so soon? You have only been gathering crumbs beneath the table,
like a graceless dog. Woe, woe unto short sermons, and impatient
hearers! You have come home before the pudding is ready. What’s the
matter, Hans?”
But the miller neglected to answer the queries of his dame, being
employed in obsequiously bowing to the stranger.
“Friend, kneel not to me; I am only thy fellow-servant. See that
thou do it not. I am _but_ Oliver Cromwell!”
As he pronounced the word _but_, there was a proud smile passed
over his features, and he arose from his seat for a moment, in
that air of command which was natural unto him. His proud bearing
attested that though he refused to receive homage, he considered
himself entitled to it.
Hans Skippon, on hearing the name of the stranger, bent down on his
knees.
“Nay, I kneel not to thee, but to the Most High, who hath raised
thee up for a horn unto his people.”
“I am, indeed, but an instrument in the Divine hands; and an atom,
created for working out the Divine counsels. I am but a small
stone, cut out of the mountains, to break down the image of the
beast. Good miller, arise from thy knees.”
“A very sensible advice,” muttered Rachel, who was not altogether
pleased with the lowly posture of her husband.
“Didst thou pass my troops?” inquired Cromwell, “and how were they
employed?”
“They were listening to the exhortations of a preacher, and the
very horses even seemed attentive, for they stood silent.”
“How different,” exclaimed the dame, “from all other soldiers, who
make the sabbath a day of wanton sport. They curse and swear like
the king himself. They stay at the wine-cup till their eyes are
red, and their great toes cannot balance the bulk above them. Put
a cap sideways on a monkey, teach him to say ‘damn,’ to look and
be wicked; take him to the king, and get him knighted, and he is
a good cavalier. Knight him with a sword! Bring him to me, and I
should do it to better purpose with a rough stick!”
Cromwell _smiled_ at this ebullition of feeling. Throughout all his
life he was never known to _laugh_.
“You speak warmly, dame,” said he. “But since a sword is the only
weapon of knighthood, they shall have one. Here,” and he pointed to
his own, lying sheathed on the casement, “is the sword of Gideon.
That sword has been blessed as often as the food which I partake
of. But, miller, thou wert at church to-day. ’Tis well; yet I have
a few things to say against thee; I would thou wert either cold or
hot.”
Rachel was looking in at the large pot on the fire, in which the
pudding was boiling, as she thought, too slowly. Her temper was
provoked, and she muttered, as she raised the pudding on the end of
a stick;
“I would _thou_ wert either cold or hot.”
“I have a few things to say against thee, my trusty miller,”
repeated Cromwell.
“A few things to say against Hans,” exclaimed Rachel with much
warmth, while she left the pot, and faced round to Cromwell. “Take
care what thou sayest against Hans!”
“Pooh!” was the contemptuous answer. “Thou fumest; but I know how
to cork every bottle of ale, brisk though it be. I carry stoppers,
even for a woman--but beware.”
“A few things to say against Hans!” continued Rachel, but in a
lower voice,--“why, he’s a good husband, a good christian, and--”
“Too _good_ a subject to King Charles,” added Cromwell with a
frown. “Woe unto you that still dwell in the tents of Ham. God
shall enlarge us and our borders; but woe be to you. And yet, you
have kindly given refuge to this lovely maiden, whose history I
have heard, and whose wrongs, God be my witness, I shall revenge.
Because Rahab kept the spies, she was allowed to enter the promised
land, and because you have kept this persecuted daughter of a brave
man, God will reward you!”
He paused, and then continued,--
“And wherefore should I induce you to leave this peaceful retreat,
and your rural occupations? A Sunday spent in the country would
almost suffice to put an end to war, and to make brethren of all
mankind!”
He turned his head, seemingly absorbed in his own reflections. His
eyes could not be seen. They were altogether buried beneath his
eye-brows and his massive forehead.
“In church,” replied Hans to the repeated inquiries of his dame,
“we were disturbed by the noise of the cannon firing from the
castle. Ah! it is no longer true that we can sit under our vine and
fig-tree,--none daring to make us afraid.”
“Fig-tree!” exclaimed Rachel, whose memory had not retained the
passage, and whose reason applied it in a literal sense, “why
we cannot even sit under the cherry-tree in the garden without
somebody troubling us. Miss Evelyn and I--draw nearer, Hans, and
I shall whisper it--were seated there, when this noble officer,
attended by five or six troopers, came to the gate. And yet, he
has not disturbed us much. I feel proud that he has come to our
dwelling. As he entered, his sword was clashing on the threshold,
but he said, ‘Peace be unto this house.’ But go on; you mentioned a
disturbance in the church.”
“Yes, cannons were fired from the castle. They drowned the piping
of the parson. We all rushed out, and made for the castle. The
governor stood on the battlements, as motionless as a sack of
flour. But his eyes were fixed upon some distant object, and he
exclaimed ‘Cromwell, Cromwell.’”
These words were repeated by the miller in a loud voice. Cromwell
started up. Hans turned his back and busied himself with an
examination of the pudding in the pot.
“Who called me by name. Who called me?”
No one answered.
“Yes, it was an angel’s voice! Stay,” and Cromwell took his boots
from off his feet. “Now speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.”
His eyes were wildly raised. Not one of his enemies could have
laughed at his grotesque appearance, for the face was expressive of
an unearthly communion. It was pale; the very breath of the angel
whom he imagined to be there, might have passed over it.
“Nay, thou wilt not stay! It is well. I could not execute a
commission of vengeance on the Sabbath.”
It is singular that this great man was often deluded by visions,
and communications from the other world. His sudden conversion
from extreme dissipation had invested him, in his own eyes,
with something of a wonder and a miracle. It was the same with
Mohammed. But although this was a weakness, it was the source of
his energies, and inflexible resolution. He could not believe that
these fancies were the dreams of youth; for he had already passed
the meridian of life. He knew that his bodily senses were becoming
blunted, and he therefore was willing to think that his spiritual
senses were more acute and could distinguish sounds and sights,
which were strange to all but his gifted self. But let not his
enemies mock him. He might assert and believe that he heard sounds
urging him to go to the field of battle, to dare more than any
other warrior, and usurper; but did he ever hear any urging him
to fly, to leave undone what he had resolved to do? Nay, had he
actually heard such, he would have rejected them. Religion,--the
tones of every angel above,--nay, the very voice of God himself,
could not have made Cromwell a coward!
At length they sat down to dinner. A large substantial pudding was
placed before them. In those days, the guests of the poor had not
each a knife and fork; nay, they had not each a plate. All things
were in common. The miller clasped his hands together and looked
up for a blessing. And here, let not our readers expect something
long and very piously expressed. The spirit of the times was too
much debased by blasphemous allusions, which are only redeemed from
condemnation by their quaintness.
“Hans,” whispered Rachel, “give us your best blessing. Let it be
the one in rhyme.”
A pause was made. Cromwell’s eyes were shut, and Hans solemnly
began,--
“Lord bless us! Devil miss us!
Rachel--bring the spoons to us!”
The good dame was hastening to comply with the request, when
Cromwell cried,
“Nay, miller, thou hast but asked a blessing on us. Let us ask a
blessing on the provisions. Your’s is but a vulture’s blessing,”
and he himself poured forth thanksgivings to God, for all his
mercies.
After the repast, Cromwell spoke but little, except to Mary Evelyn,
to whose lot he promised better days. But the miller was a little
curious to know his intended movements, as it was not every day
which brought him such opportunities for looking into the future.
“They expect you at Lancaster, General,” said he turning to
Cromwell.
“And yet,” was the answer, “I shall prove that although they expect
me, they are not quite prepared for my reception. The walls of
Jericho must fall down. And saidst thou, pretty innocent,” as he
looked upon Miss Evelyn with a kind eye, “that the Governor of
Lancaster Castle, gave evidence against thy father, even to the
death?”
“He did, noble warrior. My father was an old friend of Charles.
But he could not support him in his tyrannic measures with the
Parliament. Whisperings went abroad that my father had agreed to
assassinate him. The Governor of Lancaster Castle was reported to
have heard him say, that if the king went further, the nation must
purchase a block, and that no nobleman who loved his country, would
refuse to be the executioner; and such evidence was given; it was
false. Oh! my poor father.”
Her eye rolled wildly around, as when in her moments of madness.
The miller and his dame perceived it, and went kindly to console
her. But the voice of Cromwell, though neither sweet nor full
toned, seemed to exercise a charm over her grief, as if he had been
some superior being; and instead of raving, she only fell into a
fit of insensibility.
“Leave her to me, good people. Now my pretty one, put your hands in
mine.”
He looked up solemnly, whilst he whispered,
“God above, heal her mind, and heal our mother country. Affection
may yet smile upon her, and kindness may cherish her, but she is a
wreck. The delapidated temple may have the earth around, as green
as ever, and the sky above, as holy and beautiful, but it is still
a ruin. Ho! my good friends, here, she breathes not. Her heart has
stopped its pulse against my breast. Throw the spring water upon
her face. Now she recovers. Look up, then, innocent one.”
In a few minutes she was able to thank him for his attentions.
“It is a painful subject, but although I hear it not mentioned,
it is ever present to my mind. Oh! it is wicked in me to cherish
revenge towards that man. I almost hate him. I almost wish him
dead.”
“Blame not the wish. I have myself wished, nay prayed fervently
for hours at the still approach of midnight, that the man, Charles
Stuart, should die by our hands. He has braved the Parliament, and
why should the judges spare him?”
And yet this was the man who, in after years, dissolved the
Parliament by force, and took the keys home in his pocket. Charles
might not order his attendants in as eloquent and strong language,
to seize the offenders, as Cromwell used, when he told his servants
to take down, “that bauble,”--the mace; but the king was guilty of
a less constitutional crime than was the protector.
He continued, in tones of scorn, while malice darkened over his
face,--
“If Charles be bad, why, he deserves death; he is unfit to live.
If he be good, it is but meet that he should leave this vain and
wicked world for another more congenial to his piety, where he may
inherit a heavenly crown. Let him bid adieu, and there is no honest
man who could object to a monarchy in heaven! Often has Charles
called the crown, a crown of thorns. We shall ease him of it. Pity
that his tender and royal flesh should be scratched! Often has he
called the throne of England a cross. We shall take him down from
the cross, _and bury him_. Pity that he should, any longer, be a
spectacle to angels and to men! We shall free him of both his crown
and his throne!”
“But surely not of his life?” inquired Miss Evelyn, and the
question was repeated by Hans and Rachel Skippon.
It was unanswered:--and Cromwell relapsed into one of those silent
moods which came frequently over him, even at the commencement
of his public career, as well as afterwards, when he became Lord
Protector.
In all his conversation, Mary Evelyn had observed that there was
something of an innocent hypocrisy about him. He counterfeited
tender feelings, when it was evident, from his face, that he
had none; and at other times he restrained tender feelings,
and appeared what he was not--cold and indifferent. But in his
expressed hatred of the king, there could not be a doubt of his
sincerity. The awful sarcasm was in deadly earnest, and the very
words hissed, and hissed, as if they were coming from a full
furnace of burning wrath. Neither was his love for England at
that time insincere. Had his life been of as much value to it as
his sword, instead of taking up the one, he was willing to have
resigned the other.
A knocking was now made at the gate, and when Rachel went to it, a
soldier of the common rank inquired,--
“Tarrieth my lord in the house? Verily he hath chosen a peaceful
spot. The lines have fallen unto him in pleasant places. Lead me
the way.”
“Dost thou preach in the army?” inquired the dame.
“No madam; verily, verily I say unto you, that many shall be called
unto that work, but few chosen. But thou wonderest at the fluency
of my speech. Ah!--out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh. I only edify and exhort in private.”
The good dame could, with difficulty, refrain from laughing at
the uncouth soldier. He was tall and thin, and she afterwards
remarked,--had Goliath been still alive, the soldier would have
been an excellent sword for his huge hand. But he opened his lips
so oracularly, and strode so gravely, that these circumstances
being taken into consideration, along with his leanness, he was
termed by Cromwell himself, with no little blasphemy, when in an
unusual fit of jocularity and good humour, “the holy _ghost_!”
When they had gained the house, he made a low reverence to
Cromwell, repeating the words, “honour to whom honour is due, fear
to whom fear.”
“Well, my good soldier, what wouldst thou?”
“Will it please you, my lord, to walk forth in the cool of the day,
and commune with thy servants, our captains and officers?”
“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”
The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,
“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at
his form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not
handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.
“He _will_ save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all
his greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”
“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel
any attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and
yet, but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”
The good dame here expressed what was the universal feeling of all
Cromwell’s supporters towards him. He had their confidence, but not
their affection. His own daughters, at one time, were proud of him,
but they were never fond. And in the glowing panegyric of Milton,
we can but trace a high admiration of Cromwell.
“Arthur Montressor,” said Mary to herself, “must not belong to
Cromwell’s troops, else he would surely have come to see me. He is
not false or faithless. Oh! when shall civil war be at an end, and
we know a home?”
Cromwell returned an hour before sunset. His step was slow. He was
in a quiet contemplative mood, evidently not thinking of war. His
head was uncovered, and he allowed the air to breathe its fragrance
upon it. He paused at the threshold, as if it were painful to enter
a dwelling after having wandered about the vale.
The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of
May, and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth
it seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to
retreat to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white
cottage, as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.
“My good friends,” said Cromwell “it is now time for our evening
devotions. Let them not be performed in a house made with hands,
but in the open air. And yet I would rather worship in your
dwelling, than in all the gorgeous temples, which speak too much of
man, to say any thing of God. But, let us to the garden.”
His eye beamed with a love for nature. He is said often to have
dwelt with rapture on the beauty of external objects, and to have
wished that his lot, however humble, had been cast in a pastoral
retirement, far from bustle and care. Nature had first given him
thoughts of liberty. It was not the lightning and the storm, which
inspired them. He cared not for the cold mountains, with their
terrific heads mantled in the tempest. He looked around upon lovely
nature. He called himself her son. It was not because she was free,
but because she was beautiful, that he swore never to be a slave. A
beautiful mother, and a son with a craven soul: it must not be!
They went forth to the garden. A pleasant arbour at the extremity,
topping the eminence, and shaded with trees, was their temple.
The balmy fragrance of eve rested on the bushes, and the glow of
coming twilight floated in the sky. Cromwell for a moment listened
in silence, as if the song of spirits, keeping their sabbath, was
borne on the gentle west wind.
“What a temple is this,” he said, “to worship God! I cannot endure
to enter churches, and there to gaze upon the gay gilded fluttering
sons of pride, clothed in purple and fine linen. But here, I can
gaze upon objects still more gaily adorned, and I dare not call
them vain.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, catching fire and animation from the
republican. “Churches teach so much the lesson of our mortality.
Many graves are around us. But this temple teaches us of
immortality.”
“Thou speakest well, beauteous maiden. Mortality is a great
lesson, but immortality is one greater and more useful. Mortality
teaches us to trace our connections and relatives in the worm. But
immortality in God and angels! Sin brought the first to light, but
Christ the other.”
They all joined in singing a psalm. Mary Evelyn’s sweet voice, with
its low and tremulous sounds, occasionally induced Cromwell to be
silent and listen, while he kindly placed his hand upon hers. He
next read a portion of Scripture,--one of the Psalms--which he
afterwards commented upon, in his address to Parliament, as Lord
Protector of the Commonwealth. He then knelt down on the grass and
prayed, “Father above, we come to thee! We now bow at thy feet:
soon we shall lie in thine arms! Far above us, still thou hidest
not thy face. Excuse us in this act of adoration, for opening our
eyes to see the heavens, and for sinking our hands on the ground
to feel thy footstool. The moon and the stars may not arise, but
the clouds which conceal them, tell their tale. The flowers of the
earth may have withered, but the clods of the valley, beneath which
their fair young forms are buried, take their place, and speak to
us of thee!”
Here he paused, as if overcome by the greatness of the Being whom
he addressed. But soon it was the strong republican who prayed, and
he raved about Israel; Israel’s God, and himself the deliverer of
both, as he presumed.
When he had concluded, he abruptly arose and left them. They
followed him into the house, after a few minutes, but he had gone
to his apartment for the night. As long however as they themselves
were awake, they heard him walking up and down.
* * * * *
On the following morning, the sun was not earlier in arising upon
the turrets of Lancaster Castle, than were the soldiers of the
garrison. They were in armour, and the cannons were all charged and
manned. The Governor was walking about to every post and every
circle, encouraging them to do their duty to the king and country.
His eyes were occasionally turned to the vale where Cromwell’s
troops were encamped.
“Do they yet move,” said a noble youth who now approached. “Father,
shall we able to hold out a siege against such a famed general?”
“Is my son a traitor,” bitterly asked the governor. “If he be,
then my first duty of vengeance is against him. No! a king has
blessed thee, and wouldst thou fight against him who once took
thee, an infant, in his royal arms, and swore that thou wert like
thy beautiful mother? Thy mother! Ha, the subject and the name are
unfit for me. Let me not think of them.”
“Father,” proudly replied the youth, “thou doest me wrong. Not only
my sword, but my very life is pledged for the king’s interest. But
to war with Cromwell is to war with destiny. He can pray and he can
fight.”
“Let his troops come,” was the scornful answer, “and we shall
quickly send them upon their knees, to attend to their devotions.
See, there is spare room for a few thousands to pray upon the
ground out before us. They shall find room to stretch out their
full length carcass, and they may breathe out groans which cannot
be uttered, because they are dead!”
“They pray before they come to the battle. During it, you will not
find them once on their knees.”
“Ha! doubtest thou?” exclaimed the governor. “If they refuse to
kneel in loyalty to Charles while living, why, we shall allow
them, in death, to kneel to their mother earth, which they love so
fondly, ‘dust to dust,’ as they themselves would say.”
“Not before their garments are rolled in blood!”
“Art thou a canting hypocrite too? Hast thou been baptized with the
said holy fire. It is the fire of rebellion. Satan was the first
roundhead. He spoke of liberty. He mentioned it in the high court
of parliament, but royalty conquered, and the good cavalier angels
pushed him and all his troops over the battlements. Let Cromwell
scale these turrets, we shall explain to him a precipitous descent.
Let him come.”
“Thou hast thy wish,” was the reply. “His troops are advancing. Now
for the action.”
“My brave boy,” said the governor, as he placed his hand upon the
head of his son, “forgive me for my harsh words. Thou art my only
child, my sole hope. Heaven bless thee and shield thee! But haste
my men, is all in readiness?”
In half-an-hour Cromwell’s troops were posted upon a neighbouring
hill, opposite the castle. A flag of truce was fixed.
A herald from the Roundheads now advanced; and being admitted
into the town, proceeded to the castle. The persons usually thus
employed were half preachers, and half warriors, who threatened
with the sword of the Lord, and of Gideon. The present messenger of
peace, belonged to this class. Obadiah Cook was his name, and as he
announced it to the governor, who appeared at the drawbridge, all
the soldiers gave a loud laugh.
“Friend,” said the governor, “is thy name Obadiah Cook?”
“It is, Sir Governor,” was the reply, “I am like that famous
prophet, who sheltered God’s servants from the wicked Ahaz. Oh! for
a place in the wilderness, that there my soul might fly away and be
at rest!”
“What prevents it from flying? Surely not thy body, for it is
so weak. Indeed, Obadiah, thou seemest too like thy namesake of
old, and art too fond of _cooking_ for the hundred prophets. Man,
consider your own wants.--But your errand, Obadiah?”
“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Are ye so deaf? The
very loop holes of that idolatrous castle, of that high-place of
iniquity, condemned by the Psalmist, take in my words. My master,
Cromwell, in the name of the Parliament of England, demands you to
surrender the castle, else it shall be razed to the ground, and
there shall not be one stone left upon another, which shall not be
thrown down. Last night, when I had retired to sleep, in the midst
of my meditations, I heard an angel flying through the sky, and
crying with a loud voice ‘Babylon is fallen, Lancaster Castle is no
more.’”
At this moment a ball whizzed over the head of Obadiah.
“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the
sentinel, who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted
that it had not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might
have known more accurately.
“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the
sentinel. “Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”
The herald continued,--
“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled
to eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender
in time.”