THE GOVERNOR OF ENGLAND
THE GOVERNOR OF
ENGLAND
BY
MARJORIE BOWEN
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
1914
CONTENTS
PART I
THE CAUSE
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE SUMMONS 3
II. THREE YEARS LATER 13
III. MR. PYM AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 23
IV. THE QUEEN'S POLICY 31
V. THE FALL OF THE GREAT MINISTER 42
VI. THE KING FAILS 51
VII. AUTUMN, 1641 61
VIII. THE NEWS FROM IRELAND 70
IX. MR. PYM AND THE KING 79
X. LORD FALKLAND'S ADVICE 90
XI. THE FIVE MEMBERS 99
XII. NOTTINGHAM 107
PART II
THE MAN
I. A LEADER OF MEN 117
II. THE QUEEN'S FAREWELL 128
III. THE GREAT FIGHT 138
IV. THE DEAD CAVALIER 147
V. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CROMWELL AND HIS GOD 157
VI. THE KING DREAMS 164
VII. LOYALTY HOUSE 174
VIII. THE KING'S FOLLY 186
IX. THE END OF THE WAR 194
PART III
THE CRISIS
I. THE ISSUE WITH THE KING 203
II. THE KING'S PLOTS 213
III. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CROMWELL, ROYALIST 221
IV. THE KING AT BAY 230
V. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CROMWELL, REPUBLICAN 238
VI. PRESTON ROUT 246
VII. THE CONSTANCY OF THE KING 254
VIII. IN THE BALANCE 261
IX. BY WHAT AUTHORITY? 271
X. EXIT THE KING 285
PART IV
THE ACHIEVEMENT
I. "THE CROWNING MERCY" 297
II. THE TALK IN ST. JAMES'S PARK 306
III. EXIT THE PARLIAMENT 316
IV. "THE NEW ORDER" 324
V. HIS HIGHNESS 333
VI. MAJOR-GENERAL HARRISON 342
VII. LADY NEWCASTLE 352
VIII. THE LADY ELISABETH 361
IX. EXIT HIS HIGHNESS 370
PART I
THE CAUSE
"Of the two greatest concernments that God hath in the world, the one
is that of religion and of the preservation of the professors of it; to
give them all due and just liberty; and to assert the word of God.
"The other thing cared for is the civic liberty and interest of the
nation.
"Which, though it is, and I think it ought to be, subordinate to the
more peculiar interest of God, yet it is the next best God hath given
men in this world; and if well cared for, it is better than any rock to
fence men in their other interests."--OLIVER CROMWELL
CHAPTER I
THE SUMMONS
On a certain day in November, a misty day with sharpness under the
mist, a gentleman was walking out of the little town of St. Ives, which
stood black and bleak above the bleak, black waters of the Ouse and the
mournful clusters of bare, drooping willows.
It was late in the afternoon, and there chanced to be no one abroad in
the grazing lands outside the town save this one gentleman who walked
eastward towards the damp, vaporous fen country.
The horizon was brought within a few yards of him by the confining
mist, and, as he walked farther from St. Ives, the town began to be
also rapidly lost and absorbed in the general dull greyness, so that
when he turned at last (sharply and as if with some set purpose or some
lively inner prompting), the dwelling-houses, the river, bounded by the
barns and palings, had all disappeared, and there remained only visible
the erect tall steeple of the church, pointing into the grey sky from
the dark obscured willows and dark obscured town and unseen river.
And though he walked rapidly, yet this tower and steeple of the old,
humble, enduring church continued long in sight, for it was uplifted
into the higher, clearer air, and was in itself substantial and massive.
For the high-wrought mood of this gentleman who, as he advanced farther
into utter solitude, so continually looked back, this steeple of God's
mansion had a deep spiritual meaning; it rose out of darkness and
vapour and obscurity as the mandate of God rose, the one clear thing,
out of the confusions and strifes and clamours of the world.
The mandate of God, ay--surely the one thing that mattered, the one
thing to be followed and obeyed--and when the summons and command
were clear there was great joy in obedience; but what when, as now,
the order was not given, when God remained mute and the soul of His
creature was enclosed in darkness even as town and fields were now
enclosed in the cloudy exhumations of the earth?
When the steeple was at last hidden from his keenest glance, the
gentleman stopped and, leaning against a paling, gazed over the short
expanse of foggy ground visible to him, alone and terribly lonely in
his soul.
A deep melancholy lay upon him, a melancholy almost inseparable from
his unbending, austere, and sombre creed, a melancholy of the spirit,
black and awful, neither to be ignored nor reasoned with--a spiritual
disease to which he had been prone since his earliest youth, and which
became at times almost intolerable and scarcely to be endured by any
mortal, however stout-hearted.
Had any one come up through the November mist and noticed and observed
this gentleman leaning on the rough willow paling, he would have
seen nothing to suggest a gloomy mystic nor one struggling with the
anguished tribulations of the soul.
He was, to the outward eye, a man in the prime of life, of the type
commonly accepted as English, and, indeed, possible to no other nation
in the world, of medium height and the appearance of medium strength,
his obvious gentility gracing his plain, sober, frieze clothes, and the
little sword at his side giving the one courtly touch to his habit,
which otherwise, with plain band and ribbonless hat, might have seemed
too much that of a mere farmer, for his high boots, now mud-caked, had
seen good service. He wore no gloves on his browned hands, and his
hair, of the dusk English brown, was cut in a country fashion, and
worn no longer than his shoulders.
His face was unusual, yet might have been that of an ordinary man, the
features powerful, the nose bluntly aquiline, the mouth set steadily,
the Saxon grey-blue eyes rather overbrowed, giving the countenance a
glooming air, the chin and jaw massive, the complexion tanned to the
glowing natural colour of a healthy fair man past any bloom of youth,
and unused to the softness of town life.
Not a handsome face, but not uncomely, and remarkable chiefly (now, at
least) for a certain quiet look, not a slumbering look, but rather the
look of one whose soul is locked and sealed.
Such was his appearance, and his history was as simple and unpretending
as his visage and his attire; nothing had ever happened to him that
he should stand there now sunk in torments of melancholy. His life
had been smooth, uneventful, successful; he had been born and bred in
Huntingdon, and never gone beyond the borders of that county save when
he had sat, a silent borough Member, in His Majesty's last Parliament
at Westminster, nine years ago, and he was in that happy position of
being well known and respected, in his own little world, as one of
the largest landowners in St. Ives, and utterly unknown to the great
world where fame is distraction and confusion. He was tranquil in
an honourable obscurity, happy in his wife, his children, of an old
well-placed family, well connected, and of considerable local influence
and fair repute. He could himself remember that His late Majesty,
twice coming through Huntingdon, had each time been entertained by
his grandfather at his manor house, on the first occasion with much
splendour, when the King came from Scotland to take up his new crown.
In his own business he had prospered; the lands he had bought at St.
Ives and which he farmed himself, reclaiming them with patience from
the fen, had well repaid his labour, and he might count himself well
off, and even, for this quiet spot, wealthy.
Therefore it might have been supposed that this man, midway now through
life, would have considered his honourable labour, his honourable
profits, his serene existence, his fair placement and good report among
his neighbours, his prospect of quietness and respect and comfort to
the end of his days, and have been content, for he was without ambition.
But he was not satisfied with his own material happiness, for great new
forces and powers were abroad in the world struggling together, and
this struggle echoed again and again in the heart of the man who stood
against the willow paling, gazing into the November mist that shrouded
Erith Bulwark and the fen country.
The country had been long at peace, lulled and tranquil after that
great triumph of the Reformation of the Church, and that demonstration
of material power which had silenced the pretensions of Spain and
warned the world what England was.
But Elizabeth was now a generation dead, and the grandson of the
Papist Mary sat on the Tudor's throne with a Frenchwoman, a Mary and
a Papist too, beside him, and the Church was becoming again corrupt,
the power of the bishops daily higher, troubles in Church and State
increasing, liberty, civil and religious, threatened--for the King and
his ministers had governed nine years without a Parliament, contrary to
the laws and ordinances of the realm of England.
This Huntingdonshire gentleman knew that the devil was in these things,
that God was surely with the oppressed, with those who sought and
found a purer worship, with those, daily increasing, who accepted that
teaching of John Calvin which had inspired the Hollanders to throw
off the bloody yoke of Alva and the Inquisition, with those who had
ventured to plead humbly for liberty of conscience at the conference
of Hampton and had been denied by King and bishops with threats and
scorn, and had gone about since, ridiculed and persecuted, nicknamed
"Puritans."
This man knew this as he knew the King and the bishops, the ministers,
and the followers of these, were dealing with things idolatrous and
horrible, stepping into the fore-courts of hell.
Ay, and taking the nation with them. How was that to be
prevented--which way did God appoint?
That was the question which troubled the personal melancholy of the man
in whose heart it flashed--for the King was King by Divine appointment,
and if he had lent his weight and authority to these ways of misrule
and oppression, idolatry and Papistry, who was to argue with him or
withstand him?
Who was to appeal from the King to God?
The man in the frieze habit was conscious of a burning flame or
light in himself which urged him to step forward for this distracted
England's succour. But he received no summons. The face of the Lord was
veiled and he was but a poor soul, possibly damned, with no knowledge
of what destiny the Highest had prepared for him. He felt himself in
blackest chaos; his soul, which had ever striven to obtain God's grace,
now seemed tossed far from mercy on the black waters of despair.
To him, and especially in this mood, the present world was nothing; he
was not given to metaphor, but in his thoughts he compared the world
to a little plank he had once seen stretched across a deep and angry
stream, and arched above with fairest blossoming trees. The plank in
itself was insignificant, and useful only to support those who might
for a moment stand thereon--the important thing was to save oneself
from the black, dangerous abysses beneath, and gain, somehow, the
flower-crowned heights that the trees veiled and decked.
Whether the plank be rough or smooth, narrow or wide, mattered not
at all, if only one were enabled to tread thereon straightly. So it
mattered not a jot to this gentleman what his station, chances, or
fortunes might be in this world. Am I damned or saved? was the question
that held the heart of his torment and mingled with it was another: Is
there not that in me, unworthy as I am, which God might make use of to
save these poor people in poor England now? Yea, though I am not bred
to be a lawyer or a soldier, am I not conscious of _something_ within
me which might fit me for this work if God should call me to it?
But the heavens were black and mute to his intense prayers and his
humble endeavours to commune with God, and he went his obscure way in
wretchedness of heart, never faltering from the stern composure of his
belief that the Lord had preordained all things, and that no act of any
man's could alter a jot what was to befall.
The King and the bishops, poor puppets, believed in Freewill and such
heresies of Arminianism and Popery, but this Calvinist, standing in the
November vapour, _knew_ that he was but a helpless weapon to be used as
God might direct; _knew_ he was saved or damned before his birth, and
that no deed of his could alter the Divine fiat; _knew_ he was but a
machine into which the Holy Spirit might blow some sparks, but which at
present was cold and empty.
In this moment he felt hell very close beneath his feet, the earth
seemed a mere crust over that awful region, a crust that might easily
break and spew forth devils, while the over-arching heavens seemed
lost, lost beyond mortal attainment.
A long shudder shook his strong body, he covered the steadfast grey
eyes with his rough hand, and leant heavily against the paling.
A cousin of his, a man not unknown in Parliament, had recently defied
the King; had refused, being armed and at the head of his tenantry, to
pay the ship-money, that being a tax (one of many) levied by the King
without the consent of the people of England, Parliament being in
abeyance; and this country gentleman had appealed to the laws, asking,
"By what authority?" and when they said, "the King,"--had answered,
"that was not sufficient, for the laws and the nation were above the
King, and alone he could enforce nothing."
Which statement made men stare, for it was near treason, and the
speaker of these words was now on his trial, and his cousin, fighting
through his own tribulations, thought of him and of the issue that hung
upon the verdict pronounced upon his case.
If the judges found the ship-money tax illegal, then had civil liberty
won indeed a victory! If they found that the King was above the laws
and could by his sole authority do what he pleased in Church and State,
why, where was England and those poor few within her borders who truly
sought the Lord? Yet not so much even this tremendous issue touched the
soul of the melancholy Calvinist as the thought--What he did, could not
I do, ay, and more?
If one, a gentleman of good repute, may thus challenge even the sacred
authority of the King, may not another, of the same good blood and
stalwart faith, the Lord bidding him, accomplish something?
The thought was like a tiny ray of light penetrating his deep
melancholy; he moved from his cramped position, shook his frieze cloak
on which the drops of moisture hung thick, and looked about him.
Something to do--something to labour for--something to save and guard
for the Lord in this old realm where all had gone so crooked of late....
The fire that never lay very deep beneath the stagnation of his
melancholies mounted clear and bright in his soul.
He turned about to where he knew the church stood, and, stately
Englishman as he was, he flung out his hands wide with the unconscious
gesture of strong passion, and, looking upwards through the drizzling
mist with that inner eye which perfectly beheld the choired rows of
Paradise and the multitude about the Throne, he cried out aloud--
"Lord, wilt thou not choose _me_ also for this service?"
The little light in his soul increased into a gleam of hope; he turned
his back on the fens and Erith Bulwark, and retraced his steps towards
St. Ives, crossing the lands of Slepe Hall, which he rented, and coming
soon again in view of the quiet, sombre little town, and of the garden
wall enclosing his own riverside house.
The mist now began to waver and lift, and to be over-coloured with a
play of light, and when he reached the church the day was almost normal
fair.
In his soul, too, was the struggle stilled; a curious apathy, a pause
in spiritual experience, enveloped him. He stood motionless for a
moment, for he felt physically weak and his legs trembled under him.
As he halted so, not a yard from the entrance to the church, a solitary
horseman disturbed the dulness of the street--a young yeoman farmer
returning from market at Huntingdon town. On seeing the gentleman he
reined in the stout grey he rode, and very respectfully raised his hat.
"Why, sir," he said, "there is great news in Huntingdon. Why, Mr.
Cromwell, the news of the verdict is abroad!"
The other had no need to ask what verdict. In all England men spoke of
"the trial"--the trial of John Hampton for refusing to pay the King's
tax.
"Well?" he asked, and his serious face was pale.
"Mr. Cromwell," answered the young man dismally, "he is to pay the
twenty shillings."
For a moment Mr. Cromwell was silent, then he spoke slowly--
"So we have no hope in those who administer the laws?"
"They have put the laws beneath His Majesty," said the farmer eagerly.
"All is to be as he wills, with no talk of a Parliament at all--so
the lawyers in London say, sir--and Mr. Hampton is to pay the twenty
shillings which goeth with many another honest man's money into the
coffers of the bishops and the Papist Queen."
"Ay, so the lawyers say," returned Mr. Cromwell, "but this is a matter
which England"--he slightly stressed the word--"must decide."
The young farmer, flushed and important with his great news, saluted
again, and rode on to report all over the countryside how the protest
of Mr. John Hampton to the laws of England against the tyranny of the
King had failed.
Mr. Cromwell remained standing by the church a moment, then he wandered
off into one of his own fields near by and entered a great barn which
stood there, and remained silent in the dimness of the interior, which
was fragrant from the scent of last summer's hay stored in the lofts.
So the Law had decided in favour of the King, who might now levy
ship-money and whatever tax else he chose--and there would be the Tower
and the pillory, the branding and the fine, for those who dared resist,
as there had been for Prynne and Bastwick who had dared to criticise
the ritual of Archbishop Laud.
Mr. Cromwell felt a strange sparkle in his blood; he paced to and fro
on the rough floor, strewn with the dried husks of the last harvest,
and clasped his hands on his rough coat-breast and then dropped the
left to his sword. As he clasped the plain hilt, a sudden exaltation
shot into his heart, his spirit leapt suddenly to a greater height than
any it had touched before. And then it happened.
A dazzle of unbelievable light opened before his inner vision, he fell
on his knees and, from a sword of fire, received the accolade of God....
"Lord, I am saved!" he cried. "I am in Grace! And I am chosen to be Thy
servant in this work which is to be done in England...."
When the glamour faded he rose, staggering, and wept a little for joy.
It was a tremendous moment of his life.
Then he went home across the wet fields, outwardly an ordinary
gentleman, inwardly a soul newly awake to salvation, bearing a burning
light no more to be quenched until it returned to Heaven.