Teach all men how dangerous it is to step aside out of the path
of innocence and virtue upon any presumption to get into it again;
since such men usually satisfy themselves in doing any thing to
mend the present exigent they are in, rather than think of returning
to that condition of innocence from whence they departed.
Clarendon.
The public rebuke of Lord Hopton (in its most opprobrious charge wholly
undeserved) and the subsequent interview with his father, produced a
marked change in the character of Eustace. He saw that his misfortunes
had proceeded from rash impetuosity, extreme confidence in his own
talents, and a precipitate estimation of the merit of those he admitted
to his friendship. From that period he became wary and circumspect; a
pensive gloom clouded his once fervent animation; he looked and felt
like one bound to life by an irresistible spell, for in that light he
considered his father's command, to live and redeem his honour.
He was not without hope, that the cordial testimony of Governor Arundel
in his favour at Pendennis-Castle might prove the means of restoring him
to the presence of his friends; but a report at that time reaching him
of the high estimation in which Monthault was held by the Beaumont
family, added to an assurance that he was the accepted lover of
Constantia, determined him against returning to Oxford, to witness the
arts by which that now-detected traitor had confirmed his ruin. He had
often heard the love of women was not of that ardent nature, which
outlives disgrace and misfortune. Perhaps he secretly commended the
noble principles which could prevail on a young woman to reject a
dishonoured lover, and deem infamy a sufficient plea to rescind the bond
of a plighted attachment. He only lamented, that in this instance
Constantia had mistaken the dupe for the villain. Disdaining to dispute
the point of character with Monthault, and bent on clearing his fidelity
to his King, by some indisputable proofs before he claimed his love, he
felt as exiles frequently feel, who, liking nothing but that home from
which they are proscribed, suffer chance to decide their course. Jobson
had attached himself to his fortunes, he had some relations in Wales,
and he spoke much of the loyalty of the mountaineers.--Eustace crossed
the British channel and took up his abode in the principality,
continuing to distinguish himself as long as any resistance was made to
the parliament.
During the cessation of hostilities, which resembled rather an armed
truce than peace, his yearning heart returned to his beloved family, and
his dearest Constantia, who, he now learned, had rejected Monthault. But
they had left Oxford in the general dispersion of its sages and divines,
and he knew not whither they had shaped their course, neither did he yet
think he had fulfilled the injunction of redeeming his shames. Continual
talk of risings for the King, made him hope he should again have an
opportunity of using his sword, and while this suspence lasted, he
accepted the hospitality of a worthy surgeon of the name of Lloyd, who
resided in the town of Pembroke, and admired the virtues of this brave
out-cast, as sincerely as he pitied his misfortunes.
Eustace left the arms of this foster-parent, at the breaking out of the
second civil war, which took place during the King's confinement in
Carisbroke-Castle. He was one of the first who appeared in arms, and
after many bold, but unsuccessful efforts, he and Jobson were among the
number who sustained that memorable siege in Pembroke-Castle, where,
after holding out to the last extremity, a selected number of the brave
defenders were sacrificed to republican revenge[1].
I have already stated that the command of the army, destined to subdue
the Welsh Loyalists, had been given to Lord Bellingham as a test of his
fidelity, or rather a snare to expedite his ruin, and that his Countess
was privy to this design, being actually the person who had informed
Cromwell of his secret disaffection. The Usurper had recently suffered a
severe disappointment; his favourite General Mytton had thrown up his
command in disgust, and refused again to subdue his countrymen, since he
perceived his hopes of founding a republic, that was to combine every
Utopian idea of purity, had issued in the establishment of military
despotism. Cromwell resolved henceforth to employ a more subtle policy,
and to place a spy on every one whom he entrusted with an important
command, whose interest it should be to watch and report all their
actions. He had formed a determination not only to annihilate the
ancient nobility, but also to create a new house of peers, consisting of
men raised by what he called personal merit, in reality a selection from
his own creatures, which is often the true explanation of the word
merit, when used for party-purposes. No expedient could better serve
such a purpose, than that of exhibiting birth and rank, self-degraded in
the person of one, who he knew would prove himself unworthy of the trust
reposed in him.
When a system of _espionage_ and secret influence becomes the ruling
principle of government, it follows that the governed must counteract
its designs by a similar process, and thus venality and treachery become
legalized by the acknowledged laws of self-defence. Lord Bellingham had
his agents in the army, as well as Cromwell, and soon discovered that
the sword of Damocles was suspended over his head. Though disaffected to
the cause he served, he had not courage to avow his sentiments, or even
prudence enough to throw up the command, and embrace the only chance of
safety, by choosing a life of retirement. Wedded to the possessions and
rank he had so dearly purchased, and full of ill-founded confidence that
he could play as successful a game with a close-penetrating tyrant, as
he had done with a generous inexperienced King, he thought an air of
inexorable cruelty to the royalists must remove, or at least lull the
suspicions of the serpent, who lay wrapped round in observant coil,
ready to spring upon him. As to the feelings of those whom he
persecuted, for the sake of prolonging his own worthless life and
preserving his ill-acquired fortunes, he either entirely forgot that
they had any, or considered that self-preservation rendered every
expedient lawful.
After enduring a siege equalled in horror only by that of Colchester,
Pembroke-Castle surrendered on the same terms; namely, that the common
soldiers might depart unmolested, and the inhabitants be safe in person
and property, while the officers and gentlemen who had borne arms should
surrender prisoners at mercy. The generous sentiments of these
self-devoted patriots sustained them in the agonizing trial of parting
with the bands they had led always to honour, sometimes to victory, by
the consideration that, by placing themselves in jeopardy, they had
purchased the safety of those whom they could no otherwise protect, and
whose services were now useless as the cause was desperate. But far
different were the feelings of the soldiers, who were compelled to leave
their beloved commanders in this state of peril. The regret of Jobson
was peculiarly lively, he wrung the hand of Eustace, implored him to
assist him in passing for a subaltern, that he might share his perils,
and insisted he was as good a gentleman as many of Bellingham's
officers. Eustace attempted to laugh at his apprehensions, assured him
that the rumour of the General's intention to decimate the prisoners was
suggested by some malicious person, who sported with the feelings of
unfortunate people. "The only difference in our fate," said he to
Jobson, "is that you are at large with your unhealed wounds to beg or
starve, whichever (being your own master) you shall think most eligible,
while I shall be well taken care of as a prisoner, probably sent to
London, and perhaps, by some fortunate occurrence, may be indulged with
a sight of my honoured father. With what transport shall I throw myself
into his arms, crave his blessing, tell him I have redeemed my shames,
and proved by my sufferings and my blood that I am no traitor."
Jobson took a lingering leave; the commands of Bellingham were
peremptory. Every soldier of the King's found in the castle, the evening
after its surrender, was ordered to be thrown over the rock into the
sea. Cowardice was his motive for this command. He dreaded the fury of
even a disarmed and unofficered army, and he resolved to disperse them,
previous to his bringing on the premeditated catastrophe of his bloody
tragedy.
On the succeeding morning a ghastly-looking figure, whose face spoke
some abhorred errand, ordered the captives to attend the council of
officers. Bellingham, surrounded with those, who secretly panted for his
destruction, acted as their organ, and assuming the consequence of a
general, informed his prisoners[2], "That after so long and obstinate a
defence, till they found it necessary to deliver up themselves to mercy,
it was necessary that the peace of the kingdom might be no more disturbed
in that manner, that some military justice should be executed, and
therefore the council had determined that three should be presently
shot." The tallies were immediately produced, the victims blindfolded,
and Eustace drew one of those marked with the fatal sentence of death.
His partners in affliction had nothing remarkable in their appearance to
engage peculiar sympathy; but the beautiful countenance of Eustace, faded
indeed by severe suffering, yet lighted by the splendor of eyes radiant
with intelligence, while all his features spoke sense and feeling, had
already drawn the attention of the butchers who sat to see him exposed to
the chance of slaughter. With collected intrepidity he stretched his
hand, and steadily drew the lot from the fatal urn. When the contents
were announced, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and, rolling them in
stern defiance of the rebel group, embraced his fellow-victims. A silent
appeal to Heaven succeeded; and then, without one supplicatory address
for mercy, in a manly tone, he inquired what time would be allowed them
to prepare for death. His manner had so far softened their hearts, that a
respite of three hours was granted; and Lord Bellingham offered them the
assistance of one of his own chaplains to direct their devotions.
It would have been an inestimable consolation to Eustace had the worthy
Barton officiated in that capacity; but he was now among the number of
respectable characters who were thrown into prison for presuming to
intercede in the King's behalf. The person who attended Eustace was an
ignorant desperate fanatic, in reality a spy of Cromwell's, whom the
arbitrary will of Lady Bellingham compelled her lord to retain about his
person. Such an assistant could afford no comfort to a condemned man; in
reality he only served to disturb the composure which a long series of
sorrows and sufferings had enabled Eustace externally to assume--I say
externally, for his soul secretly melted at the unusual misfortunes that
had clouded his short existence. He recollected at this trying moment
the precious delights and glorious visions of his boyhood. His mind
dwelt on the delusive opinion of his own powers, which had endangered
his high expectations of renown, the fatal intimacy, and the numerous
errors that changed glory into disgrace; and now, when misfortune had
taught him wisdom, by the cruel sentence of coward rebels he was doomed,
in cold blood, not only to an early, but also to an ignominious grave.
He should never more re-join his father! never behold his plighted
Constantia! Death he would welcome almost with transport, could he but
hear the former pronounce his forgiveness, or the latter vow that she
would cherish his memory. To die unknown, distant from all he loved, be
ignorant of their present state, and they of his miserable doom--such a
combination of excruciating misfortunes required no common fortitude to
support the trial, or to divest a soul (which clung to the future with
greater eagerness in proportion to the fallacy of past expectations) of
those strong attachments to this life which impeded his journey to
another. The glow of heroism which animated his face, and warmed his
bosom before the council, was succeeded by the chill of despair. The
precious moments of preparation for eternity were consumed in a whirl of
distracting thought. He stood caressing a favourite spaniel whom he had
preserved alive during the severe privations of the siege, watching the
swift movements of the clock which numbered the remaining pulses of his
heart, wondering if it would thus throb at the moment when he plunged
into an unknown existence, endeavouring to recollect a recommendatory
prayer, but too amazed and petrified by the cruelty of man to meditate
on the mercy of God.
Meanwhile, Henley the chaplain, with the stern austerity of unpitying
fanaticism, asked Eustace if he was in a state of grace, or had
witnessed the experience of a saving call. Receiving no answer to these
inquiries, he began the usual routine of vituperative prayer, and
affected to supplicate for mercy on what he styled a child of wrath
doomed to perdition, and, by his own consent, in the bondage of Satan.
Eustace was roused by this mockery from his apparent stupor. "Call you
this," said he, "spiritual comfort for the afflicted, or a requiem for a
departing soul? I was educated in the principles of true piety. I know
myself to be a frail, responsible being, and that my spirit is composed
of those imperishable materials which will enable me to exist in a state
of retribution. I trust in the merits of Him who died to save me. I am
severed from my dearest connections. My days are terminated in the
morning of my life. I am denied the fruition of those glorious hopes
which prompted me to distinguish myself by deeds deserving virtuous
renown. So wills the Ruler of the universe. Blind and cruel instruments
often accomplish the inscrutable designs of Providence; but I have been
taught to consider all its purposes as issuing in mercy. I fought for a
virtuous King; I die for his exiled son. My name shall live in honour
when Bellingham and all the vile associates of Cromwell are consigned to
infamy. I am the son of Colonel Evellin, the nephew of Dr. Eusebius
Beaumont, both renowned Loyalists. You, Sir, cannot instruct me; for the
principles I imbibed from them will support me in my last moments."
The Chaplain listened with surprise to the account which Eustace gave of
himself, and thought it expedient to return to his lord before his
execution. Bellingham had been much struck with the aspect of the brave
youth. The unacknowledged yearnings of nature, excited by his
resemblance to his father, made him wish to save his life, while the
compunctious visitings of mercy were again repressed by terror for his
own. While he thus hesitated, Henley returned, and advised the Earl by
no means to preserve such a determined profligate, who had rejected his
prayers with disdain, refused to give any account of the state of his
soul, persisted in a false exposition of the gospel, and gloried in his
relationship to notorious malignants. "He is the son of that desperado
Colonel Evellin," said Henley--Bellingham trembled as he uttered that
name--"and the nephew of Dr. Eusebius Beaumont," continued the Chaplain.
The horrors and fears of Bellingham were wrought to a climax by this
information. Those apprehensions which the likeness of Eustace to his
injured father, and the similitude of their names excited, were now
confirmed beyond all doubt, by his claiming kindred with Dr. Beaumont.
Allan Neville was therefore still alive, and no other than the famous
Colonel Evellin, at whose name he and many other rebels had often turned
pale. Bellingham had frequently revolved in his mind the possibility
that the brave Loyalist might be his injured brother. He had lost sight
of him before the commencement of the civil wars, and hoped he had
fallen a victim to insanity in his mountainous retreat. He now knew he
was still alive, perhaps preserved to reclaim his inheritance, at least
he was the father of a brave interesting youth whom he had just doomed
to slaughter, and dared not pardon. Practised as he was in guilt, his
heart revolted at the idea of shedding his blood. Hurried out of his
accustomed caution, he faintly acknowledged the prisoner was his nephew;
but suddenly re-assuming his wonted duplicity, he desired Henley to
hurry back, and inquire if he had any more brothers, observing it was a
desperate family, and perhaps sparing the life of one might be the means
of getting the rest into the power of Parliament.
Henley had caught the inadvertent acknowledgment of kindred, and was
prepared to use it to forward the views of Cromwell. Before he returned
to Eustace, he took care to inform the agitators that their General's
nephew was one among the captive officers assigned by lot to expiate for
the loss of their comrades who had perished in the siege, and that
Bellingham was now devising measures to save his life. An universal
clamour was immediately raised; the soldiers assembled on the parade,
and called for impartial justice. The agitators proceeded in a body to
the General's quarters, demanding that the prisoners should be instantly
executed, and, that no subterfuge or exchange might take place, they
would themselves examine their features, and ascertain that they were
those who drew the lots of death.
Meanwhile Henley was holding forth hopes of mercy to Eustace, and drew
from him a description of the state of his family. He also inquired if
he had any friends in Pembroke. A prudent recollection of the danger to
which he might expose Dr. Lloyd, prevented Eustace from requesting the
comfort of his attendance. The conference was interrupted by the loud
clamours of the soldiers. Eustace knew their meaning, endeavoured to
compose his thoughts, and submitted to his fate. It was reported that,
as he went to execution, he had the melancholy comfort of seeing his
friend among those who came to witness his last moments. If so, his
perturbed spirit was soothed with the consciousness that there was one
who would record his magnanimity, and rescue his cold remains from
barbarous indignity or oblivious neglect.
"I know little more, please Your Reverence," said Jobson to Dr.
Beaumont, "than that they were all cruelly shot to death. I have heard
that poor Fido sat howling on my young master's corpse, and would not
let any body touch it till Dr. Lloyd fetched it away to bury it; and
that the Doctor keeps the poor dog still, and will never part with it.
Ah! the bloody-minded knaves so hated poor Eustace, that they never
would have suffered him to have had Christian burial, had not the
officers and soldiers mutinied just at that moment. They said that the
General had betrayed them, and that the trouble they had to conquer us
was all owing to his favouring his friends in the Castle. There is
nothing but lies among the Round-heads; for I'll take my life not a soul
of us would have had any thing to do with them, and if starving us to
death was a way of shewing us favour, I hope never to meet with such
friends any more. So, and please Your Reverence, as soon as poor Mr.
Eustace fell, the Devil (whom they talk so much about) got among them,
and they began quarrelling and fighting; and a pity it is he did not
come a little sooner and carry off that cowardly Lord who let his
prisoners be shot in cold blood, because he could not beat them when
they had arms in their hands. Had it not been for him, the finest young
man Lancashire ever bred would have been alive and merry with his noble
father at this moment. I don't wonder Your Reverence weeps and wrings
your hands. I would have died a thousand times to save him; and if ever
I may shew my face in the open day-light again, I'll go to Pembroke and
beg Dr. Lloyd to let me take Fido to Mistress Constantia. Poor Fido! Mr.
Eustace hid him all through the siege, or the garrison would have eat
him. We gave him a morsel out of our own mess, and that was short
commons enough. I fancy I see him walking after Mr. Eustace when he went
to be shot, and then sitting on his body. I warrant they found the lock
of Mrs. Constantia's hair lying on his heart; for he looked at it every
day, and swore he never would part with it. O! that I had died instead
of him; there is nobody to grieve for Ralph Jobson!"
Thus imitating the artifice, while unable to catch the spirit of the
Grecian painter, I describe sorrow as personified in a faithful
attendant, and leave the reader's imagination to picture the frantic
father and the fainting mistress of Eustace--affliction wearing the form
of a ministering angel in Isabel, and that of a mourning patriarch in
Dr. Beaumont--all tracing the ruin of their dearest hopes to the same
iniquitous source; yet all agreeing that it was better to die with
virtue than to live with guilt; to be immolated on the shrine of alarmed
ambition, rather than to be the bloody hierarch who dragged the
sacrifice to the altar.
[1] In the account of what passed at Pembroke-Castle, the author
has not adhered to history or chronology; but the similar barbarity
and breach of contract, which took place at Colchester, justifies
the narration.
[2] This is copied from what passed at Colchester.