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 a I E) RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N 1 VLRSITY 
 or ' LLINOIS 
 
 v.l
 
 Digitized by the Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/brokenfontstoryo01sher
 
 THE 
 
 BROKEN FONT. 
 
 STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR. 
 
 BY THK 
 
 AUTHOR OF " TALES OF THE WARS OF OUR TIMES, 
 
 « RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PENINSULA," 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMAN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1836.
 
 LoNuo.v : 
 
 Printed by A. Sporiiswooot, 
 New- Street. Square.
 
 VC3 
 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 -i. It is impossible to read or meditate concerning 
 that period of history in which the scene and 
 action of my tale are laid without partaking of 
 the feelings of both parties in that great quarrel, 
 and " being (in an innocent sense) on both 
 sides." 
 
 In such a spirit has my story been conceived 
 and written. Until the sword was drawn, the 
 more generous and constitutional Royalists were 
 separated by but a faint line from the best and 
 most patriotic men of the Parliament party. 
 
 I have, however, confined myself more par- 
 ticularly to the contemplation of those miseries 
 and violent acts of persecution which the appeal
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 to arms brought upon many private families, 
 and especially upon those of the clergy. 
 
 In the contrivance of such a fiction, it became 
 necessary to introduce pictures of fanaticism and 
 hypocrisy, and to describe scenes of cruelty and 
 of low interested persecution ; but such parts of 
 the story must not be considered separately from 
 the rest. The general tenor of my volumes 
 will, I trust, be found in strict consistency 
 with that charity that " thinketh no evil," but 
 " hopeth all things."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Thus till man end, his vanities goe round, 
 
 In credit here, and there discredited ; 
 
 Striving to binde, and never to be bound ; 
 
 To governe God, and not bee governed : 
 Which is the cause his life is thus confused, 
 In his corruption, by these arts abused. 
 
 Lord Brooke. 
 
 It was the early afternoon of a fine open day 
 in the last w-eek of April, in the year 1640. 
 The sun shone warm ; not a breath of wind 
 was stirring the tender foliage of the tall trees, 
 or the delicate flower of the lowly harebell 
 beneath the hedge-rows. All was still, save 
 that at intervals the voice of the cuckoo was 
 heard — loud, but yet mellow — from the bo- 
 som of a neighbouring wood. The swains in 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the field lay stretched in the shade, as though 
 summer were already come: in gardens and 
 court-yards not a sound of labour or a clatter 
 of life disturbed the silence of the hour. 
 
 In a shady alcove, which looked out on the 
 bowling alley of Milverton House, sate the 
 worthy old master of the mansion, with one leg 
 crossed over the other, a book upon his knee, 
 and a kindly smile playing across his manly 
 features. Not far distant, upon the steps which 
 led up to the near end of a stately terrace, was 
 seated a fair little girl, about six years of age. 
 A thick laurel protected her with its shadow ; 
 and it might be seen by the paper in her hand, 
 by the motion of her lips, and by the sway of 
 her little head and neck, that she was commit- 
 ting some task to memory, with that pleasure 
 that makes a pastime even out of a lesson. 
 Out on the smooth green an old flap-mouthed 
 hound, whose hunting days were long past, lay 
 basking in the sun, among the dispersed bowls, 
 which the last players had idly neglected to put 
 away ; and with them a boy's bow and arrow 
 had been left, or forgotten, on the ground.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 3 
 
 The child's murmur was lower than the soft 
 coo from the dove-cote, or the gentle music of 
 the fountain ; and there was a hush of quiet 
 about all these whispers of created life that was 
 in harmony with the general silence. 
 
 The shadow of the dial had crept on nearly 
 half an hour before this repose was broken. 
 It was so at last, by a hot boy of fourteen, with 
 vest unbuttoned, and without a hat, who came 
 to seek his bow and arrow. The glad cry of 
 " I have found them ! " dispelled the silence : 
 the little girl thrust her paper into her bosom^ 
 and jumped up at the sound of the welcome 
 voice ; and the old man looked up, and, put- 
 ting his book down on the seat beside him, 
 scolded the noble boy for having left the bowls 
 out to be scorched and injured by the sun. 
 
 With no abatement of good humour, the 
 cheerful boy, eagerly helped by the little girl, 
 gathered them up, and carried them into the 
 bowl-house. The old hound was too much 
 accustomed to the thing even to stir for it, 
 though one of the bowls almost touched his 
 nose. 
 
 B 2
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 This duty done, the boy, upon whose mind 
 one thing lay uppermost, with that abruptness 
 which belongs to nature and to boyhood, pro- 
 pounded to his great-uncle, Sir Oliver Hey- 
 wood, the following most startling question : — 
 
 " Was it not, sir, a very wicked thing to cut 
 off Mr. Prynne'sears?" 
 
 Had it suddenly thundered the old knight 
 could not have been more surprised; and, if 
 a wasp had stung him in a tender place, he 
 could not have been less pleased. 
 
 " Master Prynne ! what do you know about 
 Master Prynne, you foolish boy?" 
 
 " O, I know — I know very well ! they cut off 
 his ears because he didn't like plays; and that 
 was very cruel ! What a shame it would be to cut 
 off the ears of old Josh. Cross, that takes care 
 of your hawks, because he didn't like to hear 
 Stephen play upon the fiddle ! " 
 
 " Why, Arthur, what has come to you, boy? 
 who has been teaching you this nonsense ? If 
 Master Prynne had lost his head, instead of his 
 ears, it would be no more than he deserved, 
 and I hope he may live to own it."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. O 
 
 At this rebuke the boy coloured, and hung 
 his head; but added, as if pleading for his 
 fault, — 
 
 " It was Master Noble said so ; and you 
 know, sir, you have told us all to mind what he 
 says, for he is always in the right." 
 
 Sir Oliver bade him hastily go play; and 
 the boy, taking his little niece by the hand, 
 they ran out of the bowling-green at one angle, 
 while the good old knight, not a little discom- 
 posed by the incident, ascended slowly to the 
 terrace. Here he found old Philip, the keeper 
 of the buttery, seated at the far end, in the 
 shade, in the calm enjoyment of a pipe. In- 
 stead of the wonted word of pleasant greeting. 
 Sir Oliver told him, in a rough tone, to go and 
 seek instantly for Master Noble, and send him 
 thither. 
 
 While the kind old serving man went away 
 with his message in no comfortable mood — 
 for the young tutor was as great a favourite in 
 kitchen as in hall — the old gentleman paced 
 the terrace with a leisurely and thoughtful step ; 
 and made frequent stops and soliloquies on the 
 B 3
 
 6 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 strange and unexpected words and sentiments 
 which he had just heard from the lips of his 
 open and artless boy. While thus engaged, we 
 will leave him for a few moments to place before 
 our reader the state of the family at the time of 
 which we write. 
 
 At the village of Milverton, in Warwick- 
 shire, upon a sweet spot above the valley of the 
 Avon, Sir Oliver Heywood, the descendant of 
 a successful and honoured merchant, occupied 
 a fair and pleasant mansion erected in the reign 
 of Elizabeth by his wealthy father. 
 
 The family at Milverton House consisted of 
 the worthy knight, a maiden sister, his daughter 
 — an only child — and a boy who v.as the son of 
 a favourite nephew slain in the German wars, 
 in which he had been led to engage as a diver- 
 sion of his grief on the loss of a beloved wife. 
 
 In addition to these regular members of the 
 family there was a little orphan girl, whom his 
 benevolent sister had adopted. This sister. 
 Mistress Alice, was two years the junior of Sir 
 Oliver, and had attained the age of sixty-one. 
 She had taken up her abode with him at the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 7 
 
 death of Lady Heywood, about four years be- 
 fore the period of which we now speak. 
 
 Katharine, his daughter, was in her twentieth 
 year, and his nephew's son was about fourteen 
 years of age. 
 
 Master Noble, of whom mention has been 
 made, was tutor to the boy Arthur, and re- 
 sided with the family. 
 
 This young scholar was the son of an old 
 school-fellow and friend of Sir Oliver's, who 
 held the benefice of Cheddar, in Somersetshire. 
 Cuthbert Noble, like his father before him, had 
 been educated at William of Wykeham's school 
 of Winchester ; but not succeeding so far as to 
 obtain a fellowship at New College, Oxford, 
 which is the usual aim and reward of the scho- 
 lars upon the Winchester foundation, he had 
 proceeded to Cambridge, and there graduated 
 with good report. He had been now six months 
 at Milverton. 
 
 Sir Oliver's birthday was ever a high festival 
 at the manor-house. This year it was the plea- 
 sure of his daughter to celebrate it by a masque; 
 and all the arrangements for this masque were 
 B 4
 
 8 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 referred by Mistress Katharine to Cuthbert 
 Noble. He cheerfully undertook them; and 
 having gained some experience in these matters 
 at college, and having some skill in painting, 
 set himself to prepare scenes — then a very 
 recent invention. As, with a painting brush in 
 his hand, he was standing before a scene, nearly 
 finished, and dashing in the white and foamy 
 water upon canvass, that was fast changing 
 into a torrent, falling from rocks, and rushing 
 through a lonely glen, — and as he stood back 
 surveying the effect, and humming the fragment 
 of a song, Philip came slowly up the gallery, 
 and said gravely, — 
 
 " Master Cuthbert, Sir Oliver wants to speak 
 with you directly." 
 
 " Where is he?" 
 
 " In the garden, on the lower terrace; and I 
 wish he was looking more pleasant : — it 's my 
 thought, Master, there 's something wrong ; for 
 it is not a small matter that can vex him." 
 
 Cuthbert put down his brush and palette, 
 and proceeded slowly towards the terrace. As 
 he was descending the wide steps which led to
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 9 
 
 it, he could not but observe that the good knight 
 was serious, if not angry. 
 
 " Master Cuthbert," said Sir Oliver with an 
 air of gravity and displeasure, " I have sent for 
 you to hear from your own lips some little ex- 
 planation or defence of a matter that hath 
 come to my knowledge by the accident of a 
 child's artless utterance. It may be that it was 
 only a word lightly dropped by you — a passing 
 levity — a lapsus of the tongue, not of the 
 judgment — such an indiscretion as I may pass 
 over in one of your unripe age and little expe- 
 rience, without further correction than a faith- 
 ful reproof, and a timely warning of the danger 
 of such vain observations, and of their unsuit- 
 ableness and impropriety in one who fills so im- 
 portant an office in my family, and hath so far 
 enjoyed my confidence as to have doubtless a 
 great influence for evil or for good." 
 
 This long preface Sir Oliver delivered, 
 pacing slowly on the terrace with his eyes bent 
 upon the ground. Cuthbert walked by his side, 
 anxious for the direct charge, now too plainly 
 whispered from within by his own swift thoughts. 
 B 5
 
 10 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Sir Oliver paused, and, looking full and 
 steadily upon the serious countenance of the 
 youthful tutor, demanded of him whether it 
 were true that he had said publicly before any 
 of his family or household, that it was a barba- 
 rous and cruel thing to cut off Master Prynne's 
 ears? 
 
 "I certainly so expressed myself," was the 
 calm answer of Cuthbert. 
 
 " Where and to whom did you thus speak ?" 
 
 " It was in the library — the lady Alice was 
 present, and Master Arthur was there at his 
 lesson." 
 
 " And are these the lessons that you teach in 
 my house and to my children ? — know you, 
 sir, that Master Prynne is a traitor — that he 
 speaketh evil of dignities, and soweth disloyalty 
 — that he is a hypocrite and a fanatic ? " 
 
 " Sir Oliver," said Cuthbert, " there was no 
 discourse upon this matter, save only the one 
 remark of which you question me: — this fell 
 from my heart when your good sister read out 
 some news of him — and thereupon the lady Alice 
 went forth without a word ; for I presume not
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 11 
 
 to intrude my poor thoughts of court affairs 
 upon any one in this house. I know my place 
 better. " 
 
 " Life of me ! Thou dost not confess thy 
 fault — thou dost not say thy psenitet for teach- 
 ing this false lesson to my child !" 
 
 " I would not be slow to speak out my sorrow 
 and shame if I felt them, but I am conscience- 
 whole in this thing, — and my few words did give 
 no other lesson than one of plain humanity." 
 
 " Master Cuthbert, I do believe thee a true 
 and gentle youth, of best intentions, and thou 
 comest of a good stock. Thy father is my good 
 friend from the gladsome days when we were 
 school- fellows together at St. Mary, Winton; and 
 where hath church or state a better parson or 
 better subject than he ? therefore, I would for 
 his sake, as for thine own, entreat thee mildly. 
 Youth is warm and tender, and wanting a far 
 sight to the great end of punishment — the axe 
 might rust and the scourge gather cobwebs 
 before hearts like thine would give rogues their 
 due." 
 
 " I am of sterner stuff, Sir Oliver, than to 
 B 6
 
 12 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 wish a rogue safe from the beadle, or a traitor 
 from the headsman ; but I am not so taught as 
 to think the mistakes of a severe piety treasons 
 deserving of torture." 
 
 " Odd's life ! I see how it is — thou art bitten 
 by these gloomy fanatics — the venom is in thy 
 veins : — well for me that I have seen its first 
 workings. By my fathers ! these new papists, 
 these worse Carthusians, would drive sunshine 
 from the earth, and kill the flowers, and stop 
 the singing of birds, and give us a world of 
 rock and clouds — hard as their stony hearts, 
 and gloomy as their cold minds ! Master 
 Cuthbert, we must part. I'll not have the 
 path of my boy shadowed over before it be 
 God's will. The earth is green and goodly, 
 and pleasant to the eyes; and long may his 
 heart rejoice in it, as mine has before him. 
 Look you, we must part. " 
 
 " At your pleasure I came. Sir Oliver, and 
 I am ready, at your pleasure, to return to my 
 father's. My stay with you has been short, and 
 I would fain hope that I have not failed in my 
 duty to you. May you be more fortunate in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 13 
 
 your choice of a tutor for Master Arthur than 
 you have been in me ! " 
 
 Cuthbert spoke these words with so much 
 self-command that not one syllable trembled in 
 the utterance ; yet the tone was at once mourn- 
 ful and resolved. 
 
 The better feelings of Sir Oliver were 
 touched : the expression of his eye showed 
 plainly that he was repenting of his hastiness, 
 relenting in his decision. What his reply might 
 have been, may, in its spirit, be easily imagined; 
 but a sudden interruption checked the words 
 that were rising to his lips ; and a sounder and 
 more prudential reason for desiring the de- 
 parture of Cuthbert was presented to his judg- 
 ment than any objection which could have been 
 urged at that time, with any semblance of fair- 
 ness, against his errors as a churchman, or his 
 sins as a subject. 
 
 " Master Noble," called a rich clear voice 
 from above them, — " Master Noble, we poor 
 players do wait your pleasure, and are ready 
 with our parts ; but we cannot go on with our 
 rehearsal till the manager doth come to us."
 
 14 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Looking up, Sir Oliver saw his daughter lean- 
 ing over the balustrade, with a paper in one 
 hand, and a tall wand wreathed with flowers in 
 the other; and, as he turned his eyes upon 
 Cuthbert Noble, the strong emotions with which 
 Cuthbert was evidently struggling did not 
 escape his observation. 
 
 " I have business with him just now, Kate," 
 said her father : " go thy way. He shall come to 
 thee in the hall anon." But as he spoke, the 
 boy Arthur came down the steps, leading in his 
 hand the little girl ; and, running up to Cuth- 
 bert with joyous eagerness, cried out, " Kitten 
 can do her part — she can say every w^ord quite 
 perfect — you must hear her. " With that, the 
 little girl letting go his hand, and putting back 
 her sunny curls, which had fallen over her 
 blue eyes, repeated, with an air of sweet in- 
 telligence and pretty innocence, these lines : — 
 
 ** I do childhood represent, 
 Listen to my argument : 
 Mine the magic power to bring 
 Pleasure out of every thing ;
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 15 
 
 Sunbeams, flowers, and summer air, 
 Music, wonders, visions fair, 
 All my happy steps attend ; 
 Mine is peace without an end ; — 
 All things are at peace with me. 
 Beast in field, and bird on tree ; 
 The sheep that lie upon the grass 
 Never stir as I do pass ; 
 If by the singing bird I stray. 
 He never quits his chosen spray ; 
 If to the squirrel's haunt I go. 
 He comes with curious eye below ; 
 Earth and I are full of love, 
 I fear no harm from Heav'n above. 
 For there, as here, all things do tell 
 A Father God doth surely dwell : — 
 O ! could I be a child alway, 
 How happy were life's holyday ! " 
 
 The countenance of Sir Oliver recovered all 
 its wonted expression of good humour, as the 
 child prettily recited these lines; and patting her 
 on the head, as she concluded, he turned to 
 Cuthbert and said, in his usual kind tone, " We 
 will talk our matter over another time : I see 
 that you are no joy-killer, and would never mar 
 an innocent pleasure-making — I was ever fond 
 of a good play — a pox on these prick-eared 
 knaves that would forbid them !
 
 16 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " « Why kings and emperors have taen delight 
 To make experience of their wits in plays,' 
 
 as Master Kyd hath it, in his Spanish tragedy." 
 
 Cuthbert said nothing ; but having a recol- 
 lection of the passage from which Sir Oliver had 
 quoted, thought he might have found a more com- 
 fortable sanction and a much better authority. 
 
 " But, prithee," continued Sir Oliver, " whose 
 rhymes be these that the child has just spoken?" 
 
 " They are my poor doggerel," answered Cuth- 
 bert; "for this dear child would give me no 
 rest till I made a part for her in the Birthday 
 Masque." 
 
 " Marry," rejoined the knight, " the fancy of 
 them pleaseth me, and for the verse I care not." 
 
 They all now turned to ascend the steps ; and 
 as they did so, apparent at the same instant to 
 both Sir Oliver and Cuthbert was Mistress 
 Katharine, leaning over the balustrade of the 
 upper terrace, with an air of grave and perplexed 
 curiosity. 
 
 As soon as they reached the top, which was 
 level with the lawn in front of the mansion, 
 Katharine caught Kitten in her arms, kissed
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 17 
 
 her fair brow, and ran with her towards the 
 house; the happy child calling out the while, 
 " Come along. Master Noble, pray, come," and 
 at the same time clapping together her two 
 little hands at thought of the coming pleasure.
 
 18 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAP. 11. 
 
 " White, I dare not say good, witches (for woe be to him 
 that calleth evil good!) heal those that are hurt, and help them 
 to lost goods. 
 
 " Methinks she should bewitch to herself a golden mine, at 
 least good meat, and whole clothes." 
 
 Fuller's Profane State. 
 
 While a select few among the maidens and 
 the serving men, who were, to their great con- 
 tentment, to figure beneath strange dresses and 
 uncouth vizards in the antimasque, and while 
 some neighbouring gentles of quality, who were 
 to take part in the masque itself, were rehears- 
 ing in the hall, old Philip, the butler, betook 
 himself to the outer gate, and there sitting down 
 on the porter's stone, replenished his pipe, and 
 fell a-thinking about Sir Oliver and Master 
 Noble. But the more he thought, the more he 
 was puzzled; and so he opened his vest to 
 catch the breeze from the valley, and smoked
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. W 
 
 with half-closed eyes, too much accustomed to 
 the glorious scene before him to be always 
 moved by its beauties. Below him, in the rich 
 bottom of the vale, flowed the shining Avon. 
 The white foam of the water at Guy's mill 
 might be seen, and the rush of it might be almost 
 heard. 
 
 The cliff of the renowned Guy presented a 
 fine scarp of stone, the summit of which was 
 overhung with knotted and rude shrubs of a fan- 
 tastic growth; and far away to the left, at a 
 distance of two miles, might be seen the lordly 
 towers, and the tall and ivied wall of Warwick 
 Castle. Such were the objects, which might, 
 we say, have been discerned from the spot where 
 old Philip sate, together with broad and plea- 
 sant meadows, well stocked with kine and sheep, 
 and many goodly trees of a stately size, and 
 many a distant coppice of rich underwood. 
 Doubtless the old man had often felt the glad 
 influence of that scene, — but now, overcome 
 with heat, tobacco, and the labour of perplexed 
 guesses about the grave mood of his master, 
 he fell fast asleep. Philip was one of those good
 
 20 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 faithful old creatures whose world was his mas- 
 ter's, and whose greatest sin was the love of 
 victual. This sin was duly punished by black 
 dreams ; and now, as he lay snoring against the 
 wall, his indulgence over a rich mutton pie at 
 dinner was visited with the terrors of one of 
 those nightmare visions with which he was de- 
 servedly familiar. He dreamed that it was the 
 statute fair, and that they were roasting an ox 
 whole in the market-place of Warwick. The 
 frontlet of the poor beast was gaily gilded, and 
 the horns were painted blue, and gilt at the 
 tips. The mighty spit turned slowly round. 
 On one side stood a fat cook basting the brown 
 loins that the beast might not burn, and on 
 the other a stout and expert carver occa- 
 sionally stopped the rude spit, and with a long 
 broad knife detached savoury portions for the 
 greedy by-standers, who, on receiving the same, 
 dropped their penny of thanks into the cap of the 
 carver, and, slipping out of the crowd, made 
 way for others. Dreams are to the dreamer 
 realities. Philip's mouth watered : he thought 
 he had never before seen beef so delicious; fat and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 21 
 
 lean in their exact proportions ; the meat of the 
 finest grain, juicy, and full of gravy; but then 
 his suit, his badge, his pride of place, forbade 
 his wishes: partake of the dainty he could 
 not, but he might go near, just out of curiosity, 
 and for mere amusement. Lo and behold ! 
 with an angry bellow forth leaped the furious 
 beast, his eyes all fire, the spit point issuing 
 from his foaming mouth, his carcass smoking 
 and dripping, and half the sirloins cut away. He 
 singled old Philip from the crowd; he lowered 
 his blue and gilded horns ; he shook the spit 
 between his grinning teeth ; and as he made his 
 rush, old Philip died a thousand deaths in one, 
 and woke into another world, — that other he 
 had so shortly quitted. Nor was the object on 
 which his waking eyes first rested exactly cal- 
 culated to compose his terrors. A crowd of 
 noisy clowns was standing round him; and in 
 the midst of them, upon a hurdle, they bore an 
 old withered and bony woman, crooked and 
 blear-eyed, who was counted the witch of that 
 neighbourhood, and well known by the name 
 of yellow Margery of the Sand Pit.
 
 22 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 They set down the hurdle close at Philip's 
 feet, and called loudly for justice and Sir Oliver. 
 « Hag !"— "Crone !" — " Beldame!"— "To the 
 faggot!" — "To the river," — "Justice in the 
 King's name I" — were the various cries by which 
 the impatient rustics fi'ighted all the household of 
 Milverton from their propriety and their plea- 
 sures, and brought most of them forth to the 
 gate, and the rest to the hall steps, or the case- 
 ments. Sir Oliver himself came forth, among the 
 first, loudly rating them. " Why, how now, ye 
 rude varlets ; is Milverton a pot-house, and the 
 seat of justice an ale bench ? Speak — what would 
 you? — speak, you, Morton, — you should know 
 better than to head a rabble rout of this fashion." 
 
 " Why then, troth. Sir Oliver, as thou art a 
 worshipful knight, and a king's justice, not man, 
 woman, nor child in the whole parish can sup 
 their porridge in peace or sleep o' nights for this 
 old w^itch Margery: we've crown witness enough 
 to hang, drown, and burn her twenty times over." 
 
 " Not so fast, not so fast, neighbour," said Sir 
 Oliver, seating himself on the stone from which 
 old Philip had retired melting with fear.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 23 
 
 " Where are the witnesses, and what have they 
 to say? Let them stand forth." 
 
 "First, here's Master Crumble, the clerk; 
 then, afore him, here's Master Screw, the great 
 witch-finder from Coventry ; and here 's Jock, 
 my carter; and old Blow, the blacksmith, and 
 Pollard, your worship's woodman." 
 
 " Stop, stop, I can't hear all at once, — say 
 thy say, Crumble." 
 
 " Why, your worship, my sow — your worship, 
 my sow is dead: all of a sudden, this blessed 
 morn, as I poured out her wash, down she lay 
 all in the shivers ; and if the poor dumb creature 
 had been her own flesh and blood, my old 
 woman could not ha' taken on more. Says I, 
 directly, ' This is a bit of Margery's work ; for 
 I see her brush the old sow with her black 
 petticoat at the lane end, Sunday was a week.' 
 It's quite a plain case you see, Sir Oliver." 
 
 " Stand back, you silly man." 
 
 " Silly, forsooth. I am thirty-seven year clerk 
 of the parish, come next Lammas, and I say it's 
 writ on the Bible, « Thou shalt not suffer a witch 
 to live."
 
 24 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " That is true enough — it is so ; but how do 
 you know a witch ?" 
 
 " Why, I know that a man's not a witch." 
 
 " That is true, thou art a man and no witch. 
 But how dost thou know one ? " 
 
 " Why, it is an old woman, not to say any 
 one, but a crook back, with a hooked nose, and 
 a peaked chin like Margery." 
 
 " Master Crumble, I have done with thee, 
 and in the matter of thy sow's death do acquit 
 Margery." 
 
 " That's not crown law, nor Gospel charity," 
 said the old clerk, as he stepped back into the 
 crowd, who muttered and whispered among each 
 other till the next witness spoke out. This was 
 the witch-finder. 
 
 " Please your worship, I am ready to make 
 oath that she hath a familiar, always about her in 
 the shape of a brown mouse ; for I have seen it 
 crawling about her neck, and playing and feed- 
 ing in her hand." 
 
 Here there was a mixed utterance of triumph 
 and horror in the crowd, and Sir Oliver himself 
 looked grave.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 25 
 
 "What dost thou answer to this, Margery?" 
 
 " They say true in that they say I have a tame 
 mouse ; and haven't court ladies their monkeys, 
 and their parrots, and their squirrels, and their 
 white mice, — and why mayn't an old lone woman 
 have her pet as well as they ? " As thus she spoke, 
 she held out her open hand, and a lively brown 
 mouse sat up quietly on the palm seemingly 
 quite tame. There was a slight shudder ran 
 through the veins of all present; and Cuthbert 
 Noble, fearing lest this mode of defence might 
 rather hinder than help her, went up to advise 
 her better. 
 
 " A warm blessing on you. Master Noble, — 
 the blessing of one whom you have saved be- 
 fore, and are trying to save again." 
 
 Here Cuthbert stopped her, and observed to 
 Sir Oliver aloud, that this mouse was but such 
 a pet as a shepherd's boy might play with, and 
 that the old woman, whose ways were odd, had 
 once told him that when she was a child and 
 her little brother died, she had taken to a 
 field mouse which he had petted, and that she 
 had ever since as one died procured another. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The worthy knight was now^ for discharging 
 Margery; but Farmer Morton insisted that they 
 should hear his carter's story. Accordingly Jock 
 stepped forward, and smoothing down his hair 
 said, — " Please your worship, I lost my best 
 startups (high shoes) the day before last cattle 
 fair, and precious mad I was ; and Sukey Sly 
 told me if I went to old Margery, and took her 
 a wheaten loaf, and crossed her palm with a 
 silver penny, she'd tell me where to find 'em. 
 Well, I went, and the old woman said she didn't 
 want to have aught to say to me. ' Look ye,' 
 says 1, 'Margery, here I be, here's the bread and 
 here's the money: I ha' lost my startups, and 
 you must tell me where to find them ; and I 
 wo'n't budge till you do.' So with that she puts 
 her mouse down against the loaf, and finely he 
 nibbled away, and she set of a brown stud for a 
 bit, and then told me to wait for the first full 
 moon, and then, exactly at midnight, to walk 
 backwards from the yard gate to the dung 
 mixen, with my eyes fixed on the moon, and 
 that I should find them on the mixen ; but if 
 it were before or after twelve o'clock, and if I 
 looked behind me, or took my eyes off the moon,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 27 
 
 the charm would be broke, and I should never 
 see my startups again ; and sure enough I never 
 have seen 'em." 
 
 There was a little titter among the women ; 
 and Sukey Sly, whose legs were set off in a pair 
 of new red stockings, could not suppress a laugh 
 at Jock's story : but the clowns called out for 
 justice, and Sir Oliver had much ado to pacify 
 them. He did so at last, by assuring the old 
 woman, that, on condition she told what was the 
 great charm by which she was said to cure 
 diseases, she should be set free. 
 
 " Cure diseases ! God bless you. Master ! 
 why I 'm a poor helpless old body, that can't 
 cure myself, and should starve but for pity," 
 said Margery. " However, may be, once or 
 so in a quarter there comes some wilful body 
 like Jock, with a tied-up face, and makes a 
 witch of me, whether or no, and will have the 
 charm. Then I take his loaf and his money, 
 and I say, — 
 
 " ' My loaf in my lap, 
 
 My penny in my purse ; 
 Thou art never the better ; 
 I 'm never the worse.' " 
 
 c 2
 
 28 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 This confession was followed by laughter, in 
 which most joined; and, except the clerk of the 
 parish and the balked witch-finder, all dispersed 
 in such good humour, that the poor old crone 
 was released from her hurdle and her trouble- 
 some attendants, and, with a basket of broken 
 meat and a bottle of ale, was suffered to hobble 
 back to her hovel in the sand pit, without let or 
 hinderance. It is true that Margery was most 
 justly liable to the charge of imposture in the 
 matter of Jock ; and certain that, but for the 
 easy and kind temper of the knight, and the 
 good humour which her own quaint and jocular 
 confession suddenly struck out of the wayward 
 crowd, she might have been committed by 
 Sir Oliver, or half drowned by the brutal and 
 superstitious rustics on her road back to her 
 miserable hovel. But as she lived at a lone 
 spot on the far side of the Avon, and was not 
 often seen in the parish of Milverton, and as 
 the good knight (though by no means free from 
 the prevalent belief in witchcraft, and still 
 doubting whether under the form of a mouse 
 she was not attended by an imp, as the witch-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 29 
 
 finder had averred,) was a timid magistrate, 
 hated trouble, and sincerely feared doing what 
 was either wrong in law or severe in punish- 
 ment, he rejoiced to be well quit of the trouble- 
 some appeal. Nevertheless, he was not a little 
 secretly disturbed, when, late in the evening, 
 old Philip — in a fear which had not even yielded 
 to the comforting warmth of a cup of spiced ale 
 — related to him his comical dream, with mani- 
 fold exaggerations, and expressed his stout be- 
 lief that he had been possessed during his sleep 
 by the evil influence of old Margery. 
 
 Truth to say, at the period of which we write 
 such was the fear and hatred of those forlorn 
 and miserable old women, whose unsightly fea- 
 tures, infirm gait, and cross tempers, excited 
 among their neighbours any suspicion that they 
 held intercourse with evil spirits, and exercised 
 the powers of witchcraft, as drove forth the un- 
 happy beings to lonely abodes in solitary places. 
 Here again, in the vicinity of some villlage, 
 remote from the scene of their persecution, 
 their very loneliness, all compelled and op- 
 pressive as it was, did most naturally subject 
 c 3
 
 30 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 them anew to the suspicions of fresh oppressors. 
 So bloody, too, were the laws which at that 
 time disgraced the statute book, having for 
 their end the punishment of witchcraft, so cruel 
 were the modes of trial among the mean and 
 malignant persons who drove a lucrative trade 
 as witch-finders, and so credulous was the ig- 
 norant and easily abused multitude, that, upon 
 evidence far less colourable with guilt than that 
 adduced against Margery, unfortunate persons 
 of both sexes were publicly executed without 
 shame and without pity. In numberless in- 
 stances false confessions were extorted from the 
 hopeless sufferers by torture, and adduced upon 
 the day of trial, or proclaimed at the place of 
 execution. Thus a rooted persuasion of the 
 existence of sorcery and the practices of witch- 
 craft was fixed in the minds of the vulgar, 
 and even infected those of the better and 
 the educated classes. As a natural conse- 
 quence of this terrible superstition, some of the 
 poor creatures suspected of witchcraft, who 
 found themselves thrust out of the pale of hu- 
 man sympathy — avoided and shunned by some,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 31 
 
 beaten and set upon by others — did madden, 
 and mumble curses in their gloomy solitude, 
 and at last began to suspect themselves as the 
 servants of unseen spirits, and the partakers of 
 a supernatural power. 
 
 In the breast of Cuthbert Noble the vulgar 
 and cruel prejudice concerning witchcraft had 
 no place. His humane and enlightened father 
 had very early instilled into his mind clear no- 
 tions of the love and care of the great Father of 
 the human families; of the sacredness of human 
 life, indeed of all life, and of the holiness of 
 creation;— and he had, moreover, taught him to 
 regard all particular cases of severe and inex- 
 plicable suffering as parts only of one vast and 
 mysterious whole, and subserving, in the great 
 end and issue, some wise, holy, wonderful pur- 
 pose of divine and universal love. He had 
 taught him, too, that ours was a marred and 
 fallen nature ; and how and by what means, 
 and in whose divine person, it actually was 
 restored ; and how all the sons of Adam had 
 become capable, through divine mercy, of par- 
 taking all the benefits of that restoration of 
 c 4
 
 32 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 man's nature — in some degree even in this 
 troubled and probationary state — in full and 
 satisfying perfection in that state which is future 
 and eternal. Hence, to the eye of Cuthbert, 
 every one of human form was an object, though 
 not perhaps of personal interest and affection, 
 yet of wonder and of reverence, as a creature of 
 God, born for immortality — an imperishable, 
 an indestructible being ; and, when the crimes 
 and errors of his fellow-creatures stirred up his 
 angry passions to punish and withstand them, 
 the sense of his own weakness and his own sin- 
 fulness was ever waiting for him in his heart's 
 closet, to rebuke and humble him in the calm- 
 ness of solitude. But Cuthbert as yet had been 
 little tried ; he knew not what spirit he was of. 
 He thought that his placid and firm father was 
 the model which he surely followed ; but the 
 settled and peaceful joy of that amiable and 
 benevolent and subdued father was as yet un- 
 known to him. 
 
 However, the character and the life of Parson 
 Noble will be the better understood and con 
 ceived of by transporting our reader to the vil-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 33 
 
 lage in Somersetshire where he dwelt, and 
 where, had it been her good fortune to have 
 been a parishioner of his, old Margery, in spite 
 of her wild and withered aspect, might have 
 lived unmolested and in peace with her neigh- 
 bours, and would not have lacked such acquaint- 
 ance with the mercy of the great Redeemer, as 
 it is in the power of a mere human instrument 
 to impart. 
 
 c 5
 
 34 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 A branch of May we have brought you, 
 And at your door it stands ; 
 It is but a sprout, 
 But it 's well budded out. 
 By the work of our Lord's hands. 
 
 The hedges and trees they are so green. 
 
 As green as any leek ; 
 Our heavenly Father he watereth them, 
 
 With his heavenly dew so sweet. 
 
 From the Mayer's Song. 
 
 The morning star glittered brightly above the 
 fine old tower of Cheddar church, and the low 
 parsonage lay still and asleep amid the flowers 
 and the dewy grass plots of its pleasant gar- 
 den, as advancing, from beneath the ancient 
 yew in the churchyard, to the wicket opposite 
 the good vicar's porch, a party of hale young 
 rustics with coloured ribands in their hats and 
 on their loose white sleeves, planted, on either 
 side the entrance, a fine branch of white thorn
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 35 
 
 in full blossom, and struck up, with full and 
 cheerful voices, the very ancient medley from 
 which the stanzas at the head of our present 
 chapter are taken. They had not sung two 
 verses before the door of the parsonage was 
 opened by a merry looking old serving man — 
 two lasses' heads were thrust from a window 
 over the kitchen — the mistress's good hu- 
 moured eyes were seen over a white chamber 
 blind, — and the parson himself, with a face as 
 expressive of joy as a child's, though marked 
 with the furrows of seven-and-sixty years, came 
 forth to the wicket in a loose morning gown, 
 with a black scull- cap on his silvery hairs, and 
 listened, with a motion of the lips, that showed 
 his voice, though not audible, and his kind 
 heart were attuned to theirs, and to the coming 
 holyday. When their song was done, he dis- 
 missed them with his blessing, with the cus- 
 tomary gift of silver, and with a caution to 
 keep their festival with gladness and innocence, 
 and with the love of brothers ; letting the 
 poor and aged fare the better for it. 
 
 "And let us have no brawls on the ale bench," 
 c 6
 
 36 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 said the old parson, — " let our May-pole be 
 the rod of peace ; so that none may rail at our 
 sports and dances, but rather take note of us as 
 merry folk and honest neighbours." 
 
 With loud thanks, and lively promises, and 
 rude invocations of Heaven's best gifts on him, 
 and his lady, and his absent sons, the party 
 now faced about, and with the accompaniment 
 of pipe and tabor, and a couple of fiddles, 
 moved off at a dancing pace to pay the like 
 honours at the door of the chief franklin, and 
 to deck the village street as they passed along. 
 
 Parson Noble now passed round to his fa- 
 vourite terrace walk, that overlooked a rich and 
 extensive level, and taking up his lute, which lay 
 in a little alcove at one end of it, he breathed 
 out his morning hymn of thanksgiving, as was 
 his wont, and thus composed, went into his 
 study, and secluded himself for an hour from 
 all interruption. At the close he again came 
 into his garden, where he commonly laboured 
 both for pleasure and health, every day of his 
 life, in company with the attached old servant, 
 who, for his quaint words and ways, had been
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 37 
 
 long known to the village by the name of 
 plain Peter, — an epithet, which, as it gave 
 him credit for blunt honesty, as well as for 
 a cast in his eye, he readily pardoned, — nay, 
 some said he was proud of it ; — for what man- 
 ner of man is it that hath not a pride in some- 
 thing ? 
 
 " Master," said Peter, putting down his rake 
 as the parson came up the walk, " I have won a 
 silver groat on your words this day." 
 
 " How so ? what dost thou mean, Peter ? " 
 
 " Why, last market day, when I was in the 
 kitchen at the old Pack Horse at Axbridge, 
 that vinegar-faced old hypocrite. Master Pynche, 
 the staymaker, comes in, and asks me to bring 
 out Betsy Blount's new stays. 
 
 " Says I,' That I'll do for Betsy's sake, — a lass 
 that hasn't her better for a good heart, or a 
 pretty face, in all Somersetshire.' 
 
 " ' Verily, Master Peter, I think,' said he, ' thy 
 speech might have more respect to me, and 
 more decency to the damsel, but thou savourest 
 not of the things that be from above : — thou 
 art of the earth, earthy.'
 
 38 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " ' Why, for the matter of things above,' said 
 I, ' Master Pynche, I don't pretend to any 
 skill in moonshine ; and as to being of the earth, 
 that I don't deny, and thirsty earth too ; with 
 that I put to my lips the cup of ale that I had 
 in hand, and drank it down.' 
 
 " ' Is it not written,' he replied in a snuffling 
 tone, ' that favour is deceitful, and beauty is 
 vain? — but thou art a servant of Beelzebub, 
 and thou speakest the words of thy master, and 
 his works wilt thou do.' 
 
 " ' In the name of plain Peter,' I added, 
 ' herewith I proclaim you Prince of Fools, and 
 I will send you a coloured coat, and a hood 
 and bells, and thou shalt have a bauble, and a 
 bladder of pease, and a licence to preach next 
 April.' 
 
 " With that he lifted up his eyes and hands, 
 and muttering something about pearls and 
 swine, glided off like a ghost at cock crow." 
 
 " Peter," interrupted Noble, " thou shouldst 
 not have said such things." 
 
 " Marry, did he not call me a servant of 
 Beelzebub ? the peevish old puritan ! — Well,
 
 THE BROKEN lONT. 39 
 
 but to go on with my story. The folk in Dame 
 Wattle's kitchen fell a discoursing after Pynche 
 was gone ; and some spake up after a fashion 
 that made my hair stand up. Says a sturdy 
 pedlar in the corner, — ' Ay, they '11 soon be 
 uppermost, and the sooner the better ; rot 'em, 
 I don't like 'em, the godly rogues ; but they are 
 better than parsons, any way.' 
 
 " So with that I felt my blood come up, and 
 1 was going to speak, when old Hardy, the 
 cobbler, took up his words, and says he, ' That 's 
 true of some, and it's true of our old Tosspot ; 
 but there 's Peter's master, of Cheddar, — you 
 may search the country far and near before you 
 will find his like. I remember when my niece 
 Sally lay dying, night and day, fair weather 
 and foul, he would trudge through mire or 
 snow to give her medicine for body as well as 
 soul, and that 's what I call a good parson." 
 
 " ' A good puritan,' said Dame Wattle. ' I 
 have heard of his sayings and doings, and trust 
 me, he '11 go with your parliament men, your 
 down-church men: you '11 never have any more 
 May-games and Christmas gambols at Cheddar.'
 
 40 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " * There you 're out. Dame,' said I, * and 
 don't know any more about Master Noble than 
 a child unborn.' 
 
 " ' A silver crown to a silver groat he '11 give 
 a long preachment against the May-pole next 
 May-morning.' 
 
 " * Done with you. Dame,' said I. 
 
 " ' You may lay a golden angel to a penny 
 there will be no May-poles at all, if you make 
 it May twelvemonth,' said the pedlar, 'without, 
 indeed, there be such as have pikes at the end 
 of them ; ' and with that he pulled out a printed 
 paper, that he brought from London, and read 
 out a long matter about the king and the 
 bishops, and about church organs, and tithes, 
 and play actors, and ship money, and Master 
 Hampden; and made out, as plain as a pike 
 staff, that there would be many a good buff coat 
 and iron head piece taken down from the wall 
 before long. ' We shall have a civil war soon, 
 and God defend the right,' said he, as he folded 
 up the paper and took up his pack. 
 
 " Civil," thought I, " that 's a queer word. 
 I have heard talk of civil people and civil
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 41 
 
 speeches, but a civil blow from a battle-axe is a 
 new thing. I '11 tell master all about it when 
 I get home, and axe what it means; — but as I 
 was on the path in Nine Acres, whom should I 
 meet but Master Blount, the young one, and 
 he made me promise not to say a word to you 
 before May-day was come, for fear the old 
 sports might be hindered ; and he told me that 
 civil war meant war at home ; for which I didn't 
 think him much of a conjuror, as my guess had 
 reached that far : and now, Master, prithee tell 
 me what civil means." 
 
 " Peter, thou art an honest fellow, and as 
 good a citizen as if thou knewest what it was 
 called in Latin, and that a civil war was a war 
 of citizens, but of a truth this is no matter for 
 smiles ; however, ' sufficient unto the day is the 
 evil thereof.' This is no morning for a cloudy 
 face." 
 
 " Well, then, here comes one, and the worst 
 that darkens our doors. For my part, I can't 
 bide the sight of it, 't would turn all the milk 
 in the dairy."
 
 42 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The vicar looked over his hedge, and saw 
 the curate of a parish with whom he was but 
 slightly acquainted, walking across the last close, 
 which led by a footway into his orchard. The 
 apple-trees concealed Noble from his approach- 
 ing visiter, who, just as he reached the gate of 
 the orchard, overtook a little boy, about nine 
 years of age, carrying in his hand a cluster of 
 cowslips half as big as himself, and having a 
 thick crown of field flowers round his straw hat. 
 
 With a severe scowl, he snatched the cowslips 
 from the frightened child, and threw them away, 
 and then made a gripe at his little hat; but, 
 the boy drawing back with a blubbering cry, 
 the zealous and tall curate, who had a little 
 over-reached himself, slipped and fell prone 
 upon the grass. This, however, was the lightest 
 part of his misfortune; for it so chanced that 
 his face came in full contact with a new-made 
 rain-puddle, and he arose with his eyes half 
 blinded, and his face covered and besmeared 
 with mud. With the tears yet rolling down his 
 red cheeks, the little fellow, as he saw himself
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 43 
 
 avenged in a measure so contenting, and a 
 manner so ridiculous, ran out of his reach, liter- 
 ally shrieking with laughter ; and a hearty roar 
 from old Peter at once completed his morti- 
 fication, and determined his retreat. This soon 
 became a maddened flight : for a sleeping dog 
 roused by the noise of the laughter pursued 
 him with angry barkings, from which, as he 
 had no staff, and the grassy close could furnish 
 no stone, there was no escape till the wearied 
 animal paused and turned. 
 
 The whole of this scene was so very swiftly 
 enacted, that Noble had no opportunity to say 
 or do any thing in the matter ; and charity itself 
 could not suppress a smile at a punishment so 
 well suited to the morosity which had led to it. 
 Neither was he at all sorry to be relieved upon 
 this festal day from the intrusive visit of a sour, 
 ill-instructed fanatic, whose opinions he could 
 not value, and for whose character he felt no 
 respect. He looked, therefore, with unmixed 
 satisfaction at the laughing urchin, as he gathered 
 up his scattered wealth, and departed. 
 
 Now merrily rang out the lively bells of
 
 44 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Cheddar Tower; and already was every street 
 a green alley, freshened by thick boughs, and 
 made fragrant by small branches of white thorn 
 neatly interwoven. 
 
 The house of the chief franklin, Mr. Blount, 
 was more especially honoured. Before his door 
 was planted the largest and fairest branch of 
 May that could be found in a circuit of five good 
 miles, and his hospitable porch was made a rich 
 bower of shrubs and flowers. Beneath the tall 
 trees in front of it was a little crowd of youths 
 and maidens, in holyday trim, wearing garlands, 
 with green rushes and strewing herbs in their 
 arms, or aprons : full they were of smiles and 
 glee ; and, out on the road, all the village was 
 assembled, save the infirm old and the cradled 
 young ; though, of these last, not a few were 
 borne in their mothers' arms, or lifted up with 
 honest pride in those of their brown fathers, 
 whose burning toils a field were, for this joyous 
 day, forgotten. 
 
 From the words passing in these expectant 
 groups, a stranger might soon have gathered 
 that something more than the common sport of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 45 
 
 May-day was engaging the honest and buzzing 
 mob of men, women, and children, that blocked 
 the street opposite this goodly mansion, and what 
 that something was. " Better day better luck." 
 — " A bonny bride is soon dressed." — " Honest 
 men marry soon," said a black-eyed, nut-brown 
 wife, with a lively babe in her arms, and two curly- 
 headed little ones holding her apron, — and 
 " Wise men not at all," added a gruff old black- 
 smith, with a seamed visage. — " Ah, it's no good 
 kicking in fetters, Roger," rejoined the laugh- 
 ing wife, at the same time giving her infant into 
 the horny hands of a stout young woodman, 
 with a green doublet and a clean white collar, 
 who held it up, kicking and shrieking with de- 
 light, as though it would spring out of his arms, 
 and chimed in with " Ah, Master Roger, it's an 
 ill house where the hen crows loudest." — "Ah, 
 thou 'It find that some day, Stephen ; " for this 
 he got a heavy slap on his shoulder from the 
 young wife, whose coming words were checked 
 by the sound of fiddles, as the bridal proces- 
 sion came forth. " Dear heart," said she, 
 " how pretty Bessy does look in that lilac gown
 
 46 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 with brave red guardiiigs and the golden cawl 
 on her fair hair, and what a beautiful lace 
 rochet she has." — "Ah, fine feathers make fine 
 birds," said a spinster standing near. — " He 's 
 a proper man is young Hargood, and should 
 have known better than choose a wife by the 
 eye." — "She had rather kiss than spin, I'll war- 
 rant." — " Better be half hanged than ill wed." — 
 " You may know a fool by her finery." — "A 
 precious stone should be well set," said the young- 
 wife, sharply, " and Bessy's blue eyes and her 
 blushing cheeks are small matters to her ways and 
 words." But envy and ill will were low-voiced, 
 and confined to few, for old Blount and all his 
 house were well loved by the people ; and with 
 many a word of cheerful greeting they made 
 way for the party, and the most of them followed 
 it to the church. 
 
 The procession was led by a few youths and 
 maidens, with whom were all the musicians of 
 the village ; while others, walking immediately 
 before the bride and her two bride maidens, 
 strewed the ground, as they went, with rushes 
 and herbs. The bridegroom, in a suit of violet-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 47 
 
 coloured cloth, guarded with velvet of the 
 deepest crimson, and with a falling collar of 
 worked linen, followed, supported by his brides- 
 men, in fit bravery of apparel; next came a 
 group of relations, male and female, led by the 
 old franklin himself, with his grave and comely 
 wife, and the men and maids of his household 
 brought up the rear of the procession. It was 
 met at the churchyard gate by Parson Noble 
 and his wife, — she joining old Mrs. Blount, and 
 the good vicar, in his snowy surplice, taking 
 place at the head of it, immediately between 
 the herb-strewers and the bridal party; and now 
 a gravity and silence succeeded, and in decency 
 and order all entered the church, and pro- 
 ceeded with quiet steps to the altar. There, 
 the sweet and solemn service, which binds to- 
 gether for "better for worse, for richer for 
 poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do 
 part," was reverently and impressively performed 
 by Noble, his own deep and mellow tones being 
 only interrupted by the manly voice of the bride- 
 groom, and the faltering accents of the shy and 
 trembling bride, as they gave utterance to their
 
 48 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 heart's true and hallowed responses. No sooner 
 was the ceremony ended than the bells, which 
 had, for a while, been silent, struck out with the 
 wedding peal ; and as the new married couple 
 came forth into the churchyard the air was rent 
 with the joyous acclamations of the crowd with- 
 out ; and the procession returned in nearly the 
 same order as it had left the house of the worthy 
 franklin, only, according to the good custom 
 of the time, the parson made one of the wedding 
 party, and partook of the marriage feast. 
 
 Such of the old as could not walk abroad," 
 stood leaning on staves, or sat dim-eyed on the 
 stones before their doors, to see or hear the 
 bridal train pass down ; for each of these Parson 
 Noble and the franklin had a kind word as they 
 went by, returned by the benison and good 
 wishes for the bride, who had herself no voice 
 for any one, and, supported on her husband's 
 arm, scarce saw her path through eyes that 
 were filling from a happy bosom's overflow. 
 
 We shall not detain our reader by describing 
 the dinner at Master Blount's; right plentiful 
 was the cheer. Parson Noble said a grace in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 49 
 
 rhyme, out of old Tom Tusser's book of Hus- 
 bandry, to the great contentment of his hos- 
 pitable host, that being the one book by which, 
 after his Bible, Blount squared his honest life. 
 
 " God sendeth and giveth both mouth and the meat, 
 And blesseth us all with his benefits great ; 
 Then serve we the God, who so richly doth give. 
 Show love to our neighbours, and lay for to live." 
 
 This being the franklin's rule, — while his 
 guests were feasted in the old oak parlour, at the 
 back of the house ; in the pleasant orchard, all 
 his labourers were regaled with a hearty meal 
 of meat and plum-porridge ; and huge jacks of 
 ale were emptied and replenished, to the health 
 of bride and bridegroom and good master. 
 
 After due carvings of veal and bacon, un- 
 lacing of fat capons, and untrussing of great pies 
 of fruit and other dainties, in the parlour, and 
 after some mantling cups of wine drank to the 
 happy pair, the old people yielded to the impa- 
 tience of the young, and all adjourned to Robin's 
 Meadow, not, however, before they had sung, as 
 the grace after meat, a short psalm of praise. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The meadow, in which from generations be- 
 fore the May-pole was raised, had a fine level 
 sward, which Blount kept smooth as a bowling- 
 ground for the dancers, while a part of it rose 
 in swelling banks, shaded by trees. These, 
 though, as yet, but in early leaf, were gaily 
 green, and contrasted well with the many- 
 coloured and blushing wreaths of field-flowers 
 that wound about the May-pole, at the top of 
 which glittered a small crown, newly gilded in 
 honour of the wedding, and further adorned 
 with a few of the rarest plants which the gar- 
 dens of Cheddar could produce. 
 
 A pleasure it was, as they passed into the 
 meadow, to see the happy children rolling and 
 tumbling and racing down the steep bank, from 
 which they now scrambled away, to make room 
 for the franklin's party, and for the elders of 
 the village, who, from this grassy knoll, \vere 
 wont to preside over the pastimes of this holy- 
 day. We give not this scene in detail : — the 
 dances of the young, as, with light and elastic 
 steps, they bounded to lively measures round 
 the May-pole, and the nodding heads of the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 51 
 
 musicians keeping time with the dancers, and 
 the races and gambols of the ruddy children, 
 each reader may figure forth to his own fancy. 
 Neither tell we of the pretty ceremonies with 
 which the milk maids brought their cows, with 
 horns all garlanded, into the adjoining close, 
 and prepared and offered the delicious syllabub : 
 our aim is only to give an outline of a village 
 May- day of the times of which we write, and to 
 show the good parson of the best school of that 
 period mingling in mirth among his people. 
 Leaving, therefore, the happy villagers to con- 
 tinue their sports till set of sun, we shall confine 
 ourselves to the steps of the pastor, and com- 
 plete the journal of his day. 
 
 As the chimes struck six o'clock, he quietly 
 withdrew, and passed from the scenes of plea- 
 sure and feasting to those of sickness and of 
 mourning. If he had regarded the former with 
 complacent joy, he was not the less willing, nor 
 the less prepared, to cheer the latter with those 
 high contemplations and those tender sympa- 
 thies to which, by faith, as a Christian, he could 
 point, and which, in charity, as a man, he truly 
 D 2
 
 52 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 felt. Of the old, who were confined to their 
 own thresholds, he found two or three cross and 
 short, but most of them garrulous, and in good 
 humour. They had got pleasant portions from 
 the franklin, and they could tell of old May-days, 
 and heard, with thankful nods and ready "ayes," 
 and strong fetchings of the breath, that were 
 not sighs of grief, the grave good words with 
 which he taught them how only they could die 
 in peace. 
 
 Of his flock only one lay at the point of 
 death, and her he visited last. 
 
 She was the miller's daughter, and had been 
 the May-queen of the bygone year. Sacred be 
 such visit, in its most solemn communings ! 
 but we may paint the scene of it, and the trifles 
 which belong to those sympathies of our hu- 
 manity, that often survive the resigned hope of 
 life. 
 
 In a tall chair, against the back of which she 
 leaned her head, sate a pale maiden, warmly 
 wrapped in a robe of white woollen, close to the 
 small window of an upper chamber, on which 
 the evening sun shone warm : curling honey-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 53 
 
 suckles did make a frame to it ; and one rose, 
 with an opening bud, peeped from the trained 
 bush beneath. Upon a little table near her 
 stood a fragrant branch of May in a cup of 
 water. There were faint flushes in her trans- 
 parent cheeks, and there was an unearthly 
 brightness in her eyes — not fitful — but a calm, 
 steady, serene ray, that, as the declining sun 
 poured over the damsel its yellow glories, pre- 
 sented her to the thoughtful gazer such as she 
 might be when treading the celestial courts 
 above. 
 
 " And have you any other wish, my child?" 
 said Noble, as he rose to go. 
 
 " Yes, if it be not too foolish." 
 
 " Tell it, my dear." 
 
 " I would like some flowers from the May- 
 pole strewn on my winding-sheet, and a bit of 
 rosemary from your own garden put in my 
 hands." 
 
 " And you shall have them," said Noble, 
 pressing her wan hand in his, and turning- 
 quick away. 
 
 D 3
 
 54 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAR IV. 
 
 And if physitians in their art did see 
 In each disease there was some sparke divine. 
 Much more let us the hand of God confesse 
 In all these sufferings of our guiltinesse. 
 
 A Treatie of Warres. 
 
 Night closed on Cheddar, without any other 
 disturbance than a quarrel — loud and short as 
 a thunder-storm — between the blacksmith and 
 his old termagant wife, which, Roger being po- 
 tent in liquor, terminated in a complete victory 
 on his part ; and thus silence, if not peace, was 
 restored to the quarter in which he dwelt. 
 
 Moreover, at the door of the Jolly Wood- 
 cutter, the most decent ale-house in the townlet, 
 an old soldier with one leg, who tramped the 
 country as a ballad-singer, with a fiddle and a 
 dancing dog, became so very uproarious that it 
 was found absolutely necessary by the parisli 
 constable to secure his one sturdy limb in the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 55 
 
 village stocks, where, after venting a few loud 
 and angry curses at this dignitary, and abusing 
 the village fiddlers for not playing the grand 
 march of the king's beef-eaters to the right 
 tune, he addressed himself to making as easy a 
 sleeping posture as his wooden fetter would 
 allow ; and, being apparently very familiar with 
 such a resting-place, soon grumbled off into 
 snoring forgetfulness : his little four-footed com- 
 panion and guard did meanwhile drag up the 
 cloak, which he had dropped some yards from 
 the place of his confinement, and, arranging it 
 in a soft heap, curled itself thereon with an evi- 
 dent sense of comfort. 
 
 But May-day festivals — though certainly 
 in towns, and in those parishes in the rural 
 districts where not conducted by discreet per- 
 sons, they were often fruitful in scenes of 
 riot and licentiousness — were not, in the 
 present instance, chargeable with either of 
 the noisy incidents which had for a half hour 
 frighted the village from its propriety ; seeing 
 that the disputes of Roger and his rib were of 
 every-day occurrence, and his potations also; 
 D 4
 
 56 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and as for the old soldier, his drinkinof bouts 
 were regulated by the state of that narrow poke 
 in which he deposited his uncertain gains ; and 
 his sobriety was never secure while one coin re- 
 mained in it. 
 
 Our parson came forth at the first glimpse of 
 day on the morrow, to inquire at the mill how 
 the poor sufferer had passed the night. She 
 was in a profound and calm sleep, and he re- 
 turned thankfully home, taking the street which 
 led by the market cross. Nobody was yet 
 abroad; but, under the great tree in the mar- 
 ket place, he saw the old soldier sitting up in 
 the stocks, and looking about him very forlorn 
 and penitential. No sooner did he perceive the 
 good vicar approaching, than he began to plead 
 for his freedom. 
 
 " May it please your good reverence, make 
 them loose me. I am not a pig, that I should 
 be thus pounded : — never said or did harm to 
 man or Christian, save only in the way of duty, 
 your reverence. I am but a poor old toss-pike, 
 done up in the wars ; and gain an honest liveli- 
 hood with this old kit and scraper, and this
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 57 
 
 dumb creature, that shall dance you jig or co- 
 ranto with any city madam of them all." 
 
 " Why, I '11 see what I can do ; but you 
 would not have been put here for nothing, 
 friend." 
 
 " Nothing in life, your reverence, but drink- 
 ing the health of King Charles in a brimmer, last 
 evening, that was May-day, and a court holy- 
 day all the world over ; and then the wound in 
 my old head always aches. Parson, and I say 
 more nor I mean, and, may be, louder than 
 your gentles talk." 
 
 " Well, but this is a sorry way of life for an 
 old soldier, — to go about like a vagabond. 
 Have you no home ? " 
 
 " Home, bless you ! none but this old bit of 
 a cloak." 
 
 " What parish were you born in?" 
 
 " Ah ! there it is ! I was born i' the camp, in 
 the Low Countries. That same day that the most 
 noble Sir Philip Sidney was killed, my mother 
 had a fright from a shot striking the sutler's 
 waggon, and I came into the world a month 
 before time." 
 
 D 5
 
 58 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " And have you no friends living ? '* 
 " None in the wide world that care a split 
 straw whether I am above ground or under, 
 this blessed day, save, may be, this little dumb 
 thing that 's used to me." 
 
 " Where did you lose your leg?" 
 " In the lines before St. Martin, your re- 
 verence : it will be thirteen years agone, come 
 next September; and the right- worshipful 
 knight, Sir Joseph Burroughs, was killed by 
 the same shot. We used to say in hospital 
 (you know, your reverence, we were vexed, 
 and it was some of the officers, in their cups, 
 spoke it out of a play-book,) — 
 
 " ' Off with his head ! — So much for Buckingham.' 
 
 Well, they had their wish, in a manner, a 
 year after; and I always minded after, that 
 Master Felton was one of them. — Poor fellow ! 
 He gave me four-pence in silver, when I 
 hadn't a halfpenny to buy bread in London ; 
 and that same morning I saw his Grace of 
 Buckingham in a sedan chair in Wliitehall, and 
 I would have tossed mv staff before him, in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 59 
 
 hope of a largess; but his running footmen, 
 with their fine silver badges, shouldered me 
 into the gutter, crying, ' Room for his Grace ! 
 room for my Lord's Grace ! ' Well, it was little 
 room he took or wanted that day was a month ! 
 I was very sorry for Master Felton, — and I 
 went to see him hanged." 
 
 " You know he was a murderer^ 
 
 " O yes, I know that ; but he gave me four- 
 pence when I was starving ; and, though he 
 was only a lieutenant, he was a better officer 
 than Buckingham, who was all lace and velvet, 
 satin and feathers : — a likely man to look upon, 
 and did not want courage ; but he knew no 
 more about commanding an army than the 
 court fool." 
 
 " Don't you know, friend, that you must one 
 day die yourself; and that it is a terrible thing 
 to die and go before God without preparation?" 
 
 The veteran gave his buff jerkin a twitch, 
 and said, " Why, for the matter of that. Parson, 
 you see, I am no scholar, and cannot tell a B 
 from a bull's foot." 
 
 "You believe in God?" 
 D 6
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " Why, Master, haven't I lain half my life 
 abroad in the open fields, with the stars shining 
 over my head? Ah, you don't know what 
 grand things come into a poor fellow's mind 
 when he wakes in the night and sees them 
 bright things above him." 
 
 " Yes, but I do," said Noble with emotion ; 
 " and it is because I do, that I ask you these 
 things. Do you ever pray to God?" 
 
 " Why, bless you, Master, I wouldn't trouble 
 him about a poor chopstick like myself." 
 
 " You know the name of Christ, friend ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the homeless wanderer, and 
 bowed his grey head. 
 
 " And what are your thoughts of him ?" 
 
 " Why that he '11 be so good as to speak a 
 word to God Almighty for me," was the man's 
 strange yet pregnant answer. It is this mixture 
 of recklessness, ignorance, and the mysterious 
 worship of that inner spirit, which struggles 
 upwards after something to which the heart 
 may reach, and where it may finally rest, that 
 makes every human being a subject of sad yet 
 of sublime contemplation ; — a fellow, a brother,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 61 
 
 an immortal spirit, passing here below his brief 
 time of sojourning, but born for eternity. 
 
 Our good vicar was a true messenger of peace : 
 — we need not say more than that this and all 
 such opportunities were gladly improved by 
 him. He sowed beside all waters. In the 
 present instance the old soldier was speedily 
 released, and taken up to the parsonage, and 
 there, in the shady porch, he had a hearty 
 breakfast ; and when the little household assem- 
 bled for prayer the wondering wayfarer was 
 brought into the hall, and heard the more 
 excellent way very plainly set before him, — and 
 was then suffered to depart with bread in his 
 wallet, and a parting word of solemn warning 
 and brotherly kindness, as he set forward on his 
 path, carr3ang with him the new thought and 
 feeling, that, though he was a ballad singer and 
 a sot, accustomed only to revilings, he had found 
 a man of God, who had not passed him by, but 
 had served him, and soothed him, and cared 
 for his soul. 
 
 Such a man and such a minister was our 
 parson of Cheddar : he had been now resident
 
 62 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 in the parish for fifteen years. Hither he had 
 then brought a sensible wife, — of many rare ac- 
 complishments, and of a solid piety. Three 
 fine children then played in their garden : of 
 these, their girl had been taken from them in 
 her twelfth year ; and their two boys, who had 
 both attained the age of manhood, had quitted 
 the paternal roof, and taken their respective 
 paths in life. Cuthbert, the eldest, had been 
 educated at Winchester College, had after- 
 wards passed through his university course at 
 Cambridge, and was now domiciled, as has 
 been already seen, in the house of Sir Oliver 
 Heywood, as a tutor. 
 
 Martin, the youngest, had been five years at 
 Westminster School as a day scholar, under 
 the care, during that period, of one Mr. 
 Philips, a worshipful and wealthy gentleman, 
 of the most honourable company of Goldsmiths, 
 and brother to the late Sir John Philips, 
 knight, a very eminent merchant in the Levant 
 trade, who, having made an unsuccessful specu- 
 lation, and losing his whole venture, had taken 
 the failure of his fortunes so much to heart.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 63 
 
 that he sickened and died soon after, leaving 
 behind him one portionless daughter. This 
 girl, while under the roof of her uncle, who 
 was very considerably the junior of her father 
 in age, was seen and admired by Noble, and 
 had soon become his welcome prize. 
 
 With this maternal uncle, Martin, at his 
 own request, was placed, as soon as he quitted 
 school, that he might be brought up in the 
 same thriving business. He quickly became 
 remarkable for his taste and skill in the art of 
 design, and as a fine judge of precious stones, 
 so that his uncle predicted for him great emi- 
 nence and wealth in the line which he had 
 chosen ; but Martin chancing one day to wait 
 upon Vandyck with an ornamental piece of 
 plate which a nobleman presented to that great 
 genius, and being questioned about the design, 
 confessed, with some hesitation, that it was his 
 own. Hereupon the painter broke out into 
 praise so warm, and took such notice of the 
 youth, that, to Martin, a painter did soon seem 
 the highest style of man ; — to be of this bright 
 company was now the highest object of his am-
 
 .64 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 bition. He had a strong will ; for this he rose 
 early, and late took rest : and the bent of his 
 inclination became so decided, and his pro- 
 mise of excellence so great, that his uncle, at 
 the recommendation of Vandyck, determined to 
 afford him the opportunity and advantage of 
 visiting Italy, and pursuing his studies in the 
 city of Rome. There, surrounded by the great 
 models of the divine art to which he was de- 
 voted, daily extending his knowledge, and in- 
 creasing his delight, Martin lived at once to 
 labour and to enjoy. 
 
 But the absence of these dear boys, though 
 necessary, was severely felt by Noble and his 
 wife ; nor, in those days, were communications 
 by letter of regular or frequent occurrence, 
 even at home, — and of course, from abroad, 
 very rare and most uncertain. 
 
 The good vicar, though anxious about Mar- 
 tin's residence at Rome, was not wanting in true 
 sympathy for his pursuits; having himself a 
 taste for the arts, which he had improved by a 
 leisure tour through Italy (before his marriage)
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 65 
 
 as tutor and guardian to a young gentleman of 
 large possessions in Oxfordshire. 
 
 Nothing could be more retired than the life 
 led by these childless parents at Cheddar. 
 
 It is a large village, or townlet, situate at the 
 foot of the Mendip Hills, in Somersetshire, and 
 lying pleasantly sheltered on the south-west 
 side of that bleak and naked chain. The noble 
 tower of its fine old church is richly adorned 
 with double buttresses, pinnacles, and pierced 
 parapets, and in the open space, which forms 
 the centre of its few irregular streets, is an 
 ancient hexagonal market cross, where the 
 wayfarer may find a shelter from the hot suns 
 of July, or from the heavy rains of winter. 
 The neighbourhood of Cheddar is romantic : 
 it commands a fine view, in one direction, over 
 a rich and extensive level; and it is immedi- 
 ately surrounded by rich, well-watered pastures, 
 always verdant. Within a mile of the market 
 cross before mentioned, on the road to Wells, 
 there is a narrow, but a stupendous pass, or 
 chasm, by which the chain of the lofty hills of 
 Mendip is cleft, as it were, in sunder. The
 
 66 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 road winds through the bottom of this strange 
 defile ; the difFs rise on either side — ragged, 
 scarped, and terrific in their aspect — present- 
 ing, in many places, a sheer fall of four hundred 
 feet. Nothing can more sublimely impress the 
 spirit of a lonely traveller than the passage of 
 this wild ravine, on a day of cloud, and gloom, 
 and rushing winds. In the sunny calm of 
 summer, when the wild pink, springing from 
 the crevices of the rocks, adorns the scene with 
 something of gentleness, it is still of uncommon 
 grandeur. Black yews project from the larger 
 fissures : here is a narrow ledge covered with 
 verdure ; there a thick mantle of ivy clothes the 
 summit : here the mountain ash slants forward in 
 its fantastic growth ; while yet, in many places, 
 the craggy front is naked and dazzling as a 
 wall of stone. 
 
 By this road, once a week, the quiet parson 
 ambled on an old grey horse to the fair city of 
 Wells to refresh and recreate his spirit at a 
 private music meeting in the Close; nor did he 
 ever omit on these occasions to pass one hour 
 of joy and praise in its magnificent cathedral.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 6? 
 
 Upon the breezy summits of the Mendip hills, 
 which bordered this road, he spent many serene 
 and healthful hours. His life was most even in 
 its tenour; and the scenes around him, though 
 daily before his eyes, were as dear to him, or 
 more so, than when, first entering on residence, 
 he had surveyed them with grateful rapture. 
 
 Villages, however, like kingdoms, have their 
 revolutions; and the chronicles of them are pre- 
 served in chimney-corners with more or less of 
 fidelity, according to the interest of the events 
 and the worth of the characters who figured in 
 them. 
 
 These rustic historians have a mode of 
 reckoning very different from citizens. With 
 prime ministers they have nought to do. Their 
 government is nearer to them, and they have 
 never wanted wit enough to know when that 
 was good or evil. Over these rural communities 
 the ruler has, from time immemorial, been the 
 lord of the manor, or the chief franklin, or the 
 parson of the parish. According as these per- 
 sonages were disposed to promote religion and 
 happiness, or to look with indifference on vice
 
 68 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and misery, the rustic population was contented 
 and cheerful, (because industrious in their call- 
 ings, and peaceable in their lives,) or they were 
 sullen and profligate. Under the joint reign of 
 Franklin Blount and Parson Noble the inha- 
 bitants of Cheddar had long dwelt together in 
 comfort and harmony; but this is a world of 
 change, — and many things in the aspect of public 
 affairs, of which the villagers heard and heeded 
 little, gave serious warning to the prescient 
 mind of Noble, that trouble was near. 
 
 He was so beloved and respected by his people, 
 and so regarded and confided in by the worthy 
 franklin, that he had hitherto been able to 
 evade, counteract, or over-rule, for the good of 
 his flock, those strange enactments which had 
 been from time to time so inconsiderately im- 
 posed. That which enjoined him to publish the 
 Book of Sports on the Sabbath-day he totally 
 disregarded. On this point he would have con- 
 sented to deprivation rather than obey. Hence 
 he became suspected, by some parsons of a very 
 different stamp, for a puritan; and there were not 
 wanting uncharitable surmises among these con-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 69 
 
 cerning the course which Master Noble would 
 take in the hour of trial; not that those who really 
 knew him well ever doubted of that course at all. 
 But while these surmises were, as regarded 
 himself, utterly devoid of foundation, it was 
 asserted by some of his friends at Wells, the 
 correctness of whose judgments and the charity 
 of whose sentiments well accorded with his own, 
 that his son Cuthbert had imbibed, from his 
 late associates at Cambridge, a spirit of a very 
 dangerous nature. Cuthbert had a large phi- 
 lanthropy, and a resolute courage to sustain 
 and act out those promptings of benevolence 
 which his love of freedom was continually urging 
 upon his mind. Virtuous in his character, 
 sanguine in his hopes, present evils he saw, 
 and for present remedies he panted — but he 
 looked not far on to consequences. A notion 
 of his state of mind may be found in the letter 
 which follows : — 
 
 " Most dear Father, 
 " You tell me in your last letter, which I 
 have read over many times with serious thought,
 
 70 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 that my mother wishes me to send her a more 
 particular account of this place and family, that 
 she may the better see my present courses with 
 the eye of her mind. — I will make a trial of my 
 pen to set these matters in some order before 
 her — and, first, of this mansion : it is a goodly 
 fabric of stone, built by the father of the pre- 
 sent knight in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 He, as you know, exchanged some of his full 
 money-bags for a fair estate in land, and closed 
 all his great and prosperous ventures in com- 
 merce by a wise retirement to the noble 
 pleasures of a country life. A situation more 
 pleasant than this of Milverton you may not 
 see in all the journey through these parts. The 
 house standeth on a fine swelling slope of ver- 
 dant ground, and is well sheltered by stately 
 trees on three sides, but to the front the pros- 
 pect is open, and maketh the heart dance with 
 gladness, it is so full of delight. Looking to 
 the south, you see the towers of that famous 
 castle of Guy of Warwick. This castle is seated 
 on a rock, very high, upon the river Avon, and 
 hath a look of strength and of great majesty; as
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 71 
 
 seen against the light of the distant sky — no- 
 thing can be more grand and commanding ; — 
 also, from the middle of the good city of War- 
 wick, the fair pinnacles of the lofty tower of 
 St. Mary's Church do pierce the heaven, and 
 she standeth like a crowned queen. I do fear 
 for her diadem, for they say that the embattled 
 keep of ancient Guy frowneth on our lady : but, 
 turning the eyes from these stately objects, 
 which the intervening woods may not conceal, 
 directly below Milverton the river flows through 
 a fair valley of green pastures ; and there cannot 
 be, in all England, a mill more pleasant to look 
 upon and listen to than Guy's mill : it standeth 
 upon the farther bank of the Avon, over which 
 there is a foot-bridge of wood, very narrow, and 
 long enough to reach across a small meadow, 
 which, when the waters are out, is always flooded. 
 Not far from this mill, to the left, and upon the 
 same bank, is an old decayed chapel, where I 
 have seen a rude statue of the renowned Guy, 
 more than eight feet in length ; and near to 
 this spot, close by the side of the water, there 
 is a cave in the rock, where, as a hermit, he
 
 72 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 ended his days. But I will say no more of 
 these places, of which report may have reached 
 you through the discourse of others. 
 
 " Milverton House lacks nothing of furniture 
 that money and good taste may command. 
 There is a profusion of very fine carved oak in 
 the hall and in the winter-parlour. In the latter, 
 over the fire-place, is a curious representation 
 of the meeting of Jacob and Esau ; and in- 
 scribed above are the words, ' With my staff I 
 passed over this Jordan, and now I am become 
 two bands.' And in the private chamber of 
 Sir Oliver is another piece, in three compart- 
 ments, Jacob lying down alone in the Wilder- 
 ness — the Vision of the Ladder of Angels — 
 and Jacob setting up his Pillar of Remem- 
 brance. 
 
 " I name these things rather than the rich 
 hangings and the handsome carpets which cover 
 some of the tables, and the ebony cabinets, and 
 the massy plate, because I know that they 
 would give more contentment to my pious 
 mother than all the costliness and bravery in 
 the king's palace.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 73 
 
 " In the small room appointed for me, there 
 is a posy worked upon a sampler, hung against 
 the wall, that runneth thus : — 
 
 « What better bed than conscience good, to pass the night 
 with sleep ; 
 What better work than daily care, from sin thyself to keep." 
 
 And there is an engraved portrait of Luther, 
 with the words ' In silentio et in spe erit forti- 
 tudo vestra.' I cannot look upon these things 
 without being deeply reminded of those feeling 
 lectures of piety which the lips of my dear 
 mother have read to me from my very child- 
 hood ; but, truth to say, my dear parents, I 
 feel an angel plucking me by the sleeve, and 
 whispering in my ear that my stay in this sweet 
 abode will not be long. Sir Oliver and Mistress 
 Alice and Mistress Katharine entreat me with 
 that kind civility and favourable respect, which 
 make my days happy, and I find Master Arthur 
 so docile and of such lively parts that my office is 
 never irksome. 
 
 " Nothing can be more orderly than the man- 
 ner of life here ; and although the good knight 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 is most hospitable, yet, as he doth not use the 
 exercise of hunting, and has no park, the visiters 
 are not many. He rides daily in the forenoon, 
 and will sometimes go to see the stag-hounds of 
 Stoneleigh Abbey throw off, with which pack he 
 hunted for twenty years; but his chief delight now 
 is in the culture of his garden and orchards, and 
 of a vineyard, which he has laid out, at a great 
 cost, on a favourable site, one mile from the man- 
 sion. All the farms in the village of Milverton 
 are his, and his tenants are the sons of those 
 who held the land under his father ; so that the 
 hamlet is but one large family, of which Sir 
 Oliver is the head. 
 
 " Mistress Katharine, his daughter, rides con- 
 stantly with her father, except when she takes 
 the diversion of hawking, or goes out after the 
 beagles with her young cousin, Arthur, who is 
 as high-spirited and active a youth in the field, 
 as he is earnest and persevering in the study. 
 To see Mistress Katharine fly a hawk is glad- 
 some; and although I have, from boyhood, 
 accounted that sport cruel and unfeminine, yet, 
 when I look on that inspiring sight, I deem it
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 75 
 
 SO no longer ; certain I am that her mind did 
 never once connect the thought of cruelty with 
 a usage so common. She, too, seems as eager 
 to learn what my poor scholarship can teach 
 her as my own pupil ; and if a tutor can be 
 happy, I am, in the privilege of reading with 
 this noble maiden, and seeing her fine counte- 
 nance lighted up with the love of wisdom and of 
 truth. 
 
 " But this state of things is far too bright to 
 last. When a man dareth to think differently 
 from those around him, he will soon become an 
 object of suspicion and prejudice. I feel that 
 my trial in this kind will assuredly come ; for 
 Sir Oliver, with all his kindness, has so rooted 
 a dislike to all change in the established order 
 of things, that a word against the undue stretch 
 of the king's authority, against the tyranny of 
 the starchamber, or those abuses in the state, 
 which are manifest to her best friends, would be 
 enough to make his countenance change towards 
 me past recovery. 
 
 "Upon these subjects, you, my dear father, 
 have written to me with more earnestness and 
 E 2
 
 76 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 fear than I should have looked for. You tell me 
 that I see not the inevitable consequences which 
 must follow from the acting out of those opinions 
 and sentiments with which I am so captivated. I 
 confess that I am an ardent friend to civil and 
 religious liberty. I desire to see the laws ad- 
 ministered without fear or favour ; to see taxa- 
 tion imposed by the Commons alone, and to see 
 purity and charity preaching from our pulpits 
 and ministering at our altars. You must not 
 blame me : these were the desires that you im- 
 planted, when you taught me the immutable 
 and eternal principles of justice, and when, 
 both by lip and in your life, you showed me 
 how sacred was the character, and how hallowed 
 were the duties, of an ambassador for Christ. I 
 look for reformation in the state, and purifica- 
 tion of the church. You, perhaps, despair of 
 either ; and therefore you dread an ill result to 
 the patriotic and pure efforts which so many 
 great and good men are now making. Some 
 of the best and wisest of my college friends think 
 with them. Of that number are my late tutor 
 and my late chamber-fellow, with both of whom
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 77 
 
 you expressed yourself so much delighted, when, 
 during my last year of residence, you visited 
 Cambridge. I confess, frankly, that I hold their 
 sentiments, and entertain hopes of ultimate good 
 to my country as sanguine as theirs. The cause 
 of liberty must triumph. 
 
 " Your last letter gave but little hope of 
 poor Fanny at the mill : what a fair, cheerful, 
 good girl she was. Martin will be very sorry 
 when he hears about her : if you remember, he 
 was always for dancing with Fanny on May-day. 
 
 " I am glad to hear that Bessy Blount is 
 going to be married. She will make Tom 
 Hargood's farm as happy a home as any in Eng- 
 land. However, I will not talk about weddings, 
 — the very word makes me melancholy. I 
 am just now preparing a short masque, which 
 we are to perform next week, in honour of Sir 
 Oliver's birth-day. I suppose Martin, as well as 
 myself, has very different notions of female beauty 
 now to any we gathered at Cheddar ; though, I 
 doubt, if we shall either of us become the hap- 
 pier for our knowledge. Rosy cheeks and laugh- 
 ing eyes are joyous and pleasant to look upon, 
 E 3
 
 78 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 but they seldom beget cureless heart-aches, or 
 plant the long-lived sorrow : — all this is very idle. 
 The love of country is the next best love to that 
 of God, and, after that, the most rewarding. 
 
 "I suppose that you will soon have a letter from 
 Rome : no doubt Martin is very happy among 
 the galleries and studios of that ancient city. I 
 often wish that I could be transported there for 
 an hour, and see him, as he stands alone, before 
 a master-piece of Raphael, and sighs for the 
 very fulness of his admiration. Forget not to 
 let me hear the earliest news of Martin. I shall 
 think of you all on May-day at old Blount's ; 
 but, as the good old country customs are kept 
 up here with great spirit, shall have no leisure to 
 grieve over my absence from Cheddar, till night 
 restores me to the solitude of my chamber, and 
 to that sacred companionship with you in prayer, 
 which I ever maintain. 
 
 " Your dutiful and loving son, 
 
 "CuTHBERT Noble. 
 
 '^Milverton, April 10, 1640."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 79 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 Now winde they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, 
 And through the forrest all the beasts are aw'd ; 
 
 Alarm'd by Eccho, Nature's sentinel, 
 
 Which shows that murd'rous man is come abroad. 
 
 Gondibert. 
 
 Early in the morning of the day after that 
 on which the rehearsal at Milverton House was 
 interrupted by the humiliating scene already 
 recorded, Cuthbert sallied forth, while the first 
 rays of the level sun were reflected back by glit- 
 tering dewdrops ; and brushing them with swift 
 steps from his path, crossed the foot-bridge near 
 Guy's mill, and was soon lost to view in the 
 woods upon the far side of the Avon. The mill 
 was already at work, but he lingered not to gaze 
 upon the rushing waters. His eye glanced at 
 the glad scene, and his ear drank in the living 
 sound ; but the prosy old miller was at his door, 
 and his daughter stood on the stepping stones 
 E 4
 
 80 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 below, watching the white breasted ducks that 
 played in the back current, therefore, with a 
 short " good morrow," that waited for no reply, 
 he passed onwards, for he was bound on an 
 errand of mercy. Although the old body, Mar- 
 gery, had escaped the persecution of yesterday, 
 there was good ground for fearing that it would 
 be soon and more cruelly repeated, if she con- 
 tinued to dwell in her lonely and exposed hovel ; 
 and Cuthbert had found a poor bricklayer from 
 Coventry, who was then employed in repairing 
 the roof of an outhouse at Milverton, and who 
 had witnessed the scene of the day before with 
 a true Christian feeling, quite willing to give the 
 old woman a lodging in the small house in the 
 mean alley in which he dwelt, for such consi- 
 deration as Cuthbert was willing to pay. With 
 this proposal of shelter and security he sought 
 the wood, in the bosom of which, beneath a 
 sand-stone rock, in a forsaken pit, was poor 
 Margery's desolate abode. From the rude clay 
 chimney, in the blackened thatch, curled a blue 
 wreath of smoke : he leaned against the rock 
 above, and called to Margery, but there was no
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 81 
 
 reply. He went down and entered the hut. 
 Upon a low stretcher on a coarsely plaited mat 
 of straw, dressed in the same rags in which she 
 walked abroad, she lay fast asleep, and her 
 breathing sounded soft as that of a child, — a 
 raven with a clipped wing and club-foot hopped 
 upon the floor, and croaked at the intrusion ; 
 but the sound, though loud, did not awaken her. 
 " I will not fright away a sleep so friendly,*' 
 thought Cuthbert : he went forth again, and 
 seated himself beneath a stately oak at no great 
 distance. In an open grassy glade not far off, 
 in front, a few deer were feeding, — the scene 
 around was peace and beauty, — trees, herbs, 
 beasts of the field and fowls of the air were de- 
 claring the glory and praising the goodness of a 
 present God. In silent rapture Cuthbert mused 
 his praise ; but adoration was succeeded by a 
 sense of pain, — another scene, another image, 
 interposed between the sunny objects before 
 him and his mental vision. The stony desolation 
 of Mount Calvary, and the black sky above, and 
 the pale and holy forehead with its crown of 
 thorns, came up startling and apparent, and re- 
 E 5
 
 82 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 minded him that he was the inhabitant of a fallen 
 world. This solemn turn being given to his 
 thoughts, his mind reverted, with serious con- 
 sideration, to the views of that party in the state 
 which was already designated by the name of 
 Puritans, and which had been hitherto, and 
 but for the questions of civil liberty now widely 
 agitated would still have been, a by-word and a 
 reproach among the people. " It is true," said 
 he, " a Christian must be a mourner — he cannot 
 be other than a mourner; but yet, are we not 
 graciously commanded to serve the Lord with 
 gladness ? is the countenance always to be 
 sad ? is there to be no rejoicing in the light of 
 the sun ? Where is the middle ground between 
 these two great parties in church and state? 
 Why is not a great and overwhelming majority 
 of moderate men found there to defend the best 
 interests of all ? " The thoughts to which he 
 thus gave utterance would have found a response 
 in the bosoms of thousands — indeed they were 
 the very sentiments of his own father; only 
 that good man knew, what Cuthbert was as yet 
 ignorant of, — a knowledge which he was soon
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 83 
 
 to purchase at the heavy price of a most bitter 
 and heart-breaking experience. He had yet to 
 learn that, in times of pubhc commotion, there 
 is no middle path, and that a party does too 
 often take the colour of the very worst persons 
 among those who compose it. The cant of the 
 fanatic and the curses of the cavaliers alike 
 disgusted him. But yet he was of an age when 
 men will be sanguine about having the world 
 mended according to their desired pattern ; and 
 his heart glowed with the hope that the best 
 men of the parliament side would in the end 
 triumph over the cold and severe intolerance of 
 the high church party, would control the power 
 of the crown, and would effect great and glorious 
 things for the liberty and the happiness of 
 England. With these sentiments he had a very 
 difficult card to play at Milverton, for Sir 
 Oliver was a decided enemy to the party which 
 he secretly approved ; and some of the neigh- 
 bouring gentlemen, holding the same opinions 
 with the knight, gave a much coarser expression 
 to them. He had to hold his mouth as with a 
 bridle in their presence. Among these persons 
 E 6
 
 84 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 by far the most obnoxious was Sir Charles 
 Lambert, a gentleman of about five-and- thirty, 
 related to Sir Oliver, and residing within a few 
 miles, at Bolton Grange, upon a fine property, 
 with two younger sisters left dependent on him. 
 He had been a great deal about the court 
 formerly, and in his youth had been attached, 
 for a few years, to the retinue of the late Duke 
 of Buckingham. Not proving of a capacity for 
 public affairs, he had been thrown back upon 
 country life, without the true refinements of a 
 courtier, but with all those vices and fopperies, 
 which, in the train of Buckingham, it was not 
 difficult to acquire. He covered with satin and 
 musk a heart as brutal and savage as one of his 
 own hounds, — resembling in nothing that gene- 
 rous and warm race of men the country gentle- 
 men of England but in a fine person and in a 
 passion for the chase. Nevertheless he did so 
 conceal from Sir Oliver his true character, that 
 he was always made welcome at Milverton. In 
 such thoughts the mind of Cuthbert was tossed 
 about as on a troubled sea; and from mere weari- 
 ness he fell into a contemplation of the sweetness
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 85 
 
 of nature, and the soft manner of her nursing, 
 when we lie still and passive in her lap, and look 
 upon her face. So long a time had he lingered 
 in this green haunt, that the sun was three 
 hours high ; and the great clock of Warwick, 
 striking seven, warned him to return home. Of 
 the small herd in the open glade a few were still 
 grazing, — others, and a noble hart among them, 
 lay in perfect repose : but, suddenly, every 
 neck was raised and turned — the ears stood 
 erect — the nostrils distended and closed — the 
 eyes dilated — and then, as by accord, they all 
 stole slowly oif to the rocky and difficult ground 
 above them. He looked around, and could see 
 nothing to alarm them; but, in the same 
 instant, the blast of a distant hunting horn 
 came up faint on the wind : the sound was 
 again heard nearer; and the loud voice of 
 dogs in concert, shrill yet deep, made the woods 
 echo with notes that silenced every bird, and 
 drove away all the panting creatures from their 
 lairs. Yet was it a gallant sight — a sight to 
 stir the blood — as within some twenty yards of 
 the tree under which Cuthbert stood, the chase
 
 86 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 in full career swept by : — with antlers well 
 thrown back, in its last staggering speed, came 
 a blown stag, with a stanch hound so close 
 upon its flank, you looked to see the fine creature 
 torn down instantly ; not far behind, two 
 leash of dogs were hanging on its track, their 
 mouths loud opening for prey : — with shouts of 
 joy, and pace precipitate, the huntsmen fol- 
 lowed,-^ a small but eager band on gallant 
 steeds all foaming at the mouth, and stained 
 with sweat. Swift as a vision of the night they 
 passed, and from beyond a swell of ground in 
 front a winding horn sent forth the well 
 known mort. Cuthbert, naturally excited, ran 
 to a knoll before him, which might command 
 the country beyond. On the side of an open 
 slope, at some considerable distance, he saw the 
 last act of the death. The lifted knife, all red and 
 reeking, was in the hand of a stranger of noble 
 presence, by whose side stood Sir Charles 
 Lambert. The lordly game lay stretched upon 
 the ground, and near, with lolling tongues and 
 panting sides, the hounds lay gasping as for life. 
 The riders were all dismounted, and their horses,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 87 
 
 with drooping heads and their hind quarters 
 sunk and contracted, stood stiff and motionless 
 beside them. By the loud and exulting voices 
 of the sportsmen you might know that the run 
 had been severe; two or three lagging horse- 
 men were seen coming up in their track; and by 
 a cross path, just above the spot where the stag 
 was killed, two foresters on foot burst down at 
 the top of their speed, and joined the group that 
 now more closely surrounded the noble game. 
 The sound had brought out all the household 
 at Milverton, from whence the slope was plainly 
 to be seen. The boy Arthur, with some of 
 the serving-men, ran down the pathway towards 
 Guy's mill, while Cuthbert could discern Sir 
 Oliver standing out on the terrace, and Mis- 
 tress Katharine by his side, with a loose white 
 kerchief thrown over her head, to keep oif the 
 rays of the sun, which were already powerful. 
 
 The hunters now sounded the relief, and 
 waved their caps towards Milverton; intimat- 
 ing, by that note and action, that they would 
 claim the hospitality of the mansion ; and then, 
 leading their tired horses by the bridle, they
 
 88 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 proceeded thither by the mill. Cuthbert, un- 
 seen himself, watched all their motions; and 
 when they had disappeared within the gates of 
 Milverton, and all below and around him was 
 again still, he turned, with a dead and jaded 
 interest, towards the sand-pit. Upon the edge 
 of it, near the rock, he saw the bent figure of 
 Margery, as if in the act of listening; and as 
 she raised her head, and observed him walking 
 to the spot, she hastily disappeared below. 
 
 He stepped quickly after her ; but the door 
 was already barred ; and when he knocked and 
 called to her, the hoarse croak of the raven was 
 the sole reply. He rapped more loudly, — 
 still the same voice of ill omen replied; but as 
 he persisted, and said words to re-assure her, 
 the door was slowly opened, and the withered 
 tenant of the pit appeared. 
 
 " Is it you, young master?" said Margery; 
 " and are you alone, and is there no hunter 
 with you?" 
 
 " There is no one with me," he replied : " the 
 hunters have gone over the river." 
 
 " That 's well, that 's well, master : a hunt-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 89 
 
 ing day, if the game takes this way, is ever 
 an ill day with me. They that be cowards 
 alone, are bold in merry company; and I 
 have had a whip on my old shoulders, and the 
 dogs hounded on me before now, if any thing 
 crossed their sport. Three years ago, last fall, 
 when his best hound, Bevis, was killed in the 
 hollow yonder, nothing would serve the turn of 
 Sir Charles but to float my poor old carcass 
 across the river, and to weigh me against the 
 church Bible ! But he hath had many a sleep- 
 less night for that ; and bold as he looks by day, 
 the ticking of a death-watch will keep him 
 shivering in his bed." 
 
 " What do you mean, Margery ? The folk 
 may well think you a witch for words such as 
 these." 
 
 " Why, I mean," said the old woman wil- 
 fully and spitefully, " that I never wished ill to 
 any one, but ill came upon 'em." 
 
 " Had I thought this of you yesterday, I 
 should have been slow to ask any one to give 
 you house room ; but you are God's creature, 
 and have been crossed with ill usage ; and when
 
 90 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 you find yourself beneath the roof of a Chris- 
 tian, safe from all enemies, your heart will melt, 
 and you will taste God's peace yourself, and 
 wish it to others. I have found a good man, 
 that lives in Croft's Alley in Coventry, and he 
 will give you a chamber and a chimney corner, 
 and kind words, and a stout arm to protect 
 you; and when we get you safe there your 
 thoughts will be quiet." 
 
 " Hout-tout ! what talk ye about Alley and 
 a chimney corner ? haven't I my ow^n ingle, 
 and my own ways, and my own company? 
 What voice more pleasant to me than those I 
 heard when I was young, and hear still? 
 What '11 take better care of me than that old 
 bird? Few there be that don't shun to pass 
 close by this hut ; and they that come to it step 
 swiftly back again. I was told, with a curse, 
 that I might not live any where else, many 
 years ago; and here I shall stop till my old 
 bones crumble." 
 
 " Why, mother, why, you might starve here 
 if you were taken ill, and none to help you."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 91 
 
 " Well, death is but death, let it come how 
 it will." 
 
 " But hunger is a bad death ; and besides, 
 are you not in constant danger of being taken 
 up, and losing your life for a witch? Why, 
 this bird that you keep, and your words and 
 ways, will surely bring you to the stake one of 
 these days." 
 
 " Let the day come, if it is to come ; and as 
 to dying of hunger, where, think you, do the 
 foxes die? and where do the birds of the air 
 die ? Why, they that escape the hounds die in 
 their holes ; and they that the bird-bolt misses 
 find a dying place in some nest or corner. Go 
 your way, young master ! I am no tame rabbit, 
 to be kept in a town hutch, and tormented by 
 children. I don't want to be led to church, 
 and hear the parson's jabber about my old 
 soul." 
 
 " Do not utter such wickedness, unhappy 
 woman. It were charity to think you crazed, 
 and take you into safe keeping against your 
 will."
 
 92 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 At this the old woman gave a shriek of pas- 
 sion, fitful as that of a thwarted child, and then, 
 suddenly overcome by fear, fell upon her aged 
 knees, and lifted and joined her withered hands, 
 and implored Cuthbert, with wild earnestness, 
 never to have her moved. 
 
 " Look you, young master, winter and sum- 
 mer, here I have watched and waked these 
 many years. It 's a small matter of meal that 
 makes my porridge ; — some give it for pity, and 
 some give it for fear. There 's no lack of rot- 
 ten sticks to keep me warm : yonder spring is 
 never dry ; and it 's free I am to go and to come, 
 and nothing here to flout or to fret me : the 
 deer and the kine take no count of me — the 
 pretty creatures don't fear me ; and it 's not all 
 the world calling me witch that will make them. 
 That place is best we think best. Oh, for the 
 love of God, master, let me alone — let me rot 
 where I am." 
 
 Cuthbert's mind was in an agony of prayer; 
 but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. 
 He would have said much; but he could speak
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 93 
 
 nothing. He gave her ahns; and telling her 
 that he would do nothing against her will — 
 nothing to make her unhappy, but that he 
 would come and see her again — he raised her 
 from her knees, and went upon his way home- 
 wards. . 
 
 " My father would not thus have left her," 
 was his first thought. " He would have found 
 some way to break into her heart. Strange 
 world — strange thing this human life ! This 
 old solitary miserable has been wrapped in 
 swaddling clothes, even as others — has been 
 suckled at a human breast — has grasped, with 
 tiny hand, a father's finger — and been kissed, 
 and muched; and now, she has survived all 
 kindred — lost all defence of strength or money 
 — hath none of wisdom, and because her back 
 is crooked, and nose and chin have come well 
 nigh together, she has been hunted from her 
 kind, and dwells apart. As God is love, — 
 and that he is I cannot doubt and live, — this 
 is a mystery ! It 's a skein so much entan- 
 gled that my poor wit can not unwind it."
 
 94 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Muttering to himself these wayward fancies, , 
 he hurried back to Milverton as to his heart's 
 home. There he could see sunlight upon the 
 earth, and feel warm in the comfort of it. Nor 
 in his then mood was he sorry that the guest 
 chambers would be full : he wished a day of 
 cheerful cups, and pleasant voices, and music. 
 Thus absorbed, he reached the mill, and passed 
 it as swiftly as in the morning. 
 
 " There he goes," said the old miller, speak- 
 ing to his daughter, who was spreading out 
 some linen to bleach — " There he goes, as shy 
 as a hare, and as fast as if he were making for 
 his form. I never gets a bit of chat with him. 
 He 's not much for company." 
 
 " Why, father," replied the girl, coming upon 
 the pathway, " he 's a scholar, you know, and 
 that 's the fashion of them, you know." 
 
 " Well, it 's a bad fashion to go poking about 
 the woods as lonesome as a stray mule ; no good 
 comes of those crazy fashions. I like a^i open 
 face, and an open hand, and a free tongue." 
 
 " Eh ! he can talk fast enough, I '11 warrant 
 me, if he had a sweetheart to talk to."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 95 
 
 " He talk to a sweetheart ! She must be a 
 poor silly body that would listen. There are 
 merry men and merry hearts enough in old 
 England for the lasses to choose from, without 
 giving ear to such as he." 
 
 " Well, they give him kind words at the Hall, 
 — and they say he's always more for good than 
 harm ; and I find him pleasant spoken enough 
 when he comes to angle in the mill-pool." 
 
 " There it is ! I can never make him say a 
 dozen words, black or white ; now Parson Mul- 
 lins will chat free for an hour on, and tosses you 
 off a pot of ale with good words and good will. 
 Why, he and I have smoked many a pipe 
 together ; and he 's a clerk, and a rare scholar 
 too. He doesn't give you ignorant stuff 
 o' Sundays ; but Latin, and Greek, and all the 
 best that he has learned at college. That's 
 the man for my money." 
 
 " Well, father, for the matter o' that, I like 
 to know what folk are saying; and it might 
 be gipsy language for all you or I are the
 
 96 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " I know where you got that lesson. Miss 
 Pert ; that 's what the old Puritan pedlar said 
 the other day, — rot him ! he shall take seat on 
 the old wive's ducking-stool if he comes this 
 way again." 
 
 " I am sure he was a quiet civil man ; and 
 you have not had a better piece of linen, or 
 a cheaper, than he sold us, this many a year." 
 
 " Hang his linen, and him too !" rejoined 
 the sturdy old miller. " I didn't like the cut 
 of his black head;" and with that he passed 
 into the mill, and the girl went towards the 
 dwelling. 
 
 While this dialogue was passing, Cuthbert 
 Noble was rapidly ascending the path, which rose 
 gently over a swelling field of luxuriant grass, to 
 Milverton. Certainly there was much about 
 Cuthbert to excuse the prejudice of the miller. 
 He was oflow stature, w^ith a long visage and grave 
 aspect ; and there was a peculiar expression of 
 his eye, which disturbed or repelled those who 
 saw him for a first time, or who saw him not at 
 his ease ; but to those whom, upon a nearer ac-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 9? 
 
 quaintance, he liked, his dark eye beamed with 
 light; the expression about his mouth was hu- 
 mane and gentle ; his voice was low, and rather 
 tremulous before strangers; he never laughed, 
 and seldom smiled, save with his eyes, which 
 gave quick and lively response to whatever 
 pleased him. Though, in his first manhood, he 
 was not without a knowledge of life and of the 
 human heart, for his reading had been exten- 
 sive; and he had that felicity of apprehension, by 
 which the lessons of books are most happily 
 caught, and most easily applied to the heart's 
 daily wants. Moreover, he had all those graces 
 of persuasion by which a pupil is best won upon 
 and encouraged to climb the steep hill of fame. 
 More happily placed he could not have been 
 than in the family of Sir Oliver Heywood, but 
 for one circumstance — he was too happy. A 
 fear lay beating in his bosom. He dared not 
 confess to himself the strange, yet deep, senti- 
 ments of admiration with which he regarded the 
 daughter of the worthy knight. He would fain 
 persuade himself that it was nothing but an emo- 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 tion of gratitude to Mistress Katharine for that 
 generous courtesy which would not suffer a scho- 
 lar of gentle birth to want such attention and re- 
 spect as she might delicately pay to him. Here, 
 however, his wisdom was at fault. In vain had 
 books taught him the misery of misplaced affec- 
 tions. He was launching out upon an unknown 
 sea that has no shore.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 99 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 Some snakes must hiss, because they 're born with stings. 
 
 The table in Milverton Hall was already sur- 
 rounded by the hungry guests ; and a substantial 
 old English breakfast, well suited to the appetites 
 and the digestion of active and manly hunters, 
 was spread before them. They were so busied 
 over the cold joints and the venison pasties, orwdth 
 the amber ale that foamed in silver tankards, as 
 scarcely to notice the entrance of a late comer, and 
 therefore Cuthbert slipped into a vacant place at 
 the bottom of the table, without other greeting 
 than the good-humoured nod of a ruddy-looking 
 young parson seated opposite, as he raised a 
 tankard to his lips. There was little talk, save 
 a few words about the sport, until having fairly 
 finished their meal, the chairs were backed a 
 little from the huge oaken table; the serving 
 F 2
 
 100 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 men lifted off the large dishes, still weighty with 
 good fare, removed the trenchers, and having 
 carried round the basin and ewer, large silver 
 cups, filled with canary wine, prepared, after 
 the fashion of the time, with sugar and with 
 certain herbs, so as to make a delicious beverage 
 in warm weather, were placed upon the table. 
 The short grace " Benedicto benedicatur" hav- 
 ing been uttered by George Juxon, the youthful 
 rector alluded to, Sir Oliver took the massive cup 
 which stood before himself, and intimating to 
 Juxon to follow his example with the other, he 
 rose, and giving for a toast, " His most gracious 
 Majesty King Charles," took a small draught of it, 
 and passed the cup to the noble looking gentle- 
 man who had been sitting on his right hand, and 
 was then standing by his side. The toast passed 
 round with an audible " God bless him ! " from 
 every guest, after the example of the loyal host. 
 
 "Ah, Sir Philip," observed the worthy knight 
 to the noble stranger near him, " we have fallen 
 upon evil times ; and it is grievous to think that 
 there should be one house in all England where 
 the health of his most sacred Majesty may no
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 101 
 
 longer be duly drunk, as is becoming in all good 
 and true subjects." 
 
 " Yet, 1 fear," replied Sir Philip Arundel, 
 " there are many in which the King's health is 
 no longer a standing toast : unquestionably re- 
 publican feelings and principles have made great 
 progress among the burgher classes generally, 
 and have infected not a few above them." 
 
 " It is those sour-faced, canting rogues, the 
 prick-eared, psalm-singing Puritans, that are 
 doing all the mischief," said Sir Charles Lam- 
 bert : " we want their ears, after the Turkish 
 fashion, cropped by sacksful." 
 
 " But it is not calling them names, or cutting 
 off their ears," said George Juxon, " that will 
 put them down ; neither will all the water in 
 your horse-ponds quench the fire in any of their 
 bosoms." 
 
 " Very likely; but there is nothing like trying 
 what will stop them ; and as sure as ever I catch 
 any of the hypocritical rogues praying and 
 singing near our parish they shall have a belly- 
 ful of muddy water, and a back-load of smart 
 blows with whip or cudgel." 
 F 3
 
 102 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 There was an expression of most irrepressible 
 disgust on the countenance of Cuthbert Noble 
 as Sir Charles uttered this brutal speech; which 
 Sir Charles observing, he turned quickly to Sir 
 Oliver, and added, " These are times in which 
 we should look well to all our housemates, for 
 fear we should be fostering some of these godly 
 knaves, who cover their false hearts with closed 
 lips and demure faces, and may corrupt our 
 children and our servants." 
 
 " You mean me," said Cuthbert, starting on 
 his feet with an energy which startled every one 
 at table, and took Sir Charles so totally by 
 surprise that he turned pale and livid, and 
 seemed at a loss for words. 
 
 " Sir Oliver," pursued the youthful tutor in 
 a glow of indignation that overspread his cheeks, 
 and made his eyes glance fire, " I have long 
 and often endured the contemptuous and studied 
 insults of your haughty kinsman on his visits 
 here ; and while they were only directed against 
 me as a poor scholar and a dependant, it was 
 well: — happy in your favour, and in the attach- 
 ment and respect of the gentle young master.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 103 
 
 who is my pupil, I could afford to look down 
 upon the dwarfish stature of so mean a mind ; 
 
 but when he would thus " 
 
 Before it was possible to arrest him, Sir 
 Charles, who sat upon the same side of the 
 table, had run behind him, and, ere he could 
 turn, inflicted a deep wound in his back with a 
 large hunting-knife. The young student fell, 
 bathed in his blood, upon the floor ; and all the 
 household, already brought near to the door by 
 the loudness of the voices, rushed into the hall. 
 Nothing was more affecting than. to see the 
 terrified agony and loud sobs of the noble boy 
 Arthur, who stood over his fainting tutor with 
 tears, and would neither be comforted nor re- 
 moved. 
 
 George Juxon had instantly seized Sir Charles 
 with an iron grasp. Sir Oliver was troubled, 
 and scarce knew how to act ; while Sir Philip 
 Arundel, the most self-possessed of the party, 
 desired the attendants to send swiftly to War- 
 wick for a surgeon, and suggested to Sir Oliver 
 that the aggressor should be committed to his 
 charge, and that he would take him to his own 
 F 4
 
 104 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 home, and be responsible for his appearance to 
 answer for the crime which he had just com- 
 mitted, when the charge should be preferred 
 against him in due order. But George Juxon 
 required that he should remain in custody at 
 Milverton until it was ascertained whether the 
 stab inflicted on Cuthbert might not prove fatal. 
 The ladies of Milverton, who were absent, 
 walking in the grounds, were happily spared 
 this painful scene. To the exclamations of 
 wonder, regret, and even condolence, with which 
 Sir Charles was addressed by some others of the 
 party, he answered nothing, but stood with lips 
 closely compressed in sullen scorn and in a 
 dogged silence. 
 
 Juxon unhanded him, after Sir Philip pro- 
 mised that he should for the present be kept 
 close guarded, and gave all his attention to 
 Cuthbert, who was borne slowly and carefully 
 up into his chamber, and his wound there 
 bound up with a temporary dressing by Juxon 
 himself, till proper assistance should arrive. 
 This done, he left him for a while in the care of 
 the servants, while he went down to aid in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 105 
 
 composing Sir Oliver and the ladies of the 
 family. 
 
 This young clergyman, who was a distant 
 connection of the good bishop of the same name, 
 the treasurer at that time of the King, was a 
 good specimen of a particular class of richly 
 beneficed clergy, not uncommon in his day. 
 He was a ripe scholar, a kind, orthodox church- 
 man, and a manly country gentleman. His 
 habits were those of his time : they grew out 
 of the circumstances of that period and the 
 state of society in all country places ; and he 
 had seen his own pious and dignified relative 
 hunt his own pack of beagles, without a thought 
 that he was doing any thing more than taking 
 a vigorous exercise, beneficial alike to the health 
 of his body and his mind. 
 
 Juxon was among, but above, sportsmen. 
 He had a wealthy rectory, and lived hospitably 
 with his equals, and charitably towards the 
 poor. In the discharge of his parochial duties, 
 he was sensible and serious : he valued books, 
 and he had a due appreciation of genius. 
 
 He had been of the hunting party this morn- 
 F 5
 
 106 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 ing, and was thus a guest at Milverton, where 
 he had long occasionally visited, and where, 
 upon a former day, he had chanced to have 
 rather a long and free conversation with Cuth- 
 bert, and, albeit widely different in their habits, 
 had found common ground of interest in the 
 subjects on which they talked, and they had 
 parted well pleased with each other. Had they 
 touched on politics, indeed, they would have 
 differed ; for Juxon was a most stanch supporter 
 of the court party : through evil report and 
 good report he stuck close to the crown; he 
 wrote for it, spoke for it, and was ready to lay 
 down his life in the defence of it; but he was of 
 too large a mind to wonder at the opinions of 
 those opposed to the government of the King ; 
 nor was he blind either to those abuses of the 
 prerogative which had first awakened a spirit 
 of resistance in men of undoubted worth and 
 patriotism, nor to the grievous folly of those 
 deplorable counsels, whereby the King had been 
 induced or encouraged to force upon the proud 
 and resolute Scots the discipline of a church to 
 which they disclaimed allegiance.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 107 
 
 Again, he was of a generous spirit, detested 
 persecution in any thing, especially in religion 
 and matters of conscience, and had felt, with the 
 Lord Falkland, in all the earlier stages of the 
 present quarrel. Nevertheless, a decided and 
 sincere attachment to the monarchy, an un- 
 shaken respect for the personal qualities of the 
 King, and a devotion to the forms and to the 
 spirit of that church in which he was baptized, 
 suckled, and educated, — a devotion quite distinct 
 from, and independent of, any feeling of self- 
 interest, as an incumbent, — ■ caused him to re- 
 solve upon his own course in the coming troubles 
 with a cheerful firmness. 
 
 These sentiments, if the conversation in the 
 hall had not been so suddenly put an end to, 
 would there have been elicited. He had not 
 approved the outbreak and burst of indignation 
 with which the sensitive and excited Cuthbert 
 had so energetically appropriated the indirect, 
 but mischievous, speech with which Sir Charles 
 Lambert had sought to sow a suspicion of his 
 tutor's integrity in the bosom of Sir Oliver ; but 
 he with his whole soul detested and abhorred 
 F 6
 
 108 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the cowardly and bloody ferocity with which 
 the haughty and maddened barbarian had re- 
 sented the contemptuous expression of Cuth- 
 bert. There sprung up in his heart at that 
 moment a warmth of interest for the youth, 
 which never afterwards, in fortunes the most 
 dark and divided, entirely died away. But to 
 return to the actual present. He saw the ladies, 
 who had but just returned from a walk to the 
 vineyard, in company with Sir Oliver, in a 
 remote corner of the garden, and immediately 
 joined them. 
 
 They were, as might be expected, very greatly 
 troubled at the cruel occurrence, and pale with 
 natural anxiety. Indeed there was an expres- 
 sion of concern upon the countenance of Mis- 
 tress Katharine, so very deep, so profoundly 
 sad, that even amid the sorrowful perplexities 
 of the moment it glanced across the mind of 
 Juxon, that, in one or other of the parties in 
 this business, her own heart was most closely 
 interested, and he thought that he had nevei- 
 before seen human beauty with such a divine 
 aspect. At the readily adopted suggestion of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 109 
 
 Katharine, her aunt Alice would have proceeded 
 instantly to the chamber of the sufferer, to 
 render him any service in her power; but 
 Juxon requested of her not to do so, and recom- 
 mended that the ladies should keep themselves 
 quiet and apart until the surgeon arrived, and 
 the gentlemen now in the mansion should have 
 departed. Observing, too, the extreme per- 
 plexity of Sir Oliver, who had been and still was 
 exceedingly agitated by this strange event, he 
 entreated him to remain with them, and to keep 
 himself calm and quiet for the present ; assuring 
 him that every thing which he could suppose 
 him to wish in the present distress should be 
 properly done, and that he would certainly not 
 leave Milverton himself while he could hope to 
 render the slightest service to Sir Oliver in this 
 difficulty. There was an earnestness of manner 
 about Juxon, and at the same time such a quiet 
 tone of internal confidence in the resources of 
 his own judgment, that they all submitted to 
 his guidance ; and Sir Oliver was greatly com- 
 forted and strengthened by the thought that so
 
 110 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 wise and judicious a friend was near him in his 
 necessity. 
 
 The boy Arthur was watching and walking 
 forwards on the Warwick road, as if his doing 
 so could hasten the coming of assistance, and 
 was in all that confusion of the troubled spirits 
 which keeps the young heart throbbing with 
 fear. 
 
 In the library Sir Charles Lambert sat with 
 folded arms and a lowering brow, while Sir 
 Philip Arundel stood, looking from the win- 
 dow with a countenance simply expressive of 
 cold annoyance. 
 
 Of the half dozen gentlemen, who were still 
 grouped in the hall, one, after observing, that 
 " All 's well that ends well, — and, perhaps, after 
 all, the young man's hurt might not prove 
 dangerous, and that he always hoped for the 
 best," — stole his hand across quietly to the wine 
 cup, and took a very copious draught ; another 
 remarked, that he must say " the young man 
 was very irritating ; " a third wanted to know 
 what was the use of their remaining there, and 
 said he wanted to go home ; while a fourth
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. Ill 
 
 said, " One was a brute, and the other a fool : 
 that he cared nothing for one, and knew no- 
 thing of the other." 
 
 But two gentlemen of a more thoughtful 
 cast walked the hall in low and serious dis- 
 course, apprehensive by their words that the 
 injury would. prove fatal to Cuthbert; and re- 
 solving that so fierce an action as that of Sir 
 Charles should not pass unpunished. These 
 were friends and neighbours of George Juxon ; 
 and expressed themselves well pleased that, for 
 the sake of Sir Oliver and his family, so useful 
 and kind a person chanced to be at Milverton 
 under the present circumstances. 
 
 At last the long expected surgeon arrived 
 with the messenger who had been sent for him, 
 both having used all diligent expedition. He 
 was introduced into the chamber of the patient 
 by Juxon, and immediately proceeded to exa- 
 mine the wound. At the first sight he shook 
 his head, and said to himself, in a very quick, 
 low tone of voice, " The wonder is, that he is 
 yet alive;" but on questioning Cuthbert as to 
 his feelings, and finding some of the expected
 
 112 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 symptoms absent, and on very carefully ap- 
 plying the probe, he cheerfully exclaimed, 
 " There is good hope of you, young master : 
 there is no man living could pass a sword where 
 this blade has passed without injuring a vital 
 part, if he were to try ; but a good angel hath 
 had the guiding of this one. If it please God 
 to bless my skill, you shall do well ; but it will 
 be a slow case, and a tedious time before you 
 will be fairly on your legs again." 
 
 " God's will be done," said Cuthbert, " for 
 life or for death." 
 
 " If that is your mind," rejoined the sur- 
 geon, " my care will be well helped, and your 
 cure the easier." 
 
 After cleaning and dressing the wound, and 
 giving particular" directions as to diet broths, 
 and writing a prescription for the necessary 
 medicines to produce composure and sleep, he 
 took his departure, promising an early visit on 
 the morrow. 
 
 The favourable opinion thus given of Cuth- 
 bert's wound was quickly made known through- 
 out the mansion, and received as welcome by
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 113 
 
 all ; operating upon each according to their 
 personal characters, and to the interest which 
 they had felt in the issue of the violent deed 
 which had stained the hospitable hall of Mil- 
 verton. Sir Charles Lambert, indeed, but for 
 the inconvenience and danger to himself, would 
 have preferred the more tragical event. As it 
 was, when Sir Philip Arundel returned from 
 the gallery to the library, to announce to him 
 that Cuthbert was considered in no present 
 danger, he uttered no word beyond his wish 
 instantly to return home. 
 
 " You are surely thankful," said Sir Philip, 
 " that this unpleasant affair has ended so much 
 better than was feared. If you will not go and 
 say so to the bleeding youth, which perhaps 
 might just now too much disturb him, you 
 will at least offer some words of atonement to 
 your elderly relative. Sir Oliver, for the out- 
 rage done under his roof, and to a youth under 
 his protection ; a deed to be only excused by 
 pleading that your anger transported you into 
 a paroxysm of madness."
 
 114 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " I shall go home," said Sir Charles : " are 
 you ready ? " 
 
 " I will never, sir, again cross your threshold : 
 you are no English knight — you are not even 
 a man. I shall send orders to my grooms to 
 follow me on my road home." 
 
 These words were swallowed by the same 
 man who would have taken a life that same 
 morning for a look of contempt ; and with 
 a white cheek, on which passion literally 
 trembled. Sir Charles hurried to the court- 
 yard, called for his horse, mounted, and 
 dashing spurs into his sides, rode violently 
 away — hatred in his own heart, and contempt 
 pursuing him. In succession all the guests 
 took their departure, except George Juxon, 
 whom Sir Oliver requested to continue with 
 him till the morrow ; and who, more for the 
 sake of the patient than of the family, assented. 
 He was not sorry that Sir Charles had de- 
 parted in the manner and in the temper de- 
 scribed, nor did he care now to have his 
 person secured; for his offence, though grave 
 as it yet stood, was not of a nature that in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 115 
 
 those days subjected to imprisonment any one 
 who could find bail for his future appearance : 
 and in the present case it was clear that 
 Cuthbert would never prosecute a relation 
 (albeit base and unworthy), yet a relation of 
 Sir Oliver Heywood. 
 
 The good knight, though a kind man, a fond 
 father, and an easy master, having walked 
 through life upon a path of velvet as smooth 
 as his own lawn, was sadly discomposed by this 
 visitation of care ; and the very trouble and 
 irregularity that was caused by it was felt by 
 the old gentleman in many ways that he dared 
 not confess to others, and was ashamed to ac- 
 knowledge to himself. A great weight, indeed, 
 was taken from his mind by the assurance of 
 Cuthbert's safety ; for he was humane, and he 
 liked the youth : but he had private reasons 
 for a deep regret at the conduct of Sir Charles 
 Lambert, and the interruption to their inter- 
 coarse which would of necessity ensue, and 
 almost wished that he had parted with his 
 young tutor immediately after that discovery
 
 116 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 of his political leanings which he had liimself 
 not many days ago so frankly made. 
 
 However, what had now befallen Cuthbert 
 beneath Sir Oliver's own roof, and by the hand 
 of his own relative, gave him new and increased 
 claims upon the knight's protection and kind- 
 ness, and there could be no further thought of 
 their separating now till a distant period. The 
 day wore rapidly away, and by the hour of 
 supper some appearance of order was again 
 restored to a mansion, in which every thing 
 usually proceeded with the regularity of clock- 
 work. 
 
 An intermitted dinner was an occurrence 
 of which there was no previous memory or 
 record in the recollection of the oldest servant 
 on the establishment. Among the minor cir- 
 cumstances, and not the least affecting to the 
 manly mind of Juxon, was a little dialogue 
 which he overheard between the little girl 
 Lily and the boy Arthur, the child being 
 unable to comprehend the fact of one man 
 cutting another man with a knife on purpose 
 to hurt him. The true nature of the atrocious
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 117 
 
 action of course no one cared to explain to the 
 little innocent ; but she had learned from the 
 servants that Master Cuthbert was run through 
 with a knife by Sir Charles Lambert ; and she 
 had come to cousin Arthur, in a grave and 
 pretty wonder, to know what they could mean. 
 
 The next day, being the birthday of Sir 
 Oliver, was that on which the masque in pre- 
 paration was to have been represented before a 
 party of the neighbouring gentry, who had 
 been specially invited to celebrate that annual 
 feast in the good old hall of Milverton. Of 
 so pleasant a holyday there could now be no 
 further thought; and the May-day festival which 
 was to follow the day after, though of course 
 the villaojers would have their dance according' 
 to the immemorial custom, would lose half its 
 gaiety and spirit by the absence of the family 
 from the manor house, and especially of the 
 gentle and sweet Mistress Katharine, whose 
 words and ways had won for her all the hearts 
 in Milverton, and for miles round. 
 
 It was an evening memorable in the life 
 of Juxon, that in which he first sat down at
 
 118 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 table with the small family circle of the Hey- 
 woods ; — in which he looked upon the ma- 
 jestic forehead of Katharine, — marked the 
 gentle fire of her dark eyes, and the expression 
 of all that is sweet and engaging in humanity 
 about a mouth where her noble qualities were 
 most fairly written. 
 
 After the grave and laudable custom of those 
 good old times, the evening service from the 
 Book of Common Prayer was invariably read 
 to the assembled households of the country 
 gentlemen. The office of reading prayers was 
 usually in the absence of a clergyman per- 
 formed by Sir Oliver himself as the priest of 
 his own family, or at times he deputed Cuthbert 
 to supply his place. The duty this evening 
 was performed by Juxon in a solemn, feeling, 
 impressive manner ; and when it was concluded, 
 and the family retired, he hastened to the 
 chamber of Cuthbert, and finding that the 
 composing draught had taken kind effect, and 
 that he was dropping off into a comforting 
 sleep, withdrew again with as soft a step as he 
 had entered, and, exhausted with the fatigues
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 119 
 
 and the painful excitements of the day's ad- 
 ventures, he repaired to his own room, and 
 thankfully lay down to rest. As he was ex- 
 tinguishing the lamp, his eye read the posy 
 on the wall ; and he could not but feel a sweet 
 pleasure to be reposing in such a mansion, 
 and with such a family : — 
 
 " Would'st have a friend, would'st know what friend is 
 best? 
 Have God thy friend, who passeth all the rest."
 
 120 THE BROKEN FONT 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 Love is a kind of superstition, 
 
 "Which fears the idol which itself hath framed. 
 
 Sir Thomas Overbury. 
 
 CuTHBERT was awakeiicd at midnight by pain : 
 — the glimmer of the night lamp in the little 
 room adjoining cast a dim light into the cham- 
 ber where he lay ; and the breathing of the 
 aged female servant, who sat there in watch, 
 told him that she had been overcome by 
 sleep. He cared not to disturb her, and made 
 an effort to reach the cup of water on the 
 little table by his side, but he found that he 
 was no longer equal to the slightest exertion — 
 he could not even change his posture. He 
 endured his thirst, and tried to collect his 
 thoughts, and gather up all that had passed 
 in the hall, but he could not : he was dizzy with 
 the sense of having been pushed to the very
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 121 
 
 brink of eternity, and snatched back again. 
 A gleam shone upon the portrait of Luther 
 which hung opposite. "Though he slay me 
 yet will I trust him," was now his own whispered 
 act of confidence in God, and he lay passive, 
 silent, and hopeful. Not only was he heavily 
 oppressed with bodily anguish, but his mind, 
 after undue excitement, and proportionate de- 
 pression and exhaustion, had sunk into a state 
 of torpor. At the moment when Sir Charles 
 Lambert made the insidious speech to Sir 
 Oliver, which Cuthbert truly discerned to be 
 aimed at his suspected principles, and still more 
 basely at a supposed line of conduct which he 
 had far too high a sense of integrity to pursue. 
 At that moment it seemed to him as if it 
 was but fair and honourable to make open 
 avowal of his true sentiments ; but in the same 
 quick glance of the mind he saw the first bitter 
 and inevitable consequence. He must quit 
 Milverton immediately, and for ever. Sir 
 Oliver could no longer have retained in his 
 family a man openly admiring the cause and 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the course of that party in the kingdom which 
 opposed the crown. 
 
 The colhsion in his mind of this fear of 
 separation from so much that he loved, and of 
 the honest impulse to do what was right, begat 
 a momentary desperation ; and thus it was, that 
 he rose upon that occasion with so unbecoming 
 a want of calmness, and that he was about to 
 preface his statement by exhibiting his un- 
 measured scorn for the base assailant of his 
 character, but the too sure destroyer of his 
 present happiness. 
 
 By the strange and bloody interruption of 
 his purpose, the avowal of his political opinions 
 was checked : his expression of contempt for 
 Sir Charles had found utterance, and had been 
 followed by a consequence, carrying with it, 
 indeed, a severe rod of rebuke to himself for 
 his rashness, but punishment in a tenfold de- 
 gree more insupportable to his proud and 
 brutal enemy ; and, as a crowning conso- 
 lation to Cuthbert, his sojourn beneath the 
 blessed roof of Milverton was at least, foi- very 
 many weeks to come, perfectly secure. He had
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 123 
 
 felt no sorrow when he heard the surgeon pro- 
 nounce his case as one that would be tedious — 
 and that it must be long before he could be 
 safely moved. 
 
 He would have had a stronger reason for 
 joy and thankfulness, could he have known that 
 he had been the cause of producing such a 
 developement of the fierce and cruel temper of 
 Sir Charles Lambert as saved Katharine Hey- 
 wood, if not from actually accepting him as a 
 husband, to which she would never have con- 
 sented, at least from all the present persecution 
 of his attentions, as well as from all expression 
 of the blind but yet obstinate wishes of her 
 otherwise indulgent father. 
 
 As Katharine lay wakeful on her pillow, be- 
 lieving and hoping that the life of Cuthbert 
 would be spared, and no permanent injury would 
 affect his future health or usefulness, she could 
 not regret the occurrence of the morning. 
 
 Certainly she would have died rather than 
 
 have gone to the altar with Sir Charles, but 
 
 she would have remained continually exposed 
 
 to his selfish addresses ; and this match having 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 been the favourite plan of her father from her 
 earliest girlhood would have been perpetually 
 urged upon her by him in those many indirect 
 and distressing ways in which affectionate and 
 obedient children are sometimes long and un- 
 generously tormented by covetous or ambitious 
 parents. 
 
 One thing, when she first heard of the catas- 
 trophe, found a brief admission into her mind, 
 and till she was made fully acquainted both by 
 her father and by Juxon of all that had passed, 
 and of the words which had been uttered at 
 the time, was not entirely dismissed. This was 
 no less than a fear, faint, indeed, and most re- 
 luctantly viewed as possible, that the quarrel 
 might have arisen out of some feelings on both 
 sides connected with herself. Nothing was 
 farther removed from the true dignity of her 
 noble character than the desire of making an 
 impression upon any one ; and it would have 
 very seriously pained her, if those kind atten- 
 tions, by which she had sought to make Cuth- 
 bert at home in the family, should have given 
 birth in his breast to any warmer sentiment 
 than that of respectful friendship.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 125 
 
 Her humility and her modesty were so gen- 
 uine that she was quite unconscious of her own 
 personal attractions, and, though alive to the 
 beauty of many of her female friends, she re- 
 garded it as a quality so inferior, and secondary 
 in its power of interesting the heart, or winning 
 the homage of the mind, as to give little 
 advantage to its possessor in the daily inter- 
 course of society. This opinion being in her 
 sincere and rooted, her charms were worn with 
 a grace and ease so natural, that her influence 
 over all who came within their sweet and 
 magic circle was irresistible. 
 
 This being her character, it was a great re- 
 lief to her to be persuaded that there was not 
 the slightest ground for the apprehensions, which 
 she had slowly admitted. She was now sur- 
 prised at herself for having entertained them 
 even for a moment. She saw in the conduct of 
 Cuthbert nothing more than a burst of human 
 pride irritated into violence by the haughty 
 insults of a worthless superior. Thus all her 
 suspicions of the truth were lulled to sleep : 
 and to alleviate the sufferings of Cuthbert 
 G 3
 
 126 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 during his confinement, and to cheer his con- 
 valescence when the hour of it should arrive, 
 was to her plain judgment a simple and a pleas- 
 ing duty. 
 
 Sir Oliver himself passed a weary and feverish 
 night, — all things seemed out of joint: one of 
 his most favourite schemes was broken, — and 
 his prospects of a peaceful and indolent old age, 
 under the shadow of his own trees, were some- 
 what shaken. The trumpet of war had not, in- 
 deed, as yet sounded in the heart of England, 
 though English blood had been already spilled 
 freely on the borders. The few tall yeomen, 
 with their goodly steeds, sent by himself to join 
 the King's forces in the north, lad marched 
 fast and far only to meet an early end, and to 
 swell the loss and the discredit of the ridiculous 
 expedition against the Scots. With Sir Charles 
 Lambert for a son-in-law, he would have felt 
 better able to meet and take share in the com- 
 ing troubles ; and he reflected on the difficul- 
 ties before him with dismay. Of battle or of 
 death he had no fear, — though at his time of 
 life, and with his habits, it was small service be-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 127 
 
 yond that of a ready example of devotion which 
 he could render in a camp ; but when he 
 thought of Katharine, and of Arthur in his boy- 
 hood, and of his aged sister, his household pre- 
 sented but a defenceless aspect. However, after 
 the scene of yesterday, he could not ever directly 
 encourage any future addresses of Sir Charles 
 to his daughter ; and it could not but suggest 
 itself plainly to his own mind, as a gentlemen 
 of a true English spirit, as far as personal bra- 
 very was concerned, that little dependence could 
 be placed upon the courage or firmness of a 
 man capable of the cruel and dastardly assault 
 which he had yesterday witnessed. He had yet 
 to learn the moral energies and the latent he- 
 roism of his noble daughter, and to discover the 
 strength and the wisdom of a woman's mind, 
 when the love of father and of country guide it 
 in the path of duty and of honour. Some time 
 was to elapse before the days of trial ; and, in- 
 dulging that love of ease which was habitual to 
 him, he strove to stifle or put away from 
 him the unwelcome conviction that come they 
 G 4
 
 128 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 must, and could not be averted. Therefore it 
 was with no common sense of comfort, that, 
 when he came forth into the gallery the next 
 morning, he found Katharine, and his sister, and 
 Arthur, already there, waiting to receive him 
 with the kisses of fond congratulation, and saw 
 his own portrait and that of his departed wife, 
 who had been to him as an angel gently leading 
 him for good, and ever watchful to guard him 
 from error, framed, as it were, with choice and 
 dewy flowers. He gazed at the portrait of his 
 wife and then at Katharine, alternately, and was 
 melted into a gush of grateful tenderness. AH 
 fears, difficulties, and troubles seemed to vanish 
 in a present feeling of thankfulness and delight. 
 He went instantly on to the chamber of Guth- 
 bert : Juxon had been there from an early 
 hour, and the surgeon was engaged at the mo- 
 ment in dressing his wound. 
 
 The sight of the amiable young man, lying 
 pale and helpless, bandaged and in pain, greatly 
 moved Sir Oliver. He took Cuthbert by the 
 hand, and spoke to him in that warm and feel- 
 ing language of condolence which is balm to a
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 129 
 
 sufferer's mind. Tlie benevolent surgeon took 
 a lively interest in his patient, and spoke most 
 confidently of effecting a complete cure, — 
 although he repeated, that the case would prove 
 very tedious, and many weeks must elapse before 
 he could be permitted, or indeed be able, to 
 quit the recumbent posture. He gave direc- 
 tions that he should be kept particularly quiet 
 in his actual state, and not be spoken with o), 
 disturbed throughout the day, except to give 
 him necessary refreshment or medicine. 
 
 At the earnest invitation of Sir Oliver, Juxon 
 consented to remain at Milverton till the even- 
 ing. The day passed pleasantly away. The 
 worthy knight recovered his usual spirits ; 
 Mistress Alice her composure; and Katharine 
 Hey wood, having much secret content and thank- 
 fulness at heart, looked like some gracious angel 
 of peace and goodness. 
 
 It was a day of bliss to Juxon : — one never 
 forgotten, but marked white for ever. He was 
 one of those men who felt a reverence and ten- 
 derness for woman; and, whenever he addressed 
 them, his eyes, his voice, his whole manner 
 G 5
 
 130 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 plainly manifested respect. He expected in the 
 female character gentleness, purity, and charity; 
 and yet, by some strange inconsistency, he 
 shunned the society of women, was seldom to 
 be seen in those gay and glittering circles where 
 they shone, and where he might have been soon 
 disenchanted of his cherished illusions. 
 
 His residence in a sequestered parish in the 
 country afforded him few opportunities of visit- 
 ing where ladies were to be met ; and being 
 fond of all sports and manly exercises, and so 
 ripe a scholar as to find study and the chase a 
 pleasant relief to each other, he had not as yet 
 been careful to seek opportunities of increasing 
 his female acquaintance. 
 
 Whatever there was of silent and maidenly 
 reserve in sweet Katharine herself towards com- 
 mon strangers, and upon ordinary occasions, 
 vanished at a time like this, in the presence of 
 so manly, so modest, and so frank a man as 
 George Juxon. As the family sat that day at 
 table, not a shade of embarrassment was visible 
 in any of the party : — Sir Oliver was in high 
 good humour ; the boy Arthur looked at their
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 131 
 
 guest with those honest eyes which, in boyhood, 
 fear not to show either like or dishke ; and the 
 Httle girl Lily, permitted that day to dine in 
 the hall, sat without shyness opposite to Juxon, 
 and shunned not his smile or his word of notice. 
 
 The day wore on : — he walked with the 
 ladies upon the verdant and velvet paths in the 
 flower garden, — he paced the terrace with Sir 
 Oliver, — and his presence was felt by them all 
 as a strength and a comfort. 
 
 The shade upon the dial had stole silently, 
 but swiftly, forwards, and touched upon seven 
 in the evening, when he ran up to the chamber 
 of Cuthbert to press his hand at parting ; and 
 having afterwards said his farewell to the ladies 
 on the lawn, he descended to the court-yard, 
 accompanied by Sir Oliver and the boy Arthur, 
 mounted the gallant roan gelding upon which 
 he had hunted his way down on the morning of 
 yesterday, and again shaking the hand of his 
 host, and accepting a warm invitation to repeat 
 his visit soon and often, George Juxon rode out 
 of the gates at Milverton with a very new and 
 strange feeling. 
 
 G 6
 
 132 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The free animal, on which he rode, was im- 
 patiently checked as often as it broke from the 
 measured walk at which it was now the pleasure 
 of his master to travel homewards; and, what- 
 ever might be the cause, he was not allowed to 
 perform in less than two hours a distance to be 
 very easily accomplished within one. The 
 reverie of Juxon was unbroken during the whole 
 ride. The evening was mild, and the hedge- 
 rows were green, and the air was perfumed here 
 with the scent of violets, there with the fragance 
 of cottage gardens or blushing orchards, and 
 upon the woody or open parts of the road with 
 the rich incense of the fresh-blown May. 
 
 The news of Sir Charles Lambert's violence 
 had reached his parsonage before him ; and in 
 the stone porch his old housekeeper met him 
 as soon as he had dismounted, with as much 
 anxiety as if he had narrowly escaped murder 
 himself The good old body, with that genuine 
 philanthropy of feeling which is as natural as 
 their breathing to kindly natures, learned the 
 safety of Cuthbert, whom she had never seen or 
 heard of before, with a lively expression of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 133 
 
 motherly joy ; and Juxoii was roused to remem- 
 ber how very narrowly the youth had missed an 
 early and melancholy fate. Truth to say, so 
 much of pleasure had grown up within these 
 two days from the very circumstances arising 
 out of the assault on Cuthbert, for her young 
 master now to dwell on, and there seemed to 
 open before him so pleasant a prospect in future 
 intercourse with the family at Milverton, that, 
 perhaps, he hardly felt enough for the present 
 sufferings of the unfortunate patient. 
 
 His thoughts, however, were soon diverted 
 from Milverton, and from himself, by the entrance 
 of his old gardener, to say the May-crown, which 
 was kept in the summer-house, had been taken 
 away, and that he had found a written paper on 
 the shelf where it stood. This the old man 
 handed to his master, saying he could not read 
 it, but guessed it boded no good for the coming 
 holyday, and that he had been gathering flowers 
 to dress out the old May-pole to little purpose. 
 George Juxon took the paper, upon which, in 
 a stiff, quaint hand, were written these lines: —
 
 134 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " This head in a crown, and that without ears, 
 
 Is the pleasure of prelates, of courtiers, and peers. 
 
 Dance, revel, and sing, ye butterflies gay ; 
 
 The time is at hand you shall weep, fast, and pray. 
 
 One holdeth the war-dogs, all ready to slip ; 
 
 Pleasure's cup shall be spilled, and dashed from the lip. 
 
 To me is committed this message of woe : 
 
 The tears of the proud ones unpitied shall flow." 
 
 He no sooner read it, than, quitting his sup- 
 per, he went out into the village to ascertain if 
 any copy of it had been left at any other place; 
 and found, to his vexation, that one had been 
 fastened to the May-pole, and had been taken 
 down and read to half the people. Determined, 
 however, that the customary sports should be 
 neither hindered nor damped, he took home with 
 him the village carpenter, set fairly to work, 
 and in two hours, by the aid of lath, and 
 pasteboard, and Dutch gilding, they finished off 
 a crown far more splendid than the one stolen ; 
 and he wrote underneath it, with prompt good 
 humour, — 
 
 " The preacher hath said it — For all things a time — 
 For fasting, for feasting, for dancing, for rhyme : — 
 No rhymes without reason shall hinder our pleasure ; 
 We '11 crown the old May-pole, and tread the old measure."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 135 
 
 This done, he again thought of Cuthbert's bed 
 of suiFering, and remembered him in his prayers. 
 This little cross occurrence in his parish 
 neither drove away his own sleep for a second 
 nor delayed on the morrow the sports of his 
 parishioners. Here, as in many other places, 
 the popular and wise course of the minister pre- 
 served a good and happy understanding among 
 the people. There is no social state more truly 
 desirable than that of a well-ordered village po- 
 pulation, where the miseries of the lane and the 
 alley cannot reach; labour is performed in the 
 open air; festivals are days of thanksgiving, 
 danced through upon a green sward, to the 
 nodding heads of merry musicians; and they see 
 no crowns but such as are woven with roses for 
 their May-queen, and know no sceptre but 
 a white wand wreathed about with fragrant 
 flowers.
 
 136 THE BROKEN FONT 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 Though their voices lower be, 
 Streams have, too, their melody ; 
 Night and day they warbling run, 
 Never pause, but still sing on." 
 
 GeORGK HlCKES. 
 
 For three summer months Cuthbert Noble was 
 confined to a couch ; and though latterly he was 
 led forth into the garden, and suffered to lie down 
 on a bench in the shade, yet his confinement 
 had been lonely as well as tedious. No kind- 
 ness on the part of any of the family was wanting: 
 whatever could be thought of for his convenience 
 and comfort was provided. While he was obliged 
 to keep his own chamber, he was visited daily 
 by Sir Oliver; Mistress Alice and Katharine 
 looked in upon him together, and inquired gently 
 concerning his pain ; the boy Arthur would 
 often forego his play in the garden, or his prac-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 137 
 
 tice in archery, to sit and read to him; and not 
 a week passed without a friendly and cheerful 
 visit from George Juxon. Nevertheless, he was 
 evidently dejected; and while he was grateful 
 for all these attentions, nothing, it was observed, 
 could effectually rouse his spirits to cheerful- 
 ness, although he repaid, by anxious words and 
 quiet smiles, the least service which was done 
 him. About the trouble which he unavoidably 
 gave the servants, who, for their parts, were ever 
 ready to oblige him, he was scrupulous even to 
 anxiety. He seemed to pine after liberty — and 
 would sit, for hours together, lost in deep thought, 
 or in vacant sadness. It so happened that the 
 clergyman of Milverton, whose manners were 
 coarse, and whose morals were low, did not visit 
 at the Hall. Although originally appointed by Sir 
 Oliver, at the request of a friend, who, acquainted 
 with his family, had taken little care to inquire 
 more particularly into his character, he had early 
 quarrelled with his patron, and preferred the free- 
 dom of an ale bench to the restraints of good society^ 
 This was unfortunate for Cuthbert; as a learned 
 and religious clergyman, residing in the village,
 
 138 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and intimate at the hall, might have kept him 
 straight in the plain path of the true churchman. 
 Now, though Juxon, had he been aware of all 
 that was passing in the mind of Cuthbert, might 
 have been truly serviceable in disabusing him 
 of some strong prejudices, yet, as he presumed 
 him to be a true son of the church, the subject 
 was seldom named. 
 
 He came to cheer and amuse him if he could; 
 and the very atmosphere of Milverton Hall was 
 that of purity and delight to George Juxon. 
 His summer months presented a strange con- 
 trast to those of Cuthbert. He gave up his 
 buck-hunting in the afternoons : he could not 
 abide the rude and noisy companions of that 
 sport of which he had been always so fond; 
 and now he might be seen, day after day, in 
 the guise of an angler, on the grassy margin of 
 a silver stream, or, not unfrequently, stretched 
 at his length beneath a shady tree near the 
 bank, or sitting under a high honeysuckle hedge; 
 and if he were not chewing his own sweet fancies, 
 some book in his hand, of good old-fashioned 
 poetry, to aid his pleasant meditations. George
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 139 
 
 Juxon was now a lover — without melancholy, I 
 do not say, — but only with so much of it as is ever 
 welcome to a lover's mood, and gives a dignity to 
 his passion. Nevertheless, his hope was un- 
 avowed ; nor was he in haste : a long courtship 
 was the fashion of those days ; and a mistress 
 seemed raised in the fancy of her admirer, by the 
 thought that she must be slowly approached, and 
 would be slowly won. 
 
 His family, his private fortune, his present 
 provision in the church, and his future prospects 
 from the favour of the bishop, were such, that Sir 
 Oliver could not object to him as a suitor for 
 his daughter, though he might give the pre- 
 ference to another; and certainly, with her 
 father, the title of a baronet would have out- 
 weighed that of a dean. However, these cir- 
 cumstances could only encourage him in his 
 more sanguine moments, for Juxon was a modest 
 man ; and when he called up the image of 
 Katharine in his walks, and thought upon a 
 certain majesty in her countenance, and how 
 serene and immoved she was, how unsuspicious 
 of the admiration which she excited, he could
 
 140 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 not but fear that she might prove indifferent to 
 the suit of one so plain and unvarnished as him- 
 self, and that she would never entertain his 
 addresses. Therefore it was that he nursed his 
 ]ove in secret, and patiently restrained all ex- 
 pression of particular regard for Mistress Ka- 
 tharine in his present visits to Milverton. How 
 pleasant, in the mean time, were all those visits ; 
 how swiftly he rode through lane and wood, 
 across field or common, as he went from home 
 on those permitted errands of friendship; and 
 at what a slow and lingering pace would he 
 return from the gracious presence of this lady of 
 his love ! 
 
 He had often heard it rumoured that Sir 
 Charles Lambert was thought to be the accepted 
 son-in-law of Sir Oliver; but this he had always 
 doubted from the very first moment of his intro- 
 duction at Milverton ; and he felt that Katharine 
 could never have endured his attentions. By 
 these, however, she could now be troubled no 
 farther; for Sir Charles, being deeply mor- 
 tified and ashamed of the frantic violence which 
 he had committed at his last visit, had left his
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 141 
 
 home suddenly for London, and was solacing 
 himself, for the contemptuous affront which he 
 had received from Sir Philip Arundel, in the 
 congenial atmosphere of bear gardens and cock 
 pits. Nor had he forgotten how roughly he was 
 handled by George Juxon, whom he at once 
 feared for his courage, and hated for his virtues. 
 
 However, he was no longer a visiter at Mil- 
 verton; his sisters, indeed, still rode over from 
 the Grange occasionally to pass a day with 
 Katharine, and twice Juxon was of the party at 
 table. 
 
 To most eyes he would have appeared the 
 admirer rather of these ladies than of Mistress 
 Katharine; for Old Beech rectory was only 
 four miles from Bolton Grange : and though he 
 seldom accepted the invitations of Sir Charles, 
 yet he met them often in hunting or hawk- 
 ing parties, and was apparently a very great 
 favourite with them both. Sophy and Jane 
 Lambert were both pretty: the one, with the 
 rosy cheeks of health and laughing blue eyes ; 
 the other, brown and freckled, with an arch look 
 that seemed to detect those secrets which men,
 
 142 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and women too, most anxiously conceal, with a 
 provoking and unerring sagacity. 
 
 These good-tempered and warm-hearted girls 
 had been at first sadly afflicted about their 
 brother's conduct ; but this last care concerning 
 him was now six weeks old, and had been dis- 
 missed from their minds. He was, to their great 
 contentment, now absent, and their tongues 
 were again loosened to playfulness. 
 
 As the party sat at dinner in Milverton Hall 
 one day, about the middle of June, and as Juxon 
 was carving a capon, that he might help Mistress 
 Alice to a delicate wing, — 
 
 " Prithee, Master Juxon," said Jane Lambert 
 with a very roguish expression of the eye, " did 
 you not hear our merry voices on Wednesday 
 evening as we killed a buck under Walton 
 coppice? and did you not see us lift our velvet 
 caps to you ? and did you shut your ears to the 
 pleasant horn ? or were you charmed to sleep by 
 the fairies under that broad beech tree in the 
 Bird Meadow? or were you saying your prayers ? 
 or were you reading Master Ford's Lover's Me-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 143 
 
 lancholy? or were you thinking of our Lady 
 St. Katharine here at Milverton ? " 
 
 Juxon was so confused at this last question 
 that he put the wing of the capon into the sauce 
 boat instead of on the trencher of Mistress 
 Alice, and said, with a stammer and a blush, — 
 " Really, Mistress Jane, you are too bad ; 
 but I know that you dearly love a joke upon 
 anglers : you are always jeering poor Moxon." 
 
 " O do not mind her," said Katharine Hey- 
 
 wood, coming to his relief: " she is privileged to 
 
 say what she pleases, without meaning what she 
 
 says ; and my poor name always serves to point 
 
 a fancy, if she wants one : if she were not so 
 
 young and so pretty, she might be taken up for 
 
 a false fortune-teller, and a dealer in witchcraft." 
 
 " Cousin Kate, if I am a fortune-teller, I am 
 
 a true one; and if a witch, you know I am a 
 
 white one, and work marvellous cures. Shall I 
 
 tell your fortune ? and shall I name the name of 
 
 a true knight in a far country?" 
 
 A glance from the noble eyes of Katharine, 
 which no one perceived but Jane Lambert,
 
 144- THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 rebuked her into silence; and trying, though 
 awkwardly, to laugh off the liberty which she 
 had evidently taken with the feelings of Katha- 
 rine, she sent her trencher for some venison, and 
 said no more. 
 
 Sir Oliver, too, fastening upon the simple fact 
 of Juxon having turned a fisherman, began ral- 
 lying him for having made so bad an exchange, 
 as to leave the merry and social sport of hunting 
 for the dull and solitary exercise of angling. 
 
 " It is true," said the knight, " I have myself 
 been forced to give up the jolly buck hunt; but, 
 life of me, I could never take up with a rod and 
 line in the place of it. I do wonder, when I see 
 a man mope about the meadows, and stand, it 
 may be, for hours, under the same willow, by the 
 broken bank of a sluggish river, that it doth not 
 end in his hanging himself for very weariness of 
 the flat world." 
 
 " And yet," quoth Juxon, " fishing hath its 
 pleasures, ay, and its sport too ; but if the 
 angler catch nothing, still he hath a wholesome 
 walk in the pure air ; and if he go abroad early, 
 and listeneth to the matins of the heaven-loving
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 145 
 
 lark, he shall not want sweeter music than the 
 cry of hounds, and the blasts of hunting horns." 
 
 " By my faith. Master Juxon, you are be- 
 witched ; but whether by old Margery or by the 
 sparkling eyes of Jane I say not ; by Margery, 
 methinks ; for the faint heart of an angler will 
 never win such a sprightly lady of the woods as 
 our Jane." 
 
 " Nay, nay, Sir Oliver, when a man is be- 
 witched, and by love, too, as Mistress Jane will 
 have it, his thoughts must be too roving and 
 unquiet to sit still upon a mossy bank watching 
 for the trembling of a quill." 
 
 " Ay, ay; but he may sit quiet enough, and 
 not watch any thing but his own fancies. I do 
 verily think that thou must be touched with some 
 strange care, to let thy brave gelding race it 
 round his pasture for the madness of his desire 
 to follow the chase, at sound of which he neigh- 
 eth for his rider, and thou sitting the while like 
 some poor scholar alone upon a tree stump." 
 
 " At the least I find one blessing rests on 
 anglers — where they walk, the grace of humi- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 lity doth grow, lowly as the daisy, and plentiful 
 as the meadow sweet." 
 
 " I think," said Katharine, " that Master 
 Juxon has good right to walk the valley with 
 his rod, without being thus rated for his plea- 
 sure; and if he useth to find good thoughts 
 in all he meeteth by the river side in summer 
 gvenings it is more than hunters do in the 
 forest." 
 
 " Marry, Kate, it is to get rid of thought that 
 men go a-hunting. I tell thee that cares and 
 sorrows, and wrongs and vexations, cannot keep 
 pace with a bold hunter ; self is forgotten ; all is 
 life, and joy, and wild delight. Troth I have 
 lost mind and heart since the merry days when 
 I hunted." 
 
 " I am of thy mind, Sir Oliver," said Juxon, 
 '' and the falling leaf of October, and the chill 
 gloom of November skies, can never cloud the 
 heart of a hunter ; but when woods are green, 
 and sunbeams warm, and birds are singing, 
 methinks the yelp of a hound is unseasonable 
 music." 
 
 " Well," said Jane, " all I know is, that you
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 147 
 
 seldom missed an afternoon last summer; and 
 if it was an early hunting day and a stag turned 
 out in the morning, in spite of the green trees 
 and the warbling larks, Master Juxon was never 
 last in the field ; but I will rate you no more : 
 for, may-be, you are afraid of the Puritans, and 
 do study Master Stuhbes^s Anatomie of Abuses, and 
 will give up the wicked ways of Esau, and 
 turn shepherd — gentle shepherd, shall it be, or 
 good?" 
 
 " Lady," said Juxon, gravely, " there are good 
 men among the Puritans; " and seeing her colour 
 a little at his tone, he added, with a smile, " and 
 good anglers too; but, in truth, you have hit 
 me hard : for there are good men, who are no 
 Puritans, who think that the sport of hunting is 
 not seemly in a parson, especially in times like 
 these." 
 
 " Puritans or no Puritans," said Sir Oliver, 
 " I hope you don't mind the muddy race that 
 croak these black lessons of duty. I do not 
 know whether they be fools or knaves ; but they 
 would preach us into walking tomb-stones, each 
 showing its memento mori." 
 H 2
 
 148 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " Beyond all question," replied Juxon, " they 
 are wrong in many things; and push their severity 
 against things innocent and pernicious with little 
 or no distinction, with a strained application of 
 Scripture prohibitions, and with a profound 
 ignorance of human nature ; and they seem only 
 to discern God in clouds, and to hear him in the 
 thunder. But there are men of great and stern 
 virtues among them ; and, it may be, of gentler 
 hearts and gentler views than we give them 
 credit for." 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it. They are 
 fanatics in religion, and knavish traitors in their 
 politics : you think of them with more charity 
 than I do, and it is a false charity, Master Juxon. 
 There was one of my own name and kin among 
 them : he turned republican, forsooth ; old Eng- 
 land, forsooth, had no liberty ; our good church 
 was a harlot, and all the rest of it; and he 
 would seek true freedom in the forests and 
 swamps of New England; and away he went 
 with wife and daughters, and a son, whom he 
 had made as great a fool as himself A youth, 
 sir, that bearded me with his treason at my own
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 149 
 
 table. I sent him packing at midnight, sir, 
 and would not let him sleep the night under my 
 roof; and, in good truth, he was as ready to go 
 as I to bid him; and now he and his father are 
 felling trees in America for aught I know, or 
 care, indeed." 
 
 Katharine Heywood proposed to her aunt and 
 the Lamberts that they should go into the 
 Lime Walk, and Juxon would have turned the 
 conversation; but Sir Oliver, with the images 
 of his absent cousins before him, went on venting 
 his feelings, as if in soliloquy. " The son of a 
 clergyman, too, sir, a younger brother of mine, 
 long dead, and he himself having been the faith- 
 ful servant of a king, well accounted of for valour 
 and discretion in the camp of the great Gus- 
 tavus, where he commanded a regiment of mus- 
 keteers. He to turn against kings and good 
 order ! He that punished a fault against dis- 
 cipline like a sin against Heaven, and taught his 
 son that obedience was the first duty of a soldier, 
 to come home, with his brave boy to his own 
 country, and teach him to flout at the majesty 
 of the crown ! Troth, sir, the king was quit of 
 H 3
 
 150 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 bad subjects, and I of troublesome relations, 
 when they took ship for the Plantations. I wish 
 all that are as fantastic in their notions would 
 follow them." At the close of this burst, the 
 old gentleman took a cup of wine with an eager- 
 ness that sought relief, and a trembling hand, 
 that betrayed how deeply he was agitated by 
 angry feelings. 
 
 Juxon, very unwilling to hear him further on 
 so painful a subject, asked permission of the 
 knight to go and visit Cuthbert Noble for half 
 an hour, and promised to join him afterwards in 
 the bowling green for their customary rubber. 
 As he passed out of the hall, a serving man was 
 coming in with Sir Oliver's pipe and tobacco- 
 box ; and leaving the strange weed to perform 
 its calming office, Juxon, happy to escape, ran 
 up stairs to the chamber of Cuthbert. 
 
 The surgeon was seated by his side ; and from 
 the conversation, which, although they concealed 
 not the subject or the tenour of it at the entrance 
 of Juxon, they soon dropped, it was evident to 
 him that they had a mutual understanding in 
 matters of religion and politics, and were both of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 151 
 
 them friendly to the cause of the parliament. Il 
 had so chanced that, during the whole of his 
 confinement, Cuthbert had, in the person of the 
 surgeon who attended him, been daily in contact 
 with a mind very deeply imbued with serious 
 and severe principles. By this man Cuthbert's 
 heart had been probed to the quick; and, under 
 his influence, combining with a strong predis- 
 position in itself, was made sad and heavy. 
 
 H 4
 
 152 THE BROKEN FONT, 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Passions are likened best to floods and streames ; 
 The shallow murmur, but the deepe are dumb. 
 
 Raleigh. 
 
 When, at the proposal of Mistress Katharine, 
 the ladies left the hall, they proceeded to the 
 Lime Walk: here they separated. Aunt Alice 
 taking Sophia Lambert aside to show her a late 
 addition to her aviary, and Katharine leading 
 forward Jane towards the fish-pond, where, upon 
 a low bench, placed under the broad arm of a 
 noble cedar, they sat down quietly in the shade. 
 Under all the disadvantages of a most neglect- 
 ed education, and a rusticity of manner very near 
 to rudeness, Jane Lambert had some rare and 
 valuable qualities, which greatly endeared her 
 to those who took the pains to discover them. 
 This Katharine had done. As for the last three 
 years she had been thrown much into the society
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 153 
 
 of the Lamberts, owing to their residence at 
 Bolton Grange, and the frequent, but yet un- 
 avoidable, visits of Sir Charles, she had studied 
 all their characters thoroughly; and the result 
 of her observation satisfied her, that in Jane 
 there was at the bottom a fund of sterling worth, 
 high courage, and genuine aifection. Her 
 attainments were few and very imperfect ; but 
 she had a vigorous and a healthy intellect, which 
 digested well the best and most generous sen- 
 timents of the few books which she was careful 
 to read. Not a tenant or cotter upon the estate 
 of her brother but had a look of honest love for 
 Mistress Jane ; and the falconers and foresters 
 were proud of a bright lady who knew their 
 craft so well, and had so true an eye for the slot 
 of a deer or for the dim- seen quarry. If any' 
 poor man had a favour to ask of Sir Charles, it 
 was through her, as the ready advocate of all 
 who needed help or implored mercy, that the 
 petition was preferred. Her admiration and 
 love for Katharine Heywood were unbounded : 
 she looked up to her as a model of exalted ex- 
 cellence, and with that affection which par- 
 H 5
 
 154 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 takes of reverence ; not that this was of a nature 
 to check or chill the natural display of fondness 
 in their ordinary intercourse ; but at times the 
 power of the loftier sentiment over her was so 
 great, that her exuberant and unguarded levity 
 would be in a moment abashed and driven away 
 by one look from Katharine. Thus it had been 
 to-day at table ; and now, as they sat, she pressed 
 her hand upon the shoulder of Katharine, and 
 leaned her cheek upon it, and said feelingly, — 
 
 " Dearest cousin Kate, why did you look so 
 very sad and so very grave to-day ? I was only 
 joking ; do not be angry with me, my sweet 
 coz : I shall fret if I think you have been really 
 angry." Katherine bent her face and kissed 
 the presented cheek. 
 
 " Was I ever angry with you, Jane ? " she 
 asked. "You know that I never was; but it is 
 true that you often make me very anxious for you, 
 and sometimes quite sad, by your ill-timed and 
 thoughtless gaiety. Consider a little more the 
 consequences of idle words, and their effect on 
 strangers." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I will ; but there is no harm
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 156 
 
 done, for I do not look upon Juxon as a stranger; 
 and he is so sensible, and so good-tempered, that 
 he will never take any speech by the wrong 
 handle, and so honest and straightforward, 
 that he will never look under it for a hidden 
 meaning." 
 
 " But yet, Jane, even Juxon will think it odd, 
 that while the victim of your brother's passionate 
 frenzy still lies on a couch helpless with his 
 wound, and while your brother, who has nar- 
 rowly escaped committing the heaviest of crimes, 
 has absented himself for very shame, his sister 
 should sport, as if nothing had happened, and 
 be as playful in her words as a girl without 
 care." 
 
 " Do you think so ? I should be sorry for 
 that: but you know that I do not love my 
 brother; and Cuthbert is safe from all danger, 
 and out of all pain ; and you are well, cousin, 
 and not the sadder for this accident, if I know 
 your heart as well as I love your happiness; and 
 why then should I not appear cheerful, when, 
 in truth, I am so. I should be vexed, indeed, 
 if Juxon thought the worse of me ; for he is one 
 H 6
 
 156 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 whose good opinion is worth having; but as for 
 that of the world, I care not a jot about it," 
 
 " There you are wrong, dear Jane : the opinion 
 of the world may, and must be, in some things, 
 despised, but the rule of its established pro- 
 prieties and gentle observances can never be 
 transgressed, without bringing some heavy pe- 
 nalty on the offender." 
 
 " I do not love the world so well, dear Katha- 
 rine, as to care for either its frowns or its favours ; 
 and I looked not for an advocate of its cold 
 maxims and its deceitful forms in you — let it 
 see me as I am." 
 
 " There is your error, Jane: it cannot, it will 
 not, it cares not to take the trouble to see you 
 as you are; it looks only at your seeming; and 
 though to be is better than to seem, and many 
 seem fine gold that are but base metal, yet no 
 one can despise the judgment of the world with- 
 out rashness and without danger. They who 
 place themselves above the opinion of the world, 
 and the best rules of society, cast off a useful and 
 an appointed restraint in the discipline of life." 
 
 " Sweet coz, I love to hear you lecture, but
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 157 
 
 you will never make me wise : 1 was born under 
 a common star, and reared with foresters : — 
 look as I like, and speak as I think." 
 
 " Ah, dear Jane, you will some day learn to 
 govern your bright looks, and to keep your 
 sweetest thoughts locked closely in your heart. 
 Wisdom herself, and, perhaps, though God for- 
 bid, sorrow will be your teacher." 
 
 The serene eyes of the majestic Katharine 
 were clouded, for a passing moment, with such 
 a sadness as a compassionate angel might have 
 worn ; and she pressed Jane tenderly to her 
 breast. 
 
 " Promise me," she said, " dearest cousin, 
 promise me faithfully that you never again hint 
 even to any human being, the idle fancy that 
 hung this morning on your lips, or the name 
 you would have connected with it." 
 
 " The promise has been already made in my 
 own mind : your look was enough to make me 
 wish the light word unspoken, and the tongue 
 that uttered it blistered for a month to come. 
 You are the only one at table who could 
 have understood my allusion. I am certain that
 
 158 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the most distant thought of my meaning could 
 not enter the mind of your father or your aunt." 
 
 " This, I beheve, and it is well it should not^ 
 the bare suspicion, harboured in his mind, would 
 make him miserable for life, and embitter his 
 last moments with unworthy fears. I know his 
 nature well : much as he loves me, and confides 
 in me, to pacify his anger, and quiet his jealous 
 apprehensions, would be, even for me, an impos- 
 sible achievement ; and yet he knows, or should 
 know, that I am an English daughter." 
 
 '* How is it, Katharine, that you command all 
 hearts ? that not a man approaches you but he 
 is at once, as by some sweet force, compelled to 
 love you ? and yet it is no wonder : there can- 
 not be on earth another Katharine." 
 
 " Cousin, this is idle and wicked talk ; you 
 must not use such vain and sinful words : would 
 you could see me as I see myself, when, prostrate 
 in weakness, I implore and find strength where 
 alone it is to be obtained ; but you cannot un- 
 derstand me yet." 
 
 " Nay, Katharine, do not rebuke me so sharply 
 for simple truths : why Charles himself is so
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 159 
 
 tamed and altered for the day whenever he re- 
 turns from Milverton, that I have sometimes 
 been selfish enough to wish to see you his, in 
 the hope that I might find a brother changed in 
 nature ; but no, dear Kate, I love you too well 
 ever seriously to dwell on such a desire." 
 
 "Jane, do not, prithee, do not pursue this 
 foolish fancy further." 
 
 " It is not fancy : can I not see? have I not 
 eyes, and the perceptions and sympathies of 
 woman ? I tell you, the poor woe-begone scholar, 
 that lies lonely on his couch above there, did 
 look upon you as good men look up to the blue 
 heavens." 
 
 " Cousin, I will not stay another moment 
 with you if your discourse is not changed to 
 some better tone than these weak and unwomanly 
 delusions of your idle brain do give it." 
 
 "As you will, blessed coz, I say no more ; 
 but one need not be very deeply read in love- 
 craft to prophesy that one of these fine days the 
 worthy young rector of Old Beech will tell you 
 that himself which I may not tell you for him." 
 " Jane," said Katharine, as she slowly rose.
 
 160 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and they moved back towards the Lime Walk, 
 " you are not, my dear girl, serious, I hope, in 
 this last surmise : you are not in earnest : it 
 would greatly perplex and trouble me if I thought 
 you were, and had good reason : about Cuthbert 
 I am sure that you are altogether mistaken." 
 
 " No, Katharine; I am a poor unfashioned 
 creature, with little knowledge of the world, 
 and little skill in books, or fair accomplish- 
 ments : but this one gift I have, — I can read the 
 human countenance, and see written thereon 
 the thoughts of the heart, the play of the secret 
 passions, the inclinations of the inner will, in 
 characters plain to my faithful eye, and plainly 
 I repeat my conviction that both these men do 
 love you. The one will give you no trouble : 
 his flame will burn within his melancholy heart, 
 like a lamp glimmering in a tomb; but the 
 other will make open avowal of what he is proud 
 to feel, and will surely be courageous enough to 
 confess : now do not look so pale and grave, 
 but thank me for the timely caution. Kiss 
 me, sweet coz ; my sister is calling for me, and 
 we must go." The tall and queen-like Katharine
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 161 
 
 folded her young cousin to her heart ; and Jane 
 felt a tear fall heavy on her cheek as they em- 
 braced and parted. 
 
 Katharine had one of those fine and stately 
 forms which the sculptor of ancient times would 
 have chosen to copy with his happiest skill, as 
 the incarnation of wisdom. Her features were 
 Roman ; her dark hazel eyes were long and 
 even, and there shone in them a soft, chaste fire ; 
 her mouth was pensive ; but though the ex- 
 pression of her countenance was ever serious, 
 yet was it human, gentle, and she would more 
 fitly have represented the melancholy vestal, 
 than the calm, passionless Minerva. She re- 
 turned leisurely to her favourite cedar, and 
 seated herself in that sad repose of the mind 
 into which even the strongest and most virtuous 
 will sometimes allow themselves to sink, as a 
 short relief from the internal conflict. It was 
 clear to her that Jane had penetrated that one 
 secret, which she would hardly confess to her- 
 self, and which she could have wished had been 
 altogether confined to her own bosom, and that 
 one other, from which she felt resolutely and
 
 162 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 for ever divided. It was strange that the open- 
 hearted girl had never mentioned it before ; it 
 was well that she had only now hinted it so 
 vaguely as to leave it impenetrably veiled to 
 others ; it was well, too, that she had thus early 
 arrested the danger of all further discovery, and 
 obtained from the fond and faithful Jane that 
 promise of secrecy, on which she could safely 
 rely. Still it was disturbing to her pure and 
 noble spirit, that even this sweet girl should be 
 privy to her heart's great trial. However, Jane 
 would understand her future silence on the sub- 
 ject, and well knew that those confidences, which 
 the weaker order of women are ever ready to 
 pour into the ear of the female friend, would 
 never pass her lips. She held them too sacred, 
 and she had that dignity of soul which in a 
 sorrow of that peculiar nature is all-sufficient to 
 itself. Could Cuthbert from his couch of patient 
 suffering, or George Juxon from his solitary 
 rides and walks, have looked in upon the heart 
 of Katharine, and seen the image, which often 
 rose before her mind's eye, and as often as it 
 did so was felt to be a cherished one, the former
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 163 
 
 would have striven against his weak idolatry 
 yet more resolutely than he already did, and the 
 manly Juxon would have given to the wind his 
 vain hopes, and would have forborne to distress 
 her with the language of a suitor. 
 
 Katharine did not return to the mansion till 
 long after all the guests had departed. 
 
 It was the hour of supper ; but she pleaded 
 headache, retired to her chamber, and seated 
 herself at the window to watch the dying day. 
 There was a universal calm in nature ; every 
 leaf was still : there was a holy hush around ; 
 colours of a blessed hue streaked the far western 
 sky ; they grew faint, they faded, and the grey 
 gloom of a summer's night rested upon all things. 
 She was roused from a long reverie of sweet 
 though solemn fancies by the entrance of her 
 maid with a lamp, and in a few minutes after- 
 wards she was joined by her aunt Alice. 
 
 There was never in any nature more of the 
 milk of human kindness than in Mistress Alice : 
 — her own disappointments had subdued her 
 vivacity, without souring her temper, or freezing 
 her manners. Forgetful of herself, she lived for
 
 164 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and in the happiness of others, and her niece 
 Katharine was to her as a daughter; — not that 
 she exercised any thing like a mother's control; 
 Katharine had so ripe an understanding, and 
 so mature a judgment, that Mistress Alice 
 leaned upon her mind as though it were that 
 of a sister or a bosom friend, to whose opinion 
 she was pleased to defer her own. 
 
 She loved Sir Oliver with a true affection, 
 but she was not blind to the faults of his 
 character. She knew him to be impatient of 
 contradiction, full of strong prejudices, easy and 
 indolent — the being of habit and of custom — 
 but violent when thwarted, and selfish when 
 opposed. Nevertheless a kind brother, a fond 
 father, a liberal master, and a most loyal sub- 
 ject. It always deeply grieved her when she 
 heard him speak harshly of her nephew Edward 
 Hey wood, and his son Francis, for they were 
 the offspring of an unfortunate brother, to 
 whom she had been very closely attached from 
 her childhood. 
 
 " This has been a trying day to me as well 
 as to you, Katharine," she said when they were
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 165 
 
 left together. " I think my poor brother allows 
 himself to be more troubled about public matters 
 than is good for him ; and I wish that he would 
 avoid the mention of your unhappy cousins in 
 connection with those subjects — however wrong 
 they may be, they have cares and troubles 
 enough for pity, rather than hard words and ill 
 wishes." 
 
 Katharine looked steadily at her aunt when 
 she began to speak, and was rather startled at 
 her opening words ; but as she proceeded, 
 discerning clearly it was only a sympathy in 
 common with her own that she invited, re- 
 plied, quietly, that " it was indeed very painful 
 to see the good temper of her dear father giving 
 way so early in times like these, which were 
 only the beginning of troubles; but consider, 
 dearest aunt, he has passed all his life in pleasure 
 and ease — my blessed mother made his peace 
 her study; and, though she could never win 
 him to her own happiest views of the only 
 bliss, her whole life was a transcript of those 
 gentle and charitable sentiments which were 
 the secret springs of all her actions. He re-
 
 166 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 posed upon her character, and found a tran- 
 quillity, of which he shared the comfort, but 
 which lived not within his own breast." 
 
 " Well, Katharine, I am sure you follow in 
 your mother 's path, and as far as daughter may, 
 you supply her vacant place in his esteem and 
 reverence. He loves you not as parent loves a 
 child. You are his daughter, but you are also, 
 in all seemly matters, his cherished adviser : — I 
 have often noted it, my dear, with joy." 
 
 " Do not humble me so sadly — my mother's 
 path ! — alas ! I am far from it — far out of the 
 way, when I think of her exalted hopes, her 
 self-denying life, and her settled peace ; and 
 when I look within, I am ashamed, and may 
 well tremble at the comparison : — but yet I 
 cherish the memory of her bright example ; 
 and the words you have just spoken shall rouse 
 me to do all by my father, which if her sainted 
 spirit could look down upon us she would her- 
 self approve. I know the duty of a daughter, 
 and I know how much the happiness and the 
 honour of a father may be promoted by her due 
 performance of it. You have well shown me
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 167 
 
 the better way. For my father, and to my 
 father, I will devote my life, and cast self and 
 all softer wishes behind me. When the first 
 rough steps of difficulty are passed, the noble 
 qualities of my father will all be seen : — bless 
 you, Aunt Alice, for your sweet counsel." 
 
 " My dear Katharine, you are not wont to be 
 thus excited: your calmness and your even 
 dignity have ever been beyond your age : I 
 meant simply what I said, and designed not, by 
 any hint, to stimulate you to any course of con- 
 duct beyond that which I have always observed 
 you to pursue: — you are not well — you think 
 too much of what may happen — troubles are 
 fast travellers, and need not be met half way — 
 you are not well." 
 
 " I believe you are right — I cannot be well 
 — the day has been oppressively hot — and my 
 temples throb with pain." 
 
 Mistress Alice taking from the dressing table 
 a curious shaped bottle of eastern porcelain, 
 which contained elder-flower water, sat down 
 tenderly by Katharine, and bathed her temples 
 with gentle care. The noble girl leaned back
 
 168 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 upon her chair, silent, passive, grateful : — no 
 sob escaped her; no nervous tears were al- 
 lowed to fall ; but to a keener eye than that 
 of her benevolent aunt a slight quiver on the 
 lip, and a heaving of the folds above her bosom, 
 quicker than the wont, might have told that 
 very deep and painful emotions were struggling 
 in her full heart. 
 
 Mistress Alice would not leav^e her till she 
 saw her quietly put to bed, when, giving her the 
 kiss of peace and good night as her pale cheek 
 lay upon the pillow, she took her lamp, and 
 went softly out of the chamber. 
 
 Restored to solitude and silence, Katharine 
 sent her sweet thoughts and prayerful Welshes to 
 that distant land, where, upon the narrow 
 clearing of some tall and ancient forest, in their 
 canvass booth or rude hut, after a day of new 
 and unaccustomed toils, her self-exiled but heroic 
 cousins reposed : the picture of their labours 
 was to her mind primitive and sacred — and 
 all the images presented to her fancy were 
 peaceful.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 169 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 Can warres, and jarres, and fierce contention, 
 Swoln hatred, and consuming envie, spring 
 From piety ? 
 
 Henry More. 
 
 The good parson of Cheddar was never in- 
 formed of the severe misfortune of his son 
 till all danger was long past, and his convales- 
 cence was advanced to such a point that he 
 could assure his parents he should soon be 
 perfectly restored to health and to his wonted 
 activity and strength. 
 
 Noble and his wife were both deeply affected 
 at the thought of all which Cuthbert must have 
 suffered, and at the considerate care which he 
 had manifested for their feelings. His letter 
 was brief, and his relation of the conduct of Sir 
 Charles Lambert was given in such a calm and 
 quiet tone that it was plain he had learned the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 hard lesson to forgive an enemy. Yet it con- 
 tained some expressions which troubled his 
 father with the too sure presage of that course 
 which Cuthbert was about to follow. 
 
 He intended, it said, to leave Milverton at 
 Michaelmas, and should recommend that Ar- 
 thur, who was sufficiently forward in his studies, 
 should be then entered at the University. " I 
 shall not," it added, " accompany the dear boy 
 to Oxford; indeed, with my sentiments, it would 
 be alike unjust to Sir Oliver and to the youth 
 himself to retain my present office in this family. 
 Where a tutor is called upon to conceal his 
 opinions and suppress his feelings (on the most 
 important and the most sublime subjects which 
 affect the present interests of society and the 
 everlasting happiness of man), in his daily in- 
 tercourse with his pupil, both parties are very 
 seriously injured." 
 
 It was particularly remarked by his mother 
 that, in this letter, while Cuthbert acknowledged, 
 in general terms of w^armth, the kindness with 
 which he had been treated throuohout his ill- 
 
 o 
 
 ness by the whole family at Milverton, and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 171 
 
 while he mentioned the friendliness of Juxon, of 
 whom they had never previously heard, and 
 dwelt still more on his deep obligations to 
 Master Randal, the surgeon, he never even 
 named Mistress Katharine, of whom he had 
 spoken with such a romantic warmth in his 
 former correspondence. 
 
 " My dear," said Noble, " Cuthbert has been 
 on the brink of the grave, and his mind is full 
 of all that has been solemn and awakening in 
 that awful experience ; but it is not a good sign 
 that he has avoided all detail of that experience 
 to us. I doubt not that his piety has been 
 deepened, but I am not without a fear that his 
 head is taken up with new notions, both of 
 doctrine and of duty, and that he was unwilling 
 to open them out to us. However, if by any 
 path he has advanced to a nearer and more 
 affecting view of his Redeemer than that to 
 which he has hitherto attained, let us rejoice 
 and thank God. He has all along been defi- 
 cient in that simplicity of view which begets 
 humility, peace, and joy: — he refines too much 
 on every subject which is presented to his mind ; 
 I 2
 
 172 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 muses when he should act ; speculates when he 
 should pray ; and is lost in the cold and unsub- 
 stantial clouds which veil the mountain, when 
 he might stand upon the serene summit in the 
 warm light of the Sun of righteousness. 
 
 " It was ever thus with him. In childhood we 
 neglected to subdue his will, and we shall suffer, 
 and he himself will suffer for our fond but 
 mistaken indulgence." 
 
 " I am sure, dear, that he was always affec- 
 tionate and dutiful, and always will be." 
 
 " Nay, Constance, that does not follow. He 
 will always love us, I am well persuaded ; but 
 whether he will remain obedient to our wishes 
 in those trying scenes which may sooner or 
 later be presented to our eyes is very doubtful." 
 
 " Well, Noble, it will be time enough to 
 think of that when the trial comes : — happen 
 what may, I feel certain that all will be safe and 
 happy where you are. God ever takes good 
 care of his own ; and I always feel that there is 
 a blessing and a guard round about our dwell- 
 ing, for your dear sake." 
 
 " Wife, how can you talk so weakly. What
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 173 
 
 is there in two worms of the earth, like you and 
 me, that should procure for us an exemption 
 from calamity? — but this is unprofitable talking 
 — sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof — 
 to enjoy is to obey — and the voice of thanks- 
 giving is melody. Let us bless God for past 
 mercies, and bless him by trust for all future 
 goodness." 
 
 Their conversation was here interrupted by 
 the entrance of Peter, to say that Master Daws, 
 the sour precisian, who, it may be remembered, 
 would have before prevented the customary 
 sports and pleasures on the festival of the May- 
 day, was at the gate, and wanted to see Parson 
 Noble, for a few minutes, on very urgent busi- 
 ness. 
 
 To rise and go out and ask him into his study 
 with all courtesy was, of course, the duty of 
 Noble, both as a brother minister and a Chris- 
 tian gentleman ; but it was with no doubt as to 
 the nature and object of his visit that he did so, 
 and with a desire to bring their interview to as 
 early a close as might consist with common 
 civility. 
 
 I 3
 
 174 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The contrast of the two parsons as they 
 entered the study, and as Master Daws seated 
 himself in the tall chair which Noble drew 
 forward for him with a quick and rather, indeed, 
 an impatient motion, was comic in the extreme, 
 and would have greatly diverted any of Noble's 
 old college cronies, as it would, of a truth, the 
 good vicar himself, could he have looked on, 
 and been spared the vexation of playing as a 
 principal in the dull performance. 
 
 Master Daws was a tall, gaunt, bony person- 
 age, of a stature exceeding six feet by nearly 
 two inches : he presented a rigid outline of 
 sharp angles from his cheek bones to his pointed 
 and protuberant ankles. His features were 
 coarse ; his complexion muddy ; his eyes round 
 and dull ; his forehead low; and there was an 
 expression of bad temper about the corners of 
 his mouth. His black hair was cut close, and 
 he had thin weak eye-brows. 
 
 He seated himself with a slow solemnity of 
 manner ; placed his tall greasy cane erect be- 
 tween his knees, and folded his clumsy hands 
 upon the top of it ; turned up the whites of his
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 175 
 
 eyes in a pretended ejaculation; and in a drawl- 
 ing tone delivered himself of his hypocritical 
 errand as follows : — 
 
 " My dear brother in ihe Lord — thou art 
 esteemed a master in Israel — thou hast a name 
 to live. I would fain hope that thou art not a 
 willing partaker of the sins of thy people ; but 
 verily they stink in the nostrils of all true 
 Christians, who are thy neighbours. We have 
 conferred together — we are sore grieved — we 
 are ashamed for thy sake — and I am come to 
 reason with thee alone concerning the abomin- 
 ations which are daily committed in thy parish, 
 lest thou perish and thy people with thee." 
 
 The good parson listened to this strange 
 address without anger, without wonder, and 
 without reply. The graceful ease of his com- 
 posed attitude of attention, — the clear light of 
 his kind intelligent eyes, — his high pale intel- 
 lectual forehead, — his frame slender, and a 
 little bent with the weight of advancing years, 
 and the thin white hairs scattered on his 
 temples, — would have made the sincere but de- 
 luded fanatic hesitate to proceed, or would 
 I 4
 
 176 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 have melted his remonstrahce into all that was 
 gentle and affectionate in expression.. On the 
 conscious, the interested, and the incensed hy- 
 pocrite, however, hi« calmness had the opposite 
 effect ; and Master Daws, with a most stern 
 tyranny of tongue, in language clumsily mis- 
 quoted from the sacred books of the prophets, 
 and grossly misapplied, went forward to de- 
 nounce the wrath of Heaven against the poor 
 rustics of Cheddar and their aged pastor. This 
 speech we would rather leave to the imagination 
 of such readers as may be familiar with the in- 
 congruous and disgusting jargon in which the 
 sour zealots and the gloomy sectarians, who 
 were then daily extending their severe notions, 
 uttered their iron anathemas against the inno- 
 cent gaieties of life. At the close of his very of- 
 fensive harangue, he drew forth from his pocket 
 a small volume in black letter, and presented 
 it to the good vicar with these words : — 
 
 "Brother, I have been perhaps too warm ; but 
 the fire burned within me, and it is accounted 
 the first duty of a servant to be faithful. It is 
 my zeal for the Lord ; — and herewith, in love
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 177 
 
 and compassion to thy poor blinded people, and 
 in pity to thy soul, I do present to thee for thy 
 private reading, and for the instruction of thy 
 benighted mind, this book, which is ' The Ana- 
 tomie of Abuses : containing a Discoverie or briefe 
 Summarie of such notable Vices and Corruptions as 
 now raigne in many Christian Countreyes of the 
 Worlde : but especially in the Countrey of Ailgna : 
 together icith most fearfull Examples of God's 
 Judgements executed upon the Wicked for the same, 
 as well in Ailgna of late, as in other Places elsewhere. 
 Very godly, to be read of all true Christians every 
 where ; but most chiefly to be regarded in England. 
 Made Dialogue-wise by Phillip Stubbes. This 
 wordy title-page, placing his spectacles upon his 
 nose, he read slowly with a nasal whine, which 
 the compression of the ill constructed spectacles 
 he wore not a little assisted. 
 
 " Neighbour Daws," said Noble patiently, 
 " I do not need thy service in this matter, seeing 
 I have on my own shelves the book of Master 
 Phillip Stubbes; and I deny not that it contains 
 some godly maxims and sound precepts, and it 
 may have done some good by its ridicule of 
 I 5
 
 178 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 many vanities, and its condemnation of many 
 sins and abuses: but I think he distinguishes 
 not between things innocent and hurtful, and 
 tears up many pleasant flowers of God's giving, 
 under the dark fancy that they are poisonous 
 weeds; — for the rest that thou hast spoken 
 thyself concerning the little flock and fold over 
 which the providence of God hath made me the 
 humble and willing shepherd, I will not call thee 
 unmannerly and uncharitable. I have heard 
 thee with pain, though with patience ; and, while 
 I give thee full credit for sincerity in thy 
 opinions, desire not to hear them further, now 
 or ever again." 
 
 As thus he spoke, he rose, and indicated by 
 that action his wish that the interview should 
 not be prolonged. Daws also, with a horrible 
 smile upon his hideous face, in which was to 
 be discerned all the mad irritation of a mean per- 
 son, who felt himself despised, and for the mo- 
 ment baffled in producing alarm, raised himself 
 slowly from his seat, and answered, — " Satan, 
 the prince of hell, is lord over thy village and 
 thy people — and he has blinded thy aged eyes,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 179 
 
 and sealed thy dumb mouth : — verily the Lord 
 shall visit for these things, and that speedily ;" — 
 so saying, he stalked out with uplifted eyes, and 
 as he passed the threshold stamped the dust from 
 his feet with a vindictive action, and departed. 
 "I wish that Cuthbert could have witnessed 
 this scene," said Noble, as he saw the ruthless 
 and envious bigot pass forth out of the wicket, 
 and stride angrily across the church-yard ; " but 
 the wish is vain." 
 
 Upon inquiring of Peter, he learned that, on 
 the preceding evening, this morose personage 
 had found a dozen children playing round a small 
 bonfire, in a glen about half a mile from the 
 village, and celebrating, as a game of play, the 
 festival of St. John's eve, — the observance of 
 which had in the present reign been discon- 
 tinued. The joyous urchins, alike innocent of 
 pagan or popish idolatry, were dancing about 
 the flames, and tossing flowers into the rivulet, 
 which flowed past the spot where they had kin- 
 dled them, when Daws, wlio had his secret 
 designs in many a walk which he took to the 
 neighbourhood of Cheddar, came suddenly upon 
 I 6
 
 180 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 them, and driving them off with execrations and 
 blows, kicked the half burned sticks into the 
 water : — the little fearless sinners, however, 
 making a swift and active retreat up a rock, 
 where they felt secure from pursuit, revenged 
 themselves by shouts and laughter ; and in 
 this the little fellow who had witnessed the 
 ludicrous fall and flight of this same Daws on 
 May morning, and who had been again recog- 
 nised by him this evening, led the merry chorus 
 of impudent little rebels with conspicuous glee. 
 
 Although Noble listened to this news with a 
 smile, the severe and mischievous spirit evinced 
 during his interview with Daws, both in lan- 
 guage, tone, and manner, gave him more un- 
 easiness than he chose to impart to his wife, to 
 whom he related much o f what had passed be- 
 tween them in a light and jocular vein. But, 
 alone, he could not but be impressed with the 
 conviction, that a curate of this harsh and male- 
 volent character was a very uncomfortable and 
 unsafe neighbour, and might hereafter prove 
 dangerous. 
 
 However, he had now plainly paid his last
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 181 
 
 visit in the quality of brother clergyman ; and, 
 if he was ever to come in that of enemy and 
 accuser, he could only do so under the restrain- 
 ing guidance of that mighty, merciful, and 
 mysterious Providence, which ordereth all things 
 wisely and well. 
 
 The good pastor was ill qualified to coun- 
 teract the intrigues, or to contend with the 
 violence, of parties. He was a quietist, an opti- 
 mist, a dweller at home, enjoying to-day, and 
 taking little anxious thought for the morrow. 
 His hours were divided between his parish, his 
 study, and his garden. 
 
 Old Blount, the most honest and hospitable 
 of English franklins, was the only neighbour 
 with whom he could associate upon a footing 
 of mutual intercourse : but there was not a 
 threshold in the village which he did not often 
 cross with some friendly inquiry or cheerful words 
 upon his lip ; not a child, that would not rather 
 run to than from him ; and the cottage curs 
 were too familiar with his step and voice to do 
 more than raise and turn their heads as they lay 
 watching at the doors, when Noble passed by.
 
 18*2 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 His chief recreation was the weekly visit to 
 Wells. As regularly as the appointed day came 
 round, the worthy parson mounted his old white 
 mare, with her well stuffed saddle, rejoicing, in a 
 seat covered with cloth of a pale sky blue, much 
 faded, and he was carried at a meditative jog- 
 trot to the fair and ancient city. 
 
 Here, at the house of his friend, he would re- 
 fresh his spirits by listening to (and sometimes 
 joining in the rich performance of) the best 
 madrigals of the never surpassed composers of 
 that day, and taking his part in most pleasant 
 and tuneful exercises on the viol and the lute. 
 
 The troublous aspect of the times had of late 
 somewhat altered the character of these meet- 
 ings ; and the two holyday hours were now for 
 the most part, if not entirely, consumed in grave 
 and anxious consultations on public affairs. 
 The severe spirit of the church reformers of 
 that period frowried upon every semblance of 
 pleasure : to them the song of harvest, the dance 
 of the village green, and the merry catch round 
 the winter hearth, were things sinful and for- 
 bidden, and the peal of the solemn organ in the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 183 
 
 house of prayer and praise was hated as an 
 abomination. 
 
 Yet they might have read in Scripture, in the 
 very words of holy men of God, that " the ear 
 of the Lord listeneth to the song of the reaper, 
 and the joy of harvest ; and that he dehghts not 
 to turn the dance of the vintage into mourning, 
 nor to make the young cease from their music :" 
 but because the good provisions of God are 
 daily abused by the many, who consider not 
 the gracious Giver of them, therefore they would 
 have the bread of all steeped in tears, and eaten 
 with the bitter herbs of mourning. Of a truth, in 
 some degree every Christian man, and minister 
 more especially, must be a mourner, and is: but 
 the spirit would fail and faint if it might not 
 also taste the rich consolations of a hallowed 
 joy ; and if, amid the labours, the toils, and the 
 mean cares of the daily pilgrimage, man might 
 not stoop to gather the flower at his feet, or 
 pause to listen to the feathered choristers of 
 God's own temple, it would be to refuse and put 
 away, with a sullen unthankfulness, the comforts 
 which the Father of mercies has provided.
 
 184 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Of such enjoyments Noble was most fearlessly 
 fond. To him the world of nature was a vast 
 and richly illuminated volume ; on the various 
 pictures of which he could pore for ever, with 
 all the wonder, and with all the rapture, of child- 
 hood : — " his Father made them all" — that was 
 his feeling. The arrows of trouble and disappoint- 
 ment fell blunted from a bosom, the shield of 
 which was a God seen, acknowledged, and felt, 
 in all things visible, as the very essence of love.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 185 
 
 CHAP. XL 
 
 He makes the infirmity of his temper pass for revelations. 
 
 Butler. 
 
 The summer months at Milverton rolled swiftly 
 on, Cuthbert slowly, but perfectly, regained his 
 strength; and, early in August, he was once 
 more able to walk abroad and to take exercise 
 on horseback; but his vivacity and animation 
 did not return with his health : he was no longer 
 the cheerful and entertaining companion at table, 
 or in the intervals of leisure. Sir Oliver found 
 him a dull restraint, and wearied of his pre- 
 sence : even his pupil, who was truly attached 
 to him, and was still, in the hours of study, de- 
 lighted with his preceptor, felt the sad and 
 depressing change; and if it had not been for 
 the frequent visits of George Juxon, would have 
 been disappointed of many of those joyous and
 
 186 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 manly exercises which Juxon delighted to en- 
 courage, and in which he excelled. The only 
 diversions by which Cuthbert could now be 
 attracted were fencing, and the use of the broad 
 sword : but he practised them without a smile ; 
 and there was an earnestness of attention and a 
 seriousness of effort about him, whenever he took 
 a lesson from Juxon, which drove away smiles 
 and jokes. His stamp was angry; the glance of 
 his eye rapid and piercing ; and after six weeks 
 of occasional practice, when Juxon told him he 
 would soon be a strong and complete swords- 
 man, the grave scholar, so quiet and gentle in 
 all his ways and words on common occasions, 
 hastily and vehemently exclaimed, " Thank 
 God." 
 
 " For what ? " asked his good-tempered in- 
 structor, " for what do you thank God so 
 warmly ? " 
 
 " It matters not, it matters not," replied Cuth- 
 bert, hastily ; " time will show." 
 
 Juxon put down his sword, and, looking 
 him earnestly in the face, asked him if he was 
 well?
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 187 
 
 " What a strange question ! quite well." 
 
 " No, Master Cuthbert, it is not always that a 
 man is well who calls himself so, or even who 
 thinks himself to be so. We are alone ; we are 
 friends ; tell me what has thus moved you ; tell 
 me what it is that has so changed and saddened 
 you ; what are the dark purposes which lie hid 
 in your bosom?" 
 
 " Methinks this question is yet more strange. 
 I have no purposes that be not honest; none 
 that will not bear the light of open day; but, 
 yet, I may not care to trouble others or myself 
 by babbling of them." 
 
 " Does the blow still rankle in your bosom, 
 Cuthbert? Have you retracted the pardon ut- 
 tered on your bed ? And do you mean to seek 
 out Sir Charles, and make him do battle for your 
 revenge?" 
 
 " Master Juxon, that is not well asked : such 
 purpose would be dark, indeed: was not my 
 pardon spoken before God, and at the grave's 
 mouth? No; I forgave him as I hope to be 
 forgiven ; nay, in that it was a stab which sought 
 my life I forgave it more readily than I could
 
 188 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 have done a blow ; that, indeed, such slaves we 
 are of pride, that might have rankled still." 
 
 " True — I had forgotten — and my words have 
 wronged you ; but, Cuthbert, whatever are your 
 purposes, they do not make you happy. I met 
 you the other day riding much faster than is 
 your wont, and your countenance was clouded, 
 and your teeth were set, as if in hottest anger, 
 and you would not stop, but only muttered a 
 good morrow as you passed swiftly by. What do 
 all these things mean ? " 
 
 " They mean that I am sick at heart for Eng- 
 land; sick for the meek man's wrongs. I had 
 just then met an aged countryman, his furrowed 
 cheek newly branded, for a churchyard brawl : 
 1 questioned him closely, and found him a suf- 
 ferer for conscience' sake, falsely accused and 
 persecuted by a godless parson of his parish." 
 
 " Cuthbert, did the countryman tell truth ? 
 Did he name the parish and the parson ? " 
 
 " He did ; I know them well : in Oxfordshire 
 was this outrage done, and the crime is not three 
 months old." 
 
 " Well, here is a case of wrong to be made
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 189 
 
 known and to be redressed. Scandals there 
 must be, even in the most sacred offices, when 
 they are held by mere men. Some are cruel, 
 and some are wanton by nature, and to punish 
 these we have our judges and our bishops." 
 
 " Yes we have — and the same who ruled the 
 decisions of the Star-chamber. The wrong re- 
 dressed ! it would be smiled at ; and if it were 
 punished, what then? There 's nothing but the 
 grave- worm can take away the brand from the 
 old man's cheek: his grandchildren will put 
 their little fingers on the mark and ask the story 
 of it, and he will tell them what he told me, and 
 more. It is a hard world, Juxon." 
 
 " And always was, and always will be. Le- 
 gislation is a coarse thing; some innocent will 
 always suffer with the guilty." 
 
 " The guilty ! is liberty of conscience guilt ? 
 Look you. Master Juxon, there are good men 
 and true ready to stand up for that liberty." 
 
 " And for a little more, perhaps : your secret 
 is out ; so, instead of our sword-play being mere 
 exercise for pastime, after college fashion, I have 
 been teaching the noble science of defence to a
 
 190 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Stout Parliamentarian, to an enemy of mother 
 church." 
 
 " Nay; no enemy to any persons or any in- 
 stitutions, but to the oppressor every where, and 
 to oppression every where, by whatever titles or 
 names they may be disguised." 
 
 " You confess, then, that you wish an appeal 
 to the sword." 
 
 " I say not so ; but if it come, as it may, and 
 as in my present judgment it surely will, I shall 
 be well pleased that my fingers have been taught 
 to fight ; for I would not be wanting in the day 
 of battle." 
 
 " I have heard you, Cuthbert, speak words of 
 Christ's religion since your late illness, which I 
 have thought of so sweet and heavenly a temper, 
 as might well engage all men to follow the truth 
 in love. Surely the weapons of a Christian's 
 warfare are not carnal." 
 
 " I tell you, the fat heart of the oppressor is 
 proof against all other, and they that govern 
 with the headsman's axe must look to be 
 wounded by the patriot's sword." 
 
 " Stop, Cuthbert, we '11 say no more on this
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 191 
 
 subject — you are standing upon a precipice — 
 the gulf beneath is treason." 
 
 " Not against Heaven, Juxon ; and it is a 
 poor thing to me to be judged by my fellow 
 man." 
 
 " Yes, Cuthbert, against Heaven. Your 
 father will say so." 
 
 " Never ; though it is true that my father is 
 old and timid, and he would bear the errors of 
 the crown in charity and in hope, rather than 
 see them openly opposed by arms." 
 
 " And you would punish them in the field 
 of battle?" 
 
 " And gain a victory over the crown for 
 the greater honour and more golden purity of 
 the crown itself!" 
 
 " Are you so weak, Cuthbert, as to think that 
 a crown, beaten from a king's head by the 
 sword, and lying soiled by the dust of a fall, 
 can ever be replaced on the same brows with 
 honour ? — No ! but among the successful rebels, 
 some stern spirit would be found to wipe it and 
 put it on ; whose sceptre would have no peace- 
 ful globe surmounted by a dove ; but would
 
 192 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 rather be a naked sword crimsoned to the hilt 
 with blood." 
 
 " Never, never : — you, like many good and 
 generous persons, are the creature of prejudice 
 and of circumstance ; you do not see, and you 
 will not believe, that the temple of true freedom 
 needs only to be opened, and all the virtuous 
 and the holy will flock there to worship in 
 peace, and they will guard it alike from the 
 rude tyrant and from the slavish rabble." 
 
 " Cuthbert, you dream, and will awake some 
 day in bitterness of soul. But if these be your 
 sentiments — if thoughts like these fill your mind 
 and colour your gloomy fancies — no wonder 
 that your looks are sad." 
 
 "My fancies are not gloomy. They are 
 solemn. I am not sad, but I am serious. In 
 visions of the night, I have seen this earth re- 
 generate — its people walking in peace — holi- 
 ness on the bells of the horses. I have heard 
 the voice of thanksgiving and the song of praise. 
 I have listened for sighs, and looked for tears, 
 but there were none. I have asked about their
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 193 
 
 happiness, and they have told me, 'In this region 
 there is no one to hurt or to destroy: — we do 
 not teach every man his neighbour, for from 
 the least to the greatest we all know God.' 
 Such have been my revelations ; and I have 
 been called, and chosen by name, to join that 
 sacred band, which is to awaken a slumbering 
 and captive people, and lead them forward to 
 prepare the way for that monarchy of truth 
 and universal love which is even now about to 
 descend and bless mankind. The spear shall 
 be broken, the sword turned into a ploughshare, 
 and the sovereign Lord of all shall stand a 
 second time upon the earth, and proclaim his 
 promised reign of holiness and peace." 
 
 Juxon listened to this rhapsody with awe and 
 pain ; and not without an effort to shake the 
 strong delusion, which was evidently taking a 
 fast hold upon the mind of Cuthbert. 
 
 " My dear friend," he said, laying his hand 
 gently upon his arm, " I confess that you greatly 
 alarm me. Consider that, for the first two months 
 after your wound, you were very weak in body; 
 you were often obliged to have recourse to 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 opiates to procure rest ; and you was not in a 
 state to examine the impressions made on your 
 mind, and to separate illusion from reality. 
 There is nothing wonderful in these phantasma 
 having floated past your mind's eye : it is with 
 sounds as with sights ; the music of a dream is 
 often clear and ravishing to the mind's ear ; and 
 our name may be thus, to our sleeping fancy, 
 very distinctly called and connected with some 
 message or charge of solemn import spoken as 
 by a voice from Heaven. Or, it may be, Cuth- 
 bert, that the enemy of your soul, knowing that 
 you can only be led aside from the path of duty 
 and peace by the fair semblance of true religion 
 and freedom, hath assumed these angel shapes 
 to lure you to your ruin. 
 
 " I can understand the plain and manly lan- 
 guage of a Hampden, but this I cannot. It is 
 unhealthy ; it is the false fire of the fanatic. 
 Rouse your intellect, and turn away from these 
 notions, or you will be entangled and overcome : 
 strangle the serpent while you have strength to 
 do so." 
 
 Cuthbert replied only by the grave smile of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 195 
 
 one so firmly persuaded of the truth of his own 
 convictions as rather to pity than resent the 
 very unwelcome effort to disturb them. How- 
 ever, he now communicated to Juxon that, in 
 another month (it being then the end of Sep- 
 tember), he should accompany his pupil to enter 
 at Oxford, and should there leave him, and pro- 
 ceed himself to join a friend in London. This 
 arrangement, he observed, would enable him 
 to reach the capital about the time when the 
 new parliament was to assemble ; for it had been 
 just resolved by the King, in his great council of 
 peers held at York, that a parliament should be 
 called to sit on the third of November following. 
 
 George Juxon was truly concerned to find 
 that Cuthbert w^as so far gone in his views, that 
 to reclaim him seemed hopeless ; but there were 
 so many amiable and engaging points in his cha- 
 racter, that he could not allow any one chance 
 of recovering him from a course which he truly 
 thought would distress his father and destroy his 
 own peace of mind, altogether neglected. 
 
 He was aware that Cuthbert maintained a 
 scrupulous silence on the subjects on which he 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 had just spoken in his intercourse with the 
 family ; but he had often observed that, what- 
 ever was the matter of discourse at table, or 
 elsewhere, the opinion of Mistress Katharine 
 had great weight with him. He determined, 
 therefore, to make a full disclosure to her of the 
 state of Cuthbert's mind, and to engage her 
 good offices to dissipate, if possible, the cloud of 
 illusions which obscured or dazzled his present 
 judgment. He was, however, obliged to defer 
 this step by the sudden arrival of Sophia and 
 Jane Lambert; the latter of whom instantly 
 joined Sir Oliver and the ladies in the gallery, 
 to communicate the arrival of their brother at 
 the Grange, and his intention of again present- 
 ing himself at Milverton that evening, to express 
 his sorrow to Sir Oliver for what had passed in 
 the spring, and to acknowledge duly the frank 
 and Christian forgiveness of Cuthbert Noble. 
 
 Juxon learned from Sophia Lambert that 
 Sir Charles having met with Sir Philip Arundel 
 at some place of public amusement, had de- 
 manded satisfaction of him for the insulting 
 words which Sir Philip had addressed to him on
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 197 
 
 the evening when they last parted at Milverton ; 
 that they had retired to an adjoining tavern 
 w^ith their friends ; and Sir Philip having been 
 wounded, the quarrel was amicably adjusted, 
 and the parties shook hands. 
 
 By this due]. Sir Charles at once succeeded 
 in stopping the mouth of one who would have 
 reported the occurrence at Milverton more to 
 his disadvantage and shame than it was yet 
 considered among his London acquaintance, 
 and knew that he should in some degree recover 
 his lost ground with Sir Oliver and his neigh- 
 bours in Warwickshire. For the credit of their 
 family the sisters were naturally desirous of this; 
 and, therefore, they had preceded their brother 
 with cheerfulness, and with an earnest anxiety 
 to secure him a good reception. Jane, indeed, 
 well knew the feelings of Katharine Heywood, 
 and loved her happiness far before that of Sir 
 Charles; but still he was a brother, and the 
 head of their house ; and though she secretly 
 determined to divert his attentions and his hopes 
 from Katharine, she wished that the two fami- 
 K 3
 
 198 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 lies should resume their old footinor of nejVh- 
 bourhood and frequent intercourse. 
 
 The various projects devised by the kind heart 
 of Jane Lambert were always most readily aided 
 by an acute and contriving mind. 
 
 She had already rendered Katharine a most 
 important service in the matter of George 
 Juxon's suit, which she had put an end to before 
 any declaration of it distressing to the fair and 
 noble object of it had been made. 
 
 The modesty, the good sense, and the man- 
 liness of Juxon, enabled him, with very little 
 assistance from the delicate though playful 
 management of Jane Lambert, to discern the 
 painful truth. He plainly saw that Katharine 
 Hey wood was not at all disposed to favour, or 
 even entertain, his pretensions as a lover ; and 
 he made a worthy and successful effort to stifle 
 in his breast the sentiment, which she had in- 
 spired, that he might still enjoy the privilege of 
 visiting at Milverton as an intimate, and might 
 attain to the happy and soothing distinction of 
 being her true and faithful friend: — this conso- 
 lation was already granted to his manly heart.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 199 
 
 Katharine saw and valued his sterling qualities ; 
 and to no one in the whole circle of her ac- 
 quaintance were her manners more open, cordial, 
 and confiding than to George Juxon. 
 
 It was a curious thing, that evening, to see 
 with what a shy, embarrassed air the noble 
 Cuthbert, noble even in his errors, received the 
 silken, though forced and momentary, submission 
 of the man, whose savage anger had well nigh 
 deprived him of life. No looker on, ignorant of 
 their peculiar relation to each other, at the first 
 interview, could have remotely guessed it from 
 the manner or bearing of either. 
 
 The cheek of Sir Charles was indeed coloured 
 by a deep, though transient, stain of crimson, as 
 he made his obeisance to Mistress Katharine, 
 and took her slowly extended hand, — but with 
 Sir Oliver he was quite at his ease immediately ; 
 not so, however, with Juxon, whose presence a 
 little disconcerted him throughout the evening. 
 
 As the weather was, for the season, very open 
 and mild, and as there was a fine moon, it was 
 soon arranged by Sir Oliver, that the party 
 K 4
 
 200 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 from the Grange should sup at Milverton, and 
 ride home by moonlight. To Sir Oliver the 
 reconciliation was most satisfactory ; and as he 
 saw Cuthbert sitting at the table, as strong and 
 healthy as before the misfortune, and as he con- 
 sidered the name of Sir Charles completely 
 white-washed in society, by his duel with Sir 
 Philip Arundel, he dismised all further thought 
 about the ferocious crime which he committed. 
 It was now passed without the sad consequences 
 which might have followed — it was forgiven — 
 it was already dwindling into very insignificant 
 proportions — and was soon to be altogether 
 forgotten. 
 
 After the pleasant customs of that time, when 
 supper was ended, the music books were intro- 
 duced — the viol and lute were brought; — and 
 an hour, or more, was delightfully spent to the 
 health and refreshment of mind and body, in 
 that familiar concert, where each person was 
 expected to sing the appointed part at first 
 sight. Among the permitted pleasures of our 
 existence, those derived from the gift of sweet 
 sounds, and from the divine art of musical com-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 201 
 
 position, may be classed among the purest and 
 most refined. 
 
 They sung a few of the best madrigals of 
 Orlando Gibbons, and Bird's rich harmony — 
 " My Mind to me a Kingdom is ; " — and they 
 closed with a flowing glee for five voices, from 
 Gibbons, entitled "The Silver Swan." The 
 summer parlour in which they sung had been 
 found so warm that the casements were half 
 open, and the moonlight streamed in, scarcely 
 overpowered by the lamp, which stood upon the 
 table, and but dimly illuminated the oaken 
 wainscot and ceiling. Except a whispered 
 word, to the one sitting next, on the richness of 
 Bird's harmonies, or on the delicate and sweet 
 style of Orlando Gibbons, a long and silent 
 pause followed the evening's performance, and 
 they seemed to be enjoying again in memory 
 what they had just made vocal. Suddenly 
 there stole upon them from among the trees, at 
 a short distance, a simple and soft melody of a 
 most tender expression. It was the music of a 
 pipe or reed, but such as none of the party had 
 ever heard before. The tones were various, — 
 K 5
 
 202 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 now full and clear ; now faint and exquisite ; 
 now died away into a charmed stillness ; now, 
 again, they were heard slow, chaste, and 
 solemn, as if the burden of the air were some 
 sacred hymn. At last, after ravishing the ears of 
 the astonished party, who stood at the window, 
 or leaned upon their chairs with mute attention, 
 by breathing forth airs of strange harmony, 
 which none could distinctly recognise, the 
 invisible minstrel closed the magical prelude, 
 in heavenly and melancholy notes of surpassing 
 sweetness, with the favourite air of " Now, O 
 now," by the famous Dowland, the well known 
 friend of the immortal William Shakspeare. Not 
 one of the party observed the sudden paleness 
 and deep agitation of Katharine, while the 
 sweet notes of this beautiful air were sounding 
 in their ravished ears. All were silent, and 
 most of them absorbed in still attention; and 
 Katharine sat back in the shadow of the apart- 
 ment, so that her countenance was hid. 
 
 " Methinks it is a spirit," said Jane Lambert, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Nay, if it be," observed Mistress Alice,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 203 
 
 " it is a good one, and has been gently bred. 
 
 — I am sure I felt quite sorry when the last air 
 ceased; and as for poor Master Cuthbert, I 
 never saw any man so affected by music before. 
 
 — Do you not observe it, Katharine ? " 
 
 "I cannot wonder, because I know that Dow- 
 land is a great favourite with him ; and that air, 
 played as it was, might affect a person less easily 
 moved than Master Cuthbert." 
 
 « Well, Kate," said Sir Oliver, " after all, it 
 is but some piping stroller, perhaps, that is 
 trudging it to Coventry fair; but, what with 
 moonshine and fancy, you are making an 
 Orpheus of the vagabond, — and I dare to say 
 he would be well pleased to pipe a good fat hen 
 out of the fowl house." 
 
 " Really, Sir Oliver," said Jane Lambert, 
 "you old gentlemen are very provoking : — ^you 
 have a way of knocking down all castles in the air 
 with a crab-stick ; and if we do now and then get 
 lifted off plain ground, you bring us down again 
 with a vengeance. Now, even I, who am not very 
 romantic, was painting to myself some discon- 
 solate bard of noble presence, wandering about
 
 204 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 in sad banishment from the lady of his love, and 
 solacing his despair with the melody of this 
 pipe, given him, I am sure, by a magician." 
 
 " Whoever he is," said Juxon, who with 
 young Arthur had leaped from the window and 
 ran to the wood, coming to the open casement 
 a few minutes after, " he has certainly got the 
 ring of Gyges ; for there is not man or animal in 
 that open beechery; and if any one had run 
 forth we must have seen them in the close 
 behind." 
 
 '' It may be, Juxon, he is perched in a tree, 
 like your true nightingale," said Sir Oliver. 
 
 " Nay, we looked up into the branches caie- 
 fully, but could discern nothing : the birds at 
 roost, though, had raised their heads from be- 
 neath their wings, to listen to the strange choris- 
 ter. In faith, he is no common shepherd in 
 clouted shoon, but a rare minstrel, such as poets 
 feign Apollo. Hush ! listen again." 
 
 Again, after a playful prelude, the invisible 
 musician performed the sweet air to which the 
 song of Ariel in the Tempest was always sung. 
 
 ^' Marry, Master Juxon," said Jane, " the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 205 
 
 precious songster mocks your pains, and gives 
 you fair challenge to renew your hunt ; but I 
 think you might gather the night dew till cock- 
 crow before you would find him." 
 
 Every one seemed spell-bound till the air was 
 done, and Jane Lambert spoke ; but Juxon 
 and Arthur now ran again to the beechery, and 
 in a few minutes returned without better success 
 than before. 
 
 " Well," said Jane Lambert, " we shall soon 
 find out who it is that this dainty spirit is come 
 to honour ; for if it be Sophy or me, we shall 
 have him flying with us on a bat's back all the 
 way to the Grange ; and if it be you, dear Kate, 
 you will have more music than sleep to-night." 
 
 Katharine was spared all reply by Sir Oliver 
 gravely saying, " that he remembered when he 
 was a boy that beechery was said to be haunted, 
 and that whenever the white lady appeared it 
 boded evil to the family at Milverton." This old 
 Philip had already mentioned to the servants, 
 who stood grouped at the gate of the court-yard 
 on the right, but none of whom had dared to 
 venture down to the spot whence the music 
 came, though they had seen all which passed.
 
 206 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Master Cuthbert ventured to observe, that 
 the music was not like the wailing of a ghost, 
 which came as a forerunner of grief ; nor was it 
 of such solemnity, that a spirit from heaven 
 could take delight in it : and he doubted not 
 that the minstrel was plain flesh and blood ; 
 that he had, probably, been arrested by the 
 sounds of their little concert, had amused him- 
 self by responding to them with his own pleasant 
 instrument, and had practised cleverly upon 
 their curiosity by the nimbleness with which he 
 had evaded their search. But Sir Oliver shook 
 his head at this natural explanation of the mys- 
 tery; and the Lamberts and Juxon, after putting 
 their lips to a stirrup cup of spiced wine, took 
 leave of their host, and the trampling of their 
 horses soon died away in the distance.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 5207 
 
 CHAR XII. 
 
 Why, alas ! and are you he ? 
 
 Be not yet those fancies changed ? 
 
 Sidney. 
 
 To Katharine there had been no mystery : she 
 could not doubt that the invisible minstrel was 
 her cousin Francis, and that he was again too 
 near for her peace or his own. 
 
 Yet such is the sweet treachery of a loving 
 heart, that she could not be sad to know, that 
 one so dearly, though so hopelessly, attached to 
 her, was perhaps within sight of the very win- 
 dow of her apartment, and standing upon some 
 spot where they had formerly walked together 
 in joy. Though resolved not to grant him more 
 than one interview, and to dissuade him from 
 seeking any future opportunities of intercourse, 
 she could not but admit a natural feeling of de-
 
 208 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 light, that she should once more, though but for 
 a few brief moments, look upon him, and listen 
 to his well remembered voice. In the solitude of 
 her chamber she found that relief and freedom 
 of thought which her spirit needed : her w^ake- 
 ful night was passed in reviewing former, and in 
 shaping out future scenes ; but of this last exer- 
 cise of the mind she soon grew weary, for doubt 
 hung over all her future prospects. It was 
 about two hours after midnight, and the house 
 was quite still, when Katharine, in a frame of 
 mind that ill agreed with sleep and peace, arose, 
 and wrapped in her night robe leaned from the 
 casement of her chamber, and gazed out upon the 
 fields and woods, and caught the sheen of the 
 river as it glided beneath the holy moon. The 
 scene was calm, the air serene, and her anxious 
 spirit was soothed by contemplation. She re- 
 mained long at the window ; and as she was re- 
 tiring turned her eyes to the left, where, beyond 
 the Lime Walk, she could see the black shade of 
 her favourite cedar near the fish-pond. In the 
 moonlight near it she discerned the figure of a 
 man walking slowly upon the grass. Her heart
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 209 
 
 beat quick in her bosom ; she leaned her brow 
 against the wall : that surely was Francis. A pro- 
 jection of the building threw such a shadow over 
 her window, that her figure could not be seen, 
 and therefore she again looked forth and cast 
 her eyes towards the cedar. The figure near 
 paced slowly backwards and forwards, occasion- 
 ally pausing for a minute or more, as if gazing 
 at the house. Certainly it was Francis. For- 
 bidden all access to the mansion by the angry 
 prejudices of Sir Oliver, he had recourse to 
 music to tell her of his return. They had often 
 watched the moonbeams together from the ter- 
 race below ; they had often been sheltered to- 
 gether beneath the broad arms of that very cedar 
 in the heats of noon, till, suddenly, as by sur- 
 prise, they loved and after shunned each other, 
 from the sad knowledge that the barriers to their 
 union were many, were cold, and were impass- 
 able. As all these after-thoughts crossed her 
 noble mind, she suffered herself to look upon her 
 cousin where he kept his lonely vigil, with that 
 deep interest which must ever be inseparable
 
 210 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 from that being in whose heart we know that our 
 image is enshrined and cherished. 
 
 When the morning star shone brightly out the 
 figure of Francis suddenly disappeared. Katha- 
 rine now withdrew from the casement ; and, ex- 
 hausted by the various emotions, which had filled 
 and troubled her anxious bosom with apprehen- 
 sion and with delight, she threw herself on her 
 bed without taking off her robe, and slept so very 
 long and profoundly, that when she awoke she 
 found Mistress Alice seated by her side, with a 
 look of affectionate alarm upon her kind face, 
 and her maid frightened and in tears. It was 
 already high noon. Katharine, however, knew 
 nothing of the lapse of time ; and imagining she 
 might be an hour later than usual, was raising 
 herself up with some expression about her 
 strange fit of sleepiness, when her aunt put her 
 hand gently upon her, and bade her lie down 
 again. " When Master Randal has seen you, 
 my dear," she said, " you shall be undressed, 
 and have your bed made, and be put to rest pro- 
 perly and with comfort. He is below, and lias
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 211 
 
 been here this half hour, but he wished that your 
 slumber should not be broken." 
 
 But the effort to rise had already shown 
 Katharine the unwelcome truth — she was in a 
 high fever: — her head ached, her lips w^ere 
 parched, her mouth was dry, her skin was 
 burning. 
 
 The good doctor was instantly summoned; 
 and having examined her case with very careful 
 attention, directed that she should be confined 
 to her bed, and that her chamber should be 
 kept dark and still. 
 
 " It was a violent fever," he said, " which 
 would probably, in another stage, take an inter- 
 mittent form ; " but evidently, from the doctor's 
 manner, it was a case of danger, demanding 
 great watchfulness and skilful treatment. 
 
 Promising Mistress Alice that his visits should 
 be as frequent as possible, he returned to War- 
 wick at speed, accompanied by a servant, who 
 was to bring back the medicines prescribed. 
 
 The trouble of Sir Oliver almost amounted 
 to terror. His mind was by no means superior 
 to those fears which vulgar errors impose ; and
 
 212 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 as, in addition to the strange music of the even- 
 ing before, he had that very morning seen a 
 hare cross the high road just before his horse's 
 feet, he augured no less a calamity than a 
 fatal end to the sudden illness of his beloved 
 daughter. 
 
 Cuthbert Noble, however, rose to the occa- 
 sion ; and though it is certain that no individual 
 in the family felt a more tender affection and 
 concern for Katharine Heywood than he did, 
 yet he was enabled, by a wise sympathy, to 
 compose the fears and animate the hopes of Sir 
 Oliver, and indeed of an entire household ; 
 for a despondency fell upon all, which the most 
 comfortable arguments of plain reason and sound 
 religion did but imperfectly remove. 
 
 For three days the life of Katharine Heywood 
 was, in truth, in very imminent danger, and the 
 fever was of that malignant nature which defied 
 all ordinary treatment : but as the doctor was 
 a man of great decision and boldness in his 
 practice, and, at the same time, one who com- 
 mitted all events with humility and simplicity to 
 the will of God, he fought bravely with the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 213 
 
 disease; and after the third night of patient 
 watching and vigorous experiments, he subdued 
 it so far that he could announce to Sir Ohver 
 the safety of his daughter. The crisis was 
 passed; but her weakness was great, and her 
 recovery very gradual. For the first three days 
 of her attack she was almost without conscious- 
 ness ; but though her head became light, and 
 her mind was confused, she uttered nothing in 
 her wanderings which attracted the particular 
 notice of Mistress Alice, or any of her attend- 
 nts, or in the least betrayed the secret of her 
 heart. 
 
 Meanwhile Francis Heywood, in ignorance 
 of the sad condition of his cousin Katharine, 
 endured all the agony of a suspicion that he was 
 at once neglected and scorned by her who had 
 been the vision of his lonely hours of labour in 
 a remote plantation, and who, as the very star 
 of his destiny, had led him back again to the 
 land in which she dwelt, as a land of promise. 
 Liberty was his watchword ; and it is true that 
 when letters spoke so confidently of a civil war 
 as inevitable, he obtained his father's permission
 
 214 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 tx) return to England, that he might join his 
 patriotic countrymen in their contention for the 
 rights of civil and religious liberty. Nor was 
 this a mere pretext for escape from the tame 
 drudgery of colonial life, — the cause of free- 
 dom was sacred in his sight, and was precious 
 to his heart. He came to draw the sword, and 
 bare his bosom in the battle. He had a life to 
 offer on the altar of duty, and he joyously 
 brought the willing sacrifice ; but yet there lay 
 at the bottom of his heart one bright, one good 
 hope. He might be lifted, by the fortunes of 
 this war, to renown, to rank, to fortune ; he 
 might survive all its chances ; he might see 
 peace and happiness restored : — the present re- 
 lations between himself and his wealthy uncle 
 might be greatly altered; the old prejudices 
 against him might at last give way, and the 
 crowning reward of all his honours and his for- 
 tunes might be the hand of Katharine. This 
 was his dream by day — this was his dream by 
 night : — like some chaste and solemn star, seen 
 brightly shining in solitary and calm glory at 
 the extremity of a narrow and gloomy valley,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 215 
 
 darkened by the shadows of lofty mountains, 
 so the majestic loveliness of his cousin Katharine, 
 irradiated by all her virtues, shone out beyond 
 the cloudy path of blood and peril, as the bliss- 
 ful end and rest of all his labours. 
 
 He had not passed a night of such rapture 
 since he last parted from his cousin as that on 
 which he reached Milverton, and the whole of 
 which he mused away within sight of the man- 
 sion that contained the noble object of his at- 
 tachment. 
 
 Although he was fully persuaded that he 
 should be recognised by Katharine as the wan- 
 dering musician, yet he was in doubt whether 
 she would afford him an immediate opportunity 
 of meeting her alone ; therefore he prepared 
 an earnest appeal to her, in characters which, 
 though enigmatical to others, would, he well 
 knew, be readily understood by herself. The 
 moon shone that night with so clear a bright- 
 ness, that he had no sort of difficulty in executing 
 his design. He made a slight fancy sketch, on 
 a small piece of paper, of a setting sun ; he in- 
 troduced the cedar in the fore-ground, and in
 
 216 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 one corner he wrote, in a small hand, the Italian 
 word " implora : " on the back of this paper he 
 faintly sketched a dial-plate, the shadow touch- 
 ing the figure of seven in the evening. He 
 placed this between the leaves of a copy of 
 Spenser's " Fairy Queen," which he found upon 
 the seat, and which he remembered to have 
 been the garden companion of his fair cousin in 
 former days. When, on the following evening, 
 the sun had set, and the silver light of the moon 
 touched all objects with the hues of peace, 
 Francis repaired to the appointed spot with 
 eager steps, and in confident hope that he should 
 once more behold her for whom he had all that 
 tender reverence which angelic purity could 
 alone inspire. He seated himself beneath the 
 well-known tree, and saw with pleasure that the 
 book had been taken away. Katharine, then, 
 had received his " implora," and she would not 
 — she could not — disappoint him, and deny 
 his prayer. The long delay of her coming per- 
 plexed him; and, after an hour of anxious 
 waiting, every succeeding minute was insup- 
 portably slow, and weighty with sadness. He
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 217 
 
 left and resumed his seat with restless discom- 
 posure ; he paced the neighbouring bank ; he 
 went into the Lime Walk, to watch for the first 
 glimpse of her distant form ; at last, as he was 
 approaching the cedar tree, with his eyes bent 
 on the ground, he for the first time observed a 
 fragment of paper lying near the trunk : — he 
 took it up — it was a part of his note ; it had 
 been torn in halves, and trodden in the dust; 
 it was divided at the very word " implora. " 
 The change of his feeling was, for the moment, 
 terrible. All that he had read or heard of the 
 pride, the caprice, and inconstancy of woman, 
 rushed upon his memory to strengthen his black 
 suspicions, and inflame his sudden indignation. 
 But this rage was very soon exhausted, and was 
 succeeded by a sorrow weak as that of infants. 
 He did not weep, — but a few hot tears slowly 
 gathered at long intervals, and fell heavily on 
 the earth. And then he railed upon himself, 
 and defended her neglect of him. 
 
 " It was that accursed music : she ever 
 scorned such fanciful and romantic folly: — 
 how dared I to expect that she, whose words 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and ways are open as the clear sunshine of 
 noon, should come in the shadows of evening, 
 with silent footsteps, to a secret meeting with 
 such an outcast as me — one who may not ring 
 the bell of his kinsman's gate with better hope 
 than that of rude dismissal ? It is all well, Ka- 
 tharine, and yet I loved you loyally, and still 
 will love you : of that privilege none can rob 
 me. Like yon planet above me, you are a 
 common blessing, for which the comforted 
 pilgrim in this thorny wilderness glances his 
 eye upward to the bounteous heavens, and 
 thanks his God." 
 
 Another, but a gloomier, vigil in the grounds 
 of Milverton was thus passed by Francis ; 
 and again, when the dawn approached, he 
 withdrew, and retired to a small hostelry in 
 the suburbs of Warwick, where for his better 
 concealment he had taken up his lodging. 
 Here, however, some relief, if such it could be 
 called, was awaiting him; for as he lay re- 
 posing on his bed, tired, yet unable to sleep, 
 he overheard the following dialogue between his 
 hostess and a passer bji : —
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. ' 219 
 
 " Hast thou heard the bad news from Mil- 
 verton, dame ? " said the latter. 
 
 " No ; I have not seen my girl a week come 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Eh, dear, don't you be frighted for your 
 Ruth, but they've got the fever there quite 
 bad. Master Randal, the 'pothecary, was over 
 there three times yesterday, and all last 
 night." 
 
 " Lord, goody, what shall I do ? I must 
 go : my poor dear child is so delicate for taking 
 of fever, she will be sure to catch it. Who is 
 it that ha got it ? is it the old gentleman, or 
 Mistress Alice?" 
 
 " No, God be merciful to her, 't is that dear, 
 kind, blessed young lady, Mistress Katharine ; 
 and they are all in a great take on about her ; 
 for they say that the very night before she was 
 took bad, her poor dear mother's ghost was 
 seen on the terrace by moonlight, and sung 
 beautiful, and for all every body was so 
 frighted, yet they say it was like as if an 
 angel had come down out of heaven; and they 
 L 2
 
 2*20 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 say, it is a sure sign that Mistress Katharine 
 will die, and go happy." 
 
 There is nothing more strange than the pe- 
 culiar character of the selfishness of love — but 
 it is ever the same. Francis felt a deep, a 
 true, an anxious concern for the illness of 
 Katharine : he was keenly afflicted with self- 
 reproach at the thought that she might perhaps 
 have been so disturbed by his sudden and 
 strange announcement of his return as to have 
 been made nervous and unwell. But this 
 sorrow, ay, and the very apprehension of her 
 death, (which feeling, however, he did not 
 share,) would have been more endurable than 
 the thought that he was forgotten, neglected, 
 and scorned by one whom his soul held dear. 
 However, he was, in his own judgment, per- 
 suaded that her illness, and all the circumstances 
 attending it, were much exaggerated by those 
 superstitious fears of the household, for wliich 
 he could himself so very easily account. De- 
 scending, therefore, from his chamber, while 
 the old gossips were continuing their talk, 
 he took occasion, as soon as her neighbour had
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 221 
 
 passed on, to urge his hostess to lose no time in 
 going to inquire after her daughter ; observing 
 that he had often heard of the family at Mil- 
 verton, and could not but feel a hope that the 
 lady of whom they spoke would soon recover. 
 
 " Precious angel," said the old woman : " I 
 don't know why we should wish it, I am sure, 
 except it be for the sake of others; for their 
 was never a body fitter for heaven than that 
 dear young lady." 
 
 It was with keen anguish that, upon the re- 
 turn of his poor hostess in the afternoon, he 
 learned that the life of Katharine was really in 
 danger. At sunset he took his cloak, and passed 
 the night in a position near the wood, from 
 whence he could command the curtained 
 window of the sufferer, and watch the dim light 
 within, and those gloomy shadows which, as 
 nurse or attendant slowly crossed the chamber, 
 occasionally obscured it. 
 
 His was a mind in which hope was ever anti- 
 cipating enjoyment, or fear meeting and real- 
 ising the dreaded misfortune. Now, therefore, 
 with the lamp of a sick room burning faint be- 
 L 3
 
 222 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 fore him, and with scenery around all silvery 
 and spiritual, lying hushed and calm in a silence 
 solemn as the grave, and yet sweet and peaceful 
 as that of heaven, he resigned himself to the 
 belief that Katharine was dying, or, rather, 
 was departing to the abode of blessed spirits. 
 He grew reconciled to the thought. No clouds 
 of terror darkened it ; and, as her pale image 
 arose distinctly before his mind's eye, he became 
 elevated with the sentiment of her sure and 
 celestial happiness ; and there was a feeling of 
 ecstasy in the idea that he might cherish his 
 love for her, as a sacred thing, for ever. 
 
 Again, on the following night, he lay enfolded 
 in his cloak, or leaned against a distant tree, or 
 paced like a sentinel his lonely round, with his 
 eyes fixed on the light in Katharine's chamber, 
 and his meditations were sweet. But how ten- 
 derly he had been rocked in the cradle of sorrow, 
 and how willingly he had allowed the true state 
 of his own heart to be hidden from himself by 
 fancied consolations, was evident, when, on return- 
 fng from his watch upon the third morning, he 
 learned from his hostess that the doctor had come
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 223 
 
 home very early, and said, that the dear lady was 
 out of danger. He had just command enough 
 over his feelings not to betray to her that he took a 
 private and deep interest in her intelligence; but, 
 rushing up to his room, his hopes, his fears, his 
 grief, his joy, his gratitude, gushed forth from his 
 pent-up bosom in a flood of silent tears. He 
 wept upon his knees. 
 
 L 4
 
 224 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 What man was he talked with you ? 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing. 
 
 It was not till the crisis of danger was already 
 past that the illness of Katharine became known 
 at Bolton Grange, or at Old Beech. 
 
 Jane Lambert was no sooner apprised of it 
 than she hastened to her friend, and insisted, 
 with all the devotion and tenderness of a sister, 
 on being permitted to divide with Mistress Alice 
 the duties of her present charge. 
 
 Katharine loved Jane, and was comforted to 
 have her seated near her, and was soothed by 
 her affection : it was evident, however, to the 
 latter, that something weighed heavily upon the 
 spirits of her friend, and that the feelings of hope 
 and the clear promise of recovery, did not im- 
 part to her all the gratitude and cheerfulness
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 225 
 
 which might be naturally expected in the plea- 
 sant dawn of convalescence. 
 
 She had not been many days at Milverton 
 when an incident occurred which discovered the 
 cause of her anxiety. 
 
 As Jane was looking from the window in 
 the afternoon, and remarking to Katharine on 
 the beautiful effect of the low autumn lights, 
 she observed the figure of a man with folded 
 arms leaning near a tree in the beechery, and 
 she playfully exclaimed, '' That must certainly be 
 the musical ghost, which played so sweetly, and 
 brought us all such bad luck, and frightened 
 every body in Milverton House but your dear 
 self, and the grave Master Cuthbert : — how I 
 should like to have the treacherous creature 
 caught. 
 
 "Dear lady," said Katharine's maid, "how 
 can you talk so boldly ? — why nobody can catch 
 a spirit. It is only air." 
 
 " I have a notion, good lass," replied Jane, 
 
 " that it is very proper flesh and blood, and if I 
 
 were a man, and not a maid, would try my speed 
 
 with it, and bring it to parley. I should like to 
 
 L 5
 
 226 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 hear the voice of it, or see its face, and tell it of 
 all the mischief it has done." 
 
 " Well-a-day ! what a heart you have, lady ! 
 There is not one in the kitchen but stout Richard 
 would venture that; and though he could not 
 find any thing the other day when he followed it, 
 he 's obstinate as a mule, and says it 's no ghost, 
 but a young gallant that 's under hiding at my 
 mother's, in Warwick Liberties ; but there is no- 
 body thinks with him at Milverton." 
 
 " Well, then, I am of Richard's way of think- 
 ing, in part : — it is a tall man ; but whether 
 young, and whether under hiding, I know not." 
 
 " Why, there is a gentleman under hiding at 
 my mother's, sure enough, and one that knows 
 my lady, as she says, and was quite glad when 
 he heard that she first began to mend." 
 
 " Ruth," said Katharine, raising her head 
 from the pillow, " if you will go and make me 
 some fresh barley water, I think I shall like it 
 better than this fever drink." The wish was no 
 sooner expressed than her maid vanished to do 
 her bidding, and Katharine and her friend Jane 
 were left by themselves.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. '227 
 
 "Jane," said the invalid, "come and sit by 
 me : I have something to tell you, and I have 
 to ask of you a very strange favour. I desired 
 to relieve my heart of its burden, but have hither- 
 to delayed it. You know, Jane, that I love you, 
 and that I have confidence in your attachment 
 to me ; but if it were not for my present help- 
 lessness, which compels me to engage your ser- 
 vice as a true friend, whose good sense and firm 
 principles I can safely trust, the subject which 
 I am about to speak of would never have passed 
 my lips even to you. The gentleman of whom 
 they speak is my cousin Francis. He it was 
 who so perplexed and alarmed the family with 
 his mysterious music, and who still, I fear, haunts 
 the same spot in silence and anxiety." 
 
 " Your cousin Francis ! — why, dear Kate, I 
 thought he was in America ! " 
 
 "And I myself thought so until the night 
 when he made his return known to me in tones 
 which I could not mistake, and the meaning of 
 which I but too well understood." 
 
 " I have been long aware, Katharine, that he 
 loved you." 
 
 L 6
 
 228 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 "You have, I believe, already discerned it. 
 Alas ! it is true — fatally for his own happiness 
 and for mine ; — but, Jane, have you courage for 
 the task which I would impose upon you?" 
 
 "Yes, Kate: you can ask me nothing too 
 hard for me, if I can only feel that I do what 
 may comfort you." 
 
 " Well, Jane, you must contrive to see my 
 cousin Francis; to deliver to him a note from 
 me with your own hands, and to urge his im- 
 mediate departure from this neighbourhood. 
 Now, love, bring me those small tablets and 
 paper, and support me while I write the few 
 words which I would say." 
 
 It was a sight for pity to see that noble 
 damsel, her back propped by pillows, and the 
 arm of her young friend tenderly supporting her, 
 trace in silence and with a nervous hand the few 
 lines which were to banish from the neighbour- 
 hood of Milverton her worthy and devoted 
 lover. 
 
 The task was soon done; and with the care 
 as of a mother Jane Lambert again arranged the 
 pillows for the aching head of Katharine ; and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 229 
 
 the pale sufferer sunk back exhausted into the 
 recumbent posture, and heaved a sigh so sad, 
 that the eyes of Jane filled with thick tears. She 
 averted her head to wipe them away, that they 
 might not distress her friend, and putting the 
 unsealed billet in her bosom, left the chamber 
 with a thoughtful step, to do her very delicate 
 and difficult office. She went to her own room, 
 and taking a dark mantle with a hood, such as was 
 the common church-going and street costume 
 of women of the respectable middle classes of that 
 period, she threw it across her arm, and walked 
 through the Lime Walk, and by the fish ponds, 
 to a small gate at the farther end of the grounds, 
 by which she could gain a footpath that led 
 across the fields to Warwick. She had no sooner 
 passed the gate than she put on her cloak, and 
 passing the hood over her head, that she might 
 muffle and conceal her features, if she met any 
 one, she proceeded towards the city. It was 
 about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the sky 
 was lowering and cloudy. She was anxious 
 about her strange mission, and settling in her 
 mind what she should do when she reached the
 
 230 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 hostelry, whither she was now bending her 
 steps, and how she should contrive the interview 
 with Francis, when the sound of steps very closely 
 following suddenly startled her: the very object of 
 her search had overtaken her, and was already Pt 
 her side. At first, however, she was not aware of 
 this, although the circumstance of this passenger 
 being muffled, as closely as herself, awakened 
 her suspicions of the truth, and forbade the 
 alarm she would otherwise have felt at finding 
 herself in a very lonely part of the pathway in 
 such company. He did not stop when he over- 
 took her, but went a few steps onward, as if to 
 re-assure her before he ventured to speak. He 
 crossed a stile and walked some paces without 
 turning his head, till she had also crossed it; 
 when loitering a little, till she was close to him, 
 he stepped aside from the path, and gently put 
 a question that very directly introduced them 
 to each other, and gave Jane the ready oppor- 
 tunity of delivering her note, and fulfilling the 
 further wishes of her dear Katharine. 
 
 " You are from Milverton House, as I think, 
 damsel ? "
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 231 
 
 " Even so, master," replied Jane. 
 " Is the noble young mistress better to-day?" 
 " I thank God she is ; but it will be long ere 
 she be quite well again." 
 
 " She is out of all pain, I hope ? " 
 "Yes, she hath no bodily pain, save that 
 which arises from weakness ; and for such pain 
 of mind as disquiets her it may be, in great 
 part, removed by yourself. Master Francis." 
 
 Thus saying, she threw back her hood, and 
 Francis, who had before discovered his own fea- 
 tures, recognised those of Jane Lambert. " I 
 bear you a note from your cousin Katharine," 
 she added, as he started at her utterance of his 
 name. She drew it forth from her bosom, and 
 placed it in his hand. He turned from her that 
 he might read it without observation; but Jane 
 could see by his action that he kissed it, and 
 pressed it to his heart. With a glance it was 
 perused, and then again and again ; and with 
 a bent bead and staggering step he moved a 
 few paces from Jane, and spoke in tones of an- 
 guish to himself words which she could not 
 distinguish. At last, collecting himself, he re-
 
 232 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 turned towards the fair messenger of his Ka- 
 tharine, with a manly composure, and said, " Tell 
 my beloved cousin that I will obey ; that her 
 wish is as a law to me : how could she dream 
 that I would suffer the words of any one to out- 
 weigh her own? — but, she tells me that you are 
 her devoted and faithful friend, and that to you 
 I may safely intrust the object of my return, 
 and the news of my father. There is, indeed, 
 one subject on which she forbids me to speak 
 even to herself ; therefore my answer may be 
 brief enough. My father is well : — all her kins- 
 folk in the Plantations are well, and free, and 
 happy. For the object of my sudden return — 
 it is the love of my country — a love that will 
 not accept a divided heart; and yet the other 
 love that lay enshrined beside it, was pure, was 
 noble, was worthy such alliance, has filled my 
 thoughts by day, has blessed the visions of my 
 lonely nights. Tell Katharine she hath used 
 me hardly — no, no, do not tell her that — not 
 hardly — say that she bids me do something I 
 cannot do — I am not of her order — forget her 
 I never can — she is with me wherever I go —
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 233 
 
 in all things that I do I think of her — and still 
 must, if I would have fair and noble thoughts 
 to bear me company." 
 
 " Such things, Master Francis, I may not carrj 
 to her ear. There is about her a reserve so 
 maidenly and grave, she would chide her own 
 messenger for proving so unfaithful ; — but I 
 may tell her that your father is well ; that loy- 
 alty hath brought you home ; and that you will 
 quit these parts instantly — for that it is, me- 
 thinks, she most earnestly requests of you." 
 
 " Even so : on that she is most urgent — cruel 
 Katharine." 
 
 " Say, rather, wise, dutiful, loyal Katharine." 
 
 " Loyal, loyal ! — that is a word of many im- 
 ports. I, too, am loyal, and will learn to love 
 the word: — mind you tell her that I am loyal." 
 
 " Can I truly tell her so ? 
 
 " Yes, truly : — but enough of this, fair girl, 
 
 — go back to her who sent thee — wait, you 
 are her friend — you nurse her — come, let 
 me look into thine eyes — give me thy hand 
 
 — on my knees I kiss it — her cheek is pale 
 
 — I know it is — it must be — go touch it
 
 234 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 with thy hand, and offer there the chaste cold 
 homage of my sorrow. You see that I am sad, 
 lady — go — bless you — you are weeping : — how 
 is this, girl ? — be not so childish — a friend of 
 Katharine's should not be weak — I, you see, am 
 calm and strong — my hand does not tremble — 
 and these eyes are dry — methinks my heart is 
 frozen — tell her so." 
 
 Jane Lambert stood fixed as a statue while 
 he thus spoke ; and as she watched him walking 
 fast away, she felt, for the first time in her life, 
 what it must be to have a lover, and to be the 
 supreme object of such a man's affection. Her 
 cheek was stained with tears — her face flushed 
 with agitation — her whole air disordered and 
 absent. She followed with her eyes the tall 
 figure of Francis, till a turn in the pathway hid 
 him from her view, and then walked slowly back 
 to Milverton. 
 
 In the very first field she met George Juxon, 
 and it was evident to her, from his manner, as 
 he stopped and spoke to her, that he must have 
 witnessed, at least, the close of her interview 
 with Francis. There was a surprise in his look,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 235 
 
 and something of embarrassment, as he shook 
 her by the hand, and asked if she was well ; but 
 he did not seem to expect any particular reply, 
 nor indeed did he offer to return with her to 
 the house, though she was but too conscious that 
 her faintness and discomposure might have na- 
 turally invited such an attention. Observing, 
 coldly, that he had some business at a builder's 
 yard in Warwick, but that he should return to 
 sup and sleep at Milverton, he leisurely pur- 
 sued his path to the city. 
 
 Jane's heart gave way to the multitude of 
 troublous and perplexing thoughts which now 
 beset her; and leaning near a friendly tree, 
 she found a momentary relief in a passionate 
 flood of warm tears. 
 
 Her trial was strange. The feelings which 
 had been excited were altogether new to her ; 
 and the effect of the interview with Katharine's 
 devoted cousin, combined with the cross and 
 perplexing incident of her meeting with Juxon 
 so immediately after, as to make it certain that 
 he had seen her part from Francis Heywood, 
 had very naturally overcome the ordinary cour-
 
 236 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 age and the cheerful composure of her cha- 
 racter. 
 
 She had witnessed, in the agitated Francis, 
 the emotions of love. The sentiment, which 
 thus shook him, she had never yet inspired 
 — she had never felt for any one. Such love 
 had been to her the poet's fable ; but it would 
 never again be so deemed of by her; — 
 and something that made her heart throb and 
 ache within her told truly the want of that 
 heart, and unsealed a fountain of affection ready 
 to overflow upon any being in whom she might 
 be fortunate enough to find the noble qualities 
 of a manly heart, and the gentle ways and 
 genuine fervours of an ardent lover. 
 
 It was a cruel thought that she must now be 
 subject to suspicions, if not of lightness, yet of 
 a secret attachment and stolen interviews with 
 the object of it. Nor was the oppression of this 
 thought at all weakened by the reflection that 
 George Juxon, the very man whose good opinion 
 she most valued, had seen her in a situation, and 
 vmder circumstances, which he could not by any 
 possibility interpret truly, and which her duty
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 237 
 
 to Katharine forbade her to explain, however 
 deeply her own character or happiness might 
 suffer. In one short hour she had gathered 
 an experience that filled her with wonder, and 
 had incurred a suspicion that subjected her 
 to censure and threatened her with misery. 
 The consciousness of innocence could not restore 
 to her the respect of Juxon, nor exempt her 
 from the severe penalties with which the levity 
 and imprudence of the thoughtless of her own 
 sex are ever silently visited by the other, when 
 some painful discovery of a woman's guile chills 
 and revolts them. 
 
 However in her case, the judgment of Juxon 
 had not been harsh; but, of course, when he 
 saw a man upon his knees before her — when he 
 considered the loneliness of their place of inter- 
 view — the cloaks evidently worn for disguise — 
 and the agitated and discomposed appearance of 
 Jane Lambert — he, at once, decided that she 
 was betrothed to a lover, whom for fear or for 
 shame she dared not openly avow. 
 
 He had truly liked Jane, for her spirit, her 
 sense, and, above all, for her devotion to Katha-
 
 238 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 rine Hejrwood ; and his liking might soon have 
 grown to a manly love, — but the flow of his ad- 
 miration was now suddenly checked and frozen, 
 and he whistled " Woman's a Riddle" all the 
 way to Warwick and back again.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 239 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 O how full of briars is this working-day world ! 
 
 As you Like if. 
 
 As soon as the affectionate Jane had entirely 
 recovered her self-possession, she left her cham- 
 ber, and repaired to Katharine. It was the 
 dark evening hour of autumn, and there was no 
 light in the room of the invalid but that emitted 
 from the glowing embers on the hearth. Jane 
 seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the 
 hand of Katharine, gently pressed it, and 
 said, — 
 
 " My dear Kate, I have done all that you 
 wished ; and I have sped well." 
 " You have, then, seen Francis ? " 
 " Yes ; I put your note into his own hands. 
 He was much affected; but he promised obe- 
 dience to your wishes at once."
 
 240 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Katharine gave a sigh, and turned her face 
 to the wall. There was a short pause of silence 
 before Jane proceeded : — 
 
 " He bade me tell you that his father and 
 your kinsfolk in America are well ; and that the 
 immediate object of his return is the love of his 
 country." 
 
 " Ah, Jane ! I know what that means. I 
 remember too well all the warm and bitter 
 words that passed between my father and his on 
 that subject. Would he had stayed in the 
 peaceful Plantations ! Tlie ocean between us 
 was not a wider separation than the gulf that 
 divides party from party at home ; besides, 
 Jane, he is deluded : they will play upon his 
 generous nature, — they will make a traitor of 
 him. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. 
 Would he had stayed abroad ! " 
 
 " I must not forget, Katharine, to tell you 
 that he strictly charged me to say that he was 
 loyal. ' It is a word,' said he, ' of many imports : ' 
 — mind you tell her that I am loyal.' — No, 
 dear Katharine, his is no traitor's heart: he
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 241 
 
 may be on the wrong side of the quarrel, but 
 he is the King's true subject at the bottom." 
 
 " Hush ! Jane ; whisper not these dangerous 
 words, — there is deceit in them. The soul's 
 enemy finds each of us treacherous enough in 
 will, and crooked enough in judgment, without 
 the weak and indulgent folly of our friends. 
 Be true to me, — be English, Jane : — I love 
 you passing well." 
 
 Jane kissed her pale cheek; and there was 
 another pause. At last Katharine said, in a 
 very low voice, — 
 
 " How was Cousin Francis looking ? Is he in 
 health?" 
 
 " His complexion is more brown, and he has 
 less colour than formerly ; his countenance, too, is 
 very grave — almost sad; yet there is a steady fire 
 in his eyes ; and he is as graceful and as strong 
 as ever. But for his late care and watching, I 
 should say he was better in health than when he 
 left Milverton for America.'* 
 
 " He was not hurt at my note, I hope, — was 
 he, Jane ? Speak truly." 
 
 " Not hurt ; but disappointed, certainly. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 However, he is noble and sensible, and saw that 
 it was right." 
 
 " You think so." 
 
 " I am sure of it, by his manner." 
 " Do you think he will go away directly ? " 
 " Yes ; perhaps he is already gone. I could 
 see in the firm and resolute step with which he 
 walked away from me that his decision was 
 taken." 
 
 " Then it was not at the hostelry that you 
 saw hun ? Where did you meet him ? " 
 
 Jane now detailed, in part, the circumstances 
 of their interview, as already related ; suppress- 
 ing all mention of the passionate words and 
 gestures of Francis, and any notice of her hav- 
 ing been seen in his company by Juxon, It 
 had been the first intention of Jane to proceed 
 to the house of Ruth's mother, on whose pro- 
 tection she could depend, and to wait there till 
 Francis, who she doubted not was the lodger 
 spoken of, should return thither ; for, before 
 Jane left Milverton House, Francis had already 
 disappeared from the Beechery. It would be 
 easy to invent some plausible excuse to Ruth's
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 243 
 
 mother for her visit to Warwick ; and, having 
 contrived her interview with Francis as if b}- 
 accident, to return to Milverton, if belated till 
 dusk, under the old woman's escort. But this 
 plan was rendered unnecessary by the circum- 
 stance of Francis overtaking Jane upon her way 
 to the city. 
 
 " My dear affectionate girl," said Katharine 
 to her sweet friend, " how much, how very 
 much, I thank you : — kiss me, dear, and leave 
 me to compose myself, if I can, to sleep." 
 
 But sleep was impossible in her frame of 
 mind at that moment : — it was solitude she 
 needed, that she might meditate and weep 
 alone. However, there was a high sound prin- 
 ciple ever at work m her bosom; so that a little 
 solitary and prayerful reflection never failed to 
 restore the calmness of her mind, and the 
 strength of her resolutions. 
 
 The spirit of Jane Lambert was of another 
 sort; and, restored to the privacy of her own 
 chamber, she gave a free vent to the sorrow 
 and anxiety which she had so courageously sup- 
 pressed before Katharine. 
 M 2
 
 244 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 When she descended to the hall to supper, 
 and all the party were assembled, she remarked 
 or fancied that George Juxon expressly avoided 
 seating himself near her ; aiid, after asking her 
 one or two questions about the progress of Ka- 
 tharine's recovery, he addressed her no more. 
 
 Her pride was a little wounded to observe 
 that he was in high and careless spirits, and 
 became quite the life of the table. Cuthbert, 
 too, was, for him, unusually cheerful. Sir 
 Oliver seemed in great good humour ; and the 
 boy Arthur was radiant with delightful and joy- 
 ous anticipations of the new world, which an 
 entrance at Oxford would open before him. 
 Literary and characteristic anecdotes of dis- 
 tinguished and eccentric scholars of both uni- 
 versities, in times past as well as present, 
 enlivened the social meal; and though but a 
 very thin partition separated the subjects of 
 university discipline from those of church polity 
 and state government, neither were introduced 
 that evening. 
 
 Jane thought that she had never before dis- 
 cerned so clearly the fine qualities of Juxon ; —
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 245 
 
 his sound but charitable judgment, his accurate 
 memory, the kindliness of his nature, and the 
 playfulness of his stories, at once charmed and 
 depressed her. She wished to leave the table ; 
 yet still she lingered on, listening and irre- 
 solute ; and the proposal to retire was first made 
 by Mistress Alice. 
 
 An avowed contempt for the opinion of the 
 many is not inconsistent with a very earnest 
 and anxious regard for the judgment of the 
 few whom we chance to admire and esteem. 
 The dear, high-spirited girl, who thought herself 
 above the censure of the world, and indifferent 
 to its voice, was now, though clear from the 
 slightest reproach of conscience, agonised with 
 apprehensions lest she should have forfeited the 
 respect of George Juxon. When, at a later 
 hour, the household was assembled for the 
 evening service, and the prayers were reverently 
 read by Juxon, her heart beat in her bosom so 
 quick and loud as to be audible to Cuthbert 
 Noble, who kneeled near her. As soon as they 
 rose, he regarded her with a look of such com- 
 passionate inquiry, that Jane, fearing he was 
 M 3
 
 '246 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 about to question her concerning her health, 
 and not daring to trust herself with a reply, 
 abruptly left the apartment. 
 
 Juxon had himself observed her flushed cheek 
 and her disturbed manners, and began to enter- 
 tain very serious alarm for her. How far his 
 duty as a friend, and, above all, as a Chris- 
 tian minister, authorised him to seek acquaint- 
 ance with the nature and extent of those 
 secret engagements of Jane Lambert, which 
 he could not but fear, from her evident agi- 
 tation, were at variance with plain principle 
 and prudence, it was not easy for him to re- 
 solve. He truly liked her frank, generous, 
 and inartificial character. He knew full well 
 that in her brother she had neither a kind, 
 a careful, or a wise guardian. It was surely 
 wrong to stand upon the brink of a whirlpool, 
 and see any one drawn down to ruin, whom it 
 was in our power, if not to save, at least to 
 admonish of the danger. His mind instantly 
 reverted to the noble Katharine as the proper 
 channel through which his manly and benevo- 
 lent warnings might be safely conveyed with
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 247 
 
 delicacy and effect. But many days might yet 
 elapse ere the opportunity of a conversation 
 with Katharine might occur; for she was con- 
 fined not only to her chamber, but to her bed. 
 Should he venture to hint his fears to herself? 
 Yes : if she was the character he yet hoped to 
 find her, it would be taken well ; if not, it 
 would matter very little in what light she viewed 
 his disinterested service. 
 
 On the following morning, soon after break- 
 fast, he saw Jane Lambert by herself in the 
 Lime Walk, and he joined her. 
 
 She looked surprised and embarrassed ; and 
 he was not without a fear that his presence at 
 that moment was inconvenient and irksome, and 
 very possibly prevented her going forth to an 
 interview with her lover in the very same fields 
 where he had met her the evening before. 
 
 However, from the very fear he took courage ; 
 and, after the common salutations and usual 
 words about the garden and the weather had 
 passed, he broke the subject thus : — 
 
 " Mistress Jane, you are too little acquainterl 
 M 4
 
 248 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 with the world for your own happiness, or rather, 
 for your security, — may a friend say this with- 
 out offending you ? " 
 
 " A friend may say any thing to me. Master 
 Juxon, that a damsel may not blush to hear." 
 
 " I understand you — I must say no more — 
 and yet I meant you well." 
 
 " But good intentions do often tread upon the 
 foot just where it is most tender." 
 
 " Well, lady, enough : I will spare your maiden 
 blushes; only remember, of our sex, that he 
 doth always act most openly w^ho is most loyal." 
 
 " Loyal ! Master Juxon, what mean you ? Did 
 you then so far forget yourself as to follow and 
 trace out the gentleman whom you last evening 
 stood watching as he parted from me ? — I do 
 not understand you." 
 
 " Mistress Jane, you should have known me 
 better ; — so far from watching your interview 
 with the strange gentleman i^ith w^hom I saw 
 you, it was to avoid intrusion that I waited in 
 the adjoining close till you parted from him^ 
 and would have gone back again altogether, but
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 249 
 
 for the great circuit and the business which I 
 had in Warwick." 
 
 ^* You saw us part, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, to my wonder, and to my sorrow that 
 my eyes had caught an action meant only for your 
 ow^n. Lady, forgive the word; but at lovers' 
 oaths forget not that Cupid laughs : — may Jane 
 Lambert never be won by any suitor who does 
 not openly woo her ! " 
 
 " Amen to your kind wish, Master Juxon — 
 so be it : — I know what you think, and am sorry, 
 but I cannot help it ; — however, you are not my 
 father confessor, nor do I ever wish to have 
 one." 
 
 " True, lady ; but though not your confessor, 
 I am your friend, your true and bold friend, or 
 I should never have dared to utter what I have 
 done. I can have no object in these hints but 
 your best and highest interest : that which I 
 have noticed to yourself I shall never mention to 
 any other, except, perhaps, to Katharine Hey- 
 wood, from whose lips whatever falls is wise and 
 noble." 
 
 M 5
 
 250 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " O ! not to her — name not this idle matter 
 to her. Promise me, Juxon, that you will not 
 breathe a syllable about it to her. I shall be 
 more unhappy if you do than I am already." 
 
 " Alas ! you are then unhappy, and would 
 shun the best help and consolation which friend- 
 ship would provide for you. No, this I cannot 
 promise ; on the contrary, I am only confirmed 
 in the propriety of my intention." 
 
 " Well, I implore you again, and earnestly, 
 not to speak upon this subject to Katharine. 
 As you value my peace of mind, be silent upon 
 it to all : there is a mystery about it I may 
 not unfold. I know that appearances are 
 against me : I am sorry for your hard thoughts, 
 but I must bear them. I could wish to explain 
 these cross circumstances to you, but am not 
 free to do so without violating a sacred duty. 
 Promise me that you will meet my wish." Thus 
 saying, she put her hand upon his arm, and 
 looked into his face with wet and beseechmg eyes. 
 " Juxon, you have always been plain and true, 
 and friendly to me ; and though I and my per-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 251 
 
 plexities ill deserve your interest or care, pro- 
 mise me that you will not name them to dear 
 Katharine." 
 
 For a moment Juxon was affected by the 
 wild earnestness of her manner ; and he thought 
 he had never seen more heart or feeling in the 
 expression of a human countenance than in the 
 flushed face of Jane Lambert. 
 
 " Welly Mistress Jane, you are so urgent, that 
 I must promise to obey your will ; but it grieves 
 me to see you thus sadly troubled. May God 
 help you, and guide you, and guard you, and 
 keep you from evil, that it may not grieve you ! 
 Your secret is safe with me." 
 
 " And shall I lose your fi'iendship ? " 
 
 " No, lady, never : would only that it may 
 have worth sufficient in your eyes to be used 
 aright ! " 
 
 " Believe me, I shall never forget it, and I 
 will never do aught to forfeit such a treasure ; " 
 — so saying, she hurried away, with tears in her 
 eyes, and left him absorbed in a state of feeling 
 which cannot be described. 
 
 The more he thought of what he had wit- 
 M 6
 
 252 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 nessed the evening before, and the more he con- 
 sidered the conversation which had just passed, 
 the more satisfied he was that Jane Lambert 
 was secretly betrothed to some one whom she 
 dared not openly acknowledge as her lover. It 
 was also plain, that, for some powerful reason, 
 she had not confided the secret of this attach- 
 ment even to Katharine, who was her bosom 
 friend. He had comfort in remembering that 
 nothing could be more respectful than the action 
 of the stranger, when he kissed her hand at 
 parting ; and combining this with her own honest 
 looks and proud though mysterious expressions, 
 he was satisfied that, up to the present moment, 
 she had taken no irrevocable step. There was, 
 moreover, a wann strength in her last words, 
 that assured him his friendly cautions were not 
 thrown away, and that his motives were not mis- 
 interpreted. Upon the whole, he was justified, 
 to his own mind, in what he had done ; and his 
 thoughts rested upon the character of Jane with 
 greater interest than it had ever before excited 
 in him. 
 
 " How very generous and devoted would be
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 253 
 
 the love of such a girl," said he to himself: "what 
 a proud spirit, what an affectionate heart, she has; 
 what a fire there is in her fine eyes — I never 
 before saw her look half so beautiful : — it is clear 
 that they have been lighted up by love : — well, 
 God grant that the man of her choice may be 
 worthy of it ! " 
 
 He now sauntered slowly back to the house ; 
 and entering the library, found Cuthbert Noble 
 sitting alone, and making extracts from an old 
 folio volume. 
 
 "You see," said the young tutor, "I am making 
 preparations for my departure from Milverton ; 
 but thus I may innocently suck honey from the 
 hives of Sir Oliver, without robbing him, or 
 those who come after him, of the smallest por- 
 tion of such sweets as they contain." 
 
 " And what may be your study ? " said Juxon, 
 as he came up to the table, and looked over 
 him. 
 
 " A curious work," replied Cuthbert, " con- 
 taining the most remarkable pieces of John Huss, 
 together with his life — imprinted in the last 
 century at Augsburg."
 
 254 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 "Friend Cuthbert, you are too constant in 
 these serious and solemn studies and specula- 
 tions." 
 
 " Master Juxon," answered the pale youth, 
 " they are every thing or they are nothing." 
 
 " Verily, for my part I think divine truth is 
 as clear and glorious as the sun in the firma- 
 ment ; and to warm ourselves, and to walk in the 
 light of it, is better wisdom than to read so 
 many commentaries and discourses upon it." 
 
 " May we not sometimes lie indolently warm- 
 ing ourselves by a fire of our own, and fancy 
 it as comfortable as basking in the sun ? Walk- 
 ing in the light is no such easy matter ; and in 
 my case I find that the words, and, above all, the 
 examples, of those who have earnestly contended 
 for the truth, as so many outstretched and help- 
 ing hands to assist me in climbing the hill." 
 
 "WhathiU?" 
 
 " The high hill. Master Juxon, where the re- 
 formers and martyrs of past times have left the 
 print of their blessed footsteps." 
 
 ** Cuthbert, I see that you are in earnest, that 
 you are sincere ; but you are on a road beset by
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 255 
 
 enemies, to the full as dangerous as those on any 
 other. Pride may be waiting to assail you, — 
 spiritual pride, the worst of all enemies : you 
 want to do something ; you would unlock 
 heaven's gates by some great performance : — 
 remember its arches are so low that none can 
 enter them who crawl not on their knees : — the 
 little child's is the appointed stature for all be- 
 lievers." 
 
 " That, indeed, is true — it is a solemn truth ; 
 but there are beasts to be fought with, Juxon, 
 and the stern combat is at hand. It is upon 
 this I think by day, on this I dream by night." 
 
 " So much the worse : you are commanded, 
 in many senses, to 'take no thought for the 
 morrow ; ' and in none is it more your duty to 
 obey the precept than in waiting the events of 
 the coming day in quietness and in confidence : 
 you conjure up shadows that you may fight w^th 
 them." 
 
 " Nay, but you wrong my judgment : — to you 
 they may so seem ; but my eye can see the black 
 and dismal realities beyond, which reflect these 
 shadows."
 
 256 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " Well, Cuthbert, it is vain to talk with you 
 on these subjects: — on all others you are so clear 
 and reasonable, that I shall always remember 
 our intercourse with pleasure. I hear that there 
 is a new arrangement, and that you do not wait 
 to accompany Arthur to Oxford; but that you 
 leave Milverton next week, therefore, very pro- 
 bably, I shall not see you again till your de- 
 parture. Farewell, friend : my best and warmest 
 wishes for your happiness will always accom- 
 pany you. I shall ever be happy to hear of 
 or from you, and be delighted to meet you 
 again." 
 
 With these words he put out his hand to 
 Cuthbert, who grasped it eagerly, and struggled 
 for a reply in vain. 
 
 The parting had taken him totally by surprise : 
 — the thought of all Juxon's friendly and kind 
 services, of all his frank and endearing qualities, 
 came up, with a rush before his fancy, and 
 choked his utterance. The strong pressure of 
 Cuthbert's hand, and the slowness with which 
 he released that of Juxon, told the latter all that 
 he would have said ; and, as the door closed be-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 257 
 
 hind his departing friend, Cuthbert sank back 
 into his seat, and, resting his head with hidden 
 face upon the table, remained for several minutes 
 silent and motionless.
 
 -58 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 Religious contention is the devil's harvest. 
 
 Old Proverb. 
 
 To every member of the family at Milverton 
 House Cuthbert had said farewell, when he 
 retired to his chamber on the night before the 
 morning fixed for his departure. He had taken 
 leave of Mistress Katharine, in the presence of 
 her aunt Alice and Jane Lambert, with a grave 
 self-command which had surprised himself; 
 and, as he left her room, he lifted his heart to 
 Heaven in thanksgiving for the help of that 
 strength which he had so earnestly implored in 
 the privacy of his closet. 
 
 But when he was alone for the last wakefVil 
 vigil in the apartment in which he had passed 
 so many a sleepless night the image of Katha- 
 rine looked in upon his solitude, and, for a time, 
 re-asserted all its power over his heart.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 259 
 
 He had just parted, and, probably for ever, 
 with her who had been to him, for many months, 
 the angel of the scene. These months, though 
 now short as hours to look back upon, had ga- 
 thered into their brief and silvery revolutions 
 much of that soft and essential happiness of his 
 affections which he knew could never return 
 again. Nevertheless, it was not in the power 
 of separation or of hopelessness to destroy the 
 memory of that sweet season of his youth ; and 
 he was content to accept that as all the bliss of 
 its kind which the fortunes of his life and. the 
 new aims of his being, would permit him to 
 enjoy. . 
 
 " Here, and for ever," said Cuthbert, speaking 
 to himself aloud, " I forswear the weaknesses 
 of love: life has rugged paths that are better 
 trod by single men ; — such a path is now shaping 
 for me and for many. In the labour of esta- 
 blishing a people's rights I shall find a sense of 
 peace; and when the call of duty is obeyed, 
 contentment is the golden fruit with which con- 
 science herself presents us." 
 
 There is no process of the mind more com-
 
 260 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 men than that by which a man, while sore at 
 heart by the thought of some desirable but un- 
 attainable good, turns away from the painful con- 
 sideration of his own sorrows, and erects himself 
 into the zealous friend of suffering humanity, 
 and the ardent reformer of social evils. 
 
 What curious springs in the world's clockwork 
 are sorrow and disappointment ! How many 
 wheels are set in motion by their secret action, 
 and what different results from those at which 
 men aim are produced by their conduct ! Here 
 they strike for freedom, and elevate a despot — 
 there they trample for the oppressor, and, lo ! a 
 seed of armed patriots is so^mi beneath their 
 horse's feet. 
 
 The idea of seeking the society of those among 
 his friends whose minds were full of the stirring 
 themes now daily suggested by political events 
 was hailed as a relief and a consolation. 
 
 Absorbed in musings, Cuthbert watched away 
 the night, and obtained only a short and broken 
 slumber towards the morning. 
 
 It has been before observed, that to the lan- 
 guage of love from the lips of Cuthbert Mistress
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 261 
 
 Katharine never would have listened, and could 
 not have responded. 
 
 Katharine Heywood had only done what 
 thousands have done before her, and are con- 
 tinually doing in the intercourse of life. She 
 had manifested her own sweet nature in a ready 
 and gentle appreciation of those qualities in the 
 shy and humble student, which, wherever they 
 are found, are worthy of regard. 
 
 Indeed, during the residence of Cuthbert at 
 Milverton, as the tutor to her cousin, she had 
 largely shared the benefit of his instructions. 
 He had imparted new pleasures to her mind, 
 had purified her taste, enlarged her conceptions, 
 and elevated her thoughts. 
 
 These services she had repaid, in the character 
 of mistress of her father's mansion, by studiously 
 throwing the grace of her protection over the 
 retiring scholar; but the smile of a queenly 
 woman is a perilous shelter, and does oftentimes 
 blight the happiness of those whom it was most 
 innocently designed to cheer and to defend. 
 
 It had been arranged that Cuthbert should 
 depart before eight in the morning. By that
 
 262 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 hour his horse was already saddled in the stable, 
 and the boy Arthur was in the stable-yard 
 watching minutely all the preparations for the 
 journey. The strapping on of the vallise, and of 
 the holsters especially moved hun on the present 
 occasion, although he had seen the very same 
 thing done a hundred times for others without 
 curiosity or disquiet. What from the liveliness 
 of his fancy, and the affectionateness of his dis- 
 position, the images of lonely ways and evil 
 robbers made him fetch his breath quicker than 
 usual. The good tempered groom, perceiving 
 this by the youth's questions, began to allay his 
 fears by saying, that " nobody would ever let or 
 hinder a poor scholar like Master Cuthbert, 
 and, besides that, God took care of all good 
 persons ; so there was no ill chance for such an 
 one, but that he would go and come as safe as 
 the King's own majesty; " which was the simple 
 groom's notion of the most perfect security on 
 earth. 
 
 Meanwhile Cuthbert himself was takiiisr a 
 last melancholy gaze at the gallery, the hall, the 
 summer and winter parlour, and the various
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 263 
 
 objects of interest which they contained. The 
 pictures, the books, the organ, the virginals, the 
 lute, were all most intimately associated in his 
 mind with her, whom to have seen and known 
 was of itself a blessing. 
 
 In vain the grey-haired butler, Philip, pressed 
 him to partake of breakfast, and cautioned him 
 against a weary way and an empty stomach. He 
 pecked like a sick bird at the substantial Venison 
 pasty, and sipped at the warm tankard with a 
 word the while now to the old domestic, and 
 now to young Arthur, who had come in, and 
 sat opposite him, in that vacant and natural sor- 
 row which belongs to the broken moments of 
 such a parting. 
 
 At last Cuthbert descended the hall steps, 
 which were full of the warm-hearted servants ; 
 and, pressing the hand of his affectionate pupil, 
 mounted his horse and rode away. 
 
 The day was cold and wet : nothing could be 
 more gloomy or comfortless than his long and 
 lonely ride. He met only one train of pack- 
 horses, and a few single travellers on horseback, 
 throughout the day. He baited his animal at a
 
 264 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 wayside alehouse, where he found nobody but a 
 cross old woman and a deaf hostler ; and it was 
 not till the dusk of evening that he reached the 
 town of Aylesbury, where he proposed sleeping. 
 
 Within five miles of this place he was over- 
 taken by a gentleman on horseback, who fell 
 into conversation with him; and who, being 
 like himself on a journey to town, offered to 
 join company with him that night at the inn. 
 
 Although it would have been far more agree- 
 able to Cuthbert to have proceeded alone, 
 yet the appearance of the stranger was so pre- 
 possessing, and his manners were so frank and 
 courteous, that it was not possible to shake off 
 his company without rudeness. Moreover, his 
 speech had already shown him to be a man of 
 gentle breeding, and that Cambridge had once 
 reckoned him among her students, — so they 
 rode forward together. 
 
 At the entrance of the town, hard by one of 
 the first houses in the street, sat a cobbler 
 working and singing in his hutch. The com- 
 panion of Cuthbert here pulled his bridle; and, 
 turning his beast's nose almost into it, called out,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 265 
 
 in a loud jolly tone, " Ho, Crispin ! canst tell 
 me the way to the church ? " 
 
 " No," said the cobbler, throwing up an in- 
 different glance, and then stooping again over 
 his last. 
 
 "Art deaf, or hast lost thy wits, old surly?" 
 said the traveller : " you know what a church is, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " I know what it is not," replied the old cob- 
 bler bluntly, without looking off his work. 
 
 " What is it not, sirrah ? " 
 
 "It is not a great stone building standing 
 alone in the middle of a town," said the cobbler 
 raising his head, and looking his interrogator 
 full in the face. 
 
 " Thou hast more wit than good humour, 
 knave," said our Cavalier. 
 
 " And thou words than good breeding," re- 
 torted the sturdy artisan. 
 
 " I see the stocks of this place are little used, 
 or you should try how they fitted. You have 
 not much fear, methinks, of the wooden collar. 
 Didst ever see a pillory ? " 
 
 " I have, and a godly man in it ; and I shall 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 not soon forget the sight. Are you answered, 
 my court bird ? " 
 
 " You are a prick-eared knave ; and, if I 
 were not tired and hungry, you should smart 
 for your saucy answers." 
 
 By this time a neighbour or two stood forth 
 from the adjoining houses ; and the horseman, 
 turning to the nearest, said, " Prithee, friend, 
 canst thou tell me the way to the Boar's Head, 
 which is next to the church, as I think ? " 
 
 " It is so, true enough," answered the man, 
 " and well placed, to my thought ; for thou wilt 
 be sure to find the parson on the bench of it, 
 or it may be in the skittle yard wrangling with 
 cheating Bob, and staggering at his ow^l cast : — 
 ride straight on — you can't miss it." 
 
 " A pretty nest of godly rogues I have got 
 into," said the traveller : " there will be an 
 iron gag for your foul mouths soon." Witli this 
 he struck spurs into his steed : the beast broke 
 into a smart canter, — that of Cuthbert started 
 in like manner ; and they were instantly carried 
 beyond the jeers and the loud laughter of the 
 humorous old cobbler and his neighbours. Of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 267 
 
 this little scene Cuthbert had been the silent 
 spectator; indeed the dialogue was so short, 
 and so rapidly spoken, that there was no room 
 for any question or remark of his ; — and his 
 companion having observed a silver crest vipon 
 the holsters of Cuthbert, did not doubt that he 
 was a church and king man, — especially as 
 there had not dropped from him a single ex- 
 pression which savoured of the Puritan. 
 
 Mine host of the Boar's Head, a big and 
 portly personage with bloated cheeks, re- 
 ceived our weary guests with a cheerful wel* 
 come; and led the way to a large travellers' 
 parlour, where, in an ample fire-place, huge 
 logs were blazing on the hearth. The seats on 
 either side were already occupied by guests, 
 before whom, on small three-legged tables, their 
 repasts were smoking. 
 
 At one of these sat two persons, whose ap- 
 pearance was that of military men : — the 
 younger of the two was very handsome, and of 
 a commanding figure. No sooner did the gentle- 
 man in Cuthbert's company approach the fire 
 than this martial youth rose, and addressing 
 N 2
 
 268 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 him by the name of Fleming, shook him cordially 
 by the hand. The ear of Cuthbert did not 
 catch the name by which, promptly respond- 
 ing to the recognition, Fleming replied, nor 
 did he learn it throughout the evening. How- 
 ever, another small table was immediately di^awn 
 near, and covered. Eggs, sausages, and broiled 
 bones were served up hastily ; and, after Cuth- 
 bert and his companion had satisfied the keen 
 appetites which they had gotten by a long 
 journey in cold rain and on miry roads, a 
 large jug of burnt claret was placed before 
 them ; and the following conversation between 
 the two acquaintances was listened to by Cuth- 
 bert in silent astonishment : — 
 
 " Well, Frank, you have not forgotten old 
 times, I hope. I trust that we shall teach the 
 volunteer gentry how to handle a sword after 
 the fashion of the old Swedish troopers before 
 long : — they made sorry work of it in the north 
 last year ; and for my part I was half ashamed 
 to ride among such a rabble ! " 
 
 " What made you go at all then?" said the 
 youthful soldier.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 269 
 
 " Why, to say truth, Frank, I found my life 
 in the country very dull, and my old father's 
 hunting companions as heavy as lead ; and I 
 heartily wished myself back in Germany, where 
 I might hear a trumpet once more : — so when 
 I heard that the King was going against the 
 Scots away I posted to court, and waited upon 
 his Majesty, and got a commission." 
 
 " I hope, Fleming, you made yourself master 
 of the quarrel before you offered your services." 
 
 " Look you, Frank, I remember you was 
 always as grave as a judge about war, and ex- 
 amined sides, and would know the rights of all 
 that was doTie. That was never my way. I 
 left Cambridge at nineteen, and went to the 
 camp of Gustavus, as eager and as blind as a 
 young colt ; and so again now : — wherever the 
 King's standard flies all must be right ; besides, 
 I hate these pricked-eared Puritans, and yon 
 Scotch psalm singers that wo'n't use the Prayer 
 Book." 
 
 " It seems, however, that they can use the 
 broad sword, and with good effect, if accounts 
 speak true." 
 
 N 3
 
 270 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " There you have me," rejoined the cheerful 
 and light-hearted campaigner, — " there you have 
 me. I never felt shame as a soldier till this 
 Scotch campaign. Our tall fellows always 
 turned their backs first, and retreated true run- 
 away fashion : — you could never make them fire 
 their pistols, and wheel off orderly ; and it was 
 well for them that they had raw Scots troopers 
 at their tails instead of Pappenheim's cuiras- 
 siers." 
 
 " It is clear enough that you must have run 
 too," said the young soldier, laughing, " or you 
 would not be here to tell the story." 
 
 " To be sure I did, — but not without leaving 
 the mark of my sword in the cheek of a stout 
 Scotsman that pressed me a little too close and 
 unmannerly. However, live and learn is a wise 
 saying. When the King fairly raises a proper 
 army, instead of a set of footmen and servants, 
 commanded by courtiers and parsons, there will 
 be warmer sport than we had in the north." 
 
 " It will be sorry and grave sport, methinks, 
 comrade, when Englishmen stand up against
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 271 
 
 Englishmen, and little pleasure to see an old 
 fellow-soldier in the ranks opposite." 
 
 " Odd's life, I shall never see you enact 
 rebel." 
 
 " Rebel is a rough word: — suppose we change 
 the subject." 
 
 The conversation was now continued on 
 various indifferent matters till the hour for rest. 
 Cuthbert himself made but few observations, 
 and was strangely exercised in his mind by con- 
 templating the characters before him. In addi- 
 tion to those already named, there was one other 
 traveller at a table by himself, who had partaken 
 of no better fare than a bowl of oatmeal por- 
 ridge, and who sat intent over a small closely 
 printed book, without once opening his lips, and 
 seldom even raising his eyes. The companion 
 of Cuthbert often looked contemptuously as- 
 kance at him, and indulged in many a fling 
 against the Puritans; but the silent stranger 
 either did not or would not hear these rude 
 jests, and, as they met with no encouragement 
 from any one present, they fell flat and power- 
 N 4
 
 272 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 less. At length the time of going to bed 
 came; and the host appeared to conduct his 
 guests to their chambers. Our host, having 
 a quick eye to the quality of the parties, 
 placed the Cavalier captain in his best chamber ; 
 the two military-looking men in the next; and 
 the pale stranger in a small cold garret with 
 Cuthbert. 
 
 As soon as the door was closed behind them, 
 and the foot of the landlord was heard descend- 
 ing the stairs, the stranger approached Cuthbert 
 and invited him to join in prayer. 
 
 " To me," said the stranger, with a face of the 
 most earnest gravity, " to me is committed that 
 I'are and precious gift, the discerning of spirits : 
 I see thou art a God-fearing youth : — as soon as 
 thou didst enter the parlour I smelled the perfume 
 of the angelic nature; even as also the sulphur 
 and the brimstone of Tophet in the three sons of 
 Belial, who are gone to lie down under the power 
 of Beelzebub, and to sleep with evil spirits for 
 company." 
 
 " Friend," said Cuthbert, " I do not under- 
 stand you : it is not my custom to join in prayer
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 273 
 
 with an unknown stranger ; there is thy bed, 
 and here is mine : — let us He down upon them in 
 peace, and commune with our own hearts and 
 be still." 
 
 " Verily," rejoined the stranger, " thou art 
 afraid : — it is no wonder : — thou art but a 
 mere babe of grace, and thine eyes do see but 
 dimly the glories of my high calling; — but I 
 tell thee thou art a chosen vessel of the Lord, 
 — and even now I feel my bowels moved to- 
 wards thee, and the spirit of prayer is upon me, 
 and I must wrestle with the powers of darkness 
 to deliver thy poor soul from the snare of the 
 fowler. This is my command, — and even now I 
 am appointed unto thee for an angel of defence, 
 and the fiffht is beffun." 
 
 O O 
 
 The stranger now threw hunself upon his 
 knees, and poured forth a long, rambling and 
 blasphemous petition, — the words of which made 
 Cuthbert shudder. 
 
 However, as he had been already told that 
 
 there was no other chamber or bed vacant, and 
 
 as he was greatly fatigued, he lay down to sleep, 
 
 silently commending himself to the care of God, 
 
 N 5
 
 274 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and endeavouring to substitute a feeling of pity 
 for the deep disgust with which this crazy cham- 
 ber-fellow inspired him. 
 
 The last sounds of which he was conscious 
 before his heavy eyes became sealed in forget- 
 fulness were groanings from the adjoining bed 
 — nor did he awake in the morning till it 
 was broad daylight. He looked around — the 
 chamber was empty ; — at this he felt thankful : 
 and, supposing that his last odd companion had 
 travelled forward at an earlier hour, he arose, 
 and proceeded to dress himself; but he in- 
 stantly discovered that his purse was gone. He 
 went forth on the stairs, and called loudly for the 
 landlord. It was some time before he made his 
 appearance ; and when he did so, he listened to 
 the tale with hard indifference, and coarse in- 
 credulity. 
 
 " Ah ! that's an old story, my devil's scholar, 
 but it wo'n't go down with me : — you shan't 
 budge from the Boar's Head till you pay your 
 shot, I can tell you ; and 3'our nag shall go to the 
 market cross before I let you ride off without 
 paying for provender."
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 275 
 
 Cuthbert's fury was roused to the uttermost ; 
 but his hot words were only laughed at by the 
 rosy Boniface, who soon left him. He slipped 
 on his clothes with all haste, and came down into 
 the guest parlour, where the Cavalier and the 
 two military men were already seated at break- 
 fast by a cheerful fire. He stated his case be- 
 fore them all with the warm earnestness of truth , 
 The Cavalier picked his teeth and whistled ; but 
 the younger of the other two seemed very much 
 to sympathise in the embarrassment of Cuthbert, 
 which in fact was more serious than he himself 
 apprehended ; for mine host came presently into 
 the parlour to say, that his horse and his vallise 
 were taken away by his chamber-fellow before 
 dawn. 
 
 " It was all a made up thing," said the land- 
 lord in a storm of passion. " I saw they were a 
 couple of hypocritical rogues, and packed 'em to- 
 gether for safety's sake — 't would only be thief 
 rob thief, I knew : — but it's my belief they take 
 the horse turn by turn, and steal in company ; 
 for yon old one has left half a bottle of strong 
 N 6
 
 276 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 waters and the leg of a cold goose at his bed- 
 foot: — come, young knave," he added, attempt- 
 ing to take Francis by the collar, " come with 
 me afore the justice. He '11 find thee a lodging 
 in our cage." 
 
 With a force to which indignation gave 
 strength, Cuthbert threw back the fat bully 
 against the wall, and turning to the Cavalier, 
 who had rode with him part of his yesterday's 
 journey,— 
 
 " You may remember, sir," he said, " that when 
 you joined me, I told you that I came from the 
 neighbourhood of Warwick, and was on my 
 journey to London. I told you, moreover, 
 that I was a member of the University of 
 Cambridge : — the silver crest on my holsters 
 was the crest of Sir Oliver Heywood of Mil- 
 verton, in whose house I have resided for this 
 year past, as tutor to his nepheVs son. The 
 animal, in fact, is Sir Oliver's property, and 
 was kindly lent me for the journey : — if you 
 will answer for me to this landlord, and give 
 me a crown piece to travel on with, I will faith- 
 fully repay you when I reach towTi. My name,
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 277 
 
 sir, is Cuthbert Noble, son of Mr. Noble, rector 
 of Cheddar, in Somerset." 
 
 " A pack of stuff, good master," said the 
 angry landlord to the Cavalier, — " don't you be 
 made a fool of; don't be bamboozled by a 
 smooth trumped up cock and a bull story like 
 this: if the horse is Sir Oliver Hey wood's, 
 they have stolen it, and change riders on the 
 road to Smithfield, where they will turn it into 
 a purse of nobles before night. Marry, I'll go 
 for constables, and, as you are honest gentle- 
 men and true, hold the knave fast in your keep- 
 ing till I come back again." Before, however, 
 he could leave the room, as much to his astonish- 
 ment and shame as to the surprise and relief 
 of Cuthbert, the younger of the two travellers, 
 whom his companion the Cavalier had last night 
 claimed acquaintance with, came forward in 
 a very open and cordial manner, and assured 
 Cuthbert of his readiness to assist him. 
 
 " I am connected," said the noble looking 
 youth, " with the family at Milverton, nor is 
 the name of Master Cuthbert Noble unknown to 
 me. My purse is at your service ; and I shall
 
 278 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 be glad of your company on the road. Though 
 I have no horse to offer you, post-horses can be 
 easily procured at every stage." 
 
 Thus was Cuthbert at once released from a 
 perplexity, and introduced to the friendship of 
 Francis Heywood.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 279 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 The great vicissitude of things amongst men is the vicissi- 
 tude of sects and religions ; for those orbs rule in men's minds 
 most. 
 
 Bacon. 
 
 On the third of November, 1640, the fatal Long 
 Parliament began. On the 12th, the Earl of 
 Strafford was impeached of treason, and com- 
 mitted to the Black Rod. The Lords denied 
 him bail and council ; and he was, in a few days 
 more, commanded into close imprisonment in 
 the Tower. One hundred thousand pounds 
 were now voted to the Scots, and borrowed of 
 the city of London. Ship money was soon ques- 
 tioned by the Parliament, and voted an illegal 
 tax; and, in fine, all grievances and abuses 
 were loudly proclaimed, and resolutely brought 
 forward, by intrepid and patriotic men ; of whom 
 the best and noblest did certainly never contem-
 
 280 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 plate, at that time, the sad and humihating close 
 of the labours and the authority of that memo- 
 rable and august assembly. August, of a truth, 
 that assembly may be called, in which a Hamp- 
 den and a Falkland stood, at after moments, 
 opposed in debate ; and in which, in the follow- 
 ing year, the grand remonstrance of the Com- 
 mons was the subject of grave deliberation for 
 thirty hours, and was only carried, at last, by 
 a majority of nine voices. 
 
 But to return to our story. It may be sup- 
 posed that Cuthbert Noble was no indiffer- 
 ent or unmoved spectator of the great public 
 events which every day brought forth in the 
 winter of 1640. With his serious and peculiar 
 notions, the questions that aifected liberty of 
 conscience and church reform were those which 
 most deeply interested him ; and when, upon the 
 morning of the 23d of November, Prynne and 
 Burton entered triumphantly into Westminster, 
 followed by many thousands of the people, Cuth- 
 bert was foremost in the crowd; and not a 
 zealot among them was more wildly excited 
 than himself.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 281 
 
 Laughter and tears succeeded to each other, 
 as those around expressed their rude sympathy ; 
 — now in remarks quaint and comical — now 
 in pious commiseration, or in the stern tones of 
 indignant and just anger. 
 
 " Which is old Prynne ? " said one. — " That's 
 he," said his neighbour, " with his black 
 head clipped close, looking, for all the world, 
 like a skull-cap." — " See how the old boy 
 grins." — " He's no beauty." — " Hurrah! 
 hurrah ! " — " Can you hear, old boy ? " — "I 
 wonder if a man can hear without his ears." — 
 " To be sure a' can, all the better." — " Well, 
 he can't have the ear-ache no more." — " Don't 
 talk so unfeeling." — " Look, poor dear good 
 man, he is as white as a sheet." — " That is 
 prison and hunger." — " This is your bishops* 
 work — od rot 'em — their turn shall come." 
 
 With such vulgarities were mixed the solemn 
 tones and pious expressions of many a sincere 
 Christian, giving utterance to praise and thanks- 
 giving for the deliverance of these persecuted 
 men; while, here and there, a strong voice
 
 282 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 would be heard, above the crowd, denouncing 
 the tyranny [of the church and the croun in 
 coarse language, in which the Establishment was 
 likened to the whore of Babylon, — and the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury was pointed out to 
 the vengeance of the rabble. 
 
 Such language would, in a moment of calm 
 reflection, have been utterly revolting to the 
 feelings of Cuthbert. He would have shut his 
 ears to the base and bloody cry, and hurried 
 away from the wi'etches who gave it utterance, 
 as from the company of sinners, whose feet were 
 already planted in the paths of wickedness, and 
 were swift to shed blood. But now, though such 
 fierce cries gave a jar to his better dispositions 
 and nobler nature, they were regarded as the 
 natural ebullitions of an irritated mob ; and he 
 stood among them as a partaker of their guilt by 
 the sanction of his presence. 
 
 Nothing is so blind — nothing is so deaf — 
 nothing can stoop so low — as party spirit ; — 
 and at no period of English history was this 
 more fully exemplified than at that of which we
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 283 
 
 are now speaking. The Cavaliers, on their side, 
 were not without the support of a rabble of their 
 own ; and by these, the slang of the tavern, the 
 bear gq^den, and the brothel, was exhausted 
 to furnish epithets of scorn, contempt, and ridi- 
 cule, by which they might insult their fanatical 
 opponents. 
 
 To the mental eye of Cuthbert the two vic- 
 tims of a severe and intolerant hierarchy stood 
 out in large and disproportionate grandeur, — 
 filling all the foreground of the picture upon 
 which he now gazed to the exclusion of all other 
 objects. 
 
 He saw them bearing the evident marks of 
 torture and degradation on their mutilated forms. 
 They had been thus treated, according to his 
 notion, for a mere error in judgment — they 
 were sufferers for conscience-sake : — his heart 
 grew hot within him, — and he would have called 
 down fire from heaven on the heads of their 
 oppressors. 
 
 He accompanied the crowd all through West- 
 minster ; and, in the eagerness of his excited 
 mood, pressed in once close to the horse of Prynne,
 
 284 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 that he might utter a " God save you, master ! " 
 to the stern Puritan, face to face. 
 
 There was a keen twinkle of triumph in the 
 little eyes of the sour precisian, which showed 
 that he felt his day of revenge would soon come, 
 and that it would be his turn to play inquisitor 
 towards his late haughty oppressor. 
 
 However, he would have been more than 
 human had he been superior to such an infirmity, 
 after sustaining injuries so great. 
 
 It happened on the day of this public entry of 
 Prynne and Burton that Cuthbert was alone in 
 the quarter of Westminster; and having re- 
 mained a long time gazing on the show, he 
 went into a tavern in a narrow street behind 
 the Abbey to refresh. 
 
 After satisfying his hunger over a fine joint 
 of roast beef in company with a grave looking 
 lawyer, who sat opposite him at the same table, 
 with a roll of parchments and papers by his 
 side, the man of law proposed a cup of canary 
 to the health of Masters Prynne and Burton, in 
 which he was readily seconded by Cuthbert. 
 
 " Ah," said the stranger bitterly, " this is a
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 285 
 
 different kind of procession to the fool's mum- 
 mery which they made us play seven years ago, 
 before the wanton queen and her dancing French 
 gentlemen." 
 
 " What ! you mean the mask of the inns of 
 court, on Candlemas-day, seven years ago?" 
 asked Cuthbert. 
 
 " Just so: that was got up to tickle the court 
 party, and trample down Prynne and his book ; 
 but tables are turning." 
 
 " Well, though I think they were very ty- 
 rannical about Prynne, I did not like his book ; 
 and never saw any harm in a mask or an 
 interlude." 
 
 " Why, to judge by your looks, you could 
 only have been a boy when that mask was 
 given, and perhaps you did not see it." 
 
 " That is true ; but I read the account of it 
 that was printed, and surely it was a brave and 
 glorious show ; and, methinks, there were some 
 witty hints given his Majesty in the anti-masks, 
 which he might be the wiser for." 
 
 " The man Charles Stuart," said the stranger, 
 " will never be the better for hints."
 
 286 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 It was the first time that Cuthbert had ever 
 heard from any Hps so irreverent a mention of 
 the King, and he coloured and was silent. 
 
 " I say he will never be the better for hints, — 
 though it is true that some of them were broad 
 enough, and too humorous for offence; but 
 you have forgotten that there was one anti- 
 mask got up by the serviles to insult the 
 poor. If it may not have a sneer of ridicule for 
 poverty and misfortune, the pleasure of the 
 proud wanteth its best relish." 
 
 " I do not understand you," said Cuthbert; 
 *' of what speak you, master ? " 
 
 " Of that which has been played in joke, and 
 shall come to pass in earnest. Little they thought, 
 with their gibes and their mockery, that they 
 were but foreshowing events, which the turn of 
 the wheel is even now bringing to pass. I do 
 remember all their gilded chariots and rich ap- 
 parel, and gay liveries; and in the midst of that 
 costly show, there rode an anti-mask of cripples 
 and beggars, clothed in rags, and mounted on 
 sorry lean jades, gotten out of dust carts, with 
 dirty urchins snapping tongs and shovels before
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 287 
 
 them for music, — and thus was the noble 
 music, and thus were the gallant horses, and 
 the velvets and silks and spangled habits, made 
 more pleasing to the painted court Jezebels 
 by the pitiful contrast. Shall not the Lord 
 visit for these things?" he added, raising his 
 voice, and changing the tone of it to a solemn 
 sternness : " Yea, verily, he shall visit : — in his 
 hand there is a cup, — and the dregs thereof 
 shall be drunk out by the oppressors, — and the 
 sword shall go through the land, and it shall be 
 drunk with blood." 
 
 The severe inference thus forced by the 
 speaker from a trifling circumstance, of which 
 the joyous projectors of the interlude thought 
 perhaps very differently, and which might have 
 been so turned by a playful mind, as a caricature 
 against the foreign musicians, then so much 
 about court; or, again, by a thoughtful mind, 
 as a memento of those dark realities of human 
 misery which invite and demand compassion. 
 This inference was at once received by Cuthbert 
 as just. It touched a chord in his heart that 
 immediately responded, and he was played upon
 
 288 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 as a lute by his companion; till, at last, the 
 latter opening a roll of parchment requested 
 him to put down his name as a subscriber to the 
 necessities of a few godly and persecuted men 
 now suffering imprisonment for the great cause 
 of liberty of conscience, and whose families were 
 quite destitute. 
 
 From his slender purse Cuthbert instantly 
 took the few crowns it contained, and only re- 
 serving sufficient money to pay for his dinner, 
 shook his new acquaintance heartily by the hand, 
 and set forth on his way to the city, where he 
 lodged, with a heart glowing with the love of 
 God, of his country, and of mankind. His evil 
 angel had only to appear clothed like an angel 
 of light, and Cuthbert would follow, nothing 
 doubting, whithersoever he was led. Tlie false 
 fire, which glimmered over the dangerous quag- 
 mire of gloomy fanaticism, was mistaken by 
 Cuthbert for light from Heaven; and by the fre- 
 quent perusal of controversies on religion, and 
 a constant attendance on the private ministries 
 of those fierce zealots, who were urging forward 
 the overthrow of the Established Church, he
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 289 
 
 became at length totally bewildered. It was in 
 vain that Francis Heywood exposed to him the 
 hypocrisy and inconsistency of some of those 
 wolves in sheep's clothing by whom he was now 
 continually surrounded, to the neglect of Hey- 
 wood's own society and that of the higher and 
 better order of the Parliamentarian supporters. 
 He listened with pity to remonstrances which 
 he considered as proceeding from a man of the 
 world, and a deceived soul wandering in dark- 
 ness; nevertheless his affectionate disposition 
 survived the strength of his reason. He looked 
 up to and loved Francis Heywood as a model 
 of what the natural man might attain to; and 
 as in their political views they were altogether 
 agreed, they very often met. The ardent 
 Francis might indeed have well doubted of 
 the soundness of a political creed which num- 
 bered among its supporters such diversified and 
 crazy characters as those whom he saw daily 
 embrace it: but although he was not able to 
 endure their sanctimonious professions, and mo- 
 rose manners, he viewed them as instruments 
 necessary to the present warfare of principles; 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 and, having returned from America on purpose 
 to stand up for the popular rights, he remained 
 steadfastly at his post, watching with intense in- 
 terest the proceedings of parliament, and eager 
 for the moment when those services, which he 
 came to offer, might be required in the field. 
 
 In one particular the lives of Francis Hey- 
 wood and of Cuthbert Noble during the two fol- 
 lowing years corresponded well. Never were 
 those hard duties which self-denial enjoins, 
 practised with a more resolute and cheerful 
 virtue. The means of both were slender ; and 
 they supported themselves by the exercise of 
 their respective talents with credit and success. 
 
 Cuthbert attended daily in the families of two 
 or three merchants of the Puritan party as 
 classical tutor to their boys; while Francis 
 He)rwood, reserving with great care the sum 
 necessary to purchase a good charger, and mili- 
 tary equipments, whenever he might need them, 
 maintained his current expenses by the drawing 
 of maps, plans, and views illustrative of the late 
 campaigns of Gustavus Adolphus, and of the 
 actual warfare in Germany w^hich was then
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 291 
 
 carrying on. These drawings found a sufficient 
 sale, among the curious in such matters, to re- 
 munerate the hght labour of producing them; 
 and though the printseller, who purchased them 
 from Francis, told him that gentlemen, very 
 capable of advancing his interests, had made 
 inquiries after him, yet he was forbidden by 
 Francis to disclose his residence, or to answer 
 any questions about him. His leisure from this 
 easy occupation was employed in useful studies 
 or in manly exercises. He daily frequented a 
 school of arms, not for instruction, indeed, for 
 he was a master of all weapons, but for health 
 and diversion; and for the same end he went 
 often to the grand manege in the quarter of the 
 court; where he was so great a favourite with 
 the chevalier, who taught the graces of horse- 
 manship, that he was asked as a kindness to 
 exercise the most spirited and beautiful animals 
 of his stud in the open country : — an offer 
 which, from the delight he took in the amuse- 
 ment of schooling a young and high bred horse, 
 he very often accepted. 
 
 Francis Heywood was not unknown to many 
 o 2
 
 292 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 families with whom his father had been inti- 
 mate; and by some of them, notwithstanding his 
 fortunes and his poHtics, and by others on ac- 
 count of them, he was invited to several houses, 
 where he might have enjoyed all the pleasures 
 and the refinements of social life ; but he very 
 rarely accepted their invitations, not merely 
 from mistaken pride, but from a disrelish of 
 scenes which would always so strongly and 
 painfully suggest to him the happy intercourse 
 he had once enjoyed in that domestic circle, of 
 which his adored Katharine was at once the 
 charm and the idol. 
 
 Upon this sweet memory, in lonely hours of 
 leisure, his mind would feed, and he would dis- 
 course of it, not indeed in words, but in the soft 
 breathings of his lute; till, suddenly, by the 
 strong eifort of a manly will, he would tear 
 himself from the dangerous indulgence, and sit 
 closely down to his writing desk, that he might 
 complete the minute journal of public events 
 which he kept for his father, and despatched, as 
 opportunities offered, to New England. 
 
 To the review of these grave subjects he
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 293 
 
 brought a generous spirit ; and it was not without 
 an occassional pang that he related the progress 
 and triumph of the cause to which he was sin- 
 cerely attached. 
 
 He could not but exult to see the principles 
 of government openly examined, and the just 
 rights and liberties of the people clearly de- 
 fined. 
 
 He looked with veneration upon the labours 
 of the Commons ; and he watched with jealousy 
 the advisers of the crown, and the sycophants 
 about the court. He saw many abuses rectified, 
 many grievances redressed. He saw the ini- 
 quitous Star Chamber and the High Commis- 
 sion Court abolished, — and a noble security 
 against a return of misgovernment and tyranny 
 in the famous bill for a triennial parliament. 
 
 This last measure, the main pillar of the new 
 constitution, was received by the whole nation 
 with rejoicings ; and when it passed solemn 
 thanks were presented to his Majesty by both 
 houses of parliament. But the sincerity of the 
 court party and the moderation of the re- 
 formers were aUke suspicious. The passions, 
 o 3
 
 294 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the prejudices, and the interests of conflicting 
 parties had been too rudely aroused by discus- 
 sion to subside without an explosive collision ; 
 and it was evident to Francis that the struggle 
 between the prerogatives of the crown and the 
 privileges of parliament would never terminate 
 without an appeal to arms. 
 
 He shuddered to see the scaffold stained with 
 the blood of Strafford; and though he was among 
 those who clamoured against the minister, he 
 profoundly commiserated the man, as the aban- 
 doned victim of his party, — and in his heart he 
 despised Charles for signing the death-warrant 
 of his favourite.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 295 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow, 
 
 To the full-voiced quire below, 
 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 
 As may with sweetness through mine ear 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The affliction of the good parson of Cheddar at 
 the strange a. id painful conduct of his son Cuth- 
 bert was heavy to bear. However, from a sense 
 of duty to his weaker partner, he made great 
 efforts to preserve his wonted serenity and com- 
 posure in her presence ; but when alone he was 
 bowed down in the dust. 
 
 Nothing could possibly present a greater con- 
 trast to the tone of religious profession which 
 was, at this period, obtaining a wide reception 
 among men than that in which old Noble lay 
 prostrate in his closet before his God. 
 o 4
 
 296 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 He had ever been a meek and cheerful Chris- 
 tian ; but there were depths of humiliation which 
 he had not as yet fathomed ; and he would have 
 fainted at the waves of trouble, which his pres- 
 cient eye saw rolling onward, if he had not felt 
 the hand, which led him down into the deep, 
 was that of a heavenly Father, if he had not 
 heard a voice that whispered in his ear, " It is /, 
 he not afraidr 
 
 In vain did he exhaust his heart in sound, 
 pious, and affectionate remonstrances, meditated 
 and penned in the spirit of prayer, that he might 
 recall his dear and wandering child to the bosom 
 of the church, or, at all events, so far recover 
 him from gross delusions as to see him join that 
 upright and devout portion of the communit}^, 
 which, though differing from the discipline of 
 the church, maintained a pure and practical 
 doctrine. 
 
 In vain did he press the return of Cuthbert 
 to Cheddar, by every argument which parental 
 love could suggest. 
 
 The letters of Noble and his wife were re- 
 plied to in the words of love ; but the fruit of
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 297 
 
 his new persuasion was an obstinate self-will ; 
 and while he implored them, at great length, to 
 consider his views, and urged the danger of 
 despising them, he evinced to others, what was 
 not perhaps suspected by himself, a degree of 
 spiritual pride only to be exceeded by the 
 strength of his delusion. 
 
 He had adopted the notions of those fanatics 
 who were styled Fifth-monarchy Men, and who 
 ranged themselves where, indeed, any sect, how- 
 ever extravagant, might have found a place, 
 under the banner of the Independents. 
 
 It was some consolation to these troubled pa- 
 rents to hear from the Philips's, their relations, 
 and also from other friends, that the life and 
 the conduct of Cuthbert were, as regarded aU 
 moral and social duties, a credit to any theory, 
 and such as became the pure precepts of the 
 Gospel. 
 
 His intellect was clear upon every other 
 
 subject, except on that which, if it be rashly 
 
 touched, seems to be guarded by invisible angels, 
 
 who put forth their hands and smite the daring 
 
 o 5
 
 298 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 intruder with madness. " Oppression," saith the 
 preacher, " will make a wise man mad ; " — a 
 truth abundantly proved by the events, which, 
 leading first to a secret and salutary reform, 
 ended at last in a bloody revolution and an iron 
 rule. 
 
 It may be added, that he who seeketh to 
 meddle with the hidden mysteries of unfulfilled 
 prophecy is often smitten with blindness and 
 confusion for his presumption. Thus it was 
 with Cuthbert : — sensible, amiable, and affec- 
 tionate in all the relations of life, he was now 
 the subject of a monomania, and turned a deaf 
 ear to the voice of truth and wisdom, though it 
 spoke with all the authority and all the earnest- 
 ness of a father. 
 
 These were not times in which a minister 
 could leave his parish for a distant journey, nor, 
 indeed, was it at all likely that the presence of his 
 parents would have effected that change in the 
 sentiments or the course of Cuthbert, which 
 their admirable and Christian letters had failed 
 to produce. 
 
 Time wore on gloomily enough, even in the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 299 
 
 peaceful parsonage at Cheddar. Many a time 
 as old Noble paced his garden amid sunbeams 
 and flowers, praising that " mercy which en- 
 dureth for ever," his thanksgivings ended in 
 tears and lamentations, not for his domestic 
 troubles, but for the great evils which he feared 
 and expected would befall the church and the 
 nation. 
 
 Laud was already paying the penalty of his 
 mistaken, but certainly conscientious, severity, 
 in a prison, from whence it might be plainly 
 foretold he would at length be conducted to the 
 block. The bishops' votes in parliament were 
 taken away, and the deans and chapters were 
 already voted against in the Commons, although 
 their spoliation had not yet taken place, neither 
 were the cathedral services as yet discontinued. 
 As regularly, therefore, as the Thursday came 
 round. Noble, if not prevented by a special call 
 of duty at home, made his weekly visit to the 
 fair city of Wells ; where he in the first instance 
 always bent his steps to the cathedral, and joined 
 the congregation assembled for morning service, 
 o 6
 
 300 
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 It was on a saint's day, in the summer of 1641, 
 that, as usual, he proceeded to that venerable 
 and glorious temple, and took his seat in the 
 vacant stall which it was his wont to occupy. 
 Directly opposite he observed a tall uncouth 
 man of harsh features and a sour countenance, 
 sitting very upright, and glancing a severe and 
 restless eye at the organ, the first tones of which 
 were pealing through the long aisles, as the 
 dean, the prebends, and other officers of the 
 choir, .preceded by the vergers with their maces, 
 slowly entered, and reverently took their seats. 
 
 The service began, and was conducted with 
 that solemn decency, and with those clear fine 
 chants, which dispose most hearts to a subdued 
 feeling of intense devotion. 
 
 There is a something in sacred music which 
 does wonderfully compose the mind, and cleanse 
 it of all earthly-rooted cares. Upon the stranger 
 above mentioned, however, it produced no such 
 effect. He sat erect, cold, and contemptuous: 
 he put aside the Book of Common Prayer 
 with a rude thrust ; and taking a small volume 
 from his pocket opened it with ostentatious gra-
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 301 
 
 vity, and, not joining in the worship that he 
 witnessed, either by response, gesture, or any 
 conformity of posture with those around him, 
 sat, now casting his eyes on the page of his book, 
 now severely around, and now raising them to 
 Heaven after a manner that left nothing but 
 the jaundiced whites visible. 
 
 This strange conduct disturbed, irritated, or 
 amused the observers, according to the impres- 
 sion that was made upon them. Some of the 
 prebends and vicars choral looked red and an- 
 gry. The dean was greatly distressed, and knew 
 not what to do. At first he called the verger, 
 with a design to remove the intruder; but, upon 
 second thoughts, he feared that a yet greater 
 interruption and indecency might take place if 
 such a course was attempted, he therefore 
 commanded his feelings with as much dignity as 
 he could. But his grave frowns were totally 
 without power upon the youthful choristers, 
 whose laughter would have been loud and audi- 
 ble, but for the thick folds of the surplice with 
 which they stuffed their rebellious and aching 
 jaws.
 
 302 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Noble himself was mournfully agitated, and 
 prayed in the spirit with that deep and melan- 
 choly fervour which hath no outward expression 
 but the abased eyes. 
 
 By degrees, the congregation recovered their 
 composure, and never was an anthem performed 
 with more earnest solemnity, or a sweetness 
 more touching to the inmost soul, than the ''Ne 
 Irascaris" the " Be not Wroth," or " Bow 
 thine Ear " of the famous composer Bird. At 
 the words " Sion, thy Sion is wasted and 
 brought low," which are set to a tender and 
 solemn passage, and are sung very soft and 
 slow, the effect was sublime. Moved by the 
 deep pathos of the expression, the cheeks of 
 Noble, as of a few others present, were bathed 
 in tears. 
 
 But the stranger remained in his seat with- 
 out rising, and perused his book with a kind of 
 resolved and insulting inattention to it all. 
 
 The service was not permitted to close with- 
 out this mysterious personage marking his con- 
 tempt of it yet farther, by rising suddenly, 
 while all the congregation were on their knees.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 303 
 
 and stalking slowly down the middle of the aisle 
 with a loud and measured stamp of his great 
 thick boots. 
 
 He wore by his side a long heavy-looking 
 sword, and had certainly the air of a man who 
 could use it, if he chose, with little fear and no 
 favour. 
 
 Noble joined the clergy in the chapter-room 
 directly after the morning prayers were ended, 
 and there learned that there had been a riot 
 the night before in the streets, excited by some 
 mischievous emissary from London; and that 
 some of the rabble had burned a bishop in effigy, 
 in the close just under the windows of the dean. 
 It seemed, however, that this outrage had been 
 committed by a band of low persons, who had 
 come up from Bristol to attend a fair, and had 
 brought with them sundry printed papers and 
 ribald songs to distribute in the lanes and alleys 
 of the city : the object of which was to bring 
 the church and clergy into public contempt. 
 
 However, it so happens that, for the most 
 part, the inhabitants of a cathedral town take a 
 great pride in the edifice itself, whatever may
 
 304 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 be their indifference to religion. Those mag- 
 nificent structures are the first wonders upon 
 which the eyes of the human beings, born and 
 suckled beneath their shadow, are taught to 
 gaze. They are noble and solemn features in 
 the scene of early life ; and are printed so in- 
 delibly on the mind, that, let the native of a 
 cathedral city wander where he will, the recol- 
 lection of the venerable temple goes with him, 
 associated, in his memory, with his birthplace, 
 his holydays, his truant hours, with the merry 
 music of festival bells, with the pride of having 
 often seen strangers and travellers, both of high 
 and low degree, walk about its walls, and linger 
 in its spacious aisles, with pleasure and admir- 
 ation. 
 
 Therefore a party among the common people 
 was easily roused to take up sticks and stones 
 against the insulting mischief-makers, who were 
 thus at last driven away from the city with great 
 tumult. 
 
 It was the very day following this riot that 
 the offensive adventure in the cathedral, which 
 we have just related, occurred. As no doubt
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 305 
 
 existed in the minds of the clergy assembled in 
 the chapter-room that the extraordinary person, 
 who had just committed so gross and indecent 
 an outrage in a place of public worship, was, in 
 some measure, connected with the disturbance 
 of the preceding day, they resolved to make an 
 immediate complaint to the Mayor of Wells, 
 that the obnoxious individual might be taken 
 up, and committed to prison, or otherwise pu- 
 nished for his offence. 
 
 Some little time had been lost in their con- 
 sultations ; and they came forth from the cathe- 
 dral in a body, with the intention of despatching 
 two of the prebends, already deputed for that 
 purpose, to wait upon the mayor, when, to their 
 surprise and mortification, they saw the object of 
 their anger approaching them on horseback. 
 As he drew near, it was evident that the oppor- 
 tunity of arresting him was already lost. He 
 rode a very powerful young horse of generous 
 breed and fine action — and he sat upon him as 
 on a throne. 
 
 " Look ye," said he, as he drew up close to 
 the astonished group, — " Look ye, Scribes and
 
 306 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Pharisees ! hypocrites ! — ye love greetings in 
 the market-place — take mine: — the time is 
 come to set your houses in order — even now 
 the decree is gone forth — the sword is now 
 sharpening that shall pass through the land : — 
 it glitters, look ye." So saying, with a grim 
 smile he drew the blade of his own half out 
 of the scabbard, and let it fall again with a for- 
 cible rattle. 
 
 The dean, who was a bold and athletic man, 
 disregarding this fierce action, made an active 
 effort to seize the bridle of the Puritan's steed ; 
 but the wary rider with a jerk of the reins threw 
 up the animal's head, and at the same moment 
 touching his flank with the spur made him give 
 a plunge forward that scattered the frightened 
 priests a few yards on either side. Nevertheless, 
 the dean remonstrated in very angry terms 
 against his insulting abuse; as did others, who 
 were, like himself, courageous. Tliey did not, 
 however, succeed either in stopping the fanatic 
 or in driving him away : — a small mob was 
 gathering in the cathedral yard, and the fiery 
 zealot continued his address.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 307 
 
 " What mean ye, ye priests of Baal, by your 
 silks, and your satins, and your hoods, and your 
 scarfs, and your square caps, and your surplices, 
 and all your fooleries? what mean your boy 
 choristers that bleat like young kids, and your 
 men choristers that bellow like oxen? what means 
 your grunting organ ? • Is it thus you worship 
 God, as though he were an idol and an abomin- 
 ation, and his temple like that of the heathen ? 
 It should be a house of prayer, and ye have 
 made it a den of thieves, and all its services vain 
 and lewd mummeries. I cry. Fie upon you ! — 
 Wo, wo, wo ! — Ye shall see me again when the 
 blast of the trumpet soundeth, and mine eye 
 shall not pity. I will smite, I will not spare 
 you. Have ye not preached blasphemies ? have 
 ye not broken and polluted the holy Sabbath 
 with your sports and your harlotries ? have ye 
 not shed the blood of God-fearing men ? yea, 
 verily. Now hear my warning : — come out of her, 
 come out of her, my people. There are among 
 you, even among your priests, some whom the 
 Lord hath chosen : — yet again I call to you, 
 Come out of her, come out of Babylon, that ye
 
 308 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 perish not with her. To me is appointed this 
 cry : — every where I must Hft up my voice thus, 
 till the day of vengeance come. Wo shall be 
 the portion of those who hear me not ! " 
 
 An insane delight gleamed in his dark eyes, 
 a convulsive energy distorted his features, and 
 seemed to affect and agitate his whole form. 
 The crowd drew closer to him : the resolute 
 dean beckoning them forward, again advanced 
 with the intention of seizing him, when he sud- 
 denly gave his horse the head ; and touching the 
 high spirited beast with both spurs, he w as borne 
 out of their sight at a few rapid bounds, and was 
 very soon beyond all danger of pursuit. 
 
 Several of the mob ran round the corner 
 after him jeering and cheering ; but the clergy 
 went their ways, by twos and threes, and talked 
 over the uncomfortable though diseased words 
 of the fanatic with much gravity and discom- 
 posure. 
 
 Many painful extravagancies of a fanatic cha- 
 racter had been already committed in various 
 parts of the country; and in London many 
 scandalous scenes had been enacted, expressive
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 309 
 
 of a contempt for the Established Church and 
 her ministers. 
 
 The prelates and dignitaries were the especial 
 marks of popular hatred ; but, hitherto, nothing 
 approaching to the indecency and outrage above 
 recorded had occurred in the neighbourhood 
 and under the eye of Noble. 
 
 Again he could have wished Cuthbert to have 
 been present, as he had formerly wished that he 
 could have witnessed the unmannerly and un- 
 christian bearing of Master Daws, the morose 
 and designing curate, whose interview with 
 Noble we have in a former part of this story 
 related. 
 
 " Surely," thought the mild man of peace, — 
 " Surely such things would open his eyes to the 
 spirit that is abroad, and to the aim and end of 
 these violent men, who would purify our vener- 
 able church as with fire, and wash away her few 
 stains with the blood and the tears of her faith- 
 ful children." 
 
 After partaking of a dinner, with little ap- 
 petite, in the house of his friend, where the party 
 assembled formed but a sad society, and where
 
 310 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 the time passed in the discussion of more grave 
 and anxious matters than those upon which 
 they were commonly engaged in these innocent 
 weekly meetings, the worthy parson mounted 
 his old mare, and rode back slowly to Cheddar. 
 His thoughts were so profoundly and mournfully 
 absorbed by reflections on the very startling oc- 
 currences of the morning, that he saw not the 
 clouds which were gathering overhead, until he 
 was awakened to observe them by a sudden and 
 loud clap of thunder. Tlie sunshine was sud- 
 denly obscured by a deep gloom. A few heavy 
 rain drops fell upon him, and were soon fol- 
 lowed by a thick and rushing deluge of such 
 rain as falls in summer tempests. The sky was 
 covered with a mass of clouds black as a funeral 
 pall. Every moment flashes of angry lightning 
 passed across it in vivid and arrow}^ forms ; 
 while thunder followed, peal after peal rolling 
 in quick and troubled succession. Noble had 
 just entered the defile or pass by which Cheddar 
 is approached ; and as the narrow road lies in 
 the bottom of a chasm, on either side of which 
 the rocks rise many hundi'ed feet with a terrific
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 311 
 
 grandeur, the horrid gloom — the kirid and 
 ghastly lights — and the prolonged echoes with 
 which the roar of the thunder was borne from 
 crag to crag — gave a tenfold awfulness to the 
 storm, and sublimely shadowed forth the power 
 of Jehovah. 
 
 Amid this war of elements the meek parson 
 felt almost happy : — - his frightened beast had 
 stopped beneath a rock that inclined somewhat 
 over the road, though not sufficiently to afford 
 any shelter from the rain. He was drenched 
 to the skin himself, and as he could not urge 
 his animal forward he dismounted; but the 
 wet and the delay were forgotten, were disre- 
 garded. There are moments of communion 
 with the Deity, which, when they are accorded 
 to his feeble children, cause their spirits to be 
 rapt in seraphic love. The adoration that is 
 born of a faith trembling yet holding fast is the 
 sublimest human worship: — " the firmest thing 
 in this inferior world is a believing soul." And he 
 that can lift up his voice with the Psalmist, and, 
 amid the horrors of a tempest, can say, " Praise 
 the Lord, O my soul ; and all that is within
 
 312 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 me praise his holy name," hath, as it were, a 
 sublime foretaste of that great and terrible day 
 of the Lord, when the Christian shall witness 
 the final and everlasting triumph of his Re- 
 deemer over sin and death, — and shall behold 
 his salvation draw nigh.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT« 313 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 With that the mighty thunder dropt away 
 From God's unwary arm, now milder grown, 
 And melted into tears. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. 
 
 In such a spirit Noble endured the peUing of 
 the storm, and hstened to the roUing of the 
 thunder, and gazed upon the dread ilhiminatipn 
 which flashed at intervals on the desolate and 
 dreary rocks around him. The fury of this 
 summer tempest was soon exhausted : — the ex- 
 ceeding blackness of the clouds gave place to a 
 lighter, though a sunless, sky ; the claps of 
 thunder were few and distant, and the lightning 
 became a faint and harmless coruscation. The 
 rain was thin and transparent; and Noble con- 
 tinued his way on foot, followed by his old 
 mare, whose docility was that of an aged dog. 
 They had not proceeded above two hundred 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 314 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 yards when the mare gave a sudden start, and 
 ran up a heap of loose stones on the right of 
 the road. On the left of it, at the foot of a 
 tremendous precipice, Noble descried the object 
 which had alarmed her, and which, but for her 
 fright, he should have passed without notice. 
 A man lay upon the ground bleeding. Noble 
 immediately crossed to the spot, and stooping 
 down, he recognised the person of the stern 
 fanatic, whose conduct at Wells has been re- 
 lated in the foregoing chapter. He was insen- 
 sible, but did not, upon examination, appear to 
 have sustained any injury more serious than a 
 severe and stunning bruise ; as well as a cut on 
 the forehead from a sharp flint. From the 
 prints of his horse's feet, it seemed evident, at 
 first, that he had been thrown where he then 
 lay, and had fainted; but on looking again, 
 Noble observed that his pockets were turned 
 inside out, and that his sword and cartridge 
 belt were gone ; for he remembered in the morn- 
 ing to have remarked his arms very particularly, 
 and to have been struck by the circmiistance of 
 a man of his rigid ungraceful figure sitting so
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 315 
 
 admirably on horseback, and managing the 
 young animal which he rode with such a light 
 and easy hand. Moreover, he now saw that the 
 impressions of the horse's hoofs had been made 
 before the rain had fallen. His first care was 
 to endeavour to restore the sufferer from his 
 swoon. This he soon effected by chafing the 
 body to restore circulation, and by applying to 
 the nostrils a pungent preparation, which he 
 always carried about with him, as a preservative 
 from infection, when his duties called him to 
 visit the sick beds of those who were afflicted 
 with any disease considered pestilential. When 
 Noble had satisfied himself that the unfortunate 
 man was a little recovered by the returning 
 consciousness in his eyes, and the regularity of 
 his breathing, he went after his mare. She had 
 not strayed far, and he soon brought her back, 
 and after a while he had the satisfaction to ob- 
 serve that the wounded traveller was able to 
 move and sit up. He now persuaded and as- 
 sisted him to get upon the patient beast, and 
 supporting him in the saddle with his hand, 
 moved off slowly towards Cheddar. Haifa mile 
 p 2
 
 316 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 on they met plain Peter, who had come out to 
 look for his master, and was wondering and 
 uncomfortable at the unusual lateness of his 
 return. 
 
 The sight explained itself; and the honest 
 domestic expressing some sorrow for the sufferer, 
 but more for his master, took his place on the 
 other side of the mare, and aided Noble in the 
 task of supporting the stranger, who was so weak 
 and exhausted that he could hardly be held 
 upon the saddle by their joint exertions for the 
 rest of the road. 
 
 Although not a syllable had been uttered by 
 the object of their care, that was intelligible to 
 either, and although Noble had not mentioned 
 a word about having seen him at Wells, still 
 Peter had an instinctive dislike to the man's 
 features and his dress — from both of which he 
 pronounced him a Puritan. He went so far as 
 to provoke an angry rebuke from his master for 
 opposing the benevolent resolution of the latter 
 to take him to his own house. 
 
 " Surely," said Peter, " a pallet at the Jolly 
 Woodman will serve his turn : — he '11 be well
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 3l7 
 
 enough taken care of by Dame Crowther : why 
 bring him home to trouble and frighten my 
 good mistress, and to make a fuss, and a dirt, 
 and a sick house of the parsonage ?" 
 
 " Peter," said Noble, " how would you like 
 to be dealt by if you had fallen among thieves, 
 and lay bruised and bleeding, and without a 
 friend or a penny ? " 
 
 " Wliy, I should think an inn good enough 
 for me ; and so it is writ in the Bible." 
 
 " Peter you are hard — and know not what 
 spirit you are of — and speak foolishly." 
 
 " Ah ! well I mind what you said once about 
 that parable, and how you told us that had the 
 good Samaritan's house been over against the 
 inn he would have taken him in at his own 
 gate ; — but somehow I don't like this fancy of 
 yours — it will be a bad job: — when his saint- 
 ship is warmed by your fire, mayhap he will 
 turn out a serpent." 
 
 " Never use that word lightly, Peter. I have 
 
 often forbade you to trifle with it — duties are 
 
 ours, events are God's. I shall certainly take 
 
 this man in." Having thus decided, they went 
 
 p 3
 
 318 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 forward to the parsonage in silence. Mistress 
 Noble came out eagearly as soon as they ap- 
 peared. Her mind was soon quieted on the 
 surprise which the sight of the wounded stranger 
 caused her, and her kind and hospitable heart 
 acquiesced instantly to the proposal of her good' 
 husband. 
 
 The sufferer was at once carefully put to bed; 
 and Noble, as by his own bright fire he put on 
 the warm dry vestments which he found ready 
 for him in his study, revolved the singular inci- 
 dents of the eventful day with wonder, grati- 
 tude, and a calm confiding faith. 
 
 He could not but reflect thankfully on his own 
 escape from the misfortune which had befallen 
 the temporary inmate of his dwelling. For 
 want of a better booty, doubtless he would have 
 been assaulted himself by the robbers who had 
 fallen upon the Puritan ; and, had he not been 
 preceded by this traveller on the road, or had 
 he left Wells at an earlier hour, he might have 
 suffered in his room, or shared his fate. 
 
 Again, how strange that a daring enthusiast, 
 who had that very morning violated the sanctity
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 319 
 
 of the cathedral, and had insulted the ministers 
 of the church in their decent performance of 
 pubhc and solemn worship, should, before the 
 setting of the sun which had witnessed his im- 
 piety, be laid in the dust, and left dependent 
 upon one who had been revolted by his fierce 
 conduct for the mercies of help and protection. 
 
 " To-morrow," said Noble to his wife, as he 
 related to her all the circumstances which had 
 taken place at Wells, " when our guest is in a 
 reasonable and repenting mood, I may, perhaps, 
 speak a word in season that shall serve to deliver 
 him from the chains of that cruel and bigoted 
 spirit of persecution by which he is held. God 
 preserve our Cuthbert from the hateful errors 
 of men like these ! It has been well observed, 
 that though the fanatic cannot be seduced by 
 the love of any sinful pleasures, yet that he can 
 be readily persuaded to walk in blood by the 
 lust of a power which he deceives himself in 
 thinking he should assuredly use to the glory of 
 the King of heaven, and the benefit of the 
 faithful people of God. Wlien will Christians 
 p 4
 
 320 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 learn that the kingdom of the Messiah is not 
 of this world ? " 
 
 They had not retired for the night, when 
 their worthy neighbour Blount, the franklin, 
 who had but just returned from Glastonbury, 
 came in to learn the particulars of what had 
 occurred at Wells, and to tell the bad news 
 which he had heard at Glastonbury that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 " The devil is busy enough, Master Noble," 
 said the old man as he entered : " there is a little 
 party of vinegar-faced rogues coming to the 
 Bald Raven at Axbridge to-morrow, who call 
 themselves ' a CoiTesponding Committee for in- 
 forming and aiding the Grand Committee of 
 Religion and that for scandalous Ministers ; ' 
 and they tell me that that sour hypocrite Daws 
 is as busy as a bee among them already. But 
 what is this I hear about one of these godly 
 rogues having been half murdered mider the 
 cliff and lying in your house ? " 
 
 Noble told him all the circumstances; and 
 Peter, who had lingered a little at the parlour 
 door, said, " Ay, I can see by Master Blomit's
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 321 
 
 eyebrows he don't think it were a wise job to 
 take this round-headed madman in here. Why 
 he's talking a pack of wild stuff enough to 
 frighten the maidens out of their wits." 
 
 On hearing this, Noble, accompanied by 
 Blount, went up stairs to the chamber of their 
 inmate, and found him sitting upright in his 
 bed, and parleying with some visionary appear- 
 ance, after a wild but most earnest manner. 
 
 As soon as they entered the room, he turned 
 towards them and sniffed repeatedly, then 
 gravely said, " Two good spirits and one bad — 
 verily I am not forsaken — two to one against 
 thee, Beelzebub — look gentle spirits — look upon 
 the wall — there goes a coach drawn by lions 
 and tigers — there goes Everard the conjurer 
 in boots and spurs — here is the great fiery 
 dragon — who hath taken away my trusty sword ? 
 
 — where is my horse? — a horse is a vain thing 
 to save a man — see how it grows — the dragon 
 
 — the great red dragon — taller — taller — it 
 fills the room — save Lord, or I perish." 
 
 To these wild, incoherent expressions, pro- 
 duced by the strange images which flitted before 
 p 5
 
 322 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 his troubled fancy, succeeded a profuse perspir- 
 ation, and they persuaded him to he down under 
 the blankets, that he might obtain the full benefit 
 of such a relief. 
 
 He did so, and they could now only hear 
 whispered murmurs, and humble tones, as of a 
 person praying with tears. Noble himself was 
 not unaffected by this scene ; and even Blount 
 admitted, that, if it were not for the mischief 
 they did, some of these enthusiasts were rather 
 to be pitied than punished. " Now here," said 
 he, " is a case, where they should shave the head 
 and lock up the poor creature in an hospital ; 
 but the worst matter is, they go about like mad 
 dogs, biting all the folk they meet — and so they 
 must e'en be dealt with in like manner." 
 
 " You are not far wrong, neighbour, in judg- 
 ing many of them crazy ; but there are cunning 
 men behind to urge them on : and there cer- 
 tainly are many excellent and pious persons, 
 who, as they stand on the same side in this sad 
 quarrel, give a credit to the cause of these le- 
 vellers in church and state which they otherwise 
 v/ouid want ; and, notwithstanding the actions
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 323 
 
 and utterances of the unknown individual before 
 us, I cannot look upon him without interest and 
 pity." 
 
 An umph from old Peter, with a request 
 that his master would go to bed himself, and 
 leave him to take care of the stranger, ended 
 the conversation : Blount went away, — and No- 
 ble to his own chamber. 
 
 At an early hour on the following morning 
 two odd-looking servants, in sad-coloured suits, 
 mounted and armed, presented themselves at 
 the gate of the vicarage, and inquired " if their 
 master was not there, as from what they had 
 heard at the blacksmith's shed they thought 
 that the gentleman, who had been robbed and 
 wounded beneath the rocks, and was now lying 
 sick in that house, could be no other." 
 
 " I don't think you are far wrong," said Peter, 
 as he cocked his eye askew at their long lean 
 faces and their plain liveries of a colour like the 
 cinders in the ash heap. " Like master like man, 
 they say; though it's little I thought that the 
 poor crazy body up stairs had a serving-man to 
 p 6
 
 324 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 truss up his points for him. — What do ye call 
 your master ? " 
 
 " The right worshipful and godly Sir Roger 
 Zouch, an approved voice, a faithful witness, a 
 preacher of the truth, a trier of spirits, a man 
 of war — bold as a lion for his God." 
 
 " Why, then, by my troth," said Peter, " thy 
 master is here for a certainty, and lieth with a 
 cracked skull in our blue room ; and is now tell- 
 ing my good master how he fought last night 
 with beasts from Ephesus, who is listening to 
 him, poor simple kind soul as he is, with as much 
 patience as if it was all sense and gospel." 
 
 " Out upon thee, thou vile churl ! talkest thou 
 so of one of Zion's champions ? None of thy gibes 
 and jeers, or it may be thine own crown will 
 feel the weight of my cudgel." So saying, the 
 elder of the two domestics alighted, and not 
 waiting to be conducted, strode past Peter with 
 a rude thrust, and entered the house. 
 
 " A plague o' thee ! " grumbled Peter : " two 
 can play at quarter staff, as I '11 show thee ; " and 
 following him into the passage, he slammed the 
 door behind him, and left the other servant
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 325 
 
 alone with the two horses before the wicket. 
 This last, however, tarrying for no invitation, 
 proceeded deliberately to the stable, and finding- 
 it open, introduced his tired beasts to the asto- 
 nished old mare ; took off bridles and saddles ; 
 and, plentifully supplying the rack and manger 
 with hay and oats, entered the parson's kitchen, 
 and taking a seat by the dresser demanded of 
 the frightened maids the creature comforts of 
 breakfast. 
 
 Old Peter, who had just been witnessing the 
 meeting of master and man above stairs, and 
 whose cross temper had given way to a humour 
 that had been tickled by the quaint scene and 
 the ludicrous speeches, came shaking with 
 laughter into the kitchen; but the tired and 
 hungry groom was in no laughing mood, and 
 soon upset this grinning philosophy by a smart 
 stroke of his whip across his shoulders. 
 
 In a moment the old man caught up a broom.- 
 stick to return the blow; and, though very 
 unequal, either in strength or youth, was stand- 
 ing up manfully against the assault, when the 
 cook, whose spirit was roused by Peter's danger,
 
 326 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 dipped her mop in a pail of foul water, and 
 thrusting it into the groom's face, drove him into 
 the yard with dirty cheeks and blinded eyes. The 
 cry of "murder" having been in the mean time 
 screamed forth at the top of her voice by the 
 other maiden, the kitchen was instantly filled 
 with every person in the house; for even Sir 
 Roger Zouch himself, albeit in no seemly garb 
 for appearing in public, descended close after 
 Noble, and stood up in the midst of them rather 
 like a ghost newly risen from the grave than 
 true flesh and blood, — though the stain of the 
 last was indeed sufficiently visible beneath the 
 folds of the bandage about his head. 
 
 " How now ! " said Sir Roger, in a voice 
 rather more stentorian than might have been 
 expected from the plight in which he had been 
 put to bed the night before, and in a tone of 
 authority as if he had been in his own mansion 
 and with only his own household — " How now ! 
 brawlings and fightings : who is the striker, Ga- 
 briel Goldwor thy?" but before this slow elder 
 had screwed his mouth up to reply, Peter an- 
 swered in his own blunt fashion, and the cook, in
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 327 
 
 a shrill voice, chanted an echo to his complaint. 
 Meantime the culprit groom, with a foul face, 
 stood at the yard door as white as a stone with 
 passion, while Sir Roger thus rejoined : — 
 
 " Verily, thou art a trouble to me, Abel, and 
 makest me a reproach among the people where- 
 soever I go : it was only last week, at the hostel 
 of the Pied Bull in Tewksbury, thou didst raise 
 a brawl about thy victuals at the buttery hatch : 
 thou makest a god of thy belly. Remember 
 that man liveth not by bread alone ; — a good 
 soldier must endure hardness, and never strike 
 but in battle, and then home. I fear that thou 
 art sensual, an it were not for thy godly grand- 
 mother, and this, thy God-fearing uncle Gabriel, 
 the man of my right hand, I would send thee 
 back to thy ditching and delving." 
 
 Abel muttered out that the children of Belial 
 were making a mock of his master, and that he 
 struck Peter in pure zeal for Sir Roger's honour; 
 this Gabriel affirmed of his own knowledge to 
 be true, and Sir Roger was pacified : but an 
 opportunity of preaching, so favourable as it 
 seemed to his weak judgment, was not to be ne-
 
 328 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 glected ; he therefore proceeded to deliver a long 
 rambling discourse on prophecy; and directed 
 his looks and words with all the persuasive ex- 
 pression that he could possibly command towards 
 the distressed parson and his good wife. He 
 flattered himself that he had brought salvation 
 to that house, and that all which had befallen 
 him was in the order of Providence to that end. 
 He had taken for his text, " Come out of her, my 
 people ; " and these words were repeated at the 
 close of every passage, with all the varieties of 
 intonation that his voice admitted. All efforts 
 to induce him to stop or return up stairs till he 
 had finished this wearisome preachment were 
 vain. He stood half an hour with naked feet 
 upon the kitchen stones, and was listened to even 
 by Peter with a wonder so great, and with so 
 painful a sense of his craziness, as forbade even 
 a smile. He closed by so earnestly invoking 
 peace on that house, and enjoining the exhibition 
 of a quiet and an orderly spirit so forcibly upon 
 the offending Abel, that during the rest of the 
 day nothing disturbed the household. 
 
 The hardy old Puritan nothing the worse for
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 329 
 
 this exercise of his lungs, and very little so for 
 the bruise and cut in his encounter with the 
 robbers the evening before, took his seat at 
 Noble's dinner table at noon, and seemed very 
 sensible of the truly Christian hospitality of his 
 host. 
 
 As arguments or any appeals to reason would 
 so evidently be thrown away upon a man under 
 the prejudices and delusions of Sir Roger Zouch, 
 Noble dexterously avoided inflaming the mind 
 of his guest with a discussion on grave matters, 
 and led him to speak on other topics. He found 
 that he had travelled a great deal, and had in 
 his youth served in the Low Countries. Upon 
 these subjects he conversed rationally and plea- 
 santly enough ; and, as they walked after their 
 meal into the garden, he showed an acquaint- 
 ance with plants and flowers, and a knowledge 
 of the various methods of laying out a garden, 
 which in so stern a fanatic would seem strange ; 
 but what is there so variable, so inconstant, as 
 man ? — he is " some twenty several men in 
 every hour ; " not that either the dinner or the 
 walk in the garden passed over without sundry
 
 330 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 efforts to spiritualise and improve the subjects 
 which those occasions offered. In the garden 
 especially, after talking a while like any other 
 rational and well informed gentleman, he sud- 
 denly broke out in a rhapsody about the ap- 
 proaching millennium, and the personal reign 
 of the Messiah upon this earth. His politics 
 were violent ; but in this they differed not from 
 many able and patriotic men of the time. 
 Against the church, however, his wrath evidently 
 burned, and he affected to disbelieve the possi- 
 bility of so pious a minister, as Noble plainly 
 was, being sincerely resolved to remain in her 
 communion. Upon this point, however. Noble 
 was too bold and too honest to conceal his re- 
 solutions. 
 
 It so happened that the next morning, before 
 Sir Roger Zouch left the parsonage of Cheddar, 
 there came to Noble a summons to attend the 
 Committee of Inquiry into Church Matters, of 
 which old Blount had warned the worthy par- 
 son on the evening of his return from Wells. Of 
 this Noble informed his guest, and asked him 
 if, as he saw the name of Zouch among the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 331 
 
 commissioners, it was any relation of his ? The 
 knight rephed in the affirmative, and told Noble 
 not to trouble himself to attend ; for that as he 
 was himself going to Axbridge he would make 
 known to the committee his wish that no moles- 
 tation might be given him. To this Noble would 
 by no means consent, till he had received a so- 
 lemn promise from Sir Roger that he would 
 not represent him as less opposed to their pro- 
 ceedings against the church than he truly was, 
 or less attached to that sacred institution which 
 they sought to destroy. 
 
 Thus was the trial of Noble for another brief 
 season deferred, and the malicious designs and 
 interested hopes of the meddling and hypo- 
 critical Daws were for the present disappointed. 
 However, the gold was yet to be put into the 
 fire at the appointed time. 
 
 All these circumstances were related by Noble 
 in a letter to his son Cuthbert, exactly as they 
 occurred, with very little comment, and thus, as 
 he rightly judged, they would make a forcible 
 impression on his mind. They did so : a due 
 consideration of them delivered him from some
 
 332 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 of his own delusions, and opened his eyes to 
 those of a few of his companions ; and though he 
 was not at all more separated from the Non- 
 conformists, yet he attached himself to the most 
 sober among them.
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 333 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 In thee, faire mansion, let it rest. 
 Yet know, with what thou art possest; 
 Thou entertaining in thy brest 
 But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 What time the primroses were beginning to 
 spread palely over the green and sunny banks 
 in the neighbourhood of Milverton House, in 
 the spring of 1642, the grimed armourers of 
 England were busy in their smoky workshops; 
 and there was no hall in the land, whether pri- 
 vate or civic, in which the arms were not taken 
 down from the walls and put in order. Every 
 where notes of preparation were heard, and eyes 
 of settled resolve might be seen. 
 
 Tlie House of Commons had petitioned the 
 King for the militia, and they were already 
 active in raising men. Sir Oliver Heywood,
 
 334 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 refusing to act in this matter, resigned his office 
 of magistrate and justice of the peace, and took 
 a decided part for the King. But although he 
 had good will to the royal cause, and spoke his 
 sentiments loudly and bitterly, although he 
 was ready to make some personal exertions and 
 some pecuniary sacrifices for his party, he was, 
 as has been observed before, an indolent, self- 
 indulgent old gentleman, a lover of ease and 
 of his own way ; methodical in all his habits, 
 and obstinate in all his prejudices. The fre- 
 quent visits of those hard and active men of 
 business, who were employed to forward the 
 royal cause by negotiating with all the Cavalier 
 gentry for supplies of men and money, before 
 the commission of array Avas actually issued, 
 disturbed him sadly, and his temper became very 
 irritable. Sir Charles Lambert had been long 
 re-established in his good graces, and to the 
 deep sorrow of Katharine had become once 
 more a constant guest at Milverton. It is true 
 that a great improvement had apparently taken 
 place in his outward conduct, but Katharine 
 disliked, mistrusted, feared him. She saw that
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 335 
 
 he again entertained hopes of accomplishing his 
 purposes upon her weak father, and of thus 
 obtaining possession of her hand in marriage. 
 It was an inconceivable mystery to her that any 
 human being should desire to be united to 
 another, when aware that his very touch was 
 evaaed with a shudder, and that from his gaze 
 the face was averted with loathing. 
 
 Some changes had taken place at the Hall 
 within the last year, which had glided away 
 with the swiftness of a shadow. In the January 
 immediately preceding the season of which we 
 are now writing. Mistress Alice had been sum- 
 moned by that call, which, sooner or later, all 
 must obey, and laid in a peaceful grave : — the 
 snows that fell upon it were not more pure and 
 spotless than had been her kind and innocent 
 life, and her dissolution had been as gentle and 
 as soft as their quick and silent melting. 
 
 The family and household were still in their 
 mourning for her ; and had any stranger gazed 
 upon Katharine Heywood, as in her sad robes 
 of black she paced the terrace alone with slow 
 and thoughtful steps, he would have wept for
 
 336 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 sympathy, and deemed her one of those silent 
 mourners for the dead who refuse to be com- 
 forted, and cherish the sweet memory of a 
 vanisTied image ; but it was far otherwise, — her 
 griefs were those of doubt and apprehension 
 about the Uving. If ever a glance of the mind 
 looked after the departed Alice, it did so with 
 affection and complacency ; with a calm joy that 
 she was taken from the evil to come, and with 
 an envy of her quiet tomb. But such move- 
 ments of impatience at the difficulties of her 
 path and the dreariness of that waste which lay 
 before her in her appointed pilgrimage were 
 never of any long continuance. She knew them 
 to be wicked, and she knew them to be vain : 
 she wore divine and secret armour, and she 
 neither fled nor fainted in her hours of trial. 
 The occasional, though less frequent, visits of 
 George Juxon were a great relief to her, — and 
 Jane Lambert continued to be her constant 
 friend and beloved companion. Over the cha- 
 racter of Jane there had come a change, which, 
 though at times it was viewed with serious 
 anxiety by Katharine, did upon the whole suit
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 337 
 
 far better with those habits of her own soul 
 which care had begotten. 
 
 Jane Lambert's eyes, which were used to be 
 lighted up with bright and joyous expression, 
 and a certain hvely and winning archness, did 
 now often fill with unbidden tears, or were 
 fixed gravely upon vacancy. 
 
 One day, as the friends were walking together 
 in a silent mood, the hand of Katharine resting 
 gently upon the shoulder of Jane, and their 
 steps slow as those of vestals in their groves, 
 Juxon came suddenly upon them in their path ; 
 and so deep was the abstraction of both, that he 
 was not seen of either till they met closely. 
 
 ^' I am sorry," he observed, " to break the 
 spell by which you are both bound, but I could 
 not turn back, for I have business with Sir 
 Oliver ; however, it was to all seeming a spell 
 so black and melancholy that perhaps it is better 
 broken." 
 
 " It is a good omen for us that it is broken 
 by you. Master Juxon, for you are always a 
 prophet of good, and misfortune never makes 
 choice of such a messenger," said Katharine, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 338 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 with an effort at cheerfulness. Jane, too, sud- 
 denly recollecting herself, endeavoured to put 
 on a careless smile, of welcome, but the effort 
 failed her, and she burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 Juxon, distressed and affected by the sight, 
 made no reply to Katharine, but stood rivetted 
 to the spot, hesitating whether he should proceed 
 towards the house, and leave Jane to recover 
 herself under the care of her friend, or whether 
 he should remain to render what service he 
 could, by diverting and calming a sorrow, the 
 secret cause of which he fancied that he knew. 
 
 Meanwhile, Katharine pressed Jane to her 
 heart, and, covering her from observation, as 
 though she were a child, said, " This is the 
 natural effect of a night without sleep, and a 
 nervous headache : it will do her good ; you 
 need not stay with us ; we shall do very well, 
 and Jane will be all the brighter for it at supper. 
 You will find my father in the vineyard." 
 
 Jane, however, in part relieved by these tears, 
 quickly raised her head, and, with one of her 
 most natural smiles dimpling her wet cheeks, 
 said, " Pray do not let me drive you away : this
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 339 
 
 is just nothing at all but what my old nurse 
 used to call the mopes and the megrims : there, 
 it is all over; that's one advantage we women 
 have over you lords of the creation ; that is, 
 such of us as are not heroines, which I shall 
 never be for one : we may now and then have 
 a good cry ; and, take my word for it, it is a 
 fine cure for all nonsenses, — another favourite 
 noun plural of my dear old nurse when I was 
 little and naughty." This flash of affected gaiety 
 did only light up her features, however, for a 
 passing moment, and ere her few words were 
 uttered an air of extreme depression returned 
 upon her. 
 
 " Nay, Mistress Jane," said Juxon, " these 
 are no child's tears, neither are they fantastical 
 like the melancholy of your fine lady : the 
 fountain of them is deeper than any of these ; 
 you are unhappy. Here, before your noble 
 friend, I must say that I have seen this for a 
 long time : for more than a year I have witnessed 
 with deep pain your altered manners and your 
 failing health. Tell her the sad cause of your 
 Q 2
 
 340 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 trouble ; pour out your heart to her ; she will 
 safely advise and surely comfort you." 
 
 " Really, Master Juxon," replied Jane, " you 
 are a very strange person ; and when you take 
 a fancy into your head you are like good Sir 
 Oliver, and truth would not drive it out again, 
 though spoken by an angel, therefore a poor 
 silly girl like me may not make the attempt." 
 
 " For that matter, lady, you can look and 
 speak persuasively as ever angel did : where do 
 you hide your wings ? " 
 
 " Wings ! — well, really now, if I were a court 
 lady instead of a rustic, and had that magic 
 mirror that hides all freckles, and gives every 
 body that looks into it the face of a beauty, that 
 fine compliment would win my heart ; but as it 
 is, I must e'en be content to walk the earth on 
 two serviceable feet ; on which I shall very soon 
 run from your words and looks, if you do not 
 speak about a more entertaining subject than 
 me and my megrims." 
 
 The gravity of her eyes contradicted the 
 gaiety of her lips, as she thus spoke ; and the un- 
 uttered wish in the deep recesses of her heart
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 841 
 
 was, " Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I 
 might flee away, and be at rest ! " 
 
 Juxon looked upon her, for a moment, with 
 a tender manly expression of countenance, in 
 which were blended respectful pity and warm 
 admiration ; then turning to Katharine, he 
 changed the subject, and diverted all further 
 attention from Jane by telling the former upon 
 what matter he was seeking Sir Oliver. 
 
 " I have just received a letter," said he, " from 
 Oxford, from that fine youth Arthur : it is both 
 conceived and expressed in a spirit worthy the 
 days of chivalry and of a man of mature age. 
 He desires me to urge upon Sir Oliver his brave 
 request, which is, that he may be permitted to 
 come down instantly and take the field with 
 whatever men Sir Oliver can raise for the King's 
 service. He says that it is useless to compel 
 him to remain at the University and pursue his 
 studies in the present distracted state of public 
 affairs, and that his age is not younger than that 
 at which many a person renowned in history has 
 appeared in arms for his country. The reason, 
 it seems, of his preferring this request through 
 Q 3
 
 342 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 me is, that he has been sharply reprimanded by 
 Sir Oliver for even thinking of it; for he has 
 already decided to place all the horsemen wliich 
 he can raise under Sir Charles Lambert. Ar- 
 thur truly observes, that as the infirmities of 
 Sir Oliver now forbid his going to camp him- 
 self, it is right that a representative of his name 
 should ride at the head of his tenants and yeo- 
 men; and that, although too young for a re- 
 sponsible charge, he can at least share their 
 danger, and set a good example of devotion to 
 the King's service. That he is quite willing to 
 be under the command of Sir Charles Lam- 
 bert; but that, if his present w4sh is refiised, 
 he will, at the risk of the worthy knight's dis- 
 pleasure, join the banner of the lords Falkland 
 or Carnarvon as a simple volunteer." 
 
 To this statement Katharine listened with a 
 generous admiration of the gallant boy, and a 
 hearty approval of his conduct; moreover, she 
 felt that, by this arrangement, she should have 
 a young protector, not only for the family, but 
 whom she could depend upon as a sliield from 
 the dreaded importunities of Sir Charles, and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 343 
 
 whose presence would take away one of her 
 father's excuses for urging upon her an abhorred 
 connection. Of Arthur's conduct and character 
 she felt sure : he looked up to her with the rever- 
 ence of a son and the affection of a brother ; 
 and though her heart beat with a regretted 
 fondness for another Heywood, a cousin separ- 
 ated from her by fate and fortune, towards 
 this youth Arthur she entertained the composed 
 and quiet affection of a young mother or an 
 elder sister ; therefore she rejoiced at the pros- 
 pect of his return to Milverton, and promised 
 to say every thing to her father which could move 
 him to consent to this proposal. 
 
 Juxon now left the ladies, and walked on at 
 a faster pace towards the house. 
 
 As soon as he was out of hearing, Katharine 
 took Jane by the hand, and looking steadfastly 
 into her face, said, — 
 
 " My dear, dear friend, it is the privilege 
 
 of friendship, and it is the enjoined duty of 
 
 Christians, to weep with those that weep : — 
 
 Juxon is right — you are unhappy — some se- 
 
 Q 4
 
 344 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 cret sorrow is devouring your inward peace — 
 reveal it to me." 
 
 " Nay, Katharine, urge me not : — every heart 
 knoweth its own bitterness — to every one is 
 appointed some inward cross, which is better 
 borne in silence." 
 
 " Yet the sympathy of a friend is as a balm 
 to the wounded spirit — a balm, Jane, which 
 you have often poured gently and sweetly into 
 mine, to the refreshment of my soul and the 
 comfort of my aching heart ; — besides, Jane, 
 we must not let our private and inward griefs 
 prey upon and consume our vital strength at a 
 period like the present: — great trials are coming 
 upon us, and severe duties will soon demand 
 all our energies." 
 
 " I know it, beloved Katharine, — and by 
 your side I can meet them all. You are to 
 me, all things : I have nothing on earth but 
 you to whom I can cling: the stream of my 
 heart would run to waste if it might not flow 
 forth on you." 
 
 " Hush ! beloved, — hush ! — these words 
 are vain, " — and pointing to the blue sky and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 345 
 
 the fleecy clouds above them, Katharine silently 
 conveyed to Jane her soft reproof and gentle 
 admonition. 
 
 " I know all that you would say to me," an- 
 swered the mournful girl ; " but, when all is 
 said, how much of our present being must ever 
 remain a mystery — sunbeams shine upon our 
 heads, and violets spring beneath our feet — 
 and yet, Kate, the world which this God of 
 love hath created is a scene of misery — you 
 know it is. What have you ever done that 
 your brow should be clouded with sorrow, and 
 your cheek blanched by care " 
 
 " Stop, Jane ; for your life, not another word 
 like this : — ' they build too low who build below 
 the sky :' — a curse is on this earth — a recorded 
 curse — we may not, must not, cannot make 
 a heaven of it : — it is our school, our place of 
 discipline — the infancy of our existence : — 
 what have any of us done, or what can any of 
 us do, that so many countless blessings should 
 be poured upon us? that we should be in- 
 vited and taught to acquaint ourselves with that 
 Holy One, by whom came truth, pardon, and 
 Q 5
 
 346 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 peace — through whom we may win an entrance 
 to that heavenly city, where ' all tears shall be 
 wiped from all faces ? ' " 
 
 A light of hope beamed in her serious eyes 
 as thus she spoke, and Jane beheld it with re- 
 verence. Tlie friends walked slowly back to- 
 wards the house — there was a long pause in 
 their discourse. It was broken by Jane ask- 
 ing, " You surely admit, dear cousin, that there 
 is a vast difference in the fortunes and the trials 
 of mankind ? " 
 
 " The seeming difference is vast, but not 
 perhaps the real: — we see only the outward 
 aspect of suffering and of prosperity — but the 
 cup of life is mixed." 
 
 " Surely to many, who are prosperous and 
 happy, few trials are appointed : — they are 
 pleasant in their lives, and honoured in their 
 deaths ; they appear even upon earth to be the 
 favourites of Heaven." 
 
 " If truly such, my love, their portion in 
 this life will be little thought of; for they will 
 know that in the bosom of Abraham the La- 
 zarus of this world has his high place of honour
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 347 
 
 as of comfort, and that the fashion of this world 
 passeth away; nay, before the great change 
 comes, one turn of the wheel may bring the 
 loftiest fortunes to the dust, and crush them be- 
 neath it; even now, do we not see and hear the 
 preparations of war ? " 
 
 " There, again, Katharine, — how can we 
 reconcile with the power of a God of love the 
 existence of so dark and terrible a curse as 
 war?" 
 
 " It is but one of many forms of death." 
 
 " But the miseries in its violent and bloody 
 path " 
 
 " Are not so great as those of pestilence, or 
 famine, or the hurricane." 
 
 " Well, Katharine, why pestilence, or famine, 
 or hurricane? — why death? — and whence sin?** 
 
 " Jane, we know not now — we shall know 
 hereafter; let us not perplex ourselves with 
 doubts and inquiries which none can solve; 
 the origin of evil lies hidden from our eyes; 
 it is a deep thing — enough for us that the 
 Divine champion hath triumphed over sin — 
 Q 6
 
 348 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 hath plucked the sting from death — and victory 
 from the grave : — in and through him we may 
 all be conquerors." 
 
 " And can they so conquer if they be not 
 followers of the Lamb ? — and may the follow- 
 ers of the Lamb fight and shed each other's 
 blood in battle ? " 
 
 " It is sad, very sad," rejoined Katharine, 
 with a shudder of her whole frame : "it seems 
 a stern necessity in the condition of all the 
 kingdoms of this world that they should be de- 
 fended by the sword. Good men, great men, 
 the holiest servants of Heaven have wielded 
 earthly arms, and the weapons of death : — wdth 
 his sword and with his bow the father of the 
 faithful led his own household to the combat, — 
 and the virtues of the warrior are the chosen 
 illustrations of those required in the secret con- 
 flicts of the Christian." 
 
 " I know it, Katharine — and that to the spirit 
 of Christian children there must be joined the 
 courage of sacred warriors. Alas ! for me — 
 my heart faints within me — my mind is con- 
 fused : — I wish I were a man, for then, in the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 349 
 
 excitement of these struggles, I could escape 
 those of the closet." 
 
 " To suffer, Jane, requires a more enduring 
 courage than to act; and in patient suffering 
 the high constancy of woman's mind hath ever 
 shone most purely : — for the wives of England 
 bitter trials are coming — ours will be light 
 to theirs; and yours, dear girl, as you well 
 know, less heavy than even mine." 
 
 " Katharine, you do not know my trial, or 
 you would not speak thus : — not a faithful and 
 suffering wife in all England but I shall envy 
 her the sweetness of her sufferings : it is in 
 storms that we cling most closely to what we 
 love." 
 
 "True, fond girl, but remember that they 
 may also divide us from what we love. Still there 
 is a sweet truth in your melancholy words : I 
 think you would be happy united to such a man 
 as Juxon. He is evidently much attached to 
 you; and I think you are not indifferent to 
 him." 
 
 " Cousin, he is worthy of a better fortune. He 
 never can be mine."
 
 350 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 " What is the meaning of that strong em- 
 phasis ? Is, then, the secret of your sorrow a 
 concealed attachment to another ? " 
 
 " Katharine, you see not clearly in this mat- 
 ter ; I am pitied by Juxon, not loved." 
 
 " I know not, dear Jane, for what he should 
 pity you ; but pity is akin to love." 
 
 " And also to contempt : — Juxon despises 
 me : yes, the pity of one so generous and noble 
 hearted is heavy to bear." 
 
 " Impossible ! he knows your sterling worth ; 
 he knows that you could not do what was wrong : 
 you utter many things that are idle ; but I have 
 heard him warmly express his regard for your 
 frank character ; his faith in your high prin- 
 ciples, and his fear that you judged others by 
 yourself, and might in the trials of life prove too 
 confiding towards others." 
 
 " Have you, indeed, Kate ? what, lately ? " 
 
 " Yes ; not many days ago." 
 
 " Well, this is comfort ; for I love him passing 
 well : — keep my secret, Katharine ; you know 
 not how faithfully I have kept yours." As Jane 
 Lambert thus spoke, she took the hand of her
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 351 
 
 fair cousin and pressed it against her beating 
 heart. Katharine drew it away with a sudden 
 agitation, and placing it on her pale forehead 
 seemed to muse awhile : her eyes wore the ex- 
 pression of one that was wildly busy over the 
 mysterious tablets of her memory ; at last, fixing 
 them on Jane with a troubled gaze, " I have it," 
 she said : "a light flashes on me ; the inter- 
 view with Francis : it was observed by some 
 one ; it was known to Juxon, and you have 
 borne " 
 
 " Nothing that I would not bear again for the 
 love of Katharine, and for her peace of mind." 
 
 " Noblest of beings, alas ! how am I punished 
 for having thus employed you ! why did you 
 not tell me all ? May God forgive me ! I never 
 can forgive myself." 
 
 " Talk not thus," said Jane, rushing into her 
 arms. "This moment richly repays whatever 
 I have suffered: that which I may now safely 
 relate to you you could not have borne at the 
 time, nor should I tell it even now, if it were 
 not that I know you will be seeking some ex- 
 planations from Juxon."
 
 352 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The generous girl now gave a minute nar- 
 ration of all that had passed between herself and 
 Francis at their interview. She told how very 
 deeply she had been affected by the devotion 
 with which he spoke of Katharine, and by those 
 looks and gestures which revealed the constancy 
 and the ardour of his love : the action so pas- 
 sionate towards her, upon whom his mind's eye 
 was inwardly resting, with which Francis had 
 parted from herself, was not forgotten. The 
 circumstance of her immediately after meeting 
 with Juxon, and the scene which passed between 
 them, were described with the like fidelity. 
 
 A paleness as of marble overspread the face 
 of Katharine ; her eyes assumed a vacant re- 
 gard ; her hand became cold, and from her mov- 
 ing lips no sound was audible. She stood a 
 while like one suddenly turned to stone; and 
 Jane, expecting her every instant to swoon away, 
 supported her in trembling terror. It seemed 
 an age of agony to Jane, though the trance did 
 not last more than three awful minutes. The 
 eyelids of Katharine closed ; tears glittered on 
 the long dark lashes ; warmth and consciousness
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 353 
 
 returned. She slowly opened her eyes ; and, fix- 
 ing them on Jane with an affection no words 
 could convey, suffered herself to be led back in 
 unbroken silence to the mansion.
 
 354 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 CHAP. XX. 
 
 'T is jest to tell a people that they 're free : 
 Who or how many shall their masters be 
 Is the sole doubt. 
 
 COWLET. 
 
 Before the walls of Hull, in Yorkshire, King 
 Charles was first made sensible that the powers 
 and the prerogatives of the crown were already 
 usurped by the Parliament. Sir John Hotham 
 shut the gates of the city, and refused to admit 
 the small force by which the King was attended. 
 The governor stood upon the wall, and the 
 King, who had appointed him to that office of 
 trust, sat upon his horse beneath, and heard a 
 sickening protestation of loyalty to his person, 
 while the guards, to whom he intrusted its de- 
 fence, were treated as the enemies of his throne 
 and kingdom. Here began that artful distinc- 
 tion, whereby the Parliamentarians professed to
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 355 
 
 keep garrisons and raise soldiers in the name of 
 the King, while they opposed his wishes and 
 resisted his authority. 
 
 They had already taken from the King the 
 power of the militia ; and having compelled him 
 to throw himself on the support of the private 
 gentry, the flame of civil war was soon kindled. 
 
 At the time when his Majesty was thus re- 
 pulsed by Sir John Hotham, he was surrounded 
 by a small company of gallant gentlemen, who 
 had formed themselves into a body guard ; and 
 he found himself, in a province remote from his 
 capital, without a regiment, without money to 
 raise one, and without a single garrison or com- 
 pany of soldiers in all England receiving his 
 pay or acknowledging the royal orders : the 
 na\y, the ordnance, stores, magazines, and the 
 revenue, were in the keeping of the Parliament. 
 His sole dependence was on the loyalty, the 
 courage, and the resources of the country gen- 
 tlemen of England. 
 
 The midland counties were for the most part 
 subjected to the influence of the Parliament, and 
 lay too near the city of London to resist or
 
 356 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 even dispute the commands of that powerful 
 assembly. 
 
 This body was no sooner apprised of the con- 
 duct of Hotham, and informed that he had been 
 proclaimed a traitor by the King, than they 
 openly justified the conduct of that governor, 
 and soon after publicly voted " that the King 
 intended to levy war against the Parliament." 
 This declaration was followed by active prepar- 
 ations for war on both sides ; but the advantages 
 for commencing it were greatly on the side of 
 the Parliament; and the gentry in the west, and 
 more especially in the northern counties, were, 
 at first, disheartened by the evident distraction 
 of the King's counsel, and the gloomy aspect of 
 his affairs. 
 
 Therefore, in Yorkshire, though many pro- 
 mises were given, few troops were raised ; and 
 if Shropshire and Wales had not been animated 
 by a more lively hope, and a warmer zeal, no 
 royal army could ever have appeared in the 
 field. 
 
 Meanwhile the levies for the Parliament were 
 very successful, and men came in as fast as they
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 357 
 
 could be received and armed. In addition to 
 these volunteers, the rustics drawn for the militia 
 were compelled to join their corps, and were 
 put under the training of such officers as could 
 be found. 
 
 In July, the Parliament voted the Earl of 
 Essex their general of foot, and appointed the 
 Earl of Bedford the commander of their horse ; 
 and early in August declared themselves ne- 
 cessitated to take arms and to commence hos- 
 tilities. 
 
 These vigorous measures inspired their par- 
 tisans throughout the kingdom with a resolute 
 spirit, and in London not a voice was openly 
 lifted up for the King. 
 
 As early as the month of May, Francis Hey- 
 wood had procured his services to be accepted 
 as captain of a troop of horse under Sir John 
 Balfour, and was by him immediately appointed 
 an instructor or sergeant-major * of cavalry. 
 
 At such a moment, the zeal of Cuthbert 
 
 * The titles of Sergeant- Major, and Sergeant- Major- General, 
 at that period, correspond with Adjutant- Major and Adjutant- 
 General of our times.
 
 358 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Noble would not suffer him to remain behind, 
 while so many were taking arms for the great, 
 and, as he thought, holy cause, of liberty. He 
 did not find it difficult, through the favour of a 
 friend, to obtain the grade of lieutenant in a 
 company of foot ; and he set forth on a fme 
 morning in June to join a regiment then assem- 
 bled in quarters at the town of St. Albans, in 
 Hertfordshire, for training. 
 
 His finances did not admit of more than a 
 very humble equipment, — accordingly he was 
 mounted on a low shambling pony, across which 
 he had also placed the saddle bags containing 
 his better gear, his Bible, and two or three \do- 
 lent pamphlets of the day against prelacy and 
 the divine right of kings. 
 
 Notwithstanding the heat of his opinions, and 
 his hearty concurrence in the measures of the 
 Parliament, Cuthbert, in his lonely hours, was of 
 that serious and solemn temper of mind, that he 
 could not but reflect on the step he was now 
 taking with more than his wonted gravity. 
 
 That his present course would be distressing 
 to his father he well knew; but he silenced this
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 359 
 
 whisper of his better angel with the consider- 
 ation that his father was old, timid, and averse 
 to change, rather from early prejudices and 
 associations than from the light of conscience 
 and the use of right reason. 
 
 Again, with that obliquity of mind with which 
 men who are in fact taking their o^^^l way wish 
 to think it that appointed b^^ Providence, he ran 
 over all the texts of Scripture then in the mouths 
 of the Roundlieads, as justifying their appeal to 
 arms, and silenced all the lingering remon- 
 strances that yet struggled in his bosom with 
 those inapplicable words of Holy Writ, " He 
 that loveth father or mother more than me is 
 not worthy of me." 
 
 Having thus, by forcibly wresting a quotation 
 from Scripture, served his immediate purpose, 
 and given freedom and tranquillity to his spirit, 
 he suffered his imagination to dress out the 
 duties of military life in all their most sacred 
 glory. The language of the Old Testament, 
 and that of the profane authors with which he 
 was familiar, were called up in a strange con- 
 fusion to gild the prospect before him, — and
 
 360 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 now a song of triumph from his Bible, now a 
 quotation from Homer, was sounding on his hps, 
 and ere he was aware was kindling a vain and 
 unholy ambition : — a secret and impious persua- 
 sion of the favour and approval of Heaven filled 
 him with a swelling anticipation of coming vic- 
 tories and high rewards. He resolved that the 
 virtues of the Spartan or the Roman soldier 
 should in his person be combined with the 
 ardour and the holiness of the most chosen 
 warriors of Israel, 
 
 He saw not the lean and sorry nag beneath 
 him ; he thought not of those weary marches 
 which he should have to make afoot, when the 
 miserable jade on which he was now sitting 
 astride his saddle bags should be stumbling 
 along stony or miry ways in a train of baggage 
 horses ; but he pictured out a future in which 
 he should ride among the princes of the people, 
 and in marches of triumph. 
 
 From this dream of his fancy he was suddenly 
 and very eifectually awakened by feeling the 
 animal, which he was riding, sink under him 
 with an uneasy motion ; and, before he could
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 361 
 
 possibly prevent it, he found the water of a con- 
 siderable stream, which he was then fording, 
 above his knees, and his saddle bags thoroughly 
 soaked through. The beast had his own notions 
 of enjoyment as well as his dreamy rider ; and, 
 as the day was hot, the road was dusty, and his 
 burden sufficiently oppressive, had taken this 
 very seasonable refreshment. 
 
 Nature suddenly asserted her power over the 
 precise young Puritan ; and, to the scandal of all 
 his late professions, he gave vent to his wrath in 
 certain violent and unseemly phrases which 
 would not have disgraced the most accomplished 
 swearer among the wild Cavaliers of that time. 
 These oaths w^ere but the accompaniments of 
 sundry hard blows with a cudgel, kickings with 
 the heel, and jerks of the rein, by dint of which 
 the nag, unable to rebuke him for his injustice, 
 was compelled to rise and go forward. The 
 accident was in itself sufficiently provoking ; and 
 the irritation of Cuthbert was increased by en- 
 counterinoj on the bank an old beirffar with a 
 wooden leg, who, tossing his staff pike fashion, 
 loudly asked his alms for an old crippled soldier 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 362 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 done up in the wars ; and, thrusting his tongue 
 in his cheek, eyed his foohsh phght with a merry 
 satisfaction, which he could not conceal. 
 
 " Out upon thee ! " said Cuthbert, " for an 
 old drunken impostor : — such fellows as you 
 tippling bawlers of ballads are the curse of the 
 land ; •— go scrape your cracked fiddle for sots 
 on the ale bench, and don't trouble honest men 
 on their road." 
 
 " The lie in thy throat, thou prick-eared 
 canting Roundhead ! " replied the old soldier : — 
 " thou foul-mouthed hypocrite ! is it for thou 
 to rate sinners after rattling out oaths like a 
 shameless brawler in a bear garden ? I am a 
 cleaner spoken man than thou, blessings on him 
 who taught me, and more honest than to play 
 traitor to my king : — God bless his gracious 
 Majesty ! I wish him no better luck than that 
 all the Roundheads, militia, and train-bands, 
 horse and foot, were just such a set of raw awk- 
 ward spoonies as yourself" 
 
 While he was yet speaking, Cuthbert's jade, 
 as if moved by the very spirit of mischief, shook 
 her ears and was down in the middle of the loose
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 363 
 
 dusty road, widiout better warning than before ; 
 for the attention of Cuthbert being quite taken 
 up by his anger with the old soldier, he was 
 again too late to prevent it. The dust plen- 
 tifully adhered to his legs, thighs, and saddle 
 bags. He instantly dismounted in a rage, 
 kicked the beast up again, drove it forward, and, 
 turning short round upon the old man, in a fury, 
 said, — 
 
 " If it were not for your age and grey hairs, 
 you insolent old vagabond, I would rap your 
 pate smartly with my cudgel." 
 
 " That were easier spoken than done," re- 
 joined the old man, holding his quarter staff 
 lightly in a defensive posture. 
 
 A little dog, which accompanied the old man, 
 perceiving by these actions, and by the loudness 
 of their speech, that the stranger was quarrelling 
 with his master, flew at Cuthbert with a sharp 
 and angry bark, than which perhaps nothing does 
 more inflame the rising choler; he, therefore, 
 struck at the little animal furiously, and the 
 end of his cudgel inflicted on it a sharp stroke, 
 R 2
 
 364 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 which sent it howling and yelping behind its 
 master. 
 
 The old soldier, without a moment's loss of 
 time, resented this injury by so heavy and well 
 placed a blow on the head of Cuthbert, that his 
 steeple-crowned hat was knocked off; and had it 
 not been defended within by the strong bars 
 of iron with which it had been recently fitted 
 for the wars, he would have gotten a severe 
 bruise. 
 
 " He that touches my dog touches me," said 
 the old man : " I am sorry that I did not make 
 thee feel it." The quarter staff of the beggar 
 had, by his stumbling and over-reaching himself, 
 flown out of his hand, and his old rabbit-skin 
 cap had fallen upon the ground : — a fine po- 
 lished head thinly strewn with grey hairs lay 
 bare and exposed. — " There, you may crack 
 it if you will now," he added, raising the ineffec- 
 tual defence of his arm. 
 
 " I am a man," said Cuthbert, " and not a 
 brute : I would not strike thee for all my hot 
 words ; but I have been beside myself with 
 passion. May God forgive me for my great
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 365 
 
 ofFence against him — and do yon forgive nie for 
 the hard things I said to you, and the stroke 
 I gave your dog. 
 
 So speaking, he picked up the old man's 
 quarter staff and his cap, and gave them into his 
 hands ; at the same time taking a piece of silver 
 out of his pocket, he tendered it with a look of 
 good will — but the soldier would not take it. 
 
 " It would do me no good," said he : " I 
 should have no luck with it, and could never 
 relish the bread or beer it bought me." 
 
 " Then lay it out in dog's meat, friend ; thy 
 poor cur will have forgotten my rude blow 
 before thou hast forgiven my uncomfortable 
 words : — you wo'n't go to sleep in ill will with 
 me, I hope." 
 
 " No, I shan't do that," rejoined the aged beg- 
 gar, — " the good old parson of Cheddar taught 
 me better than that, — and I minds what he said 
 as if it were yesterday — God bless him ! — 
 church and king for ever, say I. — I wo'n't have 
 your money." 
 
 Surprized and startled by this strange and 
 R 3
 
 366 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 unexpected mention of his father, Cuthbert 
 drew from the old man the whole story of his 
 adventure at Cheddar, and his interview with 
 Noble. 
 
 He listened with deep emotion to the narra- 
 tive, and recognised in all the circumstances the 
 internal evidence of its truth, from its exact cor- 
 respondence with the character of his father's 
 mind and heart, and those large and tolerant 
 notions which he had always taught and carried 
 out into practice. 
 
 " I know that good parson well," said Cuth- 
 bert, " and love him like a father." 
 
 " Do you indeed ? — then I '11 take your 
 money, and give you hearty thanks for it. — But 
 I say, young master, if you knows the parson 
 of Cheddar so well, it 's my belief your taking the 
 wrong road : — a man can't serve two mas- 
 ters — without you do call God and the king 
 two ; and he that serves God first, and king the 
 next after, must always be right, as I have heard 
 say from the time I was the height of this quar- 
 ter staflP." 
 
 Cuthbert gave him two pieces, and walked
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 367 
 
 on in a humbled and in no satisfied frame of 
 mind. 
 
 His poor beast, like a patient packhorse, was 
 quietly browsing by the road-side at no great 
 distance, and Cuthbert drove it before him, not 
 caring to mount again till the sun and air had 
 dried his wet breeches and hose. 
 
 The pettiness of the mortification which had 
 moved him to such unfljovernable anger was 
 now lost in the most gloomy reflections on the 
 sin of having so greatly dishonoured the com- 
 mandments of God by cursing and swearing. 
 Though naturally of a warm temper, he had 
 never been at all addicted to the odious use of 
 vulgar oaths, and for awhile he began to doubt 
 the sincerity of his faith, and to imagine that 
 the whole work of religion must be entered 
 upon as a new thing. 
 
 Again, the very strange circumstance of his 
 father's image being brought before him in a 
 manner so unexpected, by a way-side beggar, 
 and the lesson of charity, and the solemn moni- 
 tion to turn back from the party which he had 
 R 4
 
 368 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 chosen, conveyed by so lowly an instrument, 
 perplexed his reason and staggered his reso- 
 lution. 
 
 But the die was cast, the step was taken, and 
 it was impossible for him, even if willing, to 
 recede without disgrace. He ran over in his 
 mind all the wrongs and the oppressions which 
 had been committed in the name and with the 
 sanction of the King. He recalled the suffer- 
 ings of Prynne and his companions. He re- 
 membered the tyrannical imposition of ship 
 money ; the noble resistance to that measure by 
 Hampden, now himself in arms ; the violence 
 towards the Scots ; the articles exliibited against 
 the five members ; and, more than all, he con- 
 sidered that, if the King should conquer in the 
 impending struggle, the despotic rule of the 
 crown would be established more firmly than 
 ever ; the hateful tribunal of the Star Chamber 
 would be again erected ; prelacy, armed with 
 new powers, w^ould rear its mitre on the ruins 
 of religious liberty ; and all those abuses in 
 church and state, which had called forth the 
 famous Remonstrance of the Commons, and the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 369 
 
 Petition of Rights founded on it, would most 
 certainly be restored. 
 
 As these considerations passed through the 
 mind of Cuthbert, he felt shame that he could 
 for a moment have doubted the righteousness of 
 the cause in which he had embarked. What 
 was the little incident, which had so discom- 
 posed and ruffled him, when it was stripped 
 naked? His nag had lain down in the water, 
 and he had got a wetting. He should have 
 laughed it ofF, and so he vvould have done but 
 for wounded pride. He was conscious of the 
 poverty of liis equipment, and yet more so of 
 his unmilitary appearance ; — that the witness of 
 his accident should mock him, and be an old 
 soldier to boot, was more than he could bear. 
 He finally resolved all that had passed into a 
 hellish temptation of the evil one to divert him 
 from the path of Christian duty; and thus com- 
 forting himself, and speaking peace to his heart, 
 with a very slight repentance for his plain trans- 
 gression of God's law, he recovered his serenity. 
 He now mounted his nag, and cheerfully pur- 
 sued his way till the fine massive tower of St. 
 R 5
 
 370 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 Alban's Abbey reminded him that he was near 
 the place of his destination. He stopped under 
 a shady tree a httle off the road; brushed off 
 the marks of his fooHsh misadventure ; adjusted 
 his dress ; buckled the belt of his rapier more 
 tightly, and rode into the town with a wish 
 that he might escape present observation, and 
 get soon housed. But it so chanced that in 
 the narrow entrance of the very first street in 
 St. Alban's Cuthbert met the whole garrison 
 marching forth to exercise. The leading rank 
 of musketeers, forming the advanced guard, 
 filled the width of the street from house to 
 house on either side of the way ; therefore he 
 was forced to stop, and placing his pony close 
 to the wall that he might prove as small an 
 obstacle as possible, saw the whole force pass 
 him, and attracted the attention of them all. 
 At any other time, and under other circum- 
 stances, he would have gazed upon the military 
 show with a natural pleasure, and as it was, he 
 looked upon them with much curiosity ; but 
 his position was very uncomfortable ; and he 
 felt small as they filed by with a strong and
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 371 
 
 measured tread, keeping time to a few loud 
 drums and piercing fifes. 
 
 Several divisions of foot, composed of mus- 
 keteers and pikemen in equal proportions, and 
 each led by a mounted officer, and with their 
 appointed number of captains, lieutenants, and 
 sergeants, followed each other in succession ; but 
 there was a great difference in their equipment 
 and bearing. 
 
 The three leading divisions, amounting to 
 nearly nine hundred effective men, were a fine 
 sample of the very best infantry which had as 
 yet been formed under the orders of the Parlia- 
 ment. Their clothing was of a coarse red cloth : 
 the belts and bandaliers of those who were 
 armed with muskets were of buff leather ; 
 and a girdle of double buff, eight inches broad, 
 was worn under the skirts of the doublet. The 
 musketeers also wore black steeple-crowned 
 hats, with small but strong bars of iron fastened 
 under the felt. In addition to their muskets 
 and rests, they were all provided with a good 
 stiff tuck, not very long, so fixed in the belt as 
 not to swing or incommode them.
 
 372 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 The pikemen were furnished with good pikes, 
 eighteen feet in length, with small steel heads, 
 and good stiff tucks like those of the musketeers. 
 They had also for defensive armour iron head 
 pieces, with back and breast pieces of the same 
 quality, pistol-proof, and each man w^as provided 
 with a good long buff glove for the left hand ; 
 they also wore the broad buff girdle ; the mus- 
 keteers had bands about their hats of a con- 
 siderable width, finished in front vvith a rose of 
 orange cloth, but they had no feathers or plumes ; 
 and there was a steadiness and severity in their 
 whole aspect which commanded admiration. 
 It was one of the first regiments embodied, 
 composed principally of a better order of volun- 
 teers, and commanded by a very strict and 
 experienced officer. From these men Cuthbert 
 had nothing to suffer : they were silent in their 
 ranks ; and merely glanced at him as they passed 
 with looks of gloomy or proud indifference ; but 
 the regiment that followed was a raw levy of 
 militiamen just raised : they had arms, indeed, 
 and were divided already into musketeers and 
 pikemen, like those who preceded them : bin
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 373 
 
 their clothing and equipment was very incom- 
 plete, and few of the pikemen had either back 
 or breast pieces. Of these, numbers had been 
 drawn, reluctantly, from the neighbouring vil- 
 lages, to supply the quota of men required by 
 the militia act, and were enrolled with the 
 mockery of an oath, by which they were sworn 
 in, to fight ^^ for the King against the King,''' — a 
 distinction which of course the greater part of 
 them could not understand. They only wanted to 
 be left alone, and suffered to follow their ploughs 
 in peace. Most of them had some excuse to 
 offer in the Shire Hall, and some story to tell why 
 they should not go for soldiers. This man had 
 aged parents to support ; another had a family 
 of children ; and that man had just married a 
 wife. Others, who were not provided with such 
 good excuses, feigned deafness, bad eyes, lame 
 shoulders, weak ankle bones, fits, rheumatic 
 pains, or some other disqualification, to escape 
 the irksome duties of praying and fighting under 
 Puritan commanders. Many kissed their own 
 thumbs instead of the Bible when they took 
 their oaths of service, meaning to desert the
 
 374 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 first opportunity that offered ; still there were 
 numbers of idle rustics who came when they 
 were called out, and did as they were bid, 
 without further question ; and these, in spite of 
 their officers and sergeants, and Puritan com- 
 rades, contrived their own amusements, and 
 laughed at the grave preachments which forbade 
 them. 
 
 As a file of these young swains passed Cuth- 
 bert, one struck the end of a lighted match under 
 his pony's tail ; and to the astonishment of Cuth- 
 bert, and the disturbance of the whole division 
 following, the poor animal, hitherto as lazy and 
 patient as a laden donkey, began kicking with 
 such sudden activity and vigour, that the rider 
 had some difficulty in keeping his seat. How- 
 ever, though inwardly vexed, Cuthbert stuck 
 close to the saddle, and putting a good face on 
 the vexatious incident disarmed the laughter 
 which was at first generally excited by joining 
 in it himself, till a humane sergeant plucked away 
 the burning cause of the animal's pain and terror, 
 — and the frightened beast stood still, trembling 
 and in a bath of sweat. Until this moment
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 375 
 
 Cuthbert was at a loss to know what had so 
 alarmed his pony ; but he now alighted and 
 made a complaint about what had been done to 
 an officer that was passing. 
 
 The grave personage whom he addressed 
 said, with a sly smile, — " Verily, friend, thy 
 little garron was in the way, and I counsel thee 
 to patience in this matter : — there is no harm 
 done, and verily thou didst stick to thy saddle 
 like a sergeant-major of cavalry." 
 
 Without waiting for any rejoinder, the officer 
 marched on; and no sooner had the infantry 
 defiled, than the shrill tones of a few trumpiets 
 announced the advance of four troops of horse. 
 As these fine men walked their powerful ani- 
 mals along the street, they cast down looks of 
 contempt upon poor Cuthbert and his little 
 hack; and he could not but feel that he had 
 never as yet rightly conceived what were the 
 naked realities of soldiership. There were far 
 more unpleasant and painful experiences to come 
 than the petty mortifications of this his first 
 contact with troops. However, he had a wise, 
 generous, and noble friend to instruct and arm
 
 376 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 his mind in the path on which he had (Entered ; 
 and his spirit was now in its first moment of 
 weakness and need sustained and comforted by 
 his appearance. 
 
 Immediately in the rear of this body of horse 
 rode an officer admirably mounted and equipped, 
 and beneath his polished helmet Cuthbert in- 
 stantly recognised Francis Heywood. By this 
 old campaigner his position was seen and un- 
 derstood at a glance. He stopped, shook hands 
 with him heartily, and desiring him to find out 
 his quarter at the house of a brewer in the next 
 street, bade him give his baggage pony in charge 
 to his batman, and occupy his apartment till the 
 exercise should be over. 
 
 This was so great a lift and recovery to the 
 sinking spirits of Cuthbert that he had no 
 sooner put up his pony than he turned back and 
 followed the troops to the plain where they were 
 drawn out. 
 
 It was a fine sight to the unaccustomed eye 
 to watch the evolutions of the musketeers and 
 the pikemen, as the former advanced to skirmish 
 and cover the movements of the more solid
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 377 
 
 body, and again as they rapidly retired, and, 
 kneeling down in front of the close array of 
 pikemen, awaited under the protection of their 
 long pikes to receive the charge of cavalry, and 
 repulse it with a close and steady fire. 
 
 The sunbeams glittered on the steel heads of 
 the tall pikes, and were reflected in a blaze from 
 the breast and back pieces and the iron head 
 pieces of the dragoons and the pikemen. The 
 rolling of the drums, and the blasts of trumpets, 
 gave animation to the movements of the various 
 divisions ; and as the dragoons and musketeers 
 were furnished with a few rounds of blank or 
 practice cartridge in their bandaliers, the mimic 
 show of battle or the rehearsal of a scene of 
 death was with the more select divisions very 
 complete. 
 
 The words of command were given and re- 
 peated in loud firm tones ; and there was no lack 
 with some of these stout Puritan commanders 
 of oaths, peculiar, indeed, to themselves, but as 
 earnest and as blasphemous as those of any pro- 
 fane swearer in the royal army. For instance, to 
 the dismay of Cuthbert, he heard a voice of
 
 378 THE BROKEN FONT. 
 
 thunder directed against a dull but godly lieu- 
 tenant of the very regiment which he was come 
 to join with such a mild rebuke as, " The Lord 
 deliver thee to Satan, Master Whitefoot, for a 
 blockhead : dost thou not know thy right hand 
 from thy left?" — "Face to the left, man," 
 was the concluding roar, " and slope thy par- 
 tisan." 
 
 However, though our young Puritan lieuten- 
 ant was a little astounded at the chance of being- 
 soon subject to such rude addresses, he had good 
 sense enough to feel that men ought to know their 
 right hands from their left, and that it must be 
 very provoking to a commanding officer, and 
 very perplexing and dangerous for others as 
 well as themselves, if they did not ; but he was, 
 nevertheless, a little startled and shocked at so 
 violent and sinful a misapplication of Scripture. 
 
 However, he considered that the repulsive 
 infirmities of the few ought not to outweigh the 
 solid piety and the devoted patriotism of the 
 great leaders of the Parliamentarian levies ; and 
 wisely resolving always to remember his right 
 hand from his left, he joined Francis after the
 
 THE BROKEN FONT. 379 
 
 exercise of the day was over, and passed an 
 evening in his society with a more deep and 
 rational dehght in it than he had ever before ex- 
 perienced during their previous intercourse. 
 
 Francis gave him so much sensible advice in 
 trifles, as well as in matters of moment, at his 
 entrance on this new and strange course of life, 
 that when Cuthbert lay down to rest all his 
 difficulties seemed to have vanished. He had 
 been introduced by Francis to the commander 
 of the regiment he was to join, and to several 
 other officers of horse as well as foot ; and he 
 soon discerned that there was as great a variety 
 of character and of manners in this host of the 
 Lord as in armies assuming a less presumptu- 
 ous title. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
 
 Lo>fDON : 
 
 Printed by A. Spottiswooue, 
 
 New. Street-Square.
 
 
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