CHAPTER VI._Biographical Stories (From: "True Stories of History and Biography")

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About this period Mr. Temple found it necessary to take a journey, which

interrupted the series of Biographical Stories for several evenings. In

the interval, Edward practised various methods of employing and amusing

his mind.

Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which he had formerly seen,

until the intensity of his recollection seemed to restore him the gift of

sight and place everything anew before his eyes. Sometimes he repeated

verses of poetry which he did not know to be in his memory until he found

them there just at the time of need. Sometimes he attempted to solve

arithmetical questions which had perplexed him while at school.

Then, with his mother’s assistance, he learned the letters of the string

alphabet, which is used in some of the institutions for the blind in

Europe. When one of his friends gave him a leaf of St. Mark’s Gospel,

printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it by passing his

fingers over the letters as blind children do.

His brother George was now very kind, and spent so much time in the

darkened chamber that Edward often insisted upon his going out to play.

George told him all about the affairs at school, and related many amusing

incidents that happened among his comrades, and informed him what sports

were now in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and whose little

ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she repeated stories

which she had learned from a new book called THE FLOWER PEOPLE, in which

the snowdrops, the violets, the columbines, the roses, and all that lovely

tribe are represented as telling their secrets to a little girl. The

flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward almost fancied that

he could behold their bloom and smell their fragrant breath.

Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward’s confinement passed

not unhappily. In due time his father returned; and the next evening, when

the family were assembled, he began a story.

“I must first observe, children,” said he, “that some writers deny the

truth of the incident which I am about to relate to you. There certainly

is but little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable writers, however,

tell it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an interesting story, and

has an excellent moral.”

So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of

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OLIVER CROMWELL.

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[BORN 1599 DIED 1658.]

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Not long after King James I. took the place of Queen Elizabeth on the

throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place called

Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his life, I

suppose, pretty much like other English knights and squires in those days,

bunting hares and foxes and drinking large quantities of ale and wine. The

old house in which he dwelt had been occupied by his ancestors before him

for a good many years. In it there was a great hall, hang round with coats

of arms and helmets, cuirasses and swords, which his forefathers had used

in battle, and with horns of deer and tails of foxes which they or Sir

Oliver himself had killed in the chase.

This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver, after

himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little

Noll. His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was often

sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome little

fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, and always running

into some danger or other, from which he seemed to escape only by miracle.

Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had befallen

hum. A huge ape, which was kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in

his fore paws and clambered with him to the roof of the house. There this

ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, as if it had done

the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately, however, he brought

the child safe down again; and the event was afterwards considered an omen

that Noll would reach a very elevated station in the world.

One morning, when Noll was five or six years old a royal messenger arrived

at Hinchinbrooke with tidings that King James was coming to dine with Sir

Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a very great

trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, squires, guards and

yeomen, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well as himself; and

more provisions would be eaten and more wine drunk in that one day than

generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver expressed much thankfulness for

the king’s intended visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the

best preparations in their power. So a great fire was kindled in the

kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured out of the

chimney that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, and frying were going on

merrily.

By and by the sound of trumpets was heard approaching nearer and nearer; a

heavy, old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove up to

the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, stood at the gate to

receive the king. His Majesty was dressed in a suit of green not very new;

he had a feather in his hat and a triple ruff round his neck, and over his

shoulder was slung a hunting-horn instead of a sword. Altogether he had

not the most dignified aspect in the world; but the spectators gazed at

him as if there was something superhuman and divine in his person. They

even shaded their eyes with their hands, as if they were dazzled by the

glory of his countenance.

“How are ye, man?” cried King James, speaking in a Scotch accent; for

Scotland was his native country. “By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad

to see ye!”

The good knight thanked the king; at the same time kneeling down while his

Majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir

Oliver’s attention to a little boy who had come with him in the coach. He

was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and was more

richly dressed than the king himself. Though by no means an ill-looking

child, he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his cheeks were rather pale, as

if he had been kept moping within doors, instead of being sent out to play

in the sun and wind.

“I have brought my son Charlie to see ye,” said the king. “I hope, Sir

Oliver, ye have a son of your own to be his playmate.”

Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom one

of the attendants had now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful to see

how all the spectators, even the aged men with their gray beards, humbled

themselves before this child. They bent their bodies till their beards

almost swept the dust: They looked as if they were ready to kneel down and

worship him.

The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared to

contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a superior

being; so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of himself. He

naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great Britain and all its

inhabitants had been created solely for his benefit and amusement. This

was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear enough after he had ascended his

father’s throne.

“What a noble little prince he is!” exclaimed Sir Oliver, lifting his

hands in admiration. “No, please your Majesty, I have no son to be the

playmate of his royal highness; but there is a nephew of mine somewhere

about the house. He is near the prince’s age, and will be but too happy to

wait upon his royal highness.”

“Send for him, man! send for him!” said the king.

But, as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll. While

King James was speaking, a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust

himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants and greeted the

prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose (which had been put on new

and clean in honor of the king’s visit) were already soiled and torn with

the rough play in which he had spent the morning. He looked no more

abashed than if King James were his uncle and the prince one of his

customary playfellows.

This was little Noll himself.

“Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew,” said Sir Oliver, somewhat

ashamed of Noll’s appearance and demeanor. “Oliver, make your obeisance to

the king’s majesty.”

The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king; for in those days

children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James, who

prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few questions in

the Latin grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The little prince,

in a very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand, not for Noll to

shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.

“Nephew,” said Sir Oliver, “pay your duty to the prince.”

“I owe him no duty,” cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince’s hand with a

rude laugh. “Why should I kiss that boy’s hand?”

All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of

all. But the king laughed heartily, saying, that little Noll had a

stubborn English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn betimes

what sort of a people he was to rule over.

So King James and his train entered the house; and the prince, with Noll

and some other children, was sent to play in a separate room while his

Majesty was at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; for boys,

whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play, and are

pleased with one another’s society. What games they diverted themselves

with I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball, perhaps at

blind-man’s-buff, perhaps at leap-frog, perhaps at prison-bars. Such games

have been in use for hundreds of years; and princes as well as poor

children have spent some of their happiest hours in playing at them.

Meanwhile King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver in the

great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of

a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was with the

deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him wine or the various

delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You would have

thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a supernatural

being; only he seemed to have quite as much need of those vulgar matters,

food and drink, as any other person at the table. But fate had ordained

that good King James should not finish his dinner in peace.

All of a sudden there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the

children were at play. Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed

up together; while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, trying

to restore order among the children. The king and everybody else at table

looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them think that a general

rebellion had broken out.

“Mercy on us!” muttered Sir Oliver; “that graceless nephew of mine is in

some mischief or other. The naughty little whelp!”

Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the matter, followed by many

of the guests, and the king among them. They all crowded to the door of

the playroom.

On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, with his rich dress

all torn and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood was

streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a

mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled expression,

as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him a

beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a

lion, looking as if he were ready to fight, not only the prince, but the

king and kingdom too.

“You little villain!” cried his uncle. “What have you been about? Down on

your knees, this instant, and ask the prince’s pardon. How dare you lay

your hands on the king’s majesty’s royal son?”

“He struck me first,” grumbled the valiant little Noll; “and I’ve only

given him his due.”

Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and

horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little varlet,

who had dared to resent a blow from the king’s own son. Some of the

courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the Tower

of London and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their great

zeal for the king’s service, were about to lay hands on the boy and

chastise him in the royal presence.

But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered them

to desist.

“Thou art a bold boy,” said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; “and, if

thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends with

thee.”

“I never will!” cried the little prince, stamping his foot.

“Peace, Charlie, peace!” said the king; then addressing Sir Oliver and the

attendants, “Harm not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good lesson,

if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter, should he be

tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen, let him

remember little Noll Cromwell and his own bloody nose.”

So the king finished his dinner and departed; and for many a long year the

childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten.

The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, and have met a more

peaceful death, had he remembered that quarrel and the moral which his

father drew from it. But when old King James was dead, and Charles sat

upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a man, and that his

meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have the property

and lives of the people of England entirely at his own disposal. But the

Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him and beat him in many

battles, and pulled him down from his throne.

Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side and the people

of England on the other there was a famous leader, who did more towards

the ruin of royal authority than all the rest. The contest seemed like a

wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man. And the king was

overthrown.

When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader sat

in the judgment hall. Many judges were present besides himself; but he

alone had the power to save King Charles or to doom him to the scaffold.

After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was entreated by

his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty from death.

“No!” said he, sternly. “Better that one man should perish than that the

whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall

die!”

When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy

stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor

victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid his

head upon the block. He looked on with a steadfast gaze while a

black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe and smote off that anointed

head at a single blow.

“It is a righteous deed,” perhaps he said to himself.

“Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights.”

At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy

chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleams

showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many

battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care and

with the continual exercise of stern authority. Probably there was not a

single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little Noll

who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he!

He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon

the dead monarch’s face. Then, probably, his mind went back over all the

marvellous events that had brought the hereditary King of England to this

dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, a humble individual, to the

possession of kingly power. He was a king, though without the empty title

or the glittering crown.

“Why was it,” said Cromwell to himself, or might have said, as he gazed at

the pale features in the coffin,—“why was it that this great king

fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm?”

And, indeed, why was it?

King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a child,

he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother. He deemed

himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were created only

for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many

faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his fellow-men; and

therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their strength to him.

“Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!” exclaimed Edward.

“And would you like to be a Cromwell?” inquired his father.

“I should like it well,” replied George; “only I would not have put the

poor old king to death. I would have sent him out of the kingdom, or

perhaps have allowed him to live in a small house near the gate of the

royal palace. It was too severe to cut off his head.”

“Kings are in such an unfortunate position,” said Mr. Temple, “that they

must either be almost deified by their subjects, or else be dethroned and

beheaded. In either case it is a pitiable lot.”

“O, I had rather be blind than be a king!” said Edward.

“Well, my dear Edward,” observed his mother, with a smile, “I am glad you

are convinced that your own lot is not the hardest in the world.”

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Biographical Stories (From: "True Stories of History and Biography") · 第 6 / 9 章