And if physitians in their art did see
In each disease there was some sparke divine,
Much more let us the hand of God confesse
In all these sufferings of our guiltinesse.
_A Treatie of Warres._
Night closed on Cheddar, without any other disturbance than a
quarrel--loud and short as a thunder-storm--between the blacksmith and
his old termagant wife, which, Roger being potent in liquor,
terminated in a complete victory on his part; and thus silence, if not
peace, was restored to the quarter in which he dwelt.
Moreover, at the door of the Jolly Woodcutter, the most decent
ale-house in the townlet, an old soldier with one leg, who tramped the
country as a ballad-singer, with a fiddle and a dancing dog, became so
very uproarious that it was found absolutely necessary by the parish
constable to secure his one sturdy limb in the village stocks, where,
after venting a few loud and angry curses at this dignitary, and
abusing the village fiddlers for not playing the grand march of the
king’s beef-eaters to the right tune, he addressed himself to making
as easy a sleeping posture as his wooden fetter would allow; and,
being apparently very familiar with such a resting-place, soon
grumbled off into snoring forgetfulness: his little four-footed
companion and guard did meanwhile drag up the cloak, which he had
dropped some yards from the place of his confinement, and, arranging
it in a soft heap, curled itself thereon with an evident sense of
comfort.
But May-day festivals--though certainly in towns, and in those
parishes in the rural districts where not conducted by discreet
persons, they were often fruitful in scenes of riot and
licentiousness--were not, in the present instance, chargeable with
either of the noisy incidents which had for a half hour frighted the
village from its propriety; seeing that the disputes of Roger and his
rib were of every-day occurrence, and his potations also; and as for
the old soldier, his drinking bouts were regulated by the state of
that narrow poke in which he deposited his uncertain gains; and his
sobriety was never secure while one coin remained in it.
Our parson came forth at the first glimpse of day on the morrow, to
inquire at the mill how the poor sufferer had passed the night. She
was in a profound and calm sleep, and he returned thankfully home,
taking the street which led by the market cross. Nobody was yet
abroad; but, under the great tree in the market place, he saw the old
soldier sitting up in the stocks, and looking about him very forlorn
and penitential. No sooner did he perceive the good vicar approaching,
than he began to plead for his freedom.
“May it please your good reverence, make them loose me. I am not a
pig, that I should be thus pounded:--never said or did harm to man or
Christian, save only in the way of duty, your reverence. I am but a
poor old toss-pike, done up in the wars; and gain an honest livelihood
with this old kit and scraper, and this dumb creature, that shall
dance you jig or coranto with any city madam of them all.”
“Why, I’ll see what I can do; but you would not have been put here for
nothing, friend.”
“Nothing in life, your reverence, but drinking the health of King
Charles in a brimmer, last evening, that was May-day, and a court
holyday all the world over; and then the wound in my old head always
aches, Parson, and I say more nor I mean, and, may be, louder than
your gentles talk.”
“Well, but this is a sorry way of life for an old soldier,--to go
about like a vagabond. Have you no home?”
“Home, bless you! none but this old bit of a cloak.”
“What parish were you born in?”
“Ah! there it is! I was born i’ the camp, in the Low Countries. That
same day that the most noble Sir Philip Sidney was killed, my mother
had a fright from a shot striking the sutler’s waggon, and I came into
the world a month before time.”
“And have you no friends living?”
“None in the wide world that care a split straw whether I am above
ground or under, this blessed day, save, may be, this little dumb
thing that’s used to me.”
“Where did you lose your leg?”
“In the lines before St. Martin, your reverence: it will be thirteen
years agone, come next September; and the right-worshipful knight, Sir
Joseph Burroughs, was killed by the same shot. We used to say in
hospital (you know, your reverence, we were vexed, and it was some of
the officers, in their cups, spoke it out of a play-book,)--
“‘Off with his head!--So much for Buckingham.’
“Well, they had their wish, in a manner, a year after; and I always
minded after, that Master Felton was one of them.--Poor fellow! He
gave me four-pence in silver, when I hadn’t a halfpenny to buy bread
in London; and that same morning I saw his Grace of Buckingham in a
sedan chair in Whitehall, and I would have tossed my staff before him,
in hope of a largess; but his running footmen, with their fine silver
badges, shouldered me into the gutter, crying, ‘Room for his Grace!
room for my Lord’s Grace!’ Well, it was little room he took or wanted
that day was a month! I was very sorry for Master Felton,--and I went
to see him hanged.”
“You know he was _a murderer_.”
“O yes, I know that; but he gave me four-pence when I was starving;
and, though he was only a lieutenant, he was a better officer than
Buckingham, who was all lace and velvet, satin and feathers:--a likely
man to look upon, and did not want courage; but he knew no more about
commanding an army than the court fool.”
“Don’t you know, friend, that you must one day die yourself; and that
it is a terrible thing to die and go before God without preparation?”
The veteran gave his buff jerkin a twitch, and said, “Why, for the
matter of that, Parson, you see, I am no scholar, and cannot tell a B
from a bull’s foot.”
“You believe in God?”
“Why, Master, haven’t I lain half my life abroad in the open fields,
with the stars shining over my head? Ah, you don’t know what grand
things come into a poor fellow’s mind when he wakes in the night and
sees them bright things above him.”
“Yes, but I do,” said Noble with emotion; “and it is because I do,
that I ask you these things. Do you ever pray to God?”
“Why, bless you, Master, I wouldn’t trouble him about a poor chopstick
like myself.”
“You know the name of Christ, friend?”
“Yes,” said the homeless wanderer, and bowed his grey head.
“And what are your thoughts of him?”
“Why that he’ll be so good as to speak a word to God Almighty for me,”
was the man’s strange yet pregnant answer. It is this mixture of
recklessness, ignorance, and the mysterious worship of that inner
spirit, which struggles upwards after something to which the heart may
reach, and where it may finally rest, that makes every human being a
subject of sad yet of sublime contemplation;--a fellow, a brother, an
immortal spirit, passing here below his brief time of sojourning, but
born for eternity.
Our good vicar was a true messenger of peace:--we need not say more
than that this and all such opportunities were gladly improved by him.
He sowed beside all waters. In the present instance the old soldier
was speedily released, and taken up to the parsonage, and there, in
the shady porch, he had a hearty breakfast; and when the little
household assembled for prayer the wondering wayfarer was brought into
the hall, and heard the more excellent way very plainly set before
him,--and was then suffered to depart with bread in his wallet, and a
parting word of solemn warning and brotherly kindness, as he set
forward on his path, carrying with him the new thought and feeling,
that, though he was a ballad singer and a sot, accustomed only to
revilings, he had found a man of God, who had not passed him by, but
had served him, and soothed him, and cared for his soul.
Such a man and such a minister was our parson of Cheddar: he had been
now resident in the parish for fifteen years. Hither he had then
brought a sensible wife,--of many rare accomplishments, and of a solid
piety. Three fine children then played in their garden: of these,
their girl had been taken from them in her twelfth year; and their two
boys, who had both attained the age of manhood, had quitted the
paternal roof, and taken their respective paths in life. Cuthbert, the
eldest, had been educated at Winchester College, had afterwards passed
through his university course at Cambridge, and was now domiciled, as
has been already seen, in the house of Sir Oliver Heywood, as a tutor.
Martin, the youngest, had been five years at Westminster School as a
day scholar, under the care, during that period, of one Mr. Philips, a
worshipful and wealthy gentleman, of the most honourable company of
Goldsmiths, and brother to the late Sir John Philips, knight, a very
eminent merchant in the Levant trade, who, having made an unsuccessful
speculation, and losing his whole venture, had taken the failure of
his fortunes so much to heart, that he sickened and died soon after,
leaving behind him one portionless daughter. This girl, while under
the roof of her uncle, who was very considerably the junior of her
father in age, was seen and admired by Noble, and had soon become his
welcome prize.
With this maternal uncle, Martin, at his own request, was placed, as
soon as he quitted school, that he might be brought up in the same
thriving business. He quickly became remarkable for his taste and
skill in the art of design, and as a fine judge of precious stones, so
that his uncle predicted for him great eminence and wealth in the line
which he had chosen; but Martin chancing one day to wait upon Vandyck
with an ornamental piece of plate which a nobleman presented to that
great genius, and being questioned about the design, confessed, with
some hesitation, that it was his own. Hereupon the painter broke out
into praise so warm, and took such notice of the youth, that, to
Martin, a painter did soon seem the highest style of man;--to be of
this bright company was now the highest object of his ambition. He
had a strong will; for this he rose early, and late took rest: and the
bent of his inclination became so decided, and his promise of
excellence so great, that his uncle, at the recommendation of Vandyck,
determined to afford him the opportunity and advantage of visiting
Italy, and pursuing his studies in the city of Rome. There, surrounded
by the great models of the divine art to which he was devoted, daily
extending his knowledge, and increasing his delight, Martin lived at
once to labour and to enjoy.
But the absence of these dear boys, though necessary, was severely
felt by Noble and his wife; nor, in those days, were communications by
letter of regular or frequent occurrence, even at home,--and of
course, from abroad, very rare and most uncertain.
The good vicar, though anxious about Martin’s residence at Rome, was
not wanting in true sympathy for his pursuits; having himself a taste
for the arts, which he had improved by a leisure tour through Italy
(before his marriage) as tutor and guardian to a young gentleman of
large possessions in Oxfordshire.
Nothing could be more retired than the life led by these childless
parents at Cheddar.
It is a large village, or townlet, situate at the foot of the Mendip
Hills, in Somersetshire, and lying pleasantly sheltered on the
south-west side of that bleak and naked chain. The noble tower of its
fine old church is richly adorned with double buttresses, pinnacles,
and pierced parapets, and in the open space, which forms the centre of
its few irregular streets, is an ancient hexagonal market cross, where
the wayfarer may find a shelter from the hot suns of July, or from the
heavy rains of winter. The neighbourhood of Cheddar is romantic: it
commands a fine view, in one direction, over a rich and extensive
level; and it is immediately surrounded by rich, well-watered
pastures, always verdant. Within a mile of the market cross before
mentioned, on the road to Wells, there is a narrow, but a stupendous
pass, or chasm, by which the chain of the lofty hills of Mendip is
cleft, as it were, in sunder. The road winds through the bottom of
this strange defile; the cliffs rise on either side--ragged, scarped,
and terrific in their aspect--presenting, in many places, a sheer fall
of four hundred feet. Nothing can more sublimely impress the spirit of
a lonely traveller than the passage of this wild ravine, on a day of
cloud, and gloom, and rushing winds. In the sunny calm of summer, when
the wild pink, springing from the crevices of the rocks, adorns the
scene with something of gentleness, it is still of uncommon grandeur.
Black yews project from the larger fissures: here is a narrow ledge
covered with verdure; there a thick mantle of ivy clothes the summit:
here the mountain ash slants forward in its fantastic growth; while
yet, in many places, the craggy front is naked and dazzling as a wall
of stone.
By this road, once a week, the quiet parson ambled on an old grey
horse to the fair city of Wells to refresh and recreate his spirit at
a private music meeting in the Close; nor did he ever omit on these
occasions to pass one hour of joy and praise in its magnificent
cathedral. Upon the breezy summits of the Mendip hills, which
bordered this road, he spent many serene and healthful hours. His life
was most even in its tenour; and the scenes around him, though daily
before his eyes, were as dear to him, or more so, than when, first
entering on residence, he had surveyed them with grateful rapture.
Villages, however, like kingdoms, have their revolutions; and the
chronicles of them are preserved in chimney-corners with more or less
of fidelity, according to the interest of the events and the worth of
the characters who figured in them.
These rustic historians have a mode of reckoning very different from
citizens. With prime ministers they have nought to do. Their
government is nearer to them, and they have never wanted wit enough to
know when that was good or evil. Over these rural communities the
ruler has, from time immemorial, been the lord of the manor, or the
chief franklin, or the parson of the parish. According as these
personages were disposed to promote religion and happiness, or to look
with indifference on vice and misery, the rustic population was
contented and cheerful, (because industrious in their callings, and
peaceable in their lives,) or they were sullen and profligate. Under
the joint reign of Franklin Blount and Parson Noble the inhabitants of
Cheddar had long dwelt together in comfort and harmony; but this is a
world of change,--and many things in the aspect of public affairs, of
which the villagers heard and heeded little, gave serious warning to
the prescient mind of Noble, that trouble was near.
He was so beloved and respected by his people, and so regarded and
confided in by the worthy franklin, that he had hitherto been able to
evade, counteract, or over-rule, for the good of his flock, those
strange enactments which had been from time to time so inconsiderately
imposed. That which enjoined him to _publish_ the Book of Sports on
the Sabbath-day he totally disregarded. On this point he would have
consented to deprivation rather than obey. Hence he became suspected,
by some parsons of a very different stamp, for a puritan; and there
were not wanting uncharitable surmises among these concerning the
course which Master Noble would take in the hour of trial; not that
those who really knew him well ever doubted of that course at all.
But while these surmises were, as regarded himself, utterly devoid of
foundation, it was asserted by some of his friends at Wells, the
correctness of whose judgments and the charity of whose sentiments
well accorded with his own, that his son Cuthbert had imbibed, from
his late associates at Cambridge, a spirit of a very dangerous nature.
Cuthbert had a large philanthropy, and a resolute courage to sustain
and act out those promptings of benevolence which his love of freedom
was continually urging upon his mind. Virtuous in his character,
sanguine in his hopes, present evils he saw, and for present remedies
he panted--but he looked not far on to consequences. A notion of his
state of mind may be found in the letter which follows:--
“Most dear Father,
“You tell me in your last letter, which I have read over many
times with serious thought, that my mother wishes me to send
her a more particular account of this place and family, that
she may the better see my present courses with the eye of her
mind.--I will make a trial of my pen to set these matters in
some order before her--and, first, of this mansion: it is a
goodly fabric of stone, built by the father of the present
knight in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He, as you know,
exchanged some of his full money-bags for a fair estate in
land, and closed all his great and prosperous ventures in
commerce by a wise retirement to the noble pleasures of a
country life. A situation more pleasant than this of Milverton
you may not see in all the journey through these parts. The
house standeth on a fine swelling slope of verdant ground, and
is well sheltered by stately trees on three sides, but to the
front the prospect is open, and maketh the heart dance with
gladness, it is so full of delight. Looking to the south, you
see the towers of that famous castle of Guy of Warwick. This
castle is seated on a rock, very high, upon the river Avon, and
hath a look of strength and of great majesty; as seen against
the light of the distant sky--nothing can be more grand and
commanding;--also, from the middle of the good city of Warwick,
the fair pinnacles of the lofty tower of St. Mary’s Church do
pierce the heaven, and she standeth like a crowned queen. I do
fear for her diadem, for they say that the embattled keep of
ancient Guy frowneth on our lady: but, turning the eyes from
these stately objects, which the intervening woods may not
conceal, directly below Milverton the river flows through a
fair valley of green pastures; and there cannot be, in all
England, a mill more pleasant to look upon and listen to than
Guy’s mill: it standeth upon the farther bank of the Avon, over
which there is a foot-bridge of wood, very narrow, and long
enough to reach across a small meadow, which, when the waters
are out, is always flooded. Not far from this mill, to the
left, and upon the same bank, is an old decayed chapel, where I
have seen a rude statue of the renowned Guy, more than eight
feet in length; and near to this spot, close by the side of the
water, there is a cave in the rock, where, as a hermit, he
ended his days. But I will say no more of these places, of
which report may have reached you through the discourse of
others.
“Milverton House lacks nothing of furniture that money and good
taste may command. There is a profusion of very fine carved oak
in the hall and in the winter-parlour. In the latter, over the
fire-place, is a curious representation of the meeting of Jacob
and Esau; and inscribed above are the words, ‘With my staff I
passed over this Jordan, and now I am become two bands.’ And in
the private chamber of Sir Oliver is another piece, in three
compartments, Jacob lying down alone in the Wilderness--the
Vision of the Ladder of Angels--and Jacob setting up his Pillar
of Remembrance.
“I name these things rather than the rich hangings and the
handsome carpets which cover some of the tables, and the ebony
cabinets, and the massy plate, because I know that they would
give more contentment to my pious mother than all the
costliness and bravery in the king’s palace.
“In the small room appointed for me, there is a posy worked
upon a sampler, hung against the wall, that runneth thus:--
“What better bed than conscience good, to pass the night with sleep;
What better work than daily care, from sin thyself to keep.”
And there is an engraved portrait of Luther, with the words ‘In
silentio et in spe erit fortitudo vestra.’ I cannot look upon
these things without being deeply reminded of those feeling
lectures of piety which the lips of my dear mother have read to
me from my very childhood; but, truth to say, my dear parents,
I feel an angel plucking me by the sleeve, and whispering in my
ear that my stay in this sweet abode will not be long. Sir
Oliver and Mistress Alice and Mistress Katharine entreat me
with that kind civility and favourable respect, which make my
days happy, and I find Master Arthur so docile and of such
lively parts that my office is never irksome.
“Nothing can be more orderly than the manner of life here; and
although the good knight is most hospitable, yet, as he doth
not use the exercise of hunting, and has no park, the visiters
are not many. He rides daily in the forenoon, and will
sometimes go to see the stag-hounds of Stoneleigh Abbey throw
off, with which pack he hunted for twenty years; but his chief
delight now is in the culture of his garden and orchards, and
of a vineyard, which he has laid out, at a great cost, on a
favourable site, one mile from the mansion. All the farms in
the village of Milverton are his, and his tenants are the sons
of those who held the land under his father; so that the hamlet
is but one large family, of which Sir Oliver is the head.
“Mistress Katharine, his daughter, rides constantly with her
father, except when she takes the diversion of hawking, or goes
out after the beagles with her young cousin, Arthur, who is as
high-spirited and active a youth in the field, as he is earnest
and persevering in the study. To see Mistress Katharine fly a
hawk is gladsome; and although I have, from boyhood, accounted
that sport cruel and unfeminine, yet, when I look on that
inspiring sight, I deem it so no longer; certain I am that her
mind did never once connect the thought of cruelty with a usage
so common. She, too, seems as eager to learn what my poor
scholarship can teach her as my own pupil; and if a tutor can
be happy, I am, in the privilege of reading with this noble
maiden, and seeing her fine countenance lighted up with the
love of wisdom and of truth.
“But this state of things is far too bright to last. When a man
dareth to think differently from those around him, he will soon
become an object of suspicion and prejudice. I feel that my
trial in this kind will assuredly come; for Sir Oliver, with
all his kindness, has so rooted a dislike to all change in the
established order of things, that a word against the undue
stretch of the king’s authority, against the tyranny of the
starchamber, or those abuses in the state, which are manifest
to her best friends, would be enough to make his countenance
change towards me past recovery.
“Upon these subjects, you, my dear father, have written to me
with more earnestness and fear than I should have looked for.
You tell me that I see not the inevitable consequences which
must follow from the acting out of those opinions and
sentiments with which I am so captivated. I confess that I am
an ardent friend to civil and religious liberty. I desire to
see the laws administered without fear or favour; to see
taxation imposed by the Commons alone, and to see purity and
charity preaching from our pulpits and ministering at our
altars. You must not blame me: these were the desires that you
implanted, when you taught me the immutable and eternal
principles of justice, and when, both by lip and in your life,
you showed me how sacred was the character, and how hallowed
were the duties, of an ambassador for Christ. I look for
reformation in the state, and purification of the church. You,
perhaps, despair of either; and therefore you dread an ill
result to the patriotic and pure efforts which so many great
and good men are now making. Some of the best and wisest of my
college friends think with them. Of that number are my late
tutor and my late chamber-fellow, with both of whom you
expressed yourself so much delighted, when, during my last year
of residence, you visited Cambridge. I confess, frankly, that I
hold their sentiments, and entertain hopes of ultimate good to
my country as sanguine as theirs. The cause of liberty must
triumph.
“Your last letter gave but little hope of poor Fanny at the
mill: what a fair, cheerful, good girl she was. Martin will be
very sorry when he hears about her: if you remember, he was
always for dancing with Fanny on May-day.
“I am glad to hear that Bessy Blount is going to be married.
She will make Tom Hargood’s farm as happy a home as any in
England. However, I will not talk about weddings,--the very
word makes me melancholy. I am just now preparing a short
masque, which we are to perform next week, in honour of Sir
Oliver’s birth-day. I suppose Martin, as well as myself, has
very different notions of female beauty now to any we gathered
at Cheddar; though, I doubt, if we shall either of us become
the happier for our knowledge. Rosy cheeks and laughing eyes
are joyous and pleasant to look upon, but they seldom beget
cureless heart-aches, or plant the long-lived sorrow:--all this
is very idle. The love of country is the next best love to that
of God, and, after that, the most rewarding.
“I suppose that you will soon have a letter from Rome: no doubt
Martin is very happy among the galleries and studios of that
ancient city. I often wish that I could be transported there
for an hour, and see him, as he stands alone, before a
master-piece of Raphael, and sighs for the very fulness of his
admiration. Forget not to let me hear the earliest news of
Martin. I shall think of you all on May-day at old Blount’s;
but, as the good old country customs are kept up here with
great spirit, shall have no leisure to grieve over my absence
from Cheddar, till night restores me to the solitude of my
chamber, and to that sacred companionship with you in prayer,
which I ever maintain.
“Your dutiful and loving son,
“CUTHBERT NOBLE.
“_Milverton, April 20, 1640._”