But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
MARVELL.
Although Bristol was at this time garrisoned by the Parliamentary
troops, Martin Noble and old Peter, by whom he was accompanied, found
no difficulty at the barriers, for the city was not besieged,--and
being on foot, they entered without suspicion.
The doublet and cloak of Martin being cut in the Italian fashion, he
easily passed in that large and busy port as one newly arrived from
Leghorn and Genoa, and as one engaged in some commercial venture. His
first care was to secure the little property which he had brought from
Italy, and which, save one bag of a hundred pieces in ready money,
consisted entirely in paintings, drawings, and engravings, with a few
antiques. The value of this small collection might have amounted to
twelve hundred pieces. It was now necessary to part with these for
whatever they might produce. His object being to send the whole price
of them, beyond the sum necessary for his own equipment as a volunteer
soldier of horse, to his parents. The captain and crew of the vessel
in which he had returned home were all so cheerfully devoted to his
interests, that he procured his baggage to be privately landed; and
having unpacked and carefully arranged them in his apartment at a
large inn near the quay, he went forth in search of a purchaser. He
had not far to seek: the contents of an open shop kept by a Venetian
in that same quarter at once pointed out whither many a collection of
those curious toys of human invention, whether in the fine arts or in
plate or furniture, round which the strange children of manhood will
fasten fondness, already lay in dull divorce from the pleasant
chambers they had once adorned. The broker consented to go to the inn
and look at his pictures with a cold and wily slowness. There was only
one small original which had been given Martin; the rest were
exquisite copies, executed by his brother artists or himself. The
engravings and the articles of _virtu_ (many of them presents) were
selected with the finest taste; and a magical feeling was associated
in the breast of Martin with every trifle or scrap in his portfolios.
Though his mind was healthy and strong, and the necessity of the
sacrifice was obvious, yet he could bear no work of bargaining, no
words of depreciation. He bade the dealer look them over silently, and
take them at his own price. Nor was he at all disappointed when the
sum of three hundred and fifty pieces were paid down for little heart
treasures, from which, in happier circumstances, he would at no price
have consented to be separated. Of this sum he despatched two hundred
and fifty, by the safe hands of old Peter, to his parents, and the
remainder, with what he had already by him, was amply sufficient to
purchase a horse, a handsome buff coat, and good arms.
During his residence in Italy, to relieve the sedentary labours of the
_studio_, he had always used horse exercise, fencing, and the play of
the broad sword, and having a vigorous and comely person and a quick
eye, had great skill in all these exercises. He little thought in
those days that he must exchange the wonderful art to which his genius
was wedded for that of war; the peaceful _studio_ and the open
landscape for the noisy camp and the cloudy battle-field.
He effected his departure from Bristol, and his journey to the
headquarters of the Marquis of Hertford and Prince Maurice, who were
then coming westward, with considerable address. By a few pieces well
bestowed he obtained passports as a foreign artist for London; and,
lading a sumpter-horse with two packages in which his great saddle and
his arms were well concealed, he rode his trained horse in such
furniture and clothing, and with such a bridle, as disguised its
quality. Moreover, by avoiding the large towns, and travelling
circuitous ways, through many of those lovely coombes or valleys with
which the western counties abound, he exposed himself to as little
observation as was possible. He slept in lonely places under a tree,
and he snatched his refreshment through the day at farm-houses or
little rustic inns. There was a consciousness in his bosom, that of
this brief and precious season of his life the most was to be made.
The weaning was at hand: the trials and the solemn chances of warfare
lay before him in all their stern reality. The glorious arts were left
behind as childish things; and he was passing through those scenes of
nature in which the love of heaven is plainly mirrored. He loved the
beautiful; in all things loved it: but, alone in the far windings of a
sheltered vale, where trees and grass and waters blend their beauties;
where cattle lie down, and the white lamb gambols,--with tears of
thanksgiving he worshipped. Nor less in the still secluded forest,
where rivulets make gentle music, he worshipped. Such spots are
sacred: they are not solitudes; they are peopled, most thickly
peopled, with innocent spirits, whom we cannot see; but we feel their
presence, and tread softly in their quiet paradise. It was the last
leisure of Martin’s life, and the sweet scenes coloured his mind for
ever; and afterwards, in coarse companies, and in the tumultuous camp,
his memory would steal away back to those vales of peace, as to some
hallowed visions, and lie awhile entranced, till laughter loud, or
cannon’s voice, did wake him. It was on this journey that he for the
last time exercised the art he loved.
In a deep still valley, with wooded hills on either side, and a small
clear river that flowed between them, he stopped at noon before a
solitary farm. The goodwife made him welcome. In her little hall she
spread his clean repast, and there, in the window, sat her daughter
with a child in her arms. It were easy to see she was its mother. If
ever face was sweet and comely,--if ever eyes were calm, and brow was
open,--if ever human forehead looked meet for the seal of Heaven, hers
did, as it shone fair and pure beneath her dark and parted hair. The
child, too, was of curly and surpassing beauty, and stretched its
little arms with smiles. The obeisance of this young mother was
modest,--but her blush was faint, and innocence itself. A sampler
framed in oak hung upon the wall. Martin asked if it was her work, and
she said “Yes--the prize sampler worked in her ninth year,”--and took
it down; and, in fine needle-work, he read the following lines:--
“Even as a nurse, whose child’s imperfect pace
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place,
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go,
Nor does uphold him for a step or two;
But, when she finds that he begins to fall,
She holds him up and kisses him withal.
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand
Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand;
But when he sees his feeble strength begin
To fail, he gently takes him up again.”
QUARLES.
He put it down, subdued to a sudden tenderness, and then asked the
name of her child; she said it was christened “Charles,” and then
caressed it more closely, and sighed; adding, “It’s a good name, but
it has brought me my first sorrow, for it’s with King Charles my
husband is; and they that go to the wars may never come back again.”
She resumed her seat in the window; and, putting down the child, who
could run stoutly about after his grandmother, she began to ply her
needle in silence. Here, as her head was naturally bent downwards,
Martin sketched a happy resemblance of her on his tablets, while she,
unconscious, sat thinking of her fond husband far away, and daily
exposed to wounds or death. Martin rode away from this dwelling; and,
and at some distance, looking back, through a summer shower he saw it
arched over by a glorious rainbow, and asked a blessing on that fair
young mother from the God of hope.
Thus and here he took leave of peaceful life for ever. That same
evening his horses’ hoofs were clattering over the pavement of a small
town in Dorsetshire, filled with royal troopers; and, finding that
Robert Dormer, the Earl of Caernarvon, was there in person, his
journey was at an end. He had brought a particular letter of
introduction to this youthful nobleman from one of his near relatives,
then residing at Rome, in a declining state of health, and had been
also intrusted to deliver to him a curious antique ring as a token of
the abiding love and friendship of a dying man. The letter spoke very
favourably of Martin; but was not written with any expectation that it
would be presented under circumstances and with an object like those
which now induced Martin to deliver it. He had engaged at Bristol a
sprightly young horse-boy, who had whistled his long marches
cheerfully by the side of the sumpter-horse, and who was not a little
delighted at being now permitted to unpack saddle and equipments, and
to see Martin put on a buff coat and a royal scarf. As soon as our
volunteer was dressed, he proceeded to the quarters of Lord
Caernarvon, sent up his letter and name, was instantly admitted, and
met with a kind reception.
The evening was cheerless and rainy, and the Earl was engaged at the
game of tables, now better known by the name of backgammon, with a
gentleman of a very fine person, about his own age, while a bright
eyed youth of seventeen sat eagerly watching the game.
The Earl gave Martin a friendly look, and bade him take a seat till
the game was done; for he had already satisfied himself, by a glance,
that it was a letter on private affairs, though he had not opened it.
“You are from Bristol, young man. What news among our friends in that
neighbourhood, or rather among our enemies within?”
“I was so situated, my Lord, that I am not so well acquainted with the
condition of the garrison, or the state of the place, as your
Lordship. My sole business there was to get my baggage out of the
vessel in which I came from Italy, to equip myself for camp, and to
join the royal army.”
“From Italy!” said Lord Caernarvon; “indeed! From what part?”
“I sailed from the port of Leghorn; but came from Rome only a few days
before.”
“Here, Arthur,” said the Earl, “take my place, and finish the
game.--Sir Charles, you will excuse me.”
He now took his letter to the window, and immediately read it with
attention. Then approaching Martin, he took him cordially by the
hand.
“I am afraid to ask how you left Edward Herbert; for in this letter he
seems to consider his recovery as impossible.”
“I am sorry to say, my Lord, that he is a dying man; but he suffers
very little pain, and is as calm and resigned as any person under such
circumstances can be. I am the bearer of his last token of affection
for the Lady Caernarvon.”
Here he drew forth a small case, containing a signet ring, of great
antiquity. Upon the stone, which was a clear beryl, the engraved
symbol was a genius, with an inverted torch.
As Lord Caernarvon was silently and thoughtfully examining this gem,
the door of the apartment was opened by a grave, mournful looking
gentlemen in a neglected dress, who said,--
“Well, Caernarvon, I shall start at eleven, on my return to the King’s
quarters, and will direct the escort to march back to you after they
have halted eight hours. I shall only take them thirty miles; and as
there is a moon, we shall have a pleasant ride. What have you got in
your hand?” he added, observing the ring.
“It is is a farewell token from Edward Herbert to his cousin Sophia:
if you remember, Falkland, the youth was a great favourite of yours.”
Lord Falkland took the ring, and looked upon it in silence for more
than two minutes, then gave it back to Caernarvon with a sigh, and
going close to the window, from which Caernarvon had advanced, Martin
distinctly heard him ingeminate the word “Peace, peace,” while he
raised his eyes towards the rainy sky. Yet was the tone of voice so
low, and it came so deeply from within, that nobody else could
distinguish what he uttered; and no one seemed to notice the
inarticulate sound, as if it was a habit of grief and abstraction
common to the man.
Caernarvon himself was not in spirits the whole evening,--though, as a
party of more than twelve were assembled at his supper table, he was
necessarily engaged in much conversation on the state and prospects of
the war.
However, before this hour he introduced Martin in a particular manner
to Sir Charles Lambert and Arthur Heywood, when they had finished
their game; and he presented him to the Lord Falkland, who was very
gracious,--but told him with a mournful smile that he must for awhile
forget the fair creations of Raphael, and prepare himself for the
study of severer subjects.
His relationship to Cuthbert Noble was soon discovered by young
Arthur; and it would have been impossible for him to have received
more cordial and friendly attentions than both Sir Charles and the boy
readily offered. They expressed their sorrow in a delicate yet
becoming manner that Cuthbert should be in the ranks of the
Parliamentary army, and congratulated Martin, as well as themselves,
on the probability that they should be spared the pain of acting, for
the present, against that division of the enemy’s force with which he
was known to be serving, as their own march lay westward, to join the
Cornish army.
Martin rode with the regiment of horse commanded by Lord Caernarvon,
as a volunteer, and soon became a favourite with that nobleman, whose
excellent example in the office and duty of a soldier it was his pride
to imitate. Moreover, this nobleman took delight in the society of the
youth, because he himself had, before the war, been a great traveller,
and an exact observer of the manners of many nations; not only
visiting the south of Europe, but also Turkey and other countries of
the East. Therefore, in as far as any alleviating happiness could
consist with a campaign life, in a warfare carried on in the heart of
one’s own country, Martin was fortunate.
Nor is it to be denied that genius has so many sources of enjoyment
that in no condition can they be all dried up. To love the beautiful
in all things is a high privilege; and feelings of rapture, as of awe,
may be extracted from objects which only impress ordinary minds with
pain or terror. If the calm lake, the green valley, and the pale
primrose soothe us with sweet pictures of peace, the stormy ocean, the
rifted rock, and the blasted tree, can and do stir us with a deep
delight. Thus war has its glories and its solemnities for the eye and
for the ear of man; and his heart may throb with emotions the most
sublime upon a battle-field, and at the wailing trumpets of a
vanquished and a flying foe.