's departure from Abingdon
had presented himself before her, and been received as
if naught had happened; and here the pigmy was ushering
the great physician and myself into the queen's
presence.
Her majesty was seated in a large apartment, attended
by only one or two ladies. Her appearance was feverish
and excited.
“Ah, here you are, Mayherne!” she exclaimed.
“Welcome! you come promptly.”
“It is the duty of a physician, madam. What's
the matter now?”
The growl had lost none of its force. The physician
scowled at her majesty Queen Mary as he would have
done at the wife of his groom.
For response the queen blushed, and said,—
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“I have a fever. Parting with his majesty was a
terrible trial at such a time as this.”
“Well, why did you part?”
“He required me to do so; and you know, Mayherne,
a wife must obey her husband.”
She smiled sweetly as she spoke: the feverish face,
with the sparkling eyes and the red cheeks and lips,
was very beautiful.
“Required her!” growled the physician. “As if
with that face a woman doesn't rule!”
“What do you say, Mayherne?” asked the queen,
feverishly.
“I say your majesty is sick.”
“That is great intelligence, truly! Oh, I am very
sick indeed,—sick in mind and body. I am afraid I
shall go mad some day.”
“Your majesty need not fear that,” growled the
cynical personage. “You have been so for some
time.”
“Out on your abuse of me!” exclaimed the queen.
“You are as fierce as a wolf, Mayherne. Feel my
pulse.”
She extended her hand to the physician, who gazed
at her with a singular mixture of satire and tenderness.
“I'll go through no such farce as feeling your pulse,”
he said. “To what advantage? You are a woman,
and your ailment is one that most women have at one
time or another,—fever, fits of depression, nervousness,
hysterics, fear of mice and spiders. Send away
these handsome young maidens around you, madam!
Lady Morton can stay, if she chooses: if she doesn't
object, I don't. This is a simple ailment, in which
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your majesty is going to be worse before you are better.
Send off the maidens!”
The maidens had already scattered in dismay from
the apartment. They had an awful dread of the sardonic
Sir Theodore, who always managed to say what
shocked them. I had witnessed this interview from
the doorway, through which the young ladies now
vanished. I closed the door, and know nothing further
of the interview.
Early in June was born, at Bedford House, the Princess
Henrietta Anne.
A fortnight afterwards, her majesty, in her weak and
prostrate condition, was informed that the Earl of
Essex, in command of the parliament forces, was rapidly
approaching Exeter with a view to capture mother and
babe,—the queen to be escorted to London to be tried
for treason.
Strange and tragic drama! One would think that
Fate might have spared the pale young mother clasping
the few-days-old babe to her bosom and fondling it.
The poorest rests there, and is surrounded by care and
tenderness. This mother—so much poorer in another
sense of the word—was to hear the tramp of soldiery
growling curses and threats against her; was to narrowly
evade death; and, more than all, was to be parted
in those first sacred moments from her babe!
Make me a tragedy, O poet! I make none: I record
simply the memory of what I've seen.
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The rumor of Lord Essex's approach was speedily
followed by the appearance of his cavalry vanguard on
the high hills northeast of Exeter.
I was looking from an upper window of Bedford
House, when I saw clear cut against the sky the figures
of armed men, on spirited horses; and these descended,
followed by others. In a few minutes a column of
light dragoons was defiling into the plain.
I went at once to give information of the enemy's
approach to her majesty, and she commanded that I
should be introduced into her sitting-room, where she
lay upon a couch, holding her babe resting upon her
right arm, passed beneath the little one's neck. The
attitude of the queen was exquisite, and her pale face
was quite illuminated by the charming smile of the
mother who looks at her babe.
“You have something to communicate, Mr. Cecil?”
she said.
“Yes, your majesty; 'tis my duty; and yet I shrink
from performing that duty.”
The queen smiled.
“I am brave, I think, sir; not happy in my fortunes,
it may be, but not unnerved yet. Speak, Mr. Cecil.”
“The enemy are in sight, your majesty, approaching
Exeter.”
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She closed her eyes, and her lips moved. I think it
was in prayer.
“God's will be done!” she said, a moment afterwards;
“and I expected this intelligence. Oh that I
had some of the brave friends of the king to go and
meet them!”
Her face flushed, and from the beautiful eyes darted
a sort of fire. It quickly died away.
“I must banish these feelings,” she murmured; “I
am no longer anything but a poor mother trying to
escape with my child.”
Some moments passed in silence. The queen was
evidently reflecting.
“I must send and parley with Lord Essex,” she said,
at length; “the woeful days have come upon me, and I
must act as I best may.”
I advanced a step and bowed low.
“If your majesty will permit me to be so bold as to
offer myself—”
“Yes, yes! This is not the time for ceremony.”
And, rising to a sitting position, the queen clasped
her babe to her bosom, and said,—
“Yes,—go to my lord Essex; I will give you a line
as your credentials. Inform him of my condition; say
that I am very ill, and that I crave his permission—
hateful, odious term!—Oh, it is too much!”
Her eyes flashed, and her voice shook.
“This is folly,” she murmured: “yes, yes,—ask his
august permission that I may retire with my child from
Exeter before the place is invested. I will go to Bristol
or Bath. I cannot bear, in my present condition, the
alarms of a siege.”
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With a feverish hand she wrote a line on a portfolio
which Frances Villiers, at a sign from her, brought and
held before her. This she gave me hastily. Half an
hour afterwards I was spurring at full speed out of the
city, waving a white scarf upon my sword's point, to
indicate my errand.
A mile from the city I nearly ran into the column
of dragoons, whose commander, seeing me approach,
ordered a halt. He was an officer in the uniform of a
colonel, and said, coolly,—
“You bring a flag of truce, sir. Is it for the surrender
of the city?”
I shook my head. “A missive for Lord Essex.”
“From whom?”
“From her majesty the queen.”
The officer reflected a moment. “Give me the
missive.”
“I am ordered to deliver it into the hands of Lord
Essex.”
“Lord Essex is not here present.”
“Doubtless, sir, he can be found nevertheless.”
“You refuse to deliver your credentials to myself?”
“I obey my orders.”
“Right, sir. You are a soldier. Two troopers to
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escort this officer to his lordship,” he added, to a staff-officer.
Five minutes afterwards, I was again on my way,—
passing a long column of cavalry. Behind these appeared
foot-soldiers. The force was heavy.
At last the men drew rein at the foot of an eminence,
upon which I saw a group of mounted officers, and the
tall figure of Lord Essex, whom I knew by sight, was
seen in the centre of the group. I rode up to him and
saluted. He gazed at me with attention, evidently
recognized my Guardsman's uniform, and said,—
“You are from her majesty, sir?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said, gravely.
“I have a missive from her majesty for the hands
of your lordship.”
“Give it to me.”
He extended his hand, and I presented the queen's
letter, at sight of which I saw a cloud pass over his
brow.
“This is a wretched business!” he muttered. “I
know the contents of that paper, and I do not wish to
read it.”
His chin sunk upon his breast, and his brows were
knit together.
“Her majesty has given birth to a daughter, has she
not, sir?” he said, in a low tone.
“Yes, my lord.”
“A handsome child?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What name does she propose to give the princess,
sir?”
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“Henrietta Anne, if I do not mistake, my lord.”
Lord Essex uttered a deep sigh, and slowly opened
the letter, which he perused thoughtfully, folded up,
and placed in his breast.
“I was mistaken: this paper is merely your credentials,
sir, and her majesty asks simply a verbal
response.”
I bowed, and waited.
“I am loath to give it.”
He spoke in tones of deep depression, and I gazed
at him attentively. The nobleman and the soldier
were contending in him, fiercely.
“It is not possible,” I said, “that your lordship
can refuse the request I come to make,—namely, that
her majesty may be permitted to retire with her child
from Exeter before the place is invested? She is extremely
feeble, since the princess is but a few days old,
and the privation and excitement of a siege might be
fatal to both mother and babe.”
As I spoke, an expression of great pain came to the
face of the general.
“Cursed war!” he muttered; “why did I ever embark
in it?”
“Your lordship said—”
“That I am powerless,—utterly powerless! I can do
nothing! But now came my orders from the people
in London! The crop-eared—bah! whose fault is it
that I'm here but my own?”
His teeth were set together as he spoke.
“Return to her majesty, and say,” he added, “that
Lord Essex, if he were untrammeled, would send her a
guard of honor and his own coach to convey her
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whither she would go,—that General Essex, of the
parliamentary forces, cannot grant her request to leave
Exeter.”
“Your lordship cannot possibly—”
“Act like a ruffian? Yes, sir! I am not Lord
Essex; I am a servant of these people, and these are
the orders from my masters!”
He flirted at me, rather than presented me with, an
official-looking document which he drew from his pocket.
I glanced at it, and saw that it was an order to seize
the queen and escort her to London, where she was to
be tried by parliament for treason in levying war upon
England.
The sight of the paper filled me with indignation.
“And your lordship will not disregard this outrageous
order?”
“I cannot.”
“And yet your lordship commands here: the civilians
yonder are a poor set!”
“Sir, I am a soldier: I obey orders!” he growled.
“And her majesty will be tried for treason?”
“You see,” he said, coldly, pointing to the paper.
“And his majesty, if he be captured, will he too
be tried for the same offense,—the penalty of which is
the axe of the headsman?”
Lord Essex turned pale. “Let us terminate this
interview, sir!” he said, almost hoarsely.
“As your lordship will!” I said, unable to control
my indignation. “For my part, I know the side that,
as an English gentleman, I'll adhere to!”
A fiery glance replied to this covert insult; but Lord
Essex immediately made me a ceremonious salute.
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“Each gentleman decides for himself, right or
wrong, sir,” he said, austerely. “Say to her majesty
the queen that I am pained to refuse her request, in
consequence of orders which I am not at liberty to
disobey. I am ordered to convey her to London to be
tried for treason, to which is attached the death-penalty;
and I shall probably invest Exeter before midnight.”
I looked keenly at Lord Essex. Was this a notice
to the queen to escape? I could not determine, and,
bowing, turned my horse's head to ride back.
“A moment, sir,” said Lord Essex, approaching
me. “Is her majesty in bed?”
“On her couch, my lord.”
He hesitated.
“In a condition to be moved?”
“Scarcely,” I said, guardedly.
“Because—”
And Lord Essex looked at me, leaving the sentence
unfinished. Then he saluted, turned away, and with
my escort I rode back, soon entering Exeter again.
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The result of my mission showed that her majesty
could expect no favor from Lord Essex; and preparations
were begun with a view to her escape.
There was no choice but to leave the babe behind;
and it was long before her majesty could be brought to
this cruel resolution.
“My poor child!” she sobbed, with tears streaming
from her eyes, “how can I leave you,—perhaps for
months,—perhaps for years? Oh, I cannot, cannot!”
She hugged the baby to her bosom, with passionate
sobs, and covered its small face with kisses.
“It breaks my heart to leave you!” she sobbed; and
then she began to prattle baby-talk to it, holding it
tightly to her bosom, and looking at the little round
face through her tears.
There was no alternative, however. The child could
not possibly accompany her on the arduous journey
she must make. And that attempt to escape was a dire
necessity. Once captured and taken to London, her
fate would decide the fate of the whole conflict. With
his queen in the hands of her relentless enemies, the
king would yield his crown rather than see her blood
flow. She must escape,—leaving her child, against
whom no order of seizure had been issued. Perhaps a
kind Providence would soon enable her to secure
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possession again of the infant; and meanwhile the ladies
of her suite left with the princess would tenderly care
for her.
Night came, and the queen had formed her resolution.
She would take one cavalier, one lady of her
suite, and her confessor, and steal forth on foot. All
her preparations were rapidly made. Her money and
jewels were placed in a casket; the whole party were
disguised in plain clothes; and, remembering Lord
Essex's intimation that the place would be invested
before midnight, I hurried the arrangements for the
escape. In spite of everything, however, it was nearly
daylight before the party left Bedford House. I was
witness of the parting between her majesty and her
child. I cannot dwell upon it!—'twas agonizing. With
a burst of tears, she at length tore herself away, leaving
the baby in charge of Lady Morton and Frances Villiers,
and, leaning upon my arm, for I had been selected
to accompany her majesty, went forth, a lonely fugitive,—
worse still, a poor mother without her babe.
We passed the city gates, which were guarded by a
sentinel. He permitted us to pass, regarding us, in
our plain clothes, as country-people. Already in the
east a faint streak of dawn was seen; and at every
moment, as we hurried on, I expected to encounter
some part of the hostile force. As yet none appeared.
Had Lord Essex delayed his advance for many hours
after the time announced by him,—“before midnight”?
I like to think so.
We pressed on. The light in the east grew brighter.
All at once a dull sound issued from beyond a clump of
woods which we were traversing, and I said, quickly,—
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“That is the enemy, your majesty! We must seek
some place of concealment.”
“Oh, very gladly!” the queen murmured; “my
strength is wellnigh exhausted.”
I saw a hut in the wood, not far from the road. The
windows had been torn from their hinges, and the
desolate appearance of the place indicated that it was
uninhabited.
“Here is a hiding-place, your majesty,” I said;
“lean your full weight upon my arm, and endeavor to
hasten.”
The queen panted, and I could feel her leaning
heavily upon my arm. She clung to me, almost exhausted,
and her head half fell upon my shoulder.
“Oh, I cannot go farther!” she murmured; “my
strength is quite exhausted. Save yourself!—go, leave
me! I will die here.”
I drew her on rapidly.
“Come, your majesty!” I said; “here is the hut.”
“I can go no farther.”
“Then I at least will die with you.”
“No, no! I will try—”
And she tottered on. The gleam of arms was already
visible through the woods, and I heard the close tramp
of the soldiery.
“A few more steps, and we are saved!” I said.
The queen went on with faltering steps, leaning
heavily upon me, and we all reached the hut. As we
entered it, the head of the enemy's column emerged
from a bend in the woods. Had they discovered us?
I knew not; but there was the chance of having eluded
their observation. The hut was empty, save that a pile
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of straw lay in one corner. In this I speedily made
an opening, begged her majesty to lie down, and covered
her with the straw. The maid of honor and father
confessor rapidly concealed themselves in the same
manner; and, lastly, I made myself a burrow beside
her majesty, and hastily covered my person, leaving
only a loophole to look through: then we lay still.
I had scarce concealed myself, when the enemy's
column began to pass within a few yards of the hut.
They were burly, begrimed, close-cropped pikemen,
who uttered rough jests to each other as they tramped
on by the hut; and many of them turned their heads
and looked in, as they passed.
Suddenly the talk of some of the men attracted my
attention; and I listened with a sinking heart.
“We are going to catch the Canaanitess at last!”
said one, with a laugh.
“The Jezebel!” said another. “It was she who
brought arms and money from over seas to help the
malignants!”
“We will have her before night,” said a third.
“Parliament has offered fifty thousand crowns for her
head. She'll be in London soon, to be tried for
treason; and then hey for the fine sight on Tower
Hill! The axe is sharpened already, and Gregory
Brandon will make short work of her, the painted
French —!”
Oaths, imprecations, and ribald jests finished the
sentence, which was only a specimen of their talk.
The queen lay perfectly still. The column tramped
on. The day broadened; the hours passed on. Still
the army continued to defile by, no doubt slowly
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investing the city, in order to shut in the hoped-for
prey.
It was not until night that the troops ceased to pass.
I then cautiously emerged from my place of concealment,
and, in a low voice, inquired of her majesty how
she felt.
“Oh, so weary!” she murmured; “but, thank God,
we have not been discovered.”
“The enemy have passed on, your majesty.”
“Doubtless Exeter is invested.”
“Yes, madam.”
I could hear the queen weeping quietly; then there
came in a murmur, interrupted by a sob, “My poor
babe!”
“Do not grieve for the princess, your majesty,” I
said: “she is quite safe, and will not be molested.
And now I will go reconnoitre.”
The result was discouraging. The vicinity was filled
with rabble followers of the army, whose bivouac-fires
sparkled in wood and field. More than once dusky
figures passed near the hut; and finally I was compelled
to hastily re-enter my place of concealment.
There, in the pile of straw, the queen and all of us lay
until the next evening,—without food, surrounded by
the enemy,—not daring to move. I have often thought
since of that terrible time, vainly asking myself how
this poor mother, just risen from her sick-bed, sustained
that ordeal of fasting. It remains incomprehensible.
Was it the fever of excitement which bore her up?
At length the welcome shades of night came, and the
vicinity of the hut seemed free at last of enemies. I
assisted the queen from her place of concealment, and
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summoned the rest of the party. Their appearance
was almost comic. The worthy priest was covered
with straw, and the fair maid of honor looked utterly
woe-begone.
There was no time now to lose. The queen's destination
was Plymouth, where she hoped to find a
harbor of refuge; and, tottering on, she managed to
proceed, with the support of my arm, over the road
trampled to a quagmire by the horses of the armywagons.
At an humble house I managed to secure
some food for the party; we then hastened on as
rapidly as the queen's exhausted condition would permit;
and thus passed the long hours of the night. Towards
morning we found ourselves in Dartmoor Forest;
here another deserted hut gave us shelter, and, to our
great satisfaction, several ladies and gentlemen of the
queen's suite, who had escaped in disguise by different
gates of Exeter, joined her, and cheered her by intelligence
of her babe's well-doing.
Towards evening we ventured forth again, determining
to run the risk of encountering scouting-parties.
We had scarce started, however, when the tramp of
hoofs was heard behind us, and through the twilight a
horseman was seen coming on at full gallop.
I drew my rapier, and turned to meet the new-comer,
resolved to supply her majesty with a horse.
“Halt!” I ordered, as he drew near; but the rider
came on at full speed. I presented my weapon at the
animal's throat and prepared to seize the bridle, when
suddenly I recognized the dwarf Geoffrey Hudson.
“Ho! ho!” I said; “'tis you, then!”
“With a horse for her majesty,” said the pigmy,
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leaping to the ground. “I dismounted a six-footer
with a bullet to procure it.”
And, walking gravely with the bridle of the tall animal
thrown over his arm, the pigmy approached the
queen, made her a formal salute, and said,—
“I beg your majesty to accept my horse: my cloak
will serve your majesty for a cushion.”
He threw the right-hand stirrup over the saddle,
spread his velvet cloak—a mere baby garment—over
all, and, holding the bridle for the queen to mount,
made another low salute.
“You are a faithful friend, Geoffrey,” said the
queen, smiling sadly; “and indeed I am exhausted.”
I hastened to assist her majesty to mount, and she
uttered a sigh of relief. The poor weary foot in its
half-worn slipper was thrust into the stirrup, I took
my place beside her majesty's rein, and then the whole
party advanced rapidly through the gloomy Dartmoor
Forest towards Plymouth.
It was a strange and silent march, and a strange
party. A queen and a bevy of noble young ladies, in
rough clothing, worn and dusty; gentlemen, once
ornaments of the court, in the garb of plowmen;
and in front of all, striding on with grave dignity, a
pigmy being,—the dwarf,—whose appearance was that
of a babe, save that at his side he wore a good sharp
sword.
We reached the vicinity of Plymouth, but there discovered
that the place was dangerously favorable to
parliament. It was necessary to proceed still farther,
in the direction of Falmouth; and, emerging from a
wood, we perceived a large castle crowning a
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promontory. A countryman passed at the moment, gazing
curiously at our party.
“What castle is that?” I said.
“Pendennis,” was the brief response. A second question
drew forth the information that a gentleman of
the royal party commanded at the castle. We hastened
on joyfully, were received with enthusiasm upon announcing
ourselves, and at last her majesty was in a
place of refuge.
“The news from Exeter, sir?” she said hastily to
the officer commanding.
“It is regularly invested by Lord Essex, your majesty;
but his majesty the king is said to be advancing
by forced marches to relieve the place.”
As he spoke, the officer looked curiously forth.
“What is the matter?” the queen inquired, with
sudden agitation.
“A courier, your majesty, from the way he rides.”
And, soliciting permission to leave the apartment, the
officer went to meet the man. In fifteen minutes he
returned, bearing a dispatch.
“For your majesty,” he said, presenting it with a
bow.
“Is it possible? How was my presence here discovered?”
“The courier entered Exeter just as the enemy approached
the place, and, discovering from some one of
your majesty's suite that you had left the city to go
westward, followed you, heard of you by the way, and
has reached you with his majesty's missive.”
“His majesty!” cried the queen; and she hastened
to open the letter.
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As she read it, her pale face flushed with happiness;
then she turned pale, and let the letter fall in her lap.
“Oh, I cannot! I cannot!” she exclaimed.
As she uttered these words, her eyes encountered my
own.
“He commands me to sail for France!—to leave
England!—him!—my babe! Oh, no! no! I cannot!
I will not!”
And the queen began to tremble, her eyes filling
with tears. Brushing them away with one of her
thin hands, she rose and went to the chamber prepared
for her. An hour afterwards she summoned me to her
presence, and said, in a broken voice,—
“I sail for France to-morrow,—there is a ship in
Falmouth harbor, sent by my son, the Prince of
Orange.—His majesty orders me to go,—mark me,
orders me to go! I dare not disobey him!—My heart
is breaking!—Oh, my child! my child! my poor,
poor little deserted babe! I will not! Oh, no! no!
I cannot! Who would ever think me aught but a
wretched, heartless mother! But my husband—he
commands me, saying in that letter there that my capture
loses him his crown.”
The poor queen rose, wildly clasping her hands.
“But to leave my child! my little one but a few
days old!—my little babe that looks at me already
laughing from her eyes, as though she loved me even
now! Oh, what can I do?—My heart is broken!—I
can never leave her;—but the king,—his crown—I
will—obey my husband!”
The queen tottered, and I caught her in my arms as
she was falling.
-- 227 -- p511-232
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Twenty-four hours after this scene, the queen, accompanied
by her suite, had embarked for France.
A leaden torpor seemed to weigh her down. She no
longer sobbed, cried, or exhibited indeed any emotion
whatever. Seated upon the deck of the vessel, she
looked back towards the English coast, in the direction
of Exeter; and we who stood around her dared not
intrude upon that august despair.
Others less ceremonious, however, were speedily to
appear upon the scene.
The vessel containing her majesty was making straight
for the port of Dieppe, on the French coast, and had
long left the English headlands behind, when through
a slight mist there appeared indistinctly the outlines of
several sail,—cruisers, it was feared, under the flag of
the parliament.
The commander of the queen's vessel carefully reconnoitred
through his glass, and then, closing it, announced
that this fear was correct. His only hope now
was to pass them unseen, or uncared for, and he crowded
on all sail for that purpose.
Suddenly an ominous “boom” echoed from the fog,
and a cannon-shot passed in front of the vessel, dipping
and disappearing.
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It was the signal to stop. The commander looked
at the queen.
“That is an order to heave to, your majesty,” he
said.
“Well, sir?” said the queen, in a low, monotonous,
apathetic voice.
“I await your majesty's orders.”
“My orders?”
“Shall I proceed, or obey the signal, your majesty?”
“Proceed.”
The vessel continued its way, dancing upon the
waves, now rising before a fresh gale, and dashing the
foam from her cutwater.
Suddenly a second shot came, and this time it passed
over the deck of the vessel.
“This is becoming somewhat dangerous for your
majesty,” said the captain. “What shall I do?”
“I am ordered by my husband,” said the queen, in
the same low, monotonous voice, “to leave England to
avoid capture, and sail for France.”
The officer bowed low.
“Your majesty's order agrees with my own wish. I
will then continue my way.”
“Do so, sir.”
A third cannon-ball passed like a sea-gull at the instant,
and one of the sailors who was leaning over the
gunwale was hurled, a mangled corpse, into the sea.
The captain looked at the queen.
“Go on, sir,” she said, coldly.
The pursuers now commenced a rapid and continuous
cannonade. The balls passed to the right, left, and
through the rigging of the ship. At every instant those
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on board expected her hull or masts to be struck; and
the chasing vessels seemed to gain on her moment by
moment. Ever nearer and nearer came the now frightful
roar of the big guns; the cannon-balls of the enemy
skimmed the deck, or tore their way into the hull.
The captain hastened to the spot where the queen sat
beside the helmsman. His face was flushed now, and he
had evidently had aroused in him the ire of the sailor
who sees his craft in danger of destruction.
“Shall I return the fire, your majesty?” he asked.
“I hate to see my ship cut in two by these people,
and I have a gun that will send back a good ball
and make them keep a little farther off, perchance.”
The queen raised her dull eyes.
“You wish to fire?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I forbid it. Time would be lost. I wish to escape.”
The captain saluted.
“Your majesty's order will be obeyed, and any others
she may give.”
He waited.
“You desire my orders, sir?” the queen said, still
in the same apathetic voice.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Set every sail.”
“It will be dangerous, your majesty. Look! yonder
comes a storm.”
He pointed to an inky cloud, heralded by gusts
which struck the vessel, almost drowning the roar of
the cannon.
“Set every sail, in spite of the storm,” the queen
replied. “I am ordered to escape.”
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“And if the enemy come up with us, or disable my
vessel,—what orders then, your majesty?”
“Fire the powder-magazine and blow up the ship,”
said the queen. “I do not mean to be taken.”
And she sank again into apathy; but the expression
of her countenance indicated clearly that she was profoundly
in earnest in giving the order.
The captain saluted and turned from the queen. At
the same instant a cannon-ball cut the mainmast in two,
and it fell over the side, with sails and rigging. The
ship shuddered through every timber, and the huge
mast, held by the rigging, became an enormous battering-ram,
hurled at every instant against the vessel's side
by the waves now lashed to storm.
“I think the time has come, your majesty,” said the
captain. “We shall be captured in thirty minutes, if
we do not sink.”
“My order remains unchanged,” the queen replied,
coldly.
“Your order—?”
“To blow up the ship.”
Suddenly a cheer from the crew was heard. The
captain turned quickly. A mile to windward, three or
four vessels were rapidly bearing down, and the French
flag was plainly made out. They quickly approached,
and the crew uttered a second cheer. The parliamentary
ships had drawn off, and a gun only at long intervals
now indicated that they had given up the pursuit.
The queen had not moved or spoken. As the storm
drove the disabled ship towards the French coast, now
in sight, she continued to gaze out upon the waters
towards England with the same despairing apathy. It
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was only by the happiest chance at last that the vessel
reached a cove in the rocky coast. There the queen
entered one of the boats, and was tossed on the summit
of the great waves towards the shore. All at once the
boat grounded, and I leaped into the sea. The queen
rose at my signal, I took her in my arms, after the
sailor fashion, bore her to shore, and deposited her
upon the rocks wet with spray and sea-weed. The rest
landed, and, with the members of her suite, the queen
wandered along the shore, seeking shelter from the
storm. This we found in an assemblage of fishermen's
huts; and a messenger was sent thence to the château
of a gentleman in the vicinity to announce the presence
of the daughter of Henry IV. on French soil.
The intelligence spread like magic, and the rude
fishermen's village was soon crowded with the coaches
of the neighboring nobility, eager to succor the English
queen thus thrown upon French hospitality. She left
the village in one of these chariots, and was graciously
pleased to signify her wish that I should occupy a seat
in the same vehicle.
“Well, Mr. Cecil,” she said, as the coach rolled on,
“God has mercifully preserved us.”
She spoke in the same sombre voice; but I could see
tears in her eyes now.
“From the storm, your majesty, and the enemy:
that is doubtless your meaning?”
“Yes, and from my wicked self too. I have been
thinking of my child, and of my sinful order to blow you
all up in the ship. I had no right to give such an order;
and yet I gave it calmly and meaning it. I can now
accuse myself of want of moral courage to master my
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pride; and I give thanks to God for having preserved
me at the same time from my enemies and from myself.”*
Her head sank as she spoke, and gradually tears gathered
in her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“My poor husband!—my poor, poor little babe!”
she sobbed. “Oh, when, when shall I ever see them
again?”
eaf511n2* Her majesty afterwards used nearly these same expressions in
speaking to her friend Madame de Motteville, as may be seen in that
lady's Memoirs. “I did not feel any extraordinary effort,” she said,
“when I gave the order to blow up the vessel.”
These events took place in the month of July, 1644.
In the autumn of the same year I was back in England,
bearer of a private dispatch from her majesty,
then at the baths of Bourbon, to his majesty the king,
then in the neighborhood of Oxford.
I need not speak in these memoirs of my brief stay
in France at that time, any more than I did of my
sojourn in the Low Countries. This volume strives
to depict incidents occurring on English ground; and
accordingly I pass to the moment when I again trod
the beloved soil of my home-land.
The times I found more than ever “out of joint.”
The struggle between king and parliament had steadily
become more bitter and envenomed. It was now a
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conflict of life and death; and during my absence at
Exeter with her majesty, disastrous events had taken
place for the royal cause. Early in July was fought the
great battle of Marston-Moor, where, against the protest
of my lord Newcastle, his highness Prince Rupert
attacked the enemy and was badly beaten. Later in the
same month, York surrendered to the parliament. In
October the king sustained a second defeat on the old
ground of Newbury, and, save that Lord Essex was
defeated in turn with the force he commanded in
Cornwall, no gleam of light came from any quarter
to cheer the adherents of his majesty. Shut up in the
city of Oxford, deprived of the consolation of the
queen's presence, seeing all around him evidences of
failing fortunes, the king had little to cheer him, and,
when I saw him first after my return, seemed plunged
in melancholy.
He received me in private audience, and questioned
me minutely as to the health, spirits, and surroundings
of the queen. I informed him upon all points, and
gave his majesty a detailed account of her strange
adventures at Exeter and on the sea. As I spoke, his
pale cheeks filled with blood, his eyes flashed, and he
exclaimed,—
“'Twas like her! Brave and true! brave and true!”
His majesty was pleased then to express his satisfaction
with the humble part I had borne in the escape of
the queen, to declare his confidence in me, and to dismiss
me with expressions of his royal regard.
As I issued from the royal presence, Harry met me,
arm in arm with the gay young Frank Villiers, whose
blue eyes gave me friendly welcome. We all went to
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the quarters of the Guards, now on duty at Oxford. My
old friends received me with an ovation, and during
the winter I remained at Oxford, dreaming of Frances
Villiers and wondering where she then was. The victim
still of my old passion, I could not banish her from
my mind. But I never spoke of her to Harry, fearing
to arouse old memories. He was equally reticent:
her name was never uttered by either of us. I knew
not whether he still pined for her, and could only resolve
to adhere to my resolution not further to prosecute
my suit.
Spring came, and both sides assembled all their
forces. Fairfax was appointed general-in-chief of the
parliamentary troops. Under General Fairfax nominally,
but in reality over him, was the cold, resolute,
ardent, explosive General Cromwell. He it was who
now came to put the coup de grâce to his majesty's
fortunes. Intellect governs the world; and 'twas the
brain of that single man that shaped the history of
England. Of the loose and disjointed armies of parliament
he made one great engine: the troops became
inspired with his own indomitable will to conquer:
his pikemen marched to battle chanting uncouth
psalms, despising death and wounds, raised by that
afflatus above care for life. In the person of the
plain countryman whom I had met at Mr. Hampden's
in Buckinghamshire, now become the supreme
ruler of the minds and hearts of his men, the troops
had found their master and the name that led them
to victory.
'Twas a strange fanaticism, that of the puritan soldiery
then,—those “Independents” advancing
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remorselessly over church and king. I will not laugh at
it: 'twas grotesque, but terrible too. I pass on to events.
June of the dark year 1645 arrived, and the flags of
king and parliament fronted each other on the soon-to-
be-famous ground of Naseby.
Harry and I were lying in our tent on the night
before the battle, and, as the long hours went on, we
remained awake, talking of a thousand things. At last
our talk came to concern one subject alone,—Frances
Villiers and the love we bore her. Harry laughed
rather than replied to me, and I loved him more than
ever for that. Convinced that his passion was unchanged,
and penetrated to the heart by that great
wealth of brotherly love which thus surrendered the
dear object to his rival, I saw in his laughter but a
new evidence of his noble delicacy, but proof of the
fact that he wished to make light of his great sacrifice.
The thought brought tears to my eyes.
“You shall not find me less magnanimous than
yourself, brother,” I said.
“Pooh, Ned!” was his gay reply, “ go on and court
the fair one. Why not?”
I rose on my elbow from the camp-couch, and, with
flushed cheeks, said, in a low tone.—
“I will not! Never will I utter word of love whilst
I am my brother's rival!”
Harry laughed aloud thereat, and said,—
“Suppose I go under to-morrow, old fellow?”
“No matter!” I cried: “I have promised! Whether
you pass unharmed or fall, my word is given: until I
obtain my Harry's permission I swear I will never utter
love-word to Frances Villiers!”
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As I spoke, the sudden sound of a trumpet was heard
without, and footsteps hastening to and fro, mingled
with the neighing of horses. A sergeant put in his
head.
“To horse, gentlemen!” he cried; for it was the
fashion in the aristocratic corps of the Guards to observe
this courtly and very unmilitary mode of address.
Harry sprang up. “What's the matter?” he cried.
“The enemy's horse threaten the train,” was the
reply.
The trumpet sounded more shrilly the call “Boots
and saddles!”
In ten minutes we were mounted, and, commanded
by Prince Rupert in person, were moving rapidly to
the point of danger.
The parliament horse had indeed advanced to attack
the king's trains, but at our appearance they gave up
the design, and retreated, skirmishing, to their main
body again.
The day dawned as we fell back; and soon the sound
of martial music indicated that the camps were astir.
The king was forming his line of battle. As the sun
rose he was ready.
The disastrous day of Naseby had come.
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I shall speak but briefly of the tragic combat of
Naseby. For long a curse seemed to weigh on the
very name, to me; even now, I wellnigh shudder when'
tis pronounced.
The king commanded his army in person,—Prince
Rupert leading the right, Sir Marmaduke Langdale the
left. On the enemy's side, Fairfax was the general-in-chief;
and his right was led by General Cromwell, his
left by Ireton.
Rupert opened the battle, as was habitual with him,
by a cavalry charge. He rushed upon Ireton, and to
that resolute officer I found myself personally opposed.
A brief sword-encounter followed, and I was near disarming
him.
“Surrender!” I cried.
“Never!” was his gallant reply.
With a sweep of his broadsword he cut the feather
clean from my hat, and it is probable that I would have
fared badly in the encounter, when a trooper ran his
weapon through his thigh, and he was taken prisoner,
still fighting and refusing to surrender, like the brave
man he was.
Rupert had meanwhile pushed on, driving the enemy's
left before him. It was the strange fate of this headlong
cavalier to defeat the enemy always at the outset,
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but ever by some blunder to lose all the fruits of his
victory. Such was the event now at Naseby. The
enemy's left was routed and driven. The prince could
fight, but could not command: he stopped to summon
the enemy's artillery to surrender before charging it;
thus precious time was lost, and the golden moment
passed. A deafening shout from our left and rear
attracted all eyes to that quarter.
The spectacle was terrible.
As Rupert charged, the king had advanced his whole
line, leading it in person. Mounted upon a superb
charger, his head bare, and waving his hat, his majesty
rode in front of his line, exposing himself to the heaviest
fire, and calling upon his troops to follow him. They
responded with cheers, and in a moment the opposing
lines clashed together. Before the royal charge the
parliament forces gave back, as before Rupert; but
suddenly there appeared upon the scene that terrible
new element, the “Independent” pikemen of Cromwell.
These now advanced, slow and stern as an incarnate
Fate. Nothing stood before the surging hedge
of steel; the triumphant royalists were first checked,
then forced back, then broken wellnigh to pieces: the
whole left wing of the king was crushed by this irresistible
weight of pikes.
We saw this, we of the Guards, from a distance, and
heard the fierce shouts. Prince Rupert understood all,
and his eyes blazed as they witnessed the spectacle. I
was near him, and our eyes met.
“Go to the king! go to the king!” he cried, “and
say I will be with him instantly!”
I saluted, and wheeled my horse.
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“Stay! Take Hans with you. You may be shot.
Say I will come instantly.”
And, turning to the gigantic corporal who always rode
near him, the prince exclaimed,—
“Go with him.”
At the word, the huge black-bearded Hans thundered
to my side.
“I gome mit you,” he said, drawing his sword, and
putting spur to his horse. Without a word, I went
back at full speed, and we were near the king, when I
saw my companion reel.
“You are shot!” I cried.
“Hilf Himmel!” escaped from the giant's lips. Then
he raised his huge hand to his breast, threw back his
head, and, falling from his horse, was trampled under
the iron hoofs.
I had no time to aid him, even had not a glance told
me that he was dead. I spurred straight to the king,
who was fighting in the midst of his men. He saw me
coming, and exclaimed,—
“Where is the prince?”
“He bids me say he will be with your majesty
instantly.”
“I fear 'tis too late; the left wing is broken.”
The tumult drowned his voice, and the king continued
to fight personally, like a private soldier, careless
of all peril. I was near him, and now witnessed a
still more tragic event. The hedge of steel slowly
moved, as on a pivot, and enveloped the king's left.
Stern and menacing swept round the immense wall of
pikes, and through the smoke I saw their commander,
the thenceforward terrible General Cromwell. He sat
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his horse perfectly motionless, in front of his left. No
statue could be stiller, and he resembled rather a bronze
or stone figure than a man. From time to time his lips
moved, and a brief command seemed to issue from
them. Otherwise the man was even fearfully cold and
immovable,—a Fate incarnate.
Suddenly Rupert appeared, and I wheeled my horse
and joined my comrades. Without a word, and seeing
all at a glance, the prince charged straight on the hedge
of steel. It did not move: the horses impaled their
chests on the sharp steel points, but made no opening.
Then I knew that all was over: the terrible wall was
closing around us; nothing was left for the followers
of the king but to die, sword in hand.
I had faced that conviction, and set my teeth close
for the event, when Harry, covered with dust and blood,
rushed past me on his superb courser.
“Come on, Ned!” he shouted, waving his sword,
and laughing; “there's time yet ere sunset to drive
these carles back!”
I spurred to his side.
“The day is lost, brother, but we can die here,” I
said; and we charged side by side.
A moment, and all was over. A pike pierced the
chest of Harry's horse, and the animal reared and
fell backward. At the same instant my own horse was
wounded and recoiled. Harry's sword cut the air; I
heard him utter a defiant shout; then he was hurled to
the ground, and a pike was driven into his breast.
The awful sight unmanned me, almost. A second
cry—of agony this time—burst from my lips. I seemed
to see for an instant, through the cloud of smoke, the
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dying face of my brother; his eyes turned upon me for
the last time. Then a hot iron seemed to pass through
my breast,—a bullet had struck me,—and I reeled in the
saddle. My bridle was violently grasped by the pikeman
in front of me; I could make no resistance; but
suddenly my horse tore away from his assailant, turned,
and lashed out with his heels; the man was hurled back
by the iron feet, and I found myself—faint, reeling,
senseless almost—borne, at a swift gallop, back to the
king's line.
I ran almost against his majesty. He was bareheaded;
his eyes flamed. With clothes covered with dust and
grimed with smoke, and cheeks which seemed on fire,
he drove into the midst of the combatants, waved his
sword above his head, and shouted, in hoarse tones,
which echo still in my memory,—
“One charge more, and we recover the day!”
A roar drowned his voice, and there was scarce more
than a feeble cheer in response to his shout. The day
was decided: all felt that Cromwell's terrible pikemen,
advancing resistless as fate, would bear down all before
them. No further stand was made; and the royal
forces were seen on all sides retreating in disorder
from the field.
I was tottering in the saddle, and through the mist
before my eyes I could see but little. I made out,
however, in that cloud, one face, over which was
spread the pallor of despair. It was the face of the
king, who had checked his horse and sat looking with
a sort of stupor upon the scene before him. He sat
thus for a moment only. Two noblemen seized his
bridle and bore him from the field at a gallop.
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Unconsciously I followed; leaning upon my horse's
neck, faint and dying almost, I went on at full speed.
After that I remember only confused cries, the clash
of arms, the roar of guns in pursuit. Then green woods
were around me, the noises died away, darkness seemed
to descend upon me, and I lost consciousness.
When I fully regained my senses, and realized my
actual whereabouts, I found myself lying in my bed at
Cecil Court, with the eyes of my father and Cicely
fixed upon me.
“Thank God!” exclaimed my father, drawing a
long breath, “the fever has taken a turn at last.”
Tears came to his eyes, and Cicely threw herself,
sobbing for joy, upon her knees, and pressed my thin
hand to her lips.
From that moment I began to convalesce, and was
soon informed of my own adventures after the battle.
Frank Villiers had come up just as I was falling from
my horse, and had managed to secure a hospital-wagon
flying wildly from the field. In this I was placed. A
considerable sum in gold had bribed the driver to
convey me to Cecil Court. I had arrived raging with
fever. For months my life had been despaired of, for
a bullet had passed through my chest; but finally youth
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and health had conquered, and I rallied from the very
brink of the grave.
It was to find the arms of my father and sister around
me, but to realize that the royal cause was lost, and
that our brave, our dear Harry was forever taken from
us. His last charge and his fall had become known at
Cecil Court, and the woeful duty devolved upon me
now to relate the particulars. I did so, in the midst
of sobs, and with a great gush of tears from my own
eyes. Father and sister wept in silence. Cicely drew
close to me, kissed me, and murmured,—
“You alone are left us.”
Months passed on, and I grew stronger. Finally I
left my sick-bed and began to totter about the house.
A hopeless sadness had taken possession of me. I
scarce gave a thought to the fate of the cause I had
fought for, thinking only of my brother and his dying
face.
A languid interest in public affairs came finally to
dispute this possessing thought. Naseby had ended
the struggle. Soon thereafter Prince Rupert surrendered
Bristol, for which, 'twas said, the king had disgraced
and banished him. Then his majesty took
refuge with a remnant of force at Oxford. Then he
fled to Newark, delivering himself up to the Scottish army.
It was not until late summer that I was able to leave
the house and move slowly about the grounds at Cecil
Court. No one molested me. Sir Jervas Ireton's
flaming loyalty to the parliament had secured him an
official appointment in London; and no one in the
vicinity seemed disposed to harass the poor wounded
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officer. Still, there was no certainty that, at any
moment, I would not be arrested. I was therefore
anxious to leave Cecil Court and not compromise my
father. Whither I should go was a difficult question.
But I could find a refuge somewhere. And it was just
at the moment when I heard that Sir Jervas Ireton
was coming down from London that an unforeseen incident
occurred which was to send me forth again upon
the stormy waters of that troubled epoch.
The incident which I shall now relate leads me to
speak of a spot connected with a very great writer. I
mean Charlecote, the residence of the Lucy family,
near Cecil Court,—Charlecote, where Will Shakspeare
was seized by Sir Thomas Lucy for trespassing on his
park and shooting deer.
As this adventure has been discredited of late days
by some persons, I will stop here in my narrative to
briefly record the actual truth. 'Twas vouched for to
my father by no less a personage than Will Shakspeare
himself. And this is the story told by the great playwriter,
laughing over his wine at Cecil Court. The
knight's gamekeeper, a huge, black-bearded individual,
had really seized him, he said, whilst trespassing one
moonlight night on Charlecote Park to shoot the deer.
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'Twas in company with some roystering young blades
of Stratford, and the affair was a mad frolic; but it
speedily became serious. Shakspeare shot and killed a
stag with his old matchlock, and alarmed the gamekeeper.
At his approach the party fled; but Shakspeare's
foot caught in a root, and he fell. Thereupon
the gamekeeper darted upon him, pinioned his arms
without difficulty, as he was a mere boy and powerless
in his opponent's hands; and, after a night's imprisonment
in the gamekeeper's lodge, he was conducted
before Sir Thomas Lucy, who had been notified of the
fearful outrage upon his rights of landed proprietor.
My father described the account given him by Shakspeare
as excellently entertaining. The irate knight,
Sir Thomas Lucy, he said, sat in awful state in his
great hall at Charlecote, and listened in stern silence
to the animated harangue of his gamekeeper. There
was no doubt of the youth's guilt: he had been caught
in the act, and the dead deer lay on the floor. The
knight gazed on the beardless culprit, burst forth at
length into an address full of rage, and swore that but
for the respectability of his father, John Shakspeare, he
would put him in the stocks. He was finally discharged,
the knight declaring his intention of proceeding
regularly against him for trespass. And, not liking the
aspect of affairs, Shakspeare determined to go with one
of his wild companions to London. He did so, began
writing for the stage, acquired great fame, and when
afterwards he met Sir Thomas, now a gray-haired man,
said, laughing,—
“See, Sir Thomas! 'tis your fault that an excellent
poacher has become but a poor writer of plays!”
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Such had been the incident which attached an historic
interest to a plain old manor-house. 'Tis the
fate of places and personages connected with great men
to become famous. Doubtless, outside of Warwickshire
no one had ever heard of Charlecote had not a
scapegrace shot deer there and afterwards written King
Lear and Hamlet.
Well, to come back now to myself and my own
adventure at Charlecote.
Lady Lucy, the wife of Sir Thomas, son of the old
knight, was my firm friend; and one of the first houses
I visited, as soon as I rode out for exercise, was Charlecote.
It was a beautiful day of summer when I
entered the great park and walked my horse slowly
up the long avenue of century elms and oaks. The
old park was exquisite, and quite charmed the eye.
The Avon makes a bend there, and runs through the
grounds, sweeping around the base of a grassy hill.
Some stately swans were sailing majestically upon the
surface of the stream, deer were seen stealing away
through the vistas in the trees, and the rooks were
cawing dreamily in the summits of some great elms,
where they had built their nests, year after year, for
more than a century, 'twas said.
I approached the old mansion,—which was of the
Elizabethan style, with stone groins and shafts, lofty
casements, and armorial bearings cut over the gate,—
entered the little court-yard, where beds of brilliant
flowers delighted the eye, and, giving my horse to a
groom, entered the great hall, with its rows of family portraits
in stiff ruffs and powder, and thence to Lady Lucy's
drawing-room, where I was received most graciously.
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Sure, naught on earth is more charming than the
sympathy of woman. Lady Lucy smiled with an exquisite
sweetness as she greeted the poor pale soldier,
pressed my hand with affectionate warmth, and an hour
passed, full of sunshine and sympathy.
At last I rose to go, and had taken my hat and
gloves, when the door, which stood ajar, was thrust open
by some one, and I saw a child standing on the threshold
and looking in furtively. It was a little beauty,—
a girl with rosy cheeks, bright eyes, and profuse brown
curls, about two years of age, and full of health and joy.
I was about to ask the name of this child, for Lady
Lucy had none, when her ladyship rose hastily, exclaiming,—
“Run away, my child! You must not—”
The caution came too late. The little girl ran to the
lady, caught a fold of her dress, looked furtively at me
for a moment, then gradually approached me, grasped
with her tiny hand the feather trailing from my hat,
and, raising her brilliant brown eyes to my face, said,
in baby patois,—
“What dat is?”
“It is a feather, my child,” I said, smiling. “And
now, can you tell me your name?”
Instead of doing so, the little one continued to
regard with the deepest interest the plume depending
from my beaver.
“Your ladyship has a charming little relative there,”
I said, smiling; “but do you know I have not yet had
the honor of an introduction? A sweeter face I never
saw, I think, with its bright eyes and curls.”
Before Lady Lucy could reply, the little maiden
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wheeled, and ran to and fro, singing. The song
seemed suggested by the word “curls,” which I had
used: it was a baby lyric, delivered with baby pronunciation,
and was word for word what follows:
“There was a little durl [girl],
And she had a little turl [curl]
Wight in de middle of her for'wid;
When she was good,
She was vewy, vewy good,
And when she was bad she was ho'wid!”
“There, there, my child! the servants have taught
you these foolish songs,” said Lady Lucy; “that is
enough! Run away now!”
“Not before I know the name of my little friend,”
I said, puzzled by Lady Lucy's persistent avoidance
of that point; and, smoothing the child's curls, I
asked, smiling,—
“What is your name, little one?”
“Henwietta Anne.”
The name struck me suddenly. It was that of the
queen's child born at Exeter. I looked quickly at
Lady Lucy.
“Do not ask me anything!” she exclaimed. “You
are a friend of the good cause—I rely upon you; but
this is not my secret: not even to you may I—”
“You may venture to tell Mr. Cecil our secret, Lady
Lucy,” came in low tones from without the door: “he
has seen the princess before,—soon after her birth, at
Exeter.”
And Frances Villiers, mild, calm, queenly, with her
air of unmoved sweetness, glided into the room and
saluted me.
-- 249 -- p511-254
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This unexpected encounter with Frances Villiers
astonished me beyond words; but the young lady
soon explained all, and I shall sum up her explanation
in a few sentences.
The king, when informed of Lord Essex's advance
upon Exeter to seize the queen, had hastened by
forced marches to relieve the place. This he had
effected. Essex retired before him, and the king,
entering the city, embraced at Bedford House the
poor child, to whom he gave the name Henrietta
Anne, as the queen desired. Compelled then to take
the field again, he left the babe at Exeter, in charge of
Lady Morton and Frances Villiers; and there the child
remained until the decisive battle of Naseby. Thereafter
she was not safe; and, as Lady Morton was very
ill, Frances Villiers took entire charge of the child,
flying first to the house of one friend of the royal cause,
then to another. Thus, in course of time, she took
refuge at Charlecote,—the Lucy family being relatives
of the Villiers and warm friends of the king. Here
the young lady and child had now been for many
months; but the time had come when they would be
compelled to seek a more secure hiding-place. All
this Frances Villiers related in her calm, composed
voice, which made the strange romance of the whole
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affair seem the most commonplace series of events in
the world.
“And what, if I may ask, is your intention now, Miss
Villiers?” I said.
“To leave Charlecote, and, if possible, England, sir.
This neighborhood is not safe. There is a Sir Jervas
Ireton in the vicinity, who has gained information,'
tis said, of the presence of the princess. He will aim
therefore, as he is a flaming zealot, to seize the child
and deliver her up to parliament; and to avoid this
we must resume our wanderings.”
She spoke in her sweet, calm accents, looking tenderly
at the child. Something exquisite appeared in
her eyes:—was it the sacred maternal instinct? I think
that is in all women.
“But whither will you go?” I said.
“I have nearly resolved—I may say quite resolved—
to try to take the princess from the country,” she replied.
“But you will be arrested on the way.”
“Not if a good disguise be assumed, sir. I think I
might elude the king's enemies.”
“A disguise! what?”
“That of a beggar-woman and child.”
The plan seemed wild and impracticable. How
could this delicate young lady trudge through half
England on foot, with a child nearly two years old
toddling on beside her or borne on her back? But
as Miss Villiers spoke further, and developed her
scheme,—as, with cheeks glowing now with love and
devotion, she unfolded her resolve,—it began to assume
a new shape; I gradually passed to her side; and, despite
the opposition of Lady Lucy, it was decided,
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before our interview terminated, that the romantic
attempt should be made, and that I should accompany
Miss Villiers.
Against that, I must do her the justice to say, the
young lady fought hard. Wholly destitute of primness
and prudery, she was yet a person who never forgot
the strictest rules of propriety; and it was long before
I could prevail upon her to consent to my companionship.
At last, however, she yielded,—Lady Lucy insisting
that if the attempt was made I must accompany
them; and it was determined that we should set out,
as soon as night had fallen, on the next evening.
I returned to Cecil Court to arrange my disguise
and prepare for my journey. I was all excitement and
agitation. Thus fate had once more thrown me with
the woman whom I loved more than I loved my own
life. I was to accompany her as companion, friend,
and defender, if necessary, on a long and perilous
journey, which would throw me into hourly contact
with her. I was to look into her eyes, hear the accents
of her voice, feel the pressure of her hand, and throughout
all I was to conduct myself as a friend, and only as
a friend. For I recalled my promise to poor Harry,
that I would never without his permission utter a word
of love to Frances Villiers. He was dead: that permission
could never be accorded: my best course,
therefore, was to remain away from temptation;—
and here I was to be thrown, every hour, day and
night, for days, weeks, it might be months, with the
woman whom I loved with my whole soul, between
whom and myself rose nevertheless that impassable
barrier, my solemn promise given to the dead!
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Returning to Cecil Court, in a mood of greater
agitation than I had believed possible, I set about
procuring my disguise for the journey. This was
easily effected: the cast-off livery of a serving-man
supplied me with just what I required; and then, shutting
myself up with my father in the library, I revealed
my intent.
He warmly commended the design,—instead of opposing
it, as I had feared. Miss Villiers, he said, was
a true heroine, and the project was not so wild as it
seemed. He would provide me with gold for the
journey, and pray for my welfare. But we must
hurry: that man Ireton was coming, and would nose
out something.
All things having thus been arranged, I retired, not
to sleep, however, but to lie awake and think of Frances
Villiers. The morning came, and the day dragged on.
The sun slowly declined, and, retiring to my chamber,
I assumed my disguise. I descended then, embraced
Cicely, who started back in affright as I entered,
pressed my father's hand, and was just issuing forth,
when Sir Jervas Ireton was seen galloping rapidly up
the avenue.
No time was to be lost; and I ignominiously fled out
of the back door. My horse had just been saddled,
and was about to be brought. I leaped upon him, put
spur to his side, and went at full speed across the fields,
leaping fences and ditches, towards Charlecote.
Had I been seen? I could not answer that question.
I either saw or fancied that I saw some troopers
who rode in the suite of Sir Jervas Ireton hastily separate,
gesticulating and pointing me out. This might
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have been fancy, however. Under any circumstances,
no time was to be lost. I went on at full speed,
stopped for nothing in the way, and, reaching the
grounds around Charlecote, galloped up the long avenue
to the house.
Lady Lucy met me at the door, and I hastily informed
her of the danger. I had probably been perceived.
If Ireton had knowledge of the presence of
the princess at Charlecote, he would have intelligence
enough to suspect that I had gone to give warning
of the danger. He would thus press forward at once.
No time was to be lost. Where was Miss Villiers?
The young lady replied to the question in person.
I could scarce realize that it was the elegant and highborn
maid of honor who now stood before me in the
dingy and tattered garb of a beggar-woman. The disguise
was perfect. The slender figure of the young
girl was a shapeless bundle of rags; her beautiful hair
had been remorselessly shorn; a huge hood covered
her head and scarce allowed her face to be seen; and
the fair skin had been pitilessly stained with some dye
which brought it to resemble the weather-beaten complexion
of a beggar-woman.
The princess had been metamorphosed in a manner
equally perfect. The little figure was bundled up in
an old gown and tattered cloak. On the delicate feet
were coarse shoes. It was not an aristocratic young
dame and the daughter of a king I saw before me,
but a mendicant and child in the last stage of poverty.
“Your disguise is excellent, Miss Villiers,” I said,
hurriedly; “but we have no time now for compliments.
Sir Jervas Ireton is coming!”
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And I related, in brief words, my escape from Cecil
Court. I was still speaking, when Lady Lucy uttered
an exclamation. I looked through the window, and
saw the burly personage thundering straight up the
avenue, followed by his men.
“We must separate,” I said, “and endeavor to
leave the house instantly.”
Miss Villiers inclined her head. Save a slight color
in her proud cheeks, there was no indication of emotion.
“Endeavor to leave by the side court,” I said,
hastily. “I will go out by the rear gate and join you
on the road to Stafford, where the three elms crown
the hill.”
The rendezvous was a well-known spot, and I knew
Miss Villiers could not mistake it. She disappeared,
with the princess, towards a side door; and, running
to the rear of the house, I reached my horse, which
stood there, just as a trooper galloped around and
approached.
The incident was far from unacceptable. It was gall
and wormwood to me to skulk away thus before the
enemy of my family. I went up to the trooper, who
was an open-mouthed clodhopper, seized his bridle,
and, before he could realize my design, caught him by
the throat and dragged him from the saddle.
As I did so, he woke as it were from his astonishment,
and uttered a loud shout. I picked up his musquetoon,
which had fallen near him, dealt him a blow
on the head, which silenced him, and, leaping on my
horse, gained the dense foliage of the wood.
Sir Jervas Ireton appeared suddenly, spurring
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furiously towards the fallen trooper. As he passed around
the house, another spectacle made my heart beat fast.
I saw Frances Villiers, in her disguise of a beggar-woman,
with the princess bundled up in a ragged
cloak on her back, quietly pass out of the house by the
side door, take a path which led to the wood, and
gain its shelter entirely unmolested.
Her enemies had either not seen her, or did not suspect
for an instant that their prey was thus escaping
them. Whatever the explanation may have been, the
young girl with her precious burden had passed safely
through the very midst of her enemies. Without further
apprehension, I leaped a low place in the park
wall, turned my horse loose, knowing that the intelligent
animal would find his way back to Cecil Court,
and rapidly ran in the direction taken by Miss Villiers.
In ten minutes I had joined her. I assisted her over
the wall; we hastened on by a path which I knew perfectly
well. Darkness quickly descended, and, taking
the young lady's hand, I led her on until we gained a
country road.
“Yonder is the north star, Miss Villiers,” I said,
“and this is the road to Campden. Give me the
princess.”
I took the child in my arms and walked on steadily.
“Every step we take now brings us nearer to
France!”
-- 256 -- p511-261
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I look back on that journey with Frances Villiers and
the little princess to the sea-coast as the most remarkable
passage in a life filled with singular adventures.
Trudging along on foot, or securing places in some
chance conveyance,—the cart of a countryman going
to market, or other humble vehicle,—we went upon
our way, the young lady, the princess, and myself,
and thus passed safely through the torn and distracted
realm until we were in the southern shires and neared
the Channel. The land was all laid waste, and an inexpressible
disquiet and unrest filled the face of every
one. War had come to overthrow the old peace and
happiness of merry England. On all sides dismantled
houses, torn-down fences, and deserted villages marked
the presence of that cruelest of all demons, the demon
of Civil War.
The war was virtually over; but the land had not
settled to rest again, for the triumphant side had
divided into two factions, the Presbyterians and the
stern Independents, the latter led by Cromwell now;
and 'twas a question whether a new struggle, more
violent than the first, would not ensue. From this
general sketch, however, which might lead me into
political and historical disquisitions, for which I have
no fancy, I pass to my personal adventures.
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I have said 'twas a strange passage in my life, that
journey; and my relations with Frances Villiers made
it stranger still. A lover who had sworn to utter no
word of love, but whose passion was no secret from its
object, was journeying with the one dearest to him;
and the singular character of that journey threw him
incessantly with his companion. Over long miles of
heath, through great woods, across desolate moors, by
day and by night, we traveled in company; and all
this time it was only as friend to friend that we addressed
each other. The child walked sometimes, but
was generally carried upon my back or in my arms.
This I insisted upon; though more than once Frances
Villiers compelled me to yield her charge to her, and
the delicate and aristocratic girl would, for hours,
against my protest, bear the child in a bundle upon
her own shoulders.
More than once we were suspiciously gazed at by
chance wayfarers wearing the colors of the parliament;
and twice roving parties peered into wagons wherein
we rode, but without finding good reason to stop us.'
Twas in this latter manner that much of the way was
traversed. The poor and humble proved themselves
our best friends; and often, as we went on slowly, we
heard, from some yeoman in a smock-frock, earnest
wishes expressed for the happiness of the king, now
routed and a fugitive. The only danger was from
the princess, who had been dressed as a boy and in
rags,—to her huge disgust,—and called Pierre. When
asked her name by these poor people, she babbled the
word princess, however, and we were often in great
trepidation.
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“That is the manner in which he pronounces his
name,—Pierre,” the young lady would say; and an opportune
diversion of the conversation would do away
with further danger.
At last we reached the sea-coast, and, leaving the
young lady and child in a fisherman's hut, I went to
reconnoitre, and discover, if possible, the means of
crossing the Channel. The result was extremely discouraging.
The coast was thoroughly guarded, and
no vessel of any description could pass to France without
being stopped. I returned with this discouraging
information to Miss Villiers: we took counsel together,
and finally came to the resolution of boldly proceeding
to Dover and taking the packet which ran at stated
periods across the Channel.
We proceeded, therefore, along the coast, reached
Dover, and luckily found the packet just about to set
sail.
“Come,” I said, in a low tone, as we mingled in the
crowd, “we will go boldly on board, and I will undertake
to answer all questions.”
We had just reached the deck, when the commander
gave the order to take in the plank leading to the jetty.
“Have all the passports been examined?”
I shrank back with the young lady and child into a
corner.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply of the person addressed,
a rough-looking personage in a broad hat.
The next moment the plank was drawn on board,
the cable was unslung from the wharf, and the packet
moved under full sail out into the Channel, heading
towards France.
-- 259 -- p511-264
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I was still shrinking low, with my companion, in my
corner, when the man in the broad hat passed near me,
and said, without turning his head,—
“I was groom in the Guards once, sir. I know
you, but am not the man to betray you. Many a
friend of the good cause is leaving the country. Go
down in the aft cabin, and mix with the crowd.”
I hastened to follow this friendly advice, and we
were soon lost in the mass. On the same evening we
were on French soil, and set forward, without stopping,
for Paris.
Three days afterwards, Queen Henrietta Maria, in
an apartment of the Louvre, was holding in her arms
the poor child whom she had last seen at Exeter, sobbing,
and covering her with kisses.
Such was that singular adventure. I look back to it
now, when my hair grows gray, with more pleasure
and satisfaction than to all else I had part in during
the great English civil war.
I remained in France until the ensuing spring, performing
the duties of private secretary to her majesty.
Then there came to me a great longing to return to
England. I was ill at ease in the Louvre. The splendid
French court jarred a discord upon my feelings.
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I longed to go back to my home-land, and to leave
Frances Villiers.
Does that last statement appear strange? 'Tis true,
nevertheless. To be near her was torture; alternate
torpor and fever possessed me. Loving a woman with
my whole soul, and yet bound to the dead by a solemn
promise never to speak, I found my heart agitated and
torn, my very health giving way.
The queen came to my relief. She summoned me
to her private apartments one morning, and, extending
towards me a packet, said, with deep sadness,—
“I wish you to convey this to his majesty, Mr.
Cecil.”
I bowed low and took the letter.
“He is at Holmby House, in Northamptonshire,”
said the queen. “Escaping from Oxford, to take
refuge with those people at Newcastle, he has been
sold by them,—sold, for the sum of four hundred
thousand pounds! And—oh!—it is infamous!—it is
infamous!”
And the queen burst into a passion of tears.
“Bear with me,” she faltered, at length, through
tears and sobs. “I am only a poor woman! I will
try to be calm.”
And, passing a handkerchief across her eyes, she
added, more composedly,—
“The parliament people hold him a prisoner, not
knowing what to do with him. The Presbyterians and
odious Independents differ. I would have him decide
the matter by leaving the country and taking refuge in
France. Bear him this letter, Mr. Cecil: it contains
my prayer that he will make the attempt. Do not let
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it fall into the enemy's hands; and may Heaven prosper
you in your journey!”
She covered her face with her hand, and attempted
to speak again, but no words came; and I retired
respectfully from the apartment, leaving her majesty
bending over the little princess Henrietta and weeping.
On the same night I had assumed my disguise and
was on the road to England. A last interview with
Frances Villiers had gone near to unman me. At the
moment of parting, when 'twas doubtful if we should
ever meet again, she permitted her feelings to show
themselves; and 'twas this which made my heart sink.
Let me pass briefly over this, and say simply that
something had at last touched her. Was it that long
journey we had made together, sharing a common danger,
and ever beside each other? Was it the womanly
heart yearning at last, now when the queen was in
safety, for some refuge for itself? I know not: I can
only say that, as I held her hand at parting, the beautiful
eyes dwelt upon my face for an instant with an
expression which I could not misunderstand, and her
voice died away in a sob.
“Good-by,” she murmured, smiling through her
tears, and gazing at me with blushes in her cheeks.
“We may never meet again; but I pray God to bless
you and watch over you!”
A strange, delicious thrill passed through my heart;
my face flushed. I bent down and pressed my burning
lips to her hand. Before I could speak,—Heaven
be thanked!—she had left the apartment; and as she
disappeared I heard a low sob.
-- 262 -- p511-267
BOOK V.
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
I made my way in safety across the Channel, and
reached the vicinity of Holmby House in Northamptonshire,
where the king was kept close prisoner by
the parliament.
I could see him only by stratagem; and to effect my
errand I saw no means but to watch for the king when
he was out on one of his riding-excursions. An honest
woodman, a friend of the royal cause, who had given
me refuge in his hut not far from Holmby House, informed
me of the king's habit; and for some days I
watched for the opportunity of delivering the queen's
missive.
At last it came. My friend the woodman went to
Holmby House one morning,—the great edifice was
visible through the forest,—and returned with the information,
derived from the retainers of the palace,
that his majesty would ride out that morning and pass
over the road near the hut.
“Take your stand at the little bridge yonder,
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master,” said the woodman, “and when his majesty passes,
go up to him as if you wished to be touched for the
king's evil.”
“Excellent!” I exclaimed. And in truth the advice
was admirable. The belief that the royal touch cured
scrofula was then widely prevalent: numbers flocked to
be cured wherever his majesty passed; and I could thus
approach the king, 'twas to be hoped, without exciting
suspicion.
I hastened to take my stand on the rustic bridge
over which the high-road passed; and I had not waited
ten minutes when the king appeared on horseback,
escorted by half a dozen troopers. His face was pale,
and he had changed greatly. All the harsh and corroding
emotions which try the human soul seemed
to have shaken his strength: the plowshare had furrowed
his brow deeply.
As he reached the bridge, his eye fell upon my face,
and I saw that he recognized me under my disguise.
He checked his horse.
“You wish to speak to me, I think, my good man,”
he said.
“Yes, your majesty,—to pray that you will touch me
for the king's evil.”
I approached, and, concealing the queen's letter in
my sleeve, extended my hand, as though to invite the
royal touch. The king did likewise; but suddenly a
loud voice cried,—
“Hold! What is that?”
I turned and saw the fierce eyes of the leader of the
troop fixed upon the letter. He was already spurring
forward; but in another moment it was torn into a
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hundred pieces, and the fragments floating on the stream
beneath.
I was seized, and violently hustled by the troopers.
“What letter was that?” cried the commander of
the squad.
“A trifle,” I replied, calmly. “Beyond that I shall
say nothing.”
“We shall see!” was the threatening response; and,
ordering one of the troopers to take me behind him,
the officer forced the king to turn back. Half an hour
afterwards the whole party were back at Holmby
House.
I was a prisoner, and under circumstances which
rendered my fate rather menacing; but a new incident
speedily diverted attention from my humble self. The
king had scarcely entered Holmby House, and had
not taken off his gloves, when the clatter of hoofs was
heard in the park; a heavy detachment of dragoons
approached at a gallop, and in the commander of the
new-comers, who wore the distinctive uniform of the
Cromwellian Independents, I recognized no less a personage
than the tailor Joyce, who had measured me
for my Guardsman's coat in Rosemary Lane when I
first went up from Cecil Court to London.
-- 265 -- p511-270
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There was no mistaking the face or figure of this
singular person who thus came at a critical moment to
decide the fate of the king. I recognized at a glance
the important look, the nose in the air, the short figure,
and the free-and-easy air of the ex-tailor of London,
who had dropped his civil garb for the uniform of a
cornet in the Cromwellian Independents.
Joyce rode straight up to the great portal, dismounted,
and, walking on the points of his feet to increase his
stature, head raised and nose elevated as before, gave
a thundering knock.
“Your pleasure?” said the leader of the troop which
had escorted the king, appearing at the door and confronting
Joyce.
“To see Charles Stuart, formerly King of England,”
was the reply, in a consequential voice.
“From whom do you come?”
“Where is Charles Stuart?”
“He is not at leisure to see you.”
Joyce turned to his men.
“Attention!” he said. “Get ready to fire through
this door!”
“Are you mad?” cried the officer.
Joyce quietly gave an order to his men, and they
leveled their musquetoons at the door.
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“Hold!” said the officer. “His majesty shall himself
decide whether he will grant you an interview.”
The officer closed the door as he spoke, and ascended
to the apartment occupied by the king. Joyce had
quietly walked up behind him, and entered the room at
the same moment. In his hand was a cocked pistol.
“It is hard to obtain audience, it seems, in this
house,” he said, consequentially.
The king was half indignant, half amused, at sight
of this unceremonious personage.
“Who are you?” he said.
“It is enough, sir, that you must come with me,”
was the reply.
“Whither?”
“To the army.”
“The army! By what warrant?”
Joyce pointed through the window to his men, drawn
up, armed, and ready.
“There is my warrant,” he said.
The king smiled, and seemed to yield to the comedy
of the occasion.
“Your warrant is writ in fair characters, and legible
without spelling,” he said. “But here are the worshipful
commissioners of parliament, sir. Be pleased,
gentlemen, to decide this affair, as I am not in a condition
to make my authority respected.”
The grave commissioners entered as the king spoke,
and the foremost said to Joyce, coldly,—
“Have you orders from parliament to carry away
the king?”
“No,” said Joyce.
“From the general?”
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“No.”
“By what authority, then, do you come?”
“By my own authority.”
The commissioners frowned.
“We will write to the parliament to know their
pleasure,” said the leading commissioner.
Joyce turned to the king.
“You will prepare to go with me immediately, sir,”
he said.
“We protest against this outrage!” came from the
commissioner.
“So be it; and you can write to parliament. Meanwhile,
the king must go with me.”
And, turning to the officer, he said,—
“If the king has a coach, order it. I will set out
in half an hour.”
Turning his back, the important functionary thereupon
went out of the room and down-stairs, where he
mounted again and drew up his men in order of battle.
A stormy discussion followed; but there was no
means of resisting. The guard stationed at Holmby
House to watch the king were seen laughing and talking
with Joyce's men, their army comrades. The
commissioners yielded, the king entered his coach,
and the vehicle, followed by the troop led by Joyce,
rapidly rolled away. I had been made prisoner anew
by the redoubtable ex-tailor. Mounted on horseback,
I trotted along scarcely observed in the party. Two
days' journey brought us to Cambridge, and thence—
the people crowding along the route to be touched by
his majesty for the king's evil—the captive was conducted
to Hampton Court.
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Strange fate of the fallen monarch, to return thus to
the scene of his happiness and power! At Hampton
Court he had spent the serenest hours of his life. Here
he had basked in the smiles of his beautiful queen and
shared the gambols of his innocent children; here he
had reigned a king, only to return to the place a poor
prisoner, disarmed and doomed to destruction!
In narrating the adventures of his majesty from this
time to the end of his career,—adventures with which
I was more or less connected, and in which I may be
said to have borne a not unimportant part,—I shall
occupy as little space as possible, indulge in few notices
of public events, and mention only the salient incidents
leading by a sort of fatality as 'twere to the window at
Whitehall. I would fain pass over all. But that is
impossible. At least I shall narrate rapidly.
Joyce, the ex-tailor, was thus far friendly to the king,
that, without asking any one's authority, he permitted
me to remain at Hampton Court and share his majesty's
imprisonment, under the guise of private attendant
or secretary.
From that moment I resolved to effect the king's
escape, if possible. I ventured upon every opportunity
to urge his majesty to attempt it, declaring to him my
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conviction that otherwise his life was in danger. His
choice lay between flying to France, where he would
regain his beloved queen and find a place of safety, or
remaining to undergo all that the malice of his bitter
enemies might devise.
For months he resisted my appeals, which I scrupled
not to make in season and out of season. Finally, one
day, after a stormy and exciting interview with a commission
from parliament, he said to me,—
“Your advice is good, Mr. Cecil. This day's scene
has decided me to leave Hampton Court, if possible.
Now let us try and devise some means.”
These words filled me with joy. I believed—with
what truth let events which followed determine—that
the king's life was in danger. I said, therefore, with
animation,—
“Your majesty shall have it in your power to leave
Hampton Court secretly,—to-morrow night, if you desire.
Leave the arrangement of all to me.”
“You have a plan?”
“I have had it for months, your majesty.”
“And afterwards?”
“France,” I said.
The king knit his brows.
“The King of England a wretched fugitive!” he
muttered.
“Or his queen a widow and his children fatherless,”
I said, briefly.
He looked at me with deep sadness, and said,—
“Would that be so great a calamity to them, friend?
All connected with me is unfortunate. But go: do
what you will.”
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This was all I wanted. I saluted profoundly, left
the apartment, sauntered past the guard out into the
park, where the gentlemen of the king's suite were
permitted to walk, and, finding myself out of sight of
the sentry, hastened down to the bank of the river.
Here I stopped and waved my hat. Ten minutes
afterwards a boat detached itself from the opposite
bank, and lazily crossed, propelled by the paddle of a
waterman. The boat reached me. I entered, and was
paddled across. Five minutes after reaching the opposite
bank I was mounted upon a superb horse, which
had stood bridled and saddled in a shed attached to
the waterman's hut, and was going at full speed towards
the south.
Half an hour's ride brought me to the manor-house
of Colonel Edward Cooke,—the gentleman with the
fine stud of horses, to whom the queen had written
when her children were threatened at Oatlands.
Colonel Cooke was a warm loyalist, and his swift
horses were needed then to bear the royal children, in
the event of danger, from the country. They were
now to be put in requisition to effect the escape of the
king.
I had long before arranged everything with Colonel
Cooke. It was his horse I bestrode. And I now saw
him advance quickly as I galloped up the avenue leading
to his mansion.
“What intelligence, Mr. Cecil?” exclaimed Colonel
Cooke, who was a tall and stately old cavalier,
with a heavy mustache and royale, shaggy eyebrows
half concealing a pair of dark piercing eyes, and the
erect bearing of the thorough militaire. “What
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intelligence, I pray you? Has his majesty consented to go
with us?”
“He has consented,” I replied, with ardent feeling.
And, leaping from my horse, I entered, and informed
Colonel Cooke of my interview with the king.
“Faith! his majesty decides in time, and just in
time,” was the colonel's comment. In his glowing
cheeks I read a satisfaction which, cool and reserved
as he was, the old soldier could not conceal. He went
and poured out two flagons of wine.
“To our success!” he said. “And now for our
arrangements, Mr. Cecil. I and my friends are ready.
His majesty shall bestride an animal fit for a king.
The jades they ride yonder at Hampton Court will have
no showing! Come! Now for every arrangement!”
The plan was speedily agreed upon. Colonel Cooke,
with a party of friends, was to be at the waterman's
hut the next evening at sunset, with horses saddled
and ready, and two led horses for the king and myself.
His majesty would then steal forth to enjoy the evening
air. The guard over him had been relaxed recently,
and this would not be hazardous. The river's bank
would be reached, the stream crossed in the boat,
then to horse, and, encircled by friends, he would fly
to France.
I left Colonel Cooke with a close grasp of the
hand, reached the river, was paddled over, and regained
Hampton Court without having excited the
least suspicion. Ten minutes afterwards I was alone
with his majesty, and told him of the plan for his
escape.
“So be it,” he said, calmly. “Whither I will bend
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my course afterwards may be left to the future to
decide.”
I saw that the king could not yet bring himself to
the resolution to take refuge in France; but to this I
thought he must surely be driven. I therefore lost no
time in combating his indecision, proceeded to prepare
for the flight, and finally lay down with a beating
heart, impatient for the morrow.
That morrow dawned, dragged on,—never was day
so sluggish!—but finally evening came, and the king
descended to the hall of the palace, I following him.
As he attempted to issue forth, the man on guard
held his musquetoon across the doorway.
“You cannot pass,” he said, roughly,—for he was
one of the Independents.
“You will surely suffer me to walk in the park for
the benefit of my health?”
“No!”
The sound of feet tramping towards us was heard,
and the guard saluted. It was a sergeant, with a new
sentinel.
“Sergeant,” I said, “this man on guard here bars
the way against his majesty, who wishes to walk for
exercise in the park.”
“He obeys his orders,” was the consequential reply
of the sergeant, who was about five feet in height.
“He was right, then, sergeant,” I said, saluting;
“but you, a superior officer, are fortunately here now.
Has his majesty your permission to walk for half an
hour beneath the trees?”
I had conquered my man. “Superior officer” and
“permission” effected the victory.
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“Hum! Well,” said the highly-flattered small personage,
“if only for half an hour. Orders are strict;
but I will send an escort to keep you in sight. Pass!”
A moment afterwards the king and myself were on
the lawn, the man just relieved from guard following
us at a distance and lowering at us.
All depended now upon giving the signal without
being discovered. I succeeded in doing so by gliding
behind a clump of bushes on the bank of the stream.
I saw the boat put off at the signal and slowly paddle
across, and the king sauntered, at a sign from me,
towards a spot agreed upon. Behind came the guard:
it was impossible to escape him.
“Enter the boat, your majesty,” I said, hurriedly,
“and leave me to deal with this man.”
The king shook his head. “I will not desert you,
friend. Come! He can fire but once upon us, and I
fear not bullets.”
Naught I could say moved the king. Thus no course
remained but to risk everything. We were now at the
bank; the boat touched it. The king leaped on board,
dragging me after him, and the boat darted into the
stream again.
The sentinel uttered a tremendous imprecation, and,
taking deliberate aim, fired at the king. The ball only
clipped a feather from his hat, and there was no more
danger now,—from the sentinel at least. The shot
would give the alarm, however,—the troops would soon
hasten towards the bank.
We were not mistaken. The boat had not reached
the opposite shore when the grassy banks in Hampton
Court suddenly swarmed with soldiers. Loud cries
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to halt rose from the crowd, and a volley from their
musquetoons whistled around us as the boat ran aground.
The king's friends, headed by Colonel Cooke, hurried
down the bank and bore the king to shore.
“There is no time to lose now, your majesty,” said
the colonel. “Your horse is ready. I beseech you
hasten!”
The horse, a superb hunter, was led up quickly,
and the colonel held the king's stirrup. His majesty
mounted, and all did likewise. As we did so, half a
dozen boats put off from the opposite shore.
Colonel Cooke caught the king's bridle, exclaiming,—
“Come, your majesty!”
“In an instant, sir,” was the calm reply. “I would
take a last farewell of my palace.”
And, reining in his horse, he sat quietly for some
moments, gazing at Hampton Court.
“'Tis very beautiful; and I was once very happy
there!” I heard him murmur.
He remained for some moments gazing towards the
stately edifice with the same sad expression; then he
turned his horse slowly, just as the boats full of soldiery
touched the bank.
“Come, gentlemen!” he said.
And, striking the spurs into his horse, he set out for
the southern coast. Behind him thundered the rest.
The spirited horses swiftly bore their riders beyond
danger. King Charles I. had effected his escape from
Hampton Court.
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The pages of my memoirs I am now about to trace
will contain a brief narrative of some of the saddest
and most terrible events in English history. Looking
back now in my calm old age upon those days, I seem
to see a huge black cloud drooping low and full of
mutterings; and truly the storm was about to burst on
the head of the unfortunate king.
Of the events which followed the escape of his majesty
from Hampton Court, I shall present only a rapid
narrative. I have not the heart to dwell upon all the
details. Again my pulse throbs, and the long shadows
of memory fall like a pall.
The king and his party of cavaliers traveled at full
speed all night, and at daybreak were received into the
house of a lady passionately attached to the royal
cause. It was necessary, however, to put more distance
between him and his enemies: the king and his
attendants set out again at dawn. At last the frowning
battlements of Carisbrooke Castle, on the Isle
of Wight, rose before us, and the murmur of the sea
indicated that the Channel was not far distant.
Now arose the question what the king's next course
should be. Should he leave England and escape to
France? He was obdurately opposed to that. The
armies under General Cromwell and the parliament were
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wellnigh at loggerheads at last; each was manœuvring,
it seemed, to compose matters first with his majesty;
and the English people had of late exhibited unmistakable
indications of a desire to throw overboard both army
and parliament, and restore the king, taught now, it was
supposed, discretion by his sufferings and misfortunes.
“I will not go to France,” the king said, reining in
his horse, which seemed intent on bearing him towards
the coast. “That is Carisbrooke Castle, is it not?”
“It is, your majesty,” returned Colonel Cooke.
“The name of the commandant?”
“Hammond, sire.”
“Hammond? Ah, yes! a relative of my chaplain.
Go to him, colonel, take Mr. Cecil with you, and demand
whether he is ready to receive me as a guest, not
a prisoner.”
“But, your majesty—”
“Go, colonel.”
“It will endanger your majesty's safety.”
“You need not tell him where I am. I will await
your return in this wood.”
There was nothing to do but to obey; and I went
with Colonel Cooke. A short ride brought us to the
gateway of the great fortress, as I may call it, rather
than castle, and Colonel Hammond speedily made his
appearance. He was a tall and very stern man, with
one of those secretive faces which express nothing.
“Your pleasure, gentlemen?” he said.
Colonel Cooke gave him the king's message. I saw
him start imperceptibly almost, but in an instant this
emotion disappeared.
“Where is his majesty?” he said, coolly.
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“That is beside the question, sir. Will you receive
and protect him?”
A brief pause ensued.
“I will go with you,—alone. I must see his majesty
before I reply.”
“Content, sir,” said Colonel Cooke, after a moment's
reflection. “You have only to come with us,
and you will be conducted to the king.”
Ten minutes afterwards, Colonel Hammond was
riding with us towards the wood in which the king
was concealed. I went before my two companions.
As I approached the king, he said,—
“That is Colonel Hammond, is it not?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Has he given his written promise to receive me as
his guest?”
My head sank. These simple words indicated the
extent of the imprudence of which we had been guilty.
“I think your majesty may depend upon him as a
man of honor,” I said.
The king shook his head. “I have lost my faith
in men,” he said, sadly. “I am Colonel Hammond's
prisoner.”
The words drove my hand to my sword-hilt.
“It is my fault,—in part at least! I will kill him!”
I exclaimed.
The king raised his hand with a gesture of royal dignity.
“No: I am weary of seeing blood shed in my
behalf. Let there be surcease of this. Rather than
leave my kingdom, or be hunted like a wild beast all
along the coast here, I will put myself under charge of
this officer, trusting that he will prove a friend.”
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Colonel Hammond had now reached the spot, and
made the king a low salute.
“You are Colonel Hammond?” said the king.
“I am, your majesty.”
“You command at Carisbrooke Castle?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I will go thither with you, sir.”
And the king advanced on horseback towards the
castle, whose ponderous gates soon closed behind the
whole party. They were not guests, but prisoners.
On the same evening, Colonel Hammond dispatched
a fast-riding courier to London, to announce to parliament
that King Charles I. was a prisoner at Carisbrooke
Castle.
So woefully had ended the hopeful design of bearing
his majesty beyond the reach of danger. Once beyond
the walls of Hampton Court, he had been free. He
might have taken refuge in the western shires, still
faithful to him, and perchance have once more found
an army flock to his standard; or he might have embarked
for France, escaped the hostile cruisers, and
rejoined his beloved queen. All this was possible on
the day of his departure from Hampton Court. Now
it was a dream: the prey was in the clutch of the furious
huntsmen.
The outward signs of respect from Colonel Hammond
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and the garrison only added to the bitterness of the
king's imprisonment. A cautious game was evidently
going on. This human being might some day be the
master again. He never appeared, accordingly, upon
the battlements but the sentinel saluted; Colonel Hammond
ever doffed his hat and inclined profoundly upon
entering his majesty's presence. I, in common with the
other members of the king's party, was treated as a guest
rather than a prisoner. The future was too doubtful to
render harshness prudent.
Nevertheless, the king's health and spirits rapidly
failed him. Day by day life seemed dying out from
the worn frame, as hope disappeared. He grew thin
and gray. His face was covered with an unsightly
beard. He neglected his dress, grew older and sadder
hour by hour, and would wander to and fro with his
eyes fixed upon the ground, or, sighing, would gaze
towards France.
One day I saw him standing on the battlements,
looking in the direction of the French coast, and holding
in his hand a half-folded paper. He turned his
head, and, seeing me, motioned to me to approach.
“Would I had followed your advice, my friend,”
he said, “and sought refuge in France. I could have
done so, perchance. 'Tis impossible now.”
His head sank, and he remained silent for a moment.
“This letter is from—”
His voice died away, and his lips trembled.
“She has begged the people in London, she writes
me, to accord her permission to come to me. She went
only at my bidding; she would return now, like a good
wife, when the dark hour has come upon her husband.”
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“And they have refused, your majesty?”
“They have refused!”
A deep groan issued from the king's lips. He turned
his face towards France again; his thin hands were
clasped for a moment; and then, turning away, he
slowly went to his chamber.
When I attended him there, an hour afterwards,—for
I shared with his grace the Duke of Richmond the
duties of groom of the chamber,—I found him writing.
“See,” he said, raising the sheet, “I am writing my
last will and testament, friend. I strive herein to show
my subjects my inmost heart. In this `Eikon Basilike,'
as I call it, naught is concealed.”
He sighed, and added,—
“Shall I read you the words I have just written?
`I am content to be tossed, weather-beaten, and shipwrecked,
so that she be safe in harbor. I enjoy this
comfort in her safety, in the midst of my personal
dangers. I can perish but half if she be preserved.
In her memory, and in her children, I may yet survive
the malice of my enemies, although they should at last
be satiate with my blood.”'
The king replaced the paper upon the table, clasped
his hands and leaned them upon it; and upon the hands
thus clasped his forehead drooped slowly, his long
gray hair falling around the emaciated cheeks and
concealing them.
In presence of this immense sorrow I could say
nothing and offer no condolence. There was something
terrible as well as heart-rending in this royal
despair; and, without speaking, I turned to leave the
apartment.
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As I approached the door, I saw a man standing
without and gazing at the king. This was one Osborne,
appointed by Colonel Hammond to attend the king.
As I came out, he made me a sign that I should follow
him; and I did so.
Osborne went on until he reached a retired nook,
and then, stopping suddenly, said, in a low tone,—
“You are the king's friend, I think, Mr. Cecil?”
“His faithful friend, I hope, sir, as I trust you are.”
“I am,” was his reply. “I was not, a month ago;
but his majesty's looks haunt my sleep. They are
going to try and murder him. He must escape.”
I looked at the speaker keenly.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “You distrust
me—well. But I am the king's friend. I slipped a
note into his glove two days since, offering to risk my
life to secure his escape; but he has not spoken to me.
I know not if he received it.”
“Your plan?” I said.
“Listen, sir. There is a certain Major Rolfe in the
garrison here,—a wretch bent on earning blood-money.
He proposed to me to entice the king to attempt an
escape from this place. Files and a rope-ladder were
to be supplied. The king was to descend from his
window and escape from the castle. Then Rolfe, with
others, lying in wait, was to assassinate him.”
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I listened with attention.
“And your plan, Mr. Osborne?”
“To conspire against the conspirators, to get the
king out of the castle, and cut the throats, if necessary,
of Rolfe and his gang.”
I reflected for a moment with all the power of my
brain. Had Osborne the design which he attributed
to Rolfe, or was this man a true friend of the king?
“You would be ready to receive his majesty when
he descended by the ladder?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I will be at liberty to take part?”
“Assuredly.”
“To stand beside you?”
He looked at me with firm eyes.
“I understand. Yes. Stay! you are unarmed.
Here is a dagger which you may plunge into my heart,
if you have reason to believe in my treachery.”
I took the weapon and placed it in my breast, looking
fixedly at the speaker.
“I accept your offer,” I said, “and will go immediately
and apprise his majesty.”
I left Osborne, went to the king's chamber, and
informed him of the plot. He shook his head.
“It will fail,” he said, “or I will end my life in a
midnight brawl in this corner of my kingdom. I do
not wish to die thus. I would perish in public, before
the eyes of the whole world.”
I combated this resolution with all my powers, and
the king, enfeebled by sickness and sorrow, began to
waver.
“The one your majesty loves best in all the world
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awaits you yonder,” I added, extending my hand
towards France.
His face flushed. “Enough! you have conquered
me,” he murmured. “Go. I will do as you wish.”
I hastened from the apartment, and obtained a second
private interview with Osborne.
“The king consents,” I said. “And now to arrange
all!”
The arrangements were speedily made. Files were
to be supplied me, with which I would file through the
iron bars of the king's window; a rope-ladder was
ready, procured by Osborne for the purpose. Once the
obstructions were removed, his majesty could descend
by it, the key of a postern in the outer wall had been
obtained, and Charles I. would be free.
“Rolfe will know of but a part of the plan,” Osborne
said; “and we are playing a dangerous game.
But it must be risked. Now I will go and gain over
some men whom I think we may count upon. If all
is ready, the attempt will be made at midnight, two
nights from this time.”
With these words we parted.
On the second night thereafter, all was ready for the
hazardous undertaking. I had passed the preceding
night in hard work on the iron bars, which I attacked
with a file dipped from time to time in grease to dull
the grating sound. This occupation lasted for eight
hours. At the end of that time the bars hung by a
thread. I announced the fact to his majesty, who had
fallen into a feverish sleep on his couch; and, as I had
managed to convey the rope-ladder of fine twisted
hemp to his chamber unperceived, all was ready.
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Midnight came at last. The night was dark; and this
favored the dangerous scheme. A chill wind whistled
drearily around the battlements of the great castle, and
from beneath came the long dash of the waves against
the base of the cliffs.
“The moment has come, sire,” I said, in a low voice.
“Be firm and fearless.”
The king smiled sadly. “Feel my pulse, friend,”
he said, extending his hand. “The Stuarts are unfortunate,
but they are at least brave. This will fail; but
I fear nothing. Is all ready?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Osborne and his friends are beneath?”
“As well as Rolfe and his party; but ours outnumber
them greatly.”
“Then all, I see, is ready. You will descend after
me—”
“A moment, your majesty. I will remove the bars
and attach the ladder; then I will simply go out of that
door yonder and join the party below.”
“Join the party?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“You cannot: the sentinel.”
“I am allowed to pass about: it is only your majesty
that is guarded.”
“But why not descend by the ladder?”
“I have an arrangement with Osborne, and will see
that Rolfe is a party to it.”
“What arrangement?”
“To bury this dagger in his heart,—in the hearts
of both,—if they have betrayed you!”
The king extended his hand, as a man does to grasp
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that of a friend. I took the hand and kissed it. Then
I rapidly drew out the bars, saw that a confused group
awaited below, affixed the ladder, and turned for the
last time to the king.
“Your majesty is not fearful of growing dizzy?”
“No: my nerves are perfectly firm.”
“The descent is considerable.”
“It is nothing,—since France and my wife are at
the foot of the ladder.”
“Then may God guard your majesty!”
As I spoke, I opened the door; but suddenly I
recoiled. The corridor was full of armed men, at the
head of whom advanced Colonel Hammond.
“I have come to save your majesty a dangerous
essay,” he said, coldly. “Your plan of escape has
been discovered, and Osborne is already under arrest.
To-morrow he will be hanged and quartered.”
The speaker inclined stiffly.
“Place two men beneath the window there,” he
added, to a sergeant, “and a regular guard, to be relieved
every two hours, in this corridor. The parliament
will decide the rest.”
Three days afterwards,—days passed by myself as a
captive in the same room with the king,—Colonel Hammond
made his reappearance.
“Your majesty will be released from further
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imprisonment in this apartment,” he said, stiffly. “I
am directed to announce so much by the parliament,
who will send further orders. If agreeable to your
majesty, you may now descend to dinner, which is prepared
in the great hall.”
The king inclined coldly, and was about to decline.
“I pray your majesty to descend,” I said. “Your
health fails from confinement.”
The sad smile, now habitual with him, came to his
lips.
“Content,” he said; “but you use but feeble reasoning,
friend.”
I assisted him to make his toilet, and he descended to
the great banqueting-hall of the castle, where a crowd
of persons had assembled, as was customary then, to see
the king dine.
The king had no sooner taken his seat than the company
were startled by a sudden apparition. This was
a solemn, funereal, and cadaverous personage, clad in
black, but wearing a military belt and scarf, who stalked
into the hall, posted himself opposite the king, and
fixed his eyes upon him in sombre silence. The king
gazed at this strange person with undisguised surprise,
but, finding that he was apparently dumb and might be
deaf, did not address him: the whole meal passing in
silence.
As the king rose, I approached the funereal personage.
“Your name, if I may ask, sir?” I said.
“Isaac Ewer, an unworthy follower of the godly
cause.”
“Colonel Ewer, I think.”
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“I am so called.”
“Your object?”
“I am come to fetch away Hammond to-night.”
These words dissipated all doubt. This singular
personage, representing the “Independents” of the
army, had come to order away Hammond, who represented
the parliament. From this moment it was obvious
that Charles I. had ceased to be the prisoner of
the civil power, and had become the prize of the military.
The full significance of the change may be stated
in a few words: the name of Isaac Ewer appears among
the regicides.
This man had just uttered the words I have recorded,
and Colonel Hammond had started up, as though determined
to resist this summary order from the military
authorities, when I heard a familiar voice near me,
and, turning my head, saw Colonel Cooke. How this
faithful friend of the king gained access to the castle I
never discovered. He had been released months before,
and had passed from my mind; but I afterwards
knew that he had kept watch over the king and laid
many plans to effect his escape.
Colonel Cooke now approached the king hurriedly,
and said to him, in the midst of the confusion,—
“Your majesty must attempt to escape.”
“To escape?”
“At once,” he replied, quickly. “The army has a
plan for seizing you immediately. This must be prevented.
All the preparations are made. We have
horses all ready here, concealed in a pent-house. A
vessel is at the Cowes waiting for us. We are prepared
to attend you.”
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The king turned pale.
“No,” he said. “I have given my word to Hammond
and the House that I would make no further such
attempts. They have promised me, and I have promised
them; and I will not be the first to break promise.”
“Your majesty means by they and them the parliament?”
“Yes.”
“They have no power to protect you! You are a
dead man if—For God's sake, your majesty, consent!”
The face of the speaker flushed.
“For the queen and your children's sake!”
The king shook.
“No, I cannot: do not tempt me!” he murmured.
“My honor of gentleman alone is left to me!”
A thundering knock was heard at the door as the
king uttered these words, and a file of soldiers entered,
in front of whom advanced, with heavy tramp, two or
three sombre-visaged officers.
They went straight to the king.
“You must come with us,” said one of them.
“Who may you be?” the king asked.
“Officers from the army. Come!”
“Whither?”
“To the castle.”
“`The Castle' is no castle! I am prepared for any
castle, but tell me the name.”
“Hurst Castle.”
“Indeed!” the king said, calmly. “You could not
have named a worse.”
In truth, the selection of that gloomy fortress, a
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species of dungeon, fitted for murder, seemed an
ominous indication of the designs of the king's captors.
It stood on a desolate promontory, approached from
the Isle of Wight by a narrow causeway; and an hour
afterwards the king was conducted thither.
In this sombre keep he was immured now, and I confess
my heart sank. I had remained with his majesty,
along with others, and experienced very great solicitude
for his safety. Everything now seemed to depend upon
the result of the struggle between the army and parliament.
The latter was known to embrace a number of
prominent persons who favored the king's release: if
the army were overthrown, the king, thus, would be
saved.
One morning came intelligence that the army under
General Cromwell had crushed the parliament. Soon
afterwards the rattling chains of the drawbridge were
heard as the ponderous mass fell. The emissary of the
army had come to conduct Charles I. to Windsor
Castle.
He was conducted thither. A month passed: I had
begun to dream of happier times for this poor husband
and father, so long the sport of his enemies, when, on
the 15th of January, 1648, a squadron of horse appeared
and escorted the king to London.
The hour had come.
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I have shrunk from dwelling at length upon the days
passed by the king at Carisbrooke and Hurst Castles;
for a stronger reason still, I shall pass hastily over the
last scenes of the tragedy, the memory of which still
affects me profoundly.
This human being, now approaching death, had his
weaknesses, his prejudices,—committed crimes more
than once,—claimed prerogatives inconsistent with the
liberties of England; but he had suffered, had grown
gray in prison, and all the glory of royalty had been
stripped from him, and now his enemies, in an evil hour
for them, were going to commit the blunder of making
a martyr of him by putting him to death.
The forms were speedily gone through with. From
Windsor Castle, where he had enjoyed a brief season
of tranquillity, not divested of hope, he was taken in his
coach, under an escort of troopers with drawn pistols,
to St. James's Palace in London, where his treatment
at once indicated that his fate was sealed.
I had remained with him, as had his grace the Duke
of Richmond, his faithful Herbert, and other friends.
We were mercifully permitted to share his last hours;
and the terrible details of these hours are here recorded
briefly.
It soon became known to us that the military power
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was completely in the ascendency. General Cromwell,
its head, proceeded to turn out of parliament all opposed
to the fatal resolution at last reached. The king
was transferred to a wing of Edward the Conqueror's
Palace; and speedily came the order that he should
be brought to Westminster Hall for trial.
It was a dark and chill morning in January when
the order came. The king rose calmly, put on his hat,
took his cane and gloves, and bowed to the officer
bearing the order.
“I am ready, sir,” he said.
The officer did not return the salute. The days of
royalty, and the respect due it, had passed away now.
The officer simply pointed to the door.
The king went out, and found himself in face of a
body of armed men, who gazed at him, some with
lowering faces, others with undisguised pity and compassion.
“Forward, to Westminster Hall!” the officer commanded;
and the troop moved, escorting the king,
who walked in the midst. I was near him, and went
on in a dream, as 'twere. The fatal pageant affected
me as men are affected by things seen in sleep.
All at once, as the procession moved along, I heard,
from a window above, the hoarse words,—
“Here he is! here he is!”
I looked up. The king was passing the “Painted
Chamber;” and the hoarse speaker was General
Cromwell. For the third time in my life I saw this
terrible man:—first in Buckinghamshire, at Mr. Hampden's,
a shuffling, absent-looking countryman; again
at Naseby, a cold and immovable statue on horseback;
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now a judge, pale and purple by turns, looking upon
his victim.
I heard afterwards that he and others had met here
to see the king pass, and that General Cromwell, after
uttering the words above recorded, added to Marten,
one of his associates,—
“The hour of the great affair approaches. Decide
speedily what answer you will give him; for he will
immediately ask by what authority you pretend to judge
him.”
“In the name of the Commons assembled in parliament,”
Marten replied, ironically, “and of all the
good people of England.”
The purlieus of Westminster Hall were nearly choked
with troops. These, too, seemed divided between bitter
enmity and compassion. Many of the citizens had
mingled with the soldiery, and cried aloud, as the king
came,—
“God save your majesty!”
The soldiers did not suppress this cry; and the fact
seemed to enrage their commander, Colonel Axtel.
Suddenly the tall form of that officer advanced, the
dark face full of anger. This sentiment became fury
when some of the soldiers, whose backs were turned to
him, shouted, compassionately,—
“Justice! justice!”
With a cane which he held in his hand, Colonel
Axtel struck them vigorously over the shoulders; and
the men who had just clamored for justice to the
captive now shouted as loudly,—
“Execution! execution!”
The king entered Westminster Hall in the midst of
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his guard. Behind came the procession of his judges,
with the sword and mace borne before them.
The king sat down, keeping his hat upon his head,
and looked around him with calm and even curious
eyes. His bearing was composed, and his eyes seemed
to express a grave wonder at the scene. He was yethin
and pale, and the curls beneath his beaver were
silvered with gray.
The judges took their seats above him, and the ceremony
began. An advocate rose, and began to read
from a paper which he held in his hand that the king
was “indicted in the name of the Commons assembled,
and the people of England.”
The king interrupted him here with some words
which I did not hear. The advocate scowled at him,
but continued to read; whereupon the king extended
his slight cane, and touched him with the gold head
upon the shoulder. The head detached itself from
the cane, rolled on the floor, distinctly heard in the
profound silence; and the whole assembly, wound
to the highest pitch of nervous excitement, rose in
mass.
“God save your majesty! God save the king!”
rose from the crowd of people in the hall.
Scuffling succeeded: the troops, under direction of
their officers, were buffeting and hustling the malcontents.
The advocate's voice, loud and monotonous,
resumed the indictment. It was finished; and Mr.
Bradshaw, who presided, demanded of the king what
his plea was,—guilty or not guilty of the crimes laid
to his charge.
“I make no plea. I deny the authority of this
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court, though not the power,” the king replied.
“There are many illegal powers, as those of highwaymen
and bandits. The Commons agreed to a
treaty of peace with me when at Carisbrooke, and
since that time I have been hurried from place to place.
Where are the just privileges of the House of Commons?
Where are the Lords? I see none present.
And where is the king? Call you this bringing a king
to his parliament?”
Bradshaw scowled, retorting in some violent words,
and a discussion ensued. The court promised to break
up in the midst of a brawl,—perhaps a conflict between
army and citizens. It was hastily adjourned,
therefore; and the king was reconducted to his prison,
the people shouting, as he passed,—
“God bless your majesty! God save you from
your enemies!”
The first scene of the first act had thus been played.
The rest followed rapidly, and the catastrophe was
at hand.
The king was again and again brought before his
judges. He resolutely refused, however, to acknowledge
the competency of the tribunal; and it was plain
that violent measures would be called for. These
were adopted. The king's enemies had gone too far
to recede: their own safety absolutely required that
his blood should be shed.
All was resolved upon at last; and for the fourth
time his majesty was conducted to Westminster Hall.
Bradshaw had already taken his seat, and wore a red
dress. The fact was ominous, and the proceedings
were brief.
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“Read the list of members of the court,” growled
the president, Bradshaw.
The clerk began to read. At the name of “Fairfax,”
a voice from the gallery cried,—
“Fairfax has too much wit to be here to-day!”
All eyes were raised. The voice was seen to have
issued from a group of ladies who attended as spectators.
Colonel Axtel, commanding the soldiery, shouted,
with fury,—
“Present pieces!—fire!—fire into the box where
she sits!”
As he spoke, one of the ladies rose, in the centre
of the group. For a moment she remained motionless,
looking down with great scorn upon the rough faces of
the troops, who were confusedly raising their musquetoons.
She then slowly went out of the gallery; and
I heard from the crowd around me,—
“'Tis Lady Fairfax! They dare not harm her!”
The reading of the list proceeded. At the name
of Cromwell a new tumult rose.
“Oliver Cromwell is a rogue and a traitor!” cried
a second voice from the gallery.
Axtel raged; but the president made a gesture, and
the reading proceeded. The clerk concluded by declaring
that the king was “called to answer by the
people before the Commons of England assembled in
parliament.”
“'Tis false!” shouted the voice in the gallery; “not
one half-quarter of them!”
At this renewed interruption and open defiance,
Colonel Axtel seemed ready to lose his head. He
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foamed with rage, and shook his clenched hand towards
the spot from which the voice had issued, shouting,
“Fire! fire on them!”
Bradshaw again interposed. Silence was obtained;
but a more important interruption was to come.
The president began to pass sentence.
“I demand,” said the king, “that the whole of the
members of the House of Commons, and such lords
as are in England, shall assemble to hear the sentence
about to be pronounced upon me.”
Bradshaw frowned angrily, and was about to proceed
without noticing this protest, when one of the court
started to his feet in great agitation and with tears on
his cheeks.
“Have we hearts of stone?” he exclaimed. “Are
we men?”
“You will ruin us, and yourself too!” came in a
hoarse undertone from those near the speaker, whom
they violently attempted to hold in his seat.
“If I were to die for it!” was the renewed protest.
Cromwell, who sat just beneath, turned and looked
at the speaker with lowering eyes.
“Colonel Downes,” he said, sternly, in his deep
voice, “are you mad?”
“No!”
“Can't you sit still?”
“No! I cannot and I will not sit still!”
He broke from those attempting to hold him down.
“I move,” he exclaimed, “that we adjourn to deliberate!”
Cromwell rose in a rage, and his eyes seemed to dart
lightning as he looked at Downes.
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“You wish to save your old master!” he said, in a
storm of wrath; “but make an end of this, and return
to your duty!”
Cries and confused voices were heard, however,
throughout the great hall; and, doubtless reflecting
that nothing would be lost thereby, the court determined
to retire to deliberate. They went out at a
side door, and remained absent for about half an hour;
then they reappeared, defiling in, stern, silent, and
ominous.
Bradshaw took his seat in the midst of cries of
wrath, pity, and horror from the crowd, where Axtel
exerted himself to obtain silence.
In the midst of this silence, sentence was passed
upon the king.
He listened without a word, and, at the termination
of the sentence, rose and put on his gloves. Axtel
advanced and motioned to him. He obeyed the order
of the man who now stood in the place of the headsman,
passed through the crowd of furious soldiery,
who puffed the smoke of their pipes in his face, spat
upon him, and yelled, “Justice! execution!” in his
ears, and, entering his sedan-chair,—a luxury still
permitted him,—was borne back to his place of imprisonment,
a man condemned to die.
As he disappeared, a great cry rose above the crowd,
struck with awe and horror.
This cry was,—
“God help and save your majesty! God keep you
from your enemies!”
One of the soldiers, even, joined in this cry, and was
seen to do so by an officer, who felled him with one
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blow. This took place as the king passed. He looked
at the unfortunate man with a smile of sad pity.
“Poor fellow!” he murmured, sighing: “'tis a heavy
blow for so small an offense!”
The terrible comedy of the king's trial had been
played at Westminster: the tragedy in front of Whitehall
was to follow it speedily.
Of those days which passed between the king's sentence
and execution I have no strength to speak. I
was near him, with other friends, and was witness to a
calmness and dignity worthy of a brave man and a
monarch. The king's nerves were unshaken: he prepared
for his end with august composure; and when
he was informed that the people in power had consented
to permit him to see his two children before his
death, a smile of joy lit up the pale and emaciated face.
This intelligence was brought to him on the night
before his execution. He was writing at the instant,
and laid down his pen to clasp his hands in deep gratitude,
raising his eyes, as he did so, to heaven.
As the messenger disappeared, he turned to the
friends around him, and said, with a smile,—
“'Tis not forbidden a poor king in captivity to
make verses, my friends: I have thus employed myself
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after writing my last adieus to one from whom I am
severed,—one very dear to me.”
He took up the sheet upon which he had been writing.
As he did so, a sudden hammering began in front of
Whitehall. I shuddered; for I knew that 'twas the
workmen erecting the scaffold.
“What is that?” the king asked, turning his head,
and listening.
No one replied. The sound of hammers continued.
Suddenly the king's cheeks filled with blood.
“I understand now. God's will be done!” he murmured.
“But this shall not fright me!”
The smile came back to his face, and he said,—
“Will you hear one or two of my poor verses?”
In the midst of sobs, he then read these verses:—
“The fiercest furies which do daily tread
Upon my grief—my gray discrowned head—
Are those who to my bounty owe their bread.
“Yet, sacred Saviour, with thy words I woo
Thee to forgive, and not be bitter to
Such (as thou knowest) know not what they do.
“Augment my patience, nullify my hate,
Preserve my children, and inspire my mate,
Yet, though we perish, bless this Church and State!”
As he finished reading these words, the door opened,
and Bishop Juxon appeared, his face pale, his bosom
heaving. As he approached, the old prelate's equanimity
gave way, and he began to sob violently.
The king raised his hand calmly, with a gesture of
kindness.
“Compose yourself, my lord,” he said to the bishop.
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“We have no time to waste on grief: let us rather
think of the great matter. I must prepare to appear
before God, to whom in a few hours I have to render
my account. I hope to meet death with calmness, and
that you will have the goodness to render me your
assistance. Do not let us speak of the men into whose
hands I have fallen. They thirst for my blood: they
shall have it. God's will be done! I give him thanks.
I forgive them all sincerely; but let us say no more
about them.”
A harsh growl at the door was heard. The sentinels,
guarding the king night and day now, had opened the
door, and expressed by the growl their disgust at the
supposed hypocrisy of the king.
The weeping bishop motioned them away.
“Suffer us, my friends,” he said.
And, as though these mild and faltering words had
affected even the rough natures of the sentinels, they
closed the door with a crash.
The king then knelt and prayed long and devoutly.
As he rose from his knees, he turned his head quickly.
His face beamed with joy.
“What has your majesty heard?” the bishop said.
“I know not if I have heard them, but 'tis the feet
of my children!”
Footsteps approached along the corridor, and reached
the door: it was opened, and the little Princess Elizabeth,
a girl of about twelve, and the Duke of Gloucester,
still younger, ran forward into their father's arms.
The children had burst into passionate tears; but
there were no tears in the eyes of the king. A delight
beyond words shone in his pale face.
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“My little ones!” he murmured, covering their
faces with kisses. “Thank God, they have permitted
you to come to me! Oh, yes, yes! now I forgive them
from my heart!”
Some moments passed in those half-inarticulate exclamations,
mingled with caresses, which are so touching,—
above all in a father embracing his children for
the last time on earth. The children sobbed and held
him closely. He never seemed weary of caressing and
kissing them.
At last he grew more composed, and his countenance
assumed an expression of solemn gravity.
“Sweet-heart,” he said, to the little princess, “do not
forget what I tell thee. I wish you not to grieve and torment
yourself for me; for it is a glorious death I shall die,
for the laws and religion of the land. I have forgiven
all my enemies, and I hope God will forgive them; and
you and your brothers and sisters must forgive them also.”
He paused, and I saw an expression of deep tenderness
come to his eyes.
“You will see your mother, sweet-heart,” he said.
“Tell her that my thoughts have never strayed from
her,—that my love for her remains the same to the last.
Love her, be obedient to her, and do not grieve for
me: I die a martyr.”
Nothing was heard in the deep silence which followed
these words but the sobs and broken words of the little
princess promising to obey these last commands of her
father.
The king raised his hand and passed it across his
eyes. He then turned to the little Duke of Gloucester,
and, placing his arm around him, drew him upon his knee.
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“My child,” he said, “I wish you to heed what
your father now says to you. They will cut off my
head, and perhaps make thee a king; but you must not
be a king so long as your brothers Charles and James
live. I therefore charge you, do not be made a king
by them.”
The child's face flushed suddenly, and he looked at
the king with a flash of the eyes shining through his tears.
“I will be torn in pieces first!” he exclaimed.
The king's face glowed.
“That is spoken like my son!” he said. “You
rejoice me exceedingly!”
He bestowed a warm embrace upon the child, then,
drawing the princess towards him, clasped both to his
bosom.
As he did so, the ominous sound of the hammers in
front of Whitehall broke in. The king sobbed, nearly
unmanned, and covered the children's faces with kisses.
As he did so, the guard advanced to remove them, and
Bishop Juxon groaned.
The king raised his head. “Oh, 'tis pitiful! Do
not take them from me!” he exclaimed.
The guard drew nearer, stern and unmoved. The
hammering was heard through the open door.
The king saw that the hour had come. With heaving
bosom, he placed his hands on the heads of the
children and blessed them. They sobbed passionately
as the guard took them away; and the king rose to his
feet and turned aside to hide his tears. A window
looked upon the court. He went to it, to see the last
of them, if possible, and, leaning his face against the
frame-work, sobbed aloud.
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The children were passing through the door now, in
charge of the guard, when all at once the king turned
and hastened to them in an agony of weeping. Clasping
them for the last time in his arms, he covered them
with kisses and caresses, called upon God to bless them,
and, releasing them, staggered rather than walked back
to his seat, into which he fell, concealing his face in
his hands.
The hammering from the front of Whitehall had
never ceased.
At midnight the king, after performing his devotions,
lay down, and was soon asleep. All had retired
but his attendant Herbert and myself, who had been
commanded to remain.
The king had given me both a letter and messages
for the queen. I was to convey these to her majesty
after witnessing the king's last hours, of which I was
to give her a detailed account.
I lay down on a pallet,—Herbert occupying another,—
but could not sleep. The terrible events occurring
around me excited my nerves and drove away my
slumbers. Providence had decreed that I should thus
witness the last moments of a condemned king, should
be beside him and lose no detail of the tragedy. All
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had passed before me; I was to be present to the end;
and the thought of what would take place on the
morrow banished sleep.
The night thus passed, the chamber lit only by a
large taper which burned in the centre of a silver basin.
Long shadows, funereal and ominous, fell upon the
walls: nothing was heard but the quiet breathing of
the king, who had for the time lost all consciousness
of his misfortunes.
About daybreak I was startled, however, by a deep
groan from the pallet occupied by Herbert, the king's
attendant. I looked in the direction of the sound,
and saw that the sleeper was tossing to and fro, the
victim, it seemed, of some painful dream. Suddenly
I saw the king rise on his elbow.
“Herbert!” he called; and the faithful attendant
at once awoke.
“What is the matter?” said the king. “You groan
fearfully in your sleep!”
Herbert passed his hand across his brow, as though
he were confused.
“I have been dreaming, your majesty,” he stammered.
“Tell me your dream,” came from the king.
Herbert sighed, and said,—
“I dreamed, your majesty, that Archbishop Laud, in
his pontifical robes, entered this apartment and knelt
before your majesty, who looked at him with a pensive
expression of countenance. Conversation then took
place between the archbishop and your majesty; he
sighed deeply, seemed in pain; then the talk ended;
he inclined before your majesty, and was going towards
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the door again, when suddenly he fell prostrate on the
floor.”
The king had listened without interrupting the
speaker. He now remained an instant buried in reflection.
“Your dream is remarkable, Herbert,” he said, at
length, in a pensive tone. “But the archbishop is dead.”
He paused again for a moment.
“Had I conferred with the archbishop,” he added,
“it is possible, albeit I loved him well, that I might
have said somewhat which would have caused his sigh.”
As he spoke, the king threw aside the coverlet.
“I will now rise,” he said. “I have a great work
to do this day.”
He seated himself, and motioned to Herbert to dress
his hair. The attendant obeyed, but his hand trembled,
as though from cold,—the fire in the apartment
having died out.
“Nay,” the king said, calmly, “though my head
be not to stand long on my shoulders, take the same
pains with it that you were wont to do. This is my
second marriage-day, Herbert.”
Herbert obeyed with trembling hands, and I observed
the king shiver.
“'Tis very cold,” he said. “Give me an additional
shirt. The weather may make me shake; and I would
have no imputation of fear. Death is not terrible to
me. I bless my God I am prepared.”
As he spoke, Bishop Juxon entered, his face pale and
woe-begone.
“Welcome, my lord,” the king said. “Will you
pray with me?”
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The bishop knelt down, and in a faltering voice
uttered a fervent prayer, which the king listened to,
kneeling also devoutly. He then resumed his seat;
and the bishop read from the Gospel of St. Matthew.
“Did you choose this chapter, my lord, as applicable
to my situation?” asked the king, when he had ended.
“It is the gospel of the day, as the calendar indicates,
your majesty,” replied the bishop.
The king's face exhibited great emotion. The chapter
read by the bishop was that which gives an account
of the trial, condemnation, and execution of our Saviour.
A strange chance—if there be any chance—
had made it the regular gospel of the day, in accordance
with the calendar. The king resumed a moment
afterwards his kneeling position. I could see his lips
moving. A deep silence—the silence of prayer and
pity—reigned in the apartment.
The king had just risen, when the door opened, and
the guard appeared.
“I am ready,” he said, calmly.
And, placing his hat upon his head, he descended the
staircase into St. James's Park. The path to Whitehall
was lined with ten companies of infantry. In front of
the king moved a detachment of halberdiers, with drums
beating and colors flying.
The king walked on slowly, exhibiting no emotion
of any description,—on his right the good bishop, on
his left Colonel Tomlinson, of the army, and myself.
The king was absolutely composed, the soldier full of
compassion for him. This sentiment was so plain that
his majesty observed it, and, taking a gold etui which
he wore, said,—
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“I beg you will accept this, sir, as a token of remembrance,
and that you will not leave me until all is over.”
The soldier bowed his head, and took the gift with
deep emotion.
“I will observe your majesty's command,” he said.
“Dare I ask your majesty if there be any truth in what
I conceive to be a terrible slander concerning you?”
“Ask your question, my friend.”
“Did your majesty concur with the Duke of Buckingham
in causing your late father's death?”
The king's face assumed a smile of pity.
“My friend,” he said, “if I had no other sin than
that, God knows I should have little need to beg his
forgiveness at this hour.”
“Then—”
The reply was not finished. A sudden roar from the
drums interrupted it. They were near Whitehall, and
the king said to the guard,—
“Come on, my good fellows: step apace.”
And, pointing to a tree, he added, to Bishop Juxon,—
“That tree was planted by my brother Henry.”
These trifles all engraved themselves indelibly upon
my memory. If they are otherwise unimportant, they
still indicate the king's calmness.
He had now reached the flight of stairs which leads
from the park into Whitehall. As he entered the
palace, Colonel Tomlinson said,—
“Here are two Independent ministers, your majesty,
who offer their spiritual aid and prayers.”
The king paused, but replied, almost immediately,—
“Say to them frankly that they have so often prayed
against me that they shall not pray with me in my
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agony; but if they will pray for me now, tell them
that I shall be thankful.”
As he spoke, the king turned to me, and held out
his hand.
“I must leave you now, friend,” he said. “You
must not go with me to the scaffold. You have my
last request. Convey the letter you wot of; tell her
to whom 'tis addressed that she was in my heart to the
last; and may God bless and keep you, as my faithful
friend, always!”
I could make no reply, but, falling upon my knees,
pressed the king's hand to my lips, with sobs.
A moment afterwards he had disappeared within the
palace.
I hastened to the front of the palace, where rose,
grim and threatening, the scaffold with its block, upon
which the execution was to take place.
A frightful dream, rather than a series of real events,
seemed playing before me, and I could scarce collect
my thoughts or reason upon the situation. A great
crowd blocked up the street, of mingled soldiery and
civilians. Round hats and gleaming arms were mixed
together in enormous confusion; and through the
mighty multitude awaiting the terrible scene ran a low,
vague murmur, like the sound of waves before they are
lashed to fury in a tempest.
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I staggered on, rather than walked, and almost by
main force made a path through the mass towards
the scaffold. More than once I came near becoming
engaged in a personal collision from my urgency. A
soldier whom I had thrust aside aimed a savage blow
at me with his halberd, and a burly ruffian into whose
ribs I struck my elbow overwhelmed me with blasphemous
curses. I disregarded all, however, and, thanks
to my persistence, reached a position near the scaffold.
The crowd was agitated, and many faces were pale.
“Poor king!” said a woman,—for there were many
in the mass;—“see! they have driven iron staples in
the scaffold, to chain him down if he resists!”
“Poor heart!” came in response; but with these
pitying exclamations mingled hoarse shouts of “Execution!
execution!”
I was now in the immediate vicinity of the scaffold.
My head was turning, wellnigh, at thought of the
coming spectacle; but in the midst of this confused
dream, as 'twere, rose clear and vivid the thought,
“Who will act as executioner?” Gregory Brandon,
the official headsman, had fled from London, and would
not strike off the king's head if they found him. Who
would? To volunteer was too infamous for the most
infamous. It might be that no Englishman could be
found who would act as headsman!
A fearful commentary upon this desperate hope was
speedily presented. The crowd surged to and fro; a
path was made through the compact mass; and through
this opening advanced two figures, from whom the most
brutal shrank back.
The figures were clad in a close woolen garb, then
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peculiar to butchers. One wore a long gray peruke,
beard, and black mask; the other a black peruke and
mask, and a black hat whose heavy flap was caught up
in front. Something peculiar in the walk of this latter
proved that it was Gregory Brandon. But who was the
personage in the gray beard?
The men mounted the scaffold in the midst of loud
cries. Then all became silent. Through a window in
front of the palace, the king walked straight to the scaffold,
accompanied only by Bishop Juxon and Herbert.
As he reached it, I saw the figure taken for that of
Gregory Brandon kneel to him. I pushed nearer, and
came within hearing just as the king turned quickly, seeing
some one touch the headman's axe, exclaiming,—
“Have a care of the axe! If the edge is spoiled,'
twill be the worse for me!”
Meanwhile the headsman had remained upon his
knees. He now said, in a muffled voice,—the voice
of Gregory Brandon,—
“I entreat your majesty's forgiveness for performing
this terrible duty.”
The king shook his head.
“No,” he said: “I forgive no subject of mine who
comes deliberately to shed my blood!”
The headsman groaned, and I saw a shudder pass
through his frame.* He rose, and, with head bowed
upon his breast, awaited.
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The king had turned away, and uttered a few words
to Bishop Juxon. He then raised the long locks of
gray hair flowing upon his neck, and said to the
headsman,—
“Is any of my hair in the way?”
“I beg your majesty to push it more under your
cap,” came in muffled tones from the black mask,
whose wearer bowed low.
In observing this ceremony, Bishop Juxon assisted
his majesty.
“There is but one stage more, your majesty,” faltered
the good bishop, “which, though turbulent and trouble-some,
is yet a short one. Consider: it will carry you
a great way,—even from earth to heaven.”
The king inclined his head.
“I go from a corruptible to an incorruptible crown,”
he said, “where no disturbance can take place.”
As he uttered these calm words, the king threw off
his cloak, and gave his George to the bishop, with the
single word, “Remember!” He then removed his
coat, resumed the cloak, and, pointing to the block,
said to the headsman,—
“Place it so that it will not shake.”
“It is firm,” came from the headsman, who shuddered
so that he could scarce hold the axe.
“I shall say a short prayer,” the king said, as calmly
as before. “When I hold out my hand, thus,—strike.”
The king stood for a moment with closed eyes, his
lips moving in prayer. Then he raised his eyes to
heaven, knelt, and placed his head upon the block;
and the headsman, with a single blow, severed his head
from his body.
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As the head rolled upon the scaffold, and the body
recoiled from the block, a cry burst from the vast
crowd,—shouts and weeping mingled.
Above the mass, thus agitated and moving to and
fro, rose the scaffold, where the gray headsman, the
associate of the wretched Brandon, held up the dripping
head of the king, crying,—
“This is the head of a traitor!”
eaf511n3* Sir Henry Ellis records that Gregory Brandon, dragged unwillingly
to execute the king, pined away for want of the forgiveness
refused him, and died less than two years afterwards, declaring that
“he always saw the king as he appeared on the scaffold, and that,
withal, devils did tear him on his death-bed.”—Editor.
I left the scene of the king's execution, staggering
in my gait like a drunken man, and for hours thereafter
wandered about London, the prey to a species of
nightmare which chilled and fevered me by turns. All
objects which my dull eyes rested upon seemed unreal,
like the shapes seen in dreams. I scarce knew where
I was; could see nothing but that one fearful group on
the terrible platform in front of Whitehall.
Night fell, and still I went to and fro like one
who has lost his way. Then, I know not how, I found
myself again in the neighborhood of Whitehall. The
streets were deserted; the great crowd had vanished:
save the light in a window on the ground-floor of the
palace, I saw no evidence that London was not a city
of the dead.
Towards the light a strange attraction drew me.
Without any definite design, I went to the great door
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of the palace: it was open. The hall was deserted. I
entered, approached the door of the apartment from
which the light shone, and, reaching the threshold, saw
before me a singular spectacle.
In a coffin, covered with black velvet, lay the body
of Charles I., the head replaced in its natural position,
the lips wearing a sweet smile.
Beside it stood three persons, and in shadow at one
corner of the room were a number of stern-faced halberd-bearers,
erect and motionless as statues.
The three persons were Colonel Axtel, dark, sombre,
and sullen; Sir Purbeck Temple, a friend of the king,
whom I knew well and at once recognized; the third
personage was the now terrible General Cromwell.
General Cromwell was standing beside the coffin,
with his back turned to me; and I could not see his
face. His left hand was placed beneath his right elbow;
the other hand supported his chin. As I reached the
threshold, Sir Purbeck Temple had drawn near to the
coffin, and was looking at the king's face with half-suppressed
sobs.
“My poor master!” he exclaimed; “and this is
all that is left of thee!”
“Did you expect to find him alive,” growled Axtel,
“after the blow of the axe?”
Sir Purbeck was silent for an instant. Then he
faltered,—
“I know not what I expected, sir. But I have read
that a species of divinity and holiness hedges a
king!—”
He could say no more. Axtel growled: the word
best describes the sound he uttered. He extended his
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hand towards the body; a smile of contempt curled
his sullen lips, and he said, with a heavy frown,—
“If thou thinkest there is any holiness in kingship,
look there!”
Sir Purbeck Temple made no reply. I could see the
tears on his cheeks.
General Cromwell had meanwhile remained silent
and motionless, gazing at the body, as he afterwards
gazed at the king's portrait,—hiding his secret thoughts.
Suddenly he moved and drew near the coffin. For
an instant he paused again. Then, reaching out his
hand, he raised the head of the corpse, looked at it,
and at the body, and said, in his deep voice,—
“This was a well-constituted frame, and promised
long life!”
As he uttered these words he replaced the head in
the coffin, turned away, passed by me slowly, without
appearing to be aware of my presence, and went out
of the door of the palace.
In my turn I approached the coffin, and gazed long
at the king. His lips were smiling: he had died,
plainly, forgiving all his enemies. I bent down and
pressed a last kiss on the thin hand. A growl from
Axtel, and a harsh order to leave the apartment, followed.
I left the room and the palace, and was again
in the streets,—seeing nothing, as I went on, but the
cold face and the smile of the king.
Let me finish the gloomy record.
The body of Charles I. was conveyed to St. James's
Palace, where it was embalmed. It was then taken to
Windsor Castle, Cromwell having refused sepulture for
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the king in Westminster Abbey; and at Windsor it was
committed to the earth. The pall-bearers were the
Duke of Richmond, the Earl of Hertford, and the
Lords Lindsay and Southampton. As the coffin covered
with black velvet was borne from the hall,—the
only inscription upon it, “Carolus Rex, 1648,” cut
with a penknife,—the snow began to fall slowly and
tranquilly, as though it mourned the dead man.
By the time it reached the chapel, the pall of black
velvet was entirely white.
“So went our king white to his grave!” said his
weeping pall-bearers.
Not even the burial-service of the Church had been
permitted to be read over the king's grave.
I might here terminate my memoirs: the great epic
is finished, and the curtain has fallen on the tragedy.
But some incidents remain to be narrated, which refer
to my personal fortunes; and my children, if no others,
will like to hear of these incidents and of what marked
my last days in England.
On the night of the scene at Whitehall, I wandered
about London, laboring under a sort of stupor of grief
and despair. A new blow was, however, coming. Fate
had not exhausted her malice.
I had entered a low tavern, worn out and seeking a
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spot to rest. On the rude table, covered with beer-stains,
lay a newspaper, which I took up mechanically.
As my eye fell upon it, I saw my father's name; and
as I read, my heart sank within me. The paper gave
a list of estates belonging to royalists, which had been
confiscated. Cecil Court was among them, and the
name of Sir Jervas Ireton opposite indicated that the
estate had been conveyed to him.
This intelligence came near to unman me. Then
my dear and honored father would be turned adrift,
homeless, in his old age! The sworn foe of our family
had wreaked his utmost vengeance upon us! The
coarse Sir Jervas Ireton would rule in the ancient home
of the Cecils!
I rose, my head turning, nearly. Whither should I
go? To France, leaving this blow to fall upon my
father? I could not: I must first see him. But how
to get to Warwickshire? I had no horse: was penniless.
I went out of the tavern with a fire burning in
my brain, and tottered rather than walked along the
deserted streets.
I was going along thus, the prey of a despair which
I could not resist, when, just as I passed beneath a
swinging lamp, I heard the clatter of hoofs. They
drew nearer. I raised my head, the light shone upon
my face, and I heard my name uttered.
A moment afterwards, a cavalier, whose horse's hoofs
had made the clatter, stopped near me, threw himself
from the saddle, and passed his arm around me.
“Cecil, you are ill!” he exclaimed.
The light fell upon the speaker, and I recognized
Colonel Edward Cooke.
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“What mean you by wandering through the streets
at this hour, friend?” he continued. “You are pale
and woe-begone: you have seen all to-day, I doubt
not. But come! you are ill, Cecil! Tell me whither
you go.”
In a few words I told him of the confiscation of Cecil
Court, and of my resolution to see my father again
before I left England forever.
“Well,” the old cavalier said, “nothing is easier,
friend. You know I live near London, and my stud
is not yet seized. My horses are famous ones, as you
know; and you shall take your choice. Come! my
servant will give you his cob, and make the journey
home on foot. Come, friend!—we poor forlorn cavaliers
should help each other.”
I responded by a warm pressure of the hand, and
was soon in the saddle. Half an hour afterwards we
had left London by a by-way where there was no sentinel,
and two hours later reined in our horses in front
of the old manor-house of Colonel Cooke. I had
visited the house twice before, the reader will remember,—
first to bear to the old cavalier the queen's note
requesting him to be ready with his horses when she
thought to fly with her children to France, and again
to make arrangements for the king's escape from
Hampton Court. The old house shone now in a
bright moonlight, which lit up, too, the leafless and
spectral trees; but within, in the great fireplace of an
apartment hung round with portraits, roared a fire of
logs, which revived our chilled limbs.
My host proceeded at once to produce flagons and
cold meats. The food and rich wine warmed me and
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brought back my energies. Then, lighting a pipe, and
puffing clouds of smoke from beneath his gray mustache,
Colonel Cooke began to speak of the terrible
event of the day just passed.
I have no space to repeat our conversation. It
extended far into the night. All over England, I
think, that night, poor cavaliers like ourselves were
conferring on the future and shedding tears over the
past.
At last Colonel Cooke rose, and the light fell full
upon his tall figure and his brave face, with its gray
mustache, and its sparkling eyes yet undimmed by
age.
“You must be weary, friend,” he said; “and your
bed is ready. At dawn my best horse will be saddled:
take him; I make you a present of him. God bless
and prosper you! And now a last cup!”
He filled my cup and his own, raised his above his
head, and, with flashing eyes, exclaimed,—
“Confusion to Cromwell and his gang, and God
save his majesty King Charles II.!”
With a close pressure of the hand, we parted, and I
retired to rest.
On the next morning by sunrise I was riding at a
gallop in the direction of Warwickshire.
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The animal which my host had presented me with
was a superb hunter, in the finest condition. He plainly
asked nothing better than to be permitted to go at top
speed; and thus league after league fled from under
his feet, every moment bore me nearer and nearer to
Cecil Court.
I will not interrupt my narrative to speak of my
thoughts and feelings, or to paint the gloomy picture
of rural England in that winter of 1648. 'Twas terrible,
what I saw as I went on my rapid journey. War
had stamped its destroying heel on the lovely land
of the past, and a curse seemed hovering over the
once-smiling fields. I shall not speak further of my
journey, save to relate one singular incident which
befell me.
I was proceeding at a rapid gait in the direction of
Oxford, when, raising my eyes, which had been bent
upon the ground, I saw, beside the road I was following,
a small house which seemed familiar to me. A
second glance, and I had fully recognized it. 'Twas
that to which I had been conducted by Gregory Brandon
and his daughter, and where I had held the interview
with the sick dwarf Geoffrey Hudson.
As I drew near, I saw that the house was uninhabited;
but in front of the door stood a horse covered with
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foam, apparently from a rapid journey. Who could
have thus stopped, I asked myself, to enter this deserted
house? To whom could this animal, covered
with foam-flakes, belong? I determined to solve the
question speedily, dismounted, and entered the house.
Before me, seated on a broken chair, and leaning his
head upon an old table, I saw no less a personage than
the dwarf Hudson.
As my footsteps resounded on the creaking floor, he
quickly raised his head.
“Ah, 'tis you?” he said, drearily. “At first I thought'
twas a ghost. Whence come you, sir?”
“From London. And you, friend?”
“From London also.”
“You have ridden rapidly.”
“I set out at midnight.”
“Then you saw all?”
“All.”
I looked at the strange being, who had answered my
questions in his thin voice with an accent of sombre
indifference. The dwarf seemed to be laboring under
the crushing weight of a sentiment which resembled
despair.
“You were in the crowd yonder?” I said, at a loss
how to continue the conversation.
“Yes,” he replied, in the same dull and dreamy
tone.
“You recognized—him; I mean the headsman?”
“Yes: 'twas Gregory Brandon.”
“And his assistant?”
“Hulet: they paid him a hundred pounds to assist
at the execution.”
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“Hulet! is it possible? The man in the gray
beard Hulet?”
“Yes, Hulet,—the man who had Brandon dragged
from this place of concealment,—who persecuted to
the death the woman I loved,—who has paid at last
for all, and will plot no more.”
“Paid for all?”
“He is dead.'
“Dead?”
“Killed in a drunken brawl in a low tavern, at
nightfall after the execution.”
I remained silent at this strange intelligence. Then
I looked again at the dwarf.
“You say that Hulet persecuted to the death—
whom?”
“Janet Brandon, of whom I knew as Janet Gregory
here! He was crazy about her,—harassed her with
his importunities. She fell ill, and that wretch stood
beside her death-bed and taunted her.”
The dwarf turned pale as he spoke, and uttered a
low groan.
“All is ended for me in life,” he added, in the
same low dull tone. “I have left courts forever, and
go to my obscure home to hide my misery. You were
my friend, and here farewell! We shall never meet on
earth again,—but some day—I shall see her—yonder!”
He pointed to heaven, went out of the deserted
house, mounted his horse, and disappeared.
Such was my last meeting with this singular being,
of whom I never afterwards heard.
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I rode on towards Cecil Court, lost in gloomy
thought. The interview with the dwarf, who had
thus informed me of the death of Janet Brandon and
the man Hulet, had deepened the sombre mood which
oppressed me.
But something still more tragic awaited me. I
should probably arrive at Cecil Court to find it in
possession of the foe of my family,—my father homeless,
the name of Cecil replaced by that of Ireton!
The memory of my poor brother Harry came to add
poignancy to these gloomy reflections. Had he been
spared, we might have borne up: leaning on his strong
arm, my dear father might have gone forth again into
the world. I was left; but I was nothing. Oh, if my
brave strong Harry had not fallen!
Haunted by these sombre thoughts, I continued my
way, and drew near Keynton. Near the village I met
an acquaintance, a poor man of the place.
“Go not thither, Master Cecil,” he said: “there be
soldiers of the godly faction there.”
“They would arrest me, then, friend?”
“Yes, master. See, the man yonder is moving this
way.”
It was necessary to avoid arrest above all things;
and I turned into a side-road.
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“A last word, friend,” I said. “My father?”
“The squire be well, master; but look you!”
The trooper was riding towards me; and, setting
spur to my horse, I followed a bridle-path which led
straight through the woods towards Cecil Court.
In half an hour I emerged from the wood, and the
old home of my family was before me. Oh, how
my heart yearned towards it! How my pulse leaped
at sight of the dearly-loved roof! I put spur to my
horse, went at full speed across the fields, drew near,
passed through the great gate, then, galloping up the
familiar old avenue, I threw myself from the saddle,
and approached the broad door.
As I did so, a brilliant gleam from between two
clouds fell upon the old portico. My heel clashed on
the flags; I heard a cry; the door opened, and I found
myself caught in the arms of my father,—and of Harry!
There are some scenes, reader, which the most eloquent
chronicler shrinks from describing, feeling that
words have not yet been invented adequate to convey
his emotion.
My brother whom I thought dead was thus alive,
and I clasped him in my arms! The dear laughing
face was there again before me,—the warm hand pressed
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my own: it was Harry,—Harry! and, holding him
close to me, I laughed and cried like a child.
The history of this marvel was given me in few
words. Harry had been fearfully but not mortally
wounded on the day of Naseby. With the wounded
of both sides, he had been conveyed to an obscure hospital
in London, and only after long confinement to
his bed had he been able to rise again. He was then
conducted to prison: his obscure existence was unrecorded.
At last his prison-door had opened; and here
he was again at home.
“That's the whole, Ned,” he laughed,—“except
something else. Shall I tell that too?”
“Speak, Harry.”
“No; I'll think I'll let madam tell you in person.”
“Madam!”
“Certainly. Do you remember our visit to my lord
Falkland's house `Great Tew'?”
“Yes! yes!”
“And his handsome and most agreeable niece
Alice?”
I started, gazing at him with wide eyes.
“She has come to see us, now!”
And, opening an inner door, Harry called out,
laughing,—
“Alice!”
The beautiful girl hastened in, bright-eyed, laughing,
and holding up her red cheek.
“Welcome, brother Edmund!” she said.
I pressed my lips to the red cheek, lost in a maze of
wonder. As I did so, I felt two arms around my neck,
and Cicely's lips close pressed to my own.
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“Oh, brother! God be thanked—!”
The child began to cry then, and only held me
closer.
“My little Cicely!” I exclaimed, returning her embrace.
Then I added, laughing,—
“You at least are not married?”
Harry burst into laughter.
“Ask Frank Villiers there if she's not!” he cried.
I turned, feeling as though I were in a dream. Before
me stood young Frank Villiers, with his chestnut
curls, blue eyes, and joyous smile, enjoying plainly my
astonishment, my dumb stupor.
“Let me explain all, my son, in a very few words,”
said my father, in his mild sweet voice. “Harry and
Cicely have just been married, and are about to leave
me. They go beyond seas until the troubles of England
have blown over. God has mercifully returned
my dear Harry to me back from the grave, and now
sends you too to add to the joy of my old heart!”
My father had scarce uttered these words, when hoofstrokes
clattered up the avenue.
“Who comes so fast?” he said, going to the door,
and opening it.
A moment afterwards I saw rush in the figure of
young Jervas Ireton. He was covered with dust, and
held a paper in his hand.
“Make haste, Mr. Harry, and Mr. Ned, and all!”
he exclaimed. “They are coming to arrest you!—
from Keynton!—the troopers!”
“To arrest us?” I said, coldly. “Doubtless 'tis
your good father, sir.”
“Father? Why, he's dead!” exclaimed the young
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hopeful, without any exhibition of feeling. “Died of
the quinsy,—furious because I'd married the gamekeeper's
daughter! Her name was Cicely,—she's a
beauty! But hurry, Mr. Ned and Harry! I'm your
friend; not one of the godly. I have no opinions of
any consequence! Order your coach, quick, and horses
too, and get to Charlecote with the ladies! Stay! the
troopers are coming. See, yonder on the hill!”
A glance indicated that the warning was judicious.
On the summit of a hill about half a mile from the
house was seen a party of troopers approaching at a
round trot.
“I'll see to the coach without a moment's delay!”
Harry exclaimed; “and you, young ladies, gather up
your jewels and laces and be ready! Ned, you and I
will go on horseback. Your horse will await you in
the shrubbery near the coach.”
Cicely and the fair Alice were hastening out, when
young Ireton caught the hand of the former.
“Do you remember old times, Cicely?”
“Yes,—oh, thank you, Jervas; but don't keep me.”
“You are going away now, and I won't see you
again, Cicely.”
“Good-by, Jervas.”
“One moment, Cicely. I am not of much consequence;
but I'm not a bad fellow, and I will try to
show you that.”
He unfolded the paper in his hand.
“I loved you, Cicely,” he went on, “and married
the gamekeeper's daughter because she's named
Cicely too! I love you still, and Mr. Ned, and Harry,
and Mr. Cecil, and all of you. My father's dead, and
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I'm the master, and this deed is mine. It is the deed
to my father for Cecil Court, which they confiscated.
Here, Cicely! that is my wedding-present. Now give
me a kiss!”
He tore the deed in pieces, and presented it to her.
“Good, good Jervas! You are a true friend! Oh,
thank you! you shall have a good kiss, indeed!”
And Cicely held up her lips quickly; the youth bestowed
a resounding salute thereon: a moment afterwards,
Cicely had disappeared, and the troopers were
seen rapidly approaching.
“Go, my son,” said my father. “I have seen you,
and you must not run the risk of prison! God be
thanked, my old eyes have looked again upon my children!
Embrace me! God bless you!”
I threw myself into my father's arms, shook hands
with Jervas, and ran to my horse, which stood in the
shrubbery.
As the troopers thundered up to the door, the coach
containing Cicely, Alice, and Frank Villiers disappeared
in the wood behind the house.
Harry and I followed on horseback; and we gained
Charlecote in safety.
On the next morning the coach with its gentlemen
outriders set out for the coast. Fortune served us. We
obtained passage on a vessel bound for Holland.
Three days afterwards our feet pressed the soil of
the continent. We were beyond the reach of all our
enemies.
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A few pages more will terminate my memoirs.
I found her majesty the queen at the château of the
Duchess de Montmorenci, in a hall hung with black
ever since the execution of the great duke by Richelieu.
And here in this funereal mansion the illustrious
widows mingled their tears.
The queen scarce shed any when I gave her the
king's letter and last message. A dumb despair seemed
to have dried up the fount of her tears; and when I
had finished my tragic narrative she simply dropped
her head, fixing her eyes steadily upon the floor, and,
seeing that she had forgotten my presence, I silently
went out of the apartment, leaving the august mourner
to herself.
Frances Villiers had remained with her, and now
received me and soothed me. Need I relate what
followed? The sole obstacle to our union had been
the promise made to Harry. He was not dead now,
but alive, and certainly would never more prove my
rival. Thus I came to Frances, and took her hand
and pressed it to my lips. An hour afterwards she had
promised me; and in a month she was my wife,—the
dearest and best wife man ever had.
Thus, friendly reader, whether of my own blood or
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other, I have come to the end of my story. Would
you have a few words more, and know how my life
passed afterwards? The record will fill but a page,
and I lay it before you. I remained on the continent,
attached to the French court, until the summer of
1650, when I went with his majesty Charles II. on
that ill-fated expedition that terminated at Worcester.
I shared his perils and adventures thereafter, and may
some day relate them. Now I will record only the
fact that I escaped in safety and rejoined my wife in
Paris.
The year afterwards I was in Virginia, and was building
my house here on York River. Some old cavalier
friends had preceded me, and told marvels of the
country,—of the cheap and fertile lands, the stately
rivers, and the charming climate. I therefore collected
my resources, set sail from France, established
myself on the great York, and have never revisited
England.
The Cecils flourish there still,—Harry being the
head of the house. My dear father is long since dead,—
God rest him, and bless his memory! And Harry, the
owner of Cecil Court, writes me at length by every
sailing-vessel, filling his sheet with laughing comments
on affairs around him, and memories of old times.
Just across the York resides Frank Villiers with his
wife Cicely,—a well-to-do planter, surrounded by rosyfaced
children. He and my dear friend Mr. Page of
“Rosewell” are here constantly. And my old age
thus passes serenely in the midst of my family and
friends, beneath the sunshine of one of the most beautiful
of all lands.
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For all I am grateful,—chiefest of all for my dear
wife and my happy children. God made the first portion
of my existence stormy; he has mercifully sent the
sunshine to bathe with its mild splendor my old age.
I thank him humbly, and strive to love my fellow-creatures
as I should. Old enmities have long since
disappeared from my heart. The smiles of my dear
Frances and my little ones shine brightly. And that
cheerful sunshine lights up my life, blotting out all the
sad memories of the past.
THE END.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1873], Her Majesty the Queen: a novel. (J.B. Lippincourt and Co., Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf511T].
