Woodstock 9780748628308

Citation preview

THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS      - -      Professor David Hewitt

 The Royal Society of Edinburgh : The University of Edinburgh    Bank of Scotland   Lord Sutherland of Houndwood, Chairman Sir Eric Anderson : Professor Andrew Hook Professor R. D. S. Jack : Professor Sir Neil MacCormick Professor Douglas Mack : Professor Susan Manning Allan Massie : Professor Jane Millgate Professor David Nordloh   Dr J. H. Alexander, University of Aberdeen Professor P. D. Garside, University of Edinburgh Professor Claire Lamont, University of Newcastle Dr Alison Lumsden, University of Aberdeen G. A. M. Wood, University of Stirling Typographical Adviser The late Ruari McLean

  WOODSTOCK

EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each novel is published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the     volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [1815] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The Tale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Ivanhoe [1820] Graham Tulloch The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J. H. Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden The Fortunes of Nigel [1822] Frank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis with others Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander The Shorter Fiction Graham Tulloch and Judy King Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

WALTER SCOTT

WOODSTOCK

Edited by Tony Inglis with J. H. Alexander, David Hewitt, and Alison Lumsden

 University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2009 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh and printed and bound in Great Britain on acid-free paper at Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wilts.  978 0 7486 0583 5 A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FOREWORD

T  P           of Waverley in 1814 marked the emergence of the modern novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact of this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accustomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaintness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’. What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-statements; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs of new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of progress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment of new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertainments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of transcription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected. D D  University Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

viii

General Introduction

xi

WOODSTOCK Volume I

.

.

. .

.

. .

. .

1

Volume II

.

.

. .

.

. .

. .

133

Volume III .

.

. .

.

. .

. .

269

.

. .

419

Essay on the Text . . genesis

. .

.

.

. .

.

. .

. .

419

composition

.

. .

.

. .

. .

426

the later editions . .

. .

.

. .

445

the present text

. .

. .

.

. .

454

Emendation List

. .

. .

.

. .

469

End-of-line Hyphens .

. .

.

. .

531

Historical Note

. .

. .

.

. .

532

.

. .

.

. .

551

. .

. .

638

Explanatory Notes Glossary

.

.

. .

.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels wish to express their gratitude to The University Court of the University of Edinburgh for its vision in initiating and supporting the preparation of the first critical edition of Walter Scott’s fiction. Those Universities which employed the editors have also contributed greatly in paying the editors’ salaries, and awarding research leave and grants for travel and materials. Particular thanks are due to the Universities of Sussex and Aberdeen. In addition to the universities, the project could not have prospered without the help of the sponsors cited below.    The collapse of the great Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin of Sir Walter Scott who found himself responsible for his own private debts, for the debts of the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and for the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott’s largest creditors were Sir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank of Scotland. On the advice of Sir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation of a trust to which he committed his future literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts of over £120,000 for which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’ in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests of the banks nor of Scotland. The ‘Letters’ were so successful that the Government was forced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait of Sir Walter appears on all current bank notes of the Bank of Scotland because Scott was a champion of Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer not just of the Bank of Scotland itself, but also of three other banks now incorporated within it—the British Linen Bank, Sir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Company. Bank of Scotland’s support of the EEWN continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs of Walter Scott. viii



ix

          Between 1992 and 1998 the EEWN was greatly assisted by the British Academy through the award of a series of research grants which provided most of the support required for employing a research fellow, without whom steady progress could not have been maintained. The Academy also supported Tony Inglis with an overseas conference grant in 1999. In 2000 the AHRB awarded the EEWN a major grant which ensured the completion of the Edition. To both of these bodies, the British Academy and the Arts and Humanities Research Board, the Advisory Board and the editors express their thanks.   The Advisory Board and the editors also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the generous grants and gifts to the EEWN from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust of the Fleming family which founded the City firm Robert Fleming Holdings, now incorporated within J. P. Morgan; the Edinburgh University General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust; Sir Gerald Elliot; the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland; the Modern Humanities Research Association; and the Robertson Trust.  The manuscript of Woodstock is owned by the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, and the editors wish to thank the Morgan Library for its generosity in lending it to the National Library of Scotland over an extended period, and in providing a microfilm. They acknowledge too the support of the British Library which owns the proofs, and the National Library of Scotland which holds most of the relevant publishing papers. The holdings and facilities of many other libraries have been repeatedly used: the University of Sussex Library, the London Library, the Bodleian Library, Oxford, the Taylor Institute Library, Oxford, and Aberdeen University Library. The editors specifically thank the staff of all the libraries listed here for their unfailing efficiency and courtesy. Editing Scott requires knowledge and expertise that no one scholar now possesses, and the editors wish to thank all those who in one way or another answered questions or provided information: Professor John Baird, Professor Miranda Burgess, Ms Christine Churches, Dr B. J. Cook, Professor Brian Cummings, Mr Douglas Dodds, Mr J. B. Ellis, Mr Christopher Galloway, Dr Tara Hamling, Professor Maurice Howard, Professor Claire Lamont, Mr Philip J. Lankester, Professor Nigel Llewellyn, Mr J. Derrick McClure, Professor Allan McInnes, Dr Brian McMullin, Dr Susan Manly, Professor Jane Millgate, Professor Murray Pittock, Dr

x



Ian Roy, Professor Graham Tulloch, Dr Paul Williamson, Mr Bob Woosnam-Savage, and Professor Blair Worden. The EEWN consultants have, as always, contributed to specific aspects of the edition, and the editors are particularly grateful to Professor T. W. Craik (Shakespeare), Ms Caroline Jackson-Houlston (popular and traditional song), and Mr Roy Pinkerton (Classical literature). The editors thank most warmly our editorial assistants and proof-readers, Rev. Dr Ian Clark, Dr Sheena Ford, Dr Gillian Hughes, and Mrs Rachel McGregor. The editors are also much indebted to Mr Harry McIntosh, our compositor: scholarship requires elegant representation in type to make it eloquent. Finally Tony Inglis acknowledges with gratitude the sustained hospitality in Edinburgh over many years of Professors Peter France and Siân Reynolds, and the patience and support of Elizabeth Inglis who checkread the first electronic text of the novel, equipped the printed-out facsimile of the manuscript with first-edition pagination, and (with his three daughters) helped him with encouragement and shrewd questioning.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What has the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version of this General Introduction said that many hundreds of readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’. Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some of these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits of the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the reconstruction of the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery of the description of Clara Mowbray’s previous relationship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well—each of these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mistakes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full of errors. The restoration of Scott’s own shaping and punctuating of speech has often enhanced the rhetorical effectiveness of dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has revealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape of his narratives seems to have been established before he committed his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control of his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command of enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ understanding and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition of his quite extraordinary achievement. The text of the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process of xi

xii

 

converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense of the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation of all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829–33). There may be authorial readings in some of the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition of Waverley, but not a single intermediate edition of any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence of sustained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development of the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts of his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer of later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis of a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctuation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications—no title page ever carried his name. To maintain the pretence of secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf of these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set of proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

 

xiii

which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names of speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he corrected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins of the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly enjoyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he transcribed all the changes on to a clean set of proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were prepared. Some of these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition of the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style of punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballantyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption of authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices of his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors of the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J. McGann in his A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

xiv

 

the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thoroughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballantyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement of chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests of equalising the size of volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even McGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course of translating the manuscript text into print are a feature of the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form of the text. The editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition of a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination of the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form of his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings of the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publication materials, and in the light of their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing of the Waverley Novels, they incorporate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

 

xv

after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors of fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waverley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to reissue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’. His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life of the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works of fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to anyone who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the Magnum does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially prepared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text of the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edition of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley. The printed text of Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none of which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text of Guy Mannering and

xvi

 

200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy Mannering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version of the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version of his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. To produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example of W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions of the text produced at different stages of the author’s career. To fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Interleaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts of Volume 25 of the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text of Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range of materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their enquiries fundamentally changing their appreciation of Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding of these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise.   January 1999

PREFACE I   my purpose to inform my readers how the manuscripts of that eminent antiquary, the Rev. J. A. R, D.D., came into my possession. There are many ways in which such things happen, and it is enough to say they were rescued from an unworthy fate, and that they were honestly come by. As for the authenticity of the anecdotes which I have gleaned from the writings of this excellent person, and put together with my own unrivalled facility, the name of Doctor Rochecliffe will warrant accuracy, wherever that name happens to be known. With his history the reading part of the world are well acquainted; and we might refer the tyro to honest Anthony a Wood, who looked up to him as one of the pillars of High Church, and bestows on him an exemplary character in the Athenæ Oxonienses, although the Doctor was educated at Cambridge, England’s other eye. It is well known that Doctor Rochecliffe early obtained preferment in the Church, on account of the spirited share which he took in the controversy with the Puritans; and that his work, entitled Malleus Hæresis, was considered as a knock-down blow by all, except those who received it. It was that work which made him, at the early age of thirty, Rector of Woodstock, and which afterward secured him a place in the catalogue of the celebrated Century White, and—worse than being shown up by that ancient fanatic, among the catalogue of scandalous and malignant priests admitted into benefices by the prelates—his opinions occasioned the loss of his living of Woodstock on the ascendance of Presbytery. He was chaplain, during most part of the Civil War, to Sir Henry Lee’s regiment, levied for the service of King Charles; and it was said he engaged more than once personally in the field. At least it is certain that Doctor Rochecliffe was repeatedly in great danger, as will appear from more passages than one in the following history, which speaks of his own exploits, like Cæsar, in the third person. I suspect, however, some Presbyterian commentator has been guilty of interpolating two or three passages. The manuscript was long in possession of the Everards, a distinguished family of that persuasion. During the Usurpation, Doctor Rochecliffe was constantly engaged in one or other of the premature attempts at a restoration of monarchy, and was accounted, for his audacity, presence of mind, 3

4



and depth of judgment, one of the greatest undertakers for the King in that busy time; with this trifling drawback, that the plots in which he busied himself were almost constantly detected. Nay, it was suspected that Cromwell himself sometimes contrived to suggest to him the intrigues in which he engaged, by which means the wily Protector made experiments on the fidelity of doubtful friends, and became well acquainted with the plots of declared enemies, which he thought it more easy to disconcert and disappoint than to punish severely. After the Restoration, Doctor Rochecliffe regained his living of Woodstock, with other church preferment, and gave up polemics and political intrigue for philosophy. He was one of the constituent members of the Royal Society, and was the person through whom Charles required of that learned body solution of the curious problem, “Why, if a vessel is filled brimful of water, and a large live fish plunged into the water, nevertheless it shall not overflow the pitcher?” Doctor Rochecliffe’s exposition of this phenomenon was the most ingenious and instructive of four that were given in; and it is certain the Doctor must have gained the honours of the day, but for the obstinacy of a plain, dull, country gentleman, who insisted that the experiment should be, in the first place, publicly tried. When this was done, the event showed it would have been rather rash to have adopted the facts exclusively on the royal authority, as the fish, however curiously inserted into his natural element, splashed the water all over the hall, and destroyed the credit of four ingenious essayists, besides a large Turkey carpet. Doctor Rochecliffe, it would seem, died about 1685, leaving many papers behind him of various kinds, and, above all, many valuable anecdotes of secret history, from which the following Memoirs have been extracted, on which we intend to say only a few words by way of illustration. The existence of Rosamond’s Labyrinth, mentioned in these pages, is attested by Drayton in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. “Rosamond’s Labyrinth, whose ruins, together with her Well, being paved with square stone in the bottom, and also her Tower, from which the Labyrinth did run, are yet remaining, being vaults arched and walled with stone and brick, almost inextricably wound within one another, by which, if at any time her lodging were laid about by the Queen, she might easily avoid peril imminent, and, if need be, by secret issues take the air abroad, many furlongs about Woodstock, in Oxfordshire.”* * Drayton’s England’s Heroical Epistles, Note A, on the Epistle, Rosamond to King Henry.



5

It is highly probable, that a singular piece of phantasmagoria, which was certainly played off upon the Commissioners of the Long Parliament, who were sent down to dispark and destroy Woodstock, after the death of Charles I., was conducted by means of the secret passages and recesses in the ancient labyrinth of Rosamond, around which successive Monarchs had erected a hunting-seat or Lodge. There is a curious account of the disturbance given to these honourable Commissioners, inserted by Doctor Plot, in his Natural History of Oxfordshire. But as I have not the book at hand, I can only allude to the work of the celebrated Glanville upon witches, who has extracted it as an highly accredited narrative of supernatural dealings. The beds of the Commissioners, and their servants, were hoisted up till they were almost inverted, and then let down again so suddenly, as to menace them with broken bones. Unusual and horrible noises disturbed these sacrilegious intromitters with royal property. The devil, on one occasion, brought them a warming-pan; on another, pelted them with stones and horses’ bones. Tubs of water were emptied on them in their sleep; and so many other pranks of the same nature played at their expense, that they broke up housekeeping, and left their intended spoliation only half completed. The good sense of Doctor Plot suspected, that these feats were wrought by conspiracy and confederation, which Glanville of course endeavours to refute with all his might; for it could scarce be expected, that he who believed in so convenient a solution as that of supernatural agency, would consent to relinquish the service of a key which will answer any lock, however intricate. Nevertheless, it was afterwards discovered, that Doctor Plot was perfectly right; and that the only demon who wrought all these marvels, was a disguised royalist—a fellow called Trusty Joe, or some such name, formerly in the service of the Keeper of the Park, but who engaged in that of the Commissioners, on purpose to subject them to this persecution. I think I have seen some account of the real state of the transaction, and of the machinery by which the wizard worked his wonders; but whether in a book, or a pamphlet, I am uncertain. I remember one passage particularly to this purpose. The Commissioners having agreed to retain some articles out of the public accompt, in order to be divided among themselves, had entered into an indenture for ascertaining their share in the peculation, which they hid in a bow-pot for security. Now, when an assembly of divines, aided by the most strict religious characters in the neighbourhood of Woodstock, were assembled to conjure down the supposed demon, Trusty Joe had contrived a fire-work, which he let off in the midst of the exorcism, and which destroyed the bow-pot; and,

6



to the shame and confusion of the Commissioners, threw their secret indenture into the midst of the assembled ghost-seers, who became thus acquainted with their schemes of peculation. It is, however, to little purpose for me to strain my memory about ancient and imperfect recollections concerning the particulars of these fantastic disturbances at Woodstock, since Doctor Rochecliffe’s papers give such a much more accurate narrative than could be obtained from any account in existence before their publication. Indeed, I might have gone much more fully into this part of my subject, for the materials are ample;—but, to tell the reader a secret, some friendly critics were of opinion they made the story hang on hand; and thus I was prevailed on to be more concise on the subject than I might otherwise have been. However, as John Bunyan says, Too long do I detain you in the porch, And keep you from the sunshine with a torch.

Were the sunshine twice as bright, however, as it is likely to prove; and the flambeau, or link, a dozen of times as smoky, my friend must remain in the inferior atmosphere a moment longer, while I disclaim the idea of poaching on another’s manor. Hawks, we say, in Scotland, ought not to pick out hawks’ eyes, or tire upon each other’s quarry; and, therefore, if I had known that, in its date and its characters, this tale was like to interfere with that recently published by a distinguished contemporary, I should unquestionably have left Doctor Rochecliffe’s manuscript in peace for the present season. But before I was aware of this circumstance, this little book was half through the press; and I had only the alternative of avoiding any intentional imitation, by delaying a perusal of the contemporary work in question. Some accidental collision there must be, when works of a similar character are founded on the same general system of historical manners, and the same historical personages are introduced. Of course, if such have occurred, I shall be probably the sufferer. But my intentions have been at least innocent, since I look on it as one of the advantages attending the conclusion of W  , that the finishing of my own task will permit me to have the pleasure of reading B  -H , from which I have hitherto conscientiously abstained.

WOODSTOCK  

Chapter One Some were for gospel ministers, And some for red-coat seculars, As men most fit t’ hold forth the word, And wield the one and th’ other sword. B ’s Hudibras

T    handsome parish church in the town of Woodstock,— I am told so at least, for I never saw it, having scarce time, when at the place, to view the magnificence of Blenheim, its painted halls, and tapestried bowers, and then return in due season to dine in hall with my learned friend, the Provost of ——; being one of those occasions on which a man wrongs himself extremely, if he lets his curiosity interfere with his punctuality. I had the church accurately described to me, with a view to this work; but, as I have some reason to doubt whether my informant had ever seen the inside of it himself, I will be content to say that it is now a handsome edifice, most part of which was rebuilt forty or fifty years since, although it still contains some arches of the old chantry, founded, it is said, by King John. But it is to this more ancient part of the building that my story refers. Upon a morning in the end of September, or beginning of October, in the year 1651, being a day appointed for a solemn thanksgiving for the decisive victory at Worcester, a respectable audience was assembled in the old chantry, or chapel of King John. The condition of the church and character of the audience both bore witness to the rage of civil war, and the peculiar spirit of the times. The sacred edifice showed many marks of dilapidation. The windows, once filled with storied glass, had been dashed to pieces with pikes and muskets, as matters of and pertaining to idolatry. The carving on the 7

8



Vol. 1, ch. 1

reading-desk was damaged, and two fair screens of beautiful sculptured oak had been destroyed, for the same pithy and conclusive reason. The high altar had been removed, and the gilded railing, which was once around it, was broken down and carried off. The effigies of several tombs were mutilated, and now lay scattered about the church, Torn from their destined niche, unworthy meed Of knightly counsel or heroic deed.

The autumn wind piped through empty aisles, in which the remains of stakes and trevisses of rough-hewn timber, as well as a quantity of scattered hay and trampled straw, seemed to intimate that the hallowed precincts had been, upon some late emergency, made the quarters of a troop of horse. The audience, like the building, was abated in splendour. None of the ancient and habitual worshippers during peaceful times, were now to be seen in their carved galleries, with hands shadowing their brows, while composing their minds to pray where their fathers had prayed, and after the same mode of worship. The eye of the yeoman and peasant sought in vain the tall form of old Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, as, wrapped in his laced cloak, and with beard and whiskers duly composed, he moved slowly through the aisles, followed by the faithful mastiff, or blood-hound, which in old time had saved his master by his fidelity, and which regularly followed him to church. Bevis, indeed, fell under the proverb which avers, “He is a good dog which goes to church;” for, bating an occasional temptation to warble along with the accord, he behaved himself as decorously as any of the congregation, and returned as much edified, perhaps, as some of them. The damsels of Woodstock looked as vainly for the laced cloaks, jingling spurs, slashed boots, and tall plumes, of the young cavaliers of this and other high-born houses, moving through the street and the church-yard with the careless ease, which indicates perhaps rather an overweening degree of self-confidence, yet shows graceful when mingled with good humour and courtesy. The good old dames, too, in their white hoods and black velvet gowns—their daughters, “the cynosure of neighbouring eyes,”—where were they all now, who, when they entered the church, used to divide men’s thoughts betwixt them and Heaven? “But, ah! Alice Lee—so sweet, so gentle, so condescending in thy loveliness—[thus proceeds a contemporary annalist, whose manuscript we have deciphered]— why is my story to turn upon thy fallen fortunes? and why not rather to the period when, in the very dismounting from your palfrey, you attracted as many eyes as if an angel had descended,—as many blessings as if the benignant being had come fraught with good

[Chap. 1]



9

tidings? No creature wert thou of an idle romancer’s imagination— no being fantastically bedizened with inconsistent perfections;—thy merits made me love thee well—and for thy faults—I think they made me love thee better.” With the house of Lee had disappeared from the Chantry of King John others of gentle blood and honoured lineage,—Freemantles, Winchcombes, Draycotts, &c.; for the air that blew over the towers of Oxford was unfavourable to the growth of Puritanism, which was more general in neighbouring counties. There were, however, among the congregation one or two that, by their habits and demeanour, seemed country gentlemen of consideration, and there were also present some of the notables of the town of Woodstock, cutlers or glovers chiefly, whose skill in steel or leather had raised them to a comfortable livelihood. These dignitaries wore long black cloaks, plaited close at the neck, and, like peaceful citizens, carried their Bibles and memorandum-books at their girdles, instead of knife or sword. This respectable, but least numerous part of the audience, were such decent persons as had adopted the Presbyterian form of faith, renouncing the liturgy and hierarchy of the Church of England, and living under the tuition of the Rev. Nehemiah Holdenough, much famed for the length and strength of his powers of predication. With these grave seigniors sate their goodly dames in ruff and gorget, like the portraits which in catalogues of paintings are designed “Wife of a burgo-master;” and their pretty daughters, whose study, like that of Chaucer’s physician, was not always in the Bible, but who were, on the contrary, when a glance could escape the vigilance of their honoured mothers, inattentive themselves, and the cause of inattention in others. But, besides these dignified persons, there were in the church a numerous collection of the lower orders, some brought thither by curiosity, but many of them “unwashed artificers,” bewildered in the theological discussions of the time, and of as many various sects as there are colours in the rainbow. The presumption of these learned Thebans being in exact proportion to their ignorance, the last was total, and the first boundless. Their behaviour in the church was anything but reverential or edifying. Most of them affected a cynical contempt for all that was only held sacred by human sanction —the church was to these men but a steeple-house, the clergyman, an ordinary person; her ordinances, dry bran and sapless pottage, unfitted for the spiritualized palate of the saints, and the prayer, an address to Heaven, to which each auditor assented or not, as in his too critical judgment he conceived fit. The elder amongst them sate or lay on the benches, with their

10



Vol. 1, ch. 1

high steeple-crowned hats pulled over their severe and knitted brows, waiting for the Presbyterian parson, as mastiffs sit in dumb expectation of the bull that is to be brought to the stake. The younger mixed, some of them, a bolder licence of manners with their heresies. They gazed round on the women, yawned, coughed, and whispered, eat apples and cracked nuts, as if in the gallery of a theatre ere the piece commences. Besides all these, the congregation contained a few soldiers, some in corslets and steel caps, some in buff, and others in red coats. These men of war had their bandeliers, with ammunition, slung round them, and rested on their pikes and muskets. They, too, had their peculiar doctrines on the most difficult points of religion, and united the extravagances of enthusiasm with the most determined courage and resolution in the field. The burghers of Woodstock looked on these military saints with no small degree of awe; for though not often sullied with deeds of plunder or cruelty, they had the power of both absolutely in their hands, and the peaceful citizens had no alternative, save submission to whatever the ill-regulated and enthusiastic imaginations of their martial guests might suggest. After some time spent in waiting for him, Master Holdenough began to walk up the aisles of the chapel, not with the slow and dignified carriage with which the old Rector was of yore wont to maintain the dignity of the surplice, but with a hasty step, like one who arrives too late at an appointment, and bustles forwards to make the best use of his time. He was a tall thin man, with an adust complexion, and the vivacity of his eye indicated some irascibility of temperament. His dress was brown, not black, and over his other vestments he wore, in honour of Calvin, a Geneva cloak of a blue colour, which fell backwards from his shoulders as he posted on to the pulpit. His grizzled hair was cut as short as shears could perform the feat, and covered with a black silk skullcap, which stuck so close to his head, that the two ears expanded from under it as if they had been intended as handles by which to lift the whole person. Moreover the worthy divine wore spectacles, and a long grizzled peaked beard, and he carried in his hand a small pocket-bible with silver clasps. Upon arriving at the pulpit, he paused a moment to take breath, then began to ascend the steps by two at a time. But his course was arrested by a strong hand, which seized his cloak. It was that of one who had detached himself from the group of soldiery. He was a stout man of middle stature, with a quick eye, and a countenance which, though plain, had yet an expression that fixed the attention. His dress, though not strictly military, partook of that character. He wore large hose made of calves-leather, and a

[Chap. 1]



11

tuck, as it was then called, or rapier, of tremendous length, balanced on the other side by a dagger. The belt was, moreover, garnished with pistols. The minister, intercepted in his duty, faced round upon the party who had thus seized him, and demanded in no gentle tone the meaning of the interruption. “Friend,” quoth the intruder, “is it thy purpose to hold forth to these good people?” “Ay, marry is it,” said the clergyman, “and such is my bounden duty. Woe to me if I preach not the gospel—Prithee, friend, let me not in my labour.” “Nay,” said the man of warlike mien, “I am myself minded to hold forth—therefore, do thou depart, or, if thou wilt, do thou remain and fructify with these poor goslings, to whom I am presently about to shake forth the crumb of comfortable doctrine.” “Give place, thou man of Satan,” said the priest, waxing wroth, “respect mine order—my cloth.” “I see no more to respect in the cut of thy cloak, or in the cloth of which it is fashioned,” said the other, “than thou didst in the Bishop’s rocket—they were black and white, thou art blue and brown. Sleeping dogs every one of you, lying down, loving to slumber—shepherds that starve the flock, but will not watch it, each looking to his own gain, from his quarter—hum.” Scenes of this indecent kind were so common at the time, that no one thought of interfering; the congregation looked on in silence, the better class scandalized, and the lower orders, some laughing, and others backing the soldier or minister as their fancy dictated. Meantime the struggle waxed fiercer; Master Holdenough clamoured for assistance. “Master Mayor of Woodstock,” he exclaimed, “wilt thou be among those wicked magistrates who bear the sword in vain?—Citizens, will you not help your pastor?—Worthy Aldermen, will you see me strangled on the pulpit stairs by this man of buff and Belial?—But lo, I will overcome him, and cast his cords from me.” As Holdenough spoke, he struggled to ascend the pulpit stairs, holding hard on the bannisters. His tormentor held fast by the skirts of the cloak, which went nigh to the choking of the wearer, until, as he spoke the words last mentioned, in a half-strangled voice, Master Holdenough dexterously slipped the string which tied it round his neck, so that the garment suddenly gave way; the soldier fell backwards down the steps, and the liberated divine skipped into his pulpit, and began to give forth a psalm of triumph over his prostrate adversary. But a great hubbub in the church marred his triumph,

12



Vol. 1, ch. 1

and although he and his faithful clerk continued to sing the hymn of victory, their notes were only heard by fits, like the whistle of a curlieu during a gale of wind. The cause of the tumult was as follows:—The Mayor was a zealous Presbyterian, and witnessed the intrusion of the soldier with great indignation from the very beginning, though he hesitated to interfere with an armed man while on his legs and capable of resistance. But no sooner did he behold the champion of independency sprawling on his back, with the divine’s Geneva cloak fluttering in his hands, than the magistrate rushed forward, and exclaiming that such insolence was not to be endured, ordered his constables to seize the prostrate champion, proclaiming, in the magnanimity of wrath, “I will commit any red-coat of them all—I will commit him were he Noll Cromwell himself.” The worthy Mayor’s indignation had overmastered his reason when he made this mistimed vaunt. Three soldiers, who had hitherto stood motionless like statues, made each a stride in advance, which placed them betwixt the municipal officers and the soldier who was in the act of arising; then making at once the movement of resting arms according to the manual as then practised, their musket-butts rang on the church pavement, within an inch of the gouty toes of Master Mayor. The energetic magistrate, whose efforts in favour of order were thus checked, cast one glance on his supporters, but that was enough to show him that force was not on his side. All had shrunk back on hearing that ominous clatter of stone and iron. He was obliged to descend to expostulation. “What do you mean, my masters?” said he; “is it like a decent and God-fearing soldiery, who have wrought such things for the land as have never before been heard of, to brawl and riot in the church, or to aid, abet, and comfort a profane fellow, who hath, upon a solemn thanksgiving, excluded the minister from his own pulpit?” “We have nought to do with thy church, as thou call’st it,” said he who by a small feather in front of his morion appeared to be the corporal of the party;—“we see not why men of gifts should not be heard within these citadels of superstition, as well as the voice of the men of crape of old, and the men of cloak now. Wherefore we will pluck yon Jack Presbyter out of his wooden sentinel-box, and our own watchman shall relieve the guard, and mount thereon to cry aloud and spare not.” “Nay, gentlemen,” said the Mayor, “if such be your purpose, we have not the means to withstand you, being, as you see, peaceful and quiet men—But let me first speak with this worthy minister,

[Chap. 1]



13

Nehemiah Holdenough, to persuade him to yield up his place for the time without farther scandal.” The peace-making Mayor then interrupted the quavering of Holdenough and the clerk, and prayed both to retire, else there would, he said, be certainly strife. “Strife?” replied the Presbyterian divine, with scorn; “no fear of strife, among men that dare not testify against this open profanation of the church, and daring display of heresy. Would your neighbours of Banbury have brooked such an insult?” “Come, come, Master Holdenough,” said the Mayor, “put us not to mutiny and cry Clubs. I tell you once more, we are not men of war or blood.” “Not more than may be drawn by the point of a needle,” said the preacher, scornfully.—“Ye tailors of Woodstock,—for what is a glover but a tailor working in kidskin?—I forsake you, in scorn of your faint hearts and feeble hands, and will seek me elsewhere a flock which will not fly from their shepherd at the braying of the first wild ass which cometh from out the great desert.” So saying, the aggrieved divine departed from his pulpit, and shaking the dust from his shoes, left the church as hastily as he had entered it, though for a different reason. The citizens saw his retreat with sorrow, and not without a compunctious feeling as if they were not playing the most courageous part in the world. The Mayor himself and several others left the church, to follow and appease him. The Independent orator, late prostrate, was now triumphant, and inducting himself into the pulpit without further ceremony, he pulled a Bible from his pocket, and selected his text from the forty-fifth psalm,—“Gird thy sword upon thy thigh, O most mighty, with thy glory and thy majesty: And in thy majesty ride prosperously.”—Upon this theme he commenced one of those wild declamations common at the period, in which men were accustomed to wrest and pervert the language of scripture, by adapting it to modern events. The language which, in its literal sense, was applied to King David, and typically referred to the coming of the Messiah, was, in the opinion of the military orator, most properly to be interpreted of Oliver Cromwell, the victorious general of the infant Commonwealth, which was never doomed to come of age. “Gird on thy sword!” exclaimed the preacher emphatically; “and was not that a pretty bit of steel as ever dangled from a corslet, or rung against a steel saddle? Ay, you prick up your ears now, ye cutlers of Woodstock, as if you should know something of a good fox broad-sword—Did you forge it, I trow?— was the steel quenched with water from Rosamond’s well, or the

14



Vol. 1, ch. 1

blade blessed by the old cuckoldly priest of Godstow? You would have us think, I warrant me, that you wrought it and welded it, grinded and polished it, and all the while it never came on a Woodstock stithy. You were all too busy making whittles for the lazy crape-men of Oxford, bouncing priests, whose eyes were so closed up with fat, that they could not see Destruction till she had them by the throat. But I can tell you where the sword was forged, and tempered, and welded, and grinded, and polished, when you were, as I said before, making whittles for false priests, and daggers for dissolute G—d-d—n-me cavaliers, to cut the people of England’s throats with—It was forged at Long Marston Moor, when blows went faster than ever rung hammer on anvil—and it was tempered at Naseby, in the best blood of the cavaliers—and it was welded in Ireland against the walls of Drogheda—and it was grinded on Scotch bones at Dunbar—and now of late it was polished in Worcester, till it shines as bright as the sun in the middle heaven, and there is no light in England that shall come nigh unto it.” Here the military part of the congregation raised a hum of approbation, being a sound which like the “hear, hear,” of the British House of Commons, was calculated to heighten the enthusiasm of the orator, by intimating the sympathy of the audience. “And then,” resumed the preacher, rising in energy as he found that his audience partook in these feelings, “what sayeth the text?—Ride on prosperously—do not stop—do not call a halt—do not quit the saddle—pursue the scattered fliers—sound the trumpet—not a levant or a flourish, but a point of war—sound, boot and saddle—to horse and away—a charge!—follow after the young Man!—what part have we in him? —Slay, take, destroy, divide the spoil! Blessed art thou, Oliver, on account of thine honour—thy cause is clear, thy call is undoubted— never has defeat come near thy leading staff, nor disaster attended thy banner. Ride on, flower of England’s soldiers! ride on, chosen leader of God’s champions! gird up the loins of thy resolution, and be steadfast to the mark of thy high calling!” Another deep and stern hum, echoed by the ancient embow’d arches of the old chantry, gave him an opportunity of an instant’s repose; when the people of Woodstock heard him, and not without anxiety, turn the stream of his oratory into another channel. “But wherefore, ye people of Woodstock, do I say these things to you, who claim no portion in our David, no interest in England’s son of Jesse?—You, who were fighting as well as your might could (and it was not very formidable) for the late Man, under that old bloodthirsty papist Sir Jacob Aston—are you not now plotting, or ready to plot, for restoring, as ye call it, of the young Man, the unclean son of

[Chap. 1]



15

the slaughtered tyrant—the fugitive after whom the true hearts of England are now following, that they may take and slay him?—‘Why should your Rider turn his bridle our way?’ say you in your hearts; ‘we will none of him; if we may help ourselves, we will rather turn us to wallow in the mire of monarchy, with the sow that was washed but newly.’ Come, men of Woodstock, I will ask, and do you answer me. Hunger ye still after the flesh-pots of the monks of Godstow? and you will say, Nay;—but wherefore, except that the pots are cracked and broken, and the fire is extinguished wherewith they were made to boil? And again, I ask, drink you still of the well of the fornications of fair Rosamond?—ye will say nay—but wherefore?”— Here the orator, ere he could answer the question in his own way, was surprised by the following reply, very pithily pronounced by one of the congregation:—“Because you, and the like of you, have left us no brandy to mix with it.” All eyes turned to the audacious speaker, who stood beside one of the short sturdy Saxon pillars, which he himself somewhat resembled, being short of stature, but very strongly made, a squat broad LittleJohn kind of figure, leaning on a quarter-staff, and wearing a jerkin, which, though now sorely stained and discoloured, had once been of the Lincoln green, and showed remnants of having been laced. There was an air of careless good-humoured audacity about the fellow; and, though under military restraint, there were some of the citizens who could not help crying out,—“Well said, Josceline Joliffe.” “Jolly Josceline, call ye him?” proceeded the preacher, without showing either confusion or displeasure at the interruption,—“I will make him Josceline of the jail, if he interrupts me again. One of your park-keepers, I warrant, that can never forget they have borne C. R. upon their badges and bugle-horns, even as a dog bears his owner’s name on his collar—a pretty emblem for Christian men! But the brute beast hath the better of him,—the brute weareth his own coat, and the caitiff thrall wears his master’s. I have seen such a wag make a rope’s end wag ere now.—Where was I?—Oh, rebuking you for your backslidings, men of Woodstock.—Yes—Hem—Ye will say ye have renounced Popery, and ye have renounced Prelacy, and then you wipe your mouth like Pharisees as you are; and who but you for purity of religion! But I tell you, ye are but like Jehu the son of Nimshi, who broke down the house of Baal, yet departed not from the sins of Jeroboam. Even so ye eat not fish on Friday with the blinded Papists, nor minced-pies on the twenty-fifth day of December, like the slothful Prelatists; but you will gorge on sack-posset each night in the year with your blind Presbyterian guide, and you

16



Vol. 1, ch. 1

will speak evil of dignities, and revile the Commonwealth—And ye will glorify yourselves in your park of Woodstock, and say, ‘Was it not walled in first of any other in England, and that by Henry son of William called the Conqueror?’ And ye have a princely lodge therein, and call the same a Royal Lodge; and ye have an oak which ye call the King’s Oak; and ye steal and eat the venison of the park; and ye say, ‘This is the King’s venison, we will wash it down with a cup to the King’s health—better we eat it than those round-headed Commonwealth knaves.’ But listen unto me, and take warning. For these things come we to controversy with you. And one name armed shall be a cannon-shot, before which your Lodge, in the pleasantness whereof ye take pastime, shall be blown into ruins; and we will be as a wedge to split asunder the King’s Oak into billets to heat a brown baker’s oven; and we will dispark your park, and slay the deer, and eat them ourselves, neither shall you have any portion thereof, whether in neck or haunch. Ye shall not haft a tenpenny knife with the horns thereof, neither shall ye cut a pair of breeches out of the hide, for all ye be cutlers and glovers; and you shall have no comfort or support neither from the sequestrated traitor Henry Lee, who called himself Ranger of Woodstock, nor from any on his behalf; for he is coming hither who shall be called Maher-shalal-hash-baz, because he maketh haste to the spoil.” Here ended this wild sermon, the latter part of which fell heavy on the souls of the poor citizens of Woodstock, as tending to confirm a report of an unpleasing nature which had been lately circulated. The communication with London was indeed slow, and the news which it transmitted was uncertain. No less uncertain were the times themselves, and the rumours which were circulated, exaggerated by the hopes and fears of so many various factions. But the general stream of report, so far as Woodstock was concerned, had of late run uniformly in one direction. Day after day they had been informed, that the fatal fiat of Parliament had gone out, for selling the Park of Woodstock, destroying its lodge, disparking its forest, and erazing, as far as they could be erazed, all traces of its ancient fame. Many of the citizens were like to be sufferers on this occasion, as several of them enjoyed, either by sufferance or of right, various convenient privileges of pasturage, cutting fire-wood, and the like, in the royal chase. And all the inhabitants of the little borough were hurt to think, that the scenery of the place was to be destroyed, its edifice ruined, and its territorial honours rent away. This is a patriotic sensation often found in such places, which ancient distinctions and long-cherished recollections of former days, render so different from towns of recent date. The natives of Woodstock felt it in the

[Chap. 2]



17

fullest force. They had trembled at the anticipated calamity; but now, when it was announced by the appearance of those dark, stern, and at the time omnipotent soldiers—now that they heard it proclaimed by the mouth of one of their military preachers—they considered their fate as inevitable. The causes of disagreement among themselves were for the time forgotten, as the congregation, dismissed without psalmody or benediction, went slowly and mournfully homeward, each to his own place of abode.

Chapter Two Come forth, old man—Thy daughter’s side Is now the fitting place for thee: When Time hath quell’d the oak’s bold pride, The youthful tendril yet may hide The ruins of the parent tree. A

W    his sermon was ended, the military orator wiped his brow; for, notwithstanding the coolness of the weather, he was heated with the vehemence of his speech and action. He then descended from the pulpit, and spoke a word or two to the corporal who commanded the party of soldiers, who, replying by a sober nod of intelligence, drew his men together, and marched them in order to their quarters in the town. The preacher himself, as if nothing extraordinary had happened, left the church and sauntered through the streets of Woodstock, with the air of a stranger who was viewing the town, without seeming to observe that he was himself in his turn anxiously surveyed by the citizens, whose furtive yet frequent glances seemed to regard him as something alike suspected and dreadful, yet on no account to be provoked. He heeded them not, but stalked on in the manner affected by the distinguished fanatics of the day; a stiff solemn pace, a severe and at the same time a contemplative look, like that of a man incensed at the interruptions which earthly objects forced upon him, obliging him by their intrusion to withdraw his thoughts for an instant from celestial things. Innocent pleasures of what kind soever they held in suspicion and contempt, and innocent mirth they abominated. It was, however, a cast of mind that formed men for great and manly action, as it adopted principle, and that of an unselfish character, for the ruling motive, instead of the gratification of passion. Some of these men were indeed deep hypocrites, using the cloak of religion only as a covering for their ambition. But many really possessed the devotional character, and the severe republican virtue, which others

18



Vol. 1, ch. 2

only affected. By far the greater number hovered between these extremes, felt to a certain extent the power of religion, and complied with the times in affecting a great deal. The individual, whose pretensions to sanctity, written as they were upon his brow and gait, have given rise to the above digression, reached at length the extremity of the principal street, which terminates upon the park of Woodstock. A battlemented gate-house of Gothic appearance defended the entrance to the avenue. It was of mixed architecture, but on the whole, though composed of the styles of different ages when it had received additions, had a striking and imposing effect. An immense gate composed of rails of hammered iron, with many a flourish and scroll, displaying as its uppermost ornament the ill-fated cypher of C. R., was now decayed, partly with rust, partly from the effects of violence. The stranger paused, as if uncertain whether he should demand or essay entrance. He looked through the grating into the avenue skirted by majestic oaks, which led downwards with a gentle curve, as if into the depths of some ample and ancient forest. The wicket of the large iron gate being left invitingly open, the soldier was tempted to enter, yet with some hesitation, as he that intrudes upon ground which he conjectures may be prohibited—indeed his manner showed more reverence for the scene than could have been expected from his condition and character. He slackened his stately and consequential pace, and at length stood still, and looked around him. Not far from the gate-house, he saw rising from the trees one or two ancient and venerable turrets, bearing each its own vane of rare device glittering in the autumn sun. These indicated the ancient hunting seat, or Lodge, as it was called, which had, since the time of Henry II., been occasionally the residence of the English monarchs, when it pleased them to visit the woods of Oxfordshire, which then so abounded with game, that, according to old Fuller, huntsmen and falconers were nowhere better pleased. The situation which the Lodge occupied was a piece of flat ground, now planted with sycamores, not far from the entrance to that magnificent park, where the spectator first stops to gaze upon Blenheim, to think of Marlborough’s victories, and to applaud or criticise the cumbrous magnificence of Vanburgh’s style. There too paused our military preacher, but with other thoughts, and for other purpose, than to admire the scene around him. It was not long afterwards when he beheld two persons, a male and a female, approaching slowly, and so deeply engaged in their own conversation that they did not raise their eyes to observe that there stood a stranger in the path before them. The soldier took advantage

[Chap. 2]



19

of their state of abstraction, and, desirous at once to watch their motions and avoid their observation, he glided beneath one of the huge trees which skirted the path, and whose boughs, sweeping the ground on every side, insured him against discovery, unless in case of an actual search. In the meantime, the gentleman and lady continued to advance, directing their course to a rustic seat, which still enjoyed the sunbeams, and was placed adjacent to the tree where the stranger was concealed. The man was elderly, yet seemed bent more by sorrow and infirmity, than by the weight of years. He wore a mourning cloak, over a dress of the same melancholy colour, cut in that picturesque form, which Vandyke has rendered immortal. But although the dress was handsome, it was put on and worn with a carelessness which showed the mind of the wearer was ill at ease. His aged, yet still handsome countenance, had the same air of consequence which distinguished his dress and his gait. A striking part of his appearance was a long white beard, which descended far over the breast of his slashed doublet, and looked singular from its contrast in colour with his habit. The young lady, by whom this venerable gentleman seemed to be in some degree supported as they walked arm in arm, was a slight and sylph-like form, with a person so delicately made, and so beautiful in countenance, that it seemed the earth on which she walked was too grossly massive a support for a creature so aerial. But mortal beauty must share human sorrows. The eyes of this beautiful being showed tokens of tears; her colour was heightened as she listened to her aged companion; and it was plain, from his melancholy yet displeased look, that the conversation was as distressing to himself as to her. When they sate down on the bench we have mentioned, the gentleman’s discourse could be distinctly overheard by the evesdropping soldier, but the answers of the young lady reached his ear rather less distinctly. “It is not to be endured,” said the old man, passionately; “it would stir a paralytic wretch to start up a soldier. My people have been thinned, I grant you, or have fallen off from me in these times —I owe them no grudge for it, poor knaves; what should they do when the pantry has no bread and the buttery no ale? But we have still about us some rugged foresters of the old Woodstock breed— old as myself most of them—what of that? old wood seldom warps in the wetting;—I will hold out the old house, and it will not be the first time that I have held it against ten times the strength that we hear of.”

20



Vol. 1, ch. 2

“Alas! my dear father,”—said the young lady, in a tone which seemed to intimate his proposal of defence was altogether desperate. “And why, alas?” said the gentleman, angrily; “is it because I shut my door on a score or two of these snuffling blood-thirsty hypocrites?” “But their masters can as easily send a regiment or an army, if they will,” replied the lady; “and what good would your present defence do, excepting exasperate them to your utter destruction?” “Be it so, Alice,” replied her father; “I have lived my time and beyond it. I have outlived the kindest and most prince-like of masters. What do I do on the earth since the dismal thirtieth of January? The parricide of that day was a signal to all true servants of Charles Stuart to avenge his death, or die as soon after as they could find a worthy opportunity.” “Do not speak thus, sir,” said Alice Lee; “it does not become your gravity and your worth to throw away that life which may yet be of service to your king and country,—it will not and cannot be always thus. England will not long endure the rulers which these bad times have assigned her. In the meanwhile—[here a few words escaped the listener’s ears]—and beware of that impatience, which makes bad worse.” “Worse?” exclaimed the impatient old man, “is it not at the worst already? Will not these people expel us from the only shelter we have left—dilapidate what remains of royal property under my charge —make the palace of princes into a den of thieves, and then wipe their mouths and thank God, as if they had been doing an alms deed?” “Still,” said the maiden, “there is hope behind, and I trust the King is ere this out of their reach—We have reason to think well of my brother Albert’s safety.” “Ay, Albert! there again,” said the old man, in a tone of selfreproach; “had it not been for thy entreaties I had gone to Worcester myself; but I must needs lie here like a toothless hound when the hunt is up, when who knows what service I might have shown? An old man’s head is sometimes useful when his arm is but little worth. But you and Albert were so desirous that he should go alone—and now, who can say what has become of him?” “Nay, my father,” said Alice, “we have good hope that Albert escaped from that fatal day; young Abney saw him a mile from the field.” “Young Abney lied, I believe,” said the father, in the same humour of contradiction—“Young Abney’s tongue runs quicker than his hands, but far slower than his horse’s heels when he leaves the

[Chap. 2]



21

roundheads behind him. I would rather Albert’s dead body were laid between Charles and Cromwell, than hear he had fled as early as young Abney.” “My dearest father,” said the young lady, weeping as she spoke, “what can I say to comfort you?” “Comfort me, say’st thou, girl? I am sick of comfort—an honourable death, with the ruins of Woodstock for my monument, were the only comfort to old Henry Lee. Yes, by the memory of my fathers, I will make good the Lodge against these rebellious robbers.” “Yet be ruled, dearest father,” said the maiden, “and submit to that which we cannot gainsay. My uncle Everard——” Here the old man caught at her unfinished words. “Thy uncle Everard, wench—well, get on.—What of thy precious and loving uncle Everard?” “Nothing, sir—if the subject displeases you.” “Displeases me? Why should it displease me? or, if it did, why should’st thou, or any one, affect to care about it? What is it that hath happened of late years—what is it can be thought to happen that astrologer can guess at, which can give pleasure to us?” “Fate,” she replied, “may have in store the joyful restoration of our banished prince.” “Too late for my turn, Alice,” answered the old knight; “if there be such a white page in the heavenly book, it will not be turned until long after my day.—But I see thou would’st escape me.—In a word, what of thy uncle Everard?” “Nay, sir,” said Alice, “God knows I would rather be silent for ever, than speak what might, as you would take it, add to your present distemperature.” “Distemperature!” said her father; “Oh, thou art a sweet-lipped physician, and would’st, I warrant me, drop nought but sweet balm, and honey, and oil, on my distemperature—if that is the phrase for an old man’s ailment, when he is well nigh heart-broken.—Once more, what of thy uncle Everard?” His last words were uttered in a high and harsh tone of voice; and Alice Lee answered her father in a trembling and submissive tone. “I only meant to say, sir, that I am well assured that my uncle Everard, when we quit this place”—— “That is to say, when we are kicked out of it by crop-eared canting villains like himself.—But on with thy bountiful uncle— what will he do?—will he give us the remains of his worshipful and economical house-keeping, the fragments of a thrice-sack’d capon twice a-week, and a plentiful fast on the other five days?—Will he give us beds beside his half-starved nags, and put them under a

22



Vol. 1, ch. 2

short allowance of straw, that his sister’s husband—that I should have called my deceased angel by such a name!—and his sister’s daughter, may not sleep upon the stones? Or will he send us a noble each, with a warning to make it last, for he had never known the ready-penny so hard to come by? Or what else will your uncle Everard do for us?—get us a furlough to beg—why, I can do that without him.” “You misconstrue him much,” answered Alice, with more spirit than she had yet displayed; “and you would but question your own heart, you would acknowledge—I speak with reverence—that your tongue utters what your better judgment would disown. My uncle Everard is neither a miser nor a hypocrite, neither so fond of the goods of this world that he would not supply our distresses amply, nor so wedded to fanatical opinions as to exclude charity for other sects beside his own.” “Ay, ay, the Church of England is a sect with him I doubt, and perhaps with thee too, Alice,” said the knight. “What is a Muggletonian, or a Ranter, or a Brownist, but a sectary? and thy phrase places them all, with Jack Presbyter himself, on the same footing with our learned prelates and religious clergy! Such is the cant of the day thou livest in, and why should’st thou not talk like one of the wise virgins and psalm-singing sisters, since, though thou hast a profane old cavalier for a father, thou art own niece to uncle Everard!” “If you speak thus, my dear father,” said Alice, “what can I answer you? Hear me but one patient word, and I shall have discharged my uncle Everard’s commission.” “Oh, it is a commission then! Surely I suspected so much from the beginning—nay, have some sharp guess touching the ambassador also.—Come, madam, do your errand, and you shall have no reason to complain of my patience.” “Then, sir,” replied Alice Lee, “my uncle Everard desires you would be courteous to the commissioners, who come here to sequestrate the park and the property; or, at least, heedfully to abstain from giving them obstacle or opposition: it can, he says, do no good, even on your own principles, and it will give a pretext for proceeding against you as one in the worst degree of malignancy, which he thinks may otherwise be prevented. Nay, he has good hope, that if you follow his counsel, the committee may, through the interest he possesses, be inclined to remove the sequestration of your estate on a moderate fine. Thus says my uncle; and having communicated his advice, I have no occasion to urge your patience with further argument.” “It is well thou doest not, Alice,” answered Sir Henry Lee, in a

[Chap. 2]



23

tone of suppressed anger; “for, by the blessed rood, thou hast well nigh led me into the heresy of thinking thee no daughter of mine.— Ah! my beloved companion, who art now far from the sorrows and cares of this weary world, could’st thou have thought that the daughter thou didst clasp to thy bosom, would, like the wicked wife of Job, become a temptress to her father in the hour of affliction—recommend to him to make his conscience truckle to his interest, and to beg back at the bloody hands of his master’s, and perhaps his son’s murtherers, a wretched remnant of the property he has been robbed of! Why, wench, if I must beg, think’st thou I will sue to those who have made me a mendicant? No—I will never show this grey beard, worn in sorrow for my sovereign’s death, to move the compassion of some proud sequestrator, who perhaps was one of the parricides— No—if Henry Lee must sue for food, it shall be of some round loyalist like himself, who having but half a loaf remaining, will not nevertheless refuse to share it with him. For his daughter, she may wander her own way, which leads her to a refuge with her wealthy roundhead kinsfolks; but let her no more call him father, whose honest indigence she has refused to share!” “You do me injustice, sir,” answered the young lady, with a voice animated yet faltering, “cruel injustice. God knows, your way is my way, though it lead to ruin and beggary; and while you tread it, my arm shall support you while you will accept an aid so feeble.” “Thou word’st me, girl,” answered the old cavalier, “thou word’st me, as Will Shakspeare says—thou speakst of lending me thy arm; but thy secret thought is thyself to hang upon Markham Everard’s.” “My father, my father,” answered Alice, in a tone of deep grief, “what can thus have altered your clear judgment and kindly heart? —Accursed be these civil commotions! not only do they destroy men’s bodies, but they pervert their souls, and the brave, the noble, the generous, become suspicious, harsh, and mean! Why upbraid me with Markham Everard? Have I seen or spoke with him since you discharged him my company, with terms less kind—I will speak it truly—than was due even to the relationship betwixt you? Why think I would sacrifice to that young man my duty to you? Know, that were I capable of such criminal weakness, Markham Everard were the first to despise me for it.” She put her handkerchief to her eyes, but she could not hide her sobs, nor conceal the distress they intimated. The old man was moved. “I cannot tell,” he said, “what to think of it. Thou seem’st sincere, and wert ever a good and kindly daughter—how thou hast let that rebel youth creep into thy heart I wot not; perhaps it is a punishment

24



Vol. 1, ch. 2

on me, who thought the loyalty of my house was like undefiled ermine. Yet here is a damned spot, and on the fairest gem of all— my own dear Alice. But do not weep—we have enough to vex us. Where is it that Shakspeare hath it:— ——Gentle daughter, Give even way unto my rough affairs; Put you not on the temper of the times, Nor be, like them, to Percy troublesome.”

“I am glad to hear you quote your favourite again, sir. Our little jars are ever well nigh ended when Shakspeare comes in play.” “His book was the closet-companion of my blessed master,” said Sir Henry Lee; “after the Bible, (with reverence for naming them together,) he felt more comfort in it than any other; and as I have shared his disease, why it is natural I should take his medicine. Albeit, I pretend not to my master’s art in explaining the dark passages; for I am but a rude man, and rustically brought up to arms and hunting.” “You have seen Shakspeare himself, sir?” said the young lady. “Silly wench,” replied the knight, “he died when I was a mere child—thou hast heard me say so twenty times; but thou would’st lead the old man away from the tender subject. Well, though I am not blind, I can shut my eyes and follow. Ben Jonson I knew, and could tell thee many a tale of those meetings at the Mermaid, where, if there was much wine, there was much wit also. We did not sit blowing tobacco in each other’s faces, and turning up the whites of our eyes as we turned up the bottom of the wine-pot. Old Ben adopted me as one of his sons in the muses. I have shown you the verses, ‘To my much beloved son, the worshipful Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, Knight and Baronet?’ ” “I do not remember them at present, sir,” replied Alice. “I fear ye lie, wench,” said her father; “but no matter—thou can’st not get any more fooling out of me just now. The evil spirit hath left Saul for the present. We must think what is to be done about leaving Woodstock—or defending it.” “My dearest father,” said Alice, “can you still nourish a moment’s hope of making good the place?” “I know not, wench,” replied Sir Henry; “I would fain have a parting blow at them, ’tis certain—and who knows where a blessing may alight? But then, my poor knaves that must take part with me in so hopeless a quarrel—that thought hampers me, I confess.” “Oh, let it do so, sir,” replied Alice; “there are soldiers in the town, and there are three regiments at Oxford.” “Ah, poor Oxford!” exclaimed Sir Henry, whose vacillating state

[Chap. 2]



25

of mind was turned by a word to any new subject which suggested itself,—“Seat of learning and loyalty! these rude soldiers are unfit inmates for thy learned halls and poetical bowers, but thy pure and brilliant lamp shall defy the foul breath of a thousand churls, were they to blow at it like Boreas—the burning bush shall not be consumed, even by the heat of this persecution.” “True, sir,” said Alice, “and it may not be useless to recollect, that any stirring of the royalists at this unpropitious moment will make them deal yet more harshly with the University, which they consider as being at the bottom of everything which moves for the King in these parts.” “It is true, wench,” replied the knight; “and small cause would make the villains sequestrate the poor remains which the civil wars have left to the colleges. That and the risk of my poor fellows— Well! thou hast disarmed me, girl. I will be as patient and calm as a martyr.” “Pray God, you keep your word, sir,” replied his daughter; “but you are ever so much moved at the sight of any of these men.” “Would you make a child of me, Alice?” said Sir Henry. “Why, know you not that I can look upon a viper, or a toad, or a bunch of engendering adders, without any worse feeling than a little disgust? and though a roundhead, and especially a red-coat, are in my opinion more poisonous than vipers, more loathsome than toads, more hateful than knotted adders, yet can I overcome my nature so far, that should one of them appear at this moment, thyself should see how civilly I would entreat him.” As he spoke, the military preacher abandoned his leafy screen, and stalking forward, stood unexpectedly before the old cavalier, who stared at him as if he had thought that his expressions had actually raised a devil. “Who art thou?” at length said Sir Henry, in a raised and angry voice, while his daughter clung to his arm in terror, little confident that her father’s pacific resolutions would abide the shock of this unwelcome apparition. “I am one,” replied the soldier, “who neither fear nor shame to call myself a poor day-labourer in the great work of England— simple—ay—a simple and sincere upholder of the good old cause.” “And what the devil do you seek here?” said the old knight, fiercely. “The welcome due to the steward of the Lords Commissioners,” answered the soldier. “Welcome thou art as salt would be to sore eyes,” said the cavalier; “but who be your Commissioners, man?”

26



Vol. 1, ch. 2

The soldier with little courtesy held out a scroll, which Sir Henry took from him betwixt his finger and thumb, as if it were a letter from a pest-house; and held it at as much distance from his eyes, as his purpose of reading it would permit. He then read aloud, and as he named the parties one by one, he added a short commentary upon each name, addressed, indeed, to Alice, but in such a tone that showed he cared not for its being heard by the soldier. “Desborough—the ploughman Desborough—as grovelling a clown as is in England—a fellow that would be best at home, like an ancient Scythian, under the tilt of a waggon—d—n him. Harrison— a bloody-minded, ranting enthusiast, who read the Bible to such purpose, that he never lacked a text to justify a murther—Damn him too. Bletson—a true-blue commonwealth’s man, one of Harrington’s Rota Club, with his noddle full of new-fangled notions about government, the clearest object of which is to establish the tail upon the head. A fellow who leaves you the statutes and laws of old England, to prate of Rome and Greece—sees the Areopagus in WestminsterHall, and takes old Noll for a Roman Consul—Adad, he is liker to prove a dictator amongst them. Never mind—d—n Bletson too.” “Friend,” said the soldier, “I would willingly be civil, but it consists not with my duty to hear these godly men, in whose service I am, spoken of after this irreverent and unbecoming fashion. And albeit I know that you malignants think you have a right to make free with that damnation, which you seem to use as your own portion, yet it is superfluous to invoke it against others, who have better hopes in their thoughts, and better words in their mouths.” “Thou art but a canting varlet,” replied the knight; “and yet thou art right in some sense—for it is superfluous to curse men who already are damned as black as the smoke of hell itself.” “I prithee forbear,” continued the soldier, “for shame’s sake if not for conscience—grisly oaths suit ill with gray beards.” “Nay, that is truth, if the devil spoke it,” said the knight; “and I thank Heaven I can follow good counsel, though old Nick gives it. And so, friend, touching these same Commissioners, bear them this message; that Sir Henry Lee is keeper of Woodstock Park, with right of waif and stray, vert and venison, as complete as any of them have to their estate—that is, if they possess any estate but what they have gained by plundering honest men. Nevertheless, he will give place to those who have made their might their right, and will not expose the lives of good and true men, where the odds are so much against them. And he protests that he makes this surrender, neither as acknowledging of these so termed Commissioners, nor as for his own individual part fearing their force, but purely to avoid the loss of English blood,

[Chap. 2]



27

of which so much hath been spilt in these late times.” “It is well spoken,” said the steward of the Commissioners; “and therefore, I pray you, let us walk together unto the house, that thou may’st deliver up unto me the vessels, and gold and silver ornaments, belonging unto the Egyptian Pharaoh who committed them to thy keeping.” “What vessels?” exclaimed the fiery old knight; “and belonging to whom? Unbaptized dog, speak evil of the Martyr in my presence, and I will do a deed misbecoming of me on that caitiff corpse of thine.”—And shaking his daughter from his right arm, the old man laid his hand on his rapier. His antagonist, on the contrary, kept his temper, and waving his hand to add impression to his speech, he said, with a calmness which aggravated Sir Henry’s wrath, “Nay, good friend, I pray thee be still, and brawl not—it becomes not gray hairs and feeble arms to rail and rant like drunkards. Put me not to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, but listen to the voice of reason. See’st thou not that the Lord hath decided this great controversy in favour of us and ours, against thee and thine? Wherefore, render up thy stewardship peacefully, and deliver up to me the chattels of the Man, Charles Stuart.” “Patience is a good nag, but she will plod,” said the knight, unable longer to rein in his wrath. He plucked his sheathed rapier from his side, struck the soldier a severe blow with it, and instantly drawing it, and throwing the scabbard over the trees, placed himself in a posture of defence, with his sword’s point within half a yard of the steward’s body. The latter slipped back with activity, threw his long cloak from his shoulders, and drawing his long tuck, stood upon his guard. The swords clashed smartly together, while Alice, in her terror, screamed wildly for assistance. But the combat was of short duration. The old cavalier had attacked a man as cunning of fence as he himself, or a little more so, but possessing all the strength and activity of which time had deprived Sir Henry, and all the calmness which the other had lost in his passion. They had scarce exchanged three passes ere the sword of the knight flew up in the air, as if it had gone in search of the scabbard; and burning with shame and anger, Sir Henry stood disarmed, at the mercy of his antagonist. The republican showed no purpose of abusing his victory; nor did he, either during the combat, or after the victory was won, in any respect alter the sour and grave composure which reigned upon his countenance—a contest of life and death seemed to him a thing as familiar, and as little to be feared, as an ordinary bout with the foils.

28



Vol. 1, ch. 2

“Thou art delivered into my hands,” he said, “and by the law of arms I might smite thee under the fifth rib, even as Asahel was struck dead by Abner, the son of Ner, as he followed the chase on the hill of Ammah, that lieth before Giah, in the way of the wilderness of Gibeon; but far be it from me to spill thy remaining drops of blood. True it is thou art the captive of my sword and of my spear; nevertheless, seeing that there may be a turning from thine evil ways, and a returning to those which are good, if the Lord enlarge thy date for repentance and amendment, wherefore should it be shortened by a poor sinful mortal, who is, speaking truly, but thy fellow-worm?” Sir Henry Lee remained still confused, and unable to answer, when there arrived a fourth person, whom the cries of Alice had summoned to the spot. This was Josceline Joliffe, one of the underkeepers of the walk, who, seeing how matters stood, brandished his quarter-staff, a weapon from which he never parted, and having made it describe the figure of eight in a flourish through the air, would have brought it down with a vengeance upon the head of the steward, had not Sir Henry interposed. “We must trail bats now, Josceline—our time of shouldering them is passed. It skills not striving against the hill—the devil rules the roast, and makes our slaves our tutors.” At this moment another auxiliary rushed out of the thicket to the knight’s assistance. It was the large wolf-dog, in strength a mastiff, in form and almost in fleetness a greyhound, which we have already mentioned. Bevis was the noblest of the kind which ever pulled down a stag, tawny-coloured like a lion, with a black muzzle and black feet, just edged with a line of white round the toes. He was as tractable as he was strong and bold. Just as he was about to rush upon the soldier, the words “Peace, Bevis!” from Sir Henry, converted the lion into a lamb, and, instead of pulling the soldier down, he walked round and round, and snuffed, as if using all his sagacity to discover who the stranger could be, towards whom, though of so questionable an appearance, he was enjoined forbearance. Apparently he was satisfied, for he laid aside his doubtful and threatening demonstrations, lowered his ears, smoothed down his bristles, and wagged his tail. Sir Henry, who had great respect for the sagacity of his favourite, said in a low voice to Alice, “Bevis is of thy opinion, and counsels submission—there is the finger of Heaven in this to punish the pride, ever the fault of our house.—Friend,” he continued, addressing the steward, “thou hast given the finishing-touch to a lesson, which ten years of constant misfortune have been unable fully to

[Chap. 2]



29

teach me. Thou hast distinctly shown me the folly of thinking that a good cause can strengthen a weak arm. God forgive me for the thought, but I could almost turn infidel, and believe that Heaven’s blessing goes ever with the longest sword; but it will not be always thus. God knows his time.—Reach me my Toledo, Josceline, yonder it lies; and the scabbard, see where it hangs on the tree.—Do not pull at my cloak, Alice, and look so miserably frightened; I shall be in no hurry to betake me to bright steel again, I promise thee.—For thee, good fellow, I thank thee, and will make way for thy masters without further dispute or ceremony. Josceline Joliffe is nearer thy degree than I am, and will make surrender to thee of the Lodge and household stuff. Withhold nothing, Joliffe—let them have all. For me, I will never cross the threshold again—but where to rest for a night? I would trouble no one in Woodstock—hum—ay—it shall be so. Alice and I, Josceline, will go down to thy hut by Rosamond’s well. We will borrow the shelter of thy roof for one night at least. Thou wilt give us welcome, wilt thou not—how now—a clouded brow?” Joliffe certainly looked embarrassed, directed first a glance to Alice, then looked to Heaven, then to earth, and then to the four quarters of the horizon, and then murmured out, “Certainly—without question—might he but run down to put the house in order.” “Order enough—order enough—for those that may soon be glad of clean straw in a barn,” said the knight; “but if thou hast fear of ill will for harbouring obnoxious or malignant persons, as the phrase goes, never shame to speak it out, man. ’Tis true I took thee up when thou wert but a Ragged Robin, made a keeper of thee, and so forth.—What of that? Sailors think no longer of the wind than when it forwards them on the voyage—thy betters turn with the tide, why should not such a poor knave as thou?” “God pardon your honour for your harsh judgment,” said Joliffe. “The hut is yours, such as it is, and should be were it a king’s palace, as I wish it were even for your honour’s sake, and Mistress Alice—Only I could wish your honour would condescend to let me step down before, in case any neighbour be there—or—or—just to put matters something into order for Mistress Alice and your honour —just to make things something seemly and shapely.” “Not a whit necessary,” said the knight, while Alice had much trouble in concealing her agitation. “If thy matters are unseemly, they are fitter for a defeated knight—if they are unshapely, why, the liker to the rest of a world, which is all unshaped—Go thou with that man—What is thy name, friend?” “Joseph Tomkins is my name in the flesh,” said the steward. “Men

30



Vol. 1, ch. 3

call me Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins.” “If thou hast deserved such names, considering what trade thou hast driven, thou art a jewel indeed,” said the knight; “yet if thou hast not, never blush for the matter, Joseph, for if thou art not in truth honest, thou hast all the better chance to keep the fame of it— the title and the thing itself have long walked separate ways. Farewell to thee,—and farewell to fair Woodstock!” So saying, the old knight turned round, and pulling his daughter’s arm through his own, they walked onward into the forest, in the same posture in which they were introduced to our reader.

Chapter Three Now, ye wild blades, that make loose inns your stage, To vapour forth the acts of this sad age, Stout Edgehill fight, the Newberries and the West, And northern clashes, where you still fought best; Your strange escapes, your dangers void of fear, When bullets flew between the head and ear, Whether you fought by Damme or the Spirit, Of you I speak. Legend of Captain Jones

J      T      and Joliffe the keeper remained for some time in silence, as they stood together looking along the path in which the figures of the Knight of Ditchley and pretty Mistress Alice had disappeared behind the trees. They then gazed on each other in doubt, as men who scarce knew whether they stood on hostile or on friendly terms together, and were at a loss how to open a conversation. They heard the knight’s whistle more than once summon Bevis. But though the good hound turned his head and pricked his ears at the sound, yet he did not obey the call, but continued to snuff around Joseph Tomkins’s cloak. “Thou art a rare one, I fear me—” said the keeper, looking to his new acquaintance. “I have heard of men who have charms to steal both dogs and deer.” “Trouble thyself not about my qualities, friend,” said Joseph Tomkins, “but bethink thee of doing thy master’s bidding.” Josceline did not immediately answer, but at length, as if in sign of truce, stuck the end of his quarter-staff upright in the ground, and leant upon it as he said gruffly,—“So, my tough old knight and you were at drawn bilbo, by way of afternoon service, sir preacher— Well for you I came not up till the blades were done jangling, or I had rung even-song upon your pate.” The Independent smiled grimly as he replied, “Nay, friend, but it

[Chap. 3]



31

is well for thyself, for never should sexton have been better paid for the knell he tolled. Nevertheless, why should there be war betwixt us, or my hand be against thine? Thou art but a poor knave, doing thy master’s order, nor have I any desire that my own blood or thine should be shed touching this matter.—Thou art, I understand, to give me peaceful possession of the Palace of Woodstock—so called —though there is now no palace in England, no, nor shall be in the days that come after, until we shall enter the palace of the New Hiarusalem, and the reign of the Saints shall commence on earth.” “Pretty well begun already, friend Tomkins,” said the keeper; “you are little short of being kings upon the matter as it now stands. And for your Hiarusalem I wot not, but Woodstock is a pretty nestegg to begin with.—Well, will you shog—will you on—will you take sasine and livery?—You heard my orders.” “Umph—I know not,” said Tomkins. “I must beware of ambuscadoes, and I am alone here—moreover, it is the High Thanksgiving appointed by Parliament, and owned to by the army—also the old man and the young woman may want to recover some of their clothes and personal property, and I would not that they were baulked on my account. Wherefore, if thou wilt deliver me the possession tomorrow morning, it shall be done in personal presence of my own followers, and of the Presbyterian man the Mayor, so that the transfers may be made before witnesses; whereas, were there none with us but thou to deliver, and I to take possession, the men of Belial might say, Go to, Trusty Tomkins hath been an Edomite—Honest Joe hath been as an Ishmaelite, rising up early and dividing the spoil with them that served the Man—yea, they that wore beards and green jerkins, as in remembrance of the Man and of his government.” Josceline fixed his keen dark eyes upon the soldier as he spoke, as if in design to discover whether there was fair play in his mind or not. He then applied his five fingers to scratch a large shocked head of hair, as if that operation was necessary to enable him to come to a conclusion. “This is all fair sounding, brother,” said he; “but I tell you plainly, there are some silver mugs, and platters, and flagons, and so forth, in yonder house, which have survived the general sweep that sent all our plate to the smelting-pot, to put our knight’s troop on horseback. Now, if thou takest not these off my hand, I may come to trouble, since it may be thought I have minished their numbers—Whereas, I being as honest a fellow”—— “As ever stole venison,” said Tomkins—“nay, I do owe thee an interruption.” “Go to, then,” replied the keeper; “if a stag may have come to mischance in my walk, it was no way in the course of dishonesty, but

32



Vol. 1, ch. 3

merely to keep my old dame’s pan from rusting; but for silver porringers, tankards, and such like, I would as soon have drunk the melted silver as stolen the vessel made out of it. So that I would not that blame or suspicion fell on me in this matter. And therefore, if you will have the things rendered even now, why so—and if not, hold me blameless.” “Ay, truly,” said Tomkins; “and who is to hold me blameless if they should see cause to think anything minished? Not the right worshipful Commissioners, to whom the property of the estate is as their own; therefore, as thou say’st, we must walk warily in the matter. To lock up the house and leave it, were but the work of simple ones. What say’st thou to spend the night there, and then nothing can be touched without the knowledge of us both?” “Why, concerning that,” answered the keeper, “I should be at my hut to make matters something conformable for him and Mistress Alice, for my old dame Joan is something dunny, and will scarce know how to manage—And yet, to speak truth, by the mass I would rather not see Sir Henry to-night, since what has happed to-day hath roused his spleen, and it is a peradventure he may have met something at the hut which will scarce tend to cool it.” “It is a pity,” said Tomkins, “that being a gentleman of such grave and goodly presence, he should be such a malignant cavalier, and that he should, like the rest of that generation of vipers, have clothed himself with curses as with a garment.” “Which is as much to say, the tough old knight hath a habit of swearing,” said the keeper, grinning at a pun, which has been reported since his time; “but who can help it? it comes of use and wont. Were you now, in your bodily self, to light suddenly on a Maypole, with all the merry morris-dancers prancing round it to the merry pipe and tabor, with bells jangling, ribbons fluttering, lads frisking, and the laughing lasses leaping till you might see where the scarlet garter fastened the light-blue hose, I think some feeling, resembling either natural sociality, or old use and wont, would get the better, friend, even of thy gravity, and thou would’st fling that cuckoldy steeple-hat one way, and that blood-thirsty long-sword another, and trip like the noodles of Hogs-Norton, when the pigs play on the organ.” The Independent turned fiercely round on the keeper, and replied, “How now, Master Green-jerkin, what language is this to one whose hand is at the plough? I advise thee to put curb on thy tongue, lest thy ribs pay the forfeit.” “Nay, do not take the big tone with me, brother,” answered Josceline; “remember thou hast not the old knight of sixty-five to

[Chap. 3]



33

deal with, but a fellow as lither and prompt as thyself—it may be a little more so—and prithee, why should’st thou of all men take such umbrage at a Maypole? I would thou hadst known one Phil Hazeldine of these parts—He was the best morris-dancer betwixt Oxford and Burford.” “The more shame to him,” answered the Independent; “and I trust he has seen the error of his ways, and made himself (as, if a man of action, he easily might) fit for better company than woodhaunters, deer-stealers, Maid Marrons, swash-bucklers, deboshed revellers, bloody brawlers, maskers and mummers, lewd men and light women, fools and fiddlers, and carnal self-pleasers of every description.” “Well,” replied the keeper, “thou art out of breath in time; for here we stand before the famous Maypole of Woodstock.” They paused in an open space of meadow-land, beautifully skirted by large oaks and sycamores, one of which, as king of the forest, stood a little detached from the rest, as if scorning the approach of any rival. It was scathed and doddered in the branches, but the immense trunk still showed to what gigantic size the monarch of the forest can attain in the groves of merry England. “That is called the King’s Oak,” said Josceline; “the oldest men of Woodstock know not how old it is—they say Henry used to sit below it with fair Rosamond, and see the lasses dance, and the lads of the village run races, and wrestle for belts or bonnets.” “I nothing doubt it, friend,” said Tomkins; “a tyrant and a harlot were fitting patron and patroness for such vanities.” “Thou may’st say thy say, friend,” replied the keeper, “so thou lettest me say mine. There stands the Maypole, as thou seest, half a flight-shot from the King’s Oak, in the midst of the meadow. The King gave ten shillings from the customs of Woodstock to make a new one yearly, besides a tree felled for the purpose out of the forest —but yonder one hath stood till it is warped and withered, and twisted like a blighted briar-rod. The green, too, used to be closeshaved, and rolled till it was smooth as a velvet mantle—now it is rough and over-grown.” “Well, well, friend Josceline,” said the Independent, “but where was the edification of all this?—what use of doctrine could be derived from a pipe and tabor? or was there aught like wisdom in the squeaking of a bagpipe?” “You may ask better scholars that,” said Josceline; “but methinks men cannot be always grave, and with the hat over their brows. A young maiden will laugh as a tender flower will blow—ay, and a lad will like her the better for it; just as the same spring-wind that

34



Vol. 1, ch. 3

makes the young leaves rustle, bids the blithe fawns skip. There have come worse days since the jolly old times have gone by:—I tell thee, that in the holidays which you, Master Longsword, have put down, I have seen this greensward alive with merry maidens and manly fellows. The good old rector himself thought it no sin to come for a while and look on, and his goodly cassock and scarf kept us all in good order, and taught us to limit our mirth within the bounds of discretion. We might, it may be, crack a broad jest, or pledge a friendly cup a turn too often, but it was in mirth and good neighbourhood—Ay, and if there was a bout at single-stick, or a bellyful of boxing, it was all for love and kindness; and better a few dry blows in drink, than the bloody doings we have had in sober earnest, since the presbyter’s cap got above the bishop’s mitre, and we exchanged our goodly rectors and learned doctors, whose sermons were all bolstered up with so much Greek and Latin as might have confuted the devil himself, for weavers and cobblers, and such other pulpit volunteers, as—as we heard this morning—It will out.” “Well, friend,” said the Independent, with patience scarce to be expected, “I quarrel not with thee nauseating my doctrine. If thine ear is so much tickled with tabor tunes and morris tripping, truly it is not likely thou should’st find pleasant savour in more wholesome and solid food.—But let us to the Lodge, that we may go about our business there before the sun sets.” “Troth, and that may be advisable for more reasons than one,” said the keeper, “for there have been tales about the Lodge which have made men afeard to harbour there after nightfall.” “Were not yon old knight, and yonder damsel his daughter, wont to dwell there?” said the Independent. “My information said so.” “Ay, truly did they,” said Josceline; “and when they kept a jolly household, all went well enough; for nothing banishes fear like good ale. But after the best of our men went to the wars, and were slain at Naseby fight, they who were left found the Lodge more lonesome, and the old knight has been much deserted of his servants —Marry, it might be, that he has lacked silver of late to pay groom and lackey.” “A potential reason for the diminution of a household,” said the soldier. “Right, sir, even so,” replied the keeper. “They spoke of steps in the great gallery, heard by dead of the night, and voices that whispered at noon in the matted chambers; and the servants pretended that these things scared them away—but in my poor judgment, when Martlemas and Whitsuntide came round, without a fable, the old blue-bottles of serving-men began to think of creeping elsewhere

[Chap. 3]



35

before the frost chilled them—No devil so frightful as that which dances in the pocket where there is no cross to keep him out.” “You were reduced, then, to a petty household?” said the Independent. “Ay, marry, were we,” said Josceline; “but we kept some halfscore together, what with blue-bottles of the Lodge, what with green caterpillars of the chase, like him who is yours to command; we stuck together till we found a call to take a morning’s ride somewhere or other.” “To the town of Worcester,” said the soldier, “where you were crushed like vermin and palmer worms, as you are.” “You may say your pleasure,” replied the keeper; “I’ll never contradict a man who has got my head under his belt. Our backs are at the wall, or you would not be here.” “Nay, friend,” said the Independent, “thou riskest nothing by thy freedom and trust in me. I can be bon camarado to a good soldier, although I have striven with him even to the going down of the sun. —But here we are in front of the Lodge.” They stood accordingly in front of the old Gothic building, irregularly constructed, and at different times, as the humour of an English monarch led him to taste the pleasures of Woodstock Chase, and to make such improvements for his own accommodation as the increasing luxury of each age required. The eldest part of the structure had been named by tradition Fair Rosamond’s Tower; it was a small turret of great height, with narrow windows, and walls of massive thickness. The tower had no opening to the ground, or means of descending, a great part of the lower portion being solid masonwork. It was traditionally said to have been accessible only by a sort of small drawbridge, which might be dropped at pleasure from a little portal near the summit of the turret, to the battlements of another tower of the same construction, but twenty feet lower, and containing only a winding stair-case, called in Woodstock Love’s Ladder, because it is said, that by ascending this stair-case to the top of the tower, and then making use of the draw-bridge, Henry obtained access to the chamber of his paramour. This tradition had been keenly impugned by Dr Rochecliffe, the former rector of Woodstock, who insisted, that what was called Rosamond’s Tower, was merely an interior keep, or citadel, to which the lord or warden of the castle might retreat, when other points of safety failed him; and either protract his defence, or, at the worst, stipulate for reasonable terms of surrender. The people of Woodstock, jealous of their ancient traditions, did not relish this new mode of explaining them away; and it is even said, that the

36



Vol. 1, ch. 3

Mayor, whom we have already introduced, became Presbyterian, in revenge of the doubts cast by the rector upon this important subject, rather choosing to give up the Liturgy than his fixed belief in Rosamond’s Tower, and Love’s Ladder. The rest of the Lodge was of considerable extent, and of different ages; comprehending a nest of little courts, surrounded by buildings which corresponded with each other, sometimes within-doors, sometimes by crossing the courts, and frequently in both ways. The different height of the buildings announced that they could only be connected by the usual variety of stair-cases, which exercised the limbs of our ancestors in the sixteenth and earlier centuries, and seem sometimes to have been contrived for no other purpose. The varied and multiplied fronts of this irregular building were, as Dr Rochecliffe was wont to say, an absolute banquet to the architectural antiquary, as they certainly contained specimens of every style which existed from the pure Norman of Henry of Anjou, down to the composite, half Gothic, half classical architecture, of Elizabeth and her successor. Accordingly, the rector was himself as much enamoured of Woodstock as ever was Henry of Fair Rosamond; and as his intimacy with Sir Henry Lee permitted him entrance at all times to the Royal Lodge, he used to spend whole days in wandering about the antique apartments, examining, measuring, studying, and finding out excellent reasons for architectural peculiarities, which probably only owed their existence to the freakish fancy of a Gothic artist. But the old antiquarian had been expelled from his living by the intolerance and troubles of the times, and his successor, Nehemiah Holdenough, would have considered an elaborate investigation of the profane sculpture and architecture of blinded and blood-thirsty Papists, together with the history of the dissolute amours of old Norman monarchs, as little better than a bowing down before the calves of Bethel, and a drinking of the cup of the abominations.—We return to the course of our story. “There is,” said the Independent Tomkins, after he had carefully perused the front of the building, “many a rare monument of olden wickedness about this miscalled Royal Lodge—Verily, I shall rejoice much to see the same destroyed, yea, burned to ashes, and the ashes thrown into the brook Kedron, or any other brook, that the land may be cleansed from the memory thereof, neither remember the iniquity wherewith their fathers have sinned.” The keeper heard him with secret indignation, and began to consider with himself, whether, as they stood but one to one, and without chance of speedy interference, he was not called upon, by his official duty, to castigate the rebel who used language so defamat-

[Chap. 3]



37

ory. But he fortunately recollected, that the strife must be a doubtful one—that the advantage of arms was against him—and that, in especial, even if he should succeed in the combat, it would be at the risk of severe retaliation. It must be owned, too, that there was something about the Independent so dark and mysterious, so grim and grave, that the more open spirit of the keeper felt oppressed, and, if not overawed, at least kept in doubt concerning him; and he thought it wisest, as well as safest, for his master and himself, to avoid all subjects of dispute, and know better with whom he was dealing, ere he made either friend or enemy of him. The great gate of the Lodge was strongly bolted, but the wicket opened upon Josceline’s raising the latch. There was a short passage of ten feet, which had been formerly closed by a portcullis at the inner end, while three loop-holes opened on either side, through which any daring intruder might be annoyed, who, having surprised the first gate, must be thus exposed to a severe fire before he could force the second. But the machinery of the portcullis was damaged, and it now remained a fixture, brandishing its jaw, well furnished with iron fangs, but incapable of dropping it across the path of invasion. The way, therefore, lay open to the great hall, or outer vestibule of the Lodge. One end of this long and dusky apartment was entirely occupied by a gallery, which had in ancient times served to accommodate the musicians and minstrels. There was a clumsy stair-case at either side of it, composed of entire logs of a foot square; and in each angle of the ascent was placed, by way of sentinel, the figure of a Norman foot-soldier, having an open casque on his head, which displayed features as stern as the painter’s genius could devise them. The arms were buff-jackets, or shirts of mail, round bucklers, with spikes in the centre, and buskins, which adorned and defended the feet and ancles, but left the knees bare. These wooden warders held great swords, or maces, in their hands, like military guards upon duty. Many an empty hook and brace, along the walls of the gloomy apartment, marked the spots from which arms, long preserved as trophies, had been, in the pressure of the war, taken down to do service once more in the field, like veterans whom extremity of danger recalls to battle. On other rusty fastenings were still displayed the hunting trophies of the monarchs to whom the Lodge belonged, and of the sylvan knights to whose care it had been from time to time confided. Here were displayed not only the more vulgar spoils of the otter, fox, and badger, which may yet be seen in the halls of old manor-houses in England, but the noble antlers, both of the red and of the fallow deer, and even the shaggy skins of wolves and

38



Vol. 1, ch. 3

boars, said by tradition to have been found of yore in these districts, though now they are expelled from merry England, unless where they are seen to grin and ramp amongst the monsters of heraldry. Intermingled with these, hung bows, and slings, and arblasts, and some few harquebusses of ancient mould, too cumbrous, or too much rusted, to be used in a modern field: then there were sheafs of arrows, and bags full of bolts for cross-bows, boar-spears, and barbed tridents for striking fish. In a deep bay-window, whose painted glass offered so dense a medium, that the setting sun’s level beams were totally dimmed in their passage through it, stood a parcel of falconer’s poles and quarter-staffs, ready for use. At the nether end of the hall, a huge, heavy, stone-wrought chimney-piece, projected itself ten feet from the wall, adorned with many a cypher, and many a scutcheon of the Royal House of England. In its present state, it yawned like the arched mouth of a funeral vault, or perhaps might be compared to the crater of an extinguished volcano. But the sable complexion of the massive stone-work, and all around it, showed that the time had been when it sent its huge fires blazing up the huge chimney, besides puffing many a volume of smoke over the heads of the jovial guests, whose royalty or nobility did not render them sensitive enough to quarrel with such slight inconvenience. On these occasions, it was the tradition of the house, that two cart-loads of wood was the regular allowance for the fire between noon and curfew, and the andirons, or dogs, as they were termed, constructed for retaining the blazing fire-wood on the hearth, were wrought in the shape of lions of such gigantic size, as might well warrant the legend. There were long seats of stone within the chimney, where, in despite of the tremendous heat, monarchs were sometimes said to have taken their station, and amused themselves with broiling the umbles, or dowsets, of the deer, upon the glowing embers, with their own royal hands. Tradition was here also ready with her record, to show what merry gibes, such as might be exchanged between prince and peer, had flown about at the merry banquet which followed the Michaelmas hunt. She could tell, too, exactly, where King Stephen sat when he darned his own kingly hose, and of the odd tricks he had put upon little Winkin, the tailor of Woodstock. Most of this rude revelry belonged to the Plantagenet times. When the house of Tudor acceded to the throne, they were more chary of their royal presence, and feasted in halls and chambers far within, abandoning the outmost hall to the yeomen of the guard, who mounted their watch there, and passed away the night with wassail and mirth, exchanged sometimes for frightful tales of appari-

[Chap. 3]



39

tions and sorceries, which made some of those grow pale, in whose ears the trumpet of a French foeman would have sounded as jollily as a summons to the woodland chase. Josceline pointed out the peculiarities of the place to his gloomy companion more briefly than we have detailed them to the reader. The Independent seemed to listen with some interest at first, but, flinging it suddenly aside, he said, in a solemn tone, “Perish Babylon, as thy master Nebuchadnezzar hath perished! He is a wanderer, and thou shalt be a waste place—yea, and a wilderness—yea, a desert of salt, in which there shall be thirst and famine.” “There is like to be enough of both to-night,” said Josceline, “unless the good knight’s larder be somewhat fuller than it is wont.” “We must care for the creature-comforts,” said the Independent, “but in due season, when our duties are done.—Whither lead these entrances?” “That to the right,” replied the keeper, “leads to what are called the state-apartments, not used since the year sixteen hundred and thirty-nine, when his blessed Majesty”—— “How, sir!” interrupted the Independent, in a voice of thunder, “doest thou speak of Charles Stuart as blessing, or blessed?—beware the proclamation to that effect.” “I meant no harm,” answered the keeper, suppressing his disposition to make a harsher reply. “My business is with bolts and bucks, not with titles and state affairs. But yet, whatever may have happed since, that poor King was followed with blessings enough from Woodstock, for he left his right-hand glove full of broad pieces for the poor of the place”—— “Peace, friend,” said the Independent; “I will think thee else one of those besotted and blinded Papists, who hold, that bestowing of alms is an atonement and washing away of the wrongs and oppressions which have been wrought by the alms-giver—These, sayst thou then, were the apartments of Charles Stuart?” “And of his father, James, before him, and Elizabeth, before him, and bluff King Henry, who builded that wing, before them all.” “And there, I suppose, the knight and his daughter dwelt?” “No,” replied Josceline; “Sir Henry Lee had too much reverence for—for things which are now thought worth no reverence at all— Besides, these state-rooms are unaired, and in indifferent order, since of late years. The Knight Ranger’s apartment lies by that passage to the left.” “And whither goes yonder stair which seems both to lead upwards and downwards?” “Upwards,” replied the keeper, “it leads to many apartments,

40



Vol. 1, ch. 3

used for various purposes, of sleeping, and other accommodation— downwards, to the kitchen, offices and vaults of the castle, which, at this time of the evening, you cannot see without lights.” “We will to the apartments of your knight, then,” said the Independent. “Is there fitting accommodation there?” “Such as has served a person of condition, whose lodging is now worse appointed,” answered the honest keeper, his bile rising so fast that he added, in a muttering and inaudible tone, “so it may well serve a crop-eared knave like thee.” He acted as the usher, however, and led on towards the ranger’s apartments. This suite opened by a short passage from the hall, secured at time of need by two oaken doors, which could be fastened by large bars of the same, that were drawn out of the wall, and entered into square holes contrived for their reception on the other side of the portal. At the end of this passage, a small antiroom received them, into which opened the sitting-apartment of the good knight—which, in the style of the times, might have been termed a fair summer parlour—lighted by two oriel windows, so placed as to command each of them a separate avenue, leading distant and deep down into the forest. The principal ornament of the apartment, besides two or three family portraits of less interest, was a tall full-length picture, which hung above the chimney-piece, which, like that in the hall, was of heavy stone-work, ornamented with carved scutcheons, emblazoned with various devices. The portrait was that of a man about fifty years of age, in complete plate armour, and painted in the harsh and dry manner of Holbein—probably, indeed, the work of that artist, as the dates corresponded. The formal and marked angles, points, and projections of the armour, were a good subject for the harsh pencil of that early school. The face of the knight was, from the fading of the colours, pale and dim, like that of some being from the other world, yet the lines expressed forcibly pride and exultation. He pointed with his leading-staff or truncheon to the back-ground, where, in such perspective as the artist possessed, were depicted the remains of a burning church, or monastery, and four or five soldiers, in red cassocks, bearing away in triumph what seemed a brazen font or laver. Above their heads might be traced in scroll, “Lee Victor sic voluit.” Right opposite to the picture hung, in a niche of the wall, a complete set of tilting armour, the black and gold colours, and ornaments of which, exactly corresponded with those exhibited in the portrait. The picture was one of those which, from something marked in the features and expression, attract the observation even of those

[Chap. 3]



41

who are ignorant of art. The Independent looked at it until a smile passed transiently over his clouded brow. Whether he smiled to see the grim old cavalier employed in desecrating a religious house— (an occupation much conforming to the practice of his own sect)— whether he smiled in contempt of the old painter’s harsh and dry mode of working—or whether the sight of this remarkable portrait revived some other ideas, the under-keeper could not decide. The smile passed away in an instant, as the soldier looked to the oriel windows. The recesses within them were raised a step or two from the wall. In one was placed a walnut-tree reading-desk, and a huge stuffed arm-chair, covered with Spanish leather. A little cabinet stood beside, with some of its shuttles and drawers open, displaying hawks-bells, dog-whistles, instruments for trimming a falcon’s feathers, bridle-bits of various constructions, and other trifles connected with sylvan sport. The other little recess was differently furnished. There lay some articles of needle-work on a small table, besides a lute, with a book having some airs pricked down in it, and a frame for working embroidery. Some tapestry was displayed around the recess, with more attention to ornament than was visible in the rest of the apartment; the arrangement of a few bow-pots, with such flowers as the fading season afforded, showed also the superintendence of female taste. Tomkins cast an eye of careless regard upon these subjects of female occupation, then stepped into the further window, and began to turn the leaves of a folio, which lay open on the reading-desk, apparently with some interest. Josceline, who had determined to watch his motions without interfering with them, was standing at some distance in dejected silence, when a door behind the tapestry suddenly opened, and a pretty village maid tripped out with a napkin in her hand, as if she had been about some household duty. “How now, Sir Impudence?” she said to Josceline, in a smart tone; “what do you here prowling about the apartments when the master is not at home?” But instead of the answer which perhaps she expected, Josceline Joliffe cast a mournful glance towards the soldier in the oriel window, as if to make what he said fully intelligible, and replied with a dejected appearance and voice, “Alack, my pretty Phœbe, there come those here that have more right or might than any of us, and will use little ceremony in coming when they will, and staying while they please.” He darted another glance at Tomkins, who still seemed busy with the book before him, then sidled close to the astonished girl, who

42



Vol. 1, ch. 3

had kept looking alternately at the keeper and at the stranger, as if she had been unable to understand the words of the first, or to comprehend the meaning of the second being present. “Go,” whispered Joliffe, approaching his mouth so near her cheek, that his breath waved the curls of her hair; “go, my dearest Phœbe, trip it as fast as a fawn down to my lodge—I will soon be there, and”—— “Your lodge, indeed!” said Phœbe; “you are very bold, for a poor killbuck that never frightened anything before save a dun deer —Your lodge, indeed!—I am like to go there, I think.” “Hush, hush! Phœbe—here is no time for jesting. Down to my hut, I say, like a deer, for the knight and Mrs Alice are both there, and I fear will not return hither again.—All’s naught, girl—and our evil days are come at last with a vengeance—we are fairly at bay and fairly hunted down.” “Can this be, Josceline?” said the poor girl, turning to the keeper with an expression of fright in the pretty countenance which she had hitherto averted in rural coquetry. “As sure, my dearest Phœbe, as——” The rest of the asseveration was lost in Phœbe’s ear, so closely did the keeper’s lips approach it; and if they approached so very near as to touch her cheek, grief, like impatience, hath its privileges, and poor Phœbe had enough of serious alarm to prevent her from demurring upon such a trifle. But no trifle was the approach of Josceline’s lips to Phœbe’s pretty though sunburned cheek, in the estimation of the Independent, who, a little before the object of Josceline’s vigilance, had been in his turn the observer of the keeper’s demeanour, so soon as the interview betwixt Phœbe and him had become so interesting. And when he remarked the closeness of Josceline’s argument, he raised his voice to a pitch of harshness that would have rivalled that of a saw, and which at once made Josceline and Phœbe spring six feet apart, each in contrary directions, and if Cupid was of the party, must have sent him out at the window like a wild-duck flying from a culverin. Instantly throwing himself into the attitude of a preacher and a reprover of vice, “How now!” he exclaimed, “shameless and impudent as you are!—What!—Chambering and wantonness in our very presence!—How—would you play your pranks before the steward of the Commissioners of the High Court of Parliament, as ye would in a booth at a fulsome fair, or amidst the trippings and tracings of a profane dancing-school, where the scoundrel minstrels make their ungodly weapons to squeak, ‘Kiss and be kind, the fiddler’s blind’?—But here,” he said, dealing a perilous thump upon

[Chap. 3]



43

the volume—“Here is the King and high priest of those vices and follies!—Here is he, whom men of folly profanely call nature’s miracle!—Here is he, whom princes chose for their cabinet-keeper, and whom maids of honour take for their bed-fellow!—Here is the prime teacher of fine words, foppery and folly—Here!”—(dealing another thump upon the volume—and oh! revered of the Roxburghe, it was the first folio—beloved of the Bannatyne, it was Hemmings and Condel—it was the editio princeps)—“On thee,” he continued— “on thee, William Shakspeare, I charge whate’er of such lawless idleness and unmodest folly hath defiled the land since thy day!” “By the mass, a heavy accusation,” said Josceline, the bold recklessness of whose temper was not to be long overawed; “Odds pitlikins, is our master’s old favourite, Will of Stratford, to answer for every buss that has been snatched since James’s time?—a perilous reckoning truly—but I wonder who is sponsible for what lads and lasses did before his day?” “Scoff not,” said the soldier, “lest I, being called thereto by the voice within me, do deal with thee as a scorner. Verily I say, that since the devil fell from Heaven, he never wanted agents on earth; yet nowhere hath he met with a wizard having such infinite power over men’s souls as this pestilent fellow Shakspeare. Seeks a wife a foul example for adultery, here she shall find it—Would a man know how to train his fellow to be a murtherer, here shall he find tutoring—Would a lady marry a heathen negro, she shall have chronicled example for it—Would any one scorn at his Maker, he shall be furnished with a jest in this book—Would he defy his brother in the flesh, he shall be accommodated with a challenge—Would you be drunk, Shakspeare will cheer you with a cup—Would you plunge in sensual pleasures, he will soothe you to indulgence, as with lascivious sounds of a lute. This, I say, this book is the well-head and source of all those evils which have overrun the land like a torrent, making men scoffers, doubters, deniers, murderous make-bates, and lovers of the wine-pot, haunting unclean places, and sitting long at the evening-wine. Away with him, away with him, men of England! to Tophet with his wicked book, and to the Vale of Hinnom with his accursed bones! Verily but that our march was hasty when we passed Stratford, in the year 1643, with Sir William Waller; but that our march was hasty”—— “Because Prince Rupert was after you with his cavaliers,” muttered the incorrigible Josceline. “I say,” continued the zealous trooper, raising his voice and extending his arm—“but that our march was by command hasty, and that we turned not aside in our riding, closing our ranks each one upon

44



Vol. 1, ch. 3

the other as becomes men of war, I had torn on that day the bones of that preceptor of vice and debauchery from the grave, and given them to the next dunghill. I would have made his memory a scoff and a hissing!” “That is the bitterest thing he has said yet,” observed the keeper. “Poor Will would have liked the hissing worse than all the rest.” “Will the gentleman say any more?” inquired Phœbe in a whisper. “Lack-a-day, he talks brave words, if one knew but what they meant. But it is mercy our good knight did not see him cuff the book at that rate—Mercy on us, there would certainly have been bloodshed.— But oh the father—see how he is twisting his face about!—Is he ill of the colic, think’st thou, Josceline? Or, may I offer him a dram of strong waters?” “Hark thee hither, wench!” said the keeper, “he is but loading his blunderbuss for another volley; and while he turns up his eyes, and twists about his face, and clenches his fist, and shuffles and tramples with his feet in that fashion, he is bound to take no notice of anything. I would be sworn to cut his purse, if he had one, from his side, without his feeling it.” “La! Josceline,” said Phœbe, “and if he abides here in this turn of times, I dare say the gentleman will be easily served.” “Care not thou about that,” said Joliffe; “but tell me softly and hastily, what is in the pantry?” “Small house-keeping enough,” said Phœbe, “a cold capon and some comfits, and the great standing venison pasty, with plenty of spice—a manchet or two besides, and that is all.” “Well, it will serve for a pinch—wrap thy cloak round thy comely body—get a basket and a brace of trenchers and towels, they are heinously unprovided down yonder—carry down the capon and the manchets—the pasty must abide with this same soldier and me, and the pie-crust will serve us for bread.” “Rarely,” replied Phœbe; “I made the paste myself—it is as thick as the walls of Fair Rosamond’s Tower.” “Which two pair of jaws would be long in gnawing through, work hard as they might,” said the keeper. “But what liquor is there?” “Only a bottle of Alicant, and one of sack, with the stone jug of strong waters,” answered Phœbe. “Put the wine-flasks into thy basket,” said Josceline, “the knight must not lack his evening draught—and down with thee to the hut like a lapwing. There is enough for supper, and to-morrow is a new day.—Ha! by heaven I thought yonder man’s eye watched us—No —he only rolled it round him in a brown study—Deep enough doubtless as they all are.—But d—n him, he must be bottomless if I

[Chap. 3]



45

cannot sound him before the night’s out.—Hie thee away, Phœbe.” But Phœbe was a rural coquette, and, aware that Josceline’s situation gave him no advantage of avenging the challenge in a fitting way, she whispered in his ear, “Do you think our knight’s friend, Shakspeare, really found out all these naughty devices the gentleman spoke of?” Off she darted while she spoke, while Joliffe menaced future vengeance with his finger, as he muttered, “Go thy way, Phœbe Mayflower, the lightest-footed and lightest-hearted wench that ever tripped the sod in Woodstock-park!—After her, Bevis, and bring her safe to our master at the hut.” The large grey-hound arose like a human servitor who had received an order, and followed Phœbe through the hall, first licking her hand to make her sensible of his presence, and then putting himself to a slow trot, so as best to accommodate himself to the light pace of her whom he conveyed, which Josceline had not extolled without due reason. While Phœbe and her guardian thread the forest glades, we return to the Lodge. The Independent now seemed to start as if from a reverie. “Is the young woman gone?” said he. “Ay, marry is she,” said the keeper; “and if your worship hath farther commands, you must rest contented with male attendance.” “Commands—umph—I think the damsel might have tarried for another exhortation,” said the soldier—“truly, I profess my mind was much inclined toward her for her edification.” “Oh, sir,” replied Joliffe, “she will be at church next Sunday, and if your military reverence is pleased again to hold forth amongst us, she will have use of the doctrine with the rest. But young maidens of these parts hear no private homilies.—And what is now your pleasure? Will you look at the other rooms, and at the few plate articles which have been left?” “Umph—no,” said the Independent—“it wears late, and gets dark—thou hast the means of giving us beds, friend?” “Better you never slept in,” replied Josceline. “And wood for the fire, and a light, and some small pittance of creature-comforts for refreshment of the outward man?” continued the soldier. “Without doubt,” replied the keeper, displaying a prudent anxiety to gratify this important personage. In a few minutes a great standing candlestick was placed on an oaken table. The mighty venison pasty, adorned with parsley, was placed on the board on a clean napkin; the stone-bottle of strong waters, with a black-jack full of ale, formed comfortable appendages;

46



Vol. 1, ch. 4

and to this meal sate down in social manner the soldier, occupying a great elbow-chair, and the keeper, at his invitation using the more lowly accommodation of a stool, at the opposite side of the table. Thus agreeably employed, our history leaves them for the present.

Chapter Four ———Yon path of greensward Winds round by sparry grot and gay pavilion; There is no flint to gall thy tender foot, There’s ready shelter from each breeze, or shower.— But Duty guides not that way—see her stand By yonder dizzy cliff and point the path With wand entwined with amaranth. Oft where she leads thy blood must mark thy footsteps, Oft where she leads thy head must bear the storm, And thy shrunk frame endure heat, cold, and hunger; But she will guide thee up to noble heights, Which he who gains seems native of the sky, While earthly things lie stretch’d beneath his feet, Diminish’d, shrunk, and valueless.— A

T   cannot have forgotten that after his scuffle with the commonwealth soldier, Sir Henry Lee, with his daughter Alice, had departed to take refuge in the hut of the stout keeper Josceline Joliffe. They walked slow, as before, for the old knight was at once oppressed by perceiving these last vestiges of royalty fall into the hands of republicans, and by the recollection of his recent defeat. At times he paused, and with his arms folded on his bosom, recalled all the circumstances attending his expulsion from a house so long his home. It seemed to him that, like the champions of romance of whom he had sometimes read, he himself was retiring from the post which it was his duty to guard, defeated by a Paynim knight, for whom the adventure had been reserved by Fate. Alice had her own painful subjects of recollection, nor had the tenor of her last conversation with her father been so pleasant as to make her anxious to renew it until his temper should be more composed; for, with an excellent disposition, and much love of his daughter, age and misfortunes, which of late came thicker and thicker, had given to the good knight’s passions a wayward irritability which was unknown to his better days. His daughter, and one or two attached servants, who still followed his decayed fortunes, soothed his frailty as much as possible, and pitied him even while they suffered under its effects. It was a long time ere he spoke, and then he referred to an incident already noticed. “It is strange,” he said, “that Bevis should

[Chap. 4]



47

have followed Josceline and that fellow rather than me.” “Assure yourself, sir,” replied Alice, “that his sagacity saw in this man a stranger, whom he thought himself obliged to watch circumspectly, and therefore he remained with Josceline.” “Not so, Alice,” answered Sir Henry; “he leaves me because my fortunes have fled from me. There is a feeling in nature, affecting even the instinct, as it is called, of dumb animals, which teaches them to fly from misfortune. The very deer there will butt a sick or wounded buck from the herd—hurt a dog, and the whole kennel will fall on him and worry him—fishes devour their own kind when they are wounded with a spear—cut a crow’s wing, or break his leg, the others will buffet it to death.” “That may be true of the more irrational kinds of animals among each other,” said Alice, “for their whole life is well nigh a warfare; but the dog leaves his own race to attach himself to ours; forsakes, for his master, the company, food, and pleasure of his own kind; and surely the fidelity of such a devoted and voluntary servant as Bevis hath been in particular, ought not to be lightly suspected.” “I am not angry at the dog, Alice; I am only sorry,” replied her father. “I have read, in faithful chronicles, that when Richard II. met Henry of Bolingbroke at Berkeley Castle, a dog of the same kind deserted the King, whom he had always attended upon, and attached himself to Henry, whom he then saw for the first time. Richard foretold, from the desertion of his favourite, his approaching deposition. The dog was afterwards kept at Woodstock, and Bevis is said to be of his breed, which was heedfully kept up. What I ought to foretell of new mischief from his desertion, I cannot guess, but my mind assures me it bodes no good.” There was a distant rustling among the withered leaves, a bouncing or galloping sound on the path, and the favourite dog instantly joined his master. “Come into court, old knave,” said Alice, cheerfully, “and defend thy character, which is well nigh endangered by thy absence.” But the dog only paid his courtesy by gambolling around them, and instantly plunged back again, as fast as he could scamper. “How now, knave?” said the knight; “thou art too well trained, surely, to take up the chase without orders.” A minute more showed them Phœbe Mayflower approaching, her light pace so little impeded by the burthen which she bore, that she joined her master and young mistress just as they arrived at the keeper’s hut, which was the boundary of their journey. Bevis, who had shot a-head to pay his compliments to Sir Henry his master, had returned again to his immediate duty, the escorting Phœbe and her cargo of provisions.

48



Vol. 1, ch. 4

The whole party stood presently assembled before the door of the keeper’s hut. In better times, a substantial stone habitation, fit for the yeomankeeper of a royal walk, had adorned this place. A fair spring gushed out near the spot, and once traversed yards and courts, attached to well-built and convenient kennels and mews. But in some of the skirmishes which were common through the whole country during the civil wars, this little sylvan dwelling had been attacked and defended, stormed and burned. A neighbouring squire, on the parliamentarian side of the question, took advantage of Sir Henry Lee’s absence, who was in Charles’s camp, and of the decay of the royal cause, and had, without scruple, carried off the hewn stones, and such building materials as the fire left unconsumed, and repaired his own manor-house with them. The yeoman-keeper, therefore, our friend Josceline, had constructed, for his own accommodation, and that of the old woman he called his dame, a wattled hut, such as his own labour, with that of a neighbour or two, had erected in the course of a few days. The walls were plastered with clay, whitewashed, and covered with vines and other creeping plants; the roof was neatly thatched, and the whole, though merely a hut, had, by the neat-handed Joliffe, been so arranged as not to disgrace the condition of the dweller. The knight advanced to the entrance; but the ingenuity of the architect, for want of better lock to the door, which itself was but of wattles curiously twisted, had contrived a mode of securing the latch on the inside with a pin, which prevented it from rising; and in this manner it was at present fastened. Conceiving that this was some precaution of Joliffe’s old housekeeper, of whose deafness they were all aware, Sir Henry raised his voice to demand admittance, but in vain. Irritated at this delay, he pressed the door at once with foot and hand, in a way which the frail barrier was unable to resist; it gave way accordingly, and the knight thus forcibly entered the kitchen, or outward apartment, of his servant. In the midst of the floor, and with a posture which indicated embarrassment, stood a youthful stranger, in a riding-suit. “This may be my last act of authority here,” said the knight, seizing the stranger by the collar, “but I am still Ranger of Woodstock for this night at least—Who, or what art thou?” The stranger dropped the riding-mantle in which his face was muffled, and at the same time fell on one knee. “Your poor kinsman, Markham Everard,” he said, “who came hither for your sake, although he fears you will scarce make him welcome for his own.”

[Chap. 4]



49

Sir Henry started back, but recovered himself in an instant, as one who recollected that he had a part of dignity to perform. He stood erect, therefore, and replied, with considerable assumption of stately ceremony: “Fair kinsman, it pleases me that you are come to Woodstock upon the very first night that, for many years which have passed, is likely to promise you a worthy or a welcome reception.” “Now God grant it be so, that I rightly hear and duly understand you,” said the young man; while Alice Lee, though she was silent, kept her looks fixed on her father’s face, as if desirous to know whether his meaning was kind towards her cousin, which her knowledge of his character inclined her greatly to doubt. The knight meanwhile darted a sardonic look, first on his nephew, then on his daughter, and proceeded—“I need not, I presume, inform Master Markham Everard, that it cannot be our purpose to entertain him, or even to offer him a seat in this poor hut.” “I will attend you most willingly to the Lodge,” said the young gentleman. “I had, indeed, judged you were already there for the evening, and feared to intrude upon you. But if you would permit me, my dearest uncle, to escort my kinswoman and you back to the house, believe me, amongst all which you have so often done of good and kind, you never conferred benefit that will be so dearly prized.” “You mistake me greatly, Master Markham Everard,” replied the knight. “It is not our purpose to return to the Lodge to-night, nor, by Our Lady, to-morrow neither. I meant but to intimate to you, in all courtesy, that at Woodstock Lodge you will find those for whom you are fitting society, and who, doubtless, will afford you a willing welcome; which I, sir, in this my present retreat, do not presume to offer to a person of your consequence.” “For Heaven’s sake,” said the young man, turning to Alice, “tell me how I am to understand language so mysterious.” Alice, to prevent his increasing the restrained anger of her father, compelled herself to answer, though it was with difficulty, “We are expelled from the Lodge by soldiers.” “Expelled—by soldiers!” exclaimed Everard, in surprise—“there is no legal warrant for this.” “None at all,” answered the knight, in the same tone of cutting irony which he had all along used, “and yet as lawful a warrant, as for aught that has been wrought in England this twelvemonth and more. You are, I think, or were, an Inns-of-Court-man—marry, sir, your enjoyment of your profession is like that lease which a prodigal wishes to have of a wealthy widow. You have already survived the

50



Vol. 1, ch. 4

law which you studied, and its expiry doubtless has not been without a legacy—some decent pickings, some merciful increases, as the phrase goes. You have deserved it two ways—you wore buff and bandalier, as well as wielded pen and ink—I have not heard if you held forth too.” “Think of me and speak of me as harshly as you will, sir,” replied Everard, submissively. “I have but, in this evil time, guided myself by my conscience, and my father’s commands.” “O, an you talk of conscience,” said the old knight, “I must have mine eye upon you, as Hamlet says. Never yet did Puritan cheat so grossly as when he was appealing to his conscience; and as for thy father”—— He was about to proceed in a tone of the same invective, when the young man interrupted him, by saying, in a firm tone, “Sir Henry Lee, you have been ever thought noble—Say of me what you will, but speak not of my father what the ear of a son should not endure, and which yet his arm cannot resent. To do me such wrong is to insult an unarmed man, or to beat a captive.” Sir Henry paused, as if struck by the remark. “Thou hast spoken truth in that, Mark, wert thou the blackest Puritan whom hell ever vomited out, to distract an unhappy country.” “Be that as you will to think it,” replied Everard; “but let me not leave you to the shelter of this wretched hovel—The night is drawing to storm—Let me but conduct you to the Lodge, and expel these intruders, who can as yet at least have no warrant for what they do. I will not linger a moment behind them, save just to deliver my father’s message.—Grant me but this much, for the love you once bore me!” “Yes, Mark,” answered his uncle, firmly, but sorrowfully, “thou speakest truth—I did love thee once—the bright-haired boy whom I taught to ride, to shoot, to hunt, whose hours of happiness were spent with me wherever those of graver labours were employed—I did love that boy—ay, and I am weak enough to love even the memory of what he was—But he is gone, Mark, he is gone, and in his room I only behold an avowed and determined rebel to his religion and to his King, a rebel the more detestable on account of his success, the more infamous through the plundered wealth with which he hopes to gild his villainy.—But I am poor, thou think’st, and should hold my peace, lest men say, ‘Speak, sirrah, when you should.’ Know, however, that indigent and plundered as I am, I feel myself dishonoured in holding even but this much talk with the tool of usurping rebels.—Go to the Lodge, if thou wilt—yonder lies the way—but think not that to regain my dwelling there, or all the

[Chap. 4]



51

wealth I ever possessed in my wealthiest days, I would willingly accompany thee three steps on the greensward. If I must be thy companion, it shall be only when thy red-coats have tied my hands behind me, and bound my legs beneath my horse’s belly—Thou may’st be my fellow-traveller then, I grant thee, if thou wilt—but not sooner.” Alice, who suffered cruelly during this dialogue, and was well aware that farther urgency would only kindle the knight’s resentment still more highly, ventured at last, in her anxiety, to make a sign to her cousin to break off the interview, and to retire, since her father commanded his absence in a manner so peremptory. Unhappily she was observed by Sir Henry, who, concluding that what he saw was evidence of a private understanding betwixt the cousins, his wrath acquired new fuel, and it required the utmost exertion of selfcommand, and recollection of all that was due to his own dignity, to enable him to veil his real fury under the same ironical manner which he had adopted at the beginning of this angry interview. “If thou art afraid,” he said, “to trace our forest-glades by night, respected stranger, to whom I am perhaps bound to do honour as my successor in the charge of these walks, here seems to be a modest damsel, who will be most willing to wait on thee, and be thy bow-bearer—Only, for her mother’s sake, let there pass some slight form of marriage between you—Ye need no licence or priest in these happy days, but may be buckled like beggars in a ditch, with a hedge for a church-roof, and a tinker for a priest. I crave pardon of you for making such an officious and simple request—perhaps you are a Ranter—or one of the Family of Love, or hold marriage rites as unnecessary, as Knipperdoling, or Jack of Leyden.” “For mercy’s sake, forbear such dreadful jesting, my father; and do you, Markham, begone, in God’s name, and leave us to our fate —Your presence makes my father rave.” “Jesting!” said Sir Henry, “I was never more serious—Raving!— I was never more composed.—I could never brook that falsehood should approach me—I would no more carry at my side a dishonoured daughter than a dishonoured sword; and this unhappy day has showed that both can fail.” “Sir Henry,” said young Everard, “load not your soul with a heavy crime, which be assured you do, in treating your daughter thus unjustly. It is long now since you denied her to me, when we were poor and you were powerful. I acquiesced in your prohibition of all suit and intercourse. God knoweth what I suffered—but I acquiesced. Neither is it to renew my suit that I now come hither, and have, I do acknowledge, sought speech of her—not for her own sake

52



Vol. 1, ch. 4

only, but for yours also. Destruction hovers over you, ready to close her pinions to stoop, and her talons to clutch—Yes, sir, look contemptuous as you will, such is the case; and it is to protect both you and her that I am here.” “You refuse then my fair gift,” said Sir Henry Lee; “or perhaps you think I load it with too hard conditions?” “Shame, shame on you, Sir Henry!” said Everard, waxing warm in his turn; “have your political prejudices so utterly warped every feeling of a father, that you can speak with bitter mockery and scorn of what concerns your own daughter’s honour?—Hold up your head, fair Alice, and tell your father he has forgotten nature in his fantastic spirit of loyalty.—Know, Sir Henry, that though I would prefer your daughter’s hand to every blessing which Heaven could bestow on me, I would not accept it—my conscience would not permit me to do so, when I knew it must withdraw her from her duty to you.” “Your conscience is over scrupulous, young man;—carry it to some dissenting rabbi, and he who takes all that comes to net, will teach thee it is sinning against our mercies to refuse any good thing that is freely offered to us.” “When it is freely offered, and kindly offered—not when the offer is made in irony and insult.—Farewell, Alice—if aught could make me desire to profit by thy father’s wild wish to cast thee from him in a moment of unworthy suspicion, it would be that while indulging in such sentiments, Sir Henry Lee is tyrannically oppressing the creature, who of all others is most dependent on his kindness—who of all others will most feel his severity—and whom, of all others, he is most bound to cherish and support.” “Do not fear for me, Master Everard,” exclaimed Alice, aroused from her timidity by a dread of the consequences not unlikely to ensue, where civil war had set relations, as well as fellow-citizens, in opposition to each other.—“Oh, begone, I conjure you begone! Nothing stands betwixt me and my father’s kindness, but these unhappy family divisions—but your ill-timed presence here—For Heaven’s sake leave us!” “Soh, mistress!” answered the hot old cavalier; “you play lady paramount already; and who but you!—you would dictate our train, I warrant, like Goneril and Regan. But I tell thee, no man shall leave my house—and, humble as it is, this is now my house—while he has aught to say to me that is to be spoken, as this young man now speaks, with a bent brow and a lofty tone.—Speak out, sir, and say your worst!” “Fear not my temper, Mrs Alice,” said Everard, with equal firm-

[Chap. 4]



53

ness and placidity of manner; “and you, Sir Henry, do not think that if I speak firmly, I mean therefore to speak in anger, or offensively. You have taxed me with much, and, were I guided by the wild spirit of romantic chivalry, much which, even from so near a relative, I ought not, as being by birth, and in the world’s estimation, a gentleman, to pass over without reply. Is it your pleasure to give me patient hearing?” “If you stand on your defence,” answered the stout old knight, “God forbid that you should not challenge a patient hearing—ay, though your pleading were two parts disloyalty and one blasphemy —Only, be brief—this has already lasted but too long.” “I will, Sir Henry,” replied the young man; “yet it is hard to crowd into a few sentences, the defence of a life which, though short, has been a busy one—too busy, your indignant gesture would assert. But I deny it; I have drawn my sword neither hastily, nor without due consideration, for a people whose rights have been trampled on, and whose consciences have been oppressed.—Frown not, sir—such is not your view of the contest, but such is mine. For my religious principles, at which you have scoffed, believe me, that though they depend not on set forms, they are no less sincere than your own, and thus far purer—excuse the word—that they are unmingled with the blood-thirsty dictates of a barbarous age, which you and others have called the code of chivalrous honour. Not my own natural disposition, but the better doctrine which my creed has taught, enables me to bear your harsh revilings without answering in a similar tone of wrath and reproach. You may carry insult to extremity against me at your pleasure—not on account of our relationship alone, but because I am bound in charity to endure it. This, Sir Henry, is much from one of our house. But, with forbearance far more than this requires, I can refuse at your hands the gift, which, most of all things under Heaven, I should desire to obtain, because duty calls upon her to sustain and comfort you, and because it were sin to permit you, in your blindness, to spurn your comforter from your side.—Farewell, sir—not in anger but in pity—We may meet in a better time, when your heart and your principles shall master the unhappy prejudices by which they are now overclouded.— Farewell—farewell, Alice!” The last words were repeated twice, and in a tone of feeling and passionate grief, which differed utterly from the steady and almost severe tone in which he had addressed Sir Henry Lee. He turned and left the hut so soon as he had uttered these last words; and, as if ashamed of the tenderness which had mingled in his accents, the young commonwealth’s-man turned and walked sternly and

54



Vol. 1, ch. 4

resolvedly forth into the moonlight, which now was spreading its broad light and autumnal shadows over the woodland. So soon as he was departed, Alice, who had been during the whole scene in the utmost terror that her father might have been hurried, by his natural heat of temper, from violence of language into violence of action, sunk down upon a settle twisted out of willow-boughs, like most of Josceline’s few movables, and endeavoured to conceal the tears which accompanied the thanks she rendered in broken accents to Heaven, that, notwithstanding the near alliance and relationship of the parties, some fatal deed had not closed an interview so perilous and so angry. Phœbe Mayflower blubbered heartily for company, though she understood but little of what had passed; just, indeed, enough to enable her afterwards to report to some half-dozen particular friends, that her old master, Sir Henry, had been perilous angry, and almost fought with young Master Everard, because he had well nigh carried away her young mistress.—“And what could he have done better?” said Phœbe, “seeing the old man had nothing left either for Mrs Alice or himself; and as for Master Mark Everard, and his young lady, oh, they had spoken such loving things to each other, as are not to be found in the history of Argalus and Parthenia, who, as the story-book tells, were the truest pair of lovers in all Arcadia, and Oxfordshire to boot.” Old Goody Jellycot had popped her scarlet hood into the kitchen more than once while this scene was proceeding; but, as the worthy dame was parcel blind, and more than parcel deaf, knowledge was excluded at two principal entrances; and though she comprehended, by a sort of general instinct, that the gentlefolks were at high words, yet why they chose Josceline’s hut for the scene of their dispute, was as great a mystery as the subject of the quarrel. But what was the state of the old cavalier’s mood, thus contradicted, as his most darling principles had been, by the last words of his departing nephew? The truth is, that, as Dame Quickly says of her master Dr Caius, he was less thoroughly moved than his daughter expected; and in all probability his nephew’s bold defence of his religious and political opinions rather pacified than aggravated his displeasure. Although sufficiently impatient of contradiction, still evasion and subterfuge were more alien to the blunt old Ranger’s nature than manly vindication and direct opposition; and he was wont to say, that he ever loved the buck best who stood boldest at bay. He graced his nephew’s departure, however, with a quotation from Shakspeare, whom, as many others do, he was wont to quote from a sort of habit and respect to him, as a favourite of his unfortu-

[Chap. 4]



55

nate master, without having either much real taste for his works, or great skill in applying the passages which he retained on his memory. “Mark,” he said, “mark this, Alice—the devil can quote scripture for his purpose. Why, this young fanatic cousin of thine, with no more beard than I have seen on a clown playing Maid Marion on May-day, when the village barber had shaved him in too great a hurry, shall match any bearded Presbyterian or Independent of them all, in laying down his doctrines and his uses, and bethumping us with his texts and his homilies—I would worthy and learned Doctor Rochecliffe had been here, with his battery ready-mounted from the Vulgate and the Septuagint, and what not—he would have battered the presbyterian spirit out of him with a wanion. However, I am glad the young man is no sneaker; for, were a man of the devil’s opinion in religion, and of Old Noll’s in politics, he were better open on it full cry, than deceive you by hunting counter, or running a false scent. Come, wench, wipe thine eyes—the fray is over, and not like to be stirred again soon, I trust.” Encouraged by these words, Alice rose, and, bewildered as she was, endeavoured to superintend the arrangements for their meal and their repose in their new habitation. But her tears fell so fast, they marred her counterfeited diligence; and well for her that Phœbe, too ignorant and too simple to comprehend the extent of her distress, could afford her material assistance, in lack of mere sympathy. With great readiness and address, the damsel set about everything that was requisite for preparing the supper and the beds; now screaming into Dame Jellycot’s ear, now whispering into her mistress’s, and artfully managing, as if she was merely the agent, under Alice’s orders. When the cold meal was set forth, Sir Henry Lee kindly pressed his daughter to take refreshment, as if to make up, indirectly, for his previous harshness towards her; while he himself, like an experienced campaigner, showed, that neither the mortifications nor brawls of the preceding day, nor the thoughts of what was to come to-morrow, could diminish his appetite for supper, which was his favourite meal. He ate up two-thirds of the capon, and, devoting the first bumper to the Happy Restoration of Charles, Second of the name, he finished a quart of wine; for he belonged to a school accustomed to feed the flame of their loyalty with copious brimmers. He even sang a verse of “The King shall enjoy his own again,” in which Phœbe, half sobbing, and Dame Jellycot, screaming against time and tune, were contented to lend their aid, to cover Mistress Alice’s silence. At length the genial knight betook himself to his rest, on the

56



Vol. 1, ch. 5

keeper’s straw pallet, in a recess adjoining to the kitchen, and, unaffected by his change of dwelling, slept fast and deep. Alice had less quiet rest in old Goody Jellycot’s wicker couch, in the inner apartment; while the dame and Phœbe slept on a mattress, stuffed with dry leaves, in the same chamber, soundly as those whose daily toil gains their daily bread, and whom morning calls up only to renew the toils of yesterday.

Chapter Five My tongue pads slowly under this new language, And starts and stumbles at these uncouth phrases. They may be great in worth and weight, but hang Upon the native glibness of my language Like Saul’s plate-armour on the shepherd boy, Encumbering and not arming him. . .

A  M   E pursued the way towards the Lodge, through one of the long sweeping glades which traversed the forest, varying in breadth, till the trees were now so close that the boughs made darkness over the head, then receding farther to let in glimpses of the moon, and anon opening yet wider into little meadows, or savannahs, on which the moon-beams lay in silvery silence, the various effects produced by that delicious light on the oaks, whose dark leaves, gnarled branches, and massive trunks it gilded, more or less partially, might have drawn the attention of a poet or a painter. But if Everard thought of anything saving the painful scene in which he had just played his part, and of which the result seemed the destruction of all his hopes, it was of the necessary guard to be observed in his night-walk. The times were dangerous and unsettled; the roads full of disbanded soldiers, and especially of royalists, who made their political principles a pretext for disturbing the country with marauding parties and robberies. Deer-stealers also, who are ever a desperate banditti, had of late infested Woodstock Chase. In short, the dangers of the place and period were such, that Markham Everard wore his loaded pistols at his belt, and carried his drawn sword under his arm, that he might be prepared for whatever peril should cross his path. He heard the bells of Woodstock Church ring curfew, just as he was crossing one of the little meadows we have described, and they ceased as he entered an overshadowed and twilight part of the path beyond. It was then that he heard some one whistling; and, as the sound became clearer, it was plain the person was advancing towards

[Chap. 5]



57

him. This could hardly be a friend; for the party to which he belonged rejected, generally speaking, all music, unless psalmody. “If a man is merry, let him sing psalms,” was a text which they were pleased to interpret as literally as they did some others. Yet it was too continued a sound to be a signal amongst night-walkers, and too light and cheerful to argue any purpose of concealment on the part of the traveller, who presently exchanged his whistling for singing, and trolled forth the following stanza to a jolly tune, with which the old cavaliers were wont to wake the night-owl: Hey for cavaliers! Ho for cavaliers! Pray for cavaliers! Rub a dub—dub a dub! Have at old Beelzebub— Oliver smokes for fear.

“I should know that voice,” said Markham, uncocking the pistol which he had drawn from his belt, but continuing to hold it in his hand. Then came another fragment: Hash them—slash them— All to pieces dash them.

“So ho!” cried Everard, “who goes there, and for whom?” “For Church and King,” answered a voice, which presently added, “No, d—n me—I mean against Church and King, and for the people that are uppermost—I forget which they are.” “Roger Wildrake, as I guess?” said Everard. “The same—Gentleman of Squattlesea-mere, in the moist county of Lincoln.” “Wildrake!” said Markham—“Wildgoose you should be called— you have been moistening your own throat to some purpose, and using it to gabble tunes very suiting to the times.” “Faith, the tune’s a pretty tune enough, Mark, only out of fashion a little—the more’s the pity.” “What could I expect,” said Everard, “but to meet some ranting, drunken cavalier, as desperate and dangerous as night and sack usually make them? What if I had rewarded your melody by a ball in the gullet?” “Why, there would have been a piper paid—that’s all,” said Wildrake.—“But wherefore come you this way now?—I was about to seek you at the hut.” “I have been obliged to leave it—I will tell you the cause hereafter,” replied Markham. “What! the old play-haunting cavalier was cross, or Chloe was unkind?” “Jest not, Wildrake—it is all over with me,” said Everard. “The devil it is,” exclaimed Wildrake, “and you take it thus quietly!

58



Vol. 1, ch. 5

—Zounds! let us back together—I’ll plead your cause for you—I know how to tickle up an old knight and a pretty maiden—Let me alone for putting you rectus in curia, you canting rogue.—D—n me, Sir Henry, says I, your nephew is a piece of a Puritan—it won’t deny —but I’ll uphold him a gentleman and a pretty fellow for all that.— Madam, says I, you may think your cousin looks like a psalmsinging weaver, in that bare felt, and with that rascally brown cloak; that band, which looks like a baby’s clout, and those loose boots, which have a whole calf-skin in each of them. But let him wear on the one side of his head a castor, with a plume befitting his quality; give him a good Toledo by his side, with a broidered belt and an inlaid hilt, instead of the ton of iron contained in that basket-hilted, black Andrew Ferrara; put a few smart words in his mouth—and, blood and wounds! madam, says I”—— “Prithee, truce with this nonsense, Wildrake,” said Everard, “and tell me if thou art sober enough to hear a few words of sober reason?” “Pshaw! man, I did but crack a brace of quarts with yonder cuckoldly, round-headed soldiers, up yonder at the town; and rat me but I passed myself for the best knave of the party; twanged my nose, and turned up mine eyes, as I took my can—Pah! the very wine tasted of hypocrisy. I think the rogue corporal smoked something at last—for the common fellows—never stir, but they asked me to say grace over another quart.” “This is just what I wished to speak with you about, Wildrake,” said Markham—“You hold me, I am sure, for your friend?” “True as steel.—Chums at College and at Lincoln’s-Inn—We have been Nisus and Euryalus, Theseus and Perithous, Orestes and Pylades; and, to sum up the whole with a puritanic touch, David and Jonathan, all in one breath. Not even politics, the wedge that rends families and friendships asunder, as iron rives oak, has been able to split us.” “True,” answered Markham; “and when you followed the King to Nottingham, and I enrolled under Essex, we swore, at our parting, that whichever side was victorious, he of us who adhered to it, should protect his less fortunate comrade.” “Surely, man, surely; and have you not protected me accordingly? Did you not save me from hanging? and am I not indebted to you for the bread I eat?” “I have but done that which, had the times been otherwise, you, my dear Wildrake, would, I am sure, have done for me. But that is just what I wished to speak to you about. Why render the task of protecting you more difficult than it must necessarily be at any rate?

[Chap. 5]



59

Why thrust thyself into the company of soldiers, or such-like, where thou art sure to be warmed into betraying thyself? Why come hollowing and whooping out cavalier ditties, like a drunken trooper of Prince Rupert, or one of Wilmot’s swaggering body-guards?” “Because I may have been both one and t’other in my day, for aught that you know,” replied Wildrake. “But, oddsfish! is it necessary I should be always reminding you, that our obligation of mutual protection, our league offensive and defensive, as I may call it, was to be carried into effect without reference to the politics or religion of the party protected, or the least obligation on him to conform to those of his friend?” “True,” said Everard; “but with this most necessary qualification, that the party should submit to such outward conformity to the times as should make it more easy and safe for his friend to be of service to him. Now, you are perpetually breaking forth, to the hazard of your own safety and my credit.” “I tell you, Mark, and I would tell your namesake the apostle, that you are hard on me. You have practised sobriety and hypocrisy from your hanging sleeves till your Geneva cassock—from cradle to this day,—and it is a thing of nature to you; and you are surprised that a rough, rattling, honest fellow, accustomed to speak truth all his life, and especially when he found it at the bottom of a flask, cannot be so perfect a prig as thyself.—Zooks! there is no equality betwixt us —A trained diver might as well, because he can retain his breath for ten minutes without inconvenience, upbraid a poor devil for being like to burst in twenty seconds—And, after all, considering the guise is so new to me, I think I bear myself indifferent well—try me!” “Are there any more news from Worcester fight?” asked Everard, in a tone so serious that it imposed on his companion, who replied in his genuine character— “Worse, d—n me, worse an hundred times than reported—totally broken. Noll hath certainly sold himself to the devil, and his lease will have an end one day—that is all our present comfort.” “What! and would this be your answer to the first red-coat who asked the question?” said Everard. “Methinks you would find a speedy passport to the next corps de garde.” “Nay, nay,” answered Wildrake, “I thought you asked in your own person.—Lack-a-day! a great mercy—a glorifying mercy—a crowning mercy—a vouchsafing—an uplifting—I profess the malignants are scattered from Dan to Beersheba—smitten, hip and thigh, even until the going down of the sun!” “Hear you aught of Colonel Thornhaugh’s wounds?” “He is dead,” answered Wildrake, “that’s one comfort—the

60



Vol. 1, ch. 5

round-headed rascal!—Nay, hold! it was but a trip of the tongue—I meant, the sweet—godly youth.” “And hear you aught of the young man, King of Scotland, as they term him?” said Everard. “Nothing, but that he is hunted like a partridge on the mountains. May God deliver him, and confound his enemies!—Zoons, Mark Everard, I can fool it no longer. Do you not remember, that at the Lincoln’s-Inn gambols—though you did not mingle much in them I think—I used always to play as well as any of them, when it came to the action, but they could never get me to rehearse conformably. It’s the same at this day. I hear your voice, and I answer to it in the true tone of my heart; but when I am in the company of your snuffling friends, you have seen me act my part indifferent well.” “But indifferent, indeed,” replied Everard; “however, there is little call on you to do aught, save to be modest and silent. Speak little, and lay aside, if you can, your big oaths and swaggering looks —set your hat even on your brows.” “Ay, that is the curse! I have been always noted for the jaunty manner in which I wear my castor—Hard when a man’s merits become his enemies.” “You must remember you are my clerk.” “Secretary,” answered Wildrake; “let it be secretary, if you love me.” “It must be clerk, and nothing else—plain clerk—and remember to be civil and obedient,” replied Everard. “But you should not lay on your commands with so much ostentatious superiority, Master Markham Everard. Remember I am your senior of three years standing. D—n me, if I know how to take it!” “Was ever such a fantastic wronghead?—For my sake, if not for thine own, bend thy freakish folly to listen to reason. Think that I have incurred both risk and shame on thy account.” “Nay, thou art a right good fellow, Mark,” replied the cavalier, “and for thy sake I will do much—but remember to cough, and cry hem! when thou seest me like to break bounds—And now tell me whither we are bound for the night?” “To Woodstock Lodge, to look after my uncle’s property,” answered Markham Everard: “I am informed that soldiers have taken possession—Yet how could that be, if thou foundest the party drinking in Woodstock?” “There was a kind of commissary or steward, or some such Slavonian, had gone down to the Lodge,” replied Wildrake; “I had a peep at him.” “Indeed?” replied Everard.

[Chap. 5]



61

“Ay, verily, to speak your own language. Why, as I passed through the park in quest of you, scarce half an hour since, I saw a light in the Lodge—Step this way, you will see it yourself.” “In the north-west angle?—It is from a window in what they call Victor Lee’s parlour.” “Well,” resumed Wildrake, “I had been long one of Lundsford’s lads, and well used to patrolling duty—So, rat me, says I, if I leave a light in my rear, without knowing what it means. Besides, Mark, thou hadst said so much to me of thy pretty cousin, I thought I might as well have a peep, if I could.” “Thoughtless, thoughtless, incorrigible young man—to what dangers do you expose yourself and your friends, in mere wantonness! —But go on!” “By this fair moonshine, I believe thou art jealous, Mark Everard!” replied his gay companion; “there is no occasion; for, in any case, I, who was to see the lady, was steeled by honour against the charms of my friend’s Chloe—Then the lady was not to see me, so could make no comparisons to thy disadvantage, thou knowest—Lastly, as it fell out, neither of us saw the other at all.” “Of that I am well aware. Mrs Alice left the Lodge long before sunset, and never returned. What didst thou see, to introduce with such preface?” “Nay, no great matter,” replied Wildrake; “only getting upon a sort of buttress, (for I can climb like any cat that ever mewed in a gutter,) and holding on by the vines and creepers which grew around, I obtained a station where I could see into the inside of that same parlour thou spokest of just now.” “And what saw’st thou there?” once more demanded Everard. “Nay, no great matter, as I said before,” replied the cavalier; “for in these times it is no new thing to see churls carousing in royal or noble chambers. I saw two rascallions engaged in emptying a solemn stoup of strong waters, and dispatching a huge venison pasty, which, for their convenience, they had placed on a lady’s working-table— One of them was trying an air on the lute.” “The profane villains!” exclaimed Everard, “it was Alice’s.” “Well said, comrade—I am glad your phlegm can be moved. I did but throw in these incidents of the lute and the table to try if it was possible to get a spark of human spirit out of you, besanctified as you are.” “What like were the men?” said young Everard. “The one a slouch-hatted, long-cloaked, sour-faced fanatic, like the rest of you, whom I took to be the steward or commissary I heard spoken of at the town; the other was a short sturdy fellow,

62



Vol. 1, ch. 5

with a wood-knife at his girdle, and a long quarter-staff lying beside him—a black-haired knave, with white teeth and a merry countenance—one of the under-rangers or bow-bearers of these walks, I fancy.” “They must have been Desborough’s favourite, trusty Tomkins,” said Everard, “and Josceline Joliffe, the keeper. Tomkins is Desborough’s right hand—an Independent, and hath pourings forth, as he calls them. Some think his gifts have the better of his grace. I have heard of his abusing opportunities.” “They were improving them when I saw them,” replied Wildrake, “and made the bottle smoke for it—when, as the devil would have it, a stone, which had been dislodged from the crumbling buttress, gave way under my weight. A clumsy fellow like thee would have been so long thinking what was to be done, that he must needs have followed it before he could make up his mind—but I Mark—I hopped like a squirrel to an ivy twig, and stood fast—was well nigh shot though, for the noise alarmed them both. They looked to the oriel, and saw me on the outside; the fanatic fellow took out a pistol —as they have always such texts in readiness, hanging beside the little clasped Bible, thou know’st—the keeper seized his huntingpole—I treated them both to a roar and a grin—thou must know I can grimace like a baboon—I learned the trick from a French player, who could twist his jaws into a pair of nut-crackers—and therewithal I dropped me so sweetly on the grass, and ran off so trippingly, keeping the dark side of the wall as long as I could, that I am well nigh persuaded they thought I was their kinsman, the devil, come among them uncalled. They were abominably startled.” “Thou art most fearfully rash, Wildrake,” said his companion; “we are now bound for the house—what if they should remember thee?” “Why, it is no treason, is it? No one has paid for peeping since Tom of Coventry’s days; and if he came in for a reckoning, belike it was for a better treat than mine. But trust me, they will no more know me, than a man who had only seen your friend Noll at a conventicle of saints, would know the same Oliver on horseback, and charging with his lobster-tailed squadron; or the same Noll cracking a jest and a bottle with wicked Waller the poet.” “Hush! not a word of Oliver, as thou doest value thyself and me. It is ill jesting with the rock you may split on.—But here is the gate. We will disturb these honest gentlemen’s recreations.” As he spoke, he applied the large and ponderous knocker to the hall-door. “Rat-tat-tat-too!” said Wildrake; “there is a fine alarm to you

[Chap. 5]



63

cuckolds and roundheads.” He then half-mimicked, half-sung the march so called:— “Cuckolds, come dig, cuckolds, come dig; Round about cuckolds, come dance to my jig!”

“By Heaven! this passes Midsummer frenzy,” said Everard, turning angrily to him. “Not a bit, not a bit,” replied Wildrake; “it is but a slight expectoration, just like what one makes before beginning a long speech. I will be grave for an hour together, now I have got that point of war out of my head.” As he spoke, steps were heard in the hall, and the wicket of the great door was partly opened, but secured with a chain in case of accidents. The visage of Tomkins, and that of Josceline beneath it, appeared at the chink, illumined by the lamp which the latter held in his hand, and Tomkins demanded the meaning of this alarm. “I demand instant admittance!” said Everard. “Joliffe, you know me well?” “I do, sir,” replied Josceline, “and would admit you with all my heart—But, alas! sir, you see I am not key-keeper—Here is the gentleman whose warrant I must walk by, the Lord help me, seeing times are such as they be!” “And when that gentleman, who I think may be Master Desborough’s valet”—— “His honour’s unworthy secretary, an it please you,” interposed Tomkins; while Wildrake whispered into Everard’s ear, “I will be no longer secretary. Mark, thou wert quite right—the clerk must be the more gentlemanly calling.” “And if you are Master Desborough’s secretary, I presume you know me and my condition well enough,” said Everard, addressing the Independent, “not to hesitate to admit me and my attendant to a night’s quarters in the Lodge?” “Surely not, surely not,” said the Independent—“that is, if your worship thinks you would be better accommodated here than up at the house of entertainment at the town, which men unprofitably call Saint George’s Inn. There is but confined accommodation here, your honour—and we have been frayed out of our lives already by the visitation of Satan—albeit his fiery dart is now quenched.” “This may be all well in its place, Sir Secretary,” said Everard; “and you may find a corner for it when you are next tempted to play the preacher. But I will take it for no apology for keeping me here in the cold harvest wind; and if not presently received, and suitably too, I will report you to your master for insolence in your office.” The secretary of Desborough did not dare offer further opposition;

64



Vol. 1, ch. 5

for it was well known that Desborough himself only held his consequence as a kinsman of Cromwell, and the Lord General, who was well nigh paramount already, was known to be strongly favourable both to the elder and younger Everard. It is true, they were Presbyterians and he an Independent; and that, though sharing those feelings of inward morality and more devoted religious feeling, by which, with few exceptions, the Parliamentarian party were distinguished, the Everards were not disposed to carry these attributes to the extreme of enthusiasm, practised by so many others at the time. Yet it was well known that whatever might be Cromwell’s own religious creed, he was not uniformly bounded by it in the choice of his favourites, but extended his countenance to those who could serve him, even although, according to the phrase of the time, they come out of the darkness of Egypt. The character of the elder Everard stood very high for wisdom and sagacity; besides, being of a good family and competent fortune, his adherence would add dignity to any side he might espouse. Then his son had been a distinguished and successful soldier, remarkable for the discipline he maintained among his men, the bravery which he showed in the time of action, and the humanity with which he was always ready to qualify the consequences of victory. Such men were not to be neglected, when many signs combined to show that the parties in the state, who had successfully accomplished the deposition and death of the king, were speedily to quarrel among themselves about the division of the spoils. The two Everards were therefore much courted by Cromwell, and their influence with him supposed to be so great, that trusty Master Secretary Tomkins cared not to expose himself to risk, by contending with Colonel Everard for such a trifle as a night’s lodging. Josceline was active on his side—more lights were obtained— more wood thrown on the fire—and the two newly-arrived strangers were introduced into Victor Lee’s parlour, as it was called, from the picture over the chimney-piece, which we have already described. It was several minutes ere Colonel Everard could recover his general stoicism of deportment, so strongly he was impressed by finding himself in the apartment, under whose roof he had passed so many of the happiest hours of his life. There was the cabinet, which he had seen opened with such feelings of delight when Sir Henry Lee deigned to give him instructions in fishing, and to exhibit hooks and lines, together with all the materials for making the artificial fly, then little known. There hung the ancient family picture, which, from some odd mysterious expressions of his uncle, relating to it, had become to his boyhood, nay, his early youth, a subject of curiosity and of fear. He remembered how, when left alone in the apartment,

[Chap. 5]



65

the searching eye of the old warrior seemed always bent upon his, in whatever part of the room he placed himself, and how his childish imagination was perturbed at a phenomenon, for which he could not account. With these came a thousand more dear and warmer recollections of his early attachment to his pretty cousin Alice, when he aided at her lessons, brought water for her flowers, or accompanied her while she sung; and he remembered that while her father looked at them with a good-humoured and careless smile, he had once heard him mutter, “And if it should turn out so—why it might be best for both,” and the theories of happiness he had reared on these words. All these visions had been dispelled by the trumpet of war, which called Sir Henry Lee and himself to opposite sides; and the transactions of this very day had shown, that even Everard’s success as a soldier and a statesman seemed absolutely to prohibit the chance of their being revived. He was waked out of this unpleasing reverie by the approach of Josceline, who, being possibly a seasoned toper, had made the additional arrangements with more expedition and accuracy than could have been expected from a person engaged as he had been since night-fall. He now wished to know the Colonel’s directions for the night. “Would he eat anything?” “No.” “Did his honour choose to accept Sir Henry Lee’s bed, which was ready prepared?” “Yes.” “That of Mistress Alice Lee should be prepared for the Secretary.” “On pain of thine ears—No,” replied Everard. “Where then was the worthy Secretary to be quartered?” “In the dog-kennel, if you list,” replied Colonel Everard; “but,” added he, stepping to the sleeping-apartment of Alice, which opened from the parlour, locking it, and taking out the key, “no one shall profane this chamber.” “Had his honour any other commands for the night?” “None, save to clear the apartment of yonder man.—My clerk will remain with me—I have orders which must be written out.— Yet stay—Thou gavest my letter this morning to Mistress Alice?” “I did.” “Tell me, good Josceline, what she said when she received it?” “She seemed much concerned, sir; and indeed I think that she wept a little—but indeed she seemed very much distressed.” “And what message did she send to me?”

66



Vol. 1, ch. 5

“None, may it please your honour—She began to say, ‘Tell my cousin Everard that I will communicate my uncle’s kind purpose to my father, if I can get fitting opportunity—but that I greatly fear’— and there checked herself, as it were, and said, ‘I will write to my cousin; and as it may be late ere I have an opportunity of speaking with my father, do thou come for my answer after service.’—So I went to church myself, to while away the time; but when I returned to the chase, I found this man had summoned my master to surrender, and right or wrong I must put him in possession of the Lodge. I would fain have given your honour a hint that the old knight and my young mistress were like to take you on the form, but I could not mend the matter.” “Thou hast done well, good fellow, and I will remember thee.— And now, my masters,” he said, advancing to the brace of clerks or secretaries, who had in the meanwhile sate quietly down beside the stone-bottle, and made up acquaintance over a glass of its contents— “Let me remind you,” said the Colonel, “that the night wears late.” “There is something cries tinkle, tinkle, in the bottle yet,” said Wildrake in reply. “Hem! hem! hem!” coughed the Colonel of the parliamentarian service; and if his lips did not curse his companion’s imprudence, I will not answer for what arose in his heart.—“Well!” he said, observing that Wildrake had filled his own glass and Tomkins’s, “take that parting glass and begone.” “Would you not be pleased to hear first,” said Wildrake, “how this honest gentleman saw the devil to-night look through a pane of yonder window, and how he thinks he had a mighty strong resemblance to your worship’s humble slave and varlet scribbler? Would you but hear this, sir, and just sip a glass of this very recommendable strong waters?” “I will drink none, sir,” said Colonel Everard sternly; “and I have to tell you, that you have drunken a glass too much already.—Master Tomkins, sir, I wish you good night.” “A word in season at parting,” said Tomkins, standing up behind the long leathern back of a chair, hemming and snuffling as if preparing for an exhortation. “Excuse me, sir,” replied Markham Everard sternly; “you are not now sufficiently yourself to guide the devotion of others.” “Woe be to them that reject!” said the Secretary of the Commissioners, stalking out of the room—the rest was lost in shutting the door, or suppressed for fear of offence. “And now, fool Wildrake, begone to thy bed—yonder it lies,” pointing to the knight’s apartment.

[Chap. 5]



67

“What, thou hast secured the lady’s for thyself? I saw thee put the key in thy pocket.” “I would not—indeed I could not sleep in that apartment—I can sleep nowhere—but I will watch in this armed chair.—I have made him place wood for repairing the fire.—Good now, go to bed thyself, and sleep off thy liquor.” “Liquor!—I laugh thee to scorn, Mark—thou art a milksop, and the son of a milksop, and know’st not what a good fellow can do in the way of crushing an honest cup.” “The whole vices of his faction are in this poor fellow individually,” said the Colonel to himself, eying his protegé askance, as the other retreated into the bed-room with no very steady pace—“He is reckless, intemperate, dissolute; and if I cannot get him safely shipped for France, he will certainly be both his own ruin and mine.—Yet, withal, he is kind, brave, and generous, and would have kept the faith with me which he now expects from me; and in what consists the merit of our truth, if we observe not our plighted word when we have promised to our hurt? I will take the liberty, however, to secure myself against farther interruption on his part.” So saying, he locked the door of communication betwixt the sleeping-room, to which the cavalier had retreated, and the parlour; —and then, after pacing the floor thoughtfully, returned to his seat, trimmed the lamp, and drew out a number of letters.—“I will read these over once more,” he said, “that, if possible, the thought of public affairs may expel this keen sense of personal sorrow. Gracious Providence, where is this to end? We have sacrificed the peace of our families, the warmest wishes of our young hearts, to right the country in which we were born, and to free her from oppression; yet it appears, that every step we have made towards liberty, has but brought us in view of new and more terrific state perils, as he who travels in a mountainous region, is, by every step which elevates him highest, placed in a situation of more imminent hazard.” He read long and attentively, various tedious and embarrassed letters, in which the writers, placing before him the glory of God, and the freedom and liberties of England, as their supreme ends, could not, by all the ambagitory expressions they made use of, prevent the shrewd eye of Markham Everard from seeing, that selfinterest and views of ambition were the principal moving springs at the bottom of their plots.

68



Vol. 1, ch. 6

Chapter Six Sleep steals on us even like his brother Death— We know not when it comes—we know it must come— We may affect to scorn and to contemn it, For ’tis the highest pride of human misery To say it knows not of an opiate: Yet the reft parent, the despairing lover, Even the poor wretch who waits for execution, Feels this oblivion, against which he thought His woes had armed his senses, steal upon him, And through the fenceless citadel—the body, Surprise that haughty garrison—the mind. H

C       E  had felt the truth contained in the verses of the quaint old bard whom we have quoted above. Amid private grief, and anxiety for a country long a prey to civil war, and not likely to fall soon under any fixed or well-established form of government, Everard and his father had, like many others, turned their eyes to General Cromwell, as the person whose valour had made him the darling of the army, whose strong sagacity had hitherto predominated over the high talents by which he had been assailed in Parliament, as well as over his enemies in the field, and who was alone in the situation to settle the nation, as the phrase then went; or, in other words, to dictate the mode of government. The father and son were both reputed to stand high in the General’s favour. But Markham Everard was conscious of some particulars, which induced him to doubt whether Cromwell actually, and at heart, bore either to his father or to himself that good-will which was generally believed. He knew him for a profound politician, who could veil for any length of time his real sentiments of men and things, until they could be displayed without prejudice to his interest. And he moreover knew that the General was not likely to forget the opposition which the Presbyterian party had offered to what Oliver called the Great Matter —the trial, namely, and execution of the King. In this opposition, his father and he had anxiously concurred, nor had the arguments, nor even the half-expressed threats of Cromwell, induced them to flinch from that course, far less to permit their names to be introduced into the commission nominated to sit in judgment on that memorable occasion. This hesitation had occasioned some temporary coldness between the General and the Everards, father and son. But as the latter remained in the army, and bore arms under Cromwell both in

[Chap. 6]



69

Scotland, and finally at Worcester, his services very frequently called forth the approbation of his commander. After the fight of Worcester, in particular, he was among the number of those officers on whom Oliver, rather considering the actual and practical extent of his own power, than the name under which he exercised it, was with difficulty withheld from imposing the dignity of Knights Bannerets at his own will and pleasure. It therefore seemed, that all recollection of former disagreement was obliterated, and that the Everards had regained their former stronghold in the General’s affections. There were, indeed, several who doubted this, and who endeavoured to bring over this distinguished young officer to some other of the parties which divided the infant Commonwealth. But to these proposals he turned a deaf ear. Enough of blood, he said, had been spilled—it was time that the nation should have repose under a firmly-established government, of strength sufficient to protect property, and of lenity enough to encourage the return of tranquillity. This, he thought, could only be accomplished by means of Cromwell, and the greater part of England was of the same opinion. It was true, that, in thus submitting to the domination of a successful soldier, those who did so, forgot the principles upon which they had drawn the sword against the late King. But in revolutions, stern and high principles are often obliged to give way to the current of existing circumstances; and in many a case, where wars have been waged for points of metaphysical right, they have been at last gladly terminated, upon the mere hope of obtaining general tranquillity, as, after many a long siege, a garrison is often glad to submit on mere security for life and limb. Colonel Everard, therefore, felt that the support which he afforded Cromwell, was only under the idea, that, amid a choice of evils, the least was likely to ensue from a man of the General’s wisdom and valour being placed at the head of the state; and he was sensible, that Oliver himself was likely to consider his attachment as lukewarm and imperfect, and measure his gratitude for it upon the same limited scale. In the meanwhile, however, circumstances compelled him to make trial of the General’s friendship. The sequestration of Woodstock, and the warrant to the commissioners to dispose of it as national property, had been long granted, but the interest of the elder Everard had for weeks and months deferred its execution. The hour was now approaching when the blow could be no longer parried, especially as Sir Henry Lee, on his side, resisted every proposal of submitting himself to the existing government, and was therefore, now that his hour of grace was passed, enrolled in the list of stubborn

70



Vol. 1, ch. 6

and irreclaimable malignants, with whom the Council of State was determined no longer to keep terms. The only mode of protecting the old knight and his daughter, was to interest, if possible, the General himself in the matter; and revolving all the circumstances connected with their intercourse, Colonel Everard felt that a request, which would so immediately interfere with the interests of Desborough, the brother-in-law of Cromwell, and one of the present Commissioners, was putting to a very severe trial the friendship of the latter. Yet no alternative remained. With this view, and agreeably to a request from Cromwell, who at parting had been very urgent to have his written opinion upon public affairs, Colonel Everard passed the earlier part of the night in arranging his ideas upon the state of the Commonwealth, in a plan which he thought likely to be acceptable to Cromwell, as it exhorted him, under the aid of Providence, to become the saviour of the state, by convoking a free Parliament, and by their aid placing himself at the head of some form of liberal and established government, which might supersede the estate of anarchy, in which the nation was like to be merged. Taking a general view of the totally broken condition of the Royalists, and of the various factions which now convulsed the state, he showed how this might be done without bloodshed or violence. From this topic he descended to the propriety of keeping up the becoming state of the Executive Government, in whose hands soever it should be lodged, and thus showed Cromwell, as the future Stadtholder, or Consul, or Lieutenant-General of Great Britain and Ireland, a prospect of demesne and residencies becoming his dignity. Then he naturally passed to the disparking and destroying of the royal residences of England, made a woful picture of the demolition which impended over Woodstock, and interceded for the preservation of that beautiful Seat, as a matter of personal favour, in which he found himself deeply interested. Colonel Everard, when he had finished his letter, did not find himself greatly risen in his own opinion. In the course of his political conduct, he had till this hour avoided mixing up personal motives with his public grounds of action, and yet he now felt himself making such a composition. But he comforted himself, or at least silenced this unpleasing recollection, with the consideration, that the weal of Britain, studied under the aspect of the times, absolutely required that Cromwell should be at the head of the government; and that the interest of Sir Henry Lee, or rather his safety and his existence, no less emphatically demanded the preservation of Woodstock, and his residence there. Was it a fault of his, that the same road should lead to both these ends, or that his private interest, and that of the

[Chap. 6]



71

country, should happen to mix in the same letter? He hardened himself, therefore, to the act, made up and addressed his packet to the Lord General, and then sealed it with his seal of arms. This done, he lay back in his chair; and, in spite of his expectations to the contrary, fell asleep in the course of his reflections, anxious and harassing as they were, and did not awaken until the cold grey light of dawn was peeping through the eastern oriel. He started at first, rousing himself with the sensation of one who awakes in a place unknown to him; but the localities instantly forced themselves on his recollection. The lamp burning dimly in the socket, the wood-fire almost extinguished in its own white embers, the gloomy picture over the chimney-piece, the sealed packet on the table—all reminded him of the events of yesterday, and his deliberations of the succeeding night. “There is no help for it,” he said; “it must be Cromwell or anarchy. And probably the sense, that his title, as head of the Executive Government, is derived merely from popular consent, may check the too natural proneness of power to render itself arbitrary. If he govern by Parliaments, and with regard to the privileges of the subject, wherefore not Oliver as well as Charles? But I must take measures for having this conveyed safely to the hands of this future sovereign prince. It will be well to take the first word of influence with him, since there must be many who will not hesitate to recommend counsels more violent and precipitate.” He determined to intrust the important packet to the charge of Wildrake, whose rashness was never so distinguished, as when by any chance he was left idle and unemployed; besides, even if his faith had not been unimpeachable, the obligations which he owed to his friend Everard must have rendered it such. These conclusions passed through Colonel Everard’s mind, as, collecting the remains of wood in the chimney, he gathered them into a hearty blaze, to remove the uncomfortable feeling of chillness which pervaded his limbs; and by the time he was a little more warm, sunk again into a slumber which was only dispelled by the beams of morning peeping into his apartment. He arose, roused himself, walked up and down the room, and looked from the large oriel windows on the nearest objects, which were the untrimmed hedges and neglected walks of a certain wilderness, as it is called in ancient treatises on gardening, which, kept of yore well ordered, and in all the pride of the topiary art, presented a succession of yew trees cut into fantastic forms, of close alleys, and of open walks, filling about two or three acres of ground on that side of the Lodge, and forming a boundary between its

72



Vol. 1, ch. 6

immediate precincts and the open Park. Its enclosure was now broken down in many places, and the hinds with their fawns fed free and unstartled up to the very windows of the sylvan palace. This had been a favourite scene of Markham’s sports when a boy. He could still distinguish, though now grown out of shape, the verdant battlements of a Gothic castle, all created by the gardener’s shears, at which he was accustomed to shoot his arrows, or, stalking before it like the Knight-errant of whom he read, was wont to blow his horn, and bid defiance to the supposed giant or Paynim knight, by whom it was garrisoned. He remembered how he used to train his cousin, though several years younger than himself, to bear a part in these revels of his boyish fancy, and to play the character of an elfin page, or a fairy, or an enchanted princess. He remembered, too, many particulars of their later acquaintance, from which he had been almost necessarily led to the conclusion, that from an early period their parents had entertained some idea, that there might be a well-fitted match betwixt his fair cousin and himself. A thousand visions formed in so bright a prospect had vanished along with it, but now returned like shadows, to remind him of all he had lost— and for what?—“For the sake of England,” his proud consciousness replied,—“Of England, in danger of becoming the prey at once of bigotry and tyranny.” And he strengthened himself with the recollection, “If I have sacrificed my private happiness, it is that my country may enjoy liberty of conscience, and personal freedom; which, under a weak prince and usurping statesmen, she was but too likely to have lost.” But the busy fiend in his breast would not be repulsed by the bold answer. “Has thy resistance,” it demanded, “availed thy country, Markham Everard? Lies not England, after so much bloodshed, and so much misery, as low beneath the sword of a fortunate soldier as formerly under the sceptre of an encroaching prince? Are the Parliament, or what remains of them, fitted to contend with a leader, master of his soldiers’ hearts, as bold and subtle as he is impenetrable in his designs? This General, who holds the army, and by that the fate of the nation in his hand, will he lay down his power because philosophy would pronounce it his duty to become a subject?” He dared not answer that his knowledge of Cromwell authorized him to expect any such act of self-denial. Yet still he considered that in times of such infinite difficulty, that must be the best government, however little desirous in itself, which should most speedily restore peace to the land, and stop the wounds which the contending parties were daily inflicting on each other. He imagined that Cromwell was the only authority under which a steady government could be formed,

[Chap. 6]



73

and therefore had attached himself to his fortune, though not without considerable and recurring doubts, how far serving the views of this impenetrable and mysterious General was consistent with the principles under which he had assumed arms. While these things passed in his mind, Everard looked upon the packet which lay on the table addressed to the Lord General, and which he had made up before sleep. He hesitated several times, when he remembered its purport, and in what degree he must stand committed with that personage, and bound to support his plans of aggrandizement, when once that communication was in Oliver Cromwell’s possession. “Yet it must be so,” he said at last, with a deep sigh. “Among the contending parties, he is the strongest—the wisest and most moderate—and ambitious though he be, perhaps not the most dangerous. Some one must be trusted with power to preserve and enforce general order, and who can possess or wield such power like him that is head of the victorious armies of England? Come what will in future, peace and the restoration of law ought to be our first and most pressing object. This remnant of a Parliament cannot keep their ground against the army, by mere appeal to the sanction of opinion. If they design to reduce the soldiery, it must be by actual warfare, and the land has been too long steeped in blood. But Cromwell may, and I trust will, make a moderate accommodation with them, on grounds by which peace may be preserved; and it is to this which we must look and trust for a settlement of the kingdom, alas! and for the chance of protecting my obstinate kinsman from the consequences of his honest though absurd pertinacity.” Silencing some internal feelings of doubt and reluctance by such reasoning as this, Markham Everard continued in his resolution to unite himself with Cromwell in the struggle which was evidently approaching betwixt the civil and military authorities; not as the course which, if at perfect liberty, he would have preferred adopting, but as the best choice between two dangerous extremities to which the times had reduced him. He could not help trembling, however, when he recollected that his father, though hitherto the admirer of Cromwell, as the implement by whom so many marvels had been wrought in England, might not be disposed to unite with his interest against that of the Long Parliament, of which he had been, till partly laid aside by continued indisposition, an active and leading member. This doubt also he was obliged to swallow, or strangle, as he might; but consoling himself with the ready argument, that it was impossible his father could see matters in another light than that in which they occurred to himself.

74



Vol. 1, ch. 6

Determined at length to dispatch his packet to the General without delay, Colonel Everard approached the door of the apartment, in which, as was evident from the deep breathing within, the prisoner Wildrake enjoyed a dead slumber, under the influence of liquor at once and of fatigue. In turning the key, the bolt, which was rather rusted, made a resistance so noisy, as partly to attract the sleeper’s attention, though not to awake him. Everard stood by his bed-side, as he heard him mutter, “Is it morning already, jailor?—Why, you dog, an’ you had but a cast of humanity in you, you would qualify your vile news with a cup of sack,—hanging is sorry work, my masters—and sorrow’s dry.” “Up, Wildrake—up, thou ill-omened dreamer,” said his friend, shaking him by the collar. “Hands off!” answered the sleeper.—“I can climb a ladder without help, I trow.”—He then sate up in the bed, and opening his eyes, stared around him, and exclaimed, “Zounds! Mark, is it only thou? I thought it was all over with me—fetters were struck from my legs —rope drawn round my gullet—irons knocked off my hands— hempen cravat tucked on—all ready for a dance in the open element upon slight footing.” “Truce with thy folly, Wildrake; sure the devil of drink, to whom thou hast, I think, sold thyself”—— “For a hogshead of sack,” interrupted Wildrake; “the bargain was made in a cellar in the vintry.” “I am as mad as thou art, to trust anything to thee,” said Markham; “I scarce believe thou hast thy senses yet.” “What should ail me?” said Wildrake—“I trust I have not tasted liquor in my sleep, saving that I dreamed of drinking small-beer with Old Noll, of his own brewing.—But do not look so glum, man —I am the same Roger Wildrake that I ever was; as wild as a mallard, but as true as a gamecock. I am thine own chum, man— bound to thee by thy kind deeds—devinctus beneficio—there is Latin for it; and where is the thing thou wilt charge me with, that I will not, or dare not execute, were it to pick the devil’s teeth with my rapier, after he had breakfasted upon roundheads?” “You will drive me mad,” said Everard.—“When I am about to intrust all I have most valuable on earth to your management, your conduct and language is that of a mere Bedlamite. Last night I made allowance for thy drunken fury; but who can endure thy morning madness?—it is unsafe for thyself and me, Wildrake—it is unkind— I might say ungrateful.” “Nay, do not say that, my friend,” said the cavalier, with some show of feeling; “and do not judge of me with a severity that cannot

[Chap. 6]



75

apply to such as I am. We who have lost our all in these sad jars, who are compelled to shift for our living, not from day to day, but from meal to meal—we whose only baiting-place is the jail, whose prospect of final repose is the gallows,—what can’st thou expect from us, but to bear such a lot with a light heart, since we should break down under it with a heavy one?” This was spoken in a tone of feeling which found a responding string in Everard’s bosom. He took his friend’s hand, and pressed it kindly. “Nay, if I seemed harsh to thee, Wildrake, I profess it was for thine own sake more than mine. I know thou hast at the bottom of thy levity, as deep a principle of honour and feeling as ever governed a human breast. But thou art thoughtless—thou art rash—and I protest to thee, that wert thou to betray thyself in this matter in which I trust thee, the evil consequences to myself would not afflict me more than the thought of putting thee into such a danger.” “Nay, if you take it on that tone, Mark,” said the cavalier, making an effort to laugh, evidently that he might conceal a tendency to a different emotion, “thou wilt make children of us both—babes and sucklings, by the hilt of this bilbo.—Come, trust me; I can be cautious when time requires it—no man ever saw me drunk when an alert was expected—and not one poor pint of wine will I taste until I have managed this matter for thee. Well, I am thy secretary— clerk—I had forgot—and I carry thy dispatches to Cromwell, taking good heed not to be surprised or choused out of my lump of loyalty, (striking his finger on the packet,) and I am to deliver it to the most loyal hands to which it is most humbly addressed—Adzooks, Mark, think of it a moment longer—Surely thou wilt not carry thy perverseness so far, as to strike in with this bloody-minded rebel?—Bid me give him three inches of my dudgeon-dagger, and I will do it much more willingly than present him with thy packet.” “Go to,” replied Everard, “this is beyond our bargain. If you will help me, it is well; if not, let me lose no time in debating with thee, since I think every moment an age till the packet is in the General’s possession. It is the only way left me to obtain some protection, and place of refuge for my uncle and his daughter.” “That being the case,” said the cavalier, “I will not spare the spur. My nag up yonder at the town will be ready for the road in a trice, and thou mayst reckon on my being with Old Noll—thy General I mean—in as short time as man and horse may consume betwixt Woodstock and Windsor, where I think I shall for the present find thy friend keeping possession where he has slain.” “Hush, not a word of that. Since we parted last night, I have

76



Vol. 1, ch. 6

shaped thee a path which will suit thee better than to assume the decency of language, and of outward manner, of which thou hast so little. I have acquainted the General that thou hast been by bad example and bad education”—— “Which is to be interpreted by contraries, I hope,” said Wildrake; “for sure I have been as well born and bred up as any lad of Lincolnshire might desire.” “Now, I prithee hush—thou hast, I say, by bad example become at one time a Malignant, and mixed in the party of the late King. But seeing what things were wrought in the nation by the General, thou hast come to a clearness touching his calling to be a great implement in the settlement of these distracted kingdoms. This account of thee will not only lead him to pass over some of thy eccentricities, should they break out in spite of thee, but will also give thee an interest with him as being more especially attached to his own person.” “Doubtless,” said Wildrake, “as every fisher loves best the trouts that are of his own tickling.” “It is likely, I think, he will send thee hither with letters to me,” said the Colonel, “enabling me to put a stop to the proceedings of these sequestrators, and to give poor old Sir Henry leave to linger out his days among the oaks he loves to look upon. I have made it my request to him, and I think my father’s friendship and my own may stretch so far in his regard without risk of cracking, especially standing matters as they now do—thou doest understand?” “Entirely well,” said the cavalier; “stretch, quotha!—I would rather stretch a rope than hold commerce with the old King-killing ruffian. But I have said I will be guided by thee, Markham, and rat me so I will.” “Be cautious then,” said Everard, “mark well what he does and says—more especially what he does; for Oliver is one of those whose mind is better known by his actions than by his words—and stay—I warrant thee thou wert setting off without a cross in thy purse?” “Too true, Mark,” said Wildrake, “the last noble melted last night amongst yonder blackguard troopers of yours.” “Well, Roger,” replied the Colonel, “that is easily mended.” So saying, he slipped his purse into his friend’s hand. “But art thou not an inconsequential weather-brained fellow, to set forth as thou wert about to do without anything to bear thy charges—what could’st thou have done?” “Faith, I never thought of that—I must have cried Stand, I suppose, to the first pursy townsman, or greasy grazier, that I met o’ the heath —it is many a good fellow’s shift in these bad times.”

[Chap. 7]



77

“Go to,” said Everard; “be cautious—use none of your loose acquaintance—rule your tongue—beware of the wine-pot—for there is little danger if thou could’st then but keep thyself sober—Be moderate in speech, and forbear oaths or ranting.” “In short, metamorphose myself into such a prig as thou art, Mark.—Well,” said Wildrake, “so far as outside will go, I think I can make a Hope-on-high Bomby* as well as thou canst. Ah! those were merry days when we saw Mills present Bomby at the Fortune play-house, Mark, ere I had lost my laced cloak and the jewel in my ear, or thou hadst gotten the wrinkle on thy brow, and the puritanic twist of thy mustachoe!” “They were like most worldly pleasures, Wildrake,” replied Everard, “sweet in the mouth and bitter in digestion.—But away with thee; and when thou bringest back my answer, thou wilt find me either here or at Saint George’s Inn, at the little borough.—Good luck to thee—Be but cautious how thou bearest thyself.” The Colonel remained in deep meditation.—“I think,” he said, “I have not pledged myself too far to the General. A breach between him and the Parliament seems inevitable, and would throw England back into civil war, of which all men are wearied. He may dislike my messenger—yet that I do not greatly fear. He knows I would choose such as I can myself depend on, and hath dealt enough with the stricter sort to be aware that there are among them, as well as elsewhere, men who can hide two faces under one hood.”

Chapter Seven For there in lofty air was seen to stand The stern Protector of the conquer’d land; Drawn in that look with which he wept and swore, Turn’d out the members, and made fast the door Ridding the house of every knave and drone, Forced—though it griev’d his soul—to rule alone. The Frank Courtship.—C 

L      Colonel Everard to his meditations, we follow the jolly cavalier, his companion, who, before mounting at the George, did not fail to treat himself to his morning-draughts of eggs and muscadine, to enable him to face the harvest wind. Although he had suffered himself to be sunk in the extravagant license which was practised by the cavaliers, as if to oppose their conduct in every point to the preciseness of their enemies, yet Wildrake, well-born and well-educated, and endowed with good natural * A puritanic character in one of Beaumont and Fletcher’s plays.

78



Vol. 1, ch. 7

parts, and a heart which even debauchery, and the wild life of a roving cavalier, had not been able entirely to corrupt, moved on his present embassy with a strange mixture of feeling, such as perhaps he had never in his life before experienced. His feelings as a royalist led him to detest Cromwell, whom in other circumstances he would scarce have wished to see, except in a field of battle, where he could have had the pleasure to exchange pistol-shots with him. But with this hatred there was mixed a certain degree of fear. Always victorious wherever he fought, the remarkable person whom Wildrake was now approaching had acquired that influence over the minds of his enemies, which constant success is so apt to inspire—they dreaded while they hated him—and joined to these feelings, was a restless meddling curiosity, which made a particular feature in Wildrake’s character, who, having long had little business of his own, and caring nothing about that which he had, was easily attracted by the desire of seeing whatever was curious or interesting around him. “I should like to see the old rascal after all,” he said, “were it but to say that I had seen him.” He reached Windsor in the afternoon, and felt on his arrival the strongest inclination to take up his residence at some of his old haunts, when he had occasionally frequented that fair town in gayer days. But resisting all temptations of this kind, he went courageously to the principal inn, from which its ancient emblem, the Garter, had long disappeared. The landlord, too, whom Wildrake, experienced in his knowledge of landlords and hostelries, had remembered a dashing Mine Host of Queen Bess’s school, had now sobered down to the temper of the times, shook his head when he spoke of the Parliament, wielded his spigot with the gravity of a priest conducting a sacrifice, wished England a happy issue out of all her afflictions, and greatly lauded his Excellency the Lord General. Wildrake also remarked, that his wine was better than it was wont to be, the Puritans having an excellent gift at detecting any fallacy in that matter; and that his measures were less, and his charges larger— circumstances which he was induced to attend to, by mine host talking a good deal about his conscience. He was told by this important personage, that My Lord General received frankly all sorts of persons; and that he might obtain access to him next morning, at eight o’clock, for the trouble of presenting himself at the castle-gate, and announcing himself as the bearer of dispatches to his Excellency. To the Castle, the disguised cavalier repaired at the hour appointed. Admittance was freely permitted to him by the red-

[Chap. 7]



79

coated soldier, who, with austere looks, and his musket on his shoulder, mounted guard at the external gate of that noble building. Wildrake passed through the under-ward or court, gazing as he passed upon the beautiful Chapel, which had but lately received, in darkness and silence, the unhonoured remains of the slaughtered King of England. Rough as Wildrake was, the recollection of this circumstance affected him so strongly, that he had well nigh turned back in a sort of horror, rather than face the dark and daring man, to whom, amongst all the actors in that melancholy affair, its tragic conclusion was chiefly to be imputed. But he felt the necessity of subduing all sentiments of this nature, and compelled himself to proceed in a negotiation intrusted to his conduct by one to whom he was so much obliged as Colonel Everard. At the ascent, which passed by the Round Tower, he looked to the ensign-staff, from which the banner of England was wont to float. It was gone, with all its rich emblazonry, its gorgeous quarterings, and splendid embroidery; and in its room waved that of the Commonwealth, the cross of Saint George, in its colours of blue and red, not yet intersected by the diagonal cross of Scotland, which was soon after assumed, in evidence of England’s conquest over her ancient enemy. This change of ensigns increased the train of his gloomy reflections, in which, although contrary to his wont, he became so deeply wrapped, that the first thing which recalled him to himself, was the challenge from the sentinel, accompanied with a stroke of the butt of his musket on the pavement, with an emphasis which made Wildrake start. “Whither away, and who are you?” “The bearer of a packet,” answered Wildrake, “to the worshipful the Lord General.” “Stand till I call the officer of the guard.” The corporal made his appearance, distinguished above those of his command by a double quantity of band around his neck, a double height of steeple-crowned hat, a larger allowance of cloak, and a treble proportion of sour gravity of aspect. It might be read in his countenance, that he was one of those tremendous enthusiasts to whom Oliver owed his conquests, whose religious zeal made them even more than a match for the high-spirited and high-born cavaliers, who exhausted their valour in vain in defence of their sovereign’s person and crown. He looked with grim solemnity at Wildrake, as if he was making in his own mind an inventory of his features and dress; and having heedfully perused them, he required “to know his business.” “My business,” said Wildrake, as firmly as he could—for the close investigation of this man had given him some unpleasant nervous

80



Vol. 1, ch. 7

sensations—“my business is with your General.” “With His Excellence the Lord General, thou would’st say?” replied the corporal. “Thy speech, my friend, savours too little of the reverence due to his Excellency.” “D—n his Excellency,” was at the lips of the cavalier; but prudence kept guard, and permitted not the offensive words to escape the barrier. He only bowed, and was silent. “Follow me,” said the starched figure whom he addressed; and Wildrake followed him accordingly into the guard-house, which exhibited an interior characteristic of the times, and very different from what such military stations present at the present day. By the fire sat two or three musketeers, listening to one who was expounding some religious mystery to them. He began half beneath his breath, but in tones of great volubility, which tones, as he approached the conclusion, became sharp and eager, as challenging either instant answer or silent acquiescence. The audience seemed to listen to the speaker with immovable features, only answering him with clouds of tobacco-smoke, which they rolled from under thick mustachios. On a bench lay a soldier on his face; whether asleep, or in a fit of contemplation, it was impossible to guess. In the midst of the floor stood an officer, as he seemed by his embroidered shoulderbelt and scarf around his waist, otherwise very plainly attired, who was engaged in drilling a stout bumpkin, lately enlisted, to the manual, as it was then used. The motions and words of command were at that time twenty at the very least; and until they were regularly brought to an end, the corporal did not permit Wildrake either to sit down or move forward beyond the threshold of the guard-house. So he had to listen in succession to—Poize your musket—Rest your musket—Cock your musket—Handle your primers—and many other forgotten words of discipline, until at length the word, “Order your musket,” ended the drill for the time. “Thy name, friend?” said the officer to the recruit, when the lesson was over. “Ephraim,” answered the fellow with an affected twang through the nose. “And what besides Ephraim?” “Ephraim Cobb, from the godly city of Glocester, where I have dwelt for seven years, serving apprentice to a praise-worthy cordwainer.” “It is a goodly craft,” answered the officer; “but casting in thy lot with ours, doubt not that thou shalt be set beyond thine awl, and thy last to boot.” A grim smile accompanied this poor attempt at a pun; and the

[Chap. 7]



81

speaker turning round to the corporal, who stood two paces off with the face of one who seemed desirous of speaking, said, “How now, corporal, what tidings?” “Here is one with a packet, an it please your Excellency,” said the corporal—“Surely my spirit does not rejoice in him, seeing I esteem him as a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” By these words, Wildrake learned that he was in the actual presence of the remarkable person to whom he was commissioned; and he paused to consider in what manner he ought to address him. The figure of Oliver Cromwell was, as is generally known, in no way prepossessing. He was of middle stature, strong and coarsely made, with harsh and severe features, indicative, however, of much natural sagacity and depth of thought. His eyes were grey and piercing; his nose too large in proportion to his other features. His manner of speaking, when he had the purpose to make himself distinctly understood, was homely and forcible, though neither graceful nor eloquent. No man could on such occasions put his meaning into fewer and more decisive words. But when, as it often happened, he had a mind to play the orator, for the benefit of people’s ears, without enlightening their understanding, Cromwell was wont to invest his meaning, or that which seemed to be his meaning, in such a mist of words, surround it with so many exclusions and exceptions, and fortify it with such a labyrinth of parentheses, that though one of the most shrewd men in England, he was, perhaps, the most unintelligible speaker that ever perplexed an audience. It has been long since said by the historian, that a collection of the Protector’s speeches would make, with a few exceptions, the most nonsensical book in the world; but he ought to have added, that nothing could be more nervous, concise, and intelligible, than what he really intended should be understood. It was also remarked of Cromwell, that though born of a good family, both by father and mother, and although he had the usual opportunities of education and breeding connected with such an advantage, the future democratic ruler could never acquire, or else disdained to practise, the courtesies usually exercised among the higher classes in their intercourse with each other. His demeanour was so blunt as sometimes might be termed clownish, yet there was in his language and manner a force and energy corresponding to his character, which impressed awe, if it did not inspire respect; and there were even times when that dark and subtle spirit expanded itself, so as almost to conciliate affection. The turn for humour, which displayed itself by fits, was broad, and of low and sometimes of a practical character. Something there was in his disposition

82



Vol. 1, ch. 7

congenial to that of his countrymen; a contempt of folly, a hatred of affectation, and a dislike of formality, which, joined to the strong intrinsic qualities of sense and courage, made him in many respects not an unfit representative of the democracy of England. His religion must always be a subject of much doubt, and probably of doubt which he himself could hardly have solved. Unquestionably there was a time in his life when he was sincerely enthusiastic, and when his natural temper, slightly subject to hypochondriacism, was strongly agitated by the same fanaticism which influenced so many persons of the time. On the other hand, there were periods during his political career, when we certainly do him no injustice in charging him with hypocritical affectation. We will probably judge him, and others of the same age, most truly, if we suppose that their religious professions were partly influential in their own breasts, partly assumed in compliance with their own interests. And so ingenious is the human heart in deceiving itself as well as others, that it is probable neither Cromwell himself, nor those making similar pretensions to distinguished piety, could exactly have fixed the point at which their enthusiasm terminated and their hypocrisy commenced; or rather, it was a point not fixed in itself, but fluctuating with the state of health, of good or bad fortune, of high or low spirits, affecting the individual at the period. Such was the celebrated person, who, turning round on Wildrake, and scanning his countenance closely, seemed so little satisfied with what he beheld, that he instinctively hitched forward his belt, so as to bring the handle of his tuck-sword within his reach. But yet, enfolding his arms in his cloak, as if upon second thoughts laying aside his suspicion, or thinking precaution beneath him, he asked the cavalier what he was, and whence he came? “A poor gentleman, sir,—that is, my lord,”—answered Wildrake; “last from Woodstock.” “And what may your tidings be, sir gentleman? ” said Cromwell, with an emphasis. “Truly I have seen those most willing to take upon them that title, bear themselves somewhat short of wise men, and good men, and brave men, with all their gentility: Yet Gentleman was a good title in Old England, when men remembered what it was construed to mean.” “You say truly, sir,” replied Wildrake, suppressing, with difficulty, some of his usual wild expletives; “formerly gentlemen were found in gentlemen’s places, but now the world is so changed, that you shall find the broidered belt has changed place with the under spurleather.” “Say’st thou me?” said the General; “I profess thou art a bold

[Chap. 7]



83

companion, that can bandy words so wantonly;—thou ring’st somewhat too loud to be good metal, methinks: And, once again, what are thy tidings with me?” “This packet,” said Wildrake, “commended to your hands by Colonel Markham Everard.” “Alas, I must have mistaken thee,” answered Cromwell, mollified at the mention of a man’s name whom he had great desire to make his own; “forgive us, good friend, for such, we doubt not, thou art. Sit thee down, and commune with thyself as thou mayst, until we have examined the contents of thy packet. Let him be looked to, and have what he lacks.” So saying the General left the guard-house, where Wildrake took his seat in the corner, and awaited with patience the issue of his mission. The soldiers now thought themselves obliged to treat him with more consideration, and offered him a pipe of Trinidadoe, and a black jack filled with October. But the looks of Cromwell, and the dangerous situation in which he might be placed by the least chance of detection, induced Wildrake to decline these hospitable offers, and stretching back in his chair, and affecting to slumber, he escaped notice or conversation, until a sort of aid-de-camp, or military officer in attendance, came to summon him to Cromwell’s presence. By this person he was guided to a postern-gate, through which he entered the body of the Castle, and penetrating through many private passages and stair-cases, he at length was introduced into a small cabinet, or parlour, in which was much rich furniture, some bearing the royal cypher displaced and disarranged, together with several paintings in massive frames, having their faces turned towards the wall, as if they had been taken down for the purpose of being removed. Amid this scene of disorder, the victorious General of the Commonwealth was seated in a large easy-chair, covered with damask, and deeply embroidered, the splendour of which made a contrast with the plain, and even homely character of his apparel; although in look and action he seemed like one who felt that the seat which might have in former days held a prince, was not too much distinguished for his own fortunes and ambition. Wildrake stood before him, nor did he ask him to sit down. “Pearson,” said Cromwell, addressing himself to the officer in attendance, “wait in the gallery, but be within call.” Pearson bowed, and was retiring. “Who are there in the gallery besides?” “Worthy Master Gordon, the chaplain, was holding forth but now to Colonel Overton, and four captains of your Excellency’s regiment.” “We would have it so,” said the General; “we would not there

84



Vol. 1, ch. 7

were any corner in our dwelling where the hungry soul might not meet with manna. Was the good man carried onward in his discourse?” “Mightily borne through,” said Pearson; “and he was touching the rightful claims which the army, and especially your Excellency, hath acquired, by becoming the instruments in the great work;—not instruments to be broken asunder and cast away when the day of their service is over, but to be preserved, and held precious and prized for their honourable and faithful labours, for which they have fought and marched, and fasted, and prayed, and suffered cold and sorrow; while others, who would now gladly see them disbanded, and broken, and cashiered, ate of the fat, and drank of the strong.” “Ah, good man!” said Cromwell, “and did he touch upon this so feelingly? I could say something—But not now—begone, Pearson, to the gallery—let not our friends lay aside their swords, but watch as well as pray.” Pearson retired; and the General, holding the letter of Everard in his hand, looked again for a long while fixedly at Wildrake, as if considering in what strain he should address him. When he did speak, it was, at first, in one of those ambiguous discourses which we have already mentioned, and in which it was very difficult for any one to understand his meaning, if, indeed, he knew it himself. We will be as concise in our statement, as our desire to give the very words of a man so extraordinary will permit. “This letter,” he said, “you have brought us from your master, or patron, Markham Everard; truly an excellent and honourable gentleman as ever bore a sword upon his thigh, and one who hath ever distinguished himself in the great work of delivering these three poor and unhappy nations.—Answer me not: I know what thou would’st say.—And this letter he hath sent to me by thee, his clerk, or secretary, in whom he hath confidence, and in whom he prays me to have trust, that there may be a careful messenger between us. And lastly, he hath sent thee to me—Do not answer—I know what thou would’st say,—to me, who, albeit I am of that small consideration, that it would be too much honour for me even to bear a halbert in this great and victorious army of England, am nevertheless exalted to the rank of holding the guidance and the leading-staff thereof.— Nay, do not answer, my friend—I know what thou would’st say. —Now, when communing thus together, our discourse taketh, in respect to what I have said, a threefold argument, or division: First, as it concerneth thy master; secondly, as it concerneth me and mine office; thirdly and lastly, as it toucheth thyself. Now, as concerning this good and worthy gentleman, Colonel Markham Everard, truly

[Chap. 7]



85

he hath played the man from the beginning of these unhappy buffetings, not turning to the right nor to the left, but holding ever in his eye the mark at which he aimed. Ay, truly, a faithful honourable gentleman, and one who may well call me friend; and truly I am pleased to think that he doth so. Nevertheless, in this vale of tears, we must be governed less by our private respects and partialities, than by those higher principles and points of duty, whereupon the good Colonel Markham Everard hath ever framed his purposes, as, truly, I have endeavoured to form mine, that we may all act as becometh good Englishmen and worthy patriots. Then, as for Woodstock, it is a great thing which the good Colonel asks, that it should be taken from the spoil of the godly, and left in keeping of the men of Moab, and especially of the malignant, Henry Lee, whose hand hath been ever against us when he might find room to raise it; I say, he hath asked a great thing, both in respect of himself and me. For we of this poor but godly army of England, are holden, by these of the Parliament, as men who should render a spoil for them, but be no sharer of it ourselves; even as the buck, which the hounds pull to earth, formeth no part of their own food, but they are lashed off from the carcase with whips, like those which require punishment for their forwardness, not reward for their services. Yet I speak not this so much in respect of this grant of Woodstock, in which, perhaps, their Lordships of the Council, and also the Committee-men of this Parliament, may graciously think they have given me a portion in the matter, in regard that my kinsman Desborough hath an interest allowed him therein; which interest, as he hath well deserved it for his true and faithful service to these unhappy and divided countries, so it would ill become me to diminish the same to his prejudice, unless it were upon great and public respects. Thus thou seest how it stands with me, my honest friend, and in what mind I stand touching this thy master’s request to me; which yet I do not say that I can altogether, or unconditionally, grant or refuse, but only tell my simple thoughts with respect thereto. Thou understandest me, I doubt not?” Now, Roger Wildrake, with all the attention he had been able to pay to the Lord General’s speech, had got so much confused among the various clauses of the harangue, that his brain was bewildered, like that of a country clown when he chances to get himself involved among a crowd of carriages, and cannot stir a step to get out of the way of one of them, without being in danger of being ridden over by the others. The General saw his look of perplexity, and began a new oration, to the same purpose as before;—spoke of his love for his kind friend

86



Vol. 1, ch. 7

the Colonel,—his regard for his pious and godly kinsman, Master Desborough,—the great importances of the Palace and Park of Woodstock,—the determination of the Parliament that it should be confiscated, and the produce brought into the coffers of the state,— his own deep veneration for the authority of Parliament, and his no less deep sense of the injustice done to the army,—how it was his wish and will that all matters should be settled in an amicable and friendly manner, without self-seeking, debate, or strife, betwixt those who had been the heads directing, and those who had been the hands acting, in that great national cause,—how he was willing, truly willing, to contribute to this work, by laying down, not his commission only, but his life also, if it were requested of him, or could be granted with safety to the poor soldiers, to whom, silly poor men, he was bound to be as a father, seeing that they had followed him with the duty and affection of children. And here he arrived at another dead pause, leaving Wildrake as uncertain as before, whether it was or was not his purpose to grant Colonel Everard the powers he had asked for the protection of Woodstock against the Parliamentary Commissioners. Internally he began to entertain hopes that the justice of Heaven, or the effects of remorse, had confounded the regicide’s understanding. But no—he could see nothing but sagacity in that steady stern eye, which, while the tongue poured forth its periphrastic language in such profusion, seemed to watch with severe accuracy the effect which his oratory produced on the listener. “Egad,” thought the cavalier to himself, becoming a little familiar with the situation in which he was placed, and rather impatient of a conversation which led to no visible conclusion or termination, “if Noll were the devil himself, as he is the devil’s darling, I will not be thus misfeed by him. I’ll e’en brusque it a little, if he goes on at this rate, and try if I can bring him to a more intelligible way of speaking.” Entertaining this bold purpose, but half afraid to execute it, Wildrake lay by for an opportunity of making the attempt, while Cromwell was apparently unable to express his own meaning. He was already beginning a third panegyric upon Colonel Everard, with sundry varied expressions of his own wish to oblige him, when Wildrake took the opportunity of a pause to strike in, on the General’s making one of his oratorical pauses. “So please you,” he said, bluntly, “your worship has already spoken on two topics of your discourse, your own worthiness, and that of my master, Colonel Everard. But, to enable me to do mine errand, it would be necessary you should bestow a few words on the third head.”

[Chap. 7]



87

“The third!” said Cromwell. “Ay,” said Wildrake, “which, in your honour’s subdivision of your discourse, touched my unworthy self. What am I to do—what portion am I to have in this matter?” Oliver started at once from the monotonous purring he had hitherto used, somewhat resembling that of a domestic cat, into the growl of the tiger when about to spring. “Thy portion, jail-bird!” he exclaimed, “the gallows—thou shalt hang as high as Haman, if thou betray counsel!—But,” he added, softening his voice, “keep it like a true man, and my favour will be the making of you. Come hither— thou art bold, I see, though something saucy. Thou hast been a malignant—so writes my worthy friend Colonel Everard; but thou hast now given up that falling cause. I tell thee, friend, not all that the Parliament or the army could do would have pulled down the Stuarts out of their high places, saving that Heaven had a controversy with them. Well, it is a sweet and comely thing to buckle on one’s armour in behalf of Heaven’s cause; otherwise truly, for mine own, these men might have remained upon the throne even unto this day. Neither do I blame any for aiding them, until these successive great judgments have overwhelmed them and their house. I am not a bloody man, having in me the feeling of human frailty; but, friend, whosoever putteth his hand to the plough, in the great actings which are now on foot in these nations, had best beware that they look not back; for, rely upon my simple word, that if you fail me, I will not spare on you one foot’s length of the gallows of Haman. Let me therefore know, at a word, if the leaven of thy malignancy is altogether drubbed out of thee.” “Your honourable lordship,” said the cavalier, shrugging his shoulders, “has done that for most of us, so far as cudgelling to some tune can perform it.” “Say’st thou?” said the General, with a grim smile on his lip, which seemed to intimate that he was not quite inaccessible to flattery; “yea, truly, thou doest not lie in that—we have been an instrument. Neither are we, as I have already hinted, so severely bent against those who have striven against us as malignants, as others may be. The parliament-men best know their own interest and their own pleasure; but, to my poor thinking, it is full time to close these jars, and to allow men of all kinds the means of doing service to their country; and we think it will be thy fault if thou art not employed to good purpose for the state and thyself, on condition thou puttest away the old man entirely from thee, and givest thy earnest attention to what I have to tell thee.” “Your lordship need not doubt my attention,” said the cavalier.

88



Vol. 1, ch. 7

And the republican General, after another pause, as one who gave his confidence not without hesitation, proceeded to explain his views with a distinctness which he seldom used, yet not without his being a little biassed now and then, by his long habits of circumlocution, which indeed he seldom laid entirely aside, save in the field of battle. “Thou seest,” he said, “my friend, how things stand with me. The Parliament, I care not who know it, love me not—still less do this Council of State, by whom they manage the executive government of the kingdom. I cannot tell why they nourish suspicion against me, unless it is because I will not deliver this poor innocent army, which has followed me in so many military actions, to be now pulled asunder, broken piece-meal and reduced, so that they who have protected the state at the expense of their blood, will not have, perchance, the means of feeding themselves by their labour; which, methinks, were hard measure, since it is taking from Esau his birthright even without giving him a poor mess of pottage.” “Esau is likely to help himself, I think,” replied Wildrake. “Truly, thou sayest wisely,” replied the General; “it is ill starving an armed man, if there is food to be had for taking—nevertheless, far be it from me to encourage rebellion, or want of due subordination to these our rulers. I would only petition in a due and becoming, a sweet and harmonious manner, that they would listen to our condition, and consider our necessities. But, sir, looking on me, and esteeming me so little as they do, you must think that it would be a provocation in me towards the Council of State, as well as the Parliament, if, simply to gratify your worthy master, I were to act contrary to their commission, or deny currency to the Commissioners under their authority, which is as yet the highest in the State—and long may it be so for me!—to carry on the sequestration which they intend. And would it not also be said, that I was lending myself to the malignant interest, affording this den of the blood-thirsty and lascivious tyrants of yore, to be in this our day a refuge to that old and inveterate Amalekite Sir Henry Lee, to keep possession of the place in which he hath so long glorified himself? Truly, it would be a perilous matter.” “Am I then to report,” said Wildrake, “an if it please, that you cannot stead Colonel Everard in this matter?” “Unconditionally, ay—but, taken conditionally, the answer may be otherwise,”—answered Cromwell. “I see thou art not able to fathom my purpose, and therefore I will partly unfold it to thee.— But take notice, that should thy tongue bewray my counsel, save in so far as conveying it to thy master, by all the blood which has been

[Chap. 7]



89

shed in these wild times, thou shalt die a thousand deaths in one!” “Do not fear me, sir,” said Wildrake, whose natural boldness and carelessness of character was for the present time borne down and quelled, like that of falcons in the presence of the eagle. “Hear me, then,” said Cromwell, “and let no syllable escape thee. Knowst thou not the young Lee whom they call Albert, a malignant like his father, and one who went up with the young man to that last ruffle which we had with him at Worcester?—May we be grateful for the victory!” “I know there is such a young gentleman as Albert Lee,” said Wildrake. “And knowst thou not—I speak not by way of prying into the good Colonel’s secrets, but only as it behoves me to know something of the matter that I may best judge how I am to serve him—Knowst thou not that thy master, Markham Everard, is a suitor after the sister of this same malignant, a daughter of the old Keeper, called Sir Henry Lee?” “All this I have heard,” said Roger Wildrake, “nor can I deny that I believe in it.” “Well then, go to.—When the young man Charles Stuart fled from the field of Worcester, I know by sure intelligence that, when by sharp chase and pursuit that young man was compelled to separate himself from his followers, this Albert Lee was one of the last who remained with him, if not indeed the very last.” “It was devilish like him,” said the cavalier, without sufficiently weighing his expressions, considering in what presence they were to be uttered—“And I’ll uphold him with my rapier, to be a true chip of the old block.” “Ha, swearest thou?” said the General. “Is this thy reformation?” “I never swear, so please you,” replied Wildrake, recollecting himself, “except there is some mention of malignants and cavaliers in my hearing; and then the old habit returns, and I swear like one of Goring’s troopers.” “Out upon you,” said the General; “what can it avail you to practise a profanity so horrible to the ears of others, and which brings no emolument to him who uses it?” “There are doubtless more profitable sins in the world than the vice of swearing,” was the answer which rose to the lips of the cavalier; but that was exchanged for a profession of regret for having given offence. The truth was, the discourse began to take a turn which rendered it more interesting than ever to Wildrake, who was therefore determined not to lose the opportunity for obtaining possession of the secret that seemed to be suspended on Cromwell’s

90



Vol. 1, ch. 7

lips; and that could only be through means of keeping guard upon his own. “What sort of a house is Woodstock?” said the General abruptly. “An old mansion,” said Wildrake in reply; “and so far as I could judge by a single night’s lodging, having abundance of back-stairs, also subterranean passages, and all the communications under ground, which are common in old raven-nests of the sort.” “And places for concealing priests unquestionably,” said Cromwell. “It is seldom that such ancient houses lack secret stalls wherein to mew up these calves of Bethel.” “Your Honour’s Excellency,” said Wildrake, “may swear to that.” “I swear not at all,”—replied the General drily.—“But what think’st thou, good fellow?—I will ask thee a blunt question—Where will these two Worcester fugitives that thou wottest of be more likely to take shelter—and that they must be sheltered somewhere, I well know—than in this same old palace, with all the corners and concealments wherewith young Albert hath been acquainted ever since his earliest infancy?” “Truly,” said Wildrake, making an effort to answer the question with seeming indifference, while the probability of such an event, and its consequences, flashed fearfully upon his mind,—“Truly, I should be of your honour’s opinion, but that I think the company, who, by the commission of Parliament, have occupied Woodstock, are likely to fright them thence, as a cat scares doves from a pigeon-house. The neighbourhood, with reverence, of Generals Desborough and Harrison, will suit ill with fugitives from Worcester-field.” “I thought as much, and so, indeed, would I have it,” answered the General. “Long may it be ere our names shall be aught but a terror to our enemies. But in this matter, if thou art an active plotter for thy master’s interest, thou might’st, I should think, work out something favourable to his present object.” “My brain is too poor to reach the depth of your honourable purpose,” said Wildrake. “Listen then, and let it be to profit,” answered Cromwell. “Assuredly the conquest at Worcester was a great and crowning mercy; yet might we seem to be but small in our thankfulness for the same, did we not do what in us lies towards the ultimate improvement and final conclusion of the great work which has been thus prosperous in our hands, professing, in pure humility and singleness of heart, that we do not, in any way, desire our instrumentality to be remembered, nay, would rather pray and entreat, that our name and fortunes were forgotten, than that the great work were in itself left incompleted. Nevertheless, truly, placed as we now are, it concerns

[Chap. 7]



91

us more nearly than others,—that is, if so poor creatures should at all speak of themselves as concerned, whether more or less, with these changes which have been wrought around, not, I say, by ourselves, or our own power, but by the destiny to which we were called, fulfilling the same with all meekness and humility—I say it concerns us nearly that all things should be done in conformity with the great work which hath been wrought, and is yet working, in these lands. Such is my plain and simple meaning. Nevertheless, it is much to be desired that this young man, this King of Scots, as he called himself—this Charles Stuart—should not escape forth from the nation, where his arrival hath wrought so much disturbance and bloodshed.” “I have no doubt,” said the cavalier, looking down, “that your lordship’s wisdom hath directed all things as they may best lead towards such a consummation; and I pray your pains may be paid as they deserve.” “I thank thee, friend,” said Cromwell, with much humility; “doubtless we shall meet our reward, being in the hands of a good paymaster, who never passeth Saturday night. But understand me, friend—I desire no more than my own share in the good work. I would heartily do what poor kindness I can to your worthy master, and even to you in your degree—for such as I do not converse with ordinary men, that our presence may be forgotten like an everyday’s occurrence. We speak to men like thee for their reward or their punishment; and I trust it will be the former which thou in thine office wilt merit at my hand.” “Your honour,” said Wildrake, “speaks like one accustomed to command.” “True; men’s minds are linked to those of my degree by fear and reverence,” said the General;—“enough of that, desiring, as I do, no other dependency on my special person than is alike to us all upon that which is above us. But I would desire to cast this golden ball into your master’s lap. He hath served against this Charles Stuart and his father. But he is a kinsman near to the old knight Lee, and stands well affected towards his daughter. Thou also wilt keep a watch, my friend—that ruffling look of thine will procure thee the confidence of every malignant, and the prey cannot approach the cover, as though to shelter, like a coney in the rocks, but thou wilt be sensible of his presence.” “I make a shift to comprehend your Excellency,” said the cavalier; “and I thank you heartily for the good opinion you have put upon me, and which, I pray, I may have some handsome opportunity of deserving, that I may show my gratitude by the event. But still, with

92



Vol. 1, ch. 7

reverence, your Excellence’s scheme seems unlikely. While Woodstock remains in possession of the sequestrators, both the old knight and his son, and far more such a fugitive as your honour hinted at, will take special care not to approach it.” “It is for that I have been dealing with thee thus long,” said the General.—“I told thee that I was something unwilling, upon slight occasion, to dispossess the sequestrators by my own proper warrant, although having, perhaps, sufficient authority in the state both to do so, and to despise the murmurs of those who blame me. In brief, I would be loath to tamper with my privileges, and make experiments between their strength, and the powers of the commission granted by others, without need, or at least great prospect of advantage. So, if thy Colonel will undertake, for his love of the Republic, to find the means of preventing its worst and nearest danger, which must needs arise from the escape of this young man, and will do his endeavour to stay him, in case his flight should lead him to Woodstock, which I hold very likely, I will give thee an order to these sequestrators, to evacuate the palace instantly; and to the next troop of my regiment, which lies at Oxford, to turn them out by the shoulders, if they make any scruples—Ay, even if, for example’s sake, they drag Desborough out foremost, though he be wedded to my sister.” “So please you, sir,” said Wildrake, “and with your most powerful warrant, I trust I might expel the commissioners, even without the aid of your most warlike and devout troopers.” “That is what I am least anxious about,” replied the General; “I should like to see the best of them sit after I had nodded to them to begone—Always excepting the worshipful House, in whose name our commissions run; but who, as some think, will be done with politics ere it be time to renew them. Therefore, what chiefly concerns me to know, is, whether thy master will embrace a traffic which hath such a fair promise of profit with it. I am well convinced that, with a scout like thee, who hast been in the cavaliers’ quarters, and canst, I should guess, resume thy drinking, ruffianly health-quaffing manners whenever thou hast a mind, he must discover where this Stuart hath ensconced himself. Either the young Lee will visit the elder one in person, or he will write to him, or hold communication with him by letter. At all events, Markham Everard and thou must have an eye in every hair of your head.” While he spoke, a flush passed over his brow, he rose from his chair, and paced the apartment in agitation. “Woe to you, if you suffer the young adventurer to escape me!—you had better be in the deepest dungeon in Europe, than breathe the air of England, should you but dream of playing me false. I have spoken freely to thee, fellow—more freely than is my

[Chap. 7]



93

wont—the time required it. But, to share my confidence is like keeping a watch over a powder-magazine, the least and most insignificant spark blows thee to atoms. Tell your master what I said—but not how I said it—Fie, that I should have been betrayed into this distemperature of passion!—Begone, sirrah. Pearson shall bring thee sealed orders—Yet, stay—thou hast something to ask.” “I would know,” said Wildrake, to whom the visible anxiety of the General gave some confidence, “what is the figure of this young gallant, in case I should meet him?” “A tall, raw-boned, swarthy lad, they say he has shot up into. Here is his picture by a good hand, done some time since.” He turned round one of the portraits which stood with its face against the wall; but it proved not that of Charles the Second, but of his unhappy father. The first motion of Cromwell indicated a purpose of hastily replacing the picture, and it seemed as if an effort was necessary to repress his disinclination to look upon it. But he did repress it, and, placing the picture against the wall, withdrew slowly and sternly, as if, in defiance of his own feeling, he was determined to gain a place from which to see it to advantage. It was well for Wildrake that his dangerous companion had not turned an eye on him, for his blood also kindled when he saw the portrait of his master in the hands of the chief author of his death. Being a fierce and desperate man, he commanded his passion with great difficulty; and if, in its first violence, he had been provided with a suitable weapon, it is possible Cromwell would never have ascended higher in his bold attempt towards supreme power. But this natural and sudden flash of indignation, which rushed through the veins of an ordinary man like Wildrake, was presently subdued, when confronted with the strong yet stifled emotion displayed by so powerful a character as Cromwell. As the cavalier looked on his dark and bold countenance, agitated by inward and indescribable feelings, he found his own violence of spirit die away and lose itself in fear and wonder. So true it is, that as greater lights swallow up and extinguish the display of those which are less, so men of great, capacious, and over-ruling minds, bear aside and subdue, in their climax of passion, the more feeble wills and passions of others; as, when a river joins a brook, the fiercer torrent shoulders aside the smaller stream. Wildrake stood a silent, inactive, and well nigh a terrified spectator, while Cromwell, drawing himself up and assuming a firm sternness of eye and manner, as one who compels himself to look on what some strong internal feeling renders painful and disgustful to him,

94



Vol. 1, ch. 7

proceeded, in brief and interrupted expressions, but yet with a firm voice, to comment on the portrait of the late King. His words seemed less addressed to Wildrake, than to be the spontaneous unburthening of his own bosom, swelling under recollection of the past and anticipation of the future. “That Flemish painter,” he said—“that Antonio Vandyke—what a power was his! Steel may mutilate, worms may waste and destroy —still the King stands uninjured by time; and our grandchildren, while they read his history, may look on his image, and compare the melancholy features with the woful tale.—It was a stern necessity— it was an awful deed! The calm pride of that eye might have ruled worlds of courtlike Frenchmen, or supple Italians, or formal Spaniards, but its glances only roused the native courage of the stern Englishman.—Lay not on poor sinful man, whose breath is in his nostrils, the blame that he falls, when Heaven never gave him strength of nerves to stand! The weak rider is thrown by his unruly horse, and trampled to death—the strongest man, the best cavalier, springs to the empty saddle, and uses bit and spur till the fiery horse knows its master—Who blames him, who, mounted aloft, rides triumphantly amongst the people, for having succeeded, where the unskilful and feeble fell and died?—Verily he hath his reward—Then, what is that piece of painted canvass to me more than others?—No—let him show to others the reproaches of that cold, calm face, that proud yet complaining eye—Those who have acted on higher respects have no cause to start at painted shadows—Not wealth nor power brought me from my obscurity—The oppressed consciences, the injured liberties of England, were the banner that I followed.” He raised his voice so high, as if pleading in his own defence before some tribunal, that Pearson, the officer in attendance, looked into the apartment; and observing his master, with his eyes kindling, his arm extended, his foot advanced, and his voice raised, like a general in the act of commanding the advance of his army, he instantly withdrew. “It was other than selfish regards that drew me forth to action,” continued Cromwell, “and I dare the world—ay, living or dead I challenge—to assert that I armed for a private cause, or as a means of enlarging my fortunes. Neither was there a trooper in the regiment who came there with less of evil will to yonder unhappy”—— At this moment the apartment opened, and a gentlewoman entered, who, from her resemblance to the General, although her features were soft and feminine, might be immediately recognised as his daughter. She walked up to Cromwell, gently but firmly passed her arm through his, and said to him in a persuasive tone,

[Chap. 8]



95

“Father, this is not well—you have promised me this should not happen.” The General hung down his head, like one who was either ashamed of the passion to which he had given way, or of the influence which was exercised over him. He yielded, however, to the affectionate impulse, and left the apartment, without again turning his head towards the portrait which had so much affected him.

Chapter Eight Doctor.—Go to, go to—You have known what you should not. Macbeth

W        was left in the cabinet, astonished and alone. It was often noised about, that Cromwell, the deep and sagacious statesman, the calm and intrepid commander, he who had overcome such difficulties, and ascended to such heights, that he seemed already to bestride the land which he had conquered, had, like many other men of great genius, a constitutional taint of melancholy, which sometimes displayed itself both in words and actions, and had been first observed, in that sudden and striking change, when, abandoning entirely the dissolute freaks of his youth, he embraced a very strict course of religious observances, which, upon some occasions, he seemed to consider as bringing him into more near and close contact with the spiritual world. This extraordinary man is said sometimes, during that period of his life, to have given way to spiritual delusions, or, as he himself conceived them, prophetic inspirations of approaching grandeur, and of strange, deep, and mysterious agencies, in which he was in future to be engaged, in the same manner as his younger years had been marked by fits of exuberant and excessive frolic and debauchery. Something of this kind seemed to explain the ebullitions of passion which he had now manifested. With wonder at what he had witnessed, Wildrake felt some anxiety on his own account. Though not the most reflecting of mortals, he had sense enough to know, that it is dangerous to be a witness of the infirmities of men high in power; and he was left so long by himself, as induced him to entertain some secret doubts, whether the General might not be tempted to take some means of confining or removing a witness, who had seen him lowered, as it seemed, by the suggestions of his own conscience, beneath that lofty flight, which, in general, he affected to sustain above the rest of the sublunary world. In this, however, he wronged Cromwell, who was free either from an extreme degree of jealous suspicion, or from anything which

96



Vol. 1, ch. 8

approached towards blood-thirstiness. Pearson appeared, after lapse of about an hour, and, intimating to Wildrake that he was to follow, conducted him into a distant apartment, in which he found the General seated on a low couch. His daughter was in the apartment, but remained at some distance, seemed busied with some female work, and scarce turned her head as Pearson and Wildrake entered. At a sign from the Lord General, Wildrake approached him as before. “Friend,” said he, “your old friends the cavaliers look on me as their enemy, and conduct themselves towards me as if they desired to make me such. I profess they are labouring to their own prejudice; for I regard, and have ever regarded them, as honest and honourable fools, who were silly enough to run their necks into nooses, and their heads against stone-walls, that a man called Stuart, and no other, should be king over them. Fools! are there no words made of letters that would sound as well as Charles Stuart, with that magic title beside them? Why, the word King is like a lighted lamp, that throws the same bright gilding upon any combination of the alphabet, and yet you must shed your blood for a name! But thou, for thy part, shalt have no wrong from me. Here is an order, well warranted, to clear the Lodge at Woodstock, and abandon it to thy master’s keeping, or those whom he shall appoint. He will have his uncle and pretty cousin with him, doubtless. Fare thee well—think on what I told thee. They say beauty is a loadstone to yonder long lad, thou doest wot of; but I reckon he has other stars at present to direct his course than bright eyes or fair hair. Be it as it may, thou knowst my purpose —peer out, peer out; keep a constant and careful look-out on every ragged patch that wanders by hedge-row or lane—these are days when a beggar’s cloak may cover a king’s ransom. Here are some broad Portugal pieces for thee—something strange to thy pouch, I ween.—Once more, think on what thou hast heard, and,” he added, in a lower and more impressive tone of voice, “forget what thou hast seen. My service to thy master;—and, yet once again, remember— and forget.”—Wildrake made his obeisance, and, returning to his inn, left Windsor with all possible speed. It was afternoon in the same day when the cavalier Wildrake rejoined his round-head friend, who was anxiously expecting him at the inn in Woodstock appointed for their rendezvous. “Where hast thou been?—what hast thou seen?—what strange uncertainty is in thy looks?—and why doest thou not answer me?” “Because,” said Wildrake, laying aside his riding cloak and rapier, “you ask so many questions at once. A man has but one tongue to answer with, and mine is well nigh glued to the roof of my mouth.” “Will drink unloosen it?” said the Colonel; “though I dare say

[Chap. 8]



97

thou hast tried that spell at every ale-house on the road. Call for what thou would’st have, man, only be quick.” “Colonel Everard,” answered Wildrake, “I have not tasted so much as a cup of cold water this day.” “Then thou art out of humour for that reason,” said the Colonel; “salve thy sore with brandy, if thou wilt, but leave being so fantastic and unlike to thyself, as thou showest in this silent mood.” “Colonel Everard,” replied the cavalier, very gravely, “I am an altered man.” “I think thou doest alter every day in the year, and every hour of the day. Come, good now, tell me hast thou seen the General, and got his warrant for chasing out the sequestrators from Woodstock?” “I have seen the devil,” said Wildrake, “and hast, as thou say’st, got a warrant from him.” “Give it me hastily,” said Everard, catching at the packet. “Forgive me, Mark,” said Wildrake; “if thou knewest the purpose with which this deed is granted—if thou knewest—what is not my purpose to tell thee—what manner of hopes are founded on thy accepting it, I have that opinion of thee, Mark Everard, that thou would’st as soon take a red-hot horse-shoe from the anvil with thy bare hand, as receive into it this slip of paper.” “Come, come,” said Everard, “this comes of some of your exalted ideas of loyalty, which, excellent within certain bounds, drive us mad when encouraged up to some heights. Do not think, since I must needs speak plainly with thee, that I see without sorrow the downfall of our ancient monarchy, and the substitution of another form of government in its stead. But ought my regret for the past to prevent my acquiescing and aiding in such measures as are like to settle the future? The royal cause is ruined, had thou and every cavalier in England sworn the contrary—ruined, not to arise again for many a day at least. The Parliament, so often draughted and drained of those who were courageous enough to maintain their own freedom of opinion, is now reduced to a handful of statesmen, who have lost the respect of the people, from the length of time during which they have held the supreme management of affairs. They cannot stand long unless they were to reduce the army; and the army, late servants, are now masters, and will refuse to be reduced. They know their strength, and that they may be an army subsisting on pay and free quarters throughout England as long as they will. I tell thee, Wildrake, unless we look to the only man who can rule and manage them, we may expect military law throughout England; and I, for my own part, look for any preservation of our privileges that may be vouchsafed to us, through the wisdom and

98



Vol. 1, ch. 8

forbearance of Cromwell. Now you have my secret. You are aware that I am not doing the best I would, but the best I can. I wish—not so ardently as thou, perhaps—yet I do wish that the King could have been restored on good terms of composition, safe for us and for himself. And now, good Wildrake, rebel as thou thinkst me, make me no worse a rebel than an unwilling one. God knows, I never laid aside love and reverence to the King, even in drawing my sword against his ill advisers.” “Ah, plague on you,” said Wildrake, “that is the very cant of it— that’s what you all say. All of you fought against the King in pure love and loyalty, and not otherwise. However, I see your drift, and I own that I like it better than I expected. The army is your bear now, and Old Noll your bearward; and you are like a country constable, who makes interest with the bearward that he may prevent him from letting bruin loose. Well, there may come a day when the sun will shine on our side of the fence, and then we shall see you, and all the good fair-weather folks who love the stronger party, come and make common cause with us.” Without much attending to what his friend said, Colonel Everard carefully studied the warrant of Cromwell. “It is bolder and more peremptory than I expected,” he said. “The General must feel himself strong, when he opposes his own authority so directly to that of the Council of State and the Parliament.” “You will not hesitate to act upon it?” said Wildrake. “That I certainly will not,” answered Everard; “but I must wait till I have the assistance of the Mayor, who, I think, will gladly see these fellows ejected from the Lodge. I must not go altogether upon military authority, if possible.” Then stepping to the door of the apartment, he dispatched a servant of the house in quest of the Chief Magistrate, desiring he should be acquainted that Colonel Everard desired to see him with as little loss of time as possible. “You are sure he will come, like a dog at a whistle,” said Wildrake. “The word captain, or colonel, makes the fat citizen trot in these days, when one sword is worth fifty corporation charters. But there are dragoons yonder, as well as the grim-faced knave whom I frightened the other evening when I showed my face in at the window. Think’st thou the knaves will show no rough play?” “The General’s warrant will weigh more with them than a dozen acts of Parliament,” said Everard; “but it is time thou eatest, if thou hast in truth ridden from Windsor hither without baiting.” “I care not about it,” said Wildrake: “I tell thee, your General gave me a breakfast, which, I think, will serve me one while, if I ever am able to digest it. By the mass, it lay so heavy on my conscience,

[Chap. 8]



99

that I carried it to church to see if I could digest it there with my other sins. But not a whit.” “To church!—to the door of the church, thou meanst,” said Everard. “I know thy way—thou art ever wont to pull thy hat off reverently at the threshold, but for crossing it, that day seldom comes.” “Well,” replied Wildrake, “and if I do pull off my castor and kneel, is it not seemly to show the same respects in a church which we offer in a palace? It is a dainty matter, is it not, to see your Anabaptists, and Brownists, and the rest of you, gather to a sermon with as little ceremony as hogs to a trough? But here comes food, and now for a grace, if I can remember one.” Everard was too much interested about the fate of his uncle and his fair cousin, and the prospect of restoring them to their quiet home, under protection of that formidable truncheon which was already regarded as the leading-staff of England, to remark, that certainly a great alteration had taken place in the manners and outward behaviour, at least, of his companion. His demeanour frequently evinced a sort of struggle betwixt old habits of indulgence, and some newly formed resolutions of abstinence; and it was almost ludicrous to see how often the hand of the neophyte directed itself naturally to a large black leathern jack, which contained two double flagons of strong beer, and how often, diverted from its purpose by the better reflections of the reformed toper, it seized, instead, upon a large ewer of salubrious and pure water. It was easy to see that the task of sobriety was not yet become easy, and that, if it had the recommendation of the intellectual portion of the party who had resolved upon it, the outward man yielded a reluctant and restive compliance. But honest Wildrake had been dreadfully frightened at the course proposed to him by Cromwell, and, with a feeling not peculiar to the Catholic religion, had formed a solemn resolution within his own mind, that if he came off safe and with honour from this interview—so dangerous, if the quicksighted favourite of fortune could have penetrated into his real sentiments—he would show his sense of Heaven’s favour, by renouncing some of the sins which most easily beset him, and especially that of intemperance, to which, like many of his wild compeers, he was too much addicted. This resolution, or vow, was partly prudential as well as religious, for it occurred to him as very possible, that some matters of a difficult and delicate nature might be thrown into his hands at the present emergency, during the conduct of which it would be fitting for him to act by some better oracle than that of the Bottle, celebrated

100



Vol. 1, ch. 8

by Rabelais. In full compliance with this prudent predetermination, he touched neither the ale nor the brandy which was placed before him, and declined peremptorily the sack with which his friend would have garnished the board. Nevertheless, just as the boy had removed the trenchers and napkin, together with the large black jack which we have mentioned, and was already one or two steps on his way to the door, the sinewy arm of the cavalier, which seemed to elongate itself on purpose, (as it extended far beyond the folds of the threadbare jacket,) arrested the progress of the retiring Ganymede, and seizing on the black jack, conveyed it to the lips, which were gently breathing forth the aspiration, “D—n—I mean, Heaven forgive me —we are poor creatures of clay—one modest sip must be permitted to our frailty.” So murmuring, he glued the huge flagon to his lips; and as the head was slowly and gradually inclined backwards, in proportion as the right hand elevated the bottom of the pitcher, Everard had great doubts whether the drinker and the cup were likely to part until the whole contents of the latter had been transferred to the person of the former. Roger Wildrake stinted, however, when by a moderate computation he had swallowed at one draught about a quart and a half of ale. He then replaced it on the salver, fetched a long breath to refresh his lungs, bid the boy get him gone with the rest of the liquor, in a tone which inferred some dread of his own constancy, and then, turning to his friend Everard, he expatiated in praise of moderation, observing, that the mouthful which he had just taken had been of more service to him than if he had remained quaffing healths at table for four hours together. His friend made no reply, but could not help being privately of opinion, that Wildrake’s temperance had done as much execution on the tankard in his single draught, as some more moderate topers might have effected if they had sat sipping for an evening. But the subject was changed by the entrance of the landlord, who came to announce to his honour Colonel Everard, that the worshipful Mayor of Woodstock, with the Rev. Master Holdenough, were come to wait upon him.

[Chap. 9]



101

Chapter Nine —Here have we one head Upon two bodies—your two-headed bullock Is but an ass to such a prodigy. These two have but one meaning, thought, and counsel; And, when the single noddle has spoke out, The four legs scrape assent to it. Old Play

I           form of the honest Mayor, there was a bustling mixture of importance and embarrassment, like the deportment of a man who was conscious that he had an important part to act, if he could but exactly discover what that part was. But both were mingled with much pleasure at seeing Everard, and he frequently repeated his welcomes and all-hails before he could be brought to attend to what that gentleman said in reply. “Good worthy Colonel, you are indeed a desirable sight to Woodstock at all times, being, as I may say, almost our townsman, as you have dwelt so much and so long at the palace. Truly, the matter began almost to pass my wit, though I have transacted the affairs of this borough for many a long day; and you are come to my assistance —like—like——” “Tanquam Deus ex machina, as the Ethnic poet hath it,” said Master Holdenough, “although I do not often quote from such books.— Indeed, Master Markham Everard—or worthy Colonel, as I ought rather to say—you are simply the most welcome man who has come to Woodstock since the days of old King Harry.” “I had some business with you, my good friend,” said the Colonel, addressing the Mayor; “I shall be glad if it should so happen at the same time, that I may find occasion to pleasure you or your worthy pastor.” “No question you can do so, good sir,” replied Master Holdenough; “you have the heart, sir, and you have the head; and we are much in want of good counsel, and that from a man of action. I am aware, worthy Colonel, that you and your worthy father have ever borne yourselves in these turmoils like men of a truly Christian and moderate spirit, striving to pour oil into the wounds of the land, which some would rub with vitriol and pepper; and you know we are faithful children of the church we have reformed from its papistical and prelatical tenets.” “My good and reverend friend,” said Everard, “I respect the piety and learning of many of your teachers; but I am also for liberty of

102



Vol. 1, ch. 9

conscience to all men. I neither side with sectaries, nor do I desire to see them the object of suppression by violence.” “Sir, sir,” said the Presbyterian hastily, “all this hath a fair sound; but I would you should think what a fair country and church we are like to have of it, amidst the errors, blasphemies, and schisms, which are daily introduced into the church and kingdom of England, so that worthy Master Edwards, in his Gangræna, declareth, that our native country is about to become the very sink and cess-pool of all schisms, heresies, blasphemies, and confusions, as the army of Hannibal was said to be the refuse of all nations—Colluvies omnium gentium.—Believe me, worthy Colonel, that they of the Honourable House view all this over lightly, and with the winking connivance of old Eli. These intruders, the schismatics, shoulder the orthodox ministers out of their pulpits, thrust themselves into families, and break up the peace thereof, stealing away men’s hearts from the established faith.” “My good Master Holdenough,” replied the Colonel, interrupting the zealous preacher, “there is ground of sorrow for all these unhappy discords; and I hold with you, that the fiery spirits of the present time, have raised men’s minds at once above sober-minded and sincere religion, and above decorum and common sense. But there is no help save patience. Enthusiasm is a stream that may foam off in its own time, whereas it is sure to bear down every barrier which is directly opposed to it.—But what are these schismatical proceedings to our present purpose?” “Why, partly this, sir,” said Holdenough, “although perhaps you may make less of it than I should have thought before we met.—I was myself—I, Nehemiah Holdenough, (he added, consequentially,) was forcibly expelled from my own pulpit, even as a man should have been thrust out of his own house, by an alien, and an intruder, a wolf, who was not at the trouble even to put on sheep’s clothing, but came in his native wolfish attire of buff and bandalier, and held forth in my stead to the people, who are to me as a flock to the lawful shepherd. It is too true, sir—Master Mayor saw it, and strove to take such order to prevent it as man might, though,” turning to the Mayor, “I think still you might have striven a little more.” “Good now, good Master Holdenough, do not let us go back on that question,” said the Mayor. “Guy of Warwick, or Bevis of Hampton, might do something with this generation; but surely, they are too many and too strong for the Mayor of Woodstock.” “I think Master Mayor speaks very good sense,” said the Colonel; “if the Independents are not allowed to preach, I fear me they will not fight;—and then if you were to have another rising of cavaliers?”

[Chap. 9]



103

“There are worse folks may rise than cavaliers,” said Holdenough. “How, sir?” replied Colonel Everard. “Let me remind you, Master Holdenough, that is no safe language in the present state of the nation.” “I say,” said the Presbyterian, “there are worse folks may rise than cavaliers; and I will prove what I say. The devil is worse than the worst cavalier that ever drunk a health, or swore an oath—and the devil has arisen at Woodstock Lodge!” “Ay, truly hath he,” said the Mayor, “bodily and visibly, in figure and form—An awful time we live in!” “Gentlemen, I really know not how I am to understand you,” said Everard. “Why, it was even about the devil we came to speak with you,” said the Mayor; “but the worthy minister is always so hot upon the sectaries.” “Which are the devil’s brats, and nearly akin to him,” said Holdenough. “But true it is, that the growth of these sects has brought up the Evil One even upon the face of the earth, to look after his own interest, where he finds it most thriving.” “Master Holdenough,” said the Colonel, “if you speak figuratively, I have already told you that I have neither the means nor the skill sufficient to temper these religious heats. But if you design to say that there has been an actual apparition of the devil, I presume to think that you, with your doctrine and your learning, would be a fitter match for him than a soldier like me.” “True, sir; and I have that confidence in the commission which I hold, that I would take the field against the foul fiend without a moment’s delay,” said Master Holdenough; “but the place of his appearance is filled with those dangerous and impious persons, of whom I have been but now complaining; and though I dare venture in disputation with their Great Master himself, yet without your protection, most worthy Colonel, I see not that I may with prudence trust myself with the tossing and goring ox Desborough, or the bloody and devouring bear Harrison, or the cold and poisonous snake Bletson—all of whom are now at the Lodge, doing license and taking spoil as they think meet; and, as all men say, the devil has come to make a fourth with them.” “In good truth, worthy and noble sir,” said the Mayor, “it is even as Master Holdenough says—our privileges are declared void, our cattle seized in the very pastures. They talk of cutting down and disparking the fair Chase, which has been so long the pleasance of so many kings, and making Woodstock of as little note as any paltry village. I assure you we heard of your arrival with joy, and wondered

104



Vol. 1, ch. 9

at your keeping yourself so close in your lodgings. We know no one save your father or you, that are like to stand the poor borough’s friend in this extremity, since almost all the gentry around are malignants, and under sequestration. We trust, therefore, you will make strong intercession in our behalf.” “Certainly, Master Mayor,” said the Colonel, who saw himself with pleasure anticipated; “it was my very purpose to have interfered in this matter; and I did but keep myself close in my lodgings as you say until I should be furnished with some authority from the Lord General.” “Powers from the Lord General!” said the Mayor, thrusting the clergyman with his elbow—“Doest thou hear that?—What cock will fight that cock? We shall carry it now over their necks, and Woodstock shall be brave Woodstock still!” “Keep thine elbow from my side, friend,” said Holdenough, annoyed by the action which the Mayor had suited to his words; “and may the Lord send that Cromwell prove not as sharp to the people of England as thy bones against my person! Yet I approve that we should use his authority to stop the course of these men’s proceedings.” “Let us set out then,” said Colonel Everard; “and I trust we will find the gentlemen reasonable and obedient.” The functionaries, laic and clerical, assented with much joy; and the Colonel required and received Wildrake’s assistance in putting on his cloak and rapier, as if he had been the dependant whose part he acted. The cavalier contrived, however, while doing him these menial offices, to give his friend a shrewd pinch, in order to maintain the footing of secret equality betwixt them. The Colonel was saluted, as they passed through the streets, by many of the anxious inhabitants, who seemed to consider his intervention as affording the only chance of saving their fine Park, and the rights of the corporation, as well as of individuals, from ruin and confiscation. As they entered the Park, the Colonel asked his companions, “What is this you say of apparitions being seen amongst them?” “Why, Colonel,” said the clergyman, “you know yourself that Woodstock was always haunted?” “I have lived therein many a day,” said the Colonel; “and I know that I never saw the least sign of it, although idle people spoke of the house as they do of all old mansions, and gave the apartments ghosts and spectres to fill up the place of the great who had once dwelt there.” “Nay, but, good Colonel,” said the clergyman, “I trust you have

[Chap. 9]



105

not reached the prevailing sin of the times, and become indifferent to the testimony in favour of apparitions, which appears so conclusive to all but atheists, and advocates for witches.” “I would not absolutely disbelieve what is so generally affirmed,” said the Colonel; “but my temper leads me to doubt most of the stories which I have heard of this sort, and my own experience never went to confirm any of them.” “Ay, but trust me,” said Holdenough, “there was always a demon of one or the other species about this house of Woodstock. Not a man or woman in the town but has heard stories of apparitions in the forest, or about the old castle. Sometimes it is a pack of hounds that sweep along, and the whoops and hollos of the huntsman, and the winding of horns and the galloping of horse, which is heard as if first more distant, and then close around you—and then anon it is a solitary huntsman, who asks if you can tell him which way the stag is gone. He is always dressed in green; but the fashion of his clothes is some five hundred years old. This is what we call Dæmon Meridianum—the noonday spectre.” “My worthy and reverend sir,” said the Colonel, “I have lived at Woodstock many seasons, and have traversed the Chase at all hours. Trust me, what you hear from the villagers is the growth of their idle folly and superstition.” “Colonel,” replied Holdenough, “a negative proves nothing. What signifies, craving your pardon, that you have not seen a thing, be it earthly, or be it of the other world, to detract from the evidence of a score of people who have?—And, besides, there is the Dæmon Nocturnum—the being that walketh by night—He has been among these Independents and schismatics last night.—Ay, Colonel, you may stare; but it is even so—they may try whether he will mend their gifts, as they profanely call them, of exposition and prayer. No, sir, I trow, to master the foul fiend there goeth some competent knowledge of theology, and an acquaintance with the more humane letters, ay, and a regular clerical ordination.” “I do not in the least doubt the efficacy of your qualifications to lay the devil,” said the Colonel; “but still I think some odd mistake has occasioned this confusion amongst them, if there has any such in reality existed. Desborough is a blockhead, to be sure; and Harrison is fanatic enough to believe anything. But there is Bletson, on the other hand, who believes nothing.—What do you know of this matter, good Master Mayor?” “In sooth, and it was Master Bletson who gave the first alarm,” replied the magistrate, “or, at least, the first distinct one. You see, sir, I was in bed with my wife, and no one else; and I was as fast

106



Vol. 1, ch. 9

asleep as a man can desire to be at two hours after midnight, when, behold you, they came knocking at my bed-room door, to tell me there was an alarm in Woodstock, and that the bell of the Lodge was ringing at that dead hour of the night, as hard as ever it rung when it called the court to dinner.” “Well, but the cause of this alarm?” said the Colonel. “You shall hear, worthy Colonel, you shall hear,” answered the Mayor, waving his hand with dignity; for he was one of those persons who will not be hurried out of their own pace. “So Mrs Mayor would have persuaded me, in her love and affection, poor wretch, that to rise at such an hour out of my warm bed, was like to bring on my old complaint the lumbago, and that I should send the people to Alderman Dutton.—Alderman Devil, Mrs Mayor, said I;—I beg your reverence’s pardon for using such a phrase—Do you think I am going to lie a-bed when the town is on fire, and the cavaliers up, and the devil to pay?—I beg pardon again, parson.—But, here we are before the gate of the Palace; will it not please you to enter?” “I would first hear the end of your story,” said the Colonel; “that is, Master Mayor, if it happens to have an end.” “Everything hath an end,” said the Mayor, “and that which we call a pudding hath two.—Your worship will forgive me for being facetious. Where was I?—O, I jumped out of bed, and donned my red plush breeches, with the blue nether stocks, for I always make a point of being dressed suitably to my dignity, night and day, summer or winter, Master Everard—And I took the constables along with me, in case the alarm should be raised by night-walkers or thieves, and called up worthy Master Holdenough out of his bed, in case it should turn out to be the devil. And so I thought I was provided for the worst—And so away we came and, by and by, the soldiers who came to the town with Master Tomkins, who had been called to arms, and were marching down to Woodstock as fast as their feet would carry them. So I gave our people the sign to let them pass us, and outmarch us, as it were, and this for a twofold reason.” “I will be satisfied with one good reason,” said the Colonel; “you desired the red-coats should have the first of the fray.” “True, sir, very true;—and also that they should have the last of it, in respect that fighting is their especial business. However, we came on at a slow pace, as men who are determined to do their duty without fear or favour, when suddenly we saw something white hastening up the avenue towards where six of our constables and assistants fled at once, as conceiving it to be an apparition called the White Woman of Woodstock.” “Look you there, Colonel,” said the clergyman, “I told you there

[Chap. 9]



107

were dæmons of more kinds than one, which haunt the ancient scenes of royal debauchery and cruelty.” “I hope you stood your own ground, Master Mayor?” said the Colonel. “I—yes—most assuredly—that is, I did not, strictly speaking, keep my ground; but the town-clerk and I retreated—retreated, Colonel, but without confusion or dishonour, and took post behind worthy Master Holdenough, who, with the spirit of a lion, threw himself in the way of the supposed spectre, and attacked it with such a siserary of Latin as might have scared the devil himself, and thereby plainly discovered that it was no devil at all, nor white woman, neither woman of any colour, but worshipful Master Bletson, a member of the House of Commons, and one of the commissioners sent hither upon this unhappy sequestration of the Wood, Chase, and Lodge of Woodstock.” “And this was all that you saw of the demon?” said the Colonel. “Truly, yes,” answered the Mayor; “and I had no wish to see more. However, we conveyed Master Bletson, as in duty bound, back to the Lodge, and he was ever maundering by the way how that he met a party of scarlet devils incarnate marching down to the Lodge; but, to my poor thinking, it must have been the independent dragoons who had just passed us.” “And more incarnate devils I would never wish to see,” said Wildrake, who could remain silent no longer. His voice, so suddenly heard, showed how much the Mayor’s nerves were still alarmed, for he started and jumped aside with an alacrity of which one would not at first sight suppose a man of his portly dignity to have been capable. Everard imposed silence on his intrusive attendant; and, desirous to hear the conclusion of this strange story, requested the Mayor to tell him how the matter ended, and whether they stopped the supposed spectre. “Truly, worthy sir,” said the Mayor, “Master Holdenough was quite venturous upon confronting, as it were, the devil, and compelling him to appear under the real form of Master Jos. Bletson, Member of Parliament for the borough of Littlefaith.” “In sooth, Master Mayor,” said the divine, “I were strangely ignorant of my own commission and its immunities, if I were to value opposing myself to Satan, or any independent in his likeness, all of whom, in the name of Him I serve, I do defy, spit at, and trample under my feet; and because Master Mayor is something tedious, I will briefly inform your honour that we saw little of the Enemy that night, save what Master Bletson said in the first feeling of his terrors, and save what we might collect from the disordered

108



Vol. 1, ch. 9

appearance of the honourable Colonel Desborough and MajorGeneral Harrison.” “And what plight were they in, I pray you?” demanded the Colonel. “Why, worthy sir, any one might see with half an eye that they had been engaged in a fight wherein they had not been honoured with victory, seeing that General Harrison was stalking up and down the parlour, with his drawn sword in his hand, talking to himself, his doublet unbuttoned, his points untrussed, his garters loose, and like to throw him down as he now and then trod on them, and gaping and grinning like a mad player. And yonder sate Desborough with a dry pottle of sack before him, which he had just emptied, and which, though the element in which he trusted, had not yet restored him sense enough to speak, or courage enough to look over his shoulder. He had a Bible in his hand forsooth, as if it would make battle against the Evil One; but I peered over his shoulder, and, alas! the good gentleman held the bottom of the page uppermost. It was as if one of your musketeers, noble and valiant sir, were to present the butt of his piece at the enemy instead of the muzzle—ha, ha, ha! it was a sight to judge of schismatics by; both in point of head, and in point of heart, in point of skill and in point of courage.—Oh! Colonel, then was the time to see the true character of an authorized pastor of souls over those unhappy men, who leap into the fold without due and legal authority, and will, forsooth, preach, teach, and exhort, and blasphemously term the doctrine of the church saltless porridge and dry chips.” “I have no doubt you were ready to meet the danger, reverend sir; but I would fain know of what nature it was, and from whence it was to be apprehended?” “Was it for me to make such inquiry?” said the clergyman, triumphantly. “Is it for a brave soldier to number his enemies, or inquire from what quarter they are to come?—No, sir, I was there with match lighted, bullet in my mouth, and my harquebuss shouldered, to encounter as many devils as hell could pour up, were they countless as motes in the sunbeam, and came from all points of the compass. The papists talk of the Temptation of Saint Anthony— pshaw! let them double all the myriads which the brain of a crazy Dutch painter hath invented, and you shall find a poor Presbyterian divine—I will answer for one at least,—who, not in his own strength, but his Master’s, will receive the assault in such sort, that far from returning against him as against yonder poor hermit, day after day, and night after night, he will at once pack them off as with a vengeance to the uttermost parts of Assyria.” “Still,” said the Colonel, “I pray to know whether you saw anything

[Chap. 9]



109

upon which to exercise your pious learning?” “Saw?” answered the divine; “no, truly, I saw nothing, nor did I look for any one. Thieves will not attack well-armed travellers, nor will devils or evil spirits come against one who bears in his bosom the word of truth, in the very language in which it was first dictated. No, sir, they shun a divine who can understand the holy text, as a crow is said to keep wide of a gun loaded with hail-shot.” They had walked a little way back upon their road, to give time for this conversation; and the Colonel, perceiving it was about to lead to no satisfactory explanation of the real cause of alarm on the preceding night, turned round, and observing it was time they should go to the Lodge, began to move in that direction with his three companions. It was now becoming dark, and the towers of Woodstock arose high above the umbrageous shroud which the forest spread around the ancient and venerable mansion. From one of the highest turrets, which could still be distinguished as it rose against the clear blue sky, there gleamed a light like that of a candle within the building. The Mayor stopped short, and catching fast hold of the divine, and then of Colonel Everard, exclaimed, in a trembling and hasty, but suppressed tone, “Do you see yonder light?” “Ay, marry do I,” said Colonel Everard; “and what does that matter?—a light in a garret-room of such an old mansion as Woodstock is no subject for wonder, I trow.” “But a light from Rosamond’s Tower is surely so,” said the Mayor. “True,” said the Colonel, something surprised, when, after a careful examination, he satisfied himself that the worthy magistrate’s conjecture was real. “That is indeed Rosamond’s Tower; and as the drawbridge by which it was accessible has been destroyed for centuries, it is hard to say what chance could have lighted a lamp in such an inaccessible place.” “That light burns with no earthly fuel,” said the Mayor; “neither from whale nor olive, nor bees-wax, nor mutton-suet either. I dealt in these commodities, Colonel, before I went into my present line; and I can assure you I could distinguish the sort of light they give, one from another, at a greater distance than yonder turret—Look you, that is no earthly flame.—See you not something blue and reddish upon the edges?—that bodes full well where it comes from. —Colonel, in my opinion we had better go back to sup at the town, and leave the Devil and the red-coats to settle their matters together for to-night; and then when we come back the next morning, we will have a pull with the party that chances to keep a-field.” “You will do as you please, Master Mayor,” said Everard, “but

110



Vol. 1, ch. 9

my duty requires me that I should see the Commissioners to night.” “And mine requires me to see the foul Fiend,” said Master Holdenough, “if he dare make himself visible to me. I wonder not that, knowing who is approaching, he betakes himself to the very citadel, the inner and the last defences of this ancient and haunted mansion. He is dainty, I warrant you, and must dwell where is a relish of luxury and murther about the walls of his chamber. In yonder turret sinned Rosamond, and in yonder turret she suffered; and there she sits, or, more likely, the Enemy in her shape, as I have heard true men of Woodstock tell.—I wait on you, good Colonel—Master Mayor will do as he pleases. The strong man hath fortified himself in his dwelling-house, but, lo, there comes another stronger than he.” “For me,” said the Mayor, “who am as unlearned as I am unwarlike, I will not engage either with the Powers of the Earth, or the Prince of the Powers of the Air, and I will go back to Woodstock;— and hark ye, good fellow,” slapping Wildrake on the shoulder, “I will bestow on thee a shilling wet and a shilling dry if thou wilt go with me.” “Gadzookers, Master Mayor,” said Wildrake, neither flattered by the magistrate’s familiarity of address, nor captivated by his munificence—“I wonder who the devil made you and me fellows? and, besides, do you think I would go back to Woodstock with your worshipful cock’s-head, when, by good management, I may get a peep of fair Rosamond, and see whether she was that choice and incomparable piece of ware which the world has been told of by rhymers and ballad-makers?” “Speak less lightly and wantonly, friend,” said the divine; “we are to resist the Devil that he may flee from us, and not to tamper with him, or enter into his counsels, or traffic with the merchandize of his great Vanity Fair.” “Mind what the good man says, Wildrake,” said the Colonel, “and take heed another time how thou doest suffer thy wit to outrun discretion.” “I am beholden to the reverend gentleman for his advice,” answered Wildrake, upon whose tongue it was difficult to impose any curb however, even when his own safety rendered it most desirable. “But, gadzookers, let him have had what experience he will in fighting with the Devil, he never saw one so black as I had a tussle with—not an hundred years ago.” “How, friend,” said the clergyman, who understood everything literally when apparitions were mentioned, “have you had so late a visitation of Satan? Believe me, then, that I wonder why thou darest

[Chap. 9]



111

to entertain his name so often and so lightly, as I see thou doest use it in thy ordinary discourse. But when and where didst thou see the Evil One?” Everard hastily interposed, lest, by something yet more strongly alluding to Cromwell, his maladroit squire should, in mere wantonness, betray his interview with the General. “The young man raves,” he said, “of a dream which he had the other night, when he and I slept together in Victor Lee’s chamber, belonging to the ranger’s apartments at the Lodge.” “Thanks for help at a pinch, good patron,” said Wildrake, whispering into Everard’s ear, who in vain endeavoured to shake him off,— “a fib never failed a fanatic.” “You, also, spoke something too lightly of these matters, considering the work which we have in hand, worthy Colonel,” said the Presbyterian divine. “Believe me, the young man, thy servant, was more like to see visions than to dream merely idle dreams in that apartment; for I have always heard, that, next to Rosamond’s Tower, in which, as I said, she played the wanton, and was afterwards poisoned by Queen Eleanor, Victor Lee’s chamber was the place in the Lodge of Woodstock more peculiarly the haunt of evil spirits. I pray you, young man, tell me this dream or vision of yours.” “With all my heart, sir,” said Wildrake—then addressing his patron, who began to interfere, he said, “Tush, sir, you have had the discourse for an hour, and why should not I hold forth in my turn? By this darkness, if you keep me silent any longer I will turn Independent preacher, and stand up in your despite for the freedom of private judgment.—And so, reverend sir, I was dreaming of a carnal divertisement called a bull-baiting; and methought they were venturing dogs at head, as merrily as e’er I saw them at Tutbury-Bullrunning; and methought I heard some one say, there was the Devil come to have a sight of the bull-ring. Well, I thought that, gadswoons, I would have a peep at his Infernal Majesty. So I looked, and there was a butcher in greasy woollen, with his steel by his side; but he was none of the Devil. And there was a drunken cavalier, with his mouth full of oaths, and his stomach full of emptiness, and a goldlaced waistcoat in a very dilapidated condition, and a ragged hat, with a piece of a feather in it; and he was none of the Devil neither. And here was a miller, his hands dusty with meal, and every atom of it stolen: and there was a vintner, his green apron stained with wine, and every drop of it sophisticated; but neither was the old gentleman I looked for to be detected among those artizans of iniquity. At length, sir, I saw a grave person with cropped hair, a pair of longish and projecting ears, a band as broad as a slobbering bib under his

112



Vol. 1, ch. 9

chin, a brown coat surmounted by a Geneva cloak, and I had old Nicholas at once in his genuine paraphernalia, by ——.” “Shame, shame!” said Colonel Everard. “What? behave thus to an old gentleman and a divine!”— “Nay, let him proceed,” said the minister, with perfect equanimity, “if thy friend, or secretary, is gibing, I must have less patience than becomes my profession, if I could not bear an idle jest, and forgive him who makes it. Or if, on the other hand, the Enemy has really presented himself to the young man in such a guise as he intimates, wherefore should we be surprised that he, who can take upon him the form of an angel of light, should be able to assume that of a frail and peccable mortal, whose spiritual calling and profession ought, indeed, to induce him to make his life an example to others; but whose conduct, nevertheless, such is the imperfection of our unassisted nature, sometimes rather presents us with a warning of what we should shun?” “Now, by the mass, honest dominie—I mean reverend sir—I crave you a thousand pardons,” said Wildrake, penetrated by the quietness and patience of the presbyter’s rebuke. “By Saint George, if quiet patience will do it, thou art fit to play a game at foils with the Devil himself, and I would be contented to hold stakes.” As he concluded an apology, which was certainly not uncalled for, and seemed to be received in perfectly good part, they approached so close to the exterior door of the Lodge, that they were challenged with the emphatic Stand, by a sentinel who mounted guard there. Colonel Everard replied, A friend; and the sentinel repeating his command, “Stand, friend,” proceeded to call the corporal of the guard. The corporal came forth, and at the same time turned out his guard. Colonel Everard gave his name and designation, as well as those of his companions, on which the corporal said that he doubted not there would be orders for his instant admission; but, in the first place, Master Tomkins must be consulted, for that he might learn their honours’ mind. “How, sir!” said the Colonel, “do you, knowing who I am, presume to keep me on the outside of your post?” “Not, if your honour pleases to enter,” said the corporal, “and undertakes to be my warranty; but such are the orders of my post.” “Nay, then, do your duty,” said the Colonel; “but are the cavaliers up, or what is the matter, that you keep so close and strict a watch?” The fellow gave no distinct answer, but muttered between his moustaches something about the Enemy, and the roaring Lion who goeth about seeking what he may devour. Presently afterwards Tomkins appeared, followed by two servants bearing lights in great stand-

[Chap. 10]



113

ing brass candlesticks. They marched before Colonel Everard and his party, keeping as close to each other as two cloves of the same orange, and starting from time to time, and shouldering as they passed through sundry intricate passages, they led the way up a large and ample wooden staircase, the banisters, rail, and lining of which were executed in black oak, and finally into a long saloon, or parlour, where there was a prodigious fire, and about twelve candles of the largest size distributed in sconces against the wall. There were seated the Commissioners, who now held in their power the ancient mansion and royal domain of Woodstock.

Chapter Ten The bloody bear, an independent beast, Unlick’d to form, in groans his hate express’d— . . . . . . . . . Next him the buffoon ape, as atheists use, Mimick’d all sects, and had his own to choose. Hind and Panther

T              in the parlour which we have described, served to enable Everard easily to recognise his acquaintances, Desborough, Harrison, and Bletson, who had assembled themselves round an oak table of large dimensions, placed near the blazing chimney, on which were arranged wine, and ale, and materials for smoking, then the general indulgence of the time. There was a species of movable cupboard set betwixt the table and the door, calculated originally for a display of plate upon grand occasions, but at present only used as a screen; which purpose it served so effectually, that, ere he had coasted around it, Everard heard the following fragment of what Desborough was saying, in his coarse strong voice: —“Sent him to share wi’ us, I’se warrant ye—It was always his Excellency my brother-in-law’s way—if he made a treat for five friends, he would invite more than table could hold—I have known him ask three men to eat two eggs.” “Hush, hush,” said Bletson; and the servants making their appearance from behind the tall cupboard, announced Colonel Everard. It may not be unpleasing to the reader to have a description of the party into which he now entered. Desborough was a stout, bull-necked man, of middle size, with heavy vulgar features, grizzled bushy eyebrows, and wall-eyes. The flourish of his powerful relative’s fortunes, had burst forth in the finery of his dress, which was much more ornamented than was usual among the roundheads. There was embroidery on his cloak,

114



Vol. 1, ch. 10

lace upon his band; his hat displayed a feather with a golden clasp, and all his habiliments were those of a cavalier, or follower of the court, rather than the plain dress of a parliamentary officer. But, Heaven knows, there was little of court-like grace or dignity in the person or demeanour of the individual, who became his fine suit as the hog on the sign-post does his gilded armour. It was not that he was positively deformed, or mis-shaped, for, taken in detail, the figure was well enough. But his limbs seemed to act upon different and contradictory principles. They were not, as the play says, in a concatenation accordingly;—the right hand moved as it was upon bad terms with the left, and the legs showed an inclination to foot it in different and opposite directions. In short, to use an extravagant comparison, the members of Colonel Desborough seemed rather to resemble the disputatious representatives of a federative congress, than the well-ordered union of the orders of the state, in a firm and well-compacted monarchy, where each holds his own place, and all obey the dictates of a common head. General Harrison, the second of the Commissioners, was a tall, thin, middle-aged man, who had risen into his high situation in the army, and the intimacy of Cromwell, by his dauntless courage in the field, and the popularity he had acquired by his exalted enthusiasm amongst the military saints, sectaries, and independents, who composed the strength of the existing army. Harrison was of mean extraction, and bred up to his father’s employment of a butcher. Nevertheless, his appearance, though coarse, was not vulgar, like that of Desborough, who had so much the advantage of him in birth and education. He had, as we have said, a masculine height and strength of figure, was well made, and in his manner announced a rough military character, which might be feared, but could not be the object of contempt or ridicule. His aquiline nose and dark black eyes set off to some advantage a countenance otherwise irregular, and the wild enthusiasm that sometimes sparkled in them as he dilated on his opinions to others, and often seemed to slumber under his long dark eye-lashes as he mused upon them himself, gave something strikingly wild, and even noble, to his aspect. He was one of the chief leaders of those who were called Fifth-Monarchy men, who, going even beyond the usual fanaticism of the age vainly and presumptuously to interpret the Book of the Revelations after their own fancies, considered that the second Advent of the Messiah, and the Millenium, or reign of the Saints upon earth, was close at hand, and that they themselves, illuminated, as they believed, with the power of foreseeing these approaching events, were the chosen instruments for the establishment of the New Reign, or Fifth Mon-

[Chap. 10]



115

archy, as it was called, and were fated also to win its honours, whether celestial or terrestrial. When this spirit of enthusiasm, which operated like a partial insanity, was not immediately affecting Harrison’s mind, he was a shrewd worldly man, and a good soldier; one who missed no opportunity of mending his fortune, and who, in expecting the exaltation of the Fifth Monarchy, was, in the meanwhile, a ready instrument for the establishment of the Lord General’s supremacy. Whether it was owing to his early occupation, and habits of indifference to pain or bloodshed, to natural disposition and want of feeling, or, finally, to the awakened character of his enthusiasm, which made him look upon those who opposed him, as opposing the Divine will, and therefore meriting no favour or mercy, is not easy to say. But all agreed, that after a victory, or the successful storm of a town, Harrison was one of the most cruel and pitiless in Cromwell’s army; always urging some misapplied text to authorize the continued execution of the fugitives, and sometimes even putting to death those who had surrendered themselves as prisoners. It was said, that at times the recollection of some of those cruelties troubled his conscience, and disturbed the dreams of beatification in which his imagination indulged. When Everard entered the apartment, this true representative of the fanatical soldiers of the day, who filled those ranks and regiments which Cromwell had politically kept on foot, while he procured the reduction of those in which the Presbyterian interest predominated, was seated a little apart from the others, his legs crossed, and stretched out at length towards the fire, his head rested on his elbow, and turned upwards, as if studying, with the most profound gravity, the half-seen carving of the Gothic roof. Bletson remains to be mentioned, who, in person and figure, was diametrically different from the other two. There was neither foppery nor slovenliness about his exterior, nor had he any marks of military service or rank about his person. A small walking rapier seemed merely worn as a badge of his rank as a gentleman, without his hand having the least purpose of becoming acquainted with the hilt, or his eye with the blade. His countenance was thin and acute, marked with lines which thought rather than age had traced upon it; and with a habitual sneer on his countenance, even when he least desired his features should wear that expression, which seemed to assure the person addressed, that in Bletson he conversed with a person of intellect far superior to his own. This was a triumph of intellect only, for on all occasions of difference respecting speculative opinions, and indeed on all controversies whatsoever, Bletson avoided

116



Vol. 1, ch. 10

the ultimate ratio of blows and knocks. Yet this pacific gentleman had found himself obliged to serve personally in the Parliamentary army at the commencement of the Civil War, till happening unluckily to come in contact with the fiery Prince Rupert, his retreat was judged so precipitate, that it required all the shelter his friends could afford, to keep him free of an impeachment or a court-martial. But as Bletson spoke well, and with great effect, in the House of Commons, which was his natural sphere, and was on that account high in the estimation of his party, his behaviour at Edgehill was posted over, and he continued to take an active share in all the political events of that bustling period, though he faced not again the actual front of war. Bletson’s theoretical principles of politics had long inclined him to espouse the opinions of Harrington and others, who had adopted the visionary idea of establishing a pure democratical republic in so extensive a country as Britain—where there is such an infinite difference betwixt ranks, habits, education, and morals—where there is such an immense disproportion betwixt the wealth of individuals —and where a large proportion of the inhabitants consists of the inferior classes of the large towns and manufacturing districts, men entitled to, and demanding, every degree of protection from the existing government but unfitted to bear that share in the direction of a state, which must be exercised by the members of a republic in the proper sense of the word. Accordingly, so soon as the experiment was made, it became obvious that no such form of government could be adopted with the least chance of stability; and the question came only to be, whether the remnant, or, as it was vulgarly called, the Rump of the Long Parliament, now reduced by the seclusion of so many of the members to a few scores of persons, should continue, in spite of their unpopularity, to rule the affairs of Britain—whether they should cast all loose by dissolving themselves, and issuing writs to convoke a new Parliament, the composition of which no one could answer for, any more than for the measures they might take when assembled—or lastly whether Cromwell, as actually happened, was not to throw the sword into the balance, and boldly possess himself of that power which the remnant of the Parliament were unable to hold, and yet afraid to resign? Such being the state of parties, the Council of State, in distributing the good things in their gift, endeavoured to soothe and gratify the army, as a beggar flings crusts to a growling mastiff. For this view Desborough had been created a Commissioner in the Woodstock matter to gratify Cromwell, Harrison to soothe the fierce Fifth-

[Chap. 10]



117

Monarchy men, and Bletson as a sincere republican, and one of their own leaven. But if they supposed Bletson had the least intention of becoming a martyr to, or submitting to any serious loss on account of, his republicanism they much mistook the man. He entertained those principles sincerely, and not the less that they were found impracticable upon experience, for the miscarriage of his experiment no more converts a theoretical speculatist, than the explosion of a retort undeceives an alchemist. But Bletson was quite prepared to submit to Cromwell, or any one else who might be actually possessed of the existing powers, and made little difference betwixt the various kinds of government which might in practice be established, holding all to be nearly equal in imperfection, so soon as they diverged from the model of Harrington’s Oceana. Cromwell had already been tampering with him, like wax between his finger and thumb, and which he was ready shortly to seal with, smiling at the same time to himself when he beheld the Council of State giving rewards to Bletson as their faithful adherent, while he himself was secure of his allegiance, how soon soever the expected change of government should take place. But Bletson was still more attached to his metaphysical than his political creed, and carried his doctrines of the perfectibility of mankind as far as he did those respecting the supposed perfection of a model of government; and as in the one case he declared against all power which did not emanate from the people themselves, so, in his moral speculations, he was unwilling to refer any of the phenomena of Nature to a Final Cause. When pushed, indeed, very hard, Bletson was compelled to mutter some inarticulate and unintelligible doctrines concerning an Animus Mundi, or Creative Power in the works of Nature, by which she originally called into existence, and still continues to preserve, her works. To this Power, he said, some of the purest metaphysicians rendered a certain degree of homage; nor was he himself inclined absolutely to censure those, who, by institution of holidays, choral dances and songs, harmless feasts and libations, might be disposed to celebrate the Great Goddess Nature; at least dancing, singing, feasting, and sporting, being comfortable things to both young and old, they might as well sport, dance and feast, in honour of such appointed holidays, as under any other pretext. But then this moderate show of religion was to be practised under such exceptions as are admitted by the Highgate oath; and no one was to be compelled to dance, drink, sing, or feast, whose taste did not happen to incline them to such divertisements; nor was any one to be compelled to worship the creative power,

118



Vol. 1, ch. 10

whether under the name of the Animus Mundi, or any other whatsoever. The interference of the Deity in the affairs of mankind he entirely disowned, having proved to his own satisfaction that the idea originated entirely in priestcraft. In short, with the shadowy metaphysical exception aforesaid, Master Joshua Bletson of Doutington, member for Littlefaith, came as near the predicament of an atheist, as is perhaps possible for a man to do. We say this with the necessary salvo; for we have known many like Bletson, whose curtains have been shrewdly shaken by superstition, though their pillows were unsanctioned by any religious faith. The devils, we are assured, believe and tremble; but on earth there are many, who, in worse plight than even the natural children of perdition, tremble without believing, and fear even while they blaspheme. It followed, of course, that nothing could be treated with more scorn by Master Bletson, than the debates about Prelacy and Presbytery, about Presbytery and Independency, about Quakers and Anabaptists, Muggletonians and Brownists, and all the various sects by which the Civil War had commenced, and by which its dissensions were still continued. “It was,” he said, “as if beasts of burthen should quarrel amongst themselves about the fashion of their halters and pack-saddles, instead of embracing a favourable opportunity of throwing them aside.” Other witty and pithy remarks he used to make when time and place suited; for instance, at the club called the Rota, frequented by Saint John, and established by Harrington for the free discussion of political and religious subjects. But when Bletson was out of this Academe, or stronghold of philosophy, he was very cautious how he carried his contempt of the general prejudice in favour of religion and Christianity farther than an implied objection or a sneer. If he had an opportunity of talking in private with an ingenuous and intelligent youth, he sometimes attempted to make a proselyte, and showed much address in bribing the vanity of inexperience, by suggesting that a mind like his ought to spurn the prejudices impressed upon it in childhood, and, when assuming the latus clavus of reason and laying aside the bulla of juvenile incapacity, as Bletson called it, should proceed to examine and decide for itself. It frequently happened, that the youth was induced to adopt the doctrines, in whole or in part, of the sage who had seen his natural genius, and who had urged him to exert it in examining, detecting, and declaring for himself; and thus flattery gave proselytes to infidelity, which could not have been gained by all the perverted subtlety of Bletson. These attempts to extend the influence of what was called freethinking and philosophy, were carried on, as we have hinted, with a

[Chap. 10]



119

caution dictated by the timidity of the philosopher’s disposition. He was conscious his doctrines were suspected, and his proceedings watched, by the two principal sects of Prelatists and Presbyterians, who, howsoe’er inimical to each other, were still more hostile to an opponent, not only to a church establishment of any kind, but to every denomination of Christianity. He found it more easy to shroud himself among the Independents, whose demands were for a general liberty of conscience, or an unlimited toleration, and whose faith, differing in all respects and particulars, was by some pushed into such wild errors, as to get totally beyond the bounds of every species of Christianity, and approach very near to infidelity itself, as extremes of each kind are said to approach each other. Bletson mixed a good deal among these sectaries: and such was his confidence in his own logic and address, that he is supposed to have entertained hopes of bringing to his opinions in time the enthusiastic Vane, as well as the no less enthusiastic Harrison, providing he could but get them to resign their visions of a Fifth Monarchy, and induce them to be contented with a reign of Philosophers in England for the natural period of their lives, instead of the reign of the Saints during the Millenium. Such was the singular group into which Everard was now introduced, showing, in their various opinions, upon how many devious coasts human nature may make shipwreck, when she has once let go her hold on the anchor which religion has given her to lean upon: the acute self-conceit and worldly learning of Bletson—the rash and ignorant conclusions of the fierce and untutored Harrison, leading them into the opposite extremes of enthusiasm and infidelity—while Desborough, constitutionally stupid, thought nothing about religion at all; and while the others were active in making sail on differing but equally erroneous courses, he might be said to perish like a vessel, which springs a leak and founders in the roadstead. It was wonderful to behold what a strange variety of mistakes and errors, on the part of the King and his Ministers, on the part of the Parliament and their leaders, on the part of the allied kingdoms of Scotland and England towards each other, had combined to rear up men of such dangerous opinions and interested character among the arbiters of the destiny of Britain. Those who argue for party’s sake, will see all the faults on the one side, without deigning to look at those on the other; those who study history candidly and for instruction, will perceive that nothing but the want of concession on either side, and the deadly height to which the animosity of the King’s and Parliament’s parties had arisen, could have so totally overthrown the well-poised balance of

120



Vol. 1, ch. 11

the English constitution. But we hasten to quit political reflections, the rather that ours, we believe, would please neither Whig nor Tory.

Chapter Eleven Three form a College—an you give us four, Let him bring his share with him. B   F

M  B arose, and paid his respects to Colonel Everard, with the ease and courtesy of a gentleman of the time; though on every account grieved at his intrusion, as a religious man who, he knew, held his free-thinking principles in detestation, and would effectually prevent his conversion of Harrison, and even of Desborough, if anything could be moulded out of such a clod to the worship of the Animus Mundi. Moreover, Bletson knew Everard to be a man of steady probity, and by no means disposed to close with a scheme on which he had successfully sounded the other two, calculated to assure the Commissioners of some little private indemnification for the trouble they were to give themselves in the public business. The philosopher was yet less pleased when he saw the magistrate and the pastor who had met him in his flight of the preceding evening, when he had been seen, parma non bene relicta, with cloak and doublet left behind him. The presence of Colonel Everard was as unpleasing to Desborough as to Bletson; but the former having no philosophy in him, nor an idea that it was possible for any man to resist helping himself out of untold money, was chiefly embarrassed by the thought, that the plunder which they might be able to achieve out of their trust, must, by this unwelcome addition to their numbers, be divided into four parts instead of three; and this reflection added to the natural awkwardness with which he grumbled forth a sort of welcome, addressed to Everard. As for Harrison, he remained like one on higher sphere intent; his posture unmoved, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as before, and no part of him indicating the least consciousness that the company had been more than doubled around him. Meantime, Everard took his place at the table, as a man who assumed his own right, and pointed to his companions to sit down nearer the foot of the board. Wildrake so far misunderstood his signals, as to sit down above the Mayor; but, rallying his recollection at a look from his patron, he rose and took his place lower, whistling,

[Chap. 11]



121

however, as he went, a sound at which the company stared, as at a freedom highly unbecoming. To complete his indecorum, he seized upon a pipe, and filling it from a large tobacco-box, was soon immersed in a cloud of his own raising; from which a hand shortly after emerged, seized on the black-jack of ale, withdrew it within the vapoury sanctuary, and, after a potential draught, replaced it upon the table, and began to renew the cloud which his intermitted exercise of the tube had almost allowed to subside. Nobody made any observation on his conduct, out of respect, probably, to Colonel Everard, who bit his lip, but continued silent; aware that censure might extract something more unequivocally characteristic of a cavalier, from his refractory companion. As silence seemed too awkward, and the others made no advances to break it, beyond the ordinary salutation, Colonel Everard at length said, “I presume, gentlemen, that you are somewhat surprised at my arrival here, and thus intruding myself into your meeting.” “Why the dickens should we be surprised, Colonel?” said Desborough; “we know his Excellency, my brother-in-law Noll’s—I mean the Lord Cromwell’s way, of over-quartering his men on the towns he marches through. Thou hast obtained a share in our commission?” “And in that,” said Bletson, smiling and bowing, “the LordGeneral has given us the most acceptable colleague that could have been added to our number. No doubt your authority for joining with us must be under warrant of the Council of State?” “Of that, gentlemen,” said the Colonel, “I will presently advise you.”—He took out his warrant accordingly, and was about to communicate the contents. But observing that there were three or four half-empty flasks upon the table, that Desborough looked more stupid than usual, and that even the philosopher’s eyes were reeling in his head, notwithstanding the temperance of Bletson’s usual habits, he concluded that they had been fortifying themselves against the horrors of the haunted mansion, by laying in a store of what is called Dutch courage, and therefore prudently resolved to postpone his more important business with them till the cooler hour of morning. He therefore, instead of presenting the General’s warrant superseding their commission, contented himself with replying,—“My business has, of course, some reference to your proceedings here. But here is—excuse my curiosity—a reverend gentleman,” pointing to Master Holdenough, “who has told me that you are so strangely embarrassed here, as to require both the civil and spiritual authority to enable you to keep possession of Woodstock.” “Before we go into that matter,” said Bletson, blushing up to the

122



Vol. 1, ch. 11

eyes at the recollection of his own fears, so manifestly displayed, yet so inconsistent with his principles, “I would like to know who this other stranger is, who has come with the worthy magistrate, and the no less worthy Presbyterian.” “Meaning me?” said Wildrake, laying his pipe aside; “Gadzooks, the time hath been that I could have answered the question with a better title; but at present I am only his honour’s poor clerk, or secretary, whichever is the current phrase.” “’Fore George, my lively blade, thou art a frank fellow of thy tattle,” said Desborough. “There is my secretary Tomkins, whom men sillily enough call Fibbet, and the honourable LieutenantGeneral Harrison’s secretary Bibbet, who are now at supper below stairs, that durst not for their ears speak a phrase above their breath in the presence of betters, unless to answer a question.” “Yes, Colonel Everard,” said the philosopher with his quiet smile, glad, apparently, to divert the conversation from the topic of last night’s alarm, and recollections which humbled his self-love and self-satisfaction,—“yes; and when Master Fibbet and Master Bibbet do speak, their affirmations are as much in a common mould of mutual attestation, as their names would accord in the verses of a poet. If Master Fibbet happens to tell a fiction, Master Bibbet swears it is truth. If Master Bibbet chances to have gotten drunk in the fear of the Lord, Master Fibbet swears he is sober. I have called my own secretary Gibbet, though his name chances to be only Gibeon, a worthy Israelite at your service, but as pure a youth as ever picked a lamb-bone at Paschal. But I call him Gibbet, merely to make up the holy trefoil with another rhyme. This squire of thine, Colonel Everard, looks as if he might be worthy to be coupled with the rest of the fraternity.” “Not I, truly,” said the cavalier; “I’ll be coupled with no Jew that was ever whelped, and no Jewess neither.” “Scorn not for that, young man,” said the philosopher; “the Jews are, in point of religion, the elder brethren, you know.” “The Jews older than the Christians?” said Desborough; “ ’fore George, they will have thee before the General Assembly, Bletson, if thou venture to say so.” Wildrake laughed without ceremony at the gross ignorance of Desborough, and was joined by a sniggling response from behind the cupboard, which, when inquired into, proved to be produced by the serving-men. These worthies, timorous as their betters, when they had set down the lights, and were supposed to have left the room, had only absconded behind their present place of concealment.

[Chap. 11]



123

“How now, ye rogues,” said Bletson, angrily; “do you not know your duty better?” “We beg your worthy honour’s pardon,” said one of the men, “but we had set the candlesticks down on the table, and truly we dared not go down stairs till we should get a light.” “A light, ye cowardly poltroons?” said the philosopher, “what—to show which of you looks palest when a rat squeaks?—but take a candlestick and begone, you cowardly villains! the devils you are so much afraid of must be but paltry kites, if they hawk at such bats as you are.” The servants, without replying, took up one of the candlesticks, and prepared to retreat, Trusty Tomkins at the head of the troop, when suddenly, as they arrived at the door of the parlour, which had been left half open, it was shut violently. The three terrified domestics stumbled back into the middle of the room, as if a shot had been discharged in their face, and all who were at the table started to their feet. Colonel Everard was incapable of a moment’s fear, even if anything frightful had been seen; but he remained stationary, to see what his companions would do, and get at the bottom, if possible, of the cause of their alarm upon an occasion so trifling. The philosopher seemed to think that he was the person chiefly concerned to show manhood on this occasion. He walked to the door accordingly, murmuring at the cowardice of the servants; but at such a snail’s pace, that it seemed he would most willingly have been anticipated by any one whom his reproaches had roused to exertion. “Cowardly blockheads!” he said at last, seizing hold of the handle of the door, but without turning it effectually round—“dare you not open a door?”—(still fumbling with the lock)—“dare you not go down a staircase without light?—Here— bring me the candle—you cowardly villains!—by heaven, something sighs on the outside!” As he spoke, he let go the handle of the parlour door, and stepped back a pace or two into the apartment, with cheeks as pale as the band he wore. “Deus adjutor meus! ” said the Presbyterian clergyman, rising from his seat. “Give place, sir,” addressing Bletson; “it would seem I know more of this matter than thou, and I bless Heaven I am armed for the conflict.” Bold as a grenadier about to mount a breach, yet with the same belief in the existence of a great danger to be encountered, as well as the same reliance in the goodness of his cause, the worthy man stepped before the philosophical Bletson, and taking a light from a

124



Vol. 1, ch. 11

sconce in one hand, quietly opened the door with the other, and standing in the threshold, said, “Here is nothing!” “And who expected to see anything,” said Bletson, “excepting those terrified zealots, who take fright at every puff of wind which whistles through the passages of this old dungeon?” “Mark you, Master Tomkins,” said one of the waiting-men in a whisper to the steward,—“See how boldly the minister pressed forwards before all of them. Ah! Master Tomkins, our parson is the real commissioned officer of the church—your lay-preachers are no better than a parcel of club-men and volunteers.” “Follow me those who list,” said Master Holdenough, “or go before me those who dare, I will walk through the habitable places of this house before I leave it, and satisfy myself whether Satan hath really nestled himself among these dreary dens of ancient wickedness, or whether, like the wicked of whom holy David speaketh, we are afraid, and flee when no one pursueth.” Harrison, who had heard these words, sprung from his seat, and drawing his sword, exclaimed, “Were there as many fiends in the house as there are hairs on my head, upon this cause I will charge them up to their very trenches!” So saying, he brandished his weapon, and pressed to the head of the column, where he moved side by side with the minister. The Mayor of Woodstock next joined the body, thinking himself safer perhaps in the company of his pastor; and the whole train, formed in close order, accompanied by the servants bearing lights, set forward to search the Lodge for some cause of that panic with which they seemed to be suddenly seized. “Nay, take me with you, my friends,” said Colonel Everard, who had looked on in surprise, and was now about to follow the party, when Bletson laid hold on his cloak, and begged him to remain. “You see, my good Colonel,” said he, affecting a courage which his shaking voice belied, “here are only you and I, and honest Desborough, left behind in garrison, while all the others are absent on a sally. We must not hazard the whole troops in one sortie—that were unmilitary—Ha, ha, ha!” “In the name of Heaven, what means all this?” said Everard. “I heard a foolish tale about apparitions as I came this way, and now I find you all half mad with fear, and cannot get a word of sense among so many of you. Fie, Colonel Desborough—fie, Master Bletson—try to compose yourselves, and let me know, in Heaven’s name, the cause of all this disturbance. One would be apt to think your brains were turned.” “And so mine well may,” said Desborough, “ay, and overturned

[Chap. 11]



125

too, since my bed last night was turned upside down, and I was placed for ten minutes heels uppermost, and head downmost, like a bullock going to be shod.” “What means this nonsense, Master Bletson?—Desborough must have had the night-mare.” “Nay, faith, Colonel, the goblins, or whatever else they were, had been favourable to honest Desborough, for they reposed the whole of his person on that part of his body—which—Hark, did you not hear something?—which is the central point of gravity, namely his head.” “Did you see anything to alarm you?” said the Colonel. “Nothing,” said Bletson; “but we heard hellish noises, as all our people did; and I, believing little of ghosts and apparitions, concluded the cavaliers were taking us at advantage; so remembering Rainsborough’s fate, I e’en jumped the window, and ran to Woodstock, to call the soldiers to the rescue of Harrison and Desborough.” “And did you not first go to see what the danger was?” “Ah, my good friend, you forget that I laid down my commission at the time of the self-denying ordinance. It would have been quite inconsistent with my duty as a Parliament-man, to be brawling amidst a set of ruffians, without any military authority. No—when the Parliament commanded me to sheathe my sword, Colonel, I have too much veneration for their authority, to be found again with it drawn in my hand.” “But the Parliament,” said Desborough, hastily, “did not command you to use your heels when your hands could have saved a man from choking. Ods dickens! you might have stopped when you saw my bed canted heels uppermost, and me half stifled in the bed-clothes —you might, I say, have stopped and lent a hand to pull it to rights, instead of jumping out of window, like a new-shorn sheep, so soon as you had run cross my room.” “Nay, worshipful Master Desborough,” said Bletson, winking on Everard, to show that he was playing on his thick-skulled colleague, “how could I tell your particular mode of reposing?—there are many tastes—I have known men who slept by choice on a slope or angle of forty-five.” “Yes, but did ever a man sleep standing on his head, except by miracle?” said Desborough. “Now, as to miracles—” said the philosopher, confident in the presence of Everard, besides that an opportunity of scoffing at religion really in some degree diverted his fear—“I leave these out of the question, seeing that the evidence on such subjects seems as little qualified to carry conviction, as a horse-hair to land a leviathan.”

126



Vol. 1, ch. 11

A loud clap of thunder, or a noise as formidable, rung through the Lodge as the scoffer had ended, which struck him pale and motionless, and made Desborough throw himself on his knees, and repeat exclamations and prayers in much admired confusion. “There must be contrivance here,” exclaimed Everard; and snatching one of the candles from a sconce, he rushed out of the apartment, little heeding the entreaties of the philosopher, who, in the extremity of his distress, conjured him by the Animus Mundi to remain to the assistance of a philosopher endangered by witches, and a Parliament-man assaulted by ruffians. As for Desborough, he only gaped like a clown in a pantomime; and, doubtful whether to follow or stop, his natural indolence prevailed, and he sat still. When on the landing-place of the stairs, Everard paused a moment to consider which were his best course to take. He heard the voices of men talking fast and loud, like people who wish to drown their fears, in the lower story; and aware that nothing could be discovered by those whose inquiries were conducted in a manner so noisy, he resolved to proceed in a different direction, and examine the second floor, which he had now gained. He had known every corner, both of the inhabited and uninhabited part of the mansion, and availed himself of the candle, to traverse two or three intricate passages, which he was afraid he might not remember with sufficient accuracy. This movement conveyed him to a sort of Oeuil-de-beuf, an octagon vestibule, or small hall, from which various rooms opened. Amongst these doors, Everard selected that which led to a very long, narrow, and dilapidated gallery, built in the time of Henry VIII., and running along the whole south-west side of the building, communicating at different points with the rest of the mansion. This he thought was like to be the post occupied by those who proposed to act the sprites upon the occasion; especially as its length and shape gave him some idea that it was a spot where the bold thunder might in many ways be imitated. Determined to ascertain the truth if possible, he placed his light on a table in the vestibule, and applied himself to open the door into the gallery. At this point he found himself strongly opposed either by a bolt drawn, or, as he rather conceived, by somebody from within resisting his attempt. He was induced to believe the latter, because the resistance slackened and was renewed, like that of human strength, instead of presenting the permanent opposition of an inanimate obstacle. Though Everard was a strong and active young man, he exhausted his strength in the vain attempt to open the door; and having paused to take breath, was about to renew his efforts with foot and shoulder, and to call at the same time for

[Chap. 11]



127

assistance, when to his surprise, on again attempting the door more gently, in order to ascertain if possible where the strength of the opposing obstacle was situated, he found it give way to a very slight impulse, some impediment fell broken to the ground, and the door flew wide open. The gust of wind, occasioned by the sudden opening of the door, blew out the candle, and Markham Everard was left in darkness, save where the moonshine, which the long side-row of latticed windows dimmed, could yet imperfectly force its way into the gallery, which lay in ghostly length before him. The melancholy and doubtful twilight was increased by a quantity of creeping plants on the outside, which, since all had been neglected in these ancient halls, now completely overgrown, had in some instances greatly diminished, and in others almost quite choked up, the space of the lattices, extending between the heavy stone shaftwork which divided the windows, both lengthways and across. On the other side there were no windows at all, and the gallery had been once completely hung with paintings, chiefly portraits, by which that side of the apartment had been adorned. Most of the pictures had been removed, yet the empty frames of some, and the tattered remnants of others, still were visible along the extent of the waste gallery; the look of which was so desolate, and so well adapted besides for mischief, supposing there were enemies near him, that Everard could not help pausing at the entrance, and recommending himself to God, ere, drawing his sword, he advanced into the apartment, treading as lightly as possible, and keeping in the shadow as much as he could. Markham Everard was by no means superstitious, but he had the usual credulity of his times; and though he did not yield easily to tales of supernatural visitations, yet he could not help thinking he was in the very situation, where, if such things were ever permitted, they might be expected to take place, while his own stealthy and illassured pace, his drawn weapon, and extended arms, being the very attitude and action of doubt and suspicion, tended to increase in his mind the gloomy feelings of which they are the usual indications, and with which they are constantly associated. Under such unpleasant impressions, and conscious of the neighbourhood of something unfriendly, Colonel Everard had already advanced about half along the gallery, when he heard some one sigh very near him, and a low soft voice pronounced his name. “Here I am,” he replied, while his heart beat thick and short. “Who calls on Markham Everard?” Another sigh was the only answer. “Speak,” said the Colonel, “whoever or whatsoever you be, and

128



Vol. 1, ch. 11

tell with what intent and purpose you are lurking in these apartments?” “With a better intent than yours,” returned the soft voice. “Than mine!” answered Everard in great surprise. “Who are you that dare judge of my intents?” “What, or who are you, Markham Everard, who wander by moonlight through these deserted halls of royalty, where none should be but those who mourn their downfall, or are sworn to avenge it?” “It is—and yet it cannot be,” said Everard; “yet it is, and must be —Alice Lee, the devil or you speaks. Answer me, I conjure you speak openly on what dangerous scheme are you engaged?—where is your father?—why are you here—wherefore do you run so deadly a venture?—Speak, I conjure you, Alice Lee!” “She whom you call on is at the distance of miles from this spot. What if her Genius speaks when she is absent?—what if the soul of an ancestress of hers and yours were now addressing you?—what if——” “Nay,” answered Everard, “but what if the dearest of human beings has caught a touch of her father’s enthusiasm? what if she is exposing her person to danger, her reputation to scandal, by traversing in disguise and in darkness a house filled with armed men? Speak to me, my fair cousin, in your own person. I am furnished with powers to protect my uncle, Sir Henry—to protect you too, dearest Alice, even against the consequences of this visionary and wild attempt. Speak—I see where you are, and with all my respect, I cannot submit to be thus practised upon. Trust me—trust your cousin Markham with your hand, and believe that he will die or place you in honourable safety.” As he spoke, he exercised his eyes as keenly as possible to detect where the speaker stood; and it seemed to him, that about three yards from him there was a shadowy form, of which he could not discern even the outline, placed as it was within the deep and prolonged shadow thrown by a space of wall intervening betwixt two windows, upon that side of the room from which light was admitted. He endeavoured to calculate, as well as he could, the distance betwixt himself and the object which he watched, under the impression, that if, by even using a slight degree of compulsion, he could detach his beloved Alice from the confederacy into which he supposed her father’s zeal for the cause of royalty had engaged her, he would be rendering them both the most essential favour. He could not indeed but conclude, that however successfully the plot which he conceived to be in agitation had proceeded against the timid Bletson, the stupid Desborough, and the crazy Harrison, there was

[Chap. 11]



129

little doubt that at length their artifices must necessarily bring shame and danger on those engaged in it. It must also be remembered, that Everard’s affection to his cousin, although of the most respectful and devoted character, partook less of the distant veneration which a lover of those days entertained for a lady whom he worshipped with humble diffidence, than of the fond and familiar feelings which a brother entertains towards a younger sister, whom he thinks himself entitled to guide, advise, and even in some degree to control. So kindly and intimate had been their intercourse, that he had little more hesitation in endeavouring to arrest her progress in the dangerous course in which she seemed to be engaged, even at the risk of giving her momentary offence, than he would have had in snatching her from a torrent or conflagration, at the chance of hurting her by the violence of his grasp. All this passed through his mind in the course of a single minute; and he resolved at all events to detain her on the spot, and compel, if possible, an explanation from her. With this purpose, Everard again conjured his cousin, in the name of Heaven, to give up this idle and dangerous mummery; and lending an accurate ear to her answer, endeavoured from the sound to calculate as nearly as possible the distance between them. “I am not she for whom you take me,” said the voice; “and dearer regards than aught connected with her life or death, bid me warn you to keep aloof, and leave this place.” “Not till I have convinced you of your childish folly,” said the Colonel, springing forward, and endeavouring to catch hold of her who spoke to him. But no female form was within his grasp—on the contrary, he was met by a shock which could come from no woman’s arm, and which was rude enough to stretch him on his back on the floor. At the same time he felt the point of a sword at his throat, and his hands so completely mastered, that not the slightest defence remained to him. “A cry for assistance,” said a voice near him, but not that which he had first heard, “will be stifled in your blood!—No harm is meant you—be wise, and be silent.” The fear of death, which Everard had often braved in the field of battle, became more horrible as he felt himself in the hands of unknown assassins, and totally devoid of all means of defence. The sharp point of the sword pricked his bare throat, and the foot of him who held it was upon his breast. He felt it was to be one single thrust, and an end there would be of life, and all the feverish joys and sorrows which agitate us so strangely, and from which we are yet so reluctant to part. Large drops of perspiration stood upon his

130



Vol. 1, ch. 11

forehead—his heart throbbed, as if it would burst from its confinement in the bosom—he experienced the agony which fear imposes on the brave man, acute in proportion to that which pain inflicts when it subdues the robust and healthy. “Cousin Alice,”—he attempted to speak, and the sword’s point pressed his throat yet more closely—“Cousin, let me not be murthered in a manner so fearful!” “I tell you,” replied the voice, “that you speak to one who is not here; but your life is not aimed at, providing you swear on your faith as a Christian, and your honour as a gentleman, that you will conceal what has happened, whether from the people below, or from any other person. On this condition you may rise; and if you seek her, you will find Alice Lee at Josceline’s cottage, in the forest.” “Since I may not help myself otherwise,” said Everard, “I swear, as I have a sense of religion and honour, I will say nothing of this violence, nor make any search after those who are concerned in it.” “For that we care nothing,” said the voice. “Thou hast an example how well thou may’st catch mischief on thy own part; but we are in case to defy thee. Rise, and begone!” The foot, the sword’s-point, were withdrawn, and Everard was about to start up hastily, when the voice, in the same softness of tone which distinguished it at first, said, “No haste—cold and bare steel is yet around thee. Now—now—now—(the words dying away as at a distance)—thou art free. Be secret, and be safe.” Markham Everard arose, and, in rising, embarrassed his feet with his own sword, which he had dropped when springing forwards, as he supposed, to lay hold of his fair cousin. He snatched it up in haste, and as his hand clasped the hilt, his courage, which had given way under the apprehension of instant death, began to return; and he considered, with almost his usual composure, what was to be done next. Deeply affronted at the disgrace which he had sustained, he questioned for an instant whether he ought to keep his extorted promise, or should not rather summon assistance, and make haste to discover and seize those who had been recently engaged in such violence on his person. But these persons, be they who they would, had had his life in their power—he had pledged his word in ransom of it—and what was more, he could not divest himself of the idea that his beloved Alice was a confidante at least, if not an actor, in the confederacy which had thus baffled him. This prepossession determined his conduct; for, though angry at supposing she must have been accessary to his personal ill-treatment, he could not in any event think of an instant search through the mansion, which might have committed her safety, or that of his uncle. “But I will to the

[Chap. 11]



131

hut,” he said—“I will instantly to the hut, ascertain her share in this wild and dangerous confederacy, and snatch her from ruin, if it be possible.” As, under the influence of the resolution which he had formed, Everard groped his way through the gallery, and regained the antiroom or vestibule, he heard his name called by the well-known voice of Wildrake,—“What ho!—hollo!—Colonel Everard—Mark Everard—it is dark as the devil’s mouth—speak—where are you?— The witches are keeping their hellish sabbath here, as I think.— Where are you?” “Here, here!” answered Everard. “Cease your bawling. Turn to the left, and you will meet me.” Guided by his voice, Wildrake soon appeared, with a light in one hand, and his drawn sword in the other. “Where have you been?” he said—“what has detained you?—Here are Bletson and brute Desborough, terrified out of their lives, and Harrison raving mad, because the devil will not be civil enough to rise to fight him.” “Saw or heard you nothing as you came along?” said Everard. “Nothing,” replied his friend, “excepting that when I first entered this cursed ruinous labyrinth, the light was struck out of my hand, as if by a switch, which obliged me to return for another.” “I must come by a horse instantly, Wildrake, and another for thyself, if it be possible.” “We can take two of those belonging to the troopers,” answered Wildrake. “But for what purpose should we run away, like rats, at this time in the evening?—Is the house falling?” “I cannot answer you,” said the Colonel, pushing forward into a room where there were some remains of furniture. Here the cavalier took a more strict view of his person, and exclaimed in wonder, “What the devil have you been fighting with, Markham, that has bedizened you after this sorry fashion?” “Fighting!” exclaimed Everard. “Yes,” replied his trusty attendant, “I say fighting. Look at yourself in the mirror.” He did, and saw he was covered with dust and blood. The latter proceeded from a scratch which he had received in the throat, as he struggled to extricate himself. With unaffected alarm, Wildrake undid his friend’s collar, and with eager haste proceeded to examine the wound, his hands trembling, and his eyes glistening with apprehension for his benefactor’s health. When, in spite of Everard’s struggles, he had examined the hurt and found it so trifling, he resumed the natural wildness of his character, perhaps the more readily that he had felt shame in departing from it, into one which expressed more

132



Vol. 1, ch. 11

of feeling than he would be thought to possess. “If that be the devil’s work, Mark,” said he, “the foul fiend’s claws are not nigh so formidable as they are represented; but no one shall say that your blood has been shed unrevenged, while Roger Wildrake was by your side. Where left you this same imp? I will back to the field of fight, confront him with my rapier, and were his nails tenpenny nails, and his teeth as long as those of a harrow, he shall render me reason for the injury he has done you.” “Madness—madness!” exclaimed Everard; “I had this trifling hurt by a fall—a basin and towel will wipe it away. Meanwhile, if you will ever do me kindness, get the troop-horses—command them for the service of the public, in the name of his Excellency the General. I will but wash, and join you in an instant before the gate.” “Well, I will serve you, Everard, as a mute serves the Grand Seignior, without knowing why or wherefore. But will you go without seeing these people below?” “Without seeing any one,” said Everard; “lose no time, for God’s sake.” He found out the non-commissioned officer, and demanded the horses in a tone of authority, to which the corporal yielded undisputed obedience, as one well aware of Colonel Everard’s military rank and consequence. So all was in a minute or two ready for the expedition.    

WOODSTOCK  

Chapter One —She kneel’d, and saint-like Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray’d devoutly. King Henry VIII

C  E  ’ departure at the late hour, for so it was then thought, of seven in the evening, excited much speculation. There was a gathering of menials and dependents in the outer chamber, or hall, for no one doubted that his sudden departure was owing to his having, as they expressed it, “seen something,” and all desired to know how a man of such acknowledged courage as Everard, looked under the awe of a recent apparition. But he gave them no time to make comments; for, striding through the hall wrapt in his riding-suit without speaking to anyone he threw himself on horseback, and rode furiously through the Chase, towards the hut of the keeper Josceline Joliffe. It was the natural disposition of Markham Everard to be hot, keen, earnest, impatient, and decisive to a degree of precipitation. The acquired habits which education had taught, and which the strong moral and religious discipline of his sect had greatly strengthened, were such as to conceal, as well as check, this constitutional violence, and to place him upon his guard against indulging it. But when in the high tide of violent excitation, the natural impetuosity of the young soldier’s temper was sometimes apt to overcome these artificial obstacles, and then, like a torrent foaming over a wear, it became more furious, as if in revenge for the constrained calm which it had been for some time obliged to assume. In these instances he was accustomed to see only that point to which his thoughts were bent, and to move straight towards it, whether a moral object, or the storming of a breach, without either calculating, or even seeming to 133

134



Vol. 2, ch. 1

see, the difficulties which were before him. At present, his ruling and impelling motive was to detach his beloved cousin, if possible, from the dangerous and discreditable machinations in which he suspected her to have engaged, or, on the other hand, to discover that she really had no concern with these stratagems. He should know how to judge of that in some measure, he thought, by finding her present or absent at the hut, towards which he was now galloping. He had read, indeed, in some ballad or minstrel’s tale, of a singular deception practised on a jealous old man, by means of a subterranean communication between his house and that of a neighbour, which the lady in question made use of to present herself in the two places alternately, with such speed, and so much address, that, after repeated experiments, the dotard was deceived into the opinion, that his wife, and the lady who was so very like her, and to whom his neighbour paid so much attention, were two different persons. But in the present case there was no room for such a deception; the distance was too great, and as he himself took by much the nearest way from the castle, and rode full speed, it would be impossible, he knew, for his cousin, who was a timorous horsewoman even by day-light, to have got home before him. Her father might indeed be displeased at his interference; but what title had he to be so?—Was not Alice Lee the near relation of his blood, the dearest object of his heart, and would he now abstain from an effort to save her from the consequences of a silly and wild conspiracy, because the old knight’s spleen might be awakened by Everard’s making his appearance at their present dwelling contrary to his commands? No, he would endure the old man’s harsh language, as he endured the blast of the autumn wind, which was howling around him, and swinging the crashing branches of the trees under which he passed, but which could not oppose, or even retard his journey. If he found not Alice, as he had reason to believe she would be absent, to Sir Henry Lee himself he would explain what he had witnessed. However she might have become accessory to the juggling tricks performed at Woodstock, he could not but think it was without her father’s knowledge, so severe a judge was the old knight of female propriety, and so strict an assertor of female decorum. He would take the same opportunity, he thought, of stating to him the well-grounded hopes he entertained, that his dwelling at the Lodge might be prolonged, and the sequestrators removed from the royal mansion and domains, by other means than those of the absurd species of intimidation which seemed to be resorted to, to scare them from thence.

[Chap. 12]



135

All this seemed to be so much within the line of his duty as a relative, that it was not until he halted at the door of the ranger’s hut, and threw his bridle into Wildrake’s hand, that Everard recollected the fiery, high, and unbending character of Sir Henry Lee, and felt, even when his fingers were on the latch, a reluctance to intrude himself upon the presence of the irritable old knight. But there was no time for hesitation. Bevis, who had already bayed more than once from within the Lodge, was growing impatient, and Everard had but just time to bid Wildrake hold the horses until he should send Josceline to his assistance, when old Joan unpinned the door, to demand who was without at that time of the night. To have attempted anything like an explanation with poor dame Joan, would have been a mere impossibility; the Colonel, therefore, put her gently aside, and shaking himself loose from the hold she had laid on his cloak, entered the kitchen of Josceline’s dwelling. Bevis, who had advanced to support Joan in her opposition, humbled his lion-port, with that wonderful instinct which makes his race remember so long those with whom they had been familiar, and acknowledged his master’s relative, by doing homage in his fashion, with head and tail. Colonel Everard, more uncertain in his purpose every moment as the necessity of its execution drew nigh, stole over the floor like one who treads in a sick chamber, and opening the door of the interior apartment with a slow and trembling hand, as he would have withdrawn the curtains of a dying friend, he saw within the scene which we are about to describe. Sir Henry Lee sat in a wicker arm-chair by the fire. He was wrapped in a cloak, and his limbs extended on a stool, as if he were suffering from gout or indisposition. His long white beard flowing over the dark-coloured garment, gave him more the appearance of a hermit than of an aged soldier or man of quality; and that character was increased by the deep and devout attention with which he listened to a respectable old man, whose dilapidated dress showed still something of the clerical habit, and who, with a low, but full and deep voice, was reading the Evening Service according to the Church of England. Alice Lee kneeled at the feet of her father, and made the responses with a voice that might have suited the choir of angels, and a modest and serious devotion, which suited the melody of her tone. The face of the officiating clergyman would have been goodlooking, had it not been disfigured with a black patch which covered the left eye and a part of his face, and had not the features which were visible been marked with the traces of care and suffering. When Colonel Everard entered, the clergyman raised his finger,

136



Vol. 2, ch. 1

as cautioning him to forbear disturbing the divine service of the evening, and pointed to a seat; to which, struck deeply with the scene he had witnessed, the intruder stole with as light a step as possible, and kneeled devoutly down as one of the little congregation. Everard had been bred by his father what was called a Puritan; a member of a sect, who, in the primitive sense of the word, were persons that did not except against the doctrines of the Church of England, or even in all respects against its hierarchy, but chiefly dissented from it on the subject of certain ceremonies, habits, and forms of ritual, which were insisted upon by the celebrated and unfortunate Laud, with ill-timed tenacity. But even if, from the habits of his father’s house, Everard’s opinions had been diametrically opposed to the doctrines of the English Church, he must have been reconciled to them by the regularity with which the service was performed in his uncle’s family at Woodstock, who, during the blossom of his fortunes, generally had a chaplain residing in the Lodge for that special purpose. Yet deep as was the habitual veneration with which he heard the sacred words pronounced, Everard’s eyes could not help straying towards Alice, and his thoughts wandering to the purpose of his presence there. She seemed to have recognised him at once, for there was a deeper glow than usual upon her cheek, her fingers trembled as they turned the leaves of her prayer-book, and her voice, lately as firm as it was melodious, faltered when she repeated the responses. It appeared to Everard, as far as he could collect by the stolen glances which he directed towards her, that the character of her beauty, as well as her outward appearance, had changed with her fortunes. The beautiful and high-born young lady had now approached as nearly as possible to the brown stuff dress of an ordinary village maiden; but what she had lost in gaiety of appearance, she had gained as it seemed in dignity. Her beautiful light-brown tresses, now folded around her head, and only curled where nature had so arranged them, gave her an air of simplicity, which did not exist when her head-dress showed the skill of a curious tirewoman. A light joyous air, with something of a humorous expression, which seemed to be looking for amusement, had vanished before the touch of affliction, and a calm melancholy supplied its place, which seemed on the watch to administer comfort to others. Perhaps the former arch, though innocent expression of countenance, was uppermost in her lover’s recollection, when he concluded that Alice had acted a part in the disturbances which had taken place at the Lodge. It is certain, that when he now looked upon her, it was with shame for

[Chap. 12]



137

having nourished such a suspicion, and the resolution to believe rather that the devil had imitated her voice, than that a creature, who seemed so much above the feelings of this world, and so nearly allied to the purity of the next, could have had the indelicacy to mingle in such manœuvres as he himself and others had been subjected to. These thoughts shot through his mind, in spite of reflections upon the impropriety of indulging them at such a moment. The service now approached the close; and a good deal to Colonel Everard’s surprise as well as confusion, the officiating priest, in firm, audible tone, and with every attribute of dignity, prayed to the Almighty to bless and preserve “Our Sovereign Lord, King Charles, the lawful and undoubted King of these realms.” The petition (in those days most dangerous) was pronounced with a full, raised, and distinct articulation, as if the priest had challenged all who heard him to dissent if they dared. If the republican officer did not assent to the petition, he thought at least it was no time to protest against it. The service was concluded in the usual manner, and the little congregation arose. It now included Wildrake, who had entered during the latter prayer, and was the first of the party to speak, running up to the priest, and shaking him by the hand most heartily, swearing at the same time, that he truly rejoiced to see him. The good clergyman returned the pressure with a smile, observing he should have believed his asseveration without an oath. In the meanwhile, Colonel Everard, approaching his uncle’s seat, made a deep inclination of respect, first to Sir Henry Lee, and then to Alice, whose colour now spread from her cheek to her brow and bosom. “I have to crave your excuse, sir,” said the Colonel with hesitation, “for having chosen for my visit, which I dare not hope would be very agreeable at any time, a season most peculiarly unsuitable.” “So far from it, nephew,” answered Sir Henry, with much more mildness of manner than Everard had dared to expect, “that your visits at other times would be much more welcome, had we the fortune to see you often at our hours of worship.” “I hope the time will soon come, sir, when Englishmen of all sects and denominations,” replied Everard, “will be free in conscience to worship in common the great Father, whom they all after their manner call by that affectionate name.” “I hope so too, nephew,” said the old man in the same unaltered tone; “and we will not at present dispute, whether you would have the Church of England coalesce with the Conventicle, or I the Conventicle conform to the Church. It was, I ween, not to settle jarring creeds, that you have honoured our poor dwelling, where, to

138



Vol. 2, ch. 1

say the truth, we dared scarce have expected to see you again, so coarse was our last welcome.” “I should be happy to believe,” said Colonel Everard, hesitating, “that—that—in short my presence was not now so unwelcome here as on that occasion.” “Nephew,” said Sir Henry, “I will be frank with you. When you were last here, I thought you had stolen from me a precious pearl, which at one time it would have been my pride and happiness to have bestowed on you; but which, being such as you have been of late, I would bury in the depths of the earth rather than give to your keeping. This somewhat chafed, as honest Will says, ‘the rash humour which my mother gave me.’ I thought I was robbed, and I thought I saw the robber before me. I am mistaken—I am not robbed; and the attempt without the deed I can pardon.” “I would not willingly seek offence in your words, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “when their general purport sounds kind. But I can protest before Heaven, that my views and wishes towards you and your family are as void of selfish hopes and selfish ends, as they are fraught with love to you and to yours.” “Let us hear them, man; we are not much accustomed to good wishes now-a-days; and their very rarity will make them welcome.” “I would willingly, Sir Henry, since you might not choose me to give you a more affectionate name, convert those wishes into something effectual for your comfort. Your fate, as the world now stands, is bad, and, I fear, like to be worse.” “Worse than I expect it cannot be. Nephew, I do not shrink before my change of fortunes. I shall wear coarser clothes,—I shall feed on more ordinary food,—men will not doff their cap to me as they were wont, when I was the great and the wealthy. What of that? Old Harry Lee loved his honour better than his title, his faith better than his land and lordship. Have I not seen the 30th of January? I am neither Philo-math nor astrologer; but old Will teaches me, that when great leaves fall winter is at hand, and that darkness will come when the sun sets.” “Bethink you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “if, without any submission asked, any oath taken, any engagement imposed, express or tacit, excepting that you are not to excite disturbances in the public peace, you can be restored to your residence in the Lodge, and your usual functions and perquisites—I have great reason to hope this may be permitted, if not expressly, at least on sufferance.” “Yes, I understand you. I am to be treated like the royal coin, marked with the ensign of the Rump to make it pass current, although I am too old to have the royal insignia grinded off from me? Kinsman,

[Chap. 12]



139

I will have none of this. I have lived at the Lodge too long; and let me tell you, I had left it in scorn long since, but for the orders of one whom I may yet live to do service to. I will take nothing from the usurpers, be their name Rump or Cromwell—be they one devil or Legion—I will not take from them an old cap to cover my grey hairs —a cast cloak to protect my frail limbs from the cold. They shall not say they have, by their unwilling bounty, made Abraham rich—I will live, as I will die, the Loyal Lee.” “May I hope you will think of it, sir; and that you will, perhaps, considering what slight submission is asked, give me a better answer?” “Sir, if I retract my opinion, which is not my wont, you shall hear of it.—And now, cousin, have you more to say? We keep that worthy clergyman in the outer room.” “Something I had to say—something touching my cousin Alice,” said Everard, with embarrassment; “but I fear that the prejudices of both are so strong against me——” “Sir, I dare turn my daughter loose to you—I will go join the good doctor in dame Joan’s apartment. I am not unwilling that you should know that the girl hath, in all reasonable sort, the exercise of her free will.” He withdrew, and left the cousins together. Colonel Everard advanced to Alice, and was about to take her hand. She drew back, took the seat which her father had occupied, and pointed out to him one at some distance. “Are we then so much estranged, my dearest Alice?” he said. “We will speak of that presently,” she replied. “In the first place, let me ask the cause of your visit here at so late an hour.” “You heard,” said Everard, “what I stated to your father?” “I did; but that seems to have been only part of your errand— something there seemed to be which applied particularly to me.” “It was a fancy—a strange mistake,” answered Everard. “May I ask if you have been abroad this evening?” “Certainly not,” she replied. “I have small temptation to wander from my present home, poor as it is; and whilst here, I have important duties to discharge. But why does Colonel Everard ask so strange a question?” “Tell me in turn, why your cousin Markham has lost the name of friendship and kindred, and even of some nearer feeling, and then I will answer you, Alice.” “It is soon answered,” she said. “When you drew your sword against my father’s cause—almost against his person—I studied, more than I should have done, to find excuse for you. I knew, that is,

140



Vol. 2, ch. 1

I thought I knew, your high feelings of public duty—I knew the opinions in which you had been bred up; and I said, I will not, even for this, cast him off—he opposes his King because he is loyal to his country. You endeavoured to avert the great and concluding tragedy of the 30th of January; and it confirmed me in my opinion, that Markham Everard might be misled, but could not be base or selfish.” “And what has changed your opinion, Alice? or who dare,” said Everard, reddening, “attach such epithets to the name of Markham Everard?” “I am no subject,” she said, “for exercising your valour, Colonel Everard, nor do I mean to offend. But you will find enough of others who will avow, that Colonel Everard is truckling to the usurper Cromwell, and that all his fair pretexts of forwarding his country’s liberties, are but a screen for driving a bargain with the successful encroacher, and obtaining the best terms he can for himself and his family.” “For myself—Never!” “But for your family you have—Yes, I am well assured that you have pointed out to the military tyrant, the way in which he and his satraps may master the government. Do you think my father or I could accept an asylum purchased at the price of England’s liberty, and your honour?” “Gracious Heaven, Alice, what is this? you accuse me of pursuing the very course which so lately had your approbation!” “When you spoke with authority of your father, and recommended our submission to the existing government, such as it was, I own I thought—that my father’s grey head might, without dishonour, have remained under the roof where it had so long been sheltered. But did your father sanction your becoming the adviser of yonder ambitious soldier to a new course of innovation, and his abettor in the establishment of a new species of tyranny?—It is one thing to submit to oppression, another to be the agent of tyrants—And O, Markham —their blood-hound!” “How! blood-hound?—what mean you?—I own it is true I could see with content the wounds of this bleeding country stanched, even at the expense of beholding Cromwell, after his matchless rise, take a yet farther step to power—but to be his blood-hound! What is your meaning?” “It is false, then?—I thought I could swear it had been false.” “What, in the name of God, is it you ask?” “It is false that you are engaged to betray the young King of Scotland?” “Betray him! I betray him, or any fugitive? Never! I would he

[Chap. 13]



141

were well out of England—I would lend him my aid to escape, were he in the house at this instant; and think I did his enemies good service, by preventing their soiling themselves with his blood—but betray him, never!” “I knew it—I was sure it was impossible. Oh, be yet more honest; disengage yourself from yonder gloomy and ambitious soldier! Shun him and his schemes, which are formed in injustice, and can only be realized in yet more blood.” “Believe me,” replied Everard, “that I choose the line of policy best befitting the times.” “Choose that,” she said, “which best befits duty, Markham— which best befits truth and honour. Do your duty, and let Providence decide the rest.—Farewell! we tempt my father’s patience too far— you know his temper—farewell, Markham.” She extended her hand, which he pressed to his lips, and left the apartment. A silent bow to his uncle, and a sign to Wildrake, whom he found in the kitchen of the cabin, were the only tokens of recognition exhibited, and leaving the hut, he was soon mounted, and, with his companion, advanced on his return to the Lodge.

Chapter Two ————Deeds are done on earth, Which have their punishment ere the earth closes Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working Of the remorse-stirr’d fancy, or the vision, Distinct and real, of unearthly being, All ages witness, that beside the couch Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy wound. Old Play

E  had come to Josceline’s Lodge as fast as horse could bear him, and with the same impetuosity of purpose as of speed. He saw no choice in the course to be pursued, and felt in his own imagination the strongest right to direct, and even reprove, his cousin, beloved as she was, on account of the dangerous machinations with which she appeared to have connected herself. He returned slowly, and in a very different mood. Not only had Alice, prudent as beautiful, appeared completely free from the weakness of conduct which seemed to give him some authority over her, but her views of policy, if less practicable, were so much more direct and noble than his own, as led him to question whether he had not compromised himself too rashly with Cromwell, even although the state of the country was so greatly divided and

142



Vol. 2, ch. 2

torn to pieces by faction, that the promotion of the General to possession of the executive government seemed the only chance of escaping a renewal of the civil war. The more exalted and purer sentiments of Alice lowered him in his own eyes; and though unshaken in his opinion, that it were better the vessel should be steered by a pilot having no good title to the office, than that she should run upon the breakers, he felt that he was not espousing the most direct, manly, and disinterested side of the question. As he rode on, immersed in these unpleasant contemplations, and considerably lessened in his own esteem by what had happened, Wildrake, who rode by his side, and was no friend to long silence, began to enter into conversation. “I have been thinking, Mark,” said he, “that if you and I had been called to the bar—as, by the by, has been in danger of happening to me in more senses than one—I say, had we become barristers, I would have had the better oiled tongue of the two—the fairer art of persuasion.” “Perhaps so,” replied Everard, “though I never heard thee use any, save to induce an usurer to lend thee money, or a taverner to abate a reckoning.” “And yet this day, or rather night, I could have, as I think, made a conquest which baffled you.” “Indeed?” said the Colonel, becoming attentive. “Why, look you,” said Wildrake, “it was a main object with you to induce Mistress Alice Lee—by Heaven, she is an exquisite creature —I approve of your taste there, Mark—I say, you desired to persuade her, and the stout old Trojan her father, to consent and return to the Lodge, and live there quietly, and under connivance, like gentle folks, instead of lodging in a hut hardly fit to harbour a Tom of Bedlam.” “Thou art right; such, indeed, was a great part of my object in this visit,” answered Everard. “But, perhaps, you also expected to roost there yourself, and so keep watch over pretty Mistress Alice—eh?” “I never entertained so selfish a thought,” said Everard; “and if this nocturnal disturbance at the mansion was explained and ended, I would instantly take my departure.” “Your friend Noll would expect something more from you,” said Wildrake—“he would expect, in case the knight’s reputation for loyalty should draw any of our poor exiles and wanderers about the Lodge, that you should be on the watch, and ready to snap them. In a word as far as I can understand his long-winded speeches—he would have Woodstock a trap, your uncle and his pretty daughter the bait of toasted cheese—craving your Chloe’s pardon for the

[Chap. 13]



143

comparison—you the spring-fall which should bar their escape— his Lordship himself being the great grimalkin to whom they are to be given over to be devoured.” “Dared Cromwell mention this to thee in express terms?” said Everard, pulling up his horse, and stopping in the midst of the road. “Nay, not in express terms, which I do not believe he ever used in his life—you might as well expect a drunken man to go straight forward; but he insinuated as much to me, and indicated that you might deserve well of him—Catzo—the damnable proposal sticks in my throat—by betraying our noble and rightful King, (here he pulled off his hat,) whom God grant in health and wealth long to reign, as the worthy clergyman says, though I fear just now his Majesty is both sick and sorry, and never a penny in his pouch to boot.” “This tallies with what Alice hinted,” said Everard; “but how could she know it? didst thou give her any hint of such a thing?” “I?” replied the cavalier, “I, who never saw Mistress Alice in my life till to-night, and then only for an instant—zooks, man, how is that possible?” “True,” replied Everard, and seemed lost in thought. At length he spoke—“I should call Cromwell to account for his bad opinion of me; for even though not seriously expressed, but, as I am convinced it was, with the sole view of proving you, and perhaps myself, it was, nevertheless, a misconstruction to be resented.” “I’ll carry a cartel for you, with all my heart and soul,” said Wildrake; “and turn out with his godliness’s second, with as good will as I ever drank a glass of sack.” “Pshaw,” replied Everard, “those in his high place fight no singular combats.—But tell me, Roger Wildrake, didst thou thyself think me capable of the falsehood and treachery implied in such a message?” “I?” exclaimed Wildrake.—“Markham Everard, you have been my early friend, my constant benefactor. When Colchester was reduced, you saved me from the gallows, and since that thou hast twenty times saved me from starving—but, by Heaven, if I thought you capable of such villainy as your General recommended, by yonder blue sky, and all the works of creation which it bends over, I would stab you with my very own hand!” “Death,” replied Everard, “I should indeed deserve, but not from you perhaps;—but fortunately, I cannot, if I would, be guilty of the treachery you would punish. Know that I had this day secret notice, and from Cromwell himself, that the young man has escaped by sea from Bristol.” “Now, God Almighty be blessed, who protected him through so

144



Vol. 2, ch. 2

many dangers!” exclaimed Wildrake.—“Huzza!—Up hearts, cavaliers!—Hey for cavaliers!—God bless King Charles!—Moon and stars, catch my hat!”—and he threw it as high as he could into the air. The celestial bodies which he had invoked did not receive the present he dispatched to them; but, as in the case of Sir Henry Lee’s scabbard, an old gnarled oak became a second time the receptacle of a waif and stray of loyal enthusiasm. Wildrake looked rather foolish at the circumstance, and his friend took the opportunity of admonishing him. “Art thou not ashamed to bear thee so like a school-boy?” “Why,” said Wildrake, “I have but sent a Puritan’s hat upon a loyal errand. I laugh to think how many of the schoolboys thou talk’st of will be cheated into climbing the pollard next year, expecting to find the nest of some unknown bird in yonder nonmeasured margin of felt.” “Hush now, for God’s sake, and let us speak calmly,” said Everard. “Charles has escaped, and I am glad of it. I would willingly have seen him on his father’s throne by composition, but not by the force of the Scottish army, and the incensed and vengeful royalists”—— “Master Markham Everard,” began the cavalier, interrupting him—— “Nay, hush thee, dear Wildrake,” said Everard; “let us not dispute a point on which we cannot agree, and give me leave to go on.—I say, since the young man has escaped, Cromwell’s offensive and injurious stipulation falls to the ground; and I see not why my uncle and his family should not again enter their own house, under the same terms of connivance as many other royalists. What may be incumbent on me is different, nor can I determine my course until I have an interview with the General, which, as I think, will end in his confessing that he threw in this offensive proposal to sound us both. It is much in his manner; for he is blunt, and never sees or feels the punctilious honour which the gallants of the day stretch to such delicacy.” “I’ll acquit him for having any punctilio about him,” said Wildrake, “either touching honour or honesty.—Now, to come back to where we started.—Supposing you were not to reside in person at the Lodge, and to forbear even visiting there, unless on invitation, when such a thing can be brought about, I tell you frankly, I think your uncle and his daughter might be induced to come back to the Lodge, and reside there as usual. At least the clergyman, that worthy old cock, gave me to hope as much.” “He had been hasty in bestowing his confidence,” said Everard. “True,” replied Wildrake; “he confided in me at once; for he

[Chap. 13]



145

instantly saw my regard for the church. (I thank Heaven I never passed a clergyman in his canonicals without pulling my hat off— and thou knowst, the most desperate duel I ever fought was with young Gressless of Grays Inn, for taking the wall of the Reverend Dr Bunce.)—Ah, I gain a chaplain’s ear instantly.—Gadzooks, they know whom they have to trust to in such a one as me.” “Doest thou think then,” said Colonel Everard, “or rather doth this clergyman think, that if they were secure of persecution from me, the family would return to the Lodge, supposing the intruding Commissioners gone, and this nocturnal disturbance explained and ended?” “The old Knight,” answered Wildrake, “may be wrought upon by the Doctor to return, if he is secure against intrusion. As for disturbances, the stout old boy, so far as I could learn in two minutes’ conversation, laughs at all this turmoil as the work of mere imagination, the consequence of the remorse of their own evil consciences; and says, that goblin or devil was never heard of at Woodstock, until it became the residence of such men as they, who have now usurped the possession.” “There is more than imagination in it,” said Everard. “I have personal reason to know there is some conspiracy carrying on, to render the house untenantable by the Commissioners. I acquit my uncle of accession to such a silly trick; but I must see it ended ere I can agree to his and my cousin’s residing where such a confederacy exists; for they are likely to be considered as the inventors of such pranks, be the actual agent who he may.” “With reverence to your better acquaintance with the gentleman, Everard, I should rather suspect the old father of Puritans (I beg your pardon again) has something to do with the business; and if so, Lucifer will never look near the true old Knight’s beard, nor abide a glance of yonder maiden’s innocent blue eye. I will uphold them as safe as pure gold in a miser’s chest.” “Sawest thou aught thyself, which makes thee think thus?” “Not a quill of the devil’s pinion saw I,” replied Wildrake. “He supposes himself too secure of an old cavalier, who must steal, hang, or drown in the long run, so he gives himself no trouble to look out after the assured booty. But I heard the serving-fellows prate of what they had seen and heard; and though their tales were confused enough, yet if there was any truth among them at all, I should say the devil must have been in the dance.—But, hollo! here comes some one upon us.—Stand, friend—who art thou?” “A poor day-labourer in the great work of England, Joseph Tomkins by name—Secretary to a godly and well-endowed leader in this

146



Vol. 2, ch. 2

poor Christian army of England, called General Harrison.” “What news, Master Tomkins?” said Everard; “and why are ye on the road at this late hour?” “I speak to the worthy Colonel Everard, as I judge,” said Tomkins; “and truly I am glad of meeting your honour.—Heaven knows, I need such assistance as yours.—Oh worthy Master Everard!—Here has been a sounding of trumpets, and a breaking of vials, and a pouring forth, and”—— “Prithee, tell me, in brief, what is the matter—where is thy master —and, in a word, what hath happened?” “My master is close by, parading it in the little meadow, beside the hugeous oak, which is called by the name of the late Man; ride but two steps forwards, and you may see him walking swiftly to and fro, advancing all the while his naked weapon.” Upon proceeding as he directed, but with as little noise as possible, they discerned a man, who of course they concluded must be the general, walking to and fro beneath the King’s Oak, as a sentinel under arms, but with more wildness of demeanour. The tramp of their horses did not escape his ear; and they heard him call out, as if at the head of his brigade—“Lower pikes against cavalry!—Here comes Prince Rupert—Stand fast, and you shall turn them aside, as a bull would toss a cur-dog.—Lower your pikes still, my hearts, the end secured against your foot—down on your right knee, front rank —spare not for the spoiling of your blue aprons.—Ha—Zerobabel —ay, that is the word.” “In the name of Heaven, about whom or what is he talking?” said Everard; “and wherefore does he go about with his weapon drawn?” “Truly, sir, when aught disturbs my master General Harrison, he is something rapt in the spirit, and conceives that he is commanding a reserve of pikes at the great battle of Armageddon—and for his weapon, alack, worthy sir, wherefore should he keep Sheffield steel in calves’ leather, when there are fiends to be combated—incarnate fiends on earth, and raging infernal fiends under the earth?” “This is intolerable,” said Everard. “Listen to me, Tomkins. Thou art not now in the pulpit, and I desire none of thy preaching language. I know thou canst speak intelligibly when thou art so minded. Remember, I may serve or harm thee; and as you hope or fear anything on my part, answer straight-forward—What has happened to drive out thy master to the wild wood at this time of night?” “Forsooth, worthy and honoured sir, I will speak with the precision I may. True it is, and of verity, that the breath of man, which is in his nostrils, goeth forth and returneth”——

[Chap. 13]



147

“Hark you, sir,” said Colonel Everard, “take care where you ramble in your correspondence with me. You have heard how at the great battle of Dunbar in Scotland, the General himself held a pistol to the head of Lieutenant Hewcreed, threatening to shoot him through the brain if he did not give up holding forth, and put his squadron in line to the front.” “Verily, the lieutenant then charged with an even and unbroken order,” said Tomkins, “and bore a thousand plaids and bonnets over the beach before him into the sea. Neither shall I pretermit or postpone your honour’s commands, but speedily obey them, and that without delay.” “Go to, fellow; thou knowest what I would have,” said Everard; “speak at once—I know thou canst if thou wilt. Trusty Tomkins is better known than he thinks for.” “Worthy sir,” said Tomkins, in a much less periphrastic style, “I will obey your worship as far as the spirit will permit. Truly, it was not an hour since, when my worshipful master being at table with Master Bibbet and myself, not to mention the worshipful Master Bletson and Colonel Desborough, and behold there was a violent knocking at the gate, as of one in haste. Now, of a certainty, so much had our household been harassed with witches and spirits, and other objects of sound and sight, that the sentinels could not be brought to abide upon their posts without doors, and it was only by provision of beef and strong liquors that we were able to maintain a guard of three men in the hall, who nevertheless ventured not to open the door, lest they should be surprised by some of the goblins wherewith their imaginations were overwhelmed. And they heard the knocking, which increased until it seemed that the door was well nigh about to be beaten down. Worthy Master Bibbet was a little overcome with liquor, as is his fashion, good man, about this time of the evening, not that he is in the least given to ebriety, but simply, that since the Scottish campaign he hath had a perpetual ague, which obliges him so to nourish his frame against the damps of the night; wherefore, as it is well known to your honour that I discharge the office of a faithful servant, as well to Major-General Harrison, and the other Commissioners, as to my just and lawful master, Colonel Desborough”—— “I know all that—and how thou art trusted by both—I pray to Heaven thou mayst merit it—Devoutly do I pray—that you may merit the trust,” said Colonel Everard. “And devoutly do I pray,” said Tomkins, “that your worshipful prayers may be answered with favour; for certainly to be, and to be called and entitled, Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins, is to me more

148



Vol. 2, ch. 2

than ever would be an Earl’s title, were such things to be granted anew in this regenerated government.” “Well, go on—go on—or if thou dalliest much longer, I will make bold to dispute the article of your honesty. I like short tales, sir, and doubt what is told with a long unnecessary train of words.” “Well, good sir, be not hasty. As I said before, the doors rattled till you would have thought the knocking was reiterated in every room of the Palace. The bell rung out for company, though we could not find that any one tolled the clapper, and the guards let off their firelocks, merely because they knew not what better to do. So, Master Bibbet being, as I said, unsusceptible of his duty, I went down with my poor rapier to the door, and demanded who was there; and I was answered in a voice, which, I must say, was much like another voice, that it was one wanting Major-General Harrison. So as it was then late, I answered mildly, that General Harrison was betaking himself to his rest, and that any who wished to speak to him must return on the morrow morning, for that after nightfall the door of the Palace, being in the room of a garrison, would be opened to no one. So the voice replied, and bid me open directly, without which he would blow the folding leaves of the door into the middle of the hall. And therewithal the noise recommenced, that we thought the house would have fallen; and I was in some measure constrained to open the door, even like a besieged garrison which can hold out no longer.” “By my honour, and it was stoutly done of you I must say,” said Wildrake, who had been listening with much interest. “I am a bold dare-devil enough, yet when I had two inches of oak plank between the actual fiend and me, hang him that would demolish the barrier between us, say I—I would as soon, when aboard, bore a hole in the ship, and let in the waves; for you know we always compare the devil to the deep sea.” “Prithee, peace, Wildrake,” said Everard, “and let him on with his story.—Well, and what saw’st thou when the door was opened? —the great Devil with his horns and claws thou wilt say.” “No, sir, I will say nothing but what is true: When I undid the door, one man stood there, and he, to seeming, a man of no extraordinary appearance. He was wrapped in a taffeta cloak, of a scarlet colour, and with a red lining. He seemed as if he might have been in his time a very handsome man, but there was something of paleness and sorrow in his face—a long love-lock and long hair even after the abomination of the cavaliers, and the unloveliness, as learned Master Prynne well termed it, of love-locks—a jewel in his ear—a blue scarf over his shoulder, like a military commander for the King, and

[Chap. 13]



149

a hat with a white plume, bearing a peculiar hatband.” “Some unhappy officer of cavaliers, of whom so many are in hiding, and seeking shelter through the country,” briefly replied Everard. “True, worthy sir—right as a judicious exposition. But there was something about this man (if he was a man), whom I, for one, could not look upon without trembling; nor the musketeers who were in the hall, without betraying much alarm, and swallowing, as they themselves will aver, the very bullets which they had in their mouths for loading their carabines and muskets. Nay, the wolf and deerdogs, that are the fiercest of their kind, fled from this visitor, and crept into holes and corners, moaning and wailing in a low and broken tone. He came into the middle of the hall, and still he seemed no more than an ordinary man, only somewhat fantastically dressed, in a doublet of black velvet pinked upon scarlet satin under his cloak, a jewel in his ear, with large roses in his shoes, and a kerchief in his hand, which he sometimes pressed against his left side.” “Gracious Heaven!” said Wildrake, coming close up to Everard, and whispering in his ear, with accents which terror rendered tremulous, (a mood of mind most unusual to the daring man, who seemed now overcome by it,)—“it must have been poor Dick Robison the player, in the very dress in which I have seen him play Philaster—ay, and drank a jolly bottle with him after it at the Mermaid! I remember how many frolicks we had together, and all his little fantastic fashions. He served for his old master, King Charles, in Mohun’s troop, and was murdered by this butcher’s dog, as I have heard, after surrender, at the battle of Naseby-field.” “Hush! I have heard of the deed,” said Everard; “for God’s sake hear the man to an end.—Did this visitor speak to thee, my friend?” “Yes, sir, in a pleasing tone of voice, but somewhat fanciful in the articulation, and like one who is speaking to an audience as from a bar or a pulpit, more than in the voice of ordinary men on ordinary matters. He desired to see Major-General Harrison.” “He did!—and you,” said Everard, infected by the spirit of the time, which, as is well known, leaned to credulity upon all matters of supernatural agency,—“what did you do?” “I went up to the parlour, and related that such a person inquired for him. He started when I told him, and eagerly desired to know the man’s dress; but no sooner did I mention his dress, and the jewel in his ear, than he said, ‘Begone—tell him I will not admit him to speech of me. Say that I defy him, and will make my defiance good at the great battle in the valley of Armageddon, when the voice

150



Vol. 2, ch. 2

of the angel shall call all fowls which fly under the face of heaven to feed on the flesh of the captain and the soldier, the war-horse and his rider. Say to the Evil One, I have power to appeal our conflict even till that day, and that in the front of that fearful day he will again meet with Harrison.’ I went back with this answer to the stranger, and his face was writhed into such a deadly frown as a mere human brow hath seldom worn. ‘Go back to him,’ he said, ‘and say it is   ; and that if he come not instantly down to speak with me, I will mount the stairs to him. Say that I  him to descend, by the token, that, on the field of Naseby, he did not the work negligently.’” “I have heard,” whispered Wildrake, for he also began to feel the contagion of superstition,—“that these words were blasphemously used by Harrison when he shot my poor friend Dick.” “What happened next?” said Everard. “See that thou speakest the truth.” “As gospel unexpounded by a steeple-man,” said the independent; “yet truly it is but little I have to say. I saw my master come down, with a blank, yet resolved air; and when he entered the hall and saw the stranger, he made a pause. The other waved on him as if to follow, and walked out at the portal. My worthy patron seemed as if he were about to follow, yet paused, when this visitant, be he man or fiend, re-entered, and said, ‘Obey thy doom. By pathless march, by greenwood tree, It is thy weird to follow me— To follow me through the ghastly moonlight— To follow me through the shadows of night— To follow me, comrade, still art thou bound: I conjure thee by the unstaunched wound— I conjure thee by the last words I spoke, When the body slept and the spirit awoke, In the very last pangs of the deadly stroke.’

So saying, he stalked out, and my master followed him into the wood.—I followed also at a distance. But when I came up, my master was alone, and bearing himself as you now behold him.” “Thou hadst a wonderful memory, friend,” said the Colonel, coldly, “to remember these rhymes in a single recitation—there is something of practice in all this.” “A single recitation, my honoured sir?” exclaimed the independent,—“alack, the rhyme is seldom out of my poor master’s mouth, when, as sometimes haps, he is less triumphant in his wrestles with Satan. But it was the first time I ever heard it uttered by another; and, to say truth, he ever seems to repeat it unwillingly, as a child after his pedagogue, or as if he unconsciously and involuntarily told

[Chap. 13]



151

over words which were impressed on his mind by some foreign agency, and was not indited by his own heart, as the Psalmist saith.” “It is strange,” said Everard,—“I have heard and read that the spirits of the slaughtered have strange power over the slayer; but I am astonished to believe there may be truth in such tells.—Roger Wildrake—what art thou afraid of, man?—why doest thou shift thy place thus?” “Fear? it is not fear—it is hate, deadly hate.—I see the murderer of poor Dick before me, and—see, he throws himself into a posture of fence—Sa—sa—say’st thou, brood of a butcher’s mastiff? thou shalt not want an antagonist.” Ere any one could prevent him, Wildrake threw aside his cloak, drew his sword, and with a single bound well nigh cleared the distance betwixt him and Harrison, and crossed swords with the latter, as he stood brandishing his weapon, as if in immediate expectation of an assailant. Accordingly, the Republican General was not for an instant taken at unawares, but the moment the swords clashed, he shouted, “Ha! I feel thee now, thou hast come in body at last.— Welcome! welcome!—the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” “Part them, part them,” called Everard, as he and Tomkins, at first astonished at the suddenness of the affray, hastened to interfere. Everard, seizing on the cavalier, drew him forcibly backwards, while Tomkins contrived, with risk and difficulty, to master Harrison’s sword, while the General exclaimed, “Ha! two to one—two to one! —thus fight demons.” Wildrake, on his side, swore a dreadful oath, and added, “Markham, you have cancelled every obligation I owed ye—they are all out of sight—gone, d—n me.” “You have indeed acquitted these obligations rarely,” said Everard. “Who knows how this affair shall be explained and answered?” “I will answer it with my life,” said Wildrake. “Good now, be silent,” said Tomkins, “and let me manage. It shall so be ordered that the good General shall never know that he hath encountered with a mortal man; only let that man of Moab put his sword into the scabbard rest, and be still.” “Wildrake, let me entreat thee to sheathe thy sword,” said Everard; “else, on my life, thou must turn it against me.” “No, ’fore George, not so mad as that neither but I’ll have another day with him.” “Thou, another day!” exclaimed Harrison, whose eye had still remained fixed on the spot where he found such palpable resistance. “Yes, I know thee well; day by day, week by week, thou makest the same idle request, for thou knowst that my heart quivers at thy voice.—But my hand trembles not when opposed to thine—the

152



Vol. 2, ch. 2

spirit is willing to the combat, if the flesh be weak when opposed to that which is not of the flesh.” “Now, peace all, for Heaven’s sake,”—said the steward Tomkins; then added, addressing his master, “there is no one here, if it please your Excellence, but Tomkins and the worthy Colonel Everard.” General Harrison, as sometimes happens in cases of partial insanity, (that is, supposing his to have been a case of mental delusion,) though firmly and entirely persuaded of the truth of his own visions, yet was not willing to avow them to those who, he knew, would regard them as imaginary. Upon this occasion he assumed the appearance of perfect ease and composure, after the violent agitation he had just manifested, in a manner which showed how anxious he was to disguise his real feelings from Everard, whom he considered as unlikely to participate them. He saluted the Colonel with profound ceremony, and talked of the fineness of the evening which had summoned him forth of the Lodge, to take a turn in the Park, and enjoy the favourable weather. He then took Everard by the arm, and walked back with him towards the Lodge, Wildrake and Tomkins following close behind and leading the horses. Everard, desirous to gain some light on these mysterious incidents, endeavoured to come on the subject more than once, by a mode of interrogation, which Harrison (for madmen are very often unwilling to enter on the subject of their mental delusion) parried with some skill, or addressed himself for aid to the steward Tomkins, who was in the habit of being voucher for his masters upon all occasions, which led to Desborough’s ingenious nickname of Fibbet. “And wherefore had you your sword drawn, my worthy General,” said Everard, “when you were only on an evening walk of pleasure?” “Truly, excellent Colonel, these are times when men must watch with their loins girded, and their lights burning, and their weapons drawn—for the day draweth nigh, believe me or not as you will, that men must watch lest they be found naked and unarmed, when the seven trumpets shall sound, Boot and saddle; and the pipes of Jezer shall strike up, Horse and away.” “True, good General; but methought I saw you making passes even now as if you were fighting,” said Everard. “I am of a strange fantasy, friend Everard,” answered Harrison; “and when I walk alone, and happen, as but now, to have my weapon drawn, I sometimes, for exercise’ sake, will practise a thrust against such a tree as that. It is a silly pride men have in the use of weapons. I have been accounted a master of fence, and have fought prizes when I was unregenerated, and before I was called to do my part in

[Chap. 13]



153

the great work, entering as a trooper into our victorious General’s first regiment of horse.” “But methought,” said Everard, “I heard a weapon clash with yours?” “How? a weapon clash with my sword?—How could that be, Tomkins?” “Truly, sir,” said Tomkins, “it must have been a bough of the tree; they have them of all kinds here, and your honour may have pushed against one of them, which the Brazilians call iron-wood, a block of which being struck with a hammer, saith Purchas in his Pilgrimage, ringeth like an anvil.” “Truly, it may be so,” said Harrison; “for these rulers who are gone, assembled in this their abode of pleasure many strange trees and plants, though they gathered not of the fruit of that tree, which beareth twelve manner of fruits, or of those leaves which are the healing of the nations.” Everard pursued his investigation; for he was struck with the manner in which Harrison evaded his questions, and the dexterity with which he threw his transcendental and fanatical notions, like a sort of veil, over the darker visions excited by remorse and conscious guilt. “But,” said he, “if I may trust my eyes and ears, I cannot but still think that you had a real antagonist—Nay, I am sure I saw a fellow, in a dark-coloured jerkin, retreat through the wood.” “Did you?” said Harrison, with a tone of surprise, while his voice faltered in spite of him, “Who could he be?—Tomkins, did you see the fellow Colonel Everard talks of with the napkin in his hand—the bloody napkin which he always pressed to his side?” This last expression, in which Harrison gave a mark differing from that which Everard had assigned, but corresponding to Tomkins’s original description of the supposed spectre, had more effect on Everard in confirming the steward’s story, than anything he had witnessed or heard. The voucher answered the draft upon him as promptly as usual, that he had seen such a fellow glide past them into the thicket—that he daresay he was some deer-stealer, for he had heard they were turned very audacious. “Look ye there now, Master Everard,” said Harrison, hurrying from the subject—“Is it not time now that we should lay aside our controversies, and join hand in hand to repairing the breaches of our Zion? Happy and contented were I, my excellent friend, to be a treader of mortar, or a bearer of a hod, upon this occasion, under our great leader, with whom Providence has gone forth in this great national controversy; and truly, so devoutly do I hold by our excellent

154



Vol. 2, ch. 3

and victorious General Oliver, whom Heaven long preserve—that were he to command me, I should not scruple to pluck forth of his high place the man whom they call Speaker, even as I lent a poor hand to pluck down the man whom they called King.—Wherefore, as I know your judgment holdeth with mine on this matter, let me urge unto you lovingly, that we may act as brethren, and build up the breaches, and re-establish the bulwarks of our English Zion, whereby we shall be doubtless chosen as pillars and buttresses, under our excellent Lord General, for supporting and sustaining the same, and endowed with proper revenues and incomes, both spiritual and temporal, to serve as a pedestal, on which we may stand, seeing that otherwise our foundation will be on the loose sand.—Nevertheless,” continued he, his mind again diverging from his views of temporal ambition into his visions of the Fifth Monarchy, “these things are but vanity in respect of the opening of the book which is sealed; for all things approach speedily towards lightning and thundering, and unloosing of the great dragon from the bottomless pit, wherein he is chained.” With this mingled strain of earthly politics, and fanatical prediction, Harrison so overpowered Colonel Everard, as to leave him no time to urge him further on the particular circumstances of his nocturnal skirmish, concerning which it is plain he had no desire to be interrogated. They now reached the Lodge of Woodstock.

Chapter Three Now the wasted brands do glow, While the screech-owl, sounding loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe, In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That, the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets out its sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. Midsummer Night’s Dream

B     the gate of the palace the sentinels were now doubled. Everard demanded the reason of this from the corporal, whom he found in the hall with his soldiers, sitting or sleeping around a great fire, maintained at the expense of the carved chairs and benches with which it was furnished. “Why, verily,” answered the man, “the corps de garde, as your worship says, will be harassed to pieces by such duty; nevertheless, fear hath gone abroad among us, and no one man will mount guard

[Chap. 14]



155

alone. We have drawn in, however, one or two of our outposts from Banbury and elsewhere, and we are to have a relief from Oxford tomorrow.” Everard continued minute inquiries concerning the sentinels that were posted within as well as without the Castle; and found that, as they had been stationed under the eye of Harrison himself, the rules of prudent discipline had been exactly observed in the distribution of the posts. There remained nothing therefore for Colonel Everard to do, excepting that, remembering his own adventure of the evening, to recommend that an additional sentinel should be placed, with a companion, if judged indispensable, in that vestibule, or anti-room, from which the long gallery where he had met with the rencounter, and other suites of apartments, diverged. The corporal respectfully promised all obedience to his orders. The serving-men being called, appeared also in double force. Everard demanded to know whether the Commissioners had gone to bed, or whether he could yet speak with them? “They are in their bed-room, forsooth,” replied one of the fellows; “but I think be not yet undressed.” “What!” said Everard, “are Colonel Desborough and Master Bletson both in the same sleeping apartment?” “Their honours have so chosen it,” said the man; “and their honours’ secretaries remain upon guard all night.” “It is the fashion to double guards all over the house,” said Wildrake. “Had I a glimpse of a good-looking house-maid now, I should know how to fall into the fashion.” “Peace, fool!” said Everard.—“And where are the Mayor and Master Holdenough?” “The Mayor is returned to the borough on horseback, behind the trooper, who goes to Oxford for the reinforcement; and the man of the steeple-house hath quartered himself in the chamber which Colonel Desborough had last night, being that in which he is most likely to meet the —— your honour understands. The Lord pity us, we are a harassed family!” “And where be General Harrison’s knaves,” said Tomkins, “that they do not marshal him to his apartment?” “Here—here—here, Master Tomkins,” said three fellows, pressing forward, with the same consternation on their faces which seemed to pervade the whole inhabitants of Woodstock. “Away with you then,” said Tomkins;—“speak not to his worship —you see he is not in the humour.” “Indeed,” observed Colonel Everard, “he looks singularly wan— his features seem writhen as by a palsy stroke; and though he was

156



Vol. 2, ch. 3

talking so fast while we came along, he hath not opened his mouth since we came to the light.” “It is his manner after such visitations,” said Tomkins.—“Give his honour your arms, Zedekiah and Jonathan, to lead him off—I will follow instantly.—You, Nicodemus, tarry to wait upon me—it is not well walking alone in this mansion.” “Master Tomkins,” said Everard, “I have heard of you often as a sharp, intelligent man—tell me fairly, are you in earnest afraid of anything supernatural haunting this house?” “I would be loath to run the chance, sir,” said Tomkins very gravely; “by looking on my worshipful master, you may form a guess how the living look after they have spoken with the dead.” He bowed low, and took his leave. Everard proceeded to the chamber which the two remaining Commissioners had, for comfort’s sake, chosen to inhabit in company. They were preparing for bed as he came into their apartment. Both started as the door opened—both rejoiced when they saw it was only Everard who entered. “Hark ye hither,” said Bletson, pulling him aside, “sawst thou ever ass equal to Desborough?—the fellow is as big as an ox, and as timorous as a sheep. He has insisted on my sleeping here to protect him. Shall we have a merry night on’t, ha? We will, if thou wilt take that third bed, which was prepared for Harrison; but he is gone out, like a mooncalf, to look for the valley of Armageddon in the Park of Woodstock.” “General Harrison has returned with me but now,” said Everard. “Nay but, as I shall live, he comes not into our apartment,” said Desborough, overhearing his answer. “No man that has been supping, for aught I know, with the Devil, has a right to sleep among Christian folks.” “He does not propose to,” said Everard; “he sleeps, as I understand, apart—and alone.” “Not quite alone, I dare say,” said Desborough; “for Harrison hath a sort of attraction for goblins—they fly round him like moths about a candle: But, I prithee, good Everard, do thou stay with us. I know not how it is, but although thou hast not thy religion always in thy mouth, nor speakst many hard words about it, like Harrison, nor makest long preachments—like a certain most honourable relation of mine who shall be nameless, yet somehow I feel myself safer in thy company than with any of them. As for this Bletson, he is such a mere blasphemer, that I fear the Devil will carry him away ere morning.” “Did you ever hear such an abominable coward?” said Bletson, apart to Everard. “Do tarry, however, mine honoured Colonel—I

[Chap. 14]



157

know your zeal to assist the distressed, and you see Desborough is in that predicament, that he will require near him more than one good example to prevent him thinking of ghosts and fiends.” “I am sorry I cannot oblige you, gentlemen,” said Everard; “but I have settled my mind to sleep in Victor Lee’s apartment, so I wish you good night; and, if you would repose without disturbance, I would advise that you commend yourselves, during the watches of the night, to Him unto whom night is even as mid-day. I had intended to have spoke with you this evening on the subject of my being here; but I will defer the conference till to-morrow, when, I think, I will be able to show you excellent reasons for leaving Woodstock.” “We have seen plenty such already,” said Desborough; “for one, I came here to serve the estate, with some moderate advantage doubtless to myself for my trouble: but if I am set upon my head again to-night, as I was the night before, I would not stay longer to gain a king’s crown, for I am sure my neck would be unfitted to bear the weight of it.” “Good night,” exclaimed Everard; and was about to go, when Bletson again pressed close, and whispered to him, “Hark thee, Colonel—you know my friendship for thee—I do implore thee to leave the door of thy apartment open, that if thou meetst with any disturbance, I may hear thy call, and be with thee upon the very instant. Do this, dear Everard, my fears for thee will keep me awake else; for I know that, notwithstanding your excellent sense, you entertain some of those superstitious ideas which we suck in with our mother’s milk, and which constitute the ground of our fears in situations like the present; therefore leave thy door open, if you love me, that you may have ready assistance from me in case of need.” “My master,” said Wildrake, “trusts, first, in his Bible, sir, and then in his good sword. He has no idea that the Devil can be baffled by the charm of two men lying in one room, still less that the foul fiend can be argued out of existence by the Nullifidians of the Rota.” Everard seized his imprudent friend by the collar, and dragged him off as he was speaking, keeping fast hold of him till they were both in the chamber of Victor Lee, where they had slept on a former occasion. Even then he continued to hold Wildrake, until the servant had arranged the lights, and was dismissed from the room; then letting him go, addressed him with the upbraiding question, “Art not thou a prudent and sagacious person, who in times like these seek every opportunity to argue yourself into a broil, or embroil yourself in an argument? Out on you!”

158



Vol. 2, ch. 3

“Ay, out on me, indeed,” said the cavalier; “out on me for a poor tame-spirited creature, that submits to be bundled about in this manner, by a man who is neither better born nor better bred than myself. I tell thee, Mark, you make an unfair use of your advantages over me. Why will you not let me go from you, and live and die after my own fashion?” “Because, before we had been a week separate, I should hear of your dying after the fashion of a dog. Come, my good friend, what madness was it in thee to fall foul on Harrison, and then to enter into useless argument with Bletson?” “Why, we are in the Devil’s house, I think, and I would willingly give the landlord his due wherever I travel. To have sent him Harrison, or Bletson now, just as a lunch to stop his appetite, till Crom”—— “Hush! stone walls have ears,” said Everard, looking around him. “Here stands thy night-drink—look to thy arms, for we must be as careful as if the Avenger of Blood was behind us. Yonder is thy bed —and I, as thou seest, have one prepared in the parlour. The door only divides us.” “Which I will leave open, in case thou should’st hollo for assistance, as yonder Nullifidian hath it.—But how hast thou got all this so well put in order, good patron?” “I gave the steward Tomkins notice of my purpose to sleep here.” “A strange fellow that,” said Wildrake, “and, as I judge, has taken measure of every one’s foot—all seems to pass through his hands.” “He is, I have understood,” replied Everard, “one of the men formed by the times—has a ready gift of preaching and expounding, which keeps him on high terms with the Independents, and he recommends himself to the more moderate people by his intelligence and activity.” “Has his sincerity ever been doubted?” said Wildrake. “Never, that I heard of,” said the Colonel; “in the country, he has been familiarly called Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins. For my part, I believe his sincerity has always kept pace with his interest.— But come, finish thy cup, and to bed.—What, all emptied at one draught!” “Adszookers, yes—my vow forbids me to make two on’t; but, never fear—the nightcap will only warm my brain, not clog it. But, man or devil, give me notice if you are disturbed, and rely on me in a twinkling.” So saying, the cavalier retreated into his separate apartment, and Colonel Everard, taking off the most cumbrous part of his dress, lay down in his hose and doublet, and composed himself to rest.

[Chap. 14]



159

He was awakened from sleep by a slow and solemn strain of music, which died away as at a distance. He started up, and felt for his arms, which he found close beside him. His temporary bed being without curtains, he could look around him without difficulty; but as there remained in the chimney only a few red embers of the fire, which he had arranged before he went to sleep, it was impossible he could discern anything. He felt, therefore, in spite of his natural courage, that undefined and thrilling species of tremor which attends a sense that danger is near, and an uncertainty concerning its cause and character. Reluctant as he was to yield belief to supernatural occurrences, we have already said he was not absolutely incredulous on the subject; as perhaps, even in this more sceptical age, there are many fewer complete and absolute infidels in this particular than give themselves out for such. Uncertain whether he had not dreamed of these sounds which seemed yet in his ears, he was unwilling to risk the raillery of his friend by summoning him to his assistance. He sat up, therefore, in his bed, not without experiencing that nervous agitation to which brave men as well as cowards are subject; with this difference, that the one sinks under it, like the vine under the hail-storm, and the other collects his energies to shake it off, as the cedar of Lebanon is said to elevate its boughs to disperse the snow which accumulates upon them. The story of Harrison, in spite of himself and of a secret suspicion which he had of trick or connivance, returned on his mind at this dead and solitary hour. Harrison, he remembered, had described the vision by a circumstance of its appearance different from that which his own remark had been calculated to suggest to the mind of the visionary;—that bloody napkin, always pressed to the side, was then a circumstance present either to his bodily eye, or to that of his agitated imagination. Did, then, the murdered revisit the living haunts of those who had forced them from the stage with all their sins unaccounted for? And if they did, might not the same permission authorize other visitations of a similar nature, to warn—to instruct —to punish? Rash are they, was his conclusion, and credulous, who receive as truth every tale of the kind; but no less rash may it be, to limit the power of the Creator over the works which he has made, and to suppose that, by permission of the Author of Nature, the laws of Nature may not, in peculiar cases, and for high purposes, be temporarily suspended. While these thoughts passed through Everard’s mind, feelings unknown to him, even when he stood first on the rough and perilous edge of battle, gained ground upon him. He feared he knew not

160



Vol. 2, ch. 3

what; and where an open and discernible peril would have drawn out his courage, the absolute uncertainty of his situation increased his sense of danger. He felt an almost irresistible desire to spring from his bed and heap fuel on the dying embers, expecting by the blaze to see some strange sight in his chamber. He was also strongly tempted to awaken Wildrake; but shame, stronger than fear itself, checked these impulses. What! should it be thought that Markham Everard, held one of the best soldiers who had drawn a sword during this sad war—Markham Everard, who had obtained such distinguished rank in the army of the Parliament, though so young in years, was afraid of remaining by himself in a twilight-room at midnight?—It never should be said. This was, however, no charm for his unpleasant current of thought. There rushed in his mind the various traditions of Victor Lee’s chamber, which, though he had often despised them as vague, unauthenticated, and inconsistent rumours, engendered by ancient superstition, and transmitted from generation to generation by loquacious credulity, had yet something appalling in them, which did not tend to allay the present unpleasant state of his nerves. Then, when he recollected the events of that very afternoon, the weapon pressed against his throat, and the strong arm which threw him backwards on the floor—if the remembrance served to contradict the idea of flitting phantoms, and unreal daggers, it certainly induced him to believe, that there was in some part of this extensive mansion a party of cavaliers, or malignants, harboured, who might arise in the night, overpower their guards, and execute upon them all, but on Harrison in particular, as one of the regicide judges, that vengeance, which was so eagerly thirsted for by the attached followers of the slaughtered monarch. He endeavoured to console himself on this subject, by the number and position of the guards, yet still was dissatisfied with himself for not having taken yet more exact precautions, and for keeping an extorted promise of silence, which might consign so many of his party to danger of assassination. These thoughts, connected with his military duties, awakened another train of reflections. He bethought himself, that all he could now do, was to visit the sentries, and ascertain that they were awake, alert, on the watch, and so situated, that in time of need they might be ready to support each other.— “This better befits me,” he thought, “than to be here like a child, frightening myself with the old woman’s legend, which I have laughed at when I was a boy. What if old Victor Lee was a sacrilegious man, as common report goes, and brewed ale in the font which he brought from the ancient palace of Holyrood, while church and building

[Chap. 14]



161

were in flames? And what if his eldest son was when a child scalded to death in the same vessel? How many churches have been demolished since his time? How many fonts desecrated? So many indeed, that were the vengeance of Heaven to visit such aggressions in a supernatural manner, no corner in England, no, not the most petty parish church, but would have its apparition.—Tush, these are idle fancies, unworthy, especially, to be entertained by those educated to believe that sanctity resides in the intention and the act, not in the buildings or fonts, or in the form of worship.” As thus he called together the articles of his Calvinistic creed, the bell of the great clock (a token seldom silent in such narratives) tolled three, and was immediately followed by the hoarse call of the sentinels through vault and gallery, up stairs and beneath, challenging and answering each other with the usual watch-word, All’s well. Their voices mingled with the deep boom of the bell, yet ceased before that was silent, and when they had died away, the tingling echo of the prolonged knell was scarcely audible. Ere yet that distant clang had finally subsided into silence, it seemed as if it again was awakened; and Everard could hardly judge at first whether a new echo had taken up the falling cadence, or whether some other and separate sound was disturbing anew the silence to which the deep knell had, as its voice ceased, consigned the ancient mansion and the woods around it. But the doubt was soon cleared up. The musical tones, which had mingled with the dying echoes of the knell, seemed at first to prolong, and afterwards to survive them. A wild strain of melody, beginning at a distance, and growing louder as it advanced, seemed to pass from room to room, from cabinet to gallery, from hall to bower, through the deserted and dishonoured ruins of the ancient residence of so many sovereigns; and, as it approached, no soldier gave alarm, nor did any of the numerous guests of various degrees, who spent an unpleasant and terrified night in that ancient mansion, dare to announce to each other the inexplicable cause of apprehension. Everard’s excited state of mind did not permit him to be so passive. The sounds approached so nigh, that it seemed there were performing, in the very next apartment, a solemn service for the dead, when he gave the alarm, by calling loudly to his trusty attendant and friend Wildrake, who slumbered in the next chamber with only a door betwixt them, and even that ajar. “Wildrake—Wildrake!—Up—up! Doest thou not hear the alarm?” There was no answer from Wildrake, though the musical sounds, which now rung through the apartment as if the performers had

162



Vol. 2, ch. 3

actually been within its precincts, would have been sufficient to awaken a sleeping person, even without the shout of his comrade and patron. “Alarm!—Roger Wildrake—alarm!” again called Everard, getting out of bed and grasping his weapons.—“Get a light, and cry alarm.” There was no answer. His voice died away as the sound of the music seemed also to die; and the same soft sweet voice, which still to his thinking resembled that of Alice Lee, was heard in his apartment, and, as he thought, at no distance from him. “Your comrade will not answer,” said the low soft voice. “Those only hear the alarm whose consciences feel the call.” “Again this mummery!” said Everard. “I am better armed than I was of late; and but for the sound of that voice, the speaker had bought this trifling dear.” It was singular, we may observe in passing, that the instant the distinct sounds of the human voice were heard by Everard, all idea of supernatural interference was at an end, and the charm by which he had been formerly fettered appeared to be broken; so much is the influence of imaginary or superstitious terror dependant (so far as respects strong judgments at least) upon what is vague or ambiguous; and so readily do distinct tones, and express ideas, bring such judgments back to the current of ordinary life. The voice returned answer, as addressing his thoughts as well as his words. “We laugh at the weapons thou thinkst should terrify us—Over the guardians of Woodstock they have no power. Fire if thou wilt, and try the effect of thy weapons. But know, it is not our purpose to harm thee—thou art of a falcon breed, and noble in thy disposition, though, unreclaimed and ill nurtured, thou hauntst with kites and carrion crows. Wing thy flight from hence on the morrow, for if thou tarriest with the bats, owls, vultures, and ravens, which have thought to nestle here, thou wilt unavoidably share their fate. Away then, that these halls may be swept and garnished for reception of those who have a better right to inhabit them.” Everard answered in a raised voice.—“Once more I warn you, think not to defy me in vain. I am no child to be frightened by goblins’ tales; and no woman, armed as I am, to be alarmed at the threats of banditti. If I give you a moment’s indulgence, it is for the sake of dear and misguided friends, who may be concerned with this dangerous gambol. Know, I can bring a troop of soldiers round the castle, who will search its most inward recesses for the authors of this audacious frolic; and if that search should fail, it will cost but a few barrels of gunpowder to make the mansion a heap of ruins, and bury under them the authors of such an ill-judged pastime.”

[Chap. 14]



163

“You speak proudly, Sir Colonel,” said another voice, similar to that harsher and stronger tone by which he had been addressed in the gallery; “try your courage in this direction.” “You should not dare me twice,” said Colonel Everard, “had I a glimpse of light to take aim by.” As he spoke, a sudden gleam of light was thrown with a brilliancy which almost dazzled the speaker, showing distinctly, but only for a moment, a form somewhat resembling that of Victor Lee, as represented in his picture, holding in the one hand a lady completely veiled, and in the other his leading-staff, or truncheon. Both figures were animated, and standing as it seemed within six feet of him. “Were it not for the woman,” said Everard, “I would not be thus insolently dared.” “Spare not for the female form, but do your worst,” replied the same voice. “I defy you.” “Repeat your defiance when I have counted thrice,” said Everard, “and take the punishment of your insolence. Once—I have cocked my pistol—Twice—I never missed my aim—By all that is sacred, I fire if you dare show yourself. When I pronounce the next number, I will shoot you dead where you stand. I am yet unwilling to shed blood—I give you another chance of flight—once—twice—.” When the last word was produced the light glanced stronger than ever on the figure—and Everard aiming at the bosom discharged his pistol. The figure waved its arm in an attitude of scorn—A loud laugh arose, during which the light, as gradually growing weaker, danced and glimmered upon the apparition of the aged knight, and then disappeared. Everard’s life-blood ran cold to his heart—“Had he been of human mould,” he thought, “the bullet must have pierced him—and I have neither will nor power to fight with supernatural beings.” The feeling of oppression was now so strong as to be actually sickening. He groped his way, however, to the fireside, and flung on the embers, which were yet gleaming, a handful of dry fuel. It presently blazed, and afforded him light to see the room in every direction. He looked cautiously, almost timidly, around, and half expected some horrible phantom to become visible. But he saw nothing save the old furniture, the reading-desk, and other articles, which had been left in the same state as when Sir Henry Lee departed. He felt an uncontrollable desire, mingled with much repugnance, to look at the portrait of the ancient knight, which the form he had seen so strongly resembled. He hesitated betwixt the opposing feelings, but at length snatched, with desperate resolution, the candle which he had extinguished, and relighted it, ere the blaze of the fuel had again died

164



Vol. 2, ch. 3

away. He held it up to the ancient portrait of Victor Lee, and gazed on it with eager curiosity, not unmingled with fear. Almost the childish terrors of his earlier days returned, and he thought the severe pale eye of the ancient warrior followed his, and menaced him with its displeasure. And although he quickly argued himself out of such an absurd belief, yet the mixed feelings of his mind were expressed in words that seemed half addressed to the ancient portrait. “Soul of my mother’s ancestor,” he said, “be it for weal or for woe, by designing men, or by supernatural beings, that thine ancient halls are disturbed, I am resolved to leave them on the morrow.” “I rejoice to hear it, with all my soul,” said a voice behind him. He turned, saw a tall figure in white, with a sort of turban upon its head, and dropping the candle in the exertion, instantly grappled with it. “Thou at least art palpable,” he said. “Palpable?” answered he whom he grasped so strongly—“ ’Sdeath, methinks you might know that without the risk of choking me; oons, and if you loose me not, I’ll show you that two can play at the game of wrestling.” “Roger Wildrake!” said Everard, letting the cavalier loose, and stepping back. “Roger Wildrake, ay truly. Did you take me for Roger Bacon, come to help you to raise the devil?—for the place smells of sulphur consumedly.” “It is the pistol I fired—Did you not hear it?” “Why yes, it was the first thing waked me—for that night-cap which I pulled on, made me sleep like a dormouse—Pshut, I feel my brains giddy with it yet.” “And wherefore came you not on the instant?—I never needed help more.” “I came as fast as I could,” answered Wildrake; “but it was some time ere I got my senses collected, for I was dreaming of that damned field at Naseby—and then the door of my room was shut, and hard to open, till I played locksmith with my foot.” “How? it was open when I went to bed,” said Everard. “It was locked when I came out of bed but now,” said Wildrake, “and I marvel you heard me not when I forced it open.” “My mind was occupied otherwise,” said Everard. “Well,” said Wildrake, “but what has happened?—Here am I bolt upright, and ready to fight, if this yawning fit will give me leave— Mother Redcap’s mightiest is weaker than I drank last night, by a bushel to a barleycorn—I have quaffed the very elixir of malt—Ha —yaw.”

[Chap. 14]



165

“And some opiate besides, I should think,” said Everard. “Very like—very like—less than the pistol-shot would not waken me; even I, who with but an ordinary grace-cup sleep as lightly as a maiden on the first of May, when she watches for the earliest beam to go to gather dew. But what are you about to do next?” “Nothing,” answered Everard. “Nothing?” said Wildrake, in surprise. “I speak it,” said Colonel Everard, “less for your information, than for that of others who may hear me, that I will leave the Lodge this morning, and, if it is possible, remove the Commissioners.” “Hark,” said Wildrake, “do you not hear some noise, like the distant sound of the applause of a theatre? The goblins of the place rejoice in your departure.” “I shall leave Woodstock,” said Everard, “to the occupation of my uncle Sir Henry and his family, if they choose to resume it; not that I am frightened into this as a concession to the series of artifices which have been played off on this occasion, but solely because such was my intention from the beginning. But let me warn,” (he added, raising his voice,)—“let me warn the parties concerned in this combination, that though it may pass off successfully on a fool like Desborough, a visionary like Harrison, a coward like Bletson”—— Here a voice distinctly spoke, as standing near them—“Or a wise, moderate, and resolute person, like Colonel Everard.” “By Heaven, the voice came from the picture,” said Wildrake, drawing his sword; “I will pink his painted armour for him.” “Offer no violence,” said Everard, startled at the interruption, but resuming with firmness what he was saying,—“Let those engaged be aware, that however this string of artifices be immediately successful, it must, when closely looked into, be attended with the punishment of all concerned—the total demolition of Woodstock, and the irremediable downfall of the family of Lee. Let all concerned think of this, and desist in time.” He paused, and almost expected a reply, but none came. “It is a very odd thing,” said Wildrake; “but—yaw-ha—my brain cannot compass it just now; it whirls round like a toast in a bowl of muscadine; I must sit down—haw-yaw—and discuss it at leisure— Gramercy, good elbow-chair.” So saying, he threw himself, or rather sank gradually down, on a huge easy-chair, which had been often pressed by the weight of stout Sir Henry Lee, and in an instant was sound asleep. Everard was far from feeling the same inclination for slumber, yet his mind was relieved of the apprehensions of any farther visitation that night; for he considered his treaty to evacuate Woodstock, as made known

166



Vol. 2, ch. 4

to, and accepted in all probability by, those whom the intrusion of the Commissioners had induced to take such singular measures for expelling them. His opinion, which had for a time leant towards a belief in something supernatural in the disturbances, had now returned to the more rational mode of accounting for them, by dexterous combination, for which such a mansion as Woodstock afforded so many facilities. He heaped the hearth with fuel, lighted the candle, and examining poor Wildrake’s situation, adjusted him as easily in the chair as he could, the cavalier stirring his limbs no more than an infant. His situation went far, in his patron’s opinion, to infer trick and confederacy, for ghosts have no occasion to drug men’s possets. He threw himself on the bed, and while he thought these strange circumstances over, a sweet and low strain of music stole through the chamber; the words “Good night—good night—good night,” thrice repeated, each time in a softer and more distant tone, seemed to assure him that the goblins and he were at truce, if not at peace, and that he had no more disturbance to expect that night. He had the courage to call out a “good night;” for, after all his conviction of the existence of a trick, it was so well performed as to bring with it a feeling of fear, just like what an audience feels during the performance of a tragic scene, which they know to be unreal, and which yet affects their passions by its near approach to nature. Sleep overtook him at last, and left him not till broad day-light on the ensuing morning.

Chapter Four And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there, Troop home to church-yard—— Midsummer’s Night’s Dream

W    the fresh air, and the rising of morning, every feeling of the night before had passed away from Colonel Everard’s mind, excepting wonder how the effects which he had witnessed could be produced. He examined the whole room, sounding both floor and wainscot, with his knuckles and cane, but was unable to discern any secret passages; while the door, secured by a strong cross bolt, and the lock besides, remained as firm as when he had fastened it on the preceding evening. The apparition resembling Victor Lee next called his attention. Ridiculous stories had been often circulated, of this figure, or one exactly resembling it, having been met with by night among the waste apartments and corridors of the old palace; and

[Chap. 15]



167

Markham Everard had often heard such in his childhood. He was angry to recollect his own deficiency of courage, and the thrill which he felt on the preceding night, when by confederacy, doubtless, such an object was placed before his eyes. “Surely,” he said, “this fit of childish folly could not make me miss my aim—more likely that the balls had been withdrawn clandestinely from my pistols.” He examined that which was undischarged—he found the bullet in it: he investigated the apartment opposite to the point at which he fired, and, at five foot from the floor, in a direct line between the bedside and the place where the appearance had been seen, a pistolball had recently buried itself in the wainscot. He had little doubt, therefore, that he had fired in a just direction; and indeed to have arrived at the place where it was lodged, the bullet must have passed through the appearance at which he aimed, and proceeded point blank to the wall beyond. This was mysterious, and induced him to doubt whether the art of witchcraft or conjuration had not been called in to assist the machinations of these daring conspirators, who, being themselves mortal, might, nevertheless, according to the universal creed of the times, have invoked and obtained assistance from the inhabitants of another world. His next investigation respected the picture of Victor Lee itself. He examined it minutely as he stood on the floor before it, and compared its pale, shadowy, faintly-traced outlines, its faded colours, the stern repose of the eye, and deathlike paleness of the countenance, with its different aspect on the preceding night, when illuminated by the artificial light which fell full upon it, while it left every other part of the room in comparative darkness. The features seemed then to have an unnatural glow, while the rising and falling of the flame in the chimney gave the head and limbs something which resembled the appearance of actual motion. Now, seen by day, it was a mere picture of the hard and ancient school of Holbein; formerly, it seemed for the moment something more. Determined to get to the bottom of this contrivance if possible, Everard, by the assistance of a table and chair, examined the portrait still more closely, and endeavoured to ascertain the existence of any private spring, by which it might be slipt aside,—a contrivance not infrequent in ancient buildings, which usually abounded with means of access and escape, communicated to none but the lords of the castle, or their immediate confidents. But the pannel on which Victor Lee was painted was firmly fixed in the wainscoting of the apartment, of which it made a part, and the Colonel satisfied himself that it could not have been used for the purpose which he had suspected.

168



Vol. 2, ch. 4

He next aroused his faithful squire Wildrake, who, notwithstanding his deep share of the “blessedness of sleep,” had scarce even yet got rid of the effects of the grace-cup of the preceding evening. “It was a reward,” according to his own view of the matter, “of his temperance; one single draught having made him sleep more late and more sound than a matter of half-a-dozen, or from thence to a dozen pulls, would have done, when he was guilty of the enormity of rere-suppers,* and of drinking deep after them.” “Had your temperate draught,” said Everard, “been but a thought more strongly seasoned, Wildrake, thou hadst slept so sound that the last trump only could have waked thee.” “And then,” answered Wildrake, “I should have waked with a headache, Mark; for I see my modest sip has not exempted me from that epilogue.—But let us go forth, and see how the night, which we have passed so strangely, has been spent by the rest of them. I suspect they are all right willing to evacuate Woodstock, unless they have either rested better than we, or at least been more lucky in lodgings.” “In that case, I will dispatch thee down to Josceline’s hut, to negotiate the re-entrance of Sir Henry Lee and his family into their old apartments, where, my interest with the General being joined with the indifferent repute of the place itself, I think they have little chance of being disturbed either by the present, or by any new Commissioners.” “But how are they to defend themselves against the fiends, my gallant Colonel?” said Wildrake. “Methinks, had I an interest in yonder pretty girl, such as thou dost boast, I would be loath to expose her to the terrors of a residence at Woodstock, where these devils—I beg their pardon, for I suppose they hear every word we say—these merry goblins—make such gay work from twilight till morning.” “My dear Wildrake,” said the Colonel, “I, as well as you, believe it possible that our speech may be overheard; but I care not, and will speak my mind plainly. I trust Sir Henry and Alice are not engaged in this silly plot; I cannot reconcile it with the pride of the one, the modesty of the other, or the good sense of both, that any motive could engage them in so strange a conjunction. But the fiends are all of your own political persuasion, Wildrake, all true-blue cavaliers; * Rere-suppers (quasi arriere) belonged to a species of luxury introduced in the jolly days of King James’s extravagance, and continued through the subsequent reign. The supper took place at an early hour, six or seven o’clock at latest—the rere-supper was a postliminary banquet, a hors d’œuvre, which made its appearance at ten or eleven, and served as an apology for prolonging the entertainment till midnight.

[Chap. 15]



169

and I am convinced, that Sir Henry and Alice Lee, though they be unconnected with them, have not the slightest cause to be apprehensive of their goblin machinations—besides, as Sir Henry and Josceline must know every crevice about the place, it will be far more difficult to play off any ghostly machinery upon them than upon strangers. But let us to our toilette, and when water and brush hath done its work, we will inquire what is next to be.” “Nay, this wretched puritan’s garb of mine is hardly worth brushing,” said Wildrake; “and but for this hundred weight of rusty iron, with which thou hast bedizened me, I look more like a bankrupt Quaker than anything else. But I’ll make you as spruce as ever was a canting rogue of your party.” So saying, and humming at the same time the cavalier tune,— Though for a time we see Whitehall, With cobwebs hung around the wall, Yet Heaven shall make amends for all, When the King shall enjoy his own again.

“Thou forgettest who are without,” said Everard. “No—I remember who are within,” replied his friend. “I only sing to my merry goblins here, who will like me all the better for it. Tush, man, the devils are my bonos socios, and when I see them, I will warrant they prove such roaring boys as I knew when I served under Lunsford and Goring, fellows with long nails that nothing escaped, bottomless stomachs that nothing filled,—mad for pillaging, ranting, drinking, and fighting,—sleeping rough in the trenches, and dying stubbornly in their boots. Ah! these merry days are gone. Well, it is the fashion to make a grave face on’t among cavaliers, and specially the parsons that have lost their tithe-pigs; but I was fitted for the element of the time, and never did I or can desire merrier days than I had during that same barbarous, bloody, and unnatural rebellion.” “Thou wert ever a wild sea-bird, Roger, even according to your name; liking the gale better than the calm, the boisterous ocean better than the smooth lake, and your rough, wild struggle against the wind, than daily food, ease, and quiet.” “Pshaw for your smooth lake, and your old woman to feed me with brewer’s grains, and the poor drake obliged to come squattering whenever she whistles! Everard, I like to feel the wind rustle against my pinions,—now diving, now on the crest of the wave, now in ocean, now in sky—that is the wild drake’s joy, my grave one! And in the Civil War so it went with us—down in one county, up in another, beaten to-day, victorious to-morrow—now starving in some barren leaguer—now revelling in a presbyterian’s pantry—his cellars,

170



Vol. 2, ch. 4

his plate-chest, his old judicial thumb-ring, his pretty serving-wench, all at command!” “Hush, friend, remember,” said Everard, “I hold that persuasion.” “More the pity, Mark, more the pity,” said Wildrake; “but, as you say, it is needless talking of it. Let us e’en go and see how your Presbyterian pastor, Master Holdenough, has fared, and whether he has proved more able to foil the foul fiend than have you his disciple and auditor.” They left the apartment accordingly, and were overwhelmed with the various incoherent accounts of sentinels and others, all of whom had seen or heard something extraordinary in the course of the night. It is needless to describe particularly the various rumours which each contributed to the common stock, with the greater alacrity that in such cases there seems always to be a sort of disgrace in not having seen or suffered as much as others. The most moderate of the narrators only talked of sounds like the mewing of a cat, or the growling of a dog, especially the squeaking of a pig. They heard also as if it had been nails driven and saws used, and the clashing of fetters, and the rustling of silk gowns, and notes of music, and in short all sort of sounds which have nothing to do with each other. Others swore they had smelt savours of various kinds, chiefly bituminous, indicating a Tartarean derivation; others did not indeed swear, but protested, to visions of men in armour, women without heads, headless horses, asses with horns, and cows with six legs, not to mention black figures, whose cloven hoofs gave plain information what realm they belonged to. But these strongly-attested cases of nocturnal disturbances among the sentinels had been so general that those who were on duty called in vain on the corps-de-garde, who were trembling on their own post; and an alert enemy might have done complete execution on the whole garrison. But amid this general alerte, no violence appeared to be meant, and annoyance, not injury, seemed to have been the goblins’ object, excepting in the case of one poor fellow, a trooper, who had followed Harrison in half his battles, and now was sentinel in that very vestibule upon which Everard had recommended them to mount a guard. He had presented his carabine at something which came suddenly upon him, when it was wrested out of his hands, and he himself knocked down with the butt-end of it. This broken head, and the drenched bedding of Desborough, upon whom a tub of ditch-water had been emptied during his sleep, were the only pieces of real evidence to attest the disturbances of the night. The reports from Harrison’s apartment were, as delivered by the grave Master Tomkins, that truly the General had passed the night

[Chap. 15]



171

undisturbed, though there was still upon him a deep sleep, and a folding of the hands to slumber, from which Everard argued that the machinators had esteemed Harrison’s part of the reckoning sufficiently paid off on the preceding evening. He then proceeded to the apartment doubly garrisoned by the worshipful Desborough, and the philosophical Bletson. They were both up and dressing themselves, the former open-mouthed in his history of sufferings, whilst the latter under an affected tone of contempt endeavoured to disguise his feeling of fear and suffering. Indeed, no sooner had Everard entered, than the ducked and dismayed Colonel made a dismal complaint of the way he had spent the night, and murmured not a little against his Right Excellent kinsman, for imposing a task upon him which inferred so much annoyance. “Could not his Excellency, my kinsman Noll,” he said, “have given his poor relative and brother-in-law a sop somewhere else, than out of this Woodstock, which seems to be the devil’s own porridge-pot? I cannot sup broth with the devil; I have no long spoon—not I. Could he not have quartered me in some quiet corner, and given this haunted place to some of his preachers and prayers, who know the Bible as well as the muster-roll? whereas I know the four hoofs of a clean-going nag, or the points of a team of oxen, better than all the books of Moses. But I will give it o’er, at once and for ever; hopes of earthly gain shall never make me run the risk of being carried away bodily by the devil, besides being set upon my head one whole night, and soused with ditch-water the next—No, no—I am too wise for that.” Master Bletson had a different part to act. He complained of no personal annoyances; on the contrary, declared he should have slept as well as ever he did in his life, but for the abominable disturbances around him, of men calling to arms every half hour, when so much as a cat trotted by one of their posts—He would rather, he said, “have slept among a whole Sabbath of witches, if such creatures could be found.” “Then you think there are no such things as apparitions, Master Bletson?” said Everard. “I used to be sceptical on the subject; but on my life, to-night has been a strange one.” “Dreams, dreams, dreams, my simple Colonel,” said Bletson, though his pale face, and shaking limbs, belied the assumed courage with which he spoke. “Old Chaucer, sir, hath told us the real moral on’t—He was an old frequenter of the forest of Woodstock here.” “Chaser?” said Desborough; “some huntsman belike, by his name —Does he walk, like Hearne at Windsor?” “Chaucer, not Chaser,” said Bletson, “my dear Desborough, is

172



Vol. 2, ch. 4

one of those wonderful fellows, as Colonel Everard knows, who live many a hundred years after they are dead, and whose words haunt our ears after their bones are long mouldered in the dust.” “Ay, ay! well—I for one desire his room rather than his company —one of your conjurers, I warrant him. But what says he to the matter?” “Only a slight spell, which I will take the freedom to repeat to Everard,” said Bletson; “but which would be as bad as Greek to thee, Desborough.—Old Geoffrey lays the whole blame of our nocturnal disturbance on superfluity of humours, Which causen folke to dred in their dreams Of arrowes, and of fire with red gleams, Right as the humour of Melancholy Causeth many a man in sleep to cry For fear of great bulls and bears black, And others that black devils will them take.”

While he was thus declaiming, Everard observed a book sticking out beneath the pillow of the bed lately occupied by the honourable member. “Is that Chaucer?” he said, making to the volume—“I would like to look at the passage”—— “Chaucer,” said Bletson, hastening to interfere; “no—that is Lucretius, my darling Lucretius. I cannot let you see it—-I have some private marks.” But by this time Everard had the book in his hand. “Lucretius!” he said; “no, Master Bletson—this is not Lucretius, but a fitter comforter in dread or in danger—Why should you be ashamed of it?—Only, Bletson, instead of resting your head, if you can but anchor your heart upon this volume, it may serve you in better stead than Lucretius or Chaucer either.” “Why, what book is it?” said Bletson, his pale cheek colouring with the shame of detection.—“Oh, the Bible,” throwing it down contemptuously—“some trick of my fellow Gibeon’s—these Jews have been always superstitious—ever since Juvenal’s time, thou knowst— Qualiacunque voles Judæi somnia vendunt.

He left me the old book for a spell, I warrant you, for ’tis a wellmeaning fool.” “He would scarce have left the New Testament, as well as the Old,” said Everard. “Come, my dear Bletson, do not be ashamed of the wisest thing that you ever did in your life, supposing you took your Bible in an hour of apprehension, with a view to profit by the contents.” Bletson’s vanity was so much galled, that it overcame his constitu-

[Chap. 15]



173

tional cowardice. His little thin fingers quivered for eagerness, his neck and cheeks were as red as scarlet, and his articulation was as thick and vehement as—in short, as if he had been no philosopher. “Master Everard,” he said, “you are a man of the sword, sir— and, sir, you seem to suppose yourself entitled to say whatever comes into your mind with respect to civilians, sir—But I would have you remember, sir, that there are bounds beyond which human patience may be urged, sir,—and jests which no man of honour will endure, sir,—and therefore, I expect such an apology for your present language, Colonel Everard, and this untimely jesting, sir—or you may chance to hear from me in a way that will not please you.” Everard could not help smiling at this explosion of valour, engendered by irritated self-love. “Look you, Master Bletson,” he said, “I have been a soldier, that is true, but I was never a bloody-minded one; and as a Christian, I am unwilling to enlarge the kingdom of darkness by sending a new vassal thither before his time. If Heaven gives you time to repent, I see no reason why my hand should deprive you of it, which, were we to have a rencounter, would be your fate in the thrust of a sword, or the pulling of a trigger. I therefore prefer to apologize; and I call Desborough, if he has recovered his wits, to bear evidence that I do apologize for having suspected you, who are completely the slave of your own vanity, of any tendency, however slight, towards grace or good sense, and I further apologize for the time that I have wasted in endeavouring to wash an Ethiopian white, or in recommending rational inquiry to a self-willed atheist.” Bletson, overjoyed at the turn the matter had taken—for the defiance was scarce out of his mouth ere he began to tremble for the consequences—answered with great eagerness and civility of manner,—“Nay, dearest Colonel, say no more of it—an apology is all that is necessary among men of honour—it neither leaves dishonour with him who asks it, nor infers degradation on him who makes it.” “Not such an apology as I have made, I trust,” said the Colonel. “No, no—not in the least—not in the least—one apology serves me just as well as another, and Desborough will bear witness you have made one, and that is all there can be said on the subject.” “Master Desborough and you will take care how the matter is reported, I dare say, and I only recommend to both, that, if mentioned at all, it be told correctly.” “Nay, nay, we will not mention it at all,” said Bletson, “we will forget it from this moment. Only, never suppose me capable of superstitious weakness. Had I been afraid of an apparent and real danger—why such fear is natural to man—and I will not deny that

174



Vol. 2, ch. 4

the mood of mind may have happened to me as well as to others. But to be thought capable of resorting to spells, and sleeping with books under my pillow to secure myself against ghosts, on my word, it was enough to provoke one to quarrel, for the moment, with his very best friend.—And now, Colonel, what is to be done, and how is our duty to be executed at this accursed place? If I should get such a wetting as Desborough’s, why I should die of catarrh, though you see it hurts him no more than a bucket of water thrown over a posthorse. You are, I presume, a brother in our commission, how are you of opinion we should proceed?” “Why, in good time here comes Harrison,” said Everard, “and I will lay my commission from the Lord General before you all; which, as you see, Colonel Desborough, commands you to desist from acting on your present authority, and intimates his pleasure accordingly, that you withdraw from the place.” Desborough took the paper and examined the signature.—“It is Noll’s signature sure enough—” said he, dropping his under jaw; “only, every time of late he has made the Oliver as large as a giant, while the Cromwell creeps after like a dwarf, as if the surname were like to disappear one of these days altogether. But is his Excellence, our kinsman, Noll Cromwell (since he has the surname yet), so unreasonable as to think his relations and friends are to be set upon their heads till they have the crick in their neck—sowsed as if they had been plunged in a horsepond—frightened, day and night, by all sort of devils, witches, and fairies, and get not a penny of smart money? Adzooks, (forgive me for swearing,) if that’s the case I had better home to my farm, and mind team and herd, than dangle after such a thankless person, though I have wived his sister. She was poor enough when I took her, for as high as Noll holds his head now.” “It is not my purpose,” said Bletson, “to stir debate in this honourable meeting; and no one will doubt the veneration and attachment which I bear to our noble General, whom the current of events, and his own matchless qualities of courage and constancy, have raised so high in these deplorable days.—If I were to term him a direct and immediate emanation of the Animus Mundi itself—something which Nature had produced in her proudest hour, while exerting herself, as is her law, for the preservation of the creatures to whom she has given sense—I should scarce exhaust the ideas which I entertain of him. Always protesting, that I am by no means to be held as admitting, but merely as granting for the sake of argument, the possible existence of that species of emanation, or exhalation, from the Animus Mundi, of which I have made mention. I appeal to you, Colonel Desborough,

[Chap. 15]



175

who are his Excellency’s relation—to you, Colonel Everard, who hold the dearer title of his friend, whether I have over-rated my zeal in his behalf.” Everard bowed at this pause, but Desborough gave a more complete authentication. “Nay, I can bear witness to that. I have seen when you were willing to tie his points or brush his cloak, or the like—and to be treated thus ungratefully—and gudgeoned of the opportunities which had been given you”—— “It is not for that,” said Bletson, waving his hand gracefully. “You do me wrong, Master Desborough—-you do indeed, kind sir— although I know you mean it not—No, sir—no partial consideration of private interest prevailed on me to undertake this charge. It was conferred on me by the Parliament of England, in whose name this war commenced, and by the Council of State, who are the conservators of England’s liberty. And the chance and serene hope of serving the country, the confidence that I—and you, Master Desborough—and you, worthy General Harrison—superior, as I am, to all selfish considerations—to which I am sure you also, good Colonel Everard, would be superior, had you been named in this Commission, as I would to Heaven you had—I say, the hope of serving the country, with the aid of such respectable associates, one and all of them—as well as you, Colonel Everard, supposing you to have been of the number, induced me to accept of this opportunity, whereby I might, gratuitously, with your assistance, render so much advantage to our dear mother the Commonwealth of England.—Such was my hope—my trust—my confidence. And now comes my Lord General’s warrant to dissolve the authority by which we are entitled to act. Gentlemen, I ask this honourable meeting, (with all respect to his Excellency,) whether his Commission be paramount to that from whom he himself directly holds his commission? No one will say so. I ask whether he has climbed into the seat from which the late Man descended, or hath a great seal, or means to proceed by prerogative in such a case? I cannot see reason to believe in it, and therefore I must resist such doctrine. I am in your judgment, my brave and honourable colleagues; but, touching my own poor opinion, I feel myself under the unhappy necessity of proceeding in our commission, as if the interruption had not taken place; with this addition, that the Board of Sequestrators should sit, by day, at this same Lodge of Woodstock, but that, to reconcile the minds of weak brethren, who may be afflicted by superstitious rumours, as well as to avoid any practice on our persons by the malignants, who, I am convinced, are busy in this neighbourhood, we should remove our sittings before sunset to the George Inn, in the neighbouring borough.”

176



Vol. 2, ch. 4

“Good Master Bletson,” replied Colonel Everard, “it is not for me to reply to you; but you may know in what characters this army of England and their General write their authority. I fear me the annotation on this precept of the General, will be expressed by the march of a troop of horse from Oxford to see it executed. I believe there are orders out for that effect; and you know by late experience, that the soldier will obey his General equally against King and Parliament.” “That obedience is conditional,” said Harrison, starting fiercely up. “Know’st thou not, Markham Everard, that I have followed the man Cromwell as close as the bull-dog follows his master?—And so I will yet—But I am no spaniel, either to be beaten, or to have the food I have earned snatched from me, as if I were a vile cur, whose wages were a whipping, and free leave to wear my own skin. I looked, amongst the three of us, that we might honestly, and piously, and with advantage to the Commonwealth, have gained out of this commission three, and it may be five thousand pounds. And does Cromwell imagine I will part with it for a rough word? No man goeth a warfare on his own charges. He that serves the altar must live by the altar—And the Saints must have means to provend them with good harness and fresh horses against the unsealing and the pouring forth. Does Cromwell think I am so much of a tame tiger as to permit him to rend from me at pleasure the miserable dole he hath thrown me? Of a surety I will resist; and the men who are here, being chiefly of my own regiment—men who wait, and who expect, with lamps burning and loins girded, and each one his weapon bound upon his thigh, will aid me to make this house good against every assault—ay, even against Cromwell himself, until the latter coming, Selah!” “And I,” said Desborough, “will levy troops and protect your outquarters, not choosing at present to close myself up in garrison.” “And I,” said Bletson, “will do my part, and hie me to town and lay the matter before Parliament, arising in my place for that effect.” Everard was little moved by all these threats. The only formidable one, indeed, was that of Harrison, whose enthusiasm, joined with his courage, and obstinacy, and character among the fanatics of his own principles, made him a dangerous enemy. Before trying any other argument with the refractory Major-General, Everard endeavoured to moderate his feelings, and threw something in about the late disturbances. “Talk not to me of supernatural disturbances, young man—talk not to me of enemies in the body or out of the body. Am I not the champion chosen and commissioned to encounter and to conquer

[Chap. 15]



177

the great Dragon, and the Beast which cometh out of the sea? Am I not to command the left wing, and two regiments of the centre, when the Saints shall encounter with the countless legions of Gog and Magog? I tell thee that my name is written on the sea of glass mingled with fire, and that I will keep this place of Woodstock against all mortal men, and against all devils, whether in field or chamber, in the forest or in the meadow, even till the Saints shall reign in the fullness of their glory.” Everard saw it was then time to produce two or three lines under Cromwell’s hand, which he had received from the General, subsequently to the communication through Wildrake. The information they contained was calculated to allay the disappointment of the Commissioners. This document assigned as the reason of superseding the Woodstock Commission, that he should probably propose to the Parliament to require the assistance of General Harrison, Colonel Desborough, and Master Bletson, the honourable member for Littlefaith, in a much greater matter, namely, the disposing of the royal property, and disparking of the King’s forest at Windsor. So soon as this idea was started all parties pricked up their ears, and their drooping, and gloomy, and vindictive looks began to give place to courteous smiles, and to a cheerfulness, which laughed in their eyes, and turned their moustaches upwards. Colonel Desborough acquitted his right honourable and excellent cousin and kinsman of all species of unkindness; Master Bletson discovered, that the interest of the state was trebly concerned in the good administration of Windsor, than it was in that of Woodstock. As for Harrison, he exclaimed, without disguise or hesitation, that the gleaning of the grapes of Windsor was better than the vintage of Woodstock. Thus speaking, the glance of his dark eye expressed as much triumph in the proposed earthly advantage, as if it had not been according to his vain persuasion, to be shortly exchanged for his share in the general reign of the Millenium. His delight, in short, resembled the joy of an eagle, who preys upon a lamb in the evening with not the less relish, that she descries an hundred thousand men about to join battle with day-break, and to give her an endless feast on the hearts and lifeblood of the valiant. Yet though all agreed that they would be obedient to the General’s pleasure in this matter, Bletson proposed, as a precautionary measure, in which all agreed, that they should take up their abode for some time in the town of Woodstock, to wait for their new commissions respecting Windsor; and this upon the prudential consideration, that it was best not to slip one knot until another was first tied.

178



Vol. 2, ch. 4

Each commissioner, therefore, wrote to Oliver individually, stating, in his own way, the depth and height, length and breadth, of his attachment to him. Each expressed himself resolved to obey the General’s injunctions to the uttermost; but with the same scrupulous devotion to the Parliament, each found himself at a loss how to lay down the commission intrusted to them by that body, and therefore felt bound in conscience to take up his residence at the borough of Woodstock, that he might not seem to abandon their charge until they were called to administrate the weightier matter of Windsor, to which they expressed their willingness instantly to devote themselves, according to his Excellence’s pleasure. This was the general style of their letters, varied by the characteristic flourishes of the writers. Desborough, for example, said something about the religious duty of providing for one’s own household, only he blundered the text. Bletson wrote long and big words about the political obligation incumbent on every member of the community, to sacrifice his time and talents to the service of his country; while Harrison talked of the littleness of present affairs, in comparison of the approaching tremendous change of all things beneath the sun. But although the garnishing of the various epistles was different, the result came to the same, that they were determined at least to keep sight of Woodstock until they were well assured of some better and more profitable commission. Everard also wrote a letter in the most grateful terms to Cromwell, which would probably have been less warm had he known more distinctly than his follower chose to tell him, the expectation under which the wily General had granted his request. He acquainted his Excellency with his purpose of continuing at Woodstock, partly to assure himself of the motions of the three Commissioners, and to watch whether they did not again enter upon execution of the trust, which they had for the present renounced,—and partly to see that some extraordinary circumstances, which had taken place in the Lodge, and which would doubtless transpire, were not followed by any explosion to the disturbance of the public peace. He knew (as he expressed himself) that his Excellence was so much the friend of order, that he would rather disturbances or insurrections were prevented than punished; and he conjured the General to repose confidence in his exertions for the public service by every mode within his power; not aware, it will be observed, in what sense his general pledge might be interpreted. These letters being made into a packet, were forwarded to Windsor by a trooper, detached on that errand.

[Chap. 16]



179

Chapter Five We do that in our zeal, Our calmer moments are afraid to answer. A

W  the Commissioners were preparing to remove themselves from the Lodge to the inn at the borough of Woodstock, with all that state and bustle which attend the movements of great persons, and especially of such to whom greatness is not entirely familiar, Everard held some colloquy with the Presbyterian clergyman, Master Holdenough, who had issued from the apartment which he had occupied, as it were in defiance of the spirits by whom the mansion was supposed to be disturbed, and whose pale cheek, and pensive brow, gave token that he had not passed the night more comfortably than the other inmates of the Lodge of Woodstock. Colonel Everard having offered to procure the reverend gentleman some refreshment, received this reply:—“This day shall I not taste food, saving that which we are assured of as sufficient for our sustenance, where it is promised that our bread shall be given us and our water shall be sure. Not that I fast, in the papistical opinion that it adds to those merits, which are but an accumulation of filthy rags; but because I hold it needful that no grosser sustenance should this day cloud my understanding, or render less pure and vivid the thanks I owe to Heaven for a most wonderful preservation.” “Master Holdenough,” said Everard, “you are, I know, both a good man and a bold one, and I saw you last night courageously go upon your sacred duty, when soldiers, and tried ones, seemed considerably alarmed.” “Too courageous—too venturous,” was Master Holdenough’s reply, the boldness of whose aspect seemed completely to have died away. “We are frail creatures, Master Everard, and frailest then when we think ourselves strongest. Oh, Colonel Everard,” he added, after a pause, and as if the confidence was partly involuntary, “I have seen that which I shall never survive!” “You surprise me, reverend sir,” said Everard;—“may I request you will speak more plainly? I have heard some stories of this wild night, nay, have witnessed strange things myself; but, methinks, I would be much interested in knowing the nature of your disturbance.” “Sir,” said the clergyman, “you are a discreet gentleman; and

180



Vol. 2, ch. 5

though I would not willingly that these heretics, schismatics, Brownists, Muggletonians, Anabaptists, and so forth, had such an opportunity of triumph, as my defeat in this matter would have afforded them, yet to you, who have been ever a faithful follower of our church, and are pledged to the Good Cause by the great National League and Covenant, surely I would be more open. Sit we down, therefore, and let me call for a glass of pure water, for as yet I feel some bodily faltering; though, I thank Heaven, I am in mind resolute and composed as a merely mortal man may after such a vision.— They say, worthy Colonel, that looking on such things foretells, or causes, speedy death—I know not if it be true; but if so, I only depart like the tired sentinel when his officer releases him from his post; and glad shall I be to close these wearied eyes against the sight, and shut these harassed ears against the croaking, as of frogs, of Antinomians, and Pelagians, and Socinians, and Arminians, and Arians, and Nullifidians, which have come up into our England, like those filthy reptiles into the house of Pharaoh.” Here one of the servants who had been summoned, entered with a cup of water, gazing at the same time in the face of the clergyman, as if his great stupid grey eyes were endeavouring to read what tragic tale was written in his brow; and shaking his empty scull as he left the room, with the air of one who was proud of having discovered that all was not exactly right, though he could not so well guess what it was that was wrong. Colonel Everard invited the good man to take some refreshment more genial than the pure element, but he declined: “I am in some sort a champion,” he said; “and though I have been foiled in this late controversy with the Enemy, still I have my trumpet to give the alarm, and my sharp sword to smite withal; therefore, like the Nazarites of old, I will eat nothing that cometh of the vine, neither drink wine nor strong drink, until these my days of combat shall have passed away.” Kindly and respectfully the Colonel anew pressed Master Holdenough to communicate to him the events of the preceding night; and the good clergyman proceeded as follows, with that little characteristical touch of vanity in his narrative, which naturally arose out of the part he had played in the world, and the influence which he had exercised over the minds of others. “I was a young man at the University of Cambridge,” he said, “when I was particularly bound in friendship to a fellow-student, perhaps because we were esteemed (though it is vain to mention it) the most hopeful scholars at our college; and so equally advanced, that it was difficult, perhaps, to say which was the greater proficient in his studies. Only our tutor,

[Chap. 16]



181

Master Purefoy, used to say, that if my comrade had the advantage of me in gifts, I had the better of him in grace; for he was attached to the profane learning of the classics, always unprofitable, often impious and impure; and I had light enough to turn my studies unto the sacred tongues. Also we differed in our opinions touching the Church of England, for he held Arminian opinions, with Laud, and those who would connect our ecclesiastical establishment with the civil, and make the Church dependent on the breath of an earthly man. In fine, he favoured Prelacy both in essentials and in ceremonial; and although we parted with tears and embraces, it was to follow very different courses. He obtained a living, and became a great controversial writer in behalf of the Bishops and of the Court. I also, as is well known to you, to the best of my abilities, sharpened my pen in the cause of the poor oppressed people, whose tender consciences rejected the rites and ceremonies more befitting a papistical than a reformed Church, and which, according to the blinded policy of the Court, were enforced by pains and penalties. Then came the Civil War, and I—called thereunto by my conscience, and nothing fearing or suspecting what miserable consequences have chanced, through the rise of these Independents—consented to lend my countenance and labour to the great work, by becoming chaplain to Colonel Harrison’s regiment. Not that I mingled with carnal weapons in the field—which Heaven defend that a minister of the altar should—but I preached, exhorted, and, in time of need, was a surgeon, as well to the wounds of the body as of the soul. Now, it fell towards the end of the war, that a party of malignants had seized on a strong house in the shire of Shrewsbury, situated on a small island, advanced into a lake, and accessible only by a small and narrow causeway. From thence they made excursions, and vexed the country; and high time it was to suppress them, so that a part of our regiment went to reduce them; and I was requested to go, for they were few in number to take in so strong a place, and the Colonel judged that my exhortations would make them do valiantly. And so, contrary to my wont, I went forth with them, even to the field, where there was valiant fighting on both sides. Nevertheless the malignants shooting their wall-pieces at us, had so much the advantage, that, after bursting their gates with a salvo of our cannon, Colonel Harrison ordered his men to advance on the causeway, and try to carry the place by storm. Natheless, although our men did valiantly, advancing in good order, yet being galled on every side by the fire, they at length fell into disorder, and were retreating with much loss, Harrison himself valiantly bringing up the rear, and defending them as he could against the enemy, who sallied forth in

182



Vol. 2, ch. 5

pursuit of them, to smite them hip and thigh. Now, Colonel Everard, I am a man of a quick and vehement temper by nature, though better teaching than the old law hath made me mild and patient as you now see me. I could not bear to see our Israelites flying before the Philistines, so I rushed upon the causeway, with the Bible in one hand, and a halberd, which I had caught up, in the other, and turned back the foremost fugitives, by threatening to strike them down, pointing out to them at the same time a priest in his cassock, as they call it, who was among the malignants, and asking them whether they would not do as much for a true servant of Heaven, as the uncircumcised would for a priest of Baal. My words and strokes prevailed; they turned at once, and shouting out, Down with Baal and his worshippers! they charged the malignants so unexpectedly home, that they not only drove them back into their house of garrison, but entered it with them, as the phrase is, pell mell. I also was there, partly hurried on by the crowd, partly to prevail on our enraged soldiers to give quarter; for it grieved my heart to see Christians and Englishmen hashed down with swords and gunstocks, like curs in the street, when there is an alarm of mad-dogs. In this way, the soldiers fighting and slaughtering, and I calling to them to stay their hand, we gained the very roof of the building, which was in part leaded, and to which, as to a last tower of refuge, those of the cavaliers, who yet escaped, had retired. I was myself, I may say, forced up the narrow winding staircase, by our soldiers, who rushed on like dogs of chase upon their prey; and when extricated from the passage, I found myself in the midst of a horrid scene. The scattered defenders were, some resisting with the fury of despair; some on their knees, crying for compassion in words and tones to break a man’s heart when he thinks on them; some were calling on God for mercy; and it was time, for man had none. They were stricken down, thrust through, flung from the battlements into the lake; and the wild cries of the victors, mingled with the groans, shrieks, and clamours of the vanquished, made a sound so horrible, that only death can erase it from my memory. And the men who butchered their fellow-creatures thus, were neither Pagans from distant savage lands, nor ruffians, the refuse and off-scourings of our own people. They were in calm blood reasonable, nay, religious men, maintaining a fair repute both heavenward and earthward. Oh, Master Everard, your trade of war should be feared and avoided, since it converts such men into wolves towards their fellow-creatures!” “It is a stern necessity,” said Everard, looking down, “and as such alone is justifiable—But proceed, reverend sir; I see not how this storm, an incident but e’en too frequent on both sides during the

[Chap. 16]



183

late war, connects with the affair of last night.” “You shall hear anon,” said Master Holdenough; then paused as one who makes an effort to compose himself before continuing a relation, the tenor of which agitated him with much violence.—“In this infernal tumult,” he resumed—“for surely nothing on earth could so much resemble hell, as when men go thus loose in mortal malice on their fellow-creatures,—I saw the same priest whom I had distinguished on the causeway, with one or two other malignants, pressed into a corner by the assailants, and defending themselves to the last, as those who had no hope.—I saw him—I knew him—Oh, Colonel Everard!” He grasped Everard’s hand with his own left hand, and pressed the palm of his right to his face and forehead, sobbing aloud. “It was your college companion?” said Everard, anticipating the catastrophe. “Mine ancient—mine only friend—with whom I had spent the happy days of youth!—I rushed forward—I struggled—I entreated. But my eagerness left me neither voice nor language—all was drowned in the wretched cry which I had myself raised—Down with the priest of Baal—Slay Mattan—slay him were he between the altars!—Forced over the battlements, but struggling for life, I could see him cling to one of those projections which were formed to carry the water from the leads—but they hacked at his arms and hands.— I heard the heavy fall into the bottomless abyss below.—Excuse me —I cannot go on.” “He may have escaped.” “Oh! no, no, no—the tower was four stories in height. Even those who threw themselves into the lake from the lower windows, to escape by swimming, had no safety. Our mounted troopers on the shore caught the same blood-thirsty humour which had seized the storming party, galloped around the margin of the lake, and shot those who were struggling for life in the water, or cut them down as they strove to get to land. They were all cut off and destroyed.— Oh! may the blood shed on that day remain silent!—Oh! that the earth may receive it in her recesses!—Oh! that it may be mingled for ever with the dark waters of that lake, so that it may never cry for vengeance against those whose anger was fierce, and who slaughtered in their wrath!—And, oh! may the erring man be forgiven who came into their assembly, and lent his voice to encourage their cruelty.—Oh! Albany, my brother, my brother—I have lamented for thee even as David for Jonathan!” The good man sobbed aloud, and so much did Colonel Everard sympathize with his emotions, that he forbore to press him upon the

184



Vol. 2, ch. 5

subject of his own curiosity until the full tide of remorseful passion had for the time abated. It was, however, fierce and agitating, the more so, perhaps, that indulgence in strong mental feeling of any kind was foreign to the severe and ascetic character of the man, and was therefore the more overpowering when it had at once surmounted all restraints. Large tears flowed down the trembling features of his thin, and usually stern, or at least austere countenance; he eagerly returned the compression of Everard’s hand, as if thankful for the sympathy which the caress implied. Presently after, Master Holdenough wiped his eyes, withdrew his hand gently from that of Everard, shaking it kindly as they parted, and proceeded with more composure: “Forgive me this burst of passionate feeling, worthy Colonel.—I am conscious it little becomes a man of my cloth, who should be the bearer of consolation to others, to give way in mine own person to an extremity of grief, weak at least, if indeed it is not sinful; for what are we, that we should weep and murmur touching that which is permitted? But Albany was to me as a brother. The happiest days of my life, ere my Call to mingle myself in the strife of the land had awakened me to my duties, were spent in his company.—I—but I will make the rest of my story short.”—Here he drew his chair close to that of Everard, and spoke in a solemn and mysterious tone of voice, almost lowered to a whisper—“I saw him last night.” “Saw him—saw whom?” said Everard. “Can you mean the person whom”—— “Whom I saw so ruthlessly slaughtered,” said the clergyman.— “My ancient college-friend—Joseph Albany.” “Master Holdenough, your cloth and your character alike must prevent your jesting on such a subject as this.” “Jesting!” answered Holdenough; “I would as soon jest on my death-bed—as soon jest upon the Bible.” “But you must have been deceived,” answered Everard, hastily; “this tragical story necessarily often returns to your mind, and in moments when the imagination overcomes the evidence of the outward senses, your fancy must have presented to you an unreal appearance. Nothing more likely, when the mind is on the stretch after something supernatural, than that the imagination supplies the place with a chimera, while the over-excited feelings render it difficult to dispel the delusion.” “Colonel Everard,” replied Holdenough, with austerity, “in discharge of my duty I must not fear the face of man; and, therefore, I tell you plainly, as I have done before with more observance, that when you bring your carnal learning and judgment, as it is but too

[Chap. 16]



185

much your nature to do, to investigate the hidden things of another world, you might as well measure with the palm of your hand the waters of the Isis. Indeed, good sir, you err in this, and give men too much pretence to confound your honourable name with witchadvocates, free-thinkers, and atheists, even with such as this Bletson, who, if the discipline of the church had its hands strengthened, as it was in the beginning of the great conflict, would have been long ere now cast out of the pale, and delivered over to the punishment of the flesh, that his spirit might, if possible, be yet saved.” “You mistake, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard; “I do not deny the existence of such preternatural visitations, because I cannot, and dare not, raise the voice of my own opinion against the testimony of ages, supported by such learned men as yourself. Nevertheless, though I grant the possibility of such things, I have scarce yet heard of an instance in my days so well fortified by evidence, that I could at once and distinctly say, this must have happened by supernatural agency, and not otherwise.” “Hear, then, what I have to tell,” said the divine, “on the faith of a man, a Christian, and what is more, a servant of our Holy Church; and therefore, though unworthy, an elder and a teacher among Christians.—I had taken my post yester evening in the half-furnished apartment, wherein hangs a large mirror, which might have served Goliah of Gath to have admired himself in, when clothed from head to foot in his brazen armour. I the rather chose this place, because they informed me that it was the nearest habitable room to the gallery, in which they said you had been yourself assailed that evening by the Evil One.—Was it so, I pray you?” “By some one with no good intentions I was assailed in that apartment. So far,” said Colonel Everard, “you were correctly informed.” “Well, I chose my post as well as I might, even as a resolved general approaches his camp, and casts up his mount as nearly as he may to the besieged city. And, of a truth, Colonel Everard, if I felt some sensation of bodily fear,—for even Elias, and the prophets who commanded the elements, had a portion in our frail nature, much more such a poor sinful being as myself—yet was my hope and my courage high; and I thought of the texts which I might use, not in the wicked sense of periapts, or spells, as the blinded Papists employ them, together with the sign of the cross, and other fruitless forms, but as nourishing and supporting that true trust and confidence in the blessed promises, being the true shield of faith wherewith the fiery darts of Satan may be withstood and quenched. And thus armed and prepared, I sate me down to read and at the same time to

186



Vol. 2, ch. 5

write, that I might compel my mind to attend to those subjects which became the situation in which I was placed, as preventing any unlicensed excursions of the fancy, and leaving no room for my imagination to brood over idle fears. So I methodized, and wrote down what I thought meet for the time, and peradventure some hungry souls may yet profit by the food which I then prepared.” “It was wisely and worthily done, good and reverend sir,” replied Colonel Everard: “I pray you to proceed.” “While I was thus employed, sir, and had been upon the matter for about three hours, not yielding to weariness, a strange thrilling came over my senses,—and the large and old-fashioned apartment seemed to wax larger, more gloomy, and more cavernous, while the air of the night grew more cold and chill; I know not if it was that the fire began to decay—or whether there cometh before such things as were then about to happen, a breath and atmosphere, as it were, of terror, as Job saith, in a well-known passage, ‘Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made my bones to shake;’ and there was a tingling noise in my ears, and a dizziness in my brain, so that I felt like those who call for aid when there is no danger, and was even prompted to flee, when I saw no one to pursue. It was then that something seemed to pass behind me, casting a reflection on the great mirror before which I had placed my writing-table, and the great standing light which was then in front of the glass. And I looked up, and I saw in the glass distinctly the appearance of a man —and that man—as sure as these words issue from my mouth—was no other than the same Joseph Albany—the companion of my youth —he whom I had seen precipitated from the battlements of Clidesthrough Castle into the deep lake below.” “What did you do?” “It suddenly rushed on my mind,” said the divine, “that the stoical philosopher Athenodorus had eluded the horrors of such a vision by patiently pursuing his studies; and it shot at the same time across my mind, that I, a Christian divine, and a Steward of the Mysteries, had less reason to fear evil, and better matter on which to employ my thoughts, than was possessed by a Heathen, who was blinded even by his own wisdom. So, instead of betraying any alarm, or even turning my head around, I pursued my writing, but with a beating heart, I admit, and with a throbbing hand.” “If you could write at all,” said the Colonel, “with such an impression on your mind, you may take the head of the English army for dauntless resolution.” “Our courage is not our own, Colonel,” said the divine, “and not as ours should it be vaunted of. And again, when you speak of this

[Chap. 16]



187

strange vision as an impression on my fancy, and not a reality obvious to my senses, let me tell you once more, your worldly wisdom is but foolishness touching the things that are not worldly.” “Did you not look again upon the mirror?” said the Colonel. “I did, when I had copied out the comfortable text, ‘Thou shalt tread down Satan under thy feet.’” “And what did you then see?” “The reflection of the same Joseph Albany,” said Holdenough, “passing slowly as from behind my chair, the same in member and lineament that I had known him in his youth, excepting that his cheek had the marks of the more advanced age at which he died, and was very pale.” “What did you then?” “I turned from the glass, and plainly saw the figure which had made the reflection in the mirror retreating towards the door, not fast, nor slow, but with a gliding, steady pace. It turned again when near the door, and again showed me its pale, ghastly countenance, before it disappeared. But how it left the room, whether by the door, or otherwise, my spirits were too much hurried to remark exactly; nor have I been able, by any effort of recollection, distinctly to remember.” “This is a strange, and, as coming from you, a most excellently well-attested apparition,” answered Everard. “And yet, Master Holdenough, if the other world has been actually displayed, as you apprehend, and I will not dispute the possibility, assure youself, there are also wicked men concerned in these machinations. I myself have undergone some rencounters with visitants who possessed bodily strength, and wore, I am sure, earthly weapons.” “Oh! doubtless, doubtless,” replied Master Holdenough; “Beelzebub loves to charge with horse and foot mingled, as was the fashion of the old Scotch general, Davie Leslie. He has his devils in the body as well as his devils disembodied, and used the one to support and back the other.” “It may be as you say, reverend sir,” answered the Colonel.— “But what do you advise in this case?” “For that I must consult with my brethren,” said the divine; “and if there be but left in our borders five ministers of the true kirk, we will charge Sathan in full body, and you shall see whether we have not power over him to resist till he shall flee from us. But failing that ghostly armament against these strange and unearthly enemies, truly I would recommend, that as a house of witchcraft and abomination, this polluted den of ancient tyranny and prostitution should be totally consumed by fire, lest Sathan, establishing his head-quarters

188



Vol. 2, ch. 5

so much to his mind, should find a garrison and a fastness from which he might sally forth to infest the whole neighbourhood. Certain it is, that I would recommend to no Christian soul to inhabit the mansion; and, if deserted, it would become a place for wizards to play their pranks, and witches to establish their Sabbath, and those who, like Demas, go about after the wealth of this world, seeking for gold and silver to practise spells and charms to the prejudice of the souls of the covetous. Trust me, therefore, it were better that it were spoiled and broken down, not leaving one stone upon another.” “I say nay to that, my good friend,” said the Colonel; “for the Lord-General hath permitted, by his licence, my mother’s brother, Sir Henry Lee, and his family, to return into the house of his fathers, being indeed the only roof under which he hath any chance of obtaining shelter for his grey hairs.” “And was this done by your advice, Markham Everard?” said the divine, austerely. “Certainly it was,” returned the Colonel.—“And wherefore should I not exert mine influence to obtain a place of refuge for the brother of my mother?” “Now, as sure as thy soul liveth,” answered the presbyter, “I had believed this from no tongue but thine own. Tell me, was it not this very Sir Henry Lee, who, by the force of his buffcoats and his greenjerkins, enforced the Papist Laud’s order to remove the altar to the eastern end of the church at Woodstock?—and did not he swear by his beard, that he would hang in the very street of Woodstock whoever should deny to drink the King’s health?—and is not his hand red with the blood of the saints?—and hath there been a ruffler in the field for prelacy and high prerogative more unmitigable or fiercer?” “All this may have been as you say, good Master Holdenough,” answered the Colonel; “but my uncle is now old and feeble, and hath scarce a single follower remaining, and his daughter is a being whom to look upon would make the sternest weep for pity; a being who”—— “Who is dearer to Everard,” said Holdenough, “than his good name, his faith to his friends, his duty to his religion. This is no time to speak with sugared lips—the paths in which you tread are dangerous—you are striving to raise the papistical candlestick which Heaven in its justice hath removed out of its place—to bring back to this hall of sorceries those very sinners who are bewitched with them. I will not permit the land to be abused by their witchcrafts.—They shall not come hither.” He spoke this with vehemence, and striking his stick against the

[Chap. 16]



189

ground; and the Colonel, very much dissatisfied, began to express himself haughtily in return. “You had better consider your power to accomplish your threats, Master Holdenough,” he said, “before you urge them so peremptorily.” “And have I not the power to bind and to loose?” said the clergyman. “It is a power little available, save over those of your own church,” said Everard, with a tone something contemptuous. “Take heed—take heed,” said the divine, who, though an excellent, was, as we have elsewhere seen, an irritable man.—“Do not insult me; but think honourably of the messenger, for the sake of Him whose commission he carries.—Do not, I say, defy me—I am bound to discharge my duty, were it to the displeasing of my twin brother.” “I can see nought your office has to do in the matter,” said Colonel Everard; “and I, on my side, give you warning not to attempt to meddle beyond your commission.” “Right—you hold me already to be as submissive as one of your grenadiers,” replied the clergyman, his acute features trembling with a sense of indignity, so as even to agitate his grey hair; “but beware, sir, I am not so powerless as you suppose. I will invoke every true Christian in Woodstock to gird up his loins, and resist the restoration of prelacy, oppression, and malignancy within our borders. I will stir up the wrath of the righteous against the oppressor— the Ishmaelite—the Edomite—and against his race, and against those who support him and encourage him to rear up his horn. I will call aloud, and spare not, and amid the many whose love has waxed cold, and the multitude who care for none of these things, there shall be a remnant to listen to me; and I will take the stick of Joseph, which is in the hand of Ephraim, and go down to cleanse this place of witches and sorcerers, and of enchantments, and will cry and exhort, saying—Will you plead for Baal?—will you save him? Nay, take the prophets of Baal—let not a man escape.” “Master Holdenough, Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, with much impatience, “by the tale yourself told me, you have exhorted upon that text once too often already.” The old man struck his palm forcibly against his forehead, and fell back into a chair as these words were uttered, as suddenly, and as much without power of resistance, as if the Colonel had fired a pistol through his head. Instantly regretting the reproach which he had suffered to escape him in his impatience, Everard hastened to apologize, and to offer every conciliatory excuse, however inconsistent, which occurred to him in the moment. But the old man was too

190



Vol. 2, ch. 5

deeply affected—he rejected his hand, lent no ear to what he said, and finally started up, saying sternly, “You have abused my confidence, sir—abused it vilely, to turn it into my own reproach: had I been a man of the sword, you dared not——But enjoy your triumph, sir, over an old man, and your father’s friend—strike at the wound his imprudent confidence showed you.” “Nay, my worthy and excellent friend,” said the Colonel—— “Friend!” answered the old man, starting up—“We are foes, sir —foes now, and for ever!” So saying, and starting from the seat into which he had rather fallen than thrown himself, he ran out of the room with a precipitation of step which he was apt to use upon occasions of irritable feeling, and which was certainly more eager than dignified, especially as he muttered while he ran, and seemed as if he were keeping up his own passion, by recounting over and over the offence which he had received. “Soh!” said Colonel Everard, “and there was not strife enough between mine uncle and the people of Woodstock already, but I must needs increase it, by chafing this irritable and quick-tempered old man, eager as I knew him to be in his ideas of church government, and stiff in his prejudices respecting all who dissent from him! The mob of Woodstock will arise; for though he could not get a score of them to stand by him in any honest or intelligible purpose, yet let him cry havoc and destruction, and I will warrant he has followers enow. And my uncle is equally wild and unpersuadable. For the value of all the estate he ever had, he would not allow a score of troopers to be quartered in the house for defence; and if he be alone, or has but Josceline to stand by him, he will be as sure to fire upon those who come to attack his Lodge, as if he had a hundred men in garrison—And then what can chance but danger and bloodshed?” This progress of melancholy anticipation was interrupted by the return of Master Holdenough, who, hurrying into the room, with the same precipitate pace at which he had left it, ran straight up to the Colonel, and said—“Take my hand, Markham—take my hand hastily; for the old Adam is whispering at my heart, that it is disgrace to hold it extended so long.” “Most heartily do I receive your hand, my venerable friend,” said Everard, “and I trust in sign of renewed amity.” “Surely, surely—” said the divine, shaking his hand kindly; “thou hast, it is true, spoke bitterly; but thou hast spoke truth in good time; and I think—though your words were severe—with a good and kindly purpose. Verily, and of truth, it were sinful in me again to

[Chap. 16]



191

be hasty in provoking violence, remembering that which you have upbraided me with”—— “Forgive me, good Master Holdenough,” said Colonel Everard, “it was a hasty word; I meant not in serious earnest to upbraid.” “Peace, I pray you, peace,” said the divine; “I say, the allusion to that which you have most justly upbraided me with—though the charge aroused the gall of the Old Man within me, the inward tempter being ever on the watch to bring us to his lure—ought, instead of being resented, to have been acknowledged by me as a favour, for so are the wounds of a friend termed faithful. And surely I, who have by one unhappy exhortation to battle and strife, sent the living to the dead—and I fear brought back even the dead among the living—should now study peace and good will, and reconciliation of difference, leaving punishment to the Great Being whose laws are broken, and vengeance to Him who hath said, I will repay it.” The old man’s mortified features lighted up with a humble confidence as he made this acknowledgment; and Colonel Everard, who knew the constitutional infirmities, and the early prejudices of professional consequence and exclusive party opinion, which he must have subdued ere arriving at such a tone of candour, hastened to express his admiration of his Christian charity, mingled with reproaches on himself for having so deeply injured his feelings. “Think not of it—think not of it, excellent young man,” said Holdenough; “we have both erred—I in suffering my zeal to outrun my charity, you, perhaps, in pressing hard on an old and peevish man, who had so lately poured out his sufferings into your friendly bosom. Be it all forgotten. Let your friends—if they are not deterred by what has happened at this manor of Woodstock—resume their habitation so soon as they will. If they can protect themselves against the powers of the air, be assured, that if I can prevent it by aught in my power, they shall have no annoyance from earthly neighbours; and assure yourself, good sir, that my voice is still worth something with the worthy Mayor, and the good Aldermen, and the better sort of housekeepers up yonder in the town, although the lower class are blown about with every wind of doctrine. And yet further be assured, Colonel, that should your mother’s brother, or any of his family, find that they have taken up a rash bargain in returning to this unhappy and unhallowed house, or should they find any qualms in their own hearts or consciences which require a ghostly comforter, Nehemiah Holdenough will be as much at their command by night or day, as if they had been bred up within the holy pale of the church in which he is an unworthy minister; and neither the awe of what is fearful to be seen within these walls, nor his knowledge of their

192



Vol. 2, ch. 5

blinded and carnal state, as bred up under a prelatic dispensation, shall prevent him doing what lies in his poor abilities for their protection and edification.” “I feel all the force of your kindness, reverend sir,” said Colonel Everard, “but I do not think it likely that my uncle will give you trouble on either score. He is a man much accustomed to be his own protector in temporal danger, and in spiritual doubts to trust to his own prayers and those of his Church.” “I trust I have not been superfluous in offering mine assistance,” said the old man, something jealous that his proffered spiritual aid had been held rather intrusive. “I ask pardon if that is the case—I humbly ask pardon—I would not willingly be superfluous.” The Colonel hastened to appease this new alarm of the watchful jealousy of his consequence, which, joined with a natural heat of temper which he could not always subdue, were the good man’s only faults. They had regained their former friendly footing, when Roger Wildrake returned from the hut of Josceline, and whispered his master that his embassy had been successful. The Colonel then addressed the divine, and informed him, that as the Commissioners had already gone up to Woodstock, and as his uncle, Sir Henry Lee, proposed to return to the Lodge about noon, he would, if his reverence pleased, attend him up to the borough. “Will you not tarry,” said the reverend man, with something like inquisitive apprehension in his voice, “to welcome your relatives upon their return to this their house?” “No, my good friend,” said Colonel Everard; “the part which I have taken in these unhappy broils—perhaps also the mode of worship in which I have been educated—have so prejudiced me in mine uncle’s opinion, that I must be for some time a stranger to his house and family.” “Indeed! I rejoice to hear it, with all my heart and soul,” said the divine. “Excuse my frankness—I do indeed rejoice,—I had thought —no matter what I had thought,—I would not again give offence. But truly though the maiden hath a pleasant feature, and be, as all men say, in human things unexceptionable,—yet—but I give you pain. In sooth, I will say no more unless you ask my sincere and unprejudiced advice, which you shall command, but which I will not press on you superfluously. Wend we to the borough together—the pleasant solitude of the forest may dispose us to open our hearts to each other.” They did walk up to the little town in company, and, somewhat to Master Holdenough’s surprise, the Colonel, though they talked on

[Chap. 17]



193

various subjects, did not request of him any ghostly advice on the subject of his love to his fair cousin, while, greatly beyond the expectation of the soldier, the clergyman kept his word, and, in his own phrase, was not so superfluous as to offer upon so delicate a point his unasked counsel.

Chapter Six Then are the harpies gone—Yet ere we perch Where such foul birds have roosted, let us cleanse The foul obscenity they’ve left behind them. Agamemnon

T          of Wildrake had been successful, chiefly through the mediation of the Episcopal divine, whom we formerly found acting in the character of chaplain to the family, and whose voice had great influence on many accounts with its master. A little before high noon, Sir Henry Lee, with his small household, was again in unchallenged possession of their old apartments at the Lodge of Woodstock; and the combined exertions of Josceline Joliffe, of Phœbe, and of old Joan, were employed in putting to rights what the late intruders had left in great disorder. Sir Henry Lee had, like all persons of quality of that period, a love of order amounting to precision, and felt, like a fair lady whose dress has been disordered in a crowd, insulted and humiliated by the rude confusion into which his household goods had been thrown, and impatient till his mansion had been purified from all marks of intrusion. In his anger he uttered more orders than the limited number of his domestics were likely to find time or hands to execute. “The villains have left such sulphureous steams behind them, too,” said the old knight, “as if old Davie Leslie and the whole Scotch army had quartered among them.” “It may be near as bad,” said Josceline, “for men say, for certain, it was the Devil came down bodily among them, and made them troop off.” “Then,” said the knight, “is the Prince of Darkness a gentleman, as old Will Shakspeare says. He never interferes with those of his own cast, for the Lees have been here, father and son, these five hundred years, without disquiet; and no sooner came these misbegotten churls, than he plays his own part among them.” “Well, one thing he and they have left us,” said Joliffe, “which we may thank them for; and that is, such a well-filled larder and buttery as has been seldom seen in Woodstock Lodge this many a day;— carcases of mutton, large rounds of beef, barrels of confectioners’

194



Vol. 2, ch. 6

ware, pipes and runlets of sack, muscadine, ale, and what not. We shall have a royal time on’t through half the winter; and Joan must get to salting and pickling presently.” “Out, villain!” said the knight; “are we to feed on the fragments of such scum of the earth as these?—Cast them forth instantly!— Nay,” checking himself, “that were a sin; but give them to the poor, or see them sent to the owners.—And, hark ye, I will none of their strong liquors—I would rather drink like a hermit all my life, than seem to pledge such scoundrels as these in their leavings, like a miserable drawer, who drains off the ends of the bottles after the guests have paid their reckoning, and gone off.—And, hark ye, I will taste no water from the cistern out of which these slaves have been serving themselves—fetch me down a pitcher from Rosamond’s spring.” Alice heard this injunction, and well guessing there was enough for the other members of the family to do, she quietly took a small pitcher, and flinging a cloak around her, walked out in person to procure Sir Henry the water which he desired. Meantime, Josceline said, with some hesitation, “that there was a man still remained, belonging to the party of these strangers, who was directing about the removal of some trunks and mails which belonged to the Commissioners, and who would receive his honour’s commands about the provisions.” “Let him come hither—” (the dialogue was held in the hall)— “Why do you hesitate, and drumble in that manner?” “Only, sir,” said Josceline, “only perhaps your honour might not wish to see him, being the same who, on the night before last——” He paused. “Sent my rapier a hawking through the firmament, thou would’st say?—Why, when did I take spleen at a man for standing his ground against me?—Roundhead as he is, man, I like him the better of that, not the worse. I hunger and thirst to have another turn with him. I have thought on his passado ever since, and I believe, were it to try again, I know a feat would control it.—Fetch him directly.” Trusty Tomkins was presently ushered in, bearing himself with an iron gravity, which neither the terrors of the preceding night, nor the dignified demeanour of the high-born personage before whom he stood, were able for an instant to overcome. “How now, good fellow?” said Sir Henry; “I would fain see something more of thy fence, which baffled me the other evening— but truly, I think the light was somewhat too faint for my old eyes— Take a foil, man—I walk here in the hall, as Hamlet says; and ’tis the breathing-time of day with me—Take a foil; there they stand.”

[Chap. 17]



195

“Since it is your worship’s desire,” said the steward, letting fall his long cloak, and taking the foil in hand. “Now,” said the knight, “if your fitness speaks, mine is ready. Methinks the very stepping on this same old pavement hath charmed away the gout which threatened me.—Sa—sa—I tread as firm as a game-cock.” They began the play with great spirit; and whether the old knight really fought more coolly with the blunt than with the sharp weapon, or whether the steward gave him some grains of advantage in this merely sportive encounter, it is certain Sir Henry had the better in the assault. His success put him into excellent humour. “There,” said he, “I found your trick,—nay, you cheat me not twice the same way—there was a very palpable hit. Why, had I had but light enough the other night—But it skills not speaking of it— Here we leave off; I must not fight, as we unwise cavaliers did with you roundhead rascals, beating you so often that we taught you to beat us at last.—And good now, tell me why you are leaving your larder so full here?—Do you think I or my family can use broken victuals?—What, have you no better employment for your rounds of sequestrated beef than to leave them behind you when you shift quarters?” “So please your honour,” said Tomkins, “it may be that you desire not the flesh of beeves, of rams, or of goats. Nevertheless, when you know that the provisions were provided and paid for out of your own rents and stock at Ditchley, sequestrated to the use of the state more than a year since, it may be you will have less scruple to use them for your own behoof.” “Rest assured that I shall,” said Sir Henry; “and glad you have helped me to a share of mine own. Certainly I was an ass to suspect your masters of subsisting, save at honest men’s expense.” “And as for rumps of beeves,” continued Tomkins, with the same solemnity, “there is a rump at Westminster, which will stand us of the army much hacking and hewing yet, ere it is discussed to our mind.” Sir Henry paused, as if to consider what was the meaning of this inuendo; for he was not a person of very quick apprehension. But having at length caught the meaning of it, he burst into an explosion of louder laughter than Josceline had seen him indulge in for a good while. “Right, knave,” he said, “I taste thy jest—It is the guise of the puppet-show. Faustus raised the Devil, as the Parliament raised the Army—and then, as the Devil flies away with Faustus, so will the Army fly away with the Parliament or with the Rump, as thou

196



Vol. 2, ch. 6

call’st it, or sitting part of the so-called Parliament.—And then, look you, friend, the very devil of all hath my willing consent to fly away with the army in its turn, from the highest general down to the lowest drum-boy.—Nay, never look fierce for the matter; remember there is daylight enough now for a game at sharps—” Trusty Tomkins appeared to think it best to suppress his displeasure; and observing, that the wains were ready to transport the Commissioners’ property to the borough, took a grave leave of Sir Henry Lee. Meantime the old man continued to pace his recovered hall, rubbing his hands, and evincing greater signs of glee than he had shown since the fatal 30th of January. “Here we are again in the old frank, Joliffe. Well victualled too— how the knave solved my point of conscience!—the dullest of them is a special casuist where the question concerns profit. Look out if there are not some of our own ragged regiment lurking about, to whom a bellyfull would be a God-send, Josceline—Then his fence, Josceline—though the fellow foins well—very sufficient well—But thou saw’st how I dealt with him when I had fitting light, Josceline.” “Ay, and so your honour did,” said Joliffe. “You taught him to know the Duke of Norfolk from Saunders Gardner. I’ll warrant him, he will not wish to come under your honour’s thumb again.” “Why, I am waxing old,” said Sir Henry; “but skill will not rust through age, though sinews must stiffen. But my age is like a lusty winter, as old Will says—frosty but kindly—And what if, old as we are, we live to see better days! I promise thee, Josceline, I love this jarring betwixt the rogues of the board and the rogues of the sword. When thieves quarrel, true men have a chance of coming by their own.” Thus triumphed the old cavalier, in the treble glory of having recovered his dwelling—regained, as he thought, his character as a master of fence, and finally discovered some prospect of a change of times, in which he was not without hopes that something might turn up for the royal interest. Meanwhile, Alice, with a prouder and a lighter heart than had danced in her bosom for several days, went forth with a gaiety to which she of late had been stranger, to contribute her assistance to the regulation and supply of the household, by bringing the fresh water wanted from fair Rosamond’s well. Perhaps, she remembered, that when she was but a girl, her cousin Markham used, among others, to make her perform that duty, as presenting the character of some captive Trojan princess, condemned by her situation to draw the waters from some Grecian

[Chap. 17]



197

spring, for the use of the proud victor.—At any rate, she certainly joyed to see her father reinstated in his ancient habitation; and the joy was not the less sincere, that she knew their return to Woodstock had been procured by means of her cousin, and that even in her father’s prejudiced eyes, Everard had been in some degree exculpated of the accusations the old knight had brought against him; and that if a reconciliation had not yet taken place, the preliminaries had been established on which such a desirable conclusion might easily be founded. It was like the commencement of a bridge, when the foundation is securely laid, and the piers raised above the influence of the torrent; the throwing of the arches may be accomplished in a subsequent season. The doubtful fate of her only brother might have clouded even the momentary gleam of sunshine; but Alice had been bred up during the close and frequent contests of civil war, and had acquired the habit of hoping in behalf of those dear to her, until hope was lost. In the present case, all reports seemed to assure her of her brother’s safety. Besides these causes for gaiety, Alice Lee had the pleasing feeling that she was restored to the habitation and the haunts of her childhood, from which she had not departed without much pain, more felt, perhaps, because suppressed, in order to avoid irritating her father’s sense of his misfortune. Finally, she enjoyed for the instant the gleam of self-satisfaction by which we see the young and welldisposed so often animated, when they can be, in common phrase, helpful to those whom they love, and perform at the moment of need some of those little domestic tasks, which age receives with so much pleasure from the dutiful hands of youth. So that, altogether, as she hasted through the remains and vestiges of a wilderness already mentioned, and from thence about a bow-shot into the Park, to bring a pitcher of water from Rosamond’s spring, Alice Lee, her features enlivened and her complexion a little raised by the exercise, had, for the moment, regained the gay and brilliant vivacity of expression which had been the characteristic of her beauty in earlier and happier days. This fountain of old memory had been once adorned with architectural ornaments in the style of the sixteenth century, chiefly relating to ancient mythology. All these were now wasted and overthrown, and only existed as moss-covered ruins, while the living spring continued to furnish its daily treasures, unrivalled in purity, though the quantity was small, gushing out amid disjointed stones, and bubbling through fragments of ancient sculpture. With a light step and a laughing brow the young Lady of Lee was

198



Vol. 2, ch. 6

approaching the fountain, usually so solitary, when she paused on beholding some one seated beside it. She proceeded, however, with confidence, though with a step something less gay, when she observed that the person was a female;—some menial perhaps from the town, whom a fanciful mistress occasionally dispatched for the water of a spring, supposed to be peculiarly pure, or some aged woman, who made a little trade by carrying it to the better sort of families, and selling it for a trifle. There was no cause, therefore, for apprehension. Yet the terrors of the times were so great, that Alice did not even see a stranger of her own sex without some apprehension. Denaturalized women had as usual followed the camps of both armies during the Civil War; who on the one side with open profligacy and profanity, on the other with the fraudful tone of fanaticism or hypocrisy, exercised nearly in like degree their talents for murther or plunder. But it was broad daylight, the distance from the Lodge was but trifling, and though a little alarmed at seeing a stranger where she expected deep solitude, the daughter of the haughty old Knight had too much of the lion about her, to fear without some determined and decided cause. She walked, therefore, gravely forward to the ruin, and composed her looks as she took a hasty glance of the female who was seated there, and addressed herself to her task of filling her pitcher. The woman, whose presence had surprised and somewhat startled Alice Lee, was a person of the lower rank, whose red cloak, russet kirtle, handkerchief trimmed with Coventry blue, and coarse steeple hat, could not indicate at best anything higher than the wife of a small farmer, perhaps the helpmate of a bailiff or hind. It was well if she proved nothing worse. Her clothes, indeed, were of good materials; but, what the female eye discerns with half a glance, they were indifferently adjusted and put on as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn but had rather been acquired by some accident, if not by some successful robbery. Her size, too, as did not escape Alice, even in the short perusal she afforded the stranger, was unusual; her features swarthy and singularly harsh, and her manner altogether unpropitious. The young lady almost wished, as she stopped to fill her pitcher, that she had rather turned back, and sent Josceline on the errand; but repentance was too late now, and she had only to disguise as well as she could her unpleasant feelings. “The blessings of this bright day to one as bright as it is,” said the stranger, with no unfriendly, though a harsh voice. “I thank you,” said Alice in reply; and continued to fill her pitcher busily, by assistance of an iron bowl which remained still chained to one of the stones beside the fountain.

[Chap. 17]



199

“Perhaps, my pretty maiden, if you would accept my help, your work would be sooner done,” said the stranger. “I thank you,” said Alice; “but had I needed assistance, I could have brought those with me who would have rendered it.” “I do not doubt of that, my pretty maiden,” answered the female; “there are too many lads in Woodstock with eyes in their heads— No doubt you could have brought with you any one of them who looked on you, if you had listed.” Alice replied not a syllable, for she liked not the freedom used by the speaker, and was desirous to break off the conversation. “Are you offended, my pretty mistress?” said the stranger; “that was far from my purpose.—I will put my question otherwise—Are the good dames of Woodstock so careless of their pretty daughters as to let the flower of them all wander about the wild chase without a mother, or a somebody to prevent the fox from running away with the lamb?—that carelessness, methinks, shows small kindness.” “Content yourself, good woman, I am not far from protection and assistance,” said Alice, who liked less and less the effrontery of her new acquaintance. “Alas! my pretty maiden,” said the stranger, patting with her large and hard hand the head which Alice had kept bended down towards the water which she was laving, “it would be difficult to hear such a pipe as yours at the town of Woodstock, scream as loud as you would.” Alice shook the woman’s hand angrily off, took up her pitcher, though not above half full, and as she saw the stranger arise at the same time, said, not without fear doubtless, but with a natural feeling of resentment and dignity, “I have no reason to make my cries heard as far as Woodstock; were there occasion for my crying for help at all, it is nearer at hand if I need it.” She spoke not without a warrant; for, at the moment, broke through the bushes, and stood by her side, the noble hound Bevis; fixing on the stranger his eyes that glanced fire, raising every hair on his gallant mane as upright as the bristles of a wild boar when hard pressed, grinning till a case of teeth, which could have matched those of any wolf in Russia, were displayed in full array, and, without either barking or springing, seeming, by his low determined growl, to await but the signal for dashing at the female, whom he plainly considered as a suspicious person. But the stranger was undaunted. “My pretty maiden,” she said, “you have indeed a formidable guardian there, where cockneys or bumpkins are concerned; but we who have used the wars know spells for taming such furious dragons; and therefore let not your

200



Vol. 2, ch. 6

four-footed protector go loose on me, for he is a noble animal, and nothing but self-defence would induce me to do him injury.” So saying, she drew a pistol from her bosom, and cocked it—pointing towards the dog, as if apprehensive that he would spring upon her. “Hold, woman, hold!” said Alice Lee; “the dog will not do you harm—down, Bevis, couch down—an you attempt to do him none. He is the favourite hound of Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley, the keeper of Woodstock Park, who would severely revenge any injury offered to him.” “And you, pretty one, are the old knight’s housekeeper, doubtless? I have often heard the Lees have good taste.” “I am his daughter, good woman.” “His daughter!—I was blind—but yet it is true, nothing less perfect could answer the description which all the world has given of Mistress Alice Lee. I trust that my folly has given my young mistress no offence, and that she will allow me, in token of reconciliation, to fill her pitcher, and carry it as far as she will permit.” “As you will, good mother; but I am about to return instantly to the Lodge, to which, in these times, I cannot admit strangers. You can follow me no farther than the verge of the wilderness, and I am already too long from home: I will send some one to meet and relieve you of the pitcher.” So saying, she turned her back, with a feeling of terror which she could hardly account for, and began to walk quickly towards the Lodge, thinking to get rid of her troublesome acquaintance. But she reckoned without her host; for in a moment her new companion was by her side, not running, indeed, but walking with prodigious long unwomanly strides, which soon brought her up with the hurried and timid steps of the frightened maiden. But her manner was more respectful than formerly, though her voice sounded remarkably harsh and disagreeable, and her whole appearance suggested an undefined, yet irresistible feeling of apprehension. “Pardon a stranger, lovely Mistress Alice,” said her persecutor, “that was not capable of distinguishing between a lady of your high quality and a peasant wench, and who spoke to you with a degree of freedom, ill-befitting your rank, certainly, and condition, and which, I fear, has given you offence.” “No offence whatsoever,” replied Alice; “but, good woman, I am near home, and can excuse your farther company.—You are unknown to me.” “But it follows not,” said the stranger, “that your fortunes may not be known to me, fair Mistress Alice. Look on my swarthy brow— England breeds none such—and in the lands from which I come,

[Chap. 17]



201

the sun which blackens our complexion, streams, to make amends, rays of knowledge into our brains, which are denied to those of your lukewarm climates. Let me look upon your pretty hand,—(attempting to possess herself of it,)—and I promise you shall hear what will please you.” “I hear what does not please me,” said Alice, with dignity; “you must carry your tricks of fortune-telling and palmistry to the women of the village—We of the gentry hold them to be either imposture or unlawful knowledge.” “Yet you would fain hear of a certain Colonel, I warrant you, whom certain unhappy circumstances have separated from his family; you would give better than silver if I could assure you that you would see him in a day or two—ay, perhaps sooner.” “I know nothing of what you speak of. Good woman—if you want alms, there is a piece of silver—it is all I have in my purse.” “It were pity then that I should take it,” said the female; “and yet give it me—for the princess in the fairy tale must ever deserve, by her generosity, the bounty of the benevolent fairy before she is rewarded by her protection.” “Take it—take it—give me my pitcher,” said Alice, “and begone, —yonder comes one of my father’s servants.—What, ho!—Josceline —Josceline!” The old fortune-teller hastily dropped something into the pitcher as she restored it to Alice Lee, and, plying her long limbs, disappeared speedily under cover of the wood. Bevis turned, and barked, and showed some inclination to harass the retreat of this suspicious person, yet, as if uncertain, ran towards Joliffe, and fawned on him, to demand his advice and encouragement. Josceline pacified the animal, and, coming up to his young lady, asked with surprise, what was the matter, and whether she had been frightened? Alice made light of her alarm, for which, indeed, she could not have assigned any very competent reason; for the manners of the woman, though bold and intrusive, were not menacing. She only said she had met a fortune-teller by Rosamond’s Well, and had had some difficulty in shaking her off. “Ah, the gipsy thief,” said Josceline, “how well she has scented there was food in the pantry!—they have noses like ravens these strollers. Look you, Mistress Alice, you shall not see a raven, or a carrion-crow, in all the blue sky for a mile round you; but let a sheep drop suddenly down on the green-sward, and before the poor creature’s dead you shall see a dozen of such guests croaking, as if inviting each other to the banquet.—Just so it is with these sturdy beggars. You will see few enough of them when there’s nothing to

202



Vol. 2, ch. 6

give, but when hough’s in the pot, they will have share on’t.” “You are so proud of your fresh supply of provender,” said Alice, “that you suspect all of a design on’t. I do not think this woman will venture near your kitchen, Josceline.” “It will be best for her health,” said Josceline, “lest I give her a ducking for digestion.—But give me the pitcher, Mistress Alice— meeter I bear it than you.—How now? what jingles at the bottom? have you lifted the pebbles as well as the water?” “I think the woman dropped something into the pitcher,” said Alice. “Nay, we must look to that, for it is like to be a charm, and we have enough of the devil’s ware about Woodstock already—we will not spare for the water—I can run back and fill the pitcher.” He poured out the water upon the grass, and at the bottom of the pitcher was found a gold ring, in which was set a ruby, apparently of some value. “Nay, if this be not enchantment, I know not what is,” said Josceline. “Truly, Mistress Alice, I think you had better throw away this gimcrack. Such gifts from such hands are a kind of press-money which the devil uses for enlisting his regiment of witches; and if they take but so much as a bean from him, they become his bond slaves for life—Ay, you may look at the gew-gaw, but to-morrow you will find a lead ring and a common pebble in its stead.” “Nay, Josceline, I think it will be better to find out that darkcomplexioned woman, and return to her what seems of some value. So, cause inquiry to be made, and be sure you return her ring. It seems too valuable to be destroyed.” “Umph! that is always the way with women,” murmured Josceline. “You will never get the best of them, but she is willing to save a bit of finery.—Well, Mistress Alice, I see you think you are too young and too pretty to be enlisted in a regiment of witches.” “I shall not be afraid of it till you turn conjurer,” said Alice; “so hasten to the well, where you are like still to find the woman, and let her know that Alice Lee desires none of her gifts, any more than she did her society.” So saying, the young lady pursued her way to the Lodge, while Josceline went down to Rosamond’s Well to execute her commission. But the fortune-teller, or whosoever she might be, was nowhere to be found; neither, finding that to be the case, did Josceline give himself much trouble in tracking her farther. “If this ring, which I dare say the jade stole somewhere,” said the under-keeper to himself, “be worth a few nobles, it is better in honest hands than in that vagabond’s. My master has a right to all

[Chap. 18]



203

waifs and strays, and certainly such a ring, in possession of a gipsy, must be a waif. So I shall confiscate it without scruple, and apply the produce to the support of Sir Henry’s household, which is like to be poor enough. Thank Heaven, my military experience has taught me how to carry hooks at my finger-ends—that is trooper’s law. Yet hang it—after all I had best take it to Mark Everard and ask his advice—I hold him now to be your learned counsellor in law where Mistress Alice’s affairs are concerned, and my learned Doctor, who shall be nameless, for such as concern Church and State and Sir Henry Lee—And I’ll give them leave to give mine umbles to the kites and ravens if they find me conferring my confidence where it is not safe.”

Chapter Seven Being skilless in these parts, which, to a stranger, Unguided and unfriended, often prove Rough and inhospitable. Twelfth Night

T     a little attempt at preparation, now that the dinner hour was arrived, which showed that, in the opinion of his few but faithful domestics, the good Knight had returned in triumph to his home. The great tankard, exhibiting in bas-relief the figure of Michael subduing the Arch-enemy, was placed on the table, and Josceline and Phœbe dutifully attended; the one behind the chair of Sir Henry, the other to wait upon her young mistress, and both to make out, by formal and regular observance, the want of a more numerous train. “A health to King Charles!” said the old Knight, handing the massive tankard to his daughter; “drink it, my love, though it be rebel ale which they have left us. I will pledge thee; for the toast will excuse the liquor, had Noll himself brewed it.” The young lady touched the goblet with her lip, and returned it to her father, who took a copious draught. “I will not say blessing on their hearts,” said he; “though I must own they drink good ale.” “No wonder, sir; they come lightly by the malt, and need not spare it,” said Josceline. “Say’st thou?” said the knight; “thou shalt finish the tankard thyself for that very jest’s sake.” Nor was his follower slow in doing reason to the royal pledge. He bowed, and replaced the tankard, saying, after a triumphant glance

204



Vol. 2, ch. 7

at the sculpture, “I had a jibe with that same red-coat about the Saint Michael just now.” “Red-coat—ha! what red-coat?” said the hasty old man. “Do any of these knaves still lurk about Woodstock?—Quoit him down stairs instantly, Josceline.—Know we not Galloway nags?” “So please you, he is in some charge here, and will speedily begone.—It is he—he who had a rencontre with your honour in the wood.” “Ay, but I paid him off for it in the hall, as you yourself saw.—I was never in better fence in my life, Josceline. That same steward fellow is not so utterly black-hearted a rogue as the most of them, Josceline. He fences well—excellent well. I will have thee try a bout in the hall with him to-morrow, though I think he will be too hard for thee. I know thy strength to an inch.” He might say this with some truth; for it was Josceline’s fashion, when called on, as sometimes happened, to fence with his patron, just to put forth so much of his strength and skill as obliged the Knight to contend hard for the victory, which, in the long run, he always contrived to yield up to him, like a discreet serving-man. “And what said this round-headed steward of our great Saint Michael’s standing cup?” “Marry, he scoffed at our good saint, and said he was little better than one of the golden calves of Bethel. But I told him he should not talk so, until one of their own round-headed saints had given the devil as complete a cross-buttock as Saint Michael had given him, as ’tis carved upon the cup there. I trow that made him silent enough. And then he would know whether your honour and Mistress Alice, not to mention old Joan and myself, since it is your honour’s pleasure I should take my bed here, were not afraid to sleep in a house that had been so much disturbed. But I told him we feared no fiends or goblins, having the prayers of the Church read every evening.” “Josceline,” said Alice, interrupting, “wert thou mad? You know at what risk to ourselves and the good doctor the performance of that duty takes place.” “Oh, Mistress Alice,” said Josceline, a little abashed, “you may be sure I spoke not a word of the doctor—No, no—I did not let him into the secret that we had such a reverend chaplain.—Besides I think I know the length of this man’s foot. We have had a jollification or so together. He is hand and glove with me, for as great a fanatic as he is.” “Trust him not too far,” said the knight. “Nay, I fear thou hast been imprudent already, and that it will be unsafe for the good man

[Chap. 18]



205

to come here after night-fall, as we proposed. These Independents have noses like blood-hounds, and can smell out a loyalist under any disguise.” “If your honour thinks so,” said Josceline, “I’ll watch for the doctor with good will, and bring him into the Lodge by the old condemned postern, and so up to this apartment; and sure the man Tomkins would never presume to come hither, and the doctor may have a bed in Woodstock Lodge, and he never the wiser—Or if your honour does not think that safe, I can cut his throat for you, and I would not mind it a pin.” “God forbid!” said the knight. “He is under our roof, and a guest, though not an invited one.—Go, Josceline; it shall be thy penance, for having given thy tongue too much license, to watch for the good doctor, and to take care of his safety while he continues with us. An October night or two in the forest would finish the good man.” “He’s more like to finish our October than our October is to finish him,” said the keeper; and withdrew under the encouraging smile of his patron. He whistled Bevis alongst with him to share in his watch; and having received exact information where the clergyman was most like to be found, assured his master that he would give the most pointed attention to his safety. When the attendants had withdrawn, having previously removed the remains of the meal, the old knight, leaning back in his chair, encouraged pleasanter visions than had of late passed through his imagination, until by degrees he was surprised by actual slumber; while his daughter, not venturing to move but on tip-toe, took some needle-work, and bringing it close by the old man’s side, employed her fingers on this task, bending her eyes from time to time on her parent, with the affectionate zeal, if not the effective power, of a guardian angel. At length, as the light faded away, and night came on, she was about to cause candles to be brought. But, remembering how indifferent a couch Josceline’s cottage had afforded, she could not think of interrupting the first sound and refreshing sleep which her father had enjoyed, in all probability, for the last two nights and days. She herself had no other amusement, as she sat facing one of the great oriel windows, the same by which Wildrake had on a former occasion looked in upon Tomkins and Josceline while at their compotations, than watching the clouds, which a lazy wind sometimes chased from the broad disk of the harvest-moon, sometimes permitted to accumulate, and exclude her brightness. There is, I know not why, something peculiarly pleasing to the imagination,

206



Vol. 2, ch. 7

in contemplating the Queen of Night, when she is wading, as the expression is, among the vapours which she has not power to dispel, and which on their side are unable entirely to quench her lustre. It is the striking image of patient virtue, calmly pursuing her path through good report and bad report, having that excellence in herself which ought to command general admiration, but bedimmed in the eyes of the world, by suffering, by misfortune, by calumny. As some such reflections, perhaps, were passing through Alice’s imagining, she became sensible, to her surprise and alarm, that some one had clambered up upon the window, and was looking into the room. The idea of supernatural fear did not in the slightest degree agitate Alice. She was too much accustomed to the place and situation; for folks do not see spectres in the scenes with which they are familiar from infancy. But danger from marauders in a disturbed country was a more formidable subject of apprehension, and the thought armed Alice, who was naturally high-spirited, with such desperate courage, that she snatched a pistol from the wall, on which some fire-arms hung, and while she screamed to her father to awake, had the presence of mind to present it at the intruder. She did so the more readily, because she imagined she recognized in the visage, which she partially saw, the features of the woman whom she had met with at Rosamond’s Well, and which had appeared to her peculiar, harsh and suspicious. Her father at the same time seized his sword and came forward, while the person at the window, alarmed at these demonstrations, and endeavouring to descend, missed footing, as had Cavaliero Wildrake before, and went down to the earth with no small noise. Nor was the reception on the bosom of our common mother either soft or safe; for, by a most terrific bark and growl, they learned that Bevis had come up and seized on the party, ere he or she could gain their feet. “Hold fast, but worry not,” said the old knight.—“Alice, thou art the queen of wenches! Stand fast here till I run down and secure the rascal.” “For God’s sake, no, my dearest father!” Alice exclaimed; “Josceline will be up immediately—Hark!—I hear him.” There was indeed a bustle below, and more than one light danced to and fro in confusion, while those who bore them called to each other, yet suppressing their voices as they spoke, as men who would only be heard by those they addressed. The individual who had fallen under the paws of Bevis was most impatient in his situation, and called out with least precaution.—“Here, Lee—Forester—take the dog off, else I must shoot him.” “If thou doest,” said Sir Henry from the window, “I blow thy

[Chap. 18]



207

brains out on the spot—Thieves, Josceline, thieves! come up and secure this ruffian.—Bevis, hold on!” “Back, Bevis; down, sir,” cried Josceline.—“I am coming, I am coming, Sir Henry—Saint Michael, I shall go distracted!” A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Alice,—could Josceline have become unfaithful, that he was calling Bevis off the villain, instead of encouraging the trusty dog to secure him? Her father, meantime, moved perhaps by some suspicion of the same kind, hastily stepped aside out of the moonlight, and pulled Alice close to him, so as to be invisible from without, yet so placed as to hear what should pass. The scuffle between Bevis and his prisoner seemed to be ended by Josceline’s interference, and there was close whispering for an instant, as of people in consultation. “All is quiet now,” said one voice; “I will up and prepare the way for you.”—And immediately a form presented itself on the outside of the window, pushed open the lattice, and sprung into the parlour. But almost ere his step was upon the floor, certainly before he had obtained any secure footing, the old knight, who stood ready with his rapier drawn, made a desperate pass, which bore the intruder to the ground. Josceline, who clambered up next with a dark lantern in his hand, uttered a dreadful exclamation, when he saw what had happened, crying out, “Lord in heaven, he has slain his own son!” “No, no—I tell you no,” said the fallen young man, who was indeed young Albert Lee, the only son of the old knight—“I am not hurt.—No noise, on your lives—get lights instantly.” At the same time, he started from the floor as quickly as he could, under the embarrassment of a cloak and doublet skewered as it were together by the rapier of the old knight, whose pass, most fortunately, had been diverted from the body of Albert by the interruption of his cloak, the blade passing right across his back, piercing the clothing, while the hilt coming against his side with the whole force of the lounge, had borne him to the ground. Josceline all the while enjoined silence to every one, under the strictest conjurations. “Silence, as you would live long on earth— silence, as you would have a place in heaven,—be but silent for a few minutes—all our lives depend on it.” Meantime he procured lights with inexpressible dispatch, and they then beheld that Sir Henry, on hearing the fatal words, had sunk back on one of the large chairs, without either motion, colour, or sign of life. “Oh, brother, how could you come in this manner?” said Alice. “Ask no questions—Good God! for what am I reserved?” He gazed on his father as he spoke, who, with clay-cold features rigidly

208



Vol. 2, ch. 7

fixed, and his limbs extended in the most absolute helplessness, looked rather the image of death upon a monument, than a being in whom existence was only suspended. “Was my life spared,” said Albert, raising his hands with a wild gesture to heaven, “only to witness such a sight as this!” “We suffer what Heaven permits, young man—we endure our lives while Heaven continues them. Let me approach.” The same clergyman who had read the prayers at Josceline’s hut now came forwards. “Get water,” he said, “instantly.” And the helpful hand and light foot of Alice, with the ready-witted tenderness which never stagnates in vain lamentations while there is any room for hope, provided with incredible celerity all that the clergyman called for. “It is but a swoon,” he said, on feeling Sir Henry’s pulse,—“ a swoon produced from the instant and unexpected shock. Rouse thee up, Albert; I promise thee it will be nothing save a syncope—A cup, my dearest Alice, and a ribband or bandage—I must take some blood—some aromatics, too, if they can be had, my good Alice.” But while Alice procured the cup and bandage, stripped her father’s sleeve, and seemed by intuition even to anticipate every direction of the kind leech, her brother, hearing no word, and seeing no sight of comfort, stood with both hands clasped and elevated into the air, a monument of speechless despair. Every feature in his face seemed to express the thought, “Here lies my father’s corpse, and it is I whose rashness has slain him!” But when a few drops of blood began to follow the lancet—at first falling singly, and then trickling in a freer stream—when, in consequence of the application of cold water to the temples, and aromatics to the nostrils, the old man sighed feebly, and made an effort to move his limbs, Albert Lee changed his posture, at once to throw himself at the feet of the clergyman, and kiss, if he would have permitted him, his shoes and the hem of his raiment. “Rise, foolish youth,” said the good man, with a reproving tone; “must it be always thus with you?—Kneel to Heaven, not to the feeblest of its agents. You have been saved once again from great danger—would you deserve Heaven’s bounty, remember you have been preserved for other purposes than you are now thinking on. Begone you and Josceline, you have a duty to discharge—And be assured it will go better with your father’s recovery that he see you not for a few minutes. Down—down to the wilderness, and do what should be done, and must be done.” “Thanks, thanks, a thousand thanks,” answered Albert Lee; and, springing through the lattice, he disappeared as unexpectedly as he

[Chap. 18]



209

had entered—at the same time Josceline followed him, and by the same road. Alice, whose fears for her father were now something abated, upon this new movement among the persons of the scene, could not resist appealing to her venerable assistant. “Good Doctor, answer me but one question—was my brother Albert here just now, or have I dreamed all that has happened for this ten minutes past? Methinks, but for your presence, I could suppose the whole had passed in my sleep—that horrible thrust—that death-fixed, corpse-like old man —that soldier in mute despair—I must indeed have dreamed.” “If you have dreamed, my sweet Alice,” said the doctor, “I wish every sick nurse had your property, since you have been attending to our patient better during your sleep, than most of these old dormice can do when they are most awake. But your dream came through the gate of horn, my pretty darling, which you must remind me to explain to you at leisure. Albert has really been here, and will be here again.” “Albert,” repeated Sir Henry, “who names my son?” “It is I, my kind patron,” said the doctor; “permit me to bind up your arm.” “My wound?—with all my heart, doctor,” said Sir Henry, raising himself, and gathering his recollection by degrees. “I knew of old thou wert body-curer as well as soul-curer, and served my regiment for surgeon as well as chaplain.—But where is the rascal I killed?—I never made a fairer stramaçon in my life. The shell of my rapier struck against his ribs—so dead he must be, or my right hand has forgot its cunning.” “Nobody was slain,” said the doctor; “we must thank God for that, since there were none but friends to slay. Here is a good cloak and doublet, wounded indeed in a fashion which will require some skill in tailor-craft to cure. But I was your last antagonist, and took a little blood from you, merely to prepare you for the pleasure and surprise of seeing your son, who, though hunted pretty close, as you may believe, hath made his way from Worcester hither, where, with Josceline’s assistance, we will care well enough for his safety. It was even for this reason that I pressed you to accept of your nephew’s proposal to return to the old Lodge, where a hundred men might be concealed, though a thousand were making search to discover them. Never such a place for hide-and-seek, as I shall make good when I can find means to publish my Wonders of Woodstock.” “But, my son—my dear son,” said the knight, “shall I not then instantly see him—and wherefore did you not forewarn me of this joyful event?” “Because I was uncertain of his motions,” said the doctor, “and

210



Vol. 2, ch. 7

rather thought he was bent for the sea-side, and that it would be best to tell you of his fate when he was safe on board, and in full sail for France. We had appointed to let you know all when I came hither to-night to join you. But there is a red-coat in the house whom we care not to trust farther than we could not help. We dared not, therefore, venture in by the hall; and so, prowling round the building, Albert informed us, that an old prank of his, when a boy, consisted of entering by this window—a lad who was with us would needs make the experiment, as there seemed to be no light in the chamber, and the moon-light without made us liable to be detected. His foot slipped, and our friend Bevis came upon us.” “In good truth, you acted simply,” said Sir Henry, “to attack a garrison without a summons. But all this is nothing to my son Albert —where is he?—Let me see him.” “But, Sir Henry, wait,” said the doctor, “till your restored strength”—— “A plague of my restored strength, man!” answered the knight, as his old spirit began to awaken within him.—“Doest not remember, that I lay on Edgehill-field all night, bleeding like a bullock from five several wounds, and wore my armour within six weeks? and you talk to me of the few drops of blood that follow such a scratch as a cat’s claw might have made!” “Nay, if you feel so courageous,” said the doctor, “I will fetch your son—he is not far distant.” So saying, he left the apartment, making a sign to Alice to remain, in case any symptoms of her father’s weakness should return. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Sir Henry never seemed to recollect the precise nature of the alarm, which had at once, and effectually as the shock of the thunder-bolt, for the moment suspended his faculties. Something he said more than once of being certain he had done mischief with that stramaçon, as he called it; but his mind did not recur to that danger, as having been incurred by his son. Alice, glad to see that her father appeared to have forgotten a circumstance so fearful, (as men often forget the blow, or other sudden cause, which has thrown them into a swoon,) readily excused herself from giving much light on the matter, by pleading the general confusion. And in a few minutes, Albert cut off all further inquiry, by entering the room, followed by the doctor, and throwing himself alternately into the arms of his father and of his sister.

[Chap. 19]



211

Chapter Eight The boy is—hark ye, sirrah—what’s your name?— Oh, Jacob—ay, I recollect—the same. C 

T   relatives were united as those who, meeting under great adversity, feel still the happiness of sharing it in common. They embraced again and again, and gave way to those expansions of the heart, which at once express and relieve the pressure of mental agitation. At length the tide of emotion began to subside; and Sir Henry, still holding his recovered son by the hand, resumed the command of his feelings which he usually practised. “So you have seen the last of our battles, Albert,” he said, “and the King’s colours have fallen for ever before the rebels.” “It is but even so,” said the young man—“the last cast of the dice was thrown, and, alas! lost, at Worcester; and Cromwell’s fortune carried it there, as it has wherever he has shown himself.” “Well—it can but be for a time—it can but be for a time,” answered his father; “the devil is potent, they say, in raising and gratifying his favourites, but he can grant but short leases.—And the King—the King, Albert—the King—in my ear—close, close!” “Our last news were confident that he had escaped from Bristol.” “Thank God for that—thank God for that!” said the knight. “Where didst thou leave him?” “Our men were almost all cut to pieces at the bridge,” Albert replied; “but I followed his Majesty, with about five hundred other officers and gentlemen, who were resolved to die around him, until, as our numbers and appearance drew the whole pursuit after us, it pleased his Majesty to dismiss us, with many thanks and words of comfort to us in general, and some kind expressions to most of us in especial. He sent his royal greeting to you, sir, in particular, and said more than becomes me to repeat.” “Nay, I will hear it every word, boy,” said Sir Henry; “is not the sense that thou hast discharged thy duty, and that King Charles owns it, enough to console me for all we have lost and suffered, and would’st thou stint me of it from a false shamefacedness?—I will have it out of thee, were it drawn from thee with cords!” “It shall need no such compulsion,” said the young man—“It was his Majesty’s pleasure to bid me tell Sir Henry Lee, in his name, that if his son could not go before his father in the race of loyalty, he was at least following him closely, and would soon move side by side.”

212



Vol. 2, ch. 8

“Said he so?” answered the knight—“Old Victor Lee will look down with pride on thee, Albert. But I forget. You must be weary and hungry.” “Even so, sir,” said Albert; “but these are things which of late I have been in the habit of enduring for safety’s sake—Josceline!— what ho, Josceline!” The under-keeper entered, and received orders to get supper prepared directly. “My son and Dr Rochecliffe are half starving,” said the knight. “And there is a lad, too, below,” said Josceline; “a page, he says, of Colonel Albert’s, whose belly rings cupboard too, and that to no common tune; for I think he could eat a horse, as the Yorkshireman says, behind the saddle. He had better eat at the sideboard; for he has devoured a whole loaf of bread and butter, as fast as Phœbe can cut it, and it has not staid his stomach for a minute—and truly I think you had better keep him under your own eyes, for the steward beneath might ask him troublesome questions if he went below— And then he is impudent, as all your gentlemen pages are, and is saucy among the women.” “Who is it he talks of?—what page hast thou got, Albert, that bears himself so ill?” said Sir Henry. “The son of a dear friend, a noble lord of Scotland, who followed the great Montrose’s banner—afterwards joined the King in Scotland, and came with him as far as Wor’ster. He was wounded the day before the battle, and conjured me to take this youth under my charge, which I did, something unwillingly; but I could not refuse a father, perhaps on his death-bed, pleading for the safety of an only son.” “Thou hadst deserved a halter, hadst thou hesitated,” said Sir Henry; “the smallest tree can always give some shelter,—and it pleases me to think the old stock of Lee is not so totally prostrate, but it may yet be a refuge for the distressed. Fetch the youth in;—he is of noble blood, and these are no times of ceremony—he shall sit with us at the same table, page though he be; and if you have not schooled him handsomely in his manners, he may not be the worse of some lessons from me.” “You will excuse his northern drawl, sir,” said Albert, “though I know you like it not.” “I have small cause, Albert,” answered the knight—“small cause. —Who stirred up these dissensions?—the Scots. Who strengthened the hands of Parliament, when their cause was well nigh ruined?— the Scots again. Who delivered up the King, their countryman, who had flung himself upon their protection?—the Scots again. But this

[Chap. 19]



213

lad’s father, you say, has fought on the part of the noble Montrose; and such a man as the great Marquis may make amends for the degeneracy of a whole nation.” “Nay, father,” said Albert, “and I must add, that though this lad is uncouth and wayward, and, as you will see, something wilful, yet the King has not a more zealous friend in England; and, when occasion offered, he has fought stoutly, too, in his defence—I marvel he comes not.” “He hath taken the bath,” said Josceline, “and nothing less would serve than that he should have it immediately—the supper, he said, might be got ready in the meantime; and he commands all about him as if he was in his father’s old castle, where he might have called long enough, I warrant, without any one to hear him.” “Indeed?” said Sir Henry, “this must be a forward chick of the game, to crow so early.—What is his name?” “His name?—it escapes me every hour, it is so hard a one,” said Albert—“Kerneguy is his name—Louis Kerneguy; his father was the Lord Killstewers, of Kincardineshire.” “Kerneguy, and Killstewers, and Kin—what d’ye call it?—Truly,” said the knight, “these northern men’s names and titles smack of their origin—they sound like a north-west wind, rumbling and roaring among heather and rocks.” “It is but the asperities of the Celtic and Saxon dialects,” said Dr Rochecliffe, “which, according to Verstegan, still linger in those northern parts of the island.—But peace—here comes supper, and Master Louis Kerneguy.” Supper entered accordingly, borne in by Josceline and Phœbe, and after it, leaning on a huge knotty stick, and having his nose in the air like a questing hound,—for his attention was apparently more fixed on the good provisions that went before him, than anything else—came Master Louis Kerneguy, and seated himself, without much ceremony, at the lower end of the table. He was a tall, raw-boned lad, with a shock head of hair, fiery red, like many of his country, while the harshness of his national features was increased by the contrast of his complexion, burned almost black by the exposure to all sorts of weather, which, in that skulking and rambling mode of life, the fugitive royalists had been obliged to encounter. His address was by no means prepossessing, being a mixture of awkwardness and forwardness, and showing, in a remarkable degree, how want of easy address may be consistent with an admirable stock of assurance. His face intimated having received some recent scratches, and the care of Dr Rochecliffe had decorated

214



Vol. 2, ch. 8

it with a number of patches, which even enhanced its natural plainness. Yet the eyes were brilliant, even expressive, and, amid his ugliness—for it amounted to that degree of irregularity—the face was not deficient in some lines which expressed both sagacity and resolution. The dress of Albert himself was far beneath his quality, as the son of Sir Henry Lee, and commander of a regiment in the royal service; but that of his page was still more dilapidated. A disastrous green jerkin, which had been changed to a hundred hues by sun and rain, so that the original could scarce be discovered, huge clouterly shoes, leathern breeches—such as are worn by hedgers—coarse grey worsted stockings, were the attire of the honourable youth, whose limping gait, while it added to the ungainliness of his manner, showed, at the same time, the extent of his sufferings. His appearance bordered so much upon what is vulgarly called queer, that even with Alice it would have excited some sense of ridicule, had not compassion been predominant. The grace was said; and the young Squire of Ditchley, as well as Dr Rochecliffe, made an excellent figure at a meal, the like of which, in quality and abundance, did not seem to have lately fallen to their share. But their feats were child’s-play to those of the Scotch youth. Far from betraying any symptoms of the bread and butter with which he had closed the orifice of the stomach, his appetite appeared to have been sharpened by a nine days fast; and the knight was disposed to think that the very genius of famine himself, come forth from his native regions of the north, was in the act of honouring him with a visit, while, as if afraid of losing a moment’s exertion, Master Kerneguy never looked either to right or left, or spoke a single word to any at table. “I am glad to see that you have brought a good appetite for our country fare, young gentleman,” said Sir Henry. “Bread of gude! sir,” said the page, “an ye’ll find flesh, I’se find appetite conforming, ony day o’ the year. But the truth is, sir, that the appeteesement has been coming on for three days or four, and the meat in this southland of yours has been scarce, and hard to come by; so, I’se making up for lost time, as the piper of Sligo said, when he eat a hail side o’ mutton.” “You have been country-bred, young man,” said the knight, who, like others of his time, held the reins of discipline rather tight over the rising generation; “at least, to judge from the youths of Scotland whom I have seen at his late Majesty’s court; in former days they had less appetite, and more—more”—As he sought the qualifying phrase which might supply the place of “good manners,” his guest

[Chap. 19]



215

closed the sentence in his own way—“And mair meat, it may be— the better luck theirs.” Sir Henry stared and was silent. His son seemed to think it time to interpose—“My dear father,” he said, “think how many years have run since the Thirty-eight, when the Scottish troubles first began, and I am sure that you will not wonder that, while the Barons of Scotland have been, for one cause or other, perpetually in the field, the education of their children at home must have been much neglected, and that young men of my friend’s age know better about using a broadsword, or tossing a pike, than about the decent ceremonials of society.” “The reason is a sufficient one,” said the knight; “and, since thou sayst thy follower Carnego can fight well, let him not lack victuals, a God’s name.—See, he looks angrily still at yonder cold loin of mutton—for God’s sake put it all on his plate!” “I can bide the bit and the buffet,” said the honourable Master Kerneguy—“a hungry tyke never minds a blaud with a rough bane.” “Now, God ha’ mercy, Albert, but if this be the son of a Scots peer,” said Sir Henry to his son, in a low tone of voice, “I would not be the English ploughman who would change manners with him for his ancient blood, and his nobility, and his estate to boot, an he has one.—He has eaten, as I am Christian, near four pounds of solid butcher’s meat, and with the grace of a wolf tugging at the carcase of a dead horse.—Oh, he is about to drink at last—Soh, he wipes his mouth, though—and dips his fingers in the ewer—and dries them, I profess, with the napkin—there is some grace in him, after all.” “Here is wussing all your vara gude healths!” said the youth of quality, and took a draught in proportion to the solids which he had sent before; he then flung his knife and fork awkwardly on the trencher, which he pushed back towards the centre of the table, extended his feet beneath it till they rested on their heels, folded his arms on his well-replenished stomach, and, lolling back in his chair, looked much as if he was about to whistle himself asleep. “Soh!” said the Knight—“the honourable Master Kernigo hath laid down his arms.—Withdraw these things, and give us our glasses —Fill them around, Josceline; and if the devil or the whole Parliament were within hearing, let them hear Old Henry Lee of Ditchley drink a Health to King Charles, and confusion to his enemies!” “Amen!” said a voice from behind the door. All the company looked at each other in astonishment, at a response so little expected. It was followed by a solemn and peculiar tap, such as a kind of free-masonry had introduced among royalists, and by which they were accustomed to make themselves and their principles

216



Vol. 2, ch. 8

known to each other, when they met by accident. “There is no danger,” said Albert, “it is a friend;—yet I wish he had been at a greater distance just now.” “And why, my son, should you wish the absence of one true man, who may, perhaps, wish to share our abundance, on one of those rare occasions, when we have superfluity at our disposal?—Go, Josceline, see who knocks—and, if a safe man, admit him.” “And if otherwise,” said Josceline, “methinks I shall be able to prevent his troubling the good company.” “No violence, Josceline, on your life;” said Albert Lee; and Alice echoed, “For God’s sake, no violence!” “No unnecessary violence at least,” said the good knight; “for if the time demands it, I will have it seen that I am master of my own house.” Josceline Joliffe nodded assent to all parties, and went on tiptoe to exchange one or two other mysterious symbols and knocks, ere he opened the door. It may be here remarked, that this species of secret association, with its signals of union, existed among the more dissolute and desperate class of cavaliers, men habituated to the dissipated life which they had been accustomed to in an illdisciplined army, where everything like order and regularity was too apt to be accounted a badge of puritanism. These were the “roaring boys” who met in hedge ale-houses, and when they had by any chance obtained a little money or a little credit, determined to create a counter-revolution by declaring their sittings permanent, and proclaimed, in the words of one of their choicest ditties— We’ll drink, till we bring In triumph back the King.

The leaders and gentry, of a higher description and more regular morals, did not indeed partake such excesses, but they still kept their eye upon a class of persons, who, from courage and desperation, were capable of serving on an advantageous occasion the fallen cause of royalty; and recorded their lodges and the blind taverns at which they met, as wholesale merchants know the houses of call of the mechanics whom they may have occasion to employ, and can tell where they may find them when need requires. It is scarce necessary to add, that among this lower class, and sometimes even among the higher, there were men found capable of betraying the projects and conspiracies of their associates, whether well or indifferently combined, to the governors of the estate. Cromwell, in particular, had gained some correspondents of this kind of the highest rank, and of the most undoubted character, amongst the royalists, who, if they made scruple of impeaching or betraying individuals who confided in them, had no hesitation in giving the government such general

[Chap. 19]



217

information as served to enable them to disappoint the purposes of any plot or conspiracy. To return to our story. In much shorter time than we have spent in reminding the reader of these historical particulars, Joliffe had made his mystic communication; and, being duly answered as by one of the initiated, he undid the door, and there entered our old friend Roger Wildrake, round-head in dress, as his safety and his dependence on Colonel Everard compelled him to be, but that dress worn in a most cavalier-like manner, and forming a stronger contrast than usual with the demeanour and language of the wearer, to which it was never very congenial. His puritanic hat, the emblem of that of Ralpho in the prints to Hudibras, or, as he called it, his felt-umbrella, was set most knowingly on one side of his head, as if it had been a Spanish hat and feather; his straight, square-caped sad-coloured cloak was flung jauntily upon one shoulder, as if it had been three-piled taffeta, lined with crimson silk; and he paraded his huge calf-skin boots, as if they had been silken hose and Spanish leather shoes, with roses over the instep. In short, the airs which he gave himself, of a most thoroughpaced wild gallant and cavalier, joined to a glistening of selfsatisfaction in his eye, and an inimitable swagger in his gait, which completely announced his thoughtless, conceited, and reckless character, formed a most ridiculous contrast to his gravity of attire. It could not, on the other hand, be denied, that in spite of the touch of ridicule which attached to his character, and the loose morality which he had learned in the dissipation of town pleasures, and afterwards in the disorderly life of a soldier, Wildrake had points about him both to make him feared and respected. He was handsome, even in spite of his air of debauched effrontery; a man of the most decided courage, though his vaunting rendered it sometimes doubtful; and entertained a sincere sense of his political principles, such as they were, though he was often so imprudent in asserting and boasting of them, as, joined with his dependence on Colonel Everard, induced prudent men to doubt his sincerity. Such as he was, however, he entered the parlour of Victor Lee, where his presence was anything but desirable to the parties present, with a jaunty step, and a consciousness of deserving the best possible reception. This assurance was greatly aided by circumstances which rendered it obvious, that if the jocund cavalier had limited himself to one draught of liquor that evening, in terms of his vow of temperance, it must have been a very deep and long one. “Save ye, gentlemen, save ye.—Save you, good Sir Henry Lee, though I have scarce the honour to be known to you.—Save you,

218



Vol. 2, ch. 8

worthy doctor, and a speedy resurrection to the fallen Church of England.” “You are welcome, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, whose feelings of hospitality, and of the fraternal reception due to a royalist sufferer, induced him to tolerate this intrusion more than he might have done otherwise. “If you have fought or suffered for the King, sir, it is an excuse for joining us, and commanding our services in anything in our power—although at present we are a family-party.—But I think I saw you in waiting upon Master Markham Everard, who calls himself Colonel Everard.—If your message is from him, you would look to see me in private?” “Not at all, Sir Henry, not at all.—-It is true as my ill hap may have it, that being on the stormy side of the hedge—like all honest men— you understand me, Sir Henry—I am glad, as it were, to gain something from my old friend and comrade’s countenance—not by truckling or disowning my principles, sir—I defy such practices;—but, in short, by doing him any kindness in my power when he is pleased to call on me. So I came down here with a message from him to the old roundheaded son of a ——(I beg the young lady’s pardon, from the crown of her head down to the very toes of her slipper)—And so, sir, chancing as I was stumbling out in the dark, I heard you give a toast, sir, which warmed my heart, sir, and ever will, sir, till death chills it; —and so I made bold to let you know there was an honest man within hearing.” Such was the self-introduction of Master Wildrake, to which the knight replied, by asking him to sit down, and take a glass of sack to his Majesty’s glorious restoration. Wildrake, at this hint, squeezed in without ceremony beside the young Scotchman, and not only pledged his landlord’s toast, but seconded its import, by volunteering a verse or two of his favourite loyal ditty,—“The King shall enjoy his own again.” The heartiness which he threw into his song opened still further the heart of the old knight, though Albert and Alice looked at each other with looks resentful of the intrusion, and desirous to put an end to it. The honourable Master Kerneguy either possessed that happy indifference of temper which does not deign to notice such circumstances, or he was able to assume the appearance of it to perfection, as he sat sipping sack, and cracking walnuts, without testifying the least sense that an addition had been made to the party. Wildrake, who liked the liquor and the company, showed no unwillingness to repay his landlord, by being at the expense of the conversation. “You talk of fighting and suffering, Sir Henry Lee—Lord help us, we have all had our share. All the world knows what Sir Henry

[Chap. 19]



219

Lee has done from Edgefield downwards, wherever a loyal sword was drawn, or a loyal flag fluttered.—Ah, God help us! I have done something too.—My name is Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln—not that you are ever like to have heard it before, but I was captain in Lunsford’s light-horse, and afterwards with Goring. I was a child-eater, sir—a babe-bolter.” “I have heard of your regiment’s exploits, sir; and perhaps you may find I have seen some of them, if we should spend ten minutes together—And I think I have heard of your name too.—I beg to drink your health, Captain Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincolnshire.” “Sir Henry, I drink yours in this pint bumper, and upon my knee; and I would do as much for that young gentleman—(looking at Albert)—and the squire of the green cassock too, holding it for green, as the colours are not to my eyes altogether clear and distinguishable.” It was a remarkable part of what is called by theatrical folks the byplay of this scene, that Albert was conversing apart with Doctor Rochecliffe in whispers, even more than the divine seemed desirous of encouraging;—yet, to whatever their private conversation referred, it did not deprive the young Colonel from the power of listening to what was going forward in the party at large, and interfering from time to time, like a watch-dog, who can distinguish the slightest alarm, even when employed in the engrossing process of taking his food. “Captain Wildrake,” said Albert, “we have no objection—I mean my friend and I—to be communicative on proper occasions; but you, sir, who are so old a sufferer, must needs know, that on such casual meetings as this, men do not mention their names unless they are specially wanted. It is a point of conscience, sir, to be able to say, if your principal, Captain Everard or Colonel Everard, if he be a Colonel, should examine you on oath, I did not know who the persons were whom I heard drink such and such toasts.” “Faith, I have a better way of it, worthy sir,” answered Wildrake; “I never can, for the life of me, remember that there were any such and such toasts drunk at all—It’s a strange gift of forgetfulness I have.” “Well, sir,” replied the younger Lee; “but we, who have unhappily more tenacious memories, would willingly abide by the more general rule.” “Oh, sir,” answered Wildrake, “with all my heart. I intrude on no man’s confidence, d—n me—and I only spoke for civility’s sake, having the purpose of drinking your health in a good carouse— (then broke he forth into melody)— Then let the health go round, a-round, a-round, a-round, Then let the health go round;

220



Vol. 2, ch. 8

For though your stocking be of silk, Your knee shall kiss the ground, a-ground, a-ground, a-ground, Your knee shall kiss the ground.”

“Urge it no farther,” said Sir Henry, addressing his son; “Master Wildrake is one of the old school—one of the tantivy boys; and we must bear a little, for if they drank hard they fought well. I will never forget how a party came up and rescued us Clerks of Oxford, as they called the regiment I belonged to, out of a cursed embroglio during the attack on Brentford. I tell you we were enclosed with the cockneys’ pikes both front and rear, and we should have come off but ill had not Lunsford’s light horse, the babe-eaters as they called them, charged up to the pike’s point, and brought us off.” “I am glad you thought on that, Sir Henry,” said Wildrake; “and do you remember what the officer of Lunsford’s said?” “I think I do,” said Sir Henry smiling. “Well then, did not he call out, when the women were coming down, howling like syrens as they were—‘Have none of you a plump child that you could give us, to break our fast upon?’ ” “Truth itself,” said the knight; “and a great fat woman stepped forward with a child, and offered it to the supposed cannibal.” All at the table, Master Kerneguy excepted, who seemed to think that good food of any kind required no apology, held up their hands in token of amazement. “Ay,” said Wildrake, “the——a-hem!—I crave the lady’s pardon again, from tip of top-knot to hem of farthingale.—But the cursed creature proved to be a parish nurse, who had been paid for her charge half a year in advance. Gad, I took the baby out of the bitchwolf’s hand; and I have contrived, though God knows I have lived in a skeldering sort of way myself, to breed up bold Brentford, as I call him, ever since.—It was paying dear for a jest though.” “Sir, I honour you for your humanity—Sir, I thank you for your courage—Sir, I am glad to see you here,” said the good knight, his eyes watering almost to overflowing. “So you were the wild officer who cut us out of the toils?—Oh, sir, had you but stopped when I called on you, and allowed us to clear the streets of Brentford with our musketeers, we would have been at London Stone that day. But your good-will was the same.” “Ay, truly was it,” said Wildrake, who now sat triumphant and glorious in his easy-chair; “And here is to all the brave hearts, sir, that fought and fell on that same storm of Brentford. We drove all before us like chaff, till the shops, where they sold strong waters, and other temptations, brought us up—Gad, sir, we, the babeeaters, had too many acquaintances in Brentford, and our stout

[Chap. 19]



221

Prince Rupert was ever better at making way than drawing off. Gad, sir, for my own poor share, I did but go into the house of a poor widow lady, who maintained a charge of daughters, and whom I had known of old, to get my horse fed, a morsel of meat, and so forth, when these cockney-pikes of the artillery ground, as you very well call them, rallied, and came in with their armed heads, as boldly as so many Cotswold rams. I sprang down stairs—got to my horse— but, egad, I fancy all my troop had widows and orphan maidens to comfort as well as I, for only five of us got together. We cut our way through successfully—and Gad, gentlemen, I carried my little Bambino on the pommel before me; and there was such a hollowing and screeching, as if the whole town thought I was to kill, roast, and eat the poor child, so soon as I got to quarters. But devil a cockney charged up to my bonny bay, poor lass, to rescue little cake-bread; they only cried harrow, and out upon me.” “Alas, alas!” said the knight, “we made ourselves seem worse than we were; and we were too bad to deserve God’s blessing even in a good cause. But it is needless to look back—we did not deserve victories when God gave them, for we never improved them like good soldiers, or like Christian men; and so we gave these canting scoundrels the advantage of us, for they assumed, out of mere hypocrisy, the discipline and orderly behaviour which we, who drew our swords in a better cause, ought to have practised out of true principle. But here is my hand, Captain. I have often wished to see the honest fellow who charged up so smartly in our behalf, and I reverence you for the care you took of the poor child. I am glad this dilapidated place has still some hospitality to offer you, although we cannot treat you to roasted babes or stewed sucklings—eh, Captain?” “Troth, Sir Henry, the scandal was so against us on that score. I remember Lacy, who was an old play-actor, and a lieutenant in ours, made a drollery on it in a play which was sometimes acted at Oxford, when our hearts were something up, called, I think, the Old Troop.”* * This curious old play may be consulted by the dramatic antiquary. A scene or two of it turns on the strange impression made upon the country people, that the cavaliers actually eat children. It was written by Lacy, a player, who had served in this same Old Troop, which lay under such evil reputation. Miss Edgeworth has quoted a verse of a popular poem referring to the same prejudice:— The post that came from Coventry, Riding in a red rochet, Had news to tell, how Lunsford fell, A child’s hand in his pocket.

It was not a small cause of the violent prejudices of the citizens of London against King Charles, that he had attempted to put this same Lunsford, thought capable of such ferocious proceedings, into the government of the Tower of London.

222



Vol. 2, ch. 8

So saying, and feeling more familiar as his merits were known, he hitched his chair up against that of the Scottish lad, who was seated next him, and who, in shifting his place, was awkward enough to disturb, in his turn, Alice Lee, who sate opposite, and, a little offended, or at least embarrassed, drew her chair away from the table. “I crave pardon,” said the honourable Master Kerneguy; “but, sir,” to Master Wildrake, “ye hae e’en garr’d me hurt the young Leddy’s shank.” “I crave your pardon, sir, and much more that of the fair lady, as is reasonable; though, rat me, sir, if it was I set your chair a-trundling in that way. Zooks, sir, I have brought with me no plague, nor pestilence, nor other infectious disorder, that ye should have started away as if I had been a leper, and discomposed the lady, which I would have prevented with my life, sir. Sir, if ye be northern born, as your tongue bespeaks, egad it was I ran the risk, sir, in drawing near you, so there was small reason for you to bolt.” “Master Wildrake,” said Albert, interfering, “this young gentleman is a stranger as well as you, under protection of Sir Henry’s hospitality, and it cannot be agreeable for my father to see disputes arise among his guests. You may mistake the young gentleman’s quality from his present appearance—this is the Honourable Master Louis Kerneguy, sir, son of my Lord Kilstewers of Kincardineshire, one who has fought for the King, as young as he is.” “No dispute shall rise through me, sir—none through me,” said Wildrake; “your exposition suffices, sir.—Master Louis Girnigo, son of my Lord Killsteer, in Gringardenshire, I am your humble slave, and drink your health, sir, in token that I honour you, and all true Scots who draw their Andrew Ferraras on the right side, sir.” “I’se beholden to you, and thank you, sir,” said the young man, with some haughtiness of manner, which hardly corresponded with his rusticity. “And I wuss your health in a ceevil way.” Most judicious persons would have here dropped the conversation; but it was one of Wildrake’s marked peculiarities, that he could never let matters stand when they were well. He continued to plague the shy, proud, and awkward lad with his observations. “You speak your national dialect pretty strongly, Master Girneygo,” said he, “but I think not quite the language of the gallants that I have known among the Scottish cavaliers—I knew, for example, some of the Gordons, and others of good repute, who always put an f for the wh, as faat for what, fan for when, and the like.” Albert Lee here interposed, and said, that the provinces of Scot-

[Chap. 19]



223

land, like those of England, had their different modes of pronunciation. “You are very right, sir,” said Wildrake. “I reckon myself, now, a pretty good speaker of their cursed jargon—no offence, young gentleman; and yet, when I took a turn with some of Montrose’s folks, in the South Hielands, as they call their beastly wildernesses, (no offence again,) I chanced to be by myself, and to lose my way, when I said to a shepherd-fellow, making my mouth as wide, and my voice as broad as I could, whore am I ganging till;—confound me if the fellow could answer me, unless, indeed, he was sulky, as the bumpkins will be now and then to the gentlemen of the sword.” This was familiarly spoken, and though partly addressed to Albert, was still more directed to his immediate neighbour, the young Scotchman, who seemed, from bashfulness, or some other reason, rather shy of his intimacy. To one or two personal touches from Wildrake’s elbow, administered during his last speech, by way of a practical appeal to him in particular, he only answered, “Misunderstandings were to be expected when men converse in national deealects.” Wildrake, now considerably drunker than he ought to have been in civil company, caught up this phrase, and repeated it:—“Misunderstanding, sir—Misunderstanding, sir!—I do not know how I am to construe that, sir; but to judge from the information of these patches on your honourable visnomy, I should augur that you had been of late at misunderstanding with the cat, sir.” “You are mistaken, then, friend, for it was with the dowg,” answered the Scotchman drily, and cast a look towards Albert. “We had some trouble with the watch dogs in entering so late in the evening,” said Albert, in explanation, “and this youth had a fall among some rubbish, by which he came by these scratches.” “And now, dear Sir Henry,” said Dr Rochecliffe, “allow us to remind you of your gout, and our long journey. I do it the rather that my good friend your son has been, during the whole time of the supper, putting questions to me aside, which had much better be reserved till to-morrow—May we therefore ask permission to retire to our night’s rest?” “These private committees in a merry meeting,” said Wildrake, “are a solecism in breeding. They always put me in mind of the cursed committees at Westminster.—But shall we to roost before we rouse the night-owl with a catch?” “Aha, canst thou quote Shakspeare?” said Sir Henry, pleased at discovering a new good quality in his acquaintance, whose military services were otherwise but just able to counterbalance the intrusive

224



Vol. 2, ch. 8

freedom of his conversation. “In the name of merry Will,” he continued,—“whom I never saw, though I have seen many of his comrades, as Alleyn, Hemmings, and so on,—we will have a single catch, and one rouse about, and then to bed.” After the usual discussion about the choice of the song, and the parts which each was to bear, they united their voices in trolling a loyal glee, which was popular among the party at the time, and in fact believed to be composed by no less a person than Doctor Rochecliffe himself.     Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; ’Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt, ye base carles! Were there death in the cup, Here’s a Health to King Charles! Though he wanders through dangers, Unaided, unknown, Dependent on strangers, Estranged from his own; Though ’tis under our breath, Amidst forfeits and perils, Were the penalty death, Here’s a Health to King Charles! Let such honours abound As the time can afford, The knee on the ground, And the hand on the sword; But the time shall come round, When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, The loud trumpets shall sound Here’s a Health to King Charles!

After this display of loyalty, and a final libation, the party took leave of each other for the night. Sir Henry offered his old acquaintance Wildrake a bed for the evening, who weighed the matter somewhat in this fashion: “Why, to speak truth, my patron will expect me at the borough—but then he is used to my staying out of doors anights. Then there’s the Devil, that they say haunts Woodstock—but, with the blessing of this reverend doctor, I defy him and all his works—I saw him not when I slept here twice before, and I am sure if he was absent then, he has not come back with Sir Henry Lee and his family. So I accept your courtesy, Sir Henry, and I thank you, as a cavalier of Lunsford should thank one of the fighting clerks of Oxon. God bless the King! I care not

[Chap. 19]



225

who hears it, and confusion to Noll and his red nose!” Off he went accordingly with a bottle-swagger, guided by Josceline, to whom Albert, in the meantime, had whispered, to be sure to quarter him far enough from the rest of the family. Young Lee then saluted his sister, and, with the formality of those times, asked and received his father’s blessing with an affectionate embrace. His page seemed desirous to imitate his example, but was repelled by Alice, who only replied to his offered salute with a curtsey. He next bowed his head in an awkward fashion to her father, who wished him a good night. “I am glad to see, young man,” he said, “that you have at least learned the reverence due to age. It should always be paid, sir; because in doing so you render that honour to others which you will expect yourself to receive when you approach the close of your life. More will I speak with you, at leisure, on your duties as a page, which office in former days used to be the very school of chivalry, whereas of late, by the disorderly times, it has become little better than a school of wild and disordered license, which made rare Ben Jonson exclaim”—— “Nay, father,” said Albert, interposing, “you must consider this day’s fatigue, and the poor lad is almost asleep on his legs—tomorrow he will listen with more profit to your kind admonitions.— And you, Louis, seem to have forgot one part of your duty—Take the candles and light us—here Josceline comes to show us the way. Once more, good night, good Doctor Rochecliffe—good night all.”

Chapter Nine Groom. Hail, noble prince! King Richard. Thanks, noble peer! The cheapest of us is a groat too dear. Richard II

A  and his page were ushered by Josceline to what was called the Spanish Chamber, a huge old scrambling bed-room, rather in a dilapidated condition, but furnished with a large standing bed for the master, and a truckle-bed for the domestic, as was common at a much later period in old English houses, where the gentleman often required the assistance of a groom of the chambers to help him to bed, if the hospitality had been exuberant. The walls were covered with hangings of cordovan leather, stamped with gold, and representing fights between the Spaniards and Moriscoes, bull-feasts, and other sports peculiar to the Peninsula, from which it took its name of the Spanish Chamber. These hangings

226



Vol. 2, ch. 9

were in some places entirely torn down, in others defaced and hanging in tatters. But Albert stopped not to make observations, anxious, it seemed, to get Josceline out of the room; which he achieved by hastily answering his offers of fresh fuel, and more liquor, in the negative, and returning, with equal conciseness, the under-keeper’s good wishes for the evening. He at length retired, somewhat unwillingly, and as if he thought that his young master might have bestowed a few more words upon a faithful old retainer after so long absence. Joliffe was no sooner gone, than, before a single word was spoken between Albert Lee and his page, the former hastened to the door, examined lock, latch, and bolt, and made them fast, with the most scrupulous attention. He superadded to these precautions that of a long screw-bolt, which he brought out of his pocket, and which he screwed into the staple in such a manner as to render it impossible to withdraw it, or open the door, unless by breaking it down. The page held a light to him during the operation, which his master went through with much neatness and dexterity. But when Albert arose from his knee, on which he had rested during the accomplishment of his task, the manner of the companions was on the sudden entirely changed towards each other. The honourable Master Kerneguy, from a cubbish lout of a raw Scotsman, seemed to have acquired at once all the grace and ease of motion and manner, which could be given by an acquaintance of the earliest and most familiar kind with the best company of the time. He gave the light he held to Albert, with the easy indifference of a superior, who rather graces than troubles his dependent by giving him some slight service to perform. Albert, with the greatest appearance of deference, assumed in his turn the character of torchbearer, and lighted his page across the chamber, without turning his back upon him as he did so. He then set the light on a table by the bed-side, and approaching the young man with deepest reverence, received from him the soiled green jacket, with the same profound respect as if he had been a first lord of the bed-chamber, or other officer of the household of the highest distinction in the act of disrobing his Sovereign of the Mantle of the Garter. The person to whom this ceremony was addressed endured it for a minute or two with profound gravity—And then bursting out alaughing, exclaimed to Albert, “What a devil means all this formality? —thou complimentst with these miserable rags as if they were silks and sables, and with poor Louis Kerneguy as if he were the King of Great Britain?” “And if ever Your Majesty’s commands, and the circumstances

[Chap. 20]



227

of the time, have made me for a moment seem to forget that you are my sovereign, surely I may be permitted to render my homage as such while you are in your own royal palace of Woodstock?” “Truly,” replied the disguised Monarch, “the sovereign and the palace are not ill matched;—these tattered hangings and my ragged jerkin suit each other admirably.—This Woodstock!—this the bower where the royal Norman revelled with the fair Rosamond Clifford? —Why, it is a place of assignation for owls!” Then, suddenly recollecting himself with his natural courtesy, he added, as if fearing he might have hurt Albert’s feelings—“But the more obscure and retired, it is the fitter for our purpose, Lee; and if it does seem to be a roost for owls, as there is no denying, why, we know it has nevertheless brought up eagles.” He threw himself as he spoke upon a chair, and indolently, but gracefully, received the kind offices of Albert, who undid the coarse buttonings of the leathern gamashes which defended his legs, and spoke to him the whilst:—“What a fine specimen of the olden time is your father, Sir Henry! It is strange I should not have seen him before;—but I heard my father often speak of him as being among the flower of our real Old English gentry. By the mode in which he began to school me, I can guess you had a tight taskmaster of him, Albert—I warrant you never wore hat in his presence, eh?” “I never cocked it at least in his presence, please your Majesty, as I have seen some youngsters do,” answered Albert; “indeed if I had, it must have been a stout beaver to have saved me from a broken head.” “Oh, I doubt it not,” replied the King; “a fine old gentleman— but with that methinks in his countenance that assures you he would not hate the child in sparing the rod.—Hark ye, Albert— Suppose the same glorious Restoration come round,—which, if drinking to its arrival can hasten it, should not be far distant, for in that particular our adherents never neglect their duty,—suppose it come, therefore, and that thy father, as must be of course, becomes an Earl and one of the Privy Council, odd’s fish, man, I shall be as much afraid of him as ever was my grandfather Henri Quatre of old Sully.—Imagine there was such a trinket now about the Court as the Fair Rosamond, or La Belle Gabrielle, what a work there would be of pages, and grooms of the chamber, to get the pretty rogue clandestinely shuffled out by the backstairs, like a prohibited commodity, when the step of the Earl of Woodstock was heard in the antichamber!” “I am glad to see your Majesty so merry after your fatiguing journey.”

228



Vol. 2, ch. 9

“The fatigue was nothing, man,” said Charles; “a kind welcome and a good meal made amends for all. But they must have suspected thee of bringing a wolf from the braes of Badenoch along with you, instead of a two-legged being, with no more than the usual allowance of mortal stowage for provisions. I was really ashamed of my appetite; but thou knowst I had eat nothing for twenty-four hours, save the raw egg you stole for me from the old woman’s hen-roost—I tell thee, I blushed to show myself so ravenous before that high-bred and respectable old gentleman your father, and the very pretty girl your sister—or cousin, is she?” “She is my sister,” said Albert Lee, drily, and added, in the same breath, “Your Majesty’s appetite suited well enough with the character of a raw northern lad.—Would your Majesty now please to retire to rest?” “Not for a minute or two yet,” said the King, retaining his seat. “Why, man, I have scarce had my tongue unchained to-day; and to talk with that northern twang, besides the fatigue of being obliged to speak every word in character,—Gad, it’s like walking as the galley slaves do on the Continent, with a twenty-four-pound shot chained to their legs—they may drag it along, but they cannot move with comfort. And, by the way, thou art slack in paying me my well-deserved tribute of compliments on my counterfeiting.— Did I not play Louis Kerneguy as round as a ring?” “If your Majesty asks my serious opinion, perhaps I may be forgiven if I say your dialect was somewhat too coarse for a Scottish youth of higher birth, and your behaviour perhaps a little too churlish. I thought too—though I pretend not to be skilful—that some of your Scotch sounded to me as if it were not genuine.” “Not genuine?—there is no pleasing thee, Albert.—Why, who should speak genuine Scotch but myself?—Was I not their King for a matter of ten months? and if I did not get knowledge of their language, I wonder what else I got by it. Did not east country, and south country, and west country, and Highlands, caw, croak, and shriek about me, as the deep guttural, the broad drawl, and the high sharp yelp predominated by turns?—Odd’s fish, man, have I not been speeched at by their orators, addressed by their senators, rebuked by their kirkmen? Have I not sate on the cuttie-stool, mon, (again assuming northern dialect,) and thought it a grace of worthy Mas John Gillespie, that I was permitted to dree penance in mine own privy chamber, instead of the face of the congregation? and wilt thou tell me, after all that, I cannot speak Scotch enough to baffle an Oxon Knight and his family?”

[Chap. 20]



229

“May it please your Majesty,—I began by saying I was no judge of the Scottish language.” “Pshaw—it is mere envy; just so you said at Norton’s, that I was too courteous and civil for a young officer’s page—now you think me too rude.” “And there is a medium, if one could find it,” said Albert, defending his opinion in the same tone in which the King attacked him; “so this morning, when you were in the woman’s dress, you raised your petticoats rather unbecomingly high, as you waded through the first little stream; and when I told you of it, to mend the matter, you draggled through the next without raising them at all.” “O, the devil take the woman’s dress!” said Charles; “I hope I shall never be driven to that disguise again. Why, my ugly face was enough to put gowns, caps, and kirtles, out of fashion for ever— the very dogs fled from me—Had I passed any hamlet that had but five huts in it, I could not have escaped the cucking-stool. I was a libel on womanhood. These leathern conveniences are none of the gayest, but they are propria quæ maribus; and right glad am I to be repossessed of them. I can tell you too, my friend, I shall resume all my masculine privileges with my proper habiliments; and as you say I have been too coarse to-night, I will behave myself like a courtier to Mistress Alice to-morrow. I made a sort of acquaintance with her already, when I seemed to be of the same sex with herself, and found out there are other Colonels in the wind besides you, Colonel Albert Lee.” “May it please your Majesty,” said Albert—and then stopped short, from the difficulty of finding words to express the unpleasant nature of his feelings. They could not escape Charles; but he proceeded without scruple. “I pique myself on seeing as far into the hearts of young ladies as most folks, though God knows they are sometimes too deep for the wisest of us. But I mentioned to your sister in my character of fortune-teller,—thinking, poor simple man, that a country girl must have no one but her brother to dream about,—that she was anxious about a certain Colonel. I had hit the theme, but not the person; for I alluded to you, Albert; and I promise the blush was too deep ever to be given to a brother. So up she got, and away she flew from me, like a lapwing. I can excuse her—for, looking at myself in the well, I think had I met such a creature as I seemed, I would have called fire and faggot against it.—Now, what think you, Albert—who can this Colonel be, that more than rivals you in your sister’s affection?” Albert, who well knew that the King’s mode of thinking, where

230



Vol. 2, ch. 9

the fair sex was concerned, was far more gay than delicate, endeavoured to put a stop to the present topic, by a grave answer. “His sister,” he said, “had been in some measure educated with the son of her maternal uncle, Markham Everard; but as his father and he himself had adopted the cause of the roundheads, the families had in consequence been at variance; and any projects which might have been formerly entertained, were of course long since dismissed on all sides.” “You are wrong, Albert, you are wrong,” said the King, pitilessly pursuing his jest. “You Colonels, whether you wear blue or orange sashes, are too pretty fellows to be dismissed so easily, when once you have acquired an interest. But, Mistress Alice, so pretty, and who wishes the restoration of the King with such a look and accent as if she were an angel whose prayers must needs bring it down, must not be allowed to retain any thoughts of a canting roundhead —What say you—will you give me leave to take her to task about it?—After all, I am the party most concerned in maintaining true allegiance among my subjects; and if I gain the pretty maidens’ good will, that of the sweethearts will soon follow. This was jolly King Edward’s way—Edward the Fourth, you know. The kingmaking Earl of Warwick—the Cromwell of his day—dethroned him more than once; but he had the hearts of the merry dames of London, and the purses and veins of the cockneys bled freely, till they brought him home again. How say you?—shall I shake off my northern slough, and speak with Alice in my own character, letting what education and manners have done for me make the best amends they can for an ugly face?” “May it please your Majesty,” said Albert, in an altered and embarrassed tone, “I did not expect——” Here he stopped, not able to find words adequate at the same time to express his sentiments, and respectful enough to the King, while in his father’s house, and under his own protection. “And what is it that Master Lee does not expect?” said Charles, with marked gravity on his part. Again Albert attempted a reply, but advanced no farther than, “I would hope, if it please your Majesty,” when he again stopped short, his deep and hereditary respect for his sovereign, and his sense of the hospitality due to his misfortunes, preventing his giving utterance to his irritated feelings. “And what does Colonel Albert Lee hope?” said Charles, in the same dry and cold manner in which he had before spoken.—“No answer?—Now, I hope that Colonel Lee does not see in a silly jest anything offensive to the honour of his family, since methinks that

[Chap. 20]



231

were an indifferent compliment to his sister, his father, and himself, not to mention Charles Stuart, whom he calls his King; and I expect not to be so hardly construed, as to be supposed capable of forgetting that Mistress Alice Lee is the daughter of my faithful subject and host, and the sister of my guide and preserver.— Come, come, Albert,” he added, changing at once to his naturally frank and unceremonious manner, “you forget how long I have been abroad, where men, women, and children talk gallantry morning, noon, and night, with no more serious thought than just to pass away the time; and I forgot, too, that you are of the old-fashioned English school, a son after Sir Henry’s own heart, and don’t understand rallying upon such subjects.—But I ask you pardon, Albert, sincerely, if I have really hurt you.” So saying, he extended his hand to Colonel Lee, who, thinking he had been really too hasty in construing the King’s jest in an unpleasant sense, kissed it with reverence, and attempted an apology. “Not a word—not a word,” said the good-natured Prince, raising his penitent adherent as he attempted to kneel, “we understand each other. You are somewhat afraid of the gay reputation which I acquired in Scotland; but I assure you, I will be as stupid as you, or your cousin Colonel, could desire, in presence of Mrs Alice Lee, and only bestow my gallantry, should I have any to throw away, upon the pretty little waiting-maid who attended at supper— unless you should have monopolized her ear for your own benefit, Colonel Albert.” “It is monopolized sure enough, though not by me, if it please your Majesty, but by Josceline Joliffe, the under-keeper, whom we must not disoblige, as we have trusted him so far already, and may have occasion to repose even entire confidence in him. I half think he suspects who Louis Kerneguy may in reality be.” “You are an engrossing set, you wooers of Woodstock,” said the King, laughing. “Now, if I had a fancy, as a Frenchman would not fail to have in such a case, to make pretty speeches to the deaf old woman I saw in the kitchen, as a pis-aller, I dare say I would be told that her ear was engrossed for Dr Rochecliffe’s sole use.” “I marvel at your Majesty’s good spirits,” said Albert, “that, after a day of danger, fatigue, and accidents, you should feel the power of amusing yourself thus.” “That is to say, the groom of the chambers wishes his Majesty would go to sleep?—Well, one word or two on more serious business, and I have done.—I have been completely directed by you and Rochecliffe—I have changed my disguise from female to male upon the instant, and altered my destination from Hampshire to

232



Vol. 2, ch. 9

take shelter here. Do you still hold it the wiser course?” “I have great confidence in Dr Rochecliffe,” replied Albert, “whose acquaintance with the scattered royalists enables him to gain the most accurate intelligence. His pride in the extent of his correspondence, and the complication of his plots and schemes for your Majesty’s service, is indeed the very food he lives upon; but his sagacity is equal to his vanity. I repose, besides, the utmost faith in Joliffe—of my father and sister I need say nothing. Yet I would not, without reason, extend the knowledge of your Majesty’s person farther than it is indispensably necessary.” “Is it handsome in me,” said Charles, pausing, “to withhold my full confidence from Sir Henry Lee?” “Your Majesty heard of his almost death-swoon of last night— what would agitate him most deeply must not be hastily communicated.” “True; but are we safe from a visit of the red-coats—they have them in Woodstock as well as in Oxford?” said Charles. “Dr Rochecliffe says, not unwisely,” answered Lee, “that it is best sitting near the fire when the chimney smokes; and that Woodstock, so lately in possession of the sequestrators, and in the vicinity of the soldiers, will be less suspected, and less carefully searched, than more distant corners, which might seem to promise more safety.” Besides, he added, Rochecliffe was in possession of curious and important news concerning the state of matters at Woodstock, highly favourable to his Majesty being concealed in the palace for two or three days, till shipping was provided. The Parliament, or usurping Council of State, had sent down sequestrators, whom their own evil consciences, assisted, perhaps, by the tricks of some daring cavaliers, had frightened out of the Lodge, without much desire to come back again. Then the more formidable usurper, Cromwell, had granted a warrant of possession to Colonel Everard, who had only used it for the purpose of repossessing his uncle in the Lodge, and who kept watch in person at the little borough, to see that Sir Henry was not disturbed. “What! Mistress Alice’s Colonel?” said the King—“that sounds alarming;—for grant that he keeps the other fellows at bay, think you not, Master Albert, he will not have an hundred errands a-day to bring him here in person?” “Dr Rochecliffe says,” answered Lee, “the treaty between Sir Henry and his nephew binds the latter not to approach the Lodge, unless invited—Indeed, it was not without great difficulty, and strongly urging the good consequences it might produce to your Majesty’s cause, that my father could be prevailed to occupy Wood-

[Chap. 20]



233

stock at all; but be assured he will be in no hurry to send an invitation to the Colonel.” “And be you assured that the Colonel will come without waiting for one,” said Charles. “Folks cannot judge rightly where sisters are concerned—they are too familiar with the magnet to judge of the powers of attraction.—Everard will be here, as if drawn by cart-ropes—fetters, not to talk of promises, will not hold him—and then, methinks, we are in some danger.” “I hope not,” said Albert. “In the first place, I know Markham is a slave to his word; besides, were any chance to bring him here, I think I could pass your Majesty upon him without difficulty, as Louis Kerneguy. Then, although my cousin and I have not been at one for these some years, I believe him incapable of betraying your Majesty—And lastly, if I saw the least danger of it, I would, were he ten times my mother’s nephew, run my sword through his body, ere he had time to execute his purpose.” “There is but another question,” said Charles, “and I will release you, Albert:—You seem to think yourself secure from search—it may be so; but, in any other country, this tale of goblins which is flying about would bring down priests and ministers of justice to examine the reality of the story, and mobs of idle people to satisfy their curiosity.” “Respecting the first, sir, we hope and understand that Colonel Everard’s influence will prevent any immediate inquiry, for the sake of preserving undisturbed the peace of his uncle’s family; and as for any one coming without some sort of authority, the whole neighbours have much love and fear of my father, and are, besides, so horribly alarmed about the goblins of Woodstock, that fear will silence curiosity.” “On the whole, then,” said Charles, “the chances of safety seem to be in favour of the plan we have adopted, which is all I can hope for in a condition where absolute safety is out of the question. The Bishop recommended Dr Rochecliffe as one of the most ingenious, boldest, and most loyal sons of the Church of England; you, Albert Lee, have marked your fidelity by a hundred proofs. To you and your local knowledge I submit myself.—And now, prepare our arms—alive I will not be taken;—yet I will not believe that a son of the King of England, and heir of her throne, could be destined to danger in his own palace, and under the guard of the loyal Lees.” Albert Lee laid pistols and swords in readiness by the King’s bed and his own; and Charles, after some slight apology, took his place in the large and better bed, with a sigh of pleasure, as from one who had not lately enjoyed such an indulgence. He bid good

234



Vol. 2, ch. 10

night to his faithful attendant, who deposited himself in his truckle; and both monarch and subject were soon fast asleep.

Chapter Ten Give Sir Nicholas Threlkeld praise; Hear it, good man, old in days, Thou tree of succour and of rest To this young bird that was distress’d; Beneath thy branches he did stay; And he was free to sport and play, When falcons were abroad for prey. W

T           Prince slept in spite of danger, with the profound repose which youth and fatigue inspire. But the young cavalier, his guide and guard, spent a more restless night, starting from time to time, and listening; anxious, notwithstanding Doctor Rochecliffe’s assurances, to procure yet more particular knowledge concerning the state of things around them, than he had been yet able to collect. He arose early after day-break; but although he moved with as little noise as was possible, the slumbers of the hunted Prince were easily disturbed. He started up in his bed, and asked if there was any alarm. “None, please your Majesty,” replied Lee; “only, thinking on the questions your Majesty was asking last night, and the various chances there are of your Majesty’s safety being endangered from unforeseen accidents, I thought of going thus early, both to communicate with Doctor Rochecliffe, and to keep such a look-out as befits the place, where are lodged for the time the Fortunes of England. I fear I must request of your Majesty, for your own gracious security, that you have the goodness to condescend to secure the door with your own hand after I go out.” “Oh talk not of Majesty, for Heaven’s sake, dear Albert!” answered the poor King, endeavouring in vain to put a part of his clothes in order to traverse the room.—“When a King’s doublet and hose are so ragged that he can no more find his way into them than he could have travelled through the forest of Deane without a guide, good faith! then should be an end of Majesty, until it chances to be better accommodated. Besides, there is the chance of these big words bolting out at unawares, when there are ears to gather them whom we might think dangerous.” “Your commands shall be obeyed,” said Lee, who had now

[Chap. 21]



235

succeeded in opening the door; from which he took his departure, leaving the King, who had hustled along the floor for that purpose, with his dress woefully ill arranged, to make it fast again behind him, and begging his Majesty in no case to open to any one, unless he or Rochecliffe were of the party who summoned him. Albert then set out in quest of Doctor Rochecliffe’s apartment, which was only known to himself and the faithful Joliffe, and had at different times accommodated that steady churchman with a place of concealment, when, from his bold and busy temper, which led him into the most extensive and hazardous machinations on the King’s behalf, he had been strictly sought after by the opposite party. Of late, the quest after him had died entirely away, as he had prudently withdrawn himself from the scene of his intrigues. Since the loss of the battle of Worcester, he had been afloat again, and more active than ever; and had, by friends and correspondents, and especially the Bishop of ——, been the means of directing the King’s flight towards Woodstock, although it was not until the very day of his arrival that he could promise him a safe reception at that ancient mansion. Albert Lee, though he revered both the undaunted spirit and ready resources of this bustling and undertaking churchman, felt he had not been enabled by him to answer some of the King’s questions yesternight, in a way so distinct as one trusted with the King’s safety ought to have done; and it was now his object to make himself personally acquainted, if possible, with the various bearings of so weighty a matter, as became a man on whom so much of the responsibility was likely to descend. Even his local knowledge was scarce adequate to find the Doctor’s secret apartment without a clue, had he not traced his way after a genial flavour of roasted game through divers blind passages, and up and down certain very useless stairs, through cupboards and hatchways, and so forth, to a species of sanctum sanctorum, where Josceline Joliffe was ministering to the good doctor a solemn breakfast of wild-fowl, with a cup of small beer stirred with a sprig of rosemary, which Doctor Rochecliffe preferred to all strong potations. Beside him sat Bevis on his tail, slobbering and looking amiable, moved by the rare smell of the breakfast, which had overcome his native dignity of disposition. The chamber in which the doctor had established himself was a little octangular room, with walls of great thickness, within which were fabricated various issues, leading in different directions, and communicating with different points of the building. Around him were packages with arms, and near him one barrel, as it seemed, of

236



Vol. 2, ch. 10

gunpowder; many papers in parcels, and several different keys for correspondence in cypher; two or three scrolls covered with hieroglyphics were beside him, which Albert took for plans of nativity; and various models of machinery, in which Doctor Rochecliffe was an adept. There were also tools of various kinds, masks, cloaks, and a dark lantern, and a number of other indescribable trinkets belonging to the trade of a daring plotter in dangerous times. Last, there was a casket with gold and silver coin of different countries, which was left carelessly open, as if it were the least of Doctor Rochecliffe’s concern, although his habits in general announced narrow circumstances, if not actual poverty. Close by the divine’s plate lay a Bible and Prayer-book, with some proof sheets, as they are technically called, seemingly fresh from the press. There was also within reach of his hand a dirk, or Scottish poniard, a powderhorn, and a musketoon, or blunderbuss, with a pair of handsome pocket-pistols. In the midst of this miscellaneous collection, the doctor sat eating his breakfast, with great appetite, as little dismayed by the various implements of danger around him, as a workman is when accustomed to the perils of a gunpowder manufactory. “Soh, young gentleman,” said he, getting up and extending his hand, “are you come to breakfast with me in good fellowship, or to spoil my meal this morning, as you did my supper last night, by asking untimely questions?” “I will pick a bone with you, with all my heart,” said Albert; “and if you please, doctor, I would ask some questions which seem not quite untimely.” So saying, he sat down, and assisted the doctor at giving a very satisfactory account of a brace of wild ducks and a leash of teal. Bevis, who maintained his place with great patience and insinuation, had his share of a collop, which was also placed on the wellfurnished board; for, like most high-bred dogs, he declined eating water-fowl. “Come hither then, Albert Lee,” said the doctor, laying down his knife and fork, and plucking the towel from his throat, so soon as Josceline was withdrawn; “thou art still the same lad thou wert when I was thy tutor—never satisfied with having got a grammar rule, but always persecuting me with questions why the rule stood so, and not otherwise—ever curious after information which thou could’st not comprehend, as Bevis hungered and whined for the duck-wing, which he could not eat.” “I hope you will find me more reasonable, doctor,” answered Albert; “and at the same time, that you will recollect I am not now sub ferula, but am placed in circumstances where I am not at

[Chap. 21]



237

liberty to act upon the ipse dixit of any man, unless my own judgment be convinced. I shall deserve richly to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, should any misfortune happen by my misgovernment in this business.” “And it is therefore, Albert, that I would have thee trust the whole to me, without interfering. Thou sayst, forsooth, thou art not sub ferula; but recollect that while you have been fighting in the field, I have been plotting in the study—that I know all the combinations of the King’s friends, ay, and all the motions of his enemies, as well as a spider knows every mesh of his web. Think of my experience, man. Not a cavalier in the land but has heard of Rochecliffe the Plotter. I have been a main limb in everything that has been attempted since forty-two—penned declarations, conducted correspondence, communicated with chiefs, recruited followers, commissioned arms, levied money, appointed rendezvous. I was in the Western Rising; and before that, in the City Petition, and in Sir John Owen’s stir in Wales; in short, almost in every plot for the King, since Tomkins and Challoner’s matter.” “But were not all these plots unsuccessful?” said Albert; “and were not Tomkins and Challoner hanged, doctor?” “Yes, my young friend,” answered the doctor, gravely, “as many others have been with whom I have acted; but only because they did not follow my advice implicitly. You never heard that I was hanged myself.” “The time may come, doctor,” said Albert; “The pitcher goes oft to the well—the proverb, as my father would say, is somewhat musty. But I, too, have some confidence in my own judgement; and, much as I honour the church, I cannot altogether subscribe to passive obedience. I will tell you in one word what points I must have explanation on; and it will remain with you to give it, or to return a message to the King that you will not explain your plan; in which case, if he acts by my advice, he will leave Woodstock, and resume his purpose of getting to the coast without delay.” “Well, then, thou suspicious monster, make thy demands, and, if they be such as I can answer without betraying confidence, I will reply to them.” “In the first place, then, what is all this story about ghosts, and witchcrafts, and apparitions? and do you consider it as safe for His Majesty to stay in a house subject to such visitations, real or pretended?” “You must be satisfied with my answer in verbo sacerdotis—the circumstances you allude to will not give the least annoyance to Woodstock during the King’s residence. I cannot explain farther;

238



Vol. 2, ch. 10

but for this I will be bound, at the risk of my neck.” “Then,” said Lee, “we must take the doctor for bail that the devil will keep the peace towards our Sovereign Lord the King— good. Now there lurked about this house, as I am informed, the greater part of yesterday, and perhaps slept here, a fellow called Tomkins—a bitter Independent, and a secretary, or something or other, to the regicide dog Desborough. The man is well known—a wild ranter in religious opinions, but in private affairs far-sighted, cunning, and interested even as any rogue of them all.” “Be assured we will avail ourselves of his crazy fanaticism to mislead his wicked cunning;—a child may lead a hog, if it has wit to fasten a cord to the ring in its nose,” replied the doctor. “You may be deceived,” said Albert; “the age has many such as this fellow, whose views of the spiritual and temporal world are so different, that they resemble a squinting man, whose one oblique and distorted eye sees nothing but the end of his nose, while the other, instead of partaking the same defect, views strongly, sharply, and acutely, whatever is subjected to its scrutiny.” “But we will put a patch on his better eye,” said the doctor, “and he shall only be allowed to speculate with the imperfect optic. You must know this fellow has always seen the greatest number, and the most hideous apparitions; he has not the courage of a cat in such matters, though stout enough when he hath temporal antagonists before him. I have placed him under the charge of Josceline Joliffe, who, betwixt plying him with sack and ghost-stories, would make him incapable of knowing what was done, if you were to proclaim the King in his presence.” “But why keep such a fellow here at all?” “Oh, sir, content you;—he lies leaguer, as a sort of ambassador for his worthy masters, and we are secure from any intrusion so long as they get all the news of Woodstock from trusty Tomkins.” “I know Josceline’s honesty well,” said Albert; “and if he can assure me that he will keep a watch over this fellow, I will so far trust in him. He does not know the depth of the stake, ’tis true, but that my life is concerned will be quite enough to keep his vigilance.—Well, then, I proceed:—What if Markham Everard comes down on us?” “We have his word to the contrary,” answered Rochecliffe—“his word of honour, transmitted by his friend;—Do you think it likely he will break it?” “I hold him incapable of doing so,” answered Albert; “and, besides, I think Markham would make no bad use of anything which might come to his knowledge—Yet God forbid we should

[Chap. 21]



239

be under the necessity of trusting any who ever wore the Parliament’s colours in a matter of such dear concernment!” “Amen!” said the doctor.—“Are your doubts solved now?” “I still have objection,” said Albert, “to yonder impudent rakehelly fellow, styling himself a cavalier, who pushed himself on our company last night, and gained my father’s heart by a story at the storm of Brentford, which I dare say the rogue never saw.” “You mistake him, dear Albert—Roger Wildrake, although till of late I only knew him by name, is a gentleman, was bred at the Inns of Court, and spent his estate in the King’s service.” “Or rather in the devil’s service,” said Albert. “It is such fellows as he, who, sunk from the license of their military habits into idle debauched ruffians, infest the roads with riots and robberies, brawl in hedge ale-houses and cellars where strong waters are sold at midnight, and, with their deep oaths, their pot loyalty, and their drunken valour, make decent men abominate the very name of Cavalier.” “Alas!” said the doctor, “it is but too true; but what can you expect? When the higher and more qualified classes are broken down and mingled undistinguishably with the lower orders, they are apt to lose the most valuable marks of their quality in the general confusion of morals and manners—just as a handful of silver medals will become defaced and discoloured if jumbled about among the vulgar copper coin. Even the prime medal of all, which we royalists would so willingly wear next our very hearts, has not, perhaps, entirely escaped some deterioration—But let other tongues than mine speak on that subject.” Albert Lee paused deeply after having heard these communications on the part of Rochecliffe.—“Doctor,” he said, “it is generally agreed, even by some who think you may occasionally have been a little over busy in putting men upon dangerous actions”—— “May God forgive them who entertain so false an opinion of me!” said the doctor. “That, nevertheless, you have done and suffered more in the King’s behalf than any man of your function.” “They do me but justice there,” said Doctor Rochecliffe—“absolute justice.” “I am therefore disposed to abide by your opinion, if, all things considered, you think it safe that we should remain at Woodstock.” “That is not the question,” answered the divine. “And what is the question then?” replied the young soldier. “Whether any safer course can be pointed out. I grieve to say, that the question must be comparative, as to the point of option.

240



Vol. 2, ch. 10

Absolute safety is—alas the while!—out of the question on all sides. Now, I say Woodstock is, fenced and guarded as at present, by far the most preferable place of concealment.” “I give up to you the question, as to a person whose knowledge of such important affairs, not to mention your age and experience, is more intimate and extensive than mine can be.” “You do well,” answered Rochecliffe; “and if others had acted with the like distrust of their own knowledge, and confidence in competent persons, it had been better for the age. This makes Understanding bar himself up within his fortalice, and Wit betake himself to his high tower.” (Here he looked around his cell with an air of self-complacence.) “The wise man foreseeth the tempest, and hideth himself.” “Doctor,” said Albert, “let our foresight serve others far more precious than either of us.—Let me ask you, if you have well considered whether our precious charge should remain in society with the family, or betake himself to some of the more hidden corners of the house?” “Hum!—I think he will be safest as Louis Kerneguy, keeping himself close beside you”—— “I fear it will be necessary that I scout abroad a little, and show myself in some distant part of the country, lest, coming here in quest of me, they should find higher game.” “Pray do not interrupt me—Keeping himself beside you or your father, in or near to Victor Lee’s apartment, from which you are aware he can make a ready escape, should danger approach.— This occurs to me as best for the present—I hope to hear of the vessel to-day—to-morrow at farthest.” Albert Lee bid the active but opinionated old man good morrow; admiring how this species of intrigue had become a sort of element in which the doctor seemed to enjoy himself, notwithstanding all that the poet has said concerning the horrors which intervene betwixt the conception and execution of a conspiracy. In returning from Doctor Rochecliffe’s sanctuary, he met with Josceline, who was anxiously seeking him. “The young Scotch gentleman,” he said, in a mysterious manner, “has arisen from bed, and, hearing me pass, he called me into his apartment.” “Well,” replied Albert, “I will see him presently.” “And he asked me for fresh linen and clothes. Now, sir, he is like a man who is quite accustomed to be obeyed, so I gave him a suit which happened to be in a wardrope in the west tower, and some of your linen to conform; and when he was dressed, he commanded me to show him to the presence of Sir Henry Lee and

[Chap. 21]



241

the young lady.—I would have said something, sir, about waiting till you came back, but he pulled me good-naturedly by the hair, (as, indeed, he has a rare humour of his own,) and told me, he was guest to Master Albert Lee, and not his prisoner;—so, sir, though I thought you might be displeased with me for giving him the means of stirring abroad, and perhaps being seen by those who should not see him, what could I say?” “You are a sensible fellow, Josceline, and comprehend always what is recommended to you.—This youth will not be controlled, I fear, by either of us; but we must look the closer after his safety. You keep your watch over that prying fellow the steward?” “Trust him to my care—on that side have no fear.—But ah, sir! I would we had the young Scot in his old clothes again, for the riding-suit which he now wears hath set him off in othergate fashion.” From the manner in which the faithful dependent expressed himself, Albert saw that he suspected who the Scottish page must be in reality; yet he did not think it proper to acknowledge to him a fact of such importance, secure as he was equally of his fidelity, whether explicitly trusted to the full extent, or left to his own conjectures. Full of anxious thought, he went to the apartment of Victor Lee, in which Joliffe told him he would find the party assembled. The sound of laughter, as he laid his hand on the lock of the door, almost made him start, so singularly did it jar with the doubtful and melancholy reflections which engaged his own mind. He entered, and found his father in high good humour, laughing and conversing freely with his young charge, whose appearance was, indeed, so much changed to the better in externals, that it seemed scarce possible a night’s rest, a toilette, and a suit of decent clothes, could have done so much in his favour in so short a time—But it could not be imputed to the mere alteration of dress, although that, no doubt, had its effect. There was nothing splendid in that which Louis Kerneguy (we continue to call him by his assumed name) now wore. It was merely a riding-suit of grey cloth, with some silver lace, in the fashion of a country gentleman of the time. But it happened to fit him very well, and to become his very dark complexion, especially as he now held up his head, and used the manners, not only of a well-behaved but of a highlyaccomplished gentleman. When he moved, his clumsy and awkward limp was exchanged for a sort of shuffle, which, as it might be the consequence of a wound in those perilous times, had rather an interesting than an ungainly effect. At least it was as genteel an expression that the party had been overhard travelled, as the most

242



Vol. 2, ch. 10

polite pedestrian could propose to himself. The features of the Wanderer were still harsh as ever, but his red shock peruke, for such it proved, was laid aside, his sable elflocks were trained, by a little of Josceline’s assistance, into curls, and his fine black eyes shone from among the shade of these curls, and corresponded with the animated, though not handsome, character of the whole head. In his conversation, he had laid aside all the coarseness of dialect which he had so strongly affected on the preceding evening; and although he continued to speak a little Scotch, for the support of his character as a young gentleman of that nation, yet it was not in a degree which either rendered his speech uncouth or unintelligible, but merely afforded a certain Doric tinge essential to the personage he represented. No person on earth could better understand the society in which he moved; his exile had made him acquainted with life in all its shades and varieties—his spirits, if not uniform, were elastic—he had that species of Epicurean philosophy, which, even in the most extreme difficulties and dangers, can in an interval of ease avail itself of the enjoyments of the moment—he was, in short, in youth and misfortune, as afterwards in his regal condition, a good-humoured but hard-hearted voluptuary—wise, save where his passions intervened —beneficent, save when prodigality had deprived him of the means, or prejudice of the wish, to confer benefits—his faults such as might often have drawn down hatred, but that they were mingled with so much urbanity, that the injured person felt it impossible to retain the full sense of his wrongs. Albert Lee found the party, consisting of his father, sister, and the supposed page, seated by the breakfast-table, at which he also took his place. He was a pensive and anxious beholder of what passed, while the page, who had already completely gained the heart of the good old cavalier, by mimicking the manner in which the Scotch divines preached in favour of Ma gude Lord Marquis of Argyle and the Solemn League and Covenant, was now endeavouring to interest the fair Alice by such anecdotes, partly of warlike and perilous adventure, as possessed the same degree of interest for the female ear which they have had ever since Desdemona’s days. But it was not only of dangers by land and sea that the disguised page spoke; but much more, and much oftener, on foreign revels, banquets, balls, where the pride of France, of Spain, or of the Low Countries, was exhibited in the eyes of their most eminent beauties. Alice being a very young girl, who, in consequence of the Civil War, had been almost entirely educated in the country, and often in great seclusion, it was certainly no wonder she listened with willing ears, and a ready smile, to what

[Chap. 21]



243

the young gentleman, their guest, and her brother’s protegé, told with so much gaiety, and mingled with such a shade of dangerous adventure, and occasionally of serious reflection, as prevented the discourse from being regarded as merely light and frivolous. In a word, Sir Henry Lee laughed, Alice smiled from time to time, and all were well satisfied but Albert, who would himself have been scarce able to allege a sufficient reason for his depression of spirits. The materials of breakfast were at last removed, under the active superintendence of the neat-handed Phœbe, who looked over her shoulder, and lingered more than once, to listen to the fluent discourse of their new guest, whom, on the preceding evening, she had, while in attendance at supper, accounted one of the most stupid inmates to whom the gates of Woodstock had been opened since the times of Fair Rosamond. Louis Kerneguy then, when they were left only four in the chamber, without the interruption of domestics, and the successive bustle occasioned by the discussion and removal of the morning meal, became apparently sensible, that his friend and ostensible patron Albert ought not altogether to be suffered to drop to leeward in the conversation, while he was himself successfully engaging the attention of those members of his family to whom he had become so recently known. He went behind his chair, therefore, and, leaning on the back, said with a good-humoured tone, which made his purpose entirely intelligible, “Either my good friend, guide, and patron, has heard worse news this morning than he cares to tell us, or he must have stumbled over my tattered jerkin and leathern hose, and acquired, by contact, the whole mass of stupidity which I threw off last night with those most dolorous garments. Cheer up, my dear Colonel Albert, if your affectionate page may presume to say so—you are in company with those whose society, dear to strangers, must be doubly so to you. Odd’s fish, man, cheer up! I have seen you gay on a biscuit and a mouthful of water-cresses—don’t let your heart fail you on Rhenish wine and venison.” “Dear Louis,” said Albert, rousing himself into exertion, and somewhat ashamed of his own silence, “I have slept worse, and been astir earlier than you.” “Be it so,” said his father; “yet I hold it no good excuse for your sullen silence. Albert, you have met your sister and me, so long separated from you, so anxious on your behalf, almost like mere strangers, and yet you are returned safe to us, and you find us well.”

244



Vol. 2, ch. 10

“Returned indeed—but for safety, my dear father, that word must be a stranger to us Worcester folks for some time. However, it is not my own safety about which I am anxious.” “About whose, then, should you be anxious?—All accounts agree that the King is safe out of the dogs’ jaws.” “Not without some danger though,” muttered Louis, thinking of his rencounter with Bevis on the preceding evening. “No, not without danger,” echoed the knight; “but, as old Will says,— There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason dares not peep at what it would.

No, no—thank God, that’s cared for; our Hope and Fortune is escaped, so all news affirm, escaped from Bristol—if I thought otherwise, Albert, I should be as sad as you are. For the rest of it, I have lurked a month in this house when discovery would have been death, and that is no longer since than after Lord Holland and the Duke of Buckingham’s rising at Kingston; and hang me, Albert, if I thought once of twisting my brow into such a tragic fold as yours, but cocked my hat at misfortune as a cavalier should.” “If I might put in a word,” said Louis, “it would be to assure Colonel Albert Lee that I verily believe the King would think his own hap, wherever he may be, much the worse that his best subjects were seized with dejection on his account.” “You answer boldly on the King’s part, young man,” said Sir Henry. “Oh, my father was meikle about the King’s hand,” answered Louis, recollecting his present character. “No wonder, then,” said Sir Henry, “that you have so soon recovered your good spirits and good breeding, when you heard of his Majesty’s escape. Why, you are no more like the lad we saw last night, than the best hunter I ever had was like a dray-horse.” “Oh, there is much in rest, and food, and grooming,” answered Louis. “You would hardly know the tired jade you dismounted from last night, when she is brought out prancing and neighing the next morning, rested, refreshed, and ready to start again—especially if the brute hath some good blood, for such pick up unco fast.” “Well, then, but since thy father was a courtier, and thou hast learned, I think, something of the trade, tell us a little, Master Kerneguy, about him we love most to hear about—the King; we are all safe and secret, you need not be afraid. He was a hopeful youth; I trust his flourishing blossom now gives promise of fruit?” As the knight spoke, Louis bent his eyes on the ground, and seemed at first uncertain what to answer. But admirable at extricating

[Chap. 21]



245

himself from such dilemmas, he replied, “That he really could not presume to speak on such a subject in the presence of his patron, Colonel Albert Lee, who must be a much better judge of the character of King Charles than he could pretend to be.” Albert was accordingly next assailed by the knight, seconded by Alice, for some account of his Majesty’s character. “I will speak but according to facts,” said Albert; “and then I must be acquitted of partiality. If the King had not possessed enterprise and military skill, he never would have attempted the expedition to Worcester;—had he not had personal courage, he had not so long disputed the battle that Cromwell almost judged it lost. That he possesses prudence and patience, must be argued from the circumstances attending his flight; and that he has the love of his subjects is evident, since, necessarily known to many, he has been betrayed by none.” “For shame, Albert!” replied his sister; “is that the way a good cavalier doles out the character of his Prince, applying an instance at every concession, like a pedlar measuring linen with his rod?— Out upon you!—no wonder you were beaten, if you fought as coldly for your King as you now talk for him.” “I did my best to trace a likeness from what I have seen and known of the original, sister Alice,” replied her brother.—“If you would have a fancy portrait, you must get an artist of more imagination than I have to draw it for you.” “I will be that artist myself,” said Alice; “and, in my portrait, our Monarch shall show all that he ought to be, having such high pretensions—all that he must be, being so loftily descended—all that I am sure he is, and that every loyal heart in the kingdom ought to believe him.” “Well said, Alice,” quoth the old knight.—“Look thou upon this picture, and on this!—Here is our young friend shall judge. I wager my best nag—that is, I would wager him had I one left— that Alice proves the better painter of the two.—My son’s brain is still misty, I think, since his defeat—he has not got the smoke of Worcester out of it. Plague on thee!—a young man, and cast down for one beating? Had you been banged twenty times like me, it had been time to look grave.—But come, Alice, forward; the colours are mixed on your pallet—forward with something that shall show like one of Vandyke’s living portraits, placed beside the dull dry presentation there of our ancestor Victor Lee.” Alice, it must be observed, had been educated by her father in the notions of high, and even exaggerated loyalty, which characterized the cavaliers, and she was really an enthusiast in the royal cause.

246



Vol. 2, ch. 10

But besides, she was in good spirits at her brother’s happy return, and wished to prolong the gay humour, in which her father had of late scarcely ever indulged. “Well then,” she said, “though I am no Apelles, I will try to paint an Alexander, such as I hope, and am determined to believe, exists in the person of our exiled sovereign, soon I trust to be restored. And I will not go farther than his own family. He shall have all the chivalrous courage, all the warlike skill, of Henry of France, his grandfather, in order to place him on the throne;—all his benevolence, love of his people, patience even of unpleasing advice, sacrifice of his own wishes and pleasures to the commonweal, that, seated there, he may be blest while living, and so long remembered when dead, that for ages after it shall be thought sacrilege to breathe an aspersion against the throne which he has occupied! Long after he is dead, while there remains an old man who has seen him, were the condition of that survivor no higher than a groom or a menial, his age shall be provided for at the public charge, and his gray hairs regarded with more distinction than an earl’s coronet, because he remembers the Second Charles, the monarch of every heart in England!” While Alice spoke, she was hardly conscious of the presence of any one save her father and brother; for the page withdrew himself somewhat from the circle, and there was nothing to remind her of him. She gave the reins, therefore, to her enthusiasms, and as the tears glittered in her eye, and her beautiful features became animated, she seemed like a descended cherub proclaiming the virtues of a patriot monarch. The person principally interested in her description held himself back, as we have said, and concealed his own features, yet so as to preserve a full view of the beautiful speaker. Albert Lee, conscious in whose presence this eulogium was pronounced, was much embarrassed; but his father, all whose feelings were flattered by the panegyric, was in rapture. “So much for the King, Alice,” he said; “and now for the Man.” “For the man,” replied Alice in the same tone, “need I wish him more than the paternal virtues of his unhappy father, of whom his worst enemies have recorded, that if moral virtues and religious faith were to be selected as the qualities which merited a crown, no man could plead the possession of them in a higher or more indisputable degree. Temperate, wise, and frugal, yet munificent in rewarding merit—a friend to letters and the muses, but a severe discourager of the misuse of such gifts—a worthy gentleman—a kind master—the best friend, the best father, the best Christian——” Her voice began to falter, and her father’s handkerchief was already at his eyes.

[Chap. 21]



247

“He was, girl—he was!” exclaimed Sir Henry; “but no more on’t, I charge ye, no more on’t—Enough—Let his son but possess his virtues, with better advisers, and better fortune, and he will be all that England, in her warmest wishes, could desire.” There was a pause after this; for Alice felt as if she had spoken too frankly and too zealously for her sex and youth. Sir Henry was occupied in melancholy recollections on the fate of his late sovereign, while Kerneguy and his supposed patron felt embarrassed, perhaps from a consciousness that the real Charles fell considerably short of his ideal character, as designed in such glowing colours. In some cases, exaggerated or inappropriate praise becomes the most severe satire. But such reflections were not of a nature long or willingly cherished by the person, to whom they might have been of great advantage. He assumed a tone of raillery, which is, perhaps, the readiest mode of escaping from the painful feelings of self-reproof. “Every cavalier,” he said, “should bend his knee to thank Mistress Alice Lee for having made such a flattering portrait of the King their master, by laying under contribution for his benefit the virtues of all his ancestors;—only there was one point he would not have expected a female painter to have passed over in silence. When she made him, in right of his grandfather and father, a muster of regal and individual excellencies, why could she not have endowed him at the same time with his mother’s personal charms?—Why should not the son of Henrietta Maria, the finest woman of her day, add the recommendations of a handsome face and figure to his internal qualities?—he had the same hereditary title to good looks as to mental qualifications; and the picture, with such an addition, would be perfect in its way—and God send it might be a resemblance!” “I understand you, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, “but I am no fairy, to bestow, as those do in the nursery tales, gifts which Providence has denied. I am woman enough to have made inquiries on the subject, and I know the general report is, that the King, to have been the son of such handsome parents, is unusually hardfavoured.” “Good God, sister!” said Albert, starting impatiently from his seat. “Why, you yourself told me so,” said Alice, surprised at the emotion he testified; “and you said——” “This is intolerable,” muttered Albert—“I must out to speak with Josceline without delay.—Louis,” (with an imploring look to Kerneguy,) “you will surely come with me?” “I would with all my heart,” said Kerneguy, smiling maliciously;

248



Vol. 2, ch. 11

“but you see how I suffer still from lameness.—Nay, nay, dearest Albert,” he whispered, resisting young Lee’s attempt to prevail on him to leave the room, “can you suppose I am fool enough to be hurt by this?—on the contrary, I have a chance of profiting by it.” “May God grant it!” said Lee to himself, as he left the room— “it will be the first lecture you ever profited by—and the devil confound the plots and plotters who made me bring you to this place!” So saying, he carried his discontent forth into the Park.

Chapter Eleven For there, they say, he daily doth frequent With unrestrained loose companions; While he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour, to support So dissolute a crew. Richard II

T   which Albert had in vain endeavoured to interrupt, flowed on in the same course after he had left the room. It entertained Louis Kerneguy; for personal vanity, or an over sensitiveness to deserved reproof, were not among the faults of his character, and were indeed incompatible with an understanding, which, combined with more strength of principle, steadiness of exertion, and self-denial, might have placed Charles high on the list of English monarchs. On the other hand, Sir Henry listened with natural delight to the noble sentiments uttered by a being so beloved as his daughter. His own parts were rather steady than brilliant; and he had that species of imagination which is not easily excited without the action of another, as the electrical globe only scintillates when rubbed against its cushion. He was well pleased, therefore, when Kerneguy pursued the conversation, by observing that Mistress Alice Lee had not explained how the same good fairy that conferred moral qualities, could not also remove corporeal blemishes. “You mistake, sir,” said Alice. “I confer nothing. I do but attempt to paint our King such as I hope he is—such as I am sure he may be, should he himself desire to be so. The same report which speaks of his countenance as unprepossessing, describes his talents as being of the first order. He has, therefore, the means of arriving at unusual excellence, should he cultivate them sedulously and employ them usefully—should he rule his passions and be guided by his understanding. Every good man cannot be wise; but it is in the power of every wise man, if he pleases, to be as eminent for virtue as for talent.”

[Chap. 22]



249

Young Kerneguy rose briskly, and took a turn through the room; and ere the knight could make any observation on the singular vivacity in which he had indulged, he threw himself again into his chair, and said, in rather an altered tone of voice—“It seems, then, Mistress Alice Lee, that the good friends who have described this poor King to you, have been as unfavourable in their account of his morals as of his person?” “The truth must be better known to you, sir,” said Alice, “than it can be to me. Some rumours there have been which accuse him of a license, which, whatever allowance flatterers may make for it, does not, to say the least, become the son of the Martyr—I shall be happy to hear these contradicted on good authority.” “I am surprised at your folly,” said Sir Henry Lee, “in hinting at such things, Alice; a pack of scandal, invented by the rascals who have usurped the government—a thing devised by the enemy.” “Nay, sir,” said Kerneguy, laughing, “we must not let our zeal charge the enemy with more scandal than they actually deserve. Mistress Alice has put the question to me. I can only answer, that no one can be more devotedly attached to the King than I myself, —that I am very partial to his merits and blind to his defects;— and that, in short, I would be the last man in the world to give up his cause where it was tenable. Nevertheless, I must confess, that if all his grandfather of Navarre’s morals have not descended to him, this poor King has somehow inherited a share of the specks that were thought to dim the lustre of that great Prince—that Charles is a little soft-hearted, or so, where beauty is concerned.— Do not blame him too severely, pretty Mistress Alice; when a man’s hard fate has driven him among thorns, it were surely hard to prevent him from trifling with the few roses he may find among them?” Alice, who probably thought the conversation had gone far enough, rose while Master Kerneguy was speaking, and was leaving the room before he had finished, without apparently hearing the interrogation with which he concluded. Her father approved of her departure, not thinking the turn which Kerneguy had given to the discourse altogether fit for her presence; and, desirous civilly to break off the conversation, “I see,” he said, “this is about the time when, as Will says, the household affairs will call my daughter hence; I will therefore challenge you, young gentleman, to stretch your limbs in a little exercise with me, either at single rapier, or rapier and poniard, back-sword, spadroon, or your national weapons of broad-sword and target; for all, or any of which, I think we shall find implements in the hall.”

250



Vol. 2, ch. 11

It would be too high a distinction, Master Kerneguy said, for a poor page to be permitted to try a passage of arms with a knight so renowned as Henry Lee, and he hoped to enjoy so great an honour before he left Woodstock. But at the present moment his lameness continued to give him so much hurt, that he should but shame himself in the attempt. Sir Henry then offered to read him a play of Shakspeare, and for this purpose turned up King Richard II. But hardly had he commenced with “Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,”

when the young gentleman was seized with such an incontrollable fit of the cramp as could only be relieved by immediate exercise. He therefore begged permission to be allowed to saunter abroad for a little while, if Sir Henry Lee considered he might venture without danger. “I can answer for the two or three of our people that are still left about the place,” said Sir Henry; “and I know my son has disposed them so as to be constantly on the watch. If you hear the bell toll at the Lodge, I advise you to come straight home by the way of the King’s oak, which you see in yonder glade towering above the rest of the trees. We will have some one stationed there to introduce you secretly into the house.” The page listened to this caution with the impatience of a schoolboy, who, desirous of enjoying his holiday, hears without marking the advice of tutor or parent, about taking care not to catch cold and so forth. The absence of Alice Lee had removed all which had rendered the interior of the Lodge agreeable, and the mercurial young page fled with precipitation from the exercise and amusement which Sir Henry had proposed. He girded on his rapier, and threw his cloak, or rather that which belonged to his borrowed suit, about him, bringing up the lower part so as to muffle the face and show only the eyes over it; which was a common way of wearing them in those days, both in streets, in the country, and in public places, when men had a mind to be private, and to avoid interruption from salutations and greetings in the market-place. He walked across the open space which divided the front of the Lodge from the wood, with the haste of a bird escaped from the cage, which, though joyful at its liberation, is at the same time sensible of its need of protection and shelter. The wood seemed to afford these to the human fugitive, as it might have done to the bird in question. When under the shadow of the branches, and within the verge

[Chap. 22]



251

of the forest, covered from observation, yet with power of surveying the front of the Lodge, and all the open ground before it, the supposed Louis Kerneguy meditated on his escape. “What an infliction—to fence with a gouty old man, who knows not, I dare say, a trick of the sword, which was not familiar in the days of old Vincent Saviolo! or, as a change of misery, to hear him read one of those wildernesses of scenes which the English call a play, from prologue to epilogue—from Enter the first to the final Exeunt omnes—an unparalleled horror—a penance which would have made a dungeon darker, and added dulness even to Woodstock.” Here he stopped and looked around, then continued his meditations—“So then, it was here that the gay old Norman secluded his pretty mistress—I warrant, without having seen her, that Rosamond Clifford was never half so handsome as that lovely Alice Lee. And what a soul there is in the girl’s eye!—with what abandonment of all respects, save that expressing the interest of the moment, she poured forth her tide of enthusiasm! Were I to be long here, I should now, in spite of prudence, and half-a-dozen very venerable obstacles beside, be tempted to try to reconcile her to the indifferent visage of this same hard-favoured Prince.—Hard-favoured?—it is a kind of treason for one who pretends to so much loyalty, to say so of the King’s features, and in my mind deserves punishment.— Ah, pretty Mistress Alice! many a Mistress Alice before you has made dreadful exclamations on the irregularities of mankind, and the wickedness of the age, and ended by being glad to look out for apologies for their own share in them. But then her father—the stout old cavalier—my father’s old friend—should such a thing befal, it would break his heart.—Break a pudding’s-end—he has more sense. If I give his grandson a title to quarter the arms of England, what matter if a bar sinister is drawn across them?— Pshaw! far from an abatement, it is a point of addition—the heralds in their next visitation will place him higher in the roll for it. Then, if he did wince a little at first, does not the old traitor deserve it?— first, for his disloyal intention of punching mine anointed body black and blue with his vile foils—and secondly, his atrocious complot with Will Shakspeare, a fellow as much out of date as himself, to read me to death with five acts of a historical play, or chronicle, ‘being the piteous Life and Death of Richard the Second.’ Odd’s fish, my own life is piteous enough, as I think; and my death may match it, for aught I see coming yet. Ah, but then the brother—my friend—my guide—my guard—So far as this little proposed intrigue concerns him, such practising would be thought

252



Vol. 2, ch. 11

not quite fair. But your bouncing, swaggering, revengeful brothers only exist on the theatre. Your dire revenge, with which a brother persecuted a poor fellow who had seduced his sister, or been seduced by her, as the case might be, as relentlessly as if he had trodden on his toes without making an apology, is entirely out of fashion, since Dorset killed the Lord Bruce many a long year since. Pshaw! when a King is the offender, the bravest man sacrifices nothing by pocketing a little wrong which he cannot personally resent. And in France, there is not a noble house, where each individual would not cock his hat an inch higher, if they could boast of such a left-handed alliance with the Grand Monarque.” Such were the thoughts which rushed through the mind of Charles, at his first quitting the Lodge of Woodstock, and plunging into the forest that surrounded it. His profligate logic, however, was not the result of his natural disposition, nor received without scruple by his sound understanding. It was a train of reasoning which he had been led to adopt from his too close intimacy with the witty and profligate youth of quality by whom he had been surrounded. It arose from the evil communication with Villiers, Wilmot, Sedley, and others, whose genius was destined to corrupt that age, and the Monarch on whom its character afterwards so much depended. Such men, bred amidst the license of civil war, and without experiencing that curb which in ordinary times the authority of parents and relations imposes upon the headlong passions of youth, were practised in every species of vice, and could recommend it as well by precept as by example, turning into pitiless ridicule all those nobler feelings which withhold men from gratifying lawless passion. The events of the King’s life had also favoured his reception of this Epicurean doctrine. He saw himself, with the highest claims to sympathy and assistance, coldly treated by the Courts which he visited, rather as a permitted suppliant, than an exiled Monarch. He beheld his own rights and claims treated with scorn and indifference; and, in the same proportion, he was reconciled to the hard-hearted and selfish course of dissipation, which promised him immediate indulgence. If this was obtained at the expense of the happiness of others, should he of all men be scrupulous upon the subject, since he treated others only as the world treated him? But although the foundations of this unhappy system had commenced, the Prince was not at this early period so fully devoted to it as he was found to have become, when a door was unexpectedly opened for his restoration. On the contrary, though the train of gay reasoning which we have narrated directly arose in his mind, as

[Chap. 22]



253

that which would have been suggested by his favourite counsellors on such occasions, he recollected that what might be passed over as a peccadillo in France or the Netherlands, or turned into a diverting novel or pasquinade by the wits of his own wandering Court, was likely to have the aspect of horrid ingratitude and infamous treachery among the English gentry, and would inflict a deep, perhaps an incurable, wound upon his interest, among the more aged and respectable part of his adherents. Then it occurred to him—for his own interest did not escape him, even in this mode of considering the subject—that he was in the power of the Lees, father and son, who were always understood to be at least sufficiently punctilious on the score of honour; and if they should suspect such an affront as his imagination had conceived, they could be at no loss to find means of the most ample revenge, either by their own hands, or by those of the ruling faction. “The risk of re-opening the fatal window at Whitehall, and renewing the tragedy of the Man in the Mask, were a worse penalty,” was his final reflection, “than the old stool of the Scottish penance; and pretty though Alice Lee is, I cannot afford to intrigue at such a hazard. So, farewell, pretty maiden! unless, as sometimes has happened, thou hast a humour to throw thyself at thy King’s feet, and then I am too magnanimous to refuse thee my protection.— Yet, when I think of the pale clay-cold figure of the old man, as he lay last night extended before us, and imagine the fury of Albert Lee raging with impatience, his hand on a sword which only his loyalty prevents him from plunging into his sovereign’s heart,— nay, the picture is too horrible! Charles must for ever change his name to Joseph, even if he were strongly tempted; which may Fortune in mercy prohibit!” To speak the truth of a Prince, more unfortunate in his early companions, and the callousness which he acquired by his juvenile adventures and irregular mode of life, than in his natural disposition, Charles came the more readily to this wise conclusion, because he was by no means subject to those violent and engrossing passions, to gratify which the world has been thought well lost. His amours, like many of the present day, were rather matters of habit and fashion, than of passion and affection; and, in comparing himself in this respect to his grandfather Henry IV., he did neither his ancestor nor himself perfect justice. He was, to parody the words of a bard, actuated by the stormy passions which an intriguer often only simulates,— None of those who loved so kindly, None of those who loved so blindly.—

254



Vol. 2, ch. 11

An amour was with him a matter of amusement, a regular consequence, as it seemed to him, of the ordinary course of things in society. He was not at the trouble to practise seductive arts, because he had seldom found occasion to make use of them; his high rank, and the profligacy of some of the female society with which he had mingled, rendering them unnecessary. Added to this, he had, for the same reason, seldom been crossed by the obstinate interference of relations, or even of husbands, who had generally seemed not unwilling to suffer such matters to take their course. So that, notwithstanding his total looseness of principle, and systematic disbelief in the virtue of women and the honour of men, as connected with the character of their female relatives, Charles was not a person to have studiously introduced disgrace into a family, where a conquest might have been violently disputed, attained with difficulty, and accompanied with general distress, not to mention the excitation of all fiercer passions against the author of the scandal. But the danger of the King’s society consisted in his being much of an unbeliever in the existence of such cases as were like to be embittered by remorse on the part of the principal victim, or rendered perilous by the violent resentment of her connexions or relatives. He had found such things treated on the continent as matters of ordinary occurrence, subject, in all cases where a man of high influence was concerned, to an easy arrangement; and he was really, generally speaking, sceptical on the subject of severe virtue in either sex, and apt to consider it as a veil assumed by prudery in women, and hypocrisy in men, to extort a higher reward for their complaisance. While we are discussing the character of his disposition to gallantry, the Wanderer was conducted, by the walk he had chosen, through several whimsical turns, until at last it brought him under the windows of Victor Lee’s apartments, where he descried Alice watering and arranging some flowers placed on the Oriel window, which was easily accessible by daylight, although at night he had found it a dangerous attempt to scale it. But not Alice only, her father also showed himself near the window, and beckoned him up. The family party seemed now more promising than before, and the fugitive Prince was weary of playing at battledore and shuttlecock with his own conscience, and much disposed to let matters go as chance should determine. He climbed lightly up the broken ascent, and was readily welcomed by the old knight, who held activity in high honour. Alice also seemed glad to see the lively and interesting young man; and encouraged by her presence, and the unaffected mirth with which

[Chap. 22]



255

she enjoyed his sallies, he was animated to display those qualities of wit and humour, which nobody possessed in a higher degree. His satire delighted the old gentleman, who laughed till his eyes ran over, as he heard the youth, whose claims to his respect he little dreamed of, amusing him with successive imitations of the Scottish Presbyterian clergyman, of the proud and poor Hidalgo of the North, of the fierce and overweening pride and Celtic dialect of the mountain chief, with all of which his residence in Scotland had made him familiar. Alice also laughed and applauded, amused herself, and delighted to see that her father was so; and the whole party were in the highest glee, when Albert Lee entered, eager to find Louis Kerneguy, and to lead him away to a private colloquy with Doctor Rochecliffe, whose zeal, assiduity, and wonderful possession of information, had constituted him their master-pilot in these difficult times. It is unnecessary to introduce the reader to the minute particulars of their conference. The information obtained was so far favourable, that the enemy seemed to have had no intelligence of the King’s route towards the south, and remained persuaded that he had made his escape from Bristol, as had been reported, and as had indeed been proposed; but the master of the vessel prepared for the King’s passage had taken alarm, and sailed without his royal freight. His departure, however, and the suspicion of the service in which he was engaged, served to make the belief general, that the King had gone off along with him. But though this was cheering, the Doctor had more unpleasant tidings from the sea-coast, alleging great difficulties in securing a vessel, to which it might be fit to commit a charge so precious; and, above all, requesting his Majesty might on no account venture to approach the shore, until he should receive advice that all the previous arrangements had been completely settled. No one was able to suggest a safer place of residence than that which he at present occupied. Colonel Everard was deemed certainly not personally unfriendly to the King, and Cromwell, as was supposed, reposed in Everard an unlimited confidence. The interior presented numberless hiding places, and secret modes of exit, known to none but the ancient residents of the Lodge—nay, far better to Rochecliffe than to any of them; as, when Rector at the neighbouring town, his prying disposition as an antiquary had induced him to make very many researches among the old ruins— the results of which he was believed, in some instances, to have kept to himself. To balance these conveniences, it was no doubt true, that the

256



Vol. 2, ch. 12

Parliamentary Commissioners were still at no great distance, and would be ready to reassume their authority upon the first opportunity. But no one supposed such an opportunity was likely to occur; and all believed, as the influence of Cromwell and the army grew more and more predominant, that the disappointed Commissioners would attempt nothing in contradiction to his pleasure, but wait with patience an indemnification in some other quarter for their vacated commissions. Report, through the voice of Master Joseph Tomkins, stated, that they had determined, in the first place, to return to Oxford, and were making preparations accordingly. This promised still farther to insure the security of Woodstock. It was therefore settled, that the King, under the character of Louis Kerneguy, should remain an inmate of the Lodge, until a vessel should be procured for his escape, at the port which might be esteemed the safest and most convenient.

Chapter Twelve The deadliest snakes are those which, twined ’mongst flowers, Blend their bright colouring with the varied blossoms, Their fierce eyes glittering like the spangled dew-drop; In all so like what nature has most harmless, That sportive innocence, which dreads no danger, Is poison’d unawares. Old Play

C  (we must now give him his own name) was easily reconciled to the circumstances which rendered his residence at Woodstock advisable. No doubt he would much rather have secured his safety by making an immediate escape; but he had been condemned already to many uncomfortable lurking-places, and more disagreeable disguises, as well as to long and difficult journeys, during which, between pragmatical officers of justice belonging to the prevailing party, and parties of soldiers whose officers usually took on them to act upon their own warrant, risk of discovery had more than once become very imminent. He was glad, therefore, of comparative repose, and of comparative safety. Then it must be considered, that Charles had been entirely reconciled to the society of Woodstock since he had become better acquainted with it. He had seen, that, to interest the beautiful Alice, and procure a great deal of her company, nothing more was necessary than to submit to the humours, and cultivate the intimacy, of the old cavalier her father. A few bouts at fencing, in which Charles took care not to put out his more perfect skill, his full

[Chap. 23]



257

youthful strength and activity—the endurance of a few scenes from Shakspeare, which the knight read with more zeal than taste—a little skill in music, in which the old man had been a proficient— the deference paid to a few old-fashioned opinions, at which he laughed in his sleeve—were all-sufficient to gain for the disguised Prince an interest in Sir Henry Lee, and to conciliate in an equal degree the good-will of his lovely daughter. Never were two young persons who could be said to commence this species of intimacy with such unequal advantages. Charles was a libertine, who, if he did not in cold blood resolve upon prosecuting his passion for Alice to a dishonourable conclusion, was at every moment liable to be provoked to attempt the strength of a virtue, in which he was no believer. Then Alice, on her part, hardly knew what was implied by the word libertine or seduction. Her mother had died early in the commencement of the Civil War, and she had been bred up chiefly with her brother and cousin; so that she had an unfearing and unsuspicious frankness of manner, upon which Charles was not unwilling or unlikely to put a construction favourable to his own views. Even Alice’s love for her cousin—the first sensation which awakens the most innocent and simple mind to feelings of shyness and restraint towards the male sex in general—had failed to awaken such an alarm in her bosom. They were nearly related; and Everard, though young, was several years her elder, and had, from her infancy, been an object of her respect as well as of her affection. When this early and childish intimacy ripened into youthful love, confessed and returned, still it differed in some shades from the same passion existing between lovers originally strangers to each other, until their affections have been united in the ordinary course of courtship. Their love was fonder, more familiar, more perfectly confidential; purer too, perhaps, and more free from starts of passionate violence, or apprehensive jealousy. The possibility that any one could have attempted to rival Everard in her affection, was a circumstance which never occurred to Alice; and that this singular Scottish lad, whom she laughed with on account of his humour, and laughed at on account of his peculiarities, should be an object of danger or of caution, never entered her imagination. The sort of intimacy to which she admitted Kerneguy was the same to which she would have received a companion of her own sex, whose manners she did not always approve, but whose society she found amusing. It was natural that the freedom of Alice Lee’s conduct, which arose from the most perfect indifference, should pass for something approaching to encouragement in the royal gallant’s apprehension,

258



Vol. 2, ch. 12

and that the resolutions he had formed against being tempted to violate the hospitality of Woodstock, should begin to totter, as opportunities for doing so became more frequent. These opportunities were favoured by Albert’s departure from Woodstock the very day after his arrival. It had been agreed in full council, with Charles and Rochecliffe, that he should go to visit his uncle Everard in the county of Kent, and, by showing himself there, should put to rest any cause of suspicion which might arise from his residence at Woodstock, and remove any pretext for disturbing his father’s family on account of their harbouring one who had been so lately in arms. He had also undertaken, at his own great personal risk, to visit different points on the sea-coast, and ascertain the security of different places for providing shipping for the King’s leaving England. These circumstances were alike calculated to procure the King’s safety, and facilitate his escape. But Alice was thereby deprived of the presence of her brother, who would have been her most watchful guardian, but who had set down the King’s light talk upon a former occasion to the gaiety of his humour, and would have thought he had done his sovereign great injustice, had he seriously suspected him of such a breach of hospitality as a dishonourable pursuit of Alice would have implied. There were, however, two of the household at Woodstock, who appeared not so entirely reconciled with Louis Kerneguy or his purposes. The one was Bevis, who seemed, from their first unfriendly rencontre, to have kept up a pique against their new guest, which no advances on the part of Charles were able to soften. If the page was by chance left alone with his young mistress, Bevis chose always to be of the party and to lie close by Alice’s chair, and growled audibly when the gallant drew near her. “It is a pity,” said the disguised Prince, “that your Bevis is not a bull-dog, that we might dub him a roundhead at once—He is too handsome, too noble, too aristocratic, to nourish those inhospitable prejudices against a poor homeless cavalier. I am convinced the spirit of Pym or Hampden has transmigrated into the rogue, and continues to demonstrate his hatred against royalty and all its adherents.” Alice would then reply, that Bevis was loyal in word and deed, and only partook her father’s prejudices against the Scots nation, which, she could not but acknowledge, were tolerably strong. “Nay, then,” said the supposed Louis, “I must find some other reason, for I cannot allow Sir Bevis’s resentment to rest upon national antipathy. So we will suppose that some gallant cavalier, who wended to the wars and never returned, has adopted this

[Chap. 23]



259

shape to look back upon the haunts he left so unwillingly, and is jealous at seeing even poor Louis Kerneguy draw so near to the lady of his lost affections.”—He approached her chair as he spoke, and Bevis gave one of his deep growls. “In that case, you had best keep your distance,” said Alice, laughing, “for the bite of a dog, possessed by the ghost of a jealous lover, cannot be very safe.” And the King carried on the dialogue in the same strain, which, while it led Alice to apprehend nothing more serious than the apish gallantry of a fantastic boy, certainly induced the supposed Louis Kerneguy to think that he had made one of those conquests which often and easily fall to the share of sovereigns. Notwithstanding the acuteness of his apprehension, he was not sufficiently aware that the Royal Road to female favour is only open to monarchs when they travel in grand costume, and that when they woo incognito, their path of courtship is liable to the same windings and the same obstacles which obstruct the course of private individuals. There was, besides Bevis, another member of the family, who kept a look-out upon Louis Kerneguy, and with no friendly eye. Phœbe Mayflower, though her experience extended not beyond the sphere of the village, yet knew the world much better than her mistress, and besides she was five years older. More knowing, she was more suspicious. She thought that odd-looking Scotch boy made more up to her young mistress than was proper for his apparent condition in life; and, moreover, that Alice gave him a little more encouragement than Parthenia would have afforded to any such Jack-a-dandy, in the absence of Argalus—for the volume treating of the loves of these celebrated Arcadians was then the favourite study of swains and damsels throughout merry England. Entertaining such suspicions, Phœbe was at a loss how to conduct herself on the occasion, and yet resolved she would not see the slightest chance of the course of Colonel Everard’s true love being obstructed, without attempting a remedy. She had a peculiar favour for Markham herself; and, moreover, he was, according to her phrase, as handsome and personable a young man as was in Oxfordshire; and this Scotch scare-crow was no more fit to be compared to him than chalk was to cheese. And yet she allowed that Master Girnigy had a wonderfully well-oiled tongue, and that such gallants were not to be despised. What was to be done?—she had no facts to offer, only vague suspicion; and was afraid to speak to her mistress, whose kindness, great as it was, did not, nevertheless, encourage familiarity. She sounded Josceline; but he was, she knew not why, so deeply

260



Vol. 2, ch. 12

interested about this unlucky lad, and held his importance so high, that she could make no impression on him. To speak to the old knight, would have been to raise a general tempest. The worthy chaplain, who was at Woodstock grand referee on all disputed matters, would have been the damsel’s most natural recourse, for he was peaceful as well as moral by profession, and politic by practice. But it happened he had given Phœbe unintentional offence by speaking of her under the classical epithet of Rustica Phidyle, the which epithet, as she understood not, she held herself bound to resent as contumelious, and declaring she was not fonder of a fiddle than other folks, had ever since shunned all intercourse with Doctor Rochecliffe which she could easily avoid. Master Tomkins was always coming and going about the house under various pretexts; but he was a roundhead, and she was too true to the cavaliers to introduce any of the enemy as parties to their internal discords;—besides, he had talked to Phœbe herself in a manner which induced her to decline all familiarity with him which could be avoided. Lastly, Cavaliero Wildrake might have been consulted; but Phœbe had her own reasons for saying, as she did with some emphasis, that Cavaliero Wildrake was an impudent London rake. At length she resolved to communicate her suspicions to the party having most interest in verifying or confuting them. “I’ll let Master Markham Everard know, that there is a wasp buzzing about his honey-comb,” said Phœbe; “and, moreover, that I know that this young Scotch Scape-grace shifted himself out of a woman’s into a man’s dress at Goody Green’s, and gave Goody Green’s Dolly a gold-piece to say nothing about it;—and no more she did to any one but me, and she knows best herself whether she gave change for the gold piece or no—But Master Louis is a saucy jackanapes, and like enough to ask it.” Three or four days elapsed while matters continued in this condition—the disguised Prince sometimes thinking on the intrigue which Fortune seemed to have thrown in his way for his amusement, and taking advantage of such opportunities as occurred to increase his intimacy with Alice Lee; but much oftener harassing Doctor Rochecliffe with questions about the possibility of escape, which the good man finding himself unable to answer, secured his leisure against royal importunity, by retreating into the various unexplored recesses of the Lodge, known perhaps only to himself, who had been for nearly a score of years employed in writing the Wonders of Woodstock. It chanced on the fourth day, that some trifling circumstance

[Chap. 23]



261

had called the knight abroad; and he had left the young Scotchman, now familiar in the family, alone with Alice, in the parlour of Victor Lee. Thus situated, he thought the time not unpropitious for entering upon a strain of gallantry, of a kind which might be called experimental, such as is practised by the Croats in skirmishing, when they keep bridle in hand, ready to attack the enemy, or canter off without coming to close quarters, as circumstances should recommend. After using for nearly ten minutes a sort of metaphysical jargon, which might, according to Alice’s pleasure, have been interpreted either into gallantry, or the language of serious pretension, and when he supposed her engaged in fathoming his meaning, he had the mortification to find, by a single and brief question, that he had been totally unattended to, and that Alice was thinking on anything at the moment rather than the sense of what he had been saying. She asked him if he could tell what it was o’clock, and this with an air of real curiosity concerning the lapse of time, which put coquetry wholly out of the question. “I will go look at the sun-dial, Mistress Alice,” said the gallant, rising and colouring, through a sense of the contempt with which he thought himself treated. “You will do me a pleasure, Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, without the least consciousness of the indignation she had excited. Master Louis Kerneguy left the room accordingly, not, however, to procure the information required, but to vent his mortification, and to swear, with more serious purpose than he had dared to do before, that Alice should rue her insolence. Good-natured as he was, he was still a prince, unaccustomed to contradiction, far less to contempt, and his self-pride felt, for the moment, wounded to the quick. With a hasty step he plunged into the Chase, only remembering his own safety so far as to choose the deeper and sequestered avenues, where, walking on with the speedy and active step, which his recovery from fatigue now permitted him to exercise according to his wont, he solaced his purpose, by devising schemes for revenge on the insolent country coquette, from which no consideration of hospitality was in future to have weight enough to save her. The angry gallant passed The dial-stone, aged and green,

without deigning to ask it a single question; nor could it have satisfied his curiosity if he had, for no sun happened to shine at the moment. He then hastened forward, muffling himself in his cloak, and assuming a stooping and slouching gait, which diminished

262



Vol. 2, ch. 12

his apparent height. He was soon involved in the deep and dim alleys of the wood, into which he had insensibly plunged himself, and was traversing it at a great rate, without having any distinct idea in what direction he was going, when suddenly his course was arrested, first by a loud hollo, and then by a summons to stand, accompanied by what seemed still more startling and extraordinary, the touch of a cane upon his shoulder, imposed in an imperious but good-humoured manner. There were few symptoms of recognition which would have been welcome at this moment; but the appearance of the person who had thus arrested his course, was least of all those he could have anticipated as timely or agreeable. When he turned, on receiving the signal, he beheld himself close to a young man, nearly six foot in height, well made in joint and limb, but the gravity of whose apparel, although handsome and gentlemanlike, and a sort of precision in his habit, from the cleanness and stiffness of his band to the unsoiled purity of his Spanish-leather shoes, bespoke a love of order which was foreign to the impoverished and vanquished cavaliers, and proper to the habits of those of the victorious party, who could afford to dress themselves handsomely; and whose rules— that is such as regarded the higher and more respectable classes— enjoined decency and sobriety of garb and deportment. There was yet another weight against the Prince in the scale, and one still more characteristic of the difference between the parties to which each apparently belonged. This was the greater strength, and the better arms, on the side of the stranger who had thus brought the disguised monarch to an involuntary parley. There was strength in his muscular bulk, authority and determination in his brow, a long rapier on the left, and a poniard or dagger on the right side of his belt, and a pair of pistols stuck into it, while Louis Kerneguy had no weapon but his sword, and was in personal strength much inferior to the person by whom he was thus suddenly stopped. Bitterly regretting the thoughtless fit of passion that brought him into his present situation, but especially the want of the pistols he had left behind, and which do so much to place bodily strength and weakness upon an equal footing, Charles yet availed himself of that courage and presence of mind, in which few of his unfortunate family had for centuries been deficient. He stood firm and without motion, his cloak still wrapped round the lower part of his face, to give time for explanation, in case he was mistaken for some other person. This coolness produced its effect; for the other party said, with

[Chap. 23]



263

doubt and surprise on his part, “Josceline Joliffe, is it not?—if I know not Josceline Joliffe, I should at least know my own cloak.” “I am not Josceline Joliffe, as you may see sir,” said Kerneguy, calmly, drawing himself erect to show the difference of size, and dropping the cloak from his face. “Indeed!” replied the stranger, in surprise; “then, Sir Unknown, I have to express my regret at having used my cane in intimating that I wished you to stop. From that dress, which I certainly recognize for my own, I concluded you must be Josceline, in whose custody I had left my habit at the Lodge.” “If it had been Josceline, sir,” replied the supposed Kerneguy, with perfect composure, “methinks you should not have struck so hard.” The other party was obviously confused by the steady calmness with which he was encountered. His sense of politeness dictated, in the first place, his apology for a mistake, when he thought he had been tolerably certain of the person. Master Kerneguy was not in a situation to be punctilious; he bowed gravely, as indicating his acceptance of the excuse offered, then turned, and walked, as he conceived, towards the Lodge; though he had traversed the woods, which were cut with various alleys in different directions, too hastily to be certain of the real course which he wished to pursue. He was much embarrassed to find that this did not get him rid of the companion whom he had thus involuntarily acquired. Walked he slow, walked he fast, his friend in the genteel but puritanic habit, strong in person, and well armed, as we have described him, seemed determined to keep him company, and, without attempting to join, or enter into conversation, never suffered him to outstrip his surveillance for more than two or three yards. The Wanderer mended his pace; but, although he was then, in his youth, as afterwards in his riper age, one of the best walkers in Britain, the stranger, without advancing his pace to a run, kept fully equal to him, and his persecution became so close and constant, and inevitable, that the pride and fear of Charles were both alarmed, and he began to think that, whatever the danger might be of a singlehanded rencontre, he would nevertheless have a better bargain of this tall and unwelcome satellite if they settled their debate betwixt themselves in the forest, than if they drew near any place of habitation, where the man in authority was likely to find friends and concurrence. Betwixt anxiety, therefore, vexation and anger, Charles faced suddenly round on his pursuer, as they reached a small narrow glade, which led to the little meadow over which presided the

264



Vol. 2, ch. 12

King’s Oak, the ragged and scathed branches and gigantic trunk of which formed a vista to the little wild avenue. “Sir,” said he to his pursuer, “you have already been guilty of one piece of impertinence towards me. You have apologised; and knowing no reason why you should distinguish me as an object of incivility, I have accepted your excuse without scruple. Is there anything remains to be settled betwixt us, which causes you to follow me in this manner? If so, I will be glad to make it a subject of explanation or satisfaction, as the case may admit of. I think you can owe me no malice; for I never saw you before to my knowledge. If you can give any good reason for asking it, I am willing to render you personal satisfaction. If your purpose is merely impertinent curiosity, I let you know that I will not suffer myself to be dogged on my private walks by any one.” “When I recognize my own cloak on another man’s shoulders,” replied the stranger drily, “methinks I have a natural right to follow, and see what becomes of it; for know, sir, though I have been mistaken as to the wearer, yet I am confident I had as good a right to stretch my cane across the cloak you are muffled in, as ever had any one to brush his own garments. If, therefore, we are to be friends, I must ask, for instance, how you came by that cloak, and where you are going with it? I shall else make bold to stop you, as one who has sufficient commission to do so.” Oh, unhappy cloak, thought the Wanderer, ay, and thrice unhappy the idle fancy that sent me out here with it wrapped around my nose, to pick quarrels and attract observation, when quiet and secrecy were peculiarly essential to my safety! “If you will allow me to guess, sir,” continued the stranger, who was no other than Markham Everard, “I will convince you, that you are better known than you think for.” “Now, Heaven forbid!” prayed the party addressed, in silence, but with as much devotion as ever he applied to a prayer in his life. Yet even in this moment of extreme urgency, his courage and composure did not fail; and he recollected it was of the utmost importance not to seem startled, and to answer so as, if possible, to lead the dangerous companion with whom he had met, to confess the extent of his actual knowledge or suspicions concerning him. “If you know me, sir,” he said, “and are a gentleman, as your appearance promises, you cannot be at a loss to what accident you must attribute my wearing these clothes, which you say are yours.” “Oh, sir,” replied Colonel Everard, his wrath in no sort turned away by the mildness of the stranger’s answer, “we have learned our Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and we know for what purposes young

[Chap. 23]



265

men of quality travel in disguise—we know that even female attire is resorted to on certain occasions—We have heard of Vertumnus and Pomona.” The Monarch, as he weighed these words, again uttered a devout prayer, that this ill-looking affair might have no deeper root than the jealousy of some admirer of Alice Lee, promising to himself, that, devotee as he was to the fair sex, he would make no scruple of renouncing the fairest of Eve’s daughters in order to get out of the present dilemma. “Sir,” he said, “you seem to be a gentleman. I have no objection to tell you as such, that I also am of that class.” “Or somewhat higher, perhaps,” said Everard. “A gentleman is a term which comprehends all ranks entitled to armorial bearings—A duke, a lord, a prince, is no more than a gentleman; and if in misfortune, as I am, he may be glad if that general title of courtesy is allowed him.” “Sir,” replied Everard, “I have no purpose to entrap you to any acknowledgement fatal to your own safety. Nor do I hold it my business to be active in the arrest of private individuals, whose perverted sense of national duty may have led them into errors, rather to be pitied than punished by candid men. But if those who have brought civil war and disturbance into their native country, proceed to carry dishonour and disgrace into the bosom of families —if they attempt to carry on their private debaucheries to the injury of the hospitable roofs which afford them refuge from the consequences of their public crimes, do you think, my lord, that we will bear it with patience?” “If it is your purpose to quarrel with me,” said the Prince, “speak it out at once like a gentleman. You have the advantage, no doubt, of arms, but it is not that odds which will induce me to fly from a single man. If, on the other hand, you are disposed to hear reason, I tell you in calm words, that I neither suspect the offence to which you allude, nor comprehend why you give me the title of my Lord.” “You deny, then, being the Lord Wilmot?” said Everard. “I may do so most safely,” said the Prince. “Perhaps you rather style yourself Earl of Rochester? We heard that the issuing of some such patent by the King of Scots was a step which your ambition proposed.” “Neither lord nor earl am I, as sure as I have a christian soul to be saved. My name is”—— “Do not degrade yourself by unnecessary falsehood, my lord; and that to a single man, who, I promise you, will not invoke public

266



Vol. 2, ch. 12

justice to assist his own good sword should he see cause to use it. Can you look at that ring, and deny that you are Lord Wilmot?” He handed to the disguised Prince a ring which he took from his purse, and his opponent instantly knew it for the same he had dropped into Alice’s pitcher at the fountain, obeying only, though imprudently, the gallantry of the moment, in giving a pretty gem to a handsome girl, whom he had accidentally frightened. “I know the ring,” he said; “it has been in my possession. How it should prove me to be Lord Wilmot, I cannot conceive; and beg to say, it bears false witness against me.” “You shall see the evidence,” answered Everard; and resuming the ring, he pressed a spring ingeniously contrived in the collet of the setting, on which the stone flew back, and showed within it the cypher of Lord Wilmot beautifully engraved in miniature, with a coronet.—“What say you now, sir?” “That probabilities are no proofs,” said the Prince; “there is nothing here save what can be easily accounted for. I am the son of a Scottish nobleman, who was mortally wounded and made prisoner at Worcester fight. When he took leave, and bid me fly, he gave me the few valuables he possessed, and that among others. I have heard him talk of having changed rings with Lord Wilmot, on some occasion in Scotland, but I never before knew the trick of the gem which you have shown me.” In this it may be necessary to say, Charles spoke very truly; nor would he have parted with it in the way he did, had he suspected it would be easily recognised. He proceeded after a moment’s pause: —“Once more, sir,—I have told you much that concerns my safety —if you are generous, you will let me pass, and I may do you on some future day as good service. If you mean to arrest me, you must do so here, and on your own peril, for I will neither walk further your way, nor permit you to dog me on mine. If you will let me pass I will thank you—if not, take to your weapon.” “Young gentleman,” said Colonel Everard, “whether you be actually the gay young nobleman for whom I took you, you have made me uncertain; but, intimate as you say your family has been with him, I have little doubt that you are proficient in the school of debauchery, of which Wilmot and Villiers are professors, and their hopeful Master a graduated student. Your conduct at Woodstock, where you have rewarded the hospitality of the family by meditating the most deadly wound to their honour, has proved you too apt a scholar in such an academy. I intended only to warn you on this subject—it will be your own fault if I add chastisement to admonition.”

[Chap. 23]



267

“Warn me, sir!” said the Prince indignantly, “and chastisement! This is presuming more on my patience than is consistent with your own safety—Draw, sir.”—So saying, he laid his hand on his sword. “My religion,” said Everard, “forbids me to be rash in shedding blood—Go home, sir—be wise—consult the dictates of honour as well as prudence. Respect the honour of the House of Lee, and know there is one nearly allied to it, by whom your motions will be called to severe accompt.” “Aha!” said the Prince, with a bitter laugh, “I see the whole matter now—we have our roundheaded Colonel, our puritan cousin, before us—the man of texts and morals, whom Alice Lee laughs at so heartily. If your religion, sir, prevents you from giving satisfaction, it should prevent you from offering insult to a person of honour.” The passions of both were now fully up—they drew mutually, and began to fight, the Colonel generously relinquishing the advantage he could have obtained by the use of his fire-arms. A thrust of the arm, or a slip of the foot, might, at the moment, have changed the destinies of Britain, when the arrival of a third party broke off the combat.    

WOODSTOCK  

Chapter One Stay—for the King has thrown his warder down. Richard II

T   whom we left engaged at the end of the last volume, made mutual passes at each other with apparently equal skill and courage. Charles had been too often in action, and too long a party as well as a victim to civil war, to find anything new or surprising in being obliged to defend himself with his own hand; and Everard had been distinguished, as well for his personal bravery, as for the other properties of a commander. But the arrival of a third party prevented the tragic conclusion of a combat, in which the success of either party must have given him much cause for regretting his victory. It was the Knight himself who arrived, mounted upon a forest pony, for the war and sequestration had left him no horses which could be used for war. He thrust himself between the combatants, and commanded them on their lives to hold. So soon as a glance from one to the other had ascertained to him whom he had to deal with, he demanded, “Whether the devils of Woodstock whom folks talked about had got possession of them both, that they were tilting at each other within the verge of the royal liberties?—Let me tell both of you,” he said, “that while old Henry Lee is at Woodstock, the immunities of the Park shall be maintained as much as if the King was still on the throne—None shall fight duellos here, excepting the stags in their seasons—Put up both of you, or I shall lug out as thirdsman, and prove perhaps the worse devil of the three—for, as Will says— I’ll so maul you and your toasting-irons, That you shall think the devil has come from hell.” 269

270



Vol. 3, ch. 1

The combatants had desisted from their encounter, but stood looking at each other sullenly, as men do in such a situation, each unwilling to seem to desire peace more than the other, and averse therefore to be the first to sheathe his sword. “Return your weapons, gentlemen, upon the spot,” said the knight yet more peremptorily, “one and both of you, or you will have something to do with me I promise you. You may be thankful times are changed. I have known them such, that an insolence might have cost each of you your hands, if not redeemed with a round sum of money.—Nephew, if you do not mean to alienate me for ever, I command you to put up.—Master Kerneguy, you are my guest. I request of you not to do me the insult of remaining with your sword drawn, where it is my duty to see peace observed.” “I obey you, Sir Henry,” said the Adventurer, sheathing his rapier —“I hardly indeed know wherefore I was assaulted by this gentleman—I assure you, none respects the King’s person or privileges more than myself—though the devotion is somewhat out of fashion.” “We may find a place to meet, sir,” replied Everard, “where neither the royal person nor privileges can be offended.” “Faith, very hardly, sir,” said Charles, unable to suppress the rising jest—“I mean, the King has so few followers, that the loss of the least of them might be some small damage to him; but, risking all that, I will meet you wherever there is fair field for a poor cavalier to get off in safety, if he has the luck in fight.” Sir Henry Lee’s first idea had been fixed upon the insult offered to the royal demesne; he now began to turn them towards the safety of his kinsman, and of the young royalist, as he deemed him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I insist on this business being put to a final end. Nephew Markham, is this your return for my condescension in coming back to Woodstock on your warrant, that you should take an opportunity to cut the throat of my guest?” “If you knew his purpose as well as I do,”—said Markham, and then paused, conscious that he might only incense his uncle without convincing him, as anything he might say of Kerneguy’s addresses to Alice was like to be imputed to his own jealous suspicions—he looked on the ground, therefore, and was silent. “And you, Master Kerneguy,” said Sir Henry, “can you give me any reason why you seek to take the life of this young man, in whom, though unhappily forgetful of his loyalty and duty, I must yet take some interest, as my nephew by affinity?” “I was not aware the gentleman enjoyed that honour, which certainly would have protected him from my sword,” answered Kerneguy; “but I cannot tell any reason why he fixed a quarrel upon me,

[Chap. 24]



271

unless it were the difference of political opinions.” “You know the contrary,” said Everard; “you know that I told you you were safe from me as a fugitive royalist—and your last words showed you were at no loss to guess my connexion with Sir Henry. That, indeed, is of little consequence. I should debase myself did I use the relationship as a means of protection from you, or any one.” As they thus disputed, neither choosing to approach the real cause of quarrel, Sir Henry looked from the one to the other, with a peace-making countenance, exclaiming— —“Why, what an intricate impeach is this? I think you both have drunk of Circe’s cup.

Come, my young masters, allow an old man to mediate between you. I am not short-sighted in such matters—The mother of mischief is no bigger than a gnat’s wing; and I have known fifty instances in my own day, when, as Will says— Gallants have been confronted hardily, In single opposition, hand to hand,

in which, after the field was fought, no one could remember the cause of quarrel.—Tush! a small thing will do it—the taking of the wall—or the gentle rub of the shoulder in passing each other, or a hasty word, or a misconceived gesture—Come, forget your cause of quarrel, be what it will—you have had your breathing, and though you put up your rapiers unbloodied, that was no default of yours, but by the command of your elder, and one who had right to use authority. In Malta, where the duello is punctiliously well understood, the persons engaged in a singular combat are bound to halt on the command of a knight, or a priest, or a lady, and the quarrel so interrupted is held as honourably terminated, and may not be revived. —Nephew, it is, I think, impossible that you can nourish spleen against this young gentleman for having fought for his king—Hear my honest proposal, Markham—You know I bear no malice, though I have some reason to be offended with you—Give this young man your hand in friendship, and we will back to the Lodge, all three together, and drink a cup of sack in token of reconciliation.” Markham Everard found himself unable to resist this approach towards kindness on his uncle’s part. He suspected, indeed, what was partly the truth, that it was not entirely from reviving good will, but also, that his uncle thought, by such attention, to secure his neutrality at least, if not his assistance, for the safety of the fugitive royalist. He was sensible that this placed him in an awkward predicament; and that he might incur the suspicions of his own party, for holding intercourse even with a near relation, who harboured such guests.

272



Vol. 3, ch. 1

But, on the other hand, he thought his services to the Commonwealth had been of sufficient importance to outweigh whatever envy might urge on that topic. Indeed, although the Civil War had divided families much, and in many various ways, yet when it seemed ended by the triumph of the republicans, the rage of political hatred began to relent, and the ancient ties of kindred and friendship regained at least a part of their former influence. Many reunions were formed; and those who, like Everard, adhered to the conquering party, often exerted themselves for the protection of their distressed relatives. As these things rushed through his mind, accompanied with the prospect of a renewed intercourse with Alice Lee, by means of which he might be at hand to protect her against every chance, either of injury or insult, he held out his hand to the supposed Scottish page, saying at the same time, “That, for his part, he was very ready to forget the cause of quarrel, or rather, to consider it as arising out of a misapprehension, and to offer Master Kerneguy such friendship as might exist between honourable men, who had embraced different sides in politics.” Unable to overcome the feeling of personal dignity, which prudence recommended to him to forget, Louis Kerneguy in return bowed low, but without accepting Everard’s proffered hand. “He had no occasion,” he said, “to make any exertions to forget the cause of quarrel, for he had never been able to comprehend it; but as he had not shunned the gentleman’s resentment, so he was now willing to embrace and return any degree of his favour, with which he might be pleased to honour him.” Everard withdrew his hand with a smile, and bowed in return to the salutation of the page, whose stiff reception of his advances he imputed to the proud pettish disposition of a Scotch boy, trained up in ideas of family consequence and personal importance, which his acquaintance with the world had not yet been sufficient to dispel. Sir Henry Lee, delighted with the termination of the quarrel, which he supposed to be in deep deference to his own authority, and not displeased with the opportunity of renewing some acquaintance with his nephew, who had, notwithstanding his political demerits, a warmer interest in his affections than he was, perhaps, himself aware of, said, in a tone of consolation, “Never be mortified, young gentlemen.—I protest it went to my heart to part you, when I saw you stretching yourselves so handsomely, and in fair love of honour, without any malicious or blood-thirsty thoughts. I promise you, had it not been for my duty as Ranger here, and sworn to the office, I would rather have been your umpire than your hindrance. —But a finished quarrel is a forgotten quarrel; and your tilting

[Chap. 24]



273

should have no further consequence excepting the appetite it may have given you.” So saying, he mounted his pony, and moved forward in triumph towards the Lodge by the nearest alley. His feet almost touching the ground, the ball of his toe just resting in the stirrup,—the fore part of the thigh brought round to the saddle,—the heels turned outwards, and sunk as much as possible,—his body precisely erect, —the reins properly and systematically divided in his left hand, while his right held a riding-rod diagonally pointed towards the horse’s left ear,—he seemed a champion of the menage, fit to have reined Bucephalus himself. His youthful companions, who attended on either hand like equerries, could scarce suppress a smile at the completely adjusted and systematic posture of the rider, contrasted with the wild diminutive appearance of the little pony, with its shaggy coat, and long tail and mane, and its keen eyes sparkling like red coals from amongst the mass of hair which fell over its small countenance. If the reader has the Duke of Newcastle’s book on horsemanship, (splendida moles!) he may have some idea of the figure of the good knight, if he can conceive such a figure as one of the cavaliers there represented, seated, in all the graces of his art, on a Welch or Exmoor pony, in its native savage state, without grooming or discipline of any kind; the ridicule being greatly increased by the disproportion of size betwixt the animal and the rider. Perhaps the knight saw their wonder, for the first words he said after they left the ground were, “Pixie, though small, is mettlesome, gentlemen,” (here he contrived that Pixie could himself corroborate the assertion, by executing a gambade,)—“he is diminutive, but full of spirit;—indeed, save that I am somewhat too large for an elfin horsing,” (the knight was upwards of six feet high,) “I should remind myself, when I mount him, of the Faery King, as described by Mike Drayton:— Himself he on an earwig set, Yet scarce upon his back could get, So oft and high he did curvet, Ere he himself did settle. He made him stop, and turn, and bound, To gallop, and to trot the round, He scarce could stand on any ground, He was so full of mettle.”

“My old friend, Pixie,” said Everard, stroking the pony’s neck, “I am glad that he has survived all these bustling days—Pixie must be above twenty years old, Sir Henry?” “Above twenty years, certainly. Yes, nephew Markham, war is a whirlwind in a plantation, which only spares what is least worth

274



Vol. 3, ch. 1

leaving. Old Pixie and his old master have survived many a tall fellow, and many a great horse—neither of them good for much themselves. Yet, as Will says, an old man can do somewhat.—So here Pixie and I survive—” So saying, he again contrived that Pixie should show some remnants of activity. “Still survive?” said the young Scot, completing the sentence which the good knight had left unfinished—“ay, still survive, To witch the world with noble horsemanship.”

Everard coloured, for he felt the irony; but not so his uncle, whose simple vanity never permitted him to doubt the sincerity of the compliment. “Are you avised of that?” he said. “In King James’s time, indeed, I have appeared in the tilt-yard, and there you might have said— You saw young Harry with his beaver up.

As to seeing old Harry, why”——Here the knight paused, and looked as a bashful man looks when in labour of a pun—“As to old Harry —why, you might as well see the devil. You take me, Master Kerneguy—the Devil is, you know, my namesake—ha—ha—ha!— Cousin Everard, I hope your precision is not startled by an innocent jest?” He was so delighted with the applause of both his companions, that he recited the whole of the celebrated passage referred to, and concluded with defying the present age, bundle all its wits, Donne, Cowley, Waller, and the rest of them together, to produce a poet of a tenth part of the genius of old Will. “Why, we are said to have one of his descendants among us— Sir William D’Avenant,” said Louis Kerneguy; “and many think him as clever a fellow.” “What!” exclaimed Sir Henry—“Will D’Avenant whom I knew in the North, an officer under Newcastle, when the Marquis lay before Hull?—why, he was an honest cavalier, and wrote good doggrel enough; but how came he a-kin to Will Shakspeare, I trow?” “Why,” replied the young Scot, “by the surer side of the house, and after the old fashion, if D’Avenant speaks truth. It seems that his mother was a good-looking, laughing, buxom mistress of an inn between Stratford and London, at which Will Shakspeare often quartered as he went down to his native town; and that out of friendship and gossipred, as we say in Scotland, Will Shakspeare became godfather to Will D’Avenant; and not contented with this spiritual affinity, the younger Will is for establishing some claim to

[Chap. 24]



275

a natural one, alleging that his mother was a great admirer of wit, and there were no bounds to her complaisance for men of genius.” “Out upon the hound!” said Colonel Everard; “would he purchase the reputation of descending from poet, or from prince, at the expense of his mother’s good fame?—his nose ought to be slit.” “That would be difficult,” answered the disguised Prince, recollecting the peculiarity of the bard’s countenance. “Will D’Avenant, the son of Will Shakspeare!” said the knight, who had not yet recovered his surprise at the enormity of the pretension; “why, it reminds me of a verse in the puppet-show of Phaeton, where the hero complains to his mother— Besides, by all the village boys I’m sham’d. You the Sun’s son, you rascal, you be damn’d!*

I never heard such unblushing assurance in my life!—Will D’Avenant the son of the brightest and best poet that ever was, is, or will be!—But I crave your pardon, nephew—You, I believe, love no stage-plays.” “Nay, I am not altogether so precise as you would make me, uncle. I have loved them perhaps too well in my time, and now I condemn them not altogether, or in gross, though I approve not their excesses and extravagancies.—I cannot, even in Shakspeare, but see many things both scandalous to decency and prejudicial to good manners—many things which tend to ridicule virtue, or to recommend vice,—at least to mitigate the hideousness of its features. I cannot think these fine poems are an useful study, and especially for the youth of either sex, in which bloodshed is pointed out as the chief occupation of the men, and intrigue as the sole employment of the women.” In making these observations, Everard was simple enough to think that he was only giving his uncle an opportunity of defending a favourite opinion, without offending him by a contradiction which was so limited and mitigated. But on this, as on other occasions, he forgot how obstinate his uncle was in his views, whether of religion, policy, or taste, and that it would be as easy to convert him to the Presbyterian form of government, or engage him to take the abjuration oath, as to shake his belief in Shakspeare. There was another peculiarity in the good knight’s mode of arguing, which Everard, being himself of a plain and downright character, and one whose religious tenets were in some degree unfavourable to the suppressions * We observe this couplet in Fielding’s farce of Tumble-down Dick, founded on the same classical story. As it was current in the time of the Commonwealth, it must have reached the author of Tom Jones by tradition—for no one will suspect the present author of making the anachronism.

276



Vol. 3, ch. 1

and simulations often used in society, could never perfectly understand. Sir Henry, sensible of his natural heat of temper, was wont scrupulously to guard against it, and would for some time, when in fact much offended, conduct a debate with all the external appearance of composure, till the violence of his feelings would rise so high as to overcome and bear away the artificial barriers opposed to it, and rush down upon the adversary with accumulating wrath. It thus frequently happened, that, like a wily old general, he retreated in the face of his disputant in good order and by degrees, with so moderate a degree of resistance, as to draw on his antagonist’s pursuit to the spot, where, at length, making a sudden and unexpected attack, with horse, foot, and artillery at once, he seldom failed to confound the enemy, though he might not overthrow him. It was on this principle, therefore, that, hearing Everard’s last observation, he disguised his angry feelings, and answered, with a tone where politeness was called in to keep guard upon passion, “That undoubtedly the Presbyterian gentry had given, through these whole unhappy times, such proofs of an humble, unaspiring, and unambitious desire of the public good, as entitled them to general credit for the sincerity of those very strong scruples which they entertained against works, in which the noblest sentiments of religion and virtue—sentiments which might convert hardened sinners, and be placed with propriety in the mouths of dying saints and martyrs,—happened, from the rudeness and coarse taste of the times, to be mixed with some broad jests, and similar matter, which lay not much in the way, excepting of those who painfully sought it out, that they might use it in vilifying what was in itself deserving of the highest applause. But what he wished especially to know from his nephew was, whether any of those gifted men, who had expelled the learned scholars and deep divines of the Church of England from the pulpit, and now flourished in their stead, received any inspiration from the muses, (if he might use so profane a term without offence to Colonel Everard,) or whether they were not as sottishly and brutally averse from elegant letters, as they were from humanity and common sense?” Colonel Everard might have guessed, by the ironical tone in which this speech was delivered, what storm was mustering within his uncle’s bosom—nay, he might have conjectured the state of the old knight’s feelings from his emphasis on the word Colonel, by which epithet, as that which most connected his nephew with the party he hated, he never distinguished Everard, unless when his wrath was rising; while, on the contrary, when disposed to be on good terms with him, he usually called him Kinsman, or Nephew

[Chap. 24]



277

Markham. Indeed, it was under a partial sense that this was the case, and in the hope to see his cousin Alice, that the Colonel forbore making any answer to the harangue of his uncle, which had concluded just as the old knight had alighted at the door of the Lodge, and was entering the hall, followed by his two attendants. Phœbe at the same time made her appearance in the hall, and received orders to bring some “beverage” for the gentlemen. The Hebe of Woodstock failed not to recognize and welcome Everard by an almost imperceptible curtesey; but she did not serve her interest, as she designed, when she asked the knight, as a question of course, whether he commanded the attendance of Mistress Alice. A stern No, was the decided reply; and the ill-timed interference seemed to increase his previous irritation against Everard for his depreciation of Shakspeare. “I would insist,”—said Sir Henry, resuming the obnoxious subject, “were it fit for a poor disbanded cavalier to use such a phrase towards a commander of the conquering army,—upon knowing, whether the convulsion which has sent us saints and prophets without end, has not also, perchance, afforded us a poet with enough both of gifts and grace to outshine poor old Will, the oracle and idol of us blinded and carnal cavaliers?” “Surely, sir,” replied Colonel Everard, “I know verses written by a friend of the Commonwealth, and those, too, of a dramatic character, which, weighed in an impartial scale, might equal even the poetry of Shakspeare, and which are free from the fustian and indelicacy with which that great bard was sometimes content to feed the coarse appetites of his barbarous audience.” “Indeed!” said the knight, keeping down his wrath with difficulty. “I should like to be acquainted with this master-piece of poetry!— May we ask the name of this distinguished person?” “It must be Vicars, or Withers, at least,” said the feigned Page. “No, sir,” replied Everard, “nor Drummond of Hawthornden, nor Lord Stirling neither—And yet the verses will vindicate what I say, if you will make allowance for indifferent recitation, for I am better accustomed to speak to a battalion than to those who love the muses. The speaker is a lady benighted, who, having lost her way in a pathless forest, at first expresses herself agitated by the supernatural fears to which her situation gave rise.” “A play, too, and written by a roundhead author!” said Sir Henry in surprise. “A dramatic production at least,” replied his nephew; and began to recite simply, but with feeling, the lines now so well known, but which had then obtained no celebrity, the fame of the author resting upon the basis rather of his polemical and political publications,

278



Vol. 3, ch. 1

than on the poetry doomed in after days to support the eternal structure of his immortality. “These thoughts may startle, but will not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong-siding champion, Conscience.”

“My own opinion, nephew Markham, my own opinion; better expressed, but just what I said when the scoundrelly roundheads pretended to see ghosts at Woodstock—Go on, I prithee.” Everard proceeded:— “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 these 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 sighed 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 knowst I am something 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 by 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 but 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

[Chap. 24]



279

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 so sweet a harp has been broken, even in remorse, for the crimes he has witnessed; 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.

Doest thou not think so, Master Kerneguy?” “Not I, Sir Henry,” answered the page. “What, dost not believe the author of these verses 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 fat 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 praise, 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 Master Milton.”

280



Vol. 3, ch. 1

“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 the 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.” 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 apologize. “I mistook your purpose, honoured sir, and thought you really desired to know something of our literature—and I repeated what you thought not unworthy your hearing—And 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 adjurations 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 non-chalance of the young Scotchman, who, with his hands thrust into his pockets, (which was 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 offence, was at no particular trouble 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 like 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

[Chap. 24]



281

his face with the most unconscious innocence. “I wish to know, sir, 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 man’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 Girneguy,” 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 will 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 Sampson Agonistes, and blow up this old house with execrations, 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 to 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 parlour.” 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

282



Vol. 3, ch. 2

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 fearful 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 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 out-bearded, even though he should seek redress by means which he had not been accustomed to consider as justifiable.

Chapter Two —Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny—it hath been The untimely emptying of many a throne, And fall of many kings.— Macbeth

W     Colonel Everard retreated in high indignation from the little refection, which Sir Henry Lee had in his good-humour offered, and withdrawn under the circumstances of provocation which we have detailed, the good old knight, scarce recovered from his fit of passion, partook of it with his daughter and guest, and shortly after recollecting some sylvan task, (for though to little efficient purpose,

[Chap. 25]



283

he still regularly attended to his duties as Ranger,) he called Bevis, and went out, leaving the two young people together. “Now,” said the amorous Prince to himself, “is Una left without her Lion; it remains to see whether she is herself of a tigress breed.—So, Sir Bevis has left his charge,” he said aloud; “I thought the knights of old, those stern guardians of which he is so fit a representative, were more rigorous in maintaining a vigilant guard.” “Bevis,” said Alice, “knows that his attendance on me is totally needless; and, moreover, he has other duties to perform, which every true knight prefers to dangling the whole morning by a lady’s sleeve.” “You speak treason against all true affection,” said the gallant; “a lady’s lightest wish should be to a true knight more binding than aught excepting the summons of his sovereign. I wish, Mistress Alice, you would but intimate your slightest desire to me, and you should see how I have practised obedience.” “You never brought me word what o’clock it was this morning,” replied the young lady, “and there I sat questioning of the wings of time, when I should have remembered that gentlemen’s gallantry can be quite as fugitive as Time himself. How do you know what your disobedience may have cost me and others?—Pudding and dumpling may have been burned to a cinder, for, sir, I practise the old domestic rule of visiting the kitchen; or I may have missed prayers, or I may have been too late for an appointment, simply by the negligence of Master Louis Kerneguy failing to let me know the hour of the day.” “O,” replied Kerneguy, “I am one of those lovers who cannot endure absence—I must be eternally at the feet of my fair enemy —such, I think, is the title with which romances teach us to grace the fair and cruel to whom we devote our hearts and lives.—Speak forth, my guitar,” he added, taking up the instrument, “and show whether I know not my duty.” He sung, but with more taste than execution, the air of a French rondelai, to which some of the wits or sonnetteers, in his gay and roving train, had adapted English verses. An hour with thee!—When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern grey, Oh, what can frame my mind to bear The toil and turmoil, cark and care, New griefs, which coming hours unfold, And sad remembrance of the old? One hour with thee. One hour with thee!—When burning June Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;

284



Vol. 3, ch. 2

What shall repay the faithful swain, His labour on the sultry plain; And more than cave or sheltering bough, Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?— One hour with thee. One hour with thee!—When sun is set, O, what can teach me to forget The thankless labours of the day; The hopes, the wishes, flung away; The increasing wants, and lessening gains, The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?— One hour of thee.

“Truly, there is another verse,” said the songster; “but I sing it not to you, Mistress Alice, because some of the prudes of the court liked it not.” “I thank you, Master Louis,” answered the young lady, “both for your discretion in singing what has given me pleasure, and in forbearing what might offend me. Though a country girl, I pretend to be so far of the court mode, as to receive nothing which does not pass current among the better class there.” “I would,” answered Louis, “that you were so well confirmed in their creed, as to let all pass with you, to which court ladies would give currency.” “And what would be the consequence?” said Alice, with perfect composure. “In that case,” said Louis, embarrassed like a general who finds that his preparations for attack do not seem to strike either fear or confusion into the enemy—“you would forgive me, fair Alice, if I spoke to you in a warmer language than of mere gallantry—if I told you how much my heart was interested in what you consider as idle jesting—if I seriously owned it was in your power to make me the happiest or the most miserable of human beings.” “Master Kerneguy,” said Alice, with the same unshaken nonchalance, “let us understand each other. I am little acquainted with high-bred manners, and I am unwilling, I tell you plainly, to be accounted a silly country girl, who, either from ignorance or conceit, is startled at every word of gallantry addressed to her by a young man, who, for the present, has nothing better to do than coin and circulate such false compliments. But I must not let this fear of seeming rustic and awkwardly timorous carry me too far; and being ignorant of the exact limits, I will take care to stop within them.” “I trust, madam,” said Kerneguy, “that however severely you may be disposed to judge of me, your justice will not punish me too severely for an offence, of which your charms are alone the occasion?”

[Chap. 25]



285

“Hear me out, sir, if you please,” resumed Alice. “I have listened to you when you spoke en berger—nay, my complaisance has been so great, as to answer you en bergere—for I do not think anything except ridicule can come of dialogues betwixt Lindor and Jeanneton; and the principal fault of the style is its extreme and tiresome silliness and affectation. But when you begin to kneel, offer to take my hand, and speak with a more serious tone, I must remind you of our real characters. I am the daughter of Sir Henry Lee, and you are, or profess to be, Master Louis Kerneguy, my brother’s page, and a fugitive for shelter under my father’s roof, who incurs danger by the harbour he affords you, and whose household, therefore, ought not to be disturbed by your unpleasing importunities.” “I would to Heaven, fair Alice,” said the King, “that your objections to the suit which I am urging, not in jest, but most seriously, as that on which my happiness depends, rest only on the low and precarious station of Louis Kerneguy!—Alice, thou hast the soul of thy family, and must needs love honour. I am no more the needy Scottish page, whom I have, for my own purposes, personated, than I am the awkward lout, whose manners I adopted on the first night of our acquaintance. This hand, poor as I seem, can confer a coronet.” “Keep it,” said Alice, “for some more ambitious damsel, my lord,—for such I conclude is your title, if this romance be true,—I would not accept your hand, could you confer a duchy.” “In one sense, lovely Alice, you have neither over-rated my power nor my affection. It is your King—it is Charles Stuart who speaks to you!—he can confer duchies, and if beauty can merit them, it is that of Alice Lee. Nay, nay—rise—do not kneel—it is for your sovereign to kneel to thee, Alice, to whom he is a thousand times more devoted, than the wanderer, Louis, dared venture to profess himself. My Alice has, I know, been trained up in those principles of love and obedience to her sovereign, that she cannot, in conscience or in mercy, inflict on him such a wound as would be implied in the rejection of his suit.” In spite of all Charles’s attempts to prevent her, Alice had persevered in kneeling on one knee, until she had touched with her lip the hand with which he attempted to raise her. But this salutation rendered, she stood upright, with her arms folded on her bosom— her looks humble, but composed, keen and watchful, and so possessed of herself, so little flattered by the communication which the King had supposed would have been overpowering, that he scarce knew in what terms next to urge his solicitation. “Thou art silent—thou art silent,” he said, “my pretty Alice. Has the King no more influence with thee than the poor Scottish page?”

286



Vol. 3, ch. 2

“In one sense every influence,” said Alice; “for he commands my best thoughts, my best wishes, my earnest prayers, my devoted loyalty, which, as the men of the House of Lee have been ever ready to testify with the sword, so are the women bound to seal, if necessary, with their blood.—But beyond the duties of a true and devoted subject, the King is even less to Alice Lee than poor Louis Kerneguy. The Page could have tendered an honourable union— the Monarch can but offer a contaminated coronet.” “You mistake, Alice,—you mistake,” said the King, eagerly. “Sit down and let me speak to you—sit down—What fear you?” “I fear nothing, my lord,” answered Alice. “What can I fear from the King of Britain—I, the daughter of his loyal subject, and under my father’s roof? But I remember the distance betwixt us, and though I might trifle and jest with mine equal, to my King I must only appear in the dutiful posture of a subject, unless when his safety may seem to require that I do not acknowledge his dignity.” Charles though young, being no novice in such scenes, was surprised to encounter resistance of a kind which had not been opposed to him in similar pursuits, even in cases where he had been unsuccessful. There was neither anger, nor injured pride, nor disorder, nor disdain, real or affected, in the manners and conduct of Alice. She stood, as it seemed, calmly prepared to argue on the subject, which is generally decided by passion—showed no inclination to escape from the apartment, but appeared determined to hear with patience the suit of the lover—while her countenance and manner intimated that she had this complaisance, only in deference to the commands of the King. “She is ambitious,” thought Charles; “it is by dazzling her love of glory, not by mere passionate entreaties, that I must hope to be successful.—I pray you be seated, my fair Alice,” he said, “the lover entreats—the King commands you.” “The King,” said Alice, “may permit the relaxation of the ceremonies due to royalty, but he cannot abrogate the subject’s duty, even by express command. I stand here while it is your Majesty’s pleasure to address me—a patient listener, as in duty bound.” “Know then, simple girl,” said the King, “that in accepting my proffered affection and protection, you break through no law, either of virtue or morality. Those who are born to royalty are deprived of many of the comforts of private life—chiefly that which is, perhaps, the dearest and most precious, the power of choosing their own mates for life. Their formal weddings are guided upon principles of political expedience only, and those to whom they are wedded are frequently, in temper, person, and disposition, the most unlikely

[Chap. 25]



287

to make them happy. Society has commiseration, therefore, towards us, and binds our sometimes unwilling and often unhappy wedlocks with chains of a lighter and more easy character than those which fetter other men, whose marriage ties, as more voluntarily assumed, ought, in proportion, to be more strictly binding. And therefore, ever since the time that old Henry built these walls, priests and prelates, as well as nobles and statesmen, have been accustomed to see a Fair Rosamond rule the heart of an affectionate monarch, and console him for the few hours of constraint and state which he must bestow upon some angry and jealous Eleanor. To such a connexion the world attaches no blame; they rush to the festival to admire the beauty of the lovely Esther, while the imperious Vashti is left to queen it in solitude; they throng the palace to ask her protection, whose influence is more in the state an hundred times than that of the proud consort; her offspring rank with the nobles of the land, and vindicate by their courage, like the celebrated Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, their descent from Royalty and from Love. From such connexions our richest ranks of nobles are recruited; and the mother lives, in the greatness of her posterity honoured and blessed, as she died lamented and wept in the arms of love and friendship.” “Did Rosamond so die, my lord?” said Alice. “Our records say she was poisoned by the injured Queen—poisoned, without time allowed to call to God for the pardon of her many faults. Did her memory so live? I have heard that, when the Bishop purified the church at Godstowe, her monument was broken open by his order, and her bones thrown out into unconsecrated ground.” “Those were rude old days, sweet Alice,” answered Charles; “queens are not now so jealous, or bishops so rigorous. And know, besides, that, in the lands to which I would lead the loveliest of her sex, other laws obtain, which remove from such ties even the slightest show of scandal. There is a mode of matrimony, which, fulfilling all the rites of the church, leaves no stain on the bride’s conscience, but yet, investing her with none of the privileges peculiar to her husband’s condition, infringes not upon the duties which the King owes to his subjects. So that Alice Lee may, in all respects, become the real and lawful wife of Charles Stuart, except that their private union gives her no title to be Queen of England.” “My ambition,” said Alice, “will be sufficiently gratified to see Charles King, without aiming to share either his dignity in public, or his wealth and regal luxury in private.” “I understand thee, Alice,” said the King, hurt but not displeased. “You ridicule me, being a fugitive, for speaking like a king. It is a

288



Vol. 3, ch. 2

habit, I admit, which I have learned, and of which even misfortune cannot cure me. But my case is not so desperate as you may suppose. My friends are still many in these kingdoms, my allies abroad are bound, by regard to their own interest, to espouse my cause. I have hopes given me from Spain, from France, and from other nations; and I have confidence that my father’s blood has not been poured forth in vain, nor is doomed to dry up without due vengeance. My trust is in    from whom princes derive their title, and, think what thou wilt of my present condition, I have perfect confidence that I will one day sit on the throne of England.” “May God grant it!” answered Alice; “and that he may grant it, noble Prince, deign to consider whether you now pursue a conduct likely to conciliate his favour. Think whether the course you recommend to a motherless maiden, who has no better defence against your sophistry, than what the natural feeling of female dignity inspires;—whether the death of her father, which would be the consequence of her imprudence;—whether the despair of her brother, whose life has been so often in peril to save that of your Majesty;—whether the dishonour of the roof which has sheltered you, will read well in your annals, or are events likely to propitiate God, whose controversy with your House has been but too visible, or recover the affections of the people of England, in whose eyes such actions are an abomination.” Charles paused, struck with a turn to the conversation which placed his own interests more in collision with the gratification of his present passion than he had supposed. “If your Majesty,” said Alice, curtseying deeply, “has no farther commands for my attendance, may I be permitted to withdraw?” “Stay yet a little, strange and impracticable girl,” said the King, “and answer me but one question:—Is it the lowness of my present fortunes that makes my suit contemptible?” “I have nothing to conceal, my liege,” she said, “and my answer shall be as plain and direct as the question you have asked. If I could have been moved to an act of ignominious, insane, and ungrateful folly, it could only be from being blinded by that passion, which I believe is pleaded as an excuse for folly and for crime much more often than it has a real existence. I must, in short, have been in love, as it is called—and that might have been with my equal—but surely never with my sovereign, whether such only in title, or in possession of his kingdom.” “Yet loyalty was ever the pride, almost the ruling passion, of your family, Alice,” said the King. “And could I reconcile that loyalty,” said Alice, “with indulging

[Chap. 25]



289

my sovereign, by permitting him to prosecute a suit dishonourable to himself as to me? Ought I, as a faithful subject, to join him in a folly, which might throw yet another stumbling-block in the path to his restoration, and could only serve to diminish his security, even if he were seated upon his throne?” “At this rate,” said Charles, discontentedly, “I had better have retained my character of the page, than assumed that of a sovereign, which it seems is still more irreconcilable with my wishes.” “My candour shall go still further,” said Alice. “I could have felt as little for Louis Kerneguy as for the heir of Britain; for such love as I have to bestow, (and it is not such as I read of in romance, or hear poured forth in song,) has been already conferred on another object. This gives your Majesty pain—I am sorry for it—but the wholesomest medicines are often bitter.” “Yes,” answered the King, with some asperity, “and physicians are reasonable enough to expect their patients to swallow them, as if they were honeycomb—It is true, then, that whispered tale of the cousin Colonel—and the daughter of the Loyal Lee has set her heart upon a rebellious fanatic?” “My love was given ere I knew what these words fanatic and rebel meant. I recalled it not, for I am satisfied, that amidst the great distractions which divide the kingdom, the person to whom you allude has chosen his part, erroneously perhaps, but conscientiously—he, therefore, has still the highest place in my affection and esteem. More he cannot have, and will not ask, until some happy turn shall reconcile these public differences, and my father shall be once more reconciled to him. Devoutly do I pray that such an event may occur by your Majesty’s speedy and unanimous restoration!” “You have found out a reason,” said the King, pettishly, “to make me detest the thought of such a change—nor have you, Alice, any sincere interest to pray for it. On the contrary, do you not see that your lover, walking side by side with Cromwell, may, or rather must, share his power? nay, if Lambert does not anticipate him, he may trip up Oliver’s heels, and reign in his stead. And think you not he will find means to overcome the pride of the loyal Lees, and achieve an union, for which things are better prepared than that which Cromwell is said to meditate betwixt one of his brats and the no less loyal heir of Fauconberg?” “Your Majesty,” said Alice, “has found a way at length to avenge yourself—if what I have said deserves vengeance.” “I could point out a yet shorter road to your union,” said Charles, without minding her distress, or perhaps enjoying the pleasure of

290



Vol. 3, ch. 2

retaliation. “Suppose that you sent your Colonel word that there was one Charles Stuart here, who had come to disturb the Saints in their peaceful government, which they had acquired by prayer and preaching, pike and gun—and suppose he had the art to bring down a half-score of troopers, quite enough, as times go, to decide the fate of this heir of royalty—think you not the possession of such a prize as this might obtain from the Rumpers, or from Cromwell, such a reward as might overcome your father’s objections to a roundhead’s alliance, and place the fair Alice and her cousin Colonel in full possession of their wishes?” “My lord,” said Alice, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling —for she too had her share of the hereditary temperament of her family,—“this passes my patience. I have heard, without expressing anger, the most ignominious persuasions addressed to myself, and I have vindicated myself for refusing to be the paramour of a fugitive Prince, as if I had been excusing myself from accepting a share of an actual crown—But can you think I can hear all who are dear to me slandered without emotion or reply? I will not, sir; and were you seated with all the terrors of your father’s Star-chamber around you, you should hear me defend the absent and the innocent. Of my father I will say nothing, but that if he is now without wealth,— without state, almost without a sheltering home and needful food —it is because he spent all in the service of the King. He needed not to commit any act of treachery or villainy to obtain wealth—he had an ample competence in his own possessions. For Markham Everard—he knows no such thing as selfishness—he would not, for broad England, had she the treasures of Peru in her bosom, and a paradise upon her surface, do a deed that would disgrace his own name, or injure the feelings of another—Kings, my lord, may take a lesson from him. My lord, for the present I take my leave.” “Alice, Alice—stay!” exclaimed the King. “She is gone.—This must be virtue—real, disinterested, over-awing virtue—or there is no such thing on earth. Yet Wilmot and Villiers will not believe a word of it, but add the tale to the other wonders of Woodstock.— ’Tis a rare wench! and I profess, to use the Colonel’s obtestation, that I know not whether to forgive and be friends with her, or study a dire revenge. If it were not for that accursed cousin—that puritan Colonel—I could forgive everything else to so noble a wench. But a roundheaded prig preferred to me—the preference averred to my face, and justified with the assertion, that a king might take a lesson from him—it is gall and wormwood. If the old man had not come up this morning as he did, the King should have taken or given a lesson, and a severe one. It was a mad rencounter to venture

[Chap. 26]



291

upon with my rank and responsibility—and yet this wench has made me so angry with her, and so envious of him, that if opportunity offered, I should scarce be able to forbear him.—Ha!—whom have we here?” The interjection at the conclusion of this royal soliloquy, was occasioned by the unexpected entrance of another personage of the drama.

Chapter Three Benedict. Shall I speak a word in your ear? Claudio. God bless me from a challenge. Much Ado about Nothing

A  C       was about to leave the apartment, he was prevented by the appearance of Wildrake, who entered with an unusual degree of swagger in his gait, and of fantastic importance on his brow. “I crave your pardon, fair sir,” he said; “but, as they say in my country, when doors are open dogs enter. I have knocked and called in the hall to no purpose; so, knowing the way to this parlour, sir,—for I am a light partizan, and the road I once travel I never forget,—I ventured to present myself unannounced.” “Sir Henry Lee is abroad, sir, I believe, in the Chase,” said Charles, coldly, for the appearance of this vulgar debauchee was not agreeable to him at the moment, “and Master Albert Lee has left the Lodge for two or three days.” “I am aware of it, sir,” said Wildrake; “but I have no business at present with either.” “And with whom is your business?” said Charles; “that is, if I may be permitted to ask—since I think it cannot in possibility be with me.” “Pardon me in turn, sir,” answered the cavalier; “in no possibility can it be imparted to any other but yourself, if you be, as I think you are, though in something better habit, Master Louis Girnigo, the Scottish gentleman who waits upon Master Albert Lee.” “I am all you are like to find for him,” answered Charles. “In truth,” said the cavalier, “I do perceive a difference, but rest and better clothing will do much; and I am glad of it, since I would be sorry to have brought a message, such as I am charged with, to a tatterdemalion.” “Let us get to the business, sir, if you please,” said the King— “You have a message for me, you say?” “True, sir,” replied Wildrake; “I am the friend of Colonel

292



Vol. 3, ch. 3

Markham Everard, sir, a tall man, and a worthy person in the field, although I could wish him a better cause—A message I have to you, it is certain, in a slight note, which I take the liberty of presenting with the usual formalities.” So saying he drew his sword, put the billet he mentioned upon the point, and, making a profound bow, presented it to Charles. The disguised Monarch accepted of it, with a grave return of the salute, and said, as he was about to open the letter, “I am not, I presume, to expect friendly contents in an epistle presented in so hostile a manner?” “Ahem, sir,” replied the ambassador, clearing his voice, while he arranged a suitable answer, in which the mild strain of diplomacy might be properly maintained; “not utterly hostile, I suppose, sir, is the invitation, though it be such as must be construed in the commencement rather bellicose and pugnacious. I trust, sir, we shall find that a few thrusts will make a handsome conclusion of the business; and so, as my old master used to say, Pax nascitur ex bello. For my own poor share, I am truly glad to have been graced by my friend Markham Everard in this matter—the rather as I feared the puritan principles with which he is embued, (I will confess the truth to you, worthy sir,) might have made him unwilling, from certain idle scruples, to have taken the gentlemanlike mode of righting himself in such a case as the present. And as I render a friend’s duty to my friend, so I humbly hope, Master Louis Girnigo, that I do no injustice to you, in preparing the way for the proposed meeting, where, give me leave to say, I trust, that if no fatal accident occur, we shall be all better friends when the skirmish is over than we were before it began.” “I should suppose so, sir, in any case,” said Charles, looking at the letter; “worse than mortal enemies we can scarce be, and it is that footing upon which this billet places us.” “You say true, sir,” said Wildrake; “it is, sir, a cartel, introducing to a single combat, for the pacific object of restoring a perfect good understanding betwixt the survivors—in case that fortunately that word can be used in the plural after the event of the meeting.” “In short, we only fight, I suppose,” replied the King, “that we may come to a perfectly good and amicable understanding.” “You are right again, sir; and I thank you for the clearness of your apprehension,” said Wildrake.—“Ah, sir, it is easy to do with a person of honour and of intellect in such a case as this. And I beseech you, sir, as a personal kindness to myself, that, as the morning is like to be frosty, and myself am in some sort rheumatic —as war will leave its scars behind, sir,—I say, I will entreat of you

[Chap. 26]



293

to bring with you some gentleman of honour, who will not disdain to take a part of what is going forward—a sort of pot-luck, sir— with a poor old soldier like myself—that we may take no harm by standing unoccupied during such cold weather.” “I understand, sir,” replied Charles; “if this matter goes forward, be assured I will endeavour to provide you with a suitable opponent.” “I will remain greatly indebted to you, sir,” said Wildrake; “and I am by no means curious about the quality of my antagonist.—It is true I write myself esquire and gentleman, and should account myself especially honoured by crossing my sword with that of Sir Henry or Master Albert Lee; but, should that not be convenient, I will not refuse to present my poor person in opposition to any gentleman who has served the King, which I always hold as a sort of letters of nobility in itself, and, therefore, would on no account decline the duello with such a person.” “The King is much obliged to you, sir,” said Charles, “for the honour you do his faithful subjects.” “O, sir, I am scrupulous on that point—very scrupulous.—When there is a roundhead in question, I consult the Herald’s books, to see that he is entitled to bear arms, as is Master Markham Everard, without which, I promise you, I had borne none of his cartel. But a cavalier is with me a gentleman, of course—Be his birth ever so low, his loyalty has ennobled his condition.” “It is well, sir,” said the King. “This paper requests me to meet Master Everard at six to-morrow morning, at the tree called the King’s Oak.—I object neither to place nor time. He proffers the sword, at which, he says, we possess some equality—I do not decline the weapon; for company, two gentlemen—I shall endeavour to procure myself an associate, and a suitable partner for you, sir, if you incline to join in the dance.” “I kiss your hand, sir, and rest yours, under a sense of obligation,” answered the envoy. “I thank you, sir,” continued the King; “I will therefore be ready at place and time, and suitably furnished; and I will either give your friend such satisfaction with my sword as he requires, or will render him such cause for not doing so as he shall be contented with.” “You will excuse me, sir,” said Wildrake, “if my mind is too dull, under the circumstances, to conceive any alternative there can remain betwixt two men of honour in such a case, excepting— Sa Sa”——He threw himself into a fencing position, and made a pass with his sheathed rapier, but not directed towards the person of the King, whom he addressed.

294



Vol. 3, ch. 3

“Excuse me, sir,” said Charles, “if I do not trouble your intellects with consideration of a case which may not occur.—But, for example, I may plead urgent employment on the part of the public.”—This he spoke in a low and mysterious tone of voice, which Wildrake appeared perfectly to comprehend; for he laid his forefinger on his nose with what he meant for a very intelligent and apprehensive nod. “Sir,” said he, “if you be engaged in any affair for the King, my friend shall have every reasonable degree of patience—Nay, I will fight him myself in your stead, merely to stay his stomach, rather than you should be interrupted.—And, sir, if you can find room in your enterprise for a poor gentleman that has followed Lunsford and Goring, you have but to name day, time, and place of rendezvous; for truly, sir, I am tired of the scald hat, cropped hair, and undertaker’s cloak, with which my friend has bedizened me, and would willingly ruffle it out once more in the King’s cause, when whether I be banged, hanged, or damned, I care not.” “I shall remember what you say, sir, should an opportunity occur,” said the King; “and I wish his Majesty had many such subjects.—I presume our business is now settled?” “When you shall have been pleased, sir, to give me a trifling scrap of writing, to serve for my credentials—for such, you know, is the custom—your written cartel hath its written answer.” “That, sir, will I presently do,” said Charles, “and in good time —here are the materials.” “And, sir,” continued the envoy—“Ahi!—ahem!—if you have interest in the household for a cup of sack—I am a man of few words—and am somewhat hoarse with much speaking—moreover, a serious business of this kind always makes me thirsty.—Besides, sir, to part with dry lips argues malice, which God forbid should exist in such an honourable conjuncture.” “I do not boast much influence in the house, sir,” said the King; “but if you would have the condescension to accept of this broad piece towards quenching your thirst at the George”—— “Sir,” said the cavalier, (for the times admitted of this strange species of courtesy, nor was Wildrake a man of such peculiar delicacy as keenly to dispute the matter)—“I am once again beholden to you. But I see not how it consists with my honour to accept of such accommodation, unless you were to accompany and partake.” “Pardon me, sir,” replied Charles, “my safety recommends that I remain rather private at present.” “Enough said,” Wildrake observed; “poor cavaliers must not stand on ceremony. I see, sir, you understand cutter’s law—when one

[Chap. 26]



295

tall fellow has coin, another must not be thirsty. I wish you, sir, a continuance of health and happiness until to-morrow at the King’s Oak, at six o’clock.” “Farewell, sir,” said the King, and added, as Wildrake went down the stair whistling, ‘Hey for cavaliers,’ to which air his long rapier, jarring against the steps and bannisters, bore no unsuitable burthen —“Farewell, thou too just emblem of the state, to which war, and defeat, and despair, have reduced many a gallant gentleman.” During the rest of this day, there occurred nothing peculiarly deserving of notice. Alice sedulously avoided showing towards the disguised Prince any degree of estrangement or shyness, which could be observed by her father or any one else. To all appearance, the two young persons continued on the same footing in every respect. Yet she made the gallant himself sensible, that this apparent intimacy was merely assumed to save appearances, and in no way designed as retracting from the severity with which she had rejected his suit. The sense that this was the case, joined to his injured self-love, and his enmity against a successful rival, induced Charles early to withdraw himself to a solitary walk in the wilderness, where, like Hercules in the Emblem of Cebes divided betwixt the persuasions of Virtue and of Pleasure, he listened alternately to the voice of Wisdom and of passionate Folly. Prudence urged to him the importance of his own life to the future prosecution of the great object in which he had for the present miscarried—the restoration of monarchy in England, the rebuilding of the throne, the regaining the crown of his father, the avenging his death, and restoring to their fortunes and their country the numerous exiles, who were suffering poverty and banishment on account of their attachment to his cause. Pride too, or rather a just and natural sense of dignity, displayed the unworthiness of a prince descending to actual personal conflict with a subject of any degree, and the ridicule which would be thrown on his memory, should he lose his life for an obscure intrigue by the hand of a private gentleman. What would his sage counsellors, Nicholas and Hyde—what would his kind and wise governor, the Marquis of Hertford, say to such an act of rashness and folly? Would it not be likely to shake the allegiance of the staid and prudent persons of the royalist party, since wherefore should they expose their lives and estates to raise to the government of a kingdom a young man who could not command his own temper? To this was to be added, the consideration that even his success must add double difficulties to his escape, which already seemed sufficiently precarious. If he merely had the better of his antagonist, how did he know that he might not seek revenge by delivering up to government the

296



Vol. 3, ch. 3

Malignant Louis Kerneguy, whose real character could not in that case fail to be discovered? These considerations strongly recommended to Charles that he should clear himself of the challenge without fighting; and the reservation under which he had accepted it, afforded him some opportunity of doing so. But Passion also had her arguments, which she addressed to a temper rendered irritable by recent distress and mortification. In the first place, if he was a prince, he was also a gentleman, entitled to resent as such, and obliged to give or claim the satisfaction expected on occasion of differences among gentlemen. With Englishmen, she urged, he could never lose interest by showing himself ready, instead of sheltering himself under his royal birth and pretensions, to come frankly forwards and maintain what he had done or said on his own responsibility. In a free nation, it seemed as if he would rather gain than lose in the public estimation by a conduct which could but seem gallant and generous. Then a character for courage was far more necessary to support his pretensions than any other kind of reputation; and the lying under a challenge, without replying to it, might bring his spirit into question. What would Villiers and Wilmot say of an intrigue, in which he had allowed himself to be shamefully baffled by a country girl, and had failed to revenge himself on the rival? The pasquinades which they would compose, the witty sarcasms which they would circulate on the occasion, would be harder to endure than the grave rebukes of Hertford, Hyde, and Nicholas. This reflection, added to the stings of youthful and awakened courage, at length fixed his resolution, and he returned to Woodstock determined to keep his appointment, come of it what might. Perhaps there mingled with his resolution a secret belief that such a rencounter might not prove fatal. He was in the flower of his youth, active in all his exercises, and no way inferior to Colonel Everard, as far as the morning’s experiment had gone, in that of self-defence. At least such recollections might pass through his royal mind, as he hummed to himself a well-known ditty which he had picked up during his residence in Scotland— A man may drink and not be drunk, A man may fight and not be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And yet be welcome back again.

Meanwhile the busy and all-directing Doctor Rochecliffe had contrived to intimate to Alice that she must give him a private audience, and she found him by appointment in what was called

[Chap. 26]



297

the study, once filled with ancient books, which, long since converted into cartridges, had made more noise in the world at their final exit, than during the space which had intervened betwixt that and their first publication. The Doctor seated himself in a high-backed leathern easy-chair, and signed to Alice to fetch a stool and sit down beside him. “Alice,” said the old man, taking her hand affectionately, “thou art a good girl—a wise girl—a virtuous girl—one of those whose price is above rubies—not that rubies is the proper translation—but remind me to tell you of that another time—Alice, thou knowest who this Louis Kerneguy is—Nay, hesitate not to me—I know everything—I am well aware of the whole matter.—Thou knowst this honoured house now holds the Fortunes of England.” Alice was about to answer.—“Nay, speak not, but listen to me—Alice, how does he bear himself towards you?” Alice coloured with the deepest crimson.—“I am a country-bred girl,” she said, “and his manners are too court-like for me.” “Enough said—I know it all.—Alice, he is exposed to a great danger to-morrow, and thou must be the happy means to prevent him.” “I prevent him!—how, and in what manner?” said Alice, in surprise.—“It is my duty, as a subject, to do anything—anything that may become my father’s daughter——” Here she stopped, considerably embarrassed. “Yes,” continued the doctor, “to-morrow he hath made an appointment—an appointment with Markham Everard; the hour and place are set—six in the morning, by the King’s Oak. If they meet, one will probably fall.” “Now, may God forefend they should meet,” said Alice, turning as suddenly pale as she had previously reddened. “But harm cannot come of it—Everard will never lift his sword against the King.” “For that,” said Doctor Rochecliffe, “I would not warrant. But if that unhappy young gentleman shall have still some reserve of the loyalty which his general conduct entirely disavows, it would not serve us here; for he knows not the King, but considers him merely as a cavalier, from whom he has received injury.” “Let him know the truth, Doctor Rochecliffe, let him know it instantly,” said Alice; “he lift hand against the King, a fugitive and defenceless—he is incapable of it—my life on the issue, he becomes most active in his preservation.” “That is the thought of a maiden, Alice,” answered the doctor; “and, as I fear, of a maiden whose wisdom is misled by her affections. It were worse than treason to admit a rebel officer, the friend of

298



Vol. 3, ch. 3

the arch-traitor Cromwell, into so great a secret. I dare not answer for such rashness. Hammond was trusted by his father, and you know what came of it.” “Then let my father know. He will meet Markham, or send to him, representing the indignity done to him by attacking his guest.” “We dare not let your father into the secret who Louis Kerneguy really is. I did but hint the possibility of Charles taking refuge at Woodstock, and the rapture into which Sir Henry broke out, the preparations for accommodation and defence which he began to talk of, plainly showed that the mere enthusiasm of his loyalty would have led to a risk of discovery. It is you, Alice, who must save the hopes of every true royalist.” “Me?” answered Alice; “impossible.—Why cannot my father be induced to interfere, as in behalf of his friend and guest, though he know him as no other than Louis Kerneguy?” “You have forgot your father’s character, my young friend,” said the doctor—“an excellent man, and the best of Christians, till there is a clashing of swords, and then he starts up the complete martialist, as deaf to every pacific reasoning as if he were a game-cock.” “You forget, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “that this very morning, if I understand the story aright, Sir Henry prevented them from fighting.” “Ay,” answered the doctor, “because he deemed himself bound to keep the peace in the Royal Park; but it was done with such regret, Alice, that, should he find them at it again, I am clear to foretell he will only so far postpone the combat as to conduct them to some unprivileged ground, and there bid them tilt and welcome, while he regaled his eyes with a scene so pleasing—No, Alice, it is you, and you only, who can help us in this extremity.” “I see no possibility,” said she, again colouring, “how I can be of the least use.” “You must send a note,” answered Doctor Rochecliffe, “to the King—a note such as all women know how to write better than any man can teach them—to meet you at the precise hour of the rendezvous. He will not fail you, for I know his unhappy foible.” “Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, gravely,—“you have known me from infancy—What have you seen in me to induce you to believe that I could ever follow such unbecoming counsel?” “And if you have known me from infancy,” retorted the doctor, “what have you seen of me that you should suspect me of giving counsel to my friend’s daughter which it would be misbecoming in her to follow? You cannot be fool enough, I think, to suppose, that I mean you should carry your complaisance farther than to keep

[Chap. 26]



299

him in discourse for an hour or two, till I have all in readiness for his leaving this place, from which I can fright him by the terrors of an alleged search?—So, C. S. mounts his horse and rides off, and Mistress Alice Lee has the honour of saving him.” “Yes, at the expense of her own reputation,” said Alice, “and the risk of an eternal stain on my family.—You say you know all— What can the King think of my appointing an assignation with him after what has passed, and how will it be possible to disabuse him respecting the purpose of my doing so?” “I will disabuse him, Alice; I will explain the whole.” “Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “you propose what is impossible —you can do much by your ready wit and great wisdom—but if new-fallen snow were once sullied, not all your art could wash it white again—and it is altogether the same with a maiden’s reputation.” “Nay, Alice, my dearest child,” said the doctor, “bethink you that if I recommend this means of saving the life of the King, at least rescuing him from instant peril, it is because I see no other of which to avail myself. If I bid you assume, even for a moment, the semblance of what is wrong, it is but in the last extremity, and under circumstances which cannot return—I will take the surest means to prevent all evil report which can arise from what I recommend.” “Say not so, doctor,” said Alice; “better undertake to turn back the Isis than to stop the course of calumny. The King will make boast to his whole licentious court, of the ease with which, but for a sudden alarm, he could have brought off Alice Lee as a paramour —the mouth which confers honour on others, will be the means to deprive me of mine. Take a fitter course, one more becoming your own character, your profession. Do not lead him to fail in an engagement of honour, by holding out the prospect of another engagement equally dishonourable, whether false or true. Go to the King himself. Speak to him, as the servants of God have a right to speak, even to earthly sovereigns. Point out to him the folly and the wickedness of the course he is about to pursue—urge upon him, that he fear the sword, since wrath bringeth the punishment of the sword. Tell him, that the friends who died for him in the field at Worcester, on the scaffolds, and on the gibbets, since that bloody day—that the remnant who are in prison, scattered, fled, and ruined on his account, deserve better of him and his father’s race, than that he should throw away his life in an idle brawl—Tell him, that it is dishonest to venture that which is not his own, dishonourable to betray the trust which brave men have reposed in his virtue and in his courage.”

300



Vol. 3, ch. 4

Doctor Rochecliffe looked on her with a melancholy smile, his eyes glistening as he said, “Alas, Alice, even I could not plead that just cause to him so eloquently or so impressively as thou doest. But, alack! Charles would listen to neither. It is not from priests, or women, he would say, that men should receive counsel in affairs of honour.” “Then hear me, Doctor Rochecliffe—I will appear at the place of rendezvous, and I will prevent the combat—do not fear that I can do what I say—at a sacrifice indeed, but not that of my reputation. My heart may be broken”—she endeavoured to stifle her sobs with difficulty—“for I foresee the consequence—but not in the imagination of a man, and far less that man her sovereign, shall a thought of Alice Lee be associated with dishonour.” She hid her face in her handkerchief, and burst out into unrestrained tears. “What means this hysterical passion?” said Doctor Rochecliffe, surprised and somewhat alarmed by the vehemence of her grief— “Maiden, I must have no concealments—I must know.” “Exert your ingenuity, then, and discover it,” said Alice—for a moment displeased at the doctor’s pertinacious self-importance— “Guess my purpose, as you can guess at everything else. It is enough to have to go through my task, I will not endure the distress of telling it over, and that to one who—forgive me, dear doctor— might not think my agitation on this occasion fully warranted.” “Nay then, my young mistress, you must be ruled,” said Rochecliffe; “and if I cannot make you explain yourself, I must see whether your father can gain so much.” So saying, he arose somewhat displeased, and walked towards the door. “You forget what you yourself told me, Doctor Rochecliffe,” said Alice, “of the risk of communicating this great secret to my father.” “It is too true—” said he, stopping short and turning round; “and I think, wench, thou art too smart for me, and I have not met many such. But thou art a good girl, wench, and wilt tell me thy device of free-will—it concerns my character and influence with the King, that I should be fully acquainted with whatever is actum atque tractatum, done and treated of in this matter.” “Trust your character to me, good doctor,” said Alice, attempting to smile; “it is of firmer stuff than those of women, and will be safer in my custody than mine could have been in yours. And thus much I condescend—thou shalt see the whole scene—thou shalt go with me thyself, and much will I feel emboldened and heartened by your company.” “That is something,” said the doctor, though not altogether satisfied with this limited confidence—“Thou wert ever a clever wench,

[Chap. 26]



301

and I will trust thee—indeed, trust thee it seems I must, whether voluntarily or no.” “Meet me then,” said Alice, “in the wilderness to-morrow—but first tell me—are you well assured of time and place?—a mistake were fatal.” “Assure yourself my information is entirely accurate,” said Doctor Rochecliffe, resuming his air of consequence, which had been a little diminished during the latter part of their conference. “May I ask,” said Alice, “through what channel you acquired such important information?” “You may ask unquestionably,” he answered, now completely restored to his supremacy; “but whether I will answer or not, is a very different question. I conceive neither your reputation nor my own are interested in your remaining in ignorance on that subject. So I have my secrets as well as you, mistress; and some of them, I fancy, are a good deal more worth knowing.” “Be it so,” said Alice, quietly: “if you will meet me in the wilderness by the broken dial at half past five exactly, we will go together tomorrow, and watch them as they come to the rendezvous. I will on the way get the better of my present timidity, and explain to you the means I design to employ to prevent mischief. You can perhaps think of making some effort which may render my interference, unbecoming and painful as it must be, altogether unnecessary.” “Nay, my child,” said the doctor, “if you place yourself in my hands, you will be the first that ever had reason to complain of my want of courtesy, and you may well judge you are the very last (one excepted) whom I would see suffer for want of counsel.—At half past five then, at the dial in the wilderness—and God bless our undertaking.” Here their interview was interrupted by the sonorous voice of Sir Henry, which shouted their names, “Daughter Alice—Doctor Rochecliffe,” through passage and gallery. “What do you here,” said he, “sitting like two crows in a mist, when we have such rare sport below? Here is this wild cock-brained boy Louis Kerneguy, now making me laugh till my sides are like to split, and now twangling on his guitar sweetly enough to win a lark from the heavens.—Come away with you, come away. It is hard work to laugh alone.”

302



Vol. 3, ch. 4

Chapter Four This is the place, the centre of the grove; Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood. J H

T      had risen on the broad boughs of the forest, but without the power of penetrating into its recesses, which hung rich with heavy dew-drops, and were beginning on some of the trees to exhibit the varied tints of autumn; it being the season when Nature, like a prodigal whose race is well nigh run, seems desirous to make up in profuse gaiety and variety of colours, for the short space which her splendour has then to endure. The birds were silent—and even Robin-redbreast, whose chirruping song was heard among the bushes near the Lodge, emboldened by the largesses with which the good old knight always encouraged his familiarity, did not venture into the recesses of the wood, alarmed by the neighbourhood of the sparrow-hawk, and other enemies of a similar description, preferring the vicinity of the dwellings of man, from whom he, almost solely among the feathered tribes, seems to experience disinterested protection. The scene was therefore at once lonely and silent, when the good Doctor Rochecliffe, wrapped in a scarlet roquelair, which had seen service in its day, muffling his face more from habit than necessity, and supporting Alice on his arm, (she also defended by a cloak against the cold and damp of the autumn morning,) glided through the tangled and long grass of the darkest alleys, almost ancle-deep in dew, towards the place appointed for the intended duel. Both so eagerly maintained the consultation in which they were engaged, that they were alike insensible of the roughness and discomforts of their road, though often obliged to force their way through brushwood and coppice, which poured down on them all the liquid pearls with which they were loaded, till the mantles they were wrapped in hung lank by their sides, and clung to their shoulders heavily charged with moisture. They stopped when they had attained a station under the coppice, from which, unseen themselves, they could see all that passed on the little esplanade before the King’s Oak, whose broad and scathed front, contorted and shattered limbs, and frowning brows, made him appear like some ancient war-worn champion, well selected to be the umpire of a field of single combat. The first person who appeared at the rendezvous was the gay cavalier Roger Wildrake. He also was wrapped in his cloak, but

[Chap. 27]



303

had discarded his puritanic beaver, and wore in its stead a Spanish hat, with a feather and gilt hat-band, all of which had encountered bad weather and hard service; but to make amends for the appearance of poverty by the show of pretension, the castor was accurately adjusted after what was rather profanely called the d—mme cut, used among the more desperate cavaliers. He came very hastily, and exclaimed aloud—“First in the field after all, by G—, though I bilked Everard in order to have my morning draught.—It has done me much good,” he added, smacking his lips.—“Well, I suppose I should search the ground ere my principal comes up, whose presbyterian watch trudges as slow as his presbyterian step.” He took his rapier from under his cloak, and seemed about to search the thickets around. “I will prevent him,” whispered the Doctor to Alice. “I will keep faith with you—you shall not come on the scene—nisi dignus vindice nodus—I’ll explain that another time. Vindex is feminine as well as masculine, so the quotation is defensible.—Keep you close.” So saying, he stepped forwards on the esplanade, and bowed to Roger Wildrake. “Master Louis Kerneguy,” said Wildrake, pulling off his hat; but instantly discovering his error, he added, “But no—I beg your pardon, sir—Fatter, shorter, older.—Master Kerneguy’s friend, I suppose, with whom I hope to have a turn by and by.—And why not now, sir, before our principals come up? just a snack to stay the orifice of the stomach, till the dinner is served, sir?” “To open the orifice of the stomach more likely, or to give it a new one,” said the doctor. “True, sir,” said Roger, who seemed now in his element; “you say well—that is as thereafter may be.—But come, sir, you wear your face muffled. I grant you, it is honest men’s fashion at this unhappy time; the more is the pity. But we may do all above board —we have no traitors here—I’ll get into my gears first, to encourage you, and show you have to do with a gentleman who honours the King, and is a fit match to fight with any who follows him, as doubtless you do, sir, since you are the friend of Master Louis Kerneguy.” All this while, Wildrake was busied undoing the clasps of his square-caped cloak. “Off—off, ye lendings,” he said, “borrowings I should more properly call you— Via the curtain which shadow’d Borgia.”

So saying, he threw the cloak from him, and appeared in cuerpo,

304



Vol. 3, ch. 4

in a most cavalier-like doublet, of greasy crimson satin, pinked and slashed with what had been once white tiffany; breeches of the same; and nether-stocks, or, as we now call them, hose, darned in many places, and, like those of Poins, had been once peach-coloured ones. A pair of pumps, ill calculated for a walk through the dew, and a broad shoulder-belt of tarnished embroidery, completed his equipment. “Come, sir!” he exclaimed; “make haste, off with your slough— Here I stand tight and true—as loyal a lad as ever stuck rapier through a roundhead.—Come, sir, to your tools!” he continued; “we may have half-a-dozen thrusts before they come yet, and shame them for their tardiness.—Pshaw!” he exclaimed in a most disappointed tone, when the doctor, unfolding his cloak, then showed his black coat and patched cheek, “it’s but the parson after all!” Wildrake’s respect for the Church, however, and his desire to remove one who might possibly interrupt a scene to which he looked forward with peculiar satisfaction, induced him presently to assume another tone. “I beg pardon,” he said, “my dear doctor—I kiss the hem of your cassock—I do, by the thundering Jove—I beg your pardon again.—But I am happy I have met with you—They are raving for your presence at the Lodge—to marry, or christen, or bury, or confess, or something very urgent.—For Heaven’s sake, make haste!” “At the Lodge?” said the doctor; “why, I left the Lodge this instant—I was there later, I am sure, than you could be, who came the Woodstock road.” “Well,” replied Wildrake, “it is at Woodstock they want you.— Rat it, did I say the Lodge?—No, no—Woodstock—Mine host cannot be hanged—his daughter married—his bastard christened, or his wife buried—without the assistance of a real clergyman— Your Holdenoughs won’t do for them.—He’s a true man mine host; so, as you value your function, make haste.” “You will pardon me, Master Wildrake,” said the doctor—“I wait here for Master Louis Kerneguy.” “The devil you do!” exclaimed Wildrake. “Why, I always knew the Scots could do nothing without their minister; but d—n it, I never thought they put them to this use neither. But I have known jolly customers in orders, who understood to handle the sword as well as the prayer-book. You know the purpose of our meeting, doctor. Do you come only as a ghostly comforter—or as a surgeon, perhaps—or do you ever take bilbao in hand?—Sa, sa!” Here he made a fencing demonstration with his sheathed rapier.

[Chap. 27]



305

“I have done so, sir, on necessary occasion,” said Doctor Rochecliffe. “Good sir, let this stand for a necessary one,” said Wildrake. “You know my devotion for the Church. If a divine of your skill would do me the honour to exchange but three passes with me, I should think myself happy for ever.” “Sir,” said Rochecliffe, smiling, “were there no other objection to what you propose, I have not the means—I have no weapon.” “What?—you want the de quoi—that is unlucky indeed. But you have a stout cane in your hand—what hinders our trying a pass (my rapier being sheathed of course) until our principals come up? My pumps are full of this frost-dew; and I shall be a toe or two out of pocket, if I am to stand still all the while they are stretching themselves; for, I fancy, doctor, you will be of my opinion, that the matter will not be a fight of cock-sparrows.” “My business here is to make it, if possible, be no fight at all,” said the divine. “Now, rat me, doctor, but that is too spiteful,” said Wildrake; “and were it not for my respect for the Church, I could turn presbyterian, to be revenged.” “Stand back a little, if you please, sir,” said the doctor; “do not press forward in that direction.”—For Wildrake, in the agitation of his movements, induced by his disappointment, approached the spot where Alice remained still concealed. “And wherefore not, I pray you, doctor?” said the cavalier. But on advancing a step, he suddenly stopped short, and muttered to himself, with a round oath of astonishment, “A petticoat in the coppice, by all that is reverend, and at this hour in the morning— —Whew—ew—ew!”—He gave vent to his surprise in a long low interjectional whistle; then turning to the doctor, with his finger on the side of his nose, “You’re sly, doctor, d—d sly! But why not give me a hint of your—your commodity there—your contraband goods? Gad, sir, I am not a man to expose the eccentricities of the Church.” “Sir,” said Doctor Rochecliffe, “you are impertinent; and if time served, and it were worth my while, I would chastise you.” And the doctor, who had served long enough in the wars to have added some of the qualities of a captain of horse to those of the divine, actually raised his cane, to the infinite delight of the rake, whose respect for the Church was by no means able to subdue his love of mischief. “Nay, doctor,” said he, “if you wield your weapon backswordfashion, in that way, and raise it as high as your head, I shall be

306



Vol. 3, ch. 4

through you in a twinkling.” So saying he made a pass with his sheathed rapier, not precisely at the doctor’s person, but in that direction; when Rochecliffe, changing the direction of his cane from the broadsword guard into that of the rapier, made the cavalier’s sword spring ten yards out of his hand, with all the dexterity of my friend Francalanza. At this moment both the principal parties appeared on the field, at one and the same instant. Everard exclaimed angrily to Wildrake, “Is this your friendship? In Heaven’s name, what make you in that fool’s jacket, and playing the pranks of a jack-pudding?” while his second, somewhat crestfallen, held down his head, like a boy caught in roguery, and went to pick up his weapon, stretching his head, as he passed, into the coppice, to obtain another glimpse, if possible, of the concealed object of his curiosity. Charles, in the meantime, still more surprised at what he beheld, called out on his part—“What! Doctor Rochecliffe become literally one of the church militant, and tilting with my friend Cavaliere Wildrake? May I use the freedom to ask him to withdraw, as Colonel Everard and I have some private business to settle?” It was Doctor Rochecliffe’s cue, on this important occasion, to have armed himself with the authority of his sacred office, and used a tone of interference which might have overawed even a monarch, and made him feel that his monitor spoke by a warrant higher than his own. But the indiscreet latitude he had just given to his own passion, and the levity in which he had been detected, were very unfavourable to his assuming that superiority, to which so uncontrollable a spirit as that of Charles, wilful as a prince, and capricious as a wit, was at all likely to submit. The doctor did, however, endeavour to rally his dignity, and replied, with the gravest, and at the same time the most respectful, tone he could assume, that he also had business of the most urgent nature, which prevented him from complying with Master Kerneguy’s wishes, and leaving that spot. “Excuse this untimely interruption,” said Charles, taking off his hat, and bowing to Colonel Everard, “which I will immediately put an end to.” Everard gravely returned his salute, and was silent. “Are you mad, Doctor Rochecliffe?” said Charles—“or are you deaf?—or have you forgotten your mother-tongue? I desired you to leave this place.” “I am not mad,” said the divine, rousing up his resolution, and regaining the natural firmness of his voice. “I would prevent others from being so—I am not deaf—I would pray others to hear the

[Chap. 27]



307

voice of reason and religion—I have not forgotten my mother-tongue but I have come hither to speak the language of the Master of kings and princes.” “To fence with broomsticks, I should rather suppose,” said the King—“come, Doctor Rochecliffe, this sudden fit of assumed importance befits you as little as your late frolic. You are not, I apprehend, either a Catholic priest or a Scotch Mass-John, to claim devoted obedience from your hearers, but a Church-of-Englandman, subject to the rules of that Communion—and to its H .” In speaking the last words, the King lowered his voice to a low and impressive whisper. Everard observing this drew back, the natural generosity of his temper directing him to avoid overhearing private discourse, in which the safety of the speakers might be deeply concerned. They continued, however, to observe great caution in their forms of expression. “Master Kerneguy,” said the clergyman, “it is not I who assume authority or control over your wishes—God forbid; I do but tell you what reason, scripture, religion, and morality, alike prescribe for your rule of conduct.” “And I, doctor,” said the King, smiling, and pointing to the unlucky cane, “will take your example rather than your precept. If a reverend clergyman will himself fight a bout at single-stick, what right can he have to interfere in gentlemen’s quarrels?—Come, sir, remove yourself, and do not let your present obstinacy cancel former obligations.” “Bethink yourself,” said the divine,—“I can say one word which will prevent all these.” “Do it,” replied the King, “and in doing belie the whole tenor and actions of an honourable life—abandon the principles of your church, and become a perjured traitor and an apostate, to prevent another person from discharging his duty as a gentleman! This were indeed killing your friend, to prevent the risk of his running himself into danger. Let the Passive Obedience, which is so often in your mouth, and no doubt in your head, put your feet for once into motion, and step aside for ten minutes. Within that space your assistance may be needed, either as body-curer or soul-curer.” “Nay then,” said Doctor Rochecliffe, “I have but one argument left.” While this conversation was carried on apart, Everard had almost forcibly detained by his own side his follower, Wildrake, whose greater curiosity, and lesser delicacy, would otherwise have thrust him forward, to get, if possible, into the secret. But when he saw the doctor turn into the coppice, he whispered eagerly to Everard

308



Vol. 3, ch. 4

—“A gold Carolus to a commonwealth farthing, the doctor has not only come to preach a peace, but has brought the principal conditions along with him!” Everard made no anwer, for Charles hardly saw Rochecliffe’s back fairly turned than he cried “Now, Colonel Everard, if you are ready” and placed himself in a posture of defence. Everard lost no time in following his example, but, ere they had done more than salute each other, with the usual courteous flourish of their weapons, Doctor Rochecliffe again stood between them, leading in his hand Alice Lee, her garments dank with dew, and her long hair heavy with moisture, and totally uncurled. Her face was extremely pale, but it was the paleness of desperate resolution, not of fear. There was a dead pause of astonishment—the combatants rested on their swords—and even the forwardness of Wildrake only vented itself in half-suppressed ejaculations, as, “Well done, doctor—this beats the ‘parson among the pease’—No less than your patron’s daughter —And Mistress Alice, whom I thought a very snow-drop, turned out a dog-violet after all—a Lindabrides, by heavens, and altogether one of ourselves!” Excepting these unheeded mutterings, Alice was the first to speak. “Master Everard,” she said—“Master Kerneguy, you are surprised to see me here—Yet, why should I not tell the reason at once? Convinced that I am, however guiltlessly, the unhappy cause of your misunderstanding, I am too much interested to prevent fatal consequences to pause upon any step which may end it.— Master Kerneguy, have my wishes, my entreaties, my prayers— have your own noble thoughts—the recollections of your own high duties, no weight with you in this matter? Let me entreat you to consult reason, religion, and common sense, and return your weapon.” “I am obedient as an Eastern slave, madam,” answered Charles, sheathing his sword; “but I assure you, the matter about which you distress yourself is a mere trifle, which will be much better settled betwixt Colonel Everard and myself in five minutes, than with the assistance of the whole Convocation of the Church, with a female parliament to assist their reverend deliberations.—Master Everard, will you oblige me by walking a little further?—We must change ground, it seems.” “I am ready to attend you, sir,” said Everard, who had sheathed his sword so soon as his antagonist did so. “I have then no interest with you, sir,” said Alice, continuing to address the King—“Do you not fear I should use the secret in my power to prevent this affair going to extremity? Think you this gentleman, who raises his hand against you, if he knew”——

[Chap. 27]



309

“If he knew that I were Lord Wilmot, madam, you would say?— Accident has given him proof to that effect, with which he is already satisfied, and I think you would find it difficult to induce him to embrace a different opinion.” Alice paused, and looked on him with great indignation, as the words dropped from her mouth by intervals, as if bursting forth one by one in spite of feelings that would have restrained them— “Cold—selfish—ungrateful—unkind!—Woe to the land which ——” Here she paused with marked emphasis, then added— “which shall number thee, or such as thee, among her nobles and rulers!” “Nay, fair Alice,” said Charles, whose good nature could not but feel the severity of this reproach, though too slightly to make all the desired impression, “You are too unjust to me—too partial to a happier man—do not call me unkind—I am but here to answer Master Everard’s summons. I could neither decline attending, nor withdraw now I am here, without loss of honour; and my loss of honour would be a disgrace which must extend to many—I cannot fly from Master Everard—it would be too shameful. If he abides by his message, it must be decided as such affairs usually are. If he retracts or yields it up, I will, for your sake, wave punctilio. I will not even ask an apology for the trouble it has afforded me, but let all pass as if it were the consequence of some unhappy mistake, the grounds of which shall remain unquestioned.—This I will do for your sake, and it is much for a man of honour to condescend so far—You know that the condescension from me in particular is great indeed. Then do not call me ungenerous, or ungrateful, or unkind, since I am ready to do all, which, as a man, I can do, and more perhaps than as a man of honour I ought to do.” “Do you hear this, Markham Everard,” exclaimed Alice—“do you hear this?—The dreadful option is left entirely at your disposal. You were wont to be temperate in passion, religious, forgiving— will you, for a mere punctilio, drive on this private and unchristian broil to a murtherous extremity? Believe me, if you now, contrary to all the better principles of your life, give the reins to your passions, the consequences may be such as you will rue for your lifetime, and even, if Heaven have not mercy, long after your life is finished.” Markham Everard remained for a moment gloomily silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. At length he looked up, and answered her—“Alice, you are a soldier’s daughter—a soldier’s sister—all your relations, even including one whom you then entertained some regard for, have been made soldiers by these unhappy discords. Yet you have seen them take the field—in some instances on contrary

310



Vol. 3, ch. 4

sides, to do their duty where their principles called them, without manifesting this extreme degree of interest. Answer me—and your answer shall decide my conduct—Is this youth, so short while known, already of more value to you than those dear connexions, father, brother, and kinsman, whose departure to battle you saw with comparative indifference?—Say so, and it shall be enough—I leave the ground, never to see you or this country again.” “Stay, Markham, stay—and believe me when I say, that if I answer your question in the affirmative, it is because Master Kerneguy’s safety comprehends more, much more, than that of any of those you have mentioned.” “Indeed! I did not know a coronet had been so superior in value to the crest of a private gentleman,” said Everard; “yet I have heard that many women think so.” “You apprehend me amiss,” said Alice, perplexed between the difficulty of so expressing herself as to prevent immediate mischief, and at the same time anxious to combat the jealousy and disarm the resentment which she saw arising in the bosom of her favoured lover. But she found no words fine enough to draw the distinction, without leading to a discovery of the King’s actual character, and perhaps, in consequence, to his destruction.—“Markham,” she said, “have compassion on me. Press me not at this moment—believe me, the honour and happiness of my father, of my brother, and of my whole family, are interested in Master Kerneguy’s safety—are inextricably concerned in this matter resting where it now does.” “Oh, ay—I doubt not,” said Everard; “the House of Lee ever looked up to nobility, and valued in their connexions the fantastic loyalty of a courtier beyond the sterling and honest patriotism of a plain country gentleman. For them, the thing is in course. But on your part, you, Alice—O! on your part who have loved so dearly— who have suffered me to think that my affection was not unrepaid —can the attentions of a mere man of quality, during only a few hours, lead you to prefer a libertine lord to such a heart as mine?” “No, no—believe me, no,” said Alice, in the extremity of distress. “Put it in one word, and say for whose safety it is you are thus deeply interested?” “For both—for both,” said Alice. “That answer will not serve, Alice,” answered Everard—“here is no room for equality. I must and will know to what I have to trust. I understand not the paltering, which makes a maiden unwilling to decide betwixt two suitors; nor would I willingly impute to you the vanity that cannot remain contented with one lover at once.” The vehemence of Everard’s displeasure, when he supposed his

[Chap. 27]



311

own long and sincere devotion lightly forgotten, amid the addresses of a profligate courtier, awakened the spirit of Alice Lee, who, as we elsewhere said, had a portion in her temper of the lion-humour that was characteristic of her family. “If I am thus misinterpreted,” she said—“if I am not judged worthy of the least confidence or candid construction, hear my declaration, and my assurance, that, strange as my words may seem, they are, when truly interpreted, such as do you no wrong.—I tell you—I tell all present—and I tell this gentleman himself, who well knows the sense in which I speak, that his life and safety are, or ought to be, of more value to me than those of any other man in the kingdom—nay, in the world, be that other who he will.” These words she spoke in a tone so firm and decided, as admitted no farther discussion. Charles bowed low and with gravity, but remained silent. Everard, his features agitated with the emotions which his pride barely enabled him to suppress, advanced to his antagonist, and said, in a tone which he vainly endeavoured to make a firm one, “Sir, you have heard the lady’s declaration, with such feelings, doubtless, of gratitude, as the case eminently demands. —As her poor kinsman, and an unworthy suitor, sir, I presume to yield my interest in her to you; and, as I will never be the means of giving her pain, I trust you will not think I act unworthily in retracting the letter which gave you the trouble of attending this place at this hour.—Alice,” he said, turning his head towards her, “Farewell, Alice, at once, and for ever!” The poor young lady, whose adventitious spirit had almost deserted her, attempted to repeat the word farewell, but failing in the attempt, only accomplished a broken and imperfect sound, and would have sunk to the ground, but for Doctor Rochecliffe, who caught her as she fell. Roger Wildrake, also, who had twice or thrice put to his eyes what remained of a kerchief, interested by the lady’s evident distress, though unable to comprehend the mysterious cause, hastened to assist the divine in supporting so fair a burthen. Meanwhile, the disguised Prince had beheld the whole in silence, but with an agitation to which he was unwonted, and which his swarthy features, and still more his motions, began to betray. His posture was at first absolutely stationary, with his arms folded on his bosom, as one who waits to be guided by the current of events; presently after, he shifted his position, advanced and retired his foot, clenched and opened his hand, and otherwise showed symptoms that he was strongly agitated by contending feelings, was on the point, too, of forming some sudden resolution, and yet still in uncertainty what course he should pursue.

312



Vol. 3, ch. 4

But when he saw Markham Everard, after one look of unspeakable anguish towards Alice, turning his back to depart, he broke out into his familiar ejaculation, “Odds fish! this must not be.” In three strides he overtook the slowly-retiring Everard, tapped him smartly on the shoulder, and, as he turned round, said, with an air of command, which he well knew how to adopt at pleasure, “One word with you, sir.” “At your pleasure, sir,” replied Everard, and naturally conjecturing the purpose of his antagonist to be hostile, took hold of his rapier with the left hand, and laid the right on the hilt, not displeased at the supposed call; for anger is at least as much a-kin to disappointment as pity is said to be to love. “Pshaw!” answered the King, “that cannot be now—Colonel Everard, I am C  S !” The Colonel recoiled in the greatest surprise, and next exclaimed, “Impossible—it cannot be!—The King of Scots escaped from Bristol.—My Lord Wilmot, your talents for intrigue are well known— but this will not pass upon me.” “The King of Scots, Master Everard,” replied Charles—“since you are so pleased to limit his sovereignty—at any rate, the Eldest Son of the last Sovereign of Britain,—is now before you; therefore it is impossible he could have escaped from Bristol. Doctor Rochecliffe shall be my voucher, and will tell you, moreover, that Wilmot is of a fair complexion, and light hair—mine, you may see, is swart as a raven.” Rochecliffe, seeing what was passing, abandoned Alice to the care of Wildrake, whose extreme delicacy in the attempts he made to bring her back to life, formed an amiable contrast to his usual wildness, and occupied him so much, that he remained for the moment ignorant of the disclosure in which he would have been so much interested. As for Doctor Rochecliffe, he came forwards, wringing his hands in all the demonstration of extreme anxiety, and with the usual exclamations attending such a state. “Peace, Doctor Rochecliffe!” said the King, with such complete self-possession as indeed became a prince—“We are in the hands, I am satisfied, of a man of honour. Master Everard must be pleased in finding only a fugitive prince in the person in whom he thought he had discovered a successful rival. He cannot but be aware of the feelings which prevented me from taking advantage of the cover which this young lady’s devoted loyalty afforded me, at the risk of her own happiness. He is the party who is to profit by my candour; and certainly I have a right to expect that my condition, already indifferent enough, shall not be rendered worse by his becoming

[Chap. 27]



313

privy to it, under such circumstances. At any rate, the avowal is made; and it is for Colonel Everard to consider how he is to conduct himself.” “Oh, your Majesty!—my Liege!—my King!—my royal Prince!” exclaimed Wildrake, who, at length discovering what was passing, had crawled on his knees, and seizing the King’s hand, was kissing it, more like a child mumbling gingerbread, or a lover devouring the yielded hand of his mistress, than in the manner in which such salutations pass at court—“If my dear friend Mark Everard should prove a dog on this occasion, rely on me—I will cut his throat on the spot, were I to do the same for myself the moment afterward!” “Hush, hush, my good friend and loyal subject,” said the King, “and compose yourself; for though I am obliged to put on the Prince for a moment, we have not privacy or safety to receive our subjects in King Cambyses’ vein.” Everard, who had stood for a time utterly confounded, awoke at length like a man from a dream. “Sire,” he said, bowing low, and with profound deference, “if I do not offer you the homage of a subject with knee and sword, it is because God, by whom kings reign, has denied you for the present the power of ascending your throne without rekindling civil war. For your safety being endangered by me, let not such an imagination for an instant cross your mind. Had I not respected your person— were I not bound to you for the candour with which your noble avowal has prevented the misery of my future life, your misfortunes would have rendered your person as sacred, so far as I can protect it, as it could be esteemed by the most devoted royalist in the kingdom. If your plans for escape are soundly considered, and securely laid, think that all which has now passed is but a dream. If they are in such a state that I can aid them, saving my duty to the Commonwealth, which will permit me to be privy to no schemes of actual violence, your Majesty may command my services.” “It may be I may be troublesome to you, sir,” said the King; “for my fortunes are not such as to permit me to reject even the most limited offers of assistance; but if I can, I will dispense with applying to you—I would not willingly put any man’s compassion at war with his sense of duty on my account.—Doctor, I think there will be no farther tilting to-day, either with sword or cane; so we may as well return to the Lodge, and leave those”—looking at Alice and Everard—“who may have more to say in explanation.” “No—no!” exclaimed Alice, who was now perfectly come to herself, and partly by her own observation, partly from the report of Dr Rochecliffe, comprehended all that had taken place—“My cousin

314



Vol. 3, ch. 4

Everard and I have nothing to explain; he will forgive me for having riddled with him when I dared not speak plainly; and I forgive him for having read my riddle wrong. But my father has my promise —we must not correspond or converse for the present—I return instantly to the Lodge with Doctor Rochecliffe and he to Woodstock. Unless you, sire,” bowing to the King, “command his duty otherwise. —Instant to the town, Cousin Markham; and if danger should approach, give us warning.” Everard would have delayed her departure, would have excused himself for his unjust suspicion, would have said a thousand things; but she would not listen to him, saying, for all other answer,— “Farewell, Markham, till God send better days!” “She is an angel of truth and beauty,” said Roger Wildrake; “and I, like a blasphemous heretic, called her a Lindabrides!—But has your Majesty—craving your pardon—no commands for poor Hodge Wildrake, who will blow out his own or any other man’s brains in England, to do your Grace a pleasure?” “We entreat our good friend Wildrake to do nothing hastily,” said Charles, smiling; “such brains as his are rare, and should not be rashly dispersed, as the like may not be easily collected. We recommend him to be silent and prudent—to tilt no more with loyal clergymen of the Church of England, and to get himself a new jacket with all convenient speed, to which we beg to contribute our royal aid. When fit time comes, we hope to find other service for him.” As he spoke, he slid ten pieces into the hand of poor Wildrake, who, confounded with the excess of his loyal gratitude, blubbered like a child, and would have followed the King, had not Doctor Rochecliffe, in few words, but peremptory, insisted that he should return with his patron, promising him he should certainly be employed in assisting the King’s escape, could an opportunity be found of using his services. “Be so generous, reverend sir, and you bind me to you for ever,” said the cavalier; “and I conjure you not still to keep malice against me on account of the foinery you wot of.” “I have no occasion, Captain Wildrake,” said the doctor, “for I think I had the best of it.” “Well, then, doctor, I forgive you on my part; and I pray you, for Christian charity, let me have a finger in this good service; for as I live in hope of it, rely that I shall die of disappointment.” While the doctor and soldier thus spoke together, Charles took leave of Everard, who remained uncovered while he spoke to him, with his usual grace—“I need not bid you no longer be jealous of

[Chap. 27]



315

me,” said the King; “for I presume you will scarce think of a match betwixt Alice and me, which would be too losing a one on her side. For other thoughts, the wildest libertine could not entertain them towards so high-minded a creature; and believe me, that my sense of her merit did not need this last distinguished proof of her truth and loyalty. I saw enough of her from her answers to some idle sallies of gallantry, to know with what a lofty character she is endowed. Master Everard, her happiness I see depends on you, and I trust you will be the careful guardian of it. If we can take any obstacle out of the way of your joint happiness, be assured we will use our influence.—Farewell, sir; if we cannot be better friends, do not at least let us entertain harder or worse thoughts of each other than we have now.” There was something in the manner of Charles that was extremely affecting; something too, in his condition as a fugitive in the kingdom which was his own by inheritance, that made a direct appeal to Everard’s bosom—though in contradiction to the dictates of that policy which he judged it his duty to pursue in the distracted circumstances of the country. He remained, as we have said, uncovered; and in his manner testified the highest expression of reverence, up to the point when such might seem a symbol of allegiance. He bowed so low as almost to approach his lips to the hand of Charles —but he did not kiss it.—“I would rescue your person, sir,” he said, “with the purchase of my own—more”——he stopped short, and the King took up his sentence where it broke off—“More you cannot do,” said Charles, “to maintain an honourable consistence —but what you have said is enough. You cannot render homage to my proffered hand as that of a sovereign, but you will not prevent my taking yours as a friend, if you allow me to call myself so—I am sure, as a well-wisher at least.” The generous soul of Markham Everard was touched—He took the King’s hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Oh!” he said, “were better times to come——” “Bind yourself to nothing, dear Markham,” said the good-natured Prince, partaking his emotion—“We reason ill while our feelings are moved. I will recruit no man to his loss, nor will I have my fallen fortunes involve those of others, because they have humanity enough to pity my present condition. If better times come, why we will meet again, and I hope to our mutual satisfaction. If not, as your future father-in-law would say,” (a benevolent smile came over his face, and accorded not unsuitably with his glistening eyes) —“If not, this parting was well made.” Everard turned away with a deep bow, almost choking under

316



Vol. 3, ch. 4

contending feelings; the uppermost of which was a sense of the generosity with which Charles, at his own imminent risk, had cleared away the darkness that seemed about to overwhelm his prospects of happiness for life—mixed with a deep sense of the perils by which he was environed. He returned to the little town, followed by his attendant Wildrake, who turned back so often, with weeping eyes, and hands clasped and uplifted as supplicating Heaven, that Everard was obliged to remind him that his gestures might be observed by some one, and occasion suspicion. The generous conduct of the King during the closing part of this remarkable scene, had not escaped Alice’s notice; and, erasing at once from her mind all resentment of Charles’s former conduct, and all the suspicions they had deservedly excited, awakened in her bosom a sense of the natural goodness of his disposition, which permitted her to unite regard for his person, with that reverence for his high office in which she had been educated as a portion of her creed. She felt convinced, and delighted with the conviction, that his virtues were his own, his libertinism the fault of education, or rather want of education, and the corrupting advice of sycophants and flatterers. She could not know, or perhaps did not in that moment consider, that in a soil where no care is taken to eradicate tares, they will outgrow and smother the wholesome seed, even if the last is more natural to the soil. For, as Doctor Rochecliffe informed her afterwards for her edification,—promising, as was his custom, to explain the precise words on some future occasion if she would put him in mind—Virtus rectorem ducemque desiderat; Vitia sine magistro discuntur.* There was no room for such reflections at present. Conscious of mutual sincerity, by a sort of intellectual communication, through which individuals are led to understand each other better, perhaps, in delicate circumstances, than by words, reserve and simulation appeared to be now banished from the intercourse betwixt the King and Alice. With manly frankness, and, at the same time, with princely condescension, he requested her, exhausted as she was, to accept of his arm on the way homeward, instead of that of Doctor Rochecliffe; and Alice accepted of his support with modest humility, but without a shadow of distrust or fear. It seemed as if the last half hour had satisfied them perfectly with the character of each other, * The quotations of the learned doctor and antiquary were often left uninterpreted, though seldom uncommunicated, owing to his contempt for those who did not understand the learned languages, and his dislike to the labour of translation, for the benefit of ladies and of country gentlemen. That fair readers and rural thanes may not on this occasion burst in ignorance, we add the meaning of the passage in the text—“Virtue requires the aid of a governor and director; vices are learned without a teacher.”

[Chap. 27]



317

and that each had full conviction of the purity and sincerity of the other’s intentions. Doctor Rochecliffe, in the meantime, had fallen some four or five paces behind; for, less light and active than Alice, (who had, besides, the assistance of the King’s support,) he was unable, without effort and difficulty, to keep up with the pace of Charles, who then was, as we have elsewhere noticed, one of the best walkers in England, and was sometimes apt to forget (as great men will) that others were inferior to him in activity. “Dear Alice,” said the King, but as if the epithet was entirely fraternal, “I like your Everard much—I would to God he were of our determination—But since that cannot be, I am sure he will prove a generous enemy.” “May it please you, sire,” said Alice, modestly, but with some firmness, “my cousin will never be your Majesty’s personal enemy —and he is one of the few on whose slightest word you may rely more than on the oath of those who profess more strongly and formally. He is utterly incapable of abusing your Majesty’s most generous and voluntary confidence.” “On my honour, I believe so, Alice,” replied the King: “But odd’s fish! my girl, let Majesty sleep for the present—it concerns my safety, as I told your brother lately—Call me sir, then, which belongs alike to king, peer, knight, and gentleman—or rather let me be wild Louis Kerneguy again.” Alice looked down, and shook her head. “That cannot be, please your Majesty.” “What! Louis was a saucy companion—a naughty presuming boy—and you cannot abide him—perhaps you are right—But we will wait for Doctor Rochecliffe”—he said, desirous, with goodnatured delicacy, to make Alice aware that he had no purpose of engaging her in any discussion which could recall painful ideas. They paused accordingly, and again she felt relieved and grateful. “I cannot persuade our fair friend, Mistress Alice, doctor,” said the King, “that she must, in prudence, forbear using titles of respect to me, while there are such slender means of sustaining it.” “It is a reproach to earth and to fortune,” answered the divine, as fast as his recovered breath would permit him, “that your most sacred Majesty’s present condition should not accord with the rendering of those honours which are your own by birth, and which, with God’s blessing on the efforts of your loyal subjects, I hope to see rendered to you as your hereditary right, by the universal voice of three kingdoms.” “True, doctor,” replied the King; “but, in the meanwhile, can

318



Vol. 3, ch. 5

you expound to Mistress Lee two lines of Horace, which I have carried in my thick head for several years, till now they have come pat to my purpose, as my canny subjects of Scotland say. If you keep a thing seven years you are sure to find a use for it—Telephus —ay, so it begins— Telephus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque, Projecit ampullas et sesquipedalia verba.”

“I will explain the passage, sire, to Mistress Alice Lee, when ever she reminds me of it—or rather,” (he added, recollecting that his ordinary dilatory answer ought not to be returned when the order for exposition emanated directly from his Sovereign,) “I will repeat a poor couplet from my own translation of the poem— Heroes and kings, in exile forced to roam, Leave swelling phrase and seven-leagued words at home.”

“A most admirable version, doctor,” said Charles: “I feel all its force, and particularly the beautiful rendering of sesquipedalia verba into seven-leagued boots—words I mean—it reminds me, like half the things I meet with in this world, of the Contes de Commere L’Oye.”* Thus conversing they reached the Lodge; and as the King went to his chamber to prepare for the breakfast summons, now impending, the idea crossed his mind, “Wilmot, and Villiers, and Killigrew, would laugh at me, did they hear of a campaign in which neither man nor woman has been conquered—But odd’s fish! let them laugh as they will, there is something at my heart which tells me, that for once in my life I have acted well.” That day and the next were spent in tranquillity, the King waiting impatiently for the intelligence, which was to announce to him that a vessel was prepared somewhere on the coast. None such was yet in readiness; but he learned, that the indefatigable Albert Lee was, at great personal risk, traversing the sea-coast from town to village, and endeavouring to find means of embarkation, among the friends of the royal cause, and the correspondents of Doctor Rochecliffe.

Chapter Five Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch! Two Gentlemen of Verona

I    we should give some account of the other actors in our drama, the interest due to the principal personages having for some time engrossed our attention exclusively. We have, therefore, to inform the reader, that the lingering long* Tales of Mother Goose.

[Chap. 28]



319

ings of the Commissioners, who had been driven forth of their proposed paradise of Woodstock, not by a cherub indeed, but, as they thought, by spirits of another sort, still detained them in the vicinity. They had, indeed, left the little borough under pretence of indifferent accommodation. The more probable reasons were, that they entertained some resentment against Everard, as the means of their disappointment, and had no mind to reside where their proceedings could be overlooked by him, although they took leave on terms of the utmost respect. They went, however, no further than Oxford, and remained there, as ravens, who are accustomed to witness the chase, sit upon a tree or crag, at a little distance, and watch the disembowelling of the deer, expecting the relics which fall to their share. Meantime, the University and City, but especially the former, supplied them with some means of employing their various faculties to advantage, until the expected moment, when, as they hoped, they should either be summoned to Windsor, or Woodstock should once more be abandoned to their discretion. Bletson, to pass the time, vexed the souls of such learned and pious divines and scholars, as he could intrude his hateful presence upon, by sophistry, atheistical discourse, and challenges to them to impugn the most scandalous theses. Desborough, one of the most brutally ignorant men of the period, got himself nominated the head of a college, and lost no time in cutting down trees, and plundering plate. As for Harrison, he preached in full uniform in Saint Mary’s Church, wearing his buff-coat, boots, and spurs, as if he was about to take the field for the fight at Armageddon. And it was hard to say, whether that seat of Learning, Religion, and Loyalty, as it is called by Clarendon, was more vexed by the rapine of Desborough, the cold scepticism of Bletson, or the frantic enthusiasm of the Fifth Monarchy Champion. Ever and anon, soldiers, under pretence of relieving guard, or otherwise, went and came betwixt Woodstock and Oxford, and maintained, it may be supposed, a correspondence with Trusty Tomkins, who, though he chiefly resided in the town of Woodstock, visited the Lodge occasionally, and to whom, therefore, they doubtless trusted for information concerning the proceedings there. Indeed, this man Tomkins seemed by some secret means to have gained the confidence in part, if not in whole, of almost every one connected with these intrigues. All closeted him, conversed with him, flattered him; those who had the means propitiated with gifts, those who had not were liberal of promises. When he chanced to appear at Woodstock, which always seemed as if by accident, if he passed through the hall the knight was sure to ask him to take the

320



Vol. 3, ch. 5

foils, and was equally certain to be, after less or more resistance, victorious in the encounter; so, in consideration of so many triumphs, the good Sir Henry almost forgave him the sins of rebellion and puritanism. Then, if his slow and formal step was heard in the passages approaching the gallery, Doctor Rochecliffe, though he never introduced him to his peculiar boudoir, was sure to meet Master Tomkins in some neutral apartment, and to engage him in long conversations, which apparently had great interest for both. Neither was the Independent’s reception below stairs less gracious than above. Josceline failed not to welcome him with the most cordial frankness; the pasty and the flaggon were put in immediate requisition, and good cheer was the general word. The means for this, it may be observed, had grown more plenty at Woodstock since the arrival of Doctor Rochecliffe, who, in quality of agent for several royalists, had various sums of money at his disposal. By these funds it is likely that Trusty Tomkins also derived full advantage. In his occasional indulgence in what he called a fleshly frailty, (and for which he said he had a privilege,) which was in truth an attachment to strong liquors, and that in no moderate quantity, his language, at other times remarkably decorous and reserved, became wild and animated. He sometimes talked with all the unction of an old debauchee of former exploits, such as deer-stealing, orchard robbing, drunken gambols, and desperate affrays in which he had been engaged in the earlier part of his life, sung bacchanalian and amorous ditties, dwelt sometimes upon adventures which drove Phœbe Mayflower from the company, and penetrated even the deaf ears of Dame Jellicot, so as to make the buttery in which he held his carousals no proper place for the poor old woman. In the middle of these wild rants, Tomkins twice or thrice suddenly ran into religious topics, and spoke mysteriously, but with great animation, and a rich eloquence, on the happy and pre-eminent saints, who were saints, as he termed them, indeed—Men who had stormed the inner treasure-house of Heaven, and possessed themselves of its choicest jewels. All other sects he treated with the utmost contempt, as merely quarrelling, as he expressed it, like hogs over a trough about husks and acorns; under which derogatory terms, he included alike the usual rites and ceremonies of public devotion, the ordinances of the established churches of Christianity, and the observances, nay, the forbearances, enjoined by every class of Christians. Scarcely hearing, and not at all understanding him, Josceline, who seemed his most frequent confidant on such occasions, generally led him back into some strain of rude mirth, or old

[Chap. 28]



321

recollection of follies before the Civil Wars, without caring about or endeavouring to analyze the opinion of this saint of an evil fashion, but fully sensible of the protection which his presence afforded at Woodstock, and confident in the honest meaning of so free-spoken a fellow, to whom ale and brandy, when better liquor was not to be come by, seemed to be principal objects of life, and who drank a health to the King, or any one else whenever required, provided the cup in which he was to perform the libation were but a brimmer. These peculiar doctrines, which were entertained by a sect sometimes termed the Family of Love, but more commonly Ranters,* had made some progress in times when such variety of religious opinions were prevalent, that men pushed their jarring heresies to the verge of absolute and most impious insanity. Secrecy had been enjoined on these frantic believers in a most blasphemous doctrine, by the fear of consequences, should they come to be generally announced; and it was the care of Master Tomkins to conceal the spiritual freedom which he pretended to have acquired, from all whose resentment would have been stirred by his public avowal of it. This was not difficult; for their profession of faith permitted, nay, required, their occasional conformity with the sectaries or professors of any creed which chanced to be uppermost. Tomkins had accordingly the art to pass himself on Dr Rochecliffe as still a zealous member of the Church of England, though serving under the enemy’s colours, as a spy in their camp; and as he had on several times given him true and valuable intelligence, this active intriguer was the more easily induced to believe his professions. Nevertheless, lest this person’s occasional presence at the Lodge, which there were perhaps no means to prevent without exciting suspicion, should infer danger to the King’s person, Rochecliffe, whatever confidence he otherwise reposed in him, recommended that, if possible, the King should keep always out of his sight, and when accidentally discovered, that he should only appear in the * The Familists were originally founded by David George of Delft, an enthusiast, who believed himself the Messiah. They branched off into various sects of Grindletonians, Familists of the mountains, of the valleys; Familists of Cape Order, &c. &c., of the Scattered Flock, &c. &c. Among doctrines, too wild and foul to be quoted, they held the lawfulness of occasional conformity with any predominant sect when it suited their convenience, of complying with the order of any magistrate, or superior power, however sinful. They disowned the principal doctrines of Christianity, as a law which had been superseded by the advent of David George—nay, obeyed the wildest and loosest dictates of evil passions, and are said to have practised among themselves the grossest libertinism. See Edward’s Gangræna, Pagitt’s Heresiographia, and a very curious work written by Ludovic Claxton, one of the leaders of the sect, called the Lost Sheep Found,—Small quarto, London, 1660.

322



Vol. 3, ch. 5

character of Louis Kerneguy. Joseph Tomkins, he said, was, he really believed, Honest Joe; but Honesty was a horse which might be overburthened, and there was no use in leading our neighbour into temptation. It seemed as if Tomkins himself had acquiesced in this limitation of confidence exercised towards him, or that he wished to seem blinder than he really was to the presence of this stranger in the family. It occurred to Josceline, who was a very shrewd fellow, that once or twice, when by inevitable accident Tomkins had met Kerneguy, he seemed less interested in the circumstance than he would have expected from the man’s disposition, which was naturally prying and inquisitive. “He asked no questions about the young stranger,” said Josceline. “God avert that he knows or suspects too much!” But his suspicions were removed, when, in the course of their subsequent conversation, Joseph Tomkins mentioned the King’s escape from Bristol as a thing positively certain, and named both the vessel in which he said he had gone off, and the master who commanded her, seeming so convinced of the truth of the report, that Josceline judged it impossible he could have the slightest suspicion of the reality. Yet notwithstanding this persuasion, and the comradeship which had been established between them, the faithful under-keeper resolved to maintain a strict watch over his gossip Tomkins, and be in readiness to give the alarm should occasion arise. True, he thought, he had reason to believe that his said friend, notwithstanding his drunken and enthusiast rants, was as trust-worthy as he was esteemed by Doctor Rochecliffe; yet still he was an adventurer, the outside and lining of whose cloak were of different colours, and a high reward, and pardon for past acts of malignancy, might tempt him once more to turn his tippet—For these reasons Josceline kept a strict, though unostentatious watch over Trusty Tomkins. We have said, that the discreet seneschal was universally well received at Woodstock, whether in the borough or at the Lodge, and that even Josceline Joliffe was anxious to conceal his suspicions under a great show of cordial hospitality. There were, however, two individuals, who, for very different reasons, nourished personal dislike against the person so generally acceptable. One was Nehemiah Holdenough, who remembered, with great bitterness of spirit, the Independant’s violent intrusion into his pulpit, and who ever spoke of him in private as a lying missionary, into whom Satan had put a spirit of delusion; and preached, besides, a solemn sermon on the subject of the false prophet, out of whose mouth came frogs. The discourse was highly prized by the mayor

[Chap. 28]



323

and most of the better class, who conceived that their minister had struck a heavy blow at the very root of Independency. On the other hand, those of the private spirit contended, that Joseph Tomkins had made a successful and triumphant rally, in an exhortation on the evening of the same day, in which he proved, to the conviction of many handicraftsmen, that the passage in Jeremiah, “The prophets prophesy falsely, and the priests bear rule by their means,” was directly applicable to the Presbyterian system of church government. The clergyman dispatched an account of his adversary’s conduct to the Reverend Master Edwards, to be inserted in the next edition of Gangræna, as a pestilent heretic; and Tomkins recommended the parson to his master, Desborough, as a good subject on whom to impose a round fine, for vexing the private spirit; assuring him, at the same time, that though the minister might seem poor, yet if a few troopers were quartered on him till the fine was paid, every rich shopkeeper’s wife in the borough would rob the till, rather than want the mammon of unrighteousness with which to redeem their priest from sufferance; holding, according to his expression, with Laban, “You have taken from me my gods, and what have I more?” There was, of course, little cordiality between the polemical disputants. But Joe Tomkins was much more concerned at the evil opinion which seemed to be entertained against him by one, whose good graces he was greatly more desirous to obtain than those of Nehemiah Holdenough. This was no other than pretty Mistress Phœbe Mayflower, for whose conversion he had felt a strong vocation, ever since his lecture upon Shakspeare on their first meeting at the Lodge. He seemed desirous, however, to carry on this more serious work in private, and especially to conceal his labours from his friend Josceline Joliffe, lest, perchance, he had been addicted to jealousy. But it was in vain that he plied the faithful damsel, sometimes with verses from the Canticles, sometimes with quotations from Green’s Arcadia, or pithy passages from Venus and Adonis, and doctrines of a nature yet more abstruse, from the popular work entitled Aristotle’s Masterpiece. Unto no wooing of his, sacred or profane, metaphysical or physical, would Phœbe Mayflower seriously incline. The maiden loved Josceline Joliffe, on the one hand; and, on the other, if she disliked Joseph Tomkins when she first saw him, as a rebellious puritan, she had not been at all reconciled by finding reason to regard him as a hypocritical libertine. She hated him in both capacities—never endured his conversation when she could escape from it—and when obliged to remain, listened to him only because she knew he had been so deeply trusted, that to offend

324



Vol. 3, ch. 5

him might endanger the security of the family, in the service of which she had been born and bred up, and to whose interests she was devoted. For reasons somewhat similar, she did not suffer her dislike of the steward to become manifest before Josceline Joliffe, whose spirit, as a forester and a soldier, might have been likely to bring matters to an arbitrement, in which the couteau de chasse and quarter-staff of her favourite, would have been too unequally matched with the long rapier and pistols which his dangerous rival always carried about his person. But it is difficult to blind jealousy when there is any cause of doubt; and perhaps the sharp watch maintained by Josceline on his comrade, was prompted not only by his zeal for the King’s safety, but by some vague suspicion that Tomkins was not ill-disposed to poach upon his own fair manor. Phœbe, in the meanwhile, like a prudent girl, sheltered herself as much as possible by the presence of Goody Jellicot. Then, indeed, it is true the Independent, or whatever he was, used to follow her with his addresses to very little purpose; for Phœbe seemed as deaf, through wilfulness, as was the old matron by natural infirmity. This indifference highly incensed her new lover, and induced him anxiously to watch for a time and place, in which he might plead his suit with an energy that should command attention. Fortune, that malicious goddess, who so often ruins us by granting the very object of our vows, did at length procure him such an opportunity as he had long coveted. It was about sunset, or shortly after, when Phœbe, upon whose activity much of the domestic arrangements depended, went as far as Fair Rosamond’s spring to obtain water for the evening meal, or rather to gratify the prejudice of the good old knight, who believed that celebrated fountain afforded the choicest supplies of the necessary element. Such was the respect in which he was held by his whole family, that to neglect any of his wishes that could be gratified, though with inconvenience to themselves, would, in their estimation, have been equal to a breach of religious duty. To fill the pitcher had, we know, been of late a troublesome task; but Josceline’s ingenuity had so far rendered it easy, by repairing rudely a part of the ruined front of the ancient fountain, so that the water was collected, and trickling along a wooden spout, dropped from a height of about two feet. A damsel was thereby enabled to place her pitcher under the slowly dropping supply, and, without toil to herself, might wait till her vessel was filled. Phœbe Mayflower, on the evening we allude to, saw, for the first time, this little improvement; and, justly considering it as a gallantry of her sylvan admirer, designed to save her the trouble of

[Chap. 28]



325

performing her task in a more inconvenient manner, she gratefully employed the minutes of ease which the contrivance procured her, in reflecting on the good nature and ingenuity of the obliging engineer, and perhaps in thinking he might have done as wisely to have waited till she came to the fountain, that he might have secured personal thanks for the trouble he had taken. But then she knew he was detained in the buttery with that odious Tomkins, and rather than have seen the Independent alongst with him, she would have renounced the thought of meeting Josceline. As she was thus reflecting, Fortune was malicious enough to send Tomkins to the fountain, and without Josceline. When she saw his figure darken the path up which he came, an anxious reflection came over the poor maiden’s breast, that she was alone, and within the verge of the forest, where in general persons were prohibited to come during the twilight, for disturbing the deer settling to their repose. She encouraged herself, however, and resolved to show no sense of fear, although, as the steward approached, there was something in the man’s look and eye no way calculated to allay her apprehensions. “The blessing of the evening upon you, my pretty maiden,” he said. “I meet you even as the chief servant of Abraham, who was a steward like myself, met Rebecca, the daughter of Bethuel, the son of Milcah, at the well of the city of Nahor, in Mesopotamia. Shall I not, therefore, say unto you, set down thy pitcher that I may drink?” “The pitcher is at your service, Master Tomkins,” she replied, “there it stands and you may drink as much as you will; but you have, I warrant, drunk better liquor, and that not long since.” It was, indeed, obvious that the steward had arisen from a revel, for his features were somewhat flushed, though he had stopped far short of intoxication. But Phœbe’s alarm at his first appearance was rather increased when she observed how he had been lately employed. “I do but use my privilege, my pretty Rebecca; the earth is given to the saints, and the fulness thereof. They shall occupy and enjoy it, both the riches of the mine, and the treasures of the vine; and they shall rejoice, and their hearts be merry within them. Thou hast yet to learn the privileges of the saints, Rebecca.” “My name is Phœbe,” said the maiden, in order to sober the enthusiastic rapture which he either felt or affected. “Phœbe after the flesh,” he said, “but Rebecca being spiritualized; for art thou not a wandering and a stray sheep?—and am I not sent to fetch thee within the fold?—wherefore else was it said to my inward soul, Thou shalt find her seated by the well, in the

326



Vol. 3, ch. 5

wood which is called after the ancient harlot, Rosamond?” “You have found me sitting here sure enough,” said Phœbe; “but if you wish to keep me company, you must walk to the Lodge with me; and you shall carry my pitcher for me, if you will be so kind. I will hear all the good things you have to say to me as we go along. But Sir Henry calls for his glass of water regularly before prayers.” “What!” exclaimed Tomkins, “hath the old man of bloody hand and perverse heart sent thee hither to do the work of a bondswoman? —verily thou shalt return enfranchised—And for the water thou hast drawn for him, it shall be poured forth, even as David caused to be poured forth the water of the well of Bethlem.” So saying, he emptied the water-pitcher, in spite of Phœbe’s exclamations and entreaties. He then replaced the vessel beneath the little conduit, and continued:—“Know that this shall be a token to thee. The filling of that pitcher shall be like the running of a sand-glass; and if within the time which shall pass ere it rises to the brim, thou shalt listen to words which I shall say to thee, then it shall be well with thee, and thy place shall be high among those who, forsaking the instruction, which is as milk for babes and sucklings, eat the strong food which nourishes manhood. But if the pitcher shall overbrim with water ere thy ear shall hear and understand, thou shalt then be given as a prey, and as a bondsmaiden, unto those who shall possess the fat and the fair of the earth.” “You frighten me, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, “though I am sure you do not mean to do so—I wonder how you dare speak words so like the good words in the Bible, when you know how you laughed at your own master, and all the rest of them—when you helped to play the hobgoblins at the Lodge.” “Think’st thou then, thou simple fool, that in putting that deceit upon Harrison and the rest, I exceeded my privileges?—Nay, verily. —Listen to me, foolish girl. When in former days I lived the most wild, malignant rakehell in Oxfordshire, frequenting wakes and fairs, dancing around Maypoles, and showing my lustihood at foot-ball and cudgel-playing—Yea when I was called, in the language of the uncircumcised, Philip Hazeldine, and was one of the singers in the choir, and one of the ringers in the steeple, and served the priest yonder, by name Rochecliffe, I was not farther from the straight road than when, after long reading, I at length found one blind guide after another, all burners of bricks in Egypt. I left them one by one, the poor tool Harrison being the last; and by my own unassisted strength, I have struggled forward to the broad and blessed light, whereof thou too, Phœbe, shalt be partaker.”

[Chap. 28]



327

“I thank you, Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, suppressing some fear under an appearance of indifference; “but I shall have light enough to carry home my pitcher, would you but let me take it; and that is all the want of light I shall have this evening.” So saying, she stooped to take the pitcher from the fountain; but he snatched hold of her by the arm, and prevented her from accomplishing her purpose. Phœbe, however, was the daughter of a bold forester, prompt at thoughts of self-defence; and though she missed getting hold of the pitcher, she caught up instead a large pebble, which she kept concealed in her right hand. “Stand up, foolish maiden, and listen,” said the Independent sternly; “and know, in one word, that sin, for which the spirit of man is punished with the vengeances of Heaven, lieth not in the corporeal act, but in the thought of the sinner. Believe, lovely Phœbe, that to the pure all acts are pure, and that sin is in our thought, not in our action—even as the radiance of the day is dark to a blind man, but seen and enjoyed by him whose eyes receive it. To him who is but a novice in the things of the spirit, much is enjoined, much is prohibited; and he is fed with milk fit for babes,—for him are ordinances, prohibitions, and commands. But the saint is above these ordinances and restraints. To him, as to the chosen child of the house, is given the pass-key to open all locks which withhold him from the enjoyment of his heart’s desire. Into such pleasant paths will I guide thee, lovely Phœbe, as shall unite in joy, in innocent freedom, pleasures, which, to the unprivileged, are sinful and prohibited.” “I really wish, Master Tomkins, you would let me go home,” said Phœbe, not comprehending the nature of his doctrine, but disliking at once his words and his manner. He went on, however, with the accursed and blasphemous doctrines, which, in common with others of these pretended saints, he had adopted, after having long shifted from one sect to another, until he settled in the vile belief, that sin, being of a character exclusively spiritual, only existed in the thoughts, and that the worst actions were permitted to those who had attained to the pitch of believing themselves above ordinance. “Thus, my Phœbe,” he continued, endeavouring to draw her towards him, “I can offer thee more than ever was held out to woman since Adam first took his bride by the hand. It shall be for others to stand dry-lipped, doing penance, like papists, by abstinence, when the vessel of pleasure pours forth its delights. Doest thou love money?—I have it, and can procure more—am at liberty to procure it on every hand, and by any means—the earth is mine and its fulness. Do you desire power?—which of these poor cheated

328



Vol. 3, ch. 5

commissioner-fellows’ estates doest thou covet, I will work it out for thee; for I deal with a mightier spirit than any of them. And it is not without warrant that I have aided the malignant Rochecliffe, and the clown Joliffe, to frighten and baffle them in the guise they did. Ask what thou wilt, Phœbe, I can give, or I can procure it for thee—Then enter with me into a life of delight in this world, which shall prove but an anticipation of the joys of paradise hereafter!” Again the fanatical voluptuary endeavoured to pull Phœbe towards him, while she, alarmed, but not scared out of her presence of mind, endeavoured, by fair entreaty, to prevail on him to release her. But his features, in themselves not marked, had acquired a frightful expression, and he exclaimed, “No, Phœbe—do not think to escape—thou art given to me as a captive—thou hast neglected the hour of grace, and it has glided past—See, the water trickles over thy pitcher, which was to be as a sign between us—Therefore I will urge thee no more with words, of which thou art not worthy, but treat thee as a recusant of offered grace.” “Master Tomkins,” said Phœbe, in an imploring tone, “consider, for God’s sake, I am a fatherless child—do me no injury, it would be a shame to your strength and your manhood—I cannot understand your fine words—I will think on them till to-morrow.” Then, in rising resentment, she added, more vehemently—“I will not be used rudely—stand off, or I will do you a mischief.” But, as he pressed upon her with a violence, of which the object could not be mistaken, and endeavoured to secure her right hand, she exclaimed, “Take it, then, with a wanion to you!”—and struck him an almost stunning blow on the face, with the pebble which she held ready for such an extremity. The fanatic let her go, and staggered backwards, half stupified; while Phœbe instantly betook herself to flight, screaming for help as she ran, but still grasping the victorious pebble. Irritated to frenzy by the severe blow which he had received, Tomkins pursued, with every black passion in his soul and in his face, mingled with fear lest his villainy should be discovered. He called on Phœbe loudly to stop, and had the brutality to menace her with one of his pistols if she continued to fly. Yet she slacked not her pace for his threats, and he must either have executed them, or seen her escape to carry the tale to the Lodge, had she not unhappily stumbled over the projecting root of a fir-tree—But as he rushed upon his prey, rescue interposed in the person of Josceline Joliffe, with his quarterstaff on his shoulder. “How now, what means this?” he said, stepping between Phœbe and her pursuer. Tomkins, already roused to fury, made no other answer than by discharging at Josceline the pistol

[Chap. 28]



329

which he held in his hand. The ball grazed the under-keeper’s face, who, in requital of the assault, and saying “Let ash answer iron,” applied his quarter-staff with so much force to the Independent’s head, that, lighting on the left temple, the blow proved almost instantly mortal. A few convulsive struggles were accompanied with these broken words,—“Josceline—I am gone—but I forgive thee—Doctor Rochecliffe—I wish I had more—Oh!—the clergyman—the funeralservice——” As he uttered these words, indicative, it may be, of his return to a creed, which perhaps he had never abjured so thoroughly as he had persuaded himself, his voice was lost in a groan, which, rattling in the throat, seemed unable to find its way to the air. These were the last symptoms of life: the clenched hands presently relaxed—the closed eyes opened, and stared on the heavens a lifeless jelly—the limbs extended themselves and stiffened. The body, which was lately animated with life, was now a lump of senseless clay— the soul, dismissed from its earthly tenement in a moment so unhallowed, was gone before the judgment-seat. “Oh, what have you done! what have you done, Josceline!” exclaimed Phœbe; “you have killed the man!” “Better than he should have killed me,” answered Josceline; “for he was none of these blinkers that miss their mark twice running. —And yet I am sorry for him—Many a merry bout have we had together when he was wild Philip Hazeldine, and then he was bad enough; but since he daubed over his vices with hypocrisy, he seems to have proved worse devil than ever.” “Oh, Josceline, come away,” said poor Phœbe, “and do not stand gazing on him thus;” for the woodman, resting on his fatal weapon, looked down on the corpse with the appearance of a man half stunned at the event. “This comes of the ale-pitcher,” she continued, in the true style of female consolation, “as I have often told you—For Heaven’s sake, come to the Lodge, and let us consult what is to be done.” “Stay first, girl, and let me drag him out of the path; we must not leave him here in all men’s sight—Will you not help me, wench?” “I cannot, Josceline—I would not touch or look on him for all Woodstock.” “I must to this gear myself, then,” said Josceline, who, a soldier as well as a woodsman, still had great reluctance to the necessary task. Something in the face and broken words of the dying man had made a deep and terrific impression on nerves not easily shaken. He accomplished it, however, so far as to drag the late steward out of the open path, and bestow his body amongst the under-growth

330



Vol. 3, ch. 5

of brambles and briers, so as not to be visible unless particularly looked after. He then returned to Phœbe, who had sate speechless all the while beneath the tree over whose roots she had stumbled. “Come away, wench,” he said, “come away to the Lodge, and let us study how this is to be answered for—the mishap of his being killed will strangely increase our danger.—What had he sought of thee, wench, when you ran from him like a madwoman?—But I can guess—Ay, Phil was always a devil among the girls, and I think, as Doctor Rochecliffe says, that, since he turned saint, he took to himself seven devils worse than himself.—Nay, here is the very place where I saw him, with his sword in his hand raised against the old knight, and he a child of this parish—it was high treason at least—but, by my faith, he hath paid for it.” “But, oh, Josceline,” said Phœbe, “how could you take so wicked a man into your counsels, and join him in all his plots about scaring the roundhead gentlemen?” “Why look thee, wench, I thought I knew him at the first meeting, especially when Bevis, who was bred here when he was a dogleader, would not fly at him; and when we made up our old acquaintance at the Lodge, I found he had kept up a close correspondence with Dr Rochecliffe, and persuaded him that he was a good King’s man, and held consequently good intelligence with him.—The doctor boasts to have learned much through his means; I wish to Heaven he may not have been as communicative in turn.” “O, Josceline,” said the waiting-woman, “you should never have let him within the gate of the Lodge!” “No more I would,” answered the forester, “if I had known how to keep him out; but when he went so frankly into our scheme, and told me how I was to dress myself like Robinson the player, whose ghost haunted Harrison—I wish no ghost may haunt me!— when he taught me how to bear myself to terrify his lawful master, what could I think, wench? I only trust the doctor has kept the great secret of all from his knowledge.—But here we are at the Lodge. Go to thy chamber, wench, and compose thyself. I must seek out Doctor Rochecliffe; he is ever talking of his quick and ready invention. Here come times, I think, that will demand it all.” Phœbe went to her chamber accordingly; but the strength arising from the pressure of danger giving way when the danger was removed, she quickly fell into a succession of hysterical fits, which required the constant attention of Dame Jellicot, and the less alarmed, but more judicious care of Mrs Alice, before they even abated in their rapid recurrence. The under-keeper carried his news to the politic doctor, who

[Chap. 29]



331

was extremely disconcerted, alarmed, nay angry with Josceline, for having slain a person on whose communications he had accustomed himself to rely. Yet his looks declared his suspicion, whether his confidence had not been too rashly conferred—a suspicion which pressed him the more anxiously, that he was unwilling to avow it, as a derogation from the character for shrewdness, on which he valued himself. Doctor Rochecliffe’s reliance, however, on the fidelity of Tomkins, had apparently good grounds. Before the Civil Wars, as may be partly collected from what has been already hinted at, Tomkins, under his true name of Hazeldine, had been under the protection of the Rector of Woodstock, occasionally acted as his clerk, was a distinguished member of his choir, and, being a handy and ingenious fellow, was employed in assisting the antiquarian researches of Dr Rochecliffe through the interior of Woodstock. When he engaged in the opposite side in the Civil Wars, he still kept up his intelligence with the divine, to whom he had afforded what seemed valuable information from time to time. His assistance had latterly been eminently useful in aiding the doctor, with the assistance of Josceline and Phœbe, in contriving and executing the various devices by which the Parliamentary Commissioners had been expelled from Woodstock. Indeed, his services in this respect had been thought worthy of no less a reward than a present of what plate remained at the Lodge, which had been promised to the Independent accordingly. The doctor, therefore, while admitting he might be a bad man, regretted him as an useful one, whose death, if inquired after, was like to bring additional danger on a house which danger already surrounded, and which contained a pledge so precious.

Chapter Six Cassio. That thrust had been my enemy indeed, But that my coat is better than thou know’st. Othello

O         October night which succeeded the day on which Tomkins was slain, Colonel Everard, besides his constant attendant Roger Wildrake, had Master Nehemiah Holdenough with him as a guest at supper. The devotions of the evening having been performed according to the Presbyterian fashion, a light entertainment, and a double quart of burned claret, was placed before the friends at nine o’clock, an hour unusually late. Master Holdenough soon engaged himself in a polemical discourse against sectaries and independents,

332



Vol. 3, ch. 6

without being aware that his eloquence was not very interesting to his principal hearer, whose ideas in the meanwhile roamed to Woodstock and all which it contained—the Prince who lay concealed there— his uncle—above all, Alice Lee. As for Wildrake, after bestowing a mental curse both on Sectaries and Presbyterians, as being, in his opinion, never a barrel the better herring, he stretched out his limbs, and would probably have composed himself to rest, but that he as well as his patron had thoughts which murdered sleep. The party were waited upon by a little gipsy-looking boy, in an orange-tawney doublet, much decayed, and guarded with blue worsted lace. The rogue looked somewhat stinted in size, but active both in intelligence and in limb, as his black eyes seemed to promise by their vivacity. He was an attendant of Wildrake’s choice, who had conferred on him the nom de guerre of Spitfire, and had promised him promotion so soon as his young protegé, Brentford, was fit to serve in his present office. It need scarce be said, that the menage was maintained entirely at the expense of Colonel Everard, who allowed Wildrake to arrange the household very much according to his pleasure. The page did not omit, in offering the company wine from time to time, to accommodate Wildrake with about twice the number of opportunities of refreshing himself that he considered it necessary to afford to the Colonel or his reverend guest. While they were thus engaged, the good divine lost in his own argument, and the hearers in their private thoughts, their attention was about half past ten attracted by a knock at the door of the house. To those who have anxious hearts, trifles give cause of alarm. Even a thing so simple as a knock at the door, may have a character which excites apprehension. This was no modest gentle tap, intimating a modest intruder; no redoubled rattle, as the pompous annunciation of some vain person; neither did it resemble the formal summons to formal business, nor the cheerful visit of some welcome friend. It was a single blow, solemn and stern, if not actually menacing in the sound. The door was opened by some of the persons of the house; a heavy foot ascended the stair—a stout man entered the room, and drawing the cloak from his face, said, “Markham Everard, I greet thee in God’s name.” It was General Cromwell. Everard, surprised and taken at unawares, endeavoured in vain to find words to express his astonishment. A bustle occurred in receiving the General, assisting him to uncloak himself, and offering in dumb show the civilities of reception. The General cast his keen eye around the apartment, and fixing it first on the divine, addressed Everard as follows:

[Chap. 29]



333

“A reverend man I see is with thee. Thou art not one of those, good Markham, who let the time unnoted and unimproved go away. —Casting aside the things of this world—pressing forward to those of the next—it is by thus dealing, practising, and using our time in this poor seat of terrestrial sin and care, that we may, as it were ——But how is this?”—he continued, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking briefly, sharply, and anxiously—“One hath left the room since I entered.” Wildrake had, indeed, been absent for a minute or two, but was now returned, and stepped forward from a bay window, as if he had been out of sight only, not out of the apartment. “Not so, sir, I stood but in the back-ground out of respect. Noble General, I hope all is well with the Estate, that your Excellency makes us so late a visit.—Would not your Excellency choose some”—— “Ah!” said Oliver, looking sternly and fixedly at him—“Our trusty Go-between—our faithful confidant—No, sir; at present, I desire nothing more than a kind reception, which, methinks, my friend Markham Everard is in no hurry to give me.” “You bring your own welcome, my Lord,” said Everard, compelling himself to speak.—“I can only trust it was no bad news that made your Excellency a late traveller, and ask, like my follower, what refreshment I shall command for your accommodation.” “The State is sound and healthy, Colonel Everard,” said the General; “and yet the less so, that many of its members, who have been hitherto workers together, and propounders of good counsel, and advancers of the public weal, have now waxed cold in their love and in their affection to the Good Cause, for which we should be ready, in our various degrees, to act and do, so soon as we are called to act that whereunto we are appointed, neither rashly, nor over-slothfully, neither lukewarmly nor over-violently, but with such a frame and disposition, in which zeal and charity may, as it were, meet and kiss each other in our streets. Howbeit, because we look back after we have put our hand to the plough, therefore is our force waxed dim.” “Pardon me, sir,” said Nehemiah Holdenough, who, listening with some impatience, began to guess in whose company he stood —“Pardon me, for unto this I have a warrant to speak.” “Ah! ah!” said Cromwell. “Surely, most worthy sir, we grieve the spirit when we restrain those pourings forth, which like water from a rock”—— “Nay, therein I differ from you, sir,” said Holdenough; “for as there is the mouth to transmit the food, and the stomach to digest what Heaven hath sent it; so hath it sent the preacher to teach,

334



Vol. 3, ch. 6

and the people to hear,—the shepherd to gather the flock into the sheepfold, the sheep to profit by the care of the shepherd.” “Ah! my worthy sir,” said Cromwell, with much unction— “methinks you verge upon the great mistake, which supposes that churches are tall large houses built by masons, and hearers are men—wealthy men, who pay tithes, the larger, as well as the less; and that the priests, men in black gowns or gray cloaks, who receive the same, are in guerdon the only distributors of Christian blessings —Whereas, in my apprehension, there is more of Christian liberty in leaving it to the discretion of the hungry soul to seek his edification where it can be found, whether from the mouth of a lay teacher, who claimeth his warrant from Heaven alone, or at the dispensation of those who take ordination and degrees from synods and universities, at best but associations of poor sinful creatures like themselves.” “You speak, you know not what, sir,” replied Holdenough, impatiently. “Can light come out of darkness, sense out of ignorance, or knowledge of the mysteries of religion from such ignorant mediciners as give poison instead of wholesome medicaments, and cram with filth the stomachs of such as seek to them for food?” This, which the Presbyterian divine said rather warmly, the General answered with the utmost mildness. “Lack-a-day, lack-a-day! a learned man, but intemperate; overzeal hath eaten him up.—A well-a-day, sir, you may talk of your regular gospel-meals, but a word spoken in season by one whose heart is with your heart, just perhaps when you are riding on to an encounter, or are about to mount a breach, is to the poor spirit like a rasher on the coals, which the hungry shall find preferable to a great banquet, at such times when the full soul loatheth the honeycomb. Nevertheless, although I speak thus in my poor judgment, I would not put force on the conscience of any man, leaving to the learned to follow the learned, and the wise to be instructed by the wise, while poor simple wretched souls are not to be denied a drink from the stream which runneth by the way.—Ay, verily, it will be a comely sight in England when men shall go on as in a better world, bearing with each other’s infirmities, joining in each other’s comforts—Ay, truly, the rich drink out of silver flaggons, and goblets of silver—and even so let it be.” Here an officer opened the door and looked in, to whom Cromwell, exchanging the canting drawl, in which it seemed he might have gone on interminably, for the short brief tone of action, called out, “Pearson, is he come?” “No, sir,” replied Pearson; “we have inquired for him at the

[Chap. 29]



335

place you noted, and also at other haunts of his about town.” “The knave!” said Cromwell, with bitter emphasis; “can he have proved false?—No, no, his interest is too deeply engaged. We shall find him by and by.—Hark thee hither, hither—” While this conversation was going forwards, the reader must imagine the alarm of Everard. He was certain that the personal attendance of Cromwell must be on some most important account, and he could not but strongly suspect that the General had some information respecting Charles’s lurking-place. If the King was taken, a renewal of the tragedy of the 30th of January was instantly to be apprehended, and the ruin of the whole family of Lee, with himself probably included, must be the necessary consequence. He looked eagerly for consolation at Wildrake, whose countenance expressed much alarm, which he endeavoured to bear out with his usual look of confidence. But the weight within was too great; he shuffled with his feet, and twisted his hands, like an unassured witness. Oliver, meanwhile, left his company not a minute’s leisure to take counsel together. Even while his perplexed eloquence flowed on in a stream so mazy that no one could discover which way its course was tending, his sharp watchful eye rendered all attempt of Everard to hold communication with Wildrake, even by signs, altogether vain. Everard, indeed, looked for an instant at the window, then glanced at Wildrake, as if to hint there might be a possibility of escape that way. But the cavalier had replied with a disconsolate shake of the head, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. Everard, therefore, lost all hope, and the melancholy feeling of approaching and inevitable evil, was only varied by anxiety concerning the shape and manner in which it was about to make its approach. But Wildrake had a spark of hope left. The very instant Cromwell entered he had got out of the room, and down to the door of the house. “Back—back!” repeated by two armed sentinels, convinced him that, as his fears had anticipated, the General had come neither unattended nor unprepared. He turned on his heel, ran up stairs, and meeting on the landing-place the boy whom he called Spitfire, hurried him into the small apartment which he occupied as his own. Wildrake had been birding that morning, and game lay on the table. He pulled a feather from a woodcock’s wing, and saying hastily, “For thy life, Spitfire, mind my orders—I will put thee safe out at window into the court—the yard wall is not high—and there will be no sentry there—Fly to the Lodge, as thou wouldst win Heaven, and give this feather to Mistress Alice Lee, if possible—if not, to Josceline Joliffe —say I have won the wager of the young lady.”

336



Vol. 3, ch. 6

The sharp-witted youth clapped his hand in his master’s, and only replied, “Done, and done.” Wildrake opened the window, and, though the height was considerable, he contrived to let the boy down safely by holding his cloak. A heap of straw on which Spitfire lighted rendered the descent perfectly safe, and Wildrake saw him scramble over the wall of the court-yard, at the angle which bore on a back lane; and so rapidly was this accomplished, that the cavalier had just re-entered the room, when, the bustle attending Cromwell’s arrival subsiding, his own absence began to be noticed. He remained during Cromwell’s lecture on the vanity of creeds, anxious in mind whether he might not have done better to send a verbal message, since there was no time to write. But the chance of the boy being stopped, or becoming confused with feeling himself the messenger of a hurried and important communication, made him, on the whole, glad that he had preferred a more enigmatical conveyance of the intelligence. He had, therefore, the advantage of his patron, for he was conscious still of a spark of hope. Pearson had scarce shut the door, when Holdenough, as ready in arms against the future Dictator as he had been prompt to encounter the supposed phantoms and fiends of Woodstock, resumed his attack upon the schismatics, whom he undertook to prove to be at once soul-slayers, false brethren, and false messengers; and was proceeding to allege texts in behalf of his proposition, when Cromwell, apparently tired of the discussion, and desirous to introduce a discourse more according with his real feelings, interrupted him, though very civilly, and took the discourse into his own hands. “Lack-a-day,” he said, “the good man speaks truth, according to his knowledge and to his lights—ay, bitter truths, and hard to be digested, while ye see as men see, and not with the eyes of angels. —False messengers, said the reverend man?—ay, truly, the world is full of such—You shall see them who will carry your secret message to the house of your mortal foe, and will say to him, Lo! my master is going forth with a small train, by such and such desolate places; be you speedy, therefore, that you may arise and slay him. And another, who knoweth where the foe of your house, and enemy of your person, lies hidden, shall, instead of telling his master thereof, carry tidings to the enemy even where he lurketh, saying, Lo! my master knoweth of your secret abode—up, now, and fly, lest he come on thee like a lion on his prey.—But shall this go without punishment?” looking at Wildrake with a withering glance. “Now, as my soul liveth, and as He liveth who hath made me although

[Chap. 29]



337

unworthy a ruler in Israel, such false messengers shall be knitted to gibbets on the way-side, and their right hands shall be extended, pointing out to others the road from which they themselves have strayed!” “Surely,” said Master Holdenough, “it is right to cut off such offenders.” “Thank ye, Mass-John,” muttered Wildrake; “when did the Presbyterian fail to lend the devil a shove?” “But, I say,” continued Holdenough, “that the matter is estranged from our present purpose, for the false brethren of whom I spoke are”—— “Right, excellent sir, they be those of our own house,” answered Cromwell; “the good man is right once more.—Ay, of whom can we now say that he is a true brother, although he has lain in the same womb with us?—Although we have struggled in the same cause, eat at the same table, fought in the same battle, worshipped at the same throne, there shall be no truth in him.—Ah, Markham Everard, Markham Everard!” He paused at this ejaculation; and Everard, desirous at once of knowing how far he stood committed, replied, “Your Excellency seems to have something in your mind in which I am concerned. May I request you will speak it out, that I may know what I am accused of?” “Ah, Mark, Mark,” replied the General, “there needeth no accuser speak when the still small voice speaks within us. Is there not moisture on thy brow, Mark Everard?—Is there not trouble in thine eye?— Is there not a failure in thy frame?—And who ever saw such things in noble and stout Markham Everard, whose brow was only moist after having worn the helmet for a summer’s day—whose hand only shook when it had wielded for hours the weighty falchion?— But go to, man! thou doubtest over much. Hast thou not been to me as a brother, and shall I not forgive thee even the seventyseventh time? The knave hath tarried somewhere, who should have done by this time an office of much import. Take advantage of his absence, Mark; it is a grace that God gives thee beyond expectance. I do not say, fall at my feet; but speak to me as a friend to his friend.” “I have never said anything to your Excellency that was in the least undeserving the title you have assigned to me,” said Colonel Everard, proudly. “Nay, nay, Markham,” answered Cromwell; “I say not you have —But—but you ought to have remembered the message I sent you by that person (pointing to Wildrake); and you must reconcile it

338



Vol. 3, ch. 6

with your conscience, how, having such a message, guarded with such reasons, you could think yourself at liberty to expel my friends from Woodstock, being determined to disappoint my object, whilst you availed yourself of the boon, on condition of which my warrant was issued.” Everard was about to reply, when, to his astonishment, Wildrake stepped forward; and with a voice and look very different from his ordinary manner, and approaching a good deal to real dignity of mind, said, boldly and calmly, “You are mistaken, Master Cromwell; and address yourself to the wrong party here.” The speech was so sudden and intrepid, that Cromwell stepped a pace back, and motioned with his right hand towards his weapon, as if he had expected that an address of a nature so unusually bold was to be followed by some act of violence. He instantly resumed his indifferent posture; and, irritated at a smile which he observed on Wildrake’s countenance, he said, with the dignity of one long accustomed to see all tremble before him, “This to me, fellow! Know you to whom you speak?” “Fellow!” echoed Wildrake, whose reckless humour was now completely afloat—“No fellow of yours, Master Oliver. I have known the day when Roger Wildrake of Squattlesea-mere, Lincoln, a handsome young gallant, with a good estate, would have been thought no fellow of the bankrupt brewer of Huntingdon.” “Be silent!” said Everard; “be silent, Wildrake, if you love your life!” “I care not a maravedi for my life,” said Wildrake.—“Zouns, if he dislikes what I say, let him take to his tools! I know he hath good blood in his veins; and I will indulge him with a turn in the court yonder, had he been ten times a brewer.” “Such ribaldry, friend,” said Oliver, “I treat with the contempt it deserves. But if thou hast anything to say touching the matter in question, speak out like a man, though thou look’st more like a beast.” “All I have to say is,” replied Wildrake, “that whereas you blame Everard for acting on your warrant, as you call it, I can tell you, he knew not a word of the rascally conditions you talk of. I took care of that; and you may take the vengeance on me, if you list.” “Slave! dare you tell me this!” said Cromwell, still heedfully restraining his passion, which he felt was about to vent itself upon an unworthy object. “Ay, you will make every Englishman a slave, if you have your way,” said Wildrake, not a whit abashed;—for the awe which had formerly overcome him when alone with this remarkable man, had

[Chap. 29]



339

vanished, now that they were engaged in an altercation before witnesses.—“But do your worst, Master Oliver; I tell you beforehand, the bird has escaped you.” “You dare not say so!—Escaped?—So ho! Pearson! tell the soldiers to mount instantly.—Thou art a lying fool!—Escaped?— Where, or from whence?” “Ay, that is the question,” said Wildrake; “for look you, sir— that men do go from hence is certain—but how they go, or to what quarter——” Cromwell stood attentive, expecting some useful hint from the careless impetuosity of the cavalier, upon the route which the King might have taken. “—Or to what quarter, as I said before, your Excellency, Master Oliver, may e’en find that out yourself.” As he uttered the last words he unsheathed his rapier, and made a full pass at the General’s body. Had his sword met no other impediment than the buff jerkin, Cromwell’s career had ended on the spot. But, fearful of such attempts, the General wore under his military dress a shirt of the finest mail, made of rings of the best steel, and so light and flexible that it was little or no encumbrance to the motions of the wearer. It proved his safety on this occasion, for the rapier sprung in shivers; while the owner, now held back by Everard and Holdenough, flung the hilt with passion on the ground, exclaiming, “Be damned the hand that forged thee!—To serve me so long, and fail me when thy true service could have honoured us both for ever! But no good could come of thee, since thou wert pointed, even in jest, at a learned divine of the Church of England.” In the first instant of alarm, and perhaps expecting Wildrake might be supported by others, Cromwell half drew from his bosom a concealed pistol, which he hastily returned, observing that both Everard and the clergyman were withholding the cavalier from another attempt. Pearson and a soldier or two rushed in—“Secure that fellow,” said the General, in the indifferent tone of one to whom imminent danger was too familiar to cause irritation—“Bind him—but not so hard, Pearson;”—for the men, to show their zeal, were drawing their belts, which they used for want of cords, brutally tight around Wildrake’s limbs. “He would have assassinated me, but I would reserve him for his fit doom.” “Assassinated!—I scorn your words, Master Oliver,” said Wildrake; “I proffered you a fair duello.” “Shall we shoot him in the street, for an example?” said Pearson

340



Vol. 3, ch. 6

to Cromwell; while Everard endeavoured to stop Wildrake from giving further offence. “On your life, harm him not; but let him be kept in safe ward, and well cared for,” said Cromwell; while the prisoner exclaimed to Everard, “I prithee let me alone—I am now neither thy follower, nor any man’s, and I am as willing to die as ever I was to take a cup of liquor.—And hark ye, speaking of that, Master Oliver, you were once a jolly fellow, prithee let one of thy lobsters here advance yonder tankard to my lips, and your Excellency shall hear a toast, a song, and—a secret.” “Unloose his head, and hand the debauched beast the tankard,” said Oliver; “it were shame while he lives at all to refuse him the element he lives in.” “Blessings on your heart for once,” said Wildrake, whose object in continuing this wild discourse was, if possible, to gain a little delay, when every moment was precious. “Thou hast brewed good ale, and that’s warrant for a blessing. For my toast and my song, here they go together— Son of a witch, May’st thou die in a ditch, With the butchers who back thy quarrels; And rot above ground, While the world shall resound A welcome to Royal King Charles.

And now for my secret, that you may not say I had your liquor for nothing—I fancy my song will scarce pass current for much—My secret is, Master Cromwell—that the bird is flown—and your red nose will be as white as your winding-sheet before you can smell out which way.” “Pshaw, rascal,” answered Cromwell, contemptuously, “keep your jests for the gibbet foot.” “I shall look on the gibbet more boldly,” replied Wildrake, “than I have seen you look on the royal Martyr’s picture.” This reproach touched Cromwell to the very quick.—“Villain!” he exclaimed; “drag him hence, draw out a party, and—But hold, not now—to prison with him—let him be close watched, and gagged, if he attempts to speak to the sentinels—Nay, hold—I mean, put a bottle of brandy into his cell, and he will gag himself in his own way, I warrant you—When day comes, that men can see the example, he shall be gagged after my fashion.” During the various breaks in his orders, the General was evidently getting command of his temper; and though he began in fury, he ended with the contemptuous sneer of one who overlooks the abusive language of an inferior. Something remained on his mind notwith-

[Chap. 29]



341

standing, for he continued standing, as if fixed to the same spot in the apartment, his eyes bent on the ground, and his closed hand pressed against his lips, like a man who is musing deeply. Pearson, who was about to speak to him, drew back, and made a sign to those in the room to be silent. Master Holdenough did not mark, or, at least, did not obey it. Approaching the General, he said, in a respectful but firm tone, “Did I understand it to be your Excellency’s purpose that this poor man shall die next morning?” “Hah!” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from his reverie, “what say’st thou?” “I took leave to ask, if it was your will that this unhappy man should die to-morrow?” “Whom sayst thou?” demanded Cromwell: “Markham Everard —shall he die, said’st thou?” “God forbid!” replied Holdenough, stepping back—“I asked whether this blinded creature, Wildrake, was to be so suddenly cut off?” “Ay, marry is he,” said Cromwell, “were the whole General Assembly of Divines at Westminster—the whole Sanhedrim of Presbytery —to offer bail for him.” “If you will not think better of it, sir, at least give not the poor man,” said Holdenough, “the means of destroying his senses—Let me go to him as a divine, to watch with him, in case he may yet be admitted into the vineyard at the latest hour—yet brought into the sheep-fold, though he has neglected the call of the pastor till time is well nigh closed upon him.” “For God’s sake,” said Everard, who had hitherto kept silence, because he knew Cromwell’s temper on such occasions, “think better of what you do!” “Is it for thee to teach me?” replied Cromwell; “think thou of thine own matters, and believe thou it will require all thy wit.— And for you, reverend sir, I will have no father-confessors attend my prisoners—no tales out of school. If the fellow thirsts after ghostly comfort, as he is much more like to thirst after a quartern of brandy, there is Corporal Humgudgeon, who commands the corps-de-garde, will preach and pray as well as the best of ye.— But this delay is intolerable—Comes not this fellow yet?” “No, sir,” replied Pearson. “Had we not better go down to the Lodge? The news of our being here may else get there before us.” “True,” said Cromwell, speaking aside to his officer, “but you know Tomkins warned us against doing so, alleging there were so many postern-doors, and sally-ports, and concealed entrances in

342



Vol. 3, ch. 6

the old house, that it was like a rabbit-warren, and that an escape might be easily made under our very noses, unless he were with us, to point out all the posts which should be guarded. He hinted, too, that he might be delayed a few minutes after his time of appointment—but we have now waited half-an-hour.” “Does your Excellency think Tomkins is to be depended upon?” said Pearson. “As far as his interest goes, unquestionably,” replied the General. “He has ever been the pump by which I have sucked the marrow out of many a plot, in special those of the conceited fool Rochecliffe, who is goose enough to believe that such a fellow as Tomkins would value anything beyond the offer of the best bidder. And yet it groweth late—I fear we must to the Lodge without him—Yet, all things well considered, I will tarry here till midnight.—Ah! Everard, thou mightest put this gear to rights if thou wilt! Shall some foolish principle of fantastic punctilio have more weight with thee, man, than have the pacification and welfare of England; the keeping of faith to thy friend and benefactor and who will be yet more so, and the fortune and security of thy relations? Are these, I say, lighter in the balance than the cause of a worthless boy, who, with his father and his father’s house, have troubled Israel for fifty years?” “I do not understand your Excellency, nor at what service you point, which I can honestly render,” replied Everard. “That which is dishonest I should be loath that you proposed.” “Then this at least might suit your honesty, or nicety, call it which thou wilt,” said Cromwell. “Thou knowest, surely, all the passages about Jezebel’s palace down yonder.—Let me know how they may be guarded against the escape of any from within?” “I cannot pretend to aid you in this matter,” said Everard; “I know not all the entrances and posterns about Woodstock, and if I did, I am not free in conscience to communicate with you on this occasion.” “We shall do without you, sir,” replied Cromwell, haughtily; “and if aught is found which may criminate you, remember you have lost right to my protection.” “I shall be sorry,” said Everard, “to have lost your friendship, General; but I trust my quality as an Englishman may dispense with the necessity of protection from any man. I know no law which obliges me to be spy or informer, even if I were in the way of having opportunity to do service in either honourable capacity.” “Well, sir,” said Cromwell, “for all your privileges and qualities, I will make bold to take you down to the Lodge at Woodstock tonight, to inquire into affairs in which the State is concerned.—

[Chap. 30]



343

Come hither, Pearson.” He took a paper from his pocket containing a rough sketch or ground-plan of Woodstock Lodge, with the avenues leading to it.—“Look here,” he said, “we must move in two bodies on foot, and with all possible silence—thou must march to the rear of the old house of iniquity with twenty file of men, and dispose them around it the wisest thou canst. Take the reverend man there along with you. He must be secured at any rate, and may serve thee as a guide. I myself will occupy the front of the Lodge, and thus having stopt all the earths, thou wilt come to me for further orders—silence and dispatch is all.—But for the dog Tomkins, who broke appointment with me, he had need render a good excuse, or woe to his father’s son!—Reverend sir, be pleased to accompany that officer.—Colonel Everard, you are to follow me; but first give your sword to Captain Pearson, and consider yourself as under arrest.” Everard gave his sword to Pearson without any comment, and with the most anxious presage of evil followed the Republican General, in obedience to commands which it would have been useless to have disputed.

Chapter Seven “Were my son William here but now, He wadna fail the pledge.” Wi’ that in at the door there ran A griesly-looking page, “I saw them, master, O! I saw, Beneath the thornie brae, Of black-mail’d warriors many a rank!”— “Revenge!” he cried, “and gae.” H M

T   party at the Lodge were assembled at supper, at the early hour of eight o’clock. Sir Henry Lee, neglecting the food that was placed on the table, stood by a lamp on the chimney-piece, and read a letter with mournful attention. “Does my son write to you more particularly than to me, Doctor Rochecliffe?” said the knight. “He only says here, that he will return probably this night; and that Master Kerneguy must be ready to set off with him instantly. What can this haste mean? Have you heard of any new search after our suffering party? I wish they would permit me to enjoy my son’s company in quiet but for a day.” “The quiet which depends on the wicked ceasing from troubling,” said Dr Rochecliffe, “is counted, not by days and hours, but by

344



Vol. 3, ch. 7

minutes. Their glut of blood at Worcester had satiated them for a moment, but their appetite, I fancy, has revived.” “You have news then to that purpose?” said Sir Henry. “Your son,” replied the doctor, “wrote to me by the same messenger: he seldom fails to do so, being aware of what importance it is that I should know everything that passes. Means of escape are provided on the coast, and Master Kerneguy must be ready to start with your son the instant he appears.” “It is strange,” said the knight; “for forty years I have dwelt in this house, man and boy, and the point only was how to make the day pass over our heads; for if I did not scheme out some hunting match or hawking, or the like, I might have sat here on my armchair, as undisturbed as a sleeping dormouse, from one end of the year to the other; and now I am more like a hare on her form, that dare not sleep but with her eyes open, and scuds off when the wind rustles among the fern.” “It is strange,” said Alice, looking at Doctor Rochecliffe, “that the roundhead steward has told you nothing of this. He is usually communicative enough of the motions of his party; and I saw you close together this morning.” “I must be closer with him this evening,” said the doctor gloomily; “but he will not blab.” “I wish you may not trust him too much,” said Alice in reply.— “To me, that man’s face, with all its shrewdness, wears such a dark expression, that methinks I read treason in his very eye.” “Be assured, that matter is cared for,” answered the doctor, in the same ominous tone as before. No one replied, and there was a chilling and anxious feeling of apprehension which seemed to sink down on the company at once, like those sensations which make such constitutions as are particularly subject to the electrical influence, conscious of an approaching thunder-storm. The disguised Monarch, apprised that day to be prepared on short notice to quit his temporary asylum, felt his own share of the gloom which involved the little society. But he was the first also to shake it off, as what neither suited his character nor his situation. Gaiety was the leading distinction of the former, and presence of mind, not depression of spirits, was required by the latter. “We make the hour heavier,” he said, “by being melancholy about it. Had you not better join me, Mistress Alice, in Patrick Carey’s jovial farewell?—Ah, you do not know Pat Carey—a younger brother of Lord Falkland’s?” “A brother of the immortal Lord Falkland’s, and write songs?” said the doctor.

[Chap. 30]



345

“Oh, doctor, the Muses take tithe as well as the Church,” said Charles, “and have their share in every family of distinction. You do not know the words, Mistress Alice, but you can aid me, notwithstanding, in the burden at least— Come now that we’re parting, and ’tis one to ten If the towers of sweet Woodstock I e’er see agen, Let us e’en have a frolic, and drink like tall men, While the goblet goes merrily round.”

The song arose, but not with spirit. It was one of those efforts at forced mirth, by which, before all other modes of expressing it, the absence of real cheerfulness is most distinctly intimated. Charles stopt the song, and upbraided the choristers. “You sing, my dear Mistress Alice, as if you were chanting the seven penitential psalms; and you, good doctor, as if you recited the funeral service.” The doctor rose hastily from the table, and turned to the window; for the expression connected singularly with the task which he was that evening to discharge. Charles looked at him with some surprise; for the peril in which he lived, made him watchful of the slightest motions of those around him—then turned to Sir Henry, and said, “My honoured host, can you tell any reason for this moody fit, which has so strangely crept upon us all?” “Not I, my dear Louis,” replied the knight; “I have no skill of these nice quillets of philosophy. I could as soon undertake to tell you the reason why Bevis turns round three times before he lies down. I can only say for myself, that if age and sorrow and uncertainty be enough to break a jovial spirit, or at least to bend it now and then, I have had and have my share of them all; so that I, for one, cannot say that I am sad merely because I am not merry—I have but too good cause for sadness—I would I saw my son, were it but for a minute.” Fortune seemed for once disposed to gratify the old man; for Albert Lee entered at that moment. He was dressed in a riding suit, and appeared to have travelled hard. He cast his eye hastily around as he entered. It rested for a second on that of the disguised Prince, and, satisfied with the glance which he received in answer, he hastened, after the fashion of the olden day, to kneel down to his father, and request his blessing. “It is thine, my boy,” said the old man; a tear springing to his eye as he laid his hand on the long locks, which distinguished the young cavalier’s rank and principles, and which, usually combed and curled with some care, now hung wild and dishevelled about his shoulders. They remained an instant in this posture, when the

346



Vol. 3, ch. 7

old man suddenly started from it, as if ashamed of the emotion which he had expressed before so many witnesses, and passing the back of his hand hastily across his eyes, bid Albert get up and mind his supper, “since I dare say you have ridden fast and far since you last baited—and we’ll send round a cup to his health, if Doctor Rochecliffe and the good company pleases.—Josceline, thou knave, skink about—thou look’st as if thou had’st seen a ghost.” “Josceline,” said Alice, “is sick for sympathy—one of the stags ran at Phœbe Mayflower to-day, and she was fain to have Josceline’s assistance to drive the creature off—the girl has been in fits since she came home.” “Silly slut,” said the old knight—“She a woodman’s daughter! —But, Josceline, if the deer gets dangerous, you must send a broad arrow through him.” “It will not need, Sir Henry,” said Josceline, speaking with great difficulty of utterance—“he is quiet enough now—he will not offend in that sort again.” “See it be so,” replied the knight; “remember Mistress Alice often walks in the Chase.—And now fill round, and fill, too, a cup to thyself to over-red thy fear.—Tush, man, Phœbe will do well enough—she only screamed and ran, that thou might’st have the pleasure to help her.—Mind what thou dost, and do not go spilling the wine after that fashion.—Come, here is a health to our wanderer, who has come to us again.” “None will pledge more willingly than I,” said the disguised Prince, naturally assuming an importance which the character he personated scarce warranted—But Sir Henry, who had become fond of the supposed page, with all his peculiarities, imposed only a moderate rebuke upon his petulance. “Thou art a merry, good-humoured youth, Louis,” said he; “but it is a world to see how the forwardness of the present generation hath gone beyond the gravity and decorum which in my youth was so regularly observed towards those of higher rank and station—I dared no more have given my own tongue the rein, when there was a doctor of divinity in company, than I would have dared to have spoken in church in service-time.” “True, sir,” said Albert, hastily interfering; “but Master Kerneguy had the better right to speak at present, that I have been on his business as well as my own, have seen several of his friends, and bring him important intelligence.” Charles was about to rise and beckon Albert aside, naturally impatient to know what news he had procured, or what scheme of safe escape was now decreed for him. But Doctor Rochecliffe twitched his cloak, as a hint to him to sit still, and not show any

[Chap. 30]



347

extraordinary motive for anxiety, since, in case of a sudden discovery of his real quality, the violence of Sir Henry Lee’s feelings might have been likely to attract too much attention. Charles, therefore, only replied, as to the knight’s stricture, that he had a particular title to be sudden and unceremonious in expressing his thanks to Colonel Lee—that gratitude was apt to be unmannerly —finally, that he was much obliged to Sir Henry for his admonition; and that leave Woodstock when he would, “he was sure to leave it a better man than he came there.” His speech was of course ostensibly directed towards the father; but a glance at Alice assured her, that she had her full share in the compliment. “I fear,” he concluded, addressing Albert, “that you come to tell us our stay here must be very short.” “A few hours only,” said Albert—“just enough for needful rest for ourselves and our horses. I have procured two which are good and tried. But Doctor Rochecliffe broke faith with me. I expected to have met some one down at Josceline’s hut, where I left the horses; and finding no person, I was delayed an hour in littering them down myself, that they might be ready for to-morrow’s work —for we must be off before day.” “I—I—intended to have sent Tomkins—but—but——” replied Doctor Rochecliffe. “The roundheaded rascal was drunk, or out of the way, I presume,” said Albert. “I am glad of it—you may easily trust him too far.” “Hitherto he has been faithful,” said the doctor, “and I scarce think he will fail me now. But Josceline will go down and have the horses in readiness in the morning.” Josceline’s countenance was usually that of alacrity itself on a case extraordinary. Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. “You will go with me a little way, doctor,” he said, as he edged himself closely to Rochecliffe. “How? puppy, fool, and blockhead,” said the knight, “wouldst thou ask Doctor Rochecliffe to bear thee company at this hour?— Out, hound!—get down to the kennel yonder instantly, or I will break the knave’s pate of thee.” Josceline looked with an eye of agony at the divine, as if entreating him to interfere in his behalf; but just as he was about to speak, a most melancholy howling arose at the hall door, and a dog was heard scratching for admittance. “What ails Bevis next?” said the old knight. “I think this must be All-Fools-day, and that everything around me is going mad!” The same sound startled Albert and Charles from a private

348



Vol. 3, ch. 7

conference in which they had engaged, and Albert ran to the halldoor to examine personally into the cause of the noise. “It is no alarm,” said the old knight to Kerneguy, “for in such cases the dog’s bark is short, sharp, and furious. These long howls are said to be ominous. It was even so that Bevis’s grandsire bayed the livelong night on which my poor father died. If it comes now as a presage, God send it regard the old and useless, not the young, and those who may yet serve King and country!” The dog had pushed past Colonel Lee, who stood a little while at the hall-door to listen if there were anything stirring without, while Bevis advanced into the room where the company were assembled, bearing something in his mouth, and exhibiting, in an unusual degree, that sense of duty and interest which a dog seems to show when he thinks he has the charge of something important. He entered, therefore, drooping his long tail, slouching his head and ears, and walking with the stately yet melancholy dignity of a warhorse at his master’s funeral. In this manner he paced through the room, went straight up to Josceline, who had been regarding him with astonishment, and uttering a short and melancholy howl, laid at his feet the object which he bore in his mouth. Josceline stooped, and took from the floor a man’s glove, of the fashion worn by the troopers, having something like the old-fashioned gauntlet projections of thick leather arising from the wrist, which go half way up to the elbow, and secure the arm against a cut with a sword. But Josceline had no sooner looked at what in itself was so common an object, than he dropped it from his hand, staggered backward, uttered a groan, and nearly fell to the ground. “Now, the coward’s curse be upon thee for an idiot!” said the knight, who had picked up the glove, and was looking at it—“thou should’st be sent back to school, and flogged till the craven’s blood was switched out of thee—What dost thou look at but a glove, thou base poltroon, and a very dirty glove, too?—Stay, here is writing— Joseph Tomkins?—why, that is the roundheaded fellow—I wish he hath not come to some mischief—for this is not dirt on the cheveron, but blood—Bevis may have bit the fellow, and yet the dog seemed to love him well too—or the stag may have hurt him— Out, Josceline, instantly, and see where he is—wind your bugle.” “I cannot go,” said Joliffe, “unless—” and again looked piteously at Doctor Rochecliffe, who saw no time was to be lost in appeasing the ranger’s terrors, as his ministry was most needful in the present circumstances.—“Get spade and mattock,” he whispered to him, “and a dark lanthorn, and meet me in the wilderness.” Josceline left the room; and the doctor, before following him,

[Chap. 30]



349

had a few words of explanation with Albert Lee. His own spirit, far from being dismayed on the occasion, rather rose higher, like one whose natural element was intrigue and danger. “Here hath been wild work,” he said, “since you parted. Tomkins was rude to the wench Phœbe—Josceline and he had a brawl together, and Tomkins is lying dead in the thicket, not far from Rosamond’s Well. It will be necessary that Josceline and I go directly to bury the body; for besides that some one might stumble upon it, and raise an alarm, this fellow Josceline will never be fit for any active purpose till it is under ground. Though as stout as a lion, the under-keeper has his own weak side, and is more afraid of a dead body than a living one. When do you propose to start to-morrow?” “By day-break, or earlier,” said Colonel Lee; “but we will meet again—A vessel is provided, and I have relays in more places than one—we go off from the coast of Sussex; and I am to get a letter at ——, acquainting me precisely with the spot.” “Wherefore not go off instantly?” said Doctor Rochecliffe. “The horses would fail us,” said young Lee—“they have been hard ridden to-day.” “Adieu,” said Rochecliffe, “I must to my task—Do you take rest and prepare for yours.—To conceal a slaughtered body, and convey on the same night a king from danger and captivity, are two feats which have fallen to few plotters save myself; but let me not, while putting on my harness, boast myself as if I were taking it off after victory.” So saying, he left the apartment, and muffling himself in his cloak, went out into what was called the Wilderness. The weather was a raw frost. The mist lay in partial wreaths upon the lower grounds; but the night, considering that the heavenly bodies were in a great measure hidden by the haze, was not extremely dark. Doctor Rochecliffe could not, however, distinguish the underkeeper, until he had hemmed once or twice, when Josceline answered the signal by showing a glimpse of light from the dark lantern which he carried. Guided by this intimation of his presence, the divine found him leaning against a buttress which had once supported a terrace, now ruinous. He had a pick-axe and shovel, together with a deer’s hide hanging over his shoulder. “What do you want with the hide, Josceline,” said Dr Rochecliffe, “that you lumber it about with you on such an errand?” “Why, look you, doctor,” he answered, “it is as well to tell you all about it. The man and I—he there—you know whom I mean— had many years since a quarrel about this deer. For though we were great friends, and Philip was sometimes allowed by my master’s permission to help me in mine office, yet I knew, for all that, Phil

350



Vol. 3, ch. 7

Hazeldine was sometimes a trespasser. The deer-stealers were very bold at that time, it being just before the breaking out of the war, when men were becoming unsettled—And so it chanced, that one day, in the Chase, I found two fellows, with their faces blacked, and shirts over their clothes, carrying as prime a buck between them as any was in the park. I was upon them in the instant—one escaped, but I got hold of the other fellow, and who should it prove to be but trusty Phil Hazeldine! Well, I don’t know whether it was right or wrong, but he was my old friend and pot-companion, and I took his word for amendment in future; and he helped me to hang up the deer in a tree, and I came back with a horse to carry him to the Lodge, and tell the knight the story, all but Phil’s name. But the rogues had been too clever for me; for they had flayed and dressed the deer, and quartered him, and carried him off, and left the hide and horns, with a rhime, saying— The haunch to thee, The breast to me, The hide and the horns for the keeper’s fee.

And this I knew for one of Phil’s mad pranks, that he would play in those days with any lad in the country. But I was so nettled, that I made the deer’s hide be curried and dressed by a tanner, and swore that it should be his winding-sheet or mine; and though I had long repented my rash oath, yet now, doctor, you see what it has come to—though I forgot it, the devil did not.” “It was a very wrong thing to make a vow so sinful,” said Rochecliffe; “but it would have been greatly worse had you endeavoured to keep it. Therefore, I bid you cheer up,” said the good divine; “for in this unhappy case, I could not have wished, after what I have heard from Phœbe and yourself, that you should have kept your hand still, though I may regret that the blow has proved fatal. Nevertheless, thou hast done even that which was done by the great and inspired legislator, when he beheld an Egyptian tyrannizing over a Hebrew, saving that, in the case present, it was a female, when, says the Septuagint, Percussum Egyptium abscondit sabulo; the meaning whereof I will explain to you another time. Wherefore, I exhort you, not to grieve beyond measure; for, although this circumstance is unhappy in time and place, yet, from what Phœbe hath informed me of yonder wretch’s opinions, it is much to be regretted that his brains had not been beaten out in his cradle, rather than he had grown up to be one of those Grindlestonians, or Muggletonians, in whom is the perfection of every foul and blasphemous heresy, united with such an universal practice of hypocritical assentation, as would deceive their master, even Satan himself.”

[Chap. 30]



351

“Nevertheless, sir,” said the forester, “I hope you will bestow some of the service of the church on this poor man, as it was his last wish, naming you, sir, at the same time; and unless this were done, I should scarce dare to walk out in the dark again, for my whole life.” “Thou art a silly fellow—but if,” continued Doctor Rochecliffe, “he named me as he departed, and desired the last rites of the church, there was, it may be, a turning from evil and a seeking to good even in his last moments; and if Heaven granted him grace to form a prayer so fitting, wherefore should man refuse it? All I fear is the briefness of time.” “Nay, your reverence may cut the service somewhat short,” said Josceline; “assuredly he does not deserve the whole of it—Only if something were not to be done, I believe I should flee the country. They were his last words; and methinks he sent Bevis with his glove to put me in mind of them.” “Out, fool!—Do you think,” said the doctor, “dead men send gauntlets to the living like knights of romance? I tell thee, fool, the cause was natural enough. Bevis, questing about, found the body, and brought the glove to you to intimate where it was lying, and to require assistance; for such is the high instinct of these animals towards one in peril.” “Nay, if you think so, doctor,” said Josceline—“and, doubtless, I must say, Bevis took an interest in the man—if indeed it was not something worse in the shape of Bevis, for methought his eyes looked wild and fiery, as if he would have spoken.” As he talked thus, Josceline rather hung back, and, in doing so, displeased the doctor, who exclaimed, “Come along, thou lazy laggard.—Art thou a soldier, and a brave one, and so much afraid of a dead man?—Thou hast killed men in battle, and in chase, I warrant thee.” “Ay, but their backs were to me,” replied Josceline—“I never saw one of them cast back his head, and glare at me as yonder fellow did, his eye retaining a glance of hatred, mixed with terror and reproach, till it became fixed like a jelly—And were you not with me, and my master’s concerns, and something else, very deeply at stake, I promise you I would not again look on him for all Woodstock.” “You must, though,” said the doctor; “for here is the place where he lies! Come hither deep into the copse—take care of stumbling —Here is a place just fitting, and we will draw the briers over the grave afterwards.” As the doctor thus issued his directions, he assisted also in the

352



Vol. 3, ch. 8

execution of them; and while his attendant laboured to dig a shallow and misshapen grave, a task which the state of the soil, perplexed with roots, and hardened by the influence of the frost, rendered very difficult, the divine read a few passages out of the funeral service, partly in order to appease the superstitious terrors of Josceline, and partly because he held it matter of conscience not to deny the church’s rites to one who had requested this aid of them in extremity.

Chapter Eight Case ye, case ye, on with your vizards. Henry IV

T          whom we had left in Victor Lee’s parlour were about to separate for the night, and had risen to take a formal leave of each other, when a tap was heard at the hall door. Albert, the vidette of the party, hastened to open it, enjoining, as he left the room, the rest to remain quiet, until he had ascertained the cause of the knocking. When he gained the portal, he called to know who was there, and what they wanted at so late an hour. “It is only me,” answered a treble voice. “And what is your name, my little fellow?” said Albert. “Spitfire, sir,” replied the voice without. “Spitfire!” said Albert. “Yes, sir,” answered the voice without; “all the world calls me so, and Colonel Everard himself. But my name is Spittal for all that.” “Colonel Everard! come you from him?” demanded young Lee. “No, sir; I come, sir, from Roger Wildrake, esquire, of Squattlesea-mere, if it like you,” said the boy; “and I have brought a token to Mistress Lee, which I am to give into her own hands, if you would but open the door, sir, and let me in—but I can do nothing with a three-inch board between us.” “It is some freak of that drunken rakehell,” said Albert, in a low voice, to his sister, who had crept out after him on tiptoe. “Yet, let us not be hasty in concluding so,” said the young lady; “at this moment the least trifle may be of consequence.—What token has Master Wildrake sent me, my little boy?” “Nay, nothing very valuable neither,” replied the boy; “but he was so anxious you should get it, that he put me out of window as one would chuck out a kitten, that I might not be stopped by the strangers.”

[Chap. 31]



353

“Hear you?” said Alice to her brother; “undo the gate for Godsake.” Her brother, to whom her feelings of suspicion were now sufficiently communicated, opened the gate in haste, and admitted the boy, whose appearance, not much dissimilar to that of a skinned rabbit in a livery, or a monkey at a fair, would at another time have furnished them with amusement. The urchin messenger entered the hall, making several odd bows and congés, and delivered the feather with much ceremony to the young lady, assuring her it was the prize she had won upon a wager about hawking. “I prithee, my little man,” said Albert, “was your master drunk or sober, when he sent thee all this way with a feather at this time of night?” “With reverence, sir,” said the boy, “he was what he calls sober, and what I would call concerned in liquor for any other person.” “Curse on the drunken coxcomb!” said Albert.—“There is a tester for thee, boy, and tell thy master to break his jests on suitable persons, and at fitting times.” “Stay yet a moment,” exclaimed Alice; “we must not go too fast —this craves wary walking.” “A feather?” said Albert; “all this work about a feather? Why, Dr Rochecliffe, who can suck intelligence as a magpie would suck an egg, could make nothing of this.” “Let us try what we can do without him then,” said Alice. Then addressing herself to the boy,—“So there are strangers at your master’s?” “At Colonel Everard’s, ma’am, which is the same thing,” said Spitfire. “And what manner of strangers?” said Alice; “guests I suppose?” “Ay, mistress,” said the boy, “a sort of guests that make themselves welcome wherever they come, if they meet not a welcome from their landlord—soldiers, madam.” “The men that have been long lying at Woodstock?” said Albert. “No, sir,” said Spitfire, “new comers, with gallant buff-coats and steel breast-plates; and their commander—your honour and her ladyship never saw such a man—at least I am sure Bill Spitfire never did.” “Was he tall or short?” said Albert, now much alarmed. “Neither one nor other,” said the boy; “stout made, with slouching shoulders; a nose large, and a face one would not like to say No to. He had several officers with him. I saw him but for a moment, but I shall never forget him while I live.” “You are right,” said Lee to his sister, pulling her to one side,

354



Vol. 3, ch. 8

“quite right—the Arch-fiend himself is upon us!” “And the feather,” said Alice, whom fear had rendered apprehensive of slight tokens, “means flight—and a woodcock is a bird of passage.” “You have hit it,” said her brother; “but the time has taken us cruelly short. Give the boy a trifle more—nothing that can excite suspicion, and dismiss him. I must summon Rochecliffe and Josceline.” He went accordingly, but, unable to find those he sought, he returned with hasty steps to the parlour, where, in his character of Louis, the page was exerting himself to detain the old knight, who, while laughing at the tales he told him, was anxious to go to see what was passing in the hall. “What is the matter, Albert?” said the old man; “who calls at the Lodge at so undue an hour, and wherefore is the hall door opened to them?—I will not have my rules, and the regulations laid down for keeping this house, broken through, because I am old and poor— Why answer you not?—Why keep a chattering with Louis Kerneguy, and neither of you all the while minding what I say?—Daughter Alice, have you sense and civility enough to tell me, what or who it is that is admitted here contrary to my general orders?” “No one, sir,” replied Alice; “a boy brought a message, which I fear is an alarming one.” “Thus far only, sir,” said Albert, stepping forward, “that whereas we thought to have stayed with you to-morrow, we must now take farewell of you to-night.” “Not so, brother,” said Alice, “you must stay and aid the defence here—if you and Master Kerneguy are both missed, the pursuit will be instant, and probably successful; but if you stay, the hidingplaces about this house will take some time to search. You can change coats with Kerneguy too.” “Right, noble wench,” said Albert; “most excellent—yes—Louis, I remain as Kerneguy, you fly as young Master Lee.” “I cannot see the justice of that,” said Charles. “Nor I either,” said the knight, interfering. “Men come and go, lay schemes, and alter them, in my house, without deigning to consult me! And who is Master Kerneguy, or what is he to me, that my son must stay and take the chance of mischief, and this young Scots page is to escape in his dress? I will have no such contrivance carried into effect, though it were the finest cobweb that was ever woven in Doctor Rochecliffe’s brains.—I wish you no ill, Louis; thou art a lively boy; but I have been somewhat too lightly treated in this, man.”

[Chap. 31]



355

“I am fully of your opinion, Sir Henry,” replied the person whom he addressed. “You have been, indeed, repaid for your hospitality by want of that confidence, which could never have been so justly reposed. But the moment is come, when I must say, in a word, I am that unfortunate Charles Stuart, whose lot it has been to become the cause of ruin to his best friends, and whose present residence in your family threatens to bring destruction to you, and all around you.” “Master Louis Kerneguy,” said the knight, very angrily, “I will teach you to choose the subjects of your mirth better when you address them to me; and, moreover, very little provocation would make me desire to have an ounce or two of that malapert blood from you.” “Be still, sir, for God’s sake!” said Albert to his father. “This is indeed  K    ; and such is the danger of his person, that every moment we waste may bring round the fatal catastrophe.” “Good God!” said the father, clasping his hands together, and about to drop on his knees, “has my earnest wish been accomplished! and is it in such manner as to make me pray it had never taken place!” He then attempted to bend his knee to the King—kissed his hand, while large tears trickled from his eyes—then said, “Pardon, my lord—your Majesty, I mean—permit me to sit in your presence but one instant till my blood beats more freely, and then——” Charles raised his ancient and faithful subject from the ground; and even in that moment of fear and anxiety and danger, insisted on aiding him to his seat, upon which he sunk in apparent exhaustion, his head drooping upon his long white beard, and mingling with its silver hairs. Alice and Albert remained with the King, arguing and urging his instant departure. “The horses are at the under-keeper’s hut,” said Albert, “and the relays only eighteen or twenty miles off. If the horses can but carry you so far”—— “Will you not rather,” interrupted Alice, “trust to the concealments of this place, so numerous and so well tried—Rochecliffe’s apartments, and the yet farther place of secrecy?” “Alas!” said Albert, “I know them only by name. My father was sworn to confide them to but one man, and he had chosen Rochecliffe.” “I prefer taking the field to any hiding-hole in England,” said the King. “Could I but find my way to this hut where the horses are, I would try what arguments whip and spur could use to get them to the rendezvous, where I am to meet Sir John Acland and

356



Vol. 3, ch. 8

fresh cattle. Come with me, Colonel Lee, and let us break for it— the roundheads have beat us in battle, but if it come to a walk or a race, I think I can show which has the best mettle.” “But then,” said Albert, “we lose all the time which may otherwise be gained by defence of this house—leaving none here but my poor father, incapable from his state of doing anything; and you will be instantly pursued and by fresh horses, while ours are unfit for the road. Oh, where is the villain Josceline!” “What can have become of Doctor Rochecliffe?” said Alice; “he that is so ready with advice?—where can they be gone? Oh, if my father could but rouse himself!” “Your father is roused,” said Sir Henry, rising and stepping up to them with all the energy of full manhood in his countenance and motions—“I did but gather my thoughts—but when did they fail a Lee when his King needed counsel or aid?” He then began to speak, with the ready and distinct utterance of a general at the head of an army, ordering every motion for attack and defence— unmoved himself, and his own energy compelling obedience, and that cheerful obedience, from all who heard him. “Daughter,” he said, “beat up dame Jellicot—Let Phœbe rise, if she were dying, and secure doors and windows.” “That hath been done regularly since—since we have been thus far honoured,” answered his daughter, looking at the King;—“yet, let them go through the chambers once more.” And Alice retired to give the orders, and presently returned. The old knight proceeded, in the same decided tone of promptitude and dispatch—“Which is your first stage?” “Gray’s—Rothebury, by Henley, where Sir Thomas Acland and young Knolles are to have relay in readiness,” said Albert; “but how to get there with our weary cattle!” “Trust me for that,” said the knight; and proceeding with the same tone of authority—“Your Majesty must instantly to Josceline’s lodge,” he said, “there are your horses and your means of flight. The secret places of this house, well managed, will keep the rebel dogs in play two or three hours good—Rochecliffe is, I fear, kidnapped, and his Independent hath betrayed him—Would I had judged the villain better! I would have struck him through with an unbated weapon, as Will says.—But for your guide when on horseback, half a bow-shot from Josceline’s hut is that of old Martin the verdurer; he is a score of years older than I, but as fresh as an old oak—beat up his quarters, and let him ride with you for death and life. He will guide you to your relay, for no fox that ever earthed in the Chase knows the country so well for seven leagues around.”

[Chap. 31]



357

“Excellent, my dearest father, excellent,” said Albert; “I had forgot Martin the verdurer.” “Young men forget all,” answered the knight—“Alas, that the limbs should fail, when the head can best direct them—is come perhaps to its wisest!” “But the tired horses,” said the King—“could we not get fresh cattle?” “Impossible at this time of night,” answered Sir Henry; “but tired horses may do much with care and looking to.” He went hastily to the cabinet which stood in one of the oriel windows, and searched for something in the drawers, pulling out one after another. “We lose time, father,” said Albert, afraid that the intelligence and energy which the old man displayed had been but a temporary flash of the lamp, which was about to relapse into quivering twilight. “Go to, sir boy,” said his father, sharply; “is it for thee to tax me in this presence!—Know, that were the whole roundheads that are out of hell in present assemblage round Woodstock, I could send away the Royal Hope of England by a way that the wisest of them could never guess.—Alice, my love, ask no questions, but speed to the kitchen, and fetch a slice or two of beef, or better of venison; cut them long, and thin, d’ye mark me”—— “This is wandering of the mind,” said Albert apart to the King. “We do him wrong, and your Majesty harm, to listen to him.” “I think otherwise,” said Alice, “and I know my father better than you.” So saying she left the room, to fulfil her father’s orders. “I think so, too,” said Charles—“in Scotland, the Presbyterian ministers, when thundering in their pulpits on my own sins and those of my house, took the freedom to call me to my face Jeroboam, or Rehoboam, or some such name, for following the advice of young counsellors—Odd’s fish, I will take that of the greybeard for once, for never saw I more sharpness and decision than in the countenance of that noble old man.” By this time Sir Henry had found what he was seeking. “In this tin box,” he said, “are six balls prepared of the most cordial spices, mixed with medicaments of the choicest and most invigorating quality. Given from hour to hour, wrapt in a covering of good beef or venison, a horse of spirit will not flag for five hours, at the speed of fifteen miles an hour; and, please God, the fourth of the time places your Majesty in safety—what remains may be useful on some future occasion. Martin knows how to administer them; and helpless Albert’s weary cattle shall be ready, if walked gently for ten minutes, in running to devour the way, as old Will says—nay, waste not time in speech, your Majesty does me but too much honour in using

358



Vol. 3, ch. 8

what is your own.—Now, see if the coast is clear, Albert, and let his Majesty set off instantly—We will play our parts but ill, if any take the chase after him for these hours that are between night and day—Change dresses, as you proposed, in yonder sleeping apartment—something may be made of that, too.” “But, good Sir Henry,” said the King, “your zeal overlooks a principal point. I have, indeed, come from the under-keeper’s hut you mention to this place, but it was by daylight, and under guidance —I shall never find my way thither in utter darkness, and without a guide—I fear you must let the Colonel go with me; and I entreat and command, you will put yourself to no trouble or risk to defend the house—only make what delay you can in showing its secret recesses.” “Rely on me, my royal and liege Sovereign,” said Sir Henry, “but Albert must remain here, and Alice shall guide your Majesty to Josceline’s hut in his stead.” “Alice!” said Charles, stepping back in surprise—“why, it is dark night—and—and—” He glanced his eye towards Alice, who had by this time returned to the apartment, and saw doubt and apprehension in her look; an intimation, that the reserve under which he had placed his disposition for gallantry, ever since the morning of the proposed duel, had not altogether effaced the recollection of his previous conduct. He hastened to put a strong negative upon a proposal which seemed so much to embarrass her. “It is impossible for me, indeed, Sir Henry, to use Alice’s services—I must walk as if blood-hounds were at my heels.” “Alice shall trip it,” said the knight, “with any wench in Oxfordshire; and what would your Majesty’s best speed avail, if you knew not the way to go?” “Nay, nay, Sir Henry,” continued the King, “the night is too dark—the way too long—I will find it myself.” “Lose no time in exchanging your dress with Albert,” said Sir Henry—“leave me to care for the rest.” Charles, still inclined to expostulate, withdrew, however, into the apartment where young Lee and he were to exchange clothes; while Sir Henry said to his daughter, “Get thee a cloak, wench, and put on thy thickest shoes. Thou might’st have ridden Pixie, but he is something spirited, and thou art a timid horsewoman, and ever wert so—the only weakness I have known of thee.” “But, my father,” said Alice, fixing her eyes very earnestly on Sir Henry’s face, “must I really go alone with the King? might not Phœbe, or dame Jellicot, go with us?” “No—no—no,” answered Sir Henry; “Phœbe, the silly slut, has,

[Chap. 31]



359

as you well know, been in fits to-night, and I take it, such a walk as you must take is no charm for hysterics—Dame Jellicot hobbles as slow as a broken-winded mare—besides, her deafness, were there occasion to speak to her—No—no—you shall go alone—and entitle yourself to have it written on your tomb, ‘Here lies she who saved the King!’—And, hark you, do not think of returning to-night, but stay at the verdurer’s with his niece—the Park and Chase will shortly be filled with our enemies, and whatever chances here you will learn early enough in the morning.” “And what is it I may then learn?” said Alice—“Alas, who can tell?—O, dearest father, let me stay and share your fate! I will put off the timorous woman, and fight for the King, if it be necessary. But—I cannot think of becoming his only attendant in the dark night, and through a road so lonely.” “How!” said the knight, raising his voice; “do you bring ceremonies and silly scruples forward, when the King’s safety, nay his life, is at stake? By this mark of loyalty,” stroking his grey beard as he spoke, “could I think thou wert other than becomes a daughter of the house of Lee, I would”—— At this moment the King and Albert interrupted him by entering the apartment, having exchanged dresses, and from their stature bearing some resemblance to each other, though Charles was eminently plain, and Lee rather a handsome young man. Their complexions were different; but the difference could not be immediately noticed, Albert having adopted a black peruque, and darkened his eyebrows. Albert Lee walked to the front to give one turn around the Lodge to descry in what direction any enemies might be approaching, that they might judge of the road which it was safest for the royal fugitive to adopt. Meanwhile the King, who was first, had heard a part of the angry answer which the old knight made to his daughter, and was at no loss to guess the subject of his resentment. He walked up to him with the dignity which he perfectly knew to assume whenever he chose it. “Sir Henry,” said he, “it is our pleasure, nay our command, that you forbear all exertion of paternal authority in this matter. Mistress Alice, I am sure, must have good and strong reasons for what she wishes; and I should never pardon myself were she placed in an unpleasant situation on my account. I am too well acquainted with woods and wildernesses to fear losing my way among my native oaks of Woodstock.” “Your Majesty shall not incur the danger,” said Alice, her temporary hesitation entirely removed by the calm, clear, and candid manner

360



Vol. 3, ch. 8

in which Charles uttered these last words. “You shall run no risk that I can prevent; and the unhappy chances of the time in which I have lived have from experience made the forest as well known to me by night as by day. So, if you scorn not my company, let us away instantly.” “If your company is given with good will, I accept it with gratitude,” replied the monarch. “Willingly,” she said, “most willingly. Let me be one of the first to show that zeal and that confidence, which I trust all England will one day emulously display in behalf of your Majesty.” She uttered these words with an alacrity of spirit, and made the trifling change of habit with a speed and dexterity, which showed that all her fears were gone, and that her heart was now entirely in the mission on which her father had dispatched her. “All is safe around,” said Albert Lee, showing himself; “you may take which passage you will—the most private is the best.” Charles went gracefully up to Sir Henry Lee ere his departure, and took him by the hand.—“I am too proud to make professions,” he said, “which I may be too poor ever to realize. But while Charles Stuart lives, he lives the obliged and indebted debtor of Sir Henry Lee.” “Say not so, please your Majesty, say not so,” exclaimed the old man, struggling with the hysterical sobs which rose to his throat. “He who might claim all, cannot become indebted by accepting some small part.” “Farewell, good friend, farewell!” said the King; “think of me as a son, a brother to Albert and to Alice, who are, I see, already impatient. Give me a father’s blessing, and let me be gone.” “The God, through whom kings reign, bless your Majesty,” said Sir Henry, kneeling and turning his reverend face and clasped hands up to Heaven—“The Lord of Hosts bless you, and save your Majesty from your present dangers, and bring you in his own good time to the safe possession of the crown that is your due!” Charles received his blessing like that of a father, and Alice and he departed on their journey. As they left the apartment, the old knight let his hands sink gently as he concluded this fervent ejaculation, his head sinking at the same time. His son dared not disturb his meditation, yet feared the strength of his feelings might overcome that of his constitution, and that he might fall into a swoon. At length, he ventured to approach and gradually touch him. The old knight started to his feet, and was at once the same alert, active-minded, forecasting director, which he had shown himself a little before.

[Chap. 31]



361

“You are right, boy,” he said, “we must be up and doing. They lie, the roundheaded traitors, that call him dissolute and worthless! He hath feelings worthy the son of the Blessed Martyr. You saw, even in the extremity of danger, he would have perilled his safety, rather than take Alice’s guidance, when the silly wench seemed in doubt about going. Profligacy is intensely selfish, and thinks not of the feelings of others. But hast thou drawn bolt and bar after them? I vow I scarce saw when they left the hall.” “I let them out at the little postern,” answered the Colonel; “and when I returned, I was afraid I had found you ill.” “Joy—joy, only joy, Albert—I cannot allow a thought of doubt to cross my breast. God will not desert the descendant of an hundred kings—the rightful Heir will not be given up to the ruffians. There was a tear in his eye as he took leave of me—I am sure of it. Albert, he is a prince to die for.” “If I lay my life down for him to-night,” said Albert, “I will only regret it, because I shall not hear of his escape to-morrow.” “Well, let us to this gear,” said the knight; “think’st thou that thou know’st enough of his manner, clad as thou art in his dress, to induce the women to believe thee to be the page Kerneguy?” “Umph,” replied Albert, “it is not easy to bear out a personification of the King, when women are in the case. But there is little light below, and I can but try.” “Do so instantly,” said his father; “the knaves will be here presently.” Albert accordingly left the apartment, while the knight continued —“If the women be actually persuaded that Kerneguy be still here, it will add strength to my plot—the beagles will open on a false scent, and the royal stag will be safe in cover ere they regain the slot of him. Then to draw them on from hiding-place to hidingplace! Why, the east will be gray before they have sought the half of them!—Yes, I will play at bob-cherry with them, hold the bait to their nose which they are never to gorge upon! I will drag a trail for them which will take them some time to puzzle out.—But at what cost do I do this?” continued the old man, interrupting his own joyous soliloquy—“Oh, Absalom, Absalom, my son! my son! —But let him go; he can die but as his fathers have died, and in the cause for which they lived. But he comes—Hush!—Albert, hast thou succeeded? hast thou taken royalty upon thee so as to pass current?” “I have, sir,” replied Albert; “the women will swear that Louis Kerneguy was in the house this very last minute.” “Right, for they are good and faithful creatures,” said the knight,

362



Vol. 3, ch. 8

“and would swear what was for his Majesty’s safety at any rate; yet they will do it with more nature and effect, if they believe they are swearing truth.—How didst thou impress the deceit upon them?” “By a trifling adoption of the royal manner, sir, not worth mentioning.” “Out, rogue!” replied the knight. “I fear the King’s character will suffer under your mummery.” “Umph,” said Albert, muttering what he dared not utter aloud —“were I to follow the example close up, I know whose character would be in the greatest danger.” “Well, now we must adjust the defence of the outworks, the signals, &c. betwixt us both, and the best way to baffle the enemy for the longest time possible.” He then again had recourse to the secret drawer of his cabinet, and pulled out a piece of parchment, on which was a plan. “This,” said he, “is a scheme of the citadel, as I call it, which may hold out long after you have been forced to evacuate the places of retreat you are already acquainted with. The ranger was always sworn to keep this plan secret, save from one person only, in case of sudden death.—Let us sit down and study it together.” They accordingly adjusted their measures in a manner which will better show itself from what afterward took place, than were we to state the various schemes which they proposed, and provisions made against events that did not arrive. At length young Lee, armed and provided with some food and liquor, took leave of his father, and went to shut himself up in Victor Lee’s apartment, from which was an opening to the labyrinth of private apartments, or hiding-places, that had served the associates so well in the fantastic tricks which they had played off at the expense of the Commissioners of the Commonwealth. “I trust Rochecliffe,” said Sir Henry, sitting down by his desk, after having taken a tender farewell of his son, “has not blabbed out the secret of the plot to yonder fellow Tomkins, who was not unlikely to prate of it out of school.—But here am I seated—perhaps for the last time, with my Bible on the one hand, and old Will on the other, prepared, thank God, to die as I have lived.—I marvel they come not yet,” he said, after waiting for some time—“I always thought the devil had a smarter spur to give his agents, when they were upon his own special service.”

[Chap. 32]



363

Chapter Nine But see, his face is black, and full of blood; His eye-balls farther out than when he lived, Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man; His hair uprear’d—his nostrils stretch’d with struggling; His hands abroad display’d, as one who grasp’d And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdued. Henry VI. Part I

I  , had those whose unpleasant visit Sir Henry expected come straight to the Lodge, instead of staying for three hours at Woodstock, they would have secured their prey. But the Familist, partly to prevent the King’s escape, partly to render himself of more importance in the affair, had represented the party at the Lodge as being constantly on the alert, and had therefore inculcated upon Cromwell the necessity of his remaining quiet until he (Tomkins) should appear to give him notice that the household were retired to rest. On this condition he undertook, not only to discover the apartment in which the unfortunate Charles slept, but, if possible, to find some mode of fastening the door on the outside, so as to render flight impossible. He had also promised to secure the key of a postern, by which the soldiers might be admitted into the house without exciting alarm. Nay, the matter might, by means of his local knowledge, be managed, as he represented it, with such security, that he would undertake to place his Excellency, or whomsoever he might appoint for the service, by the side of Charles Stuart’s bed, ere he had slept off last night’s claret. Above all, he had stated, that, from the style of the old house, there were many passages and posterns which must be carefully guarded, before the least alarm was caught by those within, otherwise the success of the whole enterprise might be endangered. He had therefore besought Cromwell to wait for him at the village, if he found him not there on his arrival; and assured him, that the marching and countermarching of soldiers was at present so common, that even if any news were carried to the Lodge that fresh troops had arrived in the little borough, so ordinary a circumstance would not give them the least alarm. He recommended, that the soldiers chosen for this service should be such as could be depended upon—no fainters in spirit—none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites, but men of war, accustomed to strike with the sword, and to need no second blow. Finally, he represented, that it would be wisely done if the General should put Pearson, or any other officer whom he could implicitly trust, into the command of the

364



Vol. 3, ch. 9

detachment, and keep his own person, if he should think it proper to attend, secret even from the soldiers. All this man’s counsels Cromwell had punctually followed. He had travelled in the van of the detachment of an hundred picked men, whom he had selected for the service, men of dauntless resolution, bred in a thousand dangers, and who were steeled against all feelings of hesitation or compassion, by the deep and gloomy fanaticism which was their chief principle of action—men to whom, as their General, and no less as a chief among the Elect, the commands of Oliver were like a commission from the Deity. Great and deep was the General’s mortification at the unexpected absence of the personage on whose agency he so confidently reckoned, and many conjectures he formed as to the cause of such mysterious conduct. Sometimes he thought Tomkins had been overcome by liquor, a frailty to which Cromwell knew him to be addicted; and when he held this opinion, he discharged his wrath in maledictions, which, of a different kind from the oaths and curses of the cavaliers, had yet in them as much blasphemy, and more determined malevolence. At other times he thought some unexpected alarm, or perhaps some drunken cavalier revel, had caused the family of Woodstock Lodge to make later hours than usual. To this conjecture, which seemed the most probable of any, his mind often recurred; and it was the hope that Tomkins would still appear at the rendezvous, which induced him to remain at the borough, anxious to receive communication from his emissary, and afraid of endangering the success of the enterprise by any premature exertion on his own part. In the meantime, he disposed of everything so as to be ready at a moment’s notice. Half his soldiers he caused to dismount, and had the horses put into quarters; the other half were directed to keep their horses saddled, and themselves ready to mount. The men were brought into the house by turns, and had some refreshment, leaving a sufficient guard on the horses, which was changed from time to time. Thus Cromwell waited with no little uncertainty, often casting an anxious eye upon Colonel Everard, who, he suspected, could, if he chose it, well supply the place of his absent confidant. Everard endured this calmly, with unaltered countenance, and brow neither ruffled nor dejected. Midnight at length tolled, and it became necessary to take some decisive step. Tomkins might have been treacherous; or, a suspicion which approached more near to the reality, his intrigue might have been discovered, and he himself murdered, or kidnapped, by the

[Chap. 32]



365

vengeful royalists. In a word, if any use was to be made of the chance which fortune afforded of securing the most formidable claimant of the supreme power, which he already aimed at, no further time was to be lost. He at length gave orders to Pearson to get the men under arms—he directed him concerning the mode of forming them, and that they should march with the utmost possible silence; or, as it was given out in the orders, “Even as Gideon marched in silence, when he went down against the camp of the Midianites, with only Phurah his servant. Peradventure,” continued this strange document, “we may learn of what yonder Midianites have dreamed.” A single patrol, followed by a corporal and five steady, experienced soldiers, formed the advanced guard of the party; then followed the main body. A rear-guard of ten men guarded Everard and the minister. Cromwell required the attendance of the former, as it might be necessary to examine him, or confront him with others; and carried Master Holdenough with him, because he might escape if left behind, and raise perhaps some tumult in the village. The Presbyterians, though they not only concurred with, but led the way in the civil war, were at its conclusion highly dissatisfied with the ascendance of the military sectaries, and not to be trusted as cordial agents in anything where their interest was concerned. The infantry being disposed of as we mentioned, marched off from the left of their line, Cromwell and Pearson, both on foot, keeping at the head of the centre, or main body of the detachment. They were all armed with petronels, short guns similar to the modern carabine, and like them used by horsemen. They marched in the most profound silence and with the utmost regularity, the whole body moving like one man. About one hundred yards behind the rearmost of the dismounted party came the troopers, who remained on horseback; and it seemed as if the very irrational animals were sensible to Cromwell’s orders, for the horses did not neigh, and even appeared to place their feet on the earth cautiously and with less noise than usual. Their leader, full of anxious thoughts, never spoke, save to enforce by whispers his caution respecting silence, while the men, surprised and delighted to find themselves under the command of their renowned General, and destined doubtless for some secret service of high import, used the utmost precaution in attending to his reiterated orders. They marched down the street of the little borough in the order we have mentioned. Few of the townsmen were abroad; and one or two who had protracted the orgies of the evening to that unusual

366



Vol. 3, ch. 9

hour, were too happy to escape the notice of a strong party of soldiers, who often acted in the character of police, to inquire about their purpose for being under arms so late, or the route which they were pursuing. The external gate of the Chase had, ever since the party arrived at Woodstock, been strictly guarded by three file of troopers, to cut off all communication between the Lodge and the town. Spitfire, Wildrake’s emissary, who had often been a bird-nesting, or on similar mischievous excursions in the forest, had evaded these men’s vigilance, by climbing over a breach, with which he was well acquainted, in a different part of the wall. Between this party and the advanced guard of Cromwell’s detachment, a whispered challenge was exchanged, according to the rules of discipline. The infantry entered the Park, and were followed by the cavalry, who were directed to avoid the hard road, and ride as much as possible upon the turf which bordered on the avenue. Here, too, an additional precaution was used, a file or two of foot soldiers being detached to seek the woods on either hand, and make prisoner, or, in the event of resistance, put to death, any whom they might find lurking there, under what pretence soever. Meanwhile, the weather began to show itself as propitious to Cromwell, as he had found most incidents in the course of his successful career. The grey mist, which had hitherto obscured everything, and rendered marching in the wood embarrassing and difficult, had now given way to the moon, which, after many efforts, at length forced her way through the vapour, and hung her dim dull cresset in the heavens, which she enlightened, as the dying lamp of an anchorite does the cell in which he reposes. The party were in sight of the front of the palace, when Holdenough whispered to Everard, as they walked near each other—“See ye not—yonder flutters the mysterious light in the turret of the incontinent Rosamond. This night will try whether the devil of the Sectaries or the devil of the Malignants shall prove the stronger. O, sing jubilee, for the kingdom of Satan is divided against itself!” Here the divine was interrupted by a non-commissioned officer, who came hastily, yet with noiseless steps, to say, in a low stern whisper—“Silence, prisoner in the rear—silence, on pain of death.” A moment afterwards the whole party stopped their march, the word halt being passed from one to another, and instantly obeyed. The cause of this interruption was the hasty return of one of the flanking party to the main body, bringing news to Cromwell that they had seen a light in the wood at some distance on the left. “What can it be?” said Cromwell, his low stern voice, even in a

[Chap. 32]



367

whisper, making itself distinctly heard. “Does it move, or is it stationary?” “So far as we can judge, it moveth not,” answered the trooper. “Strange—there is no cottage near.” “So please your Excellency, it may be a device of Sathan,” said Corporal Humgudgeon, snuffling through his nose; “he is mighty powerful in these parts of late.” “So please your idiocy, thou art an ass,” said Cromwell; but, instantly recollecting that the corporal had been one of the adjutators or tribunes of the common soldiers, and was therefore to be treated with suitable respect, he said, “Nevertheless, even if it be the device of Satan, please it the Lord we will resist him, and the foul slave shall fly from us.—Pearson,” he said, resuming his soldier-like brevity, “take four file, and see what is yonder—No—the knaves may shrink from thee. Go thou straight to the Lodge—invest it in the way we agreed, so that a bird shall not escape out of it—form an outer and an inward ring of sentinels, but give no alarm until I come. Should any attempt to escape,  them”—He spoke that command with terrible emphasis.—“Kill them on the spot,” he repeated, “be they who or what they will. Better so, than cumber the Commonwealth with prisoners.” Pearson heard, and proceeded to obey his commander’s orders. Meanwhile, the future Protector disposed the small force which remained with him in such a manner, that they should approach from different points at once the light which excited his suspicions, and gave them orders to creep as near to it as they could, taking care not to lose each other’s support, and to be ready to rush in at the same moment, when he should give the sign, which was to be a low whistle. Anxious to ascertain the truth by his own eyes, Cromwell, who had by instinct all the habits of military foresight, which, in others, are the result of professional education and long experience, advanced upon the object of his curiosity. He skulked from tree to tree with the light step and prowling sagacity of an Indian bushfighter; and before any of his men were approached so near, he saw, by the lanthorn which was placed on the ground, two men, who had been engaged in digging what seemed to be an ill-made grave. Near them lay extended something wrapped in a deer’s hide, which greatly resembled the dead body of a man. They spoke together in a low voice, yet so that their dangerous auditor could perfectly overhear what they said. “It is done at last,” said one; “the worst and hardest labour I ever did in my life. I believe there is no luck about me left. My very arms feel as if they did not belong to me; and, strange to tell,

368



Vol. 3, ch. 9

work as I would, I could not gather warmth in my limbs.” “I have warmed me enough,” answered Rochecliffe, breathing short with fatigue. “But the cold lies at my heart,” said Josceline; “I scarce hope to be warm again. It is strange, and a charm seems to be on us. Here have we been nigh two hours in doing what Diggen the sexton would have done to better purpose in half a one.” “We are wretched spadesmen enough,” answered Doctor Rochecliffe. “Every man to his tools—thou to thy bugle-horn, and I to my papers in cypher.—But do not be discouraged; it is the frost in the ground, and the number of roots, which rendered our task difficult. And now, all due rites done to this unhappy man, and having read over him the service of the church, valeat quantum, let us lay him decently in this place of last repose; there will be small lack of him above ground. So cheer up thy heart, man, like a soldier as thou art. We have read the service over his body; and should times permit it, we will have him removed to consecrated ground, though he is all unworthy of such favour. Here, help me to lay him in the earth; we will drag briers and thorns over the spot, when we have shovelled dust upon dust; and do thou think of this chance more manfully; and remember, thy secret is in thine own keeping.” “I cannot answer for that,” said Josceline.—“Methinks the very night wind among the leaves will tell of what we have been doing —methinks the trees themselves will say, ‘there is a dead corpse lies among our roots.’ Witnesses are soon found when blood hath been spilled.” “They are so, and that right early,” exclaimed Cromwell, starting from the thicket, laying hold on Josceline, and putting a pistol to his head. At any other period of his life, the forester would, even against the odds of numbers, have made a desperate resistance. But the horror he had felt at the slaughter of an old companion, although in defence of Phœbe’s honour and his own life, together with fatigue and surprise, had altogether unmanned him, and he was seized as easily as a sheep is seized by the butcher. Doctor Rochecliffe offered some resistance, but was presently secured by the soldiers who pressed around him. “Look, some of you,” said Cromwell, “what corpse this is upon whom these lewd sons of Belial have done a murther—Corporal Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, see if thou knowst the face.” “I profess I do, even as I should do mine own in a mirror,” snuffled the corporal, after looking on the countenance of the dead man by the help of the lanthorn. “Of a verity it is one trusty brother in the faith, Joseph Tomkins.”

[Chap. 32]



369

“Tomkins!” exclaimed Cromwell, springing forwards and satisfying himself with a glance at the features of the corpse—“Tomkins? —and murdered, as the fracture of the temple intimates!—Dogs that ye are, confess the truth—You have murdered him because you have discovered his treachery—I should say his true spirit towards the Commonwealth of England, and his hatred of those complots in which you would have engaged his honest simplicity.” “Ay,” said Grace-be-here Humgudgeon, “and then to misuse his dead body with your papistical doctrines, as if you had crammed cold porridge into its cold mouth. I pray thee, General, let these men’s bonds be made strong.” “Forbear, corporal,” said Cromwell; “our time presses.—Friend, to you, whom I believe to be Doctor Anthony Rochecliffe by name and surname, I have to give the choice of being hanged at daybreak to-morrow, or making atonement for the murder of one of the Lord’s people, by telling what thou knowst of the secrets which are in yonder house.” “Truly, sir,” replied Rochecliffe, “you found me but in my duty as a clergyman, interring the dead; and respecting answering your questions, I am determined myself, and do advise my fellow-sufferer on this occasion”—— “Remove him,” said Cromwell; “I know his stiffneckedness of old, though I have made him plough in my furrow, when he thought he was turning up his own swathe—Remove him to the rear, and bring hither the other fellow.—Come thou here—this way—closer —closer.—Corporal Grace-be-here, do thou keep thy hand upon the belt wherewith he is bound. We must take care of our life for the sake of this distracted country, though, lack-a-day, for its own proper worth we would peril it for a pin’s point.—Now, mark me, fellow, choose betwixt buying thy life by a full confession, or being tucked presently up to one of these old oaks—How likest thou that?” “Truly, master,” answered the under-keeper, affecting more rusticity than was natural to him, (for his frequent intercourse with Sir Henry had partly softened and polished his manners,) “I think the oak is like to bear a lusty acorn—that is all.” “Dally not with me, friend,” continued Oliver; “I profess to thee in sincerity I am no trifler. What guests have you seen at yonder house called the Lodge?” “Many a brave guest in my day, I’se warrant ye, master,” said Josceline. “Ah, see how the chimneys used to smoke—some twelve years back! Ah, sir, a sniff of it would have dined a poor man.” “Out, rascal!” said the General, “doest thou jeer me? Tell me

370



Vol. 3, ch. 9

at once what guests have been of late in the Lodge—and look thee, friend, be assured, that in rendering me this satisfaction, thou shalt not only rescue thy neck from the halter, but render also an acceptable service to the State, and one which I will see fittingly rewarded. For, truly, I am not of those who would have the rain fall only on the proud and stately plants, but rather would, so far as my poor wishes and prayers are concerned, that it should also fall upon the lowly and humble grass and corn, that the heart of the husband may be rejoiced, and that as the cedar of Lebanon waxes in its height, in its boughs, and in its roots, so may the humble and lowly hyssop that groweth upon the walls flourish, and—and, truly —Understand’st thou me, knave?” “Not entirely, if it please your honour,” said Josceline; “but it sounds as if you were preaching a sermon, and hath a marvellous twang of doctrine with it.” “Then, in one word—thou know’st there is one Louis Kerneguy, or Carnego, or some such name, in hiding at the Lodge yonder?” “Nay, sir,” replied the under-keeper, “there have been many coming and going since Worcester-field; and how should I know who they are?—my service is out of doors, I trow.” “A thousand pounds,” said Cromwell, “do I tell down to thee, if thou can’st place that boy in my power.” “A thousand pound is a marvellous matter, sir,” said Josceline; “but I have more blood on my hand than I like already. I know not how the price of life may thrive—and, scape or hang, I have no mind to buy.” “Away with him to the rear,” said the General; “and let him not speak with his yoke-fellow yonder.—Fool that I am, to waste time in expecting to get milk from mules.—Move on towards the Lodge.” They moved with the same silence as formerly, notwithstanding the difficulties which they encountered from being unacquainted with the road and its various intricacies. At length they were challenged, in a low voice, by one of their own sentinels, two concentric circles of whom had been placed around the Lodge, so close to each other, as to preclude the possibility of an individual escaping from within. The outer guard was maintained partly by horse upon the roads and open lawn, and where the ground was broken and bushy, by infantry. The inner circle was guarded by foot soldiers only. The whole were in the highest degree alert, expecting some interesting and important consequences from the unusual expedition on which they were engaged. “Any news, Pearson?” said the General to his aid-de-camp, who came instantly to report to his superior.

[Chap. 32]



371

He received for answer, “None.” Cromwell led his officer forwards just opposite to the door of the Lodge, and there paused betwixt the circles of guards, so that their conversation could not be overheard. He then pursued his inquiry, demanding—“Were there any lights, any appearances of stirring—any attempt at sally—any preparation for defence?” “All as silent as the valley of the shadow of death—even as the vale of Jehosaphat.” “Pshaw! tell me not of Jehosaphat, Pearson,” said Cromwell. “These words are good for others, but not for thee. Say plainly, and like a blunt soldier as thou art. Each man hath his own mode of speech, and bluntness, not sanctity, is thine.” “Well then, nothing has been stirring,” said Pearson.—“Yet peradventure”—— “Peradventure not me,” said Cromwell, “or thou wilt tempt me to knock thy teeth out. I ever distrust a man when he speaks after another fashion from his own.” “Zounds! let me speak to an end,” answered Pearson, “and I will speak in what language your Excellency will.” “Thy Zounds, friend,” said Oliver, “savoureth little of grace, but much of sincerity. Go to—thou knowst I love and trust thee—hast thou kept close watch?—it behoves us to know that, before giving the alarm.” “On my soul,” said Pearson, “I have watched as closely as a cat a mouse-hole—made my rounds as often as any turnspit. It is beyond possibility that anything could have eluded our vigilance, or even stirred within the house without our being aware of it.” “’Tis well,” said Cromwell; “thy services shall not be forgotten, Pearson. Thou canst not preach and pray, but thou canst obey thine orders, Gilbert Pearson, and that may make amends.” “I thank your Excellency,” replied Pearson; “but I beg to chime in with the humours of the times. A poor fellow hath no right to hold himself singular.” He paused, expecting Cromwell’s orders what next was to be done, and, indeed, not a little surprised that the General’s active and prompt spirit had suffered him during a moment so critical to cast away a thought upon a circumstance so trivial as his officer’s peculiar mode of expressing himself. He wondered still more, when, by a brighter gleam of moonshine than he had yet enjoyed, he observed that the General was standing motionless, his hands supported upon the sword, which he had taken out of the belt, and his stern brows bent on the ground. He

372



Vol. 3, ch. 9

waited for some time impatiently, yet afraid to interpose, lest he should awaken this unwonted fit of ill-timed melancholy into anger and impatience. He listened to the muttering sounds which escaped from the half-opening lips of his principal, in which the words, “hard necessity,” which occurred more than once, were all of which the sense could be distinguished. “My Lord General,” at length he said, “time flies.” “Peace, busy fiend, and urge me not!”—said Cromwell. “Think’st thou, like other fools, that I have made a paction with the devil for success, and am bound to do my work within an appointed hour, lest the spell should lose its force?” “I only think, my Lord General,” said Pearson, “that Fortune has put into your offer what you have long desired to make prize of, and that you hesitate.” Cromwell sighed deeply as he answered, “Ah, Pearson, in this troubled world, a man, who is called like me to work great things in Israel, had need to be, as the poets feign, a thing made of hardened metal, immovable to feelings of human charities, impassible, resistless. Pearson, the world will hereafter, perchance, think of me as being such a one as I have described, ‘an iron man, and made of iron mould’—Yet they will wrong my memory—my heart is flesh, and my blood is mild as that of others. When I was a sportsman, I have wept for the gallant heron that was struck down by my hawk, and sorrowed for the hare which lay screaming under the jaws of my greyhound; and canst thou think it a light thing to me, that, the blood of this lad’s father lying in some measure upon my head, I should now put in peril that of the son? They are of the kindly race of English sovereigns, and, doubtless, are adored like to demigods by those of their own party. I am called parricide, bloodthirsty usurper already, for shedding the blood of one man, that the plague might be stayed—or as Achan was slain that Israel might thereafter stand against the face of their enemies. Nevertheless, who has spoke unto me graciously since that high deed? Those who acted in the matter with me are willing that I should be the scape-goat of atonement—those who looked on and helped not, bear themselves now as if they had been borne down by violence; and while men should applaud me, because of the victories of which the Lord had made me the poor instrument, they look aside to say, ‘Ha! ha! the Kingkiller, the parricide—soon shall his place be made desolate.’—Truly it is a great thing, Gilbert Pearson, to be lifted above the multitude; but when one feeleth that his exaltation is rather hailed with hate and scorn than with love and reverence—in sooth, it is a hard matter for a mild, tender-conscienced, infirm

[Chap. 32]



373

spirit to bear—and God be my witness, that rather than do this new deed, I would shed my own best heart’s-blood in a pitched field, fighting twenty against one.” Here he fell into a passion of tears, which he sometimes wont to do. This extremity of passion was of a singular character. It was not actually the result of penitence, and far less that of absolute hypocrisy, but arose merely from the temperature of that remarkable man, whose deep policy, and ardent enthusiasm, were intermingled with a strain of hypochondriac passion, which often led him to exhibit scenes of this sort, though seldom, as now, when he was called to the execution of great events. Pearson, well acquainted as he was with the peculiarities of his General, was baffled and confounded by this fit of hesitation and contrition, by which his enterprising spirit seemed to be so suddenly paralyzed. After a moment’s silence, he said, with some dryness of manner, “If this be the case, it is a pity your Excellency came hither. Corporal Humgudgeon and I, the greatest saint and greatest sinner in your army, had done the deed, and divided the guilt and the honour betwixt us.” “Ha!” said Cromwell, as if touched to the quick, “would’st then take the prey from the lion?” “If the lion behaves like a village cur,” said Pearson boldly, “who now barks and seems as if he would tear all to pieces, and now flies from a raised stick or a stone, I know not why I should fear him. If Lambert had been here, there had been less speaking and more action.” “Lambert? What of Lambert?” said Cromwell, very sharply. “Only,” said Pearson, “that I long since hesitated whether I should follow your Excellency or him—and I begin to be less certain that I have made the best choice, that’s all.” “Lambert!” exclaimed Cromwell impatiently, yet softening his voice lest he should be overheard descanting on the character of his rival,—“What is Lambert?—a tulip-fancying fellow, whom nature intended for a Dutch gardener at Delft or Rotterdam. Ungrateful as thou art, what could Lambert have done for thee?” “He would not,” answered Pearson, “have stood hesitating before a locked door, when fortune presented the means of securing, by one blow, his own fortune, and that of all who followed him.” “Thou art right, Gilbert Pearson,” said Cromwell, grasping his officer’s hand, and strongly pressing it. “Be the half of this bold accompt thine, whether the reckoning be on earth or heaven.” “Be the whole accompting mine hereafter,” said Pearson, hardily, “so your Excellency have the advantage of it upon earth. Step back to the rear till I force the door—there may be danger, if despair

374



Vol. 3, ch. 9

induce them to make a desperate sally.” “And if they do sally, is there one of my Ironsides who fear fire or steel less than myself?” said the General. “But ten of the most determined men follow us, two with halberts, two with petronels, the others with pistols—Let all their arms be loaded, and fire without hesitation, if there is any attempt to resist or to sally—Let Corporal Humgudgeon be with them, and do thou remain here, and watch against escape, as thou would’st watch for thy salvation.” The General then struck the door with the hilt of his sword—at first with a single blow or two, and then with a reverberation of strokes that made the ancient building ring again. This noisy summons was repeated once or twice without producing the least effect. “What can this mean?” said Cromwell; “they cannot surely have fled, and left the house empty?” “No,” replied Pearson, “I will ensure you against that; but your Excellence strikes so fiercely, you allow no time for an answer. Hark! I hear the baying of a hound, and the voice of a man who is quieting him—Shall we break in at once, or hold parley?” “I will speak to them first,” said Cromwell.—“Hollo! who is within there?” “Who is it inquires?” answered Sir Henry Lee from the interior; “or what want you here at this dead hour?” “We come by warrant of the Commonwealth of England,” said the General. “I must see your warrant before I undo either bolt or latch,” replied the knight; “we are enough of us to make good the castle: neither I nor my fellows will deliver it up but upon good quarter and conditions; and we will not treat for these save in fair daylight.” “Since you will not yield to our right, you must try our might,” replied Cromwell. “Look to yourselves within, the door will be in the midst of you in five minutes.” “Look to yourselves without,” replied the stout-hearted Sir Henry; “we will pour out shot upon you, if you attempt the least violence.” But, alas! while he assumed this bold language, his whole garrison consisted of two poor terrified women; for his son, in conformity with the plan which they had fixed upon, had withdrawn from the hall into the secret recesses of the palace. “What can they be doing now, sir?” said Phœbe, hearing a noise as it were of a carpenter turning screw-nails, mixed with a low buzz of men talking. “They are fixing a petard,” said the knight, with great composure. “I have noted thee for a clever wench, Phœbe, and I will explain it

[Chap. 32]



375

to thee: ’Tis a metal pot, shaped much like one of the roguish knaves’ own sugar-loaf hats, supposing it had narrower brims—’tis charged with some few pounds of fine gunpowder. Then”—— “Gracious! we shall be all blown up!” exclaimed Phœbe,—the word gunpowder being the only one which she understood in the knight’s description. “Not a bit, foolish girl. Pack old Dame Jellicot into the embrasure of yonder window,” said the knight, “on that side of the door, Phœbe and I will ensconce ourselves on this, and we shall have time to finish my explanation, for they have bungling engineers. We had a clever French fellow at Newark would have done the job in the firing of a pistol.” They had scarce got into the place of security, than the knight proceeded with his description.—“The petard being formed, as I tell you, is secured with a thick and strong piece of plank, termed the madrier, and the whole being suspended, or rather secured against the gate to be forced—But thou mindest me not?” “How can I, Sir Henry,” she said, “within reach of such a thing you speak of?—O Lord! I shall go mad with very terror—we shall be murthered in a few minutes!” “We are secure from the explosion,” replied the knight, gravely, “which will operate chiefly in a forward direction into the middle of the chamber; and from any fragments that may fly laterally, we are secured by this deep embrasure.” “But they will slay us when they enter,” said Phœbe. “They will give thee fair quarter, wench,” said Sir Henry; “and if I do not bestow a brace of balls on that rogue engineer, it is because I would not incur the penalty inflicted by martial law, which condemns to the edge of the sword all persons who attempt to defend an untenable post. Not that I think the rigour of the law could reach Dame Jellicot or yourself, Phœbe, considering that you carry no arms. If Alice had been here she might indeed have done somewhat, for she can use a birding-piece.” Phœbe might have appealed to her own deeds of that day, as more allied to feats of melée and battle, than any which her young lady ever acted; but she was in an agony of inexpressible terror, expecting, from the knight’s account of the petard, some dreadful catastrophe, of what nature she did not justly understand, notwithstanding his liberal communication on the subject. “They are strangely awkward at it,” said Sir Henry; “little Boutportant would have blown the house up before now.—Ah! he is a fellow would take the earth like a rabbit—if he had been here, never may I stir but he would have countermined them ere now, and

376



Vol. 3, ch. 9

——’Tis sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petard,

as our immortal Shakspeare has it.” “Oh, Lord! the poor mad old gentleman,” thought Phœbe— “Oh, sir, had you not better leave alone play-books, and think of your end?” uttered she aloud, in sheer terror and vexation of spirit. “If I had not made up my mind to that many a day since,” answered the knight, “I had not now met this hour with a free bosom— As gentle and as jocund as to rest, Go I to death—truth hath a quiet breast.”

As he spoke, a broad glare of light flashed from without through the windows of the hall, and betwixt the strong iron stanchions with which they were secured—a broad discoloured light that shed a red and dusky illumination on the old armour and weapons, as if it had been the reflection of a conflagration. Phœbe screamed aloud, and forgetful of reverence in the moment of passion, clung close to the knight’s cloak and arm, while Dame Jellicot, from her solitary niche, having the use of her eyes, though bereft of her hearing, screeched like an owl when the moon breaks out suddenly. “Take care, good Phœbe,” said the knight; “you will prevent my using my weapon if you hang upon me thus.—The bungling fools cannot fix their petard without the use of torches! Now let me take the advantage of this interval.—Remember what I told thee, and how to put off time.” “Oh, Lord—ay, sir,” said Phœbe, “I will say anything. Oh Lord, that it was but over!—Ah! ah!—(two prolonged screams)—I hear something hissing like a serpent.” “It is the fuse, as we martialists call it,” replied the knight; “that is, Phœbe, the match which fires the petard, and which is longer or shorter, according to the distance.” Here the knight’s discourse was cut short by a dreadful explosion, which, as he had foretold, shattered the door, strong as it was, to pieces, and brought down the glass clattering from the windows, with all the painted heroes and heroines, who had been recorded on that fragile place of memory for centuries. The women shrieked incessantly, and were answered by the bellowing of Bevis, though shut up at a distance from the scene of action. The knight, shaking Phœbe from him with difficulty, advanced into the hall to meet those who rushed in, with torches lighted, and weapons prepared. “Death to all who resist—life to those who surrender!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “Who commands this garrison?” “Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley,” answered the old knight, stepping

[Chap. 32]



377

forward; “who, having no other garrison than two weak women, is compelled to submit to what he would willingly have resisted.” “Disarm the inveterate and malignant rebel,” cried Oliver. “Art thou not ashamed, sir, to detain me before the door of a house which you had no force to defend? Wearest thou so white a beard, and knowst thou not, that to refuse surrendering an indefensible post, by the martial law, deserves hanging?” “My beard and I,” said Sir Henry, “have settled that matter between us, and agree right cordially. It is better to run the risk of being hanged, like honest men, than to give up our trust like cowards and traitors.” “Ha! say’st thou?” said Cromwell; “thou hast powerful motives, I doubt not, for running thy head into a noose. But I will speak with thee by and by.—Ho! Pearson, Gilbert Pearson, take thou this scroll—Take the elder woman with thee—Let her guide you to the various places therein mentioned—Search every room therein set down, and arrest, or slay upon the slightest resistance, whomsoever you find there. Then note those places marked as commanding points for cutting off intercourse through the mansion—the landingplace of the great staircase, the great gallery, and so forth. Use the woman civilly. The plan annexed to the scroll will point out the posts, even if she prove stupid or refractory. Meanwhile, the corporal, with a party, will bring the old man and the girl there to some apartment—the parlour, I think, called Victor Lee’s, will do as well as another. We will then be out of this stifling smell of gunpowder.” So saying, and without requiring any further assistance or guidance, he walked towards the apartment he had named. Sir Henry had his own feelings, when he saw the unhesitating decision with which the General led the way, and which seemed to intimate a more complete acquaintance with the various localities of Woodstock than was consistent with his own present design, to engage the Commonwealth party in a fruitless search through the intricacies of the Lodge. “I will now ask thee a few questions, old man,” said the General, when they had arrived in the room; “and I warn thee, that hope of pardon for thy many and persevering efforts against the Commonwealth, can be no otherwise merited than by the most direct answers to the questions I am about to ask.” Sir Henry bowed. He would have spoken, but he found his temper rising high, and became afraid it might be exhausted before the part he had settled to play, in order to afford the King time for his escape, should be brought to an end. “What household have you had here, Sir Henry, within this three

378



Vol. 3, ch. 9

days—what guests—what visitors? We know that your housekeeping is not so profuse as usual, so the catalogue cannot be burthensome to your memory.” “Far from it,” replied the knight, with unusual command of temper; “my daughter, and latterly my son, have been my guests; and I have had these females, and one Josceline Joliffe, to attend upon us.” “I do not ask after the regular members of your household, but after those who have been within your gates, either as guests, or as malignant fugitives seeking shelter.” “There may have been more of both kinds, sir, than I, if it please your valour, am able to answer for,” replied the knight.—“I remember my kinsman Everard was here one morning—Also, I bethink me of a follower of his, called Wildrake.” “Did you not also receive a young cavalier, called Louis Garnegey?” said Cromwell. “I remember no such suitor, were I to hang for it,” said the knight. “Kerneguy, or some such word,” said the General; “we will not quarrel for a sound.” “A Scotch lad, called Louis Kerneguy, was a guest of mine,” said Sir Henry, “and left me this morning for Dorsetshire.” “So late!” exclaimed Cromwell, stamping with his foot. “How fate contrives to baffle us, even when she seems most favourable! —What direction did he take, old man?” continued Cromwell— “what horse did he ride—who went with him?” “My son went with him,” replied the knight; “he brought him here as the son of a Scottish lord.—I pray you, sir, to be finished with these questions; for although I owe thee, as Will Shakspeare says, Respect for thy great place, and let the devil Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne,—

yet I feel my patience wearing thin.” “Thou mayst rest assured that I will not.” Cromwell then whispered to the corporal, who in turn uttered orders to two soldiers, who left the room. “Place the knight aside; we will now examine the servant damsel,” said the General.—“Doest thou know,” said he to Phœbe, “of the presence of one Louis Kerneguy, calling himself a Scotch page, who came here a few days since?” “Surely, sir,” she replied, “I cannot easily forget him; and I warrant no well-looking wench that comes into his way will be like to forget him.” “Aha,” said Cromwell, “say’st thou so? truly I believe the woman

[Chap. 32]



379

will prove the truer witness—When did he leave this house?” “Nay, I know nothing of his movements, not I,” said Phœbe; “I am only glad to keep out of his way. But if he have actually gone hence, I am sure he was here some two hours since, for he crossed me in the lower passage, between the hall and the kitchen.” “How did you know it was he?” demanded Cromwell. “By a rude enough token,” said Phœbe.—“La, sir, you do ask such questions!” she added, hanging down her head. Humgudgeon here interposed, taking upon himself the freedom of a coadjutor. “Verily,” he said, “if what the damsel is called to speak upon hath aught unseemly, I crave your Excellence’s permission to withdraw, not desiring that my nightly meditations may be disturbed with evils of such a nature.” “Nay, your honour,” said Phœbe, “I scorn the old man’s words, in the way of seemliness or unseemliness either. Master Louis did but snatch a kiss, that is the truth of it, if it must be told.” Here Humgudgeon groaned deeply, while his Excellency avoided laughing with some difficulty. “Thou hast given excelling tokens, Phœbe,” he said; “and if they be true, as I think they seem to be, thou shalt not lack thy reward.—And here comes our spy from the stables.” “There are not the least signs,” said the trooper, “that horses have been in the stables for a month—there is no litter in the stalls, no hay in the racks, the corn-binns are empty, and the mangers are full of cobwebs.” “Ay, ay,” said the old knight, “I have seen when I kept twenty good horses in these stalls, with many a groom and stable-boy to attend them.” “In the meanwhile,” said Cromwell, “their present state tells little for the truth of your own story, that there were horses to-day, on which this Kerneguy and your son fled from justice.” “I did not say that the horses were kept there,” said the knight. “I have horses and stables elsewhere.” “Fie, fie, for shame, for shame!” said the General; “can a whitebearded man, I ask it once more, bear false witness?” “Faith, sir,” said Sir Henry Lee, “it is a thriving trade, and I wonder not that you who live on it are so severe in prosecuting interlopers. But it is the times, and those who rule the times, that make grey-beards deceivers.” “Thou art facetious, friend, as well as daring, in thy malignancy,” said Cromwell; “but credit me, I will cry quittance with you ere I am done. Whereunto lead these doors?” “To bed-rooms,” answered the knight.

380



Vol. 3, ch. 9

“Bed-rooms! only to bed-rooms?” said the Republican General, in a voice which indicated, such was the internal occupation of his thoughts, that he had not fully understood the answer. “Lord, sir,” said the knight, “why should you make it so strange? I say these doors lead to bed rooms—to places where honest men sleep, and rogues lie awake.” “You are running up a farther accompt, Sir Henry,” replied the General; “but we will balance it once and for all.” During the whole of the scene, Cromwell, whatever might be the internal uncertainty of his mind, observed heedfully the most strict temperance in language and manner, just as if he had no further interest, than as a military man employed in discharging the duty enjoined him by his superiors. But the restraint upon his passion was but The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below.*

The course of his resolution was hurried on even more forcibly, because no violence of expression attended or announced its current. He threw himself into a chair, with a countenance that indicated no indecision of mind, but a determination which awaited only the signal for action. Meantime the knight, as if resolved in nothing to forego the privileges of his rank and place, sat himself down in turn, and putting on his hat which lay on the table, regarded the General with a calm look of fearless indifference. The soldiers stood around, some holding the torches, which illuminated the apartment with a lurid and sombre glare of light, the others resting upon their weapons. Phœbe, with her hands folded, her eyes turned upwards till the pupils were scarce visible, and every shade of colour banished from her ruddy cheek, stood like one in immediate apprehension of the sentence of death being pronounced, and instant execution commanded. Heavy steps were at last heard, and Pearson and some of the soldiers returned. This seemed to be what Cromwell waited for. He started up, and asked hastily, “Any news, Pearson? any prisoners —any malignants slain in their defence?” “None, so please your Excellency,” said the officer. “And are thy sentinels all carefully placed, as Tomkins’s scroll gave direction, and with fitting orders?” “With the most deliberate care,” replied Pearson. “Art thou very sure,” said Cromwell, pulling him a little to one side, “that this is all well and duly cared for? Bethink thee, that * But mortal pleasure, what art thou in truth? The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below. C ’s Gertrude of Wyoming.

[Chap. 32]



381

when we engage ourselves in the private communications, all will be lost should the party we look for have the means of dodging us by an escape into the more open rooms, and from thence perhaps into the forest.” “My Lord General,” answered Pearson, “if placing the guards as pointed out in this scroll be sufficient, with the strictest orders to stop, and, if necessary, stab or shoot, whomsoever crosses their post—such orders to men who will not fail to execute them. If more is necessary, your Excellency has only to speak.” “No—no—no, Pearson,” said the General, “thou hast done well this night, and let it end but as we hope, thy reward shall not be awanting.—And now to business.—Sir Henry Lee, undo me the secret spring of yonder picture of your ancestor—Nay, spare yourself the trouble and guilt of falsehood or equivocation, and, I say, undo me that spring presently.” “When I acknowledge you for my master, and wear your livery, I may obey your commands,” answered the old man; “even then I would need first to understand them.” “Wench,” said Cromwell, addressing Phœbe, “go thou undo the spring—you could do it fast enough when you aided at the gambols of the demons of Woodstock, and terrified even Mark Everard, who, I judged, had more sense.” “Oh, Lord, sir, what shall I do?” said Phœbe, looking to the knight; “they know all about it.” “For thy life, hold out to the last, wench! Every minute is worth a million.” “Ha! heard you that, Pearson?” said the General to the officer; then stamping with his foot, he added, “Undo the spring, or I will use levers and wrenching-irons—Or, ha!—another petard were well bestowed—Call the engineer.” “Oh, Lord, sir,” cried Phœbe, “I shall never live over another peter—I will open the spring.” “Do as thou wilt,” said Sir Henry; “it shall profit them but little.” Whether from real agitation, or from a desire to gain time, Phœbe was some minutes ere she could get the spring to open; it was, indeed, secured with art, and the machinery on which it acted was concealed in the frame of the portrait. The whole, when fastened, appeared quite motionless, and betrayed, as when examined by Everard, no external mark of its being possible to remove it. It was now withdrawn, however, and showed a narrow recess, with steps which ascended on one side into the thickness of the wall. Cromwell was now like a greyhound slipped from the leash with the prey in full view.—“Up,” he cried, “Pearson, thou art swifter than I—Up

382



Vol. 3, ch. 10

thou next, corporal.” With more agility than could have been expected from his person or years, which were past the meridian of life, and exclaiming, “Before, those with the torches!” he followed the party, like an eager huntsman in the rear of his hounds, to encourage at once and direct them, as they penetrated into the labyrinth described by Doctor Rochecliffe in the “Wonders of Woodstock.”

Chapter Ten The King, therefore, for her defence Against the furious Queen, At Woodstock builded such a bower, As never yet was seen. Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong; An hundered and fifty doors Did to this bower belong: And they so cunningly contrived, With turnings round about, That none but with a clew of thread Could enter in or out. Ballad of Fair Rosamond

T   of the country, as well as some historical evidence, confirmed the opinion that there existed, within the old Royal Lodge at Woodstock, a labyrinth, or connected series of subterranean passages, built chiefly by Henry II., for the security of his mistress, Rosamond Clifford, from the jealousy of his Queen, the celebrated Eleanor. Doctor Rochecliffe, indeed, in one of those fits of contradiction with which antiquaries are sometimes seized, was bold enough to dispute the alleged purpose of the perplexed maze of rooms and passages with which the walls of the ancient palace were perforated. But the fact was undeniable, that in raising the fabric some Norman architect had exerted the utmost of the complicated art, which they have often shown elsewhere, in creating secret passages, and chambers of retreat and concealment. There were stairs, which were ascended merely, as it seemed, for the purpose of descending again —passages which, after turning and winding for a considerable way, returned to the place whence they set out—there were trapdoors and hatchways, sliding pannels and portcullises. Although Oliver was assisted by a sort of ground-plan, made out and transmitted by Joseph Tomkins, whose former employment in Doctor Rochecliffe’s services had made him fully acquainted with the place, it was found imperfect; and, moreover, the most serious obstacles to their progress occurred in the shape of strong doors, party-walls, and iron-grates—so that the party blundered on in the dark, uncertain

[Chap. 33]



383

whether they were not going farther from, rather than approaching, the extremity of the labyrinth. They were obliged to send for mechanics, with sledge-hammers and other instruments, to force one or two of those doors, which resisted all other means of undoing them. Labouring along in these dusty passages, where, from time to time, they were like to be choked by the dust which their acts of violence excited, the soldiers were obliged to be relieved oftener than once, and the bulky Corporal Grace-be-here himself puffed and blew like a grampus that has got into shoal water. Cromwell alone continued, with unabated zeal, to push on his researches—to encourage the soldiers, by the exhortations which they best understood, against fainting for lack of faith—and to secure, by sentinels at proper places, possession of the ground which they had already explored. His acute and observing eye detected, with a sneering smile, the cordage and machinery by which the bed of poor Desborough had been inverted, and several remains of the various disguises, as well as private modes of access, by which Desborough, Bletson, and Harrison, had been previously imposed upon. He pointed them out to Pearson, with no further comment than was implied in the ejaculation, “The simple fools!” But his assistants began to lose heart and be discouraged, and required his spirit to raise theirs. He then called their attention to noises which they seemed to hear before them, and urged these as evidence that they were moving on the track of some enemy of the Commonwealth, who, for the execution of his malignant plots, had retreated into these extraordinary fastnesses. The spirits of the men became at last downcast, notwithstanding all this encouragement. They spoke to each other in whispers, of the devils of Woodstock, who might be all this while decoying them forwards to a room said to exist in the Palace, where the floor, revolving on an axis, precipitated those who entered into a bottomless abyss. Humgudgeon hinted, that he had consulted the Scripture that morning by way of lot, and his fortune had been to alight on the passage, “Eutychus fell down from the third loft.” The energy and authority of Cromwell, however, and the refreshment of some food and strong waters, reconciled them to pursuing their task. Nevertheless, with all his untired exertion, morning dawned on the search before they had reached Doctor Rochecliffe’s sitting apartment, into which, after all, they obtained entrance by a mode much more difficult than that which the doctor himself usually employed. But here their ingenuity was long at fault. From the miscellaneous articles that were strewed around, and the preparations made for

384



Vol. 3, ch. 10

food and lodging, it seemed they had gained the very citadel of the labyrinth; but though various passages opened from it, they all terminated in places with which they were already acquainted, or communicated with the other parts of the house, where their own sentinels assured them no one had passed. Cromwell remained long in deep uncertainty. Meantime he directed Pearson to take care of the ciphers, and more important papers which lay on the table. “Though there is little there,” he said, “that I have not already known, by means of Trusty Tomkins—Honest Joseph—for an artful and thorough-paced agent, the like of thee is not left in England.” After a considerable pause, during which he sounded with the pummel of his sword almost every stone in the building, and every plank on the floor, the General gave orders to bring the old knight and Doctor Rochecliffe to the spot, trusting that he might work out of them some explanation of the secrets of this apartment. “So please your Excellency, to let me deal with them,” said Pearson, who was a thorough-paced soldier of fortune, and had been a buccaneer in the West Indies, “I think that, by a whip-cord twitched tight round their forehead, and twisted round with a pistol-but, I could make either the truth start from their lips, or the eyes from their head.” “Out upon thee, Pearson!” said Cromwell, with abhorrence; “we have no warrant for such cruelty, neither as Englishmen nor Christians. We may slay malignants as we may crush noxious animals, but to torture them is a deadly sin; for it is written, ‘He made them to be pitied of those who carried them captive.’ Nay, I recall the order even for their examination, trusting that wisdom will be granted us to discover their most secret devices.” There was a pause accordingly, during which an idea seized upon Cromwell’s imagination—“Bring me hither,” he said, “yonder stool;” and placing it beneath one of the windows, of which there were two so high in the wall as not to be accessible from the floor, he clambered up into the embrasure of the window, which was six or seven feet deep, corresponding with the thickness of the wall. “Come up hither, Pearson,” said the General; “but, ere thou comest, double the guard at the foot of the turret called Love’s Ladder, and bid them bring up the other petard—So now, come thou hither.” The officer, however brave in the field, was one of those whom a great height strikes with giddiness and sickness. He shrunk back from the view of the precipice, on the verge of which Cromwell was standing with complete insensibility, till the General, catching the hand of his follower, pulled him forwards as far as he would advance. “I think,” said the General, “I have found the clew, but

[Chap. 33]



385

by this light it is no easy one! See you, we stand in the portal near the top of Rosamond’s Tower; and yon turret, which rises opposite to our feet, is that which is called Love’s Ladder, from which the draw-bridge reached that admitted the profligate Norman tyrant to the bower of his mistress.” “True, my lord, but the drawbridge is gone,” said Pearson. “Ay, Pearson,” replied the General; “but an active man might spring from the spot we stand upon to the battlements of yonder turret.” “I do not think so, my lord,” said Pearson. “What!” said Cromwell; “not if the avenger of blood were behind you, with his slaughter-weapon in his hand?” “The fear of death might do much,” answered Pearson; “but when I look at that tremendous depth on either side—at the empty chasm between us and yonder turret, which is, I warrant you, twelve feet distant, I confess the truth, nothing short of the most imminent danger should induce me to try. Pah—the thought makes my head grow giddy!—I tremble to see your Highness stand there, balancing yourself as if you meditated a spring into the empty air. I repeat, I would scarce stand so near the verge as does your Highness, for the rescue of my life.” “Ah, base and degenerate spirit!” said the General; “soul of mud and clay, wouldst thou not do it, and much more, for the possession of empire!—that is, peradventure,” continued he, changing his tone as one who has said too much, “shouldst thou be called on to do this, that thereby becoming a great man in the tribes of Israel, thou mightest redeem the captivity of Jerusalem— ay, and it may be, work some great work for the afflicted people of this land.” “Your Highness may feel such calls,” said the officer; “but it is not for poor Gilbert Pearson, your faithful follower. You made a jest of me yesterday when I tried to speak your language; and I am no more able to fulfil your designs, than to use your mode of speech.” “But, Pearson, thou hast thrice, yea four times, called me your Highness, I think,” said the General. “Did I, my lord? I was not sensible of it. I crave your pardon,” said the officer. “Nay,” said Oliver, “there was no offence. I do indeed stand high, and I may perchance stand higher—though, alas, it were fitter for a simple soul like me to return to my plough and my husbandry. Nevertheless, I will not wrestle against the Supreme will, should I be called on to do yet more in that worthy cause. For surely he who hath been to our British Israel as a shield of help, and a sword

386



Vol. 3, ch. 10

of excellency, making her enemies be found lyers unto her, will not give over the flock to those foolish shepherds of Westminster, who shear the sheep and feed them not, and who are in very deed hirelings, not shepherds.” “I trust to see your lordship quoit them all down stairs,” answered Pearson. “But may I ask why we pursue this discourse even now, until we have secured the common enemy?” “I will tarry no jot of time—” said the General; “force the communication of Love’s Ladder, as it is called, below, and I take it for almost certain, that the party whom we have driven from fastness to fastness during the night, has at length sprung to the top of yonder battlements from the place where we now stand, and finding the turret is guarded below, the place he has chosen for his security will prove a rat-trap, from whence there is no returning.” “There is a cask of gunpowder in this cabinet,” said Pearson; “were it not better, my lord, mine the tower, if he will not render himself, and send the whole turret with its contents one hundred feet into the air?” “Ah, silly man,” said Cromwell, striking him familiarly on the shoulder; “if thou hadst done this without telling me, it had been good service. But we will first summon the turret, and then think whether the petard will serve our turn—it is but mining at last.— Blow a summons there, down below.” The trumpets rung at his bidding, till the old walls echoed from every recess and vaulted arch-way. Cromwell, as if he cared not to look upon the person whom he expected to appear, drew back, like a necromancer afraid of the spectre which he had evoked. “He has come to the battlement,” said Pearson to his General. “In what dress or appearance?” answered Cromwell from within the chamber. “A grey riding-suit, passmented with silver, russet walking-boots, a cut band, a grey hat and plume, black hair.” “It is he, it is he,” said Cromwell; “and another crowning mercy is vouchsafed!” Meantime, Pearson and young Lee exchanged defiance from their respective posts. “Surrender,” said the former, “or we blow you up in your fastness.” “I am come of too high a race to surrender to rebels,” said Albert, assuming the air with which, in such a condition, a king might have spoken. “I bear you to witness,” cried Cromwell, exultingly, “he hath refused quarter. Of a surety, his blood be on his head.—One of you bring down the barrel of powder. As he loves to soar high, we

[Chap. 33]



387

will add what can be taken from the men’s bandeliers.—Come with me, Pearson; thou understandest this gear.—Corporal Gracebe-here—Stand thou fast on the platform of the window, where Captain Pearson and I stood but even now, and bend the point of thy partizan against any who shall attempt to pass. Thou art as strong as a bull; and I will back thee against despair itself.” “But,” said the corporal, mounting reluctantly, “the place is as the pinnacle of the Temple; and it is written, that Eutychus fell down from the third loft, and was taken up dead.” “Because he slept upon his post,” answered Cromwell readily. “Beware thou of carelessness, and thus thy feet shall be kept from stumbling.—You four soldiers, remain here to support the corporal, if it be necessary; and you, as well as the corporal, will draw into the vaulted passage the minute the trumpets sound a retreat. It is as strong as a casemate, and you may lie there safe from the effect of the mine. Thou, Zerobabel Robins, I know thou wilt be their lance-prisade.” Robins bowed, and the General departed to join those who were without. As he reached the door of the hall, the petard was heard to explode, and he saw that it had succeeded; for the soldiers rushed, brandishing their swords and pistols, in at the postern of the turret, whose gate had been successfully forced. A thrill of exultation, but not unmingled with horror, shot across the veins of the ambitious soldier. “Now—now!” he cried; “they are dealing with him!” His expectations were deceived. Pearson and the others returned disappointed, and reported they had been stopt at ten steps up by a strong trap-door of grated iron, extended over the narrow stair; and they could see there was an obstacle of the same kind some ten feet higher. To remove it by force, while a desperate and wellarmed man had the advantage of the steps above them, might cost many lives. “Which, lack-a-day,” said the General, “it is our duty to be tender of. What doest thou advise, Gilbert Pearson?” “We must use powder, my lord,” answered Pearson, who saw his master was determined he should have the whole merit of the proceeding—“There may be a chamber easily and conveniently formed under the foot of the stair. We have a sausage, by good luck, to form the train—and so——” “Ah!” said Cromwell, “I know thou canst manage such gear well—But, Gilbert, I go from hence to visit the posts, and give them orders to retire to a safe distance when the retreat is sounded. You will allow them five minutes for this purpose.”

388



Vol. 3, ch. 10

“Three is enough for any knave of them all,” said Pearson. “They will be lame indeed, that require more on such a service—I ask but one, though I fire the train myself.” “Take heed,” said Cromwell, “that the poor soul be listened to, if he ask quarter. It may be he repent him of his hard-heartedness, and call for mercy.” “And mercy he shall have—” answered Pearson, “providing he calls loud enough to make me hear; for the explosion of that damned petard has made me as deaf as the devil’s dam.” “Hush, Gilbert, hush!” said Cromwell; “you offend in your language.” “Zooks, sir, I must speak either in your way, or in my own,” said Pearson, “unless I am to be dumb as well as deaf.—Away with you, my lord, to visit the posts; and you will presently hear me make some noise in the world.” Cromwell smiled gently at his aid-de-camp’s petulance, patted him on the shoulder, and called him a mad fellow, walked a little way, then turned back to whisper, “What thou doest, do quickly;” then returned again towards the outer circle of guards, turning his head from time to time, as if to assure himself that the corporal, to whom he had intrusted the duty, still kept guard with his advanced weapon upon the terrific chasm between Rosamond’s Tower and the corresponding turret. Seeing him standing on his post, the General muttered between his mustachios, “The fellow hath the strength and courage of a bear; and yonder is a post where one shall do more to keep back than an hundred in making way.” He cast a last look at the gigantic figure who stood in that airy position, like some Gothic statue, the weapon half levelled against the opposite turret, with the but rested against his right foot, his steel cap and burnished corslet glittering in the rising sun. Cromwell then passed on to give the necessary orders, that such sentinels as might be endangered at their present posts by the effect of the mine, should withdraw at the sound of the trumpet to the places which he pointed out to them. Never, on any occasion in his life, did he display more calmness and presence of mind. He was kind, nay, facetious with the soldiers, who adored him. And yet he resembled a volcano before the eruption commences—all peaceful and quiet without, while an hundred contradictory passions were raging in his bosom. Corporal Humgudgeon meanwhile remained steady upon his post; yet, though as determined a soldier as ever fought among the redoubted regiment of Ironsides, and possessed of no small share of that exalted fanaticism which lent so keen an edge to the natural

[Chap. 33]



389

courage of those stern religionists, the veteran felt his present situation to be highly uncomfortable. Within a pike’s length of him arose a turret, which was about to be dispersed in massive fragments through the air; and he felt small confidence in the length of time which might be allowed for his escape from such a dangerous vicinity. The duty of constant vigilance upon his post, was partly diverted by this natural feeling, which induced him from time to time to bend his eyes on the miners below, instead of keeping them rivetted on the opposite turret. At length the interest of the scene arose to the uttermost. After entering and returning from the turret called Love’s Ladder, and coming out again more than once in the course of about twenty minutes, Pearson issued from it, as it might be supposed, for the last time, carrying in his hand, and uncoiling as he went along, the sausage, or linen bag, (so called from its appearance,) which, strongly sewed together, and crammed with gunpowder, was to serve as a train betwixt the mine to be sprung, and the point occupied by the engineer who was to give fire. He was in the act of finally adjusting it, when the attention of the corporal on the tower became irresistibly and exclusively rivetted upon the preparations for the explosion. But while he watched the aid-de-camp drawing his pistol to give fire, and the trumpeter handling his instrument, awaiting the order to sound the retreat, fate rushed on the unlucky sentinel in a way he least expected. Young, active, bold, and completely possessed of his presence of mind, Albert Lee, who had been from the loop-holes a watchful observer of every measure which had been taken by his besiegers, had resolved to make one desperate effort for self-preservation. While the head of the sentinel on the opposite platform was turned from him, and bent rather downwards, he suddenly sprung across the chasm, though the space on which he lighted was scarce wide enough for two persons, threw the surprised soldier from his precarious stand, and jumped himself down into the chamber. The gigantic trooper went sheer down twenty feet, struck against a projecting battlement, which launched the wretched man outwards, and then fell on the earth with such tremendous force, that the head, which first touched the ground, dinted a hole in the soil of six inches in depth, and was crushed like an egg-shell. Scarce knowing what had happened, yet startled and confounded at the descent of this heavy body, which fell at no great distance from him, Pearson snapt his pistol at the train, no previous warning given; the powder caught, and the mine exploded. Had it been strongly charged with powder, many of those without might have suffered; but the explosion was

390



Vol. 3, ch. 10

only powerful enough to blow out, in a lateral direction, a part of the wall just above the foundation, sufficient, however, to destroy the equipoise of the building. Then amid a cloud of smoke, which began gradually to encircle the turret like a shrowd, arising slowly from its base to its summit, it was seen to stagger and shake, by all who had courage to look steadily at a sight so dreadful. Slowly, at first, the building inclined outwards, then rushed precipitately to its base, and fell to the ground in huge fragments, the strength of its adhesion showing the excellence of the mason-work. The engineer, so soon as he had fired the train, fled in such an alarm, that he well nigh ran against his General, who was advancing towards him, while a huge stone from the summit of the building, flying farther than the rest, lighted within a yard of them. “Thou hast been over hasty, Pearson,” said Cromwell, with the greatest composure possible—“hath no one fallen in that same tower of Siloe?” “Some one fell,” said Pearson, still in great agitation, “and yonder lies his body half-buried in the rubbish.” With a quick and resolute step Cromwell approached the spot, and exclaimed, “Pearson, thou hast ruined me—the young man hath escaped.—This is our own sentinel—plague on the idiot! Let him rot beneath the ruins which crushed him!” A cry now resounded from the platform of Rosamond’s Tower, which appeared yet taller than formerly, deprived of the neighbouring turret, which emulated, though it did not attain to its height,—“A prisoner, noble General—a prisoner—the fox whom we have chased all night is now in the snare—the Lord hath delivered him into the hand of his servants.” “Look you keep him in safe custody,” exclaimed Cromwell, “and bring him presently down to the apartment from which the secret passages have their principal entrance.” “Your Excellency shall be obeyed.”— The fate of Albert Lee, to which these exclamations related, had been singular and unfortunate. He had dashed from the platform, as we have related, the gigantic strength of the soldier opposed to him, and had instantly jumped down into Rochecliffe’s chamber. But the soldiers stationed there threw themselves upon him, and, after a struggle, which was hopelessly maintained against such advantage of numbers, had thrown the young cavalier to the ground, two of them, drawn down by his strenuous exertions, falling across him. At the same moment a sharp and severe report was heard, which, like a clap of thunder in the immediate vicinity, shook all around them, till the strong and solid tower tottered like the mast

[Chap. 33]



391

of a stately vessel when about to part by the board. In a few seconds this was followed by another sullen sound, at first low and deep, but augmenting like the rush of an immense avalanche, as it descends, reeling, roaring, and rushing, as if to astound both heaven and earth. So awful, indeed, was the sound of the neighbour tower as it fell, that both the captive, and those who struggled with him, remained for a minute or two stunned, passive in each other’s grasp. Albert was the first who recovered consciousness and activity. He shook off those who lay above him, and made a desperate effort to gain his feet, in which he partly succeeded. But as he had to deal with men accustomed to every species of danger, and whose energies were recovered nearly as soon as his own, he was completely secured, and his arms held down. Loyal and faithful to his trust, and resolved to sustain to the last the character which he had assumed, he exclaimed, as his struggles were finally overpowered, “Rebel villains! would you slay your king?” “Ha, heard you that!” cried one of the soldiers to the lanceprisade,* who commanded the party. “Shall I not strike this son of a wicked father under the fifth rib, even as the tyrant of Moab was smitten by Ehud with a dagger of a cubit’s length?” But Robins answered, “Be it far from us, Merciful Strickalthrow, to slay in cold blood the captive of our bow and our spear. Methinks, since the storm of Tredagh† we have shed enough of blood— therefore, on your lives do him no evil; but take from him his arms, and let us bring him before the chosen Instrument, even our General, that he may do with him what is meet in his eyes.” By this time the soldier, whose exultation had made him the first to communicate the intelligence from the battlement to Cromwell, returned, and brought commands corresponding to the orders of their temporary officer; and Albert Lee, disarmed and bound, was conducted as a captive into the apartment which derived its name from the victories of his ancestor, and placed in the presence of General Cromwell. Running over in his mind the time which had elapsed since the departure of Charles, till the siege, if it may be termed so, had terminated in his own capture, Albert had every reason to hope that his Royal Master must have had time to accomplish his escape. Yet he determined to maintain to the last a deceit, which might for a time insure the King’s safety. The difference betwixt them could * “Lance-prisade,” or “lance-brisade,” a private appointed to a small command—a sort of temporary corporal. † Tredagh, or Drogheda, was taken by Cromwell in 1649, by storm, and the governor and whole garrison put to the sword.

392



Vol. 3, ch. 11

not, he thought, be instantly discovered, begrimed as he was with dust and smoke, and with blood issuing from some scratches received in the scuffle. In this evil plight, but bearing himself with such dignity as was adapted to the princely character, Albert was ushered into the apartment of Victor Lee, where, in his father’s own chair, reclined the triumphant enemy of the cause to which the House of Lee had been hereditarily faithful.

Chapter Eleven A barren title hast thou bought too dear; Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a King? Henry IV. Part I

O  C  arose from his seat as the two veteran soldiers, Zerobabel Robins and Merciful Strickalthrow, introduced into the apartment the prisoner, whom they held by the arms, and fixed his stern hazel eye on Albert long before he could give vent to the ideas which were swelling in his bosom. Exultation was the most predominant. “Art not thou,” he at length said, “that Egyptian, which, before these days, madest an uproar, and leddest out into the wilderness many thousand men, who were murderers?—Ha, youth! I have hunted thee from Stirling to Worcester, and we are met at last!” “I would,” replied Albert, speaking in the character which he had assumed, “that we had met where I could have shown thee the difference betwixt a rightful King and an ambitious Usurper!” “Go to, young man,” said Cromwell; “say rather the difference between a Judge raised up for the redemption of England, and the son of those Kings whom the Lord in his anger permitted to reign over her. But we will not waste useless words. God knows that it is not of our will that we are called to such high matters, being as humble in our thoughts as we are of ourselves; and in our unassisted nature frail and foolish, and unable to render a reason saving for the better spirit within us, which is not of us.—Thou art weary, young man, and thy nature requires rest and refection, being doubtless dealt with delicately, as one who hath fed on the fat, and drunk of the sweet, and who hath been clothed in purple and fine linen.” Here the General suddenly stopt, and then abruptly exclaimed —“But is this—Whom have we here?—these are not the locks of the swarthy lad Charles Stuart—A cheat! a cheat!”

[Chap. 34]



393

Albert hastily cast his eyes on a mirror which stood in the room, and perceived that a dark peruke, found among Doctor Rochecliffe’s miscellaneous wardrobe, had been disordered in the scuffle, and that his own light-brown hair was escaping from beneath it. “Who is this?” said Cromwell, again stamping with fury—“Pluck the disguise from him.” The soldiers did so; and bringing him at the same time towards the light, the deception could not be maintained for a moment longer, with any possibility of success. Cromwell came up to him with his teeth set, and grinding against each other as he spoke, his hands clenched, and trembling with emotion, and speaking with a voice low-pitched, bitterly and deeply emphatic, such as might have preceded a stab with his dagger. “Thy name, young man?” He was answered calmly and firmly, while the countenance of the speaker wore a cast of triumph, and even contempt. “Albert Lee of Ditchley, a faithful subject of King Charles.” “I might have guessed it,” said Cromwell.—“Ay, and to King Charles thou shalt go, as soon as it is noon on the dial.—Pearson,” he continued, “let him be conveyed to the others; and let them be executed at twelve exactly.” “All, sir?” said Pearson, surprised; for Cromwell, though he at times made formidable examples, was, in general, by no means sanguinary. “All—” repeated Cromwell, fixing his eye on young Lee.—“Yes, young sir, your conduct has devoted to death thy father, thy kinsman, and the stranger that was in thine household. Such wreck hast thou brought on thy father’s house.” “My father too—my aged father!” said Albert, looking upward, and endeavouring to raise his hands in the same direction, which was prevented by his bonds. “The Lord’s will be done!” “All this havoc can be saved, if,” said the General, “thou wilt but answer a single question—Where is the young Charles Stuart, who was called King of Scotland?” “Under Heaven’s protection, and safe from thy power,” was the firm and unhesitating answer of the young royalist. “Away with him to prison,” said Cromwell; “and from thence to execution with the rest of them, as malignants taken in the fact. Let a court martial sit on them presently.” “One word,” said young Lee, as they led him from the room. “Stop, stop,” cried Cromwell, with the agitation of renewed hope —“let him be heard.” “You love texts of scripture,” said Albert—“Let this be the subject

394



Vol. 3, ch. 11

of your next homily—‘Had Zimri peace, who slew his master?’ ” “Away with him,” said the General; “let him die the death.—I have said it.” As Cromwell spoke these words, his aid-de-camp observed that he became unwontedly pale. “Your Excellence is over-toiled in the public service,” said Pearson; “a course of the stag in the evening will refresh you—the old knight hath a noble hound here, if we can but get him to hunt without his master, which may be hard, as he is faithful, and”—— “Hang him up!” said Cromwell. “What—whom—hang the noble dog? Your Excellence was wont to love a good hound.” “It matters not,” said Cromwell; “let him be killed. Is it not written, that they slew in the valley of Achor, not only the accursed Achan, with his sons and his daughters, but also his oxen and his asses, and his sheep, and every live thing belonging unto him? And even thus shall we do to the malignant family of Lee, who have aided Sisera in his flight, when Israel might have been delivered of his trouble for ever. But send out couriers and patrols—follow, pursue, search in every direction—let my horse be ready at the door in five minutes, or bring me the first thou canst find.” It seemed to Pearson that this was something wildly spoken, and that the cold perspiration was standing upon the General’s brow as he said it. He therefore again pressed the necessity of repose, and it would appear that nature seconded strongly the representation. Cromwell arose, and made a step or two towards the door of the apartment; but stopped, staggered, and, after a pause, sate down in a chair. “Truly, friend Pearson,” he said, “this weary carcase of ours is an impediment to us, even in our most necessary business, and I am fitter to sleep than to watch, which is not my wont. Place guards, therefore, till we repose ourselves for an hour or two. Send out in every direction—and spare not for horses’ flesh. Wake me if the court martial should require instruction, and forget not to see the sentence punctually executed on the Lees, and those who are arrested with them.” As Cromwell spoke thus, he arose and half-opened a bed-room door, when Pearson again craved pardon for asking if he had rightly understood his Excellency, that all the prisoners were to be executed. “Have I not said it?” answered Cromwell, displeasedly. “Is it because thou art a man of blood, and hast ever been, that thou dost affect these scruples to show thyself tender-hearted at my expense? I tell thee, that if there lack one in the full tale of execution, thine own life shall pay the forfeit.”

[Chap. 34]



395

So saying, he entered the apartment, followed by the groom of his chamber, who attended upon Pearson’s summons. When his General had retired, Pearson remained in great perplexity what he ought to do; and that from no scruples of conscience, but from uncertainty whether he might not err either in postponing, or in too hastily and too literally executing, the instructions he had received. In the meantime, Strickalthrow and Robins had returned, after lodging Albert in prison, to the room where Pearson was still musing on his General’s commands. Both these men were adjutators in their army, and old soldiers, whom Cromwell was accustomed to treat with great familiarity; so that Robins had no hesitation to ask Captain Pearson, “Whether he meant to execute the commands of the General, even to the letter?” Pearson shook his head with an air of doubt, but added, “there was no choice left.” “Be assured,” said the old man, “that if thou doest this folly, thou wilt cause Israel to sin, and that the General will not be pleased with your service. Thou knowst, and none better than thou, that although Oliver be like unto David the son of Jesse, in faith, and wisdom, and courage, yet there are times when the evil spirit cometh upon him as it did upon Saul, and he uttereth commands which he will not thank any one for executing.” Pearson was too good a politician to assent directly to a proposition which he could not deny—he only shook his head once more, and said that it was easy for those to talk who were not responsible, but the soldier’s duty was to obey his orders, and not to judge of them. “Very righteous truth,” said Merciful Strickalthrow, a grim old Scotsman; “I marvel where our brother Zerobabel caught up this softness of heart?” “Why, I do but wish,” said Zerobabel, “that four or five human creatures may draw the breath of God’s air for a few hours more; there can be small harm done by delaying the execution, so that the prison is well watched,—and the General will have some time for reflection.” “Ay,” said Captain Pearson, “but I in my service must be more pointedly obsequious, than thou in thy plainness art bound to be, friend Zerobabel.” “Then shall the coarse frieze-cassock of the private soldier bear out the blast with the gilded livery of the captain,” said Zerobabel. “Ay, indeed, I can show you warrant why we be aidful to each other in doing acts of kindness and long-suffering, seeing the best

396



Vol. 3, ch. 12

of us are poor sinful creatures, who might suffer, being called to a brief accompting.” “Of a verity you surprise me, brother Zerobabel,” said Strickalthrow; “that thou, being an old and experienced soldier, whose head hath grown grey in battle, should’st give such advice to a young officer. Is not the General’s commission to take away the wicked from the land, and to root out the Amalekite, and the Jebusite, and the Perusite, and the Hittite, and the Girgashite, and the Amorite? and are not these men justly to be compared to the five kings, who took shelter in the cave of Makkedah, who were delivered into the hands of Joshua the son of Nun? and he caused his captains and his soldiers to come near and tread on their necks—and then he smote them, and he slew them, and hanged them on five trees, even till evening—And thou, Gilbert Pearson by name, be not withheld from the duty which is appointed to thee, but do even as has been commanded by him who is raised up to judge and to deliver Israel; for it is written, ‘cursed is he who holdeth back his sword from the slaughter.’” Thus wrangled the two military theologians, while Pearson, much more solicitous to anticipate the wishes of Oliver than to know the will of Heaven, listened to them with great indecision and perplexity.

Chapter Twelve But let us now, like soldiers on the watch, Put the soul’s armour on, alike prepared For all a soldier’s warfare brings. J B

T         will recollect, that when Rochecliffe and Josceline were made prisoners, the party which escorted them had two other captives in their train, Colonel Everard, namely, and the Rev. Nehemiah Holdenough. When Cromwell had obtained entrance into Woodstock, and commenced the strict search after the fugitive Prince, the prisoners were placed in what had been an old guardroom, and which was by its strength well calculated to serve for a prison, and a guard was placed over them by Pearson. No light was allowed, save that of a glimmering fire of charcoal. The prisoners remained separated from each other, Colonel Everard conversing with Nehemiah Holdenough, at a distance from Doctor Rochecliffe, Sir Henry, and Josceline. The party was soon after augmented by Wildrake, who was brought down to the Lodge to spare the maintaining two guards, and thrust in by the escort who brought him with so little ceremony, that, his arms being bound, he had very nearly

[Chap. 35]



397

fallen on his nose in the middle of the prison. “Thank you, thank you, my good friends,” he said looking back to the door, which they who had pushed him in were engaged in securing—“Point de ceremonie—no apology for tumbling, so we light in good company.—Save ye, save ye, gentlemen all—What, a la mort, and nothing stirring to keep the spirits up, and make a night on’t?—the last we shall have, I take it—for a maik* to a million but we trine to the nubbing cheat† to-morrow.—Patron, noble patron, how goes it? This was but a scurvy trick of Noll, so far as you were concerned; as for me, why I might have deserved something of the kind at his hand.” “Prithee, Wildrake, sit down,” said Everard, “thou art drunk— disturb us not.” “Drunk? I drunk?” cried Wildrake, “I have been splicing the main-brace, as Jack says at Wapping—have been tasting Noll’s brandy in a bumper to the King’s health, and another to his Excellency’s confusion, and another to the d——n of the Parliament—and it may be one or two more, but all to d—d good toasts.” “Prithee, friend, be not profane,” said Nehemiah Holdenough. “What, my little Presbyterian Parson, my slender Mass John? thou shalt say Amen to this world instantly—” said Wildrake; “I have had a weary time in it for one.—Ha, noble Sir Henry, I kiss your hand—I tell thee, knight, the point of my toledo was near Cromwell’s heart last night, as ever a button on the breast of his doublet. Rat him, he wears secret armour—he a soldier! Had it not been for a cursed steel shirt, I would have spitted him like a lark.—Ha, Doctor Rochecliffe?—thou knowst I can wield my weapon.” “Yes,” replied the doctor, “and you know I can use mine—I prithee be quiet, Master Wildrake.” “Nay, good knight, and reverend doctor,” answered Wildrake, “be somewhat more cordial with a comrade in distress. This is a different scene from the Brentford storming party. The B—h Fortune has been a very step-mother to me. I will sing you a song I made on my own ill luck.” “At this moment, Captain Wildrake, we are not in a fitting mood for singing,” said Sir Henry, civilly and gravely. “Nay, it will aid your devotions—Egad, it sounds like a penitential psalm. When I was a young lad, My fortune was bad, If e’er I do well ’tis a wonder. * A half-penny.

† Hang on the gallows.

398



Vol. 3, ch. 12

I spent all my means Amid sharpers and queans, Then I got a commission to plunder. I have stockings ’tis true, But the devil a shoe, I am forced to wear boots in all weather, Be d——d the boot sole, Curse on the spur-roll, Confounded be the upper-leather.”

The door opened as Wildrake finished this stanza at the top of his voice, and in rushed a sentinel, who, greeting him by the title of “blasphemous bellowing bull of Bashan,” bestowed a severe blow, with his ramrod, on the shoulders of the songster, whose bonds permitted him no means of returning the compliment. “Your humble servant again, sir,” said Wildrake, shrugging his shoulders, “sorry I have no means of showing my gratitude. I am bound over to keep the peace like Captain Bobadil—Ha, knight, did you hear my bones clatter? that blow came twangingly off—the fellow might inflict the bastinado, were it in presence of the Grand Seignior—he has no taste for music, knight—is no way moved by ‘concord of sweet sounds,’ I will warrant him fit for treason, stratagem, and spoil—Eh! Yaw—All down in the mouth—well—I’ll go to sleep to-night on a bench, as I have done many a night, and I will be ready to be hanged decently in the morning, which never happened to me before in all my life— As I was a young lad, My fortune was bad—

That is not the tune it goes to.” Here he fell fast asleep—And sooner or later all his companions in misfortune followed his example. The benches intended for the repose of the soldiers of the guard, afforded the prisoners convenience enough to lie down, though their slumbers, it may be believed, were neither sound nor undisturbed. But when daylight was but a little while broken, the explosion of gunpowder which took place, and the subsequent fall of the turret to which the mine was applied, would have awakened the Seven Sleepers, or Morpheus himself. The smoke penetration through windows left them at no loss for the cause of the din. “There went my gunpowder,” said Rochecliffe, “which has, I trust, blown up as many rebel villains as it might have been the means of destroying otherwise in a fair field. It must have caught fire by chance.” “By chance? no,” said Sir Henry; “depend on it, my bold Albert has fired the train, and that in yonder blast Cromwell was flying towards the heaven whose battlements he will never reach—Ah,

[Chap. 35]



399

my brave boy! and perhaps thou art thyself sacrificed, like a youthful Sampson amongst the rebellious Philistines.—But I will not be long behind thee, Albert.” Everard hastened to the door, hoping to obtain from the guard, to whom his name and rank might be known, some explanation of the noise, which seemed to announce some dreadful catastrophe. But Nehemiah Holdenough, whose rest had been broken by the trumpet which gave signal for the explosion, appeared in the very acme of horror—“It is the trumpet of the Archangel!” he cried,— “it is the crashing of this world of elements—it is the summons to the Judgment-seat! The dead are obeying the call—they are with us—they are amongst us—they arise in their bodily forms—they come to summon us!” As he spoke, his eyes were rivetted upon Dr Rochecliffe, who stood directly opposite to him. In rising hastily, the cap which he commonly wore, according to a custom usual both among clergymen and grave men of a civil profession, had escaped from his head, and carried with it the large silk patch which he probably wore for the purpose of disguise; for the cheek which was disclosed was unscarred, and the eye as good as that which was usually uncovered. Colonel Everard returning from the door, endeavoured in vain to make Master Holdenough comprehend what he learned from the guard without, that the explosion had only involved the death of one of Cromwell’s soldiers. The Presbyterian divine continued to stare wildly at him of the Episcopal persuasion. But Dr Rochecliffe heard and understood the news brought by Colonel Everard, and, relieved from the instant anxiety which had kept him stationary, he advanced towards the retiring Calvinist, extending his hand in the most friendly manner. “Avoid thee—Avoid thee!” said Holdenough, “the living may not join hands with the dead.” “But I,” said Rochecliffe, “am as much alive as you are.” “Thou alive!—thou! Joseph Albany, whom my own eyes saw precipitated from the battlements of Clidesthrow Castle?” “Ay,” answered the doctor, “but you did not see me swim ashore on a marsh covered with sedges—fugit ad salices—after a manner which I will explain to you another time.” Holdenough touched his hand with doubt and uncertainty. “Thou art indeed warm and alive,” he said, “and yet after so many blows, and a fall so tremendous—thou canst not be my Joseph Albany.” “I am Albany Rochecliffe,” said the doctor, “become so in virtue of my mother’s little estate, which fines and confiscations have made an end of.”

400



Vol. 3, ch. 12

“And is it so indeed!” said Holdenough, “and have I recovered mine old chum!” “Even so,” replied Rochecliffe, “by the same token I appeared to you in the Mirror Chamber—Thou wert so bold, Nehemiah, that our whole scheme would have been shipwrecked, had I not appeared to thee in the shape of a departed friend. Yet, believe me, it went against my heart to do so.” “Ah, fie on thee, fie on thee,” said Holdenough, throwing himself into his arms and clasping him to his bosom, “thou wert ever a naughty wag. How could’st thou play me such a trick?—Ah, Albany, doest thou remember Dr Purefoy and Caius College?” “Marry, do I,” said the doctor, thrusting his arm through the presbyterian divine’s, and guiding him to a seat apart from the other prisoners, who witnessed this scene with much surprise. “Remember Caius College?” said Rochecliffe, “ay, and the good ale we drank, and our parties to mother Huff-cap’s.” “Vanity of vanities,” said Holdenough, smiling kindly at the same time, and still holding his recovered friend’s arm enclosed and hand-locked in his. “But the breaking the Principal’s orchard, so cleanly done,” said the doctor; “it was the first plot I ever framed, and much work I had to prevail on thee to go into it.” “Ah, name not that iniquity,” said Nehemiah, “since I may well say, with pious Master Baxter, that these boyish offences have had their punishment in later years, inasmuch as that inordinate appetite for fruit hath produced stomachic affections under which I yet labour.” “True, true, dear Nehemiah,” said Rochecliffe, “but care not for them—a dram of brandy will correct all. Master Baxter was”— he was about to say “an ass,” but checked himself, and only filled up the sentence with “a good man, I dare say, but over scrupulous.” So they sat down together the best of friends, and for half an hour talked with mutual delight over old college stories. By degrees they got on the politics of the day; and though then they unclasped their hands, and there occurred between them such expressions as, “Nay, my dear brother,” and, “there I must needs differ,” and, “on this point I crave leave to think;” yet a hue and cry against the Independents and other sectarists being started, they followed like brethren in full hallow, and it was hard to guess which was most forward. Unhappily, in the course of this amicable intercourse, something was mentioned about the bishopric of Titus, which at once involved them in the doctrinal question of Church Government. Then, alas! the flood-gates were opened, and they showered on

[Chap. 35]



401

each other Greek and Hebrew texts, while their eyes kindled, their cheeks glowed, their hands became clenched, and they looked more like fierce polemics about to rend each other’s eyes out, than Christian divines. Roger Wildrake, by making himself an auditor of the debate, contrived to augment its violence. He took, of course, a most decided part in a question, the merits of which were totally unknown to him. Somewhat overawed by Holdenough’s ready oratory and learning, the cavalier watched with a face of anxiety the countenance of Dr Rochecliffe. But when he saw the proud eye and steady bearing of the Episcopal champion, and heard him answer Greek with Greek, and Hebrew with Hebrew, he backed his arguments as he closed them with a stout rap upon the bench, and an exulting laugh in the face of the antagonist. It was with some difficulty that Sir Henry and Colonel Everard, having at length and reluctantly interfered, prevailed on the two alienated friends to adjourn their dispute, removing at the same time to a distance, and regarding each other with looks, in which old friendship seemed to have given way to mutual animosity. But while they sate lowering on each other, and longing to renew a contest in which each claimed the victory, Pearson entered the prison, and in a low and trembling voice, desired the persons whom it contained to prepare for instant death. Sir Henry Lee received the doom with the stern composure which he had hitherto displayed. Colonel Everard attempted the interposition of a strong and resentful appeal to the Parliament, against the judgment of the Court Martial and the General. But Pearson declined to receive or transmit any such remonstrance, and with a dejected look and mien of melancholy presage, renewed his exhortation to them to prepare for the hour of noon, and withdrew from the prison. But the operation of this intelligence on the two clerical disputants was still more remarkable. They gazed for a moment on each other with eyes in which reviving kindness and a feeling of generous shame quenched every lingering feeling of resentment, and joining at once in the mutual exclamation—“My brother—my brother, I have sinned, I have sinned in offending thee!” they rushed into each other’s arms, shed tears as they demanded each other’s forgiveness, and like two warriors, who sacrifice a personal quarrel to discharging their duty against the common enemy, they recalled nobler ideas of their sacred character, and assuming the part which best became them on an occasion so melancholy, began to exhort those around them to meet the doom that had been

402



Vol. 3, ch. 13

announced,with the firmness and dignity which Christianity alone can give.

Chapter Thirteen My gracious prince, good Cannyng cried, Leave vengeance to our God, And lay the iron rule aside, Be thine the olive rod. Ballad of Sir Charles Bawdin

T       appointed for execution had been long past, and it was about five in the evening when the Protector summoned Pearson to his presence. He went with fear and reluctance, uncertain how he might be received. After remaining about a quarter of an hour, the aid-de-camp returned to Victor Lee’s parlour, where he found the old soldier, Zerobabel Robins, in attendance for his return. “How is Oliver?” said the old man, anxiously. “Why, well,” answered Pearson, “and hath asked no questions of the execution, but many concerning the reports we have been able to make regarding the flight of the young man, and is much moved at thinking he must now be beyond pursuit. Also I gave him certain papers belonging to the malignant Doctor Rochecliffe.” “Then will I venture upon him,” said the adjutator; “so give me a napkin that I may look more like a sewer, and fetch up the food which I desired should be in readiness.” Two troopers attended accordingly with a ration of beef, such as was distributed to the private soldiers, and dressed after their fashion —a pewter pot of ale, a trencher with salt, black pepper, and a loaf of ammunition bread. “Come with me,” he said to Pearson, “and fear not—Noll loves an innocent jest.” He boldly entered the General’s sleeping apartment, and said aloud, “Arise, thou that art called to be a Judge in Israel—let there be no more folding of the hands to sleep. Lo, I come as a sign to thee; wherefore arise, eat, drink, and let thy heart be glad within thee, for thou shalt eat with joy the food of him that laboureth in the trenches, seeing that since thou wert commander over the host, the poor sentinel hath had such provisions as I have now placed for thine own refreshment.” “Truly, brother Zerobabel,” said Cromwell, accustomed to such starts of enthusiasm among his followers, “we would it were so; neither is it our desire to sleep softer or feed more highly than the meanest that ranks under our banner. Verily thou hast chosen well for my refreshment, and the smell of the food is savoury in my nostrils.”

[Chap. 36]



403

He arose from the bed, on which he had lain down half dressed, and wrapping his cloak around him, sate down by the bedside, and partook heartily of the plain food which was prepared for him. While he was eating, Cromwell commanded Pearson to finish his report—“You need not desist for the presence of a worthy soldier, whose spirit is as my spirit.” “Nay, but,” interrupted Zerobabel Robins, “you are to know that Gilbert Pearson hath not fully executed thy commands, touching a part of those malignants, all of whom should have died at noon.” “What execution—what malignants?” said Cromwell, laying down his knife and fork. “Those in the prison here at Woodstock,” answered Zerobabel, “whom your Excellency commanded should be executed at noon, as taken in the fact of rebellion against the Commonwealth.” “Wretch!” said Cromwell, starting up, and addressing Pearson, “thou hast not touched Mark Everard, in whom there was no guilt, for he was deceived by the person who passed between us—neither hast thou put forth thy hand on the pragmatic Presbyterian minister, to have all those of the classes cry sacrilege, and alienate them from us for ever?” “If your Excellence wish them to live, they live—their life and death are in the power of a word,” said Pearson. “Enfranchise them; I must gain the Presbyterians if I can.” “Rochecliffe, the arch-plotter,” said Pearson, “I thought to have executed, but”—— “Barbarous man,” said Cromwell, “alike ungrateful and impolitic —wouldst thou have slain our decoy-duck? This doctor is but like a well, a shallow one indeed, but something deeper than the springs which discharge their secret tribute into his keeping; then come I with a pump, and suck it all up to the open air. Enlarge him, and let him have money if he wants it. I know his haunts; he can go nowhere but our eye will be upon him.—But you look at each other darkly, as if you had more to say than you durst. I trust you have not done to death Sir Henry Lee?” “No. Yet the man,” replied Pearson, “is a confirmed malignant, and”—— “Ay, but he is also a noble relic of the ancient English Gentleman,” said the General. “I would I knew how to win the favour of that race. But we, Pearson, whose royal robes are the armour which we wear on our bodies, and whose leading-staves are our sceptres, are too newly set up to draw the respect of the proud race which count bricks long lineage. Yet what can they see in the longest kingly line in Europe, save that it runs back to a successful soldier? Strange

404



Vol. 3, ch. 13

that one man should be honoured and followed, because he is the descendant of a victorious commander, while less honour and allegiance is paid to another, who, in personal qualities, and in success, might emulate the founder of his rival’s dynasty. Well, Sir Henry Lee lives, and shall live for me. His son, indeed, hath deserved the death which he has doubtless sustained.” “My lord,” stammered Pearson, “since your Excellency has found I am right in suspending your order in so many instances, I trust you will not blame me in this also—I thought it best to await more special orders.” “Thou art in a mighty merciful humour this morning, Pearson,” said Cromwell, not entirely satisfied. “If your Excellence please, the halter is ready, and so is the provost-marshal.” “Nay, if such a bloody fellow as thou hast spared him, it would ill become me to destroy him,” said the General. “But then, here is among Rochecliffe’s papers the engagement of twenty desperadoes to take us off—some example ought to be made.” “My lord,” said Zerobabel, “consider now how often this young man, Albert Lee, hath been near you, nay, probably, quite close to your Excellency, in these dark passages, which he knew, and we did not. Had he been of an assassin’s nature, it would have cost him but a pistol-shot, and the light of Israel was extinguished. Nay, in the unavoidable confusion which must have ensued, the sentinels quitting their posts, he might have had a fair chance of escape.” “Enough, Zerobabel, he lives,” said the General. “He shall remain in custody for some time, however, and be then banished from England. The other two live, of course; for you would not dream of considering such paltry fellows as fit victims for my revenge.” “One fellow, the under-keeper, called Joliffe, deserves death, however,” said Pearson, “in respect he frankly admitted that he slew honest Joseph Tomkins.” “He deserves a reward for saving us a labour,” said Cromwell; “that Tomkins was a most double-hearted villain. I have found evidence among these papers here, that if we had lost the fight at Worcester, we should have had reason to regret that we had ever trusted Master Tomkins—it was only our success which anticipated his treachery—write us down debtor, not creditor, to Josceline, an you call him so, and to his quarter-staff.” “There remains the sacrilegious and graceless cavalier who attempted your Excellency’s life last night,” said Pearson. “Nay,” said the General, “that were stooping too low for revenge. His sword had no more power than had he thrusted with a tobacco-

[Chap. 36]



405

pipe. Eagles stoop not at mallards, or wild-drakes either.” “Yet, sir,” said Pearson, “the fellow should be punished as a libeller. The quantity of foul and pestilent abuse which we found in his pockets makes me loath he should go unpunished—Please to look at them, sir.” “A most vile hand,” said Oliver, as he looked at a sheaf of our friend Wildrake’s poetical miscellanies—“The very hand-writing seems to be drunk, and the poetry not very sober—What have we here? When I was a young lad, My fortune was bad— If e’er I do well, ’tis a wonder—

Why, what trash is this?—and then again— Now, a plague on the poll Of old politic Noll. We will drink till we bring In triumph back the King.

In truth, if it could be done that way, this poet would be a stout champion. Give the poor knave five pieces, Pearson, and bid him go sell his ballads. If he come within twenty miles of our person though, we will have him flogged till the blood runs down his heels.” “There remains only one sentenced person,” said Pearson, “a noble wolf-hound, finer than any your Excellence saw in Ireland. He belongs to the old knight Sir Henry Lee. Should your Excellency not desire to keep the fine creature yourself, might I presume to beg that I might have leave?” “No, Pearson,” said Cromwell; “the old man, so faithful himself, shall not be deprived of his faithful dog.—I would I had any creature, were it but a dog, that followed me because it loved me, not for what it could make of me.” “Your Excellency is unjust to your faithful soldiers,” said Zerobabel Robins bluntly, “who follow you like dogs, fight for you like dogs, and have the grave of a dog on the spot where they happen to fall.” “How now, old grumbler,” said the General, “what means this change of note?” “Corporal Humgudgeon’s remains are left to moulder under the ruins of yonder tower, and Tomkins is thrust into a hole in a thicket like a beast.” “True, true,” said Cromwell, “they shall be removed to the churchyard, and every soldier shall attend with cockades of sea-green and blue ribband—Every one of the non-commissioned officers and the adjutators shall have a mourning-scarf, we ourselves will lead the procession, and there shall be a proper dole of wine, burnt

406



Vol. 3, ch. 13

brandy, and rosemary. See that is done, Pearson. After the funeral, Woodstock shall be dismantled and destroyed, that its recesses may not again afford shelter to rebels and to malignants.” The commands of the General were punctually obeyed, and when the other prisoners were dismissed, Albert Lee remained for some time in custody. He went abroad after his liberation, entered in King Charles’s Guards, where he was promoted by that monarch. But his fate, as we shall see hereafter, only allowed him a short though bright career. We return to the liberation of the other prisoners from Woodstock. The two divines, completely reconciled to each other, retreated arm in arm to the parsonage-house, formerly the residence of Dr Rochecliffe, but which he now visited as the guest of his successor, Nehemiah Holdenough. The Presbyterian had no sooner installed his friend under his roof, than he urged upon him an offer to partake it, and the income annexed to it, as his own. Dr Rochecliffe was much affected, but wisely rejected the generous offer, considering the difference of their tenets on Church government, which each entertained as religiously as his creed. Another debate, though a light one, on the subject of the office of Bishops in the Primitive Church, confirmed him in his resolution. They parted the next day, and their friendship remained undisturbed by controversy till Master Holdenough’s death, in 1658; a harmony which might be in some degree owing to their never meeting again after their imprisonment. Doctor Rochecliffe was restored to his living after the Restoration, and ascended from thence to higher clerical preferment. The inferior personages of the grand gaol-delivery at Woodstock Lodge easily found themselves temporary accommodations in the town among old acquaintances. But no one ventured to entertain the old knight, understood to be so much under the displeasure of the ruling powers; and even the inn-keeper of the George, who had been one of his tenants, scarce dared to admit him to the common privileges of a traveller, who has food and lodging for his money. Everard attended him unrequested, unpermitted, but also unforbidden. The heart of the old man had been turned once more towards him when he learned how he had behaved at the memorable rencounter of the King’s Oak, and saw that he was an object of the enmity, rather than the favour, of Cromwell. But there was another secret feeling which tended to reconcile him to his nephew—the consciousness that Everard shared with him the deep anxiety which he experienced on account of his daughter, who was not yet returned from her doubtful and perilous expedition. He felt that he himself would perhaps be unable to discover where Alice had taken refuge

[Chap. 36]



407

during the late dreadful events, or to obtain her deliverance if she was taken into custody. He wished Everard to offer him his service in making a search for her, but shame prevented his preferring the request; and Everard, who could not suspect the altered state of his uncle’s mind, was afraid to make the proposal of assistance, or even to name the name of Alice. The sun had already set—they sate looking each other in the face in silence, when the trampling of horses was heard—there was knocking at the door—there was a light step on the stair, and Alice, the subject of their anxiety, stood before them. She threw herself joyfully into her father’s arms, who glanced his eye heedfully round the room, as he said in a whisper, “Is all safe?” “Safe and out of danger, as I trust,” replied Alice—“I have a token for you.” Her eye then rested on Everard—she blushed, was embarrassed, and silent. “You need not fear your presbyterian cousin,” said the knight with a good-humoured smile, “he has himself proved a confessor at least for loyalty, and ran the risk of being a martyr.” She pulled from her bosom the royal rescript, written on a small and soiled piece of paper, and tied round with a worsted thread instead of a seal. Such as it was, Sir Henry ere he opened it pressed the little packet with oriental veneration to his lips, to his heart, to his forehead; and it was not before a tear had dropt on it that he found courage to open and read the billet. It was in these words:— “L                    F      ,   S, “It having become known to us that a purpose of marriage has been entertained betwixt Mrs Alice Lee, your only daughter, and Markham Everard, Esq. of Eversely Chase, her kinsman, and by affinity your nephew: And being assured that this match would be highly agreeable to you, had it not been for certain respects to our service, which induced you to refuse your consent thereto—We do therefore acquaint you, that far from our affairs suffering by such an alliance, we do exhort, and, so far as we may, require you to consent to the same, as you would wish to do us good pleasure, and greatly to advance our affairs. Leaving to you, nevertheless, as becometh a Christian King, the full exercise of your own discretion concerning other obstacles to such an alliance, which may exist, independent of those connected with our service. Witness our hand,

408



Vol. 3, ch. 13

together with our thankful recollections of your good services to our late Royal Father as well as ourselves, C. R.” Long and steadily did Sir Henry Lee gaze on the letter, so that it might almost seem as if he were getting it by heart. He then placed it carefully in his pocket-book, and asked Alice the account of her adventures of the preceding night. They were briefly told. Their midnight walk through the Chase had been speedily and safely accomplished. When she had seen Charles and his attendant set off, she had taken some repose in the cottage where they parted. With the morning came news that Woodstock was occupied by soldiers, so that return thither might have led to danger, suspicion, and inquiry. Alice therefore did not attempt it, but went to a house in the neighbourhood, inhabited by a lady of established loyalty, whose husband had been major of Sir Henry Lee’s regiment, and had fallen at the battle of Naseby. Mrs Aylmer was a sensible woman, and indeed the necessities of the singular time had sharpened every one’s faculties for stratagem and intrigue. She sent a faithful servant to scout about the mansion at Woodstock, who no sooner saw the prisoners dismissed and in safety, and ascertained the knight’s destination for the evening, than he carried the news to his mistress, and by her orders attended Alice on horseback to join her father. That she should turn to Mrs Aylmer at the beginning of such an alarm and return so soon as it was over seemed an arrangement so natural as to require no further explanation. There was seldom, perhaps, an evening meal made in such absolute silence as by this embarrassed party, each occupied with their own thoughts, and at a loss how to fathom those of the others. At length the hour came when Alice felt herself at liberty to retire to repose after a day so fatiguing. Everard handed her to the door of her apartment, and was then himself about to take leave, when, to his surprise, his uncle asked him to return, pointed to a chair, and giving him the King’s letter to read, fixed his looks on him steadily during the perusal; determined that if he could discover aught short of the utmost delight in the reading, the command of the King himself should be disobeyed, rather than Alice should be sacrificed to one who received not her hand as the greatest blessing earth had to bestow. But the features of Everard indicated joyful hope, even beyond what the father could have anticipated, yet mingled with surprise; and when he raised his eye to the knight’s with timidity and doubt, a smile was on Sir Henry’s countenance

[Chap. 36]



409

as he broke silence. “The King,” he said, “had he no other subject in England, should dispose at will of those of the House of Lee. But methinks the family of Everard have not been so devoted of late to the crown as to comply with a mandate, inviting its heir to marry the daughter of a beggar.” “The daughter of Sir Henry Lee,” said Everard, kneeling to his uncle, and perforce kissing his hand, “would grace the house of a Duke.” “The girl is well enough,” said the knight proudly; “for myself, my poverty shall neither shame nor encroach on my friends. Some few pieces I have by Dr Rochecliffe’s kindness, and Josceline and I will strike out something.” “Nay, my dear uncle, you are richer than you think for,” said Everard. “That part of your estate, which my father redeemed for payment of a moderate composition, is still your own, and held by trustees in your name, myself being one of them. You are only our debtor for an advance of moneys, for which, if it will content you, we will count with you like usurers. My father is incapable of profiting by making a bargain on his own account for the estate of a distressed friend—And all this you would have learned long since, but that you would not—I mean time did not serve for explanation—I mean——” “You mean I was too hot to hear reason, Mark, and I believe it is very true. But I think we understand each other now. To-morrow I go with my family for Kingston, where is an old house I may still call mine. Come hither at thy leisure, Mark—or thy best speed, as thou wilt—but come with thy father’s consent.” “With my father in person,” said Everard, “if you will permit.” “Be that,” answered the knight, “as he and you will—I think Josceline will scarce shut the door in thy face, or Bevis growl as he did after poor Louis Kerneguy.—Nay, no more raptures, but good night, Mark, good night; and if thou art not that tired with the fatigue of yesterday—why, if you do appear here at seven in the morning, I think we must bear with your company a little way on the Kingston road.” Once more Everard pressed the knight’s hand, caressed Bevis, who received his kindness graciously, and went home to dreams of happiness, which were realized, so far as this motley world permits, within a few months afterwards.

410



Vol. 3, ch. 14

Chapter Fourteen ————My life was of a piece, Spent in your service—dying at your feet. Don Sebastian

Y  rush by us like the wind. We see not whence the eddy comes, nor whither 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 wind robs 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 Josceline 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 back-gammon, or read Shakspeare, or was clerk to prayers when any sequestrated divine ventured to

[Chap. 37]



411

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 storm of Brentford, and the battles of Edgehill, Banbury, Roundway-down, 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 composure than could have been anticipated. He dwelt for weeks and months on the lines forwarded by the indefatigable Doctor Rochecliffe, superscribed in small letters, . ., 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 despite of this balsam, sorrow acting imperceptibly, and sucking the blood like a vampyre, seemed gradually drying up the springs of life; and, without any formed illness, or outward complaint, the old man’s strength and vigour imperceptibly 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

412



Vol. 3, ch. 14

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 at Brussels, that Monk, on arriving at 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 wits and 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 seemed 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 rakehelly 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 have slept since. Your Majesty recollects me, I am sure.

[Chap. 37]



413

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 bon-fires?—did I not drink your Majesty’s health so often, that my legs would scarce convey 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—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 is a wit 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 attached to it. Shortly afterwards, all England was engaged in chorussing his favourite ditty— Oh, the twenty-ninth of May, It was a glorious day, When the King shall 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 many years 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

414



Vol. 3, ch. 14

trod slowly over roads strewn with flowers—by conduits running wine, under triumphal arches, and through streets hung with tapestry. There were the 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, were now come to shout the son into possession of his ancestral palace. 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 particular 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 contend 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 grand-children, or asked a question at his daughter, who sate beside him, matured in matronly beauty, or at Colonel Everard, who stood behind. There too the stout yeoman, Josceline Joliffe, still in his sylvan dress, leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarterstaff 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 their own consequence; and ever and anon joined her shrill notes to the stentorian halloo which her husband added to the general acclamation. Three 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 bowl of canary), took off the children’s attention from time to time, lest they should weary

[Chap. 37]



415

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 but the ruin 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 sun in 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, in the eyes of even 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 multitude around, when they saw Charles with his own hand oppose the feeble attempt of the old man to rise to do him 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—” uttered the old man, overcome by his feelings; and the King, to give him a moment’s 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 round —“in the service of King and Kingdom, bringing up subjects as

416



Vol. 3, ch. 14

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, Josceline, thou canst hold thy quarter-staff with one hand, sure?—Thrust forward the other palm.” Looking down in sheer bashfulness, like a bull about to push, Josceline, 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 head-gear for my friend Phœbe with some of them,” 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 he has 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 dimittis. “Excuse me for having made you wait, my lords,” said the King, as he mounted his horse; “had it not been for these good folks, you might have waited for me long enough.—Move on, sirs.” The array moved on accordingly; the sound of trumpets and drums again arose 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 her father’s health was for a moment suspended, while her eye followed the long line of varied brilliancy that proceeded alongst the heath. When she looked again at Sir Henry, she was startled to see 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

[Chap. 37]



417

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 already 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.  

ESSAY ON THE TEXT

1.    W O O D S T O C K 2.                 W O O D S T O C K : the Timetable; Scott’s Journal; the Manuscript; the Proofs; Proof Corrections; Revises; Publication 3.    : the octavo Tales and Romances (1827); the duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827); the 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828); the Interleaved Copy and the Magnum 4.   : emendation of pre-proof changes; emendations of corrections made in author’s proofs; emendations of post-proof changes. The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript and proofs: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants between the printed editions.

1.    WOODSTOCK In a quite delightful passage in his ‘Memoirs’ Scott records his discovery of Thomas Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry in the garden of his aunt Janet in Kelso: I remember well the spot where I read these volumes for the first time. It was beneath a huge platanas tree in the ruins of what had been intended for an old fashioned arbour in the garden I have mentioned. The summer day sped onward so fast that notwithstanding the sharp appetite of thirteen I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with anxiety and was still found entranced in my intellectual banquet. To read and to remember was in this instance the same thing and henceforth I overwhelmed my schoolfellows and all who would hearken to me with tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop Percy.1 It is possible that Scott made his first acquaintance with Woodstock on reading Percy in that summer of 1783, in his thirteenth year, for in the second volume Percy includes two ballads relating to the medieval back-story of Woodstock, Thomas Deloney’s ‘Fair Rosamond’, first published in 1607, and the anonymous ‘Queen Eleanor’s Confession’, which may be of a similar date.2 Deloney spells out the full narrative of Henry II’s affair with Rosamond and his queen’s revenge in fortyeight rather plodding stanzas, perhaps parodying the manner of the urban street-ballad of his time; three stanzas are quoted as the motto to Volume 3, Chapter 10 of Woodstock (382). In contrast, the ‘Confession’ runs to only twenty stanzas in the elliptical, incantatory and indirect folk-ballad manner, economically focusing on a single episode late in the story and delivering a powerful double-surprise conclusion 419

420

   

in which the deceiver is deceived. Both Percy’s ballads explicitly mention Woodstock, and suggest the peril and unease that accompany the role of royal mistress. A copy of the ‘Confession’ exists in the handwriting of Scott’s associate William Laidlaw,3 and it may be one product of Scott’s request to Laidlaw, on sending him the first edition of Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border on 12 May 1802, that he ‘look out for any old stories . . . whether in rhime or otherwise’ which might fall in his way.4 Woodstock as the home of a royal mistress is not particularly important in the novel, but Scott’s remark that to read was to remember is certainly significant: the ballads Scott knew as a boy, and the ballads he collected and published in Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, provide the starting point for much of his mature work, and he refers to Rosamond, her labyrinth and her well and her tower, 37 times in Woodstock. There may be no documentary evidence confirming that two ballads read in 1783 led to Woodstock in 1826, but there can be no doubt about another source: as the Explanatory Notes to this edition show, David Hume’s History of England informs much of the narrative of the novel and is the most important single source. It is not known when Scott first read Hume, but he tells us in his ‘Memoirs’ that as a boy he ‘gradually assembled much of what was striking and picturesque in historical narrative’.5 Hume was the most popular historian of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and Scott must certainly have read him by the time he took a history class under Alexander Fraser Tytler at Edinburgh University probably in 1789–90.6 That the edition of Hume at Abbotsford is dated 1796–18007 suggests not that he first read it then but that having married in 1797 he needed his own stock of standard books. In April 1803 Scott spent a week in Oxford in the company of the antiquarian Richard Heber,8 who was ‘intimately acquainted with all both animate & inanimate that is worth knowing at Oxford’.9 Part of his time was spent in gathering material for his edition of Sir Tristrem,10 and the rest on being an Oxford tourist. According to Lockhart, he went to Blenheim during his visit,11 and was therefore on the site of the ancient manor of Woodstock. As the lodge had been destroyed in the course of the landscaping of Blenheim Palace in the early eighteenth century, Scott’s ‘knowledge’ of it was inevitably confined to what he read or was told. The first use Scott made of his visit to Blenheim was in his long narrative poem Rokeby (1813); the following lines show the continuity of his interest in the literary associations of Woodstock: O, for that pencil, erst profuse Of chivalry’s emblazon’d hues, That traced of old, in Woodstock bower, The pageant of the Leaf and Flower,



421

And bodied forth the tourney high, Held for the hand of Emily!12

The wielder of the desired ‘pencil’ is Geoffrey Chaucer, traditionally but wrongly said to have been a householder at Woodstock (a belief alluded to in the novel at 171.39–40), and the ‘pageant’ of The Flower and the Leaf is a work formerly, but no longer, ascribed to him. Emily is the heroine of his Knight’s Tale, contended for by rival suitors. The action of Rokeby takes place in the aftermath of the Civil War battle of Marston Moor (1644), and the poem’s plot turns on a scheme by corrupt members of the victorious side to seize bullion and land from the losers. A mansion is fought over and destroyed. Characters include a Puritan youth in love with a Royalist maid, a Shakespeare-lover, a dependent soldier of fortune, a buccaneer expert in torture and, fortunately, a merciful jailer. The setting, nominally on Tees-side, includes a bower in a tower, a giant lone oak and another ‘doddered’ one (‘doddered’ is used of the King’s Oak in Woodstock at 33.18); there is a display of cavalier debauchery, debate about superstition and scepticism, and a fake apparition. These anticipations indicate that much of the scenario of Woodstock was present in shadow-form in Scott’s imagination as early as 1813. By the time he wrote Rokeby, Scott was steeped in the controversial literature of the seventeenth century. His edition of John Dryden (1808),13 his publication of the memoirs and works of other seventeenth-century figures, of whom the most important, for Woodstock, was Patrick Carey,14 and his re-editing of the huge compendium popularly known as Somers’ Tracts (there were 963 in Scott’s edition),15 had given him an unrivalled understanding of the period, evidenced in this novel in his use of seventeenth-century turns of phrase, as well as his incisive characterisation of the different religious sects and parties operating in the period of the Commonwealth (see Historical Note, 532–34 and 537). While Scott’s reading and a lifetime of assiduous collecting of legends, tales and tracts prepared him for writing Woodstock, the starting point was probably the visit to Abbotsford in May 1824 of his friend and fan Mary Ann Hughes (1769–1853). Scott had first made her acquaintance in 1807, but it was not till the early 1820s that they became regular correspondents. On 21 February 1821 she wrote to Scott with playful discretion: ‘Pray do not imagine that I am making an attempt to raise the veil of mystery which covers the “great unknown.” be he who he may, the Author of Waverley & his delightful younger brethren must be known to you: & perhaps you may amuse him with the sensation which Kenilworth has occasioned in this neighbourhood.’16 Subsequent novels feature in the letters over the following four years.17 In May 1824, Mary Ann Hughes and her husband Thomas, a Residentiary Canon of St Paul’s Cathedral, paid

422

   

a four-day visit to Abbotsford.18 At some point their extended conversation must have turned to events that were to feature in Woodstock, for on 3 October 1824, she wrote from London after her return south: ‘I send you the extract from Dr Plotts history of Oxfordshire containing the devilries acted at Woodstock which you told me you wished to have & which I could not get at till I came to the great Babylon’.19 The story concerns events in the autumn of 1649 when, during the process of surveying and sequestering crown property, Parliamentary Commissioners were sent to Woodstock, but were apparently driven out by spirits haunting the house. Mary Ann Hughes copied the story, more or less accurately, from The Beauties of all the Magazines (1762), where it is headed ‘A Ghost Story gravely reported in Dr. Plot’s Natural History of Oxfordshire’.20 Whether Scott had actually read The Natural History of Oxfordshire is not known; he did not possess a copy. But he had certainly read two other versions of the story, both of which announce that their material was derived from Plot, in George Sinclair’s Satan’s Invisible World Discovered (1685),21 and Henry More’s continuation of Joseph Glanvil’s Saducismus Triumphatus (1700).22 Both retell the tale as proof of the existence of spirits, More concluding ‘Wherefore it is manifest, that these pranks were played by Dæmons’.23 Scott possessed both works,24 and had read both.25 Scott’s reply to Mary Ann Hughes shows that he was aware of the supernatural account, and has doubts about the authenticity of the naturalistic explanation offered in the story she copied: I recollected the passage in Dr. Plott as I read it. But upon what authority comes the explanation—a very natural and probable one and a sign that old Noll’s saints were not quite so confident in their superiority to Satan as their gifted pretensions would have made one suppose. I think you mentiond there was some old pamphlet giving an account of the stratagem.26 Thus almost certainly Scott remembered the Plot story from Sinclair and More, where the commitment to a supernatural explanation is most pronounced. But when writing Woodstock he chose to follow the sceptical account with its greater comic and satiric potentiality.27 It is very probable that Mary Ann Hughes also introduced a third element (to add to Rosamond and the Commissioners) which was to be crucial in the new novel, the ramshackle lodge, which facilitates both the terrorising of the commissioners, who at the end of Chapter 15 take themselves off to continue their legalised pillage of the Oxford college estates, ‘with all that state and bustle which attend the movements of great persons, and especially of such to whom greatness is not entirely familiar’ (179.6–8), and also the concealment of Charles II. Hints as early as Joliffe’s wish that he might ‘run down to put the house in order’ (29.22) and his excessive anxiety over who should



423

do so have prepared the ground for the second layer of intrigue which develops the novel by appropriating the well-known story of Charles II’s escape after the battle of Worcester and adapting it, in the face of history, to the Woodstock household. Charles was a favourite subject with Mary Ann Hughes and her son, John, who in 1830 was to publish a lightly but judiciously edited compilation of accounts of Charles’s escape as The Boscabel Tracts. Some discussion of Charles and his wanderings while Mary Ann Hughes was at Abbotsford is probable, for she wrote to Scott on 10 June 1824, reporting on the journey home from Scotland: I hasten to redeem so many of my pledges as it is in my power to do: The departure of old Q, I send, & the ballad which an old woman has just been crooning to me: two or three little prints of the places mentioned in King Charles’ narrative also I inclose & three songs for Miss Scott & Mr Lockhart: When I go to town they shall have the air of the old ballad, & you shall have the Jacobite description of George’s arrival at St James’s; . . . mean time my son is making you a sketch of Boscabel & Mosley Hall (of which more anon) which I shall send ere long.28 She continues: On Tuesday between Penkridge & Wolverhampton, Dr H. was so kind to indulge my Mania by going two or three miles of detestable road, in order that I might see Mosley Hall, the house in which Mr Whitgreave & Mr Huddleston (the priest) sheltered Charles on his moving from Boscabel: it is a delight of a place —black & white wood & plaster, pointed gables, great cluster chimnies, old oak pannelled rooms, full of hiding holes for the catholics &c &c That the King was concealed in opens from a closet in old Mr Whitgreaves room; every thing is just as it was, but fast going to decay, for the present owner, a Whitgreave too, a lineal descendant cares not for it: The fine old dining & drawing rooms were full of corn, & cheese & cart harness, belonging to the farmer who is tenant: last year he sold all the old furniture, & the numerous pictures.29 The house in the novel is not in such a state of decay, but it seems likely that Mary Ann Hughes’s description of ‘Mosley Hall’ had some effect on the way in which Scott imagined Woodstock lodge. It is probable, then, that ideas planted by Mary Ann Hughes in the summer and autumn of 1824 led to Scott’s beginning his novel in October 1825. But starting another novel was a surprise to everyone. Lockhart reports an extraordinary conversation (at which he was present) in May 1825 during which Archibald Constable, Scott’s publisher, proposed that Scott should write a life of Napoleon as one of the lead titles in a grand publishing venture to be entitled ‘Constable’s Miscellany’.30 Scott accepted with alacrity, and began at once. So on 24 September Archibald Constable and Co. told Henry S. Carey, the

424

   

American publisher, ‘there is no new novel going on by the Author of Waverly and we are not aware of one being in contemplation while Napoleon is in progress’.31 But on 5 November Robert Cadell wrote to his partner Archibald Constable: What I have now to state will surprise you, Sir Walter has been stopped in the Second Volume of Boney by the want of some important facts and has begun a Novel. “Woodstock a tale of the Long Parliament” which is to be ready in February—notwithstanding this Boney is to go on and six sheets of Vol I are in type.32 Scott was never one to sit and wait; if there had to be a pause in the writing of his Life of Napoleon Buonaparte then another literary activity was required. But it was not just time that was offered by the pause in Napoleon; it seems highly likely that his initial subject, the preliminary history of the French Revolution, sparked Woodstock. Scott was turning from the French Revolution to the English, from the aftermath of the execution of Louis XVI to the aftermath of the execution of Charles I. There were both parallels and differences, and Scott, with his philosophical view of the patterning of history, was always aware that human nature was constant, and yet never exactly the same. Cadell was surprised: none of the usual administrative preparations such as ordering paper and discussing advertisements had taken place. There was a contract, not specifically for Woodstock, but for another novel. The actual document is not known to be extant, but there is a copy in the papers prepared by Scott’s trustees for Alexander Irving, Lord Newton, who after the financial crash in January 1826 was asked to determine which literary properties were owned by Constable’s trustees, and which by Scott’s. The offer of contract had been made by James Ballantyne acting as Scott’s agent, was dated 7 March 1823, and was accepted by Archibald Constable and Co. on 8 March. The copy reads: The Conditions of the Book now to be contracted for are as follow: 1 That the impression shall be ten thousand Copies. 2 That the author is to receive Three thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds for his share of the profits, on the said ten thousand copies. 3 That I [James Ballantyne] am to have one third of the transaction you managing the whole as formerly. 4 That for your two thirds, you are to grant bills at 4, 5, & 6 months for Two thousand five hundred pounds. 5 That James Ballantyne and Coy. are to print the work; and that on publication, you are to draw on them, for one third share of the paper and print of the work, at a date not exceeding twelve months.

 425 6 That you are at liberty to print if you shall see cause, Two thousand Copies in addition to the ten thousand Copies above stipulated for; but in putting the additional number to press the author is to receive Seven hundred and fifty pounds, payable in the proportions by you and myself as already narrated, and with a like division of the Books.33 The contract is similar to previous ones in certain respects. It specifies the usual number of copies to be printed, which since Rob Roy (which appeared at the end of 1817) had been 10,000, but it allows for an increase in the number to accommodate the ‘Pirate’ situation where, after most of the novel had been printed, it was decided that an extra 2000 copies were needed. It is similar too in specifying how Scott’s agent, James Ballantyne, was to be paid (James had succeeded his brother John in the role after the latter’s death in 1821). It specifies that he was to pay for, and receive, one third of the imprint; but it was understood that Constable would purchase Ballantyne’s volumes from him, thus giving James the difference between the wholesale price he received, and his share of the costs, this being a way of paying James both for being Scott’s agent, and for his very considerable editorial labours on Scott’s behalf. But this contract differs from earlier ones in one crucial respect. Previously Scott had shared unspecified ‘profits’ with the publisher —after the deduction of the costs of paper, composition, printing, and advertising he received half the incoming monies. In this contract he was to receive the fixed sum of £3750. This was a crucial fact in the mind of Lord Newton who in a preliminary view of who owned the copyright of Woodstock argues that this contract is more like a contract of sale, than one establishing a joint enterprise: Now it does appear to me that it is much more nearly related to sale than to any other known contract. The publisher engages to pay a certain sum of money and the author in return conveys his exclusive privilege to a certain limited extent to the profit of which exclusive privilege, in so far as conveyed the former has the sole and absolute right. The agreement cannot be held to be a case of joint adventure because the author has no share of or concern with the profit or loss. He receives his fixed sum at all events and he can receive no more.34 In his final judgment Lord Newton intimated that he still held this view but that it was irrelevant because the contract of 7 March 1823 did not pertain to Woodstock. On 23 July 1828 he wrote: It is admitted in the Claim [of the trustees of Archibald Constable and Co.], that Woodstock was not to form one of the two works of fiction previously contracted for, but was to be the subject of an after agreement Now although Constable and Company on the faith that an arrangement would afterwards take place on terms similar to their former bargains, may have ordered paper,

    and given directions as to printing, yet no agreement fixing what the Author was to receive seems ever to have been made.35 Lord Newton reaffirmed this view in his final judgment dated 3 December 1827, and thus concluded that Woodstock belonged to Scott’s trustees, a position that Scott had held almost from the moment of his insolvency. There is no evidence at all about why Scott in the contract of 1823 changed the terms as they brought him no extra money; there is also nothing which informs us of his motivation not just in beginning Woodstock, but in persisting in writing it without a contract. But one may speculate. It is possible that Scott was worried about a financial structure whereby two firms, Archibald Constable and Co. and James Ballantyne and Co., gave each other almost limitless credit entirely financed by bank loans; alternatively, he may have been worried about the stability of Archibald Constable long before he formulated his anxiety in writing. And it is possible to surmise that well in advance of the catastrophe he applied his lawyer’s mind to safeguarding his own interests: he entailed Abbotsford on his son Walter in January 1825, thus making it difficult for creditors to claim it; he proceeded with Woodstock without a contract. There is one final piece to be added to the jigsaw pattern of the genesis of Woodstock. In his Magnum Introduction Scott notes: The busy period of the great Civil War was one in which the character and genius of different parties were most brilliantly displayed, and, accordingly, the incidents which took place on either side were of a striking and extraordinary character, and afforded ample foundation for fictitious composition. The author had in some measure attempted such in Peveril of the Peak; but the scene was in a remote part of the kingdom, and mingled with other national differences, which left him still at liberty to glean another harvest out of so ample a store.36 The harvesting image is typical of Scott’s thinking about his work as a novelist. For his Life of Napoleon he needed to carry out much painstaking research, and the lack of material could result in a hiatus in composition. With Woodstock there was no such problem. The materials had been accumulating for over forty years. In addition to the specific points covered in the preceding paragraphs, Scott was thoroughly familiar with the period in general, as the Historical Note demonstrates. Peveril had far from exhausted the crop, and in the autumn of 1825 he was ready to reap another late harvest.37 426

2.    WOODSTOCK The Timetable. On 30 October 1825 Scott wrote to James Ballantyne, his friend and partner in the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co.: ‘I have begun “Woodstock” ’.38 Scott’s formulation



427

indicates that the novel must have been discussed with Ballantyne, but, as we have seen, it came as a complete surprise to Scott’s publishers, Archibald Constable and Co., who thought that he was entirely committed to writing The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte. Scott seems to have made swift progress. In a letter to Ballantyne which must have been written after 30 October (the day on which he told Ballantyne he had begun Woodstock), but before 11 November (the day he left Abbotsford for the resumption of the Court of Session in Edinburgh), he said: ‘I send the leaves of original Manuscript for Wk also some new copy’.39 Thus Scott was sending material to be processed by the printing office within two weeks of his having begun the novel. On other matters, however, the note is enigmatic. Until 1827 Scott’s novels were always transcribed before they were sent to be typeset. According to Scott, his amanuensis George Huntly Gordon was resident in Abbotsford copying the manuscript of Napoleon,40 and that he was the copyist of Woodstock is confirmed by the accounts of Scott’s trustees who paid him a total of £25 14s. 6d. in March and April 1826.41 As Gordon was on hand, one interpretation of the remark is that Scott was sending both the original manuscript leaves and Gordon’s copy of them, with the intention that James would check the transcription. An alternative interpretation is that Scott was sending the beginning of Woodstock copied by Gordon, and also some original manuscript leaves of Woodstock which were yet to be copied, and which Ballantyne would get done in Edinburgh. The latter is the more probable, for on 6 January 1826, when sending some more material to Ballantyne, he remarked ‘Only part of the copy sent has been transcribed’.42 (In this quotation he is using ‘copy’ in its technical sense, i.e. material that is bound for the printer.) It seems likely, then, that at least two people were responsible for copying the manuscript of Woodstock: George Huntly Gordon, who, given what he was paid, did most of the work, and an unidentified person employed by James Ballantyne. On 22 November Scott wrote to Cadell saying that he had already sent a note ‘assenting willingly to the advertisement and title’, and adding ‘I forgot to say three Volumes & 25 January’.43 The date can only be described as ‘amazing’—Scott is proposing to write a complete three-volume novel in two months—but it is not extraordinary: The Tale of Old Mortality was penned in September and October 1816. There may have been some misunderstanding about the length of Woodstock, for in a letter ‘on the uncertainty of the appearance of the Work “Woodstock”’ of 26 December from Constables to Black Young and Young of London who were purchasing sheets of Woodstock for use by Carey and Lea of Philadelphia, they say: we may state that when that period of Publication was advertised, it was intended to confine the book to two volumes, this idea is

    now abandoned—& the book will be in three Volumes and not appear on 25th January44 However, this letter contradicts Scott’s note of 22 November, quoted above; on that day Scott knew he was writing a three-volume novel, and intended it to be ready for publication on 25 January. Of course it is always possible that the note to Cadell was not really for him but intended to be presented to the banks as an argument for their offering further credit. Scott was becoming sensitised to the credit crisis afflicting the banks, and in his Journal entry for 22 November he observes: The general distress in the city has affected H. and R. [Hurst, Robinson, and Co., the London publishers], Constable’s great agents. Should they go it is not likely that Constable can stand, and such an event would lead to great distress and perplexity on the part of J. B. and myself.45 But surely the contract would have been more persuasive than a note. The publishers were mistaken; it seems that Scott intended to write a three-volume novel in two months. Scott does not say much about progress in December, although there is a note of the 7th bound into the proofs of Woodstock which reads: Dear James I have turnd a new Leaf in my book and will now proceed rapidly I send it you merely to satisfy you that I am progressive Many things happen to interrupt me at this season of the year Darkness particularly Yours truly WS46 But in January 1826 his output accelerated. On the 5th he tells Ballantyne ‘From tomorrow I give my whole time to Woodstock’;47 on the 6th he reviews financial problems and says ‘I am resolved to have Woodstock out’;48 on the 7th writing again to James he says ‘I return the proofs & copy for Woodstock’, and promises more copy ‘by next Blucher’49 (the mail coach that ran from Jedburgh to Edinburgh via Melrose three times a week). He returned from Abbotsford on 16 January for the resumption of the Court of Session, to receive news of the incipient insolvency of Hurst Robinson, Archibald Constable and Co., and thus of James Ballantyne and Co. and its two partners, James Ballantyne and Walter Scott. Scott did not go into a gloom; on the 20th he wrote to his son-in-law John Gibson Lockhart saying ‘I fear you will think I am writing in heat of excited resistance to bad fortune but dear Lockhart I am as calm and temperate as you ever saw me and working at Woodstock like a very tiger’.50 The following day he told Constable that ‘Woodstock will be on the Counter in a month’.51 In his Journal entry for Monday 23 January he records: 428



429

‘Since Wednesday inclusive I have written thirty eight of my close manuscript pages of which seventy make a volume of the usual novel size’.52 On 30 January he writes: ‘I labourd freely yesterday. The stream rose fast—if clearly is another question but there is bulk for it at least, about 30 printed pages’;53 and the following day he added ‘I stay at home from the Court and add another day’s perfect labour to Woodstock which is worth five days of snatched intervals when the current of thought and invention is broken in upon and the mind shaken and diverted from its purpose by a succession of petty interruptions.’54 On 3 February he says: ‘From the 19 January to the 2d. february inclusive is exactly fifteen days during which time (with the intervention of some days’ idleness to let imagination brood on the task a little) I have written a volume’.55 On 6 February he writes: ‘Talking of writing I finishd my six pages neat and handsome yesterday’; he adds ‘At night I fell asleep and the oil dripd from the lamp upon the manuscript’, and asks ‘Will this extreme unction make it go smoothly down with the public?’.56 He finished Volume 2 on 11 February, recording in his entry on the 12th: ‘Having ended the Second Vol of Woodstock last night I have to begin the Third this morning’.57 The speed of Woodstock’s writing was phenomenal, yet there were gaps when Scott’s imagination was confronting and sorting artistic problems. Even preparing the three ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’58 in the second half of February, in which he defended the right of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes in opposition to a government proposal to curtail it, could be seen not as a deflection from his principal task, but a way of engaging the mind while preparing the third volume of Woodstock. He wrote six of his ‘close pages’ on Sunday 19 February, and four more on the 20th.59 On the 28th he acknowledges that ‘W——k lies back for this [the second Malachi letter] but quid non pro patria?’;60 but on 8 March, after the publication of the third letter that day, he announces (to himself) ‘We must take up Woodstock now in good earnest’.61 So on the 12th he ‘Resumed Woodstock and wrote my task of six pages’,62 and the following day ‘Wrote to the end of a chapter’.63 He left his Edinburgh home, 39 Castle Street, for the last time on 15 March—it was to be sold for the behoof of creditors—but the next day at Abbotsford ‘wrote in the morning at Woodstock’.64 On the 21st he was ‘Busy in unpacking and repacking the wine sent from Edin.’, which, he says, ‘makes me a fine cellar-ful for many a day’; he also wrote five pages of Woodstock, ‘which work begins To appropinq’ an end’.65 He is nearly there on Saturday 25 March—‘I have almost finishd to-night—indeed I might have done so had I been inclined’;66 and on Sunday writes of walking in bitter, snowy weather to Cauldshiels Loch on his estate, but he adds ‘Finishd Woodstock however cum tota sequela of title page introduction etc.’67 On the following day

430

   

(the letter is dated ‘Monday morning’), he wrote to James saying: ‘I send you the last of the volume. The whole is 70 pages—28 [?] written since Wednesday last so be merciful in your judgment it will require careful correction.’68 Scott had taken a little under five months to write a whole novel, two months longer than he had planned, but in the meantime he had become insolvent, he had moved out of his Edinburgh home, and he had written three of the most effective political pamphlets of his era. Scott’s Journal. Scott began his Journal on 20 November 1825, and thus it covers most of the period of Woodstock’s composition. It is, as we have seen, a prime source of information, but writing a journal also seems to have made him reflect on his practice as an artist, and the incidental reflections on the writing of Woodstock constitute Scott’s richest commentary upon creation and the creative process. In the entry for 12 February he writes: Now I have not the slightest idea how the story is to be wound up to a catastrophe. I am just in the same case as I used to be when I lost myself in former days in some country to which I was a stranger—I always pushd for the pleasantest road and either found or made it the nearest. It is the same in writing. I never could lay down a plan—or having laid it down I never could adhere to it; the action of composition always dilated some passages and abridged or omitted others and personages were renderd important or insignificant not according to their agency in the original conception of the plan but according to the success or otherwise with which I was able to bring them out. . . . This may be calld in Spanish the Der donde diere mode of composition —in English Hab nab at a venture. It is a perilous stile I grant but I cannot help [it]—when I chain my mind to ideas which are purely imaginative—for argument is a different thing—it seems to me that the sun leaves the landscape, that I think away the whole vivacity and spirit of my original conception, and the results are cold, tame and spiritless.69 Scott says that the actual business of writing alters what he thinks he was going to say, and that he finds himself unable to follow a consciously formulated plan. Indeed if he fails to follow the momentum of the compositional process ‘I think away the whole vivacity and spirit of my original conception’. This description implies that he must surrender to a process which evidences itself in the act of writing. His words evoke Don Quixote in the Motteux and Ozell translation: the Fellow that did these [paintings], puts me in mind of Orbaneja the painter of Uveda; who as he sat at Work; being ask’d what it was about? made Answer any Thing that comes uppermost . . . . Just such a one was he that painted; or he that wrote (for they are much the same) the History of this new Don Quix-

 431 ote, which has lately peep’d out, and ventur’d to go a Strolling; for his Painting or Writing is all at Random, and any Thing that comes uppermost. I fancy he’s also not much unlike one Mauleon, a certain Poet who was at Court Some Years ago, and pretended to give Answer ex tempore to any manner of Questions: Some Body ask’d him what was the Meaning of Deum de Deo? whereupon my Gentleman answer’d very pertly in Spanish, De donde diere, that is Hab nab at a Venture.70 It is typical of Scott that a significant aspect of his self-exposition should be made through unstated allusion to another writer. Alluding in this way is a kind of intellectual shorthand, but it also an act of homage—Scott found the literary joking and the self-reflexiveness of Cervantes most congenial—and a strengthening of his argument, for he makes Cervantes’s self-defence his own. The poet is asked ‘what is the meaning of God of God’ (‘Deum de Deo’, a phrase from the Nicene creed), and the reply is, effectively, ‘whatever you like’—‘de donde diere’ is a Spanish tag meaning ‘Let it strike where it may’, ‘at random’, or ‘wildly’. In other words, the creative artist is not bound by external forces, but is free and, by implication, must be free, to follow his or her own thought and feeling. Scott’s statement is important, but it has not, on the whole, been taken seriously, and this is probably because of the way in which it is formulated. It is personal observation, not an argued idea. For the most part it lacks the rumbustious vigour which characterises the sparring of the Author of Waverley and Captain Clutterbuck in the Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel (from which quotations illustrating Scott’s conception of creativity are normally drawn) except for the one phrase, ‘Hab nab at a venture’. The phrase is rash, as it seems to imply a dashing carelessness in the process of writing. Scott does indeed open himself to criticism by expressing himself in this way, but the mode and tone of his selfexposition is an essential part of his meaning. In the Magnum Introduction to The Fortunes of Nigel he apologises for what he terms the ‘“hoity toity, whisky frisky” pertness of manner’71 of the Introductory Epistle. ‘Hoity toity’ does not carry its modern overtones, but means ‘romping’ or ‘frolicking’, while ‘whisky frisky’ means ‘light and lively’. But the conjoined phrase is in quotation marks and seems to have been used only in The Race, a poem by Cuthbert Shaw first published in 1765, in a passage where Shaw is talking of his own poetic endeavour: Prove then, oh! Goddess, to my labors kind, And let these sons of Dullness lag behind, Whilst hoity toity, whisky frisky, I On ballad-wings spring forth to victory.72

432

   

The manner for which Scott apologises thus invokes the new antiAugustan, popular-literature aesthetic of the later eighteenth century. It also implies that he feels that treatises on literature tend to be dull, while his will romp and frolic. In the at times apparently inconsequential, at others jocular, and at yet others dramatic mode of formulating his approach to writing, Scott rejects the solemnity of theories of literature and criticism (such as the 1800 Preface to Lyrical Ballads, and Wordsworth’s habit of taking himself very seriously); he substitutes the sceptical self-knowledge of a practitioner. To modern readers ‘Hab nab at a venture’ suggests a carelessness of attitude and approach, but when its context is fully analysed it can be seen that Scott emphasises the intellectual and physical momentum of writing. It is almost as though writing necessarily involves a kind of surrender to the activity of writing. In one sense, then, Scott did not know how Woodstock was ‘to be wound up to a catastrophe’; the details had not formulated themselves. But in another sense he knew well where he was going: after all, Charles had to escape, and had to return in 1660. What Scott did not know was what all the details would be, nor how they would be related to the inevitable outcome. A second theme arising from the Journal account and commentary on the progress of Woodstock is Scott’s emphasis on unconscious artistic processes. His own self-reporting stresses the unconscious, and uncontrolled elements in creation. He repeatedly expresses his belief that the act of writing cannot be regulated. He hated what he called ‘task-work’,73 and repeatedly records a kind of waywardness which made him avoid the work that he knew he was obliged to undertake: I would not write to-day after I came home—I will not say could not for it is not true. But I was lazy: felt the desire far ’niente which is the sign of one’s mind being at ease.74 One might expect a slightly censorious tone; in fact the attitude is indulgent. He likes his wandering and dreamy mental habit, as though it were necessary to his writing. He suggests that following such a desire is a sign of his mind being ‘at ease’. In February 1826 he had many causes for anxiety, but for him the evidence of being well adjusted is in being able to abandon the mind to its own governance without feeling anxious or guilty. In fact to judge from such descriptions in the Journal the dreamy days are those in which he is developing new ideas: From the 19 January to the 2d. february inclusive is exactly fifteen days during which time (with the intervention of some days’ idleness to let imagination brood on the task a little) I have written a volume.75 A little later he says:

 433 Yesterday I did not write a line of Wood—k. Partly I was a little out of spirits—though that would not have hindered—partly I wanted to wait for some new ideas—a sort of collecting of straw to make bricks of—partly I was a little too far beyond the press.76 The rhythm of composition involves intense activity followed by inactivity. The inactivity is partly related to how he feels, but also to an apparent need to think without consciously thinking, a kind of combination of therapy and creativity. The proverbial reference ‘straw to make bricks of ’ is used casually as though it were just a useful formulation, but, as so often in Scott, an examination of its source in the Book of Exodus shows that there is an underlying idea which strengthens the overt point: ‘And Pharaoh commanded the same day the taskmasters of the people, and their officers, saying, Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore: let them go and gather straw for themselves.’77 Scott cannot stand task-work, i.e. work imposed by another or by an external necessity, and he wishes to gather his own straw. By implication he, like the Israelites, is not lazy but is sacrificing to his god; he is going through a species of atonement from which he draws the imaginative energy to continue to write. His representation of how solutions to particular problems come to him both indicates the importance of mental activity that is not conscious, or that he chooses not to be conscious of, and shows that they are followed by a burst of energy which launches him into new or further writing: The half-hour between waking and rising has all my life proved propitious to any task which was exercizing my invention. When I get over any knotty difficulty in a story or have had in former times to fill up a passage in a poem it was always when I first opend my eyes that the desired ideas throngd upon me. This is so much the case that I am in the habit of relying upon it and saying to myself when I am [at] a loss ‘Never mind, we shall have it at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’78 Were this passage reformulated in Freudian terms we would talk of the activity of the unconscious mind, particularly in sleep, feeding the conscious. Nowadays the unconscious is understood rather as a metaphor than an entity, but, even so, it is apparent that Scott does not want to observe too precisely what he is doing, and that he wants to see his best writing as a product of mental activity of which he is not conscious. The stress on automatic creativity could be seen as image-making, a fashioning of an idea of the creative artist which would be recognisable to his contemporary readership from the headnote to ‘Kubla Khan’ and elsewhere, but Scott remarks too often on what happens in sleep for it to be no more than that. In the Journal he comments frequently on the phenomenon, so that either this is

434

   

indeed what happened, or alternatively he engineers the physiological rhythm which generates his best ideas. There is a grand incubation period in which the overall story is conceived; there are limited incubation periods in which particular problems are resolved, and which come to him as illumination and bursts of physical energy given overnight.79 The Manuscript. The manuscript of Woodstock is now owned by the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York (accession no. MA 452). It was given by Scott to Robert Cadell on 9 April 1831 (according to Cadell’s note) and Cadell had the manuscript bound as a single volume. It was sold at the Cadell sale in 1866, and then again at the Tite sale in 1874 when, presumably (the Morgan records are not explicit), it was bought by John Pierpont Morgan (1837–1913). Scott inserted numbers on the top left-hand corner of most leaves: not all are foliated, for title pages and extra leaves, inserted by Scott to provide a verso on which to insert corrections and revisions after he had sent off the previous batch of manuscript to be transcribed, are without numbers, and the preface, which was written last, has its own numbering sequence. There were once 76 leaves in the first volume, but six are missing,80 66 in the second volume but four are missing,81 and 73 in the third volume which is complete.82 As was his custom, Scott wrote on bifolia: a sheet was folded in half, cut along the folded edge, and then folded in half again to create a gathering of four leaves (each approximately 26×20.5 cm), in which 1 and 4, and 2 and 3 are conjoint. He folded his paper about a centimetre from the left to create a margin. He then filled his leaves with writing: the whole surface other than the margin is covered with words. His hand was now quite small and he normally got over 800 words on a recto. As usual the main text appears on the rectos, with the versos of the preceding leaves being used for corrections and revisions. What is unusual, however, is the extent to which he expanded what he first wrote: out of a total of 215 versos, only 20 are blank. The verso additions are very often the ‘best’ bits; it is as though he used the rectos to get down the story-line, and then vitalised the narrative with his verso additions. The effectiveness of his verso transformations is illustrated in the following passage from early in the novel (27.7–28.12 in the present edition). On the rectos of Volume 1, ff. 10–11, Scott wrote: “What vessells?” exclaimd the fiery old Knight “and belonging to whom? Unbaptized dog speak evil of the martyr in my presence and I will do a deed misbecoming of me on mthato caitiff corpse of thine”—And shaking his daughter from his right arm the old man laid his hand on his rapier. His antagonist on the contrary

 435 kept his temper and waving his 〈right〉 hand to add impression to his speech he said with a calmness which aggravated Sir Richards wrath—“Nay good friend I pray thee be still and brawl not —it becomes not grey hairs and feeble arms to brawl and rant like drunkards—Put me not to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence but listen to the voice of reason—Seest thou not that the Lord hath decided this great controversy in favour of us and ours against thee and thine. Wherefore, render up thy [f. 11] stewardship peacefully and deliver up to me the chattels of the Man”—〈As he utterd this ignominious epithet which was that by which the commonwealths men〉 “Patience is a good nag but she will plod” said the Knight unable to rein in his wrath. He pluckd his sheathed rapier from his side struck the steward a severe blow with it and instantly drawing and throwing the 〈sheath〉 scabbard over the trees he 〈threw〉 mplacedo himself into a posture of fence with his swords point within half a yard of the Stewards body—The latter slipd back with activity threw his long cloak from his shoulders and drawing his long tuck stood upon his defence. The swords clashd smartly together while Alice in her terror screamd wildly for assistance. But the combat was of short duration. The old cavalier had attackd a man as cunning of fence as he himself or a little more so but possessing all the strength and activity of which time had deprived Sir Richard and all the calmness which the other had lost in his passion. They had scarce exchanged three passes ere the sword of Sir 〈Richard〉 mHenryo flew up in the air as if it had gone in search of the scabbard and burning with shame and anger the mold knighto stood disarmd at the mercy of his antagonist. The Republican shewd no purpose of abusing his victory “Thou art deliverd into my hands he said and by the law of arms I might smite thee under the fifth rib but far be it from 〈thee〉 me to spill thy remaining drops of blood—mNeverthelesso seeing that 〈they〉 there may a turning in thine evil ways, and a returning to those which are good—If the Lord enlarge thy date for repentance and amendment 〈whith〉 wherefore should it be shortend by a poor sinful mortal who is speaking truly but thy fellow-worm.” NL Sir 〈Richard〉 mHenryo . . . The passage shows a three-stage process of correcting and revising. Scott corrects small mistakes as he writes: he changes ‘thee’ to ‘me’, ‘they’ to ‘there’, and deletes the false start ‘whith’. These are ‘automatic’ mistakes—the programming of the hand, so to speak, has led to his writing the wrong word. Two other changes show an immediate change of mind: substituting ‘scabbard’ for ‘sheath’, and deleting ‘As he utterd this ignominious epithet which was that by which the commonwealths men’ in favour of Sir Henry’s vigorous ‘Patience is a good nag’. Both are undoubted improvements. To judge from the pen and the ink, other changes were made as he looked at what he had written: ‘right’ before ‘hand’ is deleted because

436

   

Sir Henry has just ‘shaken his daughter from his right arm’; ‘that’ is required before ‘caitiff corpse’; ‘placed’ is more appropriate than ‘threw’; adding ‘Nevertheless’ improves the rhetoric; he needs to specify who stood disarmed; and his character is ‘Sir Henry’, not ‘Sir Richard’. At the same time on the facing verso (f. 10v) he added ‘Charles Stewart’ following ‘the Man’, no doubt by way of explanation. At ‘For me, I will never cross’ (29.12–13) Scott changed his pen, and this probably indicates a new day, or at least a new stint. Clearly he reread what he had recently written, and, in the new pen, adds significantly to it. Indeed, his verso additions transform a fairly pedestrian passage into something that is linguistically and culturally interesting. On f. 10v he adds ‘longer’ so that Sir Henry is ‘unable longer to rein in his wrath’, a slight but telling adjustment. Then Scott adds to Tomkins’s ‘by the law of arms I might smite thee under the fifth rib’ which now becomes: ‘by the law of arms I might smite thee under the fifth rib even as 〈Abner the son of Ner〉 mAsahelo was struck dead by Abner the son of Ner as he followd the chase on the hill of Ammah that lyeth before Giah in the way of the wilderness of Gibeon’. The law of arms is not important to Tomkins, but it becomes so by being sanctified by the biblical reference (2 Samuel 3.23–24). Scott next expands the idea of ‘abusing his victory’ by adding: ‘nor did he either during the conduct or after the victory was won in any respect alter the sour and grave composure which reignd upon his countenance—a contest of life and Death seemd to him a thing as familiar and as little to be feard as an ordinary bout with the foils’. That the addition was made after the Abner passage is indicated by its coming lower down the verso, and by its being numbered ‘2’. Although in itself undramatic, it serves to establish Tomkins’s frame of mind, which is then given an ideological justification by the reference to Abner. In his Journal entry for 3 March Scott regrets that he did not read proofs of the second of the Malachi epistles for, he says, ‘the last touches are always most effectual’.83 He demonstrates the truth of his comment in this page from Woodstock, a page that is characteristic of the whole novel. It is not clear why there should have been so much expansion and revision during the writing of Woodstock. It does not seem to be related to the financial storm. Scott was expanding ideas on the rectos before his worries became really serious: the novel was begun a month before he began to have fears about the stability of his publisher (22 November),84 two months before he began to have real fears for himself (18 December),85 and three months before James Ballantyne and Co. declared itself insolvent on 17 January. None of these turns of event is reflected in the physical manuscript of Woodstock: it is not apparent that anything untoward was happening when one examines how the novel was inscribed upon the page.



437

The Proofs. As indicated earlier, most of the manuscript of Woodstock was copied by George Huntly Gordon, although it seems that some parts were copied by another unidentified person (above, 427). Their output became printers’ copy. The compositors would have set the material as it came in, pulled a proof, and the in-house proof-readers would have read against the copy. The corrections would have been inserted, and a new proof pulled. This proof constitutes the print of the proofs which went to James Ballantyne and then to Scott. In the course of translating the manuscript into print, the intermediaries, as the copyists, the compositors and the proof-readers are collectively called in the  , normalised Scott’s spelling, inserted many of the marks of punctuation, spotted missing words, replaced words repeated in close succession, and corrected small errors in such matters as grammar. Thus turning the manuscript text into print was not a simple or straightforward process. Even so, the intermediaries did not do well in reading Woodstock. An examination of the print of the proofs, which are owned by the British Library,86 shows that on some 180 occasions the compositors left a space because they could not read or did not understand what had been written: as a measure of the extent of this failure it may be said that the present editors have been able to recover every single one of these 180 or so readings. Such spaces prompted Scott to fill in the holes, so that even if the new material was not what he had originally written the resulting reading was by Scott; but he never consulted what he had written previously and for the most part his ‘fillings’ are, in literary terms, inferior to what he first wrote. But in the printed proofs there are many words and formulations that are not Scott’s: the intermediaries misread or omitted what Scott had written, or added words of their own. There are in all some 1200 instances in which in substantives the proofs differ from the manuscript of Woodstock. Some of those are generated by an attempt to ‘improve’ what Scott had written. One such example is the substitution in the proofs of ‘head’ for ‘heart’ when Tomkins is reporting on General Harrison’s knowledge of some verse. In manuscript Scott had written ‘he ever seems to repeat it unwillingly as a child after his pedagogue or as if he unconsciously and involuntarily told over words which were impressd on his mind by some foreign agency and was not indited by his own heart, as the psalmist saith’ (150.43–51.2). The proof substituted ‘head’ for ‘heart’, and this went into the first edition; the ‘impressed on his mind’ does suggest that ‘head’ should follow, but Psalm 45.1 reads: ‘My heart is inditing a good matter’. The copyist or a compositor wrongly ‘corrected’ what Scott had written. However, most of the substitutions provide the reader with approximations to Scott’s sense. For instance, a few lines later, where the

438

   

proofs read ‘there may be truth in such tales’ (proofs, 2.25), in manuscript Scott had written ‘tells’ (151.5); it could be that ‘tells’ was a homophone for ‘tales’, but it is more probable that the intermediaries were copying carelessly. The frequent substitution of a synonym for what Scott had written tends to support the observation: see, for instance, ‘different’ for ‘differing’ (119.29 and 153.29), or the interchangeability of words like ‘say’, ‘reply’, ‘answer’. There is also a kind of visual approximating as well: at 11.2 the ‘moreover’ of the manuscript became ‘morocco’ in proof, and at 158.32 the manuscript ‘in the country’ becomes ‘on the contrary’ in proof. Very many small words were lost between manuscript and proof. On 137 alone, for instance, the ‘priest had challenged’ in the manuscript became the ‘priest challenged’ in proof (137.15); ‘excuse, sir,’ became ‘excuse,’ (137.28); and ‘or I the’ is reduced to ‘or the’ (137.41). Another very common error is seen in the way that verbal ‘st’ forms become ‘est’ in proof: at 156.18 ‘sawst’ becomes ‘sawest’ and further down ‘speakst’ becomes ‘speakest’ (156.36). The number of mistakes is perhaps not surprising (Scott’s hand was becoming more cramped, and Gordon must have been working much of the time in poor winter light, or by candlelight), but nonetheless an astonishing number of words were misread, omitted, or carelessly altered. Proof Corrections. The proofs in numbered pages, gathering by gathering, first went to James Ballantyne, who corrected and commented. He sent them on to Scott, who corrected and revised, and responded to James’s comments. The process can be illustrated in a short, but typical, passage from Volume 2, 158–59 of the proofs, which reads: “Here we are again in the old Joliffe—well victualled too.—How the knave solved my point of conscience!—the dullest of them is a special casuist where the question concerns profit. Look out if there are not some of our own ragged regiment lurking about, to whom a belly-full would be a God-send, Joceline. Thou saw’st how I dealt with him when I had light to deal with him, Joceline.” “Ay, and so your honour did,” said Joceline. [p. 159] “You taught him to know the Duke of Norfolk from Saunders Gardner. I’ll warrant him, he will not wish to come under your honour’s thumb again.” “Why, I am waxing old,” said Sir Henry; “but skill will not rust through age, nails must; and my age is like a lusty winter, as old Will says—frosty but kindly.—And what if, old as we are, we live to see better days! I promise thee, Joceline, I love this jarring betwixt the rogues of the board and the rogues of the sword. When thieves quarrel, true men have a chance of coming by their own.” (196.13–29)87



439

James Ballantyne’s contribution was to insert the necessary ‘though’ before ‘nails must’, and to put a cross against the reference to the Duke of Norfolk and Saunders Gardner which keys to a comment at the foot of the page: ‘I could wish this allusion were plainer.’. When Scott received the proofs he filled in the blank space with ‘frank’, meaning ‘pig-sty’. This was the word in the manuscript where it is clearly written: Gordon cannot have recognised a quotation from 2 Henry IV, 2.2.133–34, leaving a gap in his puzzlement, but Scott would not have had to look at the manuscript to fill it. Next, after ‘God-send, Joceline’, he adds: ‘—Then his fence Joceline—though the fellow foins well—very sufficient well—But thou’. He also prunes ‘to deal with him’, and adds ‘fitting’, to create ‘fitting light’ in place of ‘light to deal with him’. He deletes ‘nails must; and’ and replaces it with ‘sinews must stiffen’, and puts ‘But’ in place of ‘and’, to create (once put into type): ‘but skill will not rust through age, though sinews must stiffen; But’. To Ballantyne’s objection to the reference to the Duke of Norfolk and Saunders Gardner Scott replied: ‘It is proverbial I believe the genuine reading is to teach to teach [sic] a man to know the Lord his God from Tom Frazer’. Neither the one saying nor the other is known from other sources, and one may therefore assume that Scott was teasing James with a bit of pseudo-learning to justify his proverbial invention. When revising in the proofs Scott added in all only 8 new paragraph-length passages, and he deleted two. The real business involved detailed tidying, and sharpening, and responding to the challenges of James Ballantyne. In the proofs, Ballantyne addresses 147 messages to Scott. On 4 occasions he asks for a motto. On 45 occasions he comments in a single word, writing ‘incomplete’ or ‘incorrect’, and nearly every time Scott is prompted to complete his sentence, or to straighten his exposition. On a few occasions Ballantyne is a little more deferential, writing ‘Not quite correct, I think’ (proofs, 2.164), but he is sometimes blunter. For instance at 2.54 on the proofs he tells Scott: ‘All this is very incorrect and incomplete’. Yet he is aware that this may be intentional, for he adds ‘but perhaps it is meant to be so. Yet, if so, the reader should be made aware that it is so meant.’ He asks pertinent questions like ‘Why accordingly?’ (proofs, 1.155), and Scott deletes ‘accordingly’ (‘reputed 〈accordingly〉 to stand’: 68.25), and again ‘Who was his master? Joceline, or the Knight?’ (proofs, 1.97), to which Scott replies ‘The Knight’, but alters a pronoun from ‘thy’ to ‘our’ to make this clear (45.10–11). Scott’s responses are often jocular, even joshing. ‘From what?’, Ballantyne asked of the motto to Volume 1, Chapter 5 of the proofs (1.125); Scott first wrote ‘The Devil’, deleted it, and then ascribed the verse to ‘J. B.’. Presumably he enjoyed the idea of James Ballantyne apparently writing ‘My tongue pads slowly under this new language,/ And starts

440

   

and stumbles at these uncouth phrases’ (56.9–10). Ballantyne was not always right, however. At 3.89 in the proofs he observes, wrongly, ‘ “completed” wants a nominative’, to which Scott, who has rightly observed two nominatives, replies: You certainly have had the toothach—Why it put me in mind of the epigram when Pitt & Dundas came drunk into the House of Commons I cannot see the Speaker Hal—can you Not see the Speaker—damn me I see two.

To readers in the twenty-first century Ballantyne’s role as censor is perhaps less acceptable but Scott clearly used him as a barometer. When the commissioners withdraw from Woodstock, the proofs read: Meantime, the University and City, but especially the former, supplied them with some means of amusing themselves, until the expected moment, when, as they hoped, they should either be summoned to Windsor, or Woodstock should once more be abandoned to their discretion. (proofs, 3.127) Ballantyne put a cross in the margin opposite ‘amusing themselves’, and commented ‘a singular expression, I think’, causing Scott to remove any ambiguity with the rather pompous ‘employing their various faculties to advantage’ (319.13–17). At 3.64 in the proofs Wildrake says that he would willingly ‘ruffle it out once more in the King’s cause’, and cares not whether he is ‘banged, hanged, or damned’, to which Ballantyne objected ‘I think this much too coarse’. Scott deleted ‘damned’ (294.16–17). Ballantyne was very sensitive to oaths, and himself changes ‘D—n’ to ‘Confound’ (60.28), and ‘damned’ to ‘cursed’ (164.33). It was probably fear of the delicate James that made Scott, of his own accord, cut ‘and flatulencies’ from ‘these boyish offences have had their punishment in later years, inasmuch as that inordinate appetite for fruit hath produced stomachic affections and flatulencies’ (proofs, 3.329; 400.24–27), substituting for the last two words ‘under which I yet labour’. Ballantyne was useful, and his most important role was to make Scott aware of the narrative architecture of his novel. The business of proof-reading accompanied the writing of the novel, and Scott was never more than a few gatherings in front of the press. In the entry in his Journal for 15 February 1826 he comments: ‘I love to have the press thumping, clattering and banging in my rear—it creates the necessity [which] almost always makes me work best.’88 Maybe, but the dual process, writing and correcting, made for narrative coherence. At 70.6–7 (proofs, 1.159) the narrator talks of ‘the interests of Desborough’; Ballantyne asks ‘Have these interests been mentioned before?’, and Scott replies ‘Yes’. In the proofs (proofs 2.18; 147.34–37) Tomkins says that he discharges ‘the office of a faithful servant and secretary, as well to Major-General Harrison, as to my



441

just and lawful master, Colonel Desborough’; Ballantyne observes ‘I thought he had only been servant to Harrison?’, to which Scott answers ‘vide Vol 1 p. 143’ (63.22–24). At 2.109 in the proofs Ballantyne says ‘Harrison has not appeared in the apartment before’, and Scott replies ‘See top of p. 106’. And at 2.182 in the proofs Ballantyne asks ‘Has the narrative lasted no longer than two nights and days? The time seems much longer’; Scott responds ‘I cant make more of it’. In other words Scott knows intimately what has happened, and how what has happened supports ‘future’ scenes and incidents. This is apparent right at the beginning when Ballantyne objects to the sentence ‘why should’st thou of all men take such umbrage at a Maypole’ (33.2–3), saying ‘This sentence is ambiguous, leading us to suppose that more was known by Joceline of Tomkins than he did know of him’ (proofs, 1.67), to which Scott replies ‘it is meant to be ambiguous’—and it is, in that it prefigures the later revealing of Tomkins as a less-than-reformed rake. Even so, Scott deleted ‘of all men’. Ballantyne also asked for general directions. On a long passage on hunting trophies (37.40–38.11) he commented: I cannot say that I have seen this very description in your works before; but most certainly I have seen one, or more, as like it as two teeth or two eyes. It has the effect of a pure repetition. One feels having read it twenty times. (proofs, 1.79) So Scott gave James a general dispensation to ‘cut out any thing you can detect as repetition’; James duly deleted the passage although in fact what Scott wrote in Woodstock is not replicated elsewhere in the Waverley Novels. At 1.113 in the proofs Ballantyne states bluntly: ‘This name has already gone to press as Markham; and the sheets where it occurs must be cancelled, if the change is retained. We wait for orders.’ Scott replied: ‘Markham be it’. And then, at 1.143 in the proofs, the question is posed ‘Should the word, throughout, be “Mr.” or “Master”?’ And the reply came ‘Master I believe’. The same question was asked on the proofs at 1.199 and Scott instructed (by deleting each of Ballantyne’s words except ‘Master’) that all the ‘Mr’s’ should be corrected to ‘Master’. Ballantyne’s role was on the whole supportive, for his questions must have helped Scott to structure the narrative, and to formulate some matters more clearly. However, Ballantyne’s most severe criticism was resisted. He objected to the business of terrifying the commissioners in Woodstock, seeing it as an imitation of Mrs Radcliffe.89 Scott changed nothing, telling James in a letter in the first half of February: Your critiques never require apology I only 〈know〉 wishd to know whether your objection was to the supernatural tale in general or to my execution dans cet genre I always attend to your remarks

442

    when possible only they sometimes contradict the whole tenor of what I propose & then I must pass them over.90

Revises. Some Scott-corrected revises are extant, and are bound in with the other proofs of Woodstock; they are Volume 1, gatherings S and U; Volume 2, gatherings C, F, P, Q, and R; and Volume 3, gathering I. Because of the amount of material inserted in previous gatherings, pages 49–54 in Volume 2, and pages 177–82 in Volume 3 are overlaps so that these pages are, in effect, revises. In addition the bound proofs contain a ‘Last proof ’ for Volume 3, gathering O, which was not seen by Scott. Applying a rough discrimination between routine tidying and enhancement to the analysis of all post-proof changes in all other gatherings, it appears that Scott may have seen revises now no longer extant for Volume 1, gathering O, and Volume 3, gathering A. And the problems of establishing the break between Volumes 1 and 2 (see below, 443–44) suggest that, in addition to U in the first volume and C in the second, Scott must have seen the intervening gatherings, Volume 2 U/A and A/B, although there is no sign that he corrected them creatively. Although there are many post-proof changes in the other gatherings, they are of a routine, tidying nature which implies that they were revised by James Ballantyne and his staff, rather than by Walter Scott . Revises were required whenever Scott added passages of significant length in the proofs, or made many corrections. This applies, for example, in the original proofs of gathering S in the first volume, where he added a substantial passage, ‘We say this’ to ‘while they blaspheme’ (proofs, 1.279; 118.7–13). A revise was required, and when he received it he found himself correcting much more than just the added passage: he had to fill spaces, and respond to yet more commentary from Ballantyne. The latter remarks on the passage at 116.14–25 in the present text: ‘This is a very long sentence’ (revises, 1.275). So it is, and Scott made two sentences by adding ‘This was a rash theory’ after ‘Britain’ in line 17. (He satisfied Ballantyne, but the result is uncomfortable as the ‘theoretical principles’ of line 14 turn into a ‘rash theory’ in line 17.) The tone of the interplay has changed: in the revise Ballantyne does not just draw Scott’s attention to problems, but himself changes words; ‘supposed perfection’ is replaced by ‘conceivable perfection’ (revises, 1.278; 117.23). While in the first proofs there is no evidence of Ballantyne’s working them over after receiving them back from Scott, the change in tone and practice in the revises suggests that he may have revised further after Scott had returned the revises to him. The revises of Volume 2, gatherings C and D, are similar to those of S in Volume 1, although Scott’s revisions in proof had not been as extensive as in S. But Ballantyne is bolder: at 147.6 in the present



443

edition he added ‘Take care, sir.’ (revises, 2.37), and ‘no doubt’ at 148.34 (revises, 2.41), while at 150.12 he substituted ‘Wildrake— who felt more & more strongly’ in place of ‘Wildrake, for he also began to feel’ (revises, 2.45). The closing part of F had a lot of mistakes arising from the manuscript, and in the revise (2.81) Scott was asked to ‘Please to examine pp. 86 and 90’, where there was a missing motto and a continuing problem with Ballantyne’s non-understanding of the word œuvre. In gathering P Scott had supplied the song ‘Glee for King Charles’ in a paper apart (bound between proofs, 2.226 and 2.227), and then revised the context for the song quite extensively; in Q he added ‘His pride in the extent of his correspondence . . . equal to his vanity’ (proofs, 2.244; 232.4–7), and the motto to Chapter 10 from Wordsworth (proofs, 2.250; 234). These changes all necessitated revises. But in the revises he did not just check that all was well. He added two passages at the beginning of P: ‘I do it the rather . . . reserved till to-morrow. May therefore ask’ (revises, 2.225; 223.32–35), and ‘These private committees . . . committees at Westminster. But— shall we roost before’ (revises, 2.225; 223.37–39). He revised the con-text of ‘Glee for King Charles’ rather more in the revise (2.225) than in the proof. At the opening of Q (revises, 2.241) he was asked ‘Please to examine pp. 248, 250.’, where Ballantyne cannot understand what is happening (‘I dont follow the scope of this remark’), and where the motto lacks half a line and its ascription (revises, 2.250). In R Scott deleted a passage (revises, 2.270), marked ‘Incorrect’ by Ballantyne—but this is unusual for Scott’s normal inclination is to expand. And finally, in Volume 3 Scott added a long passage to the proofs on a paper apart (‘In his occasional indulgence . . . believe his professions’: 320.18–21.27), leading to the request on the revise ‘Please to revise this, the corrections being numerous & important’ (revises, 3.129). Scott did not pay attention to James’s technical use of ‘revise’, and treated the newly added passage as proof on which he could improve. The second area which necessitated revises came in the transition between the first two volumes. In the manuscript Scott indicates that the end of Volume 1 should come after ‘be possible’ (131.2–3): he left a space and on the facing verso wrote ‘Here I think may end Vol. 1’ (ff. 65v–66r). At the opening of gathering U in the proofs Ballantyne wrote: ‘This is a very short volume, too short, unless there is meant to be introductory matter’ (proofs, 1.305). Scott must then have offered another chapter, for Daniel McCorkindale, Ballantyne’s foreman, wrote at the end of the gathering: ‘Mem: another sheet to be added to vol. 1st’ (proofs, 1.309). But the new chapter took the volume to 335 pages, and Scott realised that this was now too long, for he wrote on the revises:

444

    Throw the 〈remain〉 contents of pages. 212. 213. 214. 215 to top of p. 216 in to this chapter. As there will necessarily be some preliminary matter the volume will be long enough if it concludes there. (revises, 1.311; the pages are numbered as Scott gives them but they should have been 312, 313, etc.)

The break was now to come after ‘so all was in a minute or two ready for the expedition.’ (132.22), and at this point on the revise Scott wrote: Here End vol I Volume II Chapter first “She kneeld and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven and prayed devoutly. King Henry VIII

Colonel Everards departure at the late hour for so it was then thought of Seven in the evening excited much speculation. There was &c (revises, 1.[316]) Scott did not write the conventional ‘End of Volume First’, but the imperative ‘Here End vol I’. It was not a protracted problem, for in Volume 2 the page numbers of new gatherings A and B alone are affected and new page numbers begin in the revise of C. There was, of course, a further set of proofs for every gathering, after author’s proofs and revises: the printers had to see that corrections had been properly executed, and the type properly imposed. But James Ballantyne used this post-authorial space to do his own tidying, and to change things he did not like: he may have done this on proofs and revises that had been returned to him by Scott, or he may have done it on the final proofs. Altogether there are about 1000 changes made post author’s proofs and revises; most can be considered to be covered by ‘standing orders’. Publication. Scott received the last proof-sheets of Woodstock on 1 April 1826, finished work on them the following day, and sent them off. But the novel was not published until 28 April. Modern readers will consider the speed of production and distribution to be fast, but normally Scott’s publishers were so anxious to obtain a return on their outlays that the final processes were conducted with extreme rapidity. In 1826, though, things were different. Following the news of Constable’s London agents being unable to pay back what was effectively a bank loan, Scott and Ballantyne had concluded that insolvency followed: James had already ‘taken measures to stop’ when he met Scott on 17 January, and on 29 January Scott and Ballantyne’s creditors unanimously agreed to a trust to which Scott would commit all his literary earnings.91 But as already observed, the ownership of Woodstock was disputed by the trustees of Archibald Constable and Co.,



445

and publication could go ahead only when it was agreed that the proceeds of Woodstock and Napoleon would be paid into a bank account controlled by the representatives of both, and that Alexander Irving should be asked to arbitrate on the dispute. On 3 April John Gibson, for Scott’s trustees, finalised the sale of 1950 copies of Woodstock to Alexander Cowan, acting as agent for Constable’s trustees, at eighteen shillings and sixpence each, at a credit of ten months from delivery with 5% discount for any earlier payment. He then proceeded to London, where he gave Hurst, Robinson and Co., the usual London publishers, until 12 April to make an offer in cash for the remainder of the imprint. They were, unexpectedly, unable to pay, and so on 12 April an agreement was made with Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green to sell 7900 copies for ‘the sum of six thousand five hundred pounds Sterling (£6500) payable in ready money twenty days after the Books are shipped at Leith’.92 The change from the bankrupt Hurst, Robinson, to Longmans necessitated a new title page in each of the three volumes which was inserted by means of a cancel ‘tipped’ (i.e. glued) into position.93 The minutes of Scott’s trustees of 27 March 1827 record: They sold 7900 copies to Messrs. Longman Rees and Co. London, for £6500 (that is within a fraction of 16/6d per copy) and payable twenty days after the shipment of the Books at Leith. The remaining 1950 copies were sold to the Trustee on [sic] Messrs. Constable and Cos. estate at the price of 18/6d. per copy, ten months credit. Messrs. Longman and Cos. share of the price being £6500 was paid on 12th May; and Messrs Constable and Cos. was paid on 26th May and amounted, after deducting discount to £1731.18.1½ In all £8231.18.1½ This being one of the works claimed by Mesrs. Constable and Co. the £6500 was deposited with Sir Willm Forbes and Co. . . . and the remainder of the price was, with Mr Cowan’s consent, applied towards payment of the paper furnished to the Trustees for Woodstock and Napoleon.94 On 3 December 1827 Lord Newton gave his final decision on the monies arising from the sale of Woodstock in favour of Scott’s trustees. This decision led directly to the first payment to Scott’s creditors who received 6s. in the £. 3.    There was no ‘second edition’ of Woodstock by itself; there was not even a reissue of the first-edition sheets with a new title page as there was for so many of Scott’s novels. But Woodstock appeared in the three editions of Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley, a collection

446

   

which consisted of St Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders, and Woodstock, as well as in the Magnum Opus. When selling copies of the first edition of Woodstock to Constable’s trustees and to Longmans, John Gibson had agreed that ‘no separate edition of this work shall be published, till the copies of the present edition are sold’,95 but it was ‘expressly understood’ that ‘the circumstance of any copies of this work remaining unsold, shall not preclude Sir Walter Scott or his trustees from publishing any collected edition of the works of the Author of Waverley, in which Woodstock may be included’. The minutes of Scott’s trustees for 8 June 1826 record that they considered an offer from Robert Cadell to publish the last four Waverley Novels in the collected series (the previous novels had all been republished in groups, each of these collected editions appearing in octavo, duodecimo and 18mo formats). Cadell offered to print 1500 copies of each, he ‘paying the Trustees a sum of £1500. for the privilege, by two equal instalments at four and six months, from the completion of the last edition’,96 and with his meeting all the costs. The trustees decided to see if either Longmans or Murrays was prepared to offer. One of the problems, although the minutes do not record this, must have been the fact that Cadell was an undischarged bankrupt, who could not legally continue to trade. However, the minutes of a meeting of 13 July 1826 record: From a state which had been prepared by Mr. Ballantyne of the probable expence and proceeds of the proposed three editions of the four last Novels, each edition consisting of 1500 Copies, it appeared that there would be a clear profit to the Trustees, supposing all the impressions sold, of £5,064. 4. 7, while Mr. Cadell’s offer for the right of publishing these three editions to the same extent was only £1,500.97 As the trustees had kept James Ballantyne and Co. as a running concern, they decided to undertake the preparation and manufacture of the books themselves, but, on Scott’s suggestion, to limit the impressions of each edition to 1000. The minutes record that in March Gibson wrote letters soliciting offers from publishers for the right to sell these editions to the retail trade,98 and on 6 April 1827 Gibson accepted Cadell’s offer: ‘On the part of the trustees of Sir Walter Scott, I hereby accept of the offer for the continued series of the four last Waverley Novels . . . contained in your letter of the 30th March last’, the offer being for £4000.99 It was further agreed that two-thirds of the imprint of each edition would go to Longmans, which was confirmed by their acceptance on 9 April.100 The octavo appeared in seven volumes in Edinburgh on 17 May 1827, the duodecimo in nine on 28 July, and the 18mo in seven on 27 October, although the dating of the engravings suggests that it may in fact have appeared in 1828.101

  

447

The textual relationship of the different editions to each other can be seen in the following stemma: First Edition (1826) o bbb 8vo Novels and Romances (1827)ddddddddd o o [marked-up 8vo Tales and Romances] o o o o 12mo Tales and Romances (1827) 18mo Tales and Romances (1827) o o [Interleaved Set] o Magnum (1832)

The octavo Tales and Romances (1827). Woodstock occupies the second half of Volume 6, and the whole of Volume 7, and was printed by James Ballantyne and Co. It exhibits one bibliographical curiosity. At a late stage it must have been found that the Preface to Woodstock had been omitted: the pages of the Preface are numbered in a duplicate run from [163]*–174*, are printed in a six-leaf gathering signed L2, and appear before the title page, so that there is nothing to herald the the novel that follows The Talisman. As 161* and 162* are missing from the sequence it looks as though the title page was suppressed in order to get the omitted matter into 12 pages rather than 14. Woodstock was, of course, set from the first edition. In all there are about 370 substantive and orthographic variants; the octavo inserts 30 hard hyphens and deletes 16; it adds 220 commas and removes 86; in all it makes about 500 punctuational changes when compared to the base-text for the present edition. Substantive changes include the substitution of one word for another. Some of these are helpful: for instance, when in the base text Dr Rochecliffe’s disguise falls off, the patched eye is revealed to be as good ‘as that which was usually covered’; the octavo recovers the manuscript reading and sensibly changes ‘covered’ to ‘uncovered’ (399.20 in the present edition). But the octavo also makes mistakes: the base text reads ‘a whole Sabbath of witches’ (171.32), but the octavo substitutes ‘sabaoth’, which in the context is meaningless. The octavo adds small words: for example at 24.13 the base-text reads ‘than any other’, but the octavo ‘than in any other’; and at 233.7–8 ‘have much love’ while the octavo has ‘have so much love’. The opposite tendency is also seen: the base text reads ‘vain in defence’ and the octavo ‘vain defence’ (79.37), and later the first edition reads ‘d——n of the Parliament’ while the octavo has the plain ‘of Parliament’ (397.17)—the first edition reading is the correct one, not just because that is what the manuscript reads, but because Wildrake is damning the Rump, not parliamentary government. There are numerous instances of transposition: ‘coarse strong voice’ (113.28) becomes

448

   

‘strong coarse voice’. The octavo has its own orthographic preferences and it tries to standardise on ‘judgement’, ‘Doctor’, Master’, and ‘Mistress’, and by omitting the apostrophe in words which appear as ‘would’st’ or ‘could’st’ etcetera in the first edition. All in all, the octavo is a workmanlike reprint that does its job reasonably well: it attends to some mistakes in the first edition, but introduces its own errors. It shows no sign of authorial input. The duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827). Woodstock in the duodecimo edition occupies Volumes 8 and 9 of Tales and Romances, and was printed by James Ballantyne and Co. The duodecimo and the 18mo were both set from the octavo. They share most of the standardisations introduced in the octavo, such as ‘burden’ (for ‘burthen’), ‘analyse’ (for ‘analyze’), ‘cipher’ (for ‘cypher’), ‘grey’ (for ‘gray’), ‘ankle’ (for ‘ancle’), as well as most of the substantive variants introduced in the octavo listed above and others such as ‘rochets’ for ‘rocket’ at 11.20; ‘loyalist’ for ‘royalist’ at 78.5; ‘steed’ for ‘horse’ at 94.18; and ‘the very poetry not sober’ for ‘the poetry not very sober’ at 405.8. However, the duodecimo and the 18mo are independent of each other. There are variants in the duodecimo that are not in the 18mo (for example ‘Pirithous’ for ‘Perithous’ at 58.28, a change which exhibits some learning; ‘throat’ for ‘sore’ at 97.6 and ‘doors’ for ‘rooms’ at 126.25, both mistakes which show an unnecessary literal mindedness). There are others in the 18mo that are not in the duodecimo (for example, ‘thou art’ for ‘art thou’ at 150.28, and ‘any such a Jack-a-dandy’ for ‘any such Jack-a-dandy’ at 259.26). However, it is possible that a very lightly marked-up copy of the octavo was used for both, in that they share some variants that are not in the octavo, but which must have been in the copy; for example when Wildrake starts to hum the cavalier song ‘The King shall enjoy his own again’, the narrative lead in both the duodecimo and the 18mo goes ‘So saying, he proceeded with his duties, humming at the same time the cavalier tune’; in the first edition and the octavo the corresponding phrase reads: ‘So saying, and humming at the same time the cavalier tune’ (169.13). In both the duodecimo and the 18mo Bletson is said to be Member of Parliament for ‘Littlecreed’ at 177.16–17 instead of ‘Littlefaith’—which is what the constituency is called at 118.6, but not at 107.5. There are over 500 substantive and orthographic differences between the duodecimo and the first edition, and over 190 between the duodecimo and the octavo. The duodecimo adds some 360 commas when compared to the first edition, and 150 when compared to the octavo, and it deletes some 150 commas to be found in the first edition and 90 in the octavo. Compared to the first edition there are over 330 other changes in punctuation (of which the most common is the

  

449

conversion of 40 commas into semicolons); compared to the octavo there are about 170. Capitals are raised on 60 and lowered on 50 occasions (40 and 20). Although the duodecimo has its own characteristics, such as the addition of speech markers round indirect speech, there is no pattern, and no sign of a controlling intelligence at work. The 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828). Woodstock occupies the latter half of Volume 6, and all of Volume 7. It was probably set from a marked-up copy of the octavo, as shown in the previous section, and it was printed by James Clarke of Edinburgh. Scott had always insisted that his work be printed by James Ballantyne and Co., but the printing works as well as the copyright of Woodstock were now owned by his trustees and Scott no longer had an interest in where work was placed. The 18mo has about 500 substantive and orthographic variants when compared to the first edition, and 225 when compared against the octavo. Some 55 hard hyphens have been inserted and 30 removed when set against the first edition, in comparison to 25 and 20 when measured against the octavo. Some 20 hyphens have been removed and the word closed up in the one case, and 9 in the second. The 18mo adds 324 commas and removes 167 relative to the first edition (137 and 126 when compared to the octavo). There are around 325 other punctuational changes when compared to the first edition, and 190 as against the octavo. Initial capitals are raised on 80 occasions and lowered on 50 (50 and 30). In his Journal entry for 8 January 1828 Scott says that ‘Longman and Coy . . . suddenly inform Mr. Gibson that they desire 1000 of the 8vo. edition of Saint Ronan’s Well and the subsequent series of novels thereunto belonging for that they have only seven remaining, and wish it to be sent to three printers and pushd out in three months’.102 It is probable that Scott was mistaken about it being the octavo that was in demand, for no second edition of the octavo has been identified or located, but there was a second edition of the 18mo, and it was printed by four Edinburgh printers; Volume 6 of the series was printed by John Stark, and Volume 7 by Thomas Constable (Archibald Constable’s eldest son, who had taken over the printing business of his maternal grandfather). Only one set of the second edition of the 18mo Tales and Romances has been located; it is in the British Library, where it was inspected, but not collated. Scott is unlikely to have prepared copy or to have corrected proofs; as he says in the same Journal entry: ‘I will make neither alteration nor addition till our grande opus the Improved Edition goes to press’.103 The set was issued on 5 May 1828.104 Thus the overall impression is of a text that is accumulating marks of punctuation, and losing the roughnesses and the idiosyncrasies that characterise the first edition, without being subject to the normalisation that copy-editors achieved in the twentieth century. The different

450

   

editions of Tales and Romances were routine productions intended to allow those who had bought earlier titles in these formats to complete their holdings. The Interleaved Copy and the Magnum. The full story of the making of the Magnum Opus is to be found in Jane Millgate’s Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History.105 In brief, when on 10 March 1823 Scott gave the manuscripts of the novels to date to Archibald Constable,106 Constable in his letter of thanks suggested that Scott should annotate his own fiction—‘in my opinion it is the Author only who could do anything at all acceptable in the way of genuine illustration’.107 Scott demurred.108 The idea was resurrected in 1825; in his Journal entry for 19 December Scott noted Constable’s plan for a collected edition,109 and on 19 January 1826 he recorded ‘Even yesterday I went about making notes on Waverley according to Constable’s plan’.110 But work was interrupted by the crash. Constable had purchased the copyright of all the novels from Waverley to Quentin Durward, but at the time of the crash £7800 of the purchase money was still outstanding. Who owned the copyrights was one of the matters referred to Lord Newton. The missives for the sale of the first copyrights, in February 1819, had stipulated that ownership remained with Scott until the full price had been paid, but this clause had not appeared when Scott sold further copyrights in 1821 and 1823,111 and because of this Lord Newton determined that the copyrights belonged to Archibald Constable and Co. To proceed with plans for the complete edition of the novels it was necessary to secure the copyrights, which Scott’s trustees, working with Robert Cadell, did at an auction on 19 December 1827, paying £8500. They were thus able to add the copyright of the first fifteen novels to the four which Scott had not sold, namely St Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders, and Woodstock, and to that of the new work, Chronicles of the Canongate. Preparations for a new collected edition continued through 1828. Publication of the Magnum Opus began on 1 June 1829, and 48 volumes appeared, one a month, until 3 May 1833. Woodstock constitutes Volumes 39 and 40, which were issued on 1 August and 1 September 1832. Scott’s task for the new edition was to write an introduction to each novel, to embellish the stories with notes, and to improve the text. As part of the preparation of the Magnum version of Woodstock, Cadell had a set of the octavo edition of Tales and Romances taken down and interleaved so that there was a leaf of blank paper between every opening of type on which Scott could write corrections, additional words and phrases, and notes.112 The first time that Scott records working on Woodstock is in his Journal for 27 December 1830 where he says:

   451 Commences snow and extremely bitter cold. When I returnd from Mertoun half frozen I took up the Magnum and began to notify the Romance calld Woodstock in which I got some assistance from Harden’s ancient tracts.113 Harden was Hugh Scott of Harden, and Scott and his family passed every Christmas with him at Mertoun House near St Boswells in the Scottish Borders: the Introductory Epistle to the sixth canto of Marmion (1808) is addressed ‘Mertoun-House, Christmas’.114 However, it is possible that Scott wrote only one note on Woodstock on 27 December for only ‘Vindication of the Book of Common Prayer, against the contumelious slanders of the Fanatic Party terming it Porridge’, which Scott describes as a ‘singular and rare tract’,115 is indebted to the Mertoun Library. No other note quotes a tract. On 16 May 1831 Cadell wrote to Scott saying ‘I shall before long have to ask you for Woodstock as the Printer will require the Crusaders in a few days’.116 Whether Scott had worked on Woodstock in the interval since 27 December is not known, but his swift response and anxious reassurances rather suggest that nothing much had happened. On 22 May 1831 he wrote to Cadell: ‘Woodstock is going on and will be soon ready’.117 The following day he sent ‘the first volume of Woodstock’,118 in other words the first of the volumes of Tales and Romances in which Woodstock appears, and which takes in Volume 1 and the first three chapters of Volume 2 of the first edition. On Thursday 26 May he told Cadell ‘I now send the 2d volume of Woodstock’,119 but in fact he did not send the second volume until the following Monday: in a note dated by Scott ‘Monday 8 o’ clock’ and endorsed 30 May 1831 by Cadell, he says ‘I send you the 2nd volume of Woodstock and so we are all in train again’.120 Having had two strokes at the end of 1830, and another on 17 April 1831, that Scott could say ‘we are all in train again’, and for it to be true, is quite remarkable. Scott made 153 textual changes in the interleaved copy of the novel. All involve small additions or substitutions; there are no changes in punctuation. None changes the story: there is nothing comparable to the change in the date of the main action of The Bride of Lammermoor, which in the first edition was around 1703 and in the Magnum after 1707. There are some useful corrections. Scott corrects ‘Mugglesman’, which was a mistake in the first edition, but not the manuscript, to ‘Muggletonian’ (22.16). He also changes ‘Tholkeld’ to ‘Threlkeld’ (234.4), which is what he had written when he supplied the motto in proof, and is what Wordsworth originally wrote. He alters ‘Hieresiographia’ to ‘Heresiographia’ (321.43), putting right his own mistake in manuscript. There are clarifications too which get rid of some of the vagaries

452

   

of his own writing and of the first edition. On the gate to Woodstock park ‘the ill-fated cypher of C. R., was now decayed, partly with rust, partly from the effects of violence’ (18.13–14); in the interleaved copy Scott adds ‘wasted’ and ‘injured’, changing the reading to ‘the ill-fated cypher of C. R., was now decayed, partly wasted with rust, partly injured from the effects of violence’. When Everard tells Wildrake that he has written to Cromwell he tells him (in the first edition), ‘I have made it my request to him’ (76.20–21), and in the interleaved copy Scott changes ‘it’ to ‘this’, and ‘him’ (only identifiable from the general context rather than the grammatical antecedent) to ‘General Cromwell’. When Charles is contemplating the seduction of Alice he comments on her father talking of ‘his disloyal intention of pinching mine anointed body black and blue with his vile foils’; here Scott makes the only one-letter correction, changing ‘pinching’ to ‘punching’, thus recovering the original manuscript reading. It is unfortunate that when Sir Henry finds that his guest is the king and is quite overcome, his head is said to be ‘drooping upon his long white beard, and mingling with its silver hairs’ (355.28–29), a problem which Scott solves by adding ‘big unconscious tears’ before ‘mingling’. From time to time Scott enhances a description. Cromwell’s nose is ‘too large in proportion to his other features’ (81.14), and Scott adds ‘and of a reddish hue’. The ‘vice of swearing’ (91.38) becomes the ‘barren and unprofitable vice of swearing’. Harrison is said to have an ‘indifference to pain or bloodshed’ (115.9–10), and Scott adds ‘acquired in the shambles’. Wildrake hopes for a ‘a glimpse of a goodlooking house-maid’ (155.24), but his tastes become more catholic and all that is wanted in the interleaved copy is ‘a tolerably goodlooking house-maid’. Desborough does not understand Bletson’s reference to Chaucer and remarks ‘well—I for one desire his room rather than his company’ (172.4), but in the interleaved copy Scott decides to explain the implications, adding before the dash ‘answered Desborough to whom the description of the old poet was unintelligible’. Everard imputes some of the stiffness he finds in Kerneguy to ‘ideas of family consequence’ (272.30) and in the interleaved copy Scott changes this to ‘extravagant ideas’. Cromwell, in conversation with Holdenough, comments: ‘Ay, truly, the rich drink out of silver flaggons, and goblets of silver—and even so let it be’ (334.37–38), but here Scott revises the ‘aspirational’ side of Cromwell and converts him into an upholder of the present distribution of wealth: ‘Ay, truly, the rich drink out of silver flaggons, and goblets of silver—mthe poor out of paltry bowls of woodo and even so let it be msince they both drink the same elemento’. But not all of Scott’s additions are equally happy. Alice defends herself against Charles’s persuasions saying she ‘has no better defence against your [Charles’s] sophistry, than what the natural feeling of

  

453

female dignity inspires’ (288.14–16), which is a nice reinterpretation of what she is actually inspiring in Charles, but is rather spoiled by Scott’s addition, following ‘what’, of ‘a sense of morality together with’. After Charles’s escape Sir Henry asked Alice the account of her adventures of the preceding night. They were briefly told. Their midnight walk through the Chase had been speedily and safely accomplished. (408.6–9) Here Scott adds ‘Nor had the King once made slightest relapse into the naughty Louis Carneguy’, an addition which is simultaneously arch (the attempted seduction of Alice is not funny), and inappropriate as Sir Henry does not know about what Charles was attempting. And when Scott adds ‘oil’ to make ‘olive oil’ in ‘That light burns with no earthly fuel . . . neither from whale nor olive, nor bees-wax, nor mutton-suet either’ (109.23) he has misunderstood the import of his own sentence. The Magnum does not carry out Scott’s intentions, as indicated in the interleaved copy, in a straightforward way. Some 16 of Scott’s textual additions and corrections were not taken into the Magnum; many of these are either partly or wholly indecipherable, and others offer only part of what he must have intended to write, and their omission is understandable. But there are occasional, single-word changes that were probably just overlooked. Another 9 were adapted before being adopted. There were around 260 verbal changes, excluding all changes in hyphenation and spelling where it is palpably the same word which is reproduced although with a different orthographic form, but including all changes from singular to plural and vice versa, and the normalisation of ‘Stuart’ to ‘Stewart’. There were about 200 changes in hyphenation, mainly hyphens being deleted and words closed up, excluding all changes resulting from end-of-line hyphenation. More than 100 initial capitals were raised and around 40 lowered. More than 430 changes in punctuation were made, of which the most common was the deletion (32) and addition (11) of dashes. Much of this anxious changing was probably the work of Robert Cadell. In his diary for 1831 he records for 13 July ‘busy in the evening with Notes to Woodstock’;121 this probably means that he was turning Scott’s annotations into printer’s copy. On the 14th he ‘revised part of Woodstock’; by ‘revised’ he probably meant he was tidying the printed text and incorporating Scott’s changes. He did the same again on the 15th and 18th.122 On 26 July he was working again on the notes; the last entry relating to Woodstock is on 16 August.123 While none of Cadell’s work on the preparation of the Magnum edition of Woodstock is extant, his work on the roughly contemporaneous proofs of Count Robert of Paris is,124 and it is safe to comment that he had no

454

   

literary flair, but worked hard to tidy and to standardise the language of his most important author. 4.    The production of Scott’s novels was a co-operative enterprise in which the author was assisted by a team of intermediaries: those who copied his manuscripts for the printer (to preserve his somewhat theoretical anonymity); the compositors who translated the resulting copy into print, supplying (as was normal at the time) most of the punctuation; and the ever-watchful James Ballantyne (assisted by his foremen), who not only corrected obvious errors but was not slow to introduce what he judged to be small improvements, probably before the author’s-proof stage, certainly in his comments on those proofs, and finally in the remaining stages leading up to publication. The intermediaries were diligent and skilful, for the most part, in correcting authorial errors and facilitating the conversion of the original manuscript into print. They were however working under considerable pressure of time, and in the case of Woodstock often in the uncertain light of winter. Many mistakes were made at each stage. It seems that the copyist of Woodstock was particularly prone to misread Scott’s handwriting, which had in any event become much less clear during the twelve years since he finished Waverley. The aim of the present editorial process is to produce a text as close as possible to what Scott and his intermediaries would have achieved had they been able to devote the requisite time to the task, and had the intermediaries been more completely respectful of the author’s intentions as evident in the manuscript. To this end, some 2300 emendations have been made to the first-edition base-text,125 roughly 85% of them verbal. Some 80% of the emendations, including most of the punctuational items, involve the correction of inappropriate changes made between manuscript and author’s proofs; around 100 sort problems presented by the proof corrections; another 120 or so relate to changes made when incorporating the proof corrections, and the remaining 200–plus to those introduced at a subsequent stage. The overwhelming majority of the emendations are from the manuscript. Most of these are taken directly from that source, though preserving the first-edition punctuation when appropriate. Some are ‘manuscript-derived’, in a few cases fulfilling the evident intention of the imperfect manuscript, but mostly interpreting its movement in appropriate first-edition terms. Some 20 emendations derive from proofs, where a subsequent ‘correction’ has resulted in textual degeneration. Approximately 100 emendations come from Scott’s own proof corrections, which were sometimes imperfectly taken in or occasionally missed altogether. A small number of emendations come from

  

455

later editions, mostly providing necessary punctuation, and sometimes correcting errors hitherto unnoticed. There are also a handful of Editorial emendations designed to sort clear errors persisting through all the editions published in Scott’s lifetime. Emendation of pre-proof changes. Of the 2300 emendations, some 1500 are designed to correct errors introduced by intermediaries between the manuscript and the print of the second proofs, known as ‘author’s proofs’. These emendations are called ‘pre-proof ’ changes for short. 1] Punctuation and Capitalisation. Over 300 emendations have been made affecting pre-proof non-verbal changes. Although the intermediaries clearly had authority to lower or raise initial letters, on some 40 occasions one of Scott’s numerous manuscript initial capital letters lowered in the first edition has been restored in the present text where it is clear that a nuance has been lost. Several of the manuscript’s capitals for ‘King’ are restored, and Charles’s ‘Happy Restoration’ is appropriately dignified (55.36), as is the ‘Good Cause’ on the other side of the political divide (180.5). A few striking examples are worthy of note: the resonance of the capitalised ‘Rider’ at 15.3, the portentous ‘Nature’, ‘Final Cause’, and ‘Power’ at 117. 27–31, and the suggestion of a dedicated regiment in ‘us Clerks of Oxford’ at 220.7. The bulk of the emendations of pre-proof non-verbal changes are prompted by failures of the intermediaries to follow Scott’s sentence divisions or other clear punctuational signs. (One must stress that such failures represent a tiny proportion of their total input.) The standard sign for interrupted speech (‘”——’) has had to be restored from the manuscript on 30 occasions (supplemented by a further 8 from the Magnum). On some 50 occasions an inappropriate sentence division is introduced, or (less frequently) two sentences are combined unnecessarily. A double example showing how the flow of a speech was sometimes distorted by over-emphatic sentence division occurs at 188.36–38, where the  follows the manuscript layout: ‘This is no time to speak with sugared lips—the paths in which you tread are dangerous—you are striving to raise the papistical candlestick’. Here the intermediaries introduced new sentences in place of dashes followed by lower case letters. A parallel double example of sentences run on can be found at 29.15–18, where an intermediary introduced semicolons followed by lower case letters replacing the manuscript punctuation now restored: ‘Alice and I, Josceline, will go down to thy hut by Rosamond’s well. We will borrow the shelter of thy roof for one night at least. Thou wilt give us welcome, wilt thou not—how now—a clouded brow?’ At the end of that sentence the first edition has ‘wilt thou not?—How now’, a further small distortion

456

   

of Scott’s signs. In all such cases the present text aims to enable the reader to hear the rhythms and intonations that were most probably in Scott’s head as he wrote. 2] Misreadings of single words. On more than 500 occasions intermediaries apparently misread individual words: it is likely that most of these misreadings occurred when Scott’s manuscript was being copied rather than in the printing house, since the copyist’s handwriting will certainly have been more easily legible than the author’s. Some of the transcribing or composing seems to have been rather approximate, especially where small, common words are concerned, so it is impossible to tell where misreading ends and deliberate substitution begins and the figure of 500 should be treated as an approximation. There are certainly something like 300 words (other than the small ones routinely confused such as ‘in’ and ‘on’, ‘the’ and ‘this’, ‘these’ and ‘those’, ‘his’ and ‘her’, and so forth) that constitute a striking series of individual misreadings. The shapes of the words in the first edition are similar to those penned by Scott, and that seems to have been enough to make misreading possible. Among the most remarkable, and often entertaining, distortions of Scott’s original words are the following (the  reading is given with the word misread indicated 〈thus〉 and the mistaken replacement mthuso): ‘it was grinded on 〈Scotch bones〉 mScottish liveso at Dunbar’ (14.14–15); ‘speak 〈civil〉 mevilo of the Martyr’ (27.8); ‘a fellow as 〈lither〉 mbittero and prompt as thyself’ (33.1); ‘do not think that if I speak firmly, I mean therefore to speak in anger, or 〈offensively〉 mofficiouslyo (53.1–2); ‘the 〈future〉 mfanatico democratic ruler’ (81.34); ‘I would desire to cast this golden ball into your master’s 〈lap〉 mcapo’ (91.32–33); ‘〈worms〉 mwarriorso may waste and destroy’ (94.7); ‘These 〈intruders〉 minstructorso, the schismatics’ (102.13); ‘the fair Chase, which has been so long the 〈pleasance〉 mpleasureo of so many kings’ (103.41–42); ‘noble and 〈valiant〉 mvaluedo sir’ (108.17); ‘yonder poor 〈hermit〉 mhoundo’ (108.40); ‘Master Joshua Bletson of 〈Doutington〉 mDarlingtono’ (118.5–6); ‘you also expected to 〈roost〉 mvisito yourself there’ (142.32); ‘a poor tamespirited creature, that submits to be 〈bundled〉 mbandiedo about in this manner’ (158.1–2); ‘I will pink his 〈painted〉 mplaitedo armour for him’ (165.25); ‘the Bible . . . some 〈trick〉 mbooko of my fellow Gibeon’s’ (172.32–33); ‘Bevis turned, and 〈barked〉 mbackedo’ (201.26); ‘fallen under the 〈paws〉 mpowero of Bevis’ (206.40); ‘feeling Sir Henry’s 〈pulse〉 mpalmo’ (208.14); ‘bold 〈Brentford〉 mBreakfasto’ (220.29: compare 221.10–11); ‘I would not touch 〈or look〉 ma locko on him’ (329.36); ‘relapse into 〈quivering〉 meveningo twilight’ (357.14). These restorations and their colleagues are the core of the present text’s claim to present what Scott actually wrote, but many of the misreadings are, of course, much more

  

457

mundane: the confusions of small words as noted above, the omission or addition of final ‘-s’ (over 80 of them), and so forth. 3] Single words wrongly substituted. On over 200 occasions one can be reasonably sure that individual words were deliberately changed. The intermediaries often substituted synonyms or near synonyms, and their purpose can sometimes be deduced with reasonable certainty. There were verbal repetitions to be got rid of, but sometimes this rule was operated without regard to rhetorical repetition: ‘a Maypole, with all the 〈merry〉 mblitheo morris-dancers prancing round it to the merry pipe and tabor’ (32.28–30); ‘This was no modest gentle tap, intimating a 〈modest〉 mquieto intruder’ (332.28–29). There was some unnecessary clarification: ‘there is little danger if thou couldst 〈then〉 monlyo but keep thyself sober’ (77.2–3); ‘They were preparing for bed as he 〈came〉 mwento into their apartment’ (156.15–16). A desire for pedantic grammatical correctness is evident: ‘that wonderful instinct which makes his race remember so long those with whom they 〈had〉 mhaveo been familiar’ (135.17–18); ‘“〈Me〉 mIo?” answered Alice’ (298.13). Sometimes an unfamiliar usage was not recognised: ‘one, whose offal should 〈fat〉 mfatteno the region-kites’ (279.35). On other occasions one suspects that a word was felt simply to be superior to what Scott had written, a mot juste: ‘the preservation of the creatures to whom she [Nature] has given 〈sense〉 mexistenceo’ (174.38–39); ‘drinking your health in a good 〈carouse〉 mfashiono’ (219.40). But quite often there is no obvious purpose behind a substitution: ‘go before me those who 〈dare〉 mchooseo . . . Satan hath really 〈nestled〉 mmingledo himself among these dreary dens; (124.11–14); ‘old friendship 〈seemed〉 mappearedo to have given way to mutual animosity’ (401.18–19). Small words in particular may well have fallen victim to approximate reading, and there may have been a simple impulse to do something. In addition to the substitutions mentioned, there are some 200 occasions where Scott’s preferred forms of spelling of particular words (which are not always consistent) are changed: ‘accompt’ to ‘account’, ‘amongst’ to ‘among’, ‘forwards’ to ‘forward’, ‘further’ to ‘farther’, ‘murther’ to ‘murder’, ‘-est’ to ‘-st’, and so forth. 4] Single words wrongly inserted or omitted. Nearly 150 of the single words inserted between manuscript and author’s proofs have been judged by the present editors to be mistaken or unnecessary. Twothirds of these inserted words are very small ones, and it is likely that many of them were simply slipped in for no particular reason as part of the approximate nature of the copying: ‘the promotion of the General to mtheo possession of the executive government’ (142.1–2); ‘orders to stop, and, if necessary, mtoo stab or shoot, whomsoever crosses their post’ (381.7). But since Scott often inadvertently omitted single words and it was one of the functions of the intermediaries to

458

   

fill the gaps, it is hardly surprising that they sometimes imagined gaps where none existed. Sometimes this happened as a result of failing to recognise an idiomatic usage: ‘Which is as much maso to say’ (32.25); ‘as I am mao Christian’ (215.22); ‘those who had the means propitiated mhimo with gifts’ (319.40). Several insertions seem to be unnecessary clarifications: ‘damask . . . the splendour of which made a mstrongo contrast with the plain, and even homely character of his apparel’ (83.31–33); ‘all were well satisfied but Albert, who would himselfm, however,o have been scarce able to allege a sufficient reason for his depression of spirits’ (243.6–8). Another 150 words omitted (and now restored) follow a somewhat similar pattern. Half of them are very small words, dropped in many cases perhaps for no reason: ‘if thou wilt deliver me 〈the〉 possession’ (31.20); ‘Ay, you 〈may〉 look at the gew-gaw’ (202.22). The verbal repetition rule was sometimes invoked without recognition of the rhetorical force of the particular recurrence: ‘Sir, if ye be northern born, as your tongue bespeaks, egad it was I ran the risk〈, sir,〉 in drawing near you’ (222.15–16); ‘though it were even written by a Presbyterian, or 〈by〉 an Anabaptist either’ (278.40–41). Some of the omissions are both deleterious to the sense and surprising, perhaps due to nothing more than carelessness: ‘a score or two of these 〈snuffling〉 bloodthirsty hypocrites’ (20.4–5); ‘the Colonel 〈generously〉 relinquishing the advantage’ (267.16–17); ‘our 〈sometimes〉 unwilling and often unhappy wedlocks’ (287.2); ‘certain 〈idle〉 scruples’ (292.22). On some 25 occasions words are inserted, deleted, or substituted to alter the designation of characters, without any obvious reason for the change: ‘said 〈the clergyman〉 mMaster Holdenougho’ (106.43); ‘his intercourse with Sir Henry mLeeo’ (369.34–35); ‘interrupted 〈Zerobabel〉 Robins’ (403.7). 5] Larger changes. The intermediaries made some 200 more substantial changes before the author’s proofs. Almost all of these will have been deliberate (exceptions are the occasional failure to notice an insertion in the manuscript, as at 226.35 and 263.37, and the omission of a line of writing, as at 171.7 and 308.4). Most of them appear to have been directed at either clarification or stylistic enhancement. Some 30 clarifications have been judged by the present editors to be unnecessary. At 117.6–13 in the present text, which follows the manuscript verbally, Bletson entertained certain principles ‘not the less that they were found impracticable upon experience; for the miscarriage of his experiment no more converts a theoretical speculatist, than the explosion of a retort undeceives an alchemist. But Bletson was quite prepared to submit to Cromwell, or any one else who might be actually possessed of the same powers, and made little difference betwixt the various kinds of government which might in practice be established, holding all to be nearly equal in imperfec-

  

459

tion’. That seems clear enough, but the first edition has a number of changes introduced unnecessarily pre-proof (here italicised): Bletson entertained certain principles ‘not the less that they were found impracticable; for the miscarriage of his experiment no more converts the political speculator, than the explosion of a retort undeceives an alchemist. But Bletson was quite prepared to submit to Cromwell, or any one else who might be possessed of the actual authority. He was a ready subject in practice to the powers existing, and made little difference betwixt various kinds of government, holding in theory all to be nearly equal in imperfection’. A very different example can be found at 163.22–23 where the words preceding ‘Everard’ were introduced to provide an explanation which readers can easily furnish for themselves. Considerably more than 100 attempts at stylistic enhancement have been rejected. It is not that the results are objectionable in themselves, but simply that they are not Scott’s work and are not necessary. A quarter involve adjustments of the word order, but others are more ambitious: ‘the place of the great who had once dwelt there’ (104.41–42) becomes ‘the places of the deceased great who had ever dwelt there’; ‘Albert, he is a prince to die for.’ (361.15) is replaced in the first edition by ‘Would’st not die for him, boy?’; and at 381.24 Phoebe’s speech ends with a repeated ‘What shall I do!’. The manuscript was substantially misinterpreted on over 50 occasions (in addition to a further 50 or so which feature in the discussion of proof corrections below). Usually this happened because of a failing in the manuscript which was wrongly repaired. Thus ‘history’ was interpreted as ‘his history’ rather than ‘his story’ (148.33). Similarly ‘the best of my power abilities’ became ‘the best of my poor abilities’ (‘poor’ is immediately repeated) rather than ‘the best of my abilities’ (181.13), ‘power’ being most likely a first attempt at the concept of ability rather than a mis-spelling of ‘poor’. At 397.29–31 a punctuational failure in the manuscript led to Sir Henry acquiring an extra speech. Emendation of corrections made in author’s proofs. The corrections entered on the author’s proofs by James Ballantyne before they went to Scott may, in general, be taken to have received authorial approval. Unlike the changes made by intermediaries before drawing the author’s proofs, these corrections were clearly visible to Scott. Nevertheless, what James did is more in view in Woodstock than in any other novel, as not only the complete author’s proofs but also the revises of eight gatherings have survived; what is revealed induces some scepticism about Ballantyne’s advice. One example epitomises the problem: Ballantyne comments in the proofs on Scott’s use of the word ‘jaunty’ (217.37), writing: ‘Whether it is because this is

460

   

one of the scoundrel Leigh Hunt’s favourite words, but I loathe it’ (proofs, 2.211). Scott replied: ‘Cant partake of the loathing Smollett may excuse Hunt It conveys an idea not easily otherwise expressd’. Scott’s defence ensured the survival of ‘jaunty’, but ‘jauntily’ (217.16), used 236 words earlier, was changed post proof, presumably by Ballantyne. It is clear that Ballantyne undertook more on his own initiative, that his changes were little scrutinised by Scott, and that he was bolder in changing the text after Scott had finished proof reading than has been supposed. In this edition, therefore, corrections in proofs or revises effected by Ballantyne which seem unnecessary, if not deleterious, have been rejected on 60 occasions. The majority of these are either pedantically grammatical (142.35, 231.34) or unnecessarily clarificatory (180.34, 228.2): in speech people do not say ‘if it were’, a formation much liked by Ballantyne, but ‘if it was’; and there is no need to explain that Charles’s preference for an immediate escape will be ‘out of England’ (256.27). Some of Ballantyne’s other corrections show that he did not understand what he was changing. For instance Holdenough semi-quotes the first chapter of Zephaniah: ‘It is the trumpet of the Archangel! . . . it is the crashing of this world of elements—it is the summons to the Judgment-seat!’ (399.9–11). Ballantyne changed ‘crashing’ (Zephaniah 1.10) to ‘crushing’, a mistake Scott rectified in the interleaved copy. On another 15 occasions it is the advice that Ballantyne gave Scott which is suspect, as it induced Scott to make changes which seem damaging. For example, at 34.42 Ballantyne wrote on the proofs (proofs, 1.72) that he did not understand the phrase ‘without a fable’ which means ‘I lie not’. It clearly goes with what follows, while Scott’s substitution, ‘penny-fee’, is both redundant and a Scoticism. The most spectacular involves the deletion of a passage which Ballantyne claimed repeated descriptions in other novels (37.40–38.11). A description in Rob Roy offers a slight parallel,126 but there is nothing as elaborate as the passage to which Ballantyne objected elsewhere in the Waverley Novels. The comment that produced the most problematic result is ‘This is a very long sentence’ (revises, 1.275), which led to the break-up of a coherent passage of political exposition, making it harder to follow (116.14–25: see 442 above); the restoration of Scott’s original version (see the emendations to 116.17 and 116.21) improves both the sense and the tone. In this edition the effect of Ballantyne’s advice has been scrutinised with care, and where his interventions resulted in a deterioration in sense or coherence a return has been made to what Scott originally wrote. Scott’s proof corrections are in general regarded as binding by the present edition. In spite of this, his corrections have been rejected or modified for the present text on some 60 occasions. Two-thirds of

  

461

these came about because Scott was working with a faulty text in the proof, the errors there often occasioned by failures in reading the manuscript. In these cases the  adopts the original manuscript reading rather than Scott’s subsequent repair to the proof text, as explained in notes to the relevant entries in the Emendation List (for 11.13, 12.10, 26.19, etc.). On five occasions Scott’s correction led inadvertently to ugly verbal repetition (93.26, 145.8, 263.5, 309.37, 368.34). Scott responded to promptings by Ballantyne seven times with unnecessary changes (6.14, 33.2, 99.33, 103.28, 116.17 and 21, 118.9, and 154.38): these are rejected for the present text. On five occasions Scott’s corrections are faulty and have been deemed to require modification (7.25, 11.22, 159.24, 178.16, 198.29). And as explained previously (437, above) on some 180 occasions the intermediaries left a space in the proofs, presumably because the copyist could not read Scott, or the compositors could not read the copy; Scott filled in the gaps, but often departed from the manuscript. In these cases the  returns to the manuscript, and this recovers some splendid readings such as ‘a kind of commissary or steward, or some such Slavonian’ (60.40–41). The intermediaries could not read ‘Slavonian’, and in proof Scott filled the gap with ‘rogue’. The term ‘Slavonian’ literally means ‘Slav’, but it was used pejoratively to designate someone a rough, barbarous person or rogue. It is found in a context involving crossdressing in Richard Head, The English Rogue Part 3 (London, 1671), [66], and it is significant that Scott’s infill for the gap left by the failure to read ‘Slavonian’ should be ‘rogue’, for it is the rogue who is called a Slavonian in Head’s novel (see note to 60.40). Emendations of post-proof changes. As noted above, some 1000 changes were made between the corrected author’s proofs and the first edition. On 120 occasions Scott’s proof corrections were not correctly taken into the first-edition text. Most of the variants on Scott’s corrections are inadvertent. Twenty or so individual words seem to have been misread: e.g. ‘assay’ for ‘essay’ (18.16); ‘napkins’ for ‘napkin’ (100.5); ‘retire’ for ‘return’ (256.9); ‘be a’ for ‘bear’ (379.35). A standing instruction to change ‘Mr’s to ‘Master’s was neglected in some 25 cases. Occasionally small corrections were simply overlooked, as a whole or in part. Some corrections were probably deliberately changed, apparently with the intention of improving grammar (145.6, 265.27), clarity (257.36, 299.28), or style in general (223.33, 251.18 and 20). Rhetorically effective repetitions were removed (244.17, 273.23), and punctuation was altered (23.11, 333.8 and 14). In addition to the 120 changes to Scott’s proof corrections, now emended, rather more than 200 other post-proof changes have been judged inappropriate. It is likely that most of these were the work of

462

   

James Ballantyne. About half of these are either unnecessarily clarificatory or stylistic. The clarificatory changes are generally small (‘ “What do you here,” said hem, enteringo’: 301.33), but several are more adventurous (or intrusive): ‘Down—down to the wilderness, and 〈do what should be done, and must be done〉 mbring in your attendanto’ (208.40–41); ‘Ifm, stopping short of death,o he merely had the better of his antagonist’ (295.42). Most of the changes that can be generally classed as stylistic have a certain effect on Scott’s sense, and sometimes that can be pronounced, amounting to embellishment: ‘Did you ever hear such 〈an abominable〉 ma paltryo coward?’ (156.42); ‘he shuffled with his feet, mrolled his eyes,o and twisted his hands’ (335.15–16); ‘say I have won the wager of the young lady. mDost mark me boy?o’ (335.43); ‘“You must, though,” said the doctorm, suddenly pausingo’ (351.39). The remaining post-proof changes are also similar to those deliberately made preproof, with Ballantyne’s signature evident in the elimination of naughty words such as ‘maiden’ (20.28), ‘cuckoldly’ (58.19), and ‘flatulencies’ (400.26). Some 30 of the emendations of post-proof changes are non-verbal: they include the rejection of new sentence divisions, the provision of emphatic italics which restrict the sense, and miscellaneous punctuational shifts. Proper Names. Names in Woodstock caused some trouble. Scott wrote ‘Markham’ the first three times the name appears (23.26, 32, 36). When the name next recurs (48.21) Scott first wrote ‘Markham’ in the manuscript (Vol. 1, f. 20r, 6 up), deleted it on rereading and on the verso wrote ‘〈Mark〉 Marcus’ (the k is not fully formed). This indicates that Scott knew that the name was originally Markham, and that he decided to change it to Marcus. He was then consistent about using ‘Marcus’ until half way through the first volume when he reverted to Markham. Scott’s change of mind at 48.21 was not followed by the intermediaries who printed ‘Markham’, but in proof (1.106) Scott changed the printed Markham back to Marcus. Ballantyne changed it back once more. The same changing, changing back, and then changing a third time, happened thrice more. At 1.113 in proof, as previously noted, Ballantyne wrote: ‘This name has already gone to press as Markham; and the sheets where it occurs must be cancelled, if the change is retained. We wait for orders.’ Scott replied ‘Markham let it be’. Although it is possible to argue that Scott wanted ‘Marcus’, he made a decision, and then stuck to it. This edition respects that decision. The fact that, although Everard’s Christian name is used 99 times in the first edition, Scott writes ‘Marcus’ on only 12 occasions in the manuscript, confirms the name ‘Markham’. On the other hand, the spelling ‘Joceline’ appears 202 times in the

  

463

first edition, but in the manuscript Scott spells it either ‘Josceline’ or ‘Joscelin’ on all but two occasions; and on a count of about 2:1 he prefers the form with the terminal ‘e’. On the first occurrence in the manuscript (15.24) Scott writes ‘Josceline’, and he writes with unusual clarity, even dotting the ‘i’; in other words he is almost giving an instruction as to the correct spelling. Half way through Ballantyne realised the mistake in naming the character ‘Joceline’, and wrote on the proofs ‘Compositor, alter this throughout to Josceline’ (2.151), but Scott overruled him saying ‘Keep it uniform’: a standard spelling was more important than the right spelling. In this edition Scott’s preference as determined by what he actually wrote has been followed. Other names are less problematic. ‘Shakspeare’, odd though it may look to modern readers, was the form Scott most frequently used in manuscript (15 to 10) and was the form which the first edition followed for the most part. Hazeldine, Joliffe, Noll, the Rump, and Tomkins are all preferred on the basis of Scott’s dominant usage in manuscript. Conclusion. In spite of their general competence, Scott’s intermediaries (and occasionally Scott himself) at times moved the first-edition text of the novel a considerable distance from his manuscript intentions. The new text of Woodstock restores for the first time the extraordinary number of words misread, misunderstood, or carelessly or even deliberately altered by the intermediaries, and in so doing it recovers the verbal energy and intellectual precision of Scott’s primary creative impulse.  All manuscripts referred to are in the National Library of Scotland unless otherwise stated. 1 Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 28. 2 Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 2.143–59 (CLA, 172: see note 7 below). For Deloney’s authorship and the date of publication see The Works of Thomas Deloney, ed. Francis Oscar Mann (Oxford, 1912), 297–302, 563. For the dating of ‘Queen Eleanor’s Confession’ see The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, ed. Francis James Child, 5 vols (Boston and New York, 1882–98), 3.257–64 (No. 156). 3  877, ff. 18v–20r, under the title ‘Earl Marshall’ (which Child prints at 4.488–99). There is also one stanza of ‘Fair Rosamond’ in the hand of Thomas Wilkie of Bowden (f. 97v). 4 The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London 1932–37), 1.142. 5 Scott on Himself, 27. 6 Arthur Melville Clark, Sir Walter Scott: the Formative Years (Edinburgh and London, 1969), 185, 192.

464

   

7 [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838), 28. Henceforward cited as CLA. 8 James C. Corson, Notes and Index to Sir Herbert Grierson’s Edition of the Letters of Sir Walter Scott (Oxford, 1979), 13 (note 181b). 9 Letters, 1.181. 10 J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh, 1837–38), 1.373. 11 Lockhart, 1.374. 12 Walter Scott, Rokeby, Canto 6, Stanza 26, in The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., [ed. J. G. Lockhart], 12 vols (Edinburgh 1833–34), 9.287–88. 13 The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808). 14 Carey is cited at 344.40. See also: ‘Account of the Poems of Patrick Carey, a Poet of the 17th Century’, Edinburgh Annual Register for 1810, 3 (Part 2), lxvii–lxxvi; Patrick Carey, Trivial Poems, and Triolets (London, 1819). Other relevant editions by Scott include: Original Memoirs, Written during the Great Civil War (Edinburgh, 1806); The Life of Edward Lord Herbert, of Cherbury (Edinburgh, 1809); Memoirs of Count Grammont, 2 vols (London, 1811); Secret History of the Court of James the First, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1811); Memoirs of the Reign of King Charles the First (Edinburgh, 1813); The Works of Jonathan Swift, 19 vols (Edinburgh 1814); Military Memoirs of the Great Civil War (Edinburgh, 1822). 15 A Collection of Scarce and Valuable Tracts, 2nd edn, ed. Walter Scott, 13 vols (London, 1809–15). 16  3892, f. 41r. 17 For example, 15 March 1821 Kenilworth ( 3892, f. 75r); 25 June 1822 The Fortunes of Nigel (  3894, f. 233r); 27 May 1823 Quentin Durward, mentioning also the characters of the Baron of Bradwardine, ‘Baillie Jarvey’, Dandie Dinmont, and Monkbarns (  3896, ff. 165r–66v); 18 June 1823 Quentin Durward (  3896, f. 200r); 3 October 1824 The Heart of Mid-Lothian ( 3899, f. 140r). 18 Mrs Hughes gives an account of this visit (3–6 May 1824) in her diary: Mary Ann Hughes, Letters and Recollections of Sir Walter Scott, ed. Horace G. Hutchinson (London, 1904), 59–91. 19  3899, f. 139v; ‘the great Babylon’ is London. 20 The Beauties of all the Magazines selected for the year 1762 (London, 1762), 77–80. Mary Ann Hughes told Scott that this was her source in a letter of 31 October 1824 ( 3899, 184v); collation has confirmed it. 21 George Sinclair, Satan’s Invisible World Discovered (Edinburgh, 1685), 32–39. 22 Henry More, ‘A Continuation of the Collection’, 1–6, in Joseph Glanvill, Saducismus Triumphatus, 3rd edn (London, 1700). 23 More, 6. 24 CLA, 142, 150. 25 For Sinclair see Letters, 5.35; Magnum, 39.vi; and Redgauntlet, ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17 (Edinburgh and New York, 1997), note to 89.42. For More see Letters, 5.134, 139, and 148. 26 Letters, 8.391–92.

 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37

38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60

465

A fuller account of the complex transmission of the story will be found in the Historical Note, 538–41.  3898, f. 202r.  3898, f. 202v. The quotation has been lightly edited. Lockhart, 5.28–32.  792, f. 259v (p. 661).  323, f. 574v.  21053, ff. 48v–49v.  21053, f. 185r–v. The original signed document is not known to be extant; this is a copy found among the papers of Scott’s trustees.  864, f. 62r–v. Magnum, 39.[iii]. There were to be two further harvests from the accounts of the Commissioners: two paragraphs in the Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft of 1830 (374–75), and the Introduction to the Magnum edition (39.iii–lxiv). Letters, 9.277. This letter is dated 6 November 1825 by Grierson, but is redated by Corson: Corson, 256 (note 277c). Letters, 9.231. Letters, 9.231.  113, p. 16. Letters, 9.364. Letters, 9.301.  792, f. 272r (p. 686). The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), 7. British Library, Woodstock proofs, C.45.e.21, bound between 2.24 and 2.25. Letters, 9.362. Letters, 9.364. Letters, 9.363; redated in Corson, 260 (note 363b). Letters, 9.372. Letters, 9.374. Journal, 66. Journal, 72. Journal, 72. Journal, 75. Journal, 78. Scott may have reached Vol. 2, f. 54, which is 251 in the present edition. Journal, 86. The letters first appeared in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, edited by James Ballantyne, between 22 February and 8 March 1826. When published as pamphlets, the letters were called: A Letter to the Editor of the Edinburgh Weekly Journal, from Malachi Malagrowther, Esq. on the Proposed Change of Currency, and Other Late Alterations, as they affect, or are intended to affect, the Kingdom of Scotland; A Second Letter . . .’ etc. (each Edinburgh, 1826). Journal, 95. Journal, 99. The Latin adage means ‘what would one not do for one’s country?’.

466 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79

80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90

91

    Journal, 107. Journal, 111. Journal, 111. Journal, 115. Journal, 119. The quotation ‘To appropinq’ an end’ is from Samuel Butler, Hudibras (1663), Part 1, Canto 3, line 590; Scott often used it. Journal, 120. Journal, 120. The Latin is a legal phrase ‘with all their issue’. British Library, Woodstock proofs, bound between 2.296 and 2.297. Journal, 86. [Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra], The History of the Renowned Don Quixote De la Mancha, trans Peter Motteux and others, 6th edn rev. J. Ozell, 4 vols (London, 1733), 4.334–35; see CLA, 317. Walter Scott, The Fortunes of Nigel, in Magnum, 26.xvii. Cuthbert Shaw, The Race, 2nd edn (London, 1766), 28. Journal, 23. Journal, 82. Journal, 75. Journal, 90. Exodus 5.6–7. Journal, 83. Some of the material in this section first appeared in David Hewitt, ‘ “Hab Nab at a Venture”: Scott on the Creative Process’, Studies in Scottish Literature, 35–36 (2007), 426–43. Grateful acknowledgement is made to the editor, G. Ross Roy. Using Scott’s foliation, Vol. 1 is made up of: Preface ff. 1–4; title page (unfoliated), ff. 1–29, ff. 30–34 missing, ff. 35–41, f. 41b, f. 42, f. 42b, ff. 43–50, Scott omitted 51, ff. 52–69, f. 70 missing. Vol. 2: title page missing, ff. 1–4, f. 5 missing, ff. 6–14, f. 14b, ff. 15–46, f. 46b, f. 46c, ff. 47–50, f. 51 missing, ff. 52–54, f. 55 missing, ff. 56–62. Vol. 3: title page, ff. 1–58, f. 58b, f. 58c, ff. 59–70. Journal, 103. Journal, 13. Journal, 38–39. The BL treats these proofs as a printed book: C.45.e.21. References to the proofs are given in the form ‘proofs, 2.123’, i.e. volume and page-number are cited. References to the present edition are given in the form 123.43; i.e. page and line-number are cited. Journal, 90. See Journal, 75 (3 February 1826). British Library, Woodstock proofs, bound between 2.140 and 2.141. The letter also appears in Letters, 9.404 in a slightly different form. In the course of a longer discussion Scott remarks in his Journal: ‘my object is not to excite fear of supernatural things in my reader but to show the effect of such fear upon the agents in the story’ (Journal, 75). Journal, 60, 69.

 92 93

94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123

467

 112, p. 86. B. J. McMullin records one rogue copy with the original title pages in all three volumes in the Poynton Collection in the University of Melbourne: see B. J. McMullin, ‘The cancelled title leaves in Scott’s Woodstock, 1826 (T/B 190A)’, The Bibliotheck, 24 (1999), 118–21. He correctly argues that the title pages had to be replaced because of the change of publisher, not because Scott had changed one of the subtitles of the novel from ‘A Tale of the Long Parliament’ as originally advertised, to ‘A Tale of the Year Sixteen Hundred and Fifty-One’. Title pages and other prelims were always set and printed last, and so on 26 March 1826 when Scott finished Woodstock he records in his Journal (120): ‘Finishd Woodstock however cum tota sequela of title page introduction etc.’ On the unfoliated title page in the   he gives the title and subtitles which appear on the published title page, and comments (for Ballantyne’s sake) on the unfoliated title page: ‘The above is better I think than 〈the〉 bringing in the Long parliament which has scarce been mentiond in the work.’  112, p. 184.  112, p. 86.  112, p. 95.  112, p. 109.  112, pp. 186, 198–208.  112, p. 205.  112, p. 207. See William B. Todd and and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, DE, 1998), 819–22. Journal, 412. Journal, 412. Todd and Bowden, 822. Jane Millgate, Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History (Edinburgh, 1987). Letters, 7.353. Letters, 7.354n. Letters, 7.360. Journal, 48. Journal, 62.  112, p. 336.  23031 and 23032. Journal, 619. Poetical Works, 7.291. Magnum, 39.22.  3918, f. 45v.  15980, f. 101v.  15980, f. 104r.  15980, f. 106r.  15980, f. 109r.  21021, f. 30v.  21021, f. 31r–v.  21021, ff. 32v, 35v.

468 124 125 126

    See Count Robert of Paris, ed. J. H. Alexander,     23a, 408–23. The particular copy is owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. The title page of each of the three volumes is a cancel (see above 445, and note 93), as is 3.167–68. Rob Roy, ed. David Hewitt,     5 (Edinburgh, 2008), 41.42–42.6.

EMENDATION LIST

The base-text for this edition of Woodstock is a specific copy of the first edition, owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. All emendations to this base-text, whether verbal, orthographic, or punctuational, are listed below, with the exception of certain general categories of emendation described in the next paragraph, and of those errors which result from accidents of printing such as a letter dropping out, provided always that evidence for the ‘correct’ reading has been found in at least one other copy of the first edition. The proper names Hazeldine, Josceline Joliffe, Noll, the Rump, Shakspeare, and Tomkins, have been standardised throughout on the authority of Scott’s preferred usage as deduced from the manuscript and proofs (see Essay on the Text, 462–63). In the first edition, inverted commas are sometimes placed around displayed verse quotations, sometimes not; the present text has standardised the inconsistent practices of the base-text by eliminating such inverted commas, except when they occur at the beginning or end of direct speech. The typographic presentation of volume and chapter headings, and of the opening words of volumes and chapters, has been standardised. Ambiguous end-of-line hyphens in the base-text have been interpreted in accordance with the following authorities (in descending order of priority): predominant first-edition usage; octavo Tales and Romances (1827); Magnum;  . Each entry in the list below is keyed to the text by page and line number; the reference is followed by the new,  reading, then in brackets the reason for the emendation, and after the slash the base-text reading that has been replaced. Occasionally, some explanation of the editorial thinking behind an emendation is required, and this is provided in a brief note. The great majority of emendations are derived from the manuscript. Most merely involve the replacement of one reading by another, and these are listed with the simple explanation ‘()’. The spelling and punctuation of some emendations from the manuscript have been normalised in accordance with the prevailing conventions of the basetext. And although as far as possible emendations have been fitted into the existing base-text punctuation, at times it has been necessary to provide emendations with a base-text style of punctuation. Where the manuscript reading adopted by the  has required editorial intervention to normalise spelling or punctuation, the exact manuscript reading is given in the form: ‘( actual reading)’. Where the new reading has required editorial interpretation of the manuscript, e.g. when interpreting a homophone, or supplying a missing word, 469

470   the explanation is given in the form ‘( derived: actual reading)’. In transcriptions from Scott’s holograph, deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. Readings from the proofs are indicated by ‘proofs’ if from the print, and ‘proof correction’ if from Scott’s holograph changes on the proofs; the terms ‘revises’ and ‘revise correction’ are similarly used. In Woodstock many changes were made after Scott had corrected proofs, and, when these changes seem to exceed ‘standing orders’ (the power to normalise spelling, add punctuation, correct minor errors, and remove close verbal repetition that Scott had apparently ceded to the intermediaries), emendations have been effected. These cases are usually to be identified by ‘ and proofs’, a phrase which indicates that the reading is to be found both in the manuscript and the printed proofs, but the actual manuscript readings are given in square parentheses when the punctuation and spelling of  and proofs differ. ‘Proof instruction’ refers to one general instruction that ‘Master’ should be preferred to ‘Mr’ which Scott supplied on the proofs (see Essay on the Text, 441). ‘ISet’ indicates a change in Scott’s own hand in the interleaved copy of the novel. In spite of the care taken by the intermediaries, some local confusions in the manuscript persisted into the first edition. When straightening these, the editors have studied the manuscript context so as to determine Scott’s original intention, but sometimes problems cannot be rectified in this way. In these circumstances, Scott’s own corrections and revisions in the Interleaved Set have more authority than the proposals of other editions, but if the autograph portions of the Interleaved Set have nothing to offer, the reading from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solution is adopted as the neatest means of rectifying a fault. The later editions, the Interleaved Set, and the Magnum are indicated by ‘(8vo 1827)’, etc., ‘(ISet)’ or ‘(Magnum)’. Emendations which have not been anticipated by a contemporaneous edition are indicated by ‘(Editorial)’. 3.21 3.22 3.22 3.23 3.23 3.24 3.25 3.26 3.38 4.10 4.12 4.14 4.16 4.19

afterward ( ) / afterwards catalogue ( ) / Catalogue White, and—worse (  derived: White. &—worse) / White;—and, worse that ancient fanatic ( ) / that fanatic catalogue ( ) / catalogues prelates—his (Editorial) / prelates, his This complements the dash at 3.22. on () / by ascendance ( derived: ascendanc〈y〉) / ascendency monarchy, and (  derived: monarchy and) / monarchy; and After ( ) / Upon intrigue ( ) / intrigues the curious ( ) / their curious pitcher?” [new paragraph] Doctor (proof correction) / pitcher?” Doctor honours (proof correction) / honour

  4.23 4.24 4.24 4.35 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.7 5.10 5.15 5.25 5.32 5.37 6.14

6.17 6.19 6.30 7.14 7.25

7.31 8.31 8.37 9.5 9.7 9.7 9.9 9.9 9.10 9.22 9.24 9.31 9.40 9.41 9.41 10.4 10.19 10.20 10.24 10.29

authority, (proofs) / authority; natural ( ) / native water all over ( and proofs) / water over The   reads ‘it all over’; in proof Scott altered ‘it’ to ‘the water’. stone ( ) / stones labyrinth () / Labyrinth hunting-seat ( ) / Hunting-seat these () / those honourable ( ) / Honourable witches () / Witches these () / those key which ( ) / key, which to this () / to his accompt ( ) / account However, as John Bunyan says, [new line] Too long do I detain you in the porch, [new line] And keep you from the sunshine with a torch. [new line] Were (  However as John Bunyan says [new line] Too long do I detain you in the porch [new line] And keep you from the sunshine with a torch. [new line] Were) / The impatient reader, perhaps, is by this time accusing me of keeping the sun from him with a candle. Were Scott, reminded by Ballantyne that he had quoted Bunyan’s lines elsewhere (in The Monastery,     9, 30.11–12), supplied a halfhearted paraphrase in proof. sunshine twice as () / sunshine as moment ( ) / minute founded ( ) / finished Provost () / provost 1651 ( derived) / 1652 In  Scott wrote ‘1649 mor about that periodo’; in proof he emended this to ‘1652’, but in his copy for the title page he gave as subtitle ‘a Tale of the year Sixteen 〈hunde〉 hundred & fifty one’. In fact the Battle of Worcester was fought on 3 September 1651. storied ( ) / stained street () / streets betwixt ( ) / between Chantry ( ) / chantry Winchcombes ( derived: Winchlecombes) / Winklecombes Draycotts ( ) / Drycotts in neighbouring ( ) / in the neighbouring were, however, among (  were however among) / were among congregation one () / congregation, however, one seigniors () / seniors Wife () / wife them “unwashed artificers,” bewildered ( them “unwashd artificers” bewilderd) / them unwashed artificers, bewildered palate () / palates each auditor (proof correction) / each [  they] assented (  and proofs) / acceded heresies. They () / heresies; they guests ( ) / guides Master (proof instruction) / Mr See Essay on the Text, 441. forwards ( ) / forward backwards ( ) / backward

471

472 11.2 11.4 11.5 11.13 11.13 11.13

11.14 11.15 11.22

11.28 11.30 11.38 12.10

12.11 12.13 12.16 12.39 13.10 13.15 13.27 13.30 13.38 13.40 13.41 14.1 14.8 14.10 14.11 14.11 14.11 14.14 14.19 15.3 15.8 15.9 15.10 15.11 15.11 15.17

  was, moreover, garnished (proof correction was moreover garnishd) / was morocco, garnished minister, intercepted ( ) / minister, thus intercepted had thus seized () / had seized forth—therefore () / forth; therefore depart () / desist or, if thou wilt, do thou remain (  or if thou wilt do thou remain) / or if thou wilt do by mine advice, remain The print in the proofs had ‘or if thou wilt do thine remain’, on which Ballantyne commented ‘Unintelligible’. Scott deleted ‘thine’ and replaced it with ‘by mine advice’. these () / those crumb ( ) / crumbs his own gain, from his quarter— ( and proof derived) / his own gain— In  Scott wrote ‘each looking to his own quarter’, and in proof changed ‘quarter’ to ‘gain’. Behind both  and proofs lies Isaiah 56.11, which attacks shepherds who look after themselves; it culminates in ‘everyone for his gain, from his quarter’. It appears that the   and the proof correction are both striving to reach the verse from Isaiah. Master (proof instruction) / Mr Master (proof instruction) / Mr Master (proof instruction) / Mr forward, and exclaiming (  forward & exclaiming) / forward, exclaiming The ampersand was missed by the intermediaries, leading to Scott’s insertion in proof of an ‘and’ before ‘ordered’: see the next emendation. endured, ordered (  endured orderd) / endured, and ordered any ( ) / every vaunt. Three () / vaunt; for three to cry () / and cry Master (proof instruction) / Mr in kidskin ( ) / on kidskin further ( ) / farther And in () / and in doomed (  doomd) / destined you prick ( ) / ye prick if you ( ) / if ye cuckoldly priest ( ) / cuckoldly-priest polished, when (  derived: polishd when) / polished. When G—d-d—n-me ( ) / G—d d—n-me throats ( ) / throat It () / it when ( ) / where Scotch bones ( ) / Scottish lives being a sound which () / which being a sound Rider ( ) / rider you ( ) / ye they were made ( ) / thy oven used you ( ) / ye of fair ( ) / of the fair nay—but wherefore?”— ( ) / Nay;—but wherefore?”— short ( ) / thick

  15.19 15.35 15.37 15.37 15.40 15.42 15.43 16.1 16.4 16.7 16.8 16.8 16.10 16.14 16.18 16.21

16.23 16.27 16.27 16.35 16.36 16.38 16.40 16.40 17.3 17.15 17.16 17.39 17.40 18.7 18.10 18.16 18.16 18.17 18.19 18.25 18.29 18.30 18.34 19.15 19.26 19.35 19.43 20.2 20.4 20.8 20.17 20.22 20.26 20.28

473

kind () / sort Yes—Hem—Ye ( ) / Yes, then ye you wipe ( ) / ye wipe you are ( ) / ye are sins ( ) / sons you ( ) / ye you ( ) / ye Commonwealth—And ( ) / Commonwealth; and lodge ( ) / Lodge King’s venison () / king’s venison King’s health ( ) / king’s health Commonwealth ( ) / commonwealth one name armed shall ( one name armd shall) / our name shall the deer () / your deer you shall ( ) / ye shall he is ( ) / they are Although Scott changed ‘he is’ to ‘they are’ in proof, the name ‘Maher-shallal-hash-baz’ is singular, and Scott did not change ‘he maketh’ to a plural form. sermon ( ) / effusion was () / were uncertain. No (proofs) / uncertain; no like ( ) / likely or of right ( ) / or right chase. And ( ) / chase; and edifice (proof correction) / edifices its territorial honours ( ) / its honours the time () / the same time A        (  Anonymous) / [no text] his sermon () / the sermon indeed deep hypocrites ( and proofs) / indeed hypocrites ambition. But many (proof correction) / ambition; but many gate-house (  gate house) / portal ages when () / ages, when essay (proof correction) / assay into the ( ) / down an downwards ( ) / onward invitingly ( ) / unwittingly gate-house ( ) / gate monarchs ( ) / Monarchs Oxfordshire (proof correction Oxford mShireo) / Oxford park, where ( derived: part where) / spot where wearer was ill () / wearer ill this ( ) / the stir a ( ) / stir up a hear of. ( ) / hear of now. was ( ) / to be these snuffling blood-thirsty ( these snufling blood thirsty) / these blood-thirsty excepting exasperate () / excepting to exasperate be always thus ( ) / always be thus man, “is it (proofs man, “Is it) / man, “What can be worse? Is it [  man “it is] been doing ( ) / done the maiden ( and proofs) / his daughter

474 20.31 20.33 20.38 20.42 21.2 21.8 21.13 21.15 21.16 21.22 21.22 21.34 21.37 22.3 22.6 22.9 22.9 22.16 22.17 22.31 22.33 22.36 22.41 22.43 23.6 23.9 23.9 23.10 23.11 23.11 23.11 23.13 23.14 23.25 24.18 24.23 24.27 24.32 24.33 25.1 25.3 25.5 25.18 25.36 25.42 26.6 26.12 26.12 26.13 26.16 26.18 26.19

  self-reproach (  selfreproach) / reproach toothless () / worthless my father ( ) / nay, father runs ( ) / seems had fled () / fled fathers, I ( fathers I) / father! I wench—well () / wench!—Well sir—if ( ) / sir,” she said, “if me? Why ( ) / me?” he replied, “why turn ( ) / time answered the old knight (  answerd the old Knight) / said the knight harsh ( ) / peevish place”—— ( ) / place——” upon ( ) / on us?—get . . . beg—why () / us? Get . . . beg? Why yet ( ) / hitherto you would ( ) / would you I doubt, () / I doubt not, Muggletonian ( ) / Mugglesman Alice Lee (  and proofs) / his daughter park ( ) / parks malignancy () / malignity further ( ) / farther doest ( ) / dost affliction—recommend ( ) / affliction, and recommend murtherers ( ) / murderers the property (  and proof correction) / his property of! Why (proofs) / of!—Why made me a mendicant ( ) / made me a mendicant No—I (proof correction) / No. I this ( ) / my parricides—No—if () / parricides. No. If round ( ) / sound speakst ( ) / speakest Shakspeare himself, sir (  Shakespeare himself Sir) / Shakspeare, sir those ( ) / our you the (  and proofs) / you, have I not, the evil spirit () / Evil Spirit must (  and proofs) / are now to which ( and proofs) / that bowers, but (  derived: bowers but) / bowers; but Boreas—the () / Boreas. The men.” ( and proofs) / men, that——” England—simple—ay—a simple ( England—simple—aye—a simple) / England—umph!—Ay, a simple thou art ( ) / art thou upon ( ) / on murther ( ) / murder Damn () / d—n Harrington’s ( Harringtons) / Harrison’s head. A fellow () / head; a fellow liker ( ) / like them. () / them instead.

  26.19 26.30 27.3 27.8 27.12 27.14 27.22 27.27 27.32 27.33 27.41 27.42 28.1 28.3 28.40 28.42 29.10 29.16 29.16 29.17 29.19 29.20 29.24 29.27 29.34 29.41 30.10 30.27 30.27 30.40 30.42 31.6 31.9 31.11 31.11 31.12 31.15 31.16 31.20 31.22 31.27 31.28 31.31 31.39 31.39

Scott added ‘instead’ in proof, but this was only required because of the failure to reproduce ‘liker’ (see previous emendation). mind—d—n ( ) / mind; d—n shame’s (  shames) / manners’ together unto () / together into evil . . . and I ( ) / civil . . . or I temper, and (  [temper and] and proofs) / temper completely, and I pray thee ( ) / I prithee plod () / bolt slipped ( slipd) / stepped but () / and The change was made in proof by an unidentified hand. and all the ( ) / and the The ‘all’ was deleted in proof by an unidentified hand, probably because of repetition, but the repetition seems to be rhetorical. contest () / combat with the foils ( ) / with foils into ( ) / unto Ner ( ) / Nun submission—there () / submission. There steward ( Steward) / soldier further ( ) / farther well. We () / well; we least. Thou () / least; thou not—how ( ) / not?—How Joliffe ( ) / Joceline and then to ( and proofs) / and last to The removal of one ‘then’ does not eliminate repetition, but spoils the rhetoric. but if thou hast fear of ill will for harbouring obnoxious () / but if thou hast an ill will to harbour any obnoxious Ragged Robin ( ) / ragged Robin Only ( ) / only unshaped—Go . . . man—What () / unshaped. Go . . . man.— What our (  and proofs) / the whistle more than once summon ( ) / whistle summon Bevis. But (proofs) / Bevis; but [ Bevis But] jangling ( ) / jingling friend, but it () / friend, it Woodstock—so ( ) / Woodstock, so Hiarusalem ( ) / Jerusalem kings upon (proof correction kin〈ds〉mgso 〈already〉 upon) / kings already upon stands. And (proof correction m . . . standso And) / stands; and Hiarusalem ( ) / Jerusalem ambuscadoes ( ) / ambuscades here—moreover ( ) / here. Moreover me the possession ( ) / me possession transfers ( ) / transfer Man ( and proofs) / Man Man ( and proofs) / Man shocked (  shockd) / shock numbers— ( ) / numbers;— fellow”—— (Magnum) / fellow——”

475

476 32.4 32.7 32.15 32.17 32.25 32.27 32.29 32.29 32.30 32.31 32.34 32.39 32.39 32.42 33.1 33.2 33.2

33.8 33.9 33.13 33.17 33.18 33.22 33.23 33.31 33.31

33.33 33.38 33.41 33.43 34.1 34.3 34.5 34.15 34.16 34.18 34.19 34.22

  that ( ) / wish truly,” said (  truly said) / truly?” said something ( ) / somewhat And yet () / and yet much to say ( ) / much as to say reported ( ) / repeated merry ( ) / blithe The change was made by Ballantyne in proof. round ( ) / around jangling ( ) / jingling and the laughing ( ) / and laughing that cuckoldly ( ) / thy cuckoldy Master (proof instruction) / Mr Green-jerkin, what (  [Green-jerkin what] and proofs [Green Jerkin, what]) / Green Jerkin? what big () / high lither () / bitter so—and (  and proofs) / so—younger, at all events—and thou of all men take ( and proofs) / thou take Ballantyne writes on the proofs: ‘This sentence is ambiguous, leading us to suppose that more was known by Joceline of Tomkins than he did know of him’. Scott replied: ‘it is meant to be ambiguous’. In spite of this Scott deleted the phrase which generates the ambiguity; it is now restored. wood-haunters ( ) / wood-hunters Maid Marrons ( ) / Maid Marions thou art ( ) / you are approach ( and proofs) / vicinity doddered (  dodderd) / gnarled The proofs have a space where the intermediaries had failed to read Scott’s word, and he supplied ‘gnarl’. is—they ( ) / is; they below ( ) / under felled () / fitted forest—but yonder one hath stood till it is (  derived: yearly— 〈but yonder one hath stood till it〉 besides a tree felled for the purpose out of the forest—Now it is) / forest. Now it is Scott deleted ‘〈but yonder . . . it〉’ because he wanted to expand the description of the King’s generosity, but the ‘it’ of the next sentence requires the deleted referent. blighted () / wasted there aught like wisdom in the squeaking of a bagpipe () / there ever aught like wisdom in a bagpipe brows ( ) / brow spring-wind ( ) / blithe spring The intermediaries left three spaces which Scott filled in proof. leaves rustle ( ) / birds whistle See note to previous entry. Master (proof instruction) / Mr it no sin () / it was no sin so much (  and proofs) / as much confuted ( ) / confounded be (  and proofs) / have been thee nauseating () / thee for nauseating solid ( ) / sober

  34.32 34.33 34.41 34.42 34.42

35.6 35.20 35.22 35.23 35.33 36.9 36.9 36.32 36.35 36.39 37.10 37.12 37.28 37.29 37.32 37.35

37.40

477

fight ( ) / flight servants—Marry () / servants:—marry away—but () / away; but Martlemas ( Mart〈in〉lemas) / Martinmas round, without a fable, the ( [round without a fable the old] and proofs [round, without a fable the old]) / round without a pennyfee, the Ballantyne wrote on the proofs that he did not understand the phrase ‘without a fable’ which means ‘I lie not’. It clearly goes with what follows, while Scott’s substitution, ‘penny-fee’, is both redundant and a Scoticism. of the Lodge ( ) / in the Lodge an English monarch led him (  and proofs) / the English monarchs led them The changes were made by Ballantyne. his ( and proofs) / their The change was made by Ballantyne. eldest () / oldest Ladder, because (proofs) / Ladder; because height ( ) / heights buildings ( ) / building of the abominations ( ) / of abominations Lodge—Verily () / Lodge; verily wherewith () / with which ere () / before upon ( ) / on devise them. () / devise. The arms ( ) / Their arms upon ( ) / on war, taken down to do service once more in ( derived: war once more 〈taken down〉 to do service once more in) / war, once more taken down to do service in It appears that Scott deleted the wrong words, and that the intermediaries chose to retain the less apt of the repeated ‘once more’s. EEWN and proof reading: confided. Here were displayed not only the more vulgar spoils of the otter, fox, and badger, which may yet be seen in the halls of old manor-houses in England, but the noble antlers, both of the red and of the fallow deer, and even the shaggy skins of wolves and boars, said by tradition to have been found of yore in these districts, though now they are expelled from merry England, unless where they are seen to grin and ramp amongst the monsters of heraldry. Intermingled with these, hung bows, and slings, and arblasts, and some few harquebusses of ancient mould, too cumbrous, or too much rusted, to be used in a modern field: then there were sheafs of arrows, and bags full of bolts for cross-bows, boarspears, and barbed tridents for striking fish. In a deep bay-window, whose painted glass offered so dense a medium, that the setting sun’s level beams were totally dimmed in their passage through it, stood a parcel of falconer’s poles and quarter-staffs, ready for use. [new paragraph] At M S reading: confided. Here were displayd not only the more vulgar spoils of the otter 〈and the〉 fox mand badgero which may yet be〈en〉 seen in the halls of old manor houses in England but the noble antlers both of the red and of the fallow deer and even the shaggy skins of wolves & boars said by tradition to have been found

478

38.35 39.18 39.26 39.27 39.31 39.38 40.1 40.16 40.38 41.25 42.1 42.7 42.17 42.26 42.37 42.37 42.40 42.40 42.43 43.10 43.12 43.23 43.29 43.32 43.38 44.9 44.9 44.12 44.29 44.32 45.16

  of yore in these districts though now they are expelld from merry England unless where they are seen to grin & ramp amongst the monsters of heraldry Intermingled with these hung bows and slings and arblasts and some few harquebusses of ancient mould too cumbrous or too much rusted to be used in a modern field—then there were sheafs of arrows and 〈back〉 bags full of bolts for cross-bows, boar spears and barbed tridents for striking fish. In a deep bay window 〈which〉 whose painted glass offerd so dense a medium that 〈even〉 the setting sun’s level beams were totally dimd in their passage through it, stood a parcel of falconers poles and quarter-staffs ready for use mNLo At Ed1 reading: confided. [new paragraph] At The passage was cut in proof by Ballantyne who thought it repeated descriptions in other novels. Scott provided sanction (he wrote on the proof ‘you may cut out any thing you can detect as repetition’), but Ballantyne was mistaken in considering this passage repetitious: there is no exact parallel elsewhere in the Waverley Novels. The     takes its reading from the proofs which interpret the  correctly except in reading ‘There’ for ‘Here’, omitting ‘then’ in the phrase ‘then there’, and substituting ‘stocking’ for ‘striking’. kingly () / princely Majesty”—— ( ) / Majesty——” left his right-hand glove ( ) / left a glove The proofs read ‘left hand-glove’; Ballantyne inserted ‘a’ and Scott deleted ‘hand’. place”—— ( ) / place——” alms-giver—These, sayst thou then, were ( alms-giver—these sayst thou then were) / alms-giver. Thou sayest, then, these were these () / the accommodation—downwards () / accommodation. Downwards antiroom ( anti room) / anteroom niche of () / niche in further ( ) / farther kept (  and proofs) / continued and”—— ( ) / and——” the pretty countenance which ( ) / her countenance, which [proofs her pretty countenance, which] sunburned (  sunburnd) / sun-burnt What!—Chambering ( ) / What—chambering wantonness ( ) / wantoning a fulsome () / the fulsome trippings ( ) / trappings blind’?— (Editorial) / blind?’— [ blind—] unmodest ( ) / immodest was not to be () / could not be murtherer (proofs) / murderer [  murther] with lascivious sounds (  and proofs) / with the lascivious sounds murderous make-bates ( ) / murderers, make-bates hasty”—— ( ) / hasty”—— it is mercy () / it is a mercy cuff ( ) / ruffle dram ( ) / glass unprovided ( ) / impoverished replied ( ) / said conveyed (  conveyd) / convoyed

  45.16 45.16

45.34 45.35 46.10 46.12 46.15 46.36 47.9 47.10 47.11 47.20 47.26 47.27 47.33 47.34 48.9 48.9 49.6 49.9 49.11 49.15 49.21 49.24 50.6 50.12 50.15 50.21 50.23 50.24 50.30 50.31 50.34 50.34 50.34 50.36 50.36 50.40 51.4 51.5 51.8 51.17 51.27 51.34 51.36

479

which Josceline () / whom Joceline extolled without (proofs) / extolled for her activity without [ extolld with] Scott added ‘for her activity’ in proof as a result of an intermediary change of ‘which’ to ‘whom’; see the previous emendation. Josceline ( Joscelin) / the keeper the fire ( ) / a fire stand [new line] By yonder dizzy cliff and point the path [new line] With () / stand, [new line] With amaranth. [new line] Oft ( ) / amaranth, near yon cliffs. [new line] Oft frame () / form love of ( ) / love to herd—hurt ( ) / herd; hurt him—fishes ( ) / him; fishes spear—cut (  derived: spear mcut) / spear; cut The dash maintains the punctuation system of the sentence. Richard II. met . . . Bolingbroke at ( ) / Richard II. and . . . Bolingbroke were at ought to ( ) / might of new mischief ( ) / of mischief thy ( ) / this his ( ) / her burned (  burnd) / burnt on () / of passed (  passd) / past Alice Lee, (  and proofs) / Alice, her cousin ( ) / his nephew The proof reads ‘his cousin’, which necessitated the change to ‘nephew’. Master (proof instruction) / Mr house (  and proofs) / Lodge Master (proof instruction) / Mr replied ( ) / said father”—— ( ) / father——-” been ever () / ever been vomited out, to () / vomited, to hovel—The (  and proofs) / hovel. The Let () / let once—the (  and proofs) / once. The hunt, whose ( and proofs) / hunt—whose was—But ( ) / was.—But Mark, he ( derived: Mark he) / Mark—he gone, and ( ) / gone; and King, a ( ) / king—a rebel the more ( ) / rebel more should.’ Know (  derived: should” Know) / should.’—Know belly—Thou () / belly. Thou wilt—but ( ) / wilt, but urgency ( ) / argument interview ( ) / in-interview The syllable was repeated over a line end. Family ( ) / family carry at () / bear by [proofs wear at] has showed ( has shewd) / hath shown

480 52.5 52.6 52.15 52.22 52.25 52.29 52.31 52.37 53.2 53.42 54.19 54.19 54.25 54.27 54.33 55.9 55.11 55.16 55.21 55.22 55.29 55.33 55.36 55.43 56.16 56.19 56.21

56.30 56.40 57.4 57.12 57.15 57.20 57.22 57.27 57.29 57.40 58.4 58.9 58.14 58.16 58.19 58.20

  Although Scott regularly writes ‘shew’, Ed1 always represents the word as ‘show’. fair () / free [proofs first] I load it () / it loaded so, when (proof correction) / so—when Farewell ( fare well) / Fare thee well tyrannically ( ) / tyranically Master (proof instruction) / Mr war had set () / war set dictate our () / dictate to our offensively () / officiously in () / with Master (proof instruction) / Mr his () / our [proofs her] this scene () / the scene at two ( ) / by two that, as Dame Quickly says of her master Dr Caius, he (  [that as Dame Quickly says of her master Dr Caius he] and proofs) / that he homilies—I ( ) / homilies. I Vulgate and () / Vulgate; and Come, wench, wipe (  derived: Come wench wipe) / Come—wipe and well () / and it was well The extra words were insertd by Ballantyne in proof. Phœbe, too ( ) / Phœbe, though too meal () / meat the preceding day, nor (  [the preceding day nor] and proofs) / the day; nor Happy Restoration of Charles, Second ( Happy Restoration of Charles Second) / happy restoration of Charles, second genial ( ) / jovial the way ( ) / his way over the head ( ) / over their heads silence, the (  and proof derived: silence. The) / silence; as he thus proceeded on his lonely course, the In  Scott mistakenly put in the signs for a new sentence, but syntactically the sentence continues; the post-proof addition is therefore unnecessary. principles ( ) / opinions then () / there others. Yet () / others; yet dub a dub () / rub a dub Markham ( derived: Marcus Everard) / Everard The intermediaries chose ‘Everard’ here; that choice necessitated the change at 57.20. Everard ( ) / Markham against (  and proofs) / against called—you ( ) / called. You times.” (proof correction) / times, to be sure!” play-haunting ( ) / play-hunting Sir Henry (  Sir Henry 〈Lee〉) / Sir Henry Lee them. But (  [them But] and proofs) / them,—but says I”—— ( ) / says I——” if thou art (  and proofs) / if you are cuckoldly ( ) / puritanic [proofs cuckoldy] knave ( ) / man

  58.21 58.23 58.23 58.23 58.27 58.31 58.41 59.7 59.8 59.27 59.31 59.37 60.2 60.4 60.28 60.40 61.5 61.24 61.34 61.43 62.8 62.15 62.24 62.38 62.39 63.14 63.18 63.19 63.20 63.23 63.25 63.34 63.43 64.6 64.13 64.16 64.27 66.32 67.30 68.14 70.18 71.28 71.34 72.31 74.1 74.3

mine ( ) / my last—for () / last—as for [proofs last; for] fellows—never (  and proofs) / fellows, never they (  and proofs) / they We (proof correction) / we has been () / have been But that (  and proofs) / But, as I said, that be always ( ) / always be league offensive ( ) / league of offensive indifferent well ( ) / indifferently well Worse, d—n me, worse (  worse d—n me worse) / Worse!— d—n me, worse asked in () / asked me in sweet—godly () / sweet godly term ( ) / call D—n (  and proofs) / Confound Slavonian ( ) / rogue A space was left in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘rogue’. parlour ( ) / apartment a gutter ( ) / any gutter the lute () / a lute at ( ) / in think his ( ) / think that his mind—but I Mark—I ( ) / mind; but I, Mark, I me so () / myself doest ( ) / dost gate. We ( ) / gate—we illumined ( ) / illuminated would ( ) / could heart—But ( ) / heart; but by, the ( bye the) / by—The valet”—— (Magnum) / valet——” into ( ) / in entertainment at ( ) / entertainment in further ( ) / farther inward ( derived: inured) / correct come ( ) / came would add dignity (  derived: would a dignity) / would lend a dignity Master (proof instruction) / Mr Master (proof instruction) / Mr terrific state perils (proofs) / terrific perils [ missing] had felt (proofs) / experienced [ missing] was like to (proofs) / was otherwise likely to [  missing] been unimpeachable (proofs) / been otherwise unimpeachable [  missing] sunk again (proof correction) / again sunk Are the Parliament (proofs) / Are Parliament [ missing] [chapter runs on] () / Chapter VII. Someone other than Scott introduced a chapter break here, writing above the line ‘Chapter ——’. deep breathing (  and proofs) / dead breathing In the proofs Ballantyne indicated a repetition; Scott changed the second ‘deep’ to ‘dead’, but it was the first ‘deep’ that was replaced by the intermediaries.

481

482 74.4 74.6 74.22 74.38 75.3 75.13 75.16 75.21 75.24 75.35 76.4 76.7 76.20 76.23 76.24 76.28 77.3 77.4 77.11 77.14 77.35 78.2 78.3 78.25 78.33 78.37 79.7 79.31 79.33 79.38 79.40 80.2 80.18 80.20 80.22 80.25 80.31 80.43

80.43 81.1 81.4 81.16 81.17 81.22 81.23 81.34 81.39 81.42 82.2

  dead slumber (proof correction) / deep slumber rusted ( ) / rusty thyself”—— (Magnum) / thyself——” is that ( and proofs) / are those baiting-place (  derived: 〈resting〉 mbaitigo place) / hiding-place breast ( ) / heart such a danger () / such danger drunk ( ) / drink and I carry ( ) / and carry and place () / and a place education”—— (Magnum) / education——” Lincolnshire ( ) / Leicestershire Henry leave to ( ) / Henry Lee permission to in his ( ) / on his doest ( ) / dost so ( ) / but then () / only ranting ( ) / vaunting mustachoe ( ) / mustachio bringest ( ) / bring’st draughts ( ) / draught roving () / roaring feeling ( ) / feelings landlord (  Landlord) / master any ( ) / every My () / the well nigh (  and proofs) / nearly around (  and proofs) / round in ( ) / on grim ( ) / grave heedfully ( ) / fully His Excellence () / his Excellency under thick () / under their thick guess (  and proofs) / decide around (  and proofs) / round were at that time twenty () / were twenty word ( ) / words smile accompanied (Editorial) / smile of the speaker accompanied The phrase ‘the speaker’ was repeated within ten words, but the intermediaries cut the second which is necessary as the subject of the next clause. and the speaker turning () / and then turning off with () / off, with an it please () / and please homely (  and proofs) / energetic occasions (proof correction) / occasion surround it (proof correction 〈and〉 surround〈ed〉 mito) / surrounding it [  and surround it] fortify (  and proofs) / fortifying future ( ) / fanatic inspire ( ) / impose of low and sometimes of a practical (proof correction) / of a low and sometimes practical formality ( ) / ceremony A space was left in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘ceremony’.

  82.6 82.8 82.12 82.14 82.15 82.27 82.28 82.35 82.35 82.36 83.16 83.19 83.26 83.30 83.32 83.40 83.41 84.12 84.12 84.14 84.14 84.15 84.21 84.21 84.23 84.41 85.2 85.17 85.19 85.22 85.25 85.27 85.33 86.2 86.9 86.10 86.30 86.31 86.42 87.3 87.5

87.6

87.10 87.11

483

solved (  solvd) / cleared up A space was left in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘cleared up’. hypochondriacism ( ) / hypochondria will (  and proofs) / shall breasts ( ) / breast interests (  and proofs) / interest enfolding ( ) / folding aside his suspicion (proof correction) / aside suspicion brave ( ) / true Gentleman (proof correction) / gentleman Old England ( ) / old England looks () / look affecting to slumber ( ) / affecting slumber displaced ( ) / displayed, but all confused An intermediary read ‘displaced’ as ‘displayed’, leading to an unnecessary addition by Scott in proof. Amid ( ) / In a contrast () / a strong contrast are there in () / are in Master (proof instruction) / Mr ate ( ) / eat drank ( ) / drink But () / but now—begone ( ) / now. Begone gallery—let () / gallery. Let mentioned (  [mentiond] and proofs) / described in which ( ) / by which will ( ) / shall me and mine ( ) / us and our nor ( ) / or render a () / render in formeth ( ) / furnisheth which ( ) / regard that regard ( ) / relation divided () / devoted respect ( ) / regard importances ( ) / importance heads directing, and those who ( heads directing and those who) / hands acting, and such as hands acting () / heads governing misfeed () / nose-led way ( ) / mode necessary you should ( ) / necessary to touched my ( ) / touched on my monotonous purring () / tone of voice The intermediaries seem to have been unable to read ‘monotonous’ and left a space. Scott indicated on the proofs that the space should be closed up, and that ‘tone of voice he had hitherto used and which’ should be inserted after ‘purring’. used, somewhat resembling that of (  kept somewhat resembling that of) / used, and which somewhat resembled the purring of See note to the preceding emendation; ‘hitherto used’ is Scott’s proof correction, replacing ‘kept’. you ( ) / thee something ( ) / somewhat

484 87.17 87.23 87.27 87.28 87.33 88.8 88.9 88.19 88.23 88.28 88.28 88.33 88.37 88.42 88.42 88.43 89.6 89.12 89.14 89.18 89.21 89.22 89.23 89.34 89.34 89.41 90.5 90.14 90.17 90.20 90.42 91.11 91.29 91.30 91.33 91.38 92.1 92.1 92.2 92.4 92.15 92.20 92.27 92.35 93.3 93.4 93.9

  own, these ( own these) / own part, these they look not back (  derived: they not back) / they do not look back thee. () / thee? shrugging his () / shrugging up his doest ( ) / dost know ( ) / knows this Council () / the Council sayest ( ) / say’st condition ( ) / conditions commission ( and proofs) / purposes Commissioners () / commission a refuge (proof correction) / a place of refuge please, that ( please that) / please you, that bewray ( ) / betray counsel ( ) / council conveying () / carrying Knowst ( ) / Knowest knowst ( ) / knowest Knowst ( ) / Knowest said Roger Wildrake () / said Wildrake Worcester, I know by sure intelligence that, when by (  Worcester I know by sure intelligence that when by) / Worcester, and was by pursuit that young man was compelled ( and proofs) / pursuit compelled followers, this (  [followers this] and proofs) / followers, I know by sure intelligence that this you ( ) / thee you ( ) / thee who was therefore ( ) / who therefore lodging () / lodgings these () / those wherewith . . . acquainted ever ( derived: whereof . . . acquainted with ever) / whereof . . . acquainted ever probability () / possibility itself left incompleted ( ) / itself incomplete hath ( ) / has linked (  [linkd] and proofs) / likened “enough ( ) / “but enough lap () / cap the cover ( ) / this cover Excellence’s ( Excellences) / Excellency’s unlikely. While ( ) / unlikely, while sequestrators, both (  sequestrators both) / sequestrators. Both it.” ( ) / it till they are removed.” The faulty punctuation at 92.1–2 led to the addition of an unnecessary phrase. arise (proof correction) / occur even if, for example’s sake, they ( even if for example sake they) / even, for example’s sake, if they Always ( ) / always elder ( ) / old atoms ( ) / ashes this distemperature () / the distemperature meet () / find

  93.12 93.13 93.24 93.26 93.40 93.41 94.7 94.7 94.12 94.19 94.21 94.21 94.22 94.24 94.25 94.26 94.38 95.28 95.35 96.7 96.23 96.25 96.25 96.28 96.35 96.39 97.10 97.12 97.27 97.28 97.29 97.30 97.30 97.30 97.42 97.43 98.5 98.13 98.16 98.30 98.39 99.3 99.15 99.23 99.33

100.1

485

hand, done some ( ) / hand, some not that ( not 〈to be〉 that) / not to be that in its () / on its attempt ( ) / ascent Although the change from ‘attempt’ to ‘ascent’ was made by Scott in proof he cannot have noticed the previous ‘ascended’. well nigh ( ) / almost Cromwell, drawing himself up and assuming () / Cromwell, assuming was his () / he has worms ( ) / warriors courtlike ( ) / crouching master—Who ( ) / master. Who died?—Verily ( ) / died? Verily reward—Then ( ) / reward: Then others?—No—let () / others? No; let eye—Those ( ) / eye: Those shadows—Not ( ) / shadows. Not obscurity—The ( ) / obscurity. The unhappy”—— ( ) / unhappy——” debauchery ( ) / debaucheries take some means ( ) / take means said he () / he said doest ( ) / dost eyes or fair ( ) / eyes and fair knowst ( ) / knowest Here are () / There are cavalier Wildrake rejoined ( and proofs) / cavalier rejoined doest ( ) / dost doest ( ) / dost chasing ( ) / clearing stead. But ( ) / stead; but like ( ) / likely had ( and proofs) / hadst contrary—ruined ( ) / contrary; ruined arise ( ) / rise again for (  and proofs) / again,—for England (  and proofs) / the land us, through ( ) / us, only through thinkst ( ) / thinkest Noll your () / Noll is your then we shall see you (  derived: then we shall you) / thereon shall you be acquainted () / be made acquainted Everard; “but (proofs) / Everard.—“But [ Everard “but] meanst ( ) / meanest under protection () / under the protection beer ( ) / ale this interview—so dangerous, if the quick-sighted favourite of fortune could have penetrated into his real sentiments—he ( this interview so dangerous if the quicksighted favourite of fortune could have penetrated into his real sentiments he) / this dangerous interview, he Ballantyne noted ‘Do not understand’ in the proofs and Scott deleted the passage. predetermination ( ) / determination

486 100.4 100.5 100.5

100.21 100.23 100.23 100.24 101.19 101.20 101.31 101.32 101.37 102.4 102.7 102.13 102.39 103.15 103.16 103.28 103.28

103.41 104.2 104.8 104.12 104.21 104.41

105.3 105.9 105.15 105.17 105.24 105.26 105.32 105.33 105.34

  boy had removed (proof correction) / boy removed napkin ( ) / napkins which we have mentioned, and was already one (  which we have already mentioned and was already one) / which we have already mentioned, and was one The intermediaries removed the wrong ‘already’. half of ale. () / half. bid ( ) / bade liquor ( ) / liquors his own constancy ( ) / his constancy began ( ) / begins assistance—like—like—— ( ) / assistance like, like—— replied ( and proofs) / interposed head () / hand you know we (proof correction) / we know you fair ( ) / fine Gangræna ( ) / Gangrena intruders ( ) / instructors surely ( ) / truly sectaries.” () / sectaries——” said Holdenough ( ) / said Master Holdenough said Master Holdenough (  Mr Holdenough) / said Holdenough of his appearance (  and proofs) / in which he hath of late appeared, being Woodstock, Scott’s elaboration, which makes plain the obvious, was prompted by Ballantyne’s saying ‘Do not understand’, to which Scott replied ‘Stupid a little’. pleasance () / pleasure borough’s ( boroughs) / burgesses’ close in my lodgings as you say ( ) / alone The proof reads ‘alone in my lodgings, as you say’; the misreading of ‘close’ induced Scott to delete the rest of the phrase. Doest ( ) / Dost will ( ) / shall the place of the great who had once dwelt there ( ) / the places of the deceased great who had ever dwelt there The proof reads ‘fill up the great, who had ever dwelt there’: in other words a phrase was omitted, and ‘once’ was misread as ‘ever’. Ballantyne marked the passage ‘Incorrect’; Scott ignored him, but Ballantyne must have carried out his own patching post-proof. It seems likely that he intended that ‘deceased’ should replace ‘great’. witches.” (  and proofs) / witches?” this house of Woodstock ( ) / this Woodstock is gone ( ) / has gone Dæmon ( ) / demon a thing ( ) / anything Ballantyne wrongly marked Scott’s wording as ‘incorrect’, and Scott added ‘ny’. Dæmon ( ) / Demon the more humane () / the humane ordination () / education, and clerical calling Unaware of the mistranscription, Scott added ‘and clerical calling’ in proof. doubt the efficacy . . . the devil,” said the Colonel; “but ( derived: doubt said the Colonel the efficacy . . . the devil said the Colonel

 

106.22 106.25 106.25 106.25 106.29 106.29 106.29 106.31 106.32 106.34 106.40 106.40 106.43 107.1 107.7 107.16 107.26 107.34 107.35 108.4 108.12 108.17 108.33 108.35 108.35 108.37 108.40 109.3 109.19 110.7 110.24 110.33 110.37 110.40 111.1 111.5 111.18 111.28 112.3 112.19 112.30 112.32 112.32

“but) / doubt,” said the Colonel, “the efficacy of your qualifications to lay the devil; but The second of the duplicated speech markers shapes the sentence more satisfactorily than the first. donned ( dond) / put on Master (  Mr.) / Colonel Everard—And ( ) / Everard; and constables (  Constables) / constable worst—And ( ) / worst—and came and () / came; and soldiers who ( ) / soldiers, who and were ( ) / came them. So () / them; so satisfied with one good reason,” said the Colonel; “you ( satisfied with one good reason” said the Colonel “you) / “I will be satisfied,” interrupted the Colonel, “with one good reason. You hastening ( ) / haste away towards where () / towards the town, when the clergyman ( ) / Master Holdenough dæmons ( ) / demons but without ( ) / and without all that you ( ) / all you which one would not at (  which one would would not at) / which no one would at Jos. (  Jos) / Joshua Member () / member any one ( ) / every one not yet restored () / not restored valiant ( ) / valued pour up ( ) / pour in Temptation ( ) / temptation Saint ( ) / St shall find () / will find hermit ( ) / hound any one ( ) / anything stopped (  stopd) / stopt murther (  and proofs) / murder cock’s-head (  Cockshead) / cod’s-head doest (  and proofs) / dost however ( ) / whatever The substitution was made by Ballantyne in proof. an hundred () / a hundred doest ( ) / dost maladroit ( ) / imprudent The intermediaries left a space in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘imprudent’. afterwards ( ) / afterward’s they were () / there were What? ( ) / What! Saint ( ) / St said that he ( and proofs) / said “he Master (proof instruction) / Mr consulted, for that ( consulted for that) / consulted, that The proofs read ‘consulted for, that’; the mispunctuation led to the deletion of ‘for’ in proof.

487

488

 

112.33 mind. ( ) / mind.” 113.4 led the way up (proof correction) / led up 113.13 form (Editorial) / forms Scott supplied the motto on a paper apart which he sent with the proofs. He wrote ‘forms’, but the sense requires ‘form’, which is what Dryden wrote. 113.13 his hate (proof correction) / he had 113.29 wi’ us, I’se (  derived: wi’ I’se) / with us, I’se Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘with us’. 113.31 than table () / than the table 113.41 cloak, lace ( ) / cloak, and lace 114.3 parliamentary ( ) / parliamentarian Ballantyne changed the word to ‘parliamentarian’ in proof. 114.10 as it was () / as if it were 114.20 the intimacy of () / his intimacy with 114.37 age vainly and presumptuously (proof correction derived: m . . . age vainlyo presumptuously) / age, presumptuously 114.38 to interpret () / interpreted 114.42 chosen ( ) / choice 115.15 pitiless in () / pitiless men in 115.18 themselves as prisoners ( ) / themselves prisoners 115.27 rested (  and proofs) / resting 115.32 slovenliness about ( and proofs) / slovenliness in 115.37 and with a () / and a 115.38 least desired his features should wear that expression, which seemed (  least desired his features should wear that expression which seemd) / least wished to express contempt on his features, seemed 116.2 pacific ( pacifick) / peaceful 116.10 posted () / passed 116.15 Harrington () / Harrison 116.15 who had adopted ( and proofs) / who adopted The deletion of ‘had’ in the proofs, by an unidentified hand, was an error. 116.17 Britain—where (  Britain where) / Britain. This was a rash theory, where The phrase ‘This was a rash theory’ was added by Scott in a revise in response to Ballantyne’s objection ‘This is a very long sentence’. 116.21 districts, men entitled to, and demanding, every degree of protection from the existing government but unfitted ( [districts men entitled to and demanding every degree of protection from the existing government but unfitted] and proofs [districts—men entitled to, and demanding every degree of protection from the existing government, but unfitted) / districts—men unfitted This cut was part of Scott’s response to Ballantyne’s complaint ‘This is a very long sentence’. 116.27 least ( ) / smallest 116.31 Britain—whether (  Britain—Whether) / Britain? Whether 116.35 assembled—or lastly whether ( ) / assembled? Or lastly, Whether 116.41 For ( ) / In 117.4 martyr to, or (proofs) / martyr to his republicanism, or The   reads: ‘martyr to or submitting to any serious loss on account of his republicanism’. 117.4 of, his republicanism (proofs of his republicanism) / of it [ of his republican] 117.5 those (proof correction) / their

  117.6 117.8

117.10 117.10 117.11 117.12 117.23 117.27 117.31 117.34 117.35 118.5 118.5 118.6 118.7 118.7 118.9

118.14 118.15 118.26 118.28 118.33 118.34 118.36 118.37 118.41

119.4 119.4 119.13

489

impracticable upon experience, for ( [impracticable upon experience for] and proofs) / impracticable; for Ballantyne deleted ‘upon experience’ in the revise. a theoretical speculatist () / the political speculator The proofs read ‘the critical speculatist’; the misreading of the  led to the unnecessary changes in both proofs and revises covered by this and the next four emendations. be actually possessed ( and proofs) / be possessed the existing powers, and (proofs and proof correction the 〈same〉 mexistingo powers, and) / the actual authority. He was a ready subject in practice to the powers existing, and betwixt the various (  and proofs) / betwixt various government which might in practice be established, holding all ( [government which might in practice be establishd holding all] and proofs) / government, holding in theory all supposed (  and proofs) / conceivable The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. Nature to a Final Cause () / nature to a final cause Power ( ) / power dances and songs, harmless ( ) / dances, songs, and harmless Great Goddess ( ) / great goddess Master (proof instruction) / Mr Doutington () / Darlington Littlefaith (Editorial) / Littlecreed On two other occasions Bletson is said to be the member for Littlefaith. as is ( and proofs) / as it is do. We (proof correction) / do. But we pillows (proof correction) / fears This and the following sentence were added by Scott in proof. The revise omitted ‘though their pillows’; Ballantyne marked the passage ‘Incorrect’, and Scott added ‘though their fears’. followed (  followd) / follows Master (proof instruction) / Mr Academe ( ) / academy farther ( ) / further childhood, and, when ( derived: childhood and when) / childhood; and when reason and laying ( ) / reason, assuring him that such as he, laying Although Scott added ‘assuring him that such as he’ in proof, he overlooked the fact that the subject of the clause is ‘a mind’. itself ( , proofs and revises) / himself doctrines, in whole or in part, of ( derived: doctrines in whole in part of) / doctrines in whole, or in part, of perverted subtlety of Bletson (  perverted subtlety of Bletsoes) / powerful eloquence, or artful sophistry, of the infidel The   was misread, and the printed proof reads: ‘the powerful subtlety of Bletsoe’. The loss of ‘perverted’ induced Scott to try to recover the meaning, and so in proof he deleted ‘subtlety’ and inserted ‘eloquence or artful sophistry’. In these circumstances the     returns to the   reading. ‘Bletsoe’ was corrected to ‘Bletson’ in proof, and post-revise was changed to ‘the infidel’. howsoe’er (  howsoere) / however to an opponent (proof correction) / to one who was an opponent these () / those

490

 

119.21 introduced, showing (  derived: introduced showing) / introduced; showing 119.24 upon: the ( derived: upon the) / upon; the 119.26 untutored (  untutord) / under-bred 119.27 infidelity—while (  derived: infidelity while) / infidelity, while A dash is required to correspond to the  dash separating Bletson and Harrison above in the text. 119.29 differing (revise correction) / different 119.36 character () / characters 119.40 history candidly and for () / history for 120.2 would ( ) / will 120.10 who, he knew, held ( who he knew held) / who held 120.16 two, calculated (proof correction) / two, and which was calculated Scott added ‘calculated to assure that’ in proof. In the revise Ballantyne marked the passage ‘Incorrect’. As the sentence is not defective Scott did not respond but changes were made post-revise. 120.28 must ( , proofs and revises) / might 120.28 numbers ( , proofs and revises) / number 120.32 sphere ( derived: spere) / thoughts 120.34 indicating ( ) / indicated Scott’s change in proof was a mistake. 121.7 and began (, proofs and revises) / its owner beginning 121.19 the Lord ( ) / my Lord 121.19 on ( ) / in 121.28 contents. But ( ) / contents; but 121.30 that even ( derived: theven) / that 121.39 to Master Holdenough (  and proofs to Mr Holdenough) / to Holdenough 122.2 would (  and proofs) / should 122.14 of betters () / of their betters 122.22 is ( ) / as 122.36 venture ( ) / venturest 123.15 stumbled (  and proofs) / tumbled 123.20 and get ( and proofs) / and to get 123.23 this ( ) / the 123.30 without light (  and proofs) / without a light 123.30 light?—Here—bring me the candle—you ( ) / light? Here, bring me the candle, you 123.31 by () / By 124.4 zealots ( ) / oafs Scott supplied ‘oafs’ in proof to fill a space. 124.4 which ( and proofs) / that 124.8 forwards (  and proofs) / forward 124.12 dare () / choose 124.14 nestled () / mingled 124.24 train, formed (proof correction) / train moved forward 124.25 lights, set forward to ( [lights set forward to] and proofs) / lights, to 124.31 said he ( and proofs) / he said 125.6 Nay ( ) / No 125.8 body—which ( and proofs) / body which 125.9 —which is () / —is 125.21 without (Magnum) / with 125.29 pull () / put 125.31 cross ( ) / across

  126.1 126.9 126.14 126.29 127.6 127.8 127.20 127.39 127.43 128.9 128.10 128.11 128.34 129.6 129.27 129.34 129.40 130.6 130.26 130.29 131.5 131.7 131.15 131.19 131.40 131.40 132.15 133.6 133.16 133.18 133.19 133.23 133.23 134.17 134.27 134.30 135.13 135.18 135.19 135.37 136.4 136.19 136.27 137.4 137.7

491

rung (  and proofs) / rang a philosopher ( a 〈distressd〉 philosopher) / a distressed philosopher were his best ( ) / was the best like ( ) / likely and Markham Everard (  and proofs) / and Everard could yet imperfectly (proof correction) / could imperfectly still were () / were still pronounced ( ) / pronounce be (  and proofs) / are be—Alice ( ) / be. Alice I conjure you speak openly on (  I conjure you [end of line] you speak openly on) / I conjure you!—speak openly—on engaged?—where . . . father?—why ( ) / engaged? where . . . father? why which light () / which the light a lady () / the lady grasp—on () / grasp. On first ( , proofs, and revises) / hitherto one single ( ) / a single murthered (  murtherd) / murdered forwards ( , proofs, and revises) / forward return; and he (proof correction return; m& heo) / return; he the antiroom or vestibule (proof correction the anti-room or vestibule) / the vestibule Wildrake,—“What ho! ( ) / Wildrake, “What—ho! and brute () / and the brute replied (proof correction) / said health ( and proofs) / life struggles (  and proofs) / opposition Seignior ( ) / Signior her fair eyes (proof correction) / her eyes Henry VIII, 4.1.84, also reads ‘her fair eyes’. riding-suit without speaking to anyone he (  riding suit mwithout speaking to any oneo he) / riding-suit, he keeper Josceline Joliffe () / keeper Joliffe the natural disposition () / the disposition to conceal ( and proofs) / to enable him to conceal as check () / as to check he himself ( derived: he him) /he No, he (  [No he] and proofs) / No. He but which could (Editorial) / but could Without the ‘which’ the sentence can be misread: it is not Everard who ‘could not oppose’. a mere impossibility (  and proofs) / quite hopeless had been () / have been with head () / with his head angels, and (  angels and) / angels; and kneeled ( kneeld) / knelt sacred words pronounced () / impressive service of the Church Scott was correcting the proofs ‘several words pronounced’. as her ( as 〈of〉 her) / as of her could (  and proofs) / should of reflections upon the impropriety of ( ) / of the impropriety of The proof reads ‘of reflections of’; Ballantyne marked this ‘Incorrect’

492 137.11 137.15 137.28 137.41 138.16 138.33 138.39 139.5 140.21 142.1 142.1 142.3 142.24 142.25 142.27 142.32 142.33 142.35 142.36 142.41 143.9 143.34 143.35 143.37 144.3 144.4 144.5 144.14 144.19 144.22 145.1 145.2 145.3 145.4

145.5 145.6 145.7 145.7 145.8

  and Scott deleted ‘reflections’, adding ‘the impropriety of’; but the   makes good sense firm, audible (  and proofs firm audible) / firm and audible priest had challenged () / priest challenged excuse, sir,” ( excuse Sir”) / excuse,” or I the () / or the kind. But () / kind; but great ( ) / green Richard III, 2.3.33, also reads ‘great leaves’. functions and perquisites— ( ) / fortunes and perquisites there— Scott added ‘there’ in proof, but he added it to a misread phrase. Legion ( ) / legion could (proofs) / would torn to pieces by ( and proofs) / torn by to possession () / to the possession civil war () / Civil War by () / By taste there, Mark () / taste, Mark gentle folks ( ) / gentlefolk roost ( ) / visit Alice ( Alic) / Lee was () / were Ballantyne changed the word in proof. should ( ) / would word as ( ) / word—as Catzo ( ) / Gatzo The ‘C’ was changed to ‘G’ by Ballantyne in proof. starving—but ( ) / starving. But recommended, by (  [recommended by] and proofs) / recommended,—by my very own ( ) / my own it as ( ) / it up as he had invoked () / he invoked present he dispatched (  and proofs) / present dispatched nonmeasured ( ) / unmeasured royalists”—— (Magnum) / royalists——” hush thee, dear ( hush thee dear) / hush, dear church. (I () / church. I off—and (  off 〈) and I had his ear at once〉 mand / off—(and knowst ( ) / knowest Gressless of Grays Inn (  Gressless of Grays Inn) / Grayless of the Inner Temple The proofs read ‘Graceless’, which someone other than Scott changed to ‘Grayless’. Post-proof ‘Gray’s Inn’ was changed to ‘Inner Temple’, presumably because of the new repetition. I gain ( ) / I can gain me (proof correction) / I Doest (proof correction) / Dost doth ( ) / does persecution ( ) / intrusion The substitution of ‘intrusion’ for ‘persecution’ was Scott’s in proof. In the revise he added ‘may be wrought . . . stout old boy’, thus creating a triple repetition, ‘intrusion’, ‘intruding’, and ‘intrusion’. Although not an ideal solution, the return to the   here reduces the problem.

  145.14 145.25 145.31 145.36 145.42 146.2 146.8 146.10 146.13 146.14 146.15 146.16 146.16 146.16 146.19 146.19 146.27 146.43 147.6

147.26 147.30 147.31 147.37 147.38

148.32 148.33 148.34 148.40 149.26 149.41 150.7 150.12 150.22 150.36 150.37 150.44

151.2

493

could ( ) / can inventors (  derived: inventor) / contrivers eye ( ) / eyes look out after (proof correction) / look after England, Joseph (  England Joseph) / England—Joseph are ye () / are you and”—— ( ) / and——” hath ( ) / has forwards (  and proofs) / forward The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. his naked () / the naked as he directed (, proofs and revises) / as directed discerned (  discernd) / descried who (proofs and revises) / whom [  whom] The ‘m’ was added by Ballantyne in the revise, but ‘who’ is correct. the general (  the General) / Harrison their horses ( ) / the horses his brigade () / the brigade “and wherefore () / “wherefore returneth”—— (  derived: returneth—”—) / returneth——” front.” [new paragraph] (proofs) / front. Take care, sir.” [new paragraph] ‘Take care, sir.’ was added by Ballantyne in the revise. The   reads ‘front”—“Verily’. by some ( ) / with some liquor, as is his ( [liquor as his] and proofs) / liquor, (as is his Ballantyne added the parentheses in the revise. evening, not (  [evening not] and proofs) / evening,) not Desborough”—— ( ) / Desborough——” that—and how thou art trusted by both—I pray to Heaven thou mayst merit it—Devoutly do I pray—that you may merit (  that—and how thou art trusted by both—I pray to heaven thou mayst merit it —Devoutly do I pray—that you may merit) / that.—And now that thou art trusted by both, I pray to Heaven thou may’st merit Prithee () / Pr’ythee his story (  derived: history) / his history say.” ( and proofs) / say, no doubt.” Ballantyne added ‘no doubt’ in the revise. hair even ( and proofs) / hair he wore, even master, King Charles ( ) / master, Charles Begone—tell (proofs) / Begone! tell Go back (proofs) / Return Wildrake, for he also began to feel (proofs) / Wildrake,—who felt more and more strongly The substitution was made by Ballantyne in the revise. yet paused (proof correction and revise) / yet again paused hadst ( ) / hast had is ( , proofs and revise) / seems or as if he unconsciously and involuntarily told over words which were impressed on his mind by some foreign agency, and was (proofs) / and as it was The preceding leaf of the   (f. 5), on the verso of which some of this material must have been written, is missing. heart ( ) / head See also Psalm 45.1.

494 151.5 151.6 151.12 151.13 151.13 151.20 151.26 151.32 151.34 151.42 152.9 152.24 152.25 152.32 153.29 153.36 154.35 154.38

155.16 156.16 156.18 156.22 156.30 156.36 156.36 156.37 156.42 157.22 157.23 157.41 158.2 158.14 158.16 158.17 158.28 158.28 158.28 158.32 158.38 159.10 159.12

  tells ( ) / tales doest ( ) / dost prevent ( ) / stop and with ( and proofs) / and almost with Someone replaced ‘well nigh’ (see next entry) with ‘almost’ between the proofs and the revise. bound well nigh cleared ( ) / bound cleared called ( calld) / cried owed ye ( , proofs and revises) / owed you so be ( ) / be so scabbard rest ( ) / scabbard’s rest knowst ( ) / knowest avow them () / speak on the subject The proof reading ‘own them’ was replaced by Scott with ‘speak on the subject’. the steward (Editorial) / his steward In this and the next emendation the changes are made to right the muddle about whom Tomkins serves. masters (Editorial) / master drawn—for the ( ) / drawn. The differing ( ) / different turned (  [turnd] and proofs) / become sentinels (  centinels) / guards benches with which (  and proofs) / benches with fragments of which Ballantyne’s query at proof, ‘Meaning, that they broke them up for fuel?’ prompted Scott to an unnecessary clarification that suggests that the hall had been furnished with fragments of chairs and benches. yet speak () / get speech came ( and proofs) / went sawst ( ) / sawest that third () / the third propose to ( ) / propose so speakst ( ) / speakest Harrison, nor (  Harrison nor) / Harrison—nor preachments—like ( ) / preachments, like an abominable ( and proofs) / a paltry meetst () / meetest thy call ( ) / thee call not thou ( ) / thou not bundled ( ) / bandied Crom”—— ( ) / Crom——” night-drink—look (  and proofs) / night-drink. Look was ( and proofs) / were on high ( ) / in high Independents, and ( Independents and) / Independents; and and he recommends ( ) / and recommends Although deleted in proof this ‘he’ is necessary. in the country () / on the contrary But ( ) / So Scott changed ‘But’ to ‘So’ in proof and in so doing generated two successive sentences beginning with ‘so’. character. [new paragraph] Reluctant (proof correction character. mNLo Reluctant) / character. Reluctant incredulous on the subject; as () / incredulous; as

 

495

159.14 in this particular ( ) / on this particular 159.24 in spite of himself and (  and proofs) / in his own absolute despite, and 159.24 and of a (proof correction and mofo a) / and notwithstanding a 159.38 by permission ( ) / by the permission 160.3 of danger () / of the danger 160.9 during ( ) / in 160.14 rushed in ( ) / rushed on 160.18 something appalling in (  and proofs) / something in 160.21 backwards (  and proofs) / backward 160.26 their ( ) / the 160.34 to danger () / to the danger 160.41 when I was a (  and proofs) / when a 161.9 or in the () / or the 161.17 distant clang ( derived: ‘that tingling distant mclango) / last distant tingling It seems that Scott was at first about to repeat ‘tingling’, but then wrote ‘distant clang’ without deleting ‘tingling’. 161.32 mansion, dare () / mansion, seem to dare 161.35 there () / they 161.40 Doest (  doest) / Dost 162.12 Everard ( ) / Edward 162.14 this ( ) / his 162.24 thinkst ( ) / thinkest 162.28 hauntst ( ) / hauntest 162.31 unavoidably ( ) / inevitably 162.36 woman ( ) / coward The   reading is difficult to decipher; ‘woman’ is the most probable reading. 162.40 authors ( ) / author 163.7 distinctly, but only for a moment, a (  [distinctly but only for a moment a] and proofs) / distinctly a 163.11 and standing as it seemed within () / and, as it appeared, standing within The reading in the proofs and Ed1 adapts rather than adopts what Scott wrote in  : ‘m. . . animated and it seemdo standing as it seemd within’. 163.13 insolently ( ) / mortally 163.19 dare show yourself (  and proofs) / do not withdraw 163.21 .” [new paragraph] When the last word was produced the light glanced stronger than ever on the figure—and Everard ( ) / .” [new paragraph] Everard 163.23 aiming at the bosom discharged ( ) / aimed at the bosom, and discharged 163.24 scorn—A loud ( and proofs) / scorn; and a loud 163.42 candle () / taper 164.9 thine () / these 164.17 choking me; oons, and (  derived) / choking me; and The   reads ‘choking Oons and’, the proofs ‘choking one; and’, and the proof correction ‘choking me; and’. 164.22 Wildrake, ay truly. (  derived: Wildrake ay truly) / Wildrake? ay, truly. 164.27 Pshut ( ) / Pshaw 164.33 damned ( damnd) / cursed 164.34 played locksmith ( ) / played the locksmith

496 164.36 165.3 165.15 165.21 165.25 165.28 165.36 165.39 165.42 166.1 166.3 166.14 166.16 166.18 166.21 166.31 166.33 167.6 167.7

167.9 167.9 167.10 167.10 167.11 167.18 167.25 167.37 168.4 168.27 169.3 169.3 169.4 169.4 169.5 169.7 169.8 169.18 169.20 169.23 169.25 169.29 169.36

  but now ( ) / though even I () / even me Sir Henry and ( ) / Sir Henry Lee, and Bletson”—— (Magnum) / Bletson——” painted ( ) / plaited artifices be ( ) / artifices may be haw-yaw (  haw yaw) / hew-yaw huge ( ) / large apprehensions ( ) / apprehension probability by, (Magnum) / probability, by leant () / bent chamber; the ( derived: chamber the) / chamber, the Scott’s past-tense ‘seemd’ in the following emendation proposes that the punctuation following ‘chamber’ should be a semicolon. seemed (  [seemd] and proofs) / seeming had the () / had scarcely the The ‘scarcely’ was added by Ballantyne in proof. feels () / feel night before (, proofs and revises) / preceding night both floor and ( ) / bolt, floor, and balls (  derived: bulle〈ts〉) / bullet pistols ( ) / pistol Although the ‘s’ was deleted in proof (by whom cannot be identified), that Everard would be wearing a brace of pistols conforms with military custom in the period, and the descriptions of him at 56.32 and 262.30. it: he () / it. He he fired () / he had fired five foot ( ) / five feet floor, in a direct line between (  derived: floor in a direct line between) / floor in a direct line, between appearance ( ) / appearances these () / those paleness (, proofs and revises) / pallidness infrequent () / unfrequent a reward ( ) / the reward would (  and proofs) / should The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. machinations—besides () / machinations. Besides besides, as Sir ( besides as Sir) / Besides, Sir crevice (  crevic) / corner place, it ( place it) / place: it them (Editorial) / him be.” (proof correction) / be done.” this ( ) / that said Everard ( ) / said Colonel Everard goblins here, who ( ) / goblins, who Lunsford ( ) / Lumford in the trenches ( ) / on the trenches did I or ( ) / did or Pshaw for ( ) / Pshaw! a fig for The proofs added an exclamation mark after ‘Pshaw’, and in consequence Ballantyne marked the line ‘Incorrect or unintelligible’, to which Scott replied ‘not so’. Nonetheless Ballantyne added ‘a fig’ in the revise.

 

497

169.37 squattering ( ) / swattering 170.3 “Hush, friend, remember,” said Everard, “I ( Hush freind remember said Everard I) / “Hush, friend,” said Everard; “remember I 170.6 Master (proof instruction) / Mr 170.7 fiend ( ) / Fiend 170.19 and notes (Editorial) / and the notes In  this reads ‘and the sounds of music’, but there is a close repetition; in the revise Ballantyne changed ‘sounds’ to ‘notes’ without apparently recognising that the phrase had become unidiomatic in its context. 170.20 sort (proof correction) / sorts The ‘s’ was added by Ballantyne in the revise. 170.22 Tartarean () / Satanic Scott supplied ‘Satanic’ in proof to fill a space. 170.24 women without heads, headless horses, (  derived: women without heads less horses) / horses without heads, 170.28 general that ( ) / general, as to prevent alarm and succour on any particular point, so that Scott revised this sentence in proof, but it is hard to make sense of the result. 170.38 This ( ) / His 171.7 in his history of sufferings, whilst the latter under an affected tone of contempt endeavoured to disguise his feeling (  in his history of sufferings whilst the latter . . . endeavourd to disguise his feeling) / in his feeling A line of the manuscript text was omitted. 171.12 Right Excellent ( ) / worshipful 171.22 o’er (  oer) / over 171.40 Woodstock here.” ( ) / Woodstock, here——” 171.43 Chaucer, not Chaser,” ( ) / Chaucer,” 172.2 dead ( derived: head) / buried 172.7 to Everard ( ) / to Colonel Everard 172.18 out beneath () / out from beneath 172.21 passage”—— (Magnum) / passage——” 172.22 Chaucer,” said (  derived: Chaucer” said) / Chaucer—” said 172.33 trick ( ) / book 172.35 knowst ( ) / knowest 172.41 thing that you ( ) / thing you 173.9 expect such an ( and proofs) / expect an 173.10 untimely ( ) / unmannerly Either the copyist or the compositor read ‘untimely’ as ‘unmanly’, Scott changed ‘unmanly’ to ‘unmannerly’ in proof. 173.20 trigger. I () / trigger—I 173.24 sense, and ( sense and) / sense. And 173.24 further ( ) / farther 173.29 civility ( ) / servility 173.34 least—not in the least—one ( ) / least—one 173.39 it be (proof correction) / it may be The   reading is ‘it may be’, and the proof ‘it shall be’; Scott deleted the ‘shall’ but in Ed1 the reading is ‘may’. 174.15 the place () / this place 174.20 Excellence () / Excellency 174.23 sowsed ( ) / drenched 174.39 sense () / existence

498 175.8 175.11 175.30 175.33 175.42 176.11 176.14 176.17 176.20 176.20 176.29

176.31 176.37 177.7 177.26 177.34 178.8 178.11 178.16

178.35 178.41 180.4 180.5 180.20 180.21 180.27 180.34 180.34 181.9 181.13

182.22 182.28 183.2 183.29 184.25

  Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘existence’. you”—— ( and proof correction) / you——” mean () / meant whom (  and proofs) / which believe in it ( ) / believe it before ( ) / after It was probably Ballantyne who substituted ‘after’ in the proof. And so I will yet—But () / and so I will yet;—but wages were ( ) / wages are and it () / or it And the Saints () / and the saints provend (  derived: provent) / provide coming, Selah!” [new paragraph] “And (  m. . . Coming Selaho Selah!”—“And) / coming—Selah! Selah!——” [new paragraph] “And The ‘Selah’ which ends the verso insert in the   is a catch-word, and should not have been incorporated in the text. There is no case of ‘Selah! Selah!’ in the Authorised Version. garrison.” () / garrison——” any other argument ( ) / any arguments Saints shall reign () / Saints reign than it was in ( and proofs) / more than in that ( ) / because their charge until they were called ( their charge until they were call) / the charge committed to them, until they should be called Excellence’s ( Excellences) / Excellency’s community, to (  and proof derived) / community, on every person, to The   reads: ‘the duty of every one to sacrifice’. This appears in the printed proofs as: ‘the duty of every person to sacrifice’. Scott deleted ‘duty’ and substituted ‘political obligation incumbent on every member of the community’. As the changes coincide with a page turnover (‘duty of’ are the last words on 2.113 of the proofs; and ‘every person’ are the first words on 2.114), it is likely Scott failed to delete ‘every person’. Excellence () / Excellency made into ( ) / made up into to you ( ) / with you Good Cause ( ) / good cause his great stupid ( ) / his stupid written in () / written on this late () / the late communicate to him the ( ) / communicate the This and the next revision were Ballantyne’s. of ( ) / that had befallen him on and in ceremonial ( ) / and ceremonial my abilities (  derived: my power abilities) / my poor abilities It seems that Scott first wrote ‘power’ and substituted ‘abilities’ without deleting ‘power’, which is not a homophone for ‘poor’, a word used in the following line. and to which (8vo) / and which crying ( ) / imploring Master (proof instruction) / Mr safety. Our (  escaped—Our) / safety; for whom”—— ( ) / whom——”

  184.37 185.5 185.22 185.25 185.26 185.32 185.32 185.43 186.14 186.22 186.24 186.27 187.27 187.32 187.38 187.43 188.23 188.34 188.36 188.37 188.37 188.39 189.27 189.27 189.28 189.30 189.32 189.43 190.22 190.22 190.29 190.30 190.36 190.41 190.43 191.2 191.29 191.30 191.34 191.35 191.38 191.39 192.21 192.35 192.37 193.21 193.35 194.4 194.22

499

supplies (  and proofs) / should supply this Bletson (proof correction this 〈man〉 Bletson) / this man Bletson large ( ) / huge me that it ( ) / me it said (  and proofs) / say The change was made by Ballantyne. mount ( ) / mound he may () / he can read and at the same ( ) / read, at the same decay—or (proof correction) / decay, or and the (  and proofs) / and which I saw by assistance of the man—and that man—as sure . . . mouth—was ( man—and that man—as sure . . . mouth was) / man—as sure . . . mouth, it was from ( ) / down rencounters ( ) / rencontres used ( ) / uses Sathan (  and proofs) / Satan Both here and at 187.43 the ‘h’ was deleted by Ballantyne. Sathan (  and proofs) / Satan Laud’s ( and proof corrrection) / Laic’s who”—— ( ) / who——” religion. This (  and proofs) / religion;—this lips—the ( ) / lips. The dangerous—you ( ) / dangerous. You justice hath removed () / justice removed amid () / arouse has ( ) / hath things, there ( derived: things there) / things. There which is () / which was save ( ) / serve in ( ) / on arise (  and proofs) / rise could ( ) / would his Lodge ( ) / the Lodge garrison—And () / garrison; and is disgrace ( ) / is a disgrace spoke . . . spoke ( ) / spoken . . . spoken of truth (proof correction) / of a truth with”—— ( ) / with——” so soon () / as soon be assured, that ( [be assured that] and proofs) / believe me, that class ( ) / classes further (proof correction) / farther find that ( and proofs) / learn that The change was made in proof by an unidentified hand. hearts or ( ) / hearts and gone up to ( ) / given up and be, as all men say, in ( and be as all men say in) / and he, as all men say, is in pain. In () / pain—in fair ( ) / fine cast ( ) / coat fragments (proof correction) / fragment would ( ) / could

500

 

194.24 hither—” (the . . . hall)—“Why (proof correction) / hither.”—(The . . . hall.)—“Why 194.43 foil; there they stand (  derived: foil there they hand) / foil then in thy hand 195.2 in hand () / in his hand 195.13 there () / There 195.13 hit. Why ( ) / hit—Why 195.20 shift quarters () / shift your quarters 195.31 as for rumps () / as for the rumps 195.40 guise ( ) / very moral Scott filled a space with ‘very moral’. 195.41 Devil ( ) / devil 195.42 Army ( ) / army 195.42 Devil ( ) / devil 195.43 Army ( ) / army 195.43 Parliament or with the Rump (  parliament or with rump) / Parliament—or the rump 196.5 sharps—” () / sharps.” 196.13 Joliffe. Well victualled too—how () / Joliffe—well victualled too. —How 196.20 Joliffe ( ) / Joceline 196.26 days! ( ) / days yet! 196.32 master ( ) / man 196.37 been stranger ( ) / been a stranger 197.14 the momentary (proof correction) / this momentary 197.21 pain, more () / pain, the more 197.34 in earlier ( derived) / in her earlier The   reads ‘characteristic of earlier’, and in proof Scott added ‘her beauty’ to form ‘characteristic of her beauty earlier’. While he has clearly omitted ‘in’, there is no reason to suppose he also omitted ‘her’ especially when ‘her’ involves close verbal repetition. 197.39 only existed (proof correction) / existed only 198.14 murther ( ) / murder 198.19 cause. She (  derived) / cause. [new paragraph] Alice On rereading his text Scott inserted ‘NL’ above the line between ‘cause’ and ‘she’, but he cannot have noticed the ‘NL’ (written on the line) creating a new paragraph two  lines below. 198.19 forward to ( ) / on toward The proof reads ‘forward toward’. 198.19 ruin () / fount 198.24 and coarse ( ) / and a coarse 198.26 farmer, perhaps the () / farmer, or, perhaps, the 198.29 put on as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn but had rather been acquired by some (  derived: put on as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn but had rather been by some) / put on. This looked as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn, but were articles of which she had become the mistress by some A verb such as ‘acquired’ was omitted in Scott’s first draft. He attempted to rectify the omission by revising as follows: ‘put on as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn but 〈had rather been〉 mof which she seemd to have the mistresso by some’. From this the intermediaries produced ‘put on as if they did not belong to the person by whom they were worn, but of which she seemed to have become the mistress by some’. In proof Ballantyne wrote ‘Not

 

198.35 199.4 199.9 199.26 199.35 199.42 200.1 200.3 200.6 200.6 200.6 200.24 200.38 201.1 201.3 201.4 201.14 201.16 201.26 201.30 201.36 202.22 202.30 202.35 202.38 202.43 203.6 203.35 204.17 204.33 204.38 205.1 205.6 205.8 205.20 205.22 206.6 206.9 206.14 206.23

501

quite correct, I think’ and Scott changed the sentence again to produce the Ed1 reading. It is     procedure to return to  when a defective reading in proof generates revisions which would not have been required had the manuscript been read correctly; an extension of that principle suggests that Scott’s original   reading should be adopted here. stopped (  stoppd) / stooped who would have rendered ( derived: who have renderd) / who had rendered liked not (  and proofs) / did not like arise (  and proofs) / rise could ( ) / would used () / been at is ( ) / si In some copies of Ed1 this has been corrected in a cancel. pointing towards ( ) / pointing it towards The ‘it’ was inserted by Ballantyne. harm—down ( ) / harm.—Down down—an you (  derived: down—and an your) / down—And ere you do him none. He ( ) / hurt him, know he thinking to (  and proofs) / thinking thus to whatsoever (  and proofs) / whatever streams ( ) / pours Ballantyne asked in proof ‘Is streams an active verb?’, to which Scott replied: ‘I think so but I care not’. climates ( ) / climate promise you shall (  and proofs) / promise you, you shall speak of. Good woman—if (  derived: speak of Good woman— if) / speak, good woman; if pity then that ( ) / pity that barked (  barkd) / backed asked with ( ) / asked her, with she has scented ( ) / she scented you may look () / you look see you think () / trust that The proof omitted ‘you think’, and reads ‘I see that you are too young and pretty’, thus leading to Scott changing the ‘see’ to ‘trust’. did her () / did of her whosoever ( derived: whosever) / whoever in that vagabond’s (  in that vagabonds) / in that of vagabonds it—after all I (proof correction) / it, after all, I drink ( ) / drank so much ( ) / as much interrupting, “wert ( ) / interrupting him, “wert chaplain.—Besides I ( ) / chaplain.—I we ( ) / is the man () / this man wiser—Or if ( ) / wiser; or, if alongst () / along like (  and proofs) / likely general (  generall) / all [proofs gain all] imagining ( ) / imagination are ( and proofs) / have been peculiar, harsh (  peculiar [eol] harsh) / peculiarly harsh

502

 

206.26 before, and (8vo) / before her, and In the proof pains were taken to mask the gender of the intruder; Ed1’s ‘her’ was therefore as much of a mistake as the   ‘him’. 206.29 learned ( learnd) / heard 206.40 paws () / power 206.41 called out with () / called with 206.43 doest ( ) / dost 207.30 clothing ( ) / clothes 208.1 limbs ( ) / arms 208.9 forwards ( ) / forward 208.14 pulse ( ) / palm 208.17 ribband or bandage ( ) / ribbon, or a bandage 208.21 kind leech (  derived: kind liege) / reverend doctor 208.22 sight ( ) / sign 208.37 you even now (proof correction) / you now 208.38 discharge—And ( ) / discharge; and 208.40 wilderness, and do what should be done, and must be done ( [wilderness and do what should be done & must be done] and proofs) / wilderness, and bring in your attendant 209.7 this ten () / these ten 209.9 death-fixed (  death-fixd) / death-like 209.25 ribs—so () / ribs. So 209.29 doublet, wounded indeed in () / doublet, though, wounded in 209.41 him—and (  and proofs) / him! and 210.1 bent ( ) / bound 210.8 window—a ( ) / window. A 210.16 strength”—— ( ) / strength——” 210.18 Doest ( ) / Dost 210.37 further ( ) / farther 211.13 rebels.” (  rebels”—) / rebels?” 211.14 “the last ( ) / ‘the last 211.14 dice ( ) / die 211.18 gratifying his favourites () / gratifying favourites 211.33 sense () / certainty Scott filled a space with ‘certainty’. 212.2 Albert. But I forget. You ( ) / Albert!—But I forget—you 212.5 sake—Joceline!—what ho, Joceline!” [new paragraph] The (  sake—Joscelin—what ho Joscelin”—The) / sake.” [new paragraph] “Joceline!—what ho, Joceline!” [new paragraph] The 212.14 can ( and proofs) / could 212.18 impudent () / impatient 212.20 Who ( ) / Whom 212.29 a halter () / an halter 212.37 northern drawl ( ) / national drawling accent 212.40 dissensions ( dissencions) / disunions 213.7 he has fought () / he fought 213.12 he was () / he were The change was Ballantyne’s in proof. 213.18 was the Lord ( ) / was Lord 213.32 Master Louis Kerneguy () / Master Kerneguy 213.36 burned (  and proof correction burnd) / turned 213.41 how want ( ) / how a want 214.2 brilliant, even ( brilliant even) / brilliant and 214.11 are worn () / were worn 214.15 called queer ( ) / called the queer

 

503

Scott filled in a space with ‘the queer’. 214.23 had closed ( ) / had attempted to close The addition was made by Ballantyne. 214.23 the stomach () / his stomach 214.36 so, I’se ( ) / so, sir, I’m 214.41 court; in former days they ( derived: court in former days they) / court, in former days; they 215.1 mair ( ) / more 215.13 sayst ( ) / sayest 215.13 Carnego () / Kernigo 215.13 fight well, let him not lack ( fight well let him not lack) / fight, we’ll not let him lack 215.17 never ( ) / ne’er 215.22 am Christian ( ) / am a Christian 215.24 Soh, he (  derived: Soh he) / Soh!—he 215.25 though— ( ) / though,— 215.26 napkin— ( ) / napkin!— 215.37 hear Old Henry ( ) / hear Henry 215.38 Health ( ) / health 216.2 Albert, “it (  derived: Albert it) / Albert, knowing the sign—“it 216.25 ditties— (proof correction) / ditties,— The proof correction is probably ‘ditties〈,〉—’, but the comma has been obliterated with so much ink that it cannot be discerned. 216.27 King () / king 216.32 their lodges and the blind taverns () / the lodges and blind-taverns 216.36 this lower ( ) / the lower 216.39 estate () / state [proofs Estate] 216.41 amongst () / among 217.1 them () / him 217.14 his head () / the head 217.15 straight, square-caped () / straight square-caped 217.16 jauntily (  and proofs) / gaily Ballantyne writes of ‘jaunty’ at 217.37: ‘Whether it is because this is one of the scoundrel Leigh Hunt’s favourite words, but I loathe it.’ Scott replies: ‘Cant partake of the loathing. Smollett may excuse Hunt It conveys an idea not easily otherwise expressd’. At 217.37 ‘jaunty’ survived, but ‘jauntily’ here was changed post proof. 217.16 been three-piled ( ) / been of three-piled 217.18 over ( ) / on 218.10 would look () / may wish 218.12 may (  and proofs) / will 218.32 further ( ) / farther 219.26 on such ( ) / at such 219.30 on oath ( ) / upon oath 219.40 carouse ( ) / fashion 219.41 then () / Then 219.41 broke he forth () / he broke forth 220.6 drank ( ) / drink 220.7 Clerks ( ) / clerks 220.20 child () / baby 220.26 her charge () / the child 220.29 bold Brentford ( ) / bold Breakfast 220.40 on ( ) / in 221.10 Bambino ( ) / Breakfast 221.15 harrow ( ) / haro

504 221.29 221.31 221.35 221.39 222.9 222.16 222.24 222.26 222.27 222.28 222.33 222.38 223.14 223.21 223.23 223.24 223.27 223.30 223.33 224.25 224.26 224.40 224.41 225.7 225.16 225.18 225.18 225.22 226.15 226.18 226.20 226.32 226.35 226.38 226.40 226.43 227.3 227.16 227.20 227.28 227.36 228.2 228.6 228.15

  so (  and proofs) / sore made a drollery ( ) / made drollery upon ( ) / on post ( ) / pest Leddy’s (  Leddys) / lady’s risk, sir, in ( risk Sir in) / risk in King, as young (proof correction King, 〈for〉 as young) / King, young suffices ( ) / sufficeth Killsteer ( ) / Kilsteer slave, and drink your health, sir, in (  slave and drink your health Sir in) / slave, sir, and drink your health, in rusticity. “And ( ) / rusticity; “and Girneygo () / Girnigo Scotchman ( ) / Scotsman this ( ) / the am () / came these patches ( this patches) / these scratches Scotchman ( ) / Scotsman scratches.” [new paragraph] “And (revise correction scratches—mNL “oAnd) / scratches.—And of the supper (revise correction) / of supper Were the penalty death, (revise correction Were the penalty death) / Here’s to honour and faith, This line was changed after Scott had corrected the revise. Here’s (  and revises) / And anights ( ) / a nights Woodstock—but ( ) / Woodstock; but imitate his ( and proofs) / imitate one part of his The addition was Ballantyne’s, but is unnecessary. chivalry, whereas (proofs) / chivalry; whereas [ chivalry whereas] license, which (proofs) / license; which [ license which] exclaim”—— ( ) / exclaim——” seem to have forgot ( ) / remember at least The phrase was added on the facing verso but was not noticed by the copyist; ‘remember at least’ was supplied by Scott in proof. into ( ) / on to neatness ( ) / exactness his (, proofs and revises) / this deepest (revise correction) / deep distinction in the act of disrobing ( distinction min the act ofo disrobing) / distinction, disrobing gravity—And ( ) / gravity, and complimentst (proofs) / complimentest The change was made between proofs and revises. if ever Your () / if your Woodstock? (revise correction) / Woodstock. the leathern (  〈his〉 mtheo leathern) / his leathern Old ( ) / old countenance that () / countenance, that was () / were all. But ( and proofs) / all that. But The addition was made by Ballantyne in the revise. knowst ( ) / knowest two yet,” ( ) / two,”

 

505

228.17 twang, besides the (proof correction derived) / twang, and besides, the Scott added ‘besides the fatigue of being’ in proof, but the ‘besides’ suggests that he ought to have deleted the ‘and’. 228.26 higher ( ) / high 228.28 sounded to me as ( , proofs and revises) / sounded as 228.38 assuming northern (proof correction) / assuming the northern In  Scott wrote only ‘(again assuming)’. 228.39 it a grace () / it grace 228.40 dree ( ) / do 228.41 tell me, after all that, I ( derived: tell me after all that I) / tell me, after all, that I 229.4 young officer’s page ( young officers page) / young page The first printed proof reads ‘young officer page’, and Scott deleted ‘officer’. But the   reading is ‘officers’, which Scott is less likely to have deleted had it been properly rendered in print. 229.37 promise ( ) / presume 229.39 had I () / if I had 229.40 would ( ) / should The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. 230.25 letting ( ) / showing In the proofs ‘letting’ was rendered as ‘telling’, provoking Scott’s change. 230.26 me make () / me, to make 231.3 expect not to be ( derived) / expect, that I shall not be Scott first wrote ‘expect that I would not be’; he changed this to ‘expect that I can not be’. He then deleted the ‘can’, and inserted ‘to’ between the words ‘not be’. The last change requires that ‘that I’ be deleted. As it was not, consequential changes were made by the intermediaries. 231.8 children talk ( ) / children, talk 231.10 forgot (, proofs and revises) / forget 231.12 rallying ( ) / raillery 231.12 you ( ) / your 231.14 thinking ( , proofs and revises) / feeling 231.27 Majesty, but (  [Majesty but], proofs and revises) / Majesty; but 231.34 would ( ) / should The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. 231.35 her ( , proofs and revises) / her 231.35 use. ( , proofs and revises) / use? 232.1 here. Do () / here—Do 232.8 Joliffe—of () / Joliffe. Of 232.8 need say (proof correction) / would say 232.8 nothing. Yet ( nothing Yet) / nothing; yet 232.21 less carefully ( ) / more carelessly 232.23 safety.” Besides, he added, Rochecliffe was (  safety. Besides he said Rochecliffe was) / safety. Besides,” he added, “Rochecliffe is There are no speech marks in the manuscript, and the rest of the speech is reported, but the proofs included the reported speech within speech marks. Scott adjusted the first two verbs for direct speech, without attending to the rest of the paragraph. The simplest means of correction is to return to the  . 232.25 his Majesty ( ) / your Majesty’s 232.26 was () / is 232.34 disturbed. [new paragraph] (Editorial) / disturbed.” [new paragraph]

506 232.41 232.42 232.43 233.6 233.14 233.18 234.4 234.20 234.32 234.37 234.39 235.12 235.21 235.29 235.37 235.42 235.43 236.1

236.3 236.14 236.20 236.27 236.38 237.6 237.26 237.38 238.4 238.15

238.19 238.35 239.3 239.4 239.6 239.13 239.15 239.31 239.34 240.4 240.20 240.24 240.29 240.41 241.1

  invited—Indeed () / invited;—indeed urging () / arguing prevailed to (  prevail to) / prevailed on to the powers ( and proofs) / its powers Majesty—And ( ) / Majesty; and search—it (revise correction) / search. It Threlkeld (proof correction) / Throlkeld In William Wordsworth, ‘Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle’ (1807), line 95, the reading is ‘Threlkeld’. hunted () / haunted of (proof correction) / to [  as Ed1] then () / there gather ( ) / hear the quest ( the 〈in〉quest) / the inquest this ( ) / the apartment without a clue, had ( derived: apartment 〈th〉 a clue had) / apartment, had had overcome ( , proofs and revises) / had quite overcome points ( ) / parts one barrel (  and proofs) / one small barrel The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. in parcels, and several different keys (  in different parcels, several different keys) / in different parcels, and several keys The intermediaries cut the second ‘different’ but it is the more significant of the two. were beside him ( and proofs) / were also beside him The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. within reach ( ) / within the reach said he (, proofs and revises) / he said at ( ) / in ever curious ( ) / over-curious sayst ( ) / sayest the proverb ( ) / The proverb His ( ) / his house, as I am informed, the ( house as I am informd the) / house the resemble a squinting man, whose one oblique and distorted eye sees (  derived: resemple a squinting man whose one oblique and distorted sees) / resemble the eyes of a squinting man; one of which, oblique and distorted, sees his () / the his vigilance ( ) / him vigilant solved ( ) / silenced have objection ( ) / have an objection at (, proofs and revises) / of roads ( ) / land pot ( ) / hot actions”—— ( ) / actions——” “That ( , proofs and revises) / “——That “I ( , proofs and revises) / “Enough. I you”—— ( ) / you——” himself beside ( ) / himself close beside opinionated old man ( ) / opinionated man wardrope ( ) / wardrobe the young ( , proofs and revises) / my young

 

507

241.10 safety. You () / safety—You 241.14 riding-suit which ( , proofs and revises) / riding-suit of yours which Ballantyne noted ‘Incompleat perhaps’. Scott ignored him, but an addition was made post-revise. 241.14 othergate (  other gate) / other-guess The printed proof produced ‘gala’, which Scott changed to ‘gait’, but the reading was again changed after the revises had been passed. 241.17 page must be in reality ( , proofs and revises) / page in reality was 241.31 time—But it could not be () / time. It could not, however, be Both proofs and revises read: ‘time. But it could not be’. 242.2 were still harsh () / were harsh 242.14 moved; his exile (  moved his exile) / moved; exile 242.43 she listened ( she listend) / that she should listen The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. 243.6 himself have ( ) / himself, however, have 244.7 rencounter ( ) / encounter 244.17 hang me, Albert, if (proof correction) / hang me, if 246.23 enthusiasms ( ) / enthusiasm 246.26 principally ( ) / chiefly 247.2 ye, no ( ye no) / ye—no 247.2 Enough—Let ( ) / enough;—let 247.3 fortune ( ) / fortunes 247.9 considerably (proof correction) / far 247.11 inappropriate (proof correction) / unappropriate 247.13 nature long or willingly (  derived: nature longer willingly) / nature to be long willingly 247.16 the painful feelings ( ) / the feelings 247.22 regal ( ) / royal 248.1 nay, dearest Albert () / nay, Albert 248.4 chance ( chancee) / desire 248.6 by—and () / by; and 248.23 monarchs. [new paragraph] On (proof correction m. . . Monarchs NLo On) / monarchs. On 248.35 same report ( ) / same general report There is a caret in the manuscript before ‘report’, and ‘unusual’ appears in the left-hand margin. However, ‘unusual report’ must be wrong, and the intermediaries must have thought so too as there is a space in the proofs before ‘report’ which Scott filled with ‘general’. The word which ‘unusual’ should have qualified has to be ‘excellence’; in spite of the absence of a caret in the appropriate position, this emendation is effected in the next entry. 248.37 at unusual excellence (  derived) / at excellence See note above. 249.10 flatterers may make () / flatterers make 249.12 hear () / have 250.3 as Henry ( ) / as Sir Henry 250.4 Woodstock. But (  and proofs) / Woodstock; but 250.5 hurt ( ) / pain In proof Scott filled a space with ‘pain’. 250.5 should but shame ( ) / should shame 250.23 this caution ( ) / these cautions 250.36 walked ( walkd) / hurried Ballantyne changed ‘walked’ to ‘hurried’ in proof.

508 251.8 251.18 251.20 251.35 251.39 252.2 252.39 252.43 253.1 253.24 253.40 254.37 254.38 254.42 255.15 255.22 255.35 255.37 256.9 256.27 256.36 256.41 257.13 257.14 257.26 257.35 257.36 258.1 258.8 258.29 258.34 258.38 259.2 259.16 259.24 259.36 260.5 260.8 260.9 260.17 260.30 261.7 261.24 261.33 261.34 261.37 262.7

  from Enter the first (proof correction) / from Enter the first [  from Enter to scene the first] here, I should now, in ( [here I should now in] and proofs) / here, in beside, be ( [beside be] and proofs) / beside, I should be punching ( ) / pinching Second. ( ) / Second? only exist ( ) / exist only commenced ( and proofs) / been laid narrated directly arose in (  and proofs) / above stated, as if it had found vent in uttered language, did certainly arise in counsellors () / councillors before us (proofs) / before me bard, actuated (proofs) / bard, himself actuated playing at battledore ( ) / playing battledore his own conscience ( and proofs) / his conscience and encouraged by () / and by these () / those taken alarm ( ) / taken the alarm unlimited () / unbounded none (  and proofs) / no one return (proof correction) / retire escape; () / escape out of England; The extra phrase was added in proof by Ballantyne. of ( ) / at his full (proof correction) / and full knew what () / knew even what seduction ( ) / seducer the same passion () / the passion laughed at on account of () / laughed at for never entered (proof correction) / never once entered the resolutions ( ) / any resolutions put to rest () / obviate party and to lie close () / party; came close homeless ( ) / houseless Scots nation, which (proof correction) / Scots, which draw so near ( ) / drawing near and the same obstacles ( and proofs) / and obstacles his apparent condition in life (proof correction) / his condition of life [  their stations] more fit to () / more to recourse (  recours) / resource Phidyle ( derived: Phidele) / Fidele The name is ‘Phidyle’ in Horace: see explanatory note. understood not ( ) / understood it not all familiarity with him which could be avoided (proof correction) / everything in the shape of familiarity with him gold piece or no () / gold or not should ( ) / may The substitution was made by Ballantyne in proof. his mortification ( and proofs) / his anger and mortification his purpose (  and proofs) / his angry purposes for ( ) / of angry (proof correction) / irritated in an imperious but good-humoured manner ( [in an imperious

  262.11 262.13 262.17 262.20 262.24

262.30

262.38 263.5 263.15 263.37 263.37 263.38 264.8 264.14 264.22

509

but good humourd manner] and proofs) / in a good-humoured but somewhat imperious manner those (proof correction) / that six foot ( ) / six feet unsoiled (  unsoild) / unsullied rules ( ) / rule characteristic of the difference between the parties to which each apparently belonged. This was the greater strength, and the better arms, on the side of the stranger who had thus brought the disguised monarch to an involuntary parley. There was strength in his muscular bulk, authority (proof derived: characteristic of the difference to which each apparently belonged. This was the greater strength, and the better arms, on the side of the stranger who had thus brought the disguised monarch to an involuntary parley. There was strength in his muscular bulk, authority) / characteristic of the inequality in the comparison, under which he seemed to labour. There was strength in the muscular form of the stranger who had brought him to this involuntary parley, authority In the   Scott added ‘of the difference to which each apparently belonged’ on the facing verso, indicating that it should follow ‘characteristic’. In the proofs Ballantyne wrote ‘Incorrect’ alongside this addition, but Scott did not respond to his prompting, although the simple addition of the phrase ‘of the parties’ sorts the problem. In the revise, the latter part of the passage was adjusted, and then post proof the phrase added in  was replaced by ‘of the inequality in the comparison, under which he seemed to labour’. Sense is fully restored by returning to the printed proof, and attending to the fault which caused Ballantyne to write ‘Incorrect’. into it, while Louis Kerneguy had no weapon but his sword, and was in personal strength much inferior to the (proofs and proof correction derived: into it, which would have been sufficient to give the unknown the advantage 〈in arms〉, 〈for〉 mwhileo Louis Kerneguy had no weapon but his sword, and was in personal strength much inferior to the) / into it, which would have been sufficient to give the unknown the advantage, (Louis Kerneguy having no weapon but his sword,) even had his personal strength approached nearer than it did to that of the Ballantyne wrote ‘repetition’ and put three crosses in the margin. There is considerable repetition both in words and ideas, which Scott nearly sorted out in his proof corrections. But he failed to follow through the logic of the substitution of ‘while’ for the  ‘for’. Postproof the intermediaries made their own attempt to sort out the muddle, but were not successful. that courage ( ) / the courage face. [new paragraph] () / face and person. [new paragraph] Scott created repetition by adding in proof ‘and person’ here, and ‘of the person’ in line 18 below. His sense . . . his apology ( ) / The sense . . . an apology tall and unwelcome satellite ( tall m& unwelcomeo satellite) / tall satellite their debate ( ) / the debate themselves (  and proofs) / them will ( ) / shall on ( ) / in else () / otherwise The ‘else’ was read as ‘also’, leading to Scott’s change in proof.

510 264.25 265.12 265.16 265.27 265.41 266.22 266.26 266.30 266.31 266.31 267.9 267.16 269.11 269.17 269.18 269.27 269.27 269.28 269.29 270.1 270.8 270.9 270.14 270.15 270.28 270.42 270.43 271.1 271.25 271.27 271.28 271.31 271.33 271.41 272.9 273.9 273.14 273.14 273.22 273.23 273.26 273.29 273.30 274.3 274.17 274.19 275.12 275.13 275.32

  me out here () / me here perhaps,” (  perhaps”) / perhaps?” title ( ) / term will (proof correction) / shall is”—— ( ) / is——” never before knew ( ) / never knew moment’s (proof correction moments) / minute’s on ( ) / at further ( ) / farther you will let () / you let accompt ( ) / account Colonel generously relinquishing () / Colonel relinquishing hand () / hands the Knight ( ) / the old knight horses which could be used for war (  [horses which could be used for war] and proofs [horse . . .]) / steed of a more dignified description was ( and proofs) / were throne—None () / throne. None seasons—Put () / seasons. Put three—for, as (  [three—for as] and proofs) / three!—As combatants had desisted ( and proofs) / combatants desisted an insolence () / your insolence hands ( ) / hand Adventurer (  and proofs) / King gentleman—I ( ) / gentleman. I I insist () / I must insist Kerneguy; “but I cannot tell ( [Kerneguy “but I cannot tell] and proofs) / Kerneguy. “But the quarrel is his; nor can I tell a quarrel (  and proofs) / it of political (proof correction) / of our political by the command () / by command singular ( ) / single a priest, or a lady ( a priest or a lady) / or priest, or lady king—Hear () / king. Hear this young (  and proofs) / the young this placed him (proof correction) / he was placed distressed (  distressd) / deserted while his right held ( and proofs) / his right holding wild diminutive () / wild and diminutive the little pony ( [the little poney] and proofs) / the pony increased () / enhanced the rider ( and proofs) / its rider could ( ) / should horsing () / horseman Although altered in proof, the change to ‘horseman’ was a mistake. Faery (  and proofs) / Fairy So here Pixie and I survive—” () / So Pixie and I still survive.” man looks when in ( ) / man in Devil is, you know, my namesake (proof correction Devil is you know my name sake) / devil, you know, is my namesake I’m sham’d ( ) / I am shamed damn’d ( damnd) / d—ed on this ( ) / here

  275.40 276.17 277.9 277.18 278.23 278.31 278.41 278.43 279.2 279.5 279.6 279.10 279.12 279.34 279.35 279.41 279.41 280.3 280.6 280.7 280.14 280.14 280.15 280.19 280.25 280.29 280.33 281.3 281.16 281.19 281.39 282.2 282.2 282.7 282.14 282.23 282.29

283.3 283.4 283.13 283.21 283.30

511

The phrase ‘on this’ was omitted in the proof, and Scott filled the gap with ‘here’. Tumble-down Dick (18mo) / Tumble-down-Dick [ as Ed1 but in roman] these whole ( ) / the whole of these curtesey ( ) / courtesy also, perchance, afforded (  also perchance afforded) / also afforded these (proofs) / those [  this] knowst ( ) / knowest or by an () / or an with but little () / but with little themselves—Ay—doubtless () / themselves. Ay, doubtless doubt so ( ) / doubt not so he has witnessed (  derived: he 〈was〉 has witness) / he was witness to Doest ( ) / Dost verses ( ) / lines thee—never—never—Thou () / thee—never, never. Thou fat ( ) / fatten verses—not ( and proofs) / verses, not of Master Milton ( derived: of Mr Milton) / of Milton person—Oh Heaven forbid!—But ( person—Oh heaven forbid —But) / person. Oh Heaven forbid! But with the refreshment ( ) / with refreshment evil—But ( ) / evil. But literature—and ( ) / literature; and I repeated () / in repeating hearing—And I ( ) / hearing, I adjurations ( ) / adjuration which was a ( derived: which a) / with a giving offence (  and proofs) / giving direct offence like (  and proofs) / likely now.” [new paragraph] “Only ( now”—“Only) / now?” [new paragraph] “Only Girneguy ( ) / Girnegy will ( ) / shall parlour ( ) / apartment patient but ( ) / patient—but fearful ( ) / fearfully willingly. But () / willingly; but which covers ( and proofs) / which sometimes covers rival. [new paragraph] ( ) / rival [new paragraph] he had not been accustomed (proofs and proof correction) / his principles forbade him In  Scott wrote ‘had not been traind’; in proof he altered ‘trained’ to ‘accustomed’; the Ed1 reading is post-proof. is Una left ( ) / that Alice is left The copyist misread ‘Una’ as ‘Alice’ (presumably not recognising the allusion to Spenser); Ballantyne added ‘that’ in proof. Lion; ( ) / lion, should be to a true knight more ( derived: should be a true knight more) / should to a true knight be more others?—Pudding ( others—Pudding) / others? Pudding Speak forth, my guitar (  derived: Speak for my guitar) / Speak for me, good lute

512 284.12 284.28 284.29 285.4 285.8 285.15 285.37 286.5 286.10 286.11 286.15 287.2 287.17 287.26 287.29 287.33 287.35 288.8 288.10 288.11 288.13 288.16 288.23

288.35 289.9 289.17 289.18 289.18 289.26 290.28 290.39 290.39 290.43 291.2 291.21 292.11 292.21 292.22 293.39

  An intermediary, making little of ‘for my guitar’, left a space following ‘my’, which Scott changed in proof to produce the Ed1 reading. of ( ) / with “you () / “In that case you ‘In that case’ was added by Ballantyne. than of (  and proofs) / than that of Jeanneton (Magnum) / Jeannaton [  as Ed1] Lee, and ( [Lee and] and proofs) / Lee, sir; and rest (  and proofs) / rested The ‘ed’ was added by Ballantyne. rendered (  renderd) / ended blood.—But (proof correction) / blood. But What fear you () / What is’t you fear can ( and proofs) / can when ( ) / where our sometimes unwilling ( ) / our unwilling Royalty and from Love ( ) / royalty and from love order ( ) / orders or (  and proof correction) / nor the bride’s conscience, but yet, investing her (  the brides conscience but yet investing her) / the conscience; yet investing the bride King () / king  () / Him will (  and proofs) / shall answered ( answerd) / said Think whether the ( derived: Think the) / Think of the The rhetorical repetition of ‘whether’ in this utterance suggests that the missing word here is also ‘whether’. inspires;—whether (  inspires; whether) / inspires. Whether The dash brings the punctuation into line with that supplied elsewhere in the sentence. abomination.” ( abomination”—) / abomination, I leave to your own royal mind to consider.” The extra words were supplied to give the sentence a verb which it had been denied by the intermediaries’ starting a new sentence at ‘Whether the death’. be from being (proof correction) / arise from my being further ( ) / farther honeycomb—It ( ) / honeycomb.—It Colonel—and ( ) / Colonel; and Loyal ( ) / loyal father shall be ( ) / father be upon ( ) / on prig (  prigg) / rebel Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘rebel’. averred (  averd) / avowed rencounter ( ) / rencontre if opportunity ( ) / if an opportunity this vulgar ( ) / this somewhat vulgar The change was made by Ballantyne in proof. Ahem ( ) / A hem made () / rendered certain idle scruples () / certain scruples there () / that

 

513

293.40 excepting—Sa Sa”—— ( ) / excepting—sa—sa—” 294.17 banged, hanged, or damned, I (  [bangd hanged or damned I] and proofs) / banged, or hanged, I Ballantyne objected ‘this is much too coarse’, and Scott deleted in proof. 294.28 words—and ( ) / words, and 294.29 me (proof correction) / one 294.34 George”—— ( ) / George——” 295.9 this day ( ) / the day 295.12 observed () / discovered 295.12 father or any () / father, or by any 295.15 was merely assumed to () / was assumed merely to 295.20 persuasions ( ) / personifications 295.30 prince () / Prince 295.40 must ( ) / would 295.42 If he ( and proofs) / If, stopping short of death, he The phrase was added post-proof. 296.14 forwards ( ) / forward 296.17 could but () / could not but Ballantyne added the ‘not’ in proof, but it is unnecessary. 296.21 Villiers ( ) / Villers 296.31 rencounter might () / rencontre would 296.34 recollections ( ) / recollection 297.8 girl—a wise girl—a virtuous girl—one ( ) / girl, a wise girl, a virtuous girl, one 297.11 Nay ( ) / nay 297.12 knowst ( ) / knowest 297.13 house now holds ( ) / house holds 297.14 listen to me—Alice, how (  listen to me—Alice how) / listen to me, Alice,—How 297.19 thou ( ) / you 297.39 defenceless—he . . . it—my ( ) / defenceless! He . . . it. My 298.13 “Me?” answered Alice; “impossible.— (  “Me answerd Alic[e;] “impossible—) / “I?” answered Alice; “it is impossible.— The ‘e;’ is obscured by the binding. 298.21 story (  storey) / thing 298.21 Sir Henry ( ) / my father 298.38 could ( ) / should 299.11 impossible—you () / impossible. You 299.12 wisdom—but () / wisdom; but 299.14 again—and ( ) / again; and 299.16 “Nay, Alice ( “Nay Alice) / “Alice 299.28 will be (proof correction) / will then be [ would be] 299.30 character, your (  [character your] and proofs) / character and 299.32 himself. Speak ( himself Speak) / himself, speak 300.3 doest (  and proofs) / dost 300.11 for I foresee the (  derived: for forsee the) / for the 300.26 much ( ) / far on you Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘far on you’. 300.30 said he () / he said 300.32 good girl, wench, and (  good girl wench and) / good girl, and 300.39 thou shalt . . . thou shalt . . . thyself ( ) / you shall . . . you shall . . . yourself The changes were made by Ballantyne.

514 301.1 301.3 301.6 301.26 301.31 301.33 301.34 301.35 301.36 302.20 302.29 302.34 302.36 303.7 303.18 303.18 303.22 303.25 303.31 303.32 303.33 303.34 304.3 304.4 304.4

304.13 304.14 304.35 304.40 304.42 305.9 305.13 306.4 306.7

306.10 306.17 306.42 306.43 307.1

  it seems () / I find to-morrow—but . . . me—are ( ) / to-morrow. But . . . me, are Doctor Rochecliffe ( ) / the doctor courtesy ( ) / conduct The change was made in proof by Ballantyne’s foreman. Henry, which ( ) / Henry Lee, which he, “sitting (proofs) / he, entering, “sitting cock-brained (  cock-braind) / crack-brained like () / fit twangling ( ) / playing lonely ( ) / lovely their ( ) / the coppice, from which, unseen themselves, they (proof correction coppice, 〈and shrouded by it〉, from which munseen themselveso they) / coppice, and shrouded by it, from which they front (  derived: fron) / form G— ( ) / Jove forwards ( ) / forward to Roger Wildrake () / to Wildrake Master (proof instruction) / Mr sir?” ( and proofs) / sir? What say you?” we may do () / we do here—I’ll () / here. I’ll you have to do ( ) / you that you have to deal The printed proof has ‘how to do’, which made Scott revise. fit match ( and proofs) / match fit hose () / stockings and, like ( and like) / and which, like The ‘which’ was inserted to compensate for the loss of ‘ones’ (see next emendation). once peach-coloured ones. ( once peach-colourd ones) / once peach-coloured. The   reproduces Shakespeare’s wording, lost between  and proof. then showed his black coat and patched cheek, ( then shewd his black coat and patchd cheek) / showed his clerical dress; “it’s (  [“its] and proofs) / “Tush! it’s wait here for () / wait for the prayer-book (proof correction) / their prayer-book bilbao () / bilboa What?—you want the de quoi—that () / What? you want the de quoi? that while () / time into ( ) / to field, at one and the same instant. (  [field at one and the same instant.] and proofs) / field. Ballantyne marked each of the words ‘At this moment’ and ‘at one and the same instant’ with crosses to indicate repetition, but they are not necessarily repetitious. his second () / his worthy second Ballantyne added ‘worthy’ in proof. Cavaliere ( ) / cavalier voice. “I () / voice—“I so—I ( ) / so; I religion—I ( ) / religion; I

  307.1 307.8

307.27 307.28 308.4

308.27 308.35 308.43 309.5 309.5 309.6 309.15 309.16 309.19 309.21 309.24

309.28 309.34 309.37

309.40 310.6 310.8 310.18 310.30 310.32 310.32

310.35 311.15 311.18 312.15

515

mother-tongue but ( ) / mother-tongue—but Church-of-England-man, subject (18mo) / Church of Englandman, subject The   reads ‘Church of England subject’, while the proofs add the comma. The post-proof addition of ‘man’ was required, but not as a suffix to ‘England’. all these () / all this in doing belie () / in doing so belie Everard made no answer, for Charles hardly saw Rochecliffe’s back fairly turned than he cried “Now, Colonel Everard, if you are ready” and placed himself in a posture of defence. Everard lost no time in following his example, but (  derived: Everard made no answer for Charles hardly saw Rochecliffes back fairly turnd than “now Colonel Everard if you are ready” and placed himself in a posture of defence. Everard lost lost no time in following his example but) / Everard made no answer; he had already unsheathed his sword; and Charles hardly saw Rochecliffe’s back fairly turned, than he lost no time in following his example. But One line of manuscript was overlooked and is here restored. your own noble ( ) / your noble Master (proof instruction) / Mr knew”—— ( ) / knew——” on him ( and proofs) / on the King as the words dropped (proofs) / the following words dropping bursting ( and proofs) / they burst man—do . . . unkind—I ( ) / man. Do . . . unkind; I Master (proof instruction) / Mr Master (proof instruction) / Mr retracts ( ) / retreats unquestioned ( derived: un [eol] question) / on my part uninquired into The proofs read ‘in question’, and Scott substituted the phrase ‘on my part uninquired into’. can ( ) / can murtherous ( ) / murderous long (  and proofs) / rue In the proofs, James Ballantyne changed ‘long’ to ‘rue’; this was rejected by Scott who substituted ‘even’, but this involves repetition. In these circumstances the     returns to the  reading. sister—all ( ) / sister. All so (  and proofs) / this stay—and ( ) / stay; and her favoured lover (  [her favourd lover] and proofs) / her lover part who have () / part, whom I have can () / Can attentions of a mere ( ) / attractions of an empty title, the idle court compliments of a mere The   ‘attentions’ was misread as ‘attractions’, necessitating Scott’s revision in proof. Put it in ( ) / Put your answer, which seems so painful, in The proof reads ‘put in one word’; the omission of ‘it’ necessitated the provision of a noun or pronoun. agitated with ( ) / agitated by you have heard ( ) / you heard The Colonel (  and proofs) / Everard

516

 

312.16 Scots escaped ( and proofs) / Scots has escaped The ‘has’ was added by Ballantyne. 312.21 last ( ) / late 312.31 forwards ( ) / forward Ballantyne made the alteration in proof. 313.10 me—I () / me I 313.28 plans for escape are ( ) / plans are 313.29 has ( ) / is 313.39 those ( ) / these 314.5 Lodge with Doctor Rochecliffe and () / Lodge and 314.5 Woodstock. Unless (proof correction) / Woodstock, unless 314.34 not still to (proof correction) / not to Scott added ‘still’ in proof, but the caret was inserted in the wrong place: ‘cavalier; “and’. This emendation places ‘still’ appropriately. ^ 314.35 foinery ( ) / foolery 315.8 Master (proof instruction) / Mr 315.24 own—more”——he ( ) / own life. More——” He 315.26 consistence ( ) / consistency The change was made by Ballantyne in proof. 315.31 of Markham Everard ( ) / of Everard 315.34 Markham ( ) / Everard 315.41 unsuitably () / unmeetly 316.32 betwixt ( ) / between 316.37 distrust ( ) / mistrust 316.42 rural thanes () / country thanes 317.10 was () / were The change was made by Ballantyne in proof. 317.28 him—perhaps (  and proofs) / him?—Well, perhaps 317.35 such slender (  and proofs) / such very slender 317.42 of three () / of the three 318.1 Mistress Lee ( ) / Mistress Alice Lee 318.2 head for several ( ) / head several 318.2 now they (  and proof correction) / now, they 318.3 purpose, as (proofs) / purpose. As As in   the phrase appeared as ‘purpose as’, and, as the next clause also concluded without punctuation, the phrase ‘as my canny subjects of Scotland say’ could modify both what precedes and succeeds it. However, it must apply to ‘pat to my purpose’, which is a Scots idiom, whereas ODEP indicates that the proverb is English. Successive changes moved the clause in the wrong direction: in proof ‘purpose as’ became ‘purpose, as’, which in turn was corrected (it is not possible to tell by whom) to ‘purpose; as’. Post-proof it became ‘purpose. As’. 318.3 canny () / canny 318.3 say. If (Editorial) / say, If The   reading, ‘say that if’, is clearly faulty as ‘that’ is redundant. Post-proof the ‘that’ was deleted. For the reasons given above at 318.3, the sentence break must come here. 318.4 it— (  and proofs) / it at last— 318.8 passage, sire, to (  passage Sire to) / passage to 318.8 when ever she () / when she 318.11 emanated directly from () / emanated from 318.24 has (  and proofs) / had The tense was changed by Ballantyne. 318.36 of Verona (8vo) / f Verona

  318.40 319.5 319.8 319.9 319.26 319.39 319.40 319.42 320.16 320.20 321.17 321.20 321.43 322.26 322.34 324.2 324.18 324.28 324.33 325.8 325.20 325.24 325.25 325.27 325.37 325.41 325.42 326.9 326.10 326.26 327.13 327.14 327.31 327.42 328.8 328.15 328.29 328.39 329.2 329.22 329.29 329.35 329.36 330.8 330.10 330.12 330.20

517

have ( ) / are probable ( ) / palpable on ( ) / in further ( ) / farther was ( and proofs) / were him, conversed with him, flattered him; those (  him conversed with him flatterd him 〈and〉 those) / him, all conversed with him in private; those propitiated with () / propitiated him with as if by ( derived: as it 〈were〉 by) / as it were by derived full (, proofs and revises) / derived his own full quantity (revises) / degree The passage was provided at proof stage on a paper apart. The change was made after Scott had corrected the revise. Master (proof instruction) / Mr it (Magnum) / them Heresiographia (ISet) / Hieresiographia enthusiast (proof correction) / enthusiastic his suspicions under ( , proofs and revises) / any suspicions which he could not altogether repress, under interests () / interest as was the () / as the The proofs read ‘as as the’; Scott deleted the second ‘as’. the good old ( , proofs, and revises) / the old been equal (, proofs and revises) / been almost equal alongst () / along blessing ( ) / blessings unto ( ) / to replied, “there it stands and () / replied, “and drunk ( ) / drank saints, Rebecca ( ) / saints, my Rebecca and a stray ( ) / and stray said to my inward soul, Thou ( said mto 〈s〉 my inward soulo thou) / said, Thou bondswoman?—verily ( ) / bondswoman? Verily enfranchised—And ( ) / enfranchised; and so—I ( ) / so. I vengeances ( ) / vengeance corporeal ( ) / corporal these pretended ( ) / the pretended any means ( ) / every means pull Phœbe ( [pull Phoebe] and proofs) / pull the poor girl to be as a sign ( ) / to be a sign backwards ( ) / backward fir-tree—But ( ) / fir-tree. But “Let ( ) / “Aha! Let these blinkers () / the blinkers looked (  lookd) / stood looking leave him here ( ) / have him lie here or look () / a lock guess—Ay, Phil (  guess—Aye Phil) / guess—Phil himself.—Nay, here ( himself—.mNayo Here) / himself.— Here this parish ( ) / the parish he had kept ( ) / he kept

518

 

330.21 and persuaded him () / who was persuaded 330.27 would,” answered the forester, “if (proof correction would manswerd the forster “oif) / would, if 331.6 the character (proof correction) / his character 331.27 like (  and proofs) / likely 331.38 burned (  burnd) / burnt 331.38 the friends () / his friends 332.2 roamed (  roamd) / wandered Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘wanderd’. 332.15 Brentford (Editorial) / Breakfast The intermediaries had twice given his name as ‘Breakfast’, misreading the  twice, at 220.29 and 221.10. The  here reads ‘Breakfast’, but it is assumed that Scott was actuated by the need for conformity. 332.16 serve ( ) / succeed him 332.21 that (  derived: than) / which Scott’s  ‘than’ clearly implies ‘that’, which is taken here although it was Scott who deleted ‘than’ in proof, substituting ‘which’. 332.25 attracted ( derived: attract) / arrested 332.25 knock () / knocking 332.29 modest ( ) / quiet 333.2 go (  and proofs) / pass 333.4 thus dealing, practising, and using (  thus deal[eol]ling practizing and using) / thus using 333.8 entered.” (proofs) / entered?” 333.14 visit.—Would (proofs) / visit?—Would 333.14 some”—— ( ) / some——” 333.27 to the Good () / for the Good 333.40 rock”—— ( ) / rock——” 333.42 stomach (Editorial) / profit Scott’s mind is ahead of his hand: the word ‘profit’ is justly used below (334.2), but the context here requires ‘stomach’. 333.43 sent it; so hath it sent the preacher to () / sent; so is the preacher ordained to The   reading, ‘to digest what Heaven hath sent it so hath it sent the preach to teach and the people to here’, was garbled in the proof (there was an eye skip from ‘sent’ to ‘sent’) which reads: ‘to digest what Heaven hath sent the preacher to teach, and the people to hear’. Scott made changes in proof to turn the print version into sense; the corrected proof reads: ‘to digest what Heaven hath sent; so is the preacher ordand to teach, and the people to hear’. 334.19 poison () / poisons 334.21 said ( and proofs) / uttered 334.26 an encounter ( ) / encounter an enemy 335.1 about town (  and proofs) / about the town 335.4 by.—Hark thee hither, hither—” (proof correction by m—Hark thee hither hither—o”) / by.—Hark thee hither.” 335.5 forwards (  and proofs) / forward 335.9 If the King was taken (proof correction If mthe King waso taken) / If taken 335.16 feet, and ( and proofs) / feet, rolled his eyes, and 335.21 all attempt () / all attempts 335.37 birding ( and proofs) / shooting 335.39 out at window ( ) / out at the window 335.43 lady.” (  and proofs) / lady. Dost mark me boy?”

 

519

336.12 a verbal ( and proofs) / an explicit verbal 336.16 enigmatical conveyance of the (  derived: enigmatical way conveyance of the) / enigmatical way of conveying the It seems likely that Scott wrote ‘way’, and then decided on ‘conveyance’ without deleting ‘way’. 336.26 according ( ) / accordant 336.31 ye see (  and proofs) / we see The change in the proofs was made by Ballantyne; in the rest of the speech Cromwell uses the second person. 336.43 me although unworthy a ruler ( ) / me a ruler 337.11 are”—— ( ) / are——” 338.20 completely afloat () / completely set afloat 338.26 Zouns ( ) / Zounds 338.27 know he (  and proofs) / know, after all, he 338.38 me this ( and proofs) / this to me 338.39 vent ( ) / discharge [proofs visit] 339.13 before, your ( and proofs) / before, why, your 339.17 career ( carreer) / course 339.25 could ( , proofs and revises) / would 339.29 expecting (  and proofs) / suspecting The change was made by Ballantyne in the revise. 339.38 around ( , proofs and revises) / round 340.4 cared for () / looked after 340.10 and—a secret ( ) / and a—secret 340.12 it were shame while he lives at all to refuse (proof correction) / while yet he exists, it were shame to refuse The Ed1 reading was introduced after Scott had corrected a revise. 340.14 heart ( ) / head 341.11 sayst thou ( ) / said’st thou 341.32 thou (  derived: they) / me 341.40 being here () / coming hither The proofs read ‘getting here’, occasioning a repetition with ‘get’ which Scott corrected in the revise. 342.3 posts ( ) / ports 342.6 is to (  and proofs) / is certainly to 342.25 nicety ( ) / scrupulous humour There is a space in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘scrupulous humour’. 343.9 further ( ) / farther 343.27 rank!”—[new line] “Revenge (Editorial) / rank, [new line] Revenge For the purposes of sense, Mackenzie’s punctuation is required. 343.42 counted ( ) / connected 344.15 but () / unless The proof omitted ‘but’, and Ballantyne supplied ‘unless’. 344.24 wears () / evinces 344.26 cared for () / looked to 345.5 now that () / now, that 345.23 skill of (  and proofs) / skill in 345.28 I have had and have my () / I have my 345.29 merry—I . . . sadness—I ( ) / merry. I . . . sadness. I 345.36 answer ( derived: an [end of line]) / lieu 345.40 eye ( ) / eyes 346.25 pledge more () / pledge it more The unnecessary change (pledge, meaning ‘drink a toast’, can be an intransitive verb) was made by Ballantyne in proof.

520 345.26 346.27 346.30 346.31 347.22 347.23 348.6 348.38 348.38 348.42 349.1 349.17 349.18 349.21 349.23 349.43 350.11 350.15 350.34 350.39 350.42 351.6 351.13 351.18

351.32 351.37 351.39 352.7 352.23 352.26 352.40 353.1 353.8 353.19 353.27 354.16 354.17 354.18 354.24 354.35

  naturally (  and proofs) / unconsciously warranted—But (  and proofs) / warranted; but said he ( and proofs) / he said decorum ( ) / reverence Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘reverence’. replied ( and proofs) / hesitated Doctor Rochecliffe. ( ) / the doctor, “I——” the livelong ( ) / the whole livelong unless—” and (Editorial) / unless”—and The dash followed by speech marks is the usual way of indicating unfinished speech. again looked ( ) / again he looked The ‘he’ was inserted by Ballantyne in proof. lanthorn ( ) / lantern Albert () / Colonel Doctor Rochecliffe ( ) / the doctor said young Lee ( ) / replied Albert prepare () / repose plotters ( ) / folks Phil ( ) / Philip in ( ) / on rhime ( ) / chime say ( ) / says than he ( ) / than that he assentation ( ) / assentuation Doctor Rochecliffe ( ) / the doctor it—Only () / it; only knights of romance ( derived: Knights in a 〈tournam〉 romance by of romance) / knights in a challenge of romance It seems that Scott was going to write ‘Knights in a tournament’, changed his mind in favour of ‘Knights in a romance by’, and changed his mind again in favour of ‘Knights of romance’ without deleting ‘in a romance by’. The proof reads ‘knights in a [space] of romance’ which Scott filled with ‘challenge’ without deleting ‘of romance’. replied ( ) / said on ( ) / at doctor; “for (proof correction doctor〈,〉m;o “for) / doctor, suddenly pausing,—“for The phrase ‘suddenly pausing’ was introduced post-proof. this aid of them ( ) / their aid answered the voice without (  answerd the voice without) / replied the voice come ( ) / arrive strangers () / soldiers Godsake ( ) / God’s sake the feather ( ) / the woodcock’s feather An intermediary added ‘partridge’ between  and proof, and in proof Ballantyne changed this to ‘woodcock’s’. moment ( ) / minute ma’am (  Ma’am) / madam them?—I ( ) / them? I poor—Why () / poor. Why not?—Why () / not? why Thus far only (  Thus far only) / There is only fear either () / neither

  354.39 355.14 355.16 355.19 355.27 355.33 355.36 356.1 356.1 356.2 356.7 356.23 356.29 357.14 357.21 358.3 358.18 358.21 358.31 358.33 359.11 359.15 359.19 359.22 359.23 359.27 359.27 359.28 359.30

359.33 359.35 360.2 360.13 361.3 361.9 361.15 361.22 361.23 361.29 361.35 361.37 362.14 362.16 362.22

521

young ( derived: youg) / your for God’s sake (  for Gods sake) / for Godsake the fatal ( ) / a fatal such manner ( ) / such a manner aiding ( ) / leading far”—— ( ) / far——” place of secrecy ( and proofs) / places of secrecy The ‘s’ was added by Ballantyne, but he was mistaken in that Alice is referring to the labyrinth. break ( ) / run it—the ( ) / it. The battle, but (  battle but) / battle; but pursued and by () / pursued by answered ( answerd) / said relay (  〈horses〉 relay) / horses quivering ( ) / evening me”—— ( ) / me——” these hours ( these 〈two〉 hours) / these two hours night—and—and—” He ( ) / night—and—and—and—” He gallantry, ever since ( ) / gallantry, since the way too ( ) / we stay too to care for the ( and proofs) / to take care of the put ( ) / pull ceremonies ( ) / ceremonious would”—— ( ) / would——” In the   the speech finishes with ‘Lee”——’. Scott added ‘I would’ in proof, but the   punctuation remains the most appropriate. eminently plain ( ) / evidently a plain Lee rather a ( and proofs) / Lee a walked to the front to (  and proofs) / walked out to the front of the mansion, to Lodge to ( ) / Lodge, in order to descry ( ) / discover first, had heard (proof correction) / first in entering the apartment, had heard The   reads ‘first heard’, and the proofs ‘first, heard’; Scott added ‘had’ in proof; ‘in entering the apartment,’ was added post proof. whenever ( ) / when said he () / he said time () / times was now entirely ( ) / was entirely Blessed () / blessed answered ( answerd) / said Albert, he is a prince to die for. ( [Albert he is a prince to die for] and proofs) / Would’st not die for him, boy? is little ( ) / is only a very little An ‘a’ was inserted before ‘little’ between   and proof, and someone elaborated post proof. can but try (  and proofs) / can try stag will be () / stag be man () / knight die but as () / but die as drawer () / drawers long after ( ) / long enough after afterward ( ) / afterwards

522 362.26 363.35 363.42 364.4 364.5 364.7 364.9 364.22 364.29 364.31

365.4 365.17 365.21 365.23 366.5 366.18 366.31 367.11 367.20 367.29 367.29 367.35 368.2 368.4 368.15 368.16 368.23 368.30 368.32 368.34 368.38 368.39 368.42 368.42 369.1 369.16 369.21 369.27 369.29 369.35 369.41 369.41 370.8 370.14 370.23

  went to shut () / went and shut the little borough (  and proofs) / the borough implicitly ( ) / completely the detachment of an hundred () / this detachment of one hundred men ( ) / soldiers or ( ) / and a chief ( ) / the chief [proofs their chief] seemed (  seemd) / appeared moment’s (  moments) / minute’s mount. (Editorial) / mount at a moment’s notice. Scott added ‘The other half were directed to keep their horses saddled and themselves ready to mount at a moments notice’ on the facing verso, without apparently noticing that he was generating repetition. In these circumstances the     leaves out the repeated phrase. further ( ) / farther others, and carried ( derived: others and carried) / others; and he carried ascendance () / ascendancy mentioned (  mentiond) / have noticed party arrived () / party had arrived seek ( ) / search Rosamond. () / Rosamond? Nevertheless, even if () / Nevertheless, if cumber (  and proofs) / trouble low ( ) / loud by () / with lanthorn ( ) / lantern answered ( answerd) / said hope to (  and proofs) / hope ever to heart ( ) / head art. We () / art; we wind ( ) / winds resistance. But (  and proofs) / resistance; but of Phœbe’s honour and his ( of Phoebe’s honour and his) / of his seized by () / secured by Although the change was made by Scott in proof it merely introduces another repetition. murther (  and proofs) / murder knowst ( ) / knowest lanthorn ( ) / lantern one ( ) / our forwards ( ) / forward knowst ( ) / knowest occasion”—— () / occasion——” wherewith () / with which would ( ) / could Henry had ( ) / Henry Lee had Ah, see (  Ah see) / Ah, to see smoke—some () / smoke some husband ( ) / husbandman hath ( ) / has pound ( ) / pounds

  370.26 371.2 371.14 371.21 371.22 371.22 371.22 371.23 371.39 371.41 371.42 372.1 372.29 372.37

372.37 372.39 373.3 373.4 373.8 373.10 373.13 373.19 373.35 373.41

374.2 374.3 374.6 374.9 374.10 374.16 374.25 374.34 375.2 375.3 375.9 375.13 375.18 375.20 375.24 375.31 375.40

523

buy () / try forwards ( ) / forward peradventure”—— (Magnum) / peradventure——” savoureth ( ) / showeth Go to— ( ) / Go to then— knowst ( ) / knowest thee—hast ( ) / thee. Hast watch?—it ( ) / watch? It himself. [new paragraph] He ( himself NL He) / himself. He the General ( and proofs) / Cromwell the sword ( ) / his sword interpose ( ) / interfere parricide, blood-thirsty usurper already, for (  parricide blood thirsty usurper already for) / Parricide, Blood-thirsty Usurper, already, for men should applaud (  men shud applaud) / I looked that they should shout applause on In this and the next emendation the misreading of the   led to proof revisions. victories of which ( derived: victories which) / victory of Worcester, whereof parricide () / Parricide field, fighting twenty () / field, twenty sometimes wont ( ) / sometimes was wont hypochondriac () / hypochondriacal events ( ) / undertakings Scott filled a space in the proofs with ‘undertakings’. seemed (  seemd) / appeared then () / thou stood hesitating ( ) / stood here hesitating whole accompting ( derived: whole of 〈it〉 maccompting . . .o) / whole of it The proofs read: ‘whole of [space]’; Scott filled the space with ‘it’. Ironsides ( ) / ironsides But ten ( but ten) / Let ten to sally—Let () / to sally forth—Let struck the (proof correction 〈knocked at〉 mstrucko the) / struck at the two, and then ( ) / two, then Excellence () / Excellency before () / ere out ( ) / our ’tis (  tis) / it is Then”—— (Magnum) / Then——” Phœbe and I () / and we than (  and proofs) / when thing you (  and proofs) / thing as you Ballantyne added ‘as’ in proof. murthered in (  murtherd in) / crushed—blown up—in The proof reads ‘we shall be crushed in’; the phrase ‘—blown up—’ was added post proof. are secured ( and proofs) / are sufficiently secured yourself (  and proofs) / thyself Boutportant () / Boutirlin

524 376.7 376.14 376.20 376.27 377.6 377.14 377.19 377.39 377.43 377.43 378.1 378.2 378.10 378.10 378.13 378.17 378.23 378.23 378.32 378.34

378.37 378.42 379.9 379.11 379.13 379.18 379.35 380.7 380.7 380.10 380.12 380.12

  In proof the word appeared as ‘Boutherland’, and was changed to ‘Boutirlin’ by Scott. a day ( ) / days light that shed () / light it was, which shed [proofs light, that shed] screeched ( and proofs [screached]) / yelled Although the change was made by Scott in proof it looks as though he had not noticed the owl image. was () / were knowst ( ) / knowest take thou this () / take this landing-place ( ) / landing-places found ( ) / felt Henry, within () / Henry Lee, within this three () / these few your housekeeping is () / your means of housekeeping are burthensome ( ) / burdensome seeking ( ) / taking shelter.” ( ) / shelter?” me of a () / me, a suitor () / name So, late ( derived: So late) / So late As printed ‘So’ is an intensive, but the sense must be that he is, for that reason, late. foot. “How () / foot—“How sometime ( ) / sometimes [new paragraph] “Thou mayst rest assured that I will not.” Cromwell then whispered (  and proof derived) / [new paragraph] Cromwell here whispered The  , without beginning a new paragraph, reads: ‘Thou mayst rest assured that I will not He then whisperd to the Corporal who in turning utterd orders to two soldiers who left the room.’. The proofs follow the  , and read: ‘“Thou may’st rest assured that I will not.” He then whispered to the corporal who in turn uttered orders to two soldiers who left the room.’. Probably because Scott had written ‘He’ rather than ‘Cromwell’, Ballantyne marked the passage in proof with an X, noting ‘This is according to copy exactly; but there is surely something wanting. The speeches do not meet at all.’ Scott appears to have deleted the whole passage, then to have written ‘stet’, while changing ‘He’ to ‘Cromwell’. But the signs are ambiguous. The best solution is to return to the , as punctuated and normalised in the printed proofs. Doest ( ) / Dost him.” () / him either.” interposed ( ) / interfered Excellence’s ( Excellences) / Excellency’s evils () / tales [proofs coils] excelling () / excellent bear (proof correction be[space] maro) / be a accompt ( ) / account replied ( ) / said observed heedfully (  derived: observed heedful) / maintained [proofs observed [space]] further ( ) / farther interest than (proof correction interest 〈in what he did〉, than) / interest in what was passing, than

  380.20 380.22 380.34 380.38 381.6

381.7 381.7 381.8 381.10 381.17 381.24 381.27 381.28 381.38 382.8 382.29 382.36 382.37 382.40 383.5 383.19 383.20 383.22 383.23 383.29 383.30 383.37 383.40 383.41 384.5 384.7 384.16 384.24 384.33 384.41 384.42 385.14 385.14 385.34 385.34

525

Meantime () / Meanwhile the table () / a table their defence ( ) / thy defence replied ( ) / said as (Editorial) / on the places In  Scott wrote ‘guards on the pointed out’, which in proof turns out as ‘guards on the [space] pointed out’. Ballantyne marked the passage ‘Incorrect’, and Scott added ‘places’, but in so doing created a bad repetition. The simple substitution of ‘as’ for ‘on the places’ corrects the problem, and permits a return to the   elsewhere in the paragraph. necessary, stab ( ) / necessary, to stab whomsoever () / whoever post—such orders to ( derived: post such orders to) / post, such orders are given to well this night, and (  well this night and) / well.—This night over, and old man () / knight it.” [new paragraph] “For ( it” “For) / it. What shall I do!” [new paragraph] “For the General () / Cromwell I will use () / I will else use by Everard ( ) / by Colonel Everard her ( ) / his perforated. But ( ) / perforated; but Ballantyne’s large X obscures the proof reading. whence () / where hatchways, sliding pannels ( ) / hatchways, pannels services (  and proofs) / service dusty (  and proofs) / dusky further ( ) / farther ejaculation () / exclamation required his ( and proofs) / required all his noises ( ) / voices this while () / the while forwards (  and proofs) / forward his untired exertion ( derived: his untiried exertion) / their unwearied exertions himself usually employed () / himself employed employed. [new paragraph] But (  employd. NL But) / employed. But no one ( ) / none care () / charge me deal () / me to deal we may crush () / we crush embrasure ( ) / entrance insensibility ( and proofs) / indifference forwards (  and proofs) / forward tremendous (  derived: tremenous) / sheer A space was left in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘sheer’. side—at ( ) / side, and at Pearson, thou (  Pearson Thou) / Pearson,” said Cromwell, “thou your Highness, I think,” said the General. (  derived: your Highness mYour Highness “I think” said the Generalo) / your Highness.” The additional phrase appears on the verso, but the caret in the text

526 386.8 386.9

386.12 386.16 386.27 387.1 387.2 387.15 387.16 387.28 387.34 387.41 388.5 388.5 388.8 388.13 388.27 388.34 388.36 389.6 389.11 389.13 389.22 389.23 390.9 390.10 390.14 390.33 390.34 391.3

391.4 391.7 391.7 391.22 391.28 392.7

  is certainly misplaced. This is the only spot where Scott’s addition might fit. force ( ) / fence below, and I ( [calld below and I] and proofs) / below, as I The   reads ‘said the General force the communication of Love’s Ladder as it is calld be[eol]low and I take’. Possibly as a result of the   ‘force’ being read as ‘fence’, in proof Scott deleted a whole line of print: ‘〈fence the communication of Love’s Ladder, as〉’. Although ‘it is called’ is not deleted, it was probably meant to be, as ‘below, and’ is deleted. The change would therefore have resulted in ‘General; “I take it . . .”. stand, and finding ( [stand, and finding] and proofs) / stand. Finding lord, mine the ( Lord mine the) / lord, to mine the had () / has men’s (  mens) / soldiers’ Grace-be-here—Stand () / Grace-be-here, stand effect () / effects know thou wilt (  derived: know [blot]ou wilt) / know wilt stopt at ten steps up by ( ) / stopt by doest ( ) / dost go from hence to () / go to ask ( ) / asks It may be he repent ( ) / It may be, he may repent hear; (proof correction) / hear him; The   and proofs read ‘hear it’. Scott deleted ‘it’ in proof. deaf.— (  [deaf—] and proofs) / deaf?— at ( ) / on in () / of him. And () / him; and diverted ( ) / divided turret called Love’s Ladder, and ( [turret calld Love’s ladder and] and proofs) / turret, and issued from it, as ( [issued from it as] and proofs) / issued, as awaiting (  derived: await) / as waiting There is a space in the proof, which Scott filled with ‘as waiting’, but the intention of the  seems clear. unlucky ( ) / unhappy adhesion ( ) / resistance such an alarm ( ) / such alarm over hasty () / overhasty fate ( and proofs) / proceedings been singular and unfortunate (  and proofs) / been unfortunate rush of an immense avalanche, as ( derived: rush of an immense [new folio] as) / roar of a cataract, as In proof the phrase reads: ‘rush of [space]’; Scott replaced this with ‘sound of a cataract’, but his correction was not completely followed. The succession of sounds as described appertains to an avalanche rather than a waterfall. roaring (  and proofs) / bellowing remained ( [remaind] and proofs) / continued two stunned, passive (  two stund passive) / two passive and our ( ) / and of our battlement () / battlements House ( ) / house

 

527

392.32 saving () / but A space appears in the proof, which Scott filled by ‘but for’ (giving ‘but for for’). 392.39 this—Whom (  and proofs [this—whom]) / this—Ah! whom 392.39 here?—these (  here—these) / here? These 392.40 Stuart—A ( ) / Stuart?—A 393.19 thou shalt ( ) / shalt thou 393.20 conveyed (  conveyd) / carried 393.32 wilt but answer a single question ( ) / wilt answer one question 393.41 cried ( ) / said 394.6 Excellence () / Excellency 394.7 you—the () / you. The 394.9 and”—— ( ) / and——” 394.11 Excellence () / Excellency 394.12 hound.” (  hound”—) / hound?” 394.19 follow . . . let () / Follow . . . Let 394.20 search () / watch 394.32 direction—and spare (proof correction) / direction, and spare A bad blot makes the correction difficult to read. 394.34 are arrested () / were arrested 394.38 all ( ) / all 395.19 knowst ( ) / knowest 395.20 although Oliver be like (proof correction) / Oliver, although he be like 395.30 Scotsman ( ) / Scotchman 395.34 execution, so that the prison is well watched,—and ( and proofs) / execution,—and The   reads ‘execution so that the prison is well watched and’; the printed proof reads ‘execution, so that the prison is well watched, and’; Scott added the dash as a proof correction; but the whole disappeared post-proof. 395.41 livery ( ) / lining 396.2 accompting ( ) / accounting 396.10 Makkedah ( ) / Makedah See also Joshua 10.10 etc. 396.13 and hanged () / and then he hanged 396.30 Cromwell (Magnum) / they 396.31 the strict () / their 396.38 Henry, and ( ) / Henry Lee, and 396.39 Lodge to spare the maintaining two guards, and thrust in by the escort who brought him with so little ceremony, that ( Lodge to spare the maintaining two guards and thrust in 〈without ceremony〉 by the escort who brought him 〈there〉 mwith so little ceremony that . . .o) / Lodge, and thrust in with so little ceremony, that The word order was jumbled in proof (which reads: ‘Wildrake, and thrust in by the escort who was brought down to the Lodge, to spare the maintaining two guards, and who brought him with so little ceremony that’). Scott made the corrections which produced the Ed1 reading. 397.2 “Thank you, thank you, my ( 〈Save you〉 Thank you thank you my) / “I thank you, my 397.2 friends ( ) / friend 397.3 were engaged in securing () / were securing 397.7 it—for ( ) / it; for 397.7 maik ( ) / make 397.7 million but () / million, but 397.8 Patron, noble (  derived: Patron noble) / Patron—noble

528

 

397.18 d—d (  and proofs [d——]) / devilish The change was made by Ballantyne in proof. 397.18 toasts.” (  [toasts”—] and proofs) / toasts. But I’m not drunk.” 397.21 Amen ( ) / amen 397.22 in it () / in’t 397.25 he a () / He a 397.27 knowst ( ) / knowest 397.29 mine—I prithee be quiet, Master Wildrake.” (  mine—I prithee be quiet mMro Wildgrave”—) / mine.” [new paragraph] “I prithee be quiet, Master Wildrake,” said Sir Henry. 397.31 good knight, and reverend doctor,” answered Wildrake, “be ( good knight and reverend Doctor be) / good knight,” answered Wildrake, “be 397.33 B—h () / jade 398.20 by ‘concord (  by concord) / by the ‘concord 398.22 spoil—Eh! Yaw—All () / spoil—Eh?—all 398.23 I have () / I’ve 398.26 As ( ) / When 398.28 That ( ) / Psha! This 398.28 asleep—And ( ) / asleep, and 398.36 smoke penetration through windows left () / smoke, penetrating through the windows, left 399.2 amongst () / among 399.10 crashing (  and proofs) / crushing See also Zephanaiah 1.10. The change was made by Ballantyne. 399.12 forms ( ) / frames 399.16 custom usual () / custom then usual 399.17 grave men ( ) / gownmen 399.20 uncovered (  uncoverd) / covered 399.32 “But ( ) / ‘But 399.40 my (  and proofs) / my 399.41 am Albany (  and proofs) / am Joseph Albany 400.7 so. ( ) / it. 400.23 Ah ( ) / Oh 400.24 with pious ( ) / as the pious 400.29 correct all () / correct it all 400.29 Master (proof instruction) / Mr 400.39 hallow ( ) / hollo 400.40 amicable ( ) / amiable 401.10 Rochecliffe. But () / Rochecliffe; but 401.18 seemed (  seemd) / appeared 401.18 have given (  and proofs) / have totally given 401.22 trembling ( ) / troubled 401.32 But the (  and proofs) / The 401.33 was still more ( ) / was more 401.34 reviving ( ) / repentant A space was left in the proofs which Scott filled with ‘repentant’. 401.35 joining at once in ( ) / joining in The phrase ‘at once’ appears as ‘alone’ in proof and was deleted. 401.40 discharging ( ) / discharge 402.4 My () / Most 402.22 look more like () / look like 402.23 desired () / directed 402.37 would it ( and proofs) / would wish that it 402.38 sleep softer or feed ( ) / sleep soft, nor feed

 

529

402.39 banner ( ) / banners 403.7 interrupted Zerobabel Robins (  interrupted Jerobabel Robins) / interrupted Robins 403.17 the person ( ) / him The word ‘him’ appears in the main narrative in the  , and is not deleted, but ‘the person’ is directly level on the facing verso, and must have been intended to replace ‘him’. 403.21 Excellence () / Excellency 403.23 the Presbyterians if I () / the Presbyterian interest over to us if I In the  the ‘I’ appears above the line with a caret below. On the facing verso is an unlocated addition ‘the person’ (see 403.16 above). It appears that an intermediary wholly misunderstood what Scott had written to produce in proof ‘the Presbyterian parson if I can’. The Ed1 reading follows Scott’s proof revision. 403.25 but”—— (Magnum) / but——” 403.27 slain ( ) / destroyed 403.36 and”—— ( ) / and——” 403.41 race which count bricks long lineage ( ) / malignants, who cannot brook to submit to less than royal lineage 403.43 Strange ( ) / I grudge 404.13 Excellence () / Excellency 404.28 live (  and proofs) / are safe 404.31 in respect he frankly ( ) / since he has frankly The   reading became ‘we suspect he frankly’ in proof, requiring that Scott revise it. 405.3 pestilent ( ) / pestilential 405.4 unpunished ( [unpunished] and proofs) / altogether free 405.6 sheaf () / sheet or two The intermediaries left a space in the proof which Scott filled. 405.21 down his () / down to his 405.23 Excellence () / Excellency 405.28 I had ( and proofs) / I had 405.31 Zerobabel Robins bluntly ( ) / Zerobabel, bluntly 405.42 ribband ( ) / ribbon 406.1 that is () / that it is 406.3 and to malignants ( ) / and malignants 406.23 Master (proof instruction) / Mr 406.23 1658 (  and proof correction) / 1568 406.26 higher (proof correction) / high The   reads ‘much higher’; in proof Scott deleted ‘much’. 406.29 acquaintances. But (  [acquaintances But] and proofs [acquaintance. But]) / acquaintance; but 406.37 rencounter of () / rencontre at 407.1 late dreadful events () / late events 407.26    ( ) / our 407.31 affinity () / affiancy 408.4 Henry Lee gaze () / Henry gaze 408.18 time () / times 408.23 father. That she should turn to Mrs Aylmer at the beginning of such an alarm and return so soon as it was over seemed an arrangement so natural as to require no further explanation. [new paragraph] ( father. That she should turn to Mrs Aymers at the beginning of such an alarm and returnd so soon as it was over seemd an arrangement so natural as to require no further explanation [new paragraph]) / father. [new paragraph]

530 408.36 409.2 409.20 409.25 409.32 409.33 409.34 410.6 410.8 411.3 411.16 411.25

412.12 412.12 412.15 412.20 412.43 413.10 413.16 413.21 413.32 413.41 413.43 414.15 414.18 414.34 414.36 414.42 415.14 415.33 415.34 415.35 415.38 415.39 416.6 416.10 416.25 416.40 416.41 416.42 417.2

  command ( ) / commands House ( ) / house friend—And ( ) / friend; and for ( ) / to not that tired ( and proofs) / not tired you do appear (  and proofs) / you appear company a little way on ( ) / company on whither () / whitherward It is ‘whither’ in  , but ‘wherefore’ in the proofs. In reply to a Ballantyne question, Scott corrected to ‘whitherward’. wind robs ( ) / winds rob storm ( ) / storming more composure (  and proofs) / more external composure imperceptibly abated (proof correction) / gradually abated In  Scott wrote ‘gradually and imperceptibly’; in proof he deleted ‘gradually and’, but the intermediaries retained ‘gradually’ rather than ‘imperceptibly’. at Brussels (  and proofs) / in Brussels Scott changed ‘at’ to ‘in’ in proof, presumably to bring it into harmony with ‘in London’, but the  reads ‘at’ in both cases. at London ( ) / in London some wits and gallants (  derived: some: [new leaf] of witts and gallants) / some other gallants seemed (  seemd) / appeared I have () / I’ve convey me ( ) / carry me here—as stout ( ) / here so many years—as stout A verso addition intended for 413.41 was wrongly copied in here. is a wit ( is a witt) / has a will duty attached ( and proofs) / duty whatever attached so many years ( ) / so long The phrase was a verso addition wrongly inserted at 413.6; in proof Scott added ‘so long’ after ‘away’. Gloucester ( ) / Glocester particular ( ) / peculiar contend ( ) / contest their ( ) / her acclamation ( ) / exclamation bowl ( ) / cup in the eyes of even ( ) / even in the eyes of multitude () / multitudes attempt () / attempts father, bless ( derived: father bless) / father—bless bless—and preserve—” uttered ( bless—and preserve—” utterd) / bless—and preserve”—muttered a moment’s ( a moments) / a few moments’ like a bull about to push, Josceline (  like a bull about to push Joceline) / Joceline, like a bull about to push, them () / these has ( ) / is alongst () / over see his () / see that his earthly ( ) / earthy burned already so (  and proofs) / burned so

END-OF-LINE HYPHENS

All end-of-line hyphens in the present text are soft unless included in the list below. The hyphens listed are hard and should be retained when quoting. 14.41 15.18 20.31 26.17 28.14 31.12 31.20 33.33 35.5 35.27 48.3 48.18 51.14 58.6 62.20 67.37 78.43 80.21 82.41 91.23 99.33 100.8 108.1 111.29 111.35 118.42 121.22 122.11 127.31 149.10 155.2 167.11 172.37 174.8 176.30 177.36 185.4 197.24 202.24 216.19

blood-thirsty Little-John self-reproach Westminster-Hall under-keepers nest-egg to-morrow close-shaved half-score mason-work yeoman-keeper white-washed self-command psalm-singing hunting-pole self-interest red-coated shoulder-belt spur-leather every-day’s quick-sighted thread-bare Major-General Tutbury-Bull-running gold-laced free-thinking Lord-General Lieutenant-General ill-assured deer-dogs to-morrow pistol-ball well-meaning post-horse out-quarters life-blood witch-advocates well-disposed dark-complexioned ill-disciplined

217.19 217.20 219.16 220.27 220.42 226.29 226.38 230.20 236.14 236.30 239.4 241.38 242.3 247.34 250.23 263.35 301.18 306.10 317.29 330.18 334.23 334.29 337.32 344.12 348.16 349.30 354.28 372.29 374.28 377.19 379.34 382.36 387.2 387.31 391.17 396.32 404.43 414.32 415.26

531

thorough-paced self-satisfaction by-play bitch-wolf babe-eaters torch-bearer a-laughing king-making powder-horn well-furnished rake-helly highly-accomplished elf-locks hard-favoured school-boy single-handed to-morrow crest-fallen good-natured dog-leader over-zeal honey-comb seventy-seventh arm-chair war-horse under-keeper hiding-places blood-thirsty day-light landing-place white-bearded trap-doors Grace-be-here well-armed lance-prisade guard-room tobacco-pipe quarter-staff by-standers

HISTORICAL NOTE

The estate of Woodstock, some 13 kilometres north of Oxford, was a royal manor or hunting-ground with a substantial residence—palace, love-nest, and prison—from feudal times until damage inflicted during the Civil Wars of the 1640s led to its decay. In 1723 the ruins were removed as part of the landscaping around the massive new Blenheim Palace given by a grateful nation to the Duke of Marlborough, whose victory over the French at Blindheim in Bavaria in 1704 underpinned British influence in Europe throughout the early eighteenth century. The principal action of Woodstock takes place over a few days (at 205.36 the action so far has taken ‘two nights and days’), shortly after the last battle of the Civil Wars ended with the defeat of Charles II’s mostly Scottish army at the hands of Oliver Cromwell’s troops at Worcester on 3 September 1651. A framework of allusions to the legendary history of the palace in medieval and renaissance times (discussed later in this note) lengthens the perspective on Scott’s seventeenth-century plot—or rather plots, for his initial wry debunking of the supposedly supernatural events in the mansion soon yields in interest and emphasis to the romantic episode of the fugitive King and his behaviour as a dangerous guest. The novel’s final scene, set on 29 May 1660, the day of Charles’s triumphal return to his kingdom after eight years’ exile on the Continent, serves as a coda to the tale. Historical Sketch. During the seventeenth century, the three countries of the British Isles (England and Wales, Scotland, and Ireland) worked out (often bloodily) religious and political tensions, some bequeathed by history, others inherent in the changing structure and relationships of the early modern state, its people and its sources of authority. The Protestant Reformation of the Christian religion—initiated in Europe by Erasmus and Luther in 1516–17, paralleled in England under Henry VIII, Edward VI and Elizabeth I from the 1530s, but immediately and systematically challenged by the Roman Catholic Counter-reformation from 1545—left different branches of Christendom at each other’s throats: literally so, all too often, as secular authorities, acting ostensibly in the name of religion, resorted to persecution, assassination, massacre and war. The legacies of the sixteenth century lasted into the seventeenth, on the European mainland in general turbulence and in such shapes as the repressive Holy Inquisition in Rome and the ruinous Thirty Years’ War in Germany (1618–48), and in the British Isles in hostility towards the Catholic population (held responsible for example for the Gunpowder Plot of 1605), and in the religious, social and economic divisions which led, 532

  533 in 1642, to the outbreak of the English Civil War. Notable ‘fault-lines’ in religious allegiance, practice and belief in the period included the following: that between Rome and (in England) Canterbury: was Pope or King the true head of the Church? that between on the one hand Rome, Canterbury and the German Lutherans, who accepted a ‘line management’ hierarchy of bishops and archbishops, and on the other hand, both highlyorganised Presbyterian churches where power worked through courts of ministers and elders up to the level of national organisations such as the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, and also Independent churches whose members to varying degrees rejected interference from outside their own congregations, whether by the state or by their fellow-Christians; that between set forms of religious service, embodied in the rituals of the Roman Catholic Latin Mass and the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, and worship which left room for the free action of the Spirit, whether through extempore preaching, would-be prophetic speech, or the utterances and significant silences of the Quakers, the Society of Friends; that between belief in the ‘real presence’ of Christ in the bread and wine of the communion service, and the acceptance of Christ’s presence there as in some sense symbolic; that between the special status of the priest as intermediary between humankind and God, sanctified by the sacrament of ordination and the chain of ‘laying on of hands’ in supposedly unbroken continuity going back through St Peter to Christ himself, and the alternative Protestant doctrine of ‘the priesthood of all believers’; those between the contending true sources for remission of sin (deemed to be universal and inescapable): priestly absolution, Christ’s infinite mercy, God’s arbitrary and selective mercy, or his conditional mercy depending on the quality of the sinner’s repentance. Further, church controversies and heresies of earlier centuries (Arianism, Pelagianism, Manichaeism, Monophysitism) revived and were mapped onto contemporary social and intellectual problems, in a bewildering variety of groups and creeds. Many of these controversial points in Christian theology and church government were in play and interplay in discourse and practice in mid-seventeenth-century England, as Woodstock vividly illustrates. There were four main factions vying for power. In the background, and widely viewed as a constant threat, those who had rejected the Reformation entirely practised a covert Roman Catholicism in defiance of the law. Of a population of some 4.5 million, perhaps 350,000 (or 7.5%) were Catholics, and of those maybe 27,000 were recusants, refusing to attend Anglican services.1 The Church of England contained (as it still does) those who emphasised its Catholic nature (such as the Dr Rochecliffe of the novel, ‘one of

534   the pillars of High Church’: 3.13), and those of a broadly Puritan disposition who placed less emphasis on hierarchy and ceremony (such as the Everards: 136.5–11). These groupings within the Church of England constituted the second and third principal factions. In the 1630s Charles I and his Archbishop William Laud imposed a set of Catholicising measures on the Church of England and tried to coerce dissidents by fines and penalties. The resulting resentment issued after the outbreak of war in 1642 in the remodelling of the Church of England by its Puritan faction on Presbyterian lines: episcopacy was abolished in 1643, and unco-operative clergy like the fictitious Dr Rochecliffe were expelled (3.22–26); use of the Book of Common Prayer was discontinued in 1645; the Christian year was abolished in 1647; and a Presbyterian mode of church government was introduced by the English Parliament in 1648 (9.18–19, 34.3–4). Oliver Cromwell favoured a fourth main option, Independency, which he encouraged in the New Model Army after the Self-denying Ordinance in 1645 had forced Members of Parliament (many of them Presbyterian) to surrender their military positions.2 The conflict between this fourth, Independent, faction and the Presbyterians of the reformed Church of England is embodied in the first chapter of the novel in the persons of Joseph Tomkins and Nehemiah Holdenough. The Presbyterians, with their emphasis on good order, tended (like the Everards of the novel) to favour monarchical government (68.31–35), whereas the Independents, as free spirits, were more naturally republicans. Thus, consistent alignment was clearly possible among some of the positions in the six areas noted earlier, but inconsistent cross-currents fomented debate and contention within and between a multiplicity of minor sects (‘as many . . . as there are colours in the rainbow’: 9.32–33): Grindletonians, Muggletonians, Ranters, Fifth-Monarchy Men and the rest.3 The heady rhetoric, millenarian vision and lurid imagery of the Book of Revelation was often deployed,4 and in Chapter 28 (325–26) the Independent Tomkins adopts the jargon of the Family of Love and similar extreme sects to enforce and justify his attempted seduction, rape and murder of Phoebe Mayflower. Independents in general had a tendency to gravitate in the direction of the wilder sects abhorred by Presbyterians such as Holdenough (180.1–17), a process carried to its extreme by the Nullifidian Bletson (119.1–12). Paradoxically, despite the prominence given to religious questions, early modern material culture was becoming more secular. What are now perceived as technological, scientific and economic advances— the mixed blessings of gunpowder, printing, book-keeping, anatomy, heliocentric cosmology, Machiavelli’s political thought and Montaigne’s scepticism, the beginnings of scientific medicine and the wealth flowing into Europe from Africa and the Indies East and West —transformed and made yet more problematic the traditional sources of wisdom and authority in biblical texts and religious rituals, in elders and betters, even in monarchy itself. The early seventeenth century

  535 —indeed perhaps the whole of it—was an age of anxiety and unsettlement; some of the period’s doubts and anxieties bore on the reality or otherwise of the supernatural as manifested in apparitions and cases of demonic possession, a mainstay of the first plot of Woodstock. Early in that troubled period, the Scottish Stewart King James VI (born 1566) succeeded his cousin Elizabeth Tudor on the English throne in 1603 as James I—a ‘Union of the Crowns’ which did not confer common citizenship or a union of the respective Parliaments. He had been shaken by a traumatically severe and hazardous upbringing in newly Protestant Scotland, and by the execution of his mother Mary Queen of Scots on the orders of the cousin to whose throne he had just succeeded. Compromised in the eyes of many of his subjects by the conversion of his Lutheran queen, Anne of Denmark, to Roman Catholicism, James sought to reconcile religious differences both at home and abroad (in the latter case by a foreign policy which for a time turned on his daughter’s marriage to the Protestant Elector of Bohemia) but later contemplated a Spanish (and necessarily Catholic) marriage for his son and heir Charles. Support for French Protestants, persecuted under their own Catholic monarchs, entailed expensive naval operations along the west coast of France, and there was intermittent war with Spain. At home, as instigator of the English translation of the Authorised Version of the Bible, James adopted a Protestant attitude and opened the door to the common believer, but his aphorism ‘No Bishop, no King’ left him still committed to the traditional claims of religious sanction for his secular power. Early modern government had inherited the formal structure that it retains today—the Crown in Parliament, sharing in the deliberations of the Lords and the Commons, and ratifying the outcome, although in practice the balance and limits of different centres of power have changed by steady incremental drift, as well as by specific reform in 1649, 1688, 1832, 1911, and 1999. The appointment of judges and bishops long remained a prerogative of the Crown, and only the Commons could authorise taxation, whose proceeds the Crown then collected. A parallel, but different, structure, the three Estates of the realm, operated in Scotland. Charles I (1600–49) succeeded his father James in 1625 and married the French Catholic princess Henrietta Maria in the same year. Charles’s early relations with Parliament were amicable enough, but when the Commons took the lead in challenging royal authority by refusing to authorise revenue, he sought to bypass them, first by enforcing old and introducing new forms of taxation which met resentment and resistance, and then by dissolving Parliament in March 1629 and embarking on eleven years of ‘personal rule’. As noted above, he and his Archbishop Laud attempted to move the Church of England in a Catholic direction. In Ireland, where the population was predominantly Roman Catholic and had been intermittently in arms against English conquest for centuries, Charles authorised severe repression by his viceroy Thomas Wentworth, first Earl of Strafford (1593–1641). In Scotland from 1637, imposition of Episcopal

536   church-government and quasi-Catholic rituals on a Presbyterian and Calvinist population provoked the Scots to take up arms and seize control of their burghs. Charles advanced English troops to the Scottish border but flinched from crossing it in force. Out-manoeuvred by the Scots in a second round of the conflict in 1640, he called a Parliament in the spring to raise money (the six-month ‘Short Parliament’) and another in November, which, in contrast, rejected all attempts to dissolve it. It remained in being as the ‘Long Parliament’ continuously until 1653, although purged of the Presbyterians and their allies by the Independent faction in 1648 and so thereafter nicknamed ‘the Rump’. Charles had recalled Parliament in 1640 in order to raise funds to fight his Irish and Scottish wars, only to have his Parliamentary opponents impeach his chief adviser Strafford (beheaded in May 1641), and demand, in a ‘Grand Remonstrance’ narrowly carried by the House of Commons (159 votes to 148) in November 1641, reductions in the royal powers and responsibilities in matters of taxation, justice and religion. Faced with open rebellion in Ireland and mounting unrest and sporadic faction-fighting in England, Charles withdrew from London on 10 January 1642, initially to Hampton Court, then to Windsor and Oxford. In February he sent his family to the Continent. After a period of manoeuvring by both sides to raise, equip and deploy effective armies, including a notable incident when Sir John Hotham, Parliamentary custodian of the arsenal at Hull, refused the King’s personal demand for admittance (‘the first direct military confrontation between an Englishman and his sovereign for more than a century and a half ’),5 Charles formally raised his standard at Nottingham on 22 August 1642. The ensuing Civil War, one of dispersed campaigning and indecisive battles and sieges, though none the less destructive for that, was finally decided by Parliamentary victories at Marston Moor in Yorkshire (gained with Scottish help, 1644) and Naseby in the Midlands (1645) under the military and political leadership of Oliver Cromwell.6 These victories (which were for some, of course, defeats) led to peace talks and proposals for religious and constitutional reform during 1646, but by then Charles was in custody: he surrendered himself to the Scots in May of that year, and at the end of January 1647, in return for a down payment of £200,000, they transferred him to the English Parliamentary authorities in whose hands he remained more or less continuously until his death. Inevitably the Scots were accused of selling their King as Judas had sold Christ—a first step towards Charles’s later status as an Anglican martyr.7 At the end of the same year Charles signed a secret pact with the Scots, who accordingly invaded the north of England and initiated the second Civil War. They were defeated at Preston on 17 August 1648. Parliament appointed a special tribunal to try Charles on various charges, including his instigation of the second Civil War. Refusing to plead or to acknowledge the legitimacy of the court he was found guilty of making war against his parliament and people, and beheaded outside his elegant Banqueting

  537 House in Whitehall on 30 January 1649. The ‘groan that went up from the huge crowd as the axe severed his head has echoed down our history’.8 Charles’s execution ushered in an eleven-year-long republic, variously termed, according to the loyalties of the speaker, the Usurpation, the Interregnum, the Commonwealth, the Protectorate, the rule of the Major-Generals and the rule of the Saints. Within a week of the fatal axe falling, Charles’s elder son was proclaimed as Charles II in Edinburgh and Jersey and, undeterred by Cromwell’s victory over the Scots at Dunbar near Edinburgh on 3 September 1650, he was crowned King of Scots on 1 January 1651. He raised another Scottish army and advanced southwards through the West Midlands, hoping in vain to find popular support there. Hemmed in by Cromwell at Worcester on 3 September 1651, the Scottish army was destroyed, but Charles, harboured and guided by loyalist gentry and their households in houses and estates of which Boscobel and its oak tree are the best remembered, made his escape to the exiled court in Holland some weeks later, in disguise, via Shoreham in Sussex and Fécamp in Normandy. Having lived, he told his tale (some thought, too often) to Samuel Pepys, among others (see note to 214.8–14). Woodstock is set within a few days of Worcester, all except the final chapter which recreates events ushering in Charles’s restoration as monarch in 1660. In the years between, the Cromwellian project gradually ran out of energy. Its radical experiments in social and political organisation failed to attract effective, sustained or united support, and, after the death of Cromwell on 3 September 1658 and the succession as Protector of his less than charismatic son Richard, both the army and the country seemed ready to settle for a return to a refurbished version of the old structures, and to renewed versions of the old internal quarrels. After three abortive attempts, the time was finally right for Charles’s triumphant return to London in the manner vividly captured in the last chapter of the novel. The subsequent turn towards empire, both in war and commerce, neither erased the Puritan culture of ethical rigour and practical competence nor healed the enduring binary split in British politics and culture, topics which Scott addresses in passing in Woodstock but which also shaped his whole oeuvre over his lifetime. Sources. Although he was familiar with a wide range of original seventeenth-century material, Scott appears to have found most of what he needed for the overall history of the period in David Hume’s masterly History of England (tellingly, Hume is ‘the historian’ tout court at 81.26).9 As indicated in the final part of this note, Scott’s Oliver Cromwell owes much to Hume’s interpretation (with Edmund Ludlow’s Memoirs contributing a vivid first-hand insight into the Protector’s way of speaking and proceeding), and the Charles of the novel has many similarities to Hume’s account of Charles II. In 1809–15 Scott had edited a massive collection of seventeenth-century political and religious pamphlets (generally known as Somers’ Tracts), and one of these provided the basis for his account of Charles II’s return to London.10 He also knew the Memorials of English Affairs by

538   Bulstrode Whitelocke, Keeper of the Great Seal during the Commonwealth, and it seems likely that he drew on it for several details, including Charles II’s female disguise.11 Scott’s library at Abbotsford is rich in seventeenth-century material, especially rare political and religious tracts. These resources, together with his editorial work in the period, meant that Scott felt inward and confident with its goings-on. Writing in January 1818 to Lady Louisa Stuart, he had remarked that editing the tracts ‘some years ago made me wonderfully well acquainted with the little traits which mark’d parties & characters in the 17th Century’.12 But apart from the works mentioned, only a handful of other books and tracts have been identified as contributing general historical points to Woodstock,13 and there is nothing to suggest that the remainder were consulted or even remembered during the composition of the novel.14 The picture is somewhat different when we turn to Woodstock Manor and the tricks played on the Commissioners there (historically in 1649 rather than 1651 as in the fiction). There seem to be three contemporary accounts. The first to be published, in 1649, was ‘The Woodstock Scuffle’, a satiric ballad which Scott reproduced as the first appendix to his Introduction to the Magnum edition of the novel.15 The second appears in a tract by Thomas Widdowes (1612–55), entitled The Just Devil of Woodstock, which was written in 1649 but published in 1660,16 and which Scott included as the second appendix in the Magnum. Scott knew neither the poem nor the tract when he wrote Woodstock in 1825–26; he read both for the first time in the British Museum in October 1831.17 But the third contemporary source may have been known to him (although he makes no mention of it), for it appears in John Aubrey’s Miscellanies (1696): a copy of the second edition is in the library at Abbotsford.18 Aubrey (1626–97) reproduces a letter of 11 March 1650 from John Lyddall (1625 or 1626–57), fellow of Trinity College from 1648: Mr. Aubrey, Concerning that which happened at Woodstock, I was told by Mr. W. Hawes (Who now lives with Sir William Fleetwood in the Park) That the Committee which sate in the Mannor-house, for Selling the King’s Lands were frighted by strange Apparitions; and that the four Surveyors which were sent to measure the Park, and lodged themselves with some other Compannions in the Mannor, were pelted out of their Chambers by Stones thrown in at the Windows (but from what Hands the Stones came they could not see) that their Candles were continually put out, as fast as they lighted them; and that one with his Sword drawn to defend a Candle, was with his own Scabbard in the mean time well Cudgelled; so that for the blow, or for fear, he fell Sick, and the others were forced to remove; some of them to Sir William Fleetwood’s House, and the rest to some other Places. But concerning the cutting of the Oak, in particular I have nothing. Your Friend, To be Commanded to my Power, John Lydall.19

  539 However, all subsequent versions of the story are derived not from these contemporary reports, but from the more elaborate account in The Natural History of Oxford-shire (1677), by Robert Plot (1640– 96).20 Although independent of Widdowes’s report Plot’s account may owe something to it, for Plot says he received ‘several relations’ of the events, ‘one of them written by a learned and faithful person then living upon the place’;21 Widdowes was master of the grammar school at Woodstock from 1646 to 1653, and Rector of Bladon and Woodstock from 1646 to 1650. Plot’s story may also owe something to popular tradition, for the author of the 1660 preface to Widdowes’s report ascribes the events to supernatural agency,22 and in 1677 Plot too concludes that some of these goings on were difficult to explain otherwise : Most part of these Transactions, during the stay of these Commissioners, ’tis true, might be easily performed by combination, but some there are of them scarce reconcilable to Jugling: . . . All which being put together, perhaps may easily perswade some man otherwise inclined, to believe, that immaterial beings might be concern’d in this business.23 Although Scott told Mary Ann Hughes that he remembered Plot as soon as he read her transcript (see Essay on the Text, 422), he did not possess the book, and it may be that he confused it with one of the later versions of the story all of which, as we shall see, ascribe it to Plot. And although the Magnum Introduction gives the impression that Scott is paraphrasing Plot, he is in fact quoting another work, without using quotation marks (see endnote 34). There is thus no conclusive evidence that Scott had read Plot, or used him when writing Woodstock. Two versions come directly, but independently, from Plot: George Sinclair’s Satan’s Invisible World Discovered (1685),24 and Henry More’s continuation (1700) of Joseph Glanvil’s Saducismus Triumphatus.25 Both retell the tale as proof of the existence of spirits, More concluding ‘Wherefore it is manifest, that these pranks were played by Dæmons’.26 Scott possessed both works,27 although it is not known when he acquired them. He lent his copy of Sinclair to Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe on 21 December 1817,28 and makes use of it in Redgauntlet.29 He refers to More in letters in 1818,30 and provides an extract in a paragraph of Woodstock (5.10–26 and note). A different slant on the events is to be found in The British Magazine for April 1747. It opens: Some original papers having lately fallen into my hands, under the name of authentick memoirs of the memorable Joseph Collins, of Oxford, commonly known by the name of funny Joe, and now intended for the press; I was extreamly delighted to find in them a circumstantial and unquestionable account of that most famous of all invisible agents so well known in the year 1649, under the name of the good devil of Woodstock.31

540   No Joseph Collins has been identified; and no Giles Sharp (see below) seems to have taken part in the survey of Woodstock. It is possible, then, that the finding of Collins’s papers is entirely fictitious. But the writer’s purpose is clear: he wishes to debunk the ‘supernatural’ interpretation of the events in Woodstock, and to ascribe all that happened to human agency. He concludes: To see however, how great men are sometimes deceived, we may recur to this our tract, where among other things there is one piece entitled, The secret history of the good Devil of Woodstock. In which we find it under the author’s own hand, that he Joseph Collins, commonly call’d funny Joe, was himself this very devil; that he hired himself as a servant to these commissioners, under the feign’d name of Giles Sharp, and by the help of two friends . . . play’d all these amazing tricks . . .32 In the Magnum Introduction Scott says that this is ‘probably’ the document which he previously ‘perused’ before writing Woodstock.33 He then proceeds to reproduce it in full, not directly from The British Magazine, but, as he admits, from William Hone’s reprinting of the article in an addendum to a hostile notice of Woodstock in 1826.34 It may have been the case that Scott had read the story in The British Magazine before writing Woodstock, but it is possible that he is confusing the British Magazine version with that in The Beauties of All the Magazines35 (which, as described above in the Essay on the Text, 422, Mary Ann Hughes transcribed and sent to him).36 However, the British Magazine account is important as the origin of many eighteenth-century versions. For instance, the story recurs in The Tell-Tale: or, Anecdotes Expressive of the Characters of Persons Eminent for Rank, Learning, Wit, and Humour (1756).37 This version owes much to ‘Joseph Collins’, but the material has been reworked, the journal form which is used in previous versions giving way to a narrative. It too is committed to a naturalistic explanation of what happened, for it concludes: ‘This wonderful contrivance was all the invention of Funny Joe’.38 The story in The Beauties transcribed by Mrs Hughes is a verbatim copy of what appears in The Tell-Tale.39 Thus two of the principal ‘sources’ quoted in the Magnum Introduction—the satiric poem ‘The Woodstock Scuffle’, and Widdowes’s The Just Devil of Woodstock—were unknown to Scott when he originally wrote the novel, and a third, the story in The British Magazine, may or may not have been known to him. What he certainly did know, and drew upon, were the two supernatural accounts, given by Sinclair and More who elaborated Plot’s version, and the naturalistic one supplied by Mary Anne Hughes from The Beauties of All the Magazines. As remarked above in Essay on the Text (422), when writing Woodstock Scott chose to follow the sceptical interpretation with its greater comic and satiric potential. However, the actual tricks in the novel are largely of Scott’s own devising: the only details clearly derived from the three accounts he definitely knew are the upending of Des-

  541 borough’s bed (125.1–3) and the same gentleman’s drenching with ditch-water (170.38–41).40 Scott visited Oxfordshire only once before the composition of Woodstock, in the spring of 1803. He took the opportunity of a week spent at Oxford University under the guidance of his friend Richard Heber to make the short day-excursion north to Woodstock with the aim of viewing the Duke of Marlborough’s great palace of Blenheim. The scanty information about this excursion is all to be gleaned from the pages of the novel (see 7.11–14 and notes). As Scott observes at 18.32–37 every trace of the manor house which plays such a central role in the fiction had disappeared by his time (it had been finally demolished in 1723).41 He was therefore dependent on books and his imagination (there is no record of any oral informant).42 A number of works in the library at Abbotsford contain material on the history of the Manor and its surrounding royal park. The walling-in of the park by Henry I in the early twelfth century is noted in several of them, as is the story of Fair Rosamond, mistress to his grandson Henry II (1133–89; king from 1154), son of the Empress Matilda and Geoffrey Plantagenet, Count of Anjou. The germ of Scott’s Woodstock Lodge, with its maze of hidden passages, is to be found most clearly in the account by the historical and topographical poet Michael Drayton (1563–1631) of the building known as ‘Rosamond’s Labyrinth’, quoted in the Preface to the novel (4.34–41).43 Probably taking his hint from Drayton’s suggestion that the labyrinth ran from Rosamond’s Tower, Scott comes up with the notion that the Lodge was constructed around the labyrinth (5.4–7), accounting for its peculiar layout. The structure at Rosamond’s Well (a pavilion with a set of pools, mostly constructed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and ruined by the end of the sixteenth) was in fact quite separate from the Lodge, and recent research suggests that the ruins interpreted as labyrinthine were part of a system conveying water eastwards from the Well to the Lodge, a distance of some 0.3 km.44 An account of the subsequent history of the Lodge can be found in a work familiar to Scott from his work on Kenilworth (1821), John Nichols’s The Progresses, and Public Processions, of Queen Elizabeth. A long footnote to Nichols’s description of the future Queen Elizabeth’s imprisonment at Woodstock in 1554 makes a similar connection and gives the fullest account of the Lodge available to Scott: The old royal manor, or palace, at Woodstock, was besieged in the grand rebellion, and much damaged in the siege. The furniture was afterwards sold, and the buildings portioned out by Cromwell, or his agents, to three persons. Two of these, about 1652, pulled down their portions for the sake of the stone. The third suffered his part to stand, which consisted of the gatehouse in which the princess Elizabeth was imprisoned, and some adjoining ruinous buildings. After the rebellion, lord Lovelace turned this gatehouse into a dwelling-house, and lived in it for many years. As to its adjoining ruins, persons now living

542   remember standing a noble porch, and some walls of the hall; the walls and magnificent windows of the chapel; several turrets at proper distances; and could trace out many of the apartments. Sir John Vanbrugh, while Blenheim palace was building, had taste enough to lay out 2000l. in keeping up the ruins. But afterwards lord treasurer Godolphin observed to Sarah, dutchessdowager of Marlborough, that a pile of ruins in the front of so fine a seat was an unseemly object, all the old buildings, and amongst the rest the princess Elizabeth’s gatehouse, were entirely demolished and erased.45 The gatehouse is duly emphasised in Woodstock (37.11–20),46 and Scott generally follows his sources for the history of the Manor,47 but otherwise it would appear that his extraordinary labyrinthine Lodge is essentially imaginary. Principal Historical Characters. Most of the characters in Woodstock appear to be entirely imaginary. Only two of the major players, Oliver Cromwell and Charles II, are clearly drawn from the historical records. Two others, Harrison and Desborough, are historical, and Bletson, though imaginary, draws upon historical materials. Sir Henry Lee bears the name and one or two characteristics of a historical figure, but he is essentially a fictitious character. Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658). Soldier and statesman, Cromwell rose to be the leading general on the Parliamentary side in the Civil Wars and Lord Protector of England from 1653 to 1658. As a general he set new standards of discipline and logistics with the New Model Army. As a cavalry commander he showed intuitive genius in manoeuvring on the battlefield. As de facto head of state his foreign policies immensely improved England’s standing abroad, but domestically his successive regimes failed to establish a stable compromise among the conflicting factions in English society—the defeated but not wholly suppressed Cavalier element, the religious and political radicals who thought his policies did not go far enough, and the men in the street, weary of warfare and social reform alike. Cromwell’s conduct and character evoked debate and discussion in his own time and in Scott’s, and continue to do so in ours. The Old Noll of Woodstock is a series of paradoxes and contradictions. As with his general picture of the period, Scott is again indebted above all to Hume, whose persistently equivocal response to Cromwell is summed up in the statement: ‘no human mind ever contained so strange a mixture of sagacity and absurdity as that of this extraordinary personage’.48 Like Hume (who becomes noticeably less hostile to Cromwell as events unfold) Scott employs a rhetoric of scrupulous balancings: ‘though neither . . . But when . . . yet there was . . . On the other hand’ (81.16, 18, 37; 82.10). Prominent among the features that the Cromwell of the novel shares with Hume’s portrait are both positive and negative elements: on the one hand courage, outstanding ability, and authority combined with the gift of inspiring affection among ordinary soldiers; on the other the stigma of the alleged back-

  543 ground in brewing, the lack of coherence and charisma in debate, the neurotic anxiety, the obfuscatory language masking ambition, general deviousness and personal greed. Defenders of Cromwell have denied the brewing, Cromwell’s sayings are memorable for their epigrammatic force (as Scott indeed recognises at 81.28–30), and his anxiety may well have been justified by the real risk of assassination. More neutral characteristics common to Hume and Scott’s portraits include profound moodiness and a tendency to show intense emotion49 (powerfully elaborated in the novel), and a genuine religious enthusiasm combined with a willingness to make use of it to ingratiate himself with the ‘Saints’. It is very likely that Scott also drew inspiration from the remarkable Memoirs of Edmund Ludlow, Esq., originally issued in 1698–99. (He owned the third edition, published in Edinburgh in 1751.) Ludlow gives a detailed account of conversations with Cromwell, whom he sees as having only gradually revealed his true wickedness after his access to power. In one of the interviews Cromwell cunningly attempts to draw Ludlow to agree that he (Ludlow) would be the best man to take charge of cavalry operations in Ireland: He therefore proposed, that some person of reputation and known fidelity might be sent over to command the horse there, and to assist the Major-General in the service of the public, that employment being next in order to his own; desiring me to propose one whom I thought sufficiently qualified for that station. I told him That, in my opinion, a fitter man could not be found than Col. Algernon Sidney. But he excepted against him, by reason of his relation to some who were in the King’s interest; proposing Col. Norton and Col. Hammond; yet making objections against them at the same time . . . After this he entered upon a large commendation of the country, and pressed me earnestly to think of some person capable of that employment. By this time I perceived something of his intentions concerning me . . . .50 It is not difficult to see how Ludlow’s accounts in reportage like this would have helped Scott to develop Cromwell’s toying with Wildrake in Chapter 7 of the novel.51 Charles II (1630–85), King of England, Scotland and Ireland. Charles spent most of the first Civil War from 1642 with his father. In May 1645 he was sent to the west country as nominal leader of the Royalist forces there, but as the Parliamentary forces advanced in the following year he went by way of Jersey into exile in France. After his father’s execution in 1649, Charles II was in effect rejected by his English subjects but accepted by his Scottish ones—almost more eagerly than he would have wished, in the latter case, for the fictional Charles’s complaints of Calvinist indoctrination in Woodstock (228.36–37) echo those that the king actually made, according to Hume.52 His coronation, his advance into England, and his defeat at Worcester on 3 September 1651 were described earlier in this note. After his escape to the Continent he resumed the life of a wanderer, reigning over the poverty and enforced idleness of a court in exile in Holland, Flanders

544   and France, until restored to the English throne in 1660 amid the rejoicing described in the final chapter of Woodstock. In Peveril of the Peak, published four years before Woodstock, and set specifically at the time of the Popish Plot of 1678–79 during the reign of Charles II, Scott presents an uncomplicated picture of the king as a man of good nature, fundamentally good impulses, sincerity, generosity, sociability, and ready wit partly vitiated by weakness of character. In most respects he is following standard histories, and in particular Hume. But whereas in Peveril Charles is criticised for bad habits developed during his exile on the Continent, Hume sees his failings as attributable ‘in a great measure, to the indolence of his temper: A fault which, however unfortunate in a monarch, it is impossible for us to regard with great severity’.53 Hume would agree with Antonia Fraser that, although Charles had a number of amours during his periods of exile, ‘By the standards of the time none of this amounted to profligacy in a young unmarried monarch . . . of outrageous sexual scandal there was little trace’.54 At the end of Peveril it is the King’s good nature and good sense that lead him to pardon Buckingham’s treachery, thus postponing ‘to a subsequent reign the precipitation of his family from the throne [in 1688]’.55 During his own reign (ushered in by the exhumation of Cromwell’s bones and the execution of ten of the surviving regicides) he needed all his reserves of generosity as he presided over the reconciliations, indemnities and settlements in the aftermath of the Protectorate, in the main pardoning bygone political and military crimes, and handling the competing demands of various intransigent and intolerant religious groups. Charles is given a more substantial role in Woodstock, and Scott takes the opportunity to explore the basic contradiction in his character in more detail, and in an almost domestic setting. The reader is constantly reminded that this is the monarch who after his Restoration to the English throne will informally preside over the second great flowering of the English stage, as well as over a changing merry-goround of royal mistresses and libertine courtiers. As with Cromwell, Hume’s scrupulous rhetoric is imitated in a number of carefully considered balancings of fundamental virtue and more superficial, but not negligible, moral failings, most notably (in the novel) in sexual ethics. Scott finds room in the Preface for a light-hearted allusion to one of the most attractive and significant features of Charles’s reign, his active patronage of the Royal Society, with its doctrines of experimental science, mathematical plainness of language and rejection of superstition (4.12–16). This is more important than it appears at first, in that Charles’s entry into the novel moves the action forward from obscurantism and (though at first hampered by moral confusion) to the ultimate triumph of good sense. Thomas Sprat’s History of the Royal-Society of London, which is quoted in the relevant explanatory note, also observes that in ‘the Scolemens time’ An infinit number of Fairies haunted every house; all Churches were fill’d with Apparitions; men began to be frighted from their

  545 Cradles, which fright continu’d to their Graves, and their Names also were made the causes of scaring others . . . But from the time in which the Real Philosophy has appear’d, there is scarce any whisper remaining of such horrors: Every man is unshaken at those Tales, at which his Ancestors trembled: The cours of things goes quietly along, in its own true channel of Natural Causes and Effects.56 Thomas Harrison (1616–60). According to Hume, Harrison was ‘the son of a butcher, and the most furious enthusiast in the army’,57 a description which informs but does not determine Scott’s presentation of him (26.11; 114.18–115.21), and which provides the basis for the delusions from which he appears to suffer in the course of the novel (115.3–4; 146.11–33). He took the surrender of Woodstock when the Cavalier cause collapsed in the summer of 1646, but was not among those sent to sequester Woodstock for Parliament in 1649. In January 1649 he was one of the commissioners who signed the king’s death warrant: indeed he was one of the most enthusiastic advocates of the execution of Charles I, and right up to his own execution at the Restoration in 1660 he maintained that he had been carrying out God’s commands. He was in charge of the pursuit after Worcester in 1651 (see 90.25–26), and it was he who cleared the Houses of Parliament of the Rump when called upon to do so by Cromwell in April 1653. He led the militant wing of the Fifth-Monarchy movement (see note to 114.36–37). John Desborough or Disbrowe (1608–80). Desborough married Oliver Cromwell’s sister Jane in 1636, and later became a prominent Parliamentary army officer and politician. Mocked for his rustic manner by Royalists (26.8–10; 103.33), and described as ‘a man of a clownish and brutal nature’ by Hume,58 he was an efficient organiser of military logistics and commissariat for the Eastern Association, the Parliamentary army raised in East Anglia in 1642. An ordinance of 2 May 1643 named him as one of those empowered to sequester Royalist property; he negotiated the surrender of Woodstock to Parliament in April 1646, but was not one of the commissioners sent to sequester Woodstock in 1649. From September 1649 he was assigned to the west of England, and was associated with it for much of the Commonwealth period. He proved a most able administrator. He was made Major-General in August 1650, and was repeatedly elected to the Council of State (see note to 70.1), and to Parliament. At the Restoration he went abroad, but returned in 1665, was imprisoned in the Tower and released in 1667. Joshua Bletson. Bletson is an imaginary character. In the manuscript Scott originally called him ‘Bletsoe’, but systematically changed his name to ‘Bletson’ in the proofs. The original name links him to the son of the first Earl of Bolingbroke, Oliver St John, Lord St John of Bletsoe, Bedfordshire (1603–42), a Parliamentary officer who died of wounds following the battle of Edgehill in October 1642. Unlike Lord St John of Bletsoe, the fictional Bletson ran away at Edgehill

546   (116.2–3), and so it is possible that Scott changed the name to obscure but not to obliterate a connection. Bletson is a deist. Deism, a movement in religious, scientific and philosophical thought which began about 1650 and flourished in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, aimed to address and perhaps reconcile the apparent discrepancies between Christian religious beliefs (as revealed in the Bible, developed by the Church Fathers and embodied in the practices of the Church) and contemporary developments in medicine (Harvey), cosmology (Newton) and epistemology (Hobbes, Locke). Although Bletson’s views are just plausible in the context of 1651 (see note to 117.14), Scott’s satiric portrait links Bletson more obviously with a later St John who also had family connections with Bletsoe, Henry St John, Viscount Bolingbroke (1678–1751). In his lifetime Bolingbroke was Tory minister, Jacobite, journalist, philosopher, and rake. As a ‘philosopher’ he is remembered for his extreme religious scepticism, typified in the sentence: ‘This strange story, so trifling and so serious, and wherein God is made a principal actor with the serpent and A and E  , has given occasion to much silly pains that have been taken both by Jews, and by Christians, to lessen the absurdity of it, if that were possible.’59 In his Life of Johnson, a work Scott knew well, James Boswell comments on the publication of Bolingbroke’s Philosophical Works: ‘The wild and pernicious ravings, under the name of “Philosophy,” which were thus ushered into the world, gave great offence to all well-principled men’.60 Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley. The fictional Sir Henry Lee is thrice invoked as ‘a very perfect gentle Knight’ on Woodstock’s three titlepages, and is endorsed by the fictional Cromwell himself as ‘a noble relic of the ancient English Gentleman’ (403.37), no more to be hanged than is his dog (394.10–12; 405.21–29). The historical Sir Henry Lee (1533–1611) was ‘for many years a conspicuous figure in Elizabethan life. As Champion of the Tilt he had an acknowledged position on days of ceremony, and his entertainments of the Queen at Woodstock and Ditchley in 1575 and 1592 were notable episodes in the picturesque annals of her progresses.’61 From 1571 he was by grant of Queen Elizabeth Lieutenant of the royal manor of Woodstock and a leader in the revival of jousting and medieval monarchic chivalry in fashion from the 1560s to the 1590s. Sir Philip Sidney is traditionally believed to have praised his stylish and skilful tilting, under the name of Lelius, in his Arcadia.62 A Knight of the Garter from 1597, Lee remained in high favour with James I. There is still at Ditchley Park a portrait of Sir Henry with his Cheshire mastiff and ten lines of verse praising canine fidelity. The tradition is that ‘one night when on retiring to rest Sir Henry ordered the dog out of the room, the faithful animal refused to go and soon after dragged from under the bed a man with a knife who had hidden himself there in order to kill the Knight.’63 Taking a historical figure out of his own time and relocating him in a period fifty or so years later is not problematic for the reader of fiction, but in one respect there is a difficulty: Lee’s age. He says

  547 unequivocally that Shakespeare died ‘when I was a mere child’ (24.19–20); all serious readers know that Shakespeare died in 1616, which would mean that Lee could not be older than 50 in 1651. Later in the novel he says ‘for forty years I have dwelt in this house, man and boy’ (344.9–10) and a little later Martin the verdurer is ‘a score of years older’ than Lee (356.40). Each of these suggest a man of around 50. Yet at 32.43 he is called ‘the old knight of sixty five’; his long white beard makes him seem old, even although it is ‘worn in sorrow for my sovereign’s death’ (23.12); and his Lear-like end in the final chapter of the novel seems to consolidate an impression of great age. The purpose seems clear: Lee bridges eras. Yet the differences are unreconciled and cannot just be attributed to Lee’s deliberate living in the past. The character of Lee in Woodstock is essentially imaginary: in particular, his passion for and close verbal knowledge of Shakespeare’s plays and the Jacobean theatre are of course Scott’s own additions, and draw on his own attributes. But the poignant emphasis on the knight’s former skill in arms (in particular tilting: 274.7–15), and one of Scott’s most memorable dogs (who deserves to be considered a character in the novel),64 and of course the Woodstock link, indicate that once again a handful of historical features have stimulated the author’s fecund imagination.  1 2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11 12

Martin J. Havran, The Catholics in Caroline England (Stanford, CA, 1962), 83. See 79.34–38, where Wildrake encounters ‘one of those tremendous enthusiasts to whom Oliver owed his conquests, whose religious zeal made them even more than a match for the high-spirited and high-born cavaliers, who exhausted their valour in vain in defence of their sovereign’s person and crown’. See explanatory notes to 22.17–18 (Muggletonians), 22.18 (Ranters), 114.36–37 (Fifth-Monarchy Men), and 321.35–45 (Grindletonians). See e.g. 39.7–10, 146.7–30, 154.14–18 and 177.1–8. Austin Woolrych, Britain in Revolution 1625–1660 (Oxford, 2002), 220. For some of the other incidents and campaigns mentioned in the novel see the explanatory note to 30.12–20. Woolrych, 349. Woolrych, 433. References to Hume in this edition of Woodstock are to David Hume, The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Revolution in 1688, 8 vols (London, 1791). For examples of specific points that Scott probably or certainly took from Hume see the explanatory notes to 3.37, 26.8–9, 69.3–8, 81.25–28, 90.8, 95.19, 228.36–38, 338.23, 387.16, 339.18, and 405.41–42. See also the explanatory note to 413.43. See explanatory notes to 15.14–15, 39.21, 175.32 and 229.13–14. The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols

548

13 14

15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

  (London 1932–37), 5.56: 16 January 1818. See The Fortunes of Nigel, ed. Frank Jordan,     13 (Edinburgh, 2004), 408. See notes to 68.33–34, 183.21–33, 214.8–14, 219.5–6, 321.35–45, 338.23, 400.23–27, 405.19–20 and 413.35–37. Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion offers a minutely detailed account of events of the period, and Hume constantly draws on it, but, although Scott called it ‘my favourite Clarendon’ (Letters, 8.367: 13 September 1824, to Mary Ann Hughes), he appears to have gleaned little or nothing distinctive for his novel directly from that source. For one detail that might have come from Clarendon see the explanatory note to 406.7. Waverley Novels, 48 vols (Edinburgh, 1829–33), 39.xxiii–xxxv; henceforward cited as Magnum. [Thomas Widdowes], The Just Devil of Woodstock. Or, A True Narrative of the several Apparitions, the Frights and Punishments, inflicted upon the Rumpish Commissioners sent thither, to survey the mannors and houses belonging to His Majestie (London, 1660). Magnum, 39.xx. See also The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), 667 (entry for 17 October 1831). [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838), 149; henceforward cited as CLA. John Aubrey, Miscellanies, 2nd edn (London, 1721), 83–84. Sir William Fleetwood was the Comptroller of the Park; Hawes has not been identified. Robert Plot, The Natural History of Oxford-shire (Oxford, 1677), 206–10. Plot, 206. See Widdowes, Preface (unpaginated); Magnum, 39.xxxvii–xli. Plot, 210. George Sinclair, Satan’s Invisible World Discovered (Edinburgh, 1685), 32–39. Henry More, ‘A Continuation of the Collection’, 1–6, in Joseph Glanvil, Saducismus Triumphatus, 3rd edn (London, 1700). More, 6. CLA, 142, 150. Letters, 5.35. Scott cites Sinclair in the Magnum Introduction: Magnum, 39.vi. Redgauntlet, ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17 (Edinburgh and New York, 1997), note to 89.42. Letters, 5.134, 139, and 148. The British Magazine, 2 (April 1747), 156–62, (156). The British Magazine, 2 (April 1747), 160. ‘The Secret History’ has not been found: it may be fictitious. Magnum, 39.iv. William Hone, The Every-Day Book, 2 vols (London, [1826–27]), 2, columns 582–90. The article appears in the Magnum at 39.v, vii–xviii. Although the quotation marks stop on xv, everything up to ‘with his masters’ on xviii is taken directly from Hone’s reprint of the article in The British Magazine (see note 31). As the passage following the concluding quotation marks on xv begins ‘Dr Plot concludes’, and because there is a footnote citing the ‘Natural History of Oxfordshire’, the Magnum gives

  35 36 37 38 39

40 41 42 43

44 45

46 47 48 49

549

the false impression that Scott is paraphrasing Plot; he is, in fact, quoting Hone’s reprint of the story in The British Magazine. The Beauties of All the Magazines selected for the year 1762 (London, 1762), 77–80. Mary Ann Hughes told Scott that this was her source in a letter of 31 October 1824 ( 3899, f. 184v).  3899, ff. 141r–144v. The Tell-Tale: or, Anecdotes Expressive of the Characters of Persons Eminent for Rank, Learning, Wit, and Humour, 2 vols (London, 1756), 1.203–11. The Tell-Tale, 210. In spite of the impression given by its name, The Beauties of all the Magazines Selected is not a simple compendium of the best of the material in recent issues of other periodicals, but a monthly magazine which pokes fun at what it finds in them. In the issue of March 1762 the Woodstock story is introduced (75–77) by part of a long letter which, seemingly, was taken from The Library: or, Moral and Critical Magazine, For the Year MDCCLXII (73–80) where the letter is dated 14 February. The Beauties appends the Woodstock story (which, collation shows, it took from the 1756 edition of The Tell-Tale, and not the 1762 reprint), in apparent mockery of the serious tone of the letter in The Library. Both details occur in Sinclair, More, and the British Magazine, though the term ‘Ditch-water’ is found only in Sinclair (37), and More (4). Edward Marshall, The Early History of Woodstock Manor and its Environs (Oxford and London, 1873), 263. See also note to 7.16–21. For similar descriptions see: Francis Grose, The Antiquities of England and Wales, new edn, 8 vols (London, 1783–97), 4.177 (CLA, 177); and the account by John Stowe quoted in [Thomas Percy], ed., Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 2.143 (CLA, 172). See A History of the County of Oxford (in progress), Vol. 12 (Wootton Hundred (South) including Woodstock), ed. Alan Crossley (Oxford, 1990), 438. John Nichols, The Progresses, and Public Processions, of Queen Elizabeth, 2 vols (London, 1788), 1 (1555 fascicle), 8–9n. Nichols provides a fullpage illustration of the remains of the manor in 1714. An engraving depicting its appearance in the early 17th century can be found in John Dunkin, Oxfordshire. The History and Antiquities of the Hundreds of Bullington and Ploughley, 2 vols (London, 1823), 2.98, and a more distant view showing the complete manor on a small hill with the approach road from an entrance beside ‘Chaucer’s house’ appears in Plot, facing p. 16. Along with other engravings of the manor it is reproduced in Blenheim: Landscape for a Palace, ed. James Bond and Kate Tiller, 2nd edn (Stroud, 1997), 42, 44 and 55. In fact Elizabeth was probably accommodated in the east wing: Crossley, 438–39. The main exception is his assertion that Henry VIII made a major addition (39.34), for which there is no historical basis. Hume, 7.252. See Hume, 7.222 (‘His active mind, superior to the low occupations to

550

50 51

52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64

  which he was condemned, preyed upon itself; and he indulged his imagination in visions, illuminations, revelations; the great nourishment of that hypochondriacal temper, to which he was ever subject’) and 228–29n (‘he was very much given to weeping, and could at any time shed abundance of tears’). Edmund Ludlow, Memoirs of Edmund Ludlow, Esq; Lieutenant-General of the Horse, Commander in Chief of the Forces in Ireland, 3rd edn, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1751), 1.276–77: CLA, 246. Scott’s other major account of Cromwell, in the second series of Tales of a Grandfather published at the end of 1828, is scrupulously understated and balanced (indeed tending toward the favourable): The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36), 24.38–147. Hume, 7.192–93. Hume, 8.212. Antonia Fraser, King Charles II (London, 1979), 153–54. Peveril of the Peak, ed. Alison Lumsden,     14 (Edinburgh, 2007), 452. Thomas Sprat, The History of the Royal-Society of London, For the Improving of Natural Knowledge (London, 1667), 340. Hume, 7.135. Hume, 7.296. Henry St John, Viscount Bolingbroke, The Philosophical Works, [ed. David Mallett], 8 vols (London, 1754), 5.372. James Boswell, Boswell’s Life of Johnson, ed. G. B. Hill, rev. L. F. Powell, 6 vols (Oxford, 1934–50), 1.268. E. K. Chambers, Sir Henry Lee, An Elizabethan Portrait (Oxford, 1936), 46. The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia (The New Arcadia), ed. Victor Skretkowicz (Oxford, 1987), xiv–xv, 255–56. Viscount Dillon, ‘The Real Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley’, The Berks, Bucks & Oxon Archæological Journal, 12:3 (October 1906), 65–79 (78). The portrait is attributed to Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger and dated c. 1592. In a catalogue of the paintings at Ditchley Park compiled in 1908 the dog is named as Bevis, but this may well be an extrapolation from Scott’s novel. Another fine portrait of Lee by Antonis Mor, dated 1568, is in the National Portrait Gallery, London (NPG 2095). One of the Lee family, Henry Lee (1637–58), 3rd Baronet Lee, of Quarendon, was a boy at the time of the main action of the novel, and there is no reason to think that Scott had him in mind. His father, also Sir Henry, the 2nd Baronet, died in 1639, so ‘Sir Henry Lee’s regiment’ (408.15–16) is part of the fiction. In a Magnum note (40.395) Scott says that he based Bevis on his own beloved deerhound Maida, who died in October 1824.

EXPLANATORY NOTES

In these notes a comprehensive attempt is made to identify Scott’s sources, and all quotations, references, historical events, and historical personages, to explain proverbs, and to translate difficult or obscure language. (Phrases are explained in the notes while single words are normally treated in the glossary.) The notes are brief; they offer information rather than critical comment or exposition. When a quotation has not been recognised this is stated: any new information from readers will be welcomed. References are to standard editions, or to the editions Scott himself used. Books in the Abbotsford Library are identified by reference to the appropriate page of the Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford. When quotations reproduce their sources accurately, the reference is given without comment. Verbal differences in the source are indicated by a prefatory ‘see’, while a general rather than a verbal indebtedness is indicated by ‘compare’. Biblical references are to the Authorised Version, unless otherwise stated. Plays by Shakespeare are cited without authorial ascription, and references are to William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, edited by Peter Alexander (London and Glasgow, 1951, frequently reprinted). The following publications are distinguished by abbreviations in the notes and essay: CLA [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838). Clarendon Edward, Earl of Clarendon, The History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England . . ., 3 vols (Oxford, 1702–04): CLA, 24. Crossley A History of the County of Oxford (in progress), Vol. 12 (Wootton Hundred (South) including Woodstock), ed. Alan Crossley (Oxford, 1990). Fraser Antonia Fraser, Cromwell: Our Chief of Men (London, 2002: first published 1973). Hume David Hume, The History of England, from the Invasion of Julius Cæsar to the Revolution in 1688, 8 vols (London, 1791): compare CLA, 28. Letters The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London, 1932–37). Magnum Walter Scott, Waverley Novels, 48 vols (Edinburgh, 1829–33). ODEP The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs, 3rd edn, rev. F. P. Wilson (Oxford, 1970). ODNB The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, online edn, ed. H. C. G. Matthew, Brian Harrison and Lawrence Goldman (Oxford, 2004–). OED The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edn, ed. J. A. Simpson and E. S. C. Weiner, 20 vols (Oxford, 1989). Ray J[ohn] Ray, A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, 3rd edn (London, 1737). Somers’ Tracts A Collection of Scarce and Valuable Tracts . . ., 2nd edn, ed. Walter Scott, 13 vols (London, 1809–15). Whitelocke [Bulstrode Whitelocke], Memorials of the English Affairs (London, 1682): CLA, 28. 551

552

 

All manuscripts referred to in the notes are in the National Library of Scotland. Information derived from the notes of the late Dr J. C. Corson is indicated by ‘(Corson)’. title page Waverley, Tales of the Crusaders Waverley was Scott’s first novel, published anonymously in 1814. Tales of the Crusaders was published, also anonymously, in 1825. motto see Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400), ‘General Prologue’ to The Canterbury Tales, line 72. 3.3 the Rev. J. A. Rochecliffe, D.D. ‘It is hardly necessary to say, unless to some readers of very literal capacity, that Doctor Rochecliffe and his manuscripts are alike apocryphal’ (Magnum, 39.lxixn). ‘D.D.’ means ‘Doctor of Divinity’. 3.12–14 Anthony a Wood . . . the Athenæ Oxonienses Scott owned the second edition of this work, a biographical dictionary of Oxford authors and bishops edited by Anthony à Wood, published in 2 volumes in London in 1721 (CLA, 232: the 1st edition appeared in 1691–92). Its Latin title means ‘Oxford Athens’. ‘High Church’ denotes the faction in the Church of England which emphasised royal and episcopal hierarchy and ceremony. It was opposed to the Puritan faction, which at the beginning of the 18th century came to be known as ‘Low Church’. 3.15 Cambridge, England’s other eye see Patrick Gordon, Geography Anatomiz’d (London, 1699), 202: ‘those famous Seats of the Muses, or two Eyes of England, term’d Oxford and Cambridge’. 3.18–19 Malleus Hæresis Latin hammer of heresy. The title is an imitation of Malleus Maleficarum [The Witch Hammer] (Speyer, c. 1486), an important collection of signs of witchcraft and the black arts by two Dominican friars, Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer (Henricus Institoris). 3.22–25 the catalogue of the celebrated Century White . . . prelates the politician and lawyer John White (1590–1645) published The First Centvry of Scandalous, Malignant Priests, Made and admitted into Benefices by the Prelates, in whose hands the Ordination of Ministers and government of the Church hath been. Or, A Narration of the Causes for which the Parliament hath Ordered the Sequestration of the Benefices of severall Ministers complained of before them, for vitiousnesse of Life, errors in Doctrine, contrary to the Articles of our Religion, and for practising and pressing superstitious Innovations against Law, and for Malignancy against the Parliament (London, 1643). The pamphlet gave him his nickname ‘Century White’. It consists of a list of 100 clergymen whose benefices have been sequestrated and the reasons in each case. 3.25–26 the loss of his living . . . on the ascendance of Presbytery in January 1643 Parliament abolished episcopacy in the Church of England, and as a result many clergymen of that persuasion were ejected by the Puritans. For the re-modelling of the Church of England by its Puritan faction on Presbyterian lines see Historical Note, 534. 3.27 the Civil War see Historical Note, 536. 3.27 Sir Henry Lee’s regiment for the essentially fictitious Lee see Historical Note, 546–47. 3.31–32 which speaks . . . in the third person Gaius Julius Caesar (c. 102–44  ), Roman general and statesman, presented narratives of his campaigns and exploits in the third-person (i.e. using ‘he’ and ‘him’ rather than ‘I’ and ‘me’). 3.34 the Everards apparently a fictitious family although there were Everards active in the period 1642–60. 3.36 the Usurpation standard partisan term for the Commonwealth.

 

553

3.37–38 the premature attempts at a restoration of monarchy for such attempts in 1655, 1658 and 1659 see Hume, 7.243, 280–81, and 300–02. 4.10–11 After the Restoration . . . Woodstock Charles II was restored to the English throne in 1660. The Act of Uniformity of May 1662 (14o Car. II. c. 4) proclaimed that only those episcopally ordained could minister in the Church of England, resulting in the ejection of Presbyterian ministers from their livings. 4.13 the Royal Society founded in 1660 to discuss broadly scientific topics. Most of its members were not professional scientists. 4.14–16 the curious problem . . . the pitcher in The History of the Royal-Society of London, For the Improving of Natural Knowledge (London, 1667), 133, Tho[mas] Sprat notes of the early Royal Society that Charles II ‘has frequently committed many things to their search: . . . he has demanded the result of their trials, in many appearances of Nature: he has been present, and assisted with his own hands, at the performing of many of their Experiments, in his Gardens, his Parks, and on the River.’ The experiment described is no doubt a comic invention, but compare Sprat, 221: ‘Experiments of the different weight, and refraction of warm Water, and cold . . . of the living of Fish in Water, the Air being exhausted: of closing up a Fish in a Glass of water: of the dying of Fishes in Water, upon taking off the pressure of the Air, in the rarifying Engine: of Hydrostaticks, and making a Body sink by poring more water upon it’. 4.18 given in submitted. 4.32–43 The existence of Rosamond’s Labyrinth . . . King Henry see The Works of Michael Drayton, Esq., 4 vols (London, 1753), 1.221 (note (a) to ‘Rosamond to King Henry’ in ‘England’s Heroical Epistles’): CLA, 192. The term laid about means ‘surrounded, besieged’. See also Historical Note, 541–42. 4.33 the reign of Queen Elizabeth Elizabeth I reigned from 1558 to 1603. 5.1 a singular piece of phantasmagoria ‘An entertainment called a fantasmagorie, featuring projections of figures which moved or changed shape rapidly (often accompanied by sound effects), was presented in Paris by Étienne-Gaspard Robertson in 1798. A similar “Phantasmagoria” was presented in London in 1802 by Paul de Philpstal, a Parisian showman, and was widely imitated’ (OED). 5.2–3 the Commissioners of the Long Parliament during the Commonwealth period a parliamentary Committee for Sequestrations oversaw the confiscation and reallocation of property, operating a system of visitations by commissioners. The Long Parliament, summoned by Charles I in 1640, was called ‘long’ as it lasted until 1653 and was recalled in 1659. 5.7–9 There is a curious account . . . Oxfordshire R[obert] P[lot], The Natural History of Oxford-shire (Oxford, 1677), 206–10. See also Historical Note, 539. 5.10–26 Glanville upon witches . . . however intricate the account forms the first ‘relation’ in an appendix to Joseph Glanvil’s Saducismus Triumphatus: Or, full and plain Evidence Concerning Witches and Apparitions, 3rd edn (London, 1700): Henry More, A Continuation of the Collection. Or, An Addition Of some few more Remarkable and True Stories of Apparitions and Witchcraft (London, 1700), 1–6. It concludes with an ‘Advertisement’ mostly taken from Plot arguing that the phenomena could not be the result of ‘Jugling or Combination’ (5): CLA, 150. 5.19 broke up gave up. 5.20–22 The good sense . . . confederation in fact Plot tends to accept

554

 

that some of the goings-on at Woodstock defy naturalistic explanation: see Historical Note, 539. 5.32 I think I have seen some account Scott had: see Historical Note, 539–40. 5.39–40 an assembly of divines there is probably a jocular allusion to the Assembly of Divines at Westminster, originally convened in 1643 to reform the thirty-nine articles, the doctrinal basis of the Church of England. After the signing of the Solemn League and Covenant (see note to 180.5–6) in 1643 it was joined by a Scottish delegation, and together they produced the Westminster Confession of Faith, and the Longer and the Shorter Catechisms, all approved by the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland in 1647–48, and by the English Parliament in 1648. 5.41 conjure down exorcise. 5.42–6.3 Trusty Joe . . . schemes of peculation for the account by ‘Funny Joe’ and Scott’s knowledge of it, see Historical Note, 539–40. 6.11–13 some friendly critics . . . have been see Essay on the Text, 441–42. 6.11–12 hang on hand hang around; i.e. fail to progress. 6.15–16 Too long . . . with a torch see John Bunyan, The Holy War, ed. Roger Sharrock and James F. Forrest (Oxford, 1980), 5, lines15–16: ‘But I have too long held thee in the Porch,/ And kept thee from the Sunshine with a Torch’. The editors gloss the second line ‘allowed you only a glimpse of the truth’ (254). Bunyan’s work was first published in 1682. 6.20–22 Hawks . . . each other’s quarry proverbial: ODEP, 359. The expression tire upon means ‘tear with the beak at’. 6.23–24 that recently published by a distinguished contemporary [Horace Smith], Brambletye-House; or, Cavaliers and Roundheads (London, 1826), a close imitation of Scott’s historical narrative technique. There is in fact little overlap between the two novels. 7.5–9 motto Samuel Butler, Hudibras, Part 3 (1678), 2.291–94. Presbyterian insistence that only ordained ministers should preach is contrasted with the preaching by uneducated laymen, notably soldiers in the New Model Army (established in 1645) with its red uniforms. The expression hold forth means ‘preach’. The military preachers ‘wield the one and th’ other sword’ in that they are both soldiers and preachers of ‘the word of God [which] is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword’ (Hebrews 4.12). 7.11–14 I never saw it . . . the Provost of —— for Scott’s visit to Oxford and Blenheim in 1803 see Historical Note, 541. Of the three Oxford colleges whose heads are known as provosts Oriel is the most likely to figure in Scott’s personal reminiscence here. Edward Copleston (1776–1849), already a Fellow in 1803 and Provost 1814–28, wrote to Scott on 6 February 1824 recalling with pleasure his ‘company here so long ago’ ( 3898, f. 58r). The palace of Blenheim was presented to John Churchill (1650–1722), created 1st Duke of Marlborough 1702, as a token of the nation’s gratitude for his defeat of the French army at Blenheim on 13 August 1704. Designed on the grandest scale by Sir John Vanbrugh (1664–1726), building began in 1705 and was never entirely completed: the great hall has a painted ceiling by Sir James Thornhill (1675–1734), the saloon is decorated with elaborate trompe l’œil paintings by Louis Laguerre, and the state rooms are hung with Brussels tapestries illustrating Marlborough’s victories. 7.13 in due season in time. 7.16–21 I had the church accurately described to me . . . King John the church of St Mary Magdalene was originally built by Henry II as a chapel of ease for the parish church at nearby Bladon. Only a doorway of the Norman building survives. In his The History and Antiquities of Kiddington: First Pub-

 

555

lished as A Specimen of the History of Oxfordshire, 3rd edn (London, 1815), 66n, Thomas Warton says that King John founded a chantry dedicated to St Margaret in the church in 1210, but it was actually founded by one Thomas Croft (d. 1488): see Crossley, 412. A small amount of 12th- and 13th-century work survives. Further expansion took place in the perpendicular style in the 15th century. Much of the modern church dates from a major restoration of 1877–78. Scott’s informant has not been identified, but the obscurity of the point noted by Warton suggests that someone drew his attention to that detail at least. 7.25–26 a day appointed . . . the decisive victory at Worcester Charles II was defeated by Cromwell’s troops at Worcester on 3 September 1651, and on the 6th of that month Parliament decreed that 4 October should be a day of Solemn Thanksgiving for the victory. 8.3–4 the gilded railing . . . carried off many Puritans objected to the provision of railings for communicants to kneel at when receiving the sacrament, preferring to sit. For them this item of furniture implied a hierarchical separation between priest and congregation. As a consequence the railings were often removed during the Commonwealth. 8.7–8 Torn . . . heroic deed see John Ferriar, The Bibliomania, An Epistle, to Richard Heber, Esq. (London, 1809), 10 (lines 121–22): ‘Torn from their destin’d page, (unworthy meed/ Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed)’: CLA, 186. 8.19–20 Sir Henry Lee of Ditchley see Historical Note, 546–47. 8.22 in old time formerly. 8.24 Bevis perhaps named after the eponymous hero of the early 14thcentury romance Bevis of Hampton. In a Magnum note (40.395) Scott cites his own beloved dog Maida as the prototype of Bevis. 8.24–25 He is a good dog which goes to church this is the first occurrence of the proverb cited in ODEP, 318. 8.29 slashed boots fashionable boots with the leather slashed to reveal the coloured stocking beneath. 8.35 the cynosure of neighbouring eyes John Milton, ‘L’Allegro’ (composed 1631?, published 1645), line 80. 8.38–39 a contemporary annalist presumably fictitious. 8.43 fraught with bearing. 9.6–7 Freemantles, Winchcombes, Draycotts the families have not been identified, but they are plausible: e.g. Bolingbroke (see Historical Note, 546) married Frances Winchcombe (d. 1718), an heiress with estates in Berkshire; Draycott is a settlement in Oxfordshire (in Berkshire until 1974). 9.7–9 the air that blew . . . neighbouring counties the University of Oxford tended to take the Royalist side during the Civil Wars, whereas both Oxfordshire and Berkshire had strong Parliamentary leanings. The city of Oxford was the nearest thing to a capital that Charles had during most of the war, and its garrison did not surrender to Parliament until 24 June 1646. 9.12–13 cutlers or glovers Woodstock became a centre for the making of high-quality leather gloves and polished steel in the 18th century (Crossley, 364), though it is widely maintained that these industries date back to the Elizabethan period. 9.15–17 carried their Bibles . . . sword in the Magnum (39.7) Scott observes: ‘This custom among the Puritans is mentioned often in old plays, and among others in the Widow of Watling Street.’ See W. S., The Puritaine Or The Widdow of Watling-streete (London, 1607), B2v (Act 1), where Puritans enter with ‘Bookes at their Girdles, as comming from Church’. 9.18–19 the Presbyterian form of faith . . . the Church of England in August 1648 Parliament passed an Ordinance instituting Presbyterian

556

 

governance in the established Churches of England and Ireland. This abolished the set liturgical forms prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer in favour of allowing each minister to determine the structure of his services, and replaced a system of governance based on bishops appointed by the Crown with one involving a system of ecclesiastic courts, the inferior bodies made up of lay and ordained members (see note to 403.19). 9.20 Nehemiah Holdenough Nehemiah is the prophetic author of the book bearing his name in the Old Testament. ‘Holdenough’ probably alludes to hold forth (‘preach’) and comically echoes Macbeth’s last words: ‘And damn’d be him that first cries “Hold, enough!”’ (Macbeth, 5.8.34). 9.24–25 whose study . . . was not always in the Bible in the ‘General Prologue’ to The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400), line 438 the Doctour of Phisik’s ‘studie was but litel on the Bible’. 9.27–28 inattentive themselves, and the cause of inattention in others compare Falstaff in 2 Henry IV, 1.2.9–10: ‘I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.’ 9.31 unwashed artificers see King John, 4.2.201. 9.33–34 these learned Thebans see King Lear, 3.4.153. To confidently civilised Athenians, the citizens of Thebes, often their enemies, would appear uncouth. 9.38 steeple-house a term for ‘church’, which some Dissenters (especially Quakers) maintained should not be applied to a building: ‘The holiness of churches they derided; and they would give to these sacred edifices no other appellation than that of shops or steeple-houses’ (Hume, 7.335). 9.39 her ordinances, dry bran and sapless pottage in the Magnum (39.8, 22–23) Scott cites (very inaccurately) ‘a curious vindication of this indecent simile here for the Common Prayer’ in Gyles Calfine, The Book of Common Prayer Confirmed by sundry Acts of Parliament, and briefly Vindicated against the Contumelious slanders of the Fanatique Party, Tearming it Porrage (London, 1660). The terms ‘porrage’ and ‘pottage’ both appear in the pamphlet. 9.40 the saints the term ‘Saints’ was commonly applied to the Puritan party at this time. It is based on the biblical promise that the saints should inherit the earth: see Psalm 37.9, 11 and 22. 10.2–3 as mastiffs . . . the stake dogs trained for the purpose would torment and mutilate a bull chained to a stake, for the amusement of the spectators. 10.9 red coats the New Model Army established by Parliament in 1645 gradually adopted red as the standard colour for its uniforms. 10.22 of yore formerly. 10.23 the surplice the short vestment of white linen worn over the cassock by Anglican clergy. 10.27–29 His dress . . . colour when conducting services Presbyterian ministers normally wear a long loose-fitting gown (which is usually black) with full sleeves, named after the reformed church in Geneva established in accordance with the teachings of Jean Calvin (1509–64). 11.4 faced round upon turned to face. 11.7 hold forth preach. 11.9–10 bounden duty legal and moral duty; the phrase occurs in the priest’s introduction to the Sanctus in the Communion Service of the Book of Common Prayer. 11.10 Woe to me if I preach not the gospel see 1 Corinthians 9.16. 11.10–12 let me not in my labour do not hinder me in my work. Compare Isaiah 43.13: ‘I will work, and who shall let it?’ 11.14 fructify with make fruitful.

 

557

11.16 Give place i.e. let me pass. 11.16 waxing wroth growing angry. 11.20–23 Sleeping dogs . . . his quarter see Isaiah 56.10–11: ‘His watchmen are blind: they are all ignorant, they are all dumb dogs, they cannot bark; sleeping, lying down, loving to slumber. Yea, they are greedy dogs which can never have enough, and they are shepherds that cannot understand: they all look to their own way, every one for his gain, from his quarter.’ Compare also John Milton, ‘Lycidas’ (1638), line 125: ‘The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed’. The image of the shepherd and his flock is biblical: see especially John Ch. 10. 11.31 magistrates who bear the sword in vain see Romans 13.4. 11.33 man of . . . Belial ‘Belial’ is a generalised term for worthlessness, wickedness, or destruction in the Bible; see e.g. 2 Samuel 16.7: ‘Come out, come out thou bloody man, and thou man of Belial’. The ‘man of buff’ is a man who wears a buff coat, i.e. a cavalryman of the New Model Army. 11.34 cast his cords from me see Psalm 2.3: ‘Let us break their bands asunder, and cast away their cords from us.’ 12.1 his faithful clerk see note to 13.3–4. 12.8 independency see Historical Note, 533–34. 12.14 Noll nickname for Oliver. 12.19–20 resting arms . . . as then practised properly ‘resting’ should be ‘ordering’: for the correct use of ‘rest’ see note to 80.24–31. 12.27 my masters gentlemen; sirs. 12.36–37 the men of crape Anglican clergymen, wearing fine worsted fabric. 12.38 Jack Presbyter dismissive phrase, common in the 17th century, for a Presbyterian (see Historical Note, 533–34). Presbyterians followed the theology of John Calvin (1509–64), leader of the church in Geneva during the Reformation, hence Jack Presbyter. 12.38–40 our own watchman . . . cry aloud and spare not see Isaiah 58.1: ‘Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, and shew my people their transgression, and the house of Jacob their sins.’ For the biblical force of ‘watchman’ see e.g. Isaiah 21.6: ‘For thus hath the Lord said unto me, Go, set a watchman, let him declare what he seeth.’ 13.3–4 the quavering of Holdenough and the clerk in Charles Johnson, The Cobler of Preston (London, 1716), 44, there is a reference to ‘Patrick Quaver the Clerk’. If Holdenough is conducting a service in accordance with the General Directory which officially replaced the Book of Common Prayer in 1645, the clerk (sitting below the pulpit and leading the responses to the priest) should have given way to a precentor who would lead the singing of the psalms. 13.8–9 Would your neighbours of Banbury . . . insult? although Banbury, a market town 24 km N of Woodstock, was in 1641 described as ‘a place always too much encumbered with Brownists and Separatists’, the Presbyterian Samuel Wells whose induction was ordered by Parliament in 1648 survived as incumbent till his ejection in 1662 after the Restoration: A History of the County of Oxford (Victoria County History, in progress), Vol. 10 (Banbury Hundred), ed. Alan Crossley (Oxford, 1972), 99. 13.11 cry Clubs the call to arms that rallied citizens for fighting. See Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton, The Honest Whore Part 1 (1604), 1.2.141: ‘Sfoot clubs, clubs, prentices’. 13.17–18 the first wild ass . . . desert see Job 39.5–6: ‘Who hath sent out the wild ass free? or who hath loosed the bands of the wild ass? Whose house I have made the wilderness, and the barren land his dwellings.’ 13.20 shaking the dust from his shoes Jesus commanded his

558

 

disciples: ‘whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house or city, shake off the dust of your feet’ (Matthew 10.14); see also Mark 6.11, Luke 9.5, and Acts 13.51. 13.27 inducting himself into the pulpit i.e. assuming the pulpit without formal induction by the appropriate ecclesiastical authority, whether Presbyterian or Anglican. 13.28–30 his text . . . prosperously Psalm 45.3–4. The fourth verse concludes ‘because of truth and meekness and righteousness; and thy right hand shall teach thee terrible things.’ 13.33–36 The language . . . Oliver Cromwell from the early Christian fathers David has been regarded as a type of (i.e. foreshadowing) the Messiah (Christ): thus his slaying of Goliath foreshadows Christ’s victory over Satan. Representing Cromwell as David was not unusual: e.g. at a later date Richard Baxter (see note to 400.23–27) in The True History of Councils Enlarged and Defended (London, 1682), 202–03, felt it necessary to repudiate a suggestion that he had linked David and Cromwell. 13.36 interpreted of construed as referring to. 13.37–38 the infant Commonwealth . . . of age the Commonwealth lasted for only 11 years: see Historical Note, 537. The age of majority in Britain was 21 until 1970 when it was lowered to 18. 13.42 fox broad-sword OED defines fox as a kind of sword, noting ‘It has been conjectured that this use arose from the figure of a wolf, on certain sword-blades, being mistaken for a fox’. A broad-sword is a cutting sword with a broad blade. 13.43 Rosamond’s well see Historical Note, 541. 14.1 the old cuckoldly priest of Godstow Godstow, 4 km N of Oxford, was a Benedictine nunnery, dedicated in 1138, dissolved in 1539, fortified during the Civil War and burned down in 1645. Its priest could have been a visitor to hear confessions and say Mass, but the Woodstock preacher is not committed to historical accuracy. 14.2 I warrant me I’ll be bound. 14.10 G—d-d—n-me the expression was often used by Puritans to indicate the Cavaliers’ addiction to swearing. 14.11 Long Marston Moor on 2 July 1644 the Royalists under Newcastle and Prince Rupert (1619–82), the King’s cavalry commander, were defeated by Cromwell’s forces at Marston Moor, outside York. 14.13 Naseby on 14 June 1645 Charles I’s army was crushingly defeated by the Parliamentary forces at Naseby, Northamptonshire. 14.14 Drogheda a town between Dublin and Belfast on the E coast of Ireland, stormed by Cromwell in September 1649, when most of the garrison were killed. 14.15 Dunbar a coastal town E of Edinburgh where Cromwell’s forces defeated the Scots on 3 September 1650. 14.15 Worcester see note to 7.25–26. 14.26 boot and saddle—to horse and away ‘boot and saddle’, from the French boute-selle (place saddle), is a trumpet signal (or point of war) directing cavalry to mount their horses. The expression ‘to horse (and) away’ is a standard in this context. 14.27 the young Man i.e. Charles II. See note to 14.41–43. 14.27 what part have we in him? a frequent expression in the Old Testament: see e.g. Numbers 18.20. 14.28 Slay, take, destroy, divide the spoil see Exodus 15.9: ‘The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them.’ 14.30 leading staff staff borne by a commanding officer; truncheon.

 

559

14.32 gird up the loins of thy resolution compare e.g. Jeremiah 1.17. 14.33 the mark of thy high calling see Philippians 3.14: ‘I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus’. 14.39–40 our David . . . England’s son of Jesse see note to 13.33–36. David was Jesse’s son (see e.g. 1 Samuel 16.19). 14.41–43 the late Man . . . the young Man Charles I and his son, to be restored in 1660 as Charles II. Charles I is called ‘the late Man’ in A[phra] Behn, The Roundheads or, The Good Old Cause, a Comedy (London, 1682), 49. Cromwell often called Charles II ‘the young man’: see Fraser, 478. 14.41–42 that old blood-thirsty papist Sir Jacob Aston probably Sir Arthur Aston (c. 1590–1649), a Roman Catholic supporter of Charles I, knighted by him in 1641. Basil Morgan describes him as ‘a stern, peppery, and vindictive professional soldier’ (ODNB). The name also recalls a prominent Royalist officer, Sir Jacob Astley (1579–1652), created Baron Astley of Reading in 1644. 15.3–6 we will rather turn us . . . but newly see 2 Peter 2.22: ‘But it happened unto them according to the true proverb, The dog is turned to his own vomit again; and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.’ 15.7 the flesh-pots of the monks of Godstow see Exodus 16.3: ‘the children of Israel said unto them [Moses and Aaron], Would to God we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the flesh pots, and when we did eat bread to the full; for ye have brought us forth into this wilderness, to kill this whole assembly with hunger.’ There were no monks at Godstow: see note to 14.1. 15.11 fair Rosamond see Historical Note, 541. 15.14–15 you . . . have left us no brandy to mix with it on 28 August 1649 Parliament passed an Act ‘prohibiting the Importing of any Wines, Wool, or Silk from France, into England or Ireland’ (Whitelocke, 407). 15.17 the short sturdy Saxon pillars Saxon is probably used here in the sense, common in Scott’s time, of ‘early Norman’, but the earliest surviving pillars (now and in the 17th century) date from the 13th century: see note to 7.16–21. 15.18–19 a squat broad Little-John kind of figure Robin Hood’s companion Little John is not usually small in stature: ‘Tho’ he was call’d Little, his limbs they were large,/ And his stature was seven foot high’: ‘Robin Hood, and Little John’, lines 6–7, in Robin Hood: A Collection of all the Ancient Poems, Songs, and Ballads, now extant, [ed. Joseph Ritson], 2 vols (London, 1795), 2.138–45 (139): CLA, 174. But an exception is to be found in The Noble Birth and Gallant Atchievements Of that Remarkable Outlaw Robin Hood (London, 1678), A2r: ‘He whom he most affected, by reason of his low stature, was called Little Iohn, but not inferior to any of them in strength of body and stoutness of Spirit’. 15.19 quarter-staff long pole tipped with iron used by peasants in fighting. 15.21 Lincoln green green cloth made at Lincoln from the later Middle Ages onwards. It has been associated with Robin Hood since at least the 15th century: see Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 526 (note to 70.5). 15.29 C. R. for ‘Carolus Rex’ (Latin King Charles). 15.33–34 make a rope’s end wag ere now be hanged. 15.37 you wipe your mouth like Pharisees as you are compare Matthew 23.25–26: ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess. Thou blind Pharisee, cleanse first that which is within the cup and platter, that the outside of them may be clean also’; there is a different version at Luke 11.39–40.

560

 

15.38–40 Jehu the son of Nimshi . . . Jeroboam see 2 Kings 10.18–31. 15.40–41 ye eat not fish on Friday . . . Papists Roman Catholics were obliged to refrain from eating meat on Fridays, in commemoration of the crucifixion of Christ on that day. 15.41–42 nor minced-pies . . . Prelatists unlike Anglicans, more extreme Protestants did not celebrate Christmas or other festivals, which they considered to lack Scriptural authority. In a pamphlet entitled An Answer to Sixteen Queries touching the Rise and Observation of Christmas, propounded by Mr Joseph Heming, of Uttoxeter (1654), reprinted in Somers’ Tracts, 6.3–21, the author says of his Puritan contemporaries: ‘Do not most of them teach that it is unlawful . . . to eat mince-pies’ (17). See also Hume, 7.32–33n. 15.42 sack-posset syllabub made from hot milk curdled with white wine from Spain or the Canaries, flavoured with sugar, herbs, spices, etc. 15.43 your blind Presbyterian guide see Matthew 23.16, 24. 16.1 speak evil of dignities, and revile the Commonwealth see Jude 8: ‘Likewise also these filthy dreamers defile the flesh, despise dominion, and speak evil of dignities.’ 16.2 glorify yourselves in boast of. 16.3–4 walled in first of any other in England . . . the Conqueror this detail is found in several of Scott’s sources. Henry I, son of William the Conqueror, reigned 1100–35. 16.8 round-headed Clarendon (1.267) notes that the King’s Guard repelled a mob converging on Westminster to threaten bishops and peers: ‘And from those contestations the two Terms of Round-Head and Cavalier grew to be received in discourse, and were afterwards continued for the most Succinct distinction of affections throughout the quarrel: They who were looked upon as Servants to the King, being then called Cavaliers; and the other of the Rabble contemned, and despised under the names of Round-Heads.’ Hume repeats Clarendon’s account (6.464). 16.12–13 we will be as a wedge . . . into billets in the accounts of their 1649 visit the Commissioners are said to have dug up the King’s Oak, and to have thought that large quantities of its wood were thrown into their bedrooms. It is not associated with any particular king. 16.13–14 brown baker baker of brown bread. 16.21 Maher-shalal-hash-baz . . . spoil see Isaiah 8.1, 3. The Hebrew name means ‘swift [is] spoil, speedy [is] prey’. 16.32–35 the fatal fiat of Parliament . . . its ancient fame on 16 July 1649 Parliament passed ‘An Act for sale of the Honors, Manors, Lands heretofore belonging to the late King, Queen and Prince’. 17.7 without psalmody or benediction without hymn or psalm, or the blessing given by the minister at the end of a service. 17.10–15 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 18.7–14 A battlemented gate house . . . the effects of violence the description is apparently imaginary. The principal gate leading from the town into the park was rebuilt in 1260, and in the 16th century it included a chamber over the gateway (Crossley, 444). It was replaced by the Triumphal Arch leading into Blenheim Park in 1723. 18.26–27 of rare device of remarkably fine design. The expression is best known from Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘Kubla Khan’ (composed 1797 or 1798; published 1816), line 35. See also Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Book 2 (1590), 12.54.1. 18.29 Henry II see Historical Note, 541. 18.31–32 so abounded with game . . . better pleased see the general

 

561

remarks on such English game parks in Thomas Fuller, The History of the Worthies of England, ed. John Nichols, 2 vols (London, 1811), 2.217: ‘The Deer therein, when living, raise the stomachs of Gentlemen with their sport; and, when dead, allay them again with their flesh. The Fat of Venison is conceived to be (but I would not have Deer-stealers hear it) of all flesh the most vigorous nourishment’: CLA, 29. 18.33–37 a piece of flat ground . . . Vanburgh’s style the usual approach to Blenheim is by way of Nicholas Hawksmoor’s 1723 Woodstock gate leading from the town. After passing through this the spectator, looking ahead, catches sight of the palace, designed in a flamboyant baroque style by Sir John Vanbrugh (1664–1726), beyond the lake in a dramatic landscape effect engineered around 1764–74 by Lancelot Brown (known as Capability Brown; 1716–83). Across the lake to the right of the gate is the site of the old Manor: this was finally demolished in 1723 and the low hill on which it had stood levelled as part of the pre-Brown landscaping work. 19.11 mourning cloak black cloak worn by people following a funeral: it is probable that this cloak is worn in memory of the executed king. 19.12–13 that picturesque form, which Vandyke has rendered immortal Sir Anthony Van Dyck (1599–1641) was a Flemish artist who became the leading English court portraitist in the 1630s. He usually painted his gentlemen in elegant black clothes with elaborate lace trimmings. 19.35 start up spring up. 19.41 hold out defend to the last. 20.11 the dismal thirtieth of January the date of Charles I’s execution in 1649. 20.25 a den of thieves Mark 11.17; Matthew 21.13. 20.25–26 wipe their mouths and thank God actions at the end of a meal. See also note to 15.37. 20.26–27 alms deed act of charity. 20.32 Worcester for the battle of Worcester see note to 7.25–26. 20.33–34 the hunt is up the hunt is under way. 21.9 make good hold. 21.10 be ruled listen to reason. King Lear, 2.4.146. 21.13 get on go on; continue. 21.22 Too late for my turn too late to be of any use to me. 21.23 the heavenly book the book of divine providence. 21.38 crop-eared having the hair cut short, so that the ears are conspicuous. This term was probably intended to associate the Puritans with criminals whose ears had been cut off as a punishment (OED). 21.39 on with continue on the subject of. 22.6 a furlough to beg a furlough, or licence to beg, could be issued by the local authorities to the infirm poor of a parish. 22.17–18 Muggletonian member of an anti-trinitarian sect founded in 1652 by Lodowicke Muggleton (1609–98) and John Reeve (1608–58). 22.18 Ranter member of an antinomian sect which arose c. 1645. Antinomians maintained that Christians are by grace set free from the need to observe any moral law. 22.18 Brownist an Independent or Congregationalist (see Historical Note, 533–34). Robert Browne (1550?–1633) was the founder of Congregationalism. 22.19 Jack Presbyter see note to 12.38. 22.21–22 the wise virgins the term usually refers to the virgins whose lamps are filled with oil ready for the bridegroom’s arrival, unlike their foolish counterparts (Matthew 25.1–13). Lee uses it ironically. 22.23 own niece to ‘own’ here emphasises a close relationship: an ‘own

562

 

brother’ would be a full brother as opposed to a half-brother, and an ‘own cousin’ would be a first cousin. 22.25 Hear me but one patient word i.e. listen patiently to just a short utterance. 22.32–33 the commissioners . . . sequestrate the park and the property see note to 5.2–3. 23.2 no daughter of mine compare King Lear, 1.1.115–19. 23.5–6 like the wicked wife of Job . . . affliction see Job 2.9, where Job’s wife urges him to ‘curse God, and die’. The phrasing echoes The Merry Wives of Windsor, 5.5.149–50. 23.11–12 this grey beard . . . sovereign’s death see Scott’s ‘Memoirs’: ‘Beardie, my great grandfather aforesaid [Walter Scott (1653–1729)] derived his agnomen from a venerable beard which he wore unblemished by razor or scissors in token of his regret for the banished dynasty of Stuart’ (Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 2). 23.21–22 your way is my way compare Ruth’s words to Naomi: ‘whither thou goest, I will go’ (Ruth 1.16). 23.24–25 Thou word’st me . . . as Will Shakspeare says see Antony and Cleopatra, 5.2.190. 23.33 discharged him my company forbade him to see me. 23.43 creep into thy heart a common expression in the 17th century. 24.1–2 like undefiled ermine compare the proverb ‘In an ermine [white fur of a stoat] spots are soon discovered’ (ODEP, 225). 24.2 damned spot Macbeth, 5.1.33. 24.5–8 Gentle daughter . . . troublesome see 2 Henry IV, 2.3.1–4. 24.9–10 Our little jars . . . comes in play see 1 Henry VI, 1.1.44: ‘Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace’. The expression comes in play means ‘begins to exercise his effect’. 24.11 His book was the closet-companion of my blessed master Charles I’s devotion to Shakespeare was particularly evident in his annotating his works during his captivity on the Isle of Wight in 1648 (ODNB). 24.12 with reverence I apologise. 24.15 pretend not to do not lay claim to. 24.19–20 he died when I was a mere child see Historical Note, 547. 24.22–23 Ben Jonson I knew . . . the Mermaid Ben Jonson (1572–1637) was among the men of literature who frequented the Mermaid Tavern in Bread Street in the City of London. 24.26–27 Old Ben adopted me . . . muses compare Thomas Campbell, writing on the 17th-century poet Thomas Randolph, in Specimens of the British Poets, 7 vols (London, 1819), 3.101: ‘Ben Jonson . . . owned him, like [Edmund] Cartwright, as his adopted son in the Muses’: CLA, 190. The poem addressed to Lee is imaginary. 24.32–33 The evil spirit . . . the present see 1 Samuel 16.23: ‘And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.’ 24.36 making good holding; successfully defending. 25.2 Seat of learning and loyalty see note to 319.27–28. 25.5 Boreas the north wind in Greek mythology. 25.5–6 the burning bush shall not be consumed see Exodus 3.1–6, where God speaks to Moses out of a bush which is burning but not consumed. 25.24 knotted adders S[amuel] H[arding], Sicily and Naples, or, the Fatall Vnion. A Tragœdy (Oxford, 1640), 23 (2.3.22–23): ‘My soule is rapt with furies, here they gnaw,/ Like knotted Adders wrapt about my heart.’

 

563

See also Othello, 4.2.62–63: ‘Or keep it [my heart] as a cistern for foul toads/ To knot and gender in’. 25.37 the good old cause a very common term for the Puritan republican cause; see e.g. note to 14.41–43. 26.8 Desborough for John Desborough (1608–80) see Historical Note, 545. 26.10 Scythian the Scythians were ‘barbaric’ nomadic tribes of N Europe and Asia beyond the Black Sea. 26.10 Harrison for Thomas Harrison (1616–60) see Historical Note, 545. 26.13 Bletson apparently fictitious. See Historical Note, 545–46. 26.13 true-blue the term can be either a general one, meaning ‘staunch’, or a more specific one denoting a firm Presbyterian, though the latter is primarily a Scottish use. 26.13–14 Harrington’s Rota Club the Rota Club was a short-lived political club, founded by the moderate Parliamentarian James Harrington (1611–77). It met at the Turk’s Head in New Palace Yard, London, from November 1659 to February 1660. 26.17–18 sees the Areopagus in Westminster-Hall in its hey-day from the late 7th century to the 5th century  the Court of the Areopagus in Athens, made up of men who had occupied the highest positions in the state, sitting in the court for life, exercised a wide range of legal powers. Westminster Hall, William Rufus’s banqueting hall of 1097, was the seat of the principal English courts of law until 1882 when they moved to the new Law Courts in the Strand. 26.18 old Noll Oliver Cromwell. 26.18 a Roman Consul in the early years of the Roman republic, from 510  , two consuls were elected annually by the people to exercise supreme military and legislative power. 26.20–21 consists not with is not compatible with. 26.24 as your own portion as if it had been allotted to you by destiny. 26.29 damned as black as the smoke of hell see Hamlet, 3.3.94–95. 26.31 grisly oaths . . . gray beards compare 2 Henry IV, 5.5.49: ‘How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!’ 26.32 that is truth, if the devil spoke it alluding to the proverb ‘The devil sometimes speaks the truth’: ODEP, 183. (The word ‘if’ is to be understood as ‘even if ’.) For the phrasing compare Othello, 1.1.109–10: ‘you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you’. 26.33 old Nick the Devil. 26.35–36 right of waif and stray, vert and venison two set phrases. A waif is ‘a piece of property which is found ownerless and which, if unclaimed within a fixed period after due notice given, falls to the lord of the manor’ (OED); a stray is a stray domestic animal, similarly liable to forfeiture. Vert is any vegetation in a forest suitable as cover for deer: hunting, and felling of trees was prohibited in a royal forest without special leave from the sovereign. 26.39 made their might their right see the proverb ‘Might makes right’: ODEP, 530. 27.5–8 the Egyptian Pharaoh . . . the Martyr both references to Charles I. The Pharaohs were regarded as oppressors of the Children of Israel during their captivity in Egypt, and 30 January is still kept by devout Royalists as the feast of King Charles the Martyr (it was a legal holiday in Scott’s time). 27.16 Put me not do not oblige me. 27.16 the carnal weapon i.e. as opposed to a spiritual weapon. See 2

564

 

Corinthians 10.2–4: ‘I think to be bold against some, which think of us as if we walked according to the flesh. For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war after the flesh: (For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God to the pulling down of strong holds)’. Compare the motto to Chapter 1. 27.20 the Man see note to 14.41–43. 27.22 Patience is a good nag, but she will plod see Henry V, 2.1.23–24: ‘though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod’. 27.31–32 cunning of fence expert in fencing. 28.1–5 by the law of arms I might smite thee . . . Gibeon see 2 Samuel 3.23–27. Sir Henry could be killed if the contest was regarded as a duel to the death. 28.7–8 turning from thine evil ways see 2 Kings 17.13; Ezekiel 33.11; Zechariah 1.4. 28.8–9 enlarge thy date for repentance and amendment enlarge thy date means ‘give you more time’. ‘Repentance and amendment of life’ is a standard phrase, commonly used in prayer and devotional works. It is found in a frequently reprinted work of the Church of England, ‘An Homely of Repentaunce and of true reconciliation unto God’, no. 20 of The second Tome of Homeleyes . . . to be read in every paryshe Church agreably (London, 1563), Zzzz.iiiv [p. 565]: ‘no doctrine is so necessarye in the Churche of God, as is the doctrine of repentaunce and amendement of lyfe’. 28.11 fellow-worm Isaac Watts, Hymns and Spiritual Songs (London, 1707), 120: No. 46 (‘God’s Condescension to Humane Affairs’), line 24. Watt’s hymns were frequently reprinted, but the phrase is common in evangelical works in the 17th and 18th centuries. 28.21 striving against the hill see Austin Saker, Narbonus (London, 1580), [Part 1], 114: ‘I swimme against the Tide, and striue against the Hill’. 28.21–22 the devil rules the roast Richard Cumberland, The Passive Husband. A Comedy, Act 3, in The Posthumous Dramatick Works of the late Richard Cumberland, Esq., 2 vols (London, 1813), 1.259. The expression ‘to rule the roast’ (superseded by ‘to rule the roost’) is proverbial: ODEP, 687. 28.22 makes our slaves our tutors i.e. turns the world upside down. Compare Prospero’s ‘What, I say, my foot my tutor?’: The Tempest, 1.2.468–69. 29.8 bright steel compare Othello, 1.2.59: ‘Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.’ 29.24–25 ill will i.e. persecution by the Royalist authorities. 29.25–26 obnoxious or malignant persons, as the phrase goes the full phrase has not been located elsewhere, though obnoxious (in the sense ‘reprehensible, open to punishment or censure’) and malignant (meaning ‘disaffected’, usually in the sense of sympathetic to the Royalist cause) are common in the period. 29.27 a Ragged Robin a ragged person (transferred from the name of a common English wild flower). Scott has a Magnum note (39.46): ‘The keeper’s followers in the New Forest [in Hampshire] are called in popular language ragged Robins.’ 29.29 turn with the tide proverbial: Ray, 214; ODEP, 848. 29.38 Not a whit not in the least. 29.43 my name in the flesh my name in this life. A common expression in the 17th century: see e.g. the title page of William Dewsbury, The Discovery of Mans Returne to his First Estate (London, 1654), where the author describes himself as a ‘Quaker, whose name in the flesh is Wiliam Densbury; but hath a New Name, the World knows not, written in the Book of Life’.

 

565

30.1 Honest Joe, and Trusty Tomkins there are signs that for Tomkins Scott drew hints from Joseph Collins, the supposed instigator of the ‘events’ in Woodstock in the version of the story in The British Magazine (see Historical Note, 539–40): he is called ‘funny Joe’; under the name of Giles Sharp he becomes secretary to all the Commissioners. 30.12–20 motto see [David Lloyd] (1597–1663), The Legend of Captain Jones (London, 1671), 69: CLA, 132. This work was originally published in 1631, but the lines quoted by Scott first appear in the edition which was published in 1648. The expression vapour forth means ‘brag about’, ‘talk in a blustering way about’; damme is the oath ‘damn me’. Fighting by ‘Damme’ is a crude caricature of the cavaliers of the Royalist cause, and by ‘the Spirit’ (i.e. the Holy Spirit) of the Parliamentary forces. The first group of battles referred to are the three inconclusive encounters at Edgehill (Warwickshire) on 23 October 1642, and at Newbury (Berkshire) on 20 September 1643 and again on 27 October 1644. The second reference is to one or more of the following encounters in the west (the first three Royalist victories, the fourth Parliamentary): Lansdown Hill (Bath, Somerset) on 5 July 1643; Roundway Down (Devizes, Wiltshire) on 13 July 1643; Lostwithiel (Cornwall) fought 31 August to 2 September 1644; and Langport (Somerset) on 10 July 1645. The principal battles in the north of England were both Parliamentary victories: Marston Moor (Yorkshire), fought 2 July 1644; and Preston (Lancashire), fought 17–19 August 1648. 30.31 I fear me I am afraid. 30.35 bethink thee of doing remember to do; think of doing. 30.41 rung even-song rung the bell to summon worshippers to evening worship in the Church of England. 31.8–9 the palace of the New Hiarusalem see Revelation 21.2: ‘And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven’. The form ‘Hierusalem’ (based on the Septuagint’s ‘Hierosolyma’) is given as an alternative in Alexander Cruden’s A Complete Concordance of the Holy Scriptures, 8th edn (Berwick, 1817): CLA, 266. 31.9 the reign of the Saints shall commence on earth see Revelation 20.4 for the thousand-year reign of the righteous with Christ before the final apocalypse. 31.13 will you shog see Henry V, 2.3.45 (shog means ‘move on’). 31.13 will you on will you move on? will you proceed? 31.13–14 take sasine and livery law take possession. The usual English expression is ‘take livery of seisin’ or ‘take livery and seisen’; sasine is a Scots form. 31.16–17 the High Thanksgiving appointed by Parliament see note to 7.25–26. 31.17 owned to accepted as valid. 31.24 men of Belial see note to 11.33. 31.25–26 an Edomite . . . an Ishmaelite the Edomites were inveterate enemies of the neighbouring Israelites: see e.g. Jeremiah 49.7–22. In Psalm 83.6 they are associated with the desert-dwelling Ishmaelites and other tribes deemed hostile to God and his people. 31.26 rising up early and dividing the spoil see e.g. Genesis 49.27: ‘Benjamin shall ravin as a wolf: in the morning he shall devour the prey, and at night he shall divide the spoil.’ 31.27 the Man see note to 14.41–43. 31.27–28 beards and green jerkins for memorial beards see note to 23.11–12. The green jerkin perhaps relates to the post-Restoration association of the Stewarts with vegetation and fertility rituals emphasising that colour: see Paul Kléber Monod, Jacobitism and the English People 1688–1788

566

 

(Cambridge, 1989), 65–66, 202–04. The disguised Charles wore a green coat: see note to 214.8–14. 31.30 in design to discover with the intention of discovering. 31.42 Go to phrase used to introduce a contemptuous concession. 32.5 why so be it so. See e.g. Macbeth, 3.4.107. 32.17 by the mass the oath (‘By the eucharist’) continued to be used by some Protestants after the Reformation. 32.19 it is a peradventure he may have met it is possible he may have met. 32.23 generation of vipers Matthew 3.7, 12.34, 23.33; Luke 3.7. 32.23–24 clothed himself with curses as with a garment the phrasing ironically echoes Psalm 104.2, 6: ‘[Thou] coverest thyself with light as with a garment . . . Thou coveredst it [the earth] with the deep as with a garment’. The usage can be found in Thomas Fuller, The Holy State (Cambridge, 1642: see CLA, 252), 412, where it is said of the Roaring Boys (riotous fellows): ‘These (as David saith) cloath themselves with curses as with a garment’. 32.25–27 a habit of swearing . . . reported since his time punning (in what Scott implies is a cliché) on habit as ‘custom’ and ‘garment’. 32.28–29 a Maypole maypoles were viewed with particular disfavour by the Puritans, as ‘heathenish’ and the occasion for mixed or promiscuous dancing. 32.36–37 trip like the noodles of Hogs-Norton, when the pigs play on the organ proverbial: Ray, 206; ODEP, 376. In his History of the Worthies of England, ed. John Nichols, 2 vols (London, 1811), 327 Thomas Fuller notes: ‘“You were born at Hogs-Norton”. This is a Village, properly called Hoch-Norton [Hook Norton], whose inhabitants (it seems formerly) were so rustical in their behaviour, that boarish and clownish people are said to have been born at Hogs-Norton.’ 32.39–40 one whose hand is at the plough see Luke 9.62: ‘No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God.’ 32.42 take the big tone speak aggressively. 32.43 the old knight of sixty-five see Historical Note, 526–47. 33.5 Burford a town 28 km W of Oxford. 33.9 Maid Marrons Maid Marion (or Marron) was a character in the old morris dances and May games who later became attached to the Robin Hood legends as the outlaw’s sweetheart. 33.11 carnal self-pleasers for ‘carnal’ see note to 27.16. The term ‘selfpleasers’ derives from 2 Peter 2.10 in the English translation of the Latin Vulgate New Testament published in 1582 (the Authorised Version has ‘selfwilled’). 33.21 the King’s Oak see note to 16.12–13. 33.24 run races, and wrestle for belts or bonnets see The Spectator, no. 161 (4 September 1711), where Eustace Budgell writes: ‘had you stayed there a few Days longer you would have seen a Country Wake, which you know in most parts of England is the Eve-Feast of the Dedication of our Churches’. He describes a number of sports, including ‘a Ring of Wrestlers’, and reports that the ‘Squire of the Parish treats the whole Company every Year with a Hogshead of Ale; and proposes a Beaver-Hat, as a Recompence to him who gives the most Falls’ (in The Spectator, ed. Donald F. Bond, 5 vols (1965), 2.131–32). See also Joseph Strutt, The Sports and Pastimes of the People of England (London, 1801), 65. 33.28–29 half a flight-shot a flight-shot is the distance to which a flight-arrow carries: this can be up to 400 metres. A flight-arrow is a light

 

567

well-feathered arrow for long-distance shooting. 33.29–31 The King gave ten shillings . . . the forest probably fictitious. 33.37 use of doctrine part of a sermon or homily devoted to the practical application of doctrine. 33.41 with the hat over their brows a standard sign of glumness. See e.g. Macbeth, 4.3.208. 34.3–4 the holidays . . . put down the holidays marking the festivals of the Christian year such as Christmas, Easter and Whitsuntide were abolished by Parliament by an Ordinance of 8 June 1647. 34.6 cassock and scarf the robe and long silk band hanging round the neck worn by Anglican clergymen. 34.9 pledge a friendly cup a turn too often drink a friendly toast just a little too often. 34.9–10 good neighbourhood friendly feeling and intercourse. 34.10 single-stick ‘fighting, fencing, or exercise with a stick provided with a guard or basket and requiring only one hand’ (OED: the first example is dated 1771). 34.12 dry blows blows not drawing blood. 34.13 the presbyter’s cap the Genevan skull-cap worn by Presbyterian clergymen of the time. 34.21 pleasant savour a burnt offering is repeatedly described as a ‘sweet savour’ in Leviticus and Numbers. 34.32 Naseby fight see note to 14.13. 34.42 Martlemas and Whitsuntide quarter days, when payments became due. But these two are Scots term-days (11 November and 15 May respectively). The closest English equivalents are Michaelmas (29 September) and Midsummer Day (24 June). 34.42 without a fable I lie not. 35.1–2 No devil so frightful . . . keep him out when a pocket contains no coins bearing crosses the sign of the cross is not present to keep devils away. Compare the proverbs ‘He hath never a cross to bless himself withal’, i.e. no money (Ray, 184; ODEP, 156), and ‘The devil dances in an empty pocket’ (ODEP, 180). 35.7 green caterpillars of the chase i.e. huntsmen; keepers. 35.7 him who is yours to command i.e. myself. A standard expression of respectful submission. 35.10 Worcester for the battle of Worcester see note to 7.25–26. 35.11 palmer worms caterpillars. For caterpillars as an image for political undesirables see e.g. Richard II, 2.3.166. 35.13 got my head under his belt proverbial got me utterly in his power. The normal proverb, ‘Thy thumb is under my belt’ (see Ray, 307; ODEP, 820), means ‘you are in my power’. 35.16 bon camarado period Spanish good comrade. 35.17 the going down of the sun the expression occurs several times in the Old Testament. 35.19 the old Gothic building for the description of the Lodge that follows see Historical Note, 541–42. 36.3 the Liturgy the set forms of prayer and worship laid down in the Book of Common Prayer, the service-book of the Church of England. 36.16 the pure Norman of Henry of Anjou the Romanesque style of the time of Henry II (see Historical Note, 541). 36.18 Elizabeth and her successor Elizabeth I (reigned 1558–1603) and James I (reigned 1603–25). 36.30–31 a bowing down . . . Bethel see 1 Kings 12.32.

568

 

36.31–32 the cup of the abominations see Revelation 17.4. 36.36–37 destroyed . . . the brook Kedron for Kidron (‘Cedron’ in John 18.1, and sometime spelt ‘Kedron’ as here), destruction of idolatry, and ashes see 1 Kings 15.13; 2 Kings 23.6, 12; 2 Chronicles 15.16, 29.16, 30.14; and Jeremiah 31.40. 36.38–39 the iniquity wherewith their fathers have sinned see e.g. Jeremiah 14.20 and Daniel 9.16. 37.2–3 in especial in particular. 37.18 a fixture unmoveable. 37.26–27 the figure of a Norman foot-soldier in the Great Hall of Naworth Castle, Cumberland, there stood in Scott’s time two sets of carved figures: 4 heraldic beasts (gryphon, ram, bull and dolphin) of painted and gilded oak, and 3 unpainted oaken figures of a knight, a man-at arms and a squire. All are now displayed in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, known as the Dacre Beasts and dated to c. 1520 (Burlington Magazine, 148 (December, 2006), 890). Scott knew the castle, and remarked to Constable ‘I am sure you must have been delighted with Naworth’ (Letters, 8.298: 11 June [1824]). 38.1 of yore formerly. 38.24 curfew the curfew bell would sound to indicate that fires should be covered or extinguished, primarily to protect homes from fire. In the 19th century the Woodstock curfew was still rung from 8 to 8.30 pm from October to March: Notes and Queries, 1st series, 2 (12 October 1850), 312. 38.34 Michaelmas see note to 34.42. 38.35–36 where King Stephen sat . . . the tailor compare Othello, 2.3.82–85: ‘King Stephen was a worthy peer,/ His breeches cost him but a crown;/ He held ’em sixpence all too dear,/ With that he call’d the tailor lown.’ For a commentary on the early ballad quoted by Shakespeare see Othello (The Arden Edition), ed. E. A. J. Honigmann (Walton-on-Thames, 1997), 336–37. For the ballad see ‘Take thy Old Cloak about Thee’, in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 1.204–07 (207): CLA, 172. 38.38–39 the Plantagenet times . . . the house of Tudor the Plantagenets reigned from 1154 to 1399. The Tudor dynasty began with Henry VII in 1485. The intervening period, not mentioned here, was occupied by the Lancastrians and the Yorkists. For the gradual retreat of the politer members of the household from the communal hall c. 1500 see Mark Girouard, Life in the English Country House (New Haven and London, 1978), 53–54. 38.40 chary of their royal presence compare 1 Henry IV, 3.2.39. 39.7–8 Perish Babylon, as thy master Nebuchadnezzar hath perished the death of Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, does not feature in the Bible, though for a time he behaves like an animal (Daniel 4.33). There is probably a confusion with the dramatically described killing of his overweening son Belshazzar (Daniel 5.30). In Revelation 18.21 Babylon, seen as the seat of evil (and associated by many Protestants with the Church of Rome), is to be destroyed with violence. 39.8 He is a wanderer compare Hosea 9.17: ‘My God will cast them [the tribe of Ephraim] away, because they did not hearken unto him: and they shall be wanderers among the nations.’ 39.9 thou shalt be a waste place for the expression ‘waste place’ see e.g. Isaiah 51.3. 39.9–10 a wilderness—yea, a desert of salt see especially Jeremiah 17.5–6: ‘Thus saith the Lord; Cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord. For he shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good cometh; but

 

569

shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, in a salt land and not inhabited.’ For the sowing of destroyed cities with salt (to ensure barrenness and prevent resettlement) see Deuteronomy 29.23 and Judges 9.45. 39.13 care for pay due regard to. 39.13 the creature-comforts the term ‘creature-comforts’ is first found during the Civil War period, when it was much favoured by Puritan writers: see e.g. George Abbot, Brief Notes upon the whole Book of Psalms (London, 1651), 248, 310. In Somers’ Tracts, 7.148n, Scott refers to ‘what the cant of the age termed creature-comforts, i.e. . . . sensual indulgence of appetite’. For the distinction between the inner and outward man see 2 Corinthians 4.16. 39.14 in due season a common biblical expression. See especially Galatians 6.9: ‘in due season we shall reap, if we faint not’. 39.17–18 the year sixteen hundred and thirty-nine . . . Majesty Charles received state papers while on vacation at Woodstock in 1636 (Kevin Sharpe, The Personal Rule of Charles I (New Haven and London, 1992), 202), but no record has been found of his staying at Woodstock in 1639. 39.21 the proclamation to that effect Whitelocke records (425) that on 9 February 1650 ‘One Hinderson proclaimed in several Streets of Newark, I pronounce Charles the Second of England, Scotland, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, &c. as King of England, although his Father suffered wrongfully; Yet you cannot be governed without a Head, but now you are Governed by a stinking lowsy Committee. [new paragraph] For these words he was apprehended and sent to Prison.’ He was lucky to escape with his life, for the ‘Act for abolishing the Kingly Office’ passed on 17 March 1649 decrees that ‘the promoting of any one person whomsoever, to the Name, Stile, Dignity, Power, Prerogative or Authority of King of England and Ireland’ is to be regarded as High Treason. 39.26 broad pieces ‘A name applied after the introduction of the guinea in 1663 to the “Unite” or 20 shilling-piece (“Jacobus” and “Carolus”) of the preceding reigns, which were much broader and thinner than the new milled coinage’ (OED). 39.29–31 those besotted and blinded Papists . . . the alms-giver a major issue at the Reformation was the denial by many reformers that good works had any part to play in an individual’s salvation. God granted absolution (without the mediation of a priest) and salvation solely on the grounds of faith in Christ’s atoning death. 39.34 bluff King Henry, who builded that wing Henry VIII did not carry out any substantial building works at Woodstock. 40.19 oriel windows bay windows projecting from an upper storey. 40.26 plate armour ‘armour composed of metal pieces fastened together or fixed to a textile or leather garment’ (OED). 40.26–27 the harsh and dry manner of Holbein Hans Holbein (1497–1543) came to England from Germany in 1526 and became the leading court painter. His work came to seem ‘harsh and dry’ when Van Dyck (see note to 19.12–13) introduced a more opulent and relaxed style of portraiture. 40.37–38 Lee Victor sic voluit Latin such was the will of Lee the victor. 40.39 tilting armour armour for use in jousting tournaments. 41.39 right or might see note to 26.39. 42.6 trip it run lightly. 42.22 grief, like impatience, hath its privileges compare King Lear, 2.2.65: ‘anger hath a privilege’. 42.37 Chambering and wantonness Romans 13.13.

570

 

42.42–43 Kiss and be kind, the fiddler’s blind no tune with this title has been located. The sentence has now apparently the status of a Scottish proverb. 43.1 King and high priest the two terms are frequently applied together to Christ in 17th-century religious texts. 43.2–3 nature’s miracle 1 Henry VI, 5.3.54. 43.7–9 revered of the Roxburghe . . . editio princeps the Roxburghe Club was founded in 1812, when the great library of John Ker (1740–1804), 3rd Duke of Roxburghe (succeeded 1755), was sold. Its object was the reprinting of rare works. The Bannatyne Club, founded with Scott as president in 1823, pursued the same objects in Scotland. John Hemmings and Henry Condell collected and published the first folio edition of Shakespeare’s works in 1623 (editio princeps is Latin for ‘first edition’). 43.11 By the mass see note to 32.17. 43.12–13 Odds pitlikins God’s pity! See Cymbeline, 4.2.294. Scott may have meant to write ‘pittikins’, as in all occurrences up to his time, but the manuscript is clear. 43.13 Will of Stratford Shakespeare was born and died at Stratfordupon-Avon. 43.17–18 the voice within me conscience. 43.18 deal with thee as a scorner compare Proverbs 21.24: ‘Proud and haughty scorner is his name, who dealeth in proud wrath.’ Compare also Isaiah 29.20: ‘For the terrible one is brought to nought, and the scorner is consumed, and all that watch for iniquity are cut off’. 43.19 since the devil fell from Heaven see e.g. Luke 10.18: ‘I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven’. 43.21–22 Seeks a wife . . . she shall find it perhaps referring to Gertrude in Hamlet, or (less likely) Tamora in Titus Andronicus. 43.22–24 Would a man know . . . tutoring perhaps referring to Iago setting Roderigo to kill Cassio in Othello, or (less likely) Macbeth giving instructions for the murder of Banquo. 43.24–25 Would a lady marry a heathen negro . . . example for it a clear reference to Othello, but the hero, although a Moor, is officially a Christian. 43.25–26 Would any one scorn . . . in this book this would appear to be a general reference to the many light invocations of the Deity in Shakespeare. 43.26–27 Would he defy his brother . . . a challenge for doubts at the period about the moral legitimacy of duelling see Thomas Pestel, ‘A Collection of several mens Discourses and Opinions concerning Duels’ in his Sermons and Devotions Old and New (London, 1659), 324–36. Tomkins is probably thinking of the threatened duels between Benedict and Claudio in Much Ado About Nothing, Dr Caius and Sir Hugh Evans in The Merry Wives of Windsor, Sir Andrew Aguecheek and ‘Cesario’ in Twelfth Night, or the actual encounter between Romeo and Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet which results in Tybalt’s death. The expression ‘his brother in the flesh’ means ‘a fellow human being’. 43.27–28 Would you be drunk, Shakspeare will cheer you with a cup this would appear to be a general Shakespearean reference. 43.29–30 lascivious sounds of a lute see Richard III, 1.1.13: ‘the lascivious pleasing of a lute’. 43.35 Tophet . . . the Vale of Hinnom see Jeremiah 7.31–33. Tophet or the Valley of Hinnom was the site of human sacrifice to the false god Moloch. God proclaims that the defiled site will be filled with unburied corpses. It came to be synonymous with hell.

 

571

43.36–39 when we passed Stratford . . . his cavaliers after his defeat by Royalist forces at Roundway Down, Wiltshire, on 13 July 1643, Sir William Waller (1598?–1668) led his troops from Bristol via Gloucester to Warwick, Bristol being taken in his rear by Prince Rupert. 44.1–2 I had torn . . . from the grave Shakespeare’s grave in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon, bears the inscription: ‘Good frend for Iesvs sake forbeare,/ To digg the dvst encloased heare./ Blest be ye man yt spares thes stones,/ and cvrst be he yt moves my bones.’ 44.3–4 a scoff and a hissing see Byron, Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice (1821), 5.2.83: ‘A hissing and a scoff unto the nations’. For the biblical origin of this usage of ‘hissing’ see e.g. Jeremiah 25.9. 44.9–10 at that rate like that. 44.11 oh the father 1 Henry IV, 2.4.381. In Shakespeare this probably refers to Falstaff’s playing the role of Hal’s father, but it may be a mild oath (God the Father!), as here. 44.13 strong waters spirits. 44.14 Hark thee hither listen to me. 44.18 I would be sworn to I swear I could. 44.20–21 in this turn of times i.e. under these changed circumstances. A set phrase. 44.25 the great standing venison pasty a standing dish is one that appears every day, or at each meal. 44.27 for a pinch in an emergency. 44.40 like a lapwing Much Ado about Nothing, 3.1.24 (describing Beatrice). The lapwing ‘runs on ground, with typical plover action of a short pause after each few patters’ (R. S. R. Fitter, Collins Pocket Guide to British Birds, rev. edn (London, 1966), 90). 44.42 a brown study serious reverie. 45.1 Hie thee away off you go. 45.27 hold forth preach. 45.36 creature-comforts see note to 39.13. 45.36 the outward man i.e. the body: 2 Corinthians 4.16. 46.6–20 motto by Scott. The expression sparry grot means a garden feature in the form of a cave encrusted with crystalline rocks. 46.29–32 like the champions of romance . . . by Fate no precise allusion has been traced, and it may be that none is intended. 47.20–25 I have read . . . kept at Woodstock see Sir John Froissart’s Chronicles, trans. Thomas Johnes, 4 vols (Hafod, 1803–05), 4.657–58: CLA, 28. The incident took place at Flint Castle. 49.41 an Inns-of-Court-man a member of one of the four London legal societies, which had the exclusive right of admitting persons to practise at the bar. 50.2–3 decent pickings . . . as the phrase goes the expression ‘merciful increases’ has not been located elsewhere; ‘decent pickings’ has not been found before the 20th century apart from this occurrence, but expressions such as ‘small pickings’ are common in earlier usage. 50.5 held forth preached. 50.9–10 I must have mine eye . . . Hamlet says see Hamlet, 2.2.289: ‘I have an eye of you’. 51.23–25 Ye need no licence or priest . . . for a priest although Presbyterian ministers continued to insist on banns and a religious service, Independents and other sects regarded marriage as a purely civil contract not requiring religious formalities. On 24 August 1653 Parliament passed ‘an Act declaring that only marriages solemnised before a Justice of the Peace would be recognised by the State, thus putting an end to all difficulties arising

572

 

from defective registration. As the Act contained no word prohibiting the parties from having recourse to such religious ceremony as they saw fit, whether before or after the official union, there was nothing in it to give offence to any reasonable person who refused to regard marriage as a purely civil institution.’ (Samuel Rawson Gardiner, History of the Commonwealth and Protectorate 1649–1656, 4 vols (London, 1894–1901), 2.242. 51.27 a Ranter see note to 22.18. 51.27 the Family of Love ‘a sect which originated in Holland, and gained many adherents in England in the 16th and 17th c.; they held that religion consisted chiefly in the exercise of love, and that absolute obedience was due to all established governments, however tyrannical’ (OED). 51.28 Knipperdoling . . . Jack of Leyden in 1534–35 Jan Beukelsoon (Jan van Leyden: c. 1495–1536) ruled the city of Münster in Germany, imposing adult baptism and polygamy on the inhabitants. Bernhard Knipperdolling (1509?–1536) was one of his two principal followers. 52.18 takes all that comes to net alluding to the proverb ‘All is fish that comes to net’: Ray, 190; ODEP, 264–65. 52.36–37 lady paramount lady in supreme authority. 52.37–38 dictate our train . . . like Goneril and Regan see King Lear, 2.4.124–285 for the conflict between Lear and his two wicked daughters over his train (‘followers’). 53.20–22 set forms . . . barbarous age Everard associates the set forms of service prescribed by the Book of Common Prayer for use in the Church of England, arising as they did from the Catholic liturgy, with medieval chivalry. 53.24–26 the better doctrine . . . reproach see Luke 6.28–29: ‘Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other’. 54.21–22 the history of Argalus and Parthenia . . . Arcadia Argalus and Parthenia are a devoted but star-crossed couple in Sir Philip Sidney’s prose romance The Covntesse of Pembroke’s Arcadia (1590). Their story is retold in the poem Argalus and Parthenia (1629) by Francis Quarles, and by Henry Glapthorne in a play of the same name (1639). Phoebe is more likely to have encountered the couple in a popular chapbook version, though the only printed copy of such a version to have survived was not published until 1672 (The Most Excellent History of Argalus and Parthenia, published in London). 54.28 at high words engaged in an altercation. 54.33–35 as Dame Quickly . . . his daughter expected see The Merry Wives of Windsor, 1.4.81–83. 54.43–55.1 a favourite of his unfortunate master in 1629–30 Charles I had the cockpit at Whitehall converted into a theatre where his favourite Shakespeare was often performed. 55.3–4 mark . . . the devil can quote scripture for his purpose see The Merchant of Venice, 1.3.92–93. Proverbial: ODEP, 180. 55.5 playing Maid Marion . . . May-day see note to 33.9. 55.8–9 bethumping us with his texts and his homilies compare King John, 2.1.466: ‘I was never so bethump’d with words’. 55.11 the Vulgate the Latin translation of the Bible originally made by St Jerome (c. 340–420). As revised from 1593 it remains the authorised Latin text for the Roman Catholic Church. 55.11 the Septuagint the Greek versions of the Old Testament and the Apocrypha, which were first translated in the 3rd century  . 55.12 with a wanion with a vengeance. 55.15 open on it hunting bay loudly when in sight of the quarry.

 

573

55.15 hunting counter going in a direction opposite to that which the quarry has taken. 55.20–21 her tears . . . marred her counterfeited diligence compare King Lear, 3.6.59–60: ‘My tears begin to take his part so much/ They mar my counterfeiting’ (Edgar). 55.39–40 The King shall enjoy his own again a Royalist song composed by Martin Parker and dating from 1643, whose first verse ends ‘All things will be well,/ When the King enjoys his own again’. See also note to 169.14–17. 56.5–7 soundly as those . . . yesterday compare the King’s meditation before Agincourt in Henry V, 4.1.262–80. For ‘their daily bread’ see the Lord’s Prayer: Matthew 6.11; Luke 11.3. 56.9–15 motto not identified; probably by Scott. For David’s rejection of Saul’s armour before his encounter with Goliath see 1 Samuel 17.38–39. For the ascription to ‘J. B.’ see Essay on the Text, 439–40. 56.37 curfew see note to 38.24. 57.3 If a man is merry, let him sing psalms see James 5.13. 57.9 wake the night-owl see Twelfth Night, 2.3.57. 57.10–14 Hey for cavaliers! . . . smokes for fear see the chorus of ‘The Cavaliers Song’, in Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, [ed. Thomas D’Urfey], 6 vols (1719–20), 3.131: ‘Hey for Cavaliers,/ Joy for Cavaliers,/ Pray for Cavaliers;/ Dub, a dub, dub,/ Have at old Belzebub,/ Oliver stinks for fear.’ The expression have at means ‘go for’, ‘attack’. 57.18–19 Hash them . . . dash them not identified: perhaps by Scott. 57.25 Squattlesea-mere fictitious, but probably deriving from Whittlesea Mere, S of Peterborough in Cambridgeshire, which was drained by Act of Parliament in 1762. 57.36 a piper paid compare the proverbial ‘To pay the piper’ and ‘He who pays the piper may call the tune’ (ODEP, 615). 57.41 play-haunting the epithet is used frequently in the anti-theatrical treatise by William Prynne, Histrio-Mastix (The Actor’s Horse-whip) (London, 1633): CLA, 83. 57.41 Chloe rustic maiden. The generic term derives from the Greek pastoral romance Daphnis and Chloe by Longus (c. 300  ). 58.2 tickle up stir up in a gratifying way. 58.2–3 Let me alone for putting you rectus in curia you can rely on me getting you acquitted. The legal Latin rectus in curia means, literally, ‘right in court’. 58.4 a piece of a bit of. 58.4 it won’t deny it can’t be denied. 58.6–7 psalm-singing weaver see 1 Henry IV, 2.4.125–26: ‘I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything’ (Falstaff). 58.7–9 that bare felt . . . each of them see the illustration in F. W. Fairholt, Costume in England, 2nd edn (London, 1860), 249 and Fairholt’s comment (389): ‘monstrous boots appear to have been the amour propre of the saints of that day’. In Somers’ Tracts, 7.42n, Scott notes that in The Volunteers Thomas Shadwell describes the parliamentary soldiers ‘in high crown’d Hats, collar’d Bands, great loose Coats, long Tucks under ’em, and CalvesLeather Boots’ (The Volunteers, or the Stock-Jobbers (London, 1693), 25: Act 3, Scene 1). A ‘bare felt’ is a plain felt hat. 58.12–13 the ton of iron . . . Andrew Ferrara Andrea Ferrara was a 16th-century N Italian swordsmith whose name can be found on many Scottish broad-swords of high quality, though it is doubted whether any of them are actually his work. The Toledo swords would be fine rapiers from the city of that name in Spain, or imitating such weapons. The force of ‘black’ is

574

 

unclear: there is no reason to think that a Ferrara would be more likely to discolour than a Toledo: it may be that Scott is thinking of the black bulk of a broadsword in a leather scabbard, or that the word is just being used loosely to indicate inferiority. 58.14 blood and wounds oath by Christ’s blood and wounds. 58.15 truce with enough of. 58.19–20 rat me but I passed myself blow me if I didn’t pass myself. 58.23 never stir, but they asked either blow me if they didn’t ask or what would you expect, but they asked. 58.27 True as steel proverbial: Ray, 226; ODEP, 840. 58.27 Lincoln’s-Inn one of the four Inns of Court, the four legal societies which had the exclusive right of admitting persons to practise at the English bar. 58.28–30 Nisus and Euryalus . . . David and Jonathan four proverbial instances of devoted male friendship. For Nisus and Euryalus, killed together in a military exploit, see Virgil’s Aeneid, 9.367–472. Theseus and Perithous or Pirithous (alluded to in the same poem at 6.393) assisted each other in attempts (successful and abortive respectively) to abduct Helen from Sparta and Proserpine from the underworld. Pylades helped his brother-in-law Orestes to obtain relief from the Furies after he had killed his mother Clytemnestra to avenge his father Agamemnon’s death. The account of David and Jonathan as soul-mates is found in 1 Samuel Chs 18–20 and 2 Samuel Ch. 1. 58.33–34 when you followed the King . . . Essex on 22 August 1642 Charles set up his standard at Nottingham, inaugurating the Civil War. Parliament appointed Robert Devereux (1591–1646), who had been restored as 3rd Earl of Essex in 1603, as its commander-in-chief. 58.43 at any rate in any case. 59.4 Wilmot Henry Wilmot (1612–58), one of Charles I’s principal supporters, was created 1st Earl of Rochester by Charles II in 1652. 59.15 breaking forth breaking loose from restraint. 59.19 hanging sleeves childhood attire. 59.19 Geneva cassock Geneva gown. See note to 10.27–29. 59.20 it is a thing of nature it comes naturally. 59.21–22 truth . . . at the bottom of a flask compare the proverbs ‘In wine there is truth’ (ODEP, 895) and ‘Truth lies at the bottom of a well’ (ODEP, 844). 59.27 indifferent well pretty well. A common prhase, but see Henry V, 4.7.31; Twelfth Night, 1.3.126; and Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.215. 59.28 Worcester fight for the battle of Worcester see note to 7.25–26. 59.36 the next corps de garde the nearest guard-room, where punishment would be meted out. 59.38–39 a great mercy—a glorifying mercy—a crowning mercy— a vouchsafing in his letter to Parliament announcing the victory at Worcester Oliver Cromwell referred it as ‘for ought I know, a Crowning Mercy’. For an extended sequence comparable with Wildrake’s see Francis Roberts, Mysterium & Medulla Bibliorum. The Mysterie and Marrow of the Bible (London, 1657), 638: ‘This Covenant is all Mercy: wholly made up of mercy. viz. Redeeming Mercy, Converting Mercy, Adopting Mercy, Justifying and pardoning Mercy, Comforting Mercy, Saving and glorifying Mercy in the celestial and true Canaan.’ 59.40 Dan to Beersheba a common Old Testament expression, meaning ‘throughout Palestine’. 59.40 smitten, hip and thigh see Judges 15.8. 59.41 the going down of the sun a common Old Testament expression.

 

575

59.42 Colonel Thornhaugh Colonel Francis Thornhagh (1617–48), an officer in Cromwell’s army, was actually killed after the battle of Preston. 60.3–4 King of Scotland, as they term him Charles II was crowned King of Scots at Scone on 1 January 1651. 60.7 fool it play the fool. 60.7–8 the Lincoln’s-Inn gambols the records of Lincoln’s Inn (one of the four Inns of Court: see note to 49.41) have many references to the ‘Revels’ held during the early 17th century, often in association with their colleagues from the Middle Temple: in particular, two great masques were staged in 1613 and 1634. 60.13 indifferent well see note to 59.27. 60.14 But indifferent only ‘pretty’; only indifferently. 60.21–22 clerk . . . secretary a clerk was the servant of one of the Presbyterian church courts, while a secretary was associated with service to the Crown (as it still is in the high offices of state in the UK: the Home Secretary, the Foreign Secretary, etc.). 60.30 freakish folly Byron, Werner (1822), 2.1.265. 60.33–34 cough, and cry hem Othello, 4.2.29. 60.40 Slavonian the term literally means ‘Slav’, but it was used pejoratively to designate someone a rough, barbarous person or rogue. It is used in a context involving cross-dressing in Richard Head, The English Rogue, Part 3 (London, 1671), [66]: CLA, 131. See Essay on the Text, 461. 61.1 verily, to speak your own language for a Puritan characterised by his use of ‘verily’ see e.g. Thomas Randolph, Hey for Honesty, Down with Knavery (London, 1651), 28–29 (Act 4, Scene 1). 61.6 Lundsford Sir Thomas Lunsford (c. 1610–c. 1656) was a leading Royalist officer with a reputation for ferocity. 61.7 rat me blow me. 61.17 Chloe see note to 57.41. 61.32 strong waters spirits. 61.38–39 besanctified as you are a complete ‘Saint’ though you are. 61.40 What like were the men? what did the men look like; what sort of men were they? 62.7–8 pourings forth, as he calls them the phrase ‘pourings forth’, indicating fits of ecstatic speech as at the first Pentecost (Acts 2.4), is probably derived from scriptural passages such as Joel 2.28 (‘it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh’), and is found in such works as William Smith, The Morning-watch; Or, A Spiritual Glass Opened . . . (London, 1660), 8 (‘the pourings forth of the Spirit’). 62.8 Some think his gifts have the better of his grace compare The Heart of Mid-Lothian, ed. David Hewitt and Alison Lumsden,     6, 79.24: ‘his gifts will get the heels of his grace’, for which see Patrick Walker, Seven Saints of the Covenant, ed. D. Hay Fleming, 2 vols (London, 1901), 1.207. 62.11 made the bottle smoke made the bottle give off vapour. See Richard Fanshawe’s translation, The Lusiad . . . by Luis de Camoens (London, 1655), 11 (Canto 1, lines 389–90, stanza 49): ‘Bids streight the Boards be spread, the Bottles smoke,/ With that rich juice which is the Poet’s frend’. 62.19–20 they have always such texts . . . Bible see note to 9.15–17. 62.31–32 No one has paid for peeping . . . days according to legend, a tailor called Tom was struck blind for peeping at the Lady Godiva as she rode naked through Coventry in the 11th century to persuade her husband to remove heavy taxes from his tenants. 62.32 came in for a reckoning had to pay the price. 62.37 cracking a jest and a bottle a play on cracking as making a

576

 

joke and broaching or drinking a bottle. 62.37 wicked Waller the poet in 1643 the poet Edmund Waller (1606–87) led a plot to seize London from the Parliamentarians on behalf of Charles I. Banished the following year, he was pardoned in 1651 and on his return to England became a friend of Oliver (‘Noll’) Cromwell, a second cousin by marriage. 63.3–4 Cuckolds, come dig . . . my jig! recorded as a drum tune in Miles Abraham, Wonders of Wonders (1662). In A New and Accurate History and Survey of London, Westminster, and Southwark, 4 vols (London, 1766), John Entick writes that as Londoners dug their defences against Charles I in 1642 ‘the royalists, called cavilliers, looking upon them with an air of contempt, made a ballad upon them and their seasonable industry, in the opprobrious stile, Round headed cuckolds, come dig’ (2.202). Francis Grose says that the tune was used in camp by the army ‘to summon the pioneers to work’ (Military Antiquities respecting a History of the English Army, 2 vols (London, 1788), 2.269: see CLA, 177), but the couplet in the form quoted by Scott occurs in a number of light-hearted songs in the late 18th century: see e.g. ‘The Soldier’s Medley’, in The Union Song-Book (Berwick, 1781), 196. 63.5 Midsummer frenzy see Twelfth Night, 3.4.53: ‘Why, this is very midsummer madness’ (Olivia on Malvolio). Proverbial: ODEP, 530. 63.9 point of war short phrase sounded as a signal for war. 63.34–35 men unprofitably call Saint George’s Inn the George Inn, in Oxford Street, became the Marlborough Arms in the mid 18th century (the present buildings date from that century). Tomkins disapproves of the cult of a non-biblical saint such as the 3rd-century George, the patron saint of England, about whom virtually nothing is known. 63.37 his fiery dart is now quenched see Ephesians 6.16: ‘taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked’. 64.2–3 the Lord General, who was well nigh paramount already Cromwell became Lord General (commander-in-chief) after the resignation of Thomas Fairfax in 1650, and Lord Protector (head of the executive power) on 15 December 1653. 64.13–14 according to the phrase . . . Egypt see e.g. Robert Sanderson, ‘The Sixth Sermon ad populum’, Fourteen Sermons Heretofore Preached (London, 1657), 335: ‘They [the spiritually ignorant] had eyes, but saw not: because the light was kept from, and the land was dark about them, as the darkness of Egypt.’ The reference is to the darkness which God casts over Egypt at Exodus 10.21–23. 64.39–40 the artificial fly, then little known in fact fly-fishing was already known in the late 15th century: see the final paragraphs of Juliana Berners, A Treatyse of Fysshinge wyth an Angle (London, 1496). 65.29 On pain of thine ears alluding to the punishment involving cropping the ears. 66.11 take you on the form like a hare caught in its lair. 66.14 my masters gentlemen; sirs. 66.16 made up acquaintance became acquainted with each other. 66.30 strong waters spirits. 66.34 A word in season see Proverbs 15.23: ‘a word spoken in due season, how good is it!’ 67.4 armed chair armchair. 68.2–13 motto not identified; probably by Scott. The image of Sleep as the brother of Death goes back to Homer’s Iliad, 14.231, and was adopted by Percy Bysshe Shelley in the second line of Queen Mab (1813). The original

 

577

attribution was simply ‘anonymous’, which Scott changed to ‘Herbert’ in proof. The style is not at all reminiscent of either of the 17th-century Herberts, George or Edward. It resembles much more some of the poetry of William Herbert (1778–1847), notably in The Wierd Wanderer of Jutland (London, 1822). Though he himself could hardly be called a ‘quaint old bard’, William Herbert translated old Scandinavian poetry. Scott reviewed his Miscellaneous Poems, 2 vols (London, 1804–06: CLA, 98) for the Edinburgh Review (The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36), 17.102–18), commenting on the translation of a Danish ballad: ‘we were most struck with its extreme resemblance, in style and structure, to the old ballads of our own country, which has been very dexterously preserved by the translator’ (113). 68.23 to settle the nation, as the phrase then went the phrase occurs in several publications after the Restoration in 1660: e.g. the moderate nonconformist John Corbet’s The Interest of England In the Matter of Religion (London, 1661), 62, 199. 68.33–34 what Oliver called the Great Matter . . . the King compare Cromwell’s reference to the execution as ‘so weighty a matter’: [James Heath], Flagellum: or The Life and Death, Birth and Burial of O. Cromwell, 4th edn (London, 1669), 73: CLA, 26. 69.3–7 those officers . . . his own will and pleasure see Hume, 7.200: ‘So elated was he that he intended to have knighted in the field two of his generals, Lambert and Fleetwood; but was dissuaded by his friends from exerting this act of regal authority.’ The dignity of knight banneret was bestowed by the sovereign for valour in the field, but it was allowed to die out after 1611. 70.1 the Council of State on 19 May 1649 the Rump (see note to 116.29) set up a council of 41 members as its executive committee. 70.2 keep terms keep up negotiations; have dealings. 70.10 agreeably to in answer to; in conformity with. 70.25 Stadtholder, or Consul, or Lieutenant-General the title of Stadtholder (Dutch stadhouder) was bestowed on William of Orange by the States General in 1580, and in 1648 continued as the hereditary title of the head (chief magistrate) of the Dutch republic. Two Consuls exercised military and judicial authority in the Roman republic (see note to 26.18). In the later 1640s Cromwell had been Lieutenant-General of the Parliamentary army, as deputy to the Lord-General Sir Thomas Fairfax, officially succeeding him in July 1650: Lieutenant-General can also mean ‘vice-regent’, and it may be that Everard is envisaging a development of the latter role. 71.38–39 a certain wilderness . . . gardening two popular treatises dealing with this subject which went through several editions were: Leonard Meager, The English Gardener: or, A Sure guide to young Planters and Gardeners In three parts. . . . The Third, The ordering of the Garden of Pleasure, with varietie of Knots, and Wilderness-work after the best fashion (London, 1670); and Philip Miller, The Gardeners Dictionary: containing the Methods of Cultivating and Improving the Kitchen, Fruit and Flower Garden, as also, the Physick Garden, Wilderness, Conservatory, and Vineyard, 2nd edn (London, 1733). 71.40 of yore formerly. 73.38 the Long Parliament see Historical Note, 536, and note to 116.29. 74.10–11 my masters gentlemen; sirs. 74.11 sorrow’s dry proverbial: Ray, 158; ODEP, 754. 74.14–15 I can climb a ladder without help I do not need the help of the hangman to climb the ladder at the gallows.

578

 

74.19 tucked on secured (around my neck). 74.19–20 a dance . . . slight footing until the introduction of the long drop in 1872 hanging usually involved strangulation rather than the breaking of the neck. 74.21 Truce with enough of. 74.24 the vintry the reference is probably to the large wine-store near the Thames in the City of London (or the district around it), but it may be just to an unspecified wine-shop. 74.29 of his own brewing see note to 338.23 and Historical Note, 542–43. 74.32 devinctus beneficio Latin bound by kind treatment. The phrase is found in Cicero, Epistulae ad familiares (Letters to Friends: 62–43  ), 6.11.1. 75.1 these sad jars see note to 24.9–10. 75.17 on that tone in that spirit. 75.19–20 babes and sucklings Psalm 8.2; Matthew 21.16. 75.29 strike in with join with. 75.32 Go to come, come! 75.42 keeping possession where he has slain see 1 Kings 21.19: Cromwell is occupying the royal palace of Windsor after having Charles I executed, as King Ahab took possession of the vineyard of Naboth whose death he had engineered. 76.5 interpreted by contraries taken in the opposite of the apparent sense. 76.26 stretch a rope be hanged. 76.26 hold commerce have dealings. 76.27–28 rat me blow me. 76.39 bear thy charges cover your expenses. 76.41–42 cried Stand . . . to robbed (as a highwayman would). See I Henry IV, 1.2.106. 77.1 Go to come, come! 77.1–2 loose acquaintance immoral companions. 77.7 Hope-on-high Bomby in John Fletcher’s Women pleas’d (c. 1620; published 1647), 4.1 the hobby-horse in a troop of Morris dancers, ‘hope on high Bomby’, temporarily repents of such follies under the influence of his puritanic wife. 77.8–9 we saw Mills present Bomby at the Fortune play-house the Fortune Theatre, established in Golden Lane, Finsbury, in 1600, was wrecked by Commonwealth soldiers in 1649 and demolished in 1661. John Mills (d. 1736) is first recorded as an actor in 1695, at the Drury Lane Theatre. 77.10–11 the puritanic twist of thy mustachoe perhaps suggested by the most celebrated Parliamentary moustache, that of Oliver Cromwell. The moustache was not in general a distinguishing mark of the Puritan soldier. 77.24 hide two faces under one hood proverbial: Ray, 214; ODEP, 850. 77.26–32 motto see George Crabbe, ‘The Frank Courtship’ (1812), lines 57–62. The reference is to Cromwell’s dissolution of the Rump Parliament on 20 April 1653 (see note to 116.29). 77.35–36 his morning-draughts of eggs and muscadine a warm semi-liquid blend of eggs and sweetish alcohol, both fortifying and effective as a cure for hangovers. 78.24–25 the principal inn . . . disappeared the Garter Inn in Thames Street, Windsor features prominently in The Merry Wives of Windsor and was still in existence at the time of the novel’s action. Its emblem derives

 

579

from the Order of the Garter, the principal English chivalric order. The removal of the insignia may have been suggested by an Order of Parliament dated 4 February 1651 ‘that the Kings Arms be taken down in all publick places, and the Armes of the Common-wealth set up in the room thereof ’ (Whitelocke, 463). 78.26–27 a dashing Mine Host of Queen Bess’s school perhaps recalling Giles Gosling in the first chapter of Kenilworth (1821), set in the reign of Elizabeth I. 79.4–6 the beautiful Chapel . . . King of England after his execution Charles I’s body was buried by night on 8 February 1649, without ceremony, in St George’s Chapel. 79.14 the Round Tower the 12th-century tower at the centre of Windsor Castle, greatly augmented about the time of the novel’s composition, between 1824 and 1828. 79.15–20 the banner of England . . . her ancient enemy though confusingly expressed, this is historically accurate. The royal standard bore the French and English arms in the first and fourth quarters, the Scottish in the second and the Irish in the third. After the union of the Scottish and English crowns in 1603 the Union Flag was devised, consisting of a blue ground with a white diagonal cross (St Andrew of Scotland), and over this a red rectangular cross with a white border (St George of England). On the execution of Charles I in 1649 Scotland and England were no longer united. The Union Flag and the royal standard no longer flew. A new Commonwealth flag was devised, consisting of the St George’s cross on the hoist side and the golden harp of Ireland on a blue ground on the fly. It is this flag that Wildrake sees flying over Windsor Castle. In 1654 Scotland was subdued by Cromwell, and Scots members elected to the Parliament in London. Four years later the Union Flag was restored, with the addition of the Irish gold harp on a blue escutcheon in the centre. 79.26 Whither away where are you going to? 79.31–32 a double quantity . . . a larger allowance of cloak not a formal distinction, but one of the corporal’s own devising. 80.24–31 The motions . . . Order your musket 17th-century musket drill (for muzzle-loading weapons dependent for their discharge on gunpowder and a slow-match) includes the following commands (from a sequence of 39): ‘Poise your Musquet’ (lift it from the ground, or from the shoulder); ‘Rest your Musquet’ (‘ Let your Musquet sink down to your left hand, that arm hanging as low as may be, and receive the Musquet in it’); ‘Handle your Match’ (‘Take the Match from between your third and fourth fingers with your thumb and first finger of your right hand’); and ‘Cock and try your Match’ (the gloss ending ‘pull your Cock down to the Pan, and raise or sink so your Match, that it may fall just into the middle of it’). ‘Order your musket’ is the still standard command to rest the butt on the ground with the muzzle held pointing upwards close to the soldier’s side: ‘let the Butt end easily sink near the ground, where you make a little stop, that so the Musquets may all come to the ground together’. See Monmouths Drill Book: An abridgement of the English Military Discipline (1675), ed. John Tincey (Leigh-on-Sea, 1986), 9–14. 80.34 Ephraim the name is that of Jacob’s second son, who gave his name to the tribe which he founded, one of the twelve tribes of Israel. 81.5 my spirit does not rejoice in him compare Luke 1.47. 81.6 a wolf in sheep’s clothing proverbial: Ray, 295; ODEP, 907 (from Matthew 7.15). 81.25–28 It has been long since said by the historian . . . the world see Hume, 7.273n: ‘The collection of all his speeches, letters, sermons (for

580

 

he also wrote sermons), would make a great curiosity, and, with a few exceptions, might justly pass for one of the most nonsensical books in the world.’ 81.31 born of a good family . . . usual opportunities the Cromwells were a wealthy family from Huntingdonshire; Cromwell himself spent a year at Sidney Sussex College in Cambridge, and is said to have been a student at Lincoln’s Inn (see note to 58.27). 82.41–42 under spur-leather the term was used metaphorically to mean subordinate attendants, menials beneath notice. Literally it designates a strap which goes under the heel of the boot to keep the spur in place. See The Black Dwarf, ed. P. D. Garside,     4a, 224 (note to 84.6). 83.10 looked to attended to; taken care of. 83.16 black jack a large leather jug for beer etc., coated externally with tar. 83.26 the royal cypher this would be ‘C. R.’ (see note to 15.29). 83.38 Pearson apparently fictitious. 83.41 holding forth but now preaching (or giving a religious discourse) just now. 83.42 Colonel Overton the name recalls Robert Overton (1609–1679), one of Cromwell’s commanders in Scotland at the time of the novel’s action. 84.2–4 carried onward . . . borne through inspired to continue with his discourse. 84.6 the great work the process of reforming the worship of God and creating an English theocracy. 84.12 ate of the fat, and drank of the strong see Nehemiah 8.10: ‘eat the fat, and drink the sweet’. The version with ‘strong’ rather than ‘sweet’ is found in Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 146.23. 84.15–16 watch as well as pray see Mark 13.33: ‘Take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is’. 85.1 played the man acted in a manly fashion. 85.2 not turning to the right nor to the left a common Old Testament concept: see e.g. Proverbs 4.27: ‘Turn not to the right hand nor to the left: remove thy foot from evil.’ 85.2–3 holding ever in his eye the mark at which he aimed compare Philippians 3.14: ‘I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus’. 85.5 this vale of tears this mortal life. The expression is extremely common from the 17th century to the 19th. 85.12–13 men of Moab Exodus 15.15, 2 Samuel 23.20, 1 Chronicles 11.22. The Moabites were enemies of the Israelites. 85.24–25 a portion in the matter a part or share in the matter. 85.25 in regard that inasmuch as. 85.30 in what mind I stand what my disposition is. 86.30 brusque it assume a brusque manner. 86.33 lay by for kept quiet and waited for. 86.37 strike in interpose a remark. 87.8 thou shalt hang as high as Haman see Esther 7.9–10. King Ahasuerus causes the overweening Haman to be hanged on a high gallows which Haman has prepared for his enemy Mordecai the Jew. 87.14–15 the Stuarts the royal House of Scottish descent by way of James VI of Scots and I of England. 87.15 high places common biblical phrase used of the dwellings and fortresses of the powerful (and of heathen deities), which invariably are to be destroyed. 87.15–16 Heaven had a controversy with them see e.g. Hosea 4.1: ‘the Lord hath a controversy with the inhabitants of the land, because there

 

581

is no truth, nor mercy, nor knowledge of God in the land’. 87.16 a sweet and comely thing C[harles] D[arby], The Book of Psalms in English Metre (London, 1704), 247: ‘Praise ye the Lord, for it is good,/ Unto our God to sing:/ And to exalt his holy name,/ A sweet and comely thing’ (Psalm 147.1). The metrical versions of the psalms were the staple musical diet in 17th-century Puritan worship, and in Scottish Presbyterian worship up to Scott’s time and beyond. 87.16–17 buckle on one’s armour . . . Heaven’s cause see Ephesians 6.11–18. 87.17 for mine own in my own view. 87.22 whosoever putteth his hand to the plough . . . look back see note to 32.39–40. 87.23–24 look not back Jeremiah 46.5. 87.26–27 the leaven of thy malignancy . . . drubbed out of thee see 1 Corinthians 5.7: ‘Purge out therefore the old leaven, that ye may be a new lump’. 87.29 to some tune to a considerable extent. 87.34 instrument see Romans 6.13: ‘yield yourselves unto God, as those that are alive from the dead, and your members as instruments of righteousness unto God’. 87.41 thou puttest away the old man see Colossians 3.9–10: ‘Lie not one to another, seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds; And have put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of him that created him’. 88.9–10 the Council of State . . . the kingdom see note to 70.1. 88.16–17 taking from Esau his birth-right . . . pottage see Genesis 25.29–34, where the starving Esau sells his birthright to his brother. Several of the early Bibles (Matthew’s Bible of 1537, the Great Bible of 1539, and the Geneva Bible of 1560) headed Ch. 25 ‘Esau selleth his birthright for a mess of potage’. 88.33 of yore of former times. 88.34 Amalekite the Amalekites were the particular enemies of the Children of Israel. 88.35 in which he hath so long glorified himself of which he has boasted for so long. 88.37 an if if. 89.13 behoves me to know is necessary that I should know. 89.20 go to come on! 89.24 the very last the very last was Henry Wilmot (see note to 59.4), who accompanied Charles on his wanderings after his defeat at Worcester. 89.27–28 a true chip of the old block proverbial: Ray, 182; ODEP, 121. 89.33 Goring George Goring (1608–57) had a reputation as one of the most roistering and irresponsible of the Royalist commanders. 89.34 Out upon you tut, tut! 90.8 places for concealing priests there is no evidence of a priesthole at Woodstock, but see Hume, 7.199: ‘As he [Charles, after Worcester] often passed through the hands of catholics, the Priest’s Hole, as they called it, the place where they were obliged to conceal their persecuted priests, was sometimes employed for sheltering their distressed sovereign.’ See also Historical Note, 422–23. 90.10 mew up confine and conceal. 90.10 these calves of Bethel see e.g. 1 Kings 12.32–33, where Rehoboam, King of Judah, sacrificed ‘unto the calves that he had made: and he placed in Bethel the priests of the high places which he had made’.

582

 

90.35–36 crowning mercy see note to 59.38–39. 91.19 who never passeth Saturday night i.e. who never fails to pay wages in time for weekend carousals. 91.32–33 cast this golden ball into your master’s lap probably a reference to the golden apple of Greek mythology, awarded to Venus as the fairest of three goddesses, her rivals being Juno and Minerva. See the words of Juno to Paris, who makes the judgment, in Daniel Bellamy, Love Triumphant: or, The Rival Goddesses. A Pastoral Opera (London, 1722), 27 (Scene 6): ‘If in My Lap the G     Ball be hurl’d,/ That Moment Thou art Monarch of the World.’ 91.40 make a shift to make an effort to. 92.21 though he be wedded to my sister see Historical Note, 545. 92.27–29 the worshipful House . . . renew them Cromwell was to dissolve the Rump Parliament on 20 April 1653: see Historical Note, 545, and note to 116.29. 94.6 Antonio Vandyke see note to 19.12–13. 94.10 stern necessity dire necessity. In 1826 this was a relatively new phrase, and Scott would have met it in Joanna Baillie, The Family Legend (Edinburgh, 1810), 5.1.84 (he wrote the prologue for this play), and James Hogg, The Queen’s Wake (Edinburgh, 1813): see the edition by Douglas S. Mack (Edinburgh, 2004), 67 (Night the Second, line 449). See also Joseph Spence’s record of an anecdote told by Alexander Pope, in Spence’s Anecdotes, Observations, and Characters, of Books and Men, ed. Samuel Weller Singer (London, 1820), 286–87 (CLA, 189): ‘The night after King Charles the First was beheaded, my Lord Southampton and a friend of his got leave to sit up by the body, in the banquetting-house at Whitehall. As they were sitting very melancholy there, about two o’ clock in the morning, they heard the tread of somebody coming very slowly up stairs. By-and-by the door opened, and a man entered, very much muffled up in his cloak; and his face quite hid in it.—He approached the body, considered it, very attentively, for some time: and then shook his head and sighed out the word, “cruel necessity!” —He then departed in the same slow and concealed manner as he had come in.—Lord Southampton used to say, that he could not distinguish any thing of his face; but that by his voice and gait, he took him to be Oliver Cromwell. —[Alexander] P[ope].’ (Corson) 94.14–15 whose breath is in his nostrils Isaiah 2.22: ‘Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein is he to be accounted of?’ 94.21 Verily he hath his reward see Matthew 6.2, 5, 16. 94.42 his daughter Cromwell had four daughters. If Scott had any particular one in mind it may have been the second, Elizabeth (1629–58), who was described in an early biography of Cromwell as ‘this most illustrious Daughter, the true representative and lively Image of her Father, the Joy of his Heart, the Delight of his Eyes, and the Dispenser of his Clemency and Benignity’: S. Carrington, The History of the Life and Death of His most Serene Highness, Oliver, Late Lord Protector (London, 1659), 219. 95.9–10 motto Macbeth, 5.1.44–45. 95.14–15 he seemed already to bestride the land compare Julius Caesar, 1.2.135–36: ‘Why, man, he [Caesar] doth bestride the narrow world/ Like a Colossus’. 95.19 the dissolute freaks of his youth Hume (7.221) sums up the reports in contemporaneous sources: ‘He even threw himself into a dissolute and disorderly course of life; and he consumed in gaming, drinking, debauchery, and country riots, the more early years of his youth, and dissipated part of his patrimony. All of a sudden, the spirit of reformation seized him’. The extent of any youthful dissipation is now impossible to determine.

 

583

96.14–16 are there no words made of letters . . . beside them? compare Julius Caesar, 1.2.142–47: ‘“Brutus” and “Cæsar”. What should be in that “Cæsar”?/ Why should that name be sounded more than yours?/ Write them together: yours is as fair a name./ Sound them: it doth become the mouth as well./ Weigh them: it is as heavy. Conjure with ’em:/ “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Cæsar”.’ 96.26 peer out, peer out The Merry Wives of Windsor, 4.2.21. 96.29 broad Portugal pieces gold coins from Portugal, known as portagues or cruzadoes and worth between £3.25 and £4.50. 97.31–35 The Parliament . . . management of affairs see note to 116.29. 98.14 makes interest with brings personal influence to bear on. 98.15–16 the sun will shine on our side of the fence compare the proverb ‘The sun does not shine on both sides of the hedge at once’: ODEP, 786. 98.42 one while for a while. 98.43 By the mass see note to 32.17. 99.10 Anabaptists Baptists, who restrict baptism to adult believers. 99.10 Brownists Independents. See note to 22.18. 99.28 outward man see note to 45.36. 99.35–36 renouncing some of the sins which most easily beset him see Hebrews 12.1: ‘let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us’. 99.43–100.1 some better oracle . . . Rabelais between 1532 and 1548 François Rabelais (1494?–1553) published 4 books relating the story of Gargantua and Pantagruel, as a mock-heroic intellectual satire. In 1564 a fifth book appeared, attributed to him, in which the Oracle of the Holy Bottle advises Panurge to ‘trinc’ (drink). 100.12 we are poor creatures of clay a biblical sentiment: see e.g. Job 33.6: ‘I also am formed out of the clay’. 101.2–8 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 101.22 Tanquam Deus ex machina, as the Ethnic poet hath it the Latin tag ‘deus ex machina’ (‘a god from a machine’), probably not translated from the Greek version until the Renaissance, originally referred to the descent of a deity supported on a crane to resolve the difficulties at the end of a Greek or Roman play. Ethnic means ‘heathen’ or ‘pagan’. The poet in question is probably Horace, who mentions the concept in his Ars Poetica (Art of Poetry: c. 19  ), lines 191–92. 101.26 old King Harry Henry VIII (see note to 39.34). 102.7–9 Master Edwards . . . confusions see CLA, 83 for Scott’s copy of this work by Thomas Edwards (1599–1647), an enthusiastic defender of Presbyterian discipline in a reformed Church of England against Independency in particular. It appeared in two volumes: The First and Second Part of Gangræna: or A Catalogue and Discovery of many of the Errors, Heresies, Blasphemies and pernicious Practices of the Sectaries of this time; and The third part of Gangræna: or, A new and higher Discovery of the Errors, Heresies, Blasphemies, and insolent Proceedings of the Sectaries of these times (both London, 1646). Scott’s copy consists of the 3rd edn for the first volume, and of the 1st for the second volume. 102.9–11 as the army of Hannibal . . . gentium see the history of Rome Ab Urbe Condita by Livy (59  – 17), 28.12. The translation of the Latin phrase is correct. 102.11–12 the Honourable House Parliament, specifically the House of Commons. 102.12–13 the winking connivance of old Eli see 1 Samuel Chs

584

 

2–3 for the priest Eli’s failure to control the immoral behaviour of his sons (also priests): ‘his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not’ (3.13). 102.31 a wolf . . . sheep’s clothing see note to 81.6. 102.34–35 take such order take such measures. 102.38–39 Guy of Warwick, or Bevis of Hampton in 14th-century romances bearing their names Guy of Warwick slays a Danish giant, and Bevis of Hampton (Southampton) conquers and converts a giant. 103.27 the foul fiend the Devil. 103.35 doing license taking liberties. 103.39–40 our privileges . . . the very pastures for the complicated privileges enjoyed by citizens of demesne towns such as Woodstock, including land tenure, see Crossley, 435. 104.2–3 stand . . . friend act as . . . friend. 104.13 carry it now over their necks win the day now, subduing them. Compare Genesis 49.8 (‘thy hand shall be in the neck of thine enemies’), and Joshua 10.24 (‘Come near, put your feet upon the necks of these kings’). 104.16 the action which the Mayor had suited to his words see Hamlet, 3.2.17–18. 105.2–3 testimony in favour of apparitions . . . atheists Robert Plot concludes his account of the haunting of Woodstock by saying it may persuade all but the atheist of the existence of spirits: ‘All which being put together, perhaps may easily perswade some man otherwise inclined, to believe, that immaterial beings might be concern’d in this business; which if it do, it abundantly will satisfie for the trouble of the Relation, still provided the speculative Theist, be not after all, a practical Atheist’: The Natural History of Oxford-shire (Oxford, 1677), 210. 105.11–16 Sometimes it is a pack of hounds . . . the stag is gone in 1796 Scott published as ‘The Chase’ (later called ‘The Wild Huntsman’) his translation of ‘Der wilde Jäger’ (1778) by Gottfried August Bürger (1747–94), in which an impious hunter is condemned to pursue the chase ‘Till time itself shall have an end’ (line 297). In the Magnum edition of Quentin Durward (32.194), Scott refers to the spectre associated with the French royal estate of Fontainebleau that is mentioned in The Memoirs of The Duke of Sully: ‘It is yet a question, of what nature that illusion might be which was seen so often, and by so many persons, in the forest of Fontainebleau: it was a spectre, surrounded with a pack of hounds, whose cries were heard, and who were seen at a distance, but vanished when any one approached near to it.’ (The Memoirs of The Duke of Sully, trans. Charlotte Lennox, new edn, 5 vols (London, 1810), 2.281–82: see CLA, 46). This translation was originally published in 1756; the editor of the 1810 reprint is unnamed, but a convincing case for its being Scott is made by William B. Todd and Anne Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 228–29. 105.17–27 Dæmon Meridianum . . . Dæmon Nocturnum Latin noontide devil . . . night-time devil. See Psalm 90.5–6 in the Vulgate version (Psalm 91 in the Authorised Version): ‘Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus; non timebis a timore nocturno; A sagitta volante in die, a negotio perambulante in tenebris, ab incursu, et dæmonio meridiano’ (translated in the Douai version: ‘His truth shall compass thee with a shield: thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night. Of the arrow that flieth in the day, of the business that walketh about in the dark: of invasion, or of the noonday devil’). 105.31 there goeth there is needed. 105.32–33 the more humane letters the humanities (Latin litteræ humaniores); secular as opposed to theological learning.

 

585

106.13 Alderman Dutton apparently fictitious. 106.16 the devil to pay proverbial: ODEP, 184. 106.20–21 Everything hath an end . . . hath two proverbial: Ray, 102; ODEP, 231. The pudding of the proverb is a kind of sausage, as in ‘black pudding’. 106.41–42 the White Woman of Woodstock apparently Scott’s invention. But he is teasing his readers through a covert reference to one of his more notorious figures, the White Lady of Avenel, in The Monastery (1820). 107.20 devils incarnate Henry V, 2.3.31–32. As in Shakespeare there is word play on incarnate meaning ‘in the flesh’ and ‘crimson’. 107.40 trample under my feet compare Psalm 91.13: ‘Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet.’ The preceding verses of the psalm are quoted by Jesus in rejecting the Devil’s temptations (Luke 4.10–11). 107.41–42 the Enemy the Devil. 108.7–10 his doublet unbuttoned . . . a mad player compare Ophelia’s description of Hamlet (Hamlet, 2.1.77–84). 108.22 leap into the fold see John Milton, Lycidas (1638), lines 114–15. 108.24–25 term the doctrine . . . dry chips the term ‘dry chips’ (of wood) in this sense is used six times by the Presbyterian Thomas Manton (1620–77) in three sets of sermons published between 1681 and 1693. The expression ‘saltless porridge’ has not been found in this sense, but it alludes to several New Testament passages, especially Colossians 4.6: ‘Let your speech be alway with grace, seasoned with salt’. 108.35–37 the Temptation of Saint Anthony . . . hath invented Antony of Egypt (c. 251–356), who lived in complete solitude as a hermit from 286 to 306, was supposed to have been tempted by the Devil, who visited him in various forms. He was a popular subject with painters of many nations, notably the Dutch Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450–1516), whose characteristically imaginative altarpiece on the subject is now in the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon, Portugal (there is a contemporaneous copy in the Musées Royaux des Beaux Arts, Brussels). 108.39 in such sort in such a manner. 109.5 truth, in the very language in which it was first dictated Holdenough voices the belief that the words of the Bible were dictated by God, and alludes to the erudition of Presbyterian clergy, who had usually learned both Hebrew (the language of the Old Testament) and Greek (that of the New). 109.28 Rosamond’s Tower see Historical Note, 541–42. 110.11–13 The strong man . . . stronger than he see Luke 11.21–22: ‘When a strong man armed keepeth his palace, his goods are in peace: But when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils.’ 110.15–16 the Prince of the Powers of the Air the Devil. See Ephesians 2.2. 110.18 a shilling wet and a shilling dry a shilling’s worth of drink and another shilling in cash. 110.24 cock’s-head presumably a variant of ‘coxcomb’. 110.25–27 Rosamond . . . ballad-makers for examples see notes to 4.32–43 and 382.8–20. 110.28–29 we are to resist the Devil . . . flee from us see James 4.7: ‘Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.’ 110.31 his great Vanity Fair see John Bunyan, The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678–84), ed. James Blanton Wharey, 2nd edn rev. Roger Sharrock (Oxford, 1960), 88–97, 252.

586

 

111.10 at a pinch in an emergency. 111.15–16 the young man . . . idle dreams see Joel 2.28: ‘it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions’. 111.28 a bull-baiting see note to 10.2–3. 111.28–29 venturing dogs at head putting dogs forward to seize the bull by the nose. See Titus Andronicus, 5.1.102. 111.29–30 Tutbury-Bull-running bull chasing was an annual custom in Tutbury, Staffordshire until the Duke of Devonshire banned it in 1778. 111.38–39 a miller . . . stolen millers were proverbial for their habit of stealing grain that came to their mill: ‘An honest miller has a golden thumb’ (Ray, 136, 276; ODEP, 532). 111.42–112.1 a grave person . . . Geneva cloak for the cropped hair, see note to 16.8; projecting ears, emphasised by the short hair, led to the derogatory term ‘prick-eared’; for the Geneva cloak see note to 10.27–29. The clerical collar is offensively compared to a messy infant’s wrap. 112.1–2 old Nicholas the Devil. (The source of the term is not known for certain.) 112.10–11 he, who can take upon him the form of an angel of light see 2 Corinthians 11.14. 112.17 by the mass see note to 32.17. 112.21 hold stakes keep the sums being wagered pending the outcome of the contest. 112.41–42 the roaring Lion . . . devour 1 Peter 5.8: ‘Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.’ 113.12–17 motto see John Dryden, The Hind and the Panther (1687), Part 1, lines 35–36, 39–40. ‘Unlick’d to form’ means ‘not licked into shape’. The couplet omitted from this motto disparages the Quakers: ‘Among the timorous kind the Quaking Hare/ Profess’d neutrality, but would not swear’. For Scott’s pride in his peace-loving Quaker ancestors see note to 118.16 below and The Heart of Mid-Lothian, ed. David Hewitt and Alison Lumsden,     6, 5.21–22 and explanatory note (604). 113.38 wall-eyes divergent squint. 114.5–6 as the hog . . . armour the hog in armour was a popular inn sign, and was proverbial for someone dressed so awkwardly that they could not move easily: see ODEP, 376. 114.9–10 as the play says . . . accordingly Oliver Goldsmith, She Stoops to Conquer (1773), Act 1: Collected Works of Oliver Goldsmith, ed. Arthur Friedman, 5 vols (Oxford, 1966), 5.117. 114.13–14 to resemble . . . congress compare Richard Brinsley Sheridan, The School for Scandal (1777), 2.2: ‘her Face resembles . . . a Congress of the close of a general War—wherein all the members even to her eyes appear to have a different interest and her Nose and Chin are the only Parties likely to join issue’ (The Dramatic Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, ed. Cecil Price, 2 vols (Oxford, 1973), 1.381, lines 3–7). 114.36–37 Fifth-Monarchy men the term derives from the last of the 5 great empires in Daniel (2.44). This sect believed that the second coming of Christ was imminent, and that it was the duty of Christians to be prepared to assist in establishing his reign by force, and in the meantime to repudiate all allegiance to any other government. 115.17–18 putting to death . . . prisoners there had long been a prohibition on killing captives, as was shown by Hugo Grotius in the first codification of the rules of war, De jure belli et pacis libri tres (Paris, 1625). Ch. 66 of the

 

587

third book in the first English translation is headed: ‘Captives, and They that yield, are not to be killed’ (Of the Law of Warre and Peace (London, 1654), 594–97). However, in civil wars the normal law of war did not necessarily apply. 116.1 the ultimate ratio of blows and knocks see Samuel Butler, Hudibras, Part 1 (1663), 1.197–98: ‘And prove their Doctrine Orthodox/ By Apostolick Blows and Knocks’. There is also a reference to the Latin proverb ‘ultima ratio regum’ (the last argument of kings, i.e. military force). 116.5–10 Prince Rupert . . . Edgehill Prince Rupert was the Royalist cavalry commander at the inconclusive battle of Edgehill (see note to 30.12–20). 116.10 posted over passed off. 116.12–13 front of war Antony and Cleopatra, 5.1.44. 116.15 Harrington see note to 117.14. 116.29 the Rump of the Long Parliament the Long Parliament, called by Charles I in 1640, was called ‘long’ as it lasted until 1653 and was recalled in 1659. In December 1648 it was purged of those hostile to trying the King for high treason (mainly Presbyterians), and the remaining members were later nicknamed ‘the Rump’: of the 470 MPs elected in 1640, nearly 300 were purged, but only 60 to 70 regularly attended Parliament between 1649 and 1653. Laws were passed by the Rump, but it was itself turned out by Harrison, acting on the orders of Cromwell, on 20 April 1653. 116.38 unable to hold, and yet afraid to resign compare Samuel Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes (1749), line 134: ‘Pow’r too great to keep or to resign’. 116.39 the Council of State see note to 70.1. 117.1–2 of their own leaven a person like themselves. Alexander Cruden’s standard biblical concordance (first published in 1737) interprets Matthew 16.6 and 12 as implying that the Pharisees and Sadducees ‘like leaven, are not only of a sour, but also of a contagious and infectious nature, and suited to men of atheistical hearts and lives’. 117.14 Harrington’s Oceana in 1656 James Harrington (see note to 26.13–14) published at London The Common-Wealth of Oceana, outlining an elaborate scheme for an ideal republican democracy in England: CLA, 242. Harrington is one of those cited in Hume as prominent among the sceptical deists, who with the Independents and millenarians made up the Republican faction. The deists ‘had no other object than political liberty, . . . denied entirely the truth of revelation, and insinuated, that all the various sects, so heated against each other, were alike founded in folly and in error’ (7.226). 117.14–16 tampering with him . . . seal with see Falstaff on Shallow in 2 Henry IV, 4.3.1227–28: ‘I have him already temp’ring between my finger and my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him.’ The image is of working with wax as a potter tempers or tampers with clay. 117.26–27 refer any of the phenomena of Nature to a Final Cause the moderate deist position in the late 17th century argued that the laws of nature were evidence of God’s order; the Final Cause, then, is God, who put everything in motion. 117.29 Animus Mundi in neoplatonic thought the animus mundi (Latin ‘world soul’) is imparted by the spiritus mundi (‘world spirit’) to passive matter, giving it life and form. 117.40–41 the Highgate oath in a jocular ceremony to which those newly arrived at inns in Highgate, formerly a village N of London, were subjected, they had to swear a meaningless oath, including e.g. a promise not to eat brown bread when white was available, unless they happened to prefer brown.

588

 

118.4 originated entirely in priestcraft i.e. priests created the idea of God to justify their own positions. 118.10–11 The devils . . . believe and tremble see James 2.19. 118.12 children of perdition the expression, frequently found in 17thcentury theological works, derives from the New Testament, where it is applied to Judas (John 17.12) and a mysterious ‘man of sin’ or Antichrist (2 Thessalonians 2.3). 118.15–16 Prelacy and Presbytery Episcopal and Presbyterian forms of church government. See note to 9.18–19. 118.16 Quakers the Quakers, or Religious Society of Friends, were founded by George Fox in 1648–50. They emphasise the divine light in every individual, rejecting hierarchy and worshipping predominantly in silence; they also refuse to take oaths. 118.16–17 Anabaptists see note to 99.10. 118.17 Muggletonians see note to 22.17–18. 118.17 Brownists see note to 22.18. 118.23–24 the club called the Rota, frequented by Saint John for the Rota Club see note to 26.13–14. Oliver St John (c. 1598–1673) was a prominent Parliamentary lawyer who was appointed Chief Justice in 1648. He was one of the St John family to which Bletson notionally belongs (see Historical Note, 545–46). 118.26 Academe the Academy, or Academe, was the name of the garden near Athens where Plato (c. 427–348  ) taught philosophy. 118.34 latus clavus . . . bulla the bulla was a small box containing an amulet, worn by free-born Roman children round the neck. When they attained manhood boys would shed this and assume the white woollen garment called the toga virilis. The latus clavus (‘purple stripe’) was a badge consisting of two broad purple stripes on the edge of the tunic, worn by Roman senators and others of high rank, and also by their sons who were preparing for civil office. 119.11–12 as extremes . . . are said to approach each other compare the proverb ‘Extremes meet’: ODEP, 235. 119.15 Vane Sir Henry Vane the younger (1613–62), a leading Parliamentarian, attempted to unite as many sects as possible (including the Fifth Monarchists, for whom see note to 114.36–37) in the cause of godly republicanism. 119.19–20 the reign of the Saints during the Millenium see note to 31.9. 120.2–3 neither Whig nor Tory neither of the two principal political parties of Scott’s time. 120.5–7 motto not located in the works of Beaumont and Fletcher. The Latin tag ‘tres faciunt collegium’ (three form a college) derives from the early 2nd-century  jurist Neratius Priscus: his writings do not survive, but he is quoted in these terms by the late 2nd-century jurist Ulius Marcellus. In later usage the phrase often has a more general significance: ‘three people are necessary for the existence of any kind of community’. 120.13 clod a word-play on the literal meaning ‘lump of clay’ and the transferred meaning ‘blockhead’. 120.15 close with accept; accede to. 120.21 parma non bene relicta Latin his shield being ingloriously left behind him. See Horace, Odes, 2.7.10. 120.24 having no philosophy in him see Touchstone to Corin in As You Like It, 3.2.20–21: ‘Hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd?’ 120.32 on higher sphere intent see the description of Eve ‘on hospitable thoughts intent’ in John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667, rev. 1674), 5.332

 

589

(words often echoed or parodied in the 18th and 19th centuries). 121.33–34 what is called Dutch courage ‘Dutch courage’ is bravery induced by drinking (ODEP, 209). Scott had already used the term, without comment, in The Heart of Mid-Lothian (ed. David Hewitt and Alison Lumsden,     6, 268.2) and Redgauntlet (ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17, 266.11). It is found in America as early as 1807, and Scott would have known it from Washington Irving’s A History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker, 2 vols (New York etc., 1809), 2.150 (see CLA, 201 for the 1820 edition). 121.35 cooler hour of morning a truncated version of a line used several times in the Waverley Novels after a night’s drinking. Compare Rob Roy, ed. David Hewitt,     5, 101.2 (‘But with the morning cool repentance came’) and Nicholas Rowe, The Fair Penitent (1703), 1.1.162: ‘At length the morn and cold indifference came’. 122.9 ’Fore George before George; by St George! 122.11–12 Fibbet . . . Bibbet from fib (‘tell a lie’) and bib (‘drink’ or ‘keep on drinking’). 122.25–26 Gibeon . . . Paschal for the name see 1 Chronicles 8.29: ‘at Gibeon dwelt the father of Gibeon’. At Paschal, the feast of Passover, the Jewish custom was to sacrifice and eat a lamb: see Exodus Ch. 12. 122.27 the holy trefoil John Leyden, ‘The Elfin King’, line 16, in The Poetical Remains of the Late Dr. John Leyden, with Memoirs of his Life, by the Rev. James Morton (London, 1819), 30. The three-leaved clover (a traditional image of the Holy Trinity) was regarded as having the power to protect its wearer against evil forces: see e.g. The Fair Maid of Perth, ed. A. D. Hook and Donald Mackenzie,     21, 198.38–41. 122.35 the General Assembly although the Presbyterian system of the Church of England during the Commonwealth ought to have had a General Assembly as its supreme court (see note to 403.19), no such body was set up. 123.9 hawk at attack on the wing. 123.36 Deus adjutor meus Latin God is my helper! The tag derives from the Vulgate version of Hebrews 13.6: ‘Dominus mihi adjutor, non timebo quid faciat mihi homo’ (The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do to me). 123.37 Give place stand back. 124.10 club-men the OED defines them as ‘Bodies of untrained and half-armed countrymen, with bludgeons, and the like, during the Civil war . . . These appeared first in Yorkshire (c 1642–3) on the side of the Parliament: somewhat later (c 1645) in the south and west, ostensibly as neutrals, seeking only to protect their property from plunder’. 124.15–16 like the wicked . . . pursueth see Proverbs 28.1: ‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.’ Proverbs claims to be by ‘Solomon the son of David, king of Israel’ (i.e. King Solomon, proverbial for wisdom) rather than David himself. 124.34 the whole troops all the troops. 125.14 at advantage i.e. when the circumstances favoured them; by stratagem or surprise. 125.14–15 Rainsborough’s fate in 1648 Thomas Rainborowe, a Cromwellian officer, who had taken the surrender of Woodstock two years earlier, was surprised in an inn at Doncaster by a party of Royalists; he died in the street attempting to escape from them. 125.15 jumped the window jumped out of the window. 125.19 the self-denying ordinance dissatisfied with the conduct of the Civil War, Parliament passed this ordinance on 3 April 1645, discharging,

590

 

within 40 days, members of both Houses from all military or civil offices held since 20 November 1640. 125.27 Ods dickens! Scott apparently derived this oath (‘God’s devil’) from Joanna Baillie, The Country Inn, Act 2, Scene 1, in her Miscellaneous Plays (London, 1804), 181: CLA, 212. 126.4 in much admired confusion see Macbetb, 3.4.110: ‘With most admir’d disorder’. 126.26–29 a very long, narrow, and dilapidated gallery . . . the mansion apparently imaginary: see Historical Note, 541–42. 126.31–32 the bold thunder George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, The Rehearsal (1672), 1.1.371–76. 128.12–13 run so deadly a venture undertake such a hazardous enterprise. 128.42 in agitation under way. 130.18–19 in case to ready to; in a position to. 131.8 dark as the devil’s mouth compare the proverbs ‘Black as the devil’ (ODEP, 63) and ‘Dark as a wolf’s mouth’ (ODEP, 167–68). 132.2 the foul fiend’s the Devil’s. 132.7 tenpenny nails nails originally sold at 10d. (4.2 pence) per hundred; large nails. 132.14–15 as a mute serves the Grand Seignior the Ottoman emperors included in their entourage servants deprived of the power of speech. 133.5–7 motto Henry VIII, 4.1.83–84. 134.8–16 He had read . . . two different persons not identified. 135.17 lion-port lion-like bearing: Thomas Gray, ‘The Bard’ (1757), line 117. 136.7 except against object to. 136.9–11 certain ceremonies . . . tenacity William Laud (1573–1645) became Archbishop of Canterbury in 1633. He promoted high church ceremony in public worship, notably decreeing that the communion table was an altar and should be situated at the east end of a church and treated with due reverence. His insistence on universal conformity to what he regarded as due ecclesiastical ceremony in the Church of England, and particularly the attempt to impose a similar conformity in Scotland, contributed significantly to the outbreak of civil war, and eventually resulted in his attainder and execution. 137.13 lawful and undoubted King the phrase does not occur in the Book of Common Prayer, but it is found in several 17th-century texts, e.g. Observations on the Articles of Peace (1649), in The Works of John Milton, 17 vols (New York, 1931–34), 6.183. 138.11–12 the rash humour which my mother gave me see Julius Caesar, 4.3.119. 138.14 the attempt without the deed see Macbeth, 2.2.10. 138.19 fraught with attended with. 138.31 the 30th of January the date of Charles I’s execution in 1649. 138.32–34 old Will teaches me . . . the sun sets see Richard III, 2.3.33–34: ‘When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;/ When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?’ 138.35 Bethink you consider. 138.41–42 the royal coin . . . pass current no record has been found of this alleged practice, though very occasionally coins from the period are found in which the King’s features have been defaced: see Edward Besley, Coins and Medals of the English Civil War (London, 1990), 44. The coinage of Elizabeth, James I and Charles I continued in general use throughout the Commonwealth, though Parliament issued coins of completely new design

 

591

after Charles’s execution in 1649: Scott may have been thinking of the speedy reminting of this Commonwealth coinage at the Restoration. 139.4–5 be they one devil or Legion see Mark 5.9; Luke 8.30. 139.7 by their unwilling bounty, made Abraham rich see Genesis 14.22–23: ‘And Abram said to the king of Sodom, I have lift up mine hand unto the Lord . . . that I will not take any thing that is thine, lest thou shouldest say, I have made Abram rich’. 139.9 think of it give it consideration. 139.18 I dare turn my daughter loose to you see Polonius in Hamlet, 2.2.161: ‘At such a time I’ll loose my daughter [Ophelia] to him [Hamlet]’. 139.20 in all reasonable sort in every way that is reasonable. 141.21–29 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 142.1–2 the promotion of the General . . . government after the execution of the King on 30 January 1649 Cromwell was the most powerful man in England, but the Rump Parliament was nominally still the supreme source of authority, and the executive power was still vested in the Council of State. Both were indecisive. The Rump was dismissed in April 1653, and Cromwell became Lord Protector on 16 December 1653. 142.28–29 a hut . . . Tom of Bedlam see King Lear, 1.2.129–30 and 3.4.38–42. A Tom of Bedlam was a madman, someone discharged from a lunatic asylum. 142.43 Chloe see note to 57.41. 143.11–12 whom God grant in health and wealth long to reign see the prayer for the monarch in the offices of Morning and Evening Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. 143.32–33 When Colchester was reduced on 28 August 1648 the Royalists in Colchester surrendered to Sir Thomas Fairfax after a siege lasting 10 months. Two senior Royalist officers were shot for their role in prolonging the siege and its bloodshed unnecessarily, but the junior officers and others were granted quarter. 143.35–36 by yonder blue sky . . . bends over see Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Christabel (written 1797–1801, published 1816), line 331. 144.2 Hey for cavaliers! see note to 57.10–14. 144.7 waif and stray see note to 26.35–36. 144.32–33 punctilious honour . . . delicacy see Fanny Burney, Cecilia, 5 vols (London, 1782), 2.222 (Bk 4, Ch. 7). The phrase ‘punctilious honour’ appears several times in 18th-century literature, including Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa, 7 vols (London, 1748), Vol. 2, letter 46, and Vol. 6, letter 31. 145.4 Grays Inn one of the four London Inns of Court (see note to 49.41). 145.4 taking the wall of forcing [Dr Bunce] to walk on the outside of the pavement (being the less clean and safe side). 145.21 carrying on afoot. 145.28–30 the old father of Puritans . . . Lucifer two terms for the Devil. The first echoes his common appellation ‘the father of lies’ (from John 8.44). The second derives from Isaiah 14.12, where Lucifer is said to have fallen from Heaven: this was traditionally interpreted as a reference to the fall of Satan. 145.34 the devil’s pinion the wing of Satan, the fallen Lucifer. 145.39–40 the devil must have been in the dance although not recorded as proverbial, Scott’s use of the same expression in Guy Mannering (1815), ed. P. D. Garside,     2, 21.8, suggests that he probably saw it as such. 146.7–8 a sounding of trumpets, and a breaking of vials, and a

592

 

pouring forth see Revelation Chs 8 and 9 for the sounding of trumpets, and Ch. 16 for the pouring out of vials. 146.11 parading it walking up and down. 146.12 called by the name of the late Man see note to 14.41–43. 146.24 blue aprons perhaps indicating that the Parliamentary soldiers had humble origins as unskilled workers, gardeners and the like. 146.24 Zerobabel see Haggai 2.4, where God encourages the governor of Judah: ‘Yet now be strong, O Zerubabbel’. 146.30 the great battle of Armageddon see Revelation 16.16. 146.31 Sheffield steel Sheffield, in Yorkshire, has been celebrated for its steel since at least the 14th century. 146.42 of verity true. 146.42–43 the breath of man . . . returneth see Psalm 146.4 (‘His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth’) and, for ‘nostrils’, e.g. Genesis 2.7 and 7.22. 147.2–3 the great battle of Dunbar see note to 14.15. ‘Hewcreed’ is one of Scott’s comic names. 147.5 holding forth preaching. 147.12 Go to get on with it. 147.14 thinks for imagines. 147.20 of a certainty assuredly. 147.23 abide upon maintain. 147.23 without doors outside. 148.11 unsusceptible of incapable of carrying out. 148.17 the morrow morning the next morning. 148.18 in the room of in place of; a substitute for. 148.20 the folding leaves i.e. the two flaps. 148.30–31 we always compare the devil to the deep sea alluding to the proverb ‘Between the Devil and the deep sea’: ODEP, 179. 148.36 to seeming apparently. 148.40–42 a long love-lock . . . of love-locks see William Prynne, The Unlovelinesse, of Lovelockes. Or, A Summarie Discourse, prooving: the wearing, and nourishing of a Locke, or Love-Locke, to be altogether unseemely, and unlawfull unto Christians (London, 1628). Prynne (1600–69) was one of the most voluminous of the Puritan pamphleteers. 148.42–43 a blue scarf although the colours of scarves, used to distinguish the sides in battle, varied in the period, the Royalists often favoured red or blue. 149.22–28 poor Dick Robison . . . Naseby-field Richard Robinson (c. 1595–1648) was a leading member of the Kings Men, the company associated with the Globe Theatre. ODNB does not suggest that he fought in the Civil Wars, but James Wright (1643–1713) writes (Historia Histrionica (London, 1699), 7–8): ‘Robinson was Kill’d at the Taking of a Place (I think Basing House) by Harrison . . . who refused him Quarter, and Shot him in the Head when he had laid down his Arms; abusing Scripture at the same time, in saying, Cursed is he that doth the Work of the Lord negligently’. The allusion is to A Directory for the Publique Worship of God, Throughout the Three Kingdoms of England, Scotland, and Ireland (London, 1644), 17: ‘the servant of Christ . . . is to perform his whole Ministery . . . Painfully, not doing the work of the Lord negligently’. Philaster, or Love lies a-bleeding, a comedy by Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, was produced at the Globe c. 1609 and published in 1620. The Mermaid Tavern, popular with writers and theatrical men, was situated in Bread Street, Cheapside: it was destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. Michael Mohun, or Moone (c. 1616–84), a prominent actor, was a captain and then a major in the Royalist cause from 1642. For the battle of

 

593

Naseby (1645) see note to 14.13. Thomas Harrison’s father, Richard, was a butcher. 149.43–150.3 the great battle . . . the war-horse and his rider see Revelation 16.16 and 19.17–18. 150.4 in the front of before. 150.24–32 By pathless march . . . deadly stroke the lines are Scott’s, but the expression ‘pathless march’ occurs in Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘France: An Ode’ (1798), line 2. 150.44–151.1 told over recited. 151.2 was not indited . . . the Psalmist saith see Psalm 45.1: ‘My heart is inditing a good matter’. 151.9–10 posture of fence either defensive posture or fencing posture. 151.10 Sa—sa exclamation made by fencers when delivering a thrust. 151.17 at unawares by surprise. 151.19 the sword of the Lord and of Gideon Judges 7.18, 20. 151.31 Good now I entreat you. 151.33 man of Moab see note to 85.12–13. 151.37 ’fore George by St George! 151.43–152.1 the spirit is willing . . . if the flesh be weak see Matthew 26.41. Proverbial: ODEP, 765. The last phrase means ‘but the flesh is weak’. 152.21 come on attack. 152.30–31 men must watch . . . lights burning see Luke 12.35–36: ‘Let your loins be girded about [i.e. prepare for strenuous action], and your lights burning; And ye yourselves like unto men that wait for their lord, when he will return from the wedding’. 152.33–34 the seven trumpets Joshua Ch. 6 and Revelation Ch. 8. 152.34–35 Boot and saddle . . . Horse and away see note to 14.26. 152.34 the pipes of Jezer Jezer is mentioned in Genesis 46.24, Numbers 26.49 and 1 Chronicles 7.13, but only in lists of names, without any suggestion of pipes. 152.38 I am of a strange fantasy I have a strangely whimsical notion. 152.42 fought prizes contended in single combat for prizes. 153.1 trooper . . . regiment of horse in 1642 Harrison enlisted in the Earl of Essex’s lifeguard to wage war against the King. He does not seem to have served under Cromwell as a trooper, but he joined the New Model Army in 1645. 153.9–11 one of them . . . like an anvil the reference has not been found in Samuel Purchas (c. 1577–1626), Purchas his Pilgrimage, 4th edn (London, 1626; original edition 1613). Scott may be thinking of Daniel Defoe, The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner . . ., ed. J. Donald Crowley (London, 1972), 73: ‘The next Day in searching the Woods I found a Tree of that Wood, or like it, which, in the Brasils they call the Iron Tree, for its exceeding Hardness’. The actual term ‘Iron-wood’ appears on 122: ‘After this, I made a great heavy Pestle or Beater, of the Wood call’d the Iron-wood’. 153.14–16 that tree . . . the nations see the description of the heavenly Jerusalem (Revelation 22.2): ‘In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.’ 153.33 the voucher answered the draft upon him the image (with a word-play on voucher as ‘person vouching for the truth of a fact’ ) is of the person, upon whom a written order for the payment of a sum of money is drawn, paying in full the amount due.

594

 

153.40 Zion Jerusalem. 153.43 hold by remain faithful to; stand by. 154.3 the man whom they call Speaker the Speaker of the House of Commons, who controls the proceedings of the House. On 20 April 1652 Cromwell denounced the Rump, and Harrison forced Speaker William Lenthall to vacate his seat. 154.4 pluck down . . . King for Harrison’s part in the execution of Charles I see Historical Note, 545. 154.5 holdeth with coincides with. 154.6–7 build up the breaches . . . Zion see e.g. 1 Kings 11.27 (Solomon ‘repaired the breaches of the city of David his father’), and Psalm 48.12–13 (‘Walk about Zion [Jerusalem], and go round about her: tell the towers thereof. Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces; that ye may tell it to the generation following’). 154.8 chosen as pillars see Galatians 2.9 (‘James, Cephas, and John . . . seemed to be pillars’); and Revelation 3.12 (‘Him that overcometh will I make a pillar in the temple of my God’). 154.10 endowed with proper revenues one of the abiding problems of the Commonwealth was raising enough in taxation: selling off royal property such as Woodstock (which the commissioners were charged to do) was a revenue-raising expedient. 154.12 our foundation will be on the loose sand see Matthew 7.26: ‘every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand’. 154.14 the Fifth Monarchy see note to 114.36–37. 154.15 the opening of the book which is sealed see Revelation Chs 5–8. 154.16–17 lightning and thundering . . . bottomless pit see Revelation, especially 11.7 and 19. 154.26–34 motto see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 5.1.364–71. 154.40 corps de garde small body of soldiers on guard duty. 155.2 Banbury market town about 24 km N of Woodstock. 155.26 fall into comply with. 155.31 the steeple-house see note to 9.38. 156.18 Hark ye hither listen to me. 156.23 the valley of Armageddon see Revelation 16.16. 156.26 as I shall live on my life! Over my dead body! 156.27–28 supping . . . with the Devil compare the proverb ‘He should have a long spoon that sups with the devil, Ray, 97; ODEP, 480–81. 157.7–8 the watches of the night the four periods into which night was conventionally divided, used rhetorically for night-time. The terminology is biblical: see e.g. Psalm 63.6 and Matthew 14.25. 157.8 Him unto whom night is even as mid-day see Psalm 139.12: ‘Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee’. For the phrasing see also Isaiah 58.10: ‘then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday’. 157.33–34 the Nullifidians of the Rota the sceptics, or atheists, of the Rota Club (see note to 26.13–14). 157.43 Out on you shame on you! 158.9 fall foul on attack. 158.15 stone walls have ears proverbial: ODEP, 864. 158.17 the Avenger of Blood in the Old Testament, the man who had the right to avenge the murder of a kinsman: see Joshua 20.3, 5 and Deuteronomy 19.6, 12.

 

595

158.24–25 taken measure of every one’s foot proverbial: see e.g. Alexander Ross, The History of the World: The Second Part, in Six Books . . . (London, 1652), 58. 159.21–23 as the cedar of Lebanon . . . upon them see Robert Southey, Thalaba the Destroyer, 2 vols (London, 1801), 2.216 (Book 10, lines 67–72): ‘It was a Cedar-tree/ Which woke him from that deadly drowsiness;/ Its broad round-spreading branches, when they felt/ The snow, rose upward in a point to heaven,/ And standing in their strength erect,/ Defied the baffled storm.’ This was the belief of the Maronites of Mount Lebanon, according to Jean de la Roque, Voyage de Syrie et du Mont-Liban, 2 vols (Paris, 1722), 1.90–92, which was Southey’s source. 160.35–36 bethought himself considered. 160.42–161.1 the font . . . in flames the 12th-century abbey and Renaissance palace in Edinburgh, residence and burial-place of many Scottish kings, were pillaged and burned in 1544 by invaders led by the Earl of Hertford, and stripped and partly demolished by Reformers after 1559. Refurbished for the coronation of Charles I in 1633, the buildings were again badly damaged by fire in 1650, when Cromwellian troops were quartered there. 161.2–3 How many churches . . . fonts desecrated during the Civil Wars many churches, especially in towns, were demolished for military reasons. During the occupation of churches, fonts were often subjected to undignified uses. 161.10 Calvinistic creed see note to 12.38. 162.32 swept and garnished Matthew 12.44; Luke 11.25. 164.8–9 for weal or for woe for good or ill. 164.22–23 Roger Bacon . . . sulphur Roger Bacon (c. 1214–92?) was a Franciscan philosopher and student of chemistry and astrology based in Oxford. After his death he came to be regarded, mistakenly, as a magician. The smell of sulphur is imagined as emanating from hell, from which the Devil would be conjured up. 164.27 sleep like a dormouse proverbial since the 17th century, though not included in ODEP. 164.41 Mother Redcap’s mightiest Mother Redcap’s was a pub in what is now Camden Town, named after a notorious local shrew, also known as ‘Mother Damnable’. The establishment is referred to in George Colman the elder’s play The Spleen (Dublin, 1776), 16 (Act 2), as well as in Peter Pindar’s (John Wolcot’s) poem ‘One Thousand Seven Hundred and NinetySix; A Satire: In Four Dialogues’: The Works of Peter Pindar, 4 vols (London, 1797–1802), 4.16 (Dialogue 2, line 45). 165.3–5 a maiden on the first of May . . . dew for this custom, which was supposed to maintain youthful beauty, see James Grahame, British Georgics (Edinburgh, 1809), 91: ‘on May morning, maids, to gather dew,/ Hie to the primrose bank’ (CLA, 196). 166.26–29 motto see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 3.2.380–82. Aurora is the Roman goddess of the dawn. 167.15–16 point blank directly; the span within which a fired bullet was believed to travel in a straight line, before gravity took effect on its trajectory.. 167.32 the hard and ancient school of Holbein see note to 40.26–27. 168.2 the “blessedness of sleep” Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Christabel (written 1797–1801, published 1816), line 376. 168.9 a thought slightly. 169.14–17 Though for a time . . . enjoy his own again for the first two lines and the last one see ‘When the King Enjoys his Own Again’, lines 25–26 and refrain, in Ancient Songs, from the Time of King Henry the Third, to

596

 

the Revolution, [ed. Joseph Ritson] (London, 1790 [1792]), 232: CLA, 174. Line 3 is probably Scott’s own. See also James Hogg, The Jacobite Relics of Scotland [First Series], ed. Murray G. H. Pittock (Edinburgh, 2002), 2. 169.21 bonos socios Spanish good companions. 169.22 roaring boys riotous fellows. 169.23 Lunsford and Goring for Lunsford see note to 61.6, and for Goring note to 89.33. 170.25 cloven hoofs a cloven (cleft) hoof, hidden by a shoe, is a mark of Satan in popular belief. 171.1–2 a deep sleep . . . hands to slumber see Proverbs 6.10–11: ‘Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep: So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man.’ 171.15 a sop a word-play on the literal and figurative meanings: ‘a piece of bread dipped in liquid before eating’ and ‘a bribe’. 171.16–17 the devil’s own porridge-pot Scott has a similar allusion to the devil’s porridge in Kenilworth (1821), ed. J. H. Alexander,     11, 196.39–40, suggesting a proverbial element. 171.17–18 I cannot sup broth . . . long spoon see The Tempest, 2.2.91–92. See also Ray, 97 and ODEP, 480–81. 171.22 the books of Moses a traditional term designating the first 5 books of the Old Testament, in 4 of which Moses plays a prominent part. 171.22 give it o’er give it up. 171.32 a whole Sabbath of witches a complete witches’ orgy. 171.39–40 Old Chaucer . . . Woodstock there is a tradition that Geoffrey Chaucer owned a house in Woodstock, but it was his son Thomas (c. 1367–1434) who became a landowner in the area. 171.42 walk, like Hearne at Windsor for the legend of Hearne the Hunter, said to haunt an oak tree in Windsor Great Park, see The Merry Wives of Windsor, 4.4.27–37. 172.8–9 as bad as Greek to thee proverbial: ODEP, 336. See Julius Cæsar, 1.2.283. 172.10 superfluity of humours in medieval physiology good health required a rough balance between the four principal bodily liquids or humours, by the relative proportions of which a person’s physical and mental qualities were held to be determined. 172.11–16 Which causen folke . . . will them take see Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Nun’s Priest’s Tale’: The Canterbury Tales, B2 4119–20, 4123–26. The closest version in the Abbotsford library to that given here is found in the 1602 edition by Tho[mas] Speght (CLA, 154), but (like all the other editions) it has ‘lemes’ for Scott’s ‘gleams’. 172.18–19 the honourable member designation of a Member of Parliament. 172.23 Lucretius Titus Lucretius Carus, the Roman philosophical poet, a materialist Epicurean, who lived c. 99–c. 55  . 172.36 Qualiacunque voles Judæi somnia vendunt Juvenal, Decimus Junius Juvenalis, wrote at the end of the 1st and the beginning of the 2nd centuries  . The line, from his 6th Satire (line 547) means ‘Jews will sell you dreams of any kind you like [for a very small fee]’. 172.39 He would scarce have left the New Testament because written versions of New Testament books began to gain authority only in the 2nd century  , while the canon was not established and agreed until the 4th. 173.16 the kingdom of darkness a common expression in the 17th century, denoting the Devil’s kingdom, deriving from Revelation 16.10. 173.25 wash an Ethiopian white proverbial: ODEP, 868.

 

597

173.26 self-willed ‘Wilful or obstinate in the pursuit of one’s own desires or opinions’ (OED). 174.8–9 post-horse horse kept at an inn for use by men conveying postal material or for hire by travellers. 174.18–19 of late he has made the Oliver . . . dwarf when Cromwell became Lord Protector in December 1653 he took to signing himself ‘Oliver P’. Hitherto he had usually signed official documents and letters as ‘O. Cromwell’. 174.25–26 smart money money paid in compensation for injuries received at work. 174.27 dangle after hang about, ‘especially as a loosely attached follower; . . . follow in a dallying way, without being a formally recognized attendant’ (OED). 175.32 a great seal, or means to proceed by prerogative on 8 February 1649 the old Great Seal was formally broken and replaced by a new Commonwealth model, Bulstrode Whitelocke, John L’Isle, and Richard Keeble being appointed Commissioners. Whitelocke records that in June 1655, following a disagreement over the reformation of Chancery, the Commissioners had to surrender the Seal to Cromwell, who kept it ‘in his own custody for some days, and dispatched some business of Sealing in his Chamber, where the Officers attended, till he had resolved upon the persons to whom he afterwards committed the custody of it’ (Whitelocke, 372–74, 608). 175.34 in your judgment subject to your judgment. 176.18–19 No man goeth a warfare on his own charges no-one goes to war at his own expense. See 1 Corinthians 9.7: ‘Who goeth a warfare any time at his own charges?’ 176.19–20 He that serves . . . live by the altar proverbial: ODEP, 12. See 1 Corinthians 9.13: ‘Do ye not know that they which minister about holy things live of the things of the temple? and they which wait at the altar are partakers with the altar?’ 176.21–22 the unsealing and the pouring forth see Revelation Chs 5–8 and 16. 176.24 Of a surety Certainly. 176.25–26 men who wait . . . with lamps burning and loins girded see note to 152.30–31 (Luke 12.35–36). The use of ‘lamps’ recalls the parable of the wise and foolish virgins: Matthew 25.1–13. 176.26–27 each one his weapon bound upon his thigh see Song of Solomon 3.8: ‘every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night’. 176.28–29 the latter coming the second coming of Christ at the end of time. The expression is occasionally found in 17th-century religious writings. 176.29 Selah! the word occurs frequently in the Psalms, probably indicating some sort of musical direction. It is sometimes, as here, taken as an exhortation to praise God. 176.42 in the body or out of the body living or dead. See 2 Corinthians 12.2. 177.1 the great Dragon Revelation 12.9. 177.1 the Beast which cometh out of the sea see Revelation 13.1. 177.3–4 Gog and Magog Revelation 20.8. 177.4–5 sea of glass mingled with fire Revelation 15.2. 177.28–29 the gleaning . . . the vintage of Woodstock see Judges 8.2: ‘Is not the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim better than the vintage of Abi-ezer?’ 178.2–3 the depth and height, length and breadth, of his attachment

598

 

see Ephesians 3.18: ‘what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height’. 178.13–15 something about the religious duty . . . the text see 1 Timothy 5.8: ‘if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.’ 178.19–20 all things beneath the sun see Ecclesiastes for several uses of ‘under the sun’, especially 1.14: ‘I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit.’ 179.2–4 motto by Scott. 179.17–19 it is promised . . . shall be sure see e.g. Exodus 23.25: ‘ye shall serve the Lord your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water’. 179.19–20 the papistical opinion . . . filthy rags in Roman Catholic teaching the faithful can obtain remission of temporal punishment for sin for themselves and other members of the Church partly by merit won by their own good works; but such remission relies chiefly on the merits of Christ and the saints, which constitute an unlimited treasury for the Church to draw upon. To many Protestants individual merit won by good works falls under the condemnation of Isaiah 64.6: ‘all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags’. 180.1–2 Brownists, Muggletonians, Anabaptists for these sects see notes to 22.18, 22.17–18 and 99.10 respectively. 180.5 the Good Cause the term ‘the good old cause’ was used by the Parliamentarians to designate ‘the cause for which they had engaged against the late king’ (Hume, 7.295–96). 180.5–6 the great National League and Covenant a common term at the time for the Solemn League and Covenant of 1643, which bound Parliament to establish the Presbyterian church system in England and Ireland, in return for Scottish military assistance. (It should not be confused with the purely Scottish National Covenant of 1638, for which see note to 215.5–6.) 180.15 Antinomians during the Commonwealth a number of antinomian sects developed in England, asserting that Christians are by grace set free from the need to observe any moral law. 180.15 Pelagians those who denied original sin, asserting that the human will is capable of good without the assistance of grace. The teaching derives from a 5th-century lay monk Pelagius. 180.15 Socinians forerunners of modern Unitarians, Socinians followed the Italian theologian Fausto Paolo Sozzini (1539–1604) in denying the divinity of Christ. A group of Socinians headed by John Biddle (1615–62) began regular Sunday worship in 1652. 180.15 Arminians those who followed the Dutch theologian Jacobus Arminius or Jakob Hermandszoon (1560–1609) in opposing strict Calvinist denial of free will and asserting that Christ died for all and not only for the elect. 180.16 Arians those who followed the early heretic Arius (c. 250–c. 336) in denying the divinity of Christ. 180.16 Nullifidians atheists; sceptics. 180.16–17 like those filthy reptiles . . . Pharaoh for the plague of frogs visited on Egypt see Exodus 8.1–14. 180.26–27 in some sort in a way; to some extent. 180.29–31 like the Nazarites . . . strong drink see the angel’s instruction to Manoah’s pregnant wife (Judges 13.14): ‘She may not eat of any thing that cometh of the vine, neither let her drink wine or strong drink, nor eat any unclean thing’. She is to bear Samson, a Nazarite or one of a body of Israelites specially consecrated to the service of God who were under a similar dietary obligation (see Numbers 6.3). 181.1 Purefoy the name is the French for ‘pure faith’. It was probably suggested by William Purefoy (c. 1580–1659), a Presbyterian Member of

 

599

Parliament and one of those who signed Charles I’s death-warrant. 181.5 the sacred tongues Hebrew and Greek, the original languages of the Old and New Testaments respectively. 181.6–9 he held Arminian opinions . . . an earthly man the Church of England is essentially subject to the civil powers, the sovereign being its earthly head. Charles I exercised his royal control in a particularly dogmatic manner, savagely repressing the Puritan or solidly Protestant element in the Church. In this Archbishop Laud (see note to 136.9–11) was a willing partner, leading to accusations of Arminianism. ‘In England the anti-Calvinistic trend in 17th-cent. theology, and esp. in the Laudian revival, was widely termed “Arminian” by its opponents, though it is doubtful if here the direct influence of Arminius’ teaching was at all considerable’ (The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 2nd edn (London, 1974), 90). For Arminianism in general see note to 180.15. For ‘the breath of an earthly man’ compare Richard II, 3.2.56–57: ‘The breath of worldly men cannot depose/ The deputy elected by the Lord’. 181.9 In fine in short. 181.23 carnal weapons see note to 27.16. 181.25 as well to the wounds of the body as of the soul compare the summons to confession at Morning and Evening Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer, when the congregation are ‘to ask those things which are requisite and necessary, as well for the body as the soul’. 181.27 the shire of Shrewsbury Shropshire. 181.32 take in capture; take. 181.36 wall-pieces enlarged firearms mounted on swivels and placed on the walls of fortified buildings (OED). 182.1 smite them hip and thigh see Judges 15.8. 182.3 better teaching than the old law i.e. the teachings of the New Testament with its doctrine of grace, superseding the Old Testament’s emphasis on law. 182.5 the Philistines the most prominent enemies of the Israelites in the Old Testament. 182.11 the uncircumcised . . . a priest of Baal for the destruction of the temple of the false god Baal (worshipped by the uncircumcised enemies of the Children of Israel) and the slaughter of his priest Mattan see 2 Kings 11.18. There is probably also an allusion to the New Testament use of uncircumcised to denote the spiritually impure; see Acts 7.51: ‘Ye stiffnecked and uncircumcised in heart and ears, ye do always resist the Holy Ghost’. For ‘stiffnecked’ see note to 369.22. 182.15 as the phrase is, pell mell the expression, meaning ‘in mingled confusion’, entered English from the French in the later 16th century. 182.41 stern necessity see note to 94.10. 183.19–20 Down with . . . Mattan see note to 182.11. 183.21–33 Forced over the battlements . . . cut off and destroyed in a Magnum note (39.346–47) Scott gives as the source of this episode a description of the death of Charles I’s chaplain Michael Hudson, to be found in Francis Peck, Desiderata Curiosa, 2 vols (London, 1732–35), Vol. 2, Book 9, 43–45. The site of Hudson’s death was Woodcroft Castle, 5km NW of Peterborough. 183.40–41 Oh! Albany, my brother, my brother . . . Jonathan see 2 Samuel 18.33: ‘O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!’ 184.14 a man of my cloth a clergyman. 185.3 the Isis the River Thames is sometimes so known in the Oxford area.

600

 

185.23–24 Goliah of Gath . . . armour see the description of Goliath at 1 Samuel 17.4–6. 185.34–35 Elias . . . had a portion in our frail nature see James 5.17: ‘Elias [i.e. Elijah] was a man subject to like passions as we are’. 185.41–42 the true shield of faith . . . quenched see Ephesians 6.16. 186.16–21 Fear came upon me . . . pass behind me see Job 4.14–15: ‘Fear came upon me and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up.’ 186.20 to pursue in pursuit. 186.27–28 Clidesthrough Castle an imaginary place, but see note to 183.21–33. 186.30–32 the stoical philosopher Athenodorus . . . his studies Pliny the Younger ( 62?–c. 113) tells how the Stoic philosopher Athenodorus Cananites calmed himself by writing in order to avoid being affected by imaginary terrors in an allegedly haunted house. A ghost in fact appears, but he encounters it with composure. See the Letters of Pliny the Younger ( 61 or 62–c. 113), 7.27.4–11. 186.33–34 a Steward of the Mysteries see 1 Corinthians 4.1: ‘Let a man so account of us, as of the ministers of Christ and stewards of the mysteries of God.’ 186.40 take the head of be foremost in. 187.2–3 your worldly wisdom . . . not worldly see 1 Corinthians 3.19: ‘the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God’. 187.5–6 Thou shalt tread down Satan under thy feet see Romans 16.20 (Geneva Bible, 1560): ‘The God of peace shall tread Satan under your feet shortly’. 187.29–30 Beelzebub the ‘prince of devils’ (Mark 3.22; see Luke 11.15). 187.30–31 with horse and foot mingled . . . Davie Leslie David Leslie (1601–82), created 1st Lord Newark in 1661, was a prominent Scottish army officer. He had served in Sweden and when possible he adopted the Swedish practice of intermingling cavalry and musketeers. Holdenough’s use of the word ‘old’ might more appropriately be applied to Alexander Leslie (c. 1580–1661, created Earl of Leven in 1641), who had also served in Sweden. 187.38 in full body as one body assembled together in full force. 187.39 to resist till he shall flee from us see note to 110.28–29. 188.5–6 those who, like Demas . . . this world see 2 Timothy 4.10: ‘Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world’. 188.9 spoiled and broken down . . . upon another see e.g. Matthew 24.2: ‘There shall not be left here one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down’ (Jesus, of the Temple). 188.20 as thy soul liveth the expression is found several times in the Old Testament, e.g. 1 Samuel 1.26. 188.23–24 enforced the Papist Laud’s order . . . Woodstock see note to 136.9–11. 188.25 swear by his beard see e.g. As You Like It, 1.2.66. 188.27 red with the blood of the saints see Revelation 17.6: ‘I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints’. 188.38–39 the papistical candlestick . . . its place see Revelation 2.5: ‘Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will remove thy candlestick out of his place, except thou repent.’ 189.5 have I not the power to bind and to loose? see Matthew 18.18: ‘Whatsoever ye shall bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever

 

601

ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.’ 189.22 gird up his loins see note to 152.30–31. 189.25 the Ishmaelite—the Edomite see note to 31.25–26. 189.26 rear up his horn see e.g. Psalm 75.4–5: ‘I said . . . to the wicked, Lift not up the horn [i.e. do not exalt yourself]: Lift not up your horn on high: speak not with a stiff neck.’ For ‘stiff neck’ see notes to 182.11 and 369.22. 189.26–27 I will call aloud, and spare not see Isaiah 58.1: ‘Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, and shew my people their transgression, and the house of Jacob their sins.’ 189.27–28 whose love has waxed cold see Matthew 24.12: ‘because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold’. 189.28 who care for none of these things see Acts 18.17: ‘Gallio cared for none of those things’. 189.29–30 I will take the stick of Joseph . . . Ephraim Ezekiel 37.19. 189.32 Will you plead for Baal? . . . save him Judges 6.31. 189.33 take the prophets of Baal—let not a man escape 1 Kings 18.40 (Geneva Bible, 1560): ‘Take the prophets of Baal, let not a man of them escape.’ 190.24 cry havoc King John, 2.1.357; Julius Caesar, 3.1.274. In the middle ages and the early modern period ‘havoc’ was a military command instructing troops to pillage at will. 190.36 the old Adam the unregenerate self. The common expression derives ultimately from 1 Corinthians 15.45: ‘The first man Adam was made a living soul; the last Adam was made a quickening spirit.’ 190.43 of truth truly. 191.7 the Old Man the unregenerate self. The expression occurs at Ephesians 4.22 and Colossians 3.9. 191.8 bring us to his lure obtain control of us. The image is that of a falconer training his hawk to come to the lure which he swings. 191.10 so are the wounds of a friend termed faithful see Proverbs 27.6: ‘Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.’ 191.13 peace and good will see Luke 2.14. 191.15 vengeance to Him who hath said, I will repay it see Romans 12.19. 191.35 blown about with every wind of doctrine see Ephesians 4.14: ‘tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine’. 193.7–10 motto not identified; probably by Scott. In Greek mythology the ‘harpies’ are winds, often represented as birds with female faces, which snatch away the souls of the living. 193.28 Davie Leslie see note to 187.30–31. 193.33–34 the Prince of Darkness . . . Shakspeare says see King Lear, 3.4.139. 194.30 take spleen at be angry with. 194.42–43 Take a foil . . . with me see Hamlet, 5.2.170–71. 195.3 if your fitness speaks, mine is ready my convenience attends on yours. See Hamlet, 5.2.194. 195.5 Sa—sa see note to 151.10. 195.13 a very palpable hit Hamlet, 5.2.273. 195.14 it skills not there’s no point in. 195.17 good now come now. 195.18–19 broken victuals fragments of food left after a meal. 195.32 a rump at Westminster for the Rump of the Long Parliament see note to 116.29.

602

 

195.33 discussed a play on different meanings of discuss such as ‘debate’, ‘settle’ and ‘consume’. 195.41–42 Faustus raised the Devil . . . away with Faustus the magician and astrologer Johann Faust or Faustus, born in Württemberg, Germany, is supposed to have sold his soul to the Devil in return for 24 years of highly pleasurable life and to have been carried off accordingly c. 1538. 196.2 the very devil of all the principal devil. 196.5 a game at sharps a bout of fighting with unbated swords, in contrast to the blunted swords used in fencing. 196.12 the fatal 30th of January the date of Charles I’s execution in 1649. 196.13 in the old frank 2 Henry IV, 2.2.139–40: ‘Doth the old boar [Falstaff] feed in the old frank [sty]?’ 196.16 ragged regiment beggars. 196.20–21 You taught him to know . . . Saunders Gardner Scott recognised this as a proverbial expression. In response to James Ballantyne’s complaint in the proofs ‘I could wish the allusion was plainer’, he comments: ‘It is proverbial I believe the genuine reading is to teach to teach [sic] a man to know the Lord his God from Tom Frazer’ (Proofs, 2.159). But see Essay on the Text, 439. 196.22 come under your honour’s thumb become subservient to your honour; risk a similar defeat. Proverbial: see ODEP, 820. 196.24–25 my age . . . frosty but kindly see As You Like It, 2.3.52–53. 196.27 rogues of the board actors. 196.28–29 When thieves quarrel . . . their own proverbial: ODEP, 810–11. 196.42–197.1 some captive Trojan princess . . . the proud victor in Homer’s Iliad, 6.457–58, Hector foresees that after the fall of Troy his wife Andromache will be forced to draw water from a spring for the Greek victors. 198.14 nearly in like degree to a roughly equal extent. 198.24 Coventry blue a kind of blue thread manufactured at Coventry and used for embroidery. 201.17–19 the princess in the fairy tale . . . her protection this is a recurring motif in Charles Perrault’s fairy stories in the first volume of Le Cabinet des Fées, 41 vols (Amsterdam, 1785–86): CLA, 44–45. 201.42–43 sturdy beggars ‘able-bodied man begging without cause, and often with violence’ (OED). 202.11 look to investigate. 202.23 a lead ring and a common pebble according to popular superstition, money given by the Devil as a reward for service, though having the appearance of good coin, will turn into stone the following day. 203.1 waifs and strays see note to 26.35–36. 203.5 hooks at my finger-ends see Edward Ward, Hudibras Redivivus, 2 vols (London, 1708), Vol. 2, p. 27 of Part the Third (Canto 3, lines 470–71): ‘No Man could guess but, by their Looks,/ Their Fingers must be Fishing-Hooks’. The phrase is probably proverbial for thieves. 203.7 learned counsellor in law see 2 Henry IV, 1.2.127–28: ‘my learned counsel in the laws’. 203.14–17 motto Twelfth Night, 3.3.9–11. 203.22–23 Michael subduing the Arch-enemy the archangel Michael defeating Satan. See Revelation 12.7–9. 203.25–26 make out compensate for. 203.34–35 blessing on their hearts . . . good ale see The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 3.1.295–97. Proverbial: ODEP, 85. 203.40 doing reason to doing justice to.

 

603

204.4–5 Quoit him . . . Galloway nags see 2 Henry IV, 2.4.178–82. A ‘Galloway nag’ is a small, tough horse, originally from Galloway in SW Scotland. In Shakespeare’s play Pistol means ‘We know a harlot when we see one’, because anyone may ride Doll. By implication Sir Henry substitutes ‘spy’ for ‘harlot’. 204.9–10 I was never in better fence I never fenced better. 204.17 put forth exert. 204.21 standing cup cup having a foot or base on which to stand. 204.23 one of the golden calves of Bethel see 1 Kings 12.28–32. 204.38–39 I know the length of this man’s foot see note to 158.24–25. 204.40 He is hand and glove with me proverbial: Ray, 271; ODEP, 346. 204.40 for as in spite of being. 205.10 a pin in the least. 206.1 the Queen of Night this term for the moon is very frequently found before Scott and in the work of contemporaries such as Byron: see e.g. The Corsair (1814), Canto 3, line 34. 206.1–2 wading, as the expression is ‘The moon . . . was, in the phrase of that country, wading or struggling with clouds, and shed only a doubtful and occasional light’: The Black Dwarf (1816), ed. P. D. Garside,     4a, 20.27–29. The term is first recorded in this sense in 15th-century Scotland. 206.27–28 the bosom of our common mother John Dunton, ‘A Dialogue between Naomi and Ruth’, Heavenly Pastime . . ., 2 vols (London, 1685), 2.9. The expression ‘our common mother’ is quite common before Scott: e.g. Ben Jonson, Chloridia (1630), line 46. 207.4 Saint Michael see note to 203.22–23. 207.20 dark lantern lantern with slide or arrangement for concealing the light. 208.31–32 kiss . . . the hem of his raiment compare Matthew 9.20 and 14.36 for those seeking healing touching the hem of Jesus’s garment. 209.9 death-fixed Charles Robert Maturin, Bertram (1816), 4.235. 209.14–15 your dream came through the gate of horn i.e. it was a true dream. See Virgil’s Aeneid, 6.893: there are two gates of sleep, true dreams passing through the horn gate, false dreams through the gate of ivory. 209.22 body-curer . . . soul-curer see The Merry Wives of Windsor, 3.1.90. 209.25–26 my right hand has forgot its cunning see Psalm 137.5. 209.33 Worcester see note to 7.25–26. 209.38 make good demonstrate; prove. 210.17 A plague of curse. 210.19 Edgehill-field see note to 30.12–20. 211.2–4 motto see George Crabbe, The Borough (1810), Letter 13 (‘The Alms-House and Trustees’), lines 213–24. 211.16 carried it won the day. 211.18–19 the devil . . . favourites compare the proverb ‘the devil is good to his own’ (ODEP, 181). 211.36 drawn from thee with cords compare Twelfth Night, 2.5.59–60: ‘Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.’ The 18th-century editor Thomas Tyrwhitt commented ‘If I were to suggest a word in the place of cars, which I think is a corruption, it should be cables’: The Plays of William Shakespeare, 5th edn, rev. I[saac] Reed, 21 vols (London, 1803), 5.325n: CLA, 210. The emendation to ‘cords’ was made in 1859–65

604

 

by the American editor Richard Grant White, perhaps following Scott who in effect explains it at 384.18–21. 212.11 whose belly rings cupboard proverbial: see Ray, 184; ODEP, 44–45. To ‘cry or ring cupboard’ means to ‘crave food’, i.e. to be hungry. 212.12–13 he could eat a horse . . . the saddle proverbial: Ray, 197. The proverb is used by the Yorkshireman Timothy Crabshaw in Tobias Smollett, The Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves, 2 vols (London, 1762), 2.82: see CLA, 63. 212.23 the great Montrose James Graham (1612–50) succeeded his father as 5th Earl of Montrose in 1626, and Charles I created him marquis in 1644. He had begun by supporting the Scottish Covenanting cause (see note to 215.5–6), but defected to the King’s side because of the increasing anti-royalism of the Covenanters. As King’s Lieutenant in Scotland he conducted a tactically brilliant, but brutal, Highlands-based campaign of disruption against the Covenanters in 1644–45, in effect giving the English Cavalier forces a breathing-space after their defeat at Marston Moor. He was executed by the Covenanting authorities after his final defeat at Carbisdale, Ross-shire, in 1650. 212.30 the smallest tree can always give some shelter compare ‘a good tree is a good shelter’: ODEP, 325. 212.40–43 Who stirred up these dissensions? . . . protection? the Scots again see Historical Note, 536–37. 213.15–16 a forward chick of the game compare Much Ado About Nothing, 1.3.48: ‘A very forward March-chick’ (Don John on Claudio). 213.18 Kerneguy a form of the more familiar ‘Carnegie’. Compare the spelling ‘Kerneeguy’ in The Diary of Samuel Pepys, ed. Robert Latham and William Matthews, 11 vols (London, 1970–83), 6.60 (19 March 1665). The placing of the family in Kincardineshire is appropriate: the Royalist and reluctant Covenanter David Carnegie, 1st Earl of Southesk, was laird of Kinnaird, between Brechin and Montrose in Angus. 213.24–26 the asperities . . . the island a variant of Richard Verstegen, Restitution of Decayed Intelligence . . . (London, 1673), 2: ‘In like manner are we [English] still termed by the name of Sasons of the Scottish men that yet retain their ancient Irish Tongue, as also of the Irish men in their own Language’ (CLA, 26; first published Antwerp, 1605). 214.8–14 A disastrous green jerkin . . . his sufferings Charles informed Pepys that after his defeat at Worcester he travelled ‘four days and three nights on foot, every step up to the knees in dirt, with nothing but a green coat and a pair of country breeches on and a pair of country shoes, that made him so sore all over his feet, that he could scarce stir’ (The Diary of Samuel Pepys, ed. Robert Latham and William Matthews, 11 vols (London, 1970–83), 1.155 (23 May 1660)). The passage is included in the first (selected) edition of Pepys, published in 1825, which Scott reviewed as the opening article of the first number of the Quarterly Review to be published under Lockhart’s editorship; he composed the article in late December 1825 and early January 1826 (see the The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), 49 (27 December) and Letters, 9.353 and 367). 214.19 made an excellent figure acquitted themselves admirably. 214.23 closed the orifice of the stomach appeased his appetite temporarily. See Ben Jonson, Every Man in His Humour (performed 1598; published 1601), 1.5.146. 214.24 a nine days fast a Hindu practice which did not involve complete abstinence, but permitted vegetarian food. 214.25 genius of famine i.e. very spirit of famine. Charles Churchill published a savage attack on the Scots in The Prophecy of Famine. A Scots

 

605

Pastoral (London, 1763), in which the goddess Famine appears to Jocky and Sawney (21). 214.32 Bread of gude oath Bread of God! i.e. By the eucharist! 214.36–37 I’se making up for lost time . . . mutton the allusion has not been identified. 214.38 country-bred a fairly common phrase in 17th- and 18th-century literature, used of someone who has high birth but lacks the polish supposed to be gained in London society and the Court. 215.5–6 the Thirty-eight . . . first began in 1637 Charles I tried to impose a new prayer book on the Church in Scotland, which led to the National Covenant of 1638, the principal aim of which was to eradicate episcopacy and to secure Presbyterian church government in Scotland. A General Assembly approved these measures in December 1638, and Charles decided to impose his will by force. But he lacked the means to raise an English army, so the Bishop’s War of 1639–40 was a Scottish civil war, won by Covenanting forces, which imposed a truce on Charles in 1640 by invading the north of England and holding Newcastle. Charles now had to summon the Long Parliament. 215.16 I can bide the bit and the buffet I can take food and blows. Proverbial: see ODEP, 61. James Kelly glosses ‘Take the bit and the buffet with it’ as ‘Bear some ill Usage of them by whom you get Advantage’: A Complete Collection of Scotish Proverbs Explained and Made Intelligible to the English Reader (London, 1721), 311. 215.17 a hungry tyke . . . rough bane the apparently proverbial sentence has not been found elsewhere. 215.41–216.1 a solemn and peculiar tap . . . to each other no source has been located for this practice, but it may have been suggested to Scott by the development of a Jacobite variety of Freemasonry in the 18th century: see Paul Kléber Monod, Jacobitism and the English People 1688–1788 (Cambridge, 1989), 300–05. 216.18 dissolute and desperate see Richard II, 5.3.20: ‘As dissolute as desperate’ (Bolingbroke on his son Hal). 216.21–22 roaring boys riotous fellows. 216.22 hedge ale-houses third-rate pubs. 216.24 declaring their sittings permanent a reference to the Act of the Long Parliament passed on 11 May 1641 that ‘this present Parliament now assembled shall not be dissolved unless it be by Act of Parliament to be passed for that purpose; nor shall be, at any time or times, during the continuance thereof prorogued or adjourned, unless it be by Act of Parliament’. 216.26–27 We’ll drink, till we bring . . . the King Abraham Cowley, Cutter of Coleman-Street. A Comedy (1663), 2.8.203–04, in The Works of Mr. Abraham Cowley, 3 vols (London, 1721), 2.775: CLA, 247. (The first 2 vols are the 12th edn, with continuous pagination.) 216.33 houses of call of establishments frequented by; accommodation addresses of. 217.12–13 the emblem of that of Ralpho . . . Hudibras in Samuel Butler’s satirical poem Hudibras (1663–78) Hudibras himself (a Presbyterian country justice) and Ralpho (his Independent squire) sally forth to attack those opposed to Puritanism, in a mock-heroic imitation of Don Quixote. Ralpho’s steeple hat can be clearly seen in the plates drawn by William Hogarth (1697–1764) and included in one of the two editions owned by Scott (ed. T. Russell Nash, 3 vols, London, 1793: CLA, 242), and in those drawn by one ‘R. Martin’ in the other (Glasgow, 1763: CLA, 182). 217.13 his felt-umbrella the phrase ‘broad Umbrella-Hat’ occurs in

606

 

Edward Ward, Hudibras Redivivus (London, 1708), Vol. 1, p. 21 of Part the First (Canto 1, line 286). 217.15 sad-coloured cloak cloak of a sombre colour. The expression ‘sad-coloured’, found in the late 17th and early 18th centuries, has a possible reference to Don Quixote, who was ‘the knight of the sad countenance’ (Part 1 (1605), Ch. 19). See Redgauntlet, ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17, 71.38–40. 217.16 three-piled taffeta taffeta has been used through the years of different kinds of cloth, but here the whole phrase probably means ‘velvet of the highest quality’. 217.40 in terms of in accordance with. 218.13 being on the stormy side of the hedge proverbial: see ‘To be on the . . . wrong side of the hedge’ (ODEP, 732). 218.13 honest men the term was used by both sides to denote those who supported their position. 218.30–31 “The King shall enjoy his own again” see note to 55.39–40. 219.5–6 Lunsford’s light-horse . . . babe-bolter for Lunsford and Goring see notes to 61.6 and 89.33. Scott has a Magnum note (40.43–45) on the allegations of cannibalism made against Lunsford, particularly in John Lacy’s comedy The Old Troop: or, Monsieur Raggou (London, 1672), 33 (Act 3, Scene 1): CLA, 220. The nurse’s offer of a child at 220.16–30 is based on this episode. 219.42–220.3 Then let the health go round . . . kiss the ground these lines are a version of the round ‘We be three poor mariners’, first found as the sixth song in [Thomas Ravenscroft], Deuteromelia: or the Second Part of Musicks Melodie (London, 1609). Essentially the same version occurs in Rob Roy, ed. David Hewitt,     5, 323.26–29. In a Magnum note to that novel (8.343) Scott says: ‘This pithy verse occurs, it is believed, in Shadwell’s play of Bury Fair’. The attribution to Bury Fair (1689) by Thomas Shadwell is spurious, though it is not inappropriate as it is a play about contemporary mores; the rewrite is probably Scott’s own. 220.5 the tantivy boys in 1680–81 a caricature was made of High Church Englishmen riding the horse of the Church of England behind the Duke of York to Rome. The word tantivy means ‘at full gallop’. See Roger North, Examen: or, an Enquiry into the Credit and Veracity of a Pretended Complete History (London, 1740), 101: CLA, 243. 220.7–8 us Clerks of Oxford . . . belonged to Oxford was the Royalist headquarters during much of the Civil War, and a regiment of University men was raised in 1644 to man the defences of the city. For the nickname applied here see the Clerk of Oxenford in Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. 220.9 the attack on Brentford on 12 November 1642 Royalist forces under Patrick Ruthven (d. 1651), who had been created Earl of Forth on 27 March, and Prince Rupert took Brentford, W of Kew, in an attempt to clear the path to London for the King. 220.12 brought us off rescued us. 220.17 howling like syrens in Greek mythology the sirens were monsters, part woman, part bird, who lured sailors to destruction by their singing. 220.36 London Stone the stone in Cannon Street which was believed by William Camden (Britannia, rev. Richard Gough, 4 vols (London, 1806), 2.80) to have been ‘a milliary, like that in the forum at Rome, from whence all the distances were measured’. 220.41 strong waters spirits. 221.1 at making way than drawing off at advancing rather than withdrawing.

 

607

221.5 these cockney-pikes of the artillery ground at the time of the Civil Wars the Trained Bands of citizen militiamen raised for the defence of the City of London exercised at the Artillery Ground in Finsbury. On 13 November 1642 (3 weeks after Edgehill, and in response to the sack of Brentford: see note to 220.9) they were mustered by the Earl of Essex (see note to 58.33–34) at Turnham Green, E of Kew, forcing the King to abandon his attempt to recapture the capital. 221.13–14 devil a cockney . . . little cake-bread for this use of cakebread (‘fine or dainty bread’) as an affectionate term for a baby see John Phillips, A Satyr against Hypocrites (London, 1655), 2 (lines 34–35). The expression devil a means ‘not a single’. 221.15 out upon curses on. 221.19 never improved them never turned [victories] to good account; never used them to advantage. 221.20 like Christian men in the 17th century it was expected that all occasions should be used for spiritual profit and edification. 221.32 when our hearts were something up when we were in pretty high spirits. 221.34–37 This curious old play . . . reputation for The Old Troop see note to 219.5–6. John Lacy, playwright and actor, served as lieutenant and quartermaster during the Civil Wars under Colonel Charles Gerard (c. 1618–94; created Earl of Macclesfield in 1689). 221.37–42 Miss Edgeworth . . . pocket the stanza has not been located in Maria Edgeworth’s works. In his Magnum note (40.43) Scott deletes the reference to her and provides a corrected, and slightly different, version. A variant (with e.g. ‘Banbury’ for ‘Coventry’) can be found in John Cleveland, ‘A Zealous Discourse betwen the Person of the Parish, and Tabitha’, The Works of Mr. John Cleveland (London, 1687), 382: ‘The Post, that came from Banbury,/ Riding in a Blew Rocket,/ He swore he saw, when Lunsford fell,/ A childs Arm in his Pocket.’ 221.43–45 It was not a small cause . . . Tower of London on 22 December 1641 the King appointed Lunsford Lieutenant of the Tower of London. ‘Many saw this as a calculated affront to parliament, signalling an impending coup, since the Tower was the key to military control of the capital’ (ODNB). Parliament voted him unfit for the office on the 24th, and on the 26th Charles replaced him with Sir John Byron. 222.11 rat me blow me. 222.26 Girnigo the name derives from a castle in Caithness. 222.27 Gringardenshire Kincardineshire. 222.29 their Andrew Ferraras see note to 58.12–13. 222.40–42 some of the Gordons . . . the like the Gordons came from Aberdeenshire, where the most prominent distinguishing feature of the local pronunciation is the sounding of the initial ‘wh’ as ‘f ’. 223.5–6 some of Montrose’s folks for Montrose see note to 212.23. 223.9 whore am I ganging till the Border pronunciation of ‘where’ is the same as in Standard Southern English, rather than the most usual Scots ‘whaur’ (here varied to ‘whore’ for comic effect). The shepherd probably assumed that Wildrake was addressing him by a vulgar English expression. The rest of the phrase would have presented the shepherd with no problems, except that he himself would have said ‘gangin’ rather than ‘ganging’. The attempts of both men to speak Scots show signs of early 19th-century usage: in 17th-century English there would have been a distinction between the vowels in ‘horse’ and ‘hoarse’ (for example), so that an attempt at ‘whaur’ would not have come out exactly the same as ‘whore’; and Charles’s use of ‘I’se’ to mean ‘I am’ rather than ‘I shall’ is first found in the late 18th century.

608

 

223.9 confound me blow me. 223.39–40 before we rouse the night-owl with a catch see Twelfth Night, 2.3.56–57. 224.3 Alleyn the actor and theatrical entrepreneur Edward Alleyn (1566–1626) was associated with the Admiral’s Men rather than the Lord Chamberlain’s Men (later the King’s Men), the company for which Shakespeare acted and wrote. 224.3 Hemmings see note to 43.7–9. 224.10 Glee for King Charles by Scott: see Essay on the Text, 443. 224.46 Oxon Oxford. 225.1 Noll and his red nose for this familiar feature see e.g. a couplet in Patrick Carey, Trivial Poems and Triolets (London, 1819), 17: ‘French clarret was banish’d (as most doe suppose)/ Cause Noll would haue nought here, so red as his nose’. The work was edited by Scott (anonymously) from a manuscript at Abbotsford. 225.15–18 your duties as a page . . . rare Ben Jonson exclaim in his ‘Essay on Chivalry’ (1818) Scott refers to Ben Jonson’s The New Inne (1631), 1.3 for a characterisation of ‘the modern corruptions of the order of pages’: The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36), 6.54. Jonson’s tombstone in Westminster Abbey bears only the words ‘    ’. 225.27–30 motto see Richard II, 5.5.67–68. 225.32 the Spanish Chamber apparently imaginary. 225.38 cordovan leather leather made at Cordoba in Spain. 226.36 the Garter the principal English chivalric order. See note to 78.24–25. 227.17 the whilst at the same time. 227.23 never cocked it i.e. never wore my hat in a way that indicated pertness or disrespect. 227.28–29 he would not hate the child in sparing the rod proverbial: Ray, 152; ODEP, 759 (deriving from Proverbs 13.24). 227.34 odd’s fish oath God’s flesh! Body of Christ! 227.34–36 as much afraid of him . . . old Sully Henri IV, King of France from 1589 to 1610, depended heavily on his principal adviser Maximilien de Béthune (1560–1641), created Duke of Sully in 1606. Sully himself gives Henri’s sketch of his minister’s character: ‘Some persons . . . complain, and, indeed, I do myself sometimes, of his temper: they say he is harsh, impatient, and obstinate: he is accused of having too enterprising a mind, of presuming too much upon his own opinions, exaggerating the worth of his own actions, and lessening that of others; as likewise of eagerly aspiring after honours and riches. Now, although I am well convinced that part of these imputations are true, and that I am obliged to keep a high hand over him, when he offends me with those sallies of ill humour, yet I cannot cease to love him, esteem him, and employ him in all affairs of consequence; because I am very sure, that he loves my person, that he takes an interest in my preservation, and that he is ardently solicitous for the honour, the glory, and grandeur of me and my kingdom’ (The Memoirs of The Duke of Sully, trans. Charlotte Lennox, new edn, 5 vols (London, 1810), 4.336–37: see CLA, 46). See also note to 105.11–16. Charles I’s mother was Henrietta Maria, daughter of Henri IV. 227.37 La Belle Gabrielle Gabrielle d’Estrées (1573–99), one of the numerous mistresses of Henri IV. 228.3 a wolf from the braes of Badenoch Badenoch is a wild district in SE Inverness-shire. Alexander (1343–1405), 4th son of Robert II, King of Scots 1371–90, earned the sobriquet ‘Wolf of Badenoch’ because of his

 

609

cruelty and rapacity, and for his sack of the burgh of Elgin and its cathedral in June 1390. 228.23 as round as a ring to perfection. Compare the proverbial ‘round as a ball (hoop, top)’: ODEP, 685. 228.30–31 Was I not their King for a matter of ten months? Scott left the number blank in manuscript, and ‘ten’ was inserted in proof by an unrecognised hand. It is difficult to square precisely with any historical dates. Charles had been proclaimed King of Scots by the Scottish Parliament on 5 February 1649. He landed in Scotland on 23 June 1650, but was not crowned at Scone till 1 January 1651. He left Scotland on 31 July on his way to his defeat at Worcester on 3 September and his eventual departure from British shores in October. It may well be that the provider of ‘ten’ envisaged the period as extending from the coronation to the post-Worcester events of the novel. 228.32–35 Did not east country . . . by turns? the ‘caw, croak, and shriek’ are general (rather than specifically regional) features of Scots as it would appear to a polite southern English ear: the corresponding ‘deep guttural’ would be the velar fricatives, the ‘broad drawl’ the drawn-out vowels, and the ‘high sharp yelp’ the high register of a wide pitch range. 228.35 Odd’s fish see note to 227.34. 228.36–37 have I not been speeched at . . . their kirkmen? see Hume, 7.193, who says Charles and his court were ‘Obliged to attend from morning to night at prayers and sermons’. 228.38 the cuttie-stool the seat on which those found guilty of immoral behaviour by the Kirk Session (ecclesiastical court) of a Scottish parish would sit during divine service to be publicly rebuked by the minister. 228.39–40 worthy Mas John Gillespie . . . mine own privy chamber in 1650 Patrick Gillespie (1617–75), minister at Glasgow’s Outer High Kirk from 1648, and some of his radical colleagues drafted a remonstrance announcing ‘their intention to withhold support from Charles until he evinced clear and unmistakable signs of repentance’ (ODNB). Mas John means ‘Reverend’, with a pejorative implication. 228.42 Oxon Oxfordshire. 229.3 Norton’s the mansion at Abbots Leigh near Bristol owned by the Norton family who gave Charles shelter for several days after the battle of Worcester. 229.13–14 I hope . . . that disguise again Whitelocke (488) says that ‘the King went up and down in London in a Gentlewomans Habit’, but Samuel Rawson Gardiner suggests that this was a later invention of Charles’s to protect those who had concealed him (History of the Commonwealth and Protectorate 1649–1656, 4 vols (London, 1894–1901), 1.457). 229.17 cucking-stool an ‘instrument of punishment formerly in use for scolds, disorderly women, fraudulent tradespeople, etc., consisting of a chair (sometimes in the form of a close-stool [commode]), in which the offender was fastened and exposed to the jeers of the bystanders, or conveyed to a pond or river and ducked’ (OED). 229.18 leathern conveniences i.e. leather breeches: see 214.8–14. 229.19 propria quæ maribus Latin literally proper names which are given to males. The phrase opens a grammatical treatise in Latin verse by William Lily (1468?–1523). The tag here means ‘the right things for men’. 229.38 away she flew from me, like a lapwing see note to 44.40. 229.40–41 I would have called fire and faggot against it i.e. I would have called for her to be burned at the stake as a witch. 230.10–11 blue or orange sashes for the Royalist blue sash see note to 148.42–43. ‘The orange-tawny sash is traditionally associated with

610

 

Parliamentary forces; however, while it was certainly worn as a field-sign from time to time, it is not really known how universally it was worn otherwise, or what exact colour it was’: Stuart Asquith, New Model Army 1645–60 (London, 1981), 33. 230.20–24 The king-making Earl of Warwick . . . home again Richard Neville (1428–71), succeeded as 16th Earl of Warwick in right of his wife in 1449. He was instrumental in having Edward, Duke of York, declared king in 1461, but in 1468 he had him imprisoned, and the following year he made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to restore Henry VI to the throne. 230.24–25 shall I shake off my northern slough compare Twelfth Night, 2.5.132: ‘cast thy humble slough’. 232.18–19 it is best sitting near the fire . . . smokes proverbial: ODEP, 738. 234.4–11 motto see William Wordsworth, ‘Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle’ (1807), lines 95–101. After the battle of Towton in the Wars of the Roses (1461) the fugitive Henry Lord Clifford lived for 24 years disguised as a shepherd, harboured by his father-in-law Threlkeld. 234.36 the forest of Deane the Forest of Dean is in SW Gloucestershire. The historical Charles set off in that direction but turned back on finding that the bridges across the River Severn were guarded. 235.16 the Bishop of —— it is unlikely that any specific bishop is intended. 235.32 sanctum sanctorum Latin holy of holies. Originally the Vulgate name for the inner part of the temple in Jerusalem, it came to be used in the 18th century of a private retreat, where someone could be free from intrusion. 235.34 small beer weak beer. 236.3 plans of nativity calculations of individuals’ astrological fortunes based on their dates of birth. 236.6 dark lantern see note to 207.20. 236.31–32 like most high-bred dogs . . . water-fowl poultry bones splinter dangerously when chewed by dogs. 236.43 sub ferula Latin subject to the discipline of the cane. 237.1 ipse dixit Latin, literally he has said; i.e. unproved assertion resting on the bare authority of a speaker (‘himself said it’). 237.2–3 hanged, drawn, and quartered this punishment for high treason (involving half-hanging, castrating and disembowelling, beheading and cutting the body into quarters) survived in theory until 1870, though it was last inflicted in 1820. 237.13 forty-two 1642, when the Civil Wars began in England. 237.16 the Western Rising this probably refers to a Royalist uprising in Devon and Cornwall early in 1648, which was suppressed by the Parliamentary commander Sir Hardress Waller. 237.16 the City Petition the City was dominated by the Presbyterian interest from 1642, and none of its numerous petitions to King and Parliament could be imagined to involve a ‘plot for the King’. 237.17 Sir John Owen’s stir in Wales Owen (1600–66) was an active Royalist commander in Wales in 1644–46, and again in an uprising in 1648, put down in June that year. 237.18 Tomkins and Challoner’s matter in Edmund Waller’s 1643 plot (see note to 62.37) he was assisted by Richard Chaloner (a linen draper) and his brother-in-law Nathaniel Tomkins. Waller escaped with a fine and went into exile; Chaloner and Tomkins were hanged. 237.25–26 The pitcher goes oft to the well the complete proverb is

 

611

‘The pitcher goes so often to the well that it is broken at last’: Ray, 146; ODEP, 628. 237.26–27 the proverb . . . is somewhat musty see Hamlet, 3.2.334–35. 237.29 passive obedience ‘The respective claims of sacred and secular authority were defined by the doctrine of passive obedience: that if the subject were confronted by an unjust command of the civil power he was neither to obey . . . nor resist . . . but practice what is today called civil disobedience, patiently accepting any penalties for inactivity. “Passive obedience” became the defining symbol of the Anglican middle ground between Rome and Geneva’ (J. C. D. Clark, English Society 1660–1832: Religion, ideology and politics during the ancien regime, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2000), 58). 237.41 in verbo sacerdotis Latin on the word of a priest. A set phrase. 238.2 take the doctor for bail take the doctor’s word. 238.20 speculate there is a word-play on the literal meaning (‘examine or observe’ something) and the modern sense. 238.29 lies leaguer lies ledger; is resident as an ambassador. 238.34 the depth of the stake the amount that is at stake. 238.37 comes down on comes down to. 239.2 a matter of such dear concernment i.e. a matter concerning such a precious person as Charles. 239.14 hedge ale-houses third rate pubs. 239.14 strong waters spirits. 239.15 pot loyalty loyalty induced by inebriation. 239.24 the prime medal of all i.e. the King. 239.31 putting men upon urging men to undertake. 240.1 alas the while an intensified form of the simple ‘alas’. 240.31–33 all that the poet has said . . . conspiracy see Brutus in Julius Caesar, 2.1.63–65: ‘Between the acting of a dreadful thing/ And the first motion, all the interim is/ Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.’ 242.2 the Wanderer the title may have been suggested by the two parts of Thomas Killigrew’s play set among the exiled Royalists, Thomaso; or, The Wanderer, in Comedies, and Tragedies (London, 1664), 313–464, but Charles II was referred to as a ‘wanderer’: see e.g. Aphra Behn, Epistle Dedicatory to the Duke of York, The Second Part of the Rover (London, 1681), [vii]. 242.16–19 that species of Epicurean philosophy . . . the moment Epicurus (341–270  ) taught that pleasure (or absence of pain) is the only good. 242.32 Lord Marquis of Argyle Archibald Campbell (born between 1605 and 1607; executed 1661), 8th Earl of Argyll, took over the family estates from his father in 1619, and Charles I created him marquis in 1641. A Presbyterian, he was prominent in the Scottish opposition to Charles I. Although he joined Charles II after Charles I’s execution in 1649, he engaged in anti-Royalist activities during Charles’s exile, and after the Restoration he was executed for high treason. 242.33 the Solemn League and Covenant see note to 180.5–6. 242.35–36 possessed the same degree of interest . . . Desdemona’s days see Othello, 1.3.128–70, for Othello’s description of the delight that Desdemona took in his narrations, and especially 134–35: ‘most disastrous chances, . . . moving accidents by flood and field’. 243.10 the neat-handed Phœbe see John Milton, ‘L’Allegro’ (composed 1631?, published 1645), line 86: ‘the neat-handed Phyllis’. 243.20 drop to leeward get left behind. 244.10–11 There’s such divinity . . . what it would see Hamlet, 4.5.120–21: ‘There’s such divinity doth hedge a king/ That treason can but

612

 

peep to what it would’ (Claudius to Gertrude). 244.16–17 Lord Holland and the Duke of Buckingham’s rising at Kingston Henry Rich (1590–1649) was created 1st Earl of Holland in 1624. George Villiers (1628–87) succeeded as 2nd Duke of Buckingham while still in the cradle. In 1648 the two men attempted to raise a cavalry force for the King, but with little success, and they were defeated by the Parliamentary forces near Kingston-on-Thames on 7 July. Buckingham escaped to the Continent, but Holland was executed. 244.19 cocked my hat at i.e. defied jauntily. 244.26 about the King’s hand in attendance on the King. 245.19 Out upon you shame on you! 245.30–31 Look thou upon this picture, and on this see Hamlet, 3.4.53 (Hamlet asking Gertrude to compare the likenesses of the late King and Claudius). 245.39 one of Vandyke’s living portraits see note to 19.12–13. 246.4–5 though I am no Apelles . . . an Alexander Apelles, reckoned in antiquity to be the greatest of Greek painters, painted several triumphant portraits of Alexander the Great (356–323  ), the most renowned general of the time. 246.8 Henry of France, his grandfather Charles’s mother, Henrietta Maria, was a daughter of the intrepid military leader Henri IV, King of France from 1589 to 1610. 247.22 in right of by right of. 248.10–15 motto see Richard II, 5.3.6–7, 10–12 (Bolingbroke on Hal). 248.28–29 as the electrical globe . . . its cushion in Scott’s time electricity was sometimes produced by rotating a glass globe against a pad or cushion covered with silk. 249.11 the Martyr Charles I. See note to 27.5–8. 249.15 a thing devised by the enemy Richard III, 5.3.306. 249.23–25 if all his grandfather of Navarre’s morals . . . Prince for the sexual promiscuity of Henri IV (born Henri de Navarre) see note to 227.37. 249.38–39 as Will says . . . my daughter hence Othello, 1.3.147: ‘But still the house affairs would draw her thence’ (Othello on Desdemona). 250.2 passage of arms armed contest. 250.10 Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster Richard II, 1.1.1. 251.6 Vincent Saviolo the Italian fencing-master Vicentio Saviolo published Vicentio Saviolo his Practise. In two Bookes. The first intreating of the vse of the Rapier and Dagger. The second, of Honor and honorable Quarrels (London, 1595): CLA, 119. It is dedicated to Robert Devereux (1565–1601), 2nd Earl of Essex from 1576. 251.9 Exeunt omnes Latin everyone leaves. This is the final stage direction in many plays. 251.29 a pudding’s-end compare the proverb ‘Not worth a pudding’: ODEP, 653. See also Othello, 2.1.247–49: ‘Blest fig’s end! . . . Blest pudding!’ (Iago). 251.30–33 If I give his grandson a title . . . roll for it ‘A man does not give his son a title to quarter his own arms. And in English heraldry, at least, a bar is horizontal and the qualifying sinister has therefore no meaning. Scott is probably responsible for the popularity of this vulgarism among journalists’: E. A. Greening Lamborn, ‘Sir Walter’s Heraldry’, Notes and Queries 190 (18 May and 1 June 1946), 207–10 and 226–28 (227). The correct term would be either ‘bend sinister’, a line drawn from the top left corner of a shield (from the bearer’s perspective) to the bottom right, or ‘baton sinister’,

 

613

a shorter variant. An abatement in heraldry is a supposed mark of depreciation; an addition is its opposite, something added as a mark of honour. A visitation is a periodic visit made by heralds to a district to examine and enrol arms and pedigrees. 251.39 being the piteous Life and Death of Richard the Second the form of the title is not historical but mocks an older kind of drama as does Falstaff in 1 Henry IV, 2.4.376 (see note to 313.15). 252.6 since Dorset killed the Lord Bruce two papers by Richard Steele in The Guardian (nos 129 and 133: 8 and 13 August 1713) contain ‘the only surviving records of the celebrated duel between Edward Sackville, Fourth Earl of Dorset (1591–1652), and Edward Bruce, Second Baron Kinloss’ at Bergen-op-Zoom in 1613. The reason for the duel is uncertain. See The Guardian, ed. John Calhoun Stephens (Lexington, KY, 1982), 716–17. 252.11 left-handed alliance union formed without (regular) marriage. 252.11 the Grand Monarque Louis XIV (1638–1715), King of France from 1643. 252.19 evil communication see 1 Corinthians 15.33: ‘evil communications corrupt good manners’. 252.19–20 Villiers, Wilmot, Sedley three noted wits, authors and profligates. For George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham, see note to 244.16–17. John Wilmot (1647–80), who succeeded as 2nd Earl of Rochester in 1658, wrote verse satires of unprecedented bawdiness. Sir Charles Sedley (1639–1701) was, like Buckingham, a Restoration dramatist. 252.29 this Epicurean doctrine see note to 242.16–19. 253.16–17 re-opening the fatal window . . . the Mask alluding to the window of the Banqueting House in Whitehall through which Charles I passed to the scaffold, and the masked executioner who awaited him there. 253.18 the old stool . . . penance see note to 228.38. 253.28 Joseph see Genesis 39.7–12 for Joseph’s refusal to commit adultery with the wife of Pharaoh’s officer Potiphar. 253.34–35 those violent and engrossing passions . . . well lost compare the title of Dryden’s version of Antony and Cleopatra, All for Love Or, The World well Lost (1678). 253.42–43 None of those . . . so blindly a parody of Robert Burns, ‘Ae fond kiss and then we sever’ (1791), lines 13–14: ‘Had we never lov’d sae kindly,/ Had we never lov’d sae blindly!’ (The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns, ed. James Kinsley, 3 vols (Oxford, 1968), no. 337). 255.3–4 laughed till his eyes ran over see Troilus and Cressida, 1.2.137. 255.7 Celtic dialect Gaelic. 256.17–23 motto by Scott. 256.41 put out exert. 257.5 laughed in his sleeve laughed to himself. 258.34–35 Pym . . . Hampden John Pym (1584–1643) and John Hampden (1595–1643) were prominent Parliamentarian politicians. 259.24 made more up to made more in the way of advances to. 259.26–27 Parthenia . . . Argalus see note to 54.21–22. 259.32–33 the course . . . being obstructed see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 1.1.134: ‘The course of true love never did run smooth’. Proverbial: ODEP, 148. 259.36–37 no more . . . than chalk was to cheese proverbial: see Ray, 224; ODEP, 113. 260.8 Rustica Phidyle Latin ‘Phidyle, my country lass’: Horace (65–8  ), Odes, 3.23.2. 261.5–8 practised by the Croats . . . recommend the Croatian cavalry first introduced their flexible style of combat on fast, light horses into

614

 

European warfare during the Thirty Years War (1618–48). 261.8–9 a sort of metaphysical jargon excessively subtle or abstract language, probably with an allusion to Samuel Johnson’s influential classification of the conspicuously ingenious poets (often love poets) of the 17th century as ‘the metaphysical poets’ (‘Cowley’, in Lives of the English Poets, ed. George Birkbeck Hill, 3 vols (Oxford, 1905), 1.19: ‘they endeavoured to be singular in their thoughts’). 261.15 what it was o’clock what the time was. 261.38 The dial-stone, aged and green Thomas Campbell, ‘Lines Written on Visiting a Scene in Argyleshire’ (1800), line 11. 263.31 mended his pace walked faster. 264.41–42 his wrath in no sort turned away to ‘turn away wrath’ is a set phrase in the Old Testament, e.g. Proverbs 29.8: ‘wise men turn away wrath’. The phrase in no sort means ‘in no way’. 264.43–265.3 our Ovid’s Metamorphoses . . . Vertumnus and Pomona in Bk 14 of the Metamorphoses by Publius Ovidius Naso (43  – 17) Vertumnus, a Roman god of orchards and fruit, woos Pomona, the corresponding goddess, in a succession of forms: ‘A female form at last Vertumnus wears’ (Alexander Pope’s 1712 translation). 265.35–37 Lord Wilmot . . . Rochester for Henry Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, see notes to 59.4 and 89.24. As Wilmot had married the widow of Sir Francis Henry Lee of Ditchley in 1644, it is not unreasonable for Everard to think he is addressing Wilmot. 266.37 Villiers see note to 244.16–17. 267.5–6 My religion . . . rash in shedding blood Everard would be thinking first of the sixth commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ (Exodus 20.13), but ‘shedding blood’ suggests his awareness of the characterisation of Old Testament law in Hebrews 9.22 (‘almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission’), whereas he is living under the law of the New Testament, where Jesus enjoins ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you’ (Matthew 5.44; see also Luke 6.27–28). 269.5–6 motto see Richard II, 1.3.118. 269.18 sequestration had left him no horses the Sequestration Ordinance of 1 April 1643 empowered Parliamentary commissioners to requisition horses as required, but in fact under the ‘propositions’ of the previous year the horses of all ‘delinquents’, i.e. Royalist supporters, were subject to sequestration. 269.23–24 tilting at each other thrusting at each other. See Othello, 2.3.175: ‘Swords out, and tilting one at other’s breast’. 269.24 royal liberties royal domains and properties. 269.26 the immunities of the Park the use of weapons was forbidden in a royal residence and its environs. As Nigel Oliphant discovers in The Fortunes of Nigel (1822) an infringement could result in the loss of the right hand (ed. Frank Jordan,     13, 179–84). 269.28 Put up sheathe your weapons. 269.28–29 lug out as thirdsman draw my weapon to act as a mediator or arbitrator. 269.31–32 I’ll so maul you . . . from hell see King John, 4.3.99–100. 270.20 very hardly with great difficulty. 270.30 on your warrant on your authorisation. 270.40 by affinity by marriage. 271.11–12 Why, what an intricate impeach . . . Circe’s cup see The Comedy of Errors, 5.1.269–70.

 

615

271.14–15 The mother of mischief . . . gnat’s wing proverbial: Ray, 306; ODEP, 546. 271.17–18 Gallants . . . hand to hand the second line is taken from 1 Henry IV, 1.3.99. The first line is probably by Scott. 271.20–21 the taking of the wall see note to 145.4. 271.26–29 In Malta . . . be revived see P[atrick] Brydone, A Tour through Sicily and Malta. In a Series of Letters to William Beckford, Esq., new edn (London, 1806), 194: CLA, 318. 273.11 Bucephalus the favourite horse of Alexander the Great. 273.17–18 the Duke of Newcastle’s book on horsemanship La Methode nouvelle et Invention extraordinaire de dresser les Chevaux . . . (Amsterdam, 1658), by William Cavendish (1593–1676; created Earl of Newcastle upon Tyne in 1628 and Duke in 1665), translated from the English [by Jacques de Solleysel]. It was published in English as A General System of Horsemanship in all it’s Branches, 2 vols (London, 1743). Newcastle was the principal Royalist commander in the north of England throughout the Civil Wars. 273.18 splendida moles! Latin a splendid structure! The expression occurs in Vincentius Fabricius, ‘Ad Hieronymum Voglerum, Cons. Hamb.’, in Vincentii Fabricii . . . Orationes Civiles . . . (Frankfurt and Leipzig, 1685), 576. 273.30–39 the Faery King . . . full of mettle see Michael Drayton, ‘Nymphidia: The Court of Fairie’ (1627), lines 513–20 (in The Works of Michael Drayton, Esq., 4 vols (London, 1753), 2.467: CLA, 192). 274.3 an old man can do somewhat 2 Henry IV, 5.3.77–78. 274.9 To witch the world . . . horsemanship see 1 Henry IV, 4.1.110. 274.13 Are you avised of that? so you are aware of it? You think so, do you? (The Merry Wives of Windsor, 1.4.91). 274.13–14 In King James’s time . . . tilt-yard for tilting at the Jacobean court see Roy Strong, Henry, Prince of Wales and England’s Lost Renaissance (London, 1986), 151–59. 274.15 You saw young Harry with his beaver up see 1 Henry IV, 4.1.104: ‘I saw young Harry with his beaver on’. The ‘beaver up’ is from Hamlet, 1.2.229 (Horatio of the ghost of Hamlet’s father). 274.16–19 old Harry . . . my namesake ‘Old Harry’ is a familiar name for the Devil. 274.17 in labour of in the process of giving birth to. 274.18 You take me you understand me. 274.24–25 Donne, Cowley, Waller three of the ‘Metaphysical’ poets, noted (especially the first two) for the ingenuity of their verse: John Donne (1572–1631), Abraham Cowley (1618–67) and Edmund Waller (1606–87). 274.27–28 one of his descendants . . . Sir William D’Avenant the poet, playwright and theatre manager Sir William D’Avenant or Davenant (1606–68) was apparently happy to encourage the belief that he was an illegitimate son of Shakespeare. His father owned a wine tavern in Cornmarket, Oxford, where Shakespeare was a guest as a friend, probably assuming the role of godfather to Davenant at his christening in St Martin’s, Carfax in that city. 274.31–32 an officer under Newcastle . . . Hull in September and October 1643 the Earl of Newcastle (see note to 273.17–18) unsuccessfully laid siege to Hull, Davenant being his Lieutenant-General of Ordnance. 274.35 by the surer side of the house compare the proverb ‘It’s a wise child that knows its own father’ (ODEP, 899): i.e. a mother’s witness to paternity is more surely grounded than a father’s. See also Titus Andronicus,

616

 

4.2.126: ‘he is your brother by the surer side’. 274.36 after the old fashion in the common way of begetting or as a typical tale of seduction or under the pre-Puritan moral code. 275.3 Out upon curses on. 275.5 his nose ought to be slit this was one of the forms of mutilation available to the courts in the 17th century. 275.7 the peculiarity of the bard’s countenance Davenant’s nose was severely deformed by syphilis. 275.10–13, 40–43 a verse . . . anachronism see [Henry Fielding], Tumble-Down Dick: or, Phaeton in the Suds (London, 1744), 3, where the lines read: ‘Besides, by all the Parish-Boys I’m flamm’d,/ You the Sun’s Son! You Rascal, you be damn’d!’. The word flamm’d means ‘mocked’. Fielding travesties Ovid’s story, in the first Book of the Metamorphoses, of Phaeton’s disastrous attempt to take over the chariot of the sun from his father Apollo. 275.20 in gross en masse. 275.35–36 the abjuration oath on 3 July 1643 an Oath of Abjuration was devised by Parliament ‘to be administred to such as are suspected to be Papists’, but the context suggests that Scott may be recalling an anti-monarchical oath proposed to Parliament on the eve of the Restoration in 1660: ‘that no Person whatsoever might be admitted to the exercise of any Office or Function in the State, or in the Church, no not so much as to teach a School, who did not first take the Oath of Abjuration of the King, and of all his Family’ (Clarendon, 3.558). 277.8 Hebe in Greek mythology, cup-bearer to the gods. 277.10–11 a question of course a routine question. 277.30 Vicars . . . Withers two Parliamentarian poets and pamphleteers: John Vicars (1580–1652) and George Wither or Withers (1588–1667). 277.31–32 Drummond of Hawthornden . . . Lord Stirling two Scottish Royalist poets: William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585–1649) and Sir William Alexander (1577–1640), created 1st Earl of Stirling in 1633. 277.40 A dramatic production at least see the following note. 278.3–19 These thoughts may startle . . . on the night see John Milton, Comus (1637), lines 209–21. Milton’s masque was acted privately at Ludlow Castle. 278.40–41 a Presbyterian, or . . . an Anabaptist Milton was an Independent rather than a Presbyterian. He was well disposed to the Anabaptists (see note to 99.10) and was influenced by them in his own thinking: see William Riley Parker, Milton: A Biography, 2 vols (Oxford, 1968), 1.239, 496. 278.41–43 Ay, there were good and righteous people . . . destroyed by fire see Genesis Chs 18–19 for Abraham’s pleading for Sodom and Gomorrah and God’s sparing of Lot and his family from the destruction of those wicked cities. 279.9 Like sweet bells . . . harsh Hamlet, 3.1.158 (‘tune’ being the First Folio reading, rather than the Second Quarto’s ‘time’ adopted by Alexander). 279.15 Dame Potiphar and her recusant lover see note to 253.28. 279.18 a schoolmaster by profession during the 1640s Milton divided his attention between teaching boys and political polemic. 279.19 Poet Laureate to Cromwell the ‘poet laureate’ is the poet appointed by the monarch to celebrate royal events; the office was not recognised by the Commonwealth. Sir William Davenant (see note to 274.27–28) was Poet Laureate from 1637 until his death on 7 April 1668, being succeeded on 13 April by John Dryden. 279.23–24 the Defensio Populi Anglicani Latin Defence of the People of England. In 1650 the Council of State ordered Milton to prepare

 

617

a reply to a defence of Charles I by the learned French Protestant Claude de Saumaise. The result was Joannis Miltonii Angli defensio pro populo Anglicano . . . (The Defence of John Milton, Englishman, on behalf of the people of England), which appeared in February 1651. 279.24–25 the infernal High Court of Fiends the high court of justice appointed by Parliament to try Charles I. 279.35 offal . . . region-kites see Hamlet, 2.2.574–75: ‘I should ’a fatted all the region kites/ With this slave’s offal’ (Hamlet on Claudius). 279.38 a whitened sepulchre see Matthew 23.27. 279.39 hard measure severe treatment. 280.7 You have wiped your mouths . . . no evil see Proverbs 30.20: ‘Such is the way of an adulterous woman; she eateth and wipeth her mouth and saith, I have done no wickedness.’ 280.43 Plait il? French I beg your pardon? What was that you said? What’s your pleasure? 281.4 a pouring out of the spirit Kerneguy mockingly uses a phrase of those Protestants who regarded the flow of words in extempore prayer etc. as the expression of the Holy Spirit. See note to 62.7–8. 281.17 bitter words 2 Henry IV, 2.4.161 (the Hostess). 281.21–22 the part of the Lady in Comus the Lady in Comus (see note to 278.3–19) out-argues the enchanter Comus’s case for ‘lewdly-pamper’d Luxury’ with ‘words set off [enhanced] by some superior power’ (lines 770, 801). 281.23–25 the part of Sampson Agonistes . . . about our ears Milton’s closet tragedy Samson Agonistes (1671) ends with the hero Samson destroying the Philistines by pulling down the pillars of the theatre where he is forced to entertain them with feats of strength (see Judges 16.25–30). 282.29 means . . . justifiable see note to 43.26–27. 282.31–35 motto see Macbeth, 4.3.66–69. 283.3–4 Una left without her Lion see Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Book 1 (1590), 3.42–43, where the guardian lion of Una (who represents true religion) is killed by Sansloy. 283.4–5 whether she is herself of a tigress breed for this motif, common in the 17th and 18th centuries, see e.g. Mary Monck, in her translation of ‘Core in Augello’, by Giovanni Battista Guarini (1538–1612), lines 1–2: ‘A Nymph (tho’ of the Tigress breed)/ Wept for a Bird that from her fled’ (Marinda. Poems and Translations upon Several Occasions (London, 1716), 117). 283.30–31 Speak forth, my guitar Francesco Corbetta (c. 1615–81), reputedly the greatest guitar virtuoso of the period, followed Charles to London in the early 1660s, where he taught the King and members of the nobility. 283.36–284.12 An hour with thee! . . . One hour of thee by Scott. The phrase ‘cark [pains] and care’ is common in the 17th and 18th centuries; pitch of noon means ‘high noon’. 284.18 country girl see note to 214.38. 284.19–20 does not pass current is not accepted. 285.2–3 en berger . . . en bergere French in the style of shepherds and shepherdesses in pastoral poetry. 285.4 Lindor and Jeanneton typical names for love-sick shepherd and shepherdess in French pastoral romance. 286.17 no novice in such scenes for Charles’s youthful amatory experiences, beginning with his seduction at the age of 14, see the index to Fraser. 287.10 Eleanor Henry II married Eleanor of Aquitaine (c. 1122–1204), the divorced wife of Louis VII King of France, in 1152. Perhaps partly in reaction to his affair with Rosamond Clifford (this cause is disputed), she

618

 

was involved in a rebellion against him in 1173–74 and its failure led to her imprisonment for at least 10 years. 287.11–13 they rush to the festival . . . solitude see Esther Chs 1–2, especially 2.16–18, where King Ahasuerus makes Esther queen in place of the disobedient Vashti. 287.17 Longsword, Earl of Salisbury William ‘Longsword’ (c. 1167–1226), the natural son of Henry II, became 3rd Earl of Salisbury in 1196 on his marriage to the Countess of Salisbury. A late tradition asserted that his mother was Rosamond Clifford, but it is now known that she was Ida de Tosny. 287.22–27 Our records say she was poisoned . . . unconsecrated ground for the tradition that Queen Eleanor forced Rosamond to drink a cup of poison see e.g. Francis Grose, The Antiquities of England and Wales, new edn, 8 vols (London, 1783–97), 4.177–78: CLA, 177. Thomas Percy, though, takes the modern view that this is unlikely: see Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 2.144: CLA, 172, and compare Virgil B. Heltzel, Fair Rosamond: A Study of the Development of a Literary Theme (Evanston, IL, 1947), 5. 287.32–38 a mode of matrimony . . . Queen of England i.e. a morganatic marriage, whereby the titles and privileges of the husband do not pass to the wife or any children resulting from the union (who are otherwise considered legitimate). The custom was associated with the German-speaking parts of Europe rather than Britain. 289.13–14 the wholesomest medicines are often bitter the idea is proverbial: compare ‘Bitter pills may have blessed effects’ (ODEP, 63). 289.34 Lambert John Lambert (1619–83) was one of the most prominent of Cromwell’s supporters, but in 1654–57 there was something resembling a power struggle between them, which ended with Lambert’s being required to resign his commands. 289.37–39 that which Cromwell is said to meditate . . . Fauconberg Thomas Belasyse (1628–1700), who became 2nd Viscount Fauconberg in 1653, married Cromwell’s daughter Mary in 1657 after the death of his first wife the previous year. He was created 1st Earl Fauconberg in 1689. 290.4 pike and gun Samuel Butler, Hudibras, Part 1 (1663), 1.1.193–94: ‘Such as do build their Faith upon/ The holy Text of Pike and Gun’. 290.7 the Rumpers members or supporters of the Rump Parliament: see note to 116.29. 290.19 all the terrors of your father’s Star-chamber the Star Chamber was ‘a court, chiefly of criminal jurisdiction, developed in the 15th c. from the judicial sittings of the King’s Council in the Star Chamber at Westminster. The judges were the Lord Chancellor or Lord Keeper, the Lord Treasurer, the Lord Privy Seal, and any peers that chose to attend. The rules of procedure of the court rendered it a powerful instrument in the hands of a sovereign or a ministry desirous of using it for purposes of tyranny, and the abuse of it under James I and Charles I have made it a proverbial type of an arbitrary and oppressive tribunal. It was abolished by an Act of the Long Parliament in 1641’ (OED). 290.41 gall and wormwood literally bile, and a plant proverbial for its bitterness; hence very bitter and painful. See Lamentations 3.19: ‘Remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall’. 291.9–11 motto Much Ado About Nothing, 5.1.141–42. 291.16 when doors are open dogs enter proverbial: see Ray, 279; ODEP, 599. 291.18 a light partizan a lightly-armed irregular soldier.

 

619

292.17–18 Pax nascitur ex bello Latin peace grows out of war. 293.9 write myself style myself. 293.19–20 I consult the Herald’s books . . . arms ‘In Scotland a man derived such right from Lyon King-at-arms: but Wildgoose [sic] lives in England where a man may assume arms proprio motu, et propriis viribus [of his own accord, and by his own power]’: E. A. Greening Lamborn, ‘Sir Walter’s Heraldry’, Notes and Queries 190, 207–10 (18 May) and 226–28 (1 June) (227). 293.22–23 Be his birth ever so low . . . condition compare Henry V, 4.3.62–63: ‘be he ne’er so vile,/ This day shall gentle [ennoble] his condition’. 293.41 Sa Sa see note to 151.10. 294.10 stay his stomach temporarily appease his appetite. 294.12–13 Lunsford and Goring see notes to 61.6 and 89.33. 294.16 ruffle it out swagger; bear myself proudly. 294.33–34 broad piece see note to 39.26. 294.43 cutter’s law ruffian’s law, or highway robber’s law. See William Rowley, A Match at Midnight (1633): The Ancient British Drama, [ed. Robert Dodsley, rev. Walter Scott], 3 vols (London, 1810), 2.463 (CLA, 43): ‘He’s out of cash; and thou know’st, by Cutter’s law, we are bound to relieve one another’. See also The Tale of Old Mortality, ed. Douglas Mack,     4b, 75.14–15: ‘This is cutter’s law; we must not see a pretty fellow want, if we have cash ourselves.’ 295.5 Hey for cavaliers see note to 57.10–14. 295.20–21 like Hercules . . . Pleasure the depiction of Heracles presented with the rival claims of two fair women representing Vice and Virtue is found in the Memorabilia of Xenophon (d. c. 355  ), 2.1, not in the Pinax or Table ascribed to the 5th century  philosopher Cebes of Thebes, but in fact of much later date. 295.34 Nicholas and Hyde Sir Edward Nicholas (1593–1669) was an assiduous Secretary of State under both Charles I and Charles II. Edward Hyde (1609–74) was one of Charles II’s principal advisers, becoming Lord Chancellor in 1658 and Earl of Clarendon in 1661. 295.35 the Marquis of Hertford William Seymour (1588–1660; succeeded as 2nd Earl of Hertford in 1620) was governor (tutor) to Charles II when Prince of Wales. 296.21 Villiers and Wilmot for Villiers and John Wilmot see notes to 244.16–17 and 252.19–20 respectively. 296.37–40 A man may drink . . . welcome back again see the traditional lines adapted by Robert Burns in his ‘Duncan Davison’ (1788), lines 21–24 (The Poems and Songs of Robert Burns, ed. James Kinsley, 3 vols (Oxford, 1968), no. 202). 297.8–9 a virtuous girl . . . translation see Proverbs 31.10: ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.’ Most English translations, including the Geneva and Coverdale bibles, prefer to give ‘pearls’: the Hebrew term probably refers to prized pink pearls from the Red Sea. 297.16 country-bred see note to 214.38. 298.2–3 Hammond . . . came of it Robert Hammond (1621–54), a Parliamentarian army officer, was appointed Governor of the Isle of Wight in August 1647. Some of Charles I’s advisers believed that he might defect to the Royalist side, and when the King escaped from Hampton Court near London in November and made his way to the Hampshire coast his presence was revealed to Hammond, who refused to help him and imprisoned him in Carisbrooke Castle. 299.16 bethink you consider.

620

 

299.25 the Isis see note to 185.3. 300.34–35 actum atque tractatum Scots legal Latin done and transacted. 301.33 two crows in a mist the expression has not been found elsewhere. 302.2–4 motto John Home, Douglas: a Tragedy (1757), 5.1.1–2. 303.1–2 Spanish hat large hat of velvet or satin, with a wide brim and feathers. 303.5 the d—mme cut the Cavaliers were known to their opponents as the ‘dammes’ because of their propensity to swearing. 303.15–17 nisi dignus . . . masculine the phrase is from Horace, discussing the deus ex machina in De Arte Poetica (The Art of Poetry: c. 19  ), lines 191–92: ‘nec deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus/ inciderit’ (let no god intervene, unless there should be a complication worthy of such a deliverer). The noun ‘vindex’ is, as Rochecliffe says, of common gender. 303.24–25 to stay the orifice of the stomach see note to 214.23. 303.32 get into my gears get into the appropriate clothing. 303.39 Off—off, ye lendings see King Lear, 3.4.107. 303.41 Via the curtain which shadow’d Borgia George Chapman, Ben Jonson and John Marston, Eastward Hoe (1605), 2.2.38. ‘Cesare Borgia (c. 1476–1507) was an unscrupulous churchman, diplomat, ruler and warrior who terrorised much of Italy. R. W. Van Fossen, editor of the Revels edition (Manchester, 1979), speculates that ‘the curtain’ may refer to the disguise of a stable-boy which Borgia used in 1495 to escape from Charles VIII of France. The term via means ‘oft with you’. 303.42 in cuerpo Spanish in the body; showing the shape of the body; i.e. without the cloak. 304.4 like those of Poins . . . peach-coloured see 2 Henry IV, 2.2.14–16. 304.20 the thundering Jove a standard rendering of the Latin ‘Jupiter tonans’, the Classical god Jupiter or Zeus being in control of thunder and lightning. 304.42 Sa, sa see note to 151.10. 305.9 de quoi French wherewithal. 305.18 rat me blow me. 306.6 Francalanza Antonio Francalanza was a fencing master active in London towards the end of the second decade of the 19th century: he appeared as a witness at a trial at the Old Bailey on 15 January 1817. 306.9 what make you what are you doing? 306.17 the church militant a standard expression denoting the Church on earth, contrasted with the ‘Church triumphant’ in heaven. 307.2–3 the Master of kings and princes God (Christ). 307.9 its Head the Sovereign is the earthly head of the Church of England. 307.26 Bethink yourself consider. 307.33 Passive Obedience see note to 237.29. 307.36 either as body-curer or soul-curer see note to 209.22. 308.1 Carolus a gold coin struck in the reign of Charles I, valued at 20s. (£1; later 23s.). 308.1 a commonwealth farthing the smallest coin circulated at the beginning of the Commonwealth period in 1649 was a halfpenny. A farthing was struck in 1654 but circulated for only a fortnight before being withdrawn, and another was struck as part of the series of coins bearing Cromwell’s portrait in 1658 towards the end of his life, but it is doubtful if it was ever put into circulation.

 

621

308.16 the ‘parson among the pease’ in ‘The Parson Among the Peas. A new Song’ the minister Domine Gemini surprises a courting couple Ralph and Phillida ‘met in the Pease’ and attempts to make love to Phillida himself under the pretence of rescuing her, but the young couple run off into a grove of trees: Wit and Mirth: or Pills to Purge Melancholy, ed. Thomas D’Urfey, 6 vols (1719–20), 1.38–39. 308.18 Lindabrides the heroine of The Mirror of Knighthood, a romance of Spanish origin translated into English at the end of the 16th century by Richard Percival (1550–1620), here used allusively for ‘mistress’, as in e.g. William Rowley, A Match at Midnight (1633), in The Ancient British Drama, [ed. Robert Dodsley, rev. Walter Scott], 3 vols (London, 1810), 2.471: CLA, 43. 308.34 the whole Convocation of the Church the legislative assembly of the Church of England, consisting in the 17th century of the clergy. 310.29 in course in due order; normal. 313.13–14 put on the Prince assume the role of Prince. 313.15 in King Cambyses’ vein 1 Henry IV, 2.4.376, where Falstaff prepares to assume the ranting manner of Thomas Preston, A Lamentable Tragedy, Mixed Ful of Pleasant Mirth, Conteyning the Life of Cambises, King of Percia (1570?). 313.29 think that all which has now passed is but a dream see A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 4.1.64–66: ‘May all to Athens back again repair,/ And think no more of this night’s accidents/ But as the fierce vexation of a dream.’ 314.16 Hodge a nick-name for Roger. 315.42 If not, this parting was well made see Julius Cæsar, 5.1.118, 121 (the parting words of Brutus and Cassius). 316.21–22 in a soil . . . the wholesome seed echoing the parable of the tares at Matthew 13.24–30. 316.26–27 Virtus rectorem . . . discuntur the Latin is translated in the footnote. See Seneca, Naturales Quaestiones, 3.30.8: ‘Virtus difficilis inventu est, rectoremque ducemque desiderat: etiam sine magistro vitia discuntur’ (Virtue is difficult to find and needs a director and a guide: vices can be learned even without a teacher). Above the library window at Abbotsford, on the outside, is a stone with this inscription, dated 1616, taken from Edinburgh University (Corson). 317.11 I would to God he were of our determination see 1 Henry IV, 4.3.32–33 (Hotspur to Sir Walter Blunt). 317.42 three kingdoms England and Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. 318.3 pat to my purpose in a manner that exactly fits the purpose. 318.3–4 If you keep a thing . . . use for it proverbial: ODEP, 417. 318.6–7 Telephus et Peleus . . . verba Horace, Ars Poetica (The Art of Poetry), lines 96–97: ‘both Telephus and Peleus, when in poverty and exile, throw aside their bombast and words half a metre in length’. Telephus left his country on an arduous quest for Achilles, who he believed had the power to cure the wound that the hero had given him in battle. Peleus was driven into exile for killing his half-brother Phocus. 318.13–14 Heroes and kings . . . at home the version of Horace is probably Scott’s own. 318.18–19 the Contes de Commere L’Oye the fairy stories told by Charles Perrault under the title Contes de ma mère Loye (Tales of Mother Goose) and first published under the name of his son Pierre in 1697: see CLA, 44 (Cabinet des Fées, Vol. 1). Commère is French for ‘gossip’ in the sense of ‘(old) mother’. 318.22 Killigrew Thomas Killigrew (1612–83), dramatist and wit,

622

 

joined the future Charles II in Paris in 1647, later becoming his special envoy, and groom of the bedchamber. 318.35–36 motto The Two Gentlemen of Verona, 5.4.60. 319.1–2 driven forth . . . not by a cherub see Genesis 3.24. 319.3 spirits of another sort A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 3.2.388. 319.25 Saint Mary’s Church the University Church of St Mary the Virgin in the High Street, Oxford. 319.26 Armageddon see Revelation 16.16. 319.27–28 that seat of Learning, Religion, and Loyalty, as it is called by Clarendon see Clarendon, 3.56: ‘ Learning, Courage, and Loyalty’. 319.30 the Fifth Monarchy Champion see note to 114.36–37. 319.31 Ever and anon continually at intervals. 321.11 the Family of Love . . . Ranters although David George (d. 1556), an Anabaptist from Delft, was often (as in Pagitt, 106: see next note) credited with establishing the Familist sect, its foundation (c. 1540) is usually attributed to Hendrik Niclaes (1502–c. 1580) in Emden. Its teachings (see note to 51.27) spread to England in the later 16th century. The Ranters (see note to 22.18) were a different body with some similar beliefs but expressed in a more exhibitionist manner. In the middle of the 17th century most of the Familists were gradually absorbed into other bodies such as the Quakers. By c. 1700 there was only one aged member left: Christopher Marsh, ‘An Introduction to the Family of Love in England’, in Religious Dissent in East Anglia, ed. E. S. Lambourn-Green (Cambridge, 1991), 29–35 (35). 321.35–45 Grindletonians . . . London, 1660 in Heresiography, or, a Description and History of the Hereticks and Sectaries sprang up in these latter times . . ., 6th edn, ed. J. Heath (London, 1662: CLA, 77), Ephraim Pagitt describes in obscure terms the varieties of Familist. These include: the Grindletonian Familists (originating in Grindleton, Yorkshire), who held inter alia ‘That when God comes to dwell in a man, he so filleth the soul, that there is no more sinful lusting’ (115); ‘Familists of the mountains, who say that they have clean vanquished the Devil, and are pure from all sin’; ‘Familists of the scattered flock, who seduce by pretending themselves to be of them which fear the Lord, when they are nothing less’; ‘Familists of the Valleys, who bring in their damnable doctrine, with fair pretence of weeping, sighing, and lifting up their eyes to heaven, of patience, or a smooth cariage, and the like’; and ‘Familists of Caps [sic] Order, and of other ranks’ (145–46). In his The Lost Sheep Found: or the Prodigal returned to his Fathers house . . . (London, 1660: CLA, 147), Laur[ence] Claxton narrates his spiritual progress from Episcopalianism by way of the Presbyterians, Independents, Antinomians, Seekers (who denied that there was any true Church in their time), and a period of extreme personal antinomianism, to his acceptance of John Reeve (1608–58), the Muggletonian (see note to 22.17–18), as the true modern prophet. In the penultimate phase he justified his lecherous behaviour by ‘affirm[ing] that there was no sin, but as man esteemed it sin, and therefore none can be free from sin, till in purity it be acted as no sin’. In Gangræna (see note to 102.7–9) Thomas Edwards deals with the heresies of the sects en masse rather than distinguishing between the various bodies. 322.3–4 leading our neighbour into temptation compare the petition in the Lord’s Prayer ‘lead us not into temptation’ (Matthew 6.13, Luke 11.4). 322.30 turn his tippet change his allegiance. Proverbial: see Ray, 293; ODEP, 847. 322.42–43 the false prophet . . . frogs see Revelation 16.13. 323.3 those of the private spirit those who, unlike the Presbyterians,

 

623

asserted the validity of the individual’s personal inspiration, leading to the loose ecclesiastical structure of Independency. The expression ‘The private spirit’ is frequently found in 17th-century religious tracts. 323.6–7 The prophets prophesy falsely . . . their means Jeremiah 5.31. 323.10–11 Master Edwards . . . Gangræna see note to 102.7–9. 323.17 the mammon of unrighteousness money (Luke 16.9). 323.19–20 You have taken . . . what have I more? see Genesis Ch. 31, where Rachel, the wife of Jacob, steals the household gods belonging to her father Laban. Laban reproaches Jacob with the theft: ‘wherefore hast thou stolen my gods?’ (31.30). 323.32 the Canticles the Song of Solomon, which is a love song. 323.32–33 Green’s Arcadia Robert Green’s pastoral prose romance Menaphon (1589) was republished at London in 1616 as Greenes Arcadia, or Menaphon: CLA, 184. 323.33 Venus and Adonis the erotic poem by Shakespeare. 323.34–35 Aristotle’s Masterpiece Aristoteles Master-piece, Or The Secrets of Generation displayed in all the parts thereof (London, 1684), a very popular guide to matters sexual and gynaecological, frequently reprinted up to the end of the 18th century. 323.36 seriously incline Othello, 1.3.145–46: ‘This to hear/ Would Desdemona seriously incline’. 324.6 couteau de chasse French hunting-knife. 325.21–24 I meet you . . . that I may drink see Genesis Ch. 24, where Abraham’s servant, seeking a wife for Isaac, encounters Rebekah at the well referred to. 325.33–34 the earth is given . . . the fulness thereof see Psalm 24.1: ‘The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof’ (also 1 Corinthians 10.26, 28). See also Psalm 16.3: ‘the saints that are in the earth’. 325.36 they shall rejoice Isaiah 61.7; Zechariah 4.10. 325.36 their hearts be merry within them see e.g. 1 Samuel 25.36: ‘Nabal’s heart was merry within him’. 325.40 Phœbe after the flesh . . . spiritualized see Romans Ch. 8, which begins: ‘There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit’. 325.41 art thou not a wandering and stray sheep . . . fold the pastoral imagery is biblical: see especially Ezekiel Ch. 34. 325.43 inward soul compare Romans Ch. 7, which is about the ‘inward man’ (7.22). 326.8 man of bloody hand one who enforces the private interests of a great man, by force if necessary. 326.9 perverse heart Proverbs 12.8. A man of ‘perverse heart’ is wilfully opposed to the law of God. 326.9–10 bondswoman . . . enfranchised Tomkins echoes the words, but not the thought, of Galatians 4.31: ‘So then, brethren, we are not children of the bondwoman, but of the free’. 326.11–12 even as David . . . Bethlem see 2 Samuel 23.16, where David refuses to drink water brought to him from Bethlehem by three mighty men at peril of their lives, ‘but poured it out unto the Lord’. 326.15–16 this shall be a token to thee see Exodus 3.12. By token Tomkins means ‘sign’ or ‘symbol’. 326.18 words which I shall say see Numbers 22.20. 326.19 it shall be well with thee Genesis 40.14; Psalm 128.2. 326.20–21 who, forsaking the instruction . . . manhood see 1 Corinthians 3.2: ‘I have fed you with milk, and not with meat: for hitherto

624

 

ye were not able to bear it, neither yet now are ye able.’ In other words, the weak need to be guided by the law (‘instruction’), but the strong are selfguiding. See 327.17–21 in the text for a fuller exposition of the position. The phrase ‘babes and sucklings’ is found in Psalm 8.2 and Matthew 21.16. 326.22 ear shall hear a common biblical formulation, implying that those who do not listen are perverse: see e.g. Deuteronomy 29.4 (‘Yet the Lord hath not given you an heart to perceive, and eyes to see, and ears to hear’) and Matthew 11.15 (‘He that hath ears to hear, let him hear’). 326.23 given as a prey Psalm 124.6. 326.23 as a bondsmaiden see e.g. Deuteronomy 28.68. 326.24 the fat and the fair of the earth see Genesis 27.28, 39 (‘the fatness of the earth’). 326.35–36 in the language of the uncircumcised i.e. in the words of those who are not counted among the Saints (see note to 9.40). See also note to 181.11. 326.38–39 the straight road see Matthew 7.13–14: ‘Enter ye in at the strait [narrow] gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat: Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’ 326.39–40 one blind guide after another see Matthew 23.16: ‘Woe unto you, ye blind guides’. 326.40 burners of bricks in Egypt the Children of Israel were forced to make bricks during their captivity in Egypt: see Exodus Ch. 5. The phraseology here is influenced by Genesis 11.3, where the builders of the Tower of Babel say ‘one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them throughly’. 326.43 partaker a standard term in the New Testament Epistles, used of those who share in the promises of Jesus Christ: e.g. compare Colossians 1.12: ‘Giving thanks unto the Father, which hath made us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light’. 327.13 vengeances of Heaven compare 2 Thessalonians 1.8–9: ‘In flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: Who shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord, and from the glory of his power’. 327.15 to the pure all acts are pure see Titus 1.15: ‘Unto the pure all things are pure’. 327.15–16 sin is in our thought, not in our action probably a perversion of Matthew 5.28: ‘whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart’. 327.19 he is fed with milk fit for babes see 1 Corinthians 3.2, and note to 326.20–21. 327.23 heart’s desire compare Psalm 37.4: ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart’. 327.42–43 the earth is mine and its fulness see note to 325.33–34. 328.15 a sign between us see e.g. Exodus 31.13. 328.17 a recusant of offered grace i.e. someone who has wilfully refused the blessings offered to her. 328.26 with a wanion to you curse you! 329.14–15 a lifeless jelly see King Lear, 3.7.82: ‘Out vile jelly’ (Cornwall when blinding Gloucester). 329.16 lump of senseless clay [Eliza Haywood], The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless, 4 vols (London, 1751), 3.216. The expression ‘senseless clay’ on its own is very common.

 

625

329.17 the soul . . . earthly tenement see Joanna Baillie, De Monfort, 5.2, in A Series of the Plays in which it is attempted to delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind [Plays on the Passions] (London, 1798), 397: see CLA, 212. 330.9–10 he took to himself seven devils worse than himself see Matthew 12.45. 330.19 made up renewed. 330.22 held . . . good intelligence with exchanged useful information with. 330.28 went . . . into joined . . . in. 331.30–32 motto Othello, 5.1.24–25. 331.38 burned claret mulled wine, i.e. wine heated with spices and sugar. Heating reduces or removes the alcoholic content. Claret is red wine from the Bordeaux area of France. 332.5–6 being . . . never a barrel the better herring having nothing to choose between them. Proverbial: Ray, 176; ODEP, 31. 332.8 murdered sleep see Macbeth, 2.2.36. 332.14 nom de guerre nickname. 332.27–28 Even a thing . . . apprehension see the anonymous essay by Thomas De Quincey, ‘On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth’, London Magazine, 8 (October 1823), 353–56. 332.41 in dumb show in silence, like a mimed performance. 333.3–4 the things of this world . . . those of the next although these words do not constitute a quotation they represent a consistent New Testament antithesis. 335.5 seat of . . . sin and care see Anna Seward, ‘A Meditation’, in The Poetical Words of Anna Seward, ed. Walter Scott, 3 vols (Edinburgh, 1810), 3.317. 333.27 the Good Cause see note to 180.5. 333.31–32 in which zeal and charity . . . in our streets see Psalm 85.10: ‘Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.’ 333.32–33 we look back . . . plough see note to 32.39–40. 333.34 waxed dim see 1 Samuel 3.2. 333.39 pourings forth see note to 62.7–8. 333.39–40 like water from a rock see Exodus 17.6 and Numbers 20.8. In these verses ‘water’ is to be taken both literally and as signifying the grace of God. 333.41–334.2 as there is the mouth . . . shepherd compare Romans 12.4–7. 334.1–2 the shepherd to gather . . . care of the shepherd see note to 341.25–27. 334.8 in guerdon in return. 334.11–12 from the mouth of a lay teacher . . . alone see note to 7.5–9. 334.23–24 over-zeal hath eaten him up see Psalm 69.9: ‘the zeal of thy house hath eaten me up’. 334.24 A well-a-day alas! 334.25 a word spoken in season see Proverbs 15.23: ‘a word spoken in due season, how good is it’. 334.29–30 the full soul loatheth the honey-comb see Proverbs 27.7. 334.36 bearing with each other’s infirmities compare 2 Corinthians 11.1 (‘Would to God ye could bear with me a little in my folly: and indeed bear with me’) and Romans 15.1 (‘We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak’). 335.4 Hark thee hither listen to me.

626

 

335.10 the tragedy of the 30th of January the execution of Charles I in 1649. 335.14 bear out suffer without succumbing. 335.41–42 give this feather to Mistress Alice Lee in a Magnum note (40.296) Scott indicates that he often heard a story involving the use of a feather as a signal to the recipient to fly from Lady Diana Scott, née Diana Hume Campbell (1735–1827), the youngest daughter of Hugh, the 3rd and last Earl of Marchmont (d. 1794). The story relates to her ancestor Patrick Hume (1641–1724) who was a covenanter whose fortunes changed after the Revolution of 1688 (he became Chancellor of Scotland in 1696 and was created Earl of Marchmont in 1697); Scott includes the story in the second series of Tales of a Grandfather, published at the end of 1828: The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36), 24.265. 337.1 ruler in Israel 2 Chronicles 7.18; Micah 5.2. 337.9–10 estranged from foreign to. 337.25 still small voice 1 Kings 19.12. 337.31 go to come, come! 337.31–33 Hast thou not been to me as a brother . . . seventy-seventh time? see Matthew 18.21–22. 338.23 the bankrupt brewer of Huntingdon Cromwell’s great-grandfather, Morgan Williams, made his fortune as a brewer in Putney. Although contemporaneous satirists often referred disparagingly to Cromwell as a brewer, any closer family involvement was probably in small-scale, and perhaps domestic, brewing in Huntingdonshire. The generally hostile James Heath, in his anonymous Flagellum: or The Life and Death, Birth and Burial of O. Cromwell, 4th edn (London, 1669: CLA, 26) is unusually plausible on this matter: ‘whereas ’tis reported Oliver kept a Brew-house, that is a mistake; for the Brew-house was kept in his Fathers time, and managed by his Mother and his Fathers servants, and without any concernment of either of these therein’ (11–12). Hume (7.222) notes Cromwell’s financial embarrassment: ‘Though he had acquired a tolerable fortune by a maternal uncle, he found his affairs so injured by his expences, that he was obliged to take a farm at St. Ives, and apply himself, for some years, to agriculture as a profession. But this expedient served rather to involve him in farther debts and difficulties.’ Although Cromwell was indeed a farmer at St Ives, Huntingdonshire, from 1631 to 1637, it is not certain that this was because of financial problems, and if so they were probably caused by having 7 sisters to marry off (ODNB). 338.29 had he been ten times a brewer compare Hamlet, 3.2.324: ‘We shall obey, were she ten times our mother’. 339.18 fearful of such attempts Hume notes (7.284) that towards the end of his life Cromwell wore armour under his clothes for fear of assassination attempts. For such plots see Fraser, 744–45. 340.8 lobsters soldiers, so called because they wore red uniforms, and lobsters are red when cooked. 340.19–24 Son of a witch . . . King Charles not identified; probably by Scott. 340.26 pass current be valid. 340.35 draw out call out; detach. 340.40 after my fashion as I choose. 341.19–20 General Assembly . . . Presbytery see note to 5.39–40. The phrase ‘Sanhedrim of Presbytery’ probably refers contemptuously to the same body, the Sanhedrin being the highest court of the Jews in biblical times. 341.24–25 in case he may yet be admitted . . . latest hour see Matthew 20.1–16 (the parable of the labourers in the vineyard). 341.25–27 yet brought into the sheep-fold . . . closed upon him a

 

627

general allusion to the pastoral imagery of the gospels, especially the parable of the lost sheep (Matthew 18.12–13; Luke 15.4–7). There is a word-play on pastor as ‘shepherd’ and ‘minister’. 341.34 no tales out of school proverbial: ODEP, 803. 342.21 troubled Israel 1 Kings 18.17–18: ‘And it came to pass, when Ahab saw Elijah, that Ahab said unto him, Art thou he that troubleth Israel? And he answered, I have not troubled Israel: but thou, and thy father’s house, in that ye have forsaken the commandments of the Lord, and thou hast followed Baalim.’ 342.27 Jezebel’s palace Jezebel was the infamous wife of King Ahab (1 Kings 16.31 etc.). 343.21–29 motto see Henry Mackenzie, ‘Kenneth’, lines 29–36: The Works of Henry Mackenzie, 8 vols (Edinburgh, 1808), 8.12: CLA, 202. 343.34 more particularly with more details. 343.41 the wicked ceasing from troubling see Job 3.17. 344.10 man and boy through boyhood and manhood, i.e. all my life: Hamlet, 5.1.157. 344.11 scheme out devise. 344.13 as undisturbed as a sleeping dormouse see note to 164.27. 344.39–345.8 Patrick Carey’s Jovial farewell . . . merrily round see the first stanza of a poem in Patrick Carey, Trivial Poems and Triolets (see note to 225.1), 11: ‘Come (fayth) since I’me parting, and that God knowes when/ The walls of sweet Wickham I shall see aghen;/ Lett’s e’en haue a frolicke, and drincke like tall men,/ Till heads with healths goe round.’ Patrick Cary (c. 1624–57) was a brother of Lucius (1610–1643), a moderate Royalist of outstanding character and himself a poet, who succeeded his father as 2nd Viscount Falkland in 1633 and was killed at the first battle of Newbury. 345.13–14 the seven penitential psalms Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130 and 143. This is a traditional grouping all appealing for God’s mercy and forgiveness and sung particularly on Ash Wednesday and Fridays in Lent. 345.24 these nice quillets see 1 Henry VI, 2.4.17. A quillet is a legal quibble. 345.29 that I am sad . . . not merry see The Merchant of Venice, 1.1.47–48: ‘Then let us say you are sad/ Because you are not merry’. 346.7 skink about fill up people’s cups. 346.17 in that sort in that manner. 346.19 fill round fill people’s cups. 346.20 over-red thy fear Macbeth, 5.3.14: ‘Go, prick thy face, and overred thy fear,/ Thou lily-liver’d boy.’ 346.30 it is a world it is a marvel. 347.19–20 littering them down providing them with bedding. 347.35–36 I will break the knave’s pate of thee see The Comedy of Errors, 3.1.74. 347.42 All-Fools-day the first example of this denomination of 1 April in OED is dated 1712. 348.7 God send it regard pray God it may relate to. 348.42 a dark lanthorn see note to 207.20. 349.4 wild work rash activity. 350.16–18 The haunch to thee . . . keeper’s fee no source for the lines has been found, but there may be a reminiscence of the song beginning ‘What shall he have that kill’d the deer?/ His leather skin and horns to wear’ in As You Like It, 4.2.10–18 (compare the note on 353.22–23 below). 350.31–32 the great and inspired legislator Moses, who received the ten commandments from God. 350.34 Percussum Egyptium abscondit sabulo Latin he killed the

628

 

Egyptian and hid him in the sand. This is the Vulgate version of Exodus 2.12, not the Septuagint (the Greek translation of the Old Testament). Although Rochecliffe is mistaken in his attribution, his use of ‘the Septuagint’ to mean the 70 translators into Greek was not unusual in his period. 350.40–41 Grindlestonians, or Muggletonians see notes to 321.35–45 and 22.17–18. 351.35 like a jelly see note to 329.14–15. 352.10–11 motto 1 Henry IV, 2.2.51. 352.28 if it like you if you please. 353.15 concerned in liquor the worse for liquor. 353.20 this craves wary walking see Julius Cæsar, 2.1.15. 353.22–23 suck intelligence . . . egg compare As You Like It, 2.5.11–12: ‘I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs’ (Jaques). 354.5–6; taken us cruelly short come upon us terribly suddenly. 355.12–13 have an ounce . . . blood from you see Twelfth Night, 4.1.42–43. 355.43 Sir John Acland probably fictitious, but Sir John Acland (c. 1591–1647), a prominent Royalist in Devon, was created 1st Baronet of Columb-John, Devon in 1644. 356.20 beat up rouse. 356.28–29 Gray’s—Rothebury, by Henley . . . Knolles the manor of Greys Court at Rotherfield Greys, 4 km W of Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, was acquired by the Knollys family in 1518. Nicholas Knollys (1630–74) succeeded to the title of 3rd Baron Knollys of Greys before June 1645. 356.35 in play occupied; distracted. 356.37–38 I would have struck him through . . . as Will says see Hamlet, 4.7.137–39. 356.39 half a bow-shot some 200 metres. 356.41 beat up his quarters arouse him. 357.9 looking to attention. 357.15 Go to come, come! 357.17 in present assemblage gathered at this moment. 357.28–29 Jeroboam, or Rehoboam it was Rehoboam, Solomon’s son and successor as king, who ‘forsook the counsel which the old men gave him, and took counsel with the young men that were brought up with him, that stood before him’ (2 Chronicles 10.8). Jeroboam, ‘a mighty man of valour’ (1 Kings 11.28) is somewhat more prominent in the biblical narratives. 357.42 in running to devour the way 2 Henry IV, 1.1.47. 358.27 trip it move lightly and nimbly. 359.17 this mark of loyalty see note to 23.11–12. 359.27 give one turn walk once. 360.11 alacrity of spirit Richard III, 5.3.73. 360.31 The Lord of Hosts a very common biblical designation of God. 361.3 the Blessed Martyr see note to 27.5–8. 361.21 bear out support. 361.22 in the case involved in the business. 361.28 open on bay when they find. 361.32 bob-cherry a game in which the player tries to catch with their teeth a cherry suspended at the end of a string. Compare Ben Jonson, Volpone (1607), 1.1.89–90: ‘Letting the cherry knock against their lips,/ And, draw it, by their mouths, and back again.’ 361.36 Oh, Absalom, Absalom, my son! my son! see note to 183.40–41.

  361.40 pass current the image is that of a coin recognised as valid currency. 362.1 at any rate in any case. 362.29 played off played. 362.34 prate of it out of school see note to 341.34. 363.2–8 motto see 2 Henry VI, 3.2.168–73. 363.11 the Familist see note to 321.11. 363.38–39 turn back from Mount Gilead . . . Amalekites see Judges 7.3, 12. 364.9 the Elect those chosen by God for eternal salvation. 365.3 supreme power, which he already aimed at for Cromwell’s fluctuating pretensions to quasi-regal or regal power see Fraser, especially 560–71 and 755–68. 365.7–9 Even as Gideon marched in silence . . . Phurah his servant see Judges 7.9–18. 365.32 the very irrational animals the irrational animals themselves. 366.21–23 as propitious . . . his career for Cromwell’s ‘lucky breaks’ see Fraser, 315–16, 459. 366.33 sing jubilee make a joyful noise. 366.34 the kingdom of Satan is divided against itself see Matthew 12.26: ‘if Satan cast out Satan, he is divided against himself; how shall then his kingdom stand?’ 367.12–13 we will resist him . . . fly from us see note to 110.28–29. 367.33 an Indian bush-fighter the term the bush is first recorded in the United States, although it is now particularly associated with Australia. 368.13 valeat quantum part of the Latin tag ‘Valeat quantum valere potest’ (Let it pass for what it is worth). 368.14–15 there will be small lack of him he won’t be much missed. 368.20 dust upon dust echoing the burial service in the Book of Common Prayer: ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust’. 368.38 sons of Belial see note to 11.33. 368.42 Of a verity truly. 369.10 cold porridge The Tempest, 2.1.10. Compare also note to 108.24–25. 369.10–11 let these men’s bonds be made strong see Isaiah 28.22: ‘Now therefore be ye not mockers, lest your bands be made strong’. 369.22 stiffneckedness the Children of Israel are described as ‘stiffnecked’ 7 times in Exodus and Deuteronomy for their resistance to the word of God: e.g. see Exodus 32.9 (‘And the Lord said unto Moses, I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people’). See also note to 182.11. 369.27–29 We must take care of our life . . . a pin’s point see Hamlet, 1.4.65: ‘I do not set my life at a pin’s fee’. See also note to 339.18. 369.31 tucked presently up . . . to hanged immediately on. 370.9–11 the cedar of Lebanon . . . hyssop the tree and the plant are both mentioned several times in the Old Testament. For the linking of cedar and hyssop see e.g. Leviticus 14.4. 370.21 tell down count out. 371.8 the valley of the shadow of death Psalm 23.4. 371.8–9 the vale of Jehosaphat see Joel 3.2, 12. Although the valley (traditionally that between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives) is not silent in Joel, it is a favoured place of burial for Jews and Moslems because it is believed that it will be the site of the Last Judgement. 371.22 Go to come on; proceed. 371.23 it behoves us to know it is necessary that we should know.

629

630

 

372.20–21 an iron man . . . iron mould Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, 5.1.12, lines 2 and 6 (1596). 372.29–30 I am called . . . blood-thirsty usurper compare Hume, 7.259: ‘though often urged by his officers, as is pretended, to attempt a general massacre of the royalists, he always with horror rejected such sanguinary counsels’. 372.31–32 as Achan was slain . . . enemies see Joshua 7.16–26. 372.34–35 the scape-goat of atonement see Leviticus Ch. 16 for the goat which bears the sins of the people into the wilderness. 372.39–40 soon shall his place be made desolate see Acts 1.20 (Peter, of Judas): ‘For it is written in the book of Psalms [69.25], Let his habitation be desolate, and let no man dwell therein’. 373.32–33 Lambert . . . Rotterdam for John Lambert see note to 289.34. In 1652 Lambert bought Wimbledon House, where he indulged his passion for gardening, leading to his being satirised in 1660 as the Knight of the Golden Tulip (ODNB). 374.2 Ironsides the troops of Cromwell’s cavalry regiment came to be called ‘Ironsides’ after the victory at Marston Moor in 1644. 374.26 make good defend. 374.27–28 good quarter and conditions fair terms and conditions. While the OED cites this passage as an illustration of this sense, there is also an implication that Sir Henry will only surrender if there is a promise that the ‘garrison’ will be spared. 375.11 Newark see note to 405.19–20. 375.26 fair quarter see note to 374.27–28. 375.28–30 martial law . . . untenable post it was generally held that a garrison, which obstinately defended a place when it had become untenable, might be put to the sword. 375.40–41 Boutportant French point-blank . 375.42 take the earth burrow. 375.42–43 never may I stir may I never move, i.e. I swear on my life (that). This is a set phrase: compare The Black Dwarf (1816), ed. P. D. Garside,     4a, 58.17–18 (‘may I never stir frae the bit [spot] . . . if’). 375.43 he would have countermined them i.e. he would have made a tunnel to allow the garrison to attack the besiegers from below. 376.1–2 ’Tis sport . . . his own petard see Hamlet, 3.4.206–07. 376.10–11 As gentle and as jocund . . . quiet breast see Richard II, 1.3.95–96: ‘As gentle and as jocund as to jest/ Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.’ 376.25 put off time play for time. 378.13 bethink me of recall. 378.31–32 Respect for thy great place . . . burning throne see Measure for Measure, 5.1.290–91. 379.34–35 can a white-bearded man . . . false witness compare Regan to Gloucester in King Lear, 3.7.36: ‘So white, and such a traitor’. 379.41 cry quittance declare myself even. 380.4 make it so strange make so much difficulty. 380.15 The torrent’s smoothness ere it dash below this line and the fuller quotation in the footnote are from Thomas Campbell, Gertrude of Wyoming (1809), Part 3, lines 39–40. 380.40 Bethink thee consider. 381.31 live over survive. 382.8–20 motto see ‘Fair Rosamond’, lines 21–32, in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794), 2.148: CLA, 172.

 

631

382.21–26 The tradition of the country . . . Eleanor the tradition is recorded by Percy, 2.143 (see previous note). 383.33 by way of lot i.e. opening the Bible at random, trusting to be directed by divine influence to a relevant passage. 383.34 Eutychus fell down from the third loft see Acts 20.9. 383.36 strong waters spirits. 383.42 was long at fault lost the scent for a long time. 384.22 Out upon thee shame on you! 384.25–26 He made them to be pitied . . . captive see Psalm 106.46. 385.11 the avenger of blood see note to 158.17. 385.19–21 I would scarce stand so near the verge . . . my life compare Edgar to the blinded Gloucester in King Lear, 4.6.25–27: ‘You are now within a foot/ Of th’ extreme verge. For all beneath the moon/ Would I not leap upright.’ 385.27 redeem the captivity of Jerusalem the specific reference is to the captivity of the people of Judah by Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, their exile in Babylon for 70 years (Jeremiah 25.12), and the permission to return given by Cyrus, followed by the rebuilding of the Temple by Zerubbabel, and of the city of Jerusalem by Nehemiah. The phrase is used metaphorically about any great achievement which releases the people from a state of slavery or sin and gives them the prospect of building a new perfect state. 385.40 return to my plough and my husbandry see note to 32.39–40. Cromwell’s language invokes the legend of Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus, a Roman called from the plough to be dictator during an emergency in 458  . He defeated the enemy, and in 16 days resigned as dictator and returned to his farm. 385.43 British Israel the Commonwealth frequently represented itself thus. It indicates both its aims, and its sense of being surrounded by enemies and subverted by its internal divisions. 385.43–386.1 a shield of help . . . lyers unto her see Deuteronomy 33.29. 386.2–4 those foolish shepherds . . . hirelings, not shepherds for the common pastoral image see notes to 11.20–23, and 341.25–27. 386.4 hirelings, not shepherds see John 10.12. Cromwell refers to the Rump Parliament, and his exasperation at its inability to deal with the state’s most pressing concerns. He finally dismissed it in April 1653 (see note to 116.29), and was appointed Lord Protector in December. 386.5 quoit them all down stairs see note to 204.4–5. 386.20–21 if thou hadst done this . . . good service see Antony and Cleopatra, 2.7.76–80 (Pompey to Menas): ‘Repent that e’er thy tongue/ Hath so betray’d thine act. Being done unknown,/ I should have found it afterwards well done,/ But must condemn it now.’ 386.33 another crowning mercy see note to 59.38–39. 386.42 his blood be on his head see 2 Samuel 1.16 and Acts 18.6. 387.8 the pinnacle of the Temple see Matthew 4.5; Luke 4.9. 387.8–9 Eutychus fell down . . . taken up dead see Acts 20.9. 387.11–12 thy feet shall be kept from stumbling see Proverbs 3.23. 387.16 Zerobabel the name Zerubbabel occurs several times in the Old Testament, and the form ‘Zorobabel’ is found in Matthew 1.12–13 and Luke 3.27. Scott adopts the form sometimes found in the 17th century, and used by Hume (7.230n): ‘It was usual for the pretended saints at that time to change their names from Henry, Edward, Anthony, William, which they regarded as heathenish, into others more sanctified and godly: Even the NewTestament names, James, Andrew, John, Peter, were not held in such regard

632

 

as those from the Old Testament, Hezekiah, Habbakuk, Joshua, Zerobabel.’ 388.5 repent him of his hard-heartedness compare Ezekiel 3.7: ‘But the house of Israel will not hearken unto thee; for they will not hearken unto me: for all the house of Israel are impudent and hardhearted.’ 388.18 What thou doest, do quickly see John 13.27 (Jesus to Judas). 388.26–27 making way advancing. 388.42 regiment of Ironsides see note to 374.2. 390.15–16 tower of Siloe see Luke 13.4: ‘Or those eighteen, upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, and slew them, think ye that they were sinners above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem?’ 390.27–28 the Lord hath delivered him into the hand of his servants see e.g. Judges 15.18: ‘he [Samson] was sore athirst, and called on the Lord, and said, Thou hast given this great deliverance into the hand of thy servant’. 391.18–20 Shall I not strike . . . a cubit’s length see Judges Ch. 3. For smiting under the fifth rib see e.g. 2 Samuel 2.23. 392.10–12 motto see 1 Henry IV, 5.3.23–24 (Douglas to Hotspur). The adjective ‘barren’ (for Shakespeare’s ‘borrowed’) may have been suggested by Macbeth, 3.1.60–61: ‘Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown/ And put a barren sceptre in my gripe’. 392.19–21 that Egyptian . . . murderers see Acts 21.38. 392.22 from Stirling to Worcester Cromwell’s forces followed Charles and his Scottish army from Stirling to Worcester, where the Royal forces were routed (see note to 7.25–26). 392.26 Go to come, come! 392.27 a Judge in the early books of the Old Testament, especially Judges, judges were leaders who led a tribe or groups of tribes in military campaigns to liberate Israel from the oppression of its enemies. They held power temporarily. As oppression or defeat was held to be punishment of the Children of Israel for forsaking God, an important function of the judge was to remind the people of what God required of them, as Moses explains (Exodus 18.15–16): ‘Because the people come unto me to inquire of God: When they have a matter, they come unto me; and I judge between one and another, and I do make them know the statutes of God, and his laws.’ 392.28 son of those Kings . . . anger when the elders of Israel demand a king (1 Samuel Ch. 8), Samuel tells them of all the evils which will result. They get their king, and the disasters which ensued after the reign of Solomon were held to be the expression of God’s anger. 392.35–36 fed on the fat, and drunk of the sweet see note to 84.12. 392.36–37 clothed in purple and fine linen Luke 16.19. 393.22–23 he at times made formidable examples most notoriously, in ordering the killing of the garrison at Drogheda (see note to 14.14). 393.27 stranger that was in thine household compare Exodus 20.10. Cromwell refers not to people unknown, but those people such as servants who are not blood relations. 394.1 Had Zimri peace, who slew his master? 2 Kings 9.31. The story of Zimri’s regicide, usurpation of the throne, and almost immediate death is told in 1 Kings 16.15–20. 394.2 die the death be put to death. Samuel Johnson says: ‘This seems to be a solemn phrase for death inflicted by law’ (The Plays of William Shakespeare, ed. Samuel Johnson, 8 vols (London, 1765), 1.311). 394.7 a course of the stag some stag hunting. 394.14–16 they slew in the valley of Achor . . . unto him see Joshua 7.24–26. 394.17–18 who have aided Sisera in his flight see Judges Ch. 4.

 

633

394.40 a man of blood a man who sheds blood, who is responsible for bloodshed. 395.18 cause Israel to sin Ecclesiasticus (Apocrypha) 47.23. The phrase ‘made Israel to sin’ occurs frequently in 1 and 2 Kings. 395.20–22 although Oliver be like unto David . . . upon Saul see note to 24.32–33. 395.34 so that providing that. 395.40–41 bear out suffer. 396.7–9 the Amalekite . . . the Amorite six of the tribes inimical to the Children of Israel: the third are ‘Perrizites’ in the Authorised Version. 396.9–14 the five kings . . . even till evening see Joshua 10.15–27. 396.17–18 cursed is he . . . slaughter see Jeremiah 48.10: ‘Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord deceitfully, and cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood.’ 396.23–26 motto Joanna Baillie, Ethwald: A Tragedy (1806), 4.3.36–38. 397.4 Point de ceremonie French no ceremony; don’t stand on ceremony. 397.5–6 a la mort French à la mort, literally to the death; dispirited. 397.8 trine to the nubbing cheat thieves’ cant hang from the gallows. The terms are so defined in Francis Grose, A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 3rd edn (London, 1796). 397.14–15 splicing the main-brace . . . Wapping drinking freely, as a sailor would say in the maritime area of London on the Thames. 397.25 he wears secret armour see note to 339.18. 397.33 the Brentford storming party see note to 220.9. 397.33 B—h Bitch. 397.38–39 a penitential psalm see note to 345.13–14. 397.40–398.9 When I was a young lad . . . upper-leather see ‘If e’er I do well, ’tis a Wonder’, stanzas 1 and 6, in Allan Ramsay, The Tea-Table Miscellany, 13th edn (Edinburgh, 1760), 357–58: CLA, 171. The expression the devil a means ‘never a’. 398.12 bull of Bashan see Psalm 22.12–13: ‘Many bulls have compassed me: strong bulls of Bashan have beset me round. They gaped upon me with their mouths, as a ravening and a roaring lion.’ 398.16–17 I am bound over . . . Bobadil Ben Jonson, Every Man In His Humour (1601, rev. 1616), 4.7.115–16. 398.19 inflict the bastinado inflict a beating on the soles of the feet. 398.19–20 the Grand Seignior the ruler of the Ottoman Empire. 398.21–22 ‘concord of sweet sounds’ . . . and spoil see The Merchant of Venice, 5.1.83–85: ‘The man that hath no music in himself,/ Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,/ Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils’. 398.35–36 the Seven Sleepers seven noble Christian youths of Ephesus who, after taking refuge in a cave to escape persecution, were believed to have slept for 187 years. 398.36 Morpheus the Roman god of sleep and dreams. 398.40 a fair field a field of combat affording equal chance of success to each side. 399.1–2 like a youthful Sampson . . . Philistines see note to 281.23–25. 399.9–13 the trumpet of the Archangel . . . come to summon us see 1 Thessalonians 4.16–17: ‘For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air’. See also Zephaniah 1.10: ‘And it shall come to pass in that day . . .

634

 

that there shall be . . . a great crashing from the hills’. 399.30 Avoid thee depart! back! away! 399.34 Clidesthrow Castle imaginary; but see note to 183.21–23. 399.36 fugit ad salices Virgil, Eclogues (37  ), 3.64 (‘[Galatea] runs off to the willows’). 400.11 Caius College Gonville and Caius (pronounced ‘Keys’) College, Cambridge. 400.16 Huff-cap the name means ‘strong beer’. 400.17 Vanity of vanities Ecclesiastes 1.2: ‘Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.’ 400.22 go into become involved with. 400.23–27 I may well say . . . I yet labour Richard Baxter (1615–91), an eminent moderate Presbyterian clergyman, suffered from bad health throughout his life, including an acute gastric disorder. His attitude to his ailments is summed up in the sentence: ‘In all which I have found such merciful Disposals of God, such suitable Chastisements for my Sin, such plain Answers of Prayer, as leave me inexcusable if they do me not good’: Reliquiæ Baxterianæ: or, Mr. Richard Baxter’s Narrative of The most Memorable Passages of his Life and Times, ed. Matthew Sylvester (London, 1696), Part 3, paragraph 133 (p. 60): CLA, 29. 400.41 the bishopric of Titus Paul calls Titus ‘bishop’ (Titus 1.7), but the nature of such an office in the early Church, particularly its relationship to the office of ‘elder’, is not clear. 402.4–8 motto see Thomas Chatterton, ‘Bristowe Tragedie or the Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin’ (1772), lines 69–72. 402.27 ammunition bread bread supplied as part of military rations. 402.28 Noll loves an innocent jest for Cromwell’s liking for jesting and buffoonery see Hume, 7.157 and 265. 402.30 a Judge in Israel 1 Maccabees (Apocrypha) 2.55. See note to 392.27. 402.30–31 let there be no more . . . to sleep see Proverbs 6.10–11 (and 24.33–34): ‘Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep: So shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man.’ 402.31–32 eat, drink, and let thy heart be glad within thee see Luke 12.19: ‘take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry’. 403.19 the classes in August 1648 Parliament ‘established, by an ordinance, the presbyterian model in all its forms of congregational, classical, provincial, and national assemblies. All the inhabitants of each parish were ordered to meet and chuse elders, on whom, together with the minister, was bestowed the entire direction of all spiritual concerns within the congregation. A number of neighbouring parishes, commonly between twelve and twenty, formed a classis; and the court, which governed this division, was composed of all the ministers, together with two, three, or four elders chosen from each parish. The provincial assembly retained an inspection over several neighbouring classes, and was composed entirely of clergymen: The national assembly was constituted in the same manner; and its authority extended over the whole kingdom’ (Hume, 7.69). 403.37 a noble relic of the ancient English Gentleman see Historical Note, 546–47. 404.18 take us off assassinate me. 404.23 the light of Israel King David. See 2 Samuel 21.17: ‘Then the men of David sware unto him, saying, Thou shalt go no more out with us to battle, that thou quench not the light of Israel.’ 405.14–17 Now a plague . . . the King a more extensive (slightly var-

 

635

ied) version of the quotation from Abraham Cowley, Cutter of Coleman-Street noted at 216.26–27. 405.19–20 bid him go sell his ballads when the poet John Cleveland (1613–58) was brought before David Leslie (see note to 187.30–31) after the surrender of Newark in May 1646, with a bundle of his verses, Leslie is reputed to have said: ‘Is this all . . . ye have to charge him with; for shame, for shame! let the poor fellow go about his business, and sell his ballads’: Biographia Britannica, 5 vols (London, 1778–93), 3.630–31n: see CLA, 233. 405.41–42 cockades of sea-green and blue ribband sea-green ribbons were worn by the radical Levellers, of whom Cromwell disapproved. He is evidently here trying to unite the radical and mainstream elements in the Commonwealth forces, like the author of the pamphlet entitled Sea-green & Blue, see which speaks true. Or Reason contending with Treason. In Discussing the late unhappy difference in the Army, which now men dream is well composed (n.p., 1649). Scott was probably prompted by Hume’s account (7.167), drawn from Whitelocke (385), of the Levellers wearing sea-green and black mourning ribbons at the funeral of their executed colleague Robert Lockyer on 30 April 1649. 405.44–406.1 burnt brandy brandy from which part of the spirit has been removed by burning. 406.7 King Charles’s Guards Clarendon (3.475) notes that ‘the King was glad of the opportunity to employ, and dispose of many Officers and Soldiers, who flock’d to him from the time of his first coming into Flanders. He resolv’d to raise one Regiment of Guards, the Command whereof he gave to the Lord Wentworth, which was to do duty in the Army as Common Men, till his Majesty should be in such a posture, that they might be brought about his Person’. There were 3 other regiments designed to absorb Irish, Scots, and personal followers of the Earl of Rochester. 406.20–21 the office of Bishops in the Primitive Church see note to 400.41. 408.14–16 a lady of established loyalty . . . Naseby Mrs Aylmer and her late husband are probably fictitious. For the battle of Naseby see note to 14.13. 409.12 strike out manage. 409.13 think for suppose. 409.38 this motley world Thomas Dekker, The Wonderfull yeare. 1603 (London, 1603), 43; Joanna Baillie, ‘Introductory Discourse’, A Series of Plays . . . (London, 1798), 49. And compare As You Like It, 2.7.12–13: ‘I met a fool i’ the forest,/ A motley fool. A miserable world!’. 410.2–4 motto see John Dryden, Don Sebastian (1690), 4.1.1064–65. 410.17–18 the forcible dismissal of the Parliament . . . domination see notes to 92.27–29, 116.29 and 386.4. 410.24–25 a settled government . . . banished family for Cromwell’s failure to achieve constitutional stability see Historical Note, 542. 411.3–4 Brentford . . . Roundway-down for Brentford see note to 220.9; for Edgehill and Roundway-down see note to 30.12–20. Charles I captured Banbury on 27 October 1642. 411.10–14 the fatal battle of Dunkirk . . . Spaniards this battle took place, under the circumstances described in the text, in May 1658, and in the following month the French King ceded Dunkirk to England as an agreed reward. 411.18 C. R. see note to 15.29. 411.37 the Marshalsea a prison in Southwark dating from the 14th century, and in use till 1813. 411.37 the Fleet the Fleet Prison, situated close to Fleet Bridge (on the

636

 

site of the present Ludgate Circus); it was burned down in the Great Fire of 1666, though it was rebuilt. 412.2 the Chancellor Clarendon: see note to 295.34. 412.4–5 the ineffectual rising of Booth and Middleton George Booth (1622–84), a moderate Presbyterian, was among those excluded from Parliament in 1648 (see note to 116.29). Thereafter he supported the exiled Charles II, and with Sir Thomas Middleton from Wales took Chester in August 1659 as part of an abortive Royalist uprising. He was created first Baron Delamer on Charles’s London coronation in 1661. 412.8–9 the movement of General Monk from Scotland . . . Parliament George Monck (1608–70) came to London from Scotland in February 1660 to support the Rump Parliament in the hope that it could be a vehicle for stabilising the country on a moderate basis. Disappointed in this hope, he had the MPs purged in 1648 readmitted later the same month, and was crucial in facilitating the Restoration of Charles II in May. He was created Duke of Albemarle in July. 412.14–15 Buckingham, Wilmot for Buckingham see note to 244.16–17; for Henry Wilmot see notes to 59.4 and 89.24. 412.16 Clarendon see note to 295.34. 412.34 the King shall enjoy his own again see note to 55.39–40. 412.34–35 My feet are beautiful on the mountains see Isaiah 52.7: ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings’. 412.39 from the Strand to Rotherhithe i.e. from the west to the east. 413.1 sa—sa see note to 151.10. 413.17 brass on the brow effrontery. 413.35–37 Oh, the twenty-ninth of May . . . his own again for the lines see a footnote (229n) to Joseph Ritson’s discussion of ‘When the King Enjoys his Own Again’ (see note to 169.14–17): ‘There was a new set of words written on this occasion [the Restoration], which it has not been the editors fortune to meet with: he is only able to recollect, from the performance of an old blind North-country crowder [fiddler], that the concluding lines of each stanza were . . . “Away with this cursed rebellion!/ O the twenty-ninth of May, it was a happy day,/ When the King did enjoy his own again.” ’ Charles entered London on 29 May, his 30th birthday. He had spent the night at Rochester and reviewed the army on Blackheath to the SE of the city. Scott’s description of the King’s progress is apparently largely imaginary in detail, but it corresponds in general and in a few details (the strewing of flowers; the costumes of silver and gold cloth, and of velvet with gold chains; Charles being flanked by his brothers; drum and trumpets) to the account in James Heath, A Chronicle of the Late Intestine War in the Three Kingdoms of England, Scotland and Ireland, 2nd edn (London, 1676), 451–52: CLA, 252. 413.39–42 a reception . . . so much joy see Hume, 7.328–29: ‘The king himself said, that it must surely have been his own fault that he had not sooner taken possession of the throne; since he found every body so zealous in promoting his happy restoration.’ 413.43 the Dukes of York and Gloucester the second and third sons of Charles I. The Duke of York was to become James II in 1685; Henry, Duke of Gloucester, was to die of small-pox on 13 September 1660. The description of the scene at Blackheath draws many details from England’s Joy; or, a Relation of the most remarkable Passages from his Majesty’s Arrival at Dover to his Entrance at White-Hall (1660), reprinted in Somers’ Tracts, 7.419–22. At Barham Down, between Dover and Canterbury, ‘where multitudes of the country-people stood, making loud shouts, he [Charles] rode to the head of each troop, (they being placed on his left hand, three deep,)

 

637

who, bowing to him, kissed the hilts of their swords, and then flourished them above their heads, with no less acclamations; the trumpets, in the mean time, also echoing the like to them’. After visiting Canterbury ‘he came, on Monday, to Rochester, where the people had hung up, over the midst of the streets as he rode, many beautiful garlands, curiously made up with costly scarfs and ribbands, decorated with spoons and bodkins of silver, and small plate of several sorts, and some with gold chains, in like sort as at Canterbury, each striving to outdo others in all expressions of joy. [new paragraph] On Tuesday, May the 29th, (which happily fell out to be the anniversary of his majesty’s birth-day,) he set forth from Rochester in his coach; but afterwards took horse on the farther side of Black-heath, on which spacious plain he found divers great and eminent troops of horse, in a most splendid and glorious equipage’. As he proceeded towards London ‘there were placed in Deptford, on his right hand, (as he passed through the town,) above an hundred proper maids, clad all alike in white garments, with scarfs about them, who, having prepared many flaskets covered with fine linen, and adorned with rich scarfs and ribbands, which flaskets were full of flowers and sweet herbs, strowed the way before him as he rode’. The procession included ‘divers eminent citizens, well mounted, all in black velvet coats, and chains of gold about their necks . . . Then the king’s majesty, with his equeries and footmen on each side of him, and at a little distance on each hand, his royal brothers, the Dukes of York and Gloucester. . . . In this magnificent fashion his majesty entered the borough of Southwark, about half an hour past three of the clock in the afternoon; and, within half an hour after, the city of London, at the bridge, where he found the windows and streets exceedingly thronged with people to behold him, and the walls adorned with hangings and carpets of tapestry, and other costly stuffs, and in many places sets of loud musick. All the conduits, as he passed, running claret wine, and the several companies in their liveries, with the ensigns belonging to them’. 414.32–33 leaned, like a second Benaiah, on the quarter-staff Benaiah wielded an effective staff as one of King David’s mighty men: see 2 Samuel 23.20–22. 414.35 ever and anon continuously at intervals. 414.42–43 took off diverted; distracted. 416.17–18 Unthread the rude eye . . . discarded faith King John, 5.4.11–12. 416.30 the Nunc dimittis Luke 2.29–32, the prayer of the aged Simeon over the infant Jesus, and a part of the office of Evening Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer: ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: For mine eyes have seen thy salvation . . .’. 416.42 earthly paleness see Titus Andronicus, 2.3.226–29: ‘Upon his bloody finger he doth wear/ A precious ring that lightens all this hole,/ Which, like a taper in some monument,/ Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks’. 417.2–4 The light . . . one exhilarating flash compare John Webster, The White Divel (1612), 5.6.260–61: ‘I recouer like a spent taper, for a flash/ And instantly go out.’

GLOSSARY

This selective glossary defines single words; phrases are treated in the Explanatory Notes. It covers archaic and dialect terms, and occurrences of familiar words in senses that are likely to be strange to the modern reader. For each word (or clearly distinguishable sense) glossed, up to four occurrences are noted; when a word occurs more than four times in the novel, only the first instance is given, followed by ‘etc.’ Orthographical variants of single words are listed together, usually with the most common use first. Often the most economical and effective way of defining a word is to refer the reader to the appropriate explanatory note. a in 215.13 abate reduce 8.14 etc. abatement Heraldry supposed mark of depreciation 251.32 abroad away from the house 139.33 accommodation (something) supplying a want or ministering to a comfort 40.1 etc. accompt account 267.9, 373.40, 380.7 accompting reckoning 396.2 accord harmony 8.26; rhyme 122.20 accurate(ly) careful(ly) 129.20, 303.4 acme extremity 399.9 adad expletive of asseveration or emphasis, egad 26.18 address skill, dexterity 55.25, 118.31, 119.14, 134.13; courteous approach, manner in conversation 213.39, 213.41 adjutator adjutant 367.9, 395.10 admired wondered at 126.4 adust browned, sunburnt 10.25 Adzooks, Adszookers emphatic exclamation 75.27, 158.37, 174.26 afeard afraid 34.26 affinity see note to 270.40 a-field on the field of battle 109.42 afloat in full activity 235.14, 338.20 agency activity 95.25 alack alas 41.38 etc. alerte alert 170.31

Alicant wine from Alicante in Spain 44.36 allege cite 336.24 all-hail respectful salutation 101.14 alongst along 205.20, 325.8, 416.40 amaranth imaginary flower reputed never to fade 46.12 ambagitory circumlocutory 67.36 ambuscado ambush 31.15 an, an’ if 50.9 etc. anchorite hermit 366.28 andiron fire-dog 38.24 anights at night 224.40 annoy injure 37.15 annoyance harm, injury 237.42 anon presently again 56.20, 105.14; in a moment 183.2; for 319.31 and 414.35 see notes answer fit 5.26 apish foolish 259.9 apparition appearance 25.34 appeal remove to a higher tribunal 150.3 appease allay 348.39 appeteesement Scots appetite, hunger 214.34 appoint arrange 210.3 apprehensive understanding 294.6 approach bring (near) 42.4, 185.32, 315.22 arbitrement resolution 324.6 arblast cross-bow 38.4 array military force 416.34 arrive come about 362.24 article matter 148.4 638

 artifice device, contrivance 129.1 artificer artisan 9.31 ascendance ascendancy 3.26, 365.21 ascertain make clear 269.21 assentation obsequious or servile assent 350.42 auditor hearer 9.41, 170.8, 367.39, 401.5 avaunt be off 224.16 avise see note to 274.13 awful terrifying, appalling 94.11, 103.10, 391.5 back-sword sword with single cutting edge 249.41 backsword-fashion like a sword with a single cutting edge 305.42 baffle foil, frustrate 130.39 etc. bailiff farm manager 198.26 bait halt for refreshment 98.40, 346.5 band neckband, collar 58.8 etc. banditti company of bandits 56.32, 162.37 bane Scots bone 215.17 bat staff 28.20 bating except for 8.25 battledore racket 254.37 bay reddish-brown horse 221.14 bearing aspect 235.26 bearward bear-keeper 98.14 beaver hat made of beaver fur 227.25, 303.1; lower part of faceguard of helmet 274.15 bedizen dress out (esp. in a vulgar or gaudy fashion) 9.2, 131.31, 169.10, 294.15 Bedlamite madman 74.38 beeves oxen, cattle 195.23, 195.31 behind still to come 20.28 behoof use 195.27 behove for 89.13 and 371.23 see notes belike in all likelihood 62.32, 171.41 besanctified see note to 61.38–39 bespeak indicate 222.16 bestow place, dispose of (something) 329.43 bethink for 30.35 etc. see notes bewray divulge 88.42 bide endure 215.16 bilbo, bilbao sword noted for temper and elasticity 30.39, 75.20, 304.42

639

bilk evade, give the slip to (someone) 303.8 billet note 292.5, 292.31, 407.25 bird shoot birds 335.37 birding-piece gun for shooting birds 375.33 bit Scots food 215.16 black-jack, black jack leather beer jug 45.43 etc. black-mail’d wearing armour of black mail plates 343.27 blade good fellow, gallant, bravo 30.12, 122.9 blaud Scots blow 215.17 blind out of the way 216.32 blinker visually impaired person 329.22 bloody-minded bloodthirsty 173.15, 279.23 blue-bottle servant in dark blue uniform 34.43, 35.6 bluff blunt, frank, plain-spoken 39.34 blunderbuss short gun with large bore 236.15 board table 45.42 etc. bob-cherry see note to 361.32 bode announce, proclaim 109.38 bolt arrow 38.7, 39.23 bondsmaiden female slave 326.23 bondswoman female slave 326.9 boon favour 338.4 bouncing massive 14.5 bower chamber, bedroom, boudoir 7.13 etc. bowl drinking vessel 224.11 bow-pot flower-pot 5.39, 5.43, 41.21 brae Scots hill 343.26 brave fine 44.8 brawl scold 27.15 break crack 353.17; rob 400.20 breathing exercise 271.23 brimmer brimming glass 55.39, 321.9 broad-sword, broadsword cutting sword with broad blade 13.42 (see note), 215.10, 249.42, 306.4 broidered embroidered 58.11, 82.41 broil quarrel 157.42, 192.28, 309.34 brook tolerate 13.9, 51.33 brusque see note to 86.30 brutally coarsely 276.34, 319.22

640



brute uncouth, lacking in sensibility 131.15 buckle contemptuous unite in marriage 51.24 buckler small round shield 37.29 buff (made of) stout dressed dull yellow velvety ox-leather 10.9 etc. buffcoat, buff-coat soldier 188.22; coat made of buff leather 319.25, 353.34 buffeting strife, contention 85.1 bumper glass filled to the brim 55.36, 219.11, 397.16 burden refrain 345.4 burgo-master Dutch or Flemish mayor 9.24 burned mulled 331.38 burthen burden 47.39, 295.6, 311.33 burthensome burdensome 378.2 buskin half-boot 37.30 buss kiss 43.14 buttery store-room where provisions are served 19.38, 193.39, 320.28, 325.7 cabinet private room 83.25, 95.11, 161.28, 386.15 cabinet-keeper keeper of a private room 43.3 caitiff wretched, miserable 15.33, 27.9 cake-bread see note to 221.13–14 can drinking-vessel 58.21 candidly with an open mind 119.40 canonicals clerical robes 145.2 cant fashionable religious and/or hypocritical phraseology 22.20, 98.9 canting using affected and hypocritical religious jargon, whining, sanctimonious 21.39 etc. capon castrated cock 21.41, 44.24, 44.29, 55.35 carabine firearm between pistol and musket 149.10, 170.36, 365.27 careful diligent 84.32 cark pains 283.39 carle base fellow 224.16 carnal unregenerate, unspiritual 27.16 etc. Carolus see note to 308.1 cartel written challenge 143.25, 292.32, 293.21, 294.23 casque helmet 37.27 cassock clergyman’s long loose-fit-

ting tunic worn under surplice or gown 34.6, 59.19, 182.8, 304.20; cloak 40.36, 219.13 cast noun dash 74.9; sort, type 193.35 ; hue 393.16 cast adjective cast-off 139.6 castor hat of beaver’s fur 58.10, 60.19, 99.7, 303.4 catch music round 223.40 cattle horses 356.1, 356.30, 357.7, 357.41 catzo expression of impatience 143.9 Cavaliero term of address for a military man 206.26, 260.18, 260.20, 411.33 challenge claim as a right 53.9 chambering sexual indulgence 42.37 chance unfortunate event 368.20 chantry chapel for saying of daily requiem masses 7.21, 7.27, 9.5, 14.35 charities affections 372.18 chary sparing 38.40 chase hunting-ground 16.38 etc. cheat thing 397.8 cheer food, hospitable entertainment 320.12 cheveron glove 348.35 chouse cheat, swindle 75.25 churl person of low birth 25.4, 61.30, 193.37 churlish vulgar, boorish 228.27 civil civilly 27.8 clarion shrill trumpet 415.19 clasped secured with a clasp 62.20 clean-going neat in its movements 171.21 clearness clear understanding, comprehension 76.11 clerk for 12.1, 13.4, 331.12, and 410.40 see note to 13.3–4 clod see note to 120.13 clog hamper 158.38 close adjective enclosed 71.41; secluded 104.1, 104.8; severe 197.15; hidden 303.17; secret 330.20 close adverb closely 9.15, 176.11, 340.36 closet detain in a private room for discussions 319.39 closet-companion private reading matter 24.11 cloth clerical profession 11.17

 clout article of clothing 58.8 clouterly clumsy 214.10 clove segment of a fruit 113.2 clown boor, ill-bred person 26.8, 55.5, 85.38, 328.4 clownish boorish, ill-bred 81.37 club-man see note to 124.10 coadjutor assistant 379.10 cock verb see note to 80.24–31 cock noun minister of religion 144.41 cockney pejorative townsman 199.41 cock’s-head see note to 110.24 collet circle 266.12 collop slice of meat 236.30 combination conspiracy 165.19, 166.6, 237.9 combined confederated 216.38 comfit sweetmeat 44.25 comfort noun and verb aid, support 12.30 etc. comfortable strengthening, inspiriting 11.15, 187.5; pleasing to the senses, enjoyable, pleasant 45.43, 117.37 commissary commissioner 60.40, 61.42 commission authority 264.23 commonweal general good 246.11 compeer associate, comrade 99.37, 282.26 compendium epitome 279.28 competent adequate, reasonable 64.16, 105.31, 201.32 complacent showing pleasure 414.22 complaisance compliance, obligingness, politeness 254.27 etc. compliment treat with courtesy 226.40 complot conspiracy 251.37, 369.7 composed adjusted 8.21 composition compromise 70.36; mutual agreement 98.4, 144.18; payment 409.15 compotations carousing 205.40 compunctious remorseful 13.22 concerned see note to 353.15 concernment see note to 239.2 conciliate gain, get 81.41, 257.6, 288.13 concurrence co-operation 263.40 condemned disused 205.6 condition rank, social position 18.23 etc.; high social position 40.6

641

coney rabbit 91.38 confederacy conspiracy 128.38 etc. confederation alliance, conspiracy 5.22 confess hear confession 304.23 confide entrust 37.40 conform match 240.42 conformable suitable 32.15 conformably compliantly 60.10 confound confuse, throw into confusion 86.21 etc.; for 223.9 see note confusion overthrow, ruin 215.38, 225.1, 397.17 congé ceremonious bow 353.8 conjunction connexion 168.37 conjuration compelling of spirits 167.17; solemn entreaty, adjuration 207.34 conjure beseech, implore 52.32 etc. conjurer magician, wizard 172.5, 202.32 consequence importance in rank or position, social distinction 19.16 etc. consequential self-important 18.23 consequentially in a self-important manner 102.28 consideration importance, (social) consequence 9.11, 84.34 consist see note to 26.20–21 consistence consistency 315.26 consumedly extremely 164.24 contumelious contemptuous 260.10 convenience see note to 229.18 conventicle meeting of Dissenters for religious worship 62.35; Dissent 137.41, 137.42 convey accompany 45.16 convoke summon 70.16, 116.33 cordovan see note to 225.38 cordwainer shoemaker 80.38 corps-de-garde, corps de garde small body of soldiers stationed on guard 154.40, 170.29, 341.37 correspond connect 36.7 correspondence intercourse, communication 147.2, 232.5, 319.33, 330.20 corslet piece of defensive armour covering the body 10.9, 13.40, 388.30

642



counsel prudence 8.8; scheme, plan, design 71.24, 101.5, 110.30; confidence 87.9; secret plan 88.42 count account 409.18 countenance favour, patronage, goodwill, moral support 64.12, 181.21, 218.15 course hunting 394.7 courtlike elegant, polite 94.12 coxcomb fool 353.16 crack drink 58.18; for 62.37 see note crape see note to 12.36–37 crape-men clergy 14.5 craven coward 348.30 creature instrument, puppet 279.25 creature-comforts for 39.13 and 45.36 see note to 39.13 cresset fire-basket for giving light 366.26 criminate incriminate 342.34 crop-eared for 21.38 and 40.9 see note to 21.38 cross noun coin 76.32 cross preposition across 125.31 cross-buttock wrestling throw 204.25 crush drink 67.9 cubit forearm 391.20 cucking-stool see note to 229.17 cuckoldy generally abusive term 32.35 cuerpo see note to 303.42 culverin hand-gun 42.35 cunning adjective see note to 27.31–32 cunning noun skill 209.26 curious skilful 136.35; interesting 321.43 curiously carefully 4.24; ingeniously 48.25 currency validity, valid authority 88.28 cuttie-stool Scots see note to 228.38 cynosure centre of admiration 8.35 cypher, cipher monogram 18.13 etc. dainty ironic delightful 99.9; ironic fastidious 110.6 dam mother 388.9 Damme the oath ‘Damn me’ 30.18 dangle see note to 174.27 dark obscure 24.15 date see note to 28.8–9 dead deathlike 74.4

debate quarrel 86.8, 263.37 deboshed debauched 33.9 decided certain, definite 198.18, 401.6 deep solemn 239.15 defy repudiate 218.16 degree rank, station 29.11 etc. demesne landed property 70.26 democracy class of people without special rank or privilege 82.4 denaturalized perverted 198.10 descant comment 373.31 descend proceed 70.22 design verb designate 9.23; intend, mean 103.22 etc.; portray 247.10 design noun plan, scheme 72.34, 280.3, 377.31, 385.33; for 31.30 see note designedly deliberately 280.38 designing scheming 164.9 determination decree 86.3; persuasion 317.12 determined resolute 10.13, 199.37, 388.41; definitely ascertained 198.18; marked 364.18 devilish extremely 89.25 devoted zealous 64.6 devoutly fervently, earnestly, devotedly 153.43 dilapidate ruin, squander 20.24 dine feed 369.42 direct give directions 194.20 disappoint foil, thwart, defeat 4.8, 217.1, 338.3 disastrous ill-fated 214.8 discharge see note to 23.33 disconcert frustrate 4.8 discover reveal 107.11 discussed see note to 195.33 dispark throw open (park-land), convert (it) to other uses 5.3 etc. dispatch speed 343.10 distemperature bad temper 21.28, 21.29, 21.31; excess 93.5 distinguished pronounced 71.26 distracted disturbed 315.18 divertisement entertainment 111.28, 117.42 doddered decayed 33.18 dog-leader servant in charge of dogs 330.18 dog-violet wild violet 308.18 dominie schoolmaster 112.17 doom sentence, death 339.40, 401.43

 doomed destined 13.38, 278.1 Doric linguistic Scots 242.13 dormouse sleepy person 209.13 double-hearted deceitful 404.34 doubt fear, suspect 22.16 downright plain and direct 275.38 dowsets deer’s testicles 38.30 draft see note to 153.33 draggle move in a way that involves getting wet 229.11 draught separate off 97.31 drawer barman 194.10 dray-horse cart-horse 244.31 dree undergo 228.40 drive exercise, pursue 30.3 drollery comic play 221.31 drone idler 77.30 drub beat 87.27 drumble move sluggishly 194.25 dudgeon-dagger dagger with haft of boxwood 75.30 duello duel 269.27, 271.26, 293.15, 339.42 dunny dull of apprehension, stupid 32.16 earthly lifeless as earth 416.42 eat ate 10.6, 214.37; eaten 228.6, 337.16 ebriety drunkenness 147.31 ebullition outburst 95.29 egad softened oath 86.26, 221.8, 222.16, 397.38 eldest oldest 35.23 element character, state of things 169.29 elixir quintessence 164.42 embarrass perplex 121.41, 263.23, 366.24; constrain 120.26; impede 130.25 embarrassment perplexity 101.10; impediment 207.27 emblem image 217.12 embow’d vaulted 14.34 embrasure splayed recess 375.7, 375.24 embroglio difficult situation 220.8 enfranchise set free 326.10, 403.22 engendering copulating 25.21 engross monopolise 231.31, 231.35 enlarge set free 403.29; for 28.8 see note to 28.8–9 enow enough, in plenty 190.25 entertain show hospitality to 406.29

643

enthusiasm extravagant or especially devout religious feelings 10.13 etc. enthusiast person characterised by extravagant or especially devout religious feelings 26.11 etc. enthusiastic characterised by extravagant or especially devout religious feelings 10.19 etc. environed surrounded 316.5 essay attempt 18.16 essayist experimenter 4.25 estranged see note to 337.9–10 Ethnic pagan, heathen 101.22 event outcome 91.43 examine enquire 348.2 except see note to 136.7 excite stir up 383.7 excuse dispense with 200.39 expectance expectation 337.35 exposition explanation, interpretation 149.5 facetious witty, humorous, amusing, sprightly 388.36 fact act 403.13 fain gladly, willingly 24.37 etc. faith truly 57.30 etc.; loyalty, faithfulness 71.28, 188.36 falchion curved broadsword 337.30 fallacy deception, trickery 78.33 fantastic fanciful, existing only in the imagination, capricious 52.12 etc.; fanciful in form, grotesque 71.41, 291.14; odd in behaviour 97.6 fantastically fancifully, oddly 9.2, 149.14 fantasy whimsical notion 152.38 farthingale hooped petticoat 220.25 fastness stronghold 188.1 etc. fat fatten 279.35 fear distrust 89.2 feat trick 194.34 fellow familiar companion 110.22 felt felt hat 58.7 fence noun fencing 27.32 etc.; for 151.10 see note to 151.9–10 fence verb surround 386.8 fenceless unfortified, defenceless 68.11 fiat decree 16.32 figure appearance 93.8, 253.23, 273.18 firelock musket 148.10

644



fixture see note to 37.18 flambeau torch 6.18 flask bottle 59.22, 121.29 flavour smell 235.30 fleetness speed 28.25 flesh-pots pots in which flesh is boiled 15.7 flight-shot see note to 33.28–29 foin thrust, lunge 196.18 foinery thrusting with the foil 314.35 forbear refrain from (something) 77.4 etc.; abstain from injuring (someone) 291.3 forecast plan ahead 360.42 form lair 66.11 formal unduly ceremonious 94.12 fortalice fortress 240.10 forward propel forward 29.29 frame state of mind 333.31, 337.27 frank sty 196.13 frankly freely, without restraint 78.38 frantic insane 319.29 fraught see notes to 8.43 and 138.19 fray frighten 63.36 freak caper 95.19; capricious trick 352.32 freakish capricious 60.30 frieze-cassock cloak of coarse woollen cloth 395.40 fright scare 90.24 fructify see note to 11.14 fulsome odious, disgusting 42.40 furlough see note to 22.6 Gad oath (by) God 220.27 etc. gadswoons oath God’s wounds 111.31 Gadzookers, Gadzooks mild oath 110.20, 110.38, 122.5, 145.5 gae Scots go 343.28 gainsay oppose 21.11 gall noun rancour 191.7; bitterness 290.41 (see note) gall verb harass 181.40 gallantry amorous intrigue or intercourse 231.8 etc.; courteous act 324.43 gamashes leggings 227.16 gambade leap, bound 273.27 gambols merrymaking 60.8, 320.24; capers 381.21 gang Scots go 223.9 Ganymede pot-boy 100.9

gar Scots make 222.8 gear matter, business 329.38 etc.; plural fighting-gear 303.32 genial cheering, inspiriting 180.26, 235.30 genius spirit 128.15, 214.25 gentle noble 9.6, 142.27 gew-gaw bauble 202.22 ghostly spiritual 187.40 etc. gibe jest 112.6 gimcrack knick-knack 202.19 glee piece for several voices 224.7 glistering glittering, brilliant 278.16 Goody Mrs, Mistress 54.24 etc. gorget covering for the neck, shoulders and upper breast 9.23 gossip friend, chum 322.23 gossipred spiritual affinity 274.40 grace-cup parting cup of liquor, nightcap 165.3 graced honoured 292.18 graceless unregenerate 404.40 gramercy thank you 165.37 gratuitously free of charge 175.24 gratulate congratulate 414.13 grazier one who grazes cattle for the market 76.42 greenjerkin forester 188.23 greensward, green-sward turf on which grass is growing 34.4, 46.6, 51.2, 201.40 griesly-looking with a terrified appearance 343.24 grimalkin cat 143.2 grisly terrible, fearful 26.31 groat coin worth 4p 225.29 grot grotto 46.7 guarded edged, trimmed 332.10; tricked out 338.1 gude adjective Scots good 215.27, 242.32 gude noun Scots God 214.32 gudgeon cheat 175.7 guerdon recompense 334.8 habiliments clothes 114.2 habit attire 19.20 etc. hae Scots have 222.8 hail Scots whole 214.37 halbert, halberd weapon combining spear and battle-axe 84.35, 182.6, 374.4 half-score ten 35.5 handle see note to 80.24–31 hap verb happen, chance 39.24, 150.41

 hap noun fortune, luck, lot 218.12, 244.22 harbour lodge 34.26 hard-favoured ugly 247.34, 251.21, 251.21 hardihood boldness 278.36 hardily boldly, robustly 271.17 harness accoutrements for a horse 176.21 harpy see note to 193.7–10 harquebuss portable gun (used with tripod in the field) 38.5, 108.32 harrow call of alarm 221.15 hash cut, slash 182.18 haunt live, dwell 162.28 hawk see note to 123.9 heat ardour, passion 103.22 hedge see note to 216.22 heinously severely, seriously 44.29 helpmate partner 198.26 Hidalgo (person resembling a) Spanish gentleman 255.6 hind farm servant 198.26 hogshead caskful 74.23 hollo, hollow, hallow, halloo noun shout, cry 59.2, 105.12, 262.5, 414.36 hollo interjection hey there, hey 131.7, 145.40, 374.19 hollo verb call out 158.20 hollowing shouting 221.11 hopeful promising 180.41 hors d’œuvre extra dish 168.42 hose stockings 10.43 etc. host army 360.31, 414.11 hough leg of beef etc. 202.1 house-keeper householder 191.34 house-keeping provisions for household use 44.24 hugeous huge 146.12 humour see note to 172.10 hustle move hastily 235.2 huzza hooray 144.1 hyssop aromatic herb 370.11 imagination idea, notion 313.22 imp evil spirit 132.5 impassible impassive 372.18 impeach accusation 271.11 impend hang 70.29 impolitic imprudent 403.25 improve employ to advantage 62.10, 221.19 impugn dispute 319.21 incident incidental feature 61.37

645

inconsequential illogical 76.38 incontinent morally loose 366.31 indemnification compensation 120.17 indenture written agreement 5.38 indifferently carelessly 198.29 indite utter 151.2 induct see note to 13.27 infer imply 100.24 etc. infidelity lack of religious belief 118.40, 119.11, 119.27 influence flowing water 197.10 inmate occupant, inhabitant 25.3, 179.14, 243.14, 256.13 innovation political revolution 140.30 insinuation ingratiation, winning behaviour 236.29 instant adjective sudden 208.15, 399.27 instant adverb instantly 314.7 intelligence understanding 17.20; communication 330.22, 331.16 intelligent knowing 294.6 interested self-seeking 119.36; affected, moved 311.31 intermitted interrupted 121.7 intromitter interferer 5.15 invest surround 367.15 involve envelop 344.34 ironside Cromwellian soldier 374.2 iron-wood see note to 153.9–11 I’se I’ll 113.29 etc. issue way out 4.40, 235.41; coming out 78.30; result 83.13, 297.39 jack leather jug 99.22 Jack-a-dandy conceited fellow 259.27 jackanapes coxcomb, pert impertinent fellow 260.31 jack-pudding clown, buffoon 306.10 jade pejorative woman, hussy 202.41; worn-out horse 244.33 jar dissension, quarrel 24.10, 75.1, 87.38 jarring adjective conflicting 137.43, 321.13 jarring noun quarrelling 196.27 jeer flout, mock 369.43 jubilee see note to 366.33 kerchief handkerchief 149.17, 311.31 killbuck keeper of a deer-park 42.9 kindly hereditary 372.27

646



kirk Scots church 187.37 kirkmen Scots churchmen 228.37 kirtle skirt 198.24 knave male servant, fellow 19.37 etc. knight-errant knight wandering in search of adventures 72.8 la interjection calling attention to emphatic statement 44.20, 379.7 laced embroidered with lace 8.20, 8.28, 15.21, 77.9 lack-a-day goodness me! 44.8 etc. lackey footman 34.35 laic lay 104.23 lance-prisade lance-corporal 387.17, 391.17 landscape epitome 279.27 lave draw 199.22 laver vessel holding water for ablutions 40.37 lay prevent (a spirit) from ‘walking’ 105.35 leading-staff, leading staff, leading-stave, truncheon 14.30 etc. league 3 miles (4.8 km) 356.43 leaguer camp 169.43; for 238.29 see note leash set of three 236.28 leaven see note to 117.1–2 leddy Scots lady 222.9 let hinder 11.10 levant probably trumpet signal 14.25 libation jocular drink 224.35; drink-offering 321.8 liberty domain 269.24 light land 397.4 like likely 16.35 etc. limb agent 237.12 link street torch 6.18 lion-port lion-like bearing 135.17 list please 65.31, 124.11, 199.8, 338.37 livery uniform 353.6, 395.40; distinctive outfit worn by a servant 381.16; for 31.14 see note to 31.13–14 livery-servant servant wearing distinctive outfit 415.12 loadstone magnet 96.23 lobster soldier 340.8 lobster-tailed wearing jointed armour 62.36 lodge lodging-place 216.32 love-lock fashionable curl 148.40, 148.42 lug see note to 269.28–29

lumber lug 349.38 lustihood bodily vigour 326.34 luxury lasciviousness 110.7 ma Scots my 242.32 madrier plank to secure petard 375.16 magnanimity great courage 12.12 maik halfpenny (0.2p) 397.7 mail travelling bag 194.21 make keep 364.21 make-bate fomentor of strife 43.32 malapert saucy 355.12 malignancy disaffection to the Commonwealth Parliament 22.36 etc. malignant disaffected to the Commonwealth Parliament 29.25 etc. manchet fine wheaten loaf 44.26, 44.30 manna spiritual nourishment 84.2 manor landed possession 6.20, 324.13 maravedi Spanish coin worth c. 0.3p or 0.4p 338.26 margin border 144.15 marry name of the Virgin Mary used as expression of surprise or indignation 11.9 etc. marshal conduct, escort 155.36 martialist military man 298.18, 376.29 masker one who takes part in a masquerade 33.10 Mass-John, Mass John Presbyterian minister 307.7, 337.7, 397.20 match lighted cord used for firing gun 108.32 matted hung with mats 34.40 mattock pickaxe for loosening soil 348.41 mean socially inferior 114.23 mechanic manual labourer 216.34 medicament medicine, medical substance 334.19, 357.35 mediciner doctor 334.18 meed reward 8.7 meet fitting 103.36, 186.5, 202.7 meikle Scots much 244.26 member limb 114.13 mend improve 105.29, 115.6 mendicant beggar 23.11 meridian mid-point 382.2 metaphysical abstract 69.24; excessively subtle or abstract 261.8, 323.35 methinks it seems to me 33.40 etc.

 methodize arrange things in an orderly manner 186.4 mew see note to 90.10 minish lessen, diminish 31.38, 32.8 minister serve 235.33 misgovernment mismanagement 237.3 mon Scots man 228.38 monitor adviser 306.23 mooncalf born fool, congenital idiot 156.23 morion helmet without beaver or visor 12.34 Morisco Moor 225.39 motions activities 267.8 mumble chew softly 313.7, 412.29 mummer actor in a traditional popular play 33.10 mummery ridiculous play-acting 129.19, 162.12, 362.7 murmur noun grumbling 92.9 murmur verb complain 123.24, 171.12, 184.17 murther murder 26.12 etc. murtherer murderer 23.9, 43.23 murtherous murderous 309.34 muscadine muscatel, a strong sweet wine made from the muscat grape 77.35, 165.36, 194.1 musketoon short musket with large bore 236.15 mustachoe, mustachio moustache 77.11, 80.19, 388.24 mystic esoteric 217.5 nag small riding horse or pony 21.43 etc. napkin handkerchief 153.27, 153.28, 159.29 natheless nevertheless 181.39 nature the actual nature of things, normal human nature 52.11 nauseate feel a strong aversion to something 34.19 nearly closely 91.6 etc. need be necessary 415.13 neophyte novice 99.21 nervous vigorous, forcible, free from diffuseness 81.29 nether lower 38.12 nether-stocks, nether stocks stockings 106.23, 304.3 next nearest 44.3, 59.36, 92.18 nicety punctiliousness 342.25 night-walker nocturnal thief or miscreant 57.5, 106.26

647

noble gold coin worth 6s. 8d. (33p) 22.3, 76.34, 202.42 nonmeasured immense 144.14 noodle simpleton 32.36 nubbing hanging 397.8 Nullifidian sceptic, atheist 157.33, 158.21, 180.16 o’ on 76.42 observance deference 184.42 obtestation solemn asseveration 290.35 October beer brewed in October 83.16, 205.17 odds inequality 265.30; superiority 368.30 oddsfish, Odd’s fish oath God’s fish, God’s flesh 59.6 etc. oeuil-de-beuf octagonal vestibule 126.24 off-scourings rubbish, scum 182.36 on’t of it 156.21 etc. ony Scots any 214.33 oons oath God’s (i.e. Christ’s) wounds 164.17 oppose check 415.33 optic eye 238.20 order clerical status 11.17 oriel for 40.19 etc. see note to 40.19 othergate other, different 241.14 out exclamation of indignant reproach 194.4, 351.17, 362.6, 369.43; for 89.34 etc. (‘out upon’) see note to 89.34 out-bearded overcome by a show of defiance 282.28 overburthened overburdened 322.3 overlook scrutinise 319.8 over-quarter quarter overnight 121.19 over-red cover with red, cover with blood 346.20 paction bargain 372.9 pallet inferior bed 56.1 palpable perceptible to the touch 151.40, 164.15, 164.16; obvious 195.13 paltering equivocating 310.40 papistical popish, Roman Catholic 101.38 parade see note to 146.11 parasite hanger-on, toady 279.25 parcel adverb partially, somewhat 54.26, 54.26 parcel noun collection, set 38.10, 124.10

648



parricide figurative killing (killer of) the ruler of a country 20.12, 23.13, 372.29, 372.39 partake share in 216.29, 238.17, 315.35, 406.16 partial personal, individual 175.11 particularly see note to 343.34 partizan irregular soldier 291.18 pasquinade lampoon 253.4, 296.23 passado forward thrust 194.33 passage event 413.28 passmented trimmed with lace 386.31 pastor see note to 341.25–27 pate head 30.41, 347.36 Paynim Pagan 46.31, 72.9 peccable fallible 112.12 peculation embezzlement 5.38, 6.3 peculiar personal 320.6 penetrated deeply affected 112.18 peradventure adverb perhaps 186.5 etc. peradventure noun see note to 32.19 perfection most complete form 350.41 periapt charm, amulet 185.38 peril endanger 361.4, 369.29 perilous adjective terrible, fearful 42.43, 43.14 perilous adverb terribly, fearfully 54.15 perplexed involved 335.19; intermingled 352.2; intricate 382.28 persecution pursuit 263.33 personification impersonation 361.21 peruke, peruque wig 242.3, 359.25 pest-house hospital for infectious diseases 26.3 petard small explosive device 374.42 petronel large pistol 365.26 pettish petulant 272.29 phantasmagoria see note to 5.1 Philo-math prognosticator 138.32 philosophy natural science, scientific knowledge 4.12; knowledge obtained by natural reason as opposed to revealed knowledge 118.27, 118.43 phlegm sluggish disposition 61.36 piece (gold) coin 314.26, 405.19 pink pierce 165.25 pinked punched with ornamental holes 149.15, 304.1 pipe voice 199.23

pis-aller last resort, makeshift expedient 231.34 pitch height 283.44 pithily forcefully 15.13 pithy powerful, strong 8.2 player actor 108.10 play-haunting theatregoing 57.41 pleasance source of pleasure, pleasure-ground 103.41 pleasure please 101.29 pledge verb toast 194.9 etc.; drink in response to 218.29; for 34.9 see note pledge noun hostage to fortune 331.28 plenty plentiful 320.13 pocket accept without showing resentment, swallow 252.8 point tagged lace or cord for fastening clothes 108.8, 175.6; for 14.26 see note poize see note to 80.24–31 polemic controversialist 401.3 policy prudent procedure 141.9, 141.39, 315.18; conduct of public affairs 275.34; political sagacity or cunning 373.7, 415.25 politic shrewd, prudent 260.6; scheming, cunning, crafty 330.43, 405.15 politically in a politic manner, shrewdly 115.24 poltroon worthless wretch 123.6; coward 348.32 poniard small slim dagger 236.14 porringer bowl 32.2 posset for 166.12 see note to 15.42 post hurry, hasten 10.29; for 116.10 see note postern back- or private door or gate 205.6 etc. postern-door back- or private door 341.43 postern-gate back- or private gate 83.22 post-horse see note to 174.8–9 postliminary subsequent 168.42 pot-companion drinking companion 350.9 potential powerful 34.36; mighty 121.6 pottage porridge, gruel 9.39 pottle tankard 108.11 practice trickery, plotting, scheming 150.38, 175.41

 pragmatic(al) active, officious 256.30, 403.17 prate tell, repeat 362.34 preachment sermonising 156.37 preceptor teacher 44.2 precise puritanically strict 275.18 preciseness puritanical scrupulousness 77.39 precision puritanical neatness 262.15; puritanical disposition 274.20 predetermination resolution in advance 100.1 predicament category, condition 118.6 predication preaching 9.21 prefer present, submit 407.3 prelacy episcopacy 15.36 etc. prelatical episcopalian 101.39 presage foreboding 343.17 Presbyter, presbyter Presbyterian 12.38 etc. presently immediately 57.21 etc. press-money money paid on enlistment 202.19 pretend (lay) claim 24.15 etc. pretermit fail to attend to 147.9 pretty excellent 13.39; fine 15.31 (ironical), 31.12; gallant, brave 58.5, 230.11 prevent confront 303.14 prick set down 41.18 primer priming-wire (used to check whether touch-hole is free) 80.30 primitive original 136.6 prithee (I) pray thee 11.10 etc. privilege special immunity 320.19, 325.37, 326.31 prodigal spendthrift 302.9 prodigy something abnormal or monstrous 101.4, 279.26 proficient learner who makes progress 180.43; expert 257.3 proper particular, personal 92.7, 229.21; distinctively belonging to 262.19 protest make solemn affirmation 170.23 provend furnish 176.20 provost-marshal head of military police 404.13 psalmody psalm-singing 57.2 pshat utterance expressing impatience 164.27

649

pshaw expression of impatience 58.18 etc. pull bout 109.42; long or deep draught of liquor 168.7 punctilio, puntilio punctiliousness 309.21, 342.16 punctually in every detail 364.3 purpose effect 344.3 pursuivant herald 415.20 pursy fat 76.42 qualified socially superior 239.19 qualify mitigate 64.20, 74.9 quality social status 58.10 etc. quart vessel holding a quarter of a gallon 58.18 quartern quarter of a pint 341.35 quarter-staff for 15.19 etc. see note to 15.19 quean whore 398.2 questing searching for game 213.30 quillet legal quibble 345.24 quoit throw like a quoit 204.4, 386.5 quotha indeed, forsooth 76.25 rabbi derogatory minister 52.18 raise conjure up 25.30, 164.23, 195.41 rakehell vile debauchee, debauched rascal 326.33, 352.32 rake-helly, rakehelly rascally, debauched 239.4, 412.25 rallying bantering, ridiculing 231.12 ramp rear 38.3 ramrod rod for ramming charge into firearm 398.13 rapt carried away 146.29 rarely exceptionally well 151.28 rascallion low mean wretch or rascal 61.31 rascally wretched, mean 58.7, 338.36 rat drat 304.29, 397.25; for 58.19–20 etc. see notes ratio see note to 116.1 rattling fine, lively 59.21 rave call out 304.21 ready-penny ready cash 22.5 reckoning account, bill 43.15 etc.; computation 373.40 reconcile bring to acquiesce 175.39 recusant adjective disobedient, rebellious 279.15; refuser 328.17 red-coat Parliamentary soldier 7.6 etc.

650



reduce reduce to obedience or subsidiary status 96.38, 97.36; compel to surrender, capture 143.33, 181.31 refection light meal 282.37; refreshment 392.34 reft bereft 68.7 regard consideration 129.23 region-kites kites of the air 279.35 relay set of fresh horses 356.29 relish flavour 110.6 rencounter, rencontre hostile encounter 155.12 etc. render surrender, give up 32.5 rere-supper for 168.8 see the definition in the footnote rescript edict 407.20 residency (official) residence 70.26 resistless irresistible 372.18 respect consideration 85.6, 85.29, 94.24 rest see note to 12.19 retire draw back 311.39 retired secluded 227.11 return sheathe 270.5, 308.29 reverence noun respect, deference 18.22 etc.; for 24.12 see note reverence verb respect 221.26 revolve consider 70.4 Rhenish wine from the Rhine region 243.35 ribband ribbon 208.17, 405.42 right vindicate 292.22 rive split 58.31 rochet cloak 221.40 rocket episcopal surplice 11.20 rondelai short simple song with refrain 283.34 rood cross of Christ 23.1 roquelair knee-length cloak 302.21 rose rose-shaped ornamental knot of ribbon etc. 149.16 round honest, plain 23.14; substantial 270.10, 323.13; not toned down 305.27 rouse full draught of liquor, bumper 224.4 rude uneducated, unrefined 24.16 etc.; violent 129.29, 318.35, 416.17; irregular 193.23 ruffle noun hostile encounter 89.8 ruffle verb see note to 294.16

ruffler proud, swaggering or arrogant fellow 188.28 ruffling swaggering 91.36 ruled subjected to control 300.24 run follow up 55.16 runlet cask 194.1 rusticity uncouthness 369.33 sabbath diabolical meeting 131.9, 188.5 sack general name for a class of white wines from Spain and the Canaries 44.36 etc. sack-posset see note to 15.42 saint for 9.40 etc. see note to 9.40 sally-port opening in fortified place for making a sally on an enemy 341.43 salvo reservation, proviso 118.8 sasine see note to 31.13–14 satellite attendant 263.37 satrap subordinate ruler 140.20 sausage tube packed with gunpowder 387.38, 389.15 scald scurvy, shabby 294.14 scape escape 370.25 scape-grace scamp 260.26 scarce scarcely 7.11 etc. scathed blasted, scorched 33.18, 264.1, 302.36 sconce bracket-candlestick 113.8, 124.1, 126.6 scorn jeer 43.25 scrambling rambling 225.32 scutcheon armorial device 38.14, 40.24 Scythian see note to 26.10 ’sdeath oath God’s (i.e. Christ’s) death 164.16 seclusion expulsion 116.29 sectary member of a (heretical) sect, dissenter 22.18, etc. secular layman 7.6 seek apply, resort 334.20 seignior lord 9.22; for 132.15 see note to 132.14–15 selah see note to 176.29 self-complacence self-satisfaction 240.12 self-pleaser see note to 33.11 self-willed see note to 173.26 seneschal steward 322.32 sequestrated deprived of one’s estate or benefice 16.19, 410.40 servitor servant 45.12 shame be ashamed 29.26

 shape devise 76.1 shapely well-ordered 29.37 sharp see note to 196.5 sharper rogue, fraudulent gamester 398.2 shell guard 209.24 shift verb depend on one’s own efforts 75.2 shift noun expedient 76.43 shoal shallow 383.9 shock shaggy 242.3 shog go away 31.13 show appear 8.32 shrewdly severely 118.9 shroud conceal 119.6 shuttle small drawer 41.12 silly simple 86.13 simple foolish, naïve, inexperienced 32.12 etc. simplicity freedom from duplicity, artlessness 369.7 simply foolishly 210.12 simulation dissimulation 276.1, 316.31 single-stick for 34.10 and 307.22 see note to 34.10 singular single 143.28 sink gathering-place 279.28 sirrah contemptuous sir 50.39, 93.5, 211.2 siserary torrent 107.10 skeldering begging, sponging, swindling 220.29, 411.35 skill avail 28.21, 195.14 skilless ignorant 203.14 skink serve drinks 346.7 slashed varied by cutting to show the contrasting lining 304.2 Slavonian see note to 60.40 slight short 292.3 slot track, scent 361.30 slouch-hatted wearing a hat with a large brim overhanging the face 61.41 slough clothing 304.8 small-beer weak beer 74.28 smoke suspect 58.22 sneaker one who acts in an underhand manner 55.13 snuffle speak sanctimoniously through the nose 20.4, 60.12, 367.6, 368.41 sociality enjoyment of social intercourse 32.33 society company, small party 344.34

651

solve put an end to 82.6 something somewhat 29.36 etc. sooth truth 105.41, 107.36, 192.37, 372.43 sop see note to 171.15 sophist specious reasoner 279.38 sophisticated adulterated 111.40 sottishly stupidly 276.34 sound investigate the depth of 45.1 spadroon light sword 249.41 sparry encrusted with crystalline rocks 46.7 speculate see note to 238.20 speculatist abstract reasoner 117.8 spigot small wooden peg used to stop barrel vent-hole, tap 78.29 spleen indignation 32.19, 134.25, 271.30; for 194.30 see note sponsible responsible 43.15 spring-fall spring-trap, closure mechanism 143.1 sprite spirit 126.30, 154.32 spur-roll rowel, revolving pricking wheel 398.8 squatter flutter through water and mud 169.37 stand cost 195.32 start noun sudden fit or display 402.36; sudden journey 411.33 start verb introduce 177.19 stead help 88.38 steel steel implement, knife 111.33 steeple-crowned high, conical in shape 10.1, 79.32 steeple-hat, steeple hat high conical hat 32.35, 198.24 steeple-house church 9.38, 155.31 (see note to 9.38) steeple-man clergyman of the established Church 150.17 stiffneckedness obstinacy 369.22 stint stop 100.19 stir verb provoke 19.35; set going 55.17; for 58.23 see note stir noun uprising 237.17 stithy anvil 14.4 stone-bottle stoneware bottle 66.16 stoop descend on prey 52.2, 405.1 storied ornamented with scenes from history or legend 7.31 storm storming 115.14 etc. stoup large jar or small cask 61.32 stout adjective vigorous 30.14, 401.13; brave, firm in resolve 46.23 etc.; strong 227.25

652



stout adverb strongly 353.39 stout-hearted brave 374.33 stoutly bravely 148.25, 213.7 straight narrow 326.38 stramaçon vertical cut 209.24, 210.31 strangely extremely 121.40, 129.42, 330.6 stray for 26.36 and 144.7 see notes stretch exert 272.39, 305.13 strict rigorous, thorough 112.39, 396.31; exact, precise 131.29 strictly rigorously 235.11 stroller vagabond 201.38 strong-siding taking a person’s part strongly 278.5 studiously deliberately 254.13 study verb consider 70.38, 330.5; endeavour 139.42; pursue, seek to achieve 191.13, 290.37 study noun object of study 259.29, 275.25 sturdy see note to 201.42–43 sublunary terrestrial 95.38 sufferance suffering a penalty 323.18 summons demand to surrender 210.13 supple cunning 94.12 surely to be sure 22.27 etc. sustain suffer 404.5 swain country gallant 259.29, 283.45 swart black 312.24 switch flog with a birch 348.31 syren see note to 220.17 tabor small drum 32.30, 33.38, 34.20 taffeta (made of) a silken material 148.37, 217.16 take utter 71.22 tale list 394.42 tall bold, brave, strong 274.1, 292.1, 295.1, 345.7 tamper try to enter into secret dealings 110.29; for 117.14 see note tantivy see note to 220.5 target shield 249.42 Tartarean infernal 170.22 taste relish 195.40 tatterdemalion ragamuffin 291.37 tattle idle talk, gossip 122.10 taverner publican 142.18 teal small fresh-water fowl 236.28

tell tale 151.5 temperature disposition, constitutional bent of mind 373.7 terrific terrible 67.30 tester sixpence (2.5p) 353.17 thane lord 316.42 thirdsman see note to 269.28–29 thorough-paced thoroughly adept 384.10, 384.16 thrall serf, slave 15.33 three-piled with a pile of treble thickness 217.16 thrice-sack’d plundered three times 21.41 tiffany thin transparent silk 304.2 tight strict, severe 227.21; smart, vigorous 304.9 till Scots to 223.9 tilt noun awning, cover 26.10 tilt verb thrust 269.23; fight 298.27, 306.17, 313.38, 314.21 tilting jousting 40.39; fighting 272.43 tilt-yard jousting yard 274.14 tippet cape, cloak 322.30 (see note) tirewoman lady’s maid 136.35 tithe-pig pig taken as part of clergyman’s tithe 169.28 title right 134.22 etc. toilette washing, dressing, arranging hair etc. 169.6, 241.29 toils net 220.34 Toledo, toledo superior sword made at Toledo in Spain, or the like 29.5, 58.11, 397.23 tool weapon 304.10, 338.27 toper hard drinker 65.18, 99.24, 100.31 toss brandish 215.10, 410.37 tracing treading of a measure 42.41 tractable docile, manageable 28.29 traffic business 92.30 trail verb carry in an oblique position 28.20 trail noun object dragged on the ground to make a scent 361.33 train (band or body of) followers 52.37 etc.; line, procession 124.24; string 148.5; line of gunpowder 387.39 etc. trefoil clover 122.27 trencher plate 44.28, 215.30, 402.25, 416.8 trevisse wooden stable partition 8.10

 tribune representative 367.10 trine go, march 397.8 Trinidadoe tobacco from Trinidad 83.15 trinket dainty trifle 227.36 trip dance 32.36, 34.20, 42.40; move lightly, skip 41.30, 281.30; tread on 45.10; for 42.6 and 358.27 see notes trippingly nimbly 62.24 triumph exult 196.30 Trojan brave fellow 142.26 troll sing 57.8, 224.6 troth in truth, indeed 34.24, 221.29 trow think, believe, suppose 13.42 etc. truckle verb be subservient 23.7; submit meanly 140.12; (cause to) become subservient 218.15 truckle noun truckle-bed 234.1 truckle-bed low moveable bed 225.34 true-blue see note to 26.13 tube tobacco-pipe 121.8 tuck noun rapier 11.1, 27.28 tuck verb see note to 369.31 tuck-sword rapier 82.26 turn contest 303.23, 338.28 tush expression of impatience 111.23 etc. twang verb blow loudly 58.20 twang noun either sharp sound or taste, touch, smack 370.15 tyke Scots dog 215.17 typically symbolically, emblematically 13.34 umbles edible inward parts 38.30, 203.10 umbrageous shady 109.15 unassured not confident 335.16 unburthening unburdening 94.4 uncircumcised unregenerate 326.36 unco Scots very 244.36 unction (appearance of) deep spiritual feeling 279.20, 334.3; enthusiasm 320.22 undertaker agent 4.1 undertaking bold, enterprising 235.21 under-ward lower courtyard 79.3 unimproved not used profitably 333.2 unpin unbolt 135.10

653

unpretending unpretentious 415.14 unreclaimed untamed 162.28 unshaped disordered 29.41 unshapely disordered 29.40 unsusceptible incapable 148.11 (see note) unto concerning 333.37 untrussed unfastened 108.8 uphold warrant 58.5, 89.27, 145.31 urge exert pressure on, bring forward, press, emphasise 22.41 etc. urgency importunate pressure 51.8 urgent insistent 70.11 use noun practical application 33.37, 55.8 use verb have experience of, engage in 199.42 van vanguard 364.4 vara Scots very 215.27 varlet rogue, rascal 26.27; menial 66.28 vassal feudal dependant 173.17 vaunt noun and verb boast 12.16, 186.43, 217.30 verdurer officer of the King’s forest 357.2, 359.7 verge bounds, precincts 269.24 vert see note to 26.35–36 vex harass, trouble, afflict 24.3 etc. via off with you 303.41 (see note) vidette advance guard 352.15 vintry see note to 74.24 visionary impractical 128.24 visitation see note to 251.30–33 visnomy face 223.24 vista prospect 264.2 vizard visor 352.10 volume wreath 38.19 volunteer member of a local military force distinct from the regular army 124.10 voucher see note to 153.33 wadna Scots wouldn’t 343.22 waif for 26.36 and 144.7 see notes wain waggon 196.7 walk official perambulation 31.43 wall-eye see note to 113.38 wall-piece see note to 181.36 wanion see notes to 55.12 and 328.26 wantonly recklessly 83.1 wantonness lack of control 111.5 ward custody 340.3 warder baton 269.5 wardrope wardrobe 240.41

654



warm excite (by drink) 59.2 wassail carousing, revelry 38.43 waste devastated 127.20, 166.40 wax grow 11.16 etc. weal well-being 70.37, 333.26; for 164.8 see note to 164.8–9 weather-brained scatterbrained 76.38 ween think 96.30, 137.42 well-a-day see note to 334.24 well-compacted closely knit together 114.16 well-disposed of a good disposition 197.24 whittle carving-knife 14.4, 14.9 whore Scots where 223.9 wicket small door 18.18, 37.11, 63.11 wilderness for 71.39 etc. see note to 71.38–39 win catch 301.36 wind blow 348.37 wine-flask wine-bottle 44.38 winking conniving 102.12

wit understanding, mental ability, sharpness 101.19, 238.11, 240.10, 341.32 withal with 180.29 within-doors internally 36.7 without outside 135.11 etc. wive marry 174.28 woollen woollen clothing 111.33 wormwood bitterness 290.41 (see note) worshipful estimable, honourable 21.40 etc. wot know 23.43, 31.12, 96.24, 314.35 writhen contorted 155.43 wroth angry 11.16 wuss Scots wish 215.27, 222.33 yester yesterday 185.21 yesternight the previous evening 235.23 zooks emphatic exclamation 59.23, 143.18, 222.12, 388.12 zounds, zoons, zouns oath God’s (i.e. Christ’s) wounds 58.1 etc.