“‘O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemish’d form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That he the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honour unassail’d.—
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud.
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?’”
“The rest has escaped me,” said the reciter; “and I marvel I have been
able to remember so much.”
Sir Henry Lee, who had expected some effusion very different from those
classical and beautiful lines, soon changed the scornful expression of
his countenance, relaxed his contorted upper lip, and, stroking down
his beard with his left hand, rested the forefinger of the right upon
his eyebrow, in sign of profound attention. After Everard had ceased
speaking, the old man signed as at the end of a strain of sweet music.
He then spoke in a gentler manner than formerly.
“Cousin Markham,” he said, “these verses flow sweetly, and sound in my
ears like the well-touched warbling of a lute. But thou knowest I am
somewhat slow of apprehending the full meaning of that which I hear for
the first time. Repeat me these verses again, slowly and deliberately;
for I always love to hear poetry twice, the first time for sound, and
the latter time for sense.”
Thus encouraged, Everard recited again the lines with more hardihood
and better effect; the knight distinctly understanding, and from his
looks and motions, highly applauding them.
“Yes!” he broke out, when Everard was again silent—“Yes, I do call that
poetry—though it were even written by a Presbyterian, or an Anabaptist
either. Ay, there were good and righteous people to be found even
amongst the offending towns which were destroyed by fire. And certainly
I have heard, though with little credence (begging your pardon, cousin.
Everard,) that there are men among you who have seen the error of their
ways in rebelling against the best and kindest of masters, and bringing
it to that pass that he was murdered by a gang yet fiercer than
themselves. Ay, doubtless, the gentleness of spirit, and the purity of
mind, which dictated those beautiful lines, has long ago taught a man
so amiable to say, I have sinned, I have sinned. Yes, I doubt not so
sweet a harp has been broken, even in remorse, for the crimes he was
witness to; and now he sits drooping for the shame and sorrow of
England,—all his noble rhymes, as Will says,
‘Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh.’
Dost thou not think so, Master Kerneguy?”
“Not I, Sir Henry,” answered the page, somewhat maliciously.
“What, dost not believe the author of these lines must needs be of the
better file, and leaning to our persuasion?”
“I think, Sir Henry, that the poetry qualifies the author to write a
play on the subject of Dame Potiphar and her recusant lover; and as for
his calling—that last metaphor of the cloud in a black coat or cloak,
with silver lining, would have dubbed him a tailor with me, only that I
happen to know that he is a schoolmaster by profession, and by
political opinions qualified to be Poet Laureate to Cromwell; for what
Colonel Everard has repeated with such unction, is the production of no
less celebrated a person than John Milton.”
“John Milton!” exclaimed Sir Henry in astonishment—“What! John Milton,
the blasphemous and bloody-minded author of the _Defensio Populi
Anglicani_!—the advocate of the infernal High Court of Fiends; the
creature and parasite of that grand impostor, that loathsome hypocrite,
that detestable monster, that prodigy of the universe, that disgrace of
mankind, that landscape of iniquity, that sink of sin, and that
compendium of baseness, Oliver Cromwell!”
“Even the same John Milton,” answered Charles; “schoolmaster to little
boys, and tailor to the clouds, which he furnishes with suits of black,
lined with silver, at no other expense than that of common sense.”
“Markham Everard,” said the old knight, “I will never forgive thee—
never, never. Thou hast made me speak words of praise respecting one
whose offal should fatten the region-kites. Speak not to me, sir, but
begone! Am I, your kinsman and benefactor, a fit person to be juggled
out of my commendation and eulogy, and brought to bedaub such a
whitened sepulchre as the sophist Milton?”
“I profess,” said Everard, “this is hard measure, Sir Henry. You
pressed me—you defied me, to produce poetry as good as Shakspeare’s. I
only thought of the verses, not of the politics of Milton.”
“Oh yes, sir,” replied Sir Henry; “we well know your power of making
distinctions; you could make war against the King’s prerogative,
without having the least design against his person. Oh Heaven forbid!
But Heaven will hear and judge you. Set down the beverage, Phœbe”—(this
was added by way of parenthesis to Phœbe, who entered with
refreshment)—“Colonel Everard is not thirsty—You have wiped your
mouths, and said you have done no evil. But though you have deceived
man, yet God you cannot deceive. And you shall wipe no lips in
Woodstock, either after meat or drink, I promise you.”
Charged thus at once with the faults imputed to his whole religious
sect and political party, Everard felt too late of what imprudence he
had been guilty in giving the opening, by disputing his uncle’s taste
in dramatic poetry. He endeavoured to explain—to apologise.
“I mistook your purpose, honoured sir, and thought you really desired
to know something of our literature; and in repeating what you deemed
not unworthy your hearing, I profess I thought I was doing you
pleasure, instead of stirring your indignation.”
“O ay!” returned the knight, with unmitigated rigour of resentment—
“profess—profess—Ay, that is the new phrase of asseveration, instead of
the profane adjuration of courtiers and cavaliers—Oh, sir, _profess_
less and _practise_ more—and so good day to you. Master Kerneguy, you
will find beverage in my apartment.”
While Phœbe stood gaping in admiration at the sudden quarrel which had
arisen, Colonel Everard’s vexation and resentment was not a little
increased by the nonchalance of the young Scotsman, who, with his hands
thrust into his pockets, (with a courtly affectation of the time,) had
thrown himself into one of the antique chairs, and, though habitually
too polite to laugh aloud, and possessing that art of internal laughter
by which men of the world learn to indulge their mirth without
incurring quarrels, or giving direct offence, was at no particular
pains to conceal that he was exceedingly amused by the result of the
Colonel’s visit to Woodstock. Colonel Everard’s patience, however, had
reached bounds which it was very likely to surpass; for, though
differing widely in politics, there was a resemblance betwixt the
temper of the uncle and nephew.
“Damnation” exclaimed the Colonel, in a tone which became a puritan as
little as did the exclamation itself.
“Amen!” said Louis Kerneguy, but in a tone so soft and gentle, that the
ejaculation seemed rather to escape him than to be designedly uttered.
“Sir!” said Everard, striding towards him in that sort of humour, when
a man, full of resentment, would not unwillingly find an object on
which to discharge it.
“_Plait-il?_” said the page, in the most equable tone, looking up in
his face with the most unconscious innocence.
“I wish to know, sir,” retorted Everard, “the meaning of that which you
said just now?”
“Only a pouring out of the spirit, worthy sir,” returned Kerneguy—“a
small skiff dispatched to Heaven on my own account, to keep company
with your holy petition just now expressed.”
“Sir, I have known a merry gentleman’s bones broke for such a smile as
you wear just now,” replied Everard.
“There, look you now” answered the malicious page, who could not weigh
even the thoughts of his safety against the enjoyment of his jest—“If
you had stuck to your professions, worthy sir, you must have choked by
this time; but your round execration bolted like a cork from a bottle
of cider, and now allows your wrath to come foaming out after it, in
the honest unbaptized language of common ruffians.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Master Girnegy,” said Phœbe, “forbear giving the
Colonel these bitter words! And do you, good Colonel Markham, scorn to
take offence at his hands—he is but a boy.”
“If the Colonel or you choose, Mistress Phœbe, you shall find me a
man—I think the gentleman can say something to the purpose already.—
Probably he may recommend to you the part of the Lady in Comus; and I
only hope his own admiration of John Milton will not induce him to
undertake the part of Samson Agonistes, and blow up this old house with
execration, or pull it down in wrath about our ears.”
“Young man,” said the Colonel, still in towering passion, “if you
respect my principles for nothing else, be grateful to the protection
which, but for them, you would not easily attain.”
“Nay, then,” said the attendant, “I must fetch those who have more
influence with you than I have,” and away tripped Phœbe; while Kerneguy
answered Everard in the same provoking tone of calm indifference,—
“Before you menace me with a thing so formidable as your resentment,
you ought to be certain whether I may not be compelled by circumstances
to deny you the opportunity you seem to point at.”
At this moment Alice, summoned no doubt by her attendant, entered the
hall hastily.
“Master Kerneguy,” she said, “my father requests to see you in Victor
Lee’s apartment.”
Kerneguy arose and bowed, but seemed determined to remain till
Everard’s departure, so as to prevent any explanation betwixt the
cousins. “Markham,” said Alice, hurriedly—“Cousin Everard—I have but a
moment to remain here—for God’s sake, do you instantly begone!—be
cautious and patient—but do not tarry here—my father is fearfully
incensed.”
“I have had my uncle’s word for that, madam,” replied Everard, “as well
as his injunction to depart, which I will obey without delay. I was not
aware that you would have seconded so harsh an order quite so
willingly; but I go, madam, sensible I leave those behind whose company
is more agreeable.”
“Unjust—ungenerous—ungrateful!” said Alice; but fearful her words might
reach ears for which they were not designed, she spoke them in a voice
so feeble, that her cousin, for whom they were intended, lost the
consolation they were calculated to convey.
He bowed coldly to Alice, as taking leave, and said, with an air of
that constrained courtesy which sometimes covers, among men of
condition, the most deadly hatred, “I believe, Master Kerneguy, that I
must make it convenient at present to suppress my own peculiar opinions
on the matter which we have hinted at in our conversation, in which
case I will send a gentleman, who, I hope, may be able to conquer
yours.”
The supposed Scotsman made him a stately, and at the same time a
condescending bow, said he should expect the honour of his commands,
offered his hand to Mistress Alice, to conduct her back to her father’s
apartment, and took a triumphant leave of his rival.
Everard, on the other hand, stung beyond his patience, and, from the
grace and composed assurance of the youth’s carriage, still conceiving
him to be either Wilmot, or some of his compeers in rank and
profligacy, returned to the town of Woodstock, determined not to be
outbearded, even though he should seek redress by means which his
principles forbade him to consider as justifiable.