Years rush by us like the wind. We see not whence the eddy comes, nor
whitherward it is tending, and we seem ourselves to witness their
flight without a sense that we are changed; and yet Time is beguiling
man of his strength, as the winds rob the woods of their foliage.
After the marriage of Alice and Markham Everard, the old knight resided
near them, in an ancient manor-house, belonging to the redeemed portion
of his estate, where Joceline and Phœbe, now man and wife, with one or
two domestics, regulated the affairs of his household. When he tired of
Shakspeare and solitude, he was ever a welcome guest at his
son-in-law’s, where he went the more frequently that Markham had given
up all concern in public affairs, disapproving of the forcible
dismissal of the Parliament, and submitting to Cromwell’s subsequent
domination, rather as that which was the lesser evil, than as to a
government which he regarded as legal. Cromwell seemed ever willing to
show himself his friend; but Everard, resenting highly the proposal to
deliver up the King, which he considered as an insult to his honour,
never answered such advances, and became, on the contrary, of the
opinion, which was now generally prevalent in the nation, that a
settled government could not be obtained without the recall of the
banished family. There is no doubt that the personal kindness which he
had received from Charles, rendered him the more readily disposed to
such a measure. He was peremptory, however, in declining all
engagements during Oliver’s life, whose power he considered as too
firmly fixed to be shaken by any plots which could be formed against
it.
Meantime, Wildrake continued to be Everard’s protected dependent as
before, though sometimes the connexion tended not a little to his
inconvenience. That respectable person, indeed, while he remained
stationary in his patron’s house, or that of the old knight, discharged
many little duties in the family, and won Alice’s heart by his
attention to the children, teaching the boys, of whom they had three,
to ride, fence, toss the pike, and many similar exercises; and, above
all, filling up a great blank in her father’s existence, with whom he
played at chess and backgammon, or read Shakspeare, or was clerk to
prayers when any sequestrated divine ventured to read the service of
the Church. Or he found game for him while the old gentleman continued
to go a-sporting; and, especially he talked over the storming of
Brentford, and the battles of Edgehill, Banbury, Roundwaydown, and
others, themes which the aged cavalier delighted in, but which he could
not so well enter upon with Colonel Everard, who had gained his laurels
in the Parliament service.
The assistance which he received from Wildrake’s society became more
necessary, after Sir Henry was deprived of his gallant and only son,
who was slain in the fatal battle of Dunkirk, where, unhappily, English
colours were displayed on both the contending sides, the French being
then allied with Oliver, who sent to their aid a body of auxiliaries,
and the troops of the banished King fighting in behalf of the
Spaniards. Sir Henry received the melancholy news like an old man, that
is, with more external composure than could have been anticipated. He
dwelt for weeks and months on the lines forwarded by the indefatigable
Dr. Rochecliffe, superscribed in small letters, C. R., and subscribed
Louis Kerneguy, in which the writer conjured him to endure this
inestimable loss with the greater firmness, that he had still left one
son, (intimating himself,) who would always regard him as a father.
But in spite of this balsam, sorrow, acting imperceptibly, and sucking
the blood like a vampire, seemed gradually drying up the springs of
life; and, without any formed illness, or outward complaint, the old
man’s strength and vigour gradually abated, and the ministry of
Wildrake proved daily more indispensable.
It was not, however, always to be had. The cavalier was one of those
happy persons whom a strong constitution, an unreflecting mind, and
exuberant spirits, enable to play through their whole lives the part of
a school-boy—happy for the moment, and careless of consequences.
Once or twice every year, when he had collected a few pieces, the
Cavaliero Wildrake made a start to London, where, as he described it,
he went on the ramble, drank as much wine as he could come by, and led
a _skeldering_ life, to use his own phrase, among roystering cavaliers
like himself, till by some rash speech or wild action, he got into the
Marshalsea, the Fleet, or some other prison, from which he was to be
delivered at the expense of interest, money, and sometimes a little
reputation.
At length Cromwell died, his son resigned the government, and the
various changes which followed induced Everard, as well as many others,
to adopt more active measures in the King’s behalf. Everard even
remitted considerable sums for his service, but with the utmost
caution, and corresponding with no intermediate agent, but with the
Chancellor himself, to whom he communicated much useful information
upon public affairs. With all his prudence he was very nearly engaged
in the ineffectual rising of Booth and Middleton in the west, and with
great difficulty escaped from the fatal consequences of that ill-timed
attempt. After this, although the estate of the kingdom was trebly
unsettled, yet no card seemed to turn up favourable to the royal cause,
until the movement of General Monk from Scotland. Even then, it was
when at the point of complete success, that the fortunes of Charles
seemed at a lower ebb than ever, especially when intelligence had
arrived at the little Court which he then kept in Brussels, that Monk,
on arriving in London, had put himself under the orders of the
Parliament.
It was at this time, and in the evening, while the King, Buckingham,
Wilmot, and some other gallants of his wandering Court, were engaged in
a convivial party, that the Chancellor (Clarendon) suddenly craved
audience, and, entering with less ceremony than he would have done at
another time, announced extraordinary news. For the messenger, he said,
he could say nothing, saving that he appeared to have drunk much, and
slept little; but that he had brought a sure token of credence from a
man for whose faith he would venture his life. The King demanded to see
the messenger himself.
A man entered, with something the manners of a gentleman, and more
those of a rakebelly debauchee—his eyes swelled and inflamed—his gait
disordered and stumbling, partly through lack of sleep, partly through
the means he had taken to support his fatigue. He staggered without
ceremony to the head of the table, seized the King’s hand, which he
mumbled like a piece of gingerbread; while Charles, who began to
recollect him from his mode of salutation, was not very much pleased
that their meeting should have taken place before so many witnesses.
“I bring good news,” said the uncouth messenger, “glorious news!—the
King shall enjoy his own again!—My feet are beautiful on the mountains.
Gad, I have lived with Presbyterians till I have caught their language—
but we are all one man’s children now—all your Majesty’s poor babes.
The Rump is all ruined in London—Bonfires flaming, music playing, rumps
roasting, healths drinking, London in a blaze of light from the Strand
to Rotherhithe—tankards clattering”—
“We can guess at that,” said the Duke of Buckingham.
“My old friend, Mark Everard, sent me off with the news; I’m a villain
if I’ve slept since. Your Majesty recollects me, I am sure. Your
Majesty remembers, sa—sa—at the King’s Oak, at Woodstock?—
‘O, we’ll dance, and sing, and play,
For ’twill be a joyous day
When the King shall enjoy his own again.’”
“Master Wildrake, I remember you well,” said the King. “I trust the
good news is certain?”
“Certain! your Majesty; did I not hear the bells?—did I not see the
bonfires?—did I not drink your Majesty’s health so often, that my legs
would scarce carry me to the wharf? It is as certain as that I am poor
Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln.”
The Duke of Buckingham here whispered to the King, “I have always
suspected your Majesty kept odd company during the escape from
Worcester, but this seems a rare sample.”
“Why, pretty much like yourself, and other company I have kept here so
many years—as stout a heart, as empty a head,” said Charles—“as much
lace, though somewhat tarnished, as much brass on the brow, and nearly
as much copper in the pocket.”
“I would your Majesty would intrust this messenger of good news with
me, to get the truth out of him,” said Buckingham.
“Thank your Grace,” replied the King; “but he has a will as well as
yourself, and such seldom agree. My Lord Chancellor hath wisdom, and to
that we must trust ourselves.—Master Wildrake, you will go with my Lord
Chancellor, who will bring us a report of your tidings; meantime, I
assure you that you shall be no loser for being the first messenger of
good news.” So saying, he gave a signal to the Chancellor to take away
Wildrake, whom he judged, in his present humour, to be not unlikely to
communicate some former passages at Woodstock which might rather
entertain than edify the wits of his court.
Corroboration of the joyful intelligence soon arrived, and Wildrake was
presented with a handsome gratuity and small pension, which, by the
King’s special desire, had no duty whatever attached to it.
Shortly afterwards, all England was engaged in chorusing his favourite
ditty—
“Oh, the twenty-ninth of May,
It was a glorious day,
When the King did enjoy his own again.”
On that memorable day, the King prepared to make his progress from
Rochester to London, with a reception on the part of his subjects so
unanimously cordial, as made him say gaily, it must have been his own
fault to stay so long away from a country where his arrival gave so
much joy. On horseback, betwixt his brothers, the Dukes of York and
Gloucester, the Restored Monarch trode slowly over roads strewn with
flowers—by conduits running wine, under triumphal arches, and through
streets hung with tapestry. There were citizens in various bands, some
arrayed in coats of black velvet, with gold chains; some in military
suits of cloth of gold, or cloth of silver, followed by all those
craftsmen who, having hooted the father from Whitehall, had now come to
shout the son into possession of his ancestral place. On his progress
through Blackheath, he passed that army which, so long formidable to
England herself, as well as to Europe, had been the means of restoring
the Monarchy which their own hands had destroyed. As the King passed
the last files of this formidable host, he came to an open part of the
heath, where many persons of quality, with others of inferior rank, had
stationed themselves to gratulate him as he passed towards the capital.
There was one group, however, which attracted peculiar attention from
those around, on account of the respect shown to the party by the
soldiers who kept the ground, and who, whether Cavaliers or Roundheads,
seemed to contest emulously which should contribute most to their
accommodation; for both the elder and younger gentlemen of the party
had been distinguished in the Civil War.
It was a family group, of which the principal figure was an old man
seated in a chair, having a complacent smile on his face, and a tear
swelling to his eye, as he saw the banners wave on in interminable
succession, and heard the multitude shouting the long silenced
acclamation, “God save King Charles.” His cheek was ashy pale, and his
long beard bleached like the thistle down; his blue eye was cloudless,
yet it was obvious that its vision was failing. His motions were
feeble, and he spoke little, except when he answered the prattle of his
grandchildren, or asked a question of his daughter, who sate beside
him, matured in matronly beauty, or of Colonel Everard who stood
behind. There, too, the stout yeoman, Joceline Joliffe, still in his
silvan dress, leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarter-staff that
had done the King good service in its day, and his wife, a buxom matron
as she had been a pretty maiden, laughed at her own consequence; and
ever and anon joined her shrill notes to the stentorian halloo which
her husband added to the general acclamation.
These fine boys and two pretty girls prattled around their grandfather,
who made them such answers as suited their age, and repeatedly passed
his withered hand over the fair locks of the little darlings, while
Alice, assisted by Wildrake, (blazing in a splendid dress, and his eyes
washed with only a single cup of canary,) took off the children’s
attention from time to time, lest they should weary their grandfather.
We must not omit one other remarkable figure in the group—a gigantic
dog, which bore the signs of being at the extremity of canine life,
being perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. But though exhibiting the
ruin only of his former appearance, his eyes dim, his joints stiff, his
head slouched down, and his gallant carriage and graceful motions
exchanged for a stiff, rheumatic, hobbling gait, the noble hound had
lost none of his instinctive fondness for his master. To lie by Sir
Henry’s feet in the summer or by the fire in winter, to raise his head
to look on him, to lick his withered hand or his shrivelled cheek from
time to time, seemed now all that Bevis lived for.
Three or four livery servants attended to protect this group from the
thronging multitude, but it needed not. The high respectability and
unpretending simplicity of their appearance gave them, even in the eyes
of the coarsest of the people, an air of patriarchal dignity, which
commanded general regard; and they sat upon the bank which they had
chosen for their station by the way-side, as undisturbed as if they had
been in their own park.
And now the distant clarions announced the Royal Presence. Onward came
pursuivant and trumpet—onward came plumes and cloth of gold, and waving
standards displayed, and swords gleaming to the sun; and at length,
heading a group of the noblest in England, and supported by his royal
brothers on either side, onward came King Charles. He had already
halted more than once, in kindness perhaps as well as policy, to
exchange a word with persons whom he recognized among the spectators,
and the shouts of the bystanders applauded a courtesy which seemed so
well timed. But when he had gazed an instant on the party we have
described, it was impossible, if even Alice had been too much changed
to be recognized, not instantly to know Bevis and his venerable master.
The Monarch sprung from his horse, and walked instantly up to the old
knight, amid thundering acclamations which rose from the multitudes
around, when they saw Charles with his own hand oppose the feeble
attempts of the old man to rise to do his homage. Gently replacing him
on his seat—“Bless,” he said, “father—bless your son, who has returned
in safety, as you blessed him when he departed in danger.”
“May God bless—and preserve”—muttered the old man, overcome by his
feelings; and the King, to give him a few moments’ repose, turned to
Alice—
“And you,” he said, “my fair guide, how have you been employed since
our perilous night-walk? But I need not ask,” glancing around—“in the
service of King and Kingdom, bringing up subjects, as loyal as their
ancestors.—A fair lineage, by my faith, and a beautiful sight, to the
eye of an English King!—Colonel Everard, we shall see you, I trust, at
Whitehall?” Here he nodded to Wildrake. “And thou, Joceline, thou canst
hold thy quarter-staff with one hand, sure?—Thrust forward the other
palm.”
Looking down in sheer bashfulness, Joceline, like a bull about to push,
extended to the King, over his lady’s shoulder, a hand as broad and
hard as a wooden trencher, which the King filled with gold coins. “Buy
a handful for my friend Phœbe with some of these,” said Charles, “she
too has been doing her duty to Old England.”
The King then turned once more to the knight, who seemed making an
effort to speak. He took his aged hand in both his own, and stooped his
head towards him to catch his accents, while the old man, detaining him
with the other hand, said something faltering, of which Charles could
only catch the quotation—
“Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith.”
Extricating himself, therefore, as gently as possible, from a scene
which began to grow painfully embarrassing, the good-natured King said,
speaking with unusual distinctness to insure the old man’s
comprehending him, “This is something too public a place for all we
have to say. But if you come not soon to see King Charles at Whitehall,
he will send down Louis Kerneguy to visit you, that you may see how
rational that mischievous lad is become since his travels.”
So saying, he once more pressed affectionately the old man’s hand,
bowed to Alice and all around, and withdrew; Sir Henry Lee listening
with a smile, which showed he comprehended the gracious tendency of
what had been said. The old man leaned back on his seat, and muttered
the _Nunc dimittas_.
“Excuse me for having made you wait, my lords,” said the King, as he
mounted his horse; “indeed, had it not been for these good folks, you
might have waited for me long enough to little purpose.—Move on, sirs.”
The array moved on accordingly; the sound of trumpets and drums again
rose amid the acclamations, which had been silent while the King
stopped; while the effect of the whole procession resuming its motion,
was so splendidly dazzling, that even Alice’s anxiety about for her
father’s health was for a moment suspended, while her eye followed the
long line of varied brilliancy that proceeded over the heath. When she
looked again at Sir Henry, she was startled to see that his cheek,
which had gained some colour during his conversation with the King, had
relapsed into earthly paleness; that his eyes were closed, and opened
not again; and that his features expressed, amid their quietude, a
rigidity which is not that of sleep. They ran to his assistance, but it
was too late. The light that burned so low in the socket, had leaped
up, and expired in one exhilarating flash.
The rest must be conceived. I have only to add that his faithful dog
did not survive him many days; and that the image of Bevis lies carved
at his master’s feet, on the tomb which was erected to the memory of
Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley.[1]
[1] It may interest some readers to know that Bevis, the gallant
hound, one of the handsomest and active of the ancient Highland
deer-hounds, had his prototype in a dog called Maida, the gift of the
late Chief of Glengarry to the author. A beautiful sketch was made by
Edwin Landseer, and afterwards engraved. I cannot suppress the avowal
of some personal vanity when I mention that a friend, going through
Munich, picked up a common snuff-box, such as are sold for one franc,
on which was displayed the form of this veteran favourite, simply
marked as Der lieblung hund von Walter Scott. Mr. Landseer’s painting
is at Blair-Adam, the property of my venerable friend, the Right
Honourable Lord Chief Commissioner Adam.