Peter Landreth

asterism “A TRADITION PREVAILS THAT THIS FORTRESS HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY TAKEN BY CROMWELL, AND THAT HE PLANTED HIS CANNON ON A CIRCULAR MOUNT AT THE SOUTH-WEST SIDE OF THE TOWN, ON HILL MEADOW.”—Baines’s History of Lancashire.

Well does Lancaster deserve the name which the Romans gave to it, of the green city; and the beautiful scenery, for many miles around, may be considered as its delightful gardens. There are no huge rocks frowning, like tyrants, in the country which they have ruined, and blighting with sickness and poverty, all that is healthful and rich. Such mountain scenery only affords an observatory, whence we may gaze into the distance, upon other and more charming spots,—the home-glens of the happy and free—where every noise, even of the world, is hushed into sweetness, and the forest of the recluse and the hunter, where light and shade, all the day, agree to make a religious twilight. Often has the wanderer, on the majestic hills of Cumberland, looked down in rapture upon the north coast of Lancashire, stretching out like a gentle surface and web of ether, on which, at sunset, the shades fall, as if they were kindred to each other.

Nor is the scenery around Lancaster tame. There are beautiful eminences, which may be termed the voluptuous breasts of Nature, on which thin mists from the river float for a covering. Amidst all the undulations of the glens also, harsher features may be seen, which the deep woods have not altogether concealed. At the distance of five miles from the town, there is a rugged mountain, at the foot of which a cave, called Dunald Mill Hole, formed of natural rock, and vaulted with great strength, may well attract the curiosity of the stranger. A brook falls into it;—in one part it forms a terrific cascade, and in another, small lakes in the cavities. Above it, on a cliff, stands a mill, to which a neat cottage was attached. In the vale below, sheep were browsing, and no human feet ever disturbed the solitude, except those of some wandering patriarch coming to Dunald Mill upon business, or walking out, on Sabbath eve, in a holy, contemplative mood, and treading gently for the sake of the flowers, which taught him of the Great Being who gave them beauty.

But why should we speak of beautiful scenes, when civil war has been let loose, and when the dew, falling there at morn and night, is blood, the blood of brethren? Cannot spring and summer be barren, when they are only to weave garlands for war? Why speak of a delightful retreat, when the tramp of soldiers, the clash of arms, and the fierce engagement have chosen it for their theatre? Let the altar of home be dashed down, when it can no longer give a shelter to the holiest worshiper! Let the holy shade become a waste heath. Oh! if war is a game which must be played, let it be in large cities. There its ravages may please the Antiquary of after ages. The mark of a cannon ball may become and dignify the noble fortress, and the splendid palace; but, when it is found on the wall of a white cottage, it is sad and disfiguring. Curse him who launched it there! Send forth soldiers among the rabble and mob of a town; but keep them from the patriarchs of the vale.

A dark September evening had even darkened the beautifully white-washed cottage of Hans Skippon, which stood at the distance of a few feet from Dunald Mill, where, in happy content, he earned his bread, by grinding it for others. The loud fury of the tempest had silenced the flowing of the Meerbeck, which turned the mill, and the changing noise of the cascade, which it incessantly formed as it fell into the deep cave below, at the foot of the mountain. Nature seemed to be acting the part of an arrant scold, who first puts all the fretting children to bed, and then commences the storm herself. The spray which had gathered on the brook was driven against the window by continual gusts, and, occasionally, angry and sullen growls of thunder rolled up the wide and sweeping glen, against the eminence. The thunder might have been a fearful angel speaking to the wind a rebellious mortal. Had Hans’ mill been put in motion by all the “Lancashire Witches,” with their own tongues to boot, as the worthy miller himself remarked, the noise would not have been heard amidst the wrath of the tempest.

Hans and his dame were snug within. They crept close to the fire, which blazed upon the clean hearth, but closer to each other. They were well advanced in years. They were older than the cottage that sheltered them: it had been built when they were made man and wife. But no change had been wrought by time upon their affection, and Rachel could gaze upon the furrowed countenance of her husband, with as much fondness as she had ever displayed when it was smoother. Nay, we ought to have said with more, because three times a day she induced Hans to wash off the meal and flour, which was plentifully sprinkled there, in order that she might be proud of his natural appearance.

“The white flour, my dear Hans,” she would say, as she gave him a salute, “covers all the red flowers of your cheek, and, although the first is good for the teeth, the second is better for the lips,” and she smacked her lips with great relish.

On the present occasion, however, his face was just as it had left the mill, and no white sweep could look more enticing. But Rachel, by and by, assisted him in his ablutions, as, to her imagination, heightened by the loud raging of the storm, he appeared rather frightful previously. She had drawn him towards a small mirror at the window, to satisfy himself, when a furious gust drove the latter in. They started. An awful flash of lightning gleamed into the room!

“Hans, what a night! Blessed be God that we are alone. We see each other, and know our fate. Had we been blessed with children, as we often, often wished, aye, prayed to Him who ruleth all things, they might have been abroad at this very hour. At least they could not all have been here. God is merciful, even in his trials.”

“He is, Rachel. Let us take a seat beside our comfortable hearth. Well, well, I never knew what the word window meant before. It signifies, I suppose, a place for the wind to come in at. Some of the old witches, who were executed at Lancaster, on the day of our marriage, may have come to the cave, to raise such a squall. The mill is safe, and so is this house. But oh, how many there will be who are shelterless!”

They again sat down, and, for a time, their conversation was inaudible. The wind raved louder, and went to the highest note in the maniac gamut. At intervals, when the storm subsided into low meanings, and dying sounds, the lightning flashed vividly, as if the glances of nature were still angry, although her voice was hushed. The miller and his dame crept closer together. When they could not speak, they listened to the wind tremblingly, like children over some fireside tale of terror. Rachel rested one hand upon her husband’s shoulders, and the other, sometimes, sought his neck. Both shuddered, as they turned their eyes to the window, but had perfect confidence when they gazed upon each other’s face, illuminated by the cheerful light of the hearth. There is magic in that blaze to man and wife. Not even sunset, with its gorgeous hues lighting up the window beside which they sit, much less the soft artificial rays thrown from the finely polished marble of the ceiling, can reveal the same sources of inexpressible domestic happiness! Wealth, laugh not at the affection of the poor. Love is within the breast, and flutters not on spangled garments of costly quality and workmanship, or haunts palaces. Love dwelt with the first pair, when they were driven from Paradise, and were only covered with leaves. The language of the poor to you may appear rude; but there are some to whom it is music, as sweet as it is sincere. Their touch to you may appear hard, but there are some who thrill under the beating of its every pulse. And youth, laugh not at the affection of the aged, for the heart is never leafless and sapless! When they are about to step into the grave, they walk closer together, and every movement is an embrace.

Accordingly, no young couple could have been more loving than Hans and Rachel Skippon, and the storm led them to speak of their many comforts.

“Rachel,” replied Hans, to a remark of the dame, upon the pleasures of their retired life, “it is even so, and I would not exchange places with the proudest lord in the land. Nay, I would not sell my miller’s coat. This morning, as I walked into Lancaster, a stout, stiff-necked lad came forward, and asked me to become a soldier, promising great distinction. Says I, white is the colour of my flag, and the only coat of of mail I shall ever consent to wear, must be a coat of meal!”

“A soldier!” ejaculated Rachel.

“Aye, aye,” was the reply. “War is soon to be played. The governor of our castle has gone to the High Court in London, to give evidence against traitors, and many such traitors there are said to be, whom the Parliament refuses to put down. I heard that the king’s throne and head are in jeopardy.”

“Woe, woe to the land!” groaned the dame. “A handsome lad, and yet to lose his crown and his life.”

“Well, well,” said Hans, “his majesty may thank his silly father. What good, even to the tenth generation, could the race of the ungodly man expect, who gave orders that the people should sport on God’s holy day? Rachel, hast thou forgot the proclamation which he caused the parson to read? I was but a youth then, and oft I could have liked to visit you on Sunday. But the wish was blasphemous. The parson said we were not to think our own thoughts, and as my father thought I should not visit you, I took his thoughts.”

“Not always,” returned the dame, as she took his hand, “not always, even upon that subject.”

“Well, well, I give in to you, Rachel. But on that Sunday, after the service was over, the parson drew from his robes a long roll of paper, and, wiping his mouth very unmannerly, as he always did, before his eyes, read that it was the King’s most gracious will that the people, on leaving the church, should enjoy themselves in all manner of recreations and sports. He added, that our Solomon might well give laws to all his subjects. My father and I went to a friend’s house, and there solemnly bewailed the state of the country; the rulers of which scrupled not to enact the most awful iniquity. As we returned home, in front of the church there were dances, and games of archery, in which the parson himself joined most heartily. His croaking voice shouted lustily, and his stick-shanks leapt up in the air, while his broad skirts flapped like a swallow’s wings. A smile was on his face, which was thrown backwards as we passed. My father, in his righteous wrath, struck the hypocrite to the earth. In the crowd we escaped, but never more did we darken that house of prayer by our presence.”

“Yes, Hans, the Lord will be avenged for that proclamation of sport on his own day. A silly King James was, indeed. My father saw him as he passed through Preston, and he never spoke highly of kings afterward.”

So interesting was the subject of their conversation, connected with old remembrances, that for some time they were not aware that the storm had altogether subsided. It was now a beautiful calm, and soft breezes stole in at the opened window. Hans walked forth to the mill, and thence gazed down upon the vale. A dim reflection of the moon, pale with weeping, as she struggled through the clouds, to gain some of the clear azure sky, which here and there appeared, was resting on the swollen brook. A sound from the distance fell upon his ear. He strained his eyes, and, at length, recognized a form on horseback entering the vale.

“Rachel, Rachel, what can it be?” and there was terror, mingled with curiosity, in the tones. His dame suddenly appeared, but to her it was an equal mystery; not long to remain so, however, for speedily the horse was reined up at the foot of the mountain.

“Ho!—help!—help!” exclaimed a man’s voice.

“Nay, nay, Hans, dost see that which he carries in his arms! My God, look there,—that pale face, lifted to the moon. He is a murderer! He gazes on it. Well may he shudder.”

“Help, good folks,” the voice repeated, in earnest tones. “Give assistance to a lady. Good heavens, must my Mary die and follow her father!”

A female shriek was heard, and the face raised itself to the horseman, and small white arms were thrown around his neck. Hans and his wife instantly hastened down the narrow winding path which led to the barred entrance.

“Thank heaven, and you, good friends! Bayard, do not stir, as I descend with my sweet burthen. Dame, will you give her shelter?”

“Aye, aye, sir. Beautiful creature! she seems asleep. Yet why should she be abroad, and in your care, on such a night?”

“You must not question me,” was the reply, “at present; shew me the way,” and he carried his companion, as gently as he would an infant. “God bless thee, Mary,” he frequently muttered, as he put the small face closer to his breast, and drew his cloak around her form.

Rachel preceded him into the warm and comfortable room, and drew a large easy chair from its place in the corner, to the fire. He slowly bent on his knee, and seated his burden there. Her head fell back, but her hands still grasped those of the horseman. She was deadly pale, and might have been thought a corpse. There was a mingled expression of madness, sorrow, and love, on the beautiful outlines of her face. So long had they rode in the darkness, that she could not open her eyes when the light fell upon them, and even her finely pencilled lashes were still and motionless. Her little feet, raised from the floor, quivered and trembled.

The good dame bustled about, and amid all her offices of kindness, attested by her looks that she was plunged into a mystery, from which she had no objections, instantly, to be extricated; only she did not, in so many words, implore help. As she removed the wet garments from the fair stranger, she gazed anxiously upon her companion. He was young and handsome. He was nobly attired in a cloak of deep mourning, and as it was thrown back in his motions, a sword, belted by his side, was seen. His locks, as the fashion of the times required from young gallants, were long, and they curled gracefully down his shoulders. Since he entered, his eye had never turned from the face of his companion.

“Mary, my Mary,” he at length said, as he played with the black ringlets on her forehead, “look upon me, Mary.”

“Father, dost thou call? I’ll soon come to thee, soon, soon—wherever thou art. But, I must see thy face. Oh! a headless father to come to! yet, father, I will come!” and she gave a loud shriek of madness.

“Hush, Mary,—am I not spared to thee? Cannot we travel through life together; and if we have no home through the wide world, all in all to each other?”

No reply was made. He cast a look of anguish towards the dame and her husband, who had then returned from sheltering the horse.

“She understands me not. Oh! who can comfort her now?”

“She is asleep,” said the dame, “and oh! young gentleman, if, as I believe from her words concerning a father, you have removed her from a father’s roof, you never, never can be happy. She is, indeed, a beautiful creature to lie in your bosom, walk by your side, and sing to you her own sweet dreams. But does the young bird sing any more when taken from the nest? In every look, however fond, you will behold a silent reproof for tearing her away from her duties to an old father, without a blessing. The husband may give the ring, but unless the father gives his blessing, she is cursed. Oh, must that young head bow before a father’s curse? Look at her slumbers, they ought to have been beneath the roof of her own home. She might have perished in this awful night, and murder had been added to your crime. Take her back to a father’s arms.”

“A father!” was the sorrowful reply. “She has no father; nor can I as yet, claim over her the protection of a husband. Her father perished, yesterday, by the order of a tyrant king, under the false evidence of the governor of your castle. I had endeavoured to convey her away from the scenes of her grief, and had engaged a boat at Lancaster. But I dared not venture my precious freight on such an awful night, and I have wandered, I know not whither. Providence has brought me here to kind friends.”

“Young gentleman,” replied Hans, while tears were trickling freely down his withered cheeks, “God will reward thee for thy care and love to the orphan one. But whither would you bear her? Here she may find a home, until happier days come, for I know that you will seek the wars. She cannot depart at present.”

“No, no,” added the dame, “you must agree to leave her, and I shall be a careful and affectionate mother, though an humble one.”

“Thanks, my good friends, both from the dead and the living! I could not have hoped that so secure a home was awaiting her. O nourish her for my sake, and when she speaks of her father, mention my name, Henry Montressor, and assure her, that he will be father, husband, all! I must leave her this moment. Should she awake, we could never part. There is a purse of gold. Use it freely.”

“Not for ourselves,” replied the generous miller. “Although she be of gentle blood, we make her our child. Her sorrows will be lightened in our home, in this peaceful retreat.”

“Now,” said Montressor, and he gently disengaged his hands from the grasp of his sleeping companion. He softly kissed her lips. He started up, dreading that the tear which had fallen on her cheek, would awake her. He raised his hands to heaven.

“God of mercy, if thou hast one whom in all the earth thou lovest more than another, for innocence and misfortune, let that one be Mary Evelyn! Let angels guard her, under the direction of her sainted father. Send peace to her sorrows. Let thy balm drop into every wound, thou gracious Being.”

“Amen,” responded the miller and his wife.

And surely God himself repeated the same Amen; for a sweet beauty, shining in quiet happiness, rested upon the features of the sleeping one. Montressor pointed to her, whilst he said in anguish,—

“And should she wander in her mind, oh, soothe her. When she awakens, tell her that I am safe, and that soon I am here again. One kiss more, my Mary.”

Hans conducted him down to the pass, and soon the sound of the horse’s hoofs were unheard in the distance. The moon was shining brightly.

“Never,” said Hans, “were the rays so sweet here before. And well may they, such a beautiful face lies in our house!”

The weary months of winter passed on, and Mary Evelyn was a gentle maniac. Unremitting were the attentions of her humble friends, but she heeded them not. She was always, when awake, playing with the counterpane of her little bed; starting up, and shrieking in her sport.

“Arthur Montressor,” she would say, “why do you go forth alone to gather flowers for me? Must I not accompany you, and gather the most beautiful for your own auburn locks? Ah! there is an old venerable man enters. How beautiful are those white locks, and that meek, meek face. Go, Arthur. I must stay here, alone, with the headless man! headless, look at him,—gory neck! Ha, ha!”

Spring came, and the good dame brought flowers and strewed them upon the pillow. They were steeped in the morning’s dew, and as Mary applied them to her burning forehead, and parched lips, she smiled and seemed to be pleased. But she played with them, and their heads came off.

“Yes, yes,—he was beheaded!”

After this she daily became calmer, until she was herself again; the beautiful and blushing Mary Evelyn. Yet, think not that the madness had departed! Reason is like a mirror; break it,—you may replace the fragments,—still it is broken. She loved to wander forth along the glen, or into the cave. Her soul was like a harp, which every spirit of Nature could touch. Madness had sublimed many a thought and feeling, until they seemed to hold converse with the spiritual world.—Nature is more personal than is generally thought. She has a soul as well as senses. The latter are the pleasant sights, the sweet fragrance, and the music of voices, but the soul of Nature is that deep internal working every where, whose will operates upon the senses. Have we not felt the throbbing of its pulse of life, and can she live without a soul? Nature, therefore, is earth’s best comforter to the lonely, because she feels and acts—a free agent.

Mary Evelyn could now also enjoy the conversation of the miller and his wife.

“Miss Evelyn,” Hans once in good humour remarked, “we thought that you never would speak to us. But, as my mother used to observe, ‘persons may carry an egg long in their pocket, and break it at last.’”

Whenever Miss Evelyn wished to be alone, she could retire to her own little apartment, which opened into the back of the glen, or wander into the cave, where the various sounds of the brook falling amidst the rocks and cavities, and the notes of the birds, whose nests were there, beguiled her melancholy.

Meanwhile active hostilities between the King and Parliament had commenced. The sword had been unsheathed, and blood was already on its edge. Counter acts, threats, and impeachments, ceased, and the field was taken. Lancashire, echoing the voice of Lord Strange, declared for Charles, and engaged in the struggle. A few of the principal towns had been seized upon, and held by the Royalists, in spite of the assaults of the Parliamentary forces; but the latter, under the command of the most able generals, and fresh with the enthusiasm of a new-born liberty, were soon to be successful.

The inmates of Dunald Mill were not altogether ignorant of these troublous times. The clapper made a constant noise, and Rachel’s speech, of which she naturally had a great fluency, was incessant: still, these combined agencies could not deafen their ears to all the reports. On the sabbath, when they repaired to Lancaster, although it was the day of peace, there were no subjects of conversation afloat, except rumours of war. In the church, many a seal had the parson opened, amidst thunderings and lightnings, and black horses, and white horses, and red horses, and riders bearing bows, conquering and to conquer, had spurred forth. Then he would, from Scripture prophecy, delineate the character of the opposite leaders in the war. When Lord Strange planted the royal standard in the county, the parson’s text was, “Who is this that cometh from Edom?” Edom, he very judiciously considered, as synonymous with Lathom, the family seat of his lordship. When Oliver Cromwell was reported to be marching into Lancashire, at the head of a body of men, whom he had himself levied and disciplined, he travelled into the Apocalypse, and gave out the following;—“And they had tails like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails, and their power was to hurt men, five months. And they had a king over them, who is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon.”

“Abaddon!” the parson exclaimed. “Yes, Cromwell is a bad un, a thorough bad un!”

Often did he descend into the valley of vision, and take a view of the dry bones; or enter the field of battle called Armageddon. He would then pray, and the clerk held up his hands and stayed them, lest Amalek might prevail. And truly for the length of an hour he prayed, as some of the dissolute Royalists remarked, without ceasing or sneezing. Alas! cavalier parsons could quote and apply Scripture language as ludicrously and blasphemously as roundhead ranters!

Thus, war had lately been the constant theme. It seemed to be pleasant to Miss Evelyn; and when all the tender and the beautiful of her sex were imploring success on the handsome king, she supplicated a blessing upon the arms of the fierce republicans, and when news came of victory on the side of the Royalists, the cloud which passed over her brow betokened that she considered herself as one of the vanquished.

One Sunday morning, Hans, after donning his holiday attire, entered the little room in front, where they generally sat together, and found his wife and Miss Evelyn unprepared to attend him to church.

“So, Rachel, you intend to preach at home?”

“Yea, Hans,” was the reply, “my lady and I have agreed to stay at Bethel, and not go up to Zion. It is not safe for females to travel in such dangerous times. Nor can I enjoy the privileges of Zion at present. Whenever I enter the church, my thoughts are disquieted within me. It is so near the castle, and I think more of cannons and soldiers, than any thing else. Nor is the parson clothed with salvation, he speaks always of war. God will indeed make this a Bethel, and Rachel Skippon shall sing aloud for joy.”

“Yes, my dear friends,” said Mary Evelyn with enthusiasm, “how delightfully shall we spend the Sabbath! the little glen behind, shall be our church, where no roof but that canopy above, can intercept our ascending praise. The flowers shall be our hymn books. Nay, nay, they whisper of a Creator, but not of a Saviour. Even the lilies which he pointed out so beautifully when on earth, are silent of Him! How calm is every object around! In what a holy and sabbath repose do the rays fall, as if they were the feet of angels, dancing so lightly upon our earth!”

“Yes,” replied Hans, in true christian feeling, “the sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath. Take away this day, and we could not tell what heaven is. And yet that profane prince proclaimed sports thereon, and appointed that his book should be laid on the pulpit, along with the book of life. But, I must away to the public ordinances. Should war come to Lancaster, which side must I fall into? Alas, Evelyn speaks so beautifully of the holy puritans, who hate a tyrant over their consciences, that for some time I have ceased to pray for him who is called King.”

“Hans,” replied the dame, with some warmth, “if I thought you could be so foolish as to take the sword, as truly as I live, I would this moment disable you from leaving the house. But you could not mean this;—no, no. Well, you can go, and to entice you home, I shall prepare some savoury meat, such as thy soul loveth, of which you may eat in abundance, and praise the Lord. Wont you bid farewell to your wife?”

She threw her arms around his neck, but the old man seemed offended.

“Do you intend to disable me?” he asked, as he put her arms from about him. “Thirty-five long years have I lived with you, and never listened to such language. But since you have become Job’s wife, I must be Job, and shew patience. Come, wife, kiss me,” and he gave a loud and hearty laugh, which he suppressed when he remembered that it was the sabbath.

“Fie, fie, Hans, to speak of kissing before a young lady! It is unseemly.”

“Verily, dame, Miss Evelyn knew what kissing meant before. She blushes—Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Good morning, dame. Hush, just one, do not make a disturbance; it is the sabbath.”

The miller walked up the glen, and soon gained the highway. At every step he beheld proofs of the bad effects of the “Book of Sports.” No crowds were to be seen moving to church, but they were loitering by the way, engaged in mirth and games.

“Ha!” exclaimed Hans, as he beheld an old man tottering on before him,—“who can this be? I should know his gait, but then, his apparel is changed. It is old Sir Robert; but before, he was always dressed as a gay cavalier.”

The old knight turned round. His white locks hung over a plain-fashioned coat, and his hat was stripped of the proud plume which he had once sported. His age might be seventy, although his face was rosy.

“Well, well, good miller,” he kindly said, “art thou alone also? I left my beloved daughters at home, for I am fearful of the times.”

“You have nothing to fear, Sir Robert,” replied the miller, “in Lancaster, since you are a Royalist.”

“A Royalist!” echoed the knight, and he shook his head. “Not much of that now; no, no. The king has become a tyrant, and I disown his cause. A gallant nephew of mine, a roundhead by principle, in a battle of last month, was made prisoner, and the king gave him no quarter—but death!”

“The taking away of life,” rejoined the miller, “Charles seems to consider as his kingly prerogative.”

“His turn will come at last, Republicans say it shall, Death says it will. And what is a King? The meanest beggar. The poor man may only have one morsel of bread,—the king demands the half of it, and he is not frightened, for all his pride, and by his thoughts of dirt and scab to eat it. He,—a great man! Go to the treasury, and there you will see the widow’s mite, and the starving man’s alms! and Charles puts forth his white hand and takes them!”

“Yea, truly,” said Hans, “I am more independent in my cottage, than Charles in his palace. I earn my bread by labour, but he just puts on a few robes which we have all patched up with our own rags, blows a whistle which we have bought for him, and plays with a toy which he calls a sceptre, and for all this he receives his million.”

“Nay, good friend, you scorn a king too much. A king can work, and deserve all his salary, by ruling well, and peaceably. But as for Charles, he has taken the sword against that country, which he solemnly swore to protect. He sets his royal head up against all the sage senators of the nation. One man laughs at a Parliament! If his father deserved the name of Solomon,—Charles has much more justly earned that of Rehoboam: for under him all the tribes of Israel have revolted. He has bound on the nation, grevious burdens, which cannot be borne, and which he himself could not move, even with his little finger. And as for my poor Lord Strange—of the Derby race—why he’s a black hearted Papist. Were Cromwell to sweep down upon him, the vain nobleman would gladly hie away to the Isle-of-man. I wish no evil to him, but merely pray ‘the Lord rebuke him!’ would that the Eagle which brought a child to the family, were again to descend and take this child wheresoever he lists!”

They walked on together. As they entered Lancaster, they were struck at the unusual stillness and quiet of the streets. There were no games and sports. The doors were shut, and no longer were children sitting on the thresholds. The town seemed deserted, until they came to the church gates, where crowds had assembled, all in earnest conversation. The venerable structure arising to the morning rays from the green hill, near to the castle, seemed like an angel pleading against the uses and employments of the other. They are both, evidently, of the same high antiquity, and standing, also, upon romantic elevations, it might be imagined that they had been founded to oppose each other. The parson, in one of his just similies, had called the mount of the castle—Sinai, of which the flashes and reports of the cannon were thunders and lightnings; whilst he designated the mount of the church—Zion—where his own notes were the still small whisperings of mercy, to listen unto which the assembled tribes came up.

The crowds were gazing intently upon the castle, where the sentinels had been doubled. A few were gay, and vapoured out jests against the enemy, in the cavalier style of affected blasphemy and dissipation.

“So,” said one whose hat was shaped in the fashion of one of the turrets of the castle, high and tapering, but foppishly off the true perpendicular, and who was lord of a neighbouring mansion, “those cannons peer out from the loopholes in front like the piercing eyes of a buxom damsel at the window, ogling and smiling. They’ll riddle the breeches of the enemy. The governor assured me, yesterday, that as the roundheads are so fond of Scripture, whenever they come, he shall put a whole Bible in the mouth of the cannon, thus to quiet them in the name of the Lord, and give them holy promise, precept, and threat, line upon line, all at once. They shall be left to digest them at their leisure.”

“Good, good, ha, ha,” replied a neighbour cavalier, “but then it will scarcely be the Book of Life, you know.”

“Nay,” was the rejoinder, “you are out there. Come, let us reason together. The Bible is the sword of the Spirit, it can kill, especially if it were bound in a lead case, and thrown with fury. It is the savour of death unto death, as they themselves would say. Savour! aye there will be a pretty strong savour of powder on its pages! Nol himself, although he had three warts at the end of his nose, instead of one at the side, would smell it!”

“Could not the Royal Book of Sports,” slily said Sir Robert with a smile of scorn on his aged features, “of which his present Majesty has printed a new edition, be substituted in its place?”

“Good,” was the reply, “most excellent! Eh? would it not make rare sport amongst the roundheads? It would verily enforce them to join in a few games, such as dancing till they fell down. But, old knight, be on your guard how you recommend that measure again. It has been seconded and carried by a majority of affirmatives in parliament with this amendment, of being burnt by the hands of the common hangman, instead of being vomited forth by the cannon.”

“See,” whispered the knight to the miller. “Parliament does its duty nobly, by purging itself from that mass of pollution. I attempted to do my duty when the king wrote it, and it nearly cost me my head. The crowned fool fumed like the smoke of that tobacco against which he blew ‘A Royal Blast.’”

The church was crowded, and many were obliged to stand, for lack of better accommodation. A few soldiers from the castle took their place in the aisles, and during the reading of prayers, at every Amen pronounced by the clerk, and responded to by the congregation, they clashed their sheathed swords on the echoing pavement, and then laughed to each other.

The parson arose to commence his discourse. His face had got a rueful longitude, which assisted him to read his text with becoming effect.

“And there shall be rumours of wars.”

His divisions, theologically speaking, were striking and impressive. He mentioned, in regular succession, all the rumours which had been afloat!

“First, my brethren, when I was in the neighbourhood of Manchester, the skies had darkened, and all was still around, when I heard a warlike drum. But greater woes were to succeed,—and I fled.”

He had proceeded through the divisions, and had come to the last.

“Lastly, my brethren,”—

He was interrupted by a loud report of a cannon fired from the castle. All sprung to their feet. The soldiers rushed to the gate.

“Lastly, my brethren,—there is the cannon bringing rumours of wars.”

His voice was drowned by another and another awful peal rumbling over the church.

“The enemy! the enemy!” was the general cry. Hans was borne irresistibly along with the crowd to the castle; and from its ramparts they beheld a strong body of troops encamping at the distance of a few miles.

The governor of the castle stood with his glass. After gazing long and anxiously, he exclaimed, “Soldiers, haste, prepare for a siege. The enemy will be strait upon us. They are Oliver Cromwell’s troops.”

“The cry was raised by the multitude, ‘Oliver Cromwell!’”

What terror seized even the bravest royalist at that plain name!

The military cleared the court of the frightened citizens, and all the gates and avenues were strongly barricaded. The royal banner was unfurled amid the shouts of the inhabitants, who now resolved to rally.

“We are safe for one day,” exclaimed some. “Cromwell was never known to be such a ruffian as to commence an attack, much less a siege, on the Lord’s day.”

The miller, along with the knight, as speedily as possible retreated to the extremity of the town, and proceeded homeward.

Sir Robert Bradley’s mansion was near the romantic vale of Lonsdale. He was not a native of the county, but had retired there after a life spent at the court of James, when he observed that that sovereign’s successor, although young and inexperienced, could not brook anything but honied words, and pleasant flattery, from his councillors; and that to be faithful was to make him their enemy. Nursed by two lovely and affectionate daughters, he enjoyed a peaceful happiness he had never known amidst all the bustle, intrigue, and rivalry of his younger days.

A few weeks ago, his nephew, who had joined the Parliamentary troops, without his consent, and against his expressed wish, had been captured in the field of battle, and the fate decreed by the king, was death. The old knight had cursed the youthful roundhead, but now, even more than his ancient fondness had returned for his brother’s son, whom he had educated from a boy; and an uncle’s blessing was given to the memory of the dead, whilst he imprecated vengeance on the king. But there was one of the family to whom the tidings came a darker message, and a more bitter loss. Not only were the hopes, but the very existence of that one—dependant. Sweet Madeline Bradley, the knight’s younger daughter, had been betrothed to her cousin from childhood. They had tripped the same path in the vale many a morn; and as many an eve they had bent to unbuckle the old man’s shoes, their loving hands touching each other, and their luxurious tresses failing together. And when Madeline grew up into beautiful womanhood, when love mingles with awe and worship, bashfulness and timidity only served to explain their intimacy better. When she heard of his death, she started not. Amidst the tears of her sister Sarah, and the grief of her father for him who had been the family’s favourite, she wept not for him who had been her lover. She raved not. Sir Robert thought that she bore it lightly, till one evening at sunset, about a week after the mournful news had been told her, he was seated in the arbour. He heard a light step approaching, and then a low sweet voice, as if afraid to be heard, making such a request, breathed its silvery accents.

“Cousin, the night is so beautiful. Come, let us to the vale, if you would rather not be alone, Cousin.”

And when her father stepped forth, the truth came to her remembrance. Still she fainted not; but she became deadly pale, and leaned for support against the young trees at the entrance. Alas! her’s was a broken heart, although unknown; and the knight as he blessed her in fondness at every return of the hour of rest, might have read something in her deep blue eyes, raised so earnestly, that would have told him that she was not certain whether she could awake for him any more. With what regret she then parted from him! She followed him to the door of his sleeping apartment, that a latest farewell might be allowed. But the good knight saw not the awful progress that death was making.

The miller and the knight, on their way home, conversed about the arrival of the enemy.

“My good friend,” said Sir Robert, “trust me, that if the troops be headed by Cromwell, the Governor of Lancaster Castle may yield at discretion. What a deep, a burning enthusiasm, there is in that wonderful man, although he be turned on the wrong side of forty! I cannot but believe that it is the fire of heaven.”

“Verily,” replied Hans Skippon, “it will soon destroy the temples of Baal. But here is the footpath leading to my quiet cottage. God grant that the soldiers be not near it.”

They parted. The miller, on entering into the wide glen, started as he beheld the roundhead soldiers there encamped. They were engaged in religious services. A solemn hush, disturbed alone by the shrill notes of the curlew and the plover, as they arose from the long tufted grass, was over the band as they listened to the exhortations of one of their preachers, who stood on a mass of grey rock. Hans was inclined to join them in their sabbath employments, but he dreaded lest he should be retained by them, and pressed into their lists, although he might have been free from all fears upon the latter point, as he would have been no acquisition to the disciplined veterans of Cromwell. He, accordingly, avoided them by a circuitous rout, on the back of a neighbouring hill, and without hindrance or obstruction, at length reached his cottage. He paused at the door. He heard a stranger’s voice. It was low and husky;—but, unaccountably, by its very tones, he was spell-bound, and compelled to listen.

“Maiden,” were the words, “thy sorrows and thy history, are those of our mother country. I know that thou wert formed by God for happiness, and was not England? Now she is bowed in the dust,—but there is an outstretched rod for the oppressor, and an outstretched arm of deliverance for the oppressed. Both gleam from the clouds of her adversity, and soon, soon they reach those for whom they are destined! Liberty cannot die while man has one heart-string. My maiden, cheer is for thee. Thy father lost his head, sayest thou? Others may lose theirs also.”

Hans, after these words were uttered, turned the latch, and walked in. At the little window a soldier, not in the uniform of an officer, but well accoutred, was sitting. He was gazing upon the vale without, and his dark grey eye glowed, as it moved restlessly on all the objects. The features were not finely formed: indeed, they might be called coarse, though not plain, for a wild power was expressed. From his broad and prominent forehead, the light red locks were put back. His countenance, one moment, was so calm and sanctified, that he might have been set down as a preacher of the gospel: but the next, it was so troubled and fiery, that he appeared a fierce and ambitious warrior.

Although his eye seemed upon the full stretch of resolution and thought, his hand was placed softly upon the bending head of Mary Evelyn, whom he had, evidently, been attempting to console. Old Rachel was seated at a short distance from him, with a bible in her hand, but many a look was stolen from its pages to the countenance of the stranger. Her ears caught the sounds of her husband’s footsteps.

“Hans,” she exclaimed, “is all well, that you have left the church so soon? You have only been gathering crumbs beneath the table, like a graceless dog. Woe, woe unto short sermons, and impatient hearers! You have come home before the pudding is ready. What’s the matter, Hans?”

But the miller neglected to answer the queries of his dame, being employed in obsequiously bowing to the stranger.

“Friend, kneel not to me; I am only thy fellow-servant. See that thou do it not. I am but Oliver Cromwell!”

As he pronounced the word but, there was a proud smile passed over his features, and he arose from his seat for a moment, in that air of command which was natural unto him. His proud bearing attested that though he refused to receive homage, he considered himself entitled to it.

Hans Skippon, on hearing the name of the stranger, bent down on his knees.

“Nay, I kneel not to thee, but to the Most High, who hath raised thee up for a horn unto his people.”

“I am, indeed, but an instrument in the Divine hands; and an atom, created for working out the Divine counsels. I am but a small stone, cut out of the mountains, to break down the image of the beast. Good miller, arise from thy knees.”

“A very sensible advice,” muttered Rachel, who was not altogether pleased with the lowly posture of her husband.

“Didst thou pass my troops?” inquired Cromwell, “and how were they employed?”

“They were listening to the exhortations of a preacher, and the very horses even seemed attentive, for they stood silent.”

“How different,” exclaimed the dame, “from all other soldiers, who make the sabbath a day of wanton sport. They curse and swear like the king himself. They stay at the wine-cup till their eyes are red, and their great toes cannot balance the bulk above them. Put a cap sideways on a monkey, teach him to say ‘damn,’ to look and be wicked; take him to the king, and get him knighted, and he is a good cavalier. Knight him with a sword! Bring him to me, and I should do it to better purpose with a rough stick!”

Cromwell smiled at this ebullition of feeling. Throughout all his life he was never known to laugh.

“You speak warmly, dame,” said he. “But since a sword is the only weapon of knighthood, they shall have one. Here,” and he pointed to his own, lying sheathed on the casement, “is the sword of Gideon. That sword has been blessed as often as the food which I partake of. But, miller, thou wert at church to-day. ’Tis well; yet I have a few things to say against thee; I would thou wert either cold or hot.”

Rachel was looking in at the large pot on the fire, in which the pudding was boiling, as she thought, too slowly. Her temper was provoked, and she muttered, as she raised the pudding on the end of a stick;

“I would thou wert either cold or hot.”

“I have a few things to say against thee, my trusty miller,” repeated Cromwell.

“A few things to say against Hans,” exclaimed Rachel with much warmth, while she left the pot, and faced round to Cromwell. “Take care what thou sayest against Hans!”

“Pooh!” was the contemptuous answer. “Thou fumest; but I know how to cork every bottle of ale, brisk though it be. I carry stoppers, even for a woman—but beware.”

“A few things to say against Hans!” continued Rachel, but in a lower voice,—“why, he’s a good husband, a good christian, and—”

“Too good a subject to King Charles,” added Cromwell with a frown. “Woe unto you that still dwell in the tents of Ham. God shall enlarge us and our borders; but woe be to you. And yet, you have kindly given refuge to this lovely maiden, whose history I have heard, and whose wrongs, God be my witness, I shall revenge. Because Rahab kept the spies, she was allowed to enter the promised land, and because you have kept this persecuted daughter of a brave man, God will reward you!”

He paused, and then continued,—

“And wherefore should I induce you to leave this peaceful retreat, and your rural occupations? A Sunday spent in the country would almost suffice to put an end to war, and to make brethren of all mankind!”

He turned his head, seemingly absorbed in his own reflections. His eyes could not be seen. They were altogether buried beneath his eye-brows and his massive forehead.

“In church,” replied Hans to the repeated inquiries of his dame, “we were disturbed by the noise of the cannon firing from the castle. Ah! it is no longer true that we can sit under our vine and fig-tree,—none daring to make us afraid.”

“Fig-tree!” exclaimed Rachel, whose memory had not retained the passage, and whose reason applied it in a literal sense, “why we cannot even sit under the cherry-tree in the garden without somebody troubling us. Miss Evelyn and I—draw nearer, Hans, and I shall whisper it—were seated there, when this noble officer, attended by five or six troopers, came to the gate. And yet, he has not disturbed us much. I feel proud that he has come to our dwelling. As he entered, his sword was clashing on the threshold, but he said, ‘Peace be unto this house.’ But go on; you mentioned a disturbance in the church.”

“Yes, cannons were fired from the castle. They drowned the piping of the parson. We all rushed out, and made for the castle. The governor stood on the battlements, as motionless as a sack of flour. But his eyes were fixed upon some distant object, and he exclaimed ‘Cromwell, Cromwell.’”

These words were repeated by the miller in a loud voice. Cromwell started up. Hans turned his back and busied himself with an examination of the pudding in the pot.

“Who called me by name. Who called me?”

No one answered.

“Yes, it was an angel’s voice! Stay,” and Cromwell took his boots from off his feet. “Now speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.”

His eyes were wildly raised. Not one of his enemies could have laughed at his grotesque appearance, for the face was expressive of an unearthly communion. It was pale; the very breath of the angel whom he imagined to be there, might have passed over it.

“Nay, thou wilt not stay! It is well. I could not execute a commission of vengeance on the Sabbath.”

It is singular that this great man was often deluded by visions, and communications from the other world. His sudden conversion from extreme dissipation had invested him, in his own eyes, with something of a wonder and a miracle. It was the same with Mohammed. But although this was a weakness, it was the source of his energies, and inflexible resolution. He could not believe that these fancies were the dreams of youth; for he had already passed the meridian of life. He knew that his bodily senses were becoming blunted, and he therefore was willing to think that his spiritual senses were more acute and could distinguish sounds and sights, which were strange to all but his gifted self. But let not his enemies mock him. He might assert and believe that he heard sounds urging him to go to the field of battle, to dare more than any other warrior, and usurper; but did he ever hear any urging him to fly, to leave undone what he had resolved to do? Nay, had he actually heard such, he would have rejected them. Religion,—the tones of every angel above,—nay, the very voice of God himself, could not have made Cromwell a coward!

At length they sat down to dinner. A large substantial pudding was placed before them. In those days, the guests of the poor had not each a knife and fork; nay, they had not each a plate. All things were in common. The miller clasped his hands together and looked up for a blessing. And here, let not our readers expect something long and very piously expressed. The spirit of the times was too much debased by blasphemous allusions, which are only redeemed from condemnation by their quaintness.

“Hans,” whispered Rachel, “give us your best blessing. Let it be the one in rhyme.”

A pause was made. Cromwell’s eyes were shut, and Hans solemnly began,—

The good dame was hastening to comply with the request, when Cromwell cried,

“Nay, miller, thou hast but asked a blessing on us. Let us ask a blessing on the provisions. Your’s is but a vulture’s blessing,” and he himself poured forth thanksgivings to God, for all his mercies.

After the repast, Cromwell spoke but little, except to Mary Evelyn, to whose lot he promised better days. But the miller was a little curious to know his intended movements, as it was not every day which brought him such opportunities for looking into the future.

“They expect you at Lancaster, General,” said he turning to Cromwell.

“And yet,” was the answer, “I shall prove that although they expect me, they are not quite prepared for my reception. The walls of Jericho must fall down. And saidst thou, pretty innocent,” as he looked upon Miss Evelyn with a kind eye, “that the Governor of Lancaster Castle, gave evidence against thy father, even to the death?”

“He did, noble warrior. My father was an old friend of Charles. But he could not support him in his tyrannic measures with the Parliament. Whisperings went abroad that my father had agreed to assassinate him. The Governor of Lancaster Castle was reported to have heard him say, that if the king went further, the nation must purchase a block, and that no nobleman who loved his country, would refuse to be the executioner; and such evidence was given; it was false. Oh! my poor father.”

Her eye rolled wildly around, as when in her moments of madness. The miller and his dame perceived it, and went kindly to console her. But the voice of Cromwell, though neither sweet nor full toned, seemed to exercise a charm over her grief, as if he had been some superior being; and instead of raving, she only fell into a fit of insensibility.

“Leave her to me, good people. Now my pretty one, put your hands in mine.”

He looked up solemnly, whilst he whispered,

“God above, heal her mind, and heal our mother country. Affection may yet smile upon her, and kindness may cherish her, but she is a wreck. The delapidated temple may have the earth around, as green as ever, and the sky above, as holy and beautiful, but it is still a ruin. Ho! my good friends, here, she breathes not. Her heart has stopped its pulse against my breast. Throw the spring water upon her face. Now she recovers. Look up, then, innocent one.”

In a few minutes she was able to thank him for his attentions.

“It is a painful subject, but although I hear it not mentioned, it is ever present to my mind. Oh! it is wicked in me to cherish revenge towards that man. I almost hate him. I almost wish him dead.”

“Blame not the wish. I have myself wished, nay prayed fervently for hours at the still approach of midnight, that the man, Charles Stuart, should die by our hands. He has braved the Parliament, and why should the judges spare him?”

And yet this was the man who, in after years, dissolved the Parliament by force, and took the keys home in his pocket. Charles might not order his attendants in as eloquent and strong language, to seize the offenders, as Cromwell used, when he told his servants to take down, “that bauble,”—the mace; but the king was guilty of a less constitutional crime than was the protector.

He continued, in tones of scorn, while malice darkened over his face,—

“If Charles be bad, why, he deserves death; he is unfit to live. If he be good, it is but meet that he should leave this vain and wicked world for another more congenial to his piety, where he may inherit a heavenly crown. Let him bid adieu, and there is no honest man who could object to a monarchy in heaven! Often has Charles called the crown, a crown of thorns. We shall ease him of it. Pity that his tender and royal flesh should be scratched! Often has he called the throne of England a cross. We shall take him down from the cross, and bury him. Pity that he should, any longer, be a spectacle to angels and to men! We shall free him of both his crown and his throne!”

“But surely not of his life?” inquired Miss Evelyn, and the question was repeated by Hans and Rachel Skippon.

It was unanswered:—and Cromwell relapsed into one of those silent moods which came frequently over him, even at the commencement of his public career, as well as afterwards, when he became Lord Protector.

In all his conversation, Mary Evelyn had observed that there was something of an innocent hypocrisy about him. He counterfeited tender feelings, when it was evident, from his face, that he had none; and at other times he restrained tender feelings, and appeared what he was not—cold and indifferent. But in his expressed hatred of the king, there could not be a doubt of his sincerity. The awful sarcasm was in deadly earnest, and the very words hissed, and hissed, as if they were coming from a full furnace of burning wrath. Neither was his love for England at that time insincere. Had his life been of as much value to it as his sword, instead of taking up the one, he was willing to have resigned the other.

A knocking was now made at the gate, and when Rachel went to it, a soldier of the common rank inquired,—

“Tarrieth my lord in the house? Verily he hath chosen a peaceful spot. The lines have fallen unto him in pleasant places. Lead me the way.”

“Dost thou preach in the army?” inquired the dame.

“No madam; verily, verily I say unto you, that many shall be called unto that work, but few chosen. But thou wonderest at the fluency of my speech. Ah!—out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. I only edify and exhort in private.”

The good dame could, with difficulty, refrain from laughing at the uncouth soldier. He was tall and thin, and she afterwards remarked,—had Goliath been still alive, the soldier would have been an excellent sword for his huge hand. But he opened his lips so oracularly, and strode so gravely, that these circumstances being taken into consideration, along with his leanness, he was termed by Cromwell himself, with no little blasphemy, when in an unusual fit of jocularity and good humour, “the holy ghost!”

When they had gained the house, he made a low reverence to Cromwell, repeating the words, “honour to whom honour is due, fear to whom fear.”

“Well, my good soldier, what wouldst thou?”

“Will it please you, my lord, to walk forth in the cool of the day, and commune with thy servants, our captains and officers?”

“Yes, in a few moments I shall be with them.”

The soldier retreated to the door slowly, whilst he said,

“Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”

Cromwell, in a little, walked forth alone. The miller looked at his form. It was muscular, but not strong, and well built, but not handsome; but all its movements were expressive of power.

“He will save the nation,” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, “and for all his greatness, he is yet so pious and devout.”

“I could trust that man,” replied Rachel, “but I could not feel any attachment or affection to him. He might perish to-morrow, and yet, but for our country, I would not mourn at his loss.”

The good dame here expressed what was the universal feeling of all Cromwell’s supporters towards him. He had their confidence, but not their affection. His own daughters, at one time, were proud of him, but they were never fond. And in the glowing panegyric of Milton, we can but trace a high admiration of Cromwell.

“Arthur Montressor,” said Mary to herself, “must not belong to Cromwell’s troops, else he would surely have come to see me. He is not false or faithless. Oh! when shall civil war be at an end, and we know a home?”

Cromwell returned an hour before sunset. His step was slow. He was in a quiet contemplative mood, evidently not thinking of war. His head was uncovered, and he allowed the air to breathe its fragrance upon it. He paused at the threshold, as if it were painful to enter a dwelling after having wandered about the vale.

The night was beautiful and still. It was early in the month of May, and the sunshine had all its young summer innocence. In mirth it seemed now to rest upon the little green knolls, and then to retreat to the mountain. The shadows were passing over the white cottage, as if chiding the bright rays which shone within.

“My good friends,” said Cromwell “it is now time for our evening devotions. Let them not be performed in a house made with hands, but in the open air. And yet I would rather worship in your dwelling, than in all the gorgeous temples, which speak too much of man, to say any thing of God. But, let us to the garden.”

His eye beamed with a love for nature. He is said often to have dwelt with rapture on the beauty of external objects, and to have wished that his lot, however humble, had been cast in a pastoral retirement, far from bustle and care. Nature had first given him thoughts of liberty. It was not the lightning and the storm, which inspired them. He cared not for the cold mountains, with their terrific heads mantled in the tempest. He looked around upon lovely nature. He called himself her son. It was not because she was free, but because she was beautiful, that he swore never to be a slave. A beautiful mother, and a son with a craven soul: it must not be!

They went forth to the garden. A pleasant arbour at the extremity, topping the eminence, and shaded with trees, was their temple. The balmy fragrance of eve rested on the bushes, and the glow of coming twilight floated in the sky. Cromwell for a moment listened in silence, as if the song of spirits, keeping their sabbath, was borne on the gentle west wind.

“What a temple is this,” he said, “to worship God! I cannot endure to enter churches, and there to gaze upon the gay gilded fluttering sons of pride, clothed in purple and fine linen. But here, I can gaze upon objects still more gaily adorned, and I dare not call them vain.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Evelyn, catching fire and animation from the republican. “Churches teach so much the lesson of our mortality. Many graves are around us. But this temple teaches us of immortality.”

“Thou speakest well, beauteous maiden. Mortality is a great lesson, but immortality is one greater and more useful. Mortality teaches us to trace our connections and relatives in the worm. But immortality in God and angels! Sin brought the first to light, but Christ the other.”

They all joined in singing a psalm. Mary Evelyn’s sweet voice, with its low and tremulous sounds, occasionally induced Cromwell to be silent and listen, while he kindly placed his hand upon hers. He next read a portion of Scripture,—one of the Psalms—which he afterwards commented upon, in his address to Parliament, as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. He then knelt down on the grass and prayed, “Father above, we come to thee! We now bow at thy feet: soon we shall lie in thine arms! Far above us, still thou hidest not thy face. Excuse us in this act of adoration, for opening our eyes to see the heavens, and for sinking our hands on the ground to feel thy footstool. The moon and the stars may not arise, but the clouds which conceal them, tell their tale. The flowers of the earth may have withered, but the clods of the valley, beneath which their fair young forms are buried, take their place, and speak to us of thee!”

Here he paused, as if overcome by the greatness of the Being whom he addressed. But soon it was the strong republican who prayed, and he raved about Israel; Israel’s God, and himself the deliverer of both, as he presumed.

When he had concluded, he abruptly arose and left them. They followed him into the house, after a few minutes, but he had gone to his apartment for the night. As long however as they themselves were awake, they heard him walking up and down.

On the following morning, the sun was not earlier in arising upon the turrets of Lancaster Castle, than were the soldiers of the garrison. They were in armour, and the cannons were all charged and manned. The Governor was walking about to every post and every circle, encouraging them to do their duty to the king and country.

His eyes were occasionally turned to the vale where Cromwell’s troops were encamped.

“Do they yet move,” said a noble youth who now approached. “Father, shall we able to hold out a siege against such a famed general?”

“Is my son a traitor,” bitterly asked the governor. “If he be, then my first duty of vengeance is against him. No! a king has blessed thee, and wouldst thou fight against him who once took thee, an infant, in his royal arms, and swore that thou wert like thy beautiful mother? Thy mother! Ha, the subject and the name are unfit for me. Let me not think of them.”

“Father,” proudly replied the youth, “thou doest me wrong. Not only my sword, but my very life is pledged for the king’s interest. But to war with Cromwell is to war with destiny. He can pray and he can fight.”

“Let his troops come,” was the scornful answer, “and we shall quickly send them upon their knees, to attend to their devotions. See, there is spare room for a few thousands to pray upon the ground out before us. They shall find room to stretch out their full length carcass, and they may breathe out groans which cannot be uttered, because they are dead!”

“They pray before they come to the battle. During it, you will not find them once on their knees.”

“Ha! doubtest thou?” exclaimed the governor. “If they refuse to kneel in loyalty to Charles while living, why, we shall allow them, in death, to kneel to their mother earth, which they love so fondly, ‘dust to dust,’ as they themselves would say.”

“Not before their garments are rolled in blood!”

“Art thou a canting hypocrite too? Hast thou been baptized with the said holy fire. It is the fire of rebellion. Satan was the first roundhead. He spoke of liberty. He mentioned it in the high court of parliament, but royalty conquered, and the good cavalier angels pushed him and all his troops over the battlements. Let Cromwell scale these turrets, we shall explain to him a precipitous descent. Let him come.”

“Thou hast thy wish,” was the reply. “His troops are advancing. Now for the action.”

“My brave boy,” said the governor, as he placed his hand upon the head of his son, “forgive me for my harsh words. Thou art my only child, my sole hope. Heaven bless thee and shield thee! But haste my men, is all in readiness?”

In half-an-hour Cromwell’s troops were posted upon a neighbouring hill, opposite the castle. A flag of truce was fixed.

A herald from the Roundheads now advanced; and being admitted into the town, proceeded to the castle. The persons usually thus employed were half preachers, and half warriors, who threatened with the sword of the Lord, and of Gideon. The present messenger of peace, belonged to this class. Obadiah Cook was his name, and as he announced it to the governor, who appeared at the drawbridge, all the soldiers gave a loud laugh.

“Friend,” said the governor, “is thy name Obadiah Cook?”

“It is, Sir Governor,” was the reply, “I am like that famous prophet, who sheltered God’s servants from the wicked Ahaz. Oh! for a place in the wilderness, that there my soul might fly away and be at rest!”

“What prevents it from flying? Surely not thy body, for it is so weak. Indeed, Obadiah, thou seemest too like thy namesake of old, and art too fond of cooking for the hundred prophets. Man, consider your own wants.—But your errand, Obadiah?”

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. Are ye so deaf? The very loop holes of that idolatrous castle, of that high-place of iniquity, condemned by the Psalmist, take in my words. My master, Cromwell, in the name of the Parliament of England, demands you to surrender the castle, else it shall be razed to the ground, and there shall not be one stone left upon another, which shall not be thrown down. Last night, when I had retired to sleep, in the midst of my meditations, I heard an angel flying through the sky, and crying with a loud voice ‘Babylon is fallen, Lancaster Castle is no more.’”

At this moment a ball whizzed over the head of Obadiah.

“Is that the angel which flew through the sky?” inquired the sentinel, who had discharged it, and who, with curses regretted that it had not gone a little nearer in order that the herald might have known more accurately.

“Darest thou?” exclaimed the governor, as he turned to the sentinel. “Another time, thou receivest thy punishment.”

The herald continued,—

“You are cut off from all provisions, you shall soon be compelled to eat your wives, your little ones, and yourselves. Then surrender in time.”

“Not so,” replied the governor, with a laugh, “we have better dainties than that. We have as good ale, as ever Oliver himself brewed at Huntingdon. Nay, I should like to have a chat with him, over some of it. Sentinel, throw Obadiah a loaf.”

The herald, who did not seem by any means over-fed, caught the descending bread, and stowed it about his person.

“Now, fool, return and tell Oliver that we despise his vengeance, and laugh at his mercy.”

“Then,” exclaimed the angry and indignant messenger, “a voice against Lancaster, a voice against the Castle, a voice against—”

“Yourself. A voice against yourself,” and a well aimed ball, from the governor’s pistol, brought him to the ground, from off his steed.

The report could not have been heard from the hill, where Cromwell’s troops were posted, but the herald’s fall must have been noticed, as instantly active preparations for the attack seemed to be making, and soon several pieces of cannon opened their fire upon the castle in close volley. From the upper batteries it was returned, and from the loop holes over the strong arched gateway, muskets were fired upon those of the Roundhead soldiers, who had broken down the gates of the town, and were advancing furiously.

“Prevent them,” cried the governor, “from recovering the dead body of their comrade. Let him at least be useful in his death, and be a meal to the crows and the vultures.”

But although the musketry wrought havock among the Roundheads who approached, they bore off Obadiah, whilst they put to the sword all the inhabitants whom they met scouring the streets in their fear. They returned reinforced, in spite of the cannon, which was now also turned against them, and they entered the church, and from the broken windows took aim at the besieged with their muskets.

Cromwell remained with the soldiers on the hill, and was seen whenever the dense smoke was occasionally rolled away by sharp breezes which arose, walking from cannon to cannon, encouraging and giving directions. Many a ball was aimed at him, but he seemed to escape unhurt.

“Old Noll, is invincible,” said one of the soldiers, “for, now, I loaded my musket with a silver coin, and took such a correct aim, that I could have wagered that the very wart on his nose would receive the charge, and yet, there he is moving about, and raising his prospective glass. He is the son of a witch!”

Throughout the whole summer’s day the cannons thundered. They had taken effect upon the highest battlements, as well as on the gateway, for these were sadly shattered. Many of the Royalists had fallen as they sallied forth upon the Roundheads, in the church; and a few had been wounded, as they manned the castle walls and served the cannon. But the governor, a brave old man, refused to surrender, as long as one stone of the fortress was left.

“See, my soldiers, the flag of Charles, still waves true to him, although it be in rags. Let us be as faithful.”

At sunset, a signal of truce was displayed, on the hill, and the cannons ceased; but the party who had occupied the church still kept up the fire, and the governor directed his men not to cannonade the church but to retire to the turrets, where the roundhead musketry would be harmless. As night came on, the inmates of the church, however, found that there was little good cheer to be had in Zion. The vestry had been ransacked, the communion cups examined, but no wine could be found, and there was not bread enough to supper a church mouse.

“Well,” exclaimed one, “it is of no use firing, let us barricade the doors, and compose ourselves to rest. I choose the pulpit for my bed. Soft cushions to dose on!”

The same spirit of sleep had descended upon the soldiers of the castle, and even some of the sentries were stretched out on the battlements. The governor and his son, did not awake them, as they walked together. Their eyes were fixed upon the enemy’s camp, when suddenly a wide flash was seen, and a cannon shot struck against the turrets. The firing continued, and soon, it was as regularly returned, when loud shouts arose within the lower courts. The next moment a party of roundheads were among the governor’s men, headed by Cromwell and Captain Birch, who had just arrived to act in concert with the general. The governor was seized and bound, and, along with his son, placed under a strong guard, while his men were put to the sword, overcome by the unexpected attack. The Royal flag was lowered, and in a short time the castle was in the possession of the roundhead troops!

“Captain,” said Cromwell, “our stratagem has succeeded. By playing the cannon, we diverted their attention to the hill where we were posted, and thus we advanced unseen. But where is the gallant officer of your department, who led the way, and clambered up the gateway?”

“Here he is, general, and true stuff he is made of. He was captured by the royalists a few months ago: but last week he effected his escape. Montressor, stand forward, and receive the thanks of General Cromwell, for your bravery.”

It was Arthur Montressor. Cromwell warmly extolled his services, even whilst he reminded him, “that not unto us, but unto God’s name be the glory.”

“General,” said Montressor, as he humbly bowed, “might I ask a favour, which can be of no interest in you to deny. Will you grant me leave of absence from the troops, for this night?”

“Absence!” returned the general, in a harsh voice, “and for what would you take absence? For some nocturnal appointment with a fair one?—young man you are silent: it must be as I have guessed. Then take my unqualified denial. No such license here,” and he turned away abruptly.

“Montressor,” said Birch, as he was about to accompany Cromwell, “you remain in the castle all night. Should you disobey, our sentries have the same liberty to treat you as they would the captive governor. Good night!”

Montressor stood for a moment motionless.

“The governor!—thank God that I have not left the castle!”

Early on the following morning Cromwell, attended by his officers, entered the apartment where the governor was confined. They found him asleep. Cromwell put his finger to his lips, and motioned them to the window, where they stood in silence. It commanded a wide view of the lawn in front, where the hill was almost a flat plain. Sheep and kine were browsing on the grass, and suggested images of rural peace and retirement, as if it had not been the seat of war a few hours previous. From their own thoughts they were aroused by the door of the apartment being cautiously opened. As they themselves stood in a recess, not directly opposite the door, they could watch without being observed. Nothing but a hand groping the way, and two bright eyes gleaming in the shade of the staircase, could be seen. The next moment a tall form, shrouded in a horseman’s cloak, moved silently in. He looked at the sleeper. His hand trembled as it was raised to the brow. He started, as if moved with some sudden resolution, drew forth a pistol, and fired it in the direction of the governor. He threw back his cloak, and perceiving that the ball had not been true to its mark, drew his sword, and rushed forward;—but Cromwell and his officers stood before him.

“Montressor! Beware!” thundered forth Cromwell, as he seized the youth’s arm.

The report had startled the governor.

“Ha! traitors! cowardly traitors! Do I see aright? Is it Cromwell who has played the ruffian? Cromwell,—after pledging my life to myself in the most solemn oath? And that whilst I was asleep! Base,—cowardly, was the act. And why shouldst thou have made the young man your tool? Could not your own withered hands have been stained with my blood, and not the white hands of innocent youth? Base, cowardly!”

“Thou doest me wrong,” replied the general, as calmly as if he had been rebutting a slight and unimportant accusation, “as these my officers, and as the assassin himself can testify. I had entered to propose to you my terms of a negociation with you. You were asleep, and, old man, I had no desire to prevent you enjoying a transient solace. This assassin,—villain I will call him, though he belongs to my troops, entered and fired. Wretch,” and he turned upon Montressor, whilst he stamped in fury, and the sweat broke out on his massive forehead for very anger, “why hast thou dared to inflict death, when I, your general, gave my oath that he should be in safety?”

He became more calm, but his eye relaxed not its awful sternness, although his voice was low as he added,

“Young man, allow me to unbuckle thy sword,—nay, no scruples—and prepare to die!”

All started. Cromwell turned round upon them with a look that forbade remonstrance.

“I refuse not,” proudly answered Montressor, “to die. But listen to my motives for attempting the life of that man. I loved. Oh! she was fair, gentle, and happy, as a spirit of heaven! General, smile not in scorn. Does a dying man rave in a foolish and romantic strain? She was more than an angel to me. She would have been my wife! But her father was murdered, and she was an orphan, deprived of her home; herself,—almost a maniac. Yes, she was mad when her condemned father placed her hand in mine, and betrothed us together, for ever and ever. And who was the murderer? Sir governor,—tell me who caused the death of Sir John Evelyn?”

The governor covered his face with his hands. Cromwell started up from the chair which he had taken.

“Sir John Evelyn! Where is his daughter? Young man, be brief, and answer me. Is she in the care of a miller and his wife, at a short distance from Lancaster?”

“There I left her. But I have been, ever since, a captive, and when I asked permission to leave the castle last night, in order that I might obtain information concerning her fate, you denied me. She may be dead. It would be well!”

“She is alive,” muttered Cromwell, as he again seated himself.

“Young man,” said the governor in a kind tone, “you would forgive me if you knew all. I have, since the death of Sir John, learned with inexpressible regret, that the evidence which I gave against him had been artfully arranged, so that I might be deceived. I have often declared his innocence. And, General Cromwell, if you will listen to the prayers of a Royalist, and one whose life he has attempted—for which offence you have condemned him; oh! grant him a pardon, and his life! It was but natural, nay, it was praiseworthy to seek my life!”

Cromwell shook his head.

“It cannot be. Discipline must be enforced. I saw the maiden of this youth’s affection and troth. She is a very Rebecca, beautiful and discreet. I promised to avenge her father’s death. Yet my oath of safety to you has been pledged;—and woe be to him who attempts to make a word of mine of non-effect! Captain Birch, order five of the musketeers to load; and bring out the troops in the front of the castle. I give you half an hour.”

The captain, as he went out, frequently turned round to see whether Cromwell might not relent, and forbid such a stern order from being carried into effect—but no!—

“Not for my own sake,” pled Montressor, “but for that of the orphan, do I ask my life. For my own services in a just cause, I esteem them as nothing; but to die such a death, seems a poor recompense even for a faithful dog. General, grant me life for Mary Evelyn’s sake!”

He knelt,—and along with him the governor and all his officers.

“It cannot be,” was the decisive reply. “But, young man, you shall have writing materials, if you have anything to charge to the living. Let them be brought.”

Montressor, with a trembling hand, wrote a letter to Mary Evelyn, and as he finished it, the drum was heard without.

“To whom can I assign my last duty?”

“To me,” replied the governor. “Trust me, that if I can make any reparation for the past, I shall.”

“It is well,” remarked Cromwell, in cold-hearted cruelty,—“If any man wrong another, let him return good, fourfold.”

Montressor, after this, was firm and collected. But for the slight quiver on his lips, it could not have been known that he was going to his death.

“Sir Governor,” he once more asked, “wilt thou be kind to her? Hast thou a daughter, to love her as a sister?”

“No—I have but a son, and he—”

“Cannot, cannot comfort her,” interrupted Montressor with some bitterness.

“Yet I know a knight,” returned the governor, “whose daughters are well known for kindness and charity. Sarah and Madeline Bradley, on knowing her history, will find her a home with them.”

“A home! Poor Mary, her best home will be the grave! There is my letter. Were it not that the sight would be horrible, I should die with this letter in my hand, and you would send to her, that she might receive it from myself! Farewell! I entered this room, a few minutes ago, with the intention of taking your life, and now I leave it to lose mine own!”

Cromwell opened the door.

“There is your way. Young man, I trust to your honour, therefore you remain unshackled to die.”

Already the soldiers were drawn out before the castle. The five musketeers who were commissioned to carry the sentence into execution stood in advance, their muskets in hand. Montressor took his place.

“Kneel,” said Cromwell.

“Yes, to heaven,” was the reply.

“Stay,” exclaimed the general, as he rushed forth in a burst of tenderness. The condemned youth started joyfully up. Hope was kindled.

“Young man, I love thee as a son. Take my embrace,” and he threw his arms around Montressor. “Look—for no other but you, a dying man, must see Cromwell weep!—Look at these tears. Now, my son. Yes, my very son, farewell!”

Montressor sunk upon his knees in despair. He waved his hand to the musketeers, and soon their duty was performed.

Cromwell himself raised the lifeless body, and sternly said to the soldiers,

“Let all, let each beware! Justice and duty are unrelenting, even to the brave and the beloved!”

Well did the governor perform his pledge. The fatal news were communicated to Mary Evelyn by Madeline Bradley, who, heart-broken herself, knew how to feel for a sister sufferer. Sir Robert’s mansion was the orphan’s home. She and Madeline took short walks together, sat together in the same easy chair, and slept together. Hand in hand they were bound for the tomb, and the foot of the one seemed not to be before that of the other.

The governor, every day, (for he had no longer the charge of the castle,) came, and conversed with her, whose father he had been the innocent cause of betraying to death. His son attached himself to the company of Sarah Bradley. The heart-broken sufferers, saw their mutual affection, and kindly fostered it. Often too, did the worthy miller and his wife make their appearance, and they were always welcome.

It was near midnight, and Madeline and Mary were alone in their apartment. They lay in each other’s arms, gazing, at times, involuntarily upon the white counterpane, on which the moonshine fell. They spoke not, but the gentle and low breathing assured them, that they had pined away together, and were now almost spent, and ready to go.

“Madeline, sweet Madeline,” said Mary, “Sarah will be a bride, in a month—we shall both be brides in a few hours, nay, in a few minutes. Let us be calm, for soon we meet our lovers.”

“Yes, my Mary, kiss me! We need not call for my father and Sarah. We are very happy alone. Another sigh, and all will be over. Kiss me again.”

“Yes, Madeline,” and a gentle breeze came in at the casement, and a sweet ray of the moon came to these gentler and sweeter faces—but the maidens were no more!

We may mention, that, in a few days after the siege, Cromwell left Lancaster Castle in the charge of a part of his troops. Soon, however, it was recaptured by the exertions of the gallant Earl of Derby.

R. Cocker, Printer, Market-place, Wigan.

The Publisher, when the foregoing preface was in type, and when, in the midst of active preparations to commence another volume, received a communication from the Author to the effect, that his pen was of no more service. How it has been taken away from him it can do the public no good to explain:—suffice it for the Publisher to assert that circumstances have been forced on, which are infinitely more painful than a want of ability, or material in the author; a want of encouragement from a kind and numerous public; or a want of determination on his own part to continue and extend the work.

The Author had intended, as will be seen in the preface, to write a series of historical scenes,—scenes of surpassing interest:—the Subscribers, numerous at the very first, were continually increasing, especially among the higher classes:—the Publisher was opening new agencies, receiving new congratulations, and employing new resources, when an event occured totally unexpected, which compels him, most reluctantly, to withdraw the pledge so often given, that other Legends were to issue from his press.

Wigan, May 22, 1841.