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Address GEORGt MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, (P.O.BozSiSL) 17 to 27 Yandewatev Street, New York, For Faith and Freedom. BY WALTER BESANT. NEW YORK: GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 17 to 27 Vandewatkr, Street. WALTER BESANTS WORKS CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION): NO. PRICE. 97 All in a Garden Fair . . . . . 20 137 Uncle Jack 10 140 A Glorious Fortune 10 146 Love Finds the Way, and Other Stories. By Besant and Bice 10 230 Dorothy Forster 20 324 In Luck at Last 10 541 Uncle Jack 10 651 “ Self or Bearer” 10 882 Children of Gibeon ' . 20 904 The Holy Bose 10 906 The World Went Very Well Then .... 20 980 To Call Her Mine 20 1055 Katharine Begina 20 1065 Herr Paulus: His Bise, His Greatness, and His Fall . 20 1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 / ZS'J v.t FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. CHAPTER I. FAREWELL SUNDAY. The morning of Sunday, August the 23d, in the year of grace 1662, should have been black and gloomy, with the artillery of rolling thunder, dreadful flashes of lightning, and driving hail and wind to strip the orchards and lay low the corn. For on that day was done a thing which filled the whole country with grief, and bore bitter fruit in after-years of re- venge and rebellion. Because it was the day before that formerly named after Bartholomew the disciple, it hath been called the Black Bartholomew of England, thus being likened with that famous day (approved by the Pope) when the French Protestants were treacherously massacred by their king. It should rather be called “Farewell Sunday/* or “ Exile Sun- day/* because on that day two thousand godly ministers preached their last sermon in the churches where they had labored worthily and with good fruit, some during the time of the Protector, and some even longer, because among them were a few who possessed their benefices even in the time of the late King Charles the First. And since on that day two thousand ministers left their churches and their houses, and laid down their worldly, wealth, for conscience* sake, there were also as many wives who went with them, and, I dare say, three or four times as many innocent and helpless babes. And, further (it is said that the time was fixed by design and deliber- ate malice of our enemies), the ministers were called upon to make their choice only a week or two before the day of the collection of their tithes. In other words, they were sent forth to the world at the season when their purses were the leanest; indeed, with most country clergymen, their purses shortly be- fore the collection of tithes became well-nigh empty. It was also unjust that their successors should be permitted to collect tithes due to those who were ejected. It is fitting to begin this history with the Black Bartholo- 777885 6 FOR FAITH AETD FREEDOM. mew, because all the troubles and adventures which afterward befell us were surely caused by that accursed day. One knows not, certainly, what other rubs might have been ordained for us by a wise Providence (always with the merciful design of keeping before our eyes the vanity of worldly things, the in- stability of fortune, the uncertainty of life,, and the wisdom of looking for a hereafter which shall be lasting, stable, and sat- isfying to the soul). Still, it must be confessed, such trials as were appointed unto us were, in severity and continuance, far beyond those appointed to the ordinary sort, so that I can not 'but feel at times uplifted (I hope not sinfully) at having been called upon to endure so much. Let me not, however, be proud. Had it not been for this day, for certain, our boys would not have been tempted to strike a blow — vain and use- less as it proved — for the Protestant religion and for liberty of conscience; while perhaps I should now be forbidden to relate our sufferings, were it not for the glorious Revolution which has restored toleration, secured the Protestant ascendency, and driven into banishment a prince concerning whom all honest men pray that he and his son (if he have, indeed, a son of his own) may never again have authority over this realm. This Sunday, I say, should have wept tears of rain over the havoc which it witnessed; yet it was fine and clear, the sun riding in splendor, and a warm summer air blowing among the orchards and over the hills and around the village of Brad- ford Orcas, in the shire of Somerset. The wheat (for the sea- son was late) stood gold-colored in the fields, ready at last for the reaper; the light breeze bent down the ears so that they showed like waves over which the passing clouds make light and shade; the apples in the orchards were red and yellow and nearly ripe for the press; in the gardens of the Manor House, hard by the church, the sunflowers and the hollyhocks were at their tallest and their best; the yellow roses on the wall were still in clusters; the sweet-peas hung with tangles of vine and flower upon their stalks; the bachelor’s-buttons, the sweet mignonette, the nasturtium, the gillyflowers and stocks, the sweet-williams and the pansies, offered their late summer blos- soms to the hot sun among the lavender, thyme, parsley, sage, feverfew, and vervain of my lady’s garden. Oh! I know how it all looked, though I was yet unborn. How many times have I stood in the church-yard and watched the same scene at the same sweet season! On a week-day one hears the thump- ing and the groaning of the mill below the church; there are the voices of the men at work — the yo-hoing of the boys who drive, and the lumbering of the carts. You can even hear the FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7 spinning-wheels at work in the cottages. On Sunday morning everything is still, save for the warbling of the winged tribe in the wood, the cooing of the doves in the cot, the clucking of the hens, the grunting of the pigs, and the droning of the bees. These things disturb not the meditations of one who is accustomed to them. At eight o’clock in the morning, the sexton, an ancient man and rheumatic, hobbled slowly through the village, key in hand, and opened the church door. Then he went into the tower and rung the first bell. I suppose this bell is designed to hurry housewives with their morning work, and to ad- monish the men that they incline their hearts to a spiritual disposition. This done, the sexton set open the doors of the pews, swept out the squire’s and the rector’s in the chancel, dusted the cushions of the pulpit (the reading-desk at this time was not used), opened the clasps of the great Bible, and swept down the aisle, as he had done Sunday after Sunday for fifty years. When he had thus made the church ready for the day’s service, he went into the vestry, which had only been used since the establishment of the Commonwealth for the registers of birth, death and marriage. At one side of the vestry stood an ancient black oak coffer, the sides curiously graven, and a great rusty key in the lock. The sexton turned the key with some difficulty, threw open the lid and looked in. “ Ay,” he said, chuckling, “the old surplice and the old Book of Common Prayer. Ye have had a long rest; ’tis time for both to come out again. When the surplice is out, the book will stay no longer locked up. These two go in and out together. I mind me, now — ” Here he sat down, and his thoughts wandered for a space; perhaps he saw himself once more a boy running in the fields, or a young man courting a maid. Presently he returned to the task before him, and drew forth an old and yellow roll, which he shook out. It was the surplice, which had once been white. “Here you are,” he said; “ put you away for a matter of twelve year or more and you bide your time; you know you will come back again; you are not in any hurry. Even the sexton dies; but you die not, you bide your time. Everything comes again. The old wom- an shall give you a taste o’ the suds and the hot iron. Thus we go up and thus we go down. ” He put back the surplice and locked the great Book of Common Prayer — musty and damp after twelve years’ imprisonment. “Fy!” he said; “ the leather is parting from the boards, and the leaves they do stick together. Shalt have a pot of paste, and then lie in FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. § the sun, before thou goest back to the desk; whether ’tis mass or Common Prayer, whether ’tis Independent or Presbyterian, folk mun still die and be buried — ay, and married and born — whatever they do say. Parson goes and preacher comes; preacher goes and parson comes; but sexton stays — ” He chuckled again, put back the surplice and the book, and locked the coffer. Then he slowly went down the church and came out of the porch, blinking in the sun and shading his old eyes. He sat down upon the flat stones of the old cross, and presently nodded his head and dropped off asleep. It was a strange indifference in the man. A great and truly notable thing was to be accomplished that day. But he cared nothing. Two thousand godly and learned men were to go forth into poverty for liberty of conscience; this man’s own minister was one of them. He cared nothing. The king was sowing the seed from which should spring a rod to drive forth his successor from the kingdom. In the village the common sort were not moved. Nothing concerns the village folk but the weather and the market prices. As for the good sexton, he was very old; he had seen the Church of England displaced by the Presbyterians, and the Presbyterians by the Independ- ents, and now these were again to be supplanted by the Church of England. He had been sexton through all these changes. He heeded them not; why, his father, sexton before him, could remember when the mass was said in the church and the Virgin was worshiped, and the folk were driven like sheep to confession. All the time the people went on being born and marrying and dying. Creed doth not truly affect these things nor the sexton’s work. Therefore this old gaffer, having made sure that the surplice was in the place where it had lain undis- turbed for a dozen years, and remembering that it must be washed and ironed for the following Sunday, sat down to bask in the sun, his mind at rest, and dropped off into a gentle sleep. At ten o’clock the bell-ringers came tramping up the stone steps from the road, and the sexton woke up. At ten they used to begin their chimes, but at the hour they ring for five minutes only, ending with the clash of all five bells together. At a quarter past ten they chime again, for the service, which begins at half past ten. At the sound of these chimes the whole village begins to move slowly toward the church. First come the children, the bigger ones leading those who are little by the hand; the boys come next, but unwillingly, because the sexton is diligent with his cane, and some of those who now go up the steps to the FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 9 church will come down with smarting backs, the reward of those who play or laugh during the service. Then come the young men, who stand about the church-yard and whisper to each other. After them follow the elders and the married men, with the women and the girls. Five minutes before the half hour the ringers change the chime for a single bell. Then those who are outside gather in the porch and wait for the quality. When the single bell began there came forth from the rectory the rector himself, Mr. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, who was this day to deliver his soul and lay down his charge. He wore the black gown and Geneva bands, for the use of which he contended. At this time he was a young man of thirty — tall and thin. He stooped in the shoulders because he was continually reading; his face was grave and austere; his nose thin and aquiline; his eyes bright — never was any man with brighter eyes than my father; his hair, which he wore long, was brown and curly; his forehead high, rather than broad; his lips were firm. In these days, as my mother hath told me, and as I well believe, he was a man of singular comeli- ness, concerning which he cared nothing. Always from child- hood upward he had been grave in conversation and seriously inclined in mind. If I think of my father as a boy (no one ever seems to think that his father was once a boy), I am fain to compare him with Humphrey, save for certain bodily de- fects, my father having been like a priest of the altar for bodily perfection. That is to say, I am sure that, like Humphrey, he had no need of rod or ferule to make him learn his lessons, and, like that dear and fond friend of my childhood, he would willingly sit in a corner and read a book while the other boys played and went a-h unting or a-nesting. And very early in life he was smitten with the conviction of sin, and blessed with such an inward assurance of salvation as made him afterward steadfast in all afflictions. He was not a native of this country, having been born in New England. He came over, being then eighteen years of age, to study at Oxford, that university being purged of malign- nan ts, and at the time entirely in the hands of the godly. He was entered of Balliol College, of which Society he became a Fellow, and was greatly esteemed for his learning, wherein he excelled most of the scholars of his time. He knew and could red Hebrew, Chaldee, and the ancient Syriac, as well as Latin and Greek. Of modern languages he had acquired Arabic, by the help of which he had read the book which is called the Koran of the False Prophet Mohammed; French and Italian 10 FOE FAITH AHD FKEEDOM. he also knew and could read easily. As for his opinions, he was an Independent, and that not meekly or with hesitation, but with such zeal and vehemence that he considered all who differed from him as his personal enemies — nay, the very enemies of God. For this reason, and because his personal habits were too austere for those who attained not to his spiritual height, he was more feared than loved. Yet his party looked upon him as their greatest and stoutest champion. He left Oxford at the age of five- or six-and-twenty, and accepted the living of Bradford Orcas, offered him by Sir Chris- topher Challis at that place. Here he had preached for six years, looking forward to nothing else than to remain there, advancing in grace and wisdom, until the end of his days. So much was ordered, indeed, for him; but not quite as he had designed. Let no man say that he knoweth the future, or that he can shape out his destiny. You shall hear presently how Benjamin arrogantly resolved that his future should be what he chose; and what came of that impious resolution. My father’s face was always austere; this mornings it was more serious and sterner than customary, because the day was to him the most important in his life, and he was about to pass from a position of plenty (the Rectory of Bradford Orcas is not rich, but it affords a sufficiency) to one of penury. Those who knew him, however, had no doubt of the course he was about to take. Even the rustics knew that their minister would never consent to wear a surplice, or to read the Book of Com- mon Prayer, or to keep holy days — you have seen how the sex- ton opened the box and took out the surplice; yet my father had said nothing to him concerning his intentions. In his hand he carried his Bible — his own copy; I have it still, the margins covered with notes in his writing — bound in black leather, worn by constant handling, with brass clasps. Upon his head he had a plain black silk cap, which he wore constantly in his study and at meals to keep off draughts. In- deed, I loved to see him with the silk cap rather than with his tall steeple hat, with neither ribbon nor ornament of any kind, in which he rode when he afterward went about the country to break the law in exhorting and praying with his friends. Beside him walked my mother, holding in her hand her boy, my brother Barnaby, then three years of age. As for me, I was not yet born. She had been weeping; her eyes were red and swollen with tears; but when she entered the church she wept no more, bravely listening to the words which condemned to poverty and hardship herself and her children, if any more should be born to her. Alas, poor soul! What had she done FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 11 that this affliction should befall her? What had her innocent boy done? For upon her, not upon her husband, would fall the heavy burden of poverty, and on her children the loss. Yet never by a single word of complaint did she make her husband sorry that he had obeyed the voice of conscience, even when there was nothing left in the house, not so much as the widow's cruse of oil. Alas, poor mother, once so free from care, what sorrow and anxiety wert thou destined to endure for the tender conscience of thy husband! At the same time — namely, at the ringing of the single bell — -there came forth from the Manor House hard by the church his Honor Sir Christopher, with his family. The worthy knight was then about fifty years of age, tall and handsome still; in his later years there was something of a heavenly sweetness in his face, created, I doubt not, by a long life of pious thoughts and worthy deeds. His hair was streaked with gray, but not yet white; he wore a beard of the kind called stiletto, which was even then an ancient fashion, and he was dressed more soberly than is common with gentlemen of his rank, having no feather in his hat, but a simple ribbon round it, and though his ruffles were of lace and the kerchief round his neck was lace, the color of his coat was plain brown. He leaned upon a gold-headed cane, on account of an old wound (it was in- flicted by a cavalier's musket-ball when he was a captain in the army of Lord Essex). The wound left him somewhat lame, yet not so lame but that he could very well walk aLout his fields, and could ride his horse, and even hunt with the otter- hounds. By his side walked madame his wife. After him came his son, Humphrey, newly married, and with Humphrey his wife; and last came his son-in-law, the Reverend Philip Boscorel, M.A., late Fellow of All-Souls' College, Oxford, also newly married, with his wife, Sir Christopher's daughter Patience. Mr. Boscorel, like my father, was at that time thirty years of age. Like him, too, his face was comely and his feat- ures fine, yet they lacked the fire and the earnestness which marked my father. And in his silken cassock, his small white hands, his lace ruffles, and his dainty walk, it seemed as if Mr. Boscorel thought himself above the common run of mankind, and of superior clay. 'Tis sometimes the way with scholars and those who survey the world from the eminence of a library. Sir Christopher's face was full of concern, because he loved the young man who was this day to throw away his livelihood; and although he was ready himself to worship after the man- ner prescribed by law, his opinions were rather Independent than Episcopalian. As for Mr. Boscorel, who was about to 12 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. succeed to the ejected minister, his face wore no look of tri- umph, which would have been ungenerous. He was observed, indeed, after he had silently gone through the service of the day with the help of a prayer-book, to listen diligently unto the preacher. The people, I have already said, knew already what was about to happen. Perhaps some of them (but I think not) possessed a copy of the old prayer-book. This, they knew, was to be restored, with the surplice, and the observance of holy days, feasts, and fasts, and the kneeling at the administration of the Holy Communion. Our people are craftsman as much as they are rustics; every week the master-clothiers* men drive their pack-horses into the village laden with wool, and return with yarn; they are not, therefore, so brutal and sluggish as most; yet they made no outward show of caring whether Prelacy or Independence was to have the sway. Perhaps the abstruse doctrines which my father loved to discuss were too high for them; perhaps his austerity was too strict for them, so that he was not beloved by them. Perhaps, even, they would have cared little if they had heard that Bishop Bonner himself was coming back. Religion, to country folks, means, mostly, the going to church on Sunday morning. That done, man*s service of prayer and praise to his Creator is also done. If the form be changed, the Church remains, and the church- yard; one shepherd folio we th another, but the flock is always the same. Revolutions overthrow kings, and send great heads to the block; but the village heedeth not, unless civil war pass that way. To country folk, what difference? The sky and the fields are unchanged. Under Queen Mary they are Papists; under Queen Elizabeth they are Protestants. They have the prayer-book under King James and King Charles; under Oliver they have had the Presbyterian and Independent services; now they have the Book of Common Prayer and the surplice again. Yet they remain the same people, and tell the same stories, and, so far as I know, believe the same things, viz., that Jesus Christ saves the soul of every man who truly believes in Him. Why, if it were not for his immortal soul — concerning which he takes but little thought — the rustic might be likened unto the patient beast whom he harnesseth to his plow and to his muck-cart. He change th no more; he works as hard; he is as long-enduring; his eyes and his thoughts are as much bound by the hedge, the lane and the field; he thinks and invents and advances no more. Were it not, I say, for the Church, he would take as little heed of anything as his ox or his ass; his village would become his country; his squire would become FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 13 his king; the nearest village would become the camp of an enemy; and he would fall into the condition of the ancient Briton when J ulius Caesar found every tribe fighting against every other. I talk as a fool. For sometimes there falls upon the torpid soul of the rustic a spark which causes a mighty flame to blaze up and burn fiercely within him. I have read how a simple monk, called Peter the Hermit, drew thousands of poor, illiter- ate, credulous persons from their homes, and led them, a mob armed with scythes and pikes, across Europe to the deserts of Asia Minor, where they miserably perished. I have read also of Jack Cade, and how he drew the multitudes after him, cry- ing aloud for justice or death. And I myself have seen these sluggish spirits suddenly fired with a spirit which nothing could subdue. The sleeping soul I have seen suddenly starting into life; strength and swiftness have I seen suddenly put into sluggish limbs; light and fire have I seen gleaming suddenly in dull and heavy eyes. Oh! it was a miracle; but I have seen it. And, having seen it, I can not despise these lads of the plow, these honest boys of Somerset, nor can I endure to hear them laughed at or contemned. Bradford Orcas, in the Hundred of Horethorne, Somerset, is a village so far from the great towns that one would think a minister might have gone on praying and preaching after his own fashion without being discovered. But the arm of the law is long. The nearest town is Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to which there is a bridle-path across the fields; it is the market-town for the villages, round it. Bradford Orcas is a very obscure little village, with no history and no antiquities. It stands in the south-eastern corner of the county, close to the western declivity of the Cotton Hills, which here sweep round so as to form a valley, in which the village is built along the banks of a stream. The houses are for the most part of stone, with thatched roofs, as is the custom in our country; the slopes of the hills are covered with trees, and round the village there stand goodly orchards, the cider from which can not be sur- passed. As for the land, but little of it is arable; the greater part is a sandy loam or stone brash. The church which in the superstitious days was dedicated to St. Nicolas is built upon a hillock, a rising ground in the west of the village. This building of churches upon hillocks is a common custom in our parts, and seemeth laudable, because a church should stand where it can be seen by all the people, and by its pres- ence remind them of Death and of the Judgment. This 14 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. practice doth obtain at Sherborne, where there is a very noble church, and at Huish Episcopi, and at many other places in our county. Our church is fair and commodious, not too large for the congregation, having in the west a stone tower em- battled, and consisting of a nave and chancel, with a very fine roof of carved wood-work. There is an ancient yew-tree in the church-yard, from which in old times bows were cut; some of the bows yet hang in the great hall of the Manor House. Among the graves is an ancient stone cross, put up no man knows when, standing in a six-sided slab of stone, but the top was broken off at the time of the Reformation; two or three tombs are in the church-yard, and the rest is covered with mounds, beneath which lie the bones and dust of former gen- erations. Close to the church-yard, and at the north-east corner, is the Manor House, as large as the church itself, but not so ancient. It was built in the reign of Henry VII. A broad arched gate- way leads into a court, wherein is the entrance to the house. Over the gate-way is a kind of tower, but not detached from the house. In the wall of the tower is a panel, lozenge-shaped, in which are carved the arms of the Chaliis family. The house is stately, with many gables, and in each casement windows set in richly carved stone tracery. As for the rooms within the house, I will speak of them hereafter. At present I have the church-yard in my mind. There is no place upon the earth which more I love. To stand in the long grass among the graves; to gaze upon the wooded hills beyond, the orchards, the meadows, the old house, the venerable church, the yew- tree; to listen to the murmur of the stream below, and the singing of the lark above; to feel the fresh breeze upon my cheek — oh! I do this daily. It makes me feel young once more; it brings back the days when I stood here with the boys, and when Sir Christopher would lean over the wall and dis- course with us gravely and sweetly upon the love of God and the fleeting joys of earth (which yet, he said, we should accept and be happy withal in thankfulness), and the happiness un- speakable that awaiteth the Lord's saints. Or, if my thoughts continue in the past, the grave-yard brings back the presence and the voice of Mr. Boscorel. “ In such a spot as this," he would say, speaking softly and slowly, “ the pastorals of Virgil or Theocritus might have been written. Here would the shepherds hold their contests. Certainly they could find no place, even in sunny Sicily, or at Mantua itself, where (save for three months in the year) the air is more delightful. Here they need not to avoid the burning FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 15 heat of a sun which gently warms, but never burns; here they would find the shade of the grove pleasant in the soft summer season. Innocent lambs instead of kids (which are tasteless) play in our meadows; the cider which we drink is, I take it, more pleasing to the palate than was their wine flavored with turpentine. And our viols, violins, and spinets are instru- ments more delightful than the oaten pipe, or the cithara itself.” Then would he wave his hand, and quote some poet in praise of a country life — “ There is no man but may make his paradise, And it is nothing but his love and dotage Upon the world’s foul joys that keeps him out on’t. For he that lives retired in mind and spirit Is still in Paradise.” “But, child,” he would add, with a sigh, “one may not always wish to be in Paradise. The world's joys lie elsewhere. Only, when youth is gone — then Paradise is best. ” The service began after the manner of the Independents, with a long prayer, during which the people sat. Mr. Bos- corel, as I have said, went through his own service in silence, the Book of Common Prayer in his hand. After the prayer, the minister read a portion of Scripture, which he expounded at length and with great learning. Then the congregation sung that psalm which begins — “ Triumphing songs with glorious tongue Let’s offer unto Him.” This done, the rector ascended the pulpit for the last time, gave out his text, turned his hour-glass, and began his ser- mon. He took for his text those verses in St. PauPs Second Epistle to the Corinthians, vi. 3-10, in which the Apostle speaks of his own ministry as if he was actually predicting the tribulation which was to fall upon these faithful preachers of a later time — “ In much patience, in affliction, in necessities, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labor, in watch- ings, in fastings ” — could not the very words be applied to my father? He read the text three times, so that everybody might fully understand the subject upon which he was to preach — namely, the faithfulness required of a minister of the gospel. I need not set down the arguments he used or the reasons he gave for his resolution not to conform with the Act of Uniformity. The rustics sat patiently listening, with no outward sign of 16 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. assent or of sympathy. But their conduct afterward proved abundantly to which side their minds inclined. As for me, I am a woman, and therefore inclined to obey the voice of au- thority, so that, had I been born a Papist, such I should have continued; and I am now a member of the Church of England because my husband is of that Church, yet not of the kind which is called High. It behooves us all to listen with respect when scholars and wise men inquire into the reasons of things. Yet the preach- ings and expositions which such as my father bestowed upon their flocks did certainly awaken men’s minds to consider by themselves the things which many think too high for them. It is a habit which may lead to the foundation of false and pernicious sects. And it certainly is not good that men should preach the doctrines of the Anabaptists, the Fifth Monarchy men, or the Quakers. Yet it is better that some should be deceived than that all should be slaves. I have been assured by one — I mean Humphrey — who hath traveled, that in those countries where the priest taketh upon himself the religion of the people, so that they think to be saved by attending mass, by fasting, confession, penance, and so forth, that not only does religion itself become formal, mechanical, and inanimate, but in the very daily concerns and business of life men grow slothful and lack spirit. Their religion, which is the very heat of the body, the sustaining and vital force of all man’s action, is cold and dead. Therefore all the virtues are cold also, and with them the courage and the spirit of the people. Thus it is that Italy hath fallen aside into so many small and divided kingdoms. And for this reason Spain, in the opinion of those who know her best, is now falling rapidly into decay. I am well assured by those who can remember that the in- telligence of the village folk greatly increased during the period when they were encouraged to search the Scriptures for them- selves. Many taught themselves to read, others had their children taught, in order that they might read or hear daily portions of the Scriptures. It is now thirty years since au- thority resumed the rule; the village folk have again become, to outward seeming, sheep who obey without questioning. Yet it is observed that when they are within reach of a town — that is to say, of a meeting-house — they willingly flock to the service in the afternoon and evening. It was with the following brave words that my father con- cluded his discourse: “ Seeing, therefore, my brethren, how clear is the Word of God on these points, and considering that we must always obey FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 17 God rather than man, and observing that here we plainly see the finger of God pointing to disobedience and its consequence, I am constrained to disobey. The consequence will be to me that I shall stand in this place no more; to you, that you will have a stranger in your church. I pray that he may be a godly person, able to divide the Word, learned and acceptable. “ As for me, I must go forth, perhaps from among you alto- gether. If persecutions arise, it may behoove me and mine to seek again that land beyond the seas whither my fathers fled for the sake of religious liberty. Whatever happens, I must fain preach the gospel. It is laid upon me to preach. If I am silent, it will be as if Death itself had fallen upon me. My brethren, there have been times — and those times may return — when the elect have had to meet secretly, on the sides of barren hills and in the heart of the forest, to pray together and to hear the Word. I say that these times may return. If they do, you will find me willing, I hope and pray, to brave for you the worst that our enemies can devise. Perhaps, however, this tyranny may pass over. Already the Lord hath achieved one great deliverance for this ancient realm. Perhaps another may be in His secret purposes when we have been chastened, as, for our many sins, we richly deserve. Whether in affliction or in prosperity let us always say, 4 The Lord's name be praised!' 4 4 Now, therefore, for the sand is running low, and I may not weary the young and the impatient, let me conclude. Farewell, sweet Sabbaths! Farewell, the sweet expounding of the Word! Farewell, sweet pulpit! Farewell, sweet faces of the souls which I have yearned to present pure and washed clean before the Throne! My brethren, I go about henceforth as a dog which is muzzled; another man will fill this pulpit; our simple form of worship is gone; the prayer-book and the surplice have come back again. Pray God we see not Con- fession, Penance, the Mass, the Inquisition, the inslavement of conscience, the stake, and the martyr's ax!" Then he paused and bowed his head, and everybody thought that he had finished. He had not. He raised it again, and threw out his arms, mid shouted aloud, while his eyes glowed like fire. “No! I will not be silent. I will not. I am sent into the world to preach the gospel. I have no other business. I must proclaim the Word as 1 hope for everlasting life; breth- ren, we shall meet again. In the woods and on the hills we shall find a temple; there are houses where two or three may be gathered together, the Lord Himself being in their midst. 18 FOB FAITH AND FBEEDOM. Never doubt that I am ready, in season and out of season, whatever be the law, to preach the gospel of the Lord!’* He ended, and straightway descended the pulpit stair, and stalked out of the church, the people looking after him with awe and wonder. But Mr. Boscorel smiled and wagged his head, with a kind of pity. CHAPTER II. THE BBEAD- WINNER. Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip himself of all his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing, he ceased not to put his trust in the Lord, and continued to sit among his books, never asking whence came the food provided for him. 1 think, indeed, so wrapped was he in thought, that he knew not. As for procuring the daily food, my mother it was who found out the way. Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know what a busy and populous country is that of Somerset. Apart from the shipping and the great trade with Ireland, Spain, and the West Indies carried on from the Port of Bristol, we have our great manufactures of cloth, in which we are sur- passed by no country in the world. The town of Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundred looms always at work mak- ing sagathies and Des Roys; there are many looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part druggets and cantaloons; then they are in great numbers at that rich and populous town of Frome Selwood, where they manufacture the Spanish med- leys. Besides the cloth-workers, we have, in addition, our knitted-stocking trade, which is carried on mostly at Glaston- bury and Shepton Mallet. Not only does this flourishing trade make the masters rich and prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a master with his twenty — ay, and his forty — thousand pounds), but it fills all the country with work, so that the towns are frequent, populous, and full of everything that men can want; and the very villages are not like those which may be seen in other parts, poor and squalid, but well built and comfortable. Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, when she is not doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel; the girls, when they have nothing else to do, are made to knit stockings. Every week the master-clothier sends round his men among the villages, their pack-horses laden with wool; FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 19 every week they return, their packs laden with yarn, ready for the loom. There is no part of England where the people are more pros- perous and more contented. Nowhere are there more towns, and all thriving; nowhere are the villages better built; nor can one find anywhere else more beautiful churches. Because the people make good wages they are independent in their man- ners; they have learned things supposed to he above the^tation of the humble; most of them in the towns, and many in the villages, are able to read. This enables them to search the Scriptures and examine into doctrine by the light of their own reason, guided by grace. And to me, the daughter of a Non- conforming preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many of them should have become stiff and sturdy Non-conformists. This was seen in the year 1685, and again, two or three years later, when a greater than Monmouth landed on the western shores. My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would earn, by any work of his own, the daily bread of the house- hold, bravely followed the example of the women in the vil- lage. That is to say, she set up her spinning-wheel, and spent all the time that she could spare spinning the wool into yarn; while she taught her little boy first, and afterward her daugh- ter — as soon as I was old enough to manage the needles — to knit stockings. What trade, indeed, could her husband fol- low save one — and that, by law, prohibited? He could not dig; he could not make anything; he knew not how to buy or sell; he could only study, write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat among his books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other, working for the master-clothiers of Erome Selwood. It still makes my heart to swell with pity and with love when I think upon my mother, thus spending herself and being spent, working all day, huckstering with the rough pack-horse men, more accustomed to exchange rude jests with the rustics than to talk with gentlewomen. And this she continued to do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that her husband should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love makes us will- ing slaves. My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was troubled about food. He paid no heed at all to what he eat, provided that it was sufficient for his needs; he would sip his broth of pork and turnips and bread, after thanks rendered, as if it was the finest dish in the world; and a piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be a feast for him. The cider which ho drank was brewed by my mother from her own apples; to him 20 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. it was as good as if it had been Sherris or Khenish. I say that he did not even know how his food was provided for him; his mind was at all times occupied with subjects so lofty that he knew not what was done under his very eyes. The hand of God, he said, doth still support His faithful. Doubtless we can not look back upon those years without owning that we were so supported. But my mother was the instrument; nay, my father sometimes even compared himself with satisfaction unto the Prophet Elijah, whom the ravens fed in the Brook Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the morning, and flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father thought that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner. Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not been for the charity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green goose, side of bacon, and young grunter came to us from the Manor House, with tobacco, which my father loved, and wine to comfort his soul; yea, and clothes for us all, else had we gone barefoot and in rags. In this way was many an ejected Elijah at that time nourished and supported. Fresh meat we should never have tasted, any more than the humblest around us, had it not been for our good friends at the Manor House. Those who live in towns can not understand how frugal and yet sufficient may be the fare of those who live in the country and have gardens and orchards. Cider was our drink, which we made ourselves; we had some sweet apple-trees, which gave us a stock of russets and pippins for winter use; we had bees (but we sold most of our honey); our garden grew salads and onions, beans and the like; skim-milk we could have from the Manor House for the fetching; for breakfast we had bread and milk, for dinner bread and soft cheese, with a lettuce or an apple; and bread or bread and butter for supper. For my father there was always kept a piece of bacon or fat pork. Our house was one of the cottages in the village; it is a stone house (often I sit down to look at it, and to remember those days of humility) with a thick thatch. It had two rooms below and two garrets above. One room was made into a study or library for my father, where also he slept upon a pallet. The other was kitchen, spinning-room, parlor, all in one. The door opened upon the garden, and the floor was of stone, so that it was cold. But when Barnaby began to find the use of his hands he procured some boards, which he laid upon the stones, and so we had a wooden floor; and in winter across the door we hung a curtain to keep off the wind. The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother had written texts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly admoni- FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 21 tion was ever present to our eyes and minds. She also em- broidered short texts upon our garments, and I have still the cradle in which I was laid, carved (but I do not know by whose hand) with a verse from the Word of God. My father used himself, and would have us employ, the words of the Bible even for the smaller occasions of daily use; nor would he allow that anything was lawful unless it was sanctioned by the Bible, holding that in the Word was everything necessary or lawful. Did Barnaby go shooting with Sir Christopher and bring him a rabbit — Lo! David bade the children of Israel teach the use of the bow. Did my mother instruct and amuse me with rid- dles — she had the warrant of scripture for it in the example of 'Samson. Did she sing psalms and spiritual songs to while away the time and make her work less irksome and please her little daughter — in the congregation of Nehemiah there were two hundred forty-and-five singing men and singing women. My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day — morning and evening. Besides the Bible we had few books which we could read. As for my mother, poor soul, she had no time to read. As for me, when I grew older I borrowed books from the Manor House or Mr. Boscorel. And there were “ Old Mr. Dod"s Sayings” and “ Plain Directions by Joseph Large ” always on the shelf beside the Bible. How, while my father worked in his study, and my brother Barnaby sat over his lesson-book, his hands rammed into his hair, as if determined to lose nothing, not the least scrap of his portion (yet knowing full well that on the morrow there would be not a word left in his poor unlucky noddle, and once more the whip), my mother would sit at her wheel earning the daily bread. And when I was little, she would tell me, speak- ing very softly, so as not to disturb the wrestling of her hus- band with a knotty argument, all the things which you have heard — how my father chose rather poverty than to worship at the altar of Baal; and how two thousand pious ministers, like-minded with himself, left their pulpits and. went out into the cold for conscience" sake. So that I was easily led to think that there were no Christian martyrs and confessors more excellent and praiseworthy than these ejected ministers (which still I believe). y Then would she tell me further of how they fared, and how the common people do still reverence them. There was the history of John Norman, of Bridge- water; Joseph Chadwick, of Wrenford; Felix Howe, of West Torrington; George Minton, and many others. She also in- structed me very early in the history of the Protestant upris- ing over the best half of Europe, and showed me how, against 22 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. fearful odds, and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the good people of Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain won their freedom from the pope, so that my heart glowed within me to think of the great goodness and mercy which caused me to be born in a Protestant country. She also in- structed me, later, in the wickedness of King Charles, whom they now call a martyr, and in the plots of that king, and Laud, his archbishop, and how king and archbishop were both overthrown and perished when the people arose and would bear no more. In fine, my mother made me, from the beginning, a Puritan. As I remember my mother always, she was pale of cheek and thin; her voice was gentle; yet with her very gentleness she would make the blood to run quick in the veins, and the heart to beat. How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she has talked with them of the great civil war and the Restoration! But always soft and gentle; her blue eyes never flashing; no wrath in her heart; but the truth, which often cause th righteous anger, always upon her tongue. One day, I remember, when I was a little girl playing in the garden, Mr. Boscorel walked down the village in his great silken gown, which seemed always new, his lace ruffs, and his white bands looking like a bishop at least, and walking deli- cately, holding up his gown to keep it from the dust and mud. When he spoke it was in a mincing speech, not like our rough Somersetshire ways. He stopped at our gate, and looked down the garden. It was a summer day; the doors and win- dows of the cottage were open; at our window sat my father bending over his books, in his rusty gown and black cap, thin and lank; at the door sat my mother at her wheel. “ Child,” said the rector, “ take heed thou never forget in thine age the thing which thou seest daily in thy childhood . 99 I knew not what he meant. “ Read and mark,” he said; “ yea, learn by heart what the wise man hath said of the good woman: ‘ She layeth her hand to the spindle . . . she maketh fine linen and selleth it . . . she eateth not the bread of idleness. . . . Let her works praise her in the gates . 9 99 CHAPTER III. THE BOYS. The family of Challis, of Bradford Orcas, is well known; here there has always been a Challis from time immemorial. FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 23 They are said to have been on the land before the time of the Conqueror. But because they have never been a great family like the Mohuns of Funster, but only modest gentlefolk with some four or five hundred pounds a year, they have not suf- fered, like those great houses, from the civil wars, which, when they raged in the land, brought in their train so many at- tainders, sequestrations, beheadings, imprisonments, and fines. Whether the barons fought, or whether Cavaliers and Round- heads, the Challises remained at Bradford Orcas. Since the land is theirs and the village, it is reasonable that they should have done everything that has been done for the place. One of them built the church, but I know not when;' another built the tower; another gave the peal of bells. He who reigned here in the time of Henry VII. built the Manor House; another built the mill; the monuments in the church are all put up to the memory of Challises dead and gone; there is one, a very stately tomb, which figures to -the life Sir Will- iam Challis (who died in the time of Queen Elizabeth), carved in marble, and colored, kneeling at a desk; opposite to him is his second wife, Grace, also kneeling. Behind the husband are three boys, on their knees, and behind the wife are three girls. Apart from this group is the effigy of Filipa, Sir Chris- topher’s first wife, with four daughters kneeling behind her. I was always sorry for Filipa, thus separated and cut off from the society of her husband. There are brasses on the floor with figures of other Challises, and tablets in the wall, and the Challises’ coat of arms is everywhere cut in lozenges, painted on wood, and shining in the east window. It always seemed to me, in my young days, that it was the grandest thing in the world to be a Challis. In this family there was a laudable practice with the younger sons, that they stayed not at home, as is too often their cus- tom, leading indolent lives, without ambition or fortune, but they sallied forth and sought fortune in trade, or in the law, or in the Church, or in foreign service — wherever fortune is to be honorably won — so that, though I dare say some have proved dead and dry branches, others have put forth flowers and fruit abundantly, forming new and vigorous trees sprung from the ancient root. Thus, some have become judges, and some bishops, and some great merchants; some have crossed the ocean and are now settled in the plantations; some have at- tained rank and estates in the service of Austria. Thus, Sir Christopher’s brother Humphrey went to London and became a Levant merchant and adventurer, rising to great honor, and becoming alderman. I doubt not that he would have been 24 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. made lord mayor but for his untimely death. And as for his wealth, which was rumored to be so great — but you shall hear of this in due time. That goodly following of his household which you have seen enter the church on Farewell Sunday was shortly afterward broken into by death. There fell upon the village (I think it was in the year 1665) the scourge of a putrid fever, of which there died, besides numbers of the village folk, madame her- self — the honored wife of Sir Christopher — Humphrey his son, and Mme. Patience Boscorel, his daughter. There were left to Sir Christopher, therefore, only his daughter-in-law and his in- fant grandson Robin. And in that year his household was increased by the arrival of his grandnephew Humphrey. This child was the grandson of Sir Christopher’s brother, the Tur- key or Levant merchant of whom I have spoken. He was rich and prosperous: his ships sailed out every year laden with I know not what,* and returned with figs, dates, spices, gums, silks, and all kinds of precious commodities from eastern parts. It is, I have been told, a profitable trade, but subject to terrible dangers from Moorish pirates, who must be bravely fought and beaten off, otherwise ship and cargo will be taken, and captain and crew driven into slavery. Mr. Challis lived in Thames Street, close to Tower Hill. It is said that he lived here in great splendor, as befits a rich merchant who is also an alderman. Now, in the year 1665, as is very well known, the plague broke out in the city. There were living in the house the alderman, his wife, his son, his son’s wife, a daughter, and his grandson, little Humphrey. On the first outbreak of the pestilence they took counsel together and resolved that the child should be first sent away to be out of danger, and that they would follow if the plague spread. This was done, and a sober man, one of their porters or warehousemen, carried the child with his nurse all the way from London to Bradford Orcas. Alas! before the boy reached his great-uncle, the house in Thames Street was attacked by the plague, and every one therein perished. Thus was poor little Humphrey deprived of his parents. I know not who were his guardians or trustees, or what steps, if any, were taken to inquire into the alderman’s estate; but when, next year, the great fire of London destroyed the house in Thames Street, with so many others, all the estate, whatever it had been, vanished, and could no more be traced. There must have been large moneys owing. It is certain that he had shares in ships. It has been supposed that he owned many FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 25 houses in the city, but they were destroyed and their very site forgotten, and no deeds or papers, or any proof of ownership, were left. Moreover, there was nobody charged with inquiring into this orphans affairs. Therefore, in the general confusion, nothing at all was saved out of what had been a goodly prop- erty, and the child Humphrey was left without a guinea in the world. Thus unstable is fortune. I know not whether Humphrey received a fall in his infancy, or whether he was born with his deformity, but the poor lad grew up with a crooked figure, one shoulder being higher than the other, and his legs short, so that he looked as if his arms were too long for him. We, who saw him thus every day, paid no heed, nor did he suffer from any of those cruel gibes and taunts which are often passed upon lads thus afflicted. As he was by nature or misfortune debarred from the rough sports which pleased his cousins, the boy gave himself up to reading and study, and to music. His manner of speech was soft and gentle; his voice was always sweet, and afterward be- came strong as well, so that I have never heard a better singer. His face — ah, my brother Humphrey, what a lovely face was thine! All goodness, surely, was stamped upon that face. Never, never did an unworthy thought defile that candid soul, or a bad action cast a cloud upon that brow! Where art thou now, oh, Humphrey, brother and fond companion — whither hast thou fled? As for Eobin, Sir Christopher's grandson, I think he was always what he is still, namely, a man of a joyous heart and a cheerful countenance# As a boy, he laughed continually, would sing more willingly than read, would play rather than work, loved to course and shoot and ride better than to learn Latin grammar, and would readily off-coat and fight with any who invited him. Yet not a fool or a clown, but always a gentleman in manners, and one who read such things as be- hooved a country gentleman, and scrupulous as to the point of honor. Such as he is still, such as he was always. And of a comely presence, with a rosy cheek and bright eyes, and the strength of a young David, as well as his ruddy and goodly countenance. The name of David, I am told, means ‘ 6 dar- ling." Therefore ought my Eobin to have been named David. There were two other boys — Barnaby, my brother, who was six years older than myself, and therefore always a great boy; and Benjamin, the son of the Eev. Mr. Boscorel, the rector. Barna- by grew up so broad and strong that at twelve he would have passed easily for seventeen; his square shoulders, deep chest, and big limbs made him like a bull for strength. Yet he was 26 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. shorter than most, and looked shorter than he was by reason of his great breadth. He was always exercising his strength; he would toss the hay with the haymakers, and carry the corn for the reapers, and thresh with the flail, and guide the plow. He loved to climb great trees, and to fell them with an ax. Everybody in the village admired his wonderful strength. Unfortunately, he loved not books, and could never learn any- thing, so that when, by dint of great application and many repetitions, he had learned a little piece of a Latin verb, he straightway forgot it in the night, and so next day there was another flogging. But that he heeded little. He was five years older than Bobin, and taught him all his woodcraft — where to find pheasants* eggs, how to catch squirrels, how to trap weasels and stoats, how to hunt the otter, how to make a goldfinch whistle and a raven talk; never was there such a master of that wisdom which doth not advance a man in the world. Now, before Barnaby *s birth, his mother, after the manner of Hannah, gave him solemnly unto the Lord all the days of his life; and after his birth her husband, after the manner of Elkanah, said: “ Do what seemeth thee good; only the Lord establish his word.** He was, therefore, to become a minister, like his father before him. Alas! poor Barnaby could not even learn the Latin verbs, and his heart, it was found as he grew older, was wholly set upon the things of this world. Where- fore, my mother prayed for him daily while she sat at her work, that his heart might be turned, and that he might get understanding. As for the fourth of the boys, Benjamin Boscorel, he was about two years younger than Barnaby, a boy who, for want of a mother, and because his father was careless of him, grew up rough and coarse in manners and in speech, and boastful of his powers. To hear Ben talk you would think that all the boys of his school (the grammar-school of Sherborne) were heroes; that the Latin taught was of a quality superior to that which Robin and Humphrey learned of my father, and that when he himself went out into the world the superiority of his parts would be immediately perceived and acknowledged. Those who watch boys at play together — girls more early learn to govern themselves and to conceal their thoughts, if not their tempers — may, after a manner, predict the future character of every one. There is the man who wants all for himself, and still wants more, and will take all and yield noth- ing, save on compulsion, and cares not a straw about his neigh- bor — such was Benjamin as a boy. There is the man who gives FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 27 all generously- — such was Eobin. There is, again, the man whose mind is raised above the petty cares of the multitude, and dwells apart, occupied with great thoughts — such was Humphrey. Lastly, there is the man who can act but can not think; who is born to be led; who is full of courage and of strength, and leaves all to his commander, captain, or master — such was Barnaby. As I think of these lads it seems as if the kind of man into which each would grow must have been stamped upon their foreheads. Perhaps to the elders this prognostic was easy to read. They suffered me to play with them or to watch them at play. When the boys went off to the woods I went with them. I watched them set their traps — I ran when they ran. And then, as now, I loved Eobin and Humphrey. But I could not endure — no, not even the touch of him — Benjamin, with the loud laugh and the braggart voice, who laughed at me because I was a girl and could not fight. The time came when he did not laugh at me because I was a girl. And* oh, to think — only to think — of the time that came after that! CHAPTEE IV. SIR CHRISTOPHER. At the mere remembrance of Sir Christopher I am fain to lay down my pen and to weep, as for one whose goodness was unsurpassed, and whose end was undeserved. Good works, I know, are rags, and men can not deserve the mercy of God by any merits of their own; but a good man — a man whose heart is full of justice, mercy, virtue, and truth — is so rare a creat- ure that when there is found such a one his salvation seems assured. Is it not wonderful that there are among us so many good Christians, but so few good men? I am, indeed, in pri- vate duty bound to acknowledged Sir Christopher's goodness to me and to mine. He was, as I have said, the mainstay of our household. Had we depended wholly on my mother's work, we should sometimes have fared miserably indeed. Nay, he did more. Though a justice of the peace, he invited my father every Sunday evening to the Manse-house for spiritual conversation, not only for his own profit, but knowing that to expound was to my father the breath of his nostrils, so that if he could not expound he must die. In person Sir Christo- pher was tall; after the fashion (which I love) of the days when he was a young man he wore his own hair, which, being 28 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. now white and long, became his venerable face much better than any wig — white, black, or brown. He was generally dressed, as became his station of simple country gentleman, in a plush coat with silver buttons, and for the most part he wore boots, being of an active habit, and always walking about his fields or in his gardens among his flowers and his fruit-trees. He was so good a sportsman that with his rod, his gun, and his hawk he provided his table with everything except beef, mutton, and pork. In religion he inclined to independency, being, above all things, an upholder of private judgment; in j)olitics he denied the Divine right, and openly said that a Challis might be a king as well as a Stuart; he abhorred the pope and all his works; and though he was now for a mon- archy, he would have the king’s own power limited by the Par- liament. In his manners he was grave and dignified, not aus- tere, but one who loved a cheerful companion. He rode once a week, on market-day, to Sherborne, where he dined with his brother justices, hearing and discussing the news, though news comes but slowly from London to these parts — it was fourteen days after the landing of the king in the year 1660 that the bells of Sherborne Minster rang for that event. Sometimes a copy of the London “ Gazette ” came down by the Exeter coach, or some of the company had lately passed a night where the coach stopped, and conversed with travelers from London and heard the news. For the rest of the week his honor was at home. For the most part he sat in the hall. In the mid- dle stands the great oak table where all the household sit at meals together. There was little difference between the dishes served above and those below the salt, save that those above had each a glass of strong ale or of wine after dinner and sup- per. One side of the hall was hung with arras worked with representations of herbs, beasts, and birds. On the other side was the great chimney, where in the winter a noble fire was kept up all day long. On either side of it hung fox-skins, otter-skins, polecat-skins, with fishing-rods, stags’ heads, horns, and other trophies of the chase. At the end was a screen covered with old coats of mail, helmets, bucklers, lances, pikes, pistols, guns with matchlocks, and a trophy of swords arranged in form of a star. Below the cornice hung a row of leathern jerkins, black and dusty, which had formerly been worn in place of armor by the common sort. In the oriel window was a sloping desk, having on one side the Bible, and on the other Fox’s ‘ 4 Book of Martyrs.” Below was a shelf with other books, such as Vincent Wing’s “ Almanack,” King Charles’s “ Golden Rules,” “ Glanville on Apparitions,” the “ Complete FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 29 Justice/* and the “ Book of Farriery.** There was also in the hall a great sideboard covered with Turkey work, pewter, brass, and fine linen. In the cupboard below was his honor*s plate, reported to be worth a great deal of money. Sir Christopher sat in a high chair, curiously carved, with arms and a triangular seat. It had belonged to the family for many generations. Within reach of the chair was the tobacco- jar, his pipe, and his favorite book — namely, “ The Gentle- man *s Academie; or, the Book of St. Albans, being a Work on Hunting, Hawking, and Armorie,** by Dame Juliana Ber- ners, who wrote it two hundred and fifty years a^b. Sir Chris- topher loved especially to read aloud a chapter in which it was proved that the distinction between gentleman and churl began soon after the creation, when Cain proved himself a churl, and Seth was created gentleman and esquire or armiger by Adam, his father. This distinction was renewed after the flood by Noah himself, a gentleman by lineal descent from Seth. In the case of his sons. Ham was the churl, and the other two were the gentlemen. I have sometimes thought that, accord- ing to this author, all of us who are descended from Shem or Japhet should be gentlemen, in which case there would be no churl in Great Britain at all. But certainly there are many; so that, to my poor thinking, Dame Juliana Berners must be wrong. There is, in addition to the great hall, the best parlor; but as this was never wanted, the door of it was never opened ex- cept at cleaning time. Then, to be sure, one saw a room fur- nished very grand, with chairs in Turkey work, and hung round with family portraits. The men were clad in armor, as if they had all been soldiers or commanders; the women were mostly dressed as shepherdesses, with crooks in their hands and flowing robes. In the garden was a long bowling-green, where in summer Sir Christopher took great pleasure in that ancient game; below the garden was a broad fish-pond, made by damming the stream; above and below the pond there are trout, and in the pond are carp and jack. A part of the gar- den was laid out for flowers, a part for the still-room, and a part for fruit. I have never seen anywhere a better ordered garden for the still-room. Everything grew therein that the housewife wants — sweet cicely, rosemary, burnet, sweet basil, chives, dill, clary, angelica, lipwort, tarragon, thyme, and mint; there were, as Lord Bacon, in his “ Essay on Gardens/* would have, “ whole alleys of them to have the pleasure when you walk or tread.** There were thick hedges to keep off the east wind in spring, so that one would enjoy the sun when that 30 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, cold wind was blowing. But in Somerset that wind hath not the bitterness that it possesses along the eastern shores of the land. Every morning Sir Christopher sat in his justice's chair under the helmets and the coats of armor. Sometimes gypsies would be brought before him charged with stealing poultry or poisoning pigs, or a rogue and vagabond would stray into the parish; these gentry were very speedily whipped out of it. As for our own people, there is nowhere a more quiet and orderly village; quarrels there are with the clothiers' men, who will still try to beat down the value of the women's work, and bickerings sometimes between the women themselves. Sir Christopher was judge for all. Truly he was a patriarch like unto Abraham, and a father to his people. Never was sick man suffered to want for medicines and succor; never was aged man suffered to lack food and fire; did any youth show lean- ings toward sloth, profligacy, or drunkenness, he was straight- way admonished, and that right soundly, so that his back and shoulders would remind him for many days of his sin. By evil-doers Sir Christopher was feared as much as he was be- loved by all good men and true. This also is proper to one in high station and authority. In the evening he amused himself in playing backgammon with the boys, or chess with his son-in-law, Mr. Boscorel; but the latter with less pleasure, because he was generally defeated in the game. He greatly delighted in the conversation and society of that learned and ingenious gentleman, though on matters of religion and of politics his son-in-law belonged to the opposite way of thinking. I do not know why Mr. Boscorel took upon himself Holy Orders. God forbid that I should speak ill of any in authority, and especially of one who was kind and charitable to all, and refused to become a persecutor of those who desired freedom of conscience and of speech. But if the chief duty of a minis- ter of the Gospel is to preach, then was Mr. Boscorel little bet- ter than a dog who can not bark. He did not preach; that is to say, he could not, like my father, mount the pulpit, Bible in hand, and teach, admonish, argue, and convince without a written word. He read every Sunday morning a brief dis- course, which might, perhaps, have instructed Oxford scholars, but would not be understood by the common people. As for arguments on religion, spiritual conversation, or personal ex- perience of grace, he would never suffer such talk in his pres- ence, because it argued private judgment and caused, he said, POE PAITH AND PEEEDOM. 31 the growth of spiritual pride. And of those hot Gospellers, whose zeal brings them to prison and the pillory, he spoke with contempt. His conversation, I must acknowledge, was full of delight and instruction, if the things which one learned of him were not vanities. He had traveled in Italy and in France, and he loved to talk of poetry, architecture, statuary, medals and coins, antiquities, and so forth — things harmless and, per- haps, laudable in themselves, but for a preacher of the Gospel, who ought to think of nothing but his sacred calling, they are surely superfluities. Or he would talk of the manners and customs of strange countries, and especially of the Pope. This person, whom I have been taught to look upon as, from t»he very nature of his pretensions, the most wicked of living men, Mr. Boscorel regarded with as much toleration as he bestowed upon an Independent. Thus he would tell us of London and the manners of the great; cf the king, whom he had seen, and the court, seeming to wink at things which one ought to hold in abhorrence. He even told us of the play-house, which ac- cording to my father, is the most subtle engine ever invented by the devil for the destruction of souls. Yet Mr. Boscorel sighed to think that he could no longer visit that place of amusement. He loved also music, and played movingly upon the violoncello; and he could make pictures with pen, pencil, or brush. I have some of his paintings still, especially a pict- ure which he drew of Humphrey playing the fiddle, his great eyes looking upward, as if the music was drawing his soul to heaven. I know not why he painted a halo about his face. Mr. Boscorel also loved poetry, and quoted Shakespeare and Ben Jonson more readily than the Word of God. In person he was of a goodly countenance, having clear-cut features, a straight nose, rather long, soft eyes, and a gentle voice. He was dainty in his apparel, loving fine clean linen and laced neckerchiefs, but was not a gross feeder; he drank but little wine, but would discourse upon fine wines, such as the Tokay of Hungary, Commandery wine from Cyprus, and the like, and he seemed better pleased to watch the color of the wine in the glass, and to breathe its perfume, than to drink ifc. Above all things, he hated coarse speech and rude man- ners. He spoke of men as if he stood on an eminence watch- ing them, and always with pity, as if he belonged to a nobler creation. How could such a man have such a son? 32 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. CHAPTER Y. THE RUNAWAY. Everybody hath heard, and old people still remember, how one act after the other was passed for the suppression of the Non-conformists, whom the Church of England tried to extirpate, but could not. Had these laws been truly carried into effect, there would have been great suffering among the Dissenters, but in order to enforce them every man's hand would have been turned against his neighbor, and this — thank God — is not possible in Somerset. For example, the Act of Uniformity provided not only for the ejectment of the Non-conforming ministers, which was duly carried out, but also enacted that none of them should take scholars without the license of the bishop. Yet many of the ejected ministers maintained themselves in this way, openly, without the bishop's license. They were not molested, though they might be threatened by some hot Episcopalian, nor were the bishops anxious to set the country afire by attempting to enforce this law. One must not take from an honest neigh- bor, whatever an unjust law may command, his only way of living. o Again the act passed two years later punished all persons with fine and imprisonment who attended conventicles. Yet the conventicles continued to be held over the whole country, because it was impossible for the justices to fine and imprison men with whom they sat at dinner every market-day, with whom they took their punch and tobacco, and whom they knew to be honest and God-fearing folk. Again, how could they fine and imprison their own flesh and blood? Why, in every family there were some who loved the meeting-house better than the steeple-house. Laws have little power when they are against the conscience of the people. Thirdly, there was an act prohibiting ministers from re- siding within five miles of the village or town where they had preached. This was a most cruel and barbarous act, because it sent the poor ministers away from the help of their friends. Yet how was it regarded? My father, for his part, continued to live at Bradford Orcas without let or hinderance, and so, no doubt, did many more. Again, another act was passed giving authority to justices of the peace to break open doors and to take in custody per- FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. sons found assembling for worship. I have heard of disturb- ances at Taunton, where the magistrates carried things with a high hand, but I think the people who met to worship after their own fashion were little disturbed. Among the church- men were some, no doubt, who remembered the snubs and rubs they had themselves experienced, and the memory may have made them revengeful. All the prosecution, it is certain, was not on the side of the Church. There was, for instance, the case of Dr. Walter Raleigh, Dean of Wells, who was clapped into a noisome prison where the plague had broken out. He did not die of that disease, but was done to death in the jail, barbarously, by one David Barret, shoe-maker, who was never punished for the murder, but was afterward made constable of the city. There was also the case of the Rev. Dr. Piers, whom I have myself seen, for he lived to a good old age. He was a Prebendary of Wells, and, being driven forth, was compelled to turn farmer, and to work with his own hands — digging, hoeing, plowing, reaping, and threshing — when he should have been in his study. Every week this reverend and learned doctor of divinity was to be seen at Ilminster Market, stand- ing beside the pillars with his cart, among the farmers and their wives, selling his apples, cheese and cabbages. I say that no doubt many remembered these things. Yet the affection of the people went forth to the Non-conformists and the ejected ministers, as was afterward but too well proved. I have been speaking of things which happened be- fore my recollection. It was in the year 1665, four years after the Ejection, that I was born. My father named me Grace Abounding, but I have never been called by any other name than my first. I was thus six years younger than my brother Barnaby, and two years younger than Robin and Humphrey. The first thing that I can recollect is a kind of picture, pre- served, so to speak, in my head. At the open door is a woman spinning at the wheel. She is a woman with a pale, grave face; she works diligently^ and for the most part in silence; if she speaks it is to encourage or to admonish a little girl who plays in the garden outside. Her lips move as she works, be- cause she communes with her thoughts all day long. From time to time she turns her head and looks with anxiety into the other room, where sits her husband at his table. Before him stand three boys. They are Barnaby, Robin, and Humphrey. They are learning Latin. The room is piled with books on shelves and books on the floor. In the corner is a pallet, which is the master’s bed by night. I hear the voices of the boys who repeat their lessons, and the admonish- 34 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ing of their master. I can see through the open door the boys themselves. One, a stout and broad lad, is my brother Bar- naby; he hangs his head and forgets his lesson, and causes his father to punish him every day. He receives admonition with patience, yet profiteth nothing. The next is Humphrey; he is already a lad of grave and modest carriage, who loves his book and learns diligently. The third is Robin, whose parts are good, were his application equal to his intelligence. He is impatient, and longs for the time when he may close his book and go to play again. Poor Barnaby! at the sight of a Latin grammar he would feel sick. He would willingly have taken a flogging every day — to be sure, that generally happened to him — in order to es- cape his lessons and be off to the fields and woods. It was the sight of his rueful face — yet never sad except at lessons — which made my mother sigh when she saw him dull but patient over his book. Had he stayed at home I know not what could have been done with him, seeing that to become a preacher of the Gospel was beyond evefn the power of prayer, the Lord having clearly expressed His will in this matter. He would have had to clap on a leathern apron, and become a wheelwright or blacksmith, nothing better than an honest trade was possible for him. But whether happily or not, a strange whim seized the boy when he was fourteen years of age. He would go to sea. How he came to think of the sea I know not; he had never seen the sea; there were no sailors in the village; there was no talk of the sea. Perhaps Humphrey, who read many books, told him of the great doings of our sailors on the Spanish Main and elsewhere. Perhaps some of the clothiers* men, who are a roving and unsettled crew, had been sailors — some, I know, had been soldiers under Oliver. However, this matters not — Barnaby must needs become a sailor. When first he broke this resolution, which he did secretly, to my mother, she began to weep and lament, because every- body knows how dreadful is the life of a sailor, and how full of dangers. She begged him to put the thought out of his head, and to apply himself again to his boks. “ Mother,** he said, “ it is no use. What comes in at one ear goes out at the other. Nothing sticks; I shall never be a scholar.** “ Then, my son, learn an honest trade.** “ What? Become the village cobbler — or the blacksmith? Go hat in hand to his honor, when my father should have been a bishop, and my mother is a gentlewoman? That will I not. FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 35 I will go and be a sailor. All sailors are gentlemen. I shall rise and become first mate, and then second captain, and lastly captain in command. Who knows? I may go and fight the Spaniard, if I am lucky. ” “ Oh, my son, canst thou not stay at home and go to church, and consider the condition of thine immortal soul? Of sailors it is well known that their language is ‘made up of profane oaths, and that they are all profligates and drunkards. Consider, my son ” — my mother laid her hand upon his arm — “ what were Heaven to me if I have not my dear children with me as well as my husband? How could I praise the Lord if I were thinking of my son who was not with me, but — ah! Heaven forbid the thought!” Barnaby made no reply. What could he say in answer to my mother’s tears? Yet I think she must have understood very well that her son, having got this resolution into his head, would never give it up. “Oh!” she said, “when thou wast a little baby in my arms, Barnaby, who art now so big and strong 99 — she looked at him with the wonder and admiration that women feel when their sons grow big and stout — “I prayed that God would accept thee as an offering for His service. Thou art vowed unto the Lord, my son, as much as Samuel. Do you think he complained of his lessons? What would have happened, think you, to Samuel if he had taken off his ephod, and de- clared that he would serve no longer at the altar, but must take spear and shield, and go to fight the Amalekite?” Said Barnaby in reply, speaking from an unregenerate heart: “Mother, had I been Samuel, to wear an ephod and to learn the Latin syntax every day, I should have done that. Ay, I would have done it, even if I knew that at the first skirmish an arrow would pierce my heart. It was after a great flagging, on account of the passive voice or some wrestling with the syntax, that Barnaby plucked up courage to tell his father what he wished to do. “With my consent,” said my father, sternly, “thou shalt never become a sailor. As soon would I send thee to become a buffoon in a play-house. Never dare to speak of it again.” Barnaby hung his head and said nothing. Then my mother, who knew his obstinate disposition, took him to Sir Christopher, who chid him roundly, telling him that there was work for him on land, else he would have been born beside the coast, where the lads take naturally to the sea; that being, as he was, only an ignorant boy and land- born, he could not know the dangers which he would en- 36 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. counter; that some ships are cast away on desert islands, where the survivors remain in misery until they die, and some on lands where savages devour them, and some are dragged down by calamaries and other dreadful monsters, and some are burned at sea, their crews having to choose miserably be- tween burning and drowning, and some are taken by the enemy, and the sailors clapped into dungeons and tortured by the accursed Inquisition. Many more things did Sir Christopher set forth, showing the miserable life and* the wretched end of the sailor. But Barnaby never changed countenance, and though my mother bade him note this and mark that and take heed unto his honoris words his face showed no melting. *Twas always an obstinate lad; nay, it was his obstinacy alone which kept him from his learning. Otherwise he might perhaps have become as great a scholar as Humphrey. 4 6 Sir/* he said, when Sir Christopher had no other word to say, “ with submission I would still choose to be a sailor, if I could. ’* In the end he obtained his wish. That is to say, since no one would help him toward it, he helped himself. And this, I think, is the only way in which men do ever get what they want. It happened one evening that there passed through the village a man with a pipe and tabor, on which he played so movingly that all the people turned out to listen. For my own part, I was with my mother, yet I ran to the garden gate and leaned my head over, drawn by the sound of the music. Presently the boys and girls began to take hands and to dance. I dare not say that to dance is sinful, because David danced. But it was so regarded by my father, so that when he passed by them on his way home from taking the air, and actually saw his own son Barnaby in the middle of the dancers, footing it with them all, leading one girl up and the other down at John , come and hiss me now , he was seized with a mighty wrath, and catching his son sharply by the ear, led him out of the throng, and so home. For that evening Barnaby went supperless to bed, with the promise of such a flogging in the morning as would cause him to remember for the rest of his life the sinfulness of dancing. Never had I seen my father so angry. I trembled before his wrathful eyes. But Barnaby faced him with steady looks, making answer none, yet not showing the least repentance or fear. I thought it was be- cause a flogging had no terrors for him. The event proved that I was wrong, for when he awoke in the morning he was FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 37 gone. He had crept down-stairs in the night; he had taken half a loaf of bread and a great cantle of soft cheese, and had gone away. I knew for my part very well that he had not gone for fear of the rod; he had run away with design to go to sea. Perhaps he had gone to Bristol; perhaps to Plymouth; perhaps to Lyme. My mother wept, and my father sighed, and for ten years more we neither saw nor heard anything of Barnaby, not even whether he was dead or living. CHAPTER VI. BENJAMIN, LORD CHANCELLOR. Summer follows winter, and winter summer, in due course, turning children into young men and maidens, changing school into work, and play into love, and love into marriage, and so onward to the church-yard, where we all presently lie, hopeful of Heaven^s mercy, whether Mr. Boscorel did stand beside our open grave in his white surplice, or my father in his black gown. Barnaby was gone; the other three grew tall, and would still be talking of the lives before them. Girls do never look forward to the future with the eagerness and joy of boys. To the dullest boy it seems a fine thing to be master of his own actions, even if that liberty lead to whipping-post, pillory or gallows. To boys of ambition and imagination the gifts of Fortune show like the splendid visions of a prophet. They think that earthly fame will satisfy the soul. Perhaps women see these glories and their true worth with clearer eye as not desiring them. And truly it seems a small thing, after a life spent in arduous toil, and with one foot already in the grave, to obtain fortune, rank or title. Benjamin and Humphrey were lads of ambition. To them, but in fields which lay far apart, the best life seemed to bfe that which is spent among men on the ant-hill where all are driving and being driven, loading each other with burdens intolerable or with wealth or with honors, and then dying and being forgotten in a moment — which we call London. In the kindly country one stands apart and sees the vanity of human wishes. Yet the ambition of Humphrey, it must be confessed, was noble, because it was not for his own advancement, but for the good of* mankind. “ I shall stay at home,” said Robin. “ You two may go if you please. Perhaps you will like the noise of London where a man can not hear himself speak, they say, for the roaring of 38 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. the crowd, the ringing of the bells, and the rumbling of the carts. As for me, what is good enough for my grandfather will be surely good enough for me. ” It should, indeed, be good enough for anybody to spend his days after the manner of Sir Christopher, administering justice for the villagers, with the weekly ordinary at Sherborne for company, the green fields and his garden for pleasure and for exercise, and the welfare of his soul for prayer. Robin, be- sides, loved to go forth with hawk and gun; to snare the wild creatures; to hunt the otter and the fox; to bait the badger, and trap the stoat and weasel; to course the hares. But cities and crowds, even if they should be shouting in his honor, did never draw him, even after he had seen them. Nor was he ever tempted to believe any manner of life more full of delight and more consistent with the end of many’s creation than the rural life, the air of the fields, the following of the plow for the men, and the spinning-wheel for the women. “ I shall be a lawyer,” said Benjamin, puffing out his cheeks and squaring his shoulders. “ Very well, then, I shall be a great lawyer. What? None of your pettifogging tribe for me; I shall step to the front, and stay there. What? Some one must have the prizes and the promotion. There are al- ways places falling vacant and honors to be given away; they shall be given to me. Why not to me as well as another?” “ Well,” said Robin, “ you are strong enough to take them, willy-nilly. ” “I am strong enough,” he replied, with conviction. cc First, I shall be called to the Outer Bar, where I shall plead in stuff — I saw them at Exeter last * Sizes. Next, I shall be summoned to become king’s counsel, when I shall flaunt it in silk. Who but I?” Then he seemed to grow actually three inches taller, so great is the power of imagi- nation. He was already six feet in height, his shoulders broad, and his face red and fiery, so that now he looked very big and tall. “ Then my Inn will make me a bencher, and I shall sit at the high table in term-time. And the attorneys shall run after me and fight with each other for my services in court, so that in every great case I shall be heard thundering before the jury, and making the witnesses perjure themselves with terror — for which they will be afterward flogged. I shall belong to the king’s party — none of your canting Whigs for me. When the high-treason cases come on I shall be the counsel for the Crown. That is the high-road to advance- ment.” FOB FAITH AND FREEDOM. 3& * u This is very well so far/’ said Robin, laughing. “ Ben is too modest, however. He does not get on fast enough.” * “ All in good time,” Ben replied. “ I mean to get on as fast as anybody. But I shall follow the beaten road. First, favor with attorneys and those who have suits in the courts, then the ear of the judge. I know not how one gets the ear of the judge ” — he looked despondent for a moment, then he held up his head again — “ but I shall find out. Others have found out — why not I? What? I am no fool, am I?” “ Certainly not, Ben. But as yet we stick at king's counsel. ” “ After the ear of the judge, the favor of the Crown. What do I care who is king? It is the king who hath preferment and place and honors in his gift. Where these are given away there shall I be found. Next am I made sergeant-at-law. Then I am saluted as 6 Brother ' by the judges on the bench, while all the others burst with envy. After that I shall my- self be called to the bench. I am already c my lord ’ — why do you laugh, Robin? — and a knight; Sir Benjamin Boscorel — Sir Benjamin.” Here he puffed out his cheeks again and swung his shoulders like a very great person indeed. “ Proceed, Sir Benjamin,” said Humphrey, gravely, while Robin laughed. “ When I am a judge I promise you I will rate the barris- ters and storm at the witnesses and admonish the jury until there shall be no other question in their minds but to find out first what is my will in the case, and then to govern them- selves accordingly. I will be myself judge and jury and all. Oh, I have seen the judge at last Exeter 'Sizes. He made all to shake in their shoes. I shall not stop there. Chief baron I shall be, perhaps, but on that point I have not yet made up my mind, and then lord chancellor.” He paused to take breath, and looked around him, grandeur and authority upon his brow. “ Lord chancellor,” he repeated, “ on the wool- sack.” “ You will then,” said Robin, “ be raised to the peerage — first Lord Boscorel, or perhaps, if your lordship will so honor this poor village. Lord Bradford Orcas. ” “ Earl of Sherborne I have chosen for title,” said Benja- min. “ And while I am climbing up the ladder where wilt thou be, Humphrey? Groveling in the mud with the poor devils who can not rise?” “ Nay, I shall have a small ladder of my own, Ben. I find great comfort in the thought that when your lordship is roar- ing and bawling with the gout, your noble toe being like a ball 40 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. of fire and your illustrious foot swathed in flannel, I shall be called upon to drive away the pain, and you will honor me with the title, not only of humble cousin, but also of rescuer and preserver. Will it not be honor enough to cure the Eight Honorable the Earl of Sherborne, first of the name, Ihe lord chancellor, of his gout, and to restore him to the duties of his great office, so that once more he shall be the dread of evil- doers, and of all who have to appear before him? As yet, my lord, your extremities, I perceive, are free from that disease, the result, too often, of that excess in wine which besets the great. ** Here Eobin laughed again, and so did Benjamin. Nobody could use finer language than Humphrey, if he pleased. “ A fine ambition/* said Ben. “ To wear a black velvet coat and a great wig; to carry a gold-headed cane; all day long to listen while the patient, tells of his gripes and pains; to mix boluses and to compound nauseous draughts/* “ Well,** Humphrey laughed, “ if you are lord chancellor, Ben, you will, I hope, give us good laws, and so make the nation happy and prosperous. While you are doing this, I will be keeping you in health for the good of the country. I say that this is a fine ambition. ** “ And Eobin here will sit in the great chair, and have the rogues haled before him, and order the head-borough to bring out his cat-o *-nine-tails. In the winter evenings he will play backgammon, and in the summer bowls. Then a posset, and to bed. And never any change from year to year. A fine life, truly.** “ Truly I think it is a very fine life/* said Eobin; “ while you make the laws I will take care that they are obeyed. What better service is there than to cause good laws to be obeyed? Make good laws, my lord chancellor, and be thankful that you will have faithful, law-abiding men to carry them out. ** Thus they talked. Presently the time came when the lads must leave the village, and go forth to prepare for such course as should be allotted to them, whether it led to greatness or to obscurity. Benjamin went first, being sixteen years of age, and a great fellow, as I have said — broad-shouldered and lusty, with a red face, a strong voice, and a loud laugh. In no respect did he resemble his father, who was delicate in manner and in speech. He was to be entered at Gray*s Inn, where, under some counsel learned in the law, he was to read until such time as he should be called. FOR FAITH AIsTD FREEDOM. 41 He came to bid me farewell, which at first, until he fright- ened me with the things he said, I took kindly of him. “ Child,” he said, 6 6 1 am going to London, and, I suppose, I shall not come back to this village for a long time. Nay, were it not for thee, I should not wish to come back at all.” “ Why for me, Ben?” “ Because ** — here his red face became redder, and he stam- mered a little, but not much, for he was ever a lad of confi- dence — “ because, child, thou art not yet turned twelve, which is young to be hearing of such a thing. Yet a body may as well make things safe. And as for Humphrey or Robin interfering, I will break their heads with my cudgel if they do. Remember that then. ” He shook his finger at me, threatening. “ In what business should they interfere?” I asked. “Kiss me, Grace ” — here he tried to lay his arm round my neck, but I ran away. “ Oh, if thou art skittish I care not; all in good time. Very well, then; let us make things safe. Grace, when I come back thou wilt be seventeen or eighteen, which is an age when girls should marry — ” “ I will have nothing to do with marrying, Ben.” “Not yet. If I mistake not, child, thou wilt then be as beautiful as a rose in June.” “ I want no foolish talk, Ben. Let me go.” “ Then I shall be twenty-one years of age, practicing in the courts. I shall go the Western Circuit, in order to see thee often — partly to keep an eye upon thee and partly to warn off other men. Because, child, it is my purpose to marry thee myself. Think upon that, now. ” At this I laughed. “ Laugh, if you please, my dear; I shall marry thee as soon as the way is open to the bench and the woolsack. What? I can see a long way ahead. I tell thee what I see. There is a monstrous great crowd of people in the street staring at a glass coach. ‘ Who is the lovely lady?* they ask. ‘ The lovely lady * — that is you, Grace; none other — ‘ with the diamonds at her neck and the gold chain, in the glass coach?* says one who knows her liveries; ‘ *tis the lady of the great lord chan- cellor, the Earl of Sherborne.* And the women fall green with envy of her happiness and great good-fortune and her splendor. Courage, child; I go to prepare the way. Oh, thou knowest not the grand things that I shall pour into thy lap when I am a judge.** This was the first time that any man spoke to me of love. But Benjamin was always masterful, and had no respect for 42 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. such a nice point as the wooing of a maiden— which, methinks, should be gentle and respectful, not as if a woman was like a savage to be tempted by a string of beads, or so foolish as to desire with her husband such gawds as diamonds, or gold chains, or a glass coach. Nor doth a woman like to be treated as if she was to be carried off by force like the Sabine women of old. The rector rode to London with his son. It is a long jour- ney, over rough ways, but it pleased him. once more to see that great city where there are pictures and statues and hooks to gladden the hearts of such as love these things. And on the way home he sojourned for a few days at his old college of All-Souls, where were still left one or two of his old friends. Then he rode back to his village. “ There are but two places in this country,” he said, “ or perhaps three, at most, where a gentleman and a scholar, or one who loveth the fine arts, would choose to live. They are London and Oxford, and per- haps the sister university upon the Granta. Well, I have once more been privileged to witness the humors of the court and the town; I have once more been permitted to sniff the air of a great library. Let us be thankful.” He showed his thank- fulness with a sigh which was almost a groan. It was three years before we saw Benjamin again. Then he returned, but not for long. Like his father, he loved London better than the country, but for other reasons. Certainly he cared nothing for those arts which so much delighted the rector, and the air of a coffee-house pleased him more than the perfume of books in a library. When he left us he was a rustic, when he came back he was already what they call a fopling; that is to say, when he went to pay his respects to Sir Christopher, his grandfather, he wore a very fine cravat of Flanders lace, with silken hose, and lace and ribbons at his wrist. He was also scented with bergamot, and wore a peruke, which, while he talked, he combed and curled, to keep the curls of this monstrous head-dress in place. Gentlemen must, I suppose, wear this invention, and one of the learned pro- fessions must show the extent of the learning by the splendors of his full-bottomed wig. Yet I think that a young man looks most comely while he wears his own hair. He had cocked his hat, on which were bows, and he wore a sword. He spoke also in a mincing London manner, having forsworn the honest broad speech of Somerset, and, but not in the presence of his elders, he used strange oaths and ejaculations. “ Behold him!” said his father, by no means displeased at his son's foppery, because he ever loved the city fashions, and FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 43 thought that a young man did well to dress and to comport himself after the way of the world. “ Behold him! Thus he sits in the coffee-house; thus he shows himself in the pit. Youth is the time for finery and for folly. Alas! would that we could bring back that time. What saith John Dryden — glorious John — or Sir Fopling: “ ‘ His various modes from various fashions follow; One taught the toss, and one the new French wallows His sword-knot this, his cravat that, designed, And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind. From one the sacred periwig he gained, Which wind ne’er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.’ ” “ Well, Ben,” said Sir Christopher, “ if the mode can help thee to the bench why not follow the mode?” 44 It will not hinder, sir,” Ben replied. “ A man who hath his fortune to make does well to be seen everywhere, and to be dressed like other men of his time.” One must do Benjamin the justice to acknowledge that though, like the young gentlemen his friends and companions, his dress was foppish and his talk was of the pleasures of the town, he suffered nothing to stand in the way of his advance- ment. He was resolved upon being a great lawyer, and there- fore if he spent the evening in drinking, singing, and making . merry, he was reading in chambers or else attending the courts all the day, and neglected nothing that would make him master of . his profession. And though of learning he had little his natural parts were so good, and his resolution was so strong, that I doubt not he would have achieved his ambition had it not been for the circumstances which afterward cut short his career. His course of life, by his own boasting, was profligate; his friends were drinkers and revelers; his favorite haunt was the tavern, where they all drank punch and sung ungodly songs and smoked tobacco; and of religion he seemed to have no care whatever. I was afraid that he would return to the nauseous subject which he had opened three years before. Therefore I con- tinued with my mother, and would give him no chance to speak with me. But he found me, and caught me returning home one evening. “ Grace,” he said, “ I feared that I might have to go away without a word alone with thee.” “ I want no words alone, Benjamin. Let me pass.” For he stood before me in the way. “ Npt so fast, pretty!” He caught me by the wrist, and 44 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. being a young man so strong and determined, he held me as by a vise. “ Not so fast. Mistress Grace. First, my dear, let me tell thee that my purpose still holds; nay ” — here he swore a most dreadful impious oath — “ I am more resolved than ever. There is not a woman, even in London, that is to be compared with thee, child. What? Compared with thee? Why, they are like the twinkling stars compared with the glorious queen of night. What did I say? — that at nineteen thou wouldst be a miracle of beauty? Nay, that time hath come already. I love thee, child. I love thee, I say, ten times as much as ever I loved thee before. ” He gasped, and then breathed hard, but still he held me fast. “ Idle compliments cost a man nothing, Benjamin. Say what you meant to say and let me go. If you hold me any longer I will cry out, and bring your father to learn the reason.” “ Well,” he said, “ I will not keep thee. I have said what I wanted to say. My time hath not yet arrived. Lam shortly to be called, and "shall then begin to practice. When I come back here again Twill be with a ring in one hand, and in the other the prospect of the woolsack. Think upon that while I am gone. ‘ Your ladyship 9 is finer than plain 6 inadame/ and the court is more delightful than a village green among the pigs and ducks. Think upon it well; thou art a lucky girl; a plain village girl to be promoted to a coronet! However, I have no fears for thee; thou wilt adorn the highest fortune. Thou wilt be worthy of the great place whither I shall lead thee. What? Is Sir George Jeffreys a better man than I? Is he of better family? Had he better interest? Is he a bolder man? Not so. Yet was Sir George a common serjeant at twenty-three, and recorder at thirty; chief-justice of Chester at thirty-two. What he hath done I can do. Moreover, Sir George hath done me the honor to admit me to his company, and will advance me. This he hath promised, both in his cups and when he is sober. Think it over, child — a ring in one hand and a title in the other.” So Benjamin went away again. I was afraid when I thought of him and his promise, because I knew him of old, and his eyes were as full of determination as when he would fight a lad of his own age, and go on fighting till the other had had enough. Yet he could not marry me against my will. His own father would protect me, to say nothing of mine. I should have told him then — as I had told him before — that I would never marry him. Then, perhaps, he would FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 45 have been shaken in his purpose. The very thought of marry- ing him filled me with terror unspeakable. I was afraid of him not only because he was so masterful — nay, women like a man to be strong of will — but because he had no religion in him, and lived like an atheist, if such a wretch there be; at all events, with unconcern about his soul, and because his life was profligate, his tastes were gross, and he was a drinker of much wine. Even at the manor house 1 had seen him at supper drinking until his cheeks were puffed out and his voice grew thick. What kind of happiness would there be for a wife whose husband has to be carried home by his varlets too heavy with drink to stand or to speak? Alas! there is one thing which girls, happily, do never ap- prehend. They can not understand how it is possible for a man to become so possessed with the idea of their charms, which they hold themselves as of small account, knowing how fleeting they are, and of what small value, that he will go through fire and water for that woman; yea, and break all the commandments, heedless of his immortal soul, rather than suffer another man to take her — and that even though he knows that the poor creature loves him not, or loves another man. If maidens knew this I think that they would go in fear and trembling lest they should be coveted [by some wild beast in human shape, and prove the death of the gallant gentleman whom they would choose for their lover. Or they would make for themselves convents and hide in them, so great would be their fear. But it is idle to speak of this, be- cause, say what one will, girls can never understand the power and vehemence of love when once it hath seized and doth thoroughly possess a man. CHAPTER VII. MEDICINE DOCTOR. Humphrey did not, like Benjamin, brag of the things he would do when he should go forth to the world. Neverthe- less, he thought much about his future, and frequently he dis- coursed with me about the life that he fain would lead. A young man, I think, wants some one with whom he may speak freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul. We who belong to the sex which receives but does not create or invent — which profits by man’s good work, and suffers from the evil which he too often does — have no such thoughts and am- bitions. 46 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. “ I can not,” he would say, “ take upon me holy orders, as Mr. Boscorel would have me, promising, in my cousin Robin’s name, this living after his death, because, though I am in truth a mere pauper and dependent, there are in me none of those prickings of the spirit which I could interpret into a Divine call for the ministry; next, because I could not in conscience sign the Thirty-nine Articles while I still held that the Non-con- formist way of worship was more consonant with the Word of God. And, again, I am of opinion that the law, which forbids any but a well-formed man from serving at the altar, hath in it something eternal. It denotes that as no cripple may serve at the earthly altar, so in heaven, of which the altar is an em- blem, all those who dwell therein shall be perfect in body as in soul. What, then, is such an one as myself, who hath some learning and no fortune, to do? Sir Christopher, my bene- factor, will maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. This is more than I could have expected; therefore I am re- solved to take a degree in medicine. It is the only profession fit for a misshapen creature like me. They will not laugh at me when I alleviate their pains. ” “ Could any one laugh at you, Humphrey?” “ Pray Heaven I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect of me.” He laughed, but not with merriment; for, indeed, a cripple or a hunchback can not laugh mirthfully over his own misfortune. 46 Some men speak scornfully of the profession,” he went on. “ The great French playwright, Monsieur Moliere, hath made the physicians the butt and laughing-stock of all Paris. Yet consider: it is medicine which prolongs our days and relieves our pains. Before the science was studied, the wretch who caught a fever in the marshy forest lay down and died; an ague lasted all one’s life; a sore throat putrefied and killed; a rheumatism threw a man upon the bed from which he would never rise. The physician is man’s chief friend. If our sovereigns studied the welfare of humanity as deeply as the art of war, they would maintain, at vast expense, great colleges of learned men continually engaged in discover- ing the secrets of nature — the causes and the remedies of dis- ease. What better use can a man make of his life than to discover one — only one — secret which will drive away part of the agony of disease? The Jews, more merciful than the Romans, stupefied their criminals after they were crucified; so they died, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the phy- sician, though in the end all men must die, may help them to die without pain. Nay, I have even thought that we might devise means of causing the patient by some potent drug to FOR FAITH AJSTD FREEDOM. 47 fall into so deep a sleep that even the surgeon’s knife shall not cause him to awaken.’' He therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my fa- ther many learned books of the ancients on the science and practice of medicine, and studied botany with the help of such books as he could procure. Some men have but one side to them — that is to say, the only active part of them is engaged in but one study; the rest is given up to ease or indolence. Thus Benjamin studied law diligently, but nothing else. Humphrey, for his part, read his Galen and his Celsus, but he neglected not the cultivation of those arts and accomplishments in which Mr. Boscorel was as ready a teacher as he was a ready scholar. He thus learned the history of painting and sculpture and architecture, and that of coins and medals, so that at eighteen Humphrey might already have set up as a virtuoso. Nor was this all. Still by the help of the rector, he learned the use of the pencil and the brush, and^ could both draw prettily and paint in water-colors, whether the cottages or the church, the cows in the fields or the woods and hills. ' I have many pictures of his painting which he gave me from time to time. And he could play sweetly, whether on the spinet or the violin or the guitar, spending many hours every week with Mr. Boscorel, playing duettos together; and willingly he would sing, having a rich and full voice very delightful to hear. When I grew a great girl, and had advanced far enough, I was permitted to play with them. There was no end to the music which Mr. Boscorel possessed. First, he had a great store of English ditties such as country people love, as, “ Sing all a green willow,” “ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” or “ Once I loved a maiden fair. ” There was nothing rough or rude in these songs, though I am informed that much wicked- ness is taught by the ribald songs that are sung in play-houses and coffee-rooms. And when we were not playing or singing, Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry — portions from Shakespeare or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton’s 6 6 Paradise Lost,” or from Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever lived, “yet marred,” said Mr. Boscorel, “ by much coarseness and cor- ruption. ” Now, one day, after we had been thus reading — one winter afternoon, when the sun lay upon the .meadows — Humphrey walked home with me, and on the way confessed, with many blushes, that he, too, had been writing verses. And with that he lugged a paper out of his pocket. “ They are for thine own eyes only, Grace. Truly, my dear, thou hast the finest eyes in the world. They are for no other 48 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. eyes than thine/* he repeated. “ Not for Robin, mind, lest he laugh; poetry hath in it something sacred, so that even the writer of bad verses can not bear to Have them laughed at. When thou art a year or two older thou wilt understand that they were written for thy heart as well as for thine eyes. Yet, if thou like the verses, they may be seen by Mr. Boscorel, but in private; and if he laugh at them, do not tell me. Yet, again, one would like to know what he said; wherefore tell me, though his words be like a knife in my side.** Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his mas- ter in art, and fearing. In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said that for a beginner they were very well — very well indeed; that the rhymes were correct, and the meter true; that years and practice would give greater firmness, and that the crafty in- terlacing of thought and passion, which was the characteristic of Italian verse, could only be learned by much reading of the Italian poets. More he said, speaking upon the slight subject of rhyme and poetry with as much seriousness and earnestness as if he were weighing and comparing texts of Scripture. Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh. “ Child/* he said, “ to none of us is given what most we desire. For my part, I longed in his infancy that my son should grow up even as Humphrey — as quick to learn, with as true a taste, with as correct an ear, with a hand so skillful. But, you see, I complain not, though Benjamin loves the noisy tavern better than the quiet coffee-house where the wits resort. To him such things as verses, art, and music are foolishness. I say that I complain not; but I would to Heaven that Hum- phrey were my own, and that his shoulders were straight, poor lad! Thy father hath made him a Puritan; he is such as John Milton in his youth, and as beautiful in face as that stout Republican. I doubt not that we shall have from the hand of Humphrey, if he live and prosper, something fine, the nature of which, whether it is to be in painting, or in music, or in poetry, I know not. Take the verses, and take care that thou lose them not; and, child, remember, the poet is allowed to say what he pleases about a woman *s eyes. Be not deceived into thinking — But no, no, there is no fear. Good-night, thou sweet and innocent saint. ** I knew not then what he meant, but these are the verses; and I truly think that they are very moving and religious; for if woman be truly the most beautiful work of the Creator (which all men aver), then it behooves her all the more still to FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 49 point upward. I read them with a pleasure and surprise that filled my whole soul, and inflamed my heart with pious joy. “ Around, above, and everywhere The earth hath many a lovely thing; The zephyrs soft, the flowers fair, The babbling brook, the bubbling spring. “ The gray of dawn, the azure sky, The sunset glow, the evening gloom; The warbling thrush, the skylark high, The blossoming hedge, the garden’s bloom. “ The sun in state, the moon in pride. The twinkling stars in order laid; The winds that ever race and ride, The shadows flying o’er the glade. “ Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth, To charm the eye and witch the soul; Yet one there is of passing worth — For that one thing I give the whole. “ The crowning work, the last thing made. Creation’s masterpiece to be— Bend o’er yon stream, and there displayed. This wondrous thing reflected see. “ Behold a face for Heaven designed; See how those eyes thy soul betray: Love — secret love — there sits enshrined, And upward still doth point the way.” When Humphrey went away he did not, like Benjamin, come blustering and declaring that he would marry me, and that he would break the skull of any other man who dared make love to me; not at all; Humphrey, with tears in his eyes, told me that he was sorry I could not go to Oxford as well; that he was going to lose the sweetest companion; and that he should always love me; and then he kissed me on the forehead, and so departed. Why should he not always love me? I knew very well that he loved me, and that I loved him. Although he w|s so young, being only seventeen when he was entered at Exeter College, I suppose there never was a young gentleman went to the University of Oxford with so many accomplishments and so much learning. By my fa- ther's testimony he read Greek as if it were his mother-tongue, and he wrote and conversed easily in Latin; and you have heard what arts and accomplishments he added to this solid learning. He was elected to a scholarship at his college^ that 50 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. of Exeter,, and after he took his degree as Bachelor of Medicine he was made a Fellow of All Souls, where Mr. Boscorel him- self had also been a fellow. This election was not only a great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learned young man especially desires — the means of living and of pur- suing his studies. While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christopher, to Mr. Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he sent such new books and pamphlets as he thought would interest him). To me he sent sometimes drawings and sometimes books, but never verses. Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present) when he had obtained his fellowship he asked for and obtained leave of absence and permission to study medicine in those great schools, which far surpass, they say, our English schools of medicine. These are that of Montpellier; the yet more famous school of Padua, in Italy; and that of Leyden, whither many Englishmen resort for study, notably Mr. Evelyn, whose book called “ Sylva " was in the rector's library. He carried on during the whole of this time a correspond- ence with Mr. Boscorel on the paintings, statues, and arch- itecture to be seen wherever his travels carried him. These letters Mr. Boscorel read aloud, with a map spread before him, discoursing on the history of the place and the chief things to be seen there, before he began to read. Surely there never was a man so much taken up with the fine arts, especially as they were practiced by the ancients. There remains the last of the boys — Robin, Sir Christopher's grandson and heir. I should like this story to be all about Robin — yet one must needs speak of the others. I declare that from the beginning there never was a boy more happy, more jolly, never any one more willing to be always making some one happy. He loved the open air, the wild creatures, the trees, the birds, everything that lives beneath the sky; yet not like my poor brother Barnaby — a hater of books. He read all the books which told about creatures, or hunting, or coun- try life, and all voyages and travels. A fresh-colored, whole- some lad, not so grave as Humphrey, nor so moody as Ben- jamin, who always seemed to carry with him the scent of woods and fields. He was to Sir Christopher what Benjamin was to Jacob. Even my father loved him, though he was so poor a scholar. Those who stay at home have homely wits, therefore Robin must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thither the year after his cousin. I never learned that he obtained a scholar- FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 51 ship, or that he was considered one of the younger pillars of that learned and ancient university; or, indeed, that he took a degree at all. After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study Justices* Law, and fit himself for the duties he would have to fulfill. Also, his grandfather would have him acquire some knowledge of the court and the city, and the ways of the great and the rich. This, too, he did, though he never learned to prefer those ways to the simple customs and habits of his Somerset village. He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell. “Poor Grace !” he said, taking both my hands in his. “ What wilt thou do when I am gone?” * Indeed, since Humphrey went away we had been daily com- panions, and at the thought of being thus left alone the tears were running down my cheeks. “ Why, sweetheart,” he said, “ to think that I should ever make thee cry — I who desire nothing but to make thee always laugh and be happy! What wilt thou do? Go often to my mother; she loves thee as if her own daughter. Go and talk to her concerning me. It pleaseth the poor soul to be still talking of her son. And forget not my grandfather. Play back- gammon with him; fill his pipe for him; sing to the spinet for him; talk to him about Humphrey and me. And forget not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor man looks as melan- choly since Humphrey went away as a turtle robbed of her nest. I saw him yesterday opening one of his drawers full of medals, and he sighed over them fit to break his heart. He sighed for Humphrey, not for Ben. Well, child, what more? Take Lance ” — *twas his dog — “ for a run every day; make George Sparrow keep an eye upon the stream for otters; and — there are a thousand things, but I will write them down. Have patience with the dear old man when he will be still talk- v ing about me.” “ Patiencb, Robin!” I said. “Why, we all love to talk about thee.” “ Do you all love to talk about me? Dost thou too, Grace? Oh, my dear! my dear!” Here he took me in his arms and kissed me on the lips. “ Dost thou also love to talk about me? Why, my dear, I shall think of nothing but of thee; be- cause — oh, my dear! my dear! — I love thee with all my heart.” Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing more than that we all loved him, and he loved us all. “ Grace, I will write letters to thee. I will put them in the 52 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. packet for my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that I am always thinking of thee.” He was as good as his word. But the letters were so fall of the things he was doing and seeing that it was quite clear that his mind had plenty of room for more than one object. To be sure, I should have been foolish indeed had I desired that his letters should tell me that he was always thinking about me, when he should have been attending to his business. After a year in London his grandfather thought that he should travel. Therefore he went abroad, and joined Hum- phrey at Montpellier, and with him rode northward to Leyden, where he sojourned while his cousin attended the lectures of that famous school. CHAPTER VIII. A ROYAL PROGRESS. When all the boys were gone the time was quiet indeed for those who were left behind. My mother's wheel went spinning still, but I think that some kindness on the part of Mr. Bos- corel as well as Sir Christopher caused her weekly tale of yarn to be of less importance. And as for me, not only would she never suffer me to sit at the spinning-wheel, but there was so much request of me (to replace the boys) that I was nearly all the day either with Sir Christopher, or with madame, or with Mr. Boscorel. Up to the year 1680, or thereabouts, I paid no more atten- tion to political matters than any young woman with no knowl- edge may be supposed to give. Yet, of course, I was on the side of liberty, both civil and religious. How should that be otherwise, my father being such as he was, muzzled for all these years, the work of his life prevented and destroyed? It was in that year, however, that I became a most zealous partisan and lover of the Protestant cause, in the* way that I am about to relate. Everybody knows that there is no part of Great Britain (not even Scotland) where the Protestant religion hath supporters more stout and stanch than Somerset and Devonshire. I hope I shall not be accused of disloyalty to Queen Anne, under whom we flourish and are happy, when I say that in the West of England we had grown — I know not how — to regard the late misguided Duke of Monmouth as the champion of the Protestant faith. When, therefore, the duke came into the West of England in the year 1680, five years before the re- FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 53 bellion, he was everywhere received with acclamations, and by crowds who gathered round him to witness their loyalty to the Protestant faith. They came also to gaze upon the gallant commander who had defeated the French and the Dutch, and was said (but erroneously) to be as wise as he was brave, and as religious as he was beautiful to look upon. As for his wis- dom, those who knew him best have since assured the world that he had little or none, his judgment being always swayed and determined for him by crafty and subtle persons seeking their own interests. And as for his religion, whatever may have been his profession, good works were wanting — as is now very well known. But at that time, and among our people, the wicked ways of courts were only half understood. And there can be no doubt that, whether he was wise or religious, the show of affection with which the duke was received upon this journey turned his head, and caused him to think that these people would rally round him if he called upon them. And I suppose that there is nothing which more delights a prince than to believe that his friends are ready even to lay down their lives in his behalf. At that time the country was greatly agitated by anxiety concerning the succession. Those who were nearest the throne knew that King Charles was secretly a Papist. We in the country had not learned that dismal circumstance; yet we knew the religion of the Duke of York. Thousands there were, like Sir Christopher himself, who now lamented the re- turn of the king, considering the disgraces which had fallen upon the country. But what was done could not be undone. They therefore asked themselves if the nation would suffer an ^avowed Papist to ascend a Protestant throne. If not, what should be done? And here, as everybody knows, was opinion divided. For some declared that the Duke of Monmouth, had he his rights, was the lawful heir; and others maintained, in the king’s own word, that he was never married to Mistress Lucy Waters. Therefore they would have the Duke of York’s daughter, a Protestant princess, married to William of Orange, proclaimed queen. The Monmouth party were strong, how- ever, and it was even said — Mr. Henry Clark, minister of Crewkern, wrote a pamphlet to prove it — that a poor woman, Elizabeth Parcet by name, touched the duke (he being igno- rant of the thing) for king’s evil, and was straightway healed. Sir Christopher laughed at the story, saying that the king himself, whether he was descended from a Scottish Stuart or from King Solomon himself, could no more cure that dreadful disease than the seventh son of a seventh son (as some foolish 54 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. people believe), or the rubbing of the part affected by the hand of a man that had been hanged (as others do foolishly believe), which is the reason why on the gibbets hanging-corpses are always handless. It ^as noised abroad, beforehand, that the duke was going to ride through the west country, in order to visit his friends. The progress (it was more like a royal progress than the jour- ney of a private nobleman) began with his visit to Mr. Thomas Thynne, of Longleat House. It is said that his chief reason for going to that house was to connect himself with the obliga- tion of the tenant of Longleat to give the king and his suite a nights lodging when they visited that part of the country. Mr. Thynne, who entertained the duke on this occasion, was the same who was afterward murdered in London by Count Konigsmark. They called him “Tom of Ten Thousand. - ” The poet Dryden hath written of this progress, in that poem wherein, under the fabled name of Absalom, he figures the duke: “ He now begins his progress to ordain, With chariots, horsemen, and a numerous train. Fame runs before him as the morning star, And shouts of joy salute him from afar. Each house receives him as a guardian god, And consecrates the place of his abode.” i It was for his hospitable treatment of the duke that Mr. Thynne was immediately afterward deprived of the command of the Wiltshire Militia. “ Son-in-law,” said Sir Christopher, “I would ride out to meet the duke in respect to his Protestant professions. As for any pretensions he may have to the successsion, I know noth- ing of them.” “ I will ride with you, sir,” said the rector, “ to meet the son of the king. And as for any Protestant professions, I know nothing of them. His grace remains, I believe, within the pale of the Church as by law established. Let us all ride out together. ” Seeing that my father also rode with them, it is certain that there were many and diverse reasons why so many thousands gathered together to welcome the duke. Madame, Robin's mother, out of her kind heart invited me to accompany her, and gave me a white frock to wear, and blue ribbons to put into it. We made, with our servants, a large party. We were also joined by many of the tenants, with their sons and wives, so that when we came to Ilchester, Sir Christopher was riding at FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 55 the head of a great company of sixty or more, and very fine they looked, all provided with blue favors in honor of the duke. From Bradford Orcas to Ilchester is but six miles as the crow flies, but the ways (which are narrow and foul in winter) do so wind and turn about that they add two miles at least to the distance. Fortunately the season was summer — namely, August — when the sun is hottest and the earth is dry, so that no one was bogged on the way. We started betimes, namely, at six in the morning, because we knew not for certain at what time the duke would arrive at Ilchester. When we came forth from the Manor House the farmers were already waiting for us, and so, after greetings from his honor, they fell in and followed. We first took the narrow and rough lane which leads to the high-road; but when we reached it we found it full of people, riding, like ourselves, or trudging, staff in hand, all in the same direction. They were going to gaze upon the Protestant duke, who, if he had his way, would restore freedom of conscience, and abolish the Acts against the Non-conformists. We rode through Marston Magna, but only the old peopJe and the little children were left there; in the fields the ripe corn stood waiting to be cut; in the farm-yards the beasts were standing idle; all the hinds were gone to I] Chester to see the duke. And I began to fear lest when we got to Ilchester we should be too late. At Mars- ton we left the main road and entered upon a road (call it a track rather than a road) across the country, which is here flat and open. In winter it is miry and boggy, but it was now dry and hard. This path brought us again to the main road in two miles or thereabouts, and here we were but a mile or so from Ilchester. Now, such a glorious sight as awaited us here I never expected to see. Once again, after five years, I was to see a welcome still more splendid, but nothing can ever efface from my memory that day. For first, the roads, as I have said, were thronged with rustics, and next, when we rode into the town we found it filled with gentlemen most richly dressed, and ladies so beautiful, and with such splendid attire, that it dazzled my eyes to look upon them It was a grand thing to see the gentlemen • take off their hats and cry, “ Huzza for brave Sir Christopher P* Everybody knew his opinions and on what side he had fought in the Civil War. The old man bent his head, and 1 think that he was pleased with this mark of honor. The town, which, though ancient, is now decayed and hath but few good houses in it, was now made glorious with bright- 56 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. colored cloths, carpets, flags, and ribbons. There were bands o f music; the bells of the church were ringing; the main street was like a fair, with booths and stalls; and in the market- place there were benches set up with white canvas covering, where sat ladies in their fine dresses, some of them with naked shoulders unseemly to behold ; yet it was pretty to see the long curls lying on their white shoulders. Some of them sat with half-closed eyes, which, I have since learned, is a fashion of the court. Mostly they wore satin petticoats, and demi-gowns also of satin, furnished with a long train. Our place was be- side the old cross with its gilt ball and vane. The people who filled the streets came from Sherborne, from Bruton, from Shepton, from Glastonbury, from Langport, and from Somer- ton, and from the villages round. It was computed that there were twenty thousand of them. Two thousand at least rode out to meet the duke, and followed after him when he rode through the town. And, oh! the shouting as he drew near, the clashing of bells, the beating of the drums, the blowing of the horns, the firing of the guns, as if the more noise they made the greater would be the duke. Since that day I have not wondered at the power which a prince hath of drawing men after him, even to the death. Never was heir to the crown received with such joy and wel- come as was this young man, who had no title to the crown, and was base-born. Yet, because he was a brave young man, and comely above all other young men, gracious of speech, and ready with a laugh and a joke, and because he was the son of the king, and the reputed champion of the Protestant faith, the people could not shout too loud for him. The duke was at this time in the prime of manhood, being thirty-five years of age. “ At that age,” Mr. Boscorel used to say, “ one would desire to remain if the body of clay were im- mortal, for then the volatile humors of youth have been dis- sipated. The time of follies has passed; love is regarded with the sober eyes of experience; knowledge has been acquired; skill of eye and hand has been gained, if one is so happy as to be a follower of art and music; wisdom hath been reached, if wisdom is ever to be attained. But wisdom,” he would add, “ is a quality generally lacking at every period of life. ” “ When last I saw the duke,” he told us while we waited, “ was fifteen years ago, in St. James's Park. He was walking with the king, his father, who had his arm about his son's shoulders, and regarded him fondly. At that time he was, indeed, a very David for beauty. 1 suppose that he hath not kept that singular loveliness which made him the darling of FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 57 the court. That, indeed, were not a thing to be desired or expected. He is now the hero of Maestricht, and the Chan- cellor of Cambridge University.” And then all hats were palled off, and the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the men shouted, and you would have thought the bells would have pulled the old tower down with the vehemence of their ringing; for the duke was riding into the town. He was no longer a beautiful boy, but a man at whose aspect every heart was softened. His enemies, in his presence, could not blame him; his friends, at sight of him, could not praise him, of such singular beauty was he possessed. Softness, gen- tleness, kindness, and good-will reigned in his large, soft eyes; graciousness sat upon his lips, and all his face seemed to smile as he rode slowly in the lane formed by the crowd on either hand. What said the Poet Dryden in that same poem of his from which I have already quoted ? “ Early in foreign fields he won renown With kings and states allied to Israel’s crown; In peace the thoughts of war he could remove, And seemed as he were only born for love. Whate’er he did was done with so much ease, In him alone ’twas natural to please; His motions all accompanied with grace, And Paradise was opened in his face.” Now I have to tell of what happened to me — of all people in the world, to me — the most insignificant person in the whole crowd. It chanced that as the duke came near the spot be- side the cross where we were standing, the press in front obliged him to stop. He looked about him while he waited, smiling still and bowing to the people. Presently his eyes fell upon me, and he whispered a gentleman who rode beside him, yet a little in the rear. This gentleman laughed, and dis- mounted. What was my confusion, when he advanced toward me and spoke to me! “ Madame,” he said — calling me “ madame ” — “ his grace would say one word to you, with permission of your friends.” “ Go with this gentleman, child,” said Sir Christopher, laughing. Everybody laughs — I know not why — when a girl is led out to be kissed. “ Fair White Rose of Somerset,” said his grace — 'twas the most musical voice in the world, and the softest — 46 fair White Rose” — he repeated the words — 44 let me be assured of the 58 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. welcome of Ilchester by a kiss from your sweet lips, which I will return in token of my gratitude.” All the people who heard these words shouted as if they would burst themselves asunder. And the gentleman who had led me forth lifted me so that my foot rested on the duke's foot, while his grace laid his arm tenderly round my waist and kissed me twice. “ Sweet child,” he said, “ what is thy name?” “ By your grace's leave,” I said, the words being very strange, “ I am the daughter of Doctor Comfort Bykin, an ejected minister. I have come with Sir Christopher Challis, who stands yonder.” “ Sir Christopher!” said the duke, as if surprised. “ Let me shake hands with Sir Christopher. 1 take it kindly. Sir Christopher, that you have so far honored me.” So he gave the old man, who stepped forward bareheaded, his hand, still holding me by the waist. “ I pray that we may meet again. Sir Christopher, and that before long." Then he drew a gold ring, set with emeralds, from his forefinger, and placed it upon mine, and kissed me again, and, then suffered me to be lifted down. And you may be sure that it was with red cheeks that I took my place among my friends. Yet Sir Christopher was pleased at the notice taken of him by the duke, and my father was not displeased at the part I had been made to play. When the duke had ridden through the town, many of the people followed after, as far as White Lackington, which is close to Ilminster. So many were they that they took down a great piece of the park paling to admit them all; and there, under a Spanish chestnut tree, the duke drank to the health of all the people. At Ilminster, whither he rode a few days later, at Chard, at Ford Abbey, at Whyton, and at Exeter — wherever he went — he was received with the same shouts and acclamations. It is no wonder, therefore, that he should believe a few years later that those people would follow him when he drew the sword for the Protestant religion. One thing is certain — that in the West of England, from the progress of Monmouth to the Rebellion, there was uneasiness, with an anxious looking forward to troubled times. The peo- ple of Taunton kept as a day of holiday and thanksgiving the anniversary of the raising of Charles's siege. When the mayor, in 1683, tried to stop the celebration, they nearly stoned him to death. After this. Sir George Jeffreys, afterward Lord Jeffreys, who took the spring circuit in 1684, was called upon to report on the loyalty of the West country. He reported FOR FAITH AMD FREEDOM. 59 that the gentry were loyal and well disposed. But he knew not the mind of the weavers and spinners of the country. It was this progress, the sight of the duke's sweet face, his flattery of me, and his soft words and the ring he gave me, which made me from that moment such a partisan of his cause as only a woman can be. Women can not fight, but they can feel; and they can not only ardently desire, but they can de- spise and contemn those who think otherwise. I can not say that it was I who persuded our boys five years later to join the duke; but I can truly say that I did and said all that a wom- an can; that I rejoiced when they did so; and that I should never have, forgiven Robin had he joined the forces of the Papist king. CHAPTER IX. WITH THE ELDERS. So we went home again, all well pleased, and I holding the duke's ring tight, I promise you. It was a most beautiful ring when I came to look at it: a great emerald was in the midst of it, with little pearls and emeralds set alternately around it. Never was such a grand gift to so humble a person. I tied it to a black ribbon and put it in the box which held my clothes. But sometimes I could not forbear the pleasure of wearing it round my neck, secretly; not for the joy of possessing the ring so much as for remembering the lovely face and the gracious words of the giver. At that time I was in my sixteenth year, but well grown for my age. Like my father, I am above the common stature of women. We continued for more than four years longer to live without the company of the boys, which caused me to be much in the society of my elders, and as much at the Manor House and the rectory as at home. At the former place Sir Christopher loved to have me with him all day long if my mother would suffer it; when he walked abroad I must walk with him; when he walked in his garden I must be at his side; when he awoke after his afternoon sleep he liked to see me sit- ting ready to talk to him. I must play to him and sing to him; or I must bring out the backgammon board; or I must read the last letters from Robin and Humphrey. Life is dull for an old man whose friends are mostly dead, unless he have the company of the young. So David in his old age took to himself a young wife, when, instead, he should have comfort- 60 FOR FAITH AMD FREEDOM. ed his heart with the play and prattle of his grandchildren — of whom, I suppose, there must have been many families.' Now, as I was so much with his honor, I had much talk with him upon things on which wise and ancient men do not often converse with girls, and I was often present when he dis- coursed with my father or with his son-in-law, the rector, on high and serious matters. It was a time of great anxiety and uncertainty. There were great pope burnings in the country, and when some were put in pillory for riot at these bonfires not a hand was lifted against them. They had one at Sher- borne on November 17th, the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's coronation day, instead of November 5th. Boys went about the streets asking for half-pence and singing: “ Up with the ladder, And down with the rope; Give us a penny To burn the old Pope.” There were riots in Taunton, where the High Church party burned the pulpit of a meeting-house; people went about open- ly saying that the Roundheads would soon come back again. From Robin we heard of the popish plots and the flight of the Duke of York, and afterward of Monmouth's disgrace and exile. At all the market-towns where men gathered together they talked of these things, and many whispered together — a thing which Sir Christopher loved not, because it spoke of con- spiracies and secret plots, whereas he was for bold declaration of conscience. In short, it was an anxious time, and everybody understood that serious things would happen should the king die. They were not wanting, besides/ omens of coming ills — if you ac- cept such things as omens or warnings. To Taunton (after- ward the town most affected by the rebellion) a plain warning was vouchsafed by the rumbling and thundering and shaking of the earth itself, so that dishes were knocked down and cups broken, and plaster shaken off the walls of houses. And once (this did I myself see with my own eyes) the sun rose with four other suns for companions — a most terrifying sight, though Mr. Boscorel, who spoke learnedly on omens, had an explana- tion of this miracle, which he said was due to natural causes alone. And at lie Brewers there was a monstrous birth of two girls with but one body from the breast downward; their names were Aquila and Priscilla, but I believe they lived only a short time. I needs must tell of Mr. Boscorel because he was a man the FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 61 like of whom I have never since beheld. I believe there can be few men such as he was, who could so readily exchange the world of heat and argument for the calm and dispassionate air of art and music. Even religion (if I may venture to say so) seemed of less importance to him than art. I have said that he taught me to play upon the spinet. Now that Humphrey was gone, he desired my company every day, in order, he pre- tended, that I might grow perfect in my performance, but in reality because he was lonely at the rectory, and found pleas- ure in my company. We played together — he upon the vio- loncello and I upon the spinet — such music as he chose. It was sometimes grave and solemn music, such as Lullies “ Miserere ” or his “ De Profundis;” sometimes it was some part of a Roman Catholic mass: then was my soul uplifted and wafted heavenward by the chords, which seemed prayer and praise fit for the angels to harp before the throne. Some- times it was music which spoke of human passions, when I would be, in like manner, carried out of myself. My master would watch not only my execution, commending or correct- ing, but he would also watch the effect of the music upon my mind. “ We are ourselves,” he said, “like unto the instruments upon which we play. For as one kind of instrument, as the drum, produces but one note; and another, as the cymbals, but a clashing which is in itself discordant, but made effective in a band; so others are, like the most delicate and sensitive violins — those of Cremona — capable of producing the finest music that the soul of man hath ever devised. It is by such music, child, that some of us mount unto heaven. As for me, indeed, I daily feel more and more that music leadetli the soul upward, and that as regards the disputations on the Word of God, the letter indeed killeth, but the spirit, which music helpeth us to feel — the spirit, I say, giveth life. ” He sighed, and drew his bow gently across the first string of his violon- cello. “ *Tis a time of angry argument. The Word of God is thrown from one to the other as a pebble is shot from a sling. It wearies me. In this room, among these books of music, my soul finds rest, and the spiritual part of me is lifted heavenward. Humphrey and you, my dear, alone can com- prehend this saying. Thou hast a mind like his, to feel and understand what music means. Listen!” Here he executed a piece of music at which the tears rose to my eyes. “ That is from the Romish mass which we are taught ignorantly to despise. My child, I am indeed no Catholic, and I hold that ours is the purer church, yet in losing the mass we have lost 62 FOE FAITH AND FKEEDOM. the great music with which the Catholics sustain their souls. Some of our anthems, truly, are good; but what is a single anthem, finished in ten minutes, compared with a grand mass which lasts three hours ?" Then he had portfolios filled with engravings, which he would bring forth and contemplate with a kind of rapture, dis- coursing upon the engraver's art and its difficulties, so that I should not, as is the case with ignorant persons, suppose that these things were produced without much training and skill. He had also boxes full of coins, medals, and transparent gems carved most delicately with heathen gods and goddesses, shep- herds and swains, after the ancient fashion, unclothed and unashamed. On these things he would gaze with admiration which he tried to teach 'me, but could not, because I can not believe that we may without blame look upon such figures. Nevertheless, they were most beautiful, the hands and faces and the very hair so delicately and exquisitely carved that you could hardly believe it possible. And he talked solemnly and scholarly of these gauds, as if they were things which peculiarly deserved the attention of wise and learned men. Nay, he would be even lifted out of himself in considering them. “Child," he said, “we know not, and we can not even guess, the wonders of art that in heaven we shall learn to ac- complish " — as if carving and painting were the occupation of angels! — “ or the miracles of beauty and of dexterity that we shall be able to design and execute. Here, the hand is clumsy and the brain is dull; we can not rise above ourselves; we are blind to the beauty with which the Lord hath filled the earth for the solace of human creatures. Nay, we are not even ten- der with the beauty that we see and love. We suffer maidens sweet as the dreams of poets to waste their beauty unpraised and unsung. I am old, child, or I would praise thee in im- mortal verse. Much I fear that thou wilt grow old without the praise of sweet numbers. , Well, there is no doubt more lasting beauty of face and figure hereafter to joy the souls of the elect. And thou wilt make his happiness for one man on earth. Pray Heaven, sweet child, that he look also to thine!" He would say such things with so grand an air, speaking as if his words should command respect, and with so kindly an eye and a soft smile, while he gently stroked the side of his nose, which was long, that I was always carried away with the authority of it, and not till after I left him did I begin to per- ceive that my father would certainly never allow that the elect should occupy themselves with the frivolous pursuits of paint- ing and the fine arts, but only with the playing of their harps FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 63 and the singing of praises. It was this consideration which caused him to consent that his daughter should learn the spinet. I did not tell him (God forgive me for the deceit, if there was any!) that we sometimes played music written for the mass; nor did I repeat what Mr. Boscorel said concerning art and the flinging about of the Word of God, because my father was wholly occupied in controversy, and his principal, if not his only, weapon was the Word of God. Another pleasure which we had was to follow Humphrey in his travels by the aid of his letters and a mappa mundi , or atlas, which the rector possessed. Then I remember, when we heard that the boys were about to ride together through France from Montpellier to Leyden in Holland, we had on the table the great map of France. There were many drawings, coats of arms, and other pretty things on the map. “ It is now,” said Mr. Boscorel, finding out the place he wanted, and keeping his forefinger upon it, “ nearly thirty years since I made the grand tour, being then governor to the young Lord Silchester; who afterward died of the plague in London, else had I been now a bishop, who am forgotten in this little place. The boys will ride, I take it, bydihe same road which we took: first, because it is the high-road and the safest; next, because it is the best provided with inns and rest- ing-places; and lastly, because it passes through the best part of his most Christian majesty's dominions, and carries the trav- eler through his finest and most stately cities. From Mont- pellier they will ride — follow my finger, child! — to Nismes. Before the Revocation it was a great place for those of the Re- formed religion, and a populous town. Here they will not fail to visit the Roman temple, which still stands. It is not, in- deed, such a noble monument as one may see in Rome; but it is in good preservation, and a fair example of the latter style. They will also visit the gre^t amphitheater, which should be cleared of the mean houses which are now built up within it, and so exposed in all its vastness to the admiration of the world. After seeing these things they will direct their way across a desolate piece of country to Avignon, passing on the way the ancient Roman aqueduct called the Pont de Gard. At Avignon they will admire the many churches and the walls, and will not fail to visit the palace of the popes during the Great Schism. Thence they will ride northward, unless they wish first to see the Roman remains at Arles. Thence will they proceed up the valley of the Rhone, through many stately towns, till they come to Lyons, where, doubtless, they will so- journ for a few days. Next they will journey through the rich 64 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. country of Burgundy, and from the ancient town of Dijon will reach Paris through the city of Fontainebleau. On the way they will see many windows, noble houses, and castles, with rich towns and splendid churches. In no country are there more splendid churches, built in the Gothic style, which we have now forgotten. Some of them, alas! have been defaced in the wars (so called of religion), where, as happened also to us, the delicate carved work, the scrolls and flowers and statues, were destroyed, and the painted windows broken. Alas that men should refuse to suffer Art to become the minister and handmaid of Religion! Yet in the first and most glorious temple in which the glory of the Lord was visibly present, there were carved and graven lilies, with lions, oxen, chariots, cherubim, palm-trees, and pomegranates.” He closed his atlas and sat down. “ Child,” he said, meditating. “ For a scholar, in his youth, there is no pleasure comparable with the pleasure of traveling in strange countries, among the monuments of an- cient days. My own son did never, to my sorrow, desire the pleasant paths of learning, and did never show any love for the arts, in which I have always taken so great delight. He desireth rather the companionship of men; he loveth to drink and sing; and he nourisheth a huge ambition. *Tis best that we are not all alike. Humphrey should have been my son. Forget not, my child, that he hath desired to be remembered to thee in every letter which he hath written. ” If the rector spoke much of Humphrey, madame made amends by talking continually of Robin, and of the great things that he would do when he returned home. Justice of the peace, that he would certainly be made; captain first and afterward colonel in the Somerset Militia, that also should he be; knight of the shire, if he were ambitious — but that I knew he would never be; high sheriff of the county, if his slender means permitted — for the estate was not worth more than six or seven hundred pounds a year. Perhaps he would marry an heiress; it would be greatly to the advantage of the family if an heiress were to come into it with broad acres of her own; but she was not a woman who would seek to control her son in the matter of his affections, and if he chose a girl with no fort- une to her back, if she was a good girl and pious, madame would never say him nay. And he would soon return. The boy had been at Oxford and next in London, learning law, such as justices require. He was now with Humphrey at the University of Leyden, doubtless learning more law. “ My dear,” said madame, “ we want him home. His FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 65 grandfather groweth old, though still, thank God, in the full possession of his faculties. Yet a young man’s presence is needed. I trust and pray that he will return as he went, inno- cent, in spite of the many temptations of the wicked city. And, oh, child — what if he should have lost his heart to some designing city hussy !” He came — as ye shall hear immediately — Robin came home. Would to God that he had waited, if only for a single month! Had he not come, all our afflictions would have been spared us! Had he not come, that good old man. Sir Christopher — but it is vain to imagine what might have been. We are in the hands of the Lord; nothing that happens to us is permitted but bj him, and for some wise purpose was Sir Christopher in his old age — alas! why should I anticipate what I have to narrate? CHAPTER X. LE ROY EST MORT. In February of the year 1685 King Charles II. died. Sir Christopher himself brought us the news from Sherborne, whither he had gone, as was his wont, to the weekly ordinary. He clattered up the lane on his cob, and halted at our gate. “ Call thy father, child. Give you good-day, Madame Eykin. Will your husband leave his books and come forth for a mo- ment? Tell him I have news.” My father rose and obeyed. His gown was in rags; his feet were clad in cloth shoon, which I worked for him; his cheek was wasted; but his eye was keen. He was lean and tall; his hair was as white as Sir Christopher’s, though he was full twenty years younger. “ Friend and gossip,” said Sir Christopher, “ the king is dead. ” “ Is Charles Stuart dead?” my father replied. “ He cum- bered the earth too long. For five-and-twenty years hath he persecuted the saints. Also he hath burned incense after the abomination of the heathen. Let his lot be as the lot of Ahaz.” “ Nay; he is buried by this time. His brother, the Duke' of York, hath been proclaimed king.” “ James the Papist. It is as though Manasseh should suc- ceed to Ahaz; and after him Jehoiakim. ” “ Yet the bells will ring, and we shall pray for the king; and wise men, friend Eykin, will do well to keep silence.” FOH FAITH AKD “ There is a time to speak and a time to keep silence. It may be that the time is at hand when the godly man must stretch forth his hand to tear down the Scarlet Woman, though she slay him in the attempt.” “ It may be so, friend Eykin; yet stretch not forth thine hand until thou art well assured of the Divine command. The king is dead. Now will my son-in-law ring out the bells for the new king, and we shall pray for him as we prayed for his brother. It is our duty to pray for all in authority, though to the prayers of a whole nation there seemeth, so far as human reason can perceive, no answer.” “ I for one will pray no more for a king who is a Papist. Rather will I pray daily for his overthrow. ” “ King Charles is said to have received a priest before he died; yet it is worse that the king should be an open than a secret Catholic. Let us be patient. Doctor Eykin, and await the time.” So he rode up the village, and presently the bells were set a-ringing, and they clashed as joyously, echoing around the Corton Hills as if the accession of King James II. was the only thing wanted to make the nation prosperous, happy, and re- ligious. My father stood at the gate after Sir Christopher left him. The wind was cold, and the twilight was falling, and his cas- sock was thin, but he remained there motionless until my mother went out and drew him back to the house by the arm. He went into his own room, but he read no more that day. In the evening he came forth and sat with us, and while I sat sewing, my mother spinning by the light of the fire, he dis- coursed, which was unusual with him, upon things and peoples and the best form of government, which he held to be a com- monwealth, with a strong man for president. But he was to hold his power from the people, and was to lay it down fre- quently, lest he should in turn be tempted to become a king. And if he were to fall away from righteousness, or to live in open sin, or to be a merry-maker, or to suffer his country to fall from a high place among the nations, he was to be dis- placed, and be forced to retire. As for the man Charles, now dead, he would become, my father said, an example to all fut- ure ages, and a warning of what may happen when the doc- trine of Divine Right is generally accepted and acted upon, the king himself being not so much blamed by him as the practice of hereditary rule, which caused him to be seated upon the throne, when his true place, my father said, was among the lackeys and varlets of the palace. “ His brother James,” he FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 67 added, “ had now an opportunity which occurred to few — for he might become another Josiah. But I think he will neg- lect that opportunity/* he concluded; “yea, even if Hilkiah the priest were to bring him a message from Huldah the prophetess; for he doth belong to a family which, by the Divine displeasure, can never perceive the truth. Let us now read the Word, and wrestle with the Lord in prayer.** Next we heard that loyal addresses were pouring in from all quarters congratulating the king, and promising most sub- missive obedience. One would have thought that the people were rejoiced at the succession of a Roman Catholic; it was said that the king had promised liberty of conscience unto all, that he claimed that liberty for himself, and that he went to mass daily and openly. But many there were who foresaw trouble. Unfortunately, one of them was Sir Christopher, who spoke his mind at all times too fiercely for his safety. Mr. Boscorel, also, was of opinion that civil war would speedily ensue. “The king*s friends,** he said, “may for a time buy the support of the Non-conformists, and make a show of religious liberty. Thus may they govern for awhile. But it is not in the nature of the Roman Catholic priest to countenance re- ligious liberty, or to sit down contented with less than all the g ie. They must forever scheme and intrigue for more power. leligious liberty? It means to them the eternal damnation of those who hold themselves free to think for themselves. They would be less than human if they did not try to save the souls of the people by docking their freedom. They must make this country even as Spain or Italy. Is it to be believed that they will suffer the Church to retain her revenues, or the uni- versities to remain out of their control? Nay, will they allow the grammar-schools to be in the hands of Protestants? Never! The next generation will be wholly Catholic, unless the present generation send king and priests packing. ** These were treasonable words, but they were uttered in the hall of the Manor House with no other listeners than Sir Christopher and the rector. “Seeing these things, son-in-law,** said Sir Christopher, “ what becomes of Right Divine? Where is the duty of non- resistance?** “The doctrine of Right Divine,** said Mr. Boscorel, “in- cludes the Divine institution of a monarchy, which, I confess, is manifestly untenable, because the Lord granted a king to the people only because they clamored for one. Also, had the institution been of Divine foundation, the Jews would never 68 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. have been allowed to live under the rule of judges, tetrarehs, and Roman governors. ** “ You have not always spoken so plainly/* said Sir Christo- pher. “ Nay; why be always proclaiming to the world your thoughts and opinions? Besides, even if the doctrine of non- resistance were sound, there may be cases in which just laws may be justly set aside. I say not that this is one as yet. But if there were danger of the ancient superstitions being thrust upon us to the destruction of our souls, I say not. Nay; if a starving man take a loaf of bread, there being no other way possible to save his life, one would not, therefore, hold him a thief. Yet the law remains. ** “ Shall the blood which hath been poured out for the cause of liberty prove to be shed in vain?** asked Sir Christopher. “ Why, sir,** said the rector, “ the same question might be asked in* France, where the Protestants fought longer and against greater odds than we in this country. Yet the blood of those martyrs hath been shed in vain; the Church of Rome is there the conqueror indeed. It is laid upon the Protestants, even upon us, who hold that we are a true branch of the an- cient Apostolic Church, to defend ourselves continually against an enemy who is always at unity, always guided by one man, always knows what he wants, and is always working to get it. We, on the other hand, do not know our own minds, and must forever be quarreling among ourselves. Nevertheless, the heart of the country is Protestant; and sooner or later the case of conscience may arise whether — the law remaining unchanged — we may not blamelessly break the law?** That case of conscience was not yet ripe for consideration. There needed first many things — including the martyrdom of saints and innocent men and poor, ignorant rustics — before the country roused herself once more to seize her liberties. Then as to that poor doctrine of Divine Right, they all made a mouthful of it, except only a small and harmless band of non- jurors. At the outset, whatever the opinions of the people — who could not have been made to rise as one man — the gentry re- mained loyal. Above all things, they dreaded another civil war. “ We must fain accept the king*s professions,** said the rec- tor. “ If we have misgivings, let us disguise them. Let us rather nourish the hope that they are honestly meant, and let ps wait. England will not become another Spain in a single FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 69 day. Let us wait. The stake is not yet set up in Smithfield, and the Inquisition is not yet established in the country. " It was in this temper that the king's accession found Sir Christopher. Afterward he was accused of having harbored designs against the king from the beginning. That, indeed, was not the case. He had no thought of entering into any such enterprise. Yet he never doubted that in the end there would be an uprising against the rule of the priests. Nor did he doubt that the king would be pushed on by his advisers to one pretension after another for the advancement of his own prerogative and the displacement of the Protestant Church. Nay, he openly predicted that there would be such attempts; and he maintained — such was his wisdom! — that, in the long- run, the Protestant faith would be established upon a surer foundation than ever. But as for conspiring, or being cog- nizant of any conspiracy, that was untrue. Why, he was at this time seventy-five years of age — a time when such men as Sir Christopher have continually before their eyes death and the judgment. As for my father, perhaps I am wrong, but in the daily prayers of night and morning, and in the “ Grace before Meat," he seemed to find a freer utterance, and to wrestle more vehemently than was his wont on the subject of the Scar- let Woman, offering himself as a willing martyr and confessor, if by the shedding of his blood the great day of her final over- throw might be advanced; yet always humble, not daring to think of himself as anything but an instrument to do the will of his Master. In the end, his death truly helped, with others, to bring a Protestant king to the throne of these isles. And since we knew him to be so deep a scholar, always reading and learning, and in no sense a man of activity, the thing which he presently did amazed us all. Yet he ought to have known that one who is under the Divine command to preach the Word of God, and hath been silenced by man for more than twenty years, so that the strength of his manhood hath run to waste and is lost (it is a most terrible and grievous thing for a man to be condemned to idleness!), may become like unto one of those burning mountains of which we sometimes read in books of voyages. In him, as in them, the inner fires rage and burn, growing ever stronger and fiercer, until presently they rent asunder the sides of the mountain and burst forth, pouring down liquid fire over the unhappy valleys beneath, with show- ers of red-hot ashes to destroy and cover up the smiling home- steads and the fertile meadows. It is true that my father chafed continually at the inaction 70 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. forced upon him, but his impatience was never so strong as at this time, namely, after the accession of King James. It drove him from his books and out into the fields and lanes, where he walked to and fro, waving his long arms, and some- times crying aloud and shouting in the woods, as if compelled to cry out in order to quench some raging fever or heat of his mind. About this time, too, I remember they began to talk of the exiles who were staying in Holland. The Duke of Monmouth was there with the Earl of Argyle, and with them a company of firebrands eager to get back to England and their property. I am certain now that my father (and perhaps, through his information. Sir Christopher also) was kept acquainted with the plots and designs that were carried on in the Low Coun- tries; nay, I am also certain that his informant was none other than Humphrey, who was still in Leyden. I have seen a let- ter from him, written, as I now understand, in a kind of alle- gory or parable, in which one thing was said and another meant. Thus he pretends to speak of Dutch gardening. “ The gardeners / 9 he says, 66 take infinite pains that their secrets shall not -be learned or disclosed. I know, however, that a cer- tain blue tulip, much desired by many gardeners in England, will be taken across the water this year, and I hope that by next year the precious bulb may be fully planted in English soil. The preparation of the soil necessary for the favorable reception of the bulb is well known to you, and you will under- stand how to mix your soil, and to add manure, and so forth. I myself expect to finish what I have to do in a few weeks, when I shall cross to London, and so ride westward, and hope to pay my respects to my revered tutor in the month of June next. It may be that I shall come with the tulip, but that is not certain. Many messages have been received offering large sums of money for the bulb, so that it is hoped that the Dutch gardeners will let it go. From H. C . 99 The tulip, you see, was the Duke of Monmouth, and the Dutch gardeners were the Scotch and English exiles then in Holland, and the English gardeners were the duke's friends, and H. C. was Humphrey Challis. I think that Sir Christopher must have known of this cor- respondence, because I now remember that my father would sit with him for many hours looking at a map of England, and had been conversing earnestly and making notes in a book. These notes he made in the Arabic character, which no one but himself could read; I therefore suppose that he was esti- mating the number of Non-conformists who might be disposed FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 71 to aid in such an enterprise as Humphrey’s “ gardeners ” were contemplating. Robin, who certainly was no conspirator, also wrote a letter from Leyden about this time, saying that something was ex- pected, nobody knew what, but that the exiles were meeting constantly, as if something was brewing. It was about the first week of J une that the news came to us of Lord Argyle’s landing. This was the beginning. After that, as you will hear, the news came thick and fast — every day something fresh, and something to quicken the most slug- gish pulse. To me, at least, it seemed as if the breath of God Himself was poured out upon the country, and that the people were everywhere resolved to banish the accursed thing from their midst. Alas! that simple country maid was deceived. The accursed thing was to be driven forth, but not yet. The country party hated the pope, but they dreaded civil war — and indeed there is hardly any excuse for that most dreadful scourge, except the salvation of the soul and the safe-guarding of liberties. They would gladly welcome a rising, but it must be general and universal. They had for five-and-twenty years been taught the wickedness of rebellion, and now there was no way to secure the Protestant faith except by rebellion. Un- happily, the rebellion began before the country gentlemen were ready to begin. CHAPTER XI. BEFORE THE STORM. Before the storm breaks there sometimes falls upon the earth a brief time when the sun shines in splendor from a clear sky, the air is balmy and delightsome, the birds sing in the coppice, and the innocent lambs leap in the meadows. Then, suddenly, black clouds gather from the north; the wind blows cold; in a minute the sky is black; the lightnings flash, the thunders roll, the wind roars, the hail beats down and strips the orchard of its promise, and silences the birds cower- ing in the branches, and drives the trembling sheep to take shelter in the hedges. This was to be my case. You shall understand how for a single day — it was no more — I was the happiest girl in all the world. I may without any shame confess that I have always loved Robin from my earliest childhood. That was no great won- der, seeing what manner of boy he was, and how he was always n FOR FAITH AHt> FREEDOM. kind and thoughtful for me. We were at first only brother and -sister together, which is natural and reasonable when children grow up together; nor can I tell when or how we ceased to be brother and sister, save that it may have been when Robin kissed me so tenderly at parting, and told me that he should always love me. I do not think that brothers do generally protest love and promise continual affection. Barnaby certainly never declared his love for me, nor did he ever promise to love me all his life. Perhaps, had he re- mained longer, he might have become as tender as he was good-hearted, but I think that tenderness toward a sister is not in the nature of a boy. I loved Robin, and I loved Humphrey, both as if they were brothers, but one of them ceased to be my brother, while the other, in consequence, re- mained my brother always. A girl may be ignorant of the world as I was, and of lovers and their ways as I was, and yet she can not grow from a child to a woman without knowing that when a young man who hath promised to love her always speaks of her in every letter he means more than common brotherly love. Nor can any woman be indifferent to a man who thus regards her; nor can she think upon love without the desire of being herself loved. Truly, I had always before my eyes the spectacle of that holy love which consecrates every part of life. I mean, in the case of my mother, whose waking and sleeping thoughts were all for her husband, who worked continually and cheer- fully with her hands that he might be enabled to study with- out other work, and gave up her whole life, without grudging — even reckoning it her happiness and her privilege — in order to provide food and shelter for him. It was enough reward for her that he should sometimes lay his hand lovingly upon her head, or turn his eyes with affection to meet hers. It was in the night of June 12th, as I lay in bed, not yet asleep, though it was already past nine o'clock, that I heard the trampling of hoofs crossing the stream and passing our cottage. Had I known who were riding those horses there would have been but little sleep for me that night. But I knew not, and did not suspect, and so, supposing that it was only one of the farmers belated, I closed my eyes, and pres- ently slept until the morning. About five o'clock or a little before that time, I awoke, the sun having already arisen, and being now well above the hill. I arose softly, leaving my mother asleep still, and having dressed quickly, and prayed a little, I crept softly down the stairs. In the house there was such a stillness that I could FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 73 even hear the regular breathing of my father as he slept upon his pallet among his books; it was chill and damp, as is the custom in the early morning, in the room where we lived and worked. Yet when I threw open door and shutter and looked outside the air was full of warmth and refreshment; as for the birds, they had long since left their nests, and now were busy looking for their breakfast; the larks were singing overhead, and the bees already humming and droning. Who would lie abed when he could get up and enjoy the beauty of the morn- ing? When I had breathed awhile with pleasure and satis- faction the soft air, which was laden with the scent of flowers and of hay, I went in-doors again, and swept and dusted the room. Then I opened the cupboard, and considered the pro- vision for breakfast. For my father there would be a slice of cold bacon with a good crust of home-made bread (better bread or sweeter bread was nowhere to be had) and a cup of cider, warming to the spirits, and good, for one who is no longer youug, against any rawness of the morning air. For my mother and myself there would be, as soon as our neighbors* cows were milked, a cup of warm milk and bread soaked in it. *Tis a breakfast good for a grown person as well as for a child, and it cost us nothing but the trouble of going to take it. When I had swept the room and laid everything in its place, I went into the garden, hoe in hand, to weed the beds and trim the borders. The garden was not very big, it is true, but it produced many things useful for us; notably onions and salad, besides many herbs good for the house, for it was a fertile strip of ground, and planted in every part of it. Now such was the beauty of the morning and the softness of the air that I pres- ently forgot the work about which I had come into the garden, and sat down in the shade upon a bench, suffering my thoughts to wander hither and thither. Much have I always pitied those poor folk in towns who can never escape from the noise and clatter of tongues and sit somewhere in the sunshine or the shade, while the cattle low in the meadows and the sum- mer air makes the leaves to rustle, and suffer their thoughts to wander here and there. Every morning when I arose was this spectacle of Nature's gladness presented to my eyes, but not every morning could my spirit, which sometimes crawls as if fearing the light of day and the face of the sun, rise to meet and greet it, and feel it calling aloud for a hymn of praise and thanksgiving. For, indeed, this is a beautiful world, if we could always suffer its loveliness, which we can not, for the earthliness of our natures, to sink into our hearts. I know not what I thought this morning, but X remember, while X 74 FOR FAITH ANT) FREEDOM. considered the birds, which neither reap nor sow, nor take any thought of to-morrow, yet are daily fed by Heaven, that the words were whispered in mine ear: “ Are ye not much better than they?” This, without doubt, prepared my heart for what should follow. While I sat thinking of I know not what, there came foot- steps — quick footsteps— along the road, and I knew those footsteps, and sprung to my feet, and ran to the garden gate, crying, “ Robin! — it is Robin!” Yes, it was Robin. He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously and eagerly. “ Grace!” he said, drawing a deep breath. “ Oh, but what hath happened to thee?” “ What should happen, Robin?” “ Oh, thou art changed, Grace! I left thee almost a child, and now — now — 1 thought to catch thee in my arms — a sweet rustic nymph — and now — fain must I go upon my knees to a goddess.” “ Robin!” Who, indeed, would have expected such lan- guage from Robin? “ Grace,” he said, still gazing upon me with a kind of wonder which made me blush, “ do you remember when we parted four years ago — the words we said? As for me, I have never forgotten them. I was to think of thee always; I was to love thee always. Truly I may say that there is never a day but thou hast been in my mind. But not like this — ” He continued to look upon me as upon some strange creature, so that I began to be frightened and turned away. “ Nay, Grace, forgive me. I am one who is dazzled by the splendor of the sun. Forgive me; I can not speak. I thought of a village beauty, rosy-cheeked, sweet and wholesome as an August quarander, and I find — 99 “ Robin — not a goddess.” “ Well, then, a woman tall and stately, and more beautiful than words can say.” “ Nay, Robin, you do but flatter. That is not like the old Robin I remember and — 99 I should have added “loved,” but the word stuck. “I swear, sweet saint — if I may swear — nay, then I do affirm, that I do not flatter. Hear me tell a plain tale. I have traveled far since last I saw thee; I have seen the great ladies of the court both of St. James's and of the Louvre; I have seen the famous beauties of Provence, and the black-eyed FOR FAITH AHH FREEDOM. 75 witches of Italy, but nowhere have I seen a woman half so fair.” “ Robin — you must not. Nay, Robin — you shame me.” Then he knelt at my feet and seized my hand and kissed it. Oh, the foolishness of a man in love. And yet it pleases us. No woman is worth it. No woman can understand it, nor can she comprehend the power and might of man's love, nor why he singles out her alone from all the rest and fills his heart wholly with her, so that all other women are hence- forward as his sisters. It is wonderful; it is most wonderful. Yet it pleases us. Nay, we thank God for it with all our heart and with all our soul. I would not, if I could, set down all the things which Robin said. First, because the words of love are sacred; next, be- cause I would not that other women should know the extrava- gance of his praise. It was in broken words, because love can never.be eloquent. As for me, what could I do, what could I say? For I had loved him from my very childhood, and now all my heart went out from me and became his. I was all his. I was his slave to command. That is the quality of earthly love by which it most closely resembles the heavenly love, so that just as the godly man is wholly devoted to the will of the Lord in all things great and small, resigned to His chastisements, and always anxious to live and die in His service, so in earthly love one must be wholly devoted to the person whom one loves. And Robin was come home again, and I was lying in his arms, and he was kissing me, and calling me all the sweet and tender things that he could invent, and laughing and sighing together as if too happy to be quiet. Oh, the sweetest mo- ments of my life! Why did they pass so quickly? Oh, sacra- ment of love, which can be taken only once, and yet changes the whole of life and fills it with memory which is wholly sweet! In all other earthly things there is something of bitter- ness. In this holy joy of pure and sacred love there is no bitterness — no, not any. It leaves behind nothing of reproach or of repentance, of shame or of sorrow. It is altogether holy. Now, when my boy had somewhat recovered from his first rapture, and I had assured him very earnestly that I was not, indeed, an angel, but a most sinful woman, daily offending in my inner thoughts (which he received, indeed, with an ap- pearance of disbelief and scorn), I was able to consider his appearance, which was now very fine, though always, as I learned when I saw him among other gentlemen, with some 76 FOR FAITH AtfD FREEDOM. soberness, as became one whose upbringing inclined him to soberness of dress as well as of speech and manner. He wore a long wig of brown hair, which might have been his own but for its length; his hat was laced and cocked, which gave him a gallant and martial appearance; his neckcloth was long and of fine lace; beside him in my russet gown I must have looked truly plain and rustic, but Robin was pleased not to think so, and love is a great magician to cheat the eyes. He was home again; he told me he should travel no more (yet you shall hear how far he afterward traveled) ; his only desire now was to stay at home and live as his grandfather had lived, in his native village; he had nothing to pray for but the continuance of my love — of which, indeed, there was no doubt possible. It was now close upon six o^clock, and I begged him to go away for the present, and if my father and Sir Christopher should agree, and if it should seem to his honor a fit and proper thing that Robin should marry a girl so penniless as myself, why — then — we might meet again after breakfast, or after dinner; or, indeed, at any other time, and so discourse more upon the matter. So he left me, being very reluctant to go; and I, forgetting my garden and what I had come forth to do, returned to the house. You must understand that all these things passed in the garden, divided from the lane by a thick hedge, and that passers-by — but there were none — could not, very well have seen what was done, though they might have heard what was said. But if my father had looked out of his window he could have seen, and if my mother had come down-stairs she almost might have seen through the window, or through the open door. Of this I thought not upon, nor was there anything to hide — though one would not willingly suffer any one, even one^s own mother — to see and listen at such a moment. Yet mother has since told me that she saw Robin on his knees kiss- ing my hands, but she withdrew and would not look again. When I stepped within the door she was at work with her wheel, and looked up with a smile upon her lips, and tears were in her eyes. Had I known what she had seen I should have been ashamed. “ Daughter,” she said, softly, “ thy cheek is burning red. Hast thou, perchance, been too long in the sun?” “ No, mother; the sun is not too hot.” “Daughter,” she went on, still smiling through tears, “ thine eyes are bright and glowing. Hast thou a touch of fever by ill chance?” FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7? “ No, mother, I have no fever. ” “ Child, thy lips are trembling and thy hands are shaking. My dear, my dear, what is it? Tell thy mother all.” She held out her arms to me, and I threw myself at her feet and buried my head in her lap, as if I had been again a child. “ Mother, mother!” I cried, “ Eobin hath come home again, and he says he loves me, and nothing will do but he must marry me.” “ My dear,” she said, kissing and fondling me, “ Eobin hath always been a good lad, and I doubt not that he hath returned unspotted from the world; but nay, do not let us be too sure. For, first, his honor must consent, and then madame; and thy father must be asked, and he would never, for any worldly honor, suffer thee to marry an ungodly man. As for thy lack of fortune, I know not if it will stand in the way, and as for family, thy father, though he was born in New England, cometh of a good stock, and I myself am a gentlewoman, and on both sides we bear an ancient coat of arms. And as for thyself, my dear, thou art — I thank God for it — of a sweet temper and an obedient disposition. From the earliest thou hast never given thy mother any uneasiness, and I think thy heart hath been mercifully disposed toward goodness from thy childhood upward. It is a special grace in this our long poverty and oppression, and it consoles me partly for the loss of my son Barnaby. ” Here she was silent for a space, and her eyes filled and brimmed over. “ Child,” she said, earnestly, “ thou art comely in the eyes of men; that have I known for long. It is partly for thy sweet looks that Sir Christopher loves thee; Mr. Boscorel plays music with thee because his eyes love to behold the beauty of woman. Nay, I mean no reproach, because it is the nature of men to love all things beautiful, whether it be the plumage of a bird or the shape of a woman's head. Yes, thou art beautiful, my dear. Beauty passes, but love remains. Thy husband will per- chance never cease to think thee lovely if he still proves daily thy goodness and the loveliness of thy heart. My dear, thou hast long comforted thy mother; now shalt thou go, with the blessing of the Lord, to be the solace and the joy of thy hus- band.” • CHAPTEE XII. HUMPHREY. Presently my father came in, the Bible in his hand. By his countenance it was plain that he had been already engaged 78 For faith and freedom. in meditation, and that his mind was charged as with R message. Alas! to think of the many great discourses that he pro- nounced (being as a dog who must be muzzled should he leave the farm-yard) to us women alone. If they were written down the world would lift up its hands with wonder, and ask if a prophet indeed had been vouchsafed to this unhappy country. The Roman Church will have that the time of saints did not end with the last of the Apostles; that may be, and yet a saint has no more power after death than remains in his written words and in the memory of his life. Shall we not, however, grant that there may still be prophets, who see and apprehend the meaning of words and of things more fully than others even as spiritually minded as themselves? Now, I say, con- sidering what was immediately to befall us, the passage which my father read and expounded that morning was in a manner truly prophetic. It was the vision of the basket of summer fruit which was vouchsafed to the prophet Amos. He read to us that terrible chapter — everybody knows it, though it hath but fourteen verses: “ And I will turn your feasts into mourning, and all your songs into lamentation — I will send a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord.” He then applied the chapter to these times, saying that the Scriptures and the prophecies apply not only to the Israel of the time when Amos or any other prophet lived, but to the people of God in all ages, yet so that sometimes one prophet seems to deliver the message that befits the time, and some- times another. All these things prophesied by Amos had come to pass in this country of Great Britain, so that there was, and had now been for twenty-five years, a grievous famine and a sore thirst for the words of the Lord. He con- tinued to explain and to enlarge upon this topic for nearly an hour, when he concluded with a fervent prayer that the famine would pass away, and the sealed springs be open again for the children of grace to drink and be refreshed. This done he took his breakfast in silence, as was his wont, loving not to be disturbed by any earthly matters when his mind was full of his morning discourse. When he had eaten the bread and meat and taken the cup of cider, he arose and went back to his own room, and shut the door. We should have no more speech of him until dinner-time. “ I will speak with him, my dear,” said my mother; “ but not yet. Let us wait till we hear from Sir Christopher. ” FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 79 “I would that my father had read us a passage of en- couragement and promise on this morning of all mornings/* 1 said. My mother turned over the leaves of the Bible. “ I will read yoti a verse of encouragement/* she said. “ It is the word of God as much as the Book of the Prophet Amos.** So she found and read for my comfort words which had a new meaning to me : “ My beloved spake, and said unto me, ‘ Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. * ** And again, these that follow: “ Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Many waters can not quench love, neither can the floods drown it; if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.** In these gracious, nay, these enraptured, words doth the Bible speak of love, and though I am not so ignorant as not to know that it is the love of the Church for Christ, yet I am persuaded by my own spiritual experience — whatever doctors of divinity may argue — that the earthly love of husband and wife may be spoken of in these very words as being the type of that other and higher love. And in this matter I know that my mother would also confirm my judgment. It. might have been between nine and ten that Humphrey came. Surely he was changed more than Robin; for the great white periwig which he wore (being a physician), falling upon his shoulders, did partly hide the deformity of his shoulder, and the black velvet coat did also become him mightily. As for his face, that was not changed at all. It had been grave and serious in youth; it was now more grave and more serious in manhood. He stood in the doorway, not seeing me — I was making a pudding for dinner, with my sleeves rolled up and my arms white with flour. “ Mistress Eykin/* he said, “ are old friends passed out of mind?** “ Why ** — my mother left her wheel and gave him her hand — “ *tis Humphrey. I knew that we should see thee this 80 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. morning, Humphrey. Is thy health good, my son, and is all well with thee?” “ All is well, madame, and my health is good. How is my master — thy husband?” “ He is always well, and — but thou knowest what manner of life he leads. Of late he hath been much disquieted; he is restless — his mind runs much upon the prophecies of war and pestilence. It is the news from London and the return of the mass which keep him uneasy. Go in and see him, Humphrey. He will willingly suffer thee to disturb him, though we must not go near him in his hours of study.” “ Presently; but where is my old playfellow? — where is Grace?” “ She is behind you, Humphrey.” He turned, and his pale face flushed when he saw me. “ Grace?” he cried. “ Is this Grace? Nay, she is changed, indeed. I knew not — I could not expect — nay, how could one expect—” “ There is no change,” said my mother, sharply. “ Grace was a child, and is now a woman; that is all.” “ Humphrey expects/’ I said, “ that we should all stop still while time went on. You were to become a bachelor of medi- cine, sir, and a Fellow of All Souls’ College, and to travel in Italy and France, and to- come back in a velvet coat, and a long sword, and a periwig over your shoulders, and I was to be a little girl still.” Humphrey shook his head. “ It is not only that,” he said, “ though I confess that one did not make due allowance for the flight of time. It is that the sweet-faced child has become — ” “ No, Humphrey,” I said. “ I want no compliments. Go now, sir, and speak with my father. Afterward you shall tell me all that you have been doing.” He obeyed, and opened my father’s door. “ Humphrey!” My father sprung to his feet. “ Welcome, my pupil! Thou bringest good news? Nay; I have received thy letters; I read the good news in thy face — I see it in thine eyes. Welcome home!” “ Sir, I have, indeed, great news,” said Humphrey. Then the door was closed. He stayed there for half an hour and more, and we heard from within earnest talk — my father’s voice sometimes up- lifted, loud and angry, but Humphrey’s always low, as if he did not wish us to overhear them. So, not to seem unto each other as if we were listening, mother and I talked of other FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 81 things, such as the lightness of the pudding, and the quantity of suet which should be put into it, and the time it should boil in the pot, and other things, as women can whose hearts are full, yet they must needs be talking. “Father hath much to say to Humphrey,” I said, after a time; “ he did not use to like such interruption.” “ Humphrey’s conversation is no interruption, my dear. They think the same thoughts and talk the same language. Your father may teach and admonish us, but he can only con- verse with a scholar such as himself. It is not the least evil of our oppression that he hath been cut off from the society of learned men, in which he used to take so much delight. If Humphrey remains here a little while you shall see your father lose the eager and anxious look which hath of late possessed him. He will talk to Humphrey, and will clear his mind. Then he will be contented again for a while, or, at least, re- signed. ” Presently Humphrey came forth. His face was grave and serious. My father came out of the room after him. “Let us talk more,” he said; “let us resume our talk. Join me on the hill-side, where none can hear us. It is, in- deed, the vision of the basket of summer fruit that we read this morning.” His face was working with some inward ex- citement, and his eyes were full of a strange light as of a glad conqueror, or of one — forbid the thought — who was faking a dire revenge. He strode down the garden and out into the lanes. “ Thus,” said my mother, “ will he walk out, and some- times remain in the woods, walking, preaching to the winds, and swinging his arms the whole day long. Art thou a phy- sician, and canst thou heal him, Humphrey?” “ If the cause be removed the disease will be cured. Per- haps before long the cause will be removed. ” “The cause — oh, the cause! — what is the cause but the tyranny of the law? He who was ordered by Heaven itself to preach is silent for five-and-twenty years. His very life hath been taken from him. And you talk of removing the cause!” “ Madame, if the law suffer him once more to preach freely would that satisfy him — and you?” My mother shook her head. “ The law, the law,” she said, “ now we have a Papist on the throne, it is far more likely to lead my husband to the stake than to set him free. ” “ That we shall shortly see,” said Humphrey. My mother bent her head over her wheel as one who wishes 82 FOE FAITH AND FKEEDOM. to talk no more upon the subject. She loved not to speak concerning her husband to any except to me. I went out into the garden with Humphrey. I was foolish. I laughed at nothing. I talked nonsense. Oh, I was so happy that if a pipe and tabor had been heard in the village I should have danced to the music, like poor Barnaby the night before he ran away. I regarded not the grave and serious face of my companion. “ You are merry, Grace,” said Humphrey. “It is because you are come back again — you and Robin. Oh, the time has been long and dull — and now you have come we shall all be happy again. Yes, my father will cease to fret and rage; he will talk Latin and Greek with you; Sir Christo- pher will be happy only in looking upon you; madame will have her son home again, and Mr. Boscorel will bring out all the old music for you. Humphrey, it is a happy day that brings you home again. ” “It may be a happy day also for me,” he said, “ but there is much to be done. When the business we have in hand is accomplished — ” “ What business, Humphrey?” For he spoke so gravely that he startled me. “ *Tis business of which my father knows, child. Nay, let us not talk of it. I think and hope that it is as good as ac- complished now before it is well taken in hand. It is not of that business that I would speak. Grace, thou art so beauti- ful and so tall — 99 “ Nay, Humphrey. I must not be flattered.” “ And I so crooked.” “ Humphrey, I will not hear this talk. You, so great a scholar, thus to speak of yourself.” “ Let me speak of myself, my dear. Hear me for a mo- ment.” I declare that I had not the least thought of what he was going to say, my mind being wholly occupied with the idea of Robin. “ I am a physician, as you doubtless know. Medicinae doc- tor of Oxford, of Padua, Montpellier, and Leyden. I know all — I may fairly say, and without boasting — that may be learned by one of my age from schools of medicine and from books on the science and practice of healing. I believe, in short, that I am as good a physician as can be found within these seas. I am minded, as soon as tranquillity is restored, to set up as a physician in London, where I have already many friends, and am assured of some support, I think, humbly foil FAITH AND FREEDOM. S3 speaking, that reasonable success awaits me. Grace— you know that I have loved you all my life— will you marry me, crooked as I am? Oh, you can not but know that I have loved you all my life. Oh, child !” he stretched forth his hands, and in his. eyes there was a world of longing and of sadness which moved my heart. “ My dear, the crooked in body have no friends among men; they can not join in their rough sports, nor drink with them, nor fight with them. They have no chance of happiness but in love, my dear. My dear, give me that chance. I love thee. Oh, my dear, give < me that chance.” Never had I seen Humphrey so moved before. I felt guilty and ashamed in the presence of this passion of which I was the most unworthy cause. “Oh, Humphrey, stop! for Heaven^s sake stop! because I am but this very morning promised to Eobin, who loves me, too, and I love Robin, Humphrey. He sunk back, pale and disordered, and I thought that he would swoon, but he re- covered. “ Humphrey, never doubt that I love you, too, but oh, I love Robin, and Robin loves me.” “ Yes, dear — yes, child — -yes, Grace,” he said, in broken accents. “ I understand; everything is for Robin — everything for Robin. Why, I might have guessed it. For Robin, the straight and comely figure; for Robin, the strength; for Robin, the inheritance; for Robin, happy love. For me, a crooked body; for me, a feeble frame; for me, the loss of fortune; for me, contempt and poverty; for me, the loss of love. All for Robin — all for Robin. ” “ Humphrey, surely thou wouldst not envy or be jealous of Robin?” Never had I seen him thus moved, or heard him thus speak. He made no answer for a while; then he said, slowly and painfully: “ Grace, I am ashamed. Why should not Robin have all? Who am I that I should have anything? Forgive me, child. I have lived in a paradise which fools create for themselves. I have suffered myself to dream that what I ardently desired was possible, and even probable. Forgive me! Let me be as before — your brother. Will you forgive me, dear?” “ Oh, Humphrey, there is nothing for me to forgive.” “ Nay, there is much for me to repent of. Forget it, then, if there is nothing to forgive.” “ I have forgotten it already, Humphrey.” “ So ” — he turned upon me his grave, sweet face, to think of it makes me yearn with tenderness and pity to see that face 84 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. again — “ so, farewell, fond dream. Do not think, my dear, that I envy Robin. *Twas a sweet dream. Yet, I pray that Heaven in wrath may forget me if ever I suffer this passion of envy to hurt my cousin Robin or thyself. ?J> So saying he burst from me with distraction in his face. Poor Humphrey! Alas! when I look back and consider this day there is a doubt which haunts me. Always had I loved Robin; that is most true. But I had always loved Humphrey; that is most true. What if it had been Humphrey instead of Robin who had arisen in the early morning to find his sweet- heart in the garden when the dew was yet upon the grass? CHAPTER XIII. ONE DAY. In times of great sorrow the godly person ought to look for- ward to the never-ending joy and happiness that will follow this short life. Yet we still look backward to the happy time that is past and can never come again. And then how happy does it seem to have been in comparison with present affliction! It pleased Heaven after many trials to restore my earthly hap- piness — at least, in its principal part, which is earthly love. Some losses — grievous and lamentable — there were which could not be restored. Yet for a long time I had no other comfort (apart from that hope which I trust was never suffered to harm me) than the recollection of a single day from dewy morn till dusky eve. I began that day with the sweetest joy that a girl can ever experience — namely, the return of her lover and the happiness of learning that he loves her more than ever, and the knowledge that her heart hath gone forth from her and is wholly his. To such a girl the woods and fields become the very Garden of Eden; the breath of the wind is as the voice of the Lord blessing another Eve; the very showers are the tears of gladness and gratitude; the birds sing hymns of praise; the leaves of the trees whisper words of love; the brook prattles of kisses; the flowers offer incense; the royal course of the sun in splendor, the glories of the sunrise and sunset, the twinkling stars of night, the shadows of the flying clouds, the pageant of the summer day — these are all prepared for that one happy girl and for her happy lover! Oh, divine gift of love! which thus gives the whole world with its fruits in season to the pair! Nay, doth it not create them anew? What was Adam without Eve? And was not Eve created for no other purpose than to be a companion to the man? FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 85 I say, then, that this day, when Eobin took me in his arms and kissed me — not as he had done when we parted and I was still a child, but with the fervent kiss of a lover — was the hap- piest day in all my life. I say that I have never forgotten that day, but, by recalling any point of it, I remember all: how he held my hand and how he made me confess that I loved him; how we kissed and parted, to meet again. As for poor Hum- phrey, I hardly gave him so much as a thought of pity. Then, how we wandered along the brook hand in hand. “Never to part again, my dear,” said the fond lover. “ Here will we live, and here we will die. Let Benjamin be- come, if he please, lord chancellor, and Humphrey a great physician; they will have to live among men in towns, where every other man is a rogue. We shall live in this sweet coun- try place, where the people may be rude, but they are not knaves. Why, in that great city of London, where the mer- chants congregate upon the Exchange and look so full of dig- nity and wisdom, each man is thinking all the time that, if he fail to overreach his neighbor, that neighbor will overreach him. Who would live such a life when he can pass it in the fields with such a companion as my Grace?” The pleasures of London had only increased his thirst for the country life. Surely never was seen a swain more truly rustic in all his thoughts. The fine ladies at the play-house, with their painted fans, made him think of one who wore a russet frock in Somersetshire, and did not paint her sweet face — this was the way he talked. The plays they acted could never even be read, much less witnessed, by that dear girl — so full of wickedness they were. At the assemblies the ladies were jealous of each other, and had scornful looks when one seemed preferred; at the taverns the men drank and bellowed songs and quarreled; in the streets they fought and took the wall and swaggered; there was nothing but fighting among the baser sort, with horrid imprecations; at the coffee-house the politicians argued and quarreled. Nay, in the very churches the sermons were political arguments, and while the clergy- man read his discourse the gallants ogled the ladies. All this and more he told me. To hear my boy, one would think there was nothing in Lon- don but what was wicked and odious. No -doubt it is a wicked place, where many men live together; those who are wicked easily find each other out, and are encouraged in their wicked- ness. Yet there must be many honest and God-fearing per- sons, otherwise the judgment of Heaven would again fall upon that city as it did in the time of plague and in the Great Fire. 86 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. “ My pretty Puritan/ ’ said Robin, “ I am now come away from that place, and I hope never to see it again. Oh, native hills, I salute you! Oh, woods and meadows, I have returned, to wander again in your delightful shade !” Then, which was unusual in my boy, and would have better become Mr. Bos- corel or Humphrey, he began to repeat verses. I knew not that he had ever learned any: ' 4 As I range these spacious fields, Feast on all that Nature yields, Everything inspires delight, Charms my smell, my taste, my sight; Every rural sound I hear Soothes my soul and tunes my ear.” I do not know where Robin found these verses, but as he re- peated them, waving his arm around, I thought that Hum- phrey himself never made sweeter lines. He then told me how Humphrey would certainly become the most learned physician of the time, and that he was already master of a polite and dignified manner which would procure him the patronage of the great and the confidence of all. It was pleasant to hear him praise his cousin without jealousy or envy. To be sure, he knew not then — though afterward I told him — that Humphrey was his rival. Even had he known this, such was the candor of my Robin and the integrity of his soul that he would have praised him even more loudly. One must not repeat more of the kind and lovely things that the dear boy said while we strolled together by the brook-side. While we walked — ’twas in the forenoon, after Humphrey’s visit — Sir Christopher, his grandfather, in his best coat and his gold-laced hat, which he commonly kept for church, and ac- companied by madame, walked from the Manor House through the village till they came to our cottage. Then, with great ceremony, they entered. Sir Christopher bowing low and ma- dame dropping a deep courtesy to my mother, who sat humbly at her wheel. “ Madame/’ said Sir Christopher, “we would, with your permission, say a few words with the learned Doctor Eykin and yourself. ” My father, who had now returned and was in his room, came forth when he was called. His face had recovered some- thing of its serenity, but his eyes were still troubled. Madame sat down, but Sir Christopher and my father stood. “ Sir/’ said his honor, “ I will proceed straight to the point. My grandson desires to marry your daughter. Robin is a good FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 87 lad; not a scholar if you will; for his religion, the root of the matter, is in him; for the goodness of his heart, I will answer; for his habit of life, he hath, so far as we can learn, acquired no vile vices of the city — he doth neither drink nor gamble, nor waste his health and strength in riotous living; and for his means, they are my own. All that I have will be his. ’Tis no great estate, but ’twill serve him as it hath served me. Doctor Eykin, the boy’s mother and I have come to ask your daughter in marriage. We know her worth, and we are well satisfied that our boy hath made so good and wise a choice.” “ They were marrying and giving in marriage when the Flood came; they will be marrying and giving in marriage in the great day of the Lord, ” said my father. “ Yes, gossip; but that is no reason why they should not be marrying and giving in marriage . 99 “ You ask my consent?” said my father. “ This surprises me. The child is too young: she is not yet of marriageable o rrck 9 9 66 Husband, she is nigh upon her twentieth birthday!” “ I thought she had been but twelve or thereabouts! My consent? Why, Sir Christopher, in the eyes of the world this is a great condescension on your part to take a penniless girl. I looked, I suppose, to the marriage of my daughter some time — perhaps to a farmer— yes — yes, we are told that a virtuous woman hath a price far above rubies; and that it is she who buildeth up the house, and we are nowhere told that she must bring her husband a purse of gold. Sir Christopher, it would be the blackest ingratitude in us to deny you anything, even if this thing were against the mind of our daughter . 99 “ It is not — it is not,” said my mother. “ Wherefore, seeing that the young man is a good man as youths go, though in the matter of the syntax he hath yet much to learn; and that his heart is disposed toward religion, I am right glad that he should take our girl to wife.” “ Bravely said!” cried Sir Christopher. “ Hands upon it, man! And we will have a merry wedding. But to-day I bid you both to come and feast with us. We will have holiday and rejoicing.” “ Yes,” said my father, “ we will feast, though to-morrow comes the Deluge . 99 I know now what he meant, but at that time we knew not, and it seemed to his honor a poor way of rejoicing at the return of the boys and the betrothal of his daughter thus to be foretelling woes. “ The vision of the } dumb-line is before mine eyes,” my father went on. “ Is the and able to bear all this? We talk of feasting and of mar- 88 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. riages. Yet a few days, or perhaps already — But we will rejoice together, my old friend and benefactor; we will rejoice together.” With these words he turned and went back to his room, and, after some tears with my mother, madame went home and Sir Christopher with her. But in honor to the day he kept on his best coat. Robin suffered me to go home, but only that I might put on my best frock (I had but two) and make my hair straight, which had been blown into curls, as was the way with my hair. And then, learning from my mother with the utmost satisfac- tion what had passed, he led me by the hand, as if I were already his bride, and so to the Manor House, where first Sir Christopher saluted me with great kindness, calling me his dear granddaughter, and saying that next to Robin’s safe re- turn he asked for nothing more than to see me Robin’s wife. And madame kissed me, with tears in her eyes, and said that she could desire nothing better for her son, and that she was sure I should do my best endeavors to make the boy happy. Then Humphrey, as quietly as if he had not also asked me to be his wife, kissed my hand, and wished me joy; and Mr. Bos- corel also kissed me, and declared that Robin ought to be the . happiest dog on earth. And so we sat down to our feast. The conversation at dinner was graver than the occasion demanded; for though our travelers continually answered questions about the foreign lands and peoples they had seen, yet the subject returned always to the condition of the coun- try, and to what would happen. After dinner we sat in the garden, and the gentlemen began to talk of right Divine and of non-resistance — and here it seemed to me as if Mr. Boscorel was looking on as from an eminence apart; for when he had once stated the texts and arguments upon which the High Church party do most rely, he retired and made no further objections, listening in silence while my father held forth upon the duty of rising against wicked princes. At last, however, being challenged to reply by Humphrey, Mr. Boscorel then made answer: “ The doctrine that subjects may or may not rebel against their sovereign is one which I regard with interest so long as it remains a question of logic and argument only. Unfortunate- ly, the times are such that we may be called upon to make a practical application of it: in which case there may follow once more civil war, with hard knocks on both sides, and much loss of things temporal. Wherefore to my learned brother’s arguments, which I admit to be plausible, I will, for the pres- ent, offer no reply, except to pray Heaven that the occasion FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. 89 may not arise of converting a disputed doctrine into a rule of conduct.” Alas! even while he spoke the messenger was speeding swift- ly toward us who was to call upon all present to take a side. The question is now, I hope, decided forever; but -many men had first to die. It was not decided then, but three years later, when King William cut the knot, and, with the applause of the nation, pulled down his father-in-law and mounted the throne himself with his gracious consort. We are agreed, at last, that kings, like judges, generals, and all great officers of state, are to hold their offices in good behavior. If they enter into machinations against the liberty of the people and desert the national religion, they must descend and let another take their place. But before that right could be established for the country, streams of blood must first flow. While they talked, we —I mean madame, my mother, and myself — sat and listened. But my mind was full of another subject, and I heard but little of what was said, noting chiefly the fiery ardor of my father and the careless grace of Mr. Bos- corel. Presently my father, who was never easy in the company of Mr. Boscorel — {so oil and water will not agree to fill a cup in friendship) — and, besides, being anxious to rejoin the society of his books, arose and went away, and with him my mother — he, in his ragged cassock, who was a learned scholar: she, in her plain homespun, who was a gentlewoman by birth. Often had I thought of our poverty with bitterness. But now it was with a softened heart that I saw them walk side by side across the lawns. For now I understood plainly — and for the first time — how love can strengthen and console. My mother was poor but she was not therefore unhappy. Mr. Boscorel also rose and went away with Humphrey. They went to talk of things more interesting to the rector than the doctrine of non-resistance: of painting, namely, and statu- ary and models. And when we presently walked from the rectory gardens we heard a most gladsome scraping of fiddle- strings within, which showed that the worthy man was making the most of Humphrey^ return. When Sir Christopher had taken his pipe of tobacco he fell asleep. Bobin and I walked in the garden and renewed our vows. Needs must that I should tell him all that I had done or thought since he went away. As if the simple thoughts of a country maid should be of interest to a man! Yet he seemed pleased to question and to listen, and presently broke into a rapture, swearing that he was in love with an angel. Young 90 MR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. lovers may, it is feared, fall into grievous sin by permitting themselves these extravagances of speech and thought; yet it is hard to keep them sober, and besides (because every sin in man meeteth with its correspondent in woman), if the lover be extravagant, the maiden takes pleasure in his extravagance. To call a mortal, full of imperfections, an angel, is little short of blasphemy. Yet I heard it with, I confess, a secret pleas- ure. We know ourselves and the truth concerning ourselves; we do not deceive ourselves as to our imperfections; yet we are pleased that our lovers should so speak and think of us as if we were angels indeed. Eobin told me, presently ceasing his extravagances for awhile, that he was certain something violent was on foot. To be sure, everybody expected so much. He said, moreover, that he believed Humphrey had certain knowledge of what was going to happen; that before they left the Low Countries Humphrey had been present at a meeting of the exiles in Eot- terdam, where it was well known that Lord Argyll’s expedi- tion was resolved upon; that he had been much engaged in London after their return, and had paid many visits, the nat- ure of which he kept secret; and that on the road there was not a town and scarcely a village where Humphrey had not some one to visit. “ My dear,” he said, “ Humphrey is slight as to stature and strength, but he carries a stout heart. There is no man more bitter against the king than he, and none more able if his counsels were listened to. Monmouth, I am certain, purposes to head an expedition into England like that of Lord Argyll in Scotland. The history of England hath many instances of such successful attempts. King Stephen, King Henry IV., King Henry VII., are all examples. If Monmouth lands, Humphrey will join him, I am sure. And I, my dear — 99 He paused. “ And you too, Eobin? Oh! must you too go forth to fight? And yet, if the duke doth head a rising all the world would follow. Oh, to drive away the Papist king and restore our lib- erty!”^ 4 c My dear, I will do what my grandfather approves. If it be my duty to go, he will send me forth . 99 I had almost forgotten to say that madame took me to her own chamber, where she opened a box and pulled out a gold chain, very fine. This she hung about my neck, and bade me sit down, and gave me some sound advice, reminding me that woman was the weaker vessel, and should look to her husband not only to love and cherish her, but also to prevent her from FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 91 falling into certain grievous sins, as of temper, deceitfulness, vanity, and the like, to which the weaker nature is ever prone. Many other things she said, being a good and virtuous woman, but I pass them over. After supper we went again into the garden, the weather being warm and fine. The sun went down, but the sky was full of light, though it was past nine o’clock and time for me to go home and to bed. Yet he lingered. The birds had gone to sleep; there was no whisper of the wind; the village was in silence. And Robin was whispering in my ear. I remember — I remember the very tones of his voice, which was low and sweet. I remember the words he said: “ Sweet love! Sweet love! How could I live so long without thee?” I remember my swelling heart and my glowing cheeks. Oh, Robin — Robin! Oh, poor heart! poor maid! The memory of this one day was nearly all thou hadst to feed upon for so long — so long a time! CHAPTER XIV. Suddenly we heard footsteps, as of those who are running, and my father’s voice speaking loud. “ Sing, oh, daughter of Zion! Shout, oh, Israel! Be glad and rejoice with all the heart — !” “ Now, in the name of Heaven,” cried Sir Christopher, “ what meaneth this?” “ The arm of the Lord! The deliverance of Israel!” He burst upon us dragging a man with him by the arm. In the twilight I could only see, at first, that it was a broad, thickset man. But my father’s brave form looked taller as he waved his arms and cried aloud. Had he been clad in a sheep-skin he would have resembled one of those ancient prophets whose words were always in his mouth. “ Grood friend,” said Sir Christopher, “ what meaneth these cries? Whom have we here?” Then the man with my father stepped forward and took off his hat. Why, I knew him at once, though it was ten years since I had seen him last. ’Twas my brother Barnaby — none other — come home again. He was now a great strong man — a stouter have I never seen, though he was somewhat under the middle height, broad in the shoulders, and thick of chest. Beside him Robin, though reasonable in breadth, showed like a slender sapling. But he had still the same good-natured face, though now much broader. It needed no more than the first look to know my brother Barnaby again. 92 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. “ Barnaby,” I cried, “ Barnaby, hast thou forgotten me?^ I caught one of his great hands — never, surely, were there big- ger hands than Barnaby’s! “ Hast thou forgotten me?” “ Why,” he said, slowly — ’twas ever a boy slow of speech and of understanding — “belike, ’tis sister.” He kissed my forehead. “ It is sister,” he said, as if he were tasting a cup of ale and was pronouncing on its quality. “ How dost thou, sister? Bravely, I hope. Thou art grown, sister. I have seen my mother, and — and — she does bravely too; though I left her crying. ’Tis their way, the happier they be.” “ Barnaby?” said Sir Christopher, “is it thou, scapegrace? Where hast thou — But first tell us what has happened. Briefly, man.” “ In two words, sir: the Duke of Monmouth landed the day before yesterday at Lyme-Begis with my Lord Grey and a com- pany of a hundred — of whom I was one.” The duke had landed! Then what Robin expected had come to pass! and my brother Barnaby was with the insurgents! My heart beat fast. “ The Duke of Monmouth hath landed!” Sir Christopher repeated, and sat down again, as one who knows not what may be the meaning of the news. “ Ay, sir, the duke hath landed. We left Holland on the 24th of May, and we made the coast at Lyme at day-break on Thursday the 11th. ’Tis now, I take it, Saturday. The duke had with him on board ship Lord Grey, Mr. Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun, Mr. Hey wood Dare of Taunton — ” “I know the man,” said Sir Christopher, “for an impu- dent, loud-tongued fellow.” “ Perhaps he was, sir,” said Barnaby, gravely. “ Perhaps he was, but now — ” “ How ‘ was ’?” “He was shot on Thursday evening by Mr. Fletcher for offering him violence with a cane, and is now dead.” “ ’Tis a bad beginning. Go on, Barnaby.” “ The duke had also Mr. Ferguson, Colonel Venner, Mr. Chamberlain, and others whom I can not remember. First we set Mr. Dare and Mr. Chamberlain ashore at Seatown, whence they were to carry intelligence of the rising to the duke’s friends. The duke landed at seven o’clock with his company, in seven boats. First he fell on his knees and prayed aloud. Then he drew his sword, and we all marched after to the market-place, where he raised his flag and caused the declaration to be read. Here it is, your honor.” He FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 93 lugged out a copy of the declaration, which Sir Christopher put aside, saying that he would read it in the morning. 44 Then we tossed our hats and shouted, 4 A Monmouth! A Monmouth !' Sixty stout young fellows ^listed on the spot. Then we divided our forces, and began to land the cannon — four pretty pieces as you could wish to see — and the arms, of which I doubt if we have enough, and the powder — two hun- dred and fifty barrels. The duke lay on Thursday night at The George. Next day, before dawn, the country people began flocking in.” 44 What gentlemen have come in?” 44 I know not, sir — my duty was most of the day on board. In the evening I received leave to ride home, and, indeed. Sir Christopher, to carry the duke's declaration to yourself. And now we shall be well rid of the king, the Pope, and the devil!” 64 Because,” said my father, solemnly — 4 4 because with lies ye have made the hearts of the righteous sad whom I have not made sad.” 44 And what doest thou among this goodly company, friend Barnaby?'' 44 1 am to be a captain in one of the regiments,” said Bar- naby, grinning with pride; 44 though a sailor, yet can I fight with the best. My colonel is Mr. Holmes, and my major Mr. Parsons. On board the frigate I was master, and navigated her.” 44 There will be knocks, Barnaby; knocks, I doubt.” 44 By your honor's leave, I have been where knocks were* flying for ten years, and I will take my share, remembering still the treatment of my father and the poverty of my mother. ” 44 It is rebellion, Barnaby! — rebellion!” 44 Why, sir, Oliver Cromwell was a rebel. And your honor fought in the army of the Earl of Essex — and what was he but a rebel?” I wondered to hear my brother speak with so much boldness, who ten years before had bowed low and pulled his hair in pres- ence of his honor. Yet Sir Christopher seemed to take this boldness in good part. 44 Barnaby,” he said, 44 thou art a stout and proper lad, and I doubt not thy courage — nay, I see it in thy face, which hath % resolution in it, and yet is modest; no ruffier or boaster art thou, friend Barnaby. Yet — yet — if rebellion fail — even rebel- lion in a just cause — then those who rise lose their lives in vain, and the cause is lost, until better times. ” This he said as one who speaketh to himself. I saw him look upon his 94 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. grandson. “ The king is — a Papist,” he said, “ that is most true. A Papist should not be suffered to rule this country. And yet to rise in rebellion! Have a care, lad! What if the time be not yet ripe? How know we who will join the duke?” “ The people are flocking to his standard by thousands,” said Barnaby. “ When I rode away last night the duke's secretaries were writing down their names as fast as they could be entered; they were landing the arms and already exercising the recruits. And such a spirit they show, sir, it would do your heart good only once to witness!” Now, as I looked at Barnaby, I became aware that he was not only changed in appearance, but that he was also very finely dressed, namely, in a scarlet coat and a sword with a silken sash, with laced ruffles, a gold-laced hat, a great wig, white breeches, and a flowered waistcoat. In the light of day, as I afterward discovered, there were stains of wine visible upon the coat, and the ruffles were torn, and the waistcoat had marks upon it as of tar. One doth not, to be sure, expect in the sailing-master of a frigate the same neatness as in a gallant of St. James's. Yet our runaway lad must have prospered. “ What doth the duke intend?” Sir Christopher asked him. “ Indeed, sir, I know not. 'Tis said by some that he will raise the West Country; and by some that he will march north into Cheshire, where he hath many friends; and by others that he will march upon London, and call upon all good Protestants to rise and join him. We look to have an army of twenty thousand within a week. As for the king, it is doubted whether he can raise a paltry five thousand to meet us. Courage, dad ” — he dared to call his father, the Rev. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, “ dad!” — and he clapped him lustily upon the shoulder; “ thou shalt mount the pulpit yet; ay, of West- minster Abbey if it so please you!” His father paid no heed to this conversation, being wrapped in his own thoughts. 6 4 1 know not,” said Sir Christopher, “ what to think. The news is sudden. And yet — and yet — ” “ We waste time,” cried my father, stamping his foot. “ Oh, we waste the time talking. What helps it to talk? Every honest man must now be up and doing. Why, it is a plain duty laid upon us. The finger of Heaven is visible, I say, in this. Out of the very sins of Charles Stuart hath the instrument for the destruction of his race been forged. A plain duty, I say. As for me, I must preach and ex- hort. As for my son, who was dead and yet liveth ” — he laid his hand upon Barnaby 's shoulder — “ time was when I EOR FAITH AtfD FREEDOM. prayed that he might become a godly ministe? of God’s Word. Now I perceive clearly that the Lord hath ways of His own. My son shall fight and I shall preach. Perhaps he will rise and become another Cromwell!” Barnaby grinned. “ Sir/’ said my father, turning hotly upon his honor, “ I perceive that thou art lukewarm. If the cause be the Lord’s, what matter for the chances? The issue is in the hands of the Lord. As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord. Yea, I freely offer myself and my son and my wife and my daughter — even my tender daughter — to the cause of the Lord. Young men and maidens, old men and children, the voice of the Lord calleth!” Nobody made reply; my father looked before him as if he saw in the twilight of the summer night a vision of what was to follow. His face, as he gazed, changed; his eyes, which were fierce and fiery, softened; his lips smiled. Then he turned his face and looked upon each of us in turn — upon his son and upon his wife and upon me, upon Robin and upon Sir Christopher. “ It is, indeed,” he said, “ the will of the Lord. Why, what though the end be violent death to me, and to all of us ruin and disaster? We do but share the afflictions fore- told in the Vision of the Basket of Summer Fruit. What is death? What is the loss of earthly things compared with what shall follow to those who obey the voice that calls? Children, let us up and be doing. As for me, I shall have a season of freedom before I die. For twenty-five years have I been muz- zled, or compelled to whisper and mutter in corners and hid- , ing-places. I have been a dumb dog. I, whose heart was full and overflowing with the sweet and precious Word of God; I, to whom it is not life but death to sit in silence! Now I shall deliver my soul before I die. Sirs, the Lord hath given to every man a weapon or two with which to fight. To me he hath given an eye and a tongue for discoursing and proclaim- ing the word of sacred doctrine. I have been muzzled — a dumb dog — though sometimes I have been forced to climb among the hills and speak to the bending tree-tops. Now I shall be free again, and I will speak, and all the ends of the earth shall hear. ” His eyes gleamed, and he panted and gasped, and waved his arms. “ As for sister, dad,” said Barnaby, “ she and mother may bide at home.” “ No; they shall go with me. I offer my wife, my son, my daughter, and myself to the cause of the Lord.” u A camp is but a rough place for a woman,” said Barnaby. 8 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. “ She is offered; she is dedicated; she shall go with us . 99 I know not what was in his mind, or why he wished that I should go with him, unless it was a desire to give everything that he had — to hold back nothing — to the Lord; therefore he would give his children as well as himself. As for me, my heart glowed to think that I was even worthy to join in such a cause. What could a woman do? But that I should find out. “ Robin, ” I whispered, “ Tis Religion calls. If I am to be among the followers of the duke-, thou wilt not remain behind?” “ Child 99 — it was my mother who whispered to me; I had not seen her coming — “ child, let us obey him. Perhaps it will be better for him if we are at his side. And there is Bar- naby. But we must not be in their way. We shall find a place to sit and wait. Alas, that my son hath returned to us only to go fighting! We will go with them, daughter.” “We should be better without women,” said Barnaby, grumbling; “ I would as lief have a woman on shipboard as in the camp. To be sure, if he has set his heart upon it — but then, he will not stay long in camp, where the cursing of the men is already loud enough to scare a preacher out of his cas- sock. Dad, 1 say — 99 But my father was fallen again into a kind of rapture, and heard nothing. “ When doth the duke begin his march?” he said, suddenly. “ I know not; but we shall find him, never fear.” “ I must have speech with him at the earliest possible time. Hours are precious, and we waste them — we waste them . 9 9 “ Well, sir, it is bed-time. To-morrow we can ride — unless, because it is the Sabbath, you would choose to wait till Mon- day. And as to the women, by your leave, it is madness to bring them to a camp.” “Wait till Monday! are thou mad, Barnaby? Why, I have things to tell the duke. Up! let us ride all night. To-mor- row is the Sabbath, and I will preach; yea, I will preach. My soul longeth — yea, even it fainteth — for the courts of the Lord. Quick! quick! let us mount and ride all night.” At this moment Humphrey joined us. “Lads,” said Sir Christopher, “you are fresh from Hol- land. Knew you aught of this?” “ Sir,” said Humphrey, “ I have already told Doctor Eykin what to expect. I knew that the duke was coming. Robin did not know, because I would not drag him into the con- spiracy. I knew that the duke was coming, and that without delay. I have myself had speech in Amsterdam with his grace, who comes to restore the Protestant religion and to give freedom of worship to all good Protestant people. His friends FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 9 ? have promises of support everywhere. Indeed, sir, I think that the expedition is well planned, and is certain of support. Suc- cess is in the hands of the Lord; but we do not expect that there will be any serious opposition. With submission, sir, I am under promise to join the duke. I came over in advance to warn his friends, as I rode from London, of his approach. Thousands are waiting in readiness for him. But, sir, of all this, I repeat, Robin knew nothing. I have been for three months in the councils of those who desire to drive forth the Popish king, but Robin have I kept in the dark.” “ Humphrey,” said Robin, “ am not I a Protestant?” CHAPTER XY. A NIGHT AND MORNING AT LYME-REGIS. When I read of men possessed by some spirit — that is to say, compelled to go hither and thither where, but for the spirit, they would not go, and to say things which they would not otherwise have said — I think of our midnight ride to Lyme, and of my father then, and of the three weeks' madness which followed. It was some spirit — whether of good or evil I can not say, and I dare not so much as to question — which seized him. That he hurried away to join the duke on the first news of his landing, without counting the cost or weighing the chances, is easy to be understood. Like Humphrey, he was led by his knowledge of the great numbers who hated the Catholic religion to believe that they, like himself, would rise with one accord. He also remembered the successful rebellion against the first Charles, and expected nothing less than a repetition of that success. This I knew was what the exiles in • Holland thought and believed. The duke, they said, was the darling of the people; he was the Protestant champion; who would not press forward when he should draw the sword? But what man in his sober senses would have dragged his wife and daughter with him to the godless riot of a camp? Perhaps he wanted them to share his triumph, to listen while he moved the soldiers as that ancient hermit -Peter moved the people to the Holy Wars? But I know not. He said that I was to be, like Jephthah's daughter, consecrated to the cause of the Lord; and what he meant by that I never understood. He was so eager to start upon the journey that he would not wait a moment. The horses must be saddled; we must mount and away. Note that they were Sir Christopher's horses which we borrowed; this also was noted afterward for the ruin 98 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. of that good old man, with other particulars; as that Mon- mouth's Declaration was found in the house (Barnaby brought it); one of Monmouth's captains, Barnaby Eykin by name, had ridden from Lynne to Bradford in order to see him; he was a friend of the preacher Dr. Eykin; he was grandfather to one of the rebels and grand-uncle to another; with many other things. But these were enough. “ Surely, surely, friend," said Sir Christopher, “ thou wilt not take wife and daughter? They can not help the cause; they have no place in a camp. " “ Young men and maidens: one with another. Quick! we waste the time. " “ And to ride all night, consider, man — all night long!" “ What is a night? They will have all eternity to rest in." “ He hath set his heart upon it," said my mother. “ Let us go; a night's weariness will not do much harm. Let us go. Sir Christopher, without further parley." “ Go, then, in the name of God," said the old man. “ Child, give me a kiss." He took me in his arms and kissed me on the forehead. “ Thou art, then," he said, tenderly, “devoted to the Protestant cause. Why, thou art already promised to a Protestant since this morning; forget not that promise, child. Humphrey and Barnaby will protect thee — and—" “ Sir," said Robin, “ by your leave, I alone have the right to go with her and to protect her." 66 Nay, Robin," I said, “stay here until Sir Christopher himself bids thee go. That will be very soon. Remember thy promise. We did not know, Robin, an hour ago that the promise would be claimed so soon. Robin " — for he mur- mured — “ I charge thee, remain at home until — " “ I promise thee, sweetheart." But he hung his head and looked ashamed. Sir Christopher, holding my hand, stepped forth upon the grass and looked upward into the clear sky, where in the trans- parent twilight we could see a few stars twinkling. “ This, friend Eykin — this, Humphrey," he said, gravely, “is a solemn night for all. No more fateful day hath ever come to any of us; no! not that day when I joined Hampden's new regiment and followed with the army of Lord Essex. Granted that we have a righteous cause, we know not that our leader hath in him the root of the matter. To rise against the king is a most weighty matter — fatal if it fail, a dangerous precedent if it succeed. Civil war is, of all wars, the most grievous; to fight under a leader who doth not live after the FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 99 laws of God, methinks, most dangerous. The duke hath lighted a torch which will spread flames everywhere — " “ It is the voice of the Lord which calleth us!” my father interrupted. “ To-morrow I shall speak again to God's elect." “ Sir," said Humphrey, very seriously, “ I pray you think not that this enterprise hath been rashly entered upon, nor that we depend upon the judgment of the duke alone. It is unhappily true that his life is sinful, and so is that of Lord Grey, who hath deserted his lawful wife for her sister. But those who have pushed on the enterprise consider that the duke is at least a true Protestant. They have, moreover, received solid assurances of support from every quarter. You have been kept in the dark from the beginning at my own earnest request, because, though I knew full well your opinion, I would not trouble your peace or endanger your person. Suffer us, then, to depart, and, for yourself, do nothing; and keep — oh! sir, I entreat you — keep Robin at home until our success leaves no room for doubt." “ Go, then — go," said Sir Christopher. “ I have grievous misgivings that all is not well. But go, and Heaven bless the cause!" Robin kissed me, whispering that he would follow, and that before many days; and so we mounted and rode forth. In such hot haste did we depart that we took with us no change of raiment or any provision for the journey at all, save that Barnaby, who, as I afterward found, never forgot the pro- visions, found time to get together a small parcel of bread and meat, and a flask of Malmsey, with which to refresh our spirits later on. We even rode away without any money. My father rode one horse and my mother sat behind him; then I followed, Barnaby marching manfully beside me, and Humphrey rode last. The ways are rough, so that those who ride, even by daylight, go but slowly; and we, riding between high hedges, went much too slowly for my father, who, if he spoke at all, cried out impatiently, 6 Quicker! quicker! we lose the time." He sat bending over the horse's head, with rounded shoul- ders, his feet sticking out on either side, his long white hair and his ragged cassock floating in the wind. In his left hand he carried his Bible as a soldier carries his sword; on his head he wore the black silk cap in which he daily sat at work. He was praying and meditating; he was preparing the sermon which he would deliver in the morning. Barnaby plodded on beside me; night or day made no differ 100 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ence to him. He slept when he could, and worked when he must. Sailors keep their watch day and night without any difference. “It was Sir Christopher that I came after,” he told me presently. “ Mr. Dare — who hath since been killed by Mr. Fletcher — told the duke that if Sir Christopher Challis would only come into camp, old as he is, the country gentlemen of his opinions would follow to a man, so respected is he. Well, he will not. But we have his nephew, Humphrey; and, if I mistake not, we shall have his grandson — if kisses mean any- thing. So Bobin is thy sweetheart, sister ; thou art indeed a lucky girl. And we shall have dad to preach. Well, I know not what will happen, but some will be knocked o' the head, and if dad goes in the way of knocks — But whatever hap- pens, he will get his tongue again — and so he will be happy. ” “ As for preaching,” he went on, speaking with due pauses, because there was no hurry, and he was never one of those whose words flow easily, “ if he thinks to preach daily, as they say was done in Cromwell's time, I doubt if he will find many to listen, for by the look of the fellows who are crowding into camp they will love the clinking of the can better than the division of the text. But if he cause his friends to join, he will be welcomed; and for devoting his wife and daughter, that, sister, with submission, is rank nonsense, and the sooner you get out of the camp, if you must go there, the better. Women aboard ship are bad enough, but in camp they are the devil!” “ Barnaby, speak not lightly of the Evil One.” “Where shall we bestow you when the fighting comes? Well, it shall be in some safe place.” “ Oh, Barnaby! will there be fighting?” “ Good lack, child! what else will there be?” “ As the walls of Jericho fell down at the blast of the trum- pet, so the king’s armies will be dispersed at the approach of the Lord's soldiers. ” “ That was a long time ago, sister. There is now no trum- pet-work employed in war, and no priests on the march, but S lenty of fighting to be done before anything is accomplished. >ut have no fear. The country is rising. They are sick at heart already of a Popish king. I say not that it will be easy work; but it can be done, and it will be done, before we all sit down again.” “ And what will happen when it is done?” “ Truly, I know not. When one king is sent a-packing, they put up another, I suppose. My father shall have the FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 101 biggest church in the country to preach in; Humphrey will he made physician to the new king — nothing less; you shall marry Bobin, and he shall be made a duke or a lord at least; and I shall have command of the biggest ship in the king’s navy, and go to fight the Spaniards, or to trade for negroes on the Guinea coast.” “ And suppose the duke should be defeated?” “ Well, sister, if he is defeated it will go hard with all of us. Those who are caught will be stabbed with a Bridport dagger, as they say. Ask not such a question; as well ask a sailor what will happen to him if his ship is cast away. Some may escape in boats and some by swimming, and some are drowned, and some are cast upon savage shores. Every man must take his chance. Never again ask such a question. Nevertheless, I fear my father will get his neck as far in the noose as I my- self. But remember, sister, do you and my mother keep snug. Let others carry on the rebellion; do you keep snug. For d’ye see, a man takes his chance, and if there should happen a defeat and the rout of these country lads, I could e’en scud myself before the gale, and maybe get to a seaport, and so aboard and away while the chase was hot. But for a woman — keep snug, I say, therefore. ” The night, happily, was clear and fine. A slight breeze was blowing from the north-west, which made one shiver, yet it was not too cold. I heard the screech-owl once or twice, which caused me to tremble more than the cold. The road, when we left the highway, which is not often mended in these parts, be- came a narrow lane full of holes and deep ruts, or else a track across open country. But Barnaby knew the way. It was about ten of the clock when we began our journey, and it was six in the morning when we finished it. I suppose there are few women who can boast of having taken so long a ride and in the night. Yet, strange to say, I felt no desire to sleep; nor was I wearied with the jogging of the horse, but was sustained by something of the spirit of my father. A wonder- ful thing it seemed to me that a simple country maid, such as myself, should help in putting down the Catholic king; women there have been who have played great parts in history — Jael, Deborah, Judith, and Esther, for example; but that I should be called (since then I have discovered that I was not called), this, indeed, seemed truly wonderful. Then I was go- ing forth to witness the* array of a gallant army about to fight for freedom and for religion, just as they were arrayed forty years before, when Sir Christopher was a young man and rode among them. 102 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. My brother, this stout Barnaby, was one of them; my father was one of them; Humphrey was one of them; and in a little while I was very sure (because Robin would feel no peace of mind if I was with the insurgents and he was still at home) my lover would be with them too. And I pictured to myself a holy and serious camp, filled with godly sober soldiers listening to sermons and reading the Bible, going forth to battle with hymns upon their lips, and withal so valiant that at their very first onset the battalions of the king would be shattered. Alas! any one may guess the foolish thoughts of a girl who had no knowledge of the world nor any experience. Yet all my life I had been taught that resistance was at times a sacred duty, and that the Divine Right of the (so-called) Lord's anointed was a vain superstition. So far, therefore, was I better pre- pared than most women for the work in hand. When we rode through Sherborne all the folk were abed and the streets were empty. From Sherborne our way lay through Yetminster and Evershott to Beaminster, where we watered and rested the horses, and took some of Barnaby's provisions. The country through which we rode was full of memories of the last great war. The castle of Sherborne was twice be- sieged; once by Lord Bedford, when the Marquis of Hertford held it for the king. That siege was raised; but it was after- ward taken by Fairfax with its garrison of six hundred soldiers, and was then destroyed, so that it is now a heap of ruins; and as for Beaminster, the town hath never recovered from the great fire when Prince Maurice held it, and it is still half in ruins, though the ivy hath grown over the blackened walls of the burned houses. The last great war, of which I had heard so much! And now, perhaps we were about to begin another. It was two o'clock in the morning when we dismounted at Beaminster. My mother sat down upon a bench and fell in- stantly asleep. My father walked up and down impatiently, as grudging every minute. Barnaby, for his part, made a leisurely and comfortable meal, eating liis bread and meat — of which I had some — and drinking his Malmsey with relish, as if we were on a journey of pleasure and there was plenty of time for leisurely feeding. Presently he arose with a sigh (the food and wine being all gone), and said that the horses being now rested, we might proceed. So he lifted my mother into her seat and we went on with the journey, the day now break- ing. The way, I say, was never tedious to me, for I was sustained by the novelty and the strangeness of the thing. Although I had a thousand things to ask Barnaby, it must be confessed FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 103 that for one who had traveled so far he had marvelous little to tell. I dare say that the deck and cabins of a ship are much the same whether she be on the Spanish Main or in the British Channel* and sailors, even in port, are never an observant race, except of weather and so forth. It was strange, how- ever, only to look upon him and to mark how stout a man he was grown and how strong, and yet how he still spoke like the old Barnaby, so good-natured and so dull with his book, who was daily flogged for his Latin grammar, and bore no malice, but prepared himself to enjoy the present when the flogging was over, and not to anticipate the certain repetition of the flogging on the morrow. He spoke in the same slow way, as if speech were a thing too precious to be poured out quickly; and there was always sense in what he said (Barnaby was only stupid in the matter of syntax), though he gave me not such answers as I could have wished. However, he confessed, little by little, something of his history and adventures. When he ran away, it was, as we thought, to the port of Bris- tol, where he presently found a berth as cabin-boy on board a West Indiaman. In this enviable post — everybody on board has a cuff or a kick or a rope Vend for the boy — he continued for some time. “ But/* said Barnaby, “ you are not to think that the rope Vend was half so bad as my father’s rod; nor the captain’s oath so bad as my father’s rebuke; nor the rough work and hard fare so bad as the Latin syntax.” Being so strong, and a hearty, willing lad to boot, he was quickly pro- moted to be an able seaman, when there were no more ropeV endings for him. Then, having an ambition above his station, and not liking his rude and ignorant companions of the fo’k’sle (which is the fore part of a ship, where the common sailors sleep and eat), and being so fortunate as to win the good graces of the supercargo first and of the captain next, he applied his leisure time (when he had any leisure) to the method of taking observations, of calculating longitudes and latitudes, his knowl- edge of arithmetic having fortunately stuck in his mind longer than that of Latin. These things, I understand, are of the greatest use to a sailor and necessary to an officer. Armed with this knowledge, and the recommendation of his superiors, Barnaby was promoted from before the mast and became what they call a mate, and so rose by degrees, until he was at last second captain. But by this time he had made many voyages to the West Indies, to New York and Baltimore, and to the West Coast of Africa, in the service of his owners, and, I dare say, had procured much wealth for them, though but little for himself. And being at Rotterdam upon his owners* busi- 104 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. ness, he was easily persuaded — being always a stout Protestant, and desirous to strike a blow in revenge for the ejection of his father — to engage as second captain on board the frigate which brought over the Duke of Monmouth and his company, and then to join him on his landing. This was the sum of what he had to tell me. He had seen many strange people, wonderful things, and monsters of the deep; Indians, whom the cruelty and avarice of the Spaniards have well-nigh de- stroyed, the sugar plantations in the islands, negro slaves, negroes free in their own country, sharks and calamaries, of which I had heard and read — he had seen all these things, and still remained (in his mind, I mean) as if he had seen nothing. So wonderfully made are some men’s minds that whatever they see they are in no way moved. I say, then, that Barnaby answered my questions, as we rode along, briefly, and as if such matters troubled him not. When I asked him, for example, how the poor miserable slaves liked being captured and sold and put on board ship crowded to- gether for so long a voyage, Barnaby replied that he did not know, his business being to buy them and carry them across the water, and if they rebelled on board ship to shoot them down or flog them; and when they got to Jamaica to sell them; where, if they would not work, they would be flogged until they came to a better mind. If a man was born a negro. What else, he asked, could he expect? There was one question which I greatly desired to ask him, but dared not. It concerned the welfare of his soul. Pres- ently, however, Barnaby answered that question before I put it. “ Sister,” he said, “my mother’s constant affliction con- cerning me, before I ran away, was as to the salvation of my soul. And truly, that seems to me so difficult a thing to com- pass (like navigation to an unknown port over an unknown sea set everywhere with hidden rocks and liable to sudden gusts) that I can not understand how a plain man can ever succeed in it. Wherefore it comforted me mightily after I got to sea to learn on good authority that there is another way, which, com- pared with my father’s, is light and easy. In short, sister, though he knows it not, there is one religion for lands-folk and another for sailor-folk. A sailor (everybody knows) can not get so much as a sail bent without cursing and swearing — this, which is desperately wicked ashore, counts for nothing at all afloat; and so with many other things; and the long and the short of it is that if a sailor does his duty, lights his ship like a man, is true to his owners, and faithful to his messmates, it FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 105 matters not one straw whether he hath daily sworn great oaths, drunk himself (whenever he went ashore) as helpless as a log, and kissed a pretty girl whenever his good-luck gave him the chance — which does, indeed, seldom come to most sailors " — he added this with a deep sigh — “ I say, sister, that for such a sailor, when his ship goes down with him, or when he gets a grape-shot through his vitals, or when he dies of fever, as hap- pens often enough in the hot climates, there is no question as to the safety of his soul, but he goes straight to heaven. What he is ordered to do when he get there , 99 said Barnaby, “ I can hot sav; but it will be something, I doubt not, that a sailor will like to do. Wherefore, sister, you can set my mother's heart — poor soul! — quite at rest on this important matter. You can tell her that you have conversed with me, and that I have that very same inward assurance of which my father speaks so much and at such length. The very same assurance it is — tell her that. And beg her to ask me no questions upon the matter . 99 “ Well, Barnaby; but art thou sure — 99 “ It is a heavenly comfort," he replied, before I had time to finish, “ to have such an assurance. For why? A man that hath it doth never more trouble himself about what shall hap- pen to him after he is dead. Therefore he goes about his duty with an easy mind; and so, sister, no more upon this head if you love me and desire peace of mind for my mother . 99 So nothing more was said upon that subject then or after- ward. A sailor to be exempted by right of his calling from the religion of the landsman! 'Tis a strange and dangerous doctrine. But if all sailors believe it, yet how can it be? This question, I confess, is too high for me. And as for my moth- er, I gave her Barnaby 's message, begging her at the same time not to question him further. And she sighed, but obeyed. Presently Barnaby asked me if we had any money. I had none, and I knew that my mother could have but lit- tle. Of course my father never had any. I doubt if he had possessed a single penny since his ejection. “ Well," said Barnaby, “ I thought to give my money to mother. But I now perceive that if she has it she will give it to dad; and if he has it, he will give it all to the duke for the cause — wherefore, sister, do you take it and keep it, not for me, but to be expended as seemeth you best." He lugged out of his pocket a heavy bag. “ Here is all the money I have saved in ten years. Nay, I am not as some sailors, one that can not keep a penny in purse, but must needs fling all away. Here are two hundred and fifty gold pieces. Take them, sis- 106 FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. ter. Hang the bag round thy neck, and never part with it, day or night. And say nothing about the money either to mother or to dad, for he will assuredly do with it as I have said. A time may come when thou wilt want it. ” Two hundred and fifty gold pieces! Was it possible that Barnaby could be so rich? I took the bag and hung it round my waist — not my neck — by the string which he had tied about the neck, and as it was covered by my mantle, nobody ever suspected that I had this treasure. In the end, as you shall hear, it was useful. It was now broad daylight, and the sun was up. As we drew near Bridport there stood a man in the road, armed with a halberd. “ Whither go ye, good people?” he asked. “ Friend,” said Barnaby, flourishing his oaken staff, 66 we ride upon our own business. Stand aside, or thou mayest henceforth have no more business to do upon this earth!” “ Bide on, then — ride on,” he replied, standing aside with great meekness. This was one of the guards whom they posted everywhere upon the roads in order to stop the people who were flocking to the camp. In this way many were sent back, and many were arrested on their way to join Monmouth. Now, as we drew near to Bridport, the time being about four o’clock, we heard the firing of guns and a great shouting. “ They have begun the fighting,” said Barnaby. “ I knew it would not be long a-coming. It was, in fact, their first engagement, when the Dorsetshire Militia were driven out of Bridport by the duke’s troops, and there would have been a signal victory at the very outset but for the cowardice of Lord Grey, who ran away with the horse. Well, it was a strange and a wonderful thing to think that close at hand were men killing each other on the Sabbath; yea, and some lying wounded on the roads; and that civil war had again begun. “ Let us push on,” said Humphrey, “ out of the way of these troops. They are but country lads all of them. If they retreat they will run; and if they run they will be seized with a panic, and will run all the way back to Lyme, trampling on everything that is in the road.” This was most excellent advice, which we followed, taking an upper track which brought us into the high-road a mile or so nearer Oharmouth. 1 do not think there can be anywhere a finer road than that which runs from Oharmouth to Lyme. It runneth over high bids sometimes above the se(i which rolls far below, and some* FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 107 times above a great level inland plain, the name of which I have forgotten. The highest of the hills is called Golden Cap; the reason why was plainly shown this morning when the sky was clear and the sun was shining from the south-east full upon this tall pico. When we got into this road we found it full of young fellows, lusty and well-conditioned, all marching, run- ning, walking, shouting, and singing on their way to join Mon- mouth. Some were adorned with dowers, some wore the blue favor of the duke, some had cockades in their hats, and some again were armed with musket or with sword; some carried pikes, some knives tied on to long poles, some had nothing but thick cudgels, which they brandished valiantly. At sight of these brave fellows my father lifted his head and waved his hand, crying, 66 A Monmouth! a Monmouth! Follow me, brave lads!” — just as if he had been a captain encouraging his men to charge. The church of Lyme standeth high upon the cliff which faces the sea; it is on the eastern side of the town, and before you get to the church, on the way from Charmouth, there is a broad field also on the edge of the cliff. It was this field that was the first camp of Monmouth's men. There were no tents for the men to lie in, but there were wagons filled, I suppose, with munitions of war; there were booths where things were sold, such as hot sausages fried over a charcoal fire, fried fish, lobsters, and periwinkles, cold bacon and pork, bread, cheese, and such like, and barrels of beer and cider on wooden trestles. The men were haggling for the food and drink, and already one or two seemed fuddled. Some were exercising in the use of arms; some were dancing, and some singing. And no thought or respect paid at all to the Sabbath. Oh, was this the pious and godly camp which I had expected? “ Sister," said Barnaby , 66 this is a godly and religious place to which the wisdom of dad hath brought thee. Perhaps he meaneth thee to lie in the open like the lads." “ Where is the duke?" asked my father, looking wrathfully at these revelers and Sabbath-breakers. “ The duke lies at the George Inn," said Barnaby. “ I will show the way." In the blue parlor of the George the duke was at that time holding a council. There were different reports as to the Brid- port affair. Already it was said that Lord Grey was unfit to lead the horse, having been the first to run away; and some said that the militia were driven out of the town in a panic, and some that they made a stand and that our men had fled. I know not what was the truth, and now it matters little, ex- 108 FOR FAITH AtfD FREEDOM. cept that the first action of our men brought them little honor. When the council was finished, the duke sent word that he would receive Dr. Challis (that was Humphrey) and Dr. Com- fort Eykin. So they were introduced to the presence of his grace, and first my father — as Humphrey told me — fell into a kind of ecstasy, praising God for the landing of the duke, and fore- telling such speedy victory as would lay the enemies of the country at his feet. He then drew forth a roll of paper in which he had set down, for the information of the duke, the estimated number of the disaffected in every town of the south and west of England, with the names of such as could be trusted not only to risk their own bodies and estates in the cause, but would stir up and encourage their friends. There were so many on these lists that the duke's eyes brightened as he read them. “ Sir," he said, “ if these reports can be depended upon, we are indeed made men. What is your opinion. Doctor Challis?" “ My opinion, sir, is that these are the names of friends and well-wishers; if they see your grace well supported at the out- set, they will flock in; if not, many of them will stand aloof." “ Will Sir Christopher join me?" asked the duke. “ No, sir; he is now seventy-five years of age." The duke turned away. Presently he turned to the lists, and asked many more questions. 66 Sir," said my father, at length, “ I have given you the names of all that I know who are well affected to the Protestant cause; they are those who have remained faithful to the ejected ministers. Many a time have I secretly preached to them. One thing is wanting; the assurance that your grace will be- stow upon us liberty of conscience and freedom of worship; else will not one move hand or foot. " “ Why," said the duke, “ for what other purpose am I come? Assure them, good friend — assure them in my name; make the most solemn pledge that is in your power and in mine." “ In that case, sir," said my father, “ I will at once write letters with my own hand to the brethren everywhere. There are many honest country lads who will carry the letters by ways where they are not likely to be arrested and searched. And now, sir, I pray your leave to preach to these your soldiers. They are at present drinking, swearing, and breaking the Sab- bath. The campaign, which should be begun with prayer and humiliation for the sins of the country, hath been begun with FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 109 many deadly sins, with merriment, and with fooling. Suffer me, "then, to preach to them. ” “ Preach, by all means,” said the duke. “ You shall have the parish church. I fear, sir, that my business will not suffer me to have the edification of your sermon, but I hope that it will tend to the soberness and earnestness of my men. For- give them, sir, for their lightness of heart. They are for the most part young. Encourage them by promises rather than by rebuke. And so, sir, for this occasion, farewell!” In this way my father obtained the wish of his heart, and preached once more in a church before the people, who were the young soldiers of Monmouth’s army. I did not hear that sermon, because I was asleep. It was in tones of thunder that my father preached to them. He spoke of the old war, and the brave deeds that their fathers had done under Cromwell; theirs was the victory. Now, as then, the victory should be theirs, if they carried the spirit of faithful- ness into battle. He warned them of their sins, sparing none; and, in the end, he concluded with such a denunciation of the king as made all who heard it, and had been taught to regard the king's majesty as sacred, open their mouths and gape upon each other; for then, for the first time, they truly understood what it was that they were engaged to do. While my father waited to see the duke, Barnaby went about looking for a lodging. The town is small, and the houses were all filled, but he presently found a cottage (call it rather a hut) on the shore beside the Cobb, where, on promise of an ex- travagant payment, the fisherman’s wife consented to give up her bed to my mother and myself. Before the bargain was concluded, I had laid myself down upon it and was sound asleep. So I slept the whole day, though outside there was such a trampling on the beach, such a landing of stores and creaking of chains, as might have awakened the Seven Sleepers. But me nothing could awaken. In the evening I woke up refreshed. My mother was already awake, but for weariness could not move out of her chair. The good, woman of the cottage, a kindly soul, brought me rough food of some kind with a drink of water — the army had drunk up all the milk, eaten all the cheese, the butter, the eggs, and the pork, beef, and mutton in the place. And then Humphrey came and asked if I would go with him into the town to see the soldiers. So I went, and glad I was to see the sight. But, Lord! to think that it was the Sabbath evening; for the main street of Lyme was full of men swaggering with lit) FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. long swords at their sides, and some with spears — feathers hi their hats and pistols stuck in their belts— all were talking loud, as, I am told, is the custom in a camp of soldiers. Out- side the George there was a barrel on a stand, and venders and drawers ran about with cans fetching and carrying the liquor for which the men continually called. Then at the door of the George there appeared the duke himself, with his follow- ing of gentlemen. All rose and huzzahed while the duke came down the steps and turned toward the camp outside the town. I saw his face very well as he passed. Indeed, I saw him many times afterward, and I declare that my heart sunk when first I gazed upon him as he stood upon the steps of the George Inn. For on his face, plain to read, was the sadness of coming ruin. I say I knew from that moment what would be his end. Nay, I am no prophetess, nor am I a witch, to know beforehand the counsels of the Almighty; yet the Lord hath permitted by certain signs the future to become apparent to those who know how to read them. In the Duke of Mon- mouth the signs were a restless and uneasy eye, an air of pre- occupation, a trembling mouth, and a hesitating manner. There was in him nothing of the confidence of one who knows that fortune is about to smile upon him. This, I say, was my first thought about the duke, and the first thought is prophecy. There sat beside the benches a secretary, or clerk, who took down the names of recruits. The duke stopped and looked on. A young man in a sober suit of brown, in appearance different from the country lads, was giving in his name. “ Daniel Foe, your grace,” said the clerk, looking up. “ He is from London.” “ From London,” the duke repeated. “ I have many friends in London. I expect them shortly. Thou art a worthy lad, and deservest encouragement. ” So he passed on his way. CHAPTER XVI. ON THE MARCH. At daybreak next morning the drums began to beat and the trumpets were blown, and after breakfast the newly raised army marched out in such order as was possible. I have not to write a history of this rebellion, which hath already been done by able hands; I speak only of what I saw, and the things with which I was concerned. First, then, it is true that the whole country was quickly put FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. Ill into a ferment by the duke*s landing; and had those who planned the expedition provided a proper supply of arms, the army would have quickly mustered twenty thousand men, all resolute and capable of meeting any force that the king could have raised. Nay, it would have grown and swelled as it moved. But there were not enough arms. Everything prom- ised well for him — but there were no arms for half those who came in. The spirit of the Devon and Somerset militia was lukewarm; they ran at Bridport, at Axminster, and at Chard; nay, some of them even deserted to join the duke. There were thousands scattered about the country — those, namely, who still held to the doctrines of the persecuted ministers, and those who abhorred the Catholic religion — who wished well and would have joined — Humphrey knew well-wishers by the thou- sand whose names were on the lists in Holland — but how could they join when the army was so ill-found? And this was the principal reason, I am assured, why the country gentlemen did not come in at first — because there were no arms. How can soldiers fight when they have no arms? How could the duke have been suffered to begin with so scanty a preparation of arms? Afterward, when Monmouth proclaimed himself king, there were, perhaps, other reasons why the well-wishers held aloof. Some of them, certainly, who were known to be friends of the duke (among them Mr. Prideaux, of Ford Abbey) were arrested and thrown into prison, while many thousands who were flocking to the standard were either turned back or seized and thrown into prison. As for the quality of the troops who formed the army, I know nothing, except that at Sedgemoor they continued to fight valiantly after their leaders had fled. They were raw troops — mere country lads — and their officers were, for the most part, simple tradesmen who had no knowledge of the art of war. Dare the younger was a goldsmith; Captain Perrot was a dyer; Captain Hucker, a maker of serge; and so on with all of them. It was unfortunate that Mr. Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun should have killed Mr. Dare the elder on the first day, because, as everybody agrees, he was the most experienced sol- dier in the whole army. The route proposed by the duke was known to everybody. He intended to march through Taunton, Bridgewater, and Bristol to Gloucester, where he thought he would be joined by a new army raised by his friends in Cheshire. He also reckoned on receiving adherents everywhere on the road, and on easily defeating any force that the king should be able to send against him. How he fared in that schema everybody knows. 112 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. Long before the army was ready to march Humphrey camq 1 to advise with us. First of all, he had endeavored to have speech with my father, but in vain. Henceforth my father seemed to have no thought of his wife and daughter. Hum- phrey at first advised us to go home again. “As for your dedication to the cause/’ he said, “1 think that he hath already forgotten it, seeing that it means nothing, and that your presence with us can not help. Go home, madame, and let Alice persuade Robin to stay at home in order to take care of you . 99 “ No/’ said my mother; “ that may we not do. I must obey my husband, who commanded us to follow him. Whither he goeth there I will follow. 99 Finding that she was resolute upon this point, Humphrey told us that the duke would certainly march upon Taunton, where more than half of the town were his friends. He there- fore advised that we should ride to that place — not following the army, but going across the country, most of which is a very wild and desolate part, where we should have no fear except from gypsies and such wild people^ who might be robbers and rogues, but who were ail now making the most of the disturbed state of the country and running about the roads plundering and thieving. But he said he would himself provide us with a guide, one who knew the way, and a good stout fellow, armed with a cudgel at least. To this my mother agreed, fearing to anger her husband if she should disturb him at his work of writing letters. Humphrey had little trouble in finding the guide for us. He was an honest lad from a place called Holford, in the Quantock Hills, who, finding that there were no arms for him, was going home again. Unhappily, when we got to Taunton, he was persuaded — partly by me, alas! — to remain. He joined Barnaby’s company, and was either killed at Sedgemoor, or one of those hanged at Weston, Zoyland, or Bridgewater. For he was no more heard of. This business settled, we went up to the church-yard in order to see the march of the army out of camp. And a brave show the gallant soldiers made. First rode Colonel Wade with the vanguard. After them, with a due interval, rode the greater part of the Horse, already three hundred strong, under Lord Grey of Wark. Among them was the company sent by Mr. Speke, of White Lacking- ton, forty very stout fellows, well armed and mounted on cart- horses. The main army was composed of four regiments. The first was the Blue Regiment, or the Duke’s Own, whose colonel was the aforesaid Wade. They formed the van, and FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 113 were seven hundred strong. The others were the White, com- manded by Colonel Foukes, the Green, by Colonel Holmes, and the Yellow, by Colonel Fox. All these regiments were fully armed, the men wearing favors or rosettes in their hats and on their arms, of the color from which their regiment was named. The duke himself, who rode a great white horse, was sur- rounded by a small body-guard of gentlemen (afterward they became a company of forty), richly dressed and well mounted. With him were carried the colors, embroidered with the words* “ Pro Religione et Libertate. " This was the second time that I had seen the duke, and again I felt at sight of his face the foreknowledge of coming woe. On such an occasion the chief should show a gallant mien and a face of cheerful hope. The duke, however, looked gloomy, and hung his head. Truly, it seemed to me as if no force could dare so much as to meet this great and invincible army. And certainly there could nowhere be gathered together a more stalwart set of sol- diers, nearly all young men, and full of spirit. They shouted and sung as they marched. Presently there passed us my brother Barnaby, with his company of the Green Regiment. It was easy to perceive by the handling of his arms and by his bearing that he was accustomed to act with others, and already he had so instructed his men that they set an example to the rest both in their orderliness of march and the carriage of their weapons. After the main army they carried the ordnance — four small cannon — and the ammunition in wagons with guards and horsemen. Lastly there rode those who do not fight, yet be- long to the army. These were the chaplain to the army, Dr. Hooke, a grave clergyman of the Church of England; Mr. Ferguson, the duke's private chaplain, a fiery person, of whom many hard things have been said, which here concern us not; and my father, who thus rode openly with the other two in order that the Non-conformists might be encouraged by his presence, as an equal with the two chaplains. He was clad in a new cassock, obtained I know not whence. He sat upright in the saddle, a Bible in his hand, the long white locks lying on his shoulders like a peruke, but more venerable than any wig. His thin face was flushed with the joy of coming victory, and his eyes flashed fire. If all the men had shown such a spirit the army would have overrun the whole country. The four surgeons — Dr. Temple, Dr. Gaylard, Dr. Oliver, and Hum- 114 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. lowed such a motley crew as no one can conceive. There were gypsies, with their black tents and carts, ready to rob and plunder; there were the tinkers, who are nothing better than gypsies, and are said to speak their language; there were men with casks on wheels filled with beer or cider; there were carts carrying bread, cakes, biscuits, and such things as one can buy in a booth or at a fair; there were women of bold and impu- dent looks, singing as they walked; there were, besides, whole troops of country lads, some of them mere boys, running and strutting along in hopes to receive arms and to take a place in the regiments. Presently they were all gone, and Lyme was quit of them. What became in the end of all the rabble rout which followed the army, I know not. One thing was certain : the godly dis- position, the pious singing of psalms, and the devout exposition of the Word which I had looked for in the army were not ap- parent. Rather there was evident a tumultuous joy, as of school-boys out for a holiday — certainly no school-boys could have made more noise or showed greater happiness in their faces. Among them, however, there were some men of mid- dle age, whose faces showed a different temper; but these were rare. 44 Lord help them!” said our friendly fisher-woman, who stood with us. 64 There will be hard knocks before those fine fellows go home again.” 44 They fight on the Lord’s side,” said my mother; 46 there- fore they may be killed, but they will not wholly perish.” As for the hard knocks, they began without any delay, and on that very morning; for at Axminster they encountered the Somerset and Devon Militia, who thought to join their forces, but were speedily put to flight by the rebels — a victory which greatly encouraged them. It hath been maliciously said that we followed the army — as if we were two sutler women — on foot, I suppose, tramping in the dust, singing ribald songs like those poor creatures whom we saw marching out of Lyme. You have heard how we agreed to follow Humphrey’s advice. W ell, we left Lyme very early the next morning (our fisher-woman having now become very friendly and loath to let us go) and rode out, our guide (poor lad! his death lies heavy on my soul, yet I meant the best; and, truly, it was the side of the Lord) marching beside us armed with a stout bludgeon. We kept the main road (which was very quiet at this early hour) as far as Axminster, where we left it; and after crossing the river by a ford, or wash, we engaged upon a track? or path, which led along the banks of a ftOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM* 115 littie stream for a mile or so — as far as the village of Chard- stock. Here we made no halt, but leaving it behind, we struck into a most wild and mountainous country full of old forests and great bare places. It is called the Forest of Neroche, and is said to shelter numbers of gypsies and vagabonds, and to have in it some of those wild people wdio live in the hills and woods of Somerset, and do no work except to gather the dry broom and tie it up, and so live hard and hungry lives, but know not any master. These are reported to be a harmless people, but the gypsies are dangerous, because they are ready to rob and even murder. I thought of Barnaby^s bag of gold and trembled. However, we met with none of them on the journey, because they were all running after Monmouth’s army. There was no path over the hills by the way we took; but our guide knew the country so well that he needed none, pointing out the hills with a kind of pride as if they belonged to him, and telling us the name of every one but these I have long since forgotten. The country, however, I can never for- get, because it is so wild and beautiful. One place I remem- ber. It is a very strange and wonderful place. There is a vast great earthwork surrounded by walls of stone, but these are ruinous. It stands on a hill called Blackdown, which looks into the Yale of Taunton. The guide said it was called Castle Batch, and that it was built long ago by the ancient Bomans. It is not at all like Sherborne Castle, which Oliver Cromwell slighted when he took the place and blew it up with gunpowder; but Sherborne was not built by the Bomans. Here, after our long walk, we halted and took the dinner of cold bacon and bread which we had brought with us. The place looks out upon the beautiful Vale of Taunton, of which I had heard. Surely there can not be a more rich, fertile, and lovely place in all England than the Yale of Taunton. Our guide began to tell us of the glories of the town, its wealth and populousness — and all for Monmouth, he added. When my mother was rested we remounted our nags and went on, de- scending into the plain. Humphrey had provided us with a letter commendatory. He, who knew the names of all who were well affected, assured us that the lady to whom the letter was addressed, Miss Susan Blake by name, was one of the most forward in the Protestant cause. She was well known and much respected, and she kept a school for young gentlewomen, where many children of the Non-conformist gentry were edu- cated. He instructed us to proceed directly to her house, and to ask her to procure for us a decent and safe lodging. He could not have given us a letter to any better person. 116 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM* It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Taunton. The streets were full of people running about, talking now in groups and now by twos and threes; now shouting and now whispering. While we rode along the street a man ran bawl- ing: “ Great news! great news! Monmouth is upon us with twice ten thousand men!” It seems that they had only that day learned of the defeat of the militia by the rebels. A company of the Somerset militia were in the town, under Colonel Luttrell, in order to keep down the people. Taunton is, as everybody knows, a most rich, prosperous, and populous town. I had never before seen so many houses and so many people. Why, if the men of Taunton declared for the duke, his cause was already won. For there is no- where, as I could not fail to know, a greater stronghold of dis- sent than this town, except London, and none where the Non- conformists have more injuries to remember. Only two years before this their meeting-houses had been broken into and their pulpits and pews brought out and burned, and they were forced, against their conscience, to worship in the parish church. We easily found Miss Blake^s house, and giving our horses to the guide, we presented her with our letter. She was a young woman somewhat below the common stature, quick of speech, her face and eyes full of vivacity, and about thirty years of age. But when she had read the letter and under- stood who we were and whence we came, she first made a deep reverence to my mother, and then she took my hands and kissed me. “ Madame,” she said, “ believe me, my poor house will be honored indeed by the presence of the wife and the daughter of the godly Doctor Comfort Eykin. Pray, pray go no fur- ther. I have a room that is at your disposal. Go thither, madame, I beg, and rest after your journey. The wife of Doctor Eykin! *Tis indeed an honor.” And so with the kind- est words she led us upstairs, and gave us a room with a bed in it, and caused water for washing to be brought, and present- ly went out with me to buy certain things needful for us, who were indeed rustical in our dress, to present the appearance of gentlewomen — thanks to Barnaby's heavy purse, I could get them without telling my mother anything about it. She then gave us supper, and told us all the news. The king, she said, was horribly afraid, and it was rumored that the priests had all been sent away to France; the Taunton people were re- FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 11 ? solved to give the duke a brave reception; all over the country there was no doubt, men would rally by thousands; she was in a rapture of joy and gratitude. Supper over,, she took us to her school-room, and here — oh, the pretty sight! — her school- girls were engaged in working and embroidering flags for the duke's army. “ I know not," she said, “ whether his grace will condescend to receive them. But it is all we women can do. " Poor wretch! she afterward suffered the full penalty for her zeal. All that evening we heard the noise of men running about the town, with the clanking of weapons and the commands of officers; but we knew not what had happened. Lo! in the morning the glad tidings that the militia had left the town. Nor was that all; for at daybreak the people began to assemble, and, there being none to stay them, broke into the great church and took possession of the arms that had been deposited for safety in the tower. They also opened the prison and set free a worthy Non-conformist divine named Vincent. All the morning the mob ran about the streets shouting: “ A Monmouth! a Monmouth!" the magistrates and Royalists not daring so much as to show their faces, and there was nothing talked of but the overthrow of the king and the triumph of the Protestant religion. Nay, there were fiery speakers in the market-place and before the west porch of the church, who mounted on tubs and exhorted the people. Grave merchants came forth and shook hands with each other; ministers who had been in hiding now walked forth boldly. It was truly a great day for Taunton. The excitement grew greater when Captain Hucker, a well- known serge-maker of the town, rode in with a troop of Monmouth's horse. Captain Hucker had been seized by Colonel Phillips on the charge of receiving a message from the duke, but he escaped and joined the rebels, to his great loss, as afterward appeared. However, he now rode in to tell his fellow-townsmen of his wonderful and providential escape, and that the duke would certainly arrive the next day; and he ex- horted them to give him such a welcome as he had a right to expect at their hands. He also reminded them that they were the sons of the men who forty years before defended Taunton under Admiral Blake. There was a great shouting and tossing of caps after Captain Hucker's address, and no one could do too much for the horsemen with him, so that I fear these brave fellows were soon fain to lie down and sleep till the fumes of the strong ale should leave their brains. All that day and half the night we sat in Miss Blake's school- 118 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. room finishing the flags, in which I was permitted to join. There were twenty-seven flags in all presented to the army by the Taunton maids —twelve by Miss Blake and fifteen by one Mrs. Musgrave, also a school-mistress. And now, indeed, see- ing that the militia at Axminster had fled almost at the mere aspect of one man, and those of Taunton had also fled away secretly by night, and, catching the zeal of our kind enter- tainer, and considering the courage and spirit of these good people, I began to feel confident again, and my heart, which had fallen very low at the sight of the duke’s hanging head and gloomy looks, rose again, and all dangers seemed to van- ish. And so, in a mere fool’s paradise, I continued happy in- deed until the fatal news of Sedgemoor fight awoke us all from our fond dreams. CHAPTER XVII. TAUNTON. I never weary in thinking of the gayety and happiness of those four days at Taunton among the rebels. There was no more doubt in any of our hearts; we were all confident of vic- tory — and that easy, and perhaps bloodless. As was the re- joicing at Taunton, so it would be in every town of the coun- try. One only had to look out of window in order to feel assurance of that victory, so jolly, so happy, so confident looked every face. “ Why,” said Miss Blake, “ in future ages even we women, who have only worked the flags, will be envied for our share in the glorious deliverance. Great writers will speak of us as they speak of the Roman women. ” Then all our eyes sparkled, and the needles flew faster and the flags grew nearer to com- pletion. If history should condescend to remember the poor maids of Taunton at all, it will be, at best, with pity for the afflictions which afterward fell upon them; none, certainly, will envy them; but we shall be forgotten. Why should we be remem- bered? Women, it is certain, have no business with affairs of state, and especially none with rebellions and civil wars. Our hearts and passions carry us away. The leaders in the cause which we have joined appear to us to be more than human; we can not restrain ourselves, we fall down and worship our leaders, especially in the cause of religion and liberty. Now behold! On the very morning after we arrived at Taunton I was abroad in the streets with Miss Blake/Jooking FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 119 at the town, which hath shops full of the most beautiful and precious things, and wondering at the great concourse of peo- ple (for the looms were all deserted, and the workmen were in the streets filled with a martial spirit), I saw riding into the town no other than Eobin himself. Oh, how my heart leaped up to see him! He was most gallantly dressed — in a purple coat, with a crimson sash over his shoulders to carry his sword; he had pistols in his holsters, and wore great riding-boots, and with him rode a company of a dozen young men mounted on good strong nags; why, they were men of our own village, and I knew them, every one. They were armed with muskets and pikes — I knew where they came from — and when they saw me the fellows all began to grin, and to square their shoulders so as to look more martial. But Eobin leaped from his horse. 44 'Tis Alice !” he cried. 44 Dear heart! Thou art then safe, so far? Madame, your servant.” Here he took off his hat to Miss Blake. 44 Lads, ride on to the White Hart and call for what you want, and take care of the nags. This is a joyful meeting, sweetheart.” Here he kissed me. 44 The duke, they say, draws thousands daily. I thought to find him in Taunton by this time. Why, we are as good as victorious already. Humphrey, I take it, is with his grace. My dear, even had the cause of freedom failed to move me I had been dragged by the silken ropes of love. Truly, I could not choose but come. There was the thought of these brave fellows march- ing to battle, and I all the time skulking at home, who had ever been so loud upon their side. And there was the thought of Humphrey, braving the dangers of the field, tender though he be, and I, strong and lusty, sitting by the fire, and sleep- ing on a feather-bed; and always there was the thought of thee, my dear, among these rude soldiers — like Miltoi/s lady among the rabble rout, because well I know that even Chris- tian warriors (so called) are not lambs; and, again, there was my grandfather, who could find no rest, but continually walked to and fro, with looks that at one time said, 6 Go, my son / and at others, 4 Nay; lest thou receive a hurt/ and the white face of my mother, which said, as plain as eyes could speak: 4 He ought to go, he ought to go; and yet he may be killed/ ” 44 Oh, Eobin! Pray God there prove to be no more fight- ing!” 44 Well, my dear, if I am not tedious to madame here — ” 44 Oh, sir,” said Miss Blake, 44 it is a joy to hear this talk.” She told me afterward that it was a joy to look upon so gal- lant a gentleman, and such a pair of lovers, She, poor thing, had no sweetheart. 120 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. “Then on Monday,” Robin continued, “the day before yesterday, I could refrain no longer, but laid the matter before my grandfather. Sweetheart, there is no better man in all the world.” “ Of that I am well assured, Robin.” “ First, he said that if anything befell me he should go down in sorrow to his grave; yet that as to his own end an old man so near the grave should not be concerned about the manner of his end so long as he should keep to honor and duty. Next, that in his own youth he had himself gone forth willingly to fight in the cause of liberty, without counting the risk. Third- ly, that if my conscience did truly urge me to follow the duke, I ought to obey that voice in the name of God. And this with tears in his eyes, and yet a lively and visible satisfaction, that, as he himself had chosen, so his grandson would choose. 6 Sir / I said, ‘ that voice of conscience speaks very loudly and clearly. I can not stifle it. Therefore, by your good leave, I will go . 9 Then he bade me take the best horse in the stable, and gave me a purse of gold, and so I made ready.” Miss Blake at this point said that she was reminded of David. It was, I suppose, because Robin was so goodly a lad to look upon; otherwise David, though an exile, did never en- deavor to pull King Saul from his throne. “ Then,” Robin continued, “ I went to my mother. She wept, because war hath many dangers and chances; but she would not say me ‘ Nay . 9 And in the evening when the men came home I asked who would go with me. A dozen stout fellows — you know’ them all, sweetheart — stepped forth at once; another dozen would have come, but their wives pre- vented them. And so, mounting them on good cart-horses, I bade farewell and rode away.” “ Sir,” said Miss Blake, “ you have chosen the better part. You will be rewarded by so splendid a victory that it will sur- prise all the world; and for the rest of your life — yes, and for generations afterward — you will be ranked among the deliver- ers of your country. It is a great privilege, sir, to take part in the noblest passage of English history. Oh!” she clasped her hands, “ I am sorry that I am not a man, only because I would strike a blow in this sacred cause. But we are women, and we can but pray — and make flags. We can not die for the cause.” The event proved that women can sometimes die for the cause, because she herself, if any woman ever did, died for her cause. Then Robin left us in order to take steps about his men and EOR FAItH AED FREEDOM. 121 himself. Captain Hucker received them in the name of the duke. They joined the cavalry, and Eobin was made a cap- tain. This done, he rode out with the rest to meet the duke. Now when his approach was known, everybody who had a horse rode forth to meet him, so that there followed him, not counting his army, so great a company that they almost made another army. Lord Grey rode on one side of him, and Colonel Speke on the other; Dr. Hooke, the chaplain, and my father rode behind. My heart swelled with joy to hear how the people, when they had shouted themselves hoarse, cried out for my father, because his presence showed that they would have once more that liberty of worship for want of which they had so long languished. The duke's own chaplain, Mr. Ferguson, had got a naked sword in his hand, and was marching on foot, crying out, in a most vainglorious manner: “ I am Ferguson, the famous Ferguson, that Ferguson for whose head so many hundred pounds were offered. I am that man; I am that man." He wore a great gown and cassock; which consorted ill with the sword in his hand; and in the evening he preached in the great church, while my father preached in the old meet- ing-house to a much larger congregation, and, I venture to think, a much more edifying discourse. The army marched through the town in much the same ord6r as it had marched out of Lyme, and it seemed not much bigger, but the men marched more orderly, and there was less laughing and shouting. But the streets were so thronged that the men could hardly make their way. As soon as it was reported that the Duke was within a mile (they had that day marched sixteen miles, from Ilminster), the church bells were set a-ringing; children came out with baskets of flowers in readiness to strew them at his feet as he should pass — roses and lilies and all kinds of summer flowers, so that his horse had a most delicate carpet to walk upon; the com- mon people crowded the sides of the streets; the windows were filled with ladies, who waved their handkerchiefs, and called aloud on Heaven to bless the good duke, the brave duke, the sweet and lovely duke. If there were any malcontents in the town they kept snug; it would have cost them dear even to have been seen in the streets that day. The duke showed on this occasion a face full of hope and happiness; indeed, if he had not shown a cheerful countenance on such a day he would have been something less, or something greater, than human. I mean that he would have been either insensible and blockish not to be moved by such a welcome, or else he would have been a prophet, as foreseeing what would follow. He rode for faith ahd freedom. 122 bareheaded, carrying his hat in his hand; he was dressed in a shining corselet, with a blue silk scarf and a purple coat; his long brown hair hung in curls upon his shoulders; his sweet lips were parted with a gracious smile; his beautiful brown eyes — never had any prince more lovely eyes — looked pleased and benignant; truly there was never made any man more comely than the Duke of Monmouth. The face of his father, and that of his uncle. King James, were dark and gloomy, but the duke’s face was naturally bright and cheerful; King Charles’s long nose in him was softened and reduced to the proportions of manly beauty; in short, there was no feature that in his father was harsh and unpleasing but was in him sweet and beautiful. If I had thought him comely and like a king’s son when four years before he made his progress, I thought him now ten times as gracious and as beautiful. He was thinner in the face, which gave his appearance the greater dignity; he had ever the most gracious smile and the most charming eyes; and at such a moment as this who could be- lieve the things which they said about his wife and Lady Went- worth? No; they were inventions of his enemies; they must be base lies; so noble a presence could not conceal a guilty heart; he must be as good and virtuous as he was brave and lovely. Thus we talked, sitting in the window, and thus we cheered our souls. Even now, to think how great and good he looked on that day, it is difficult to believe that he was in some matters so vile. I am not of those who expect one kind of moral conduct from one man and a different kind from an- other; there is but one set of commandments for rich and poor, for prince and peasant. But the pity of it — oh! the pity of it with a prince! Never, in short, did one see such a tumult of joy; it is im- possible to speak otherwise; the people had lost their wits with excess of joy. Nor did they show their welcome in shouting only for all the doors were thrown wide open and supplies and necessaries of all kinds were sent to the soldiers in the camp outside the town, so that the country lads declared they had never fared more sumptuously. There now rode after the duke several Non-conformist ministers besides my father. Thus there was the pious Mr. Larke, of Lyme; he was an aged Bap- tist preacher, who thought it no shame to his profession to gird on a sword and to command a troop of horse; and others there were, whose names I forget, who had come forth to join the deliverer. In the market-place the duke halted, while his declaration was read aloud. One thing I could not approve. They FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 123 dragged forth three of the justices — High Churchmen and standing stoutly for King James — and forced them to listen, bare-headed, to the declaration: a thing which came near after- ward to their destruction. Yet they looked sour and unwill- ing, as any one would have testified. The declaration was a long document, and the reading of it took half an hour at least; but the people cheered all the time. After this they read a proclamation, warning the soldiers against taking aught without payment. But Robin laughed, saying that this was the way with armies, where the general was always on the side of virtue, yet the soldiers were always yielding to temptation in the matter of sheep and poultry, that human nature must not be too much tempted, and camp rations are sometimes scanty. But it was a noble proclama- tion, and I can not but believe that the robberies afterward complained of were committed by the tattered crew who fol- lowed the camp, rather than by brave fellows themselves. The duke lay at Captain Hucker*s house, over against the Three Cups Inn. That was a great honor for Mr. Hucker, a plain serge-maker, and there were many who were envious, thinking that the duke should not have gone to the house of so humble a person. It was also said that for his services Mr. Hucker boasted that he should expect nothing less than a coronet and the title of peer, once the business was safely dis- patched. A peer to be made out of a master serge-maker! But we must charitably refuse to believe all that is reported, and, indeed (I say it with sorrow of that most unfortunate lady, Miss Blake), much idle tattle concerning neighbors was carried on in her house, and I was told that it was the same in every house in Taunton, so that the women spent all their time in talking of their neighbors* affairs, and what might be going on in the houses of their friends. This is a kind of talk which my father would never permit, as testifying to idle curiosity, and leading to undue importance concerning things which are fleeting and trivial. However, the duke was bestowed in Captain Hucker’s best bed — of that there was no doubt — and the bells rang and bon- fires played, and the people sung and shouted in the streets. CHAPTER XVIII. THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON. The next day was made remarkable in our eyes by an event which, though doubtless of less importance than the enlist- 124 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ment of a dozen recruits, seemed a very great thing indeed — namely, the presentation to the' duke of the colors embroidered for him by Susan Blake's school-girls. I was myself per- mitted to walk with the girls on this occasion, as if I had been one of them, though a stranger to the place, and but newly ar- rived — such was the kindness of Susan Blake, and her respect for the name of the learned and pious Dr. Eykin. At nine of the clock the girls who were to carry the flags began to gather in the school-room. There were twenty-seven in all; but twelve only were the pupils of Miss Blake. The others were the pupils of Mrs. Musgrave, another school-mis- tress in the town. I remember not the names of all the girls, but some of them I remember. One was Katharine Bovet, daughter of Colonel Bovet — she it was who walked first and named those who followed; there was also Mary Blake, cousin of 8usan, who was afterward thrown into prison with her cous- in, bat presently was pardoned. Miss Hucker, daughter of Captain Hucker, the master-sergemaker who entertained the duke, was another — these were of the White Regiment; there were three daughters of Captain Herring, two daughters of Mr. Thomas Baker, one of Monmouth's privy councillors; Mary Meade was the girl who carried the famous golden flag; and others whom I have forgotten. When we were assembled, being dressed all in white, and each maid wearing the Mon- mouth colors, we took our flags and sallied forth. In the street there was almost as great a crowd to look on as the day before, when the duke rode in; and certainly it was a very pretty sight to see. First marched a man playing on the croud very briskly; after him, one who beat a tabor, and one who played a fife; so that we had music oh our march. When the music stopped, we lifted our voices and sung a psalm all to- gether; that done, the crouder began again. As for the procession, no one surely had ever seen the like of it! After the music walked six-and- twenty girls, the youngest eight and the oldest not more than twelve. They marched two by two, very orderly, all dressed in white and blue favors, and every girl carrying in her hands a flag of silk embroidered by herself, assisted by Miss Blake or some other older person, with devices appropriate to the nature of the en- terprise in hand. For one flag had upon it, truly figured in scarlet silk, an open Bible, because it was for liberty to read and expound that book that the men were going forth to fight. Upon another was embroidered a great cross; upon a third were the arms of the duke; a fourth bore upon it, to show the zeal of the people, the arms of the town of Taunton; FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 125 and a fifth had both a Bible and* a drawn sword; and so forth,, every one with a legend embroidered upon it plain for all to read. The flags were affixed to stout white staves, and as the girls walked apait from each other and at a due distance, the flags all flying in the wind made a pretty sight indeed, so that some of the women who looked on shed tears. Among the flags was one which I needs must mention, because, unless the device was communicated by some person deep in the duke's counsels, it most strangely joined with the event of the fol- iowing day. Mary Meade, poor child! carried it. We called it the Golden Flag, because it had a crown worked in gold thread upon it and the letters 66 J. R. " A fringe of lace was sewed round it, so that it was the richest flag of all. What could the crown with the letters “ J. R." mean, but that James, Duke of Monmouth, would shortly assume the crown of these three kingdoms? Last of all walked Miss Susan Blake, and I by her side. She bore in one hand a Bible bound in red leather stamped with gold, and in the other a naked sword. The duke came forth to meet us, standing bareheaded be- fore the porch. There w’ere standing beside and behind him. Lord Grey, his two chaplains. Dr. Hooke and Mr. Fergu- son, and my father, Mr. Larke, the Baptist minister of Lyme- Regis (he wore a corselet and carried a sword), and the colonels of his regiments. His body-guard were drawn up across the street, looking brave and splendid in their new favors. The varlets waited beyond with the horses for the duke's party. Who, to look upon the martial array, the bravery of the Guard, the gallant bearing of all, the confi- dence in their looks, and the presence, which should surely bring a blessing, of the ministers of religion, would think that all this pomp and promise could be shattered at a single blow? As each girl advanced in her turn, she knelt on one knee and offered her flag, bowing her head (we had practiced this ceremony several times at school until we were all quite per- fect in our parts). Then the duke stepped forward and raised her, tenderly kissing her. Then she stood aside, holding her flag still in her hands. My turn — because I had no flag — came last but one. Miss Susan Blake being the last. Now — I hope it was not folly or a vainglorious desire to be distinguished by any particular notice of his grace — I could not refrain from hanging the ring, which the duke had given me at Ilchester five years ago, out- side my dress by a blue ribbon. Miss Blake, to whom I had told the story of the ring, advised me to do so, partly to show 126 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. my loyalty to the duke, and partly because it was a pretty thing, and one which some women would much desire to possess. Miss Katharine Bovefc informed the duke that I was the daughter of the learned preacher, Dr. Comfort Eykin. When I knelt he raised me. Then, as he was about to salute me, his eyes fell upon the ring and he looked first at me and then at the ring. “ Madame,” he said, “ this ring I ought to know. If I mistake not, there are the initials ‘ J. S.' upon it?” “Sir,” I replied, “the ring was your own. Your grace was so good as to bestow it upon me in your progress through the town of II Chester, five years ago.” “ Gad so!” he said, laughing; “ I remember now. 'Twas a sweet and lovely child whom I kissed, and now thou art a sweet and lovely maiden. Art thou truly the daughter of Doctor Comfort Eykin?” — he looked behind him, but my father neither heard nor attended, being wrapped in thought. “ 'Tis strange; his daughter! 'Tis indeed wonderful that such a child should — ” Here he stopped. “ Fair Rose of Somerset I called thee then. Fair Rose of Somerset I call thee again. Why, if I could place thee at the head of my army all England would certainly follow, as if Helen of Troy or Queen Venus herself did lead.” So he kissed me on the cheek with much warmth — more, indeed, than was necessary to show a gracious and friendly good-will, and suffered me to step aside. “ Doc- tor Eykin 's daughter!” he repeated, with a kind of wonder. “ Why should not Doctor Eykin have a daughter?” When I told Robin of this gracious salutation he first turned very red and then he laughed. Then he said that everybody knew the duke, but he must not attempt any court freedoms in the Protestant camp; and if he were to try — then he broke off short, changed color again, and then he kissed me, saying that of course the duke meant nothing but kindliness, but that, for his own part, he desired not his sweetheart to be kissed by anybody but himself. So I suppose my boy was jealous. But the folly of being jealous of so great a prince, who could not possibly have the least regard for a simple coun- try maiden, and who had known the great and beautiful court ladies — it made me laugh to think that Robin could be so foolish as to be jealous of the duke. Then it was Miss Susan Blake's turn. She stepped forward very briskly, and knelt down, and placed the Bible in the duke's left hand and the sword in his right. “ Sir,” she said (speaking the words we had made up and fOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. w she had learned), “ it is in the name of the women of Taunton — nay, of the women of all England — that I give you the Book of the Word of God, the most precious treasure vouchsafed to man, so that all may learn that you are come for no other purpose than to maintain the right of the English people to search the Scriptures for themselves; and I give you also, sir, a sword with which to defend those rights. In addition, sir, the women can only give your grace the offering of their con- tinual prayers in behalf of the cause, and for the safety and prosperity of your highness and your army. 99 “ Madame,” said the duke, much moved by this spectacle of devotion, “ I am come, believe me, for no other purpose than to defend the truths contained in this Book, and to seal my defense with my blood, if that need be / 9 Then the duke mounted, and we marched behind him in single file, each girl led by a soldier, till we came to the camp, when our flags were taken from us, and we returned home and took off our white dresses. I confess that I laid mine down with a sigh. White becomes every maiden, and my only wear till then had been of russet-brown. And all that day we acted over again — in our talk and in our thoughts — our beautiful procession, and we repeated the condescending words of the duke, and admired the graciousness of his kisses, and praised each other for our admirable behavior, and listened, with pleasure unspeakable, while Susan Blake prophesied that we should become immortal by the ceremony of that day. CHAPTER XIX. KING MONMOUTH AND HIS CAMP. Next day, the town being thronged with people and the young men pressing in from all quarters to enroll themselves (over four thousand joined the colors at Taunton alone), an- other proclamation was read — that, namely, by which the duke claimed the throne. Many opinions have been given as to this step. For the duke’s enemies maintain, first, that his mother was never married to King Charles the Second (indeed, there is no doubt that the king always denied the marriage) ; next, that an illegitimate son could never be permitted to sit upon the ancient throne of this realm; and, thirdly, that in usurp- ing the crown the duke broke faith with his friends, to whom he had solemnly given his word that he would not put forward any such pretensions. Nay, some have gone so far as to allege that he was not the son of Charles at all, but of some other 128 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. whom they even name; and they have pointed to his face as showing no resemblance at all to that swarthy and gloomy- looking king. On the other hand, the duke*s friends say that there were in his hands clear proof of the marriage; that the promise given to his friends was conditional, and one which could be set aside by circumstances; that the country gentry, to whom a Republic was most distasteful, were afraid that he designed to re-establish that form of government; and, further, that his friends were all fully aware from the beginning of his intentions. On these points I know nothing; but when a thing has been done, it is idle to spend time in arguing that it was well or ill done. James, Duke of Monmouth, was now James, King of Great Britain and Ireland; and if we were all rebels before who had risen in the name of religion and liberty, I suppose we were all ten times as much rebels now, when we had, in addition, set up another king, and declared King James to be a usurper, and no more than the Duke of York. Nay, that there might be wanting no single circumstance of aggravation, it was in this proclamation declared that the Duke of York had caused his brother, the late king, to be secretly poisoned. I know not what foundation exists for this accusation; but I have been told that it gave offense unto many, and that it was an ill-advised thing to say. The proclamation was read aloud at the Market Cross by Mr. Tyley, of Taunton, on the Saturday morning, before a great concourse of people. It ended with the words: ttf We therefore, the noblemen, gentlemen, and Commons at present assembled in the names of ourselves and of all the loyal and Protestant noblemen, gentlemen and Commons of England, in pursuance of our duty and allegiance, and for the deliver- ing of the kingdom from Popery, tyranny, and oppression, do recognize, publish, and proclaim the said high and mighty Prince James, Duke of Monmouth, as lawful and rightful sov- ereign and king, by the name of James II., by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, De- fender of the Faith. God save the king!” After this the duke was always saluted as king, prayed for as king, and styled “ His Majesty.” He also touched some (as only the king can do) for the king's-evil, and, it is said, wrought many miracles of healing, a thing which, being noised abroad, should have strengthened the faith of the peo- ple in him. But the malignity of our enemies caused these cases of healing to be denied, or else explained as fables and inventions of the duke’s friends. FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 129 Among the accessions of this day was one which I can not forbear to mention. It was that of an old soldier who had been one of CromwelFs captains, Colonel Basset byname. He rode in, being a man advanced in years, yet still strong and hale, at the head of a considerable company raised by himself. ’Twas hoped that his example would be followed by the adhesion of many more of CromwelFs men, but the event proved other- wise. Perhaps, being old Republicans, they were deterred by the proclamation of Monmouth as king. Perhaps they had grown slothful with age, and were now unwilling to face once more the dangers and fatigues of a campaign. Another re- cruit was the once famous Colonel Perrot, who had been en- gaged with Colonel Blood in the robbery of the crown jewels — though the addition of a robber to our army was not a mat- ter of pride. He came, it was afterward said, because he was desperate, his fortunes broken, and with no other hope than to follow the fortunes of the duke. It became known in the course of the day that the army was to march on the Sunday. Therefore everybody on Saturday evening repaired to the camp; some to bid farewell and God- speed to their friends, and others to witness the humors of a camp. I was fortunate in having Robin for a companion and protector, the place being rough, and the behavior and lan- guage of the men coarse even beyond what one expects at a country fair. The recruits still kept pouring in from all parts; but, as I have already said, many were disheartened when they found that there were no arms, and went home again. They were not all riotous and disorderly. Some of the men' — those, namely, who were older and more sober-minded — we found, gathered together in groups, earnestly engaged in conversa- tion. “ They are considering the proclamation,” said Robin. “ Truly we did not expect that our duke would so soon become king. They say he is illegitimate. What then? Let him mount the throne by right of arms, as Oliver Cromwell could have done had he pleased; who asks whether Oliver was illegitimate or no? The country will not have another Com- monwealth, and it will no longer endure a Catholic king. Let us have King Monmouth, then; who is there better?” In all the camp there was none who spoke with greater cheerfulness and confidence than Robin. Yet he did not dis- guise from himself that there might be warm work. “ The king’s troops,” he said, “ are closing in all round us. That is certain. Yet even if they all join we are still more numerous and in much better heart; of that I am assured, s 130 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. At Wellington,, the Duke of Albemarle commands the Devon- shire Militia; Lord Churchill is at Chard with the Somerset Regiment; Lord Bath is reported to be marching upon us with the Cornishmen; the Duke of Beaufort hath the Gloucester Militia at Bristol; Lord Pembroke is at Chippenham with the Wiltshire Train-bands; Lord Feversham is on the march with the king's standing army. What then? Are these men Pro- testants or are they Papists? Answer me that, sweetheart?" Alas! had they been true Protestants there would have been such an answer as would have driven King James across the water three years sooner. The camp was now like a fair, only much finer and bigger than any fair I had ever seen. That of Lyme-Regis could not be compared with it. There were booths where they sold gin- gerbread, cakes, ale, and cider; Monmouth favors for the re- cruits to sew upon their hats or sleeves; shoes and stockings were sold in some, and even chap-books were displayed. Men and women carried about in baskets last year's withered ap- ples, with Kentish cobs and walnuts; there were booths where they fried sausages and roasted pork all day long; tumblers and clowns were performing in others; painted and dressed-up girls danced in others; there was a bull-baiting; a man was making a fiery oration on the duke's proclamation; but I saw no one preaching a sermon. There were here and there com- panies of country lads exercising with pike and halbert; and others, more advanced, with the loading and firing of their muskets. There were tables at which sat men with cards and dice gambling, shouting when they won and cursing when they lost; others, of more thrifty mind, sat on the ground, prac- ticing their trade of tailor or cobbler, thus losing no money though they did go soldiering; some polished weapons and sharpened swords, pikes, and scythes; nowhere did we find any reading the Bible, or singing hymns, or listening to ser- mons. Save for the few groups of sober men of whom I have spoken, the love of amusement carried all away; and the officers of the army, who might have turned them back to sober thought, were not visible. Everywhere noise; everywhere beating of drums, playing of pipes, singing of songs, bawling and laughing. Among the men there ran about a number of saucy gypsy girls, their brown faces showing under red ker- chiefs, their black eyes twinkling (truly they are pretty creat- ures to look upon when they are young; but they have no re- ligion, and say of themselves that they had no souls). These girls talked with each other in their own language, which none out of their own nation — except the tinker-folk, who are said FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 131 to be their cousins — understand. But English they talk very well, and they are so clever that, it is said, they will talk to a Somersetshire mam. in good broad Somerset, and to a man of Norfolk in his own speech, though he of Norfolk would not understand him of Somerset. “ They are the vultures/* said Robin, “ who follow for prey. Before the battle these women cajole the soldiers out of their money, and after the battle their men rob and even mur- der the wounded and plunder the dead.** Then one of them ran and stood before us. “Let me tell thy ‘fortune, handsome gentleman? Let me tell thine, fair lady? A sixpence or a groat to cross my palm, captain, and you shall know*all that is to happen. ** Robin laughed, but gave her sixpence. “ Look me in the face, fair lady ** — she spoke good plain English, this black-eyed wench, though but a moment before she had been talking broad Somerset to a young recruit — “ look me in the face; yes. All is not smooth. He loves you, but there will be separation and trouble. One comes between, a big man with a red face; he parts you. There is a wedding; I see your ladyship plain. Why, you are crying at it, you cry all the time; but I do not see this gentleman. Then there is another wedding — yes, another — and I see you at both. You will be twice married. ' Yet be of good heart, fair lady.** She turned away and ran after another couple, no doubt with much the same tale. “ How should there be a wedding,** I asked, “ if I am there and you not there, Robin — and I to be crying? And how could I — oh, Robin! — how could I be married twice?** “ Nay, sweetheart, she could not tell what wedding it was. She only uttered the gibberish of her trade; I am sorry that I wasted a sixpence upon her.** “ Robin, is it magic that they practice — these gypsies? Do they traffic with the devil? We ought not to suffer witches to live among us.** “ Most are of opinion that they have no other magic than the art of guessing, which they learn to do very quickly, put- ting things together from their appearance; so that if brother and sister walk out together they are taken to be lovers, and promised a happy marriage and many children.** That may be so, and perhaps the fortune told by this gypsy was only guess-work. But I can not believe it; for the event proved that she had in reality possessed an exact knowl- edge of what was about to happen. 132 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. Some of the gypsy women — but these were the older women, who had lost their good looks, though not their impudence — were singing songs, and those, as Eobin told*me, songs not fit to be sung; and one old crone, sitting before her tent beside a roaring wood fire over which hung a great saucepan, sold charms against shot and steel. The lads bought these greedily, giving sixpence, apiece for them, so that the old witch must have made a sackful of money. They came and looked on shyly. Then one would say to the other: “ What thinkest, lad? Is there aught in it?” And the other would say: “ Truly I know not; but she is a proper witch, and IT1 buy one. We may have to fight. Best make sure of a whole skin.” And so he bought one,*and then all bought. The husbands of the gypsy women were engaged, meantime, we understood, in robbing the farm-yards in the neighborhood, the blame being afterward laid upon our honest soldiers. Then there was a ballad-monger singing a song about a man and a broom, and selling it (to those who would buy), printed on a long slip of paper. The first lines were, ‘ There was an old man, and he lived in a wood, And his trade it was making a broom.” But I heard no more, because Eobin hurried me away. Then there were some who drank too much cider or beer, and were now reeling about with stupid faces and glassy eyes; there were some who were lying speechless or asleep upon the grass; and some were cooking supper over fires after the manner of the gypsies. “ I have seen enough, Eobin,” I said. “ Alas for sacred religion if these are her defenders!” “ *Tis always so,” said Eobin, “ in time of war. We must encourage our men to keep up their hearts. Should we be constantly reminding them that to-morrow half of them may be lying dead on the battle-field? Then they would mope and hang their heads, and would presently desert.” “ One need not preach of death, but one should preach of godliness and of sober joy. Look but at those gypsy wenches and those lads rolling about drunk. Are these things decent? If they escape the dangers of war, will it make them happy to look back upon the memory of this camp? Is it fit prepara- tion to meet their Maker?” “ In times of peace, sweet saint, these lads remember easily that in the midst of life we are in death, and they govern themselves accordingly. In times of war every man hopes for his own part to escape with a whole skin, though his neighbor FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM, 133 fall. That is why we are all so blithe and jolly. Let us now go home before the night falls and the mirth becomes riotous and unseemly.” We passed a large booth whence there issued sounds of sing- ing. It was a roofless inclosure of canvas. Some ale-house man of Taunton had set it up. Robin drew aside the canvas door. “ Look in/' he said. “ See the brave defenders of religion keeping up their hearts. ” It was furnished with benches and rough tables; at one end were casks. The benches were crowded with soldiers, every man with a pot before him, and the varlets were running back- ward and forward with cans of ale and cider. Most of the men were smoking pipes of tobacco, and they were singing a song which seemed to have no end. One bawled the lines, and when it came to the “ Let the hautboys play!” and the “ Huzza!” they all roared out together. “ Now, now, the duke’s health, And let the hautboys play, While the troops on their march shall Huzza! huzza! huzza! Now, now, the duke’s health, And let the hautboys play, While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore. Huzza! huzza! huzza!” They sung this verse several times over. Then another be- gan: “ Now, now, Lord Grey’s health, And let the hautboys play. While the troops on their march shall Huzza! huzza! huzza; Now, now, Lord Grey’s health, And let the hautboys play. While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore. Huzza! huzza! huzza!” Next a third voice took it up: “ Now, now, the colonel’s health, And let the hautboys play;” and then a fourth and a fifth, and the last verse was bawled as lustily and with so much joy that one would have thought the mere singing would have gotten them the victory. Men are so made, I suppose, that they can not work together without singing and music to keep up their hearts. Sailors sing when 134 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. they weigh anchor; men who unlade ships sing as they carry out the bales; even CromwelFs Ironsides could not march in silence, but sung psalms as they marched. The sun was set and the twilight falling when we left the camp; and there was no abatement of the roaring and singing, but rather an increase. “ They will go on,” said Eobin, “ until the drink or their money gives out; then they will lie down and sleep. You have now seen a camp, sweetheart. It is not, truth to say, as decor- ous as a conventicle, nor is the talk so godly as in Sir Christo- pher’s hall. For rough fellows there must be rough play; in a month these lads will be veterans; the singing will have grown stale to them; the black-eyed gypsy women will have no more power to charm away their money; they will under- stand the meaning of war; the camp will be sober if it is not religious.” So we walked homeward, I, for my part, saddened to think in what a spirit of riot these young men, whom I had pictured so full of godly zeal, were preparing to meet the chance of im- mediate death and judgment. 66 Sweet,” said Eobin, “ I read thy thoughts in thy troubled eyes. Pray for us. Some of us will fight none the worse for knowing that there are good women who pray for them. ” We were now back in the town; the streets were still full of people, and no one seemed to think of bed. Presently we passed the Castle Inn; the windows were open and we could see a great company of gentlemen sitting round a table on which were candles lighted and bowls full of strong drink; nearly every man had his pipe at his lips and his glass before him, and one of them was singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. Their faces were red and swollen, as if they had taken too much. At one end of the table sat Humphrey. What? Could Humphrey too be a reveler with the rest? His face, which was gloomy, and his eyes, which were sad, showed that he was not. “ The officers have supped together,” said Eobin. “ It may be long before we get such good quarters again. A cup of hipsy and a song in good-fellowship, thou wilt not grudge so much?” “ Nay,” I said, “ Tis all of a piece. Like man, like mas- ter. Officers and men alike — all drinking and singing. Is there not one good man in all the army?” As I spoke one finished a song at which all laughed except Humphrey, and drummed the table with their fists and shouted. FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 135 Then one who seemed to be president of the table turned to Humphrey. “ Doctor/* he said, “ thou wilt not drink, thou dost not laugh, and thou hast not sung. Thou must be tried by court- martial, and the sentence of the court is a brimming glass of punch or a song.** “ Then, gentlemen/* said Humphrey, smiling, “ I will give you a song. But blame me not if you mislike it; I made the song in praise of the sweetest woman in the world.** He took the guitar and struck the strings. When he began to sing my cheeks flamed and my breath came and went, for I knew the song; he had given it to me four years agone. Who was the sweetest woman in the world? Oh! he made this song for me! — he made this song for me, and none but me! But these rude revelers would not know that — and I never guessed that the song was for me. How could I think that he would write these extravagancies for me? But poets can not mean what they say — “ As rides the moon in azure skies, The twinkling stars beside, As when in splendor she doth rise, Their lesser lights they hide, So beside Celia, when her face we see, All unregarded other maidens be. “ As Helen in the town of Troy Shone fair beyond all thought, That to behold her was a joy By death too poorly bought, So when fair Celia deigns the lawn to grace, All life, all joy, dwells in her lovely face. “ As the sweet river floweth by Green banks and alders tall. It stayeth not for prayer or sigh, Nor answereth if we call, So Celia heeds not though Love cry and weep; She heavenward wendeth while we earthward creep. “ The marbled saint, so cold and pure, Minds naught of earthly ways, Nor can man’s gauds entice or lure That fixSd heavenly gaze; So, Celia, though thou queen and empress art, To Heaven, to Heaven alone, belongs thy heart.” Now while Humphrey sung this song a hush fell upon the revelers: they had expected nothing but a common drinking song. After the bawling and the noise and the ribaldry *twas 136 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. like a breath of fresh air after the closeness of a prison, or like a drink of pure water to one half dead with thirst. “ Robin/' I said, “ there is one good man in the camp." I say that while Humphrey sung this song — which, to be sure, was neither a drinking song, nor a party song, nor a song of wickedness and folly — the company looked at each other in silence, and neither laughed nor offered to interrupt. Nay, there were signs of grace in some of their faces, which became grave and thoughtful. When Humphrey finished it he laid down the guitar, and rose up with a bow, saying: “I have sung my song, gentlemen all, and so, good-night/' and walked out of the room. “ Robin," I said again, “ thank God there is one good man in the camp! I had forgotten Humphrey." “ Yes," Robin replied, “ Humphrey is a good man if ever there was one. But he is glum. Something oppresses him. His eyes are troubled, and he hangs his head; or if he laughs at all, it is as if he would rather cry. Yet all the way home from Holland he was joyful, save when his head was held over the side of the ship. He sung and laughed; he spoke of great things about to happen. I have never known him more hap- py. And now his face is gloomy, and he sighs when he thinks no one watcheth him. Perhaps, like thee, sweet, he can not abide the noise and riot of the camp. He would fain see every man Bible in hand. To-day he spent two hours with the duke before the council, and was with thy father afterward. ^Tis certain that the duke hath great confidence in him. Why is he so gloomy? He bitterly reproached me for leaving Sir Christopher, as if he alone had a conscience to obey or honor to remember!" Humphrey came forth at this moment and stood for a mo- ment on the steps. Then he heaved a great sigh and walked away slowly, with hanging head, not seeing us. “ What is the matter with him?" said Robin. “ Perhaps they flout him for being a physician. These fellows have no respect for learning or for any one who is not a country gen- tleman. Well, perhaps when we are on the march he will again pick up his spirits. They are going to sing again. Shall we go, child?" But the president called a name which made me stop a little longer. “ Barnaby!" he cried; “ jolly Captain Barnaby! Now that Doctor Graveairs hath left us we will begin the night. Barna- by, my hero, thy song. Fill up, gentlemen! The night is FOE FAITH AND FEEEDOM. 137 young, and to-morrow we march. Captain Barnaby, tip us a sea-song. Silence, gentlemen, for the captain's song!" It was my brother that they called upon — none other. He got up from his place at the summons, and rose to his feet. Heavens! what a broad man he seemed compared with those who sat beside him! His face was red and his cheeks swollen because of the strong drink he had taken. In his hand he held a full glass of it. Bobin called it hipsy, and it is a mixt- ure of wine, brandy, and water, with lemon juice and sugar — very heady and strong. Said not Barnaby that there was one religion for a landsman and another for a sailor? I thought of that as he stood look- ing round him. If it were so, it would be truly a happy cir- cumstance for most sailors; but I know not on what assurance this belief can be argued. Then Barnaby waved his hand. “ Yoho, my lads!" he shouted. “ The ship's in port, and the crew has gone ashore." Then he began to sing in a deep voice which made the glasses ring: “ Shut the door, lock the door, Out of the window fling the key; Hasten; bring me more, bring me more; Fill it up — fill it up for me. The daylight which you think, The daylight which you think, The daylight which you think, ’Tis but the candle’s flicker; The morning star will never wink The morning star will never wink, Till there cometh stint of liquor. For ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple all around the world, my lads, And the sun in drink is nightly lapped and curled; And to-night let us drink, and to-morrow we’ll to sea, For ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple— yes, ’tis tipple, tipple, tipple — Makes the world and us to jee.” “ Take me home, Bobin," I said; “ I have seen and heard enough. Alas! we have need of all the prayers that we can utter from the depths of our heart, and more." CHAPTEB XX. benjamin's waening. Since I have so much to tell of Benjamin's evil conduct, it must in justice be recorded of him that at this juncture he en- deavored, knowing more of the world than we of Somerset, to 138 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. warn and dissuade his cousins from taking part in any attempt which should be made in the west. And this he did by means of a letter written to his father. I know not how far the let- ter might have succeeded, but, unfortunately, it arrived two or three days too late— when the boys had already joined the insurgents. “ Honored Sir” (he wrote), — “ I write this epistle being much concerned in spirit lest my grandfather, whose leanings are well known, not only in his own county, but also to the court, should be drawn into, or become cognizant of, some at- tempt to raise the West Country against their lawful king. It will not be news to you that the Earl of Argyll hath landed in Scotland, where he will meet with such a reception which will doubtless cause him to repent of his rashness. It is also cur- rently reported, and everywhere believed, that the Duke of Monmouth intends immediately to embark and cross the sea with the design of raising the country in rebellion. The Dis- senters, who have been going about with sour looks for five- and-twenty years, venture now to smile and look pleased in anticipation of another civil war. This may follow, but its termination, I think, will not be what they expect. “ I have also heard that my cousin Humphrey, Doctor EykhPs favorite pupil, who hath never concealed his opinions, hath lately returned from Holland (where the exiles are gath- ered), and passed through London, accompanied by Eobin. I have further learned that while in London he visited (but alone, without Eobin’s knowledge) many of those who are known to be friends of the duke and red-hot Protestants. Wherefore I greatly fear that he hath been in correspondence with the exiles, and is cognizant of their designs, and may even be their messenger to announce the intentions of his Prot- estant champion. Certain I am that should any chance occur of striking a blow for freedom of worship, my cousin, though he is weak and of slender frame, will join the attempt. He will also endeavor to draw after him every one in his power. Therefore, my dear father, use all your influence to withstand him, and, if he must for his part plunge into ruin, persuade my grandfather and my cousin Eobin to stay quiet at home. “ I hear it on the best authority that the temper of the country, and especially in your part of, it, hath been carefully studied by the Government, and is perfectly well known. Those who would risk life and lands for the Duke of Mon- mouth are few indeed. He may, perhaps, draw a rabble after him, but no more. The fat tradesmen who most long for the FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 139 conventicle will not fight, though they may pray for him. The country gentlemen may he Protestants,, but they are mostly for the Church of England and the king. It is quite true that his majesty is a Roman Catholic, nor hath he ever concealed or denied his religion, being one who scorns deceptions. It is also true that his profession of faith is a stumbling-block to many who find it hard to reconcile their teaching of Non-Re- sistance and Divine Right with the introduction of the mass and the Romish priest. But the country hath not yet forgotten the iron rule of the Independent; and rather than suffer him to return, the people will endure a vast deal of royal preroga- tive. “ It is absolutely certain — assure my grandfather on this point, whatever he may learn from Humphrey — that the bet- ter sort will never join Monmouth, whether he comes as an- other Cromwell to restore the commonwealth, or whether he aspires to the crown, and dares to maintain — a thing which King Charles did always stoutly deny — that his mother was married. Is it credible that the ancient throne of these king- doms should be mounted by the base-born son of Lucy Waters? “ I had last night the honor of drinking a bottle of wine with that great lawyer. Sir George Jeffreys. The conversation turned upon this subject. We were assured by the judge that the affectionS of the people are wholly with the king; that the liberty of worship which he demands for himself he will extend to the country, so that the last pretense of reason for disaffec- tion shall be removed. Why should the people run after Mon- mouth, when, if he were successful, he would give no more than the king is ready to give? I was also privately warned by Sir George that my grandfather’s name is unfavorably noted, and his actions and speeches will be watched. There- fore, sir, I humbly beg that you will represent to him, and to my cousins, and to Doctor Eykin himself, first the hopeless- ness of any such enterprise and the certainty of defeat; and next the punishment which will fall upon the rebels and upon those who lend them any countenance. Men of such a tem- per as Doctor Comfort Eykin will doubtless go to the scaffold willingly, with their mouths full of the texts which they apply to themselves on all occasions. For such I have no pity, yet for the sake of his wife and daughter I would willingly, if I could, save him from the fate which will be his if Monmouth lands on the west. And as for my grandfather, ’tis terrible to think of his white hairs blown by the breeze while the hang- man adjusts the knot; and I should shudder to see the black- ened limbs of Robin stuck upon j)oles for all the world to see. 140 FOE FAITH AFTD FREEDOM. “ It is my present intention, if my affairs permit, to follow my fortunes on the western circuit in the autumn, when I shall endeavor to ride from Taunton or Exeter to Bradford Orcas. My practice grows apace. Daily I am heard in the courts. The judges already know me and listen to me. The juries begin to fee] the weight of my arguments. The attor- neys besiege my chambers. For a junior I am in great de- mand. It is my prayer that you, sir, may live to see your son chancellor of the exchequer and a peer of the realm. Less than chancellor will not content me. As for marriage, that might hinder my rise; I shall not marry yet. There is in your parish, sir, one who knows my mind upon this matter. I shall be pleased to think that you will assure her — you know very well whom I mean — that my mind is unaltered, and that my way is now plain before me. So, I remain, with dutiful re- spect, your obedient son, B. B. ” This letter arrived, I say, after the departure of Robin with his company of village lads. When Mr. Boscorel had read it slowly and twice over so as to lose no point of the contents, he sat and pondered awhile. Then he arose, and with troubled face he sought Sir Christo- pher, to whom he read it through. Then he waited for Sir Christopher to speak. * “ The boy writes,” said his honor, after awhile, “ according to his lights. He repeats the things he hears said by his boon companions. Nay, more, he believes them. Why, it is easy for them to swear loyalty and to declare in their cups where the affections of the people are placed.” “ Sir Christopher, what is done can not be undone. The boys are gone — alas! — but you still remain. Take heed for a space what you say as well as what you do. ” “ How should they know the temper of the country?” Sir Christopher went on regardless. “ What doth the foul- mouthed profligate Sir George Jeffreys know concerning sober and godly people? These are not noisy Templars; they are not profligates of the court; they are not haunters of tavern and pot-house; they are not those who frequent the play- house. Judge Jeffreys knows none such. They are lovers of the Word of God; they wish to worship after their fashion; they hate the Pope and all his works. Let us hear what these men say upon the matter.” “Nay,” said Mr. Boscorel; “ I care not greatly what they say. But would to God the boys were safe returned!” “Benjamin means well,” Sir Christopher went on. “I FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 141 take this warning kindly; he meant well. It pleases me that in the midst of the work and the feasting, which he loves, he thinks upon us. Tell him, son-in-law, that I thank him for his letter. It shows that he has preserved a good heart. ” “As for his good heart 99 — Mr. Boscorel stroked his nose with his forefinger — “ so long as Benjamin gets what he wants — which is Benjamin’s mess, and five times the mess of any other — there is no doubt of his good heart.” “Worse things than these,” said Sir Christopher, “were said of us when the civil wars began. The king’s troops would ride us down; the country would not join us; those of us who were not shot or cut down in the field would be afterward hanged, drawn, and quartered. Yet we drove the king from his throne.” “ And the king came back again. So we go up and so we go down. But about this expedition and about these boys my mind misgives me. ’ ’ “ Son-in-law,” Sir Christopher said, solemnly, “ I am now old, and the eyes of my mind are dim, so that I no longer discern the signs of the times, or follow the current of the stream; moreover, we hear but little news, so that I can not even see any of those signs. Yet to men in old age, before they pass away to the rest provided by the Lord, there cometh sometimes a vision by which they are enabled to see clearly when younger men are still groping their way in a kind of twilight. Monmouth hath landed; my boys are with him; they are rebels; should the rising fail, their lives are forfeited; and that of my dear friend. Doctor Comfort Eykin’s — yea, and my life as well belike, because I have been a consenting party. Enin and death will in that event fall upon all of us. Whether it will so happen I know not, nor do I weigh the chance of that event against the voice of conscience, duty, and honor. My boys have obeyed that voice; they have gone forth to conquer or to die. My vision doth not tell me what will happen to them. But it shows me the priest flying from the country, the king flying from the throne, and that fair angel whom we call Freedom of Conscience returning to bless the land. To know that the laws of God will triumjoh — ought not that to reconcile a man, already seventy-five years of age, to death, even a death upon the gallows? What matter for this earthly body so that it be spent until the end in the service of the Lord?” 142 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. CHAPTER XXI. WE WAIT FOR THE END. I have said that my father from the beginning unto the end of this business was as one beside himself, being in an ecstasy or rapture of mind, insomuch that he heeded nothing. The letters he sent out to his friends, the Non-conformists, either brought no answer or else they heaped loads of trouble, being intercepted and read, upon those to whom they were ad- dressed. But he was not moved. The defection of his friends and of the gentry caused him no uneasiness. Nay, he even closed his eyes and ears to the drinking, the profane oaths, and the riotous living in the camp. Others there were, like-mind- ed with himself, who saw the hand of the Lord in this enter- prise, and thought that it would succeed by a miracle. The desertions of the men, which afterward followed, and the de- fection of those who should have joined — these things were but the weeding of the host, which should be still further weeded — as in a well-known chapter in the Book of Judges — until none but the righteous should be left behind. These things he preached daily, and with mighty fervor> to all who would listen; but these were few in number. As regards his wife and daughter, he took no thought for them at all, being wholly in wrapped in his work; he did not so much as ask if we had money — to be sure, for five-and- twenty years he had never asked that question — or if we were safely bestowed; or if we were well. Never have I seen any man so careless of all earthly affections when, he considered the work of the Lord. But when the time came for the army to march, what were we to do? Where should we be bestowed? “ As to following the army,” said Robin, “ that is absurd. We know not whither we may march or what the course of events may order. You can not go home without an armed escort, for the country is up; the clubmen are out everywhere to protect their cattle and horses, a rough and rude folk they would be to meet; and the gypsies are robbing and plunder- ing. Can you stay here until we come back, or until the country hath settled down again?” Miss Blake generously promised that we should stay with her as long as we chose, adding many kind things about my- self, out of friendship and a good heart; and so it was resolved that we should remain in Taunton, where no harm could be- FOR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 143 fall us, while my father still accompanied the army to exhort the soldiers. “ I will take care of him/* said Barnaby. “ He shall not preach of a morning till he hath taken breakfast, nor shall he go to bed until he hath had his supper. So long as the provisions last out he shall have his ration. After that I can not say. May be we shall all go on short commons, as hath happened to me already; and, truth to tell, I love it not. All these things belong to the voyage, and are part of our luck. Farewell, therefore, mother. Heart up! — all will go well! Kiss me, sis- ter; we shall all come back again. Never fear. King Mon- mouth shall be crowned in Westminster. Dad shall be Arch- bishop of Canterbury, and I shall be captain of a king’s ship. All our fortunes shall be made, and you, sister, shall have a great estate, and shall marry whom you please — Robin or another. As for the gentry who have not come forward, hang ’em, we’ll divide their estates between us, and so change places, and they will be so astonished at not being shot for cowardice that they will rejoice and be glad to clean our boots. Thus shall we all be happy. ” So they marched away, Monmouth being now at the head of an army seven thousand strong, and all in such spirits that you would have thought nothing could withstand them. And when I consider, and remember how that army marched back, with the cheers of the men and the laughter and jokes of the young recruits, the tears ran down my cheeks for thinking how their joy was turned to mourning, and life was exchanged for death. The last I saw of Robin was that he was turning in his saddle, to wave his hand, his face full of confidence and joy. The only gloomy face in the whole army that morning was the face of Humphrey. Afterward I learned that almost from the be- ginning he foresaw certain disaster. In the first place, none of those on whom the exiles of Holland had relied came into camp. These were the backbone of the Protestant party — the sturdy blood that had been freely shed against Charles I. This was a bitter disappointment. Next, he saw in the army noth- ing but a rabble of country lads, with such officers as Captain Hucker, the serge-maker, instead of the country gentlemen with their troops, as had been expected; and from the begin- ning he distrusted the leaders — even the duke himself. So he hung his head and laughed not with the rest. But his doubts he kept locked up in his own heart. Robin knew none of them. It was a pretty sight to see the Taunton women walking out for a mile or more with their lovers, who had joined Mon- 144 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. mouth. They walked hand in hand with the men : they wore the Monmouth favors: they had no more doubt or fear of the event than their sweethearts. Those who visit Taunton now may see these women creeping about the streets, lonely and sorrowful, mindful still of that Sunday morning when they saw their lovers for the last time. When I consider the history of this expedition I am amazed that it did not succeed. It was, surely, by a special judgment of God that the victory was withheld from Monmouth and re- served for William. I say not (presumptuously) that the judgment was pronounced against the duke on account of his sinful life, but I think it was the will of Heaven that the coun- try should endure for three years the presence of a prince who was continually seeking to advance the Catholic religion. The people were not yet ripe, perhaps, for that universal disgust which caused them without bloodshed (in this island at least) to pull down King James from his throne. When, I say, I consider the temper and the courage of that great army which left Taunton, greater than any which the king could bring against it; when I consider the multitudes who flocked to the standard at Bridgewater, I am lost in wonder at the event. From Sunday, the 21st, when the army marched out of Taunton, till the news came of their rout on Sedgemoor, we heard nothing certain about them. On Tuesday the Duke of Albemarle, hearing that the army had gone, occupied Taunton with the militia, and there were some who expected severities on account of the welcome given to the duke and the recruits whom he obtained here. But there were no acts of revenge that I heard of — and, indeed, he did not stay long in the town. As for us, we remained under the shelter of Miss Blake’s roof, and daily expected news of some great and signal victory. But none came, save one letter. Every day we looked for this news, and every day we planned and laid down the victorious march for our army. “ They will first occupy Bristol,” said Miss Blake. “ That is certain, because there are many stout Protestants in Bristol, and the place is important. Once master of that great city, our king will get possession of ships, and so will have a fleet. There are, no doubt, plenty of arms in the town, with which he will be able to equip an army ten times greater than that which he now has. Then with, say, thirty thousand men, he will march on London. The militia will, of course, lay down their arms or desert at the approach of this great and resolute army. The king’s regiments will prove, I expect, to be Pro- testants, every man. Oxford will open her gates, London will FOR FAITH AMD FREEDOM. 145 send out her train-bands to welcome the deliverer, and so our king will enter in triumph and be crowned in Westminster Abbey, one King James succeeding another. Then there shall be restored to this distracted country ” — being a school-mis- tress Miss Blake could use language worthy of the dignity of history — “ the blessings of religious freedom; and the pure Word of God, stripped of superstitious additions made by man, shall be preached through the length and breadth of the land. ” “ What shall be done,” I asked, “ with the bishops?” “ They shall be suffered to remain,” she said, speaking with a voice of authority, “ for those congregations which desire a prelacy, but stripped of their titles and of their vast revenues. We will not persecute, but we will never suffer one Church to lord it over another. Oh! when will the news come? Where is the army now?” The letter of which I have spoken was from Bobin. “ Sweetheart,” he said, “ all goes well so far. At Bridge- water we have received a welcome only second to that of Taun- ton. The mayor and aldermen proclaimed our king at the High Cross, and the people have sent to the camp great store of provisions and arms of all kinds. We are now six regi- ments of foot with a thousand cavalry, besides the king's own body-guard. We have many good friends at Bridgewater, es- pecially one, Mr. Boger Hoar, who is a rich merchant of the place, and is very zealous in the cause. Your father preached on Sunday evening from the text, Deuteronomy, vii. 5 : ‘ Ye shall destroy their altars, and Break down their images, and cut down their groves, and burn their graven images with fire.' It was a most moving discourse, which fired the hearts of all who heard it. “ They say that our chief is down-hearted because the nobil- ity and gentry have not come in. They only wait for the first victory, after which they will come in by hundreds. But some of our men look forward to depriving them of their estates and dividing them among themselves; and already the colonels and majors are beginning to reckon up the great rewards which await them. As for me, there is but one reward for which I pray, namely, to return unto Bradford Orcas and to the arms of my sweet saint. Lord Churchill is reported to be at Chard; there has been a brush in the Forest of Neroche between the scouts, and it is said that ail the roads are guarded so that re- cruits shall be arrested, or at least driven back. Perhaps this is the reason why the gentry sit down. Barnaby says that so far there have been provisions enough and to spare; and ho 146 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. hopes the present plenty may continue. No ship’s crew can fight, he says, on half rations. Our march will be on Bristol. I hope and believe that when we have gotten that great town our end is sure. Humphrey continueth glum.” Many women there were who passed that time in prayer, continually offering up supplications on behalf of husband, brother, lover, or son. But at Taunton the rector, one Walter Harte, a zealous High Churchman, came forth from hiding, and, with the magistrates, said prayers daily for King James II. To tell what follows is to renew a time of agony unspeak- able. Yet must it be told. Farewell, happy days of hope and- confidence! Farewell, the sweet exchange of dreams! Fare- well to our lovely hero, the gracious duke! All the troubles that man's mind can conceive were permitted to be rained upon our heads — defeat, wounds, death, prisons — nay, for me such a thing as no one could have expected or even feared — such a fate as never entered the mind of man to invent. When the duke marched out of Bridgewater, across Sedge- moor to Glastonbury, the weather, which had been hot and fine, became cold and rainy, which made the men uncomfort- able. At Glastonbury they camped in the ruins of the old abbey. Thence they went to Shepton Mallet, the spirits of the men still being high. From Shepton Mallet they marched to a place called Pensford, only five miles from Bristol. Here they heard that the bridge over the Avon at Keynsham was broken down. This being presently repaired, the army marched across. They were then within easy reach of Bristol. And now began the disastefs of the enterprise. Up to this time everything had prospered. Had the duke boldly attacked Bristol — I speak not of my own wisdom, having none in such matters — he would have encountered no more than twenty companies or thereabouts of militia, and a regiment of two hundred and fifty horse. Moreover, Bristol was full of Dis- senters, who wanted nothing but encouragement to join the Protestant champion. Not only the duke's friends, but also his enemies, agree in declaring that it wanted nothing but courage to take that great, rich, and populous city, where he would have found everything that he wanted — men and money, arms and ammunition. I can not but think that for his sins, or for the sins of the nation, a judicial blindness was caused to fall upon the duke, so that he chose, of two ways open to him, that which led to his destruction. In short, he turned away from Bristol, and drew up his forces against Bath. When he summoned that city to surrender, they shot his herald, and scoffed at him. Then, instead of taking the town, the duke FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 147 retired to Philip's Norton, where, 'tis said, he expected some great re-enforcements. Bat none came; and he now grew greatly dejected, showing his dejection in his face, which cduld conceal nothing. Yet had he fought an action with his half- brother, the Duke of Grafton, in which he was victorious, a thing which ought to have helped him. In this action Lieu- tenant Blake, Miss Blake's cousin, was killed. From Philip's Norton the army marched to Frome, and here such was the general despondency that two thousand men — a third of the whole army — deserted in the night and returned to their own homes. I think, also, it was at Frome that they learned the news of Lord Argyll's discomfiture. Then a council was held, at which it was proposed that the army should be disbanded and ordered to return, seeing that the king had proclaimed a pardon to all who would peacefully lay down their arms and return home; and that the duke, with Lord Grey, and those who would be certainly exempted from that pardon, should make the best of their way out of the country. Alas! here was a way open to the safety of all those poor men; but again was the duke permitted to choose the other way — that, namely, which led to the destruction of his army and himself. Yet they say that he himself recommended the safer course. He must have, known that he wanted arms and ammunition; that his men were deserting, and that no more recruits came in. Colonel Venner, one of the principal men, was afc this juncture sent away to Holland in order to get as- sistance in arms and money. And the king's proclamation of pardon was carefully kept from the knowledge of the soldiers. On July the 4th the army returned to Bridgewater, and now Dr. Hooke, chaplain to the army, and some of the officers were sent away secretly in order to raise an insurrection in London and elsewhere; the only hope being that risings in various parts would call away some of the king's forces from the west. Some of the Taunton men in the army rode from Bridgewater to see their friends. But we women (who, for the most part remained at home) learned no news save that as yet there had been no signal victory: we did not hear of the large desertions nor of the duke's despondency. Therefore we continued in our fools' paradise, and looked every day for some great and crowning mercy. Those who are on the side of the Lord are always expecting some special interference; whereas they ought to be satisfied with being on the right side, whether victory or defeat be intended for them. In this enter- prise I doubt not that those godly men (there were, indeed. 148 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. some godly men) who fell in battle, or were afterward execute ed, received their reward, and that a far, far greater reward than their conduct deserved— for who can measure the short agony of death beside the everlasting life of glory unspeak- able? The last day of this fatal expedition was Sunday, the fifth day of July: so that it took no more than three weeks in all between its first beginning and its failure. Only three weeks! But how much longer was it before the punishment and the expiation were concluded? Nay, are they even yet concluded when thousands of innocent women and children still go in poverty and mourning for the loss of those who should have worked for them? In the morning my father preached to the soldiers on the text (Joshua, xxii. 22), “ The Lord God of gods, the Lord God of gods. He knoweth, and Israel He shall know; if it be in re- bellion, or if in transgression against the Lord, save us not this day.” And now the time was come when the last battle was to be fought. The Earl of Feversham, who had been at Somerton, marched this day across Sedgemoor, and encamped at Weston Zoyland, which is but five or six miles from Bridgewater. Now it chanced that one William Sparke, of Chedzoy, hear- ing of this advance, climbed the church tower, and by aid of a spying-glass, such as sailors use at sea, he discerned clearly the approach of the army and its halt at Weston. Being a well- wisher to the duke, he sent one of his men. Bichard Godfrey by name, with orders to spy into and learn the position and numbers of the earTs army, and to carry his information straightway to Bridgewater. This duty the fellow promised, and most faithfully performed. The duke had already learned the approach of Lord Fever- sham, and being now well-nigh desperate with his continued losses, and seeing his army gradually wasting away, with no fresh recruits, he had resolved upon not waiting to be attacked, but on a retreat northward, hoping to get across the bridge at Keynsham, and so march into Shropshire and Cheshire, where still he hoped to raise another army. But (says he who hath helped me with this brief account of the expedition) the re- treat, which would have been harassed by Lord Feversham ^s horse, would have turned into flight; the men would have de^ serted in all directions; and when the remains of the army ar- rived at Keynsham Bridge they would certainly have found it occupied by the Duke of Beaufort. FOR FAITH AFTD FREEDOM. 149 The carriages were already loaded in readiness for this march (it was to begin at nightfall), when the arrival of the man Godfrey, and the news that he brought, caused the duke to change everything. For he now perceived that such a chance was offered him as had never before occurred since his landing, viz. , a night surprise, and if he were fortunate, the rout of the king’s best troops. It is said that had the duke shown the same boldness in the matter of Bristol that he showed in this night attack he would have gained that city first and his own cause next. Nor did it appear at all a desperate attempt. For though Lord Fever- sham had 2500 men with him, horse and foot, with sixteen field-pieces, the duke had nearly 3000 foot and 600 horse, with four field-pieces, and though the king’s troops included many companies of grenadiers, with a battalion of that famous regi- ment the Coldstream Guards, and some 100 horse of the king’s regiment and dragoons, the duke had with him at least 2000 men well armed, and resolute, as the event showed. Besides this, he had the advantage of the surprise and confusion of a night attack. And, in addition, the camp was not entrenched, the troopers had all gone to bed, the foot-soldiers were drink- ing cider, and the officers were reported to be all drunk. Therefore it was resolved that the intended flight into Shropshire should be abandoned, and that the whole matter should be brought to an issue that very night. Had the attack succeeded, all might yet have gone well with the duke. His enemies boasted that his raw country lads would be routed at the first charge of regular soldiers; if he proved the contrary, those who had deserted him would have returned, those who held aloof would join. It was not the cause which found men lukewarm; it was the doubt — and nothing but the doubt — whether the duke’s enterprise would be supported. And I have never heard that any found aught but commenda- tion of the boldness and spirit which brought us the battle of Sedgemoor. All that day we spent in quiet meditation, in prayer, in the reading of the Bible, and in godly discourses, and herein I must commend the modesty as well as the piety of Miss Susan Blake, in that she invited my mother as her elder and the wife of an eminent minister to conduct the religious exercises, though as the hostess she might have demanded that privilege. We stirred not abroad at all. The meeting-houses which had been opened when the duke marched in were now closed again. In the evening, while we sat together discoursing upon the special mercies vouchsafed to the people of the Lord, a strange 150 FOB, FAITH AHD FBEEDOM. thing happened. Nay, I do not; say that news may not have reached Taunton already of the duke’s intentions, and of the position of the king’s forces. But this seems incredible, since it was not known — except to the council by whom it was de- cided — till late in the afternoon, and it was not to be thought that these would hurry to spread the news abroad, and so ruin the whole affair. The window being open then, we could hear the voices of those who talked in the street below. Now there passed two men, and they were talking as they went. Said one — and these were the words we heard: “ I tell thee that the duke will have no more to do than to lock the stable doors, and so seize the troopers in their beds.” We all started and listened. The voice below repeated: “ I say, sir, and I have it first hand, that he hath but to lock the stable doors, and so seize all the troopers m their beds. ” . Then they passed on their way. Said my mother: “ My husband hath told me that not only may the conscience be awakened |by a word which seemeth chance, but the future may be revealed by words which were perhaps meant in another sense. What we have heard this evening may be a foretelling of victory. My children, let us pray, and so to bed.” CHAPTER XXII. THE DAY AFTER. It was five o’clock when I awoke next morning. Though the hour was so early, I heard a great tramping and running about the streets, and, looking out of window, I saw a con- course of the towns-people gathered together, listening to one who spoke to them. But in the middle of his speech they broke away from him and ran to another speaker, and so dis- tractedly, and with such gestures, that they were clearly much moved by some news the nature of which I could not guess. For in some faces there was visible the outward show of tri- umph and joy, and on others there lay plainly visible the look of amazement or stupefaction; and in the street I saw some women weeping and crying. What had happened? Oh! what had happened? Then, while I was still dressing, there burst into the room Susan Blake, herself but half dressed, her hair flying all abroad, the comb in her hand. “ Rejoice!” she cried. “ Oh! rejoice and give thanks unto the Lord! What did we hear last night? That the duke had FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 151 but to shut the stable doors and seize the troopers in their beds. Look out of the window. See the people running and listen- ing eagerly. Oh! ’tis the crowning mercy that we have looked for; the Lord hath blown and His enemies are scattered. Re- member the strange words we heard last night. What said the unknown man? — nay, he said it twice: 6 The duke had but to lock the stable doors/ Nay, and yesterday I saw, and the last night I heard, The screech-owl thrice — which was meant for the ruin of our enemies. Oh! Grace, Grace, this is a joy- ful day!” “ But look,” I said, “ they Rave a downcast look; they run about as if distracted, and some are wringing their hands — ” “ ’Tis with excess of joy,” she replied, looking out of the window with me, though her hair was flying in the wind. “ They are so surprised and so rejoiced that they can not speak or move. ” “ But there are women weeping and wailing : why do they weep?” “ It is for those who are killed. Needs must in every great victory that some are killed — poor brave fellows! — and some are wounded. Nay, my dear, thou hast three at least at the camp who are dear to thee, and God knows I have many. Let us pray that we do not have to weep like these poor women.” She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself so willing to believe, that I doubted no longer. “ Listen! oh, listen!” she cried; “ never, never before have bells rung a music so joyful to my heart. ” For now the bells of the great tower of St. Mary’s began to ring. Clash, clash, clash, all together, as if they were crack- ing their throats with joy, and at the sound of the bells those men in the street who seemed to me stupefied as by a heavy blow, put up their hands to their ears and fled as if they could not bear the noise, and the women, who wept, wrung their hands, and shrieked aloud in anguish, as if the joy of the chimes mocked the sorrow of their hearts. “ Poor creatures!” said Susan. “ From my heart I pity them. But the victory is ours, and now it only remains to offer up our humble prayers and praises to the Throne of all mercy. ’ ’ So we knelt and thanked God. “ 0 Lord! we thank and bless Thee! 0 Lord! we thank and bless Thee!” cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude running down her cheeks. Outside, the noise of hurrying feet and voices increased, and 152 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. more women shrieked, and still the joy-bells clashed and clanged. “O Lord! we thank Thee! 0 Lord! we bless Thee!” Susan repeated, on her knees, her voice broken with her joy and triumph. 'Twas all that she could say. 1 declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the victory than I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt. The joy-bells were ringing; how should we know that the Reverend Mr. Harte, the vicar, caused them to be rung and not our friends? There could be no manner of doubt. The people running to and fro in the street had heard the news, and were rushing to tell each other and to hear more — the women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain. Again, we had encouraged each other with assurances of our success, so that we were already fully prepared to believe that it had come. Had we not seen a splendid army, some thousand strong, march out of Taunton town, led by the bravest man and most accomplished soldier in the English nation? Was not the army on the Lord's side? Were we not in a Protestant country? Were not the very regiments of the king Prot- estants? Why go on? And yet — oh! sad to think! — while we knelt and prayed the army was scattered like a cloud of summer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and hundreds lay dead upon the field, and a thousand men were prisoners, and many were already hanging in gemmances upon the gibbets, where they remained till King William's coming suffered them to be taken down; and the rest were flying in every direction hoping to escape. “ 0 Lord! we thank Thee^ 0 Lord! we bless Thee!” While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open, and a tramping of a man's boots; and Susan, hastily rolling up her hair, ran down-stairs followed by mother and myself. There stood Barnaby. Thank God! one of our lads was safe out of the fight. His face and hands were black with powder; his red coat, which had been so fine, was now smirched with mud and stained with I know not what — marks of weather, of mud and of gunpowder; the right-hand side was torn away; he had no hat upon his head, and a bloody clout was tied about his forehead. “ Barnaby!” I cried. “ Captain Barnaby!” cried Susan, clasping her hands. “ My son!” cried mother. “Oh! thou art wounded! Quick, Grace, child — a basin of water, quick!” “ Nay, 'tis but a scratch,” he said, “ and there is no time for nursing. ” POE PAITH AND EKEEDOM. 153 “ When, where, how,” we all cried together, “ was the vic- tory won? Is the enemy cut to pieces? Is the war finished?” 6 4 Victory?” he repeated, in his slow way — “ what victory? Give me a drink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual in the house — ” I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup- ful of cider. He began to eat and drink. “Why,” he said, talking between his mouthfuls, “if the worst comes, it is better to face it with a — Your health, madame;” he finished the cider. “ Another cup, sister, if you love me; I have neither eaten nor drunk since yesterday at seven oYlock or thereabout. ” He said no more until he had cleared the dish of the gammon and left nothing but the bone. This he dropped into his pocket. “When the pro- visions are out,” he said, wisely, “ there is good gnawing in the shank-bone of a ham. ” Then he drank up the rest of the cider and looked around. “ Victory! Did some one speak of victory?” “Yes; where was it? Tell us quick. ” “ Well, there was in some sort a victory. But the king had it.” “ What mean you, Barnaby? The king had it? What king?” “ Not King Monmouth. That king is riding away to find some port and get some ship, I take it, which will carry him EqoIt f a TT r*l 1 q ti rl ^ “ Barnaby, what is it? Oh, what is it? Tell us all.” “ All there is to tell, sister, is that our army is clean cut to pieces, and that those of us who are not killed or prisoners are making off with what speed they may. As for me, I should have thrown away my coat and picked up some old duds and got off to Bristol, and so aboard ship and away, but for dad. ” “ Oh, Barnaby/' cried my mother, “ what hath happened to him? Where is he?” “ I said, mother,” he replied, very slowly, and looking in her face strangely, “ that I would look after him, didn't I? Well, when we marched out of Bridgewater at nightfall noth- ing would serve but he must go too. I think he compared himself with Moses, who stood afar off and held up his arms. Never was there any man more eager to get at the enemy than dad. If he had not been a minister now, what a soldier he would have made!” “ Go on — quick, Barnaby.” “I can go, sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite sure. ” 154 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. “ Where is he, my son?” asked my mother. Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. “ He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present. Well, after the battle was over, and it was no use going on any longer, Monmouth and Lord Grey having already run away — ” “ Bun away? Run away?” “ Run away, sister. Aboard ship the captain stands’ by the crew to the last, and if they strike, he is prisoner with them. Ashore, the general runs away and leaves his men to find out when they will give over fighting. We fought until there waSi no more ammunition, and then we ran with the rest. Now I had not gone far before I saw lying on the moor at my very feet the poor old dad.” “ Oh!” “ He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I was about to leave him, when he opened his eyes. 6 What cheer, dad?* I asked. He said nothing; so I felt his pulse and found him breathing. ‘ But what cheer, dad?* I asked him again. ‘ Get up if thou canst, and come with me. * He looked as if he understood me not, and he shut his eyes again. Now when you run away, the best thing is to run as fast and to run as far as you can. Yet I could not run with dad lying in the road half dead. So while I tried to think what to do, because the murdering dragoons were cutting us down in all directions, there came galloping past a pony harnessed to a kind of go- cart, where, I suppose, there had been a barrel or two of cider for the soldiers. The creature was mad with the noise of the guns, and I had much ado to catch him, and hold the reins while I lifted dad into the cart. When I had done that, 1 ran by the side of the horse and drove him off the road, across the moor, which was rough going, but for dear life one must en- dure much, to North Marton, where I struck the road to Taunton, and brought him safe, so far.** “ Take me to him, Barnaby,** said my mother — “ take me to him. ** “ Why, mother,** he said, kindly, “ I know not if *tis wise. For, look you, if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot, though dad they may let go, for he is sped already; and for a tender heart like thine *twould be a piteous sight to see thy son hanging from a branch with a tight rope round his neck and thy husband dead on a hand-cart.** “ Barnaby, take me to him! — take me to him!’* “ Oh! Is it true? Is it true? Oh! Captain Barnaby, is it really true? Then why are the bells a-ringing?” Clash! Clash! Clash! The bells rung out louder and FOE FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 155 louder. One would have thought the whole town was rejoic- ing. Yet there were a thousand lads marched out of Taunton town, and I knew not how many ever came home again. “ They are ringing,” said Barnaby, “because King Mon- mouth's army is scattered, and the rebellion is over. Well, we have had our chance, and we are dished. Now must we sing small again. Madame/' he said, earnestly, addressing Susan, “ if 1 remember right, they were your hands that car- ried the naked sword and the Bible?” “ They were my hands.” “ And they were your scholars who worked the flags and gave them to the duke that day when you walked in a proces- sion?” “ They were my scholars,” she said, proudly. “ Then, madame, seeing that we have, if all reports be true, a damned unforgiving kind of king, my advice to you is to follow my example and run. Hoist all sail, madame, and fly to some port — any port. Fly false colors. When hanging, flog- ging, branding, and the like amusements set in, I think they will remember the maids of Taunton. That is my advice, madame. ” “Sir,” said Susan, bravely, though her cheek grew pale when he spoke of floggings and brandings, “I thank you. Whither should I fly? Needs must I stay here and bear what- ever affliction the Lord may lay upon me. And since our Protestant hero is defeated, methinks it matters little what be- comes of any of us. ” “ Why ” (Barnaby shook his head), “ King Monmouth is de- feated, that is most true; but we who survive have got our- selves to look after. Sister, get a basket and put into it pro- visions.” “ What will you have, Barnaby?” “ Everything that you can carry. Cold bacon for choice, and bread, and a bottle of brandy if you have any, and — all you can lay hands upon. With your good leave, madame. ” “ Oh, sir, take all — take all. I would to God that every- thing I have in the world could be used for the succor of these my friends!” And with that she began to weep and cry. I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house, and he took it upon his arm. And then we came away with many tears and fond farewells from this kind soul who had done so much for the cause, and was now about to pay so heavy a penalty for her zeal. Outside in the street the people recognized him for one of 156 FOR FAITH A HD FREEDOM. Monmouth’s captains, and pressed round him and asked him a thousand questions, but he answered shortly. “ We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath run away. We have all run away. How should I know how many are killed? Every man who doth not wish to be hanged had best run away and hide. The game is up — friend, we are sped. What more can I say? How do I know, in the devil’s name, whose fault it was? How can I tell, madame, if your son is safe? If he is safe, make him creep into a hiding-place ” — and so on to a hundred who crowded after him and questioned him as to the nature and meaning of the defeat. Seeing that no more news could be got from him, the people left off fol- lowing us, and we got out of the town on the east side, where the road leads to Ilminster; but it is a bad road and little frequented. Here Barnaby looked about him carefully to make sure that no one was observing us, and then, finding that no one was within sight, he turned to the right, down a grassy lane be- tween hedges. “ ’Tis this way that I brought him,” he said. “ Poor old man! he can now move neither hand nor foot; and his legs will no' more be any use to him. Yet he seemed in no pain, though the jolting of the cart must have shaken him more than a bit. ” The lane led into a field, and that field into another and a smaller one, with a plantation of larches on two sides and a brook shaded with alders on a third side. In one corner was a linney, with a thatched roof supported on wooden pillars in front and closed in at back and sides. It was such a meadow as is used for the pasture of cattle and the keeping of a bull. At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped out and looked about him with approbation. “Here,” he said, slowly, “ is a hiding-place fit for King Monmouth himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all gone off to the wars — though now, I doubt not, having had their bellyful of fighting. I suppose there were once cattle in the meadow, but they are either driven away by the club-men for safety, or they have been stolen by the gypsies. No troopers will this day come prying along this road, or if they do search the wood, which is unlikely, they will not look in the linney; here can we be snug until we make up our minds what course is best. ” “Barnaby,” I said, “take us to my father without more speech. ’ ’ “ I have laid him,” he went on, “ upon the bare ground in FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 157 the linney; but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is warm, though last night it rained and was cold. He looks happy, mother, and I doubt if he hath any feeling left in his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in the backbone, and never move afterward; but he lived for a bit. Here he is.” Alas! lying motionless on his back, his head bare, his white hair lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek white, and no sign of life in him except that his breast gently heaved, was my father. Then certain words which he had uttered came back to my memory. “ What matters the end,” he said, “ if I have freedom of speech for a single day?” My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and raised his head. “ Ah! my heart,” she cried, “ my dear heart, my husband, have they killed thee? Speak, my dear — speak, if thou canst! Art thou in pain? Can we do aught to relieve thee? Oh, is this the end of all?” But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but they did not move; he looked straight before him, but he saw noth- ing. Then he murmured, in a low voice: “ Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace. So let all Thine enemies perish. Lord.” And this, until the end, was the burden of all. He spoke no word to show that he knew any one, or that he was in pain, or that he desired anything. He neither ate nor drank, yet for many weeks longer he continued to live. CHAPTER XXIII. Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we sat in the shade of the linney all the morning. Outside, the blackbird warbled in the wood and the lark sung in the sky. But we sat in silence, not daring so much as to ask each other if those things were real, or if we were dreaming a dreadful dream. Still and motionless lay my father’s body, as if the body of a dead man. He felt no pain — of that I am assured; it makes me sick even to think that he might have suffered pain from his wound; he had no sense at all of what was going on. Yet once or twice during the long trance or paralysis in which he had fallen he opened his lips and spoke after his old manner in the words of the Bible, but in a disjointed manner, as one who is in a dream or delirium. And he breathed gent- ly — so that he was not dead. IJarnaby, for his part, threw himself upon his face, and laying his head upon his arm, fell asleep instantly. The place was very quiet; at the end of the 158 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, meadow was a brook, and there was a wood upon the other side; we could hear the prattling of the water over the pebbles; outside the linney a great elm-tree stretched out its branches; presently I saw a squirrel sitting upon one and peering curi- ously at us, not at all afraid, so still and motionless we were. I remember that 1 envied the squirrel. He took no thought even for his daily bread. And the hedge-sparrows, no more afraid than if the linney was empty, hopped into the place and began picking about among the straw. And so the hours slow- ly passed away, and by degrees I began to understand a little better what had happened to us, for at the first shock one could not perceive the extent of the disaster, and we were as in a dream when we followed Barnaby out of the town. The great and splendid army was destroyed; that gallant hero, the duke, was in flight; those of the soldiers who were not killed or taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying to escape; my father was wounded, stricken to death, as it seemed, and deprived of power to move, to feel, or to think. While I considered this I suddenly remembered how he had turned his eyes from gazing into the sky, and asked me what it mattered even if the end would be death to him and ruin unto all of us. And I do firmly believe that at that moment he had an actual vision of the end, and really saw before his eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and that he knew all along what the end would be. Yet he bad delivered his soul — why, then, he had obtained his prayer — and by daily exhortation had doubtless done much to keep up the spirit of those in the army who were sober and godly men. Did he also, like Sir Christopher, have another vision which should console and encourage him? Did he see the time to follow when a greater than the duke should come and bring with him the deliverance of the country? There are certain gracious words with which that vision closes which he loved to read and to expound — the vision, I mean, of the Basket of Summer Fruit. Did those words ring in his mind and comfort him even in the prospect of his own end? Then my thoughts, which were swift and yet beyond my control, left him and considered the case of Barnaby. He had been a captain in the Green Regiment; he would be hanged, for certain, if he were caught. My sweetheart, my Robin, had also been a captain in the duke’s army. All the duke’s officers would be hanged if they were caught. But perhaps Robin was already dead — dead on the battle-field — his face white, his hands stiff, blood upon him somewhere, and a cruel wound upon his dear body! Oh, Robin! Yet I shed no tears. Humphrey, who had been FOB FAITH AHD FBEEDOM. 159 one of the dukeT chirurgeons, he would also be surely hanged if he were caught. Why — since all would be hanged — why not hang mother and me as well, and so an end? About noon Barnaby began to stir; then he grunted and went to sleep again: presently he moved once more; then he rolled over on his broad back and went to sleep again. It was not until the sun was quite low that he awoke, sitting up sud- denly, and looking about him with quick suspicion, as one who hath been sleeping in the country of an enemy, or where wild beasts are found. Then he sprung to his feet and shook himself like a dog. 44 Sister,” he said, 44 thou shouldst have awakened me earlier. I have slept all the day. Well; we are safe, so far.” Here he looked cautiously out of the linney toward the wood and the road. 44 So far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not wait until to-morrow, but budge to-night; for not only will the troopers scour the country, but they will offer rewards, and the gypsies — ay, and even the country folk — will hasten to give in- formation out of their greedy hearts. We must budge this very night.” 46 Whither shall we go, Barnaby?” He went on as if he had not heard my question. 44 We shall certainly be safe here for to-night; but for to- morrow I doubt. Best not run the chance; for to-day their hands are full; they will be hanging the prisoners. Some they will hang first and try afterward; some they will try first and hang afterward. ’ What odds, if they are to be hanged in the end? The cider orchards never had such fruit as they will show this autumn, if the king prove revengeful — as, to judge by his sour face, he will be.” Here he cursed the king, his sour face, his works and ways, his past, his present, and his future, in round language which I hope his wounded father did not hear. 44 We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere, until the unlucky Monmouth men will be suffered to return home in peace. Ay! Twill be a month and more, I take it, before the country will be left quiet. A month and more — and dad not able to crawl!” 44 Where shall we be snug, Barnaby?” 44 That, sister, is what I am trying to find out. How to lie snug with a couple of women and a wounded man who can not move? ^Twas madness of the poor old dad to bring thee to the camp, child. For now we can not — any of us — part com- pany, and if we stay together. Twill maybe bring our necks to the halter. ” 160 FOR FAITH AMD FREEDOM. “ Leave us, Barnaby,” I said — “ oh, leave us to do what we can for the poor sufferer, and save thyself . 99 “ Ta, ta, ta, sister — knowest not what thou sayest. Let me consider. There, may be some way of safety. As for pro- visions now: we have the basket full — enough for two days, say. What the plague did dad, the poor old man, want with women when the fighting was on hand? When the fighting is done, I grant you, women, with the tobacco and punch, are much in place. There are some pretty songs, now, that I have heard about women and drink . 99 “ Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as drink and singing?” “ All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not fitting; wherefore, sister, I say no more . 99 “ Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Robin? Or of Hum- phrey?” “ I know nothing. They may be dead ; they may be wound- ed and prisoners. Much I fear, knowing the spirit of the lads, that both are killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before the fight, and he spoke to me — 99 What did Humphrey say?” “ I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum, seeing that we were at last going forth to meet the king's army. This I said because I knew Humphrey to be a lad of mettle, though his arm is thin and his body is crooked. ‘ I go heavy,. Barnaby/ he said, speaking low lest others should hear, c be- cause I see plainly that, unless some signal success come to us, this our business will end badly.' Then he began to talk about the thousands who were to have been raised all over the country; how he himself had brought to the duke promises of support gathered all the way from London to Bradford Orcas, and how his friends in Holland even promised both men and arms; but none of these promises had been kept; how dad had brought promises of support from all the Non -conformists of the West, but hardly any, save at Taunton, had come forward; and how the army was melting away, and no more recruits coming in. And then he said that he had been the means of bringing so many to the duke that, if they died, their deaths would be upon his conscience. And he spoke lovingly of Robin and of thee, sister. And so we parted, and I saw him no more. As for what he said about success, I minded it not a straw. Many a croaker turns out in the long run to be brave in the fight. Doubtless he is dead, and Robin, too. Both are dead. I take it, sister, thou hast lost thy sweetheart. Cry a FO To FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 161 6 little,, my dear,” he added, kindly; 44 ' twill ease the pain at thy heart. 'Tis natural for a woman to cry.” 46 1 can not cry, Barnaby; I wish I could. The tears rise to my eyes, but my throat is dry.” 44 Try a prayer or two, sister. 'Twas wont to comfort the heart of my mother when she was in trouble.” 44 A prayer? Brother, I have done nothing but pray since this unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer? Oh, I can not pray! If I were to pray now it would be as if my words were echoed back from a wall of solid rock. We were praying all yesterday; we made the Sabbath into a day of prayer without ceasing; and the morning, when you opened the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy of the great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time the poor brave men — ” 44 They were brave enough to the end,” said Barnaby. 44 The, poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field (among them may be Bobin), and the prisoners huddled to- gether somewhere, and men hanging already upon the gibbets. We were praising God — and my father lying on the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive, and all of us ruined! Prayer? How could I pray from such a pit of woe?” 44 Child,” my mother lifted her pale face, 44 in the darkest hour pray without ceasing. Even if there happen even a darker hour than this, 4 in everything by prayer and supplica- tion with thanksgiving* let your requests be made known- ' — with thanksgiving, my daughter. ” Alas! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too much for me. So we fell into silence. When the sun had quite gone down, Barnaby went forth cautiously. Presently he came back. 44 There is no one on the road,” he said. 44 We may now go on our way. The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It breeds swift and fatal diseases. I have now resolved what to do. I will lift my father upon the cart again and put in the pony. Four or five miles sou'-west or thereabouts is Black Down, which is a No-Man's Land. Thither will we go and hide in the coombs, where no one ever comes, except the gypsies.” 44 How shall we live, Barnaby?” 44 That,” he said, 44 we shall find out when we come to look about us. There is provision for two days. The nights are warm. We shall find cover, or make it with branches. There is water in the brooks and dry wood to burn. There we may, perhaps, be safe. When the country is quiet we will make our way across the hills to Bradford Orcas, where no one will 162 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. molest you, and I can go off to Bristol or Lyme, or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors are shipwrecked, sister, they do not begin by asking what they shall do on dry land; they ask only to feel the stones beneath their feet. We must think of nothing now but of a place of safety.” “ Barnaby, are the open hills a proper place for ^wounded man?” “ Why, child, for a choice between the hills and what else may happen if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a wounded man. But indeed ”— he whispered, so that my mother should not hear him — “ he will die. Death is written on his face. I know not how long he will live. But he must die. Never did any man recover from such evil plight.” He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more than a couple of planks laid side by side, just as he had brought him from Taunton. My mother made a kind of pillow for him with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we hoped that he would not feel the jogging of the cart. “ The stream,” said Barnaby, “ comes down from the hills. Let us follow its course upward. ” It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most part flat and pebbly; and on either side of the stream lay a strip of soft turf, broad enough for the cart to run upon. So that, as long as that lasted, we had very easy going; my mother and I walking one on each side, so as to steady the pillow and keep the poor head upon it from pain. But whether we went easy or whether we went rough, that head made no sign of feeling aught, and lay, just as in the linney, as if dead. Once it had spoken; now it was silent again. 1 can not tell how long we went on beside that stream. ^Twas in a wild, uncultivated country; the ground ascended; the stream became narrower and swifter; presently the friend- ly strip of turf failed altogether, and then we had trouble to keep the cart from upsetting. I went to the j)ony*s head, and Barnaby, going behind the cart, lifted it over the rough jflaces, and sometimes carried his end of it. The night was chilly; my feet were wet with splashing in the brook, and I was growing faint with hunger, when Barnaby called a halt. “ We are now,” he said, “ at the head of the stream. In half an hour or thereabouts it will be break of day. Let us rest. Mother, you must eat something. Come, sister, *tis late for supper, and full early for breakfast. Take some meat and bread and half a cup of cider / 9 It is all I remember of that night. FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 163 CHAPTER XXIV. THE CAMP IN THE COOMB. Our camping-place when I awoke in the morning I found to be near the head of a most beautiful coomb or valley among the Black Down Hills. I knew it not at the time, but it was not far from that old Roman castle which we had passed on our way to Taunton, called Castle Ratch. The hills rose steep on either hand, their slopes hidden by trees. At our feet the brook took its rise in a green quagmire. The birds were sing- ing, and the sun was already high, and the air was warm, though there was a fresh breeze blowing. The warmth and sweetness filled my soul when I awoke, and I sat up with joy, until suddenly I remembered why we were here and who were here with me. Then my heart sunk like a lump of lead in water. I looked around. My father lay, just as he had been lying all the day before, motionless, white of cheek, and as one dead, save for the slight motiqn of his chest and the twitching of his nostril. As I looked at him in the clear morning light it was borne in upon me very strongly that he was indeed dead, inasmuch as his soul seemed to have fled. He saw nothing, he felt nothing. If the flies crawled over his eyelids he made no sign of disturbance; yet he breathed, and from time to time he murmured, but as one that dreameth. Beside him lay my mother sleeping, worn out by the fatigues of the night. Barnaby had spread his coat to cover her, so that she should not take, cold, and he had piled a little heap of dead leaves to make her a pillow. He was lying at her feet, head on arm, sleeping heavily. What should be done, I wondered, when next he woke? First I went down the coomb a little way till the stream was deep enough, and there I bathed my feet, which were swollen and bruised by the long walk up the coomb. Though it was in the midst of so much misery, there was a pleasure of dabbling my feet in the cool water, and afterward of walking about barefoot in the grass. I disturbed an adder which was sleep- ing on a flat stone in the sun, and it lifted its venomous head and hissed, but did not spring upon me. Then I washed my face and hands, and made my hair as smooth as without a comb it was possible. When 1 had done this I remembered that perhaps my father might be thirsty, or at least able to drink, though he seemed no more to feel hunger or thirst. So 164 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. I filled the tin pannikin — it was Barnaby’s— with water, and tried to pour a little into his mouth. He seemed to swallow it, and I gave him a little more, until he would swallow no more. Observe that he took no other nourishment than a little water, wine or milk, or a few drops of broth, until the end. So I covered his face with a handkerchief to keep off the flies, and left him. Then I looked into the basket. All that there was in it would not be more than enough for Barnaby*s breakfast, unless his appetite should fail him by reason of fear, though in truth he had no fear of being cap- tured, or of anything else. There was in it a piece of bacon, a large loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, a bottle of cider; nothing more. When these provisions were gone, what next? Could we venture into the nearest village and buy food, or to the first farm-house? Then we might fall straight into the jaws of the enemy, who were probably running over the whole country in search of the fugitives. Could we buy without money? Could we beg without arousing suspicions? If the people were well inclined to the Protestant cause we might trust them. But how could we tell that? So in my mind I turned over everything except the one thing which might have proved our salvation, and that you shall hear directly. Also, which was a very strange thing, I quite forgot that I had upon me, tied by a string round my waist and well concealed, Barnaby’s bag of gold — two hundred and fifty pieces. Thus there was money enough and to spare. I discovered next that our pony had run away in the night. The cart was there, but no pony to drag it. Well, it was not much, but it seemed an additional burden to bear. I ventured the little way up the valley, following a sheep track which mounted higher and higher. I saw no sign anywhere of maifls presence; it is marked in woods by circles of burned cinders, by trees felled, by bundles of broom or fern tied up, or by shepherds* huts. Here there was nothing at all; you would have said that the place had never been visited by man. Presently I came to a place where the woods ceased, the last of the trees being much stunted and blown over from the west, and then the top of the hill began, not a sharp p'ico or point, but a great open plain swelling out here and flat there, with many of the little hillocks which people say are ancient tombs. And no trees at all, but only bare turf, so that one could see a great way off. But there was no sign of man anywhere; no smoke in the coomb at my feet; no shepherd on the hill. At this juncture of our fortunes any stranger might be an enemy, therefore I returned, so far well pleased. FOR FAITH AMD FREEDOM, 165 Barnaby was now awake, and was inspecting the basket of provisions. “ Sister,” he said, “ we must go upon half rations for breakfast, but I hope, unless my skill fails, to bring you something far better for supper. The bread you shall have, and mother. The bacon may keep till to-morrow. The cider you had better keep against such times as you feel worn out and want a cordial, though a glass of Nantz were better, if Nantz grew in the woods. ” He looked around as if to see whether a miracle would not provide him with a flask of strong drink, but seeing none, shook his head. “As for me,” he went on, “I am a sailor, and I under- stand how to forage. Therefore, yesterday, foreseeing that the provisions might give out, I dropped the shank of the ham into my pocket. Now you shall see.” He produced this delicate morsel, and, sitting down, began to gnaw and to bite into the bone with his strong teeth, exactly like a dog. This he continued, with every sign of satisfaction, for a quarter of an hour or so, when he desisted, and replaced the bone in his pocket. “We throw away the bones,” he said; “the dogs gnaw them and devour them. Think you that it is for their amuse- ment? Not so, but for the juices and the nourishment that are in and around the bone; for the marrow and for the meat that still will stick in odd corners.” He went down to the stream with the pannikin, and .drank a cup or two of water to finish what they call a horse’s meal, namely, the food first and the water afterward. “ And now,” he said, “ I have breakfasted. It is true that I am still hungry, but I have 'eaten enough to carry me on a while. Many a poor lad cast away on a desert shore would find the shank of a ham a meal fit for a king; ay, and a meal or two after that. I shall make a dinner presently olf this bone, and I shall still keep it against a time when there may be no provision left. ” “And now,” he said, looking around him, “let us con- sider. The troopers, I take it, are riding along the roads. . Whether they will ride over these hills I know not, but I think they will not, because their horses can not well ride up these coombs. Certainly, if they do, it will not be by the way we came. We are here, therefore, hidden away snug. Why should we budge? Nowhere is there a more deserted part of the country than Black Down, on whose side we are. And 1 do not think, further, that we should find anywhere a safer place to hide ourselves in than this coomb, where, I dare say. 166 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. no one comes, unless it be the gypsies or the broom-squires, all the year round. And now they are all laden with the spoil of the army — for after a battle this gentry swoop down upon the field like the great birds which I have seen abroad upon the carcasses of drowned beasts, and plunder the dead. Next they must go into town in order to sell their booty, then they will be fain to drink about till all is spent, so they will leave us undisturbed. Therefore we will stay here, sister. First, I will go try the old tricks by which I did often in the old time improve the fare at home. Next I will devise some way of making a more comfortable resting-place. Thank the Lord for fine weather so far . 99 He was gone a couple of hours. During that time my mother awoke. Her mind was broken by the suddenness of this trouble, and she cared no more to speak, sitting still by the side of her husband, and watching for any change in him. But I persuaded her to take a little bread and a cup of cider. When Barnaby came back he brought with him a blackbird, a thrush, and two wood-pigeons. He had not forgotten the tricks of his boyhood, when he would often bring home a rabbit, a hare, or a basket of trout. So that my chief terror, that we might be forced to abandon our hiding-place through sheer hunger, was removed. But Barnaby was full of all kinds of devices. He then set to work with his great knife, cutting down a quantity of green branches, which he laid out side by side, with their leaves on, and then bound them together, cleverly interlacing the smaller shoots and branches with each other, so that he made a long kind of hurdle about six feet high. This, which by reason of the leases was almost impervious to the wind, he disposed round the trunks of three young trees growing near each other. Thus he made a small three- cornered inclosure. Again he cut other and thicker branches, and laid them over and across this hurdle, and cut turf, which he placed upon the branches, so that here was now a hut with a roof and walls complete. Said I not that Barnaby was full of devices? “ There,” he said, when all was ready, “ is a house for you. It will have to rain hard and long before the water begins to drop through the branches which make the roof and the slabs of turf. Well, *tis a shelter. Not so comfortable as the old cottage, perhaps, but nearly as commodious. If it is not a palace it will serve us to keep off the sun by day and the dew by night . 99 Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves. FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 167 and heather, and these he disposed within the hut, so that they made a thick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at night they even formed a covering for the feet, and prevented one from feeling cold. When all was done he lifted my father gently, and laid him with great tenderness upon this carpet within the rude shelter. “ This shall he a warmer night for thee than the last, dad,” he said. “ There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones. What, mother? We can live here till the cold weather comes. The wind will perhaps blow a bit through the leaves to might, but not much, and to-morrow I will see to that. Be easy in your mind about the provisions.” Alas! my poor mother was thinking of anything in the world except the provisions. “ There are rabbits and birds in plenty; we can catch them and eat them. Bread we must do without when what we have is gone, and as for strong drink and tobacco” — he sighed heavily — “ they will come again when better times are served out.” In these labors I helped as much as I was able, and par- ticularly in twisting the branches together. And thus the whole day passed, not tediously, and without any alarms, the labor being cheered by the hopefulness of Barnaby's honest face. No one, to look at that face, could believe that he was flying for his life, and would be hanged if he was caught. After sunset we lighted a fire, but a small one only, and well hidden by the woods, so that its light might not be seen from below. Then Barnaby dexterously plucked and trussed the birds and roasted them in the embers, so that had my heart been at rest I should have had a most delicious supper. And I confess that I did begin to pluck up a little courage, and to hope that we might yet escape, and that Robin might be living. After supper my mother prayed, and I could join with more of resignation and something of faith. Alas! in times of trial how easily doth the Christian fall from faith. The day before prayer seemed to be a mockery; it was as if all prayer were addressed to a deaf God, or to One who will not hear, for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, and we were suddenly answered with disaster and defeat. After supper Barnaby sat beside the embers, and began to talk in a low voice. “ 'Twill be a sorrowful barley-mow song this year,” he said; “ a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be dead. ” “ Not all dead, Barnaby. Oh, not all.” “ I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some are running away.” Then he began to sing in a low voice: 168 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. E< c Here’s a health to the barley-mow ’ — I remember, sister, when I would run a mile to hear that song, though my father flogged me for it in the morning. "Tis the best song ever written.” He went on singing in a kind of whisper: “ ‘ We’ll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys ’— Eobin — poor Eobin! he is dead! — was a famous hand at sing- ing; but Humphrey found the words too rustical. Humphrey — who is now dead, too — was ever for fine words, like Mr. Boscorel. ‘ We’ll drink it out of the jolly brown bow].’ I think 1 see him now — poor Eobin! Well, he is no more. He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it: “ ‘ We’ll drink it out o’ the river, my boys. Here’s a health to the barley- mow! The river, the well, the pipe, the hogshead, the half- Hogshead, the anker, the lialf-anker, the gallon, the Pottle, the quart, the pint, the half- pint, the quarter- Pint, the nipperkin, the jolly brown bowl, my boys. Here’s a health to the barley- mow!’ ” He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh, Barnaby, how didst thou love good companionship with singing and drinking. “ 'Twill be lonely for thee, sister, at Bradford when thou dost return; Sir Christopher, I take it, will not long hold up his head, and madame will pine away for the loss of Eobin, and mother looks as if she would follow after, so white and wan is she. If she would speak, or complain, or cry it would comfort her, poor soul. 'Twas a sad day for her when she married the poor old dad. Poverty and hard work, and now a cruel end to her marriage — poor mother!” “ Barnaby, you tear my heart.” “ Nay, child, 'tis better to talk than to keep silence. Better have your heart torn than be choked with your pain. Thou art like unto a man who hath a wounded leg, and if he doth not consent to have it cut off, though the anguish be sharp, he will presently bleed to death. Say to thyself, therefore, plain .and clear, ‘ Eobin is dead; I have lost my sweetheart. * ” “ No, no, Barnaby; I can not say those cruel words. Oh, I can not say them. I can not feel that Eobin is truly dead.” “ Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a prisoner or he is in hiding. If a prisoner he is as good as dead, because the duke's officers and the gentlemen who joined him they will FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 169 never forgive — that is quite certain. If I were a prisoner I should feel my neck already tightened. If he is not a prisoner, where is he to hide? — whither betake himself? I can get sail- ors* duds and go abroad before the mast, and ten to one no- body will find me out, because, d*ye see, I can talk the sailors* language, and I know their manners and customs. But Robin —what is Robin to do if he is alive? And this, I say, is doubt- ful. Best say to thyself, 4 1 have lost. my sweetheart.* So wilt thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness. ** 44 Barnaby, you know not what you say. Alas! if my Robin is dead — if my boy is truly dead — then I ask for nothing more than swift death, speedy death, to join him and be with him!** 44 If he escape he will make for Bradford Orcas and hide in the Corton woods. That is quite certain. They always make for home. I would that we were in that friendly place, so that you could go live in the cottage and bring provisions with tobacco to us, unsuspected and unseen. When we have rested here awhile we will push across the hills and try to get there by night, but it is a weary way to drag that wounded man. However ** — he broke off and said, earnestly — 44 make up thy mind, child, to the worst. *Tis as if a shipwrecked man should hope that enough of the ship would float to carry him home withal. Make up thy mind. We are all ruined and lost — all — all — all. Thy father is dying; thy lover is dead; thou art thyself in great danger by reason of that affair at Taunton. Everything being gone, turn round therefore and make thyself as comfortable as possible. What will happen we know not. Therefore count every day of safety for gain, and every meal for a respite.** He was silent for a while, leaving me to think over what he had said. Here, indeed, was a philosopher. Things being all lost, and our affairs in a desperate condition, we were to turn round and make ourselves as comfortable as we could. This, I suppose, is what sailors are wont to do; certainly they are a folk more exposed to misfortune than others, and therefore, perhaps, more ready to make the best of whatever happens. 44 Barnaby,** I said presently, 44 how can I turn round and make myself comfortable?** 44 The evening is still,** he said, without replying. 44 See! there is a bat, and there another. If it were not for the trouble in there ** — he pointed to the hut — 44 1 should be easy in my mind and contented. I could willingly live here a twelvemonth. Why, compared with the lot of the poor devils who must now be in prison, what is ours? They get the foul and stinking clink, with bad food, in the midst of wounded 170 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. men whose hurts are putrifying, with jail fever, and with the whipping-post or the gallows to come. We breathe sweet air, we find sufficient food — to-morrow, if I know any of the signs, thou shalt taste a roasted hedgehog — dish fit for a king! I found at the bottom of the coomb a pot left by some gypsies; thou shalt have boiled sorrel and mushrooms to thy supper. If we stay here long enough there will be nuts and black- berries and whortleberries. Pity, a thousand pities, there is not a drop of drink. I dream of punch and hipsy. Think upon what remains, even if thou canst not bear to think of what is lost. Hast ever seen a tall ship founder in the waves? They close over her as she sinks, and in an instant, it is as if that tall ship with all her crew had never been in existence at all. The army of Monmouth is scattered and ruined. Well, it is with us, amid these woods, just as if there had been no army. It has been a dream perhaps. Who can tell? Some- times all the past seems to have been a dream. It is all a dream-past and future. There is no past and there is no future; all is a dream. But the present we have. Let us be content therewith.” He spoke slowly and with measured accents, as one en- chanted. Sometimes Barnaby was but a rough and rude sailor. At other times, as these, he betrayed signs of his early education, and spoke as one who thought. “It is ten years and more since last I breathed the air of the hills. I knew not that I loved so much the woods and valleys and the streams. Some day, if I survive this adven- ture, I will build me a hut and live here alone in the woods. Why, if I were alone I should have an easy heart. If I were driven out of one place I could find another. I am in no hurry to get down among men and towns. Let us all stay here and be happy. But there is dad, who lives not, yet is not dead. Sister, be thankful for thy safety in the woods, and think not too much upon the dead. ” We lived in this manner, the weather being for the most part fine and warm, but with showers now and then, for a fortnight or thereabouts, no one coming up the coomb, and there being still no sign of man's presence in the hills. Our daily fare consisted of the wild birds snared by Barnaby, such creatures as rabbits, hedgehogs, and the like, which he caugh£ by ingenious ways, and trout from the brook, which he caught with a twisted pin or by tickling them with his hand. There were also mushrooms and edible leaves, such as the nettle, wild sorrel, and the like, of which he knew. These we boiled and eat, He also plucked the half -ripe blackberries^ and boiled FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 171 them to make a sour drink, and one which, like the cider loved by our people, would grip his throat, because he could not endure plain cold water. And he made out of the bones of the birds a kind of thin broth for my father, of which he daily swallowed a teaspoonful or so. So that we fared well, if not sumptuously. The bread, to be sure, which Barnaby left for mother and me was coming to the last crust, and I know not how we should have got more without venturing into the nearest village. Now as I talked every night with my brother I found out what a brave and simple soul it was, always cheerful and hope- ful, talking always as if we were the most fortunate people in the world, instead of the most miserable, and yet, by keeping the truth before me, preventing me from getting into another FooFs Paradise as to our safety and Bob hPs escape, such as that into which I had fallen after the army marched out of Taunton. I understand now that he was always thinking how to smooth and soften things for us, so that we might not go distracted with anxiety and grief; finding work for me, talk- ing about other things— in short, the most thoughtful and affectionate brother in all the world. As for my mother, he could do nothing to move her. She still sat beside her wounded husband, watching all day long for any sign of con- sciousness or change. Seeing that Barnaby was so good and gentle a creature, I could not understand how it was that in the old days he used to get a flogging most days for some offense or other, so that T had grown up to believe him a very wicked boy indeed. I put this question to him one night. He put it aside for a while, replying in his own fashion. “I remember dad,” he said, “before thou canst, sister. He was always thin and tall, and he always stooped as he walked. But his hair, which now is white, was brown, and fell in curls which he could not straighten. He was always mighty grave; no one, I am sure, ever saw him laugh; I have never seen him so much as smile, except sometimes when he dandled thee upon his knee, and thou wouldst amuse him with innocent prattle. All his life he hath spent in finding out the way to Heaven. He did find the way — I suppose he hath truly discovered it — and a mighty thorny and difficult way it is, so that I know not how any can succeed in reaching port by such navigation. The devil of it is that he believes there is no other way, and he seemed never so happy as when he had found another trap or pitfall to catch the unwary, and send them straight to hell. 172 FOR FAITH A^D FREEDOM. “ For my part,"" Barnaby went on, slowly, “ I could never love such a life. Let others, if they will, find out rough and craggy ways that lead to Heaven. For my part, I am content to go along the plain and smooth high-road with the rest of mankind, though it brings us to a lower place, inhabited by the baser sort. Well, I dare say I shall find mates there, and we will certainly make ourselves as comfortable as the place allows. Let my father, therefore, find out what awaits him in the other world; let me take what comes in this. Some of it is sweet, and some is bitter; some of it makes us laugh and sing and dance, and some makes us curse and swear and bellow out as when one is lashed to the hatches and the cat falls on his naked back. Sometimes, sister, I think the naked negroes of the west coast the happiest people in the world. Do they trouble their heads about the way to Heaven? Not they. What comes they take, and they ask no more. Has it made dad the happier to find out how few are those who sit beside him when he hath his harp and crown? Not so. He would have been happier if he had been a jolly plowboy whistling to his team, or a jolly sailor singing over his panni- kin of drink of a Saturday night. He tried to make me follow in his footsteps; he flogged me daily in the hope of making me take, like himself, to the trade of proving to people out of the Holy Bible that they are surely damned. . The more he flogged the less I yearned after that trade, till at last I resolved that, come what would, I would never thump a pulpit like him in conventicle or church. Then, if you will believe me, sister, I grew tired of flogging, which, when it comes every day, wearies a boy at fourteen or fifteen more than you would think. Now, one day while I was dancing to the pipe and tabor with some of the village girls, as bad luck would have it, dad came by. 6 Child of Satan!" he roared, seizing me by the ear, which I verily thought he would have pulled off. Then to the girls, ‘ Your laughter shall be turned into mourning/ and so lugged me home and sent me supperless to bed, with the promise of such a flogging in the morning as should make all previous floggings seem mere flea-bites or joyous ticklings in compari- son. This decided me. So in the dead of night I crept softly down the stairs, cut myself a great hunch of bread and cheese, and so ran away and went to sea."" “ Barnaby, was it well done — to run away?"" “ Well, sister, "tis done, and if it was, ill done, "tis by this time, no doubt, forgotten. Now, remember, I blame not my father. Before all things he would save my soul alive. That was why he flogged me. He knew but one way, and along FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. 173 that way he would drive me. So he flogged me the harder. I blame him not. Yet had I remained he would doubtless be flogging me still. Now remember, again, that ever since I understood anything I have always been enraged to think upon the monstrous oppression which silenced him and brought us all to poverty, and made my mother, a gentlewoman born, work her fingers to the bone, and caused me to choose between being a beggarly scholar, driven to teach brats and endure flouts and poverty, or to put on an apron and learn a trade. Wherefore, when I found that Monmouth was going to hoist his flag I came with him in order to strike a blow, and I hoped a good blow, too, at the oppressors.” “ You have struck that blow, Barnaby, and where are we?” He laughed. “ We are in hiding. Some of the king's troopers did I make to bite the dust. They may hang me for it if they will. They will not bring those troopers back to life. Well — Sis- ter, I am sleepy. Good-night.” We might have continued this kind of life I know not how much longer. Certainly till the cold nights came. The weather continued fine and warm, the hut kept off dews at night; we lay warm among the heather and the ferns; Barna- by found a sufficiency of food; my father grew no worse to outward seeming, and we seemed in safety. Then an ill chance and my own foolishness marred all. One day, in the afternoon, Barnaby being away looking after his snares and gins, I heard, lower down the coomb, voices of boys talking. This affrighted me terribly. The voices seemed to be drawing nearer. Now if the children came up as high as our encampment they could not fail to see the signs of habitation. There was the hut among the trees and the iron pot standing among the gray embers of last night's fire. The cart stood on one side. We could not possi- bly remain hidden. If they should come up so far and find us they would certainly carry the report of us down to the village. I considered, therefore, what to do, and then ran quickly down the coomb, keeping among the trees, so as not to be seen. After a little I discovered, a little way off, a couple of boys about nine years of age. They were common village boys, rosy-faced and wholesome; they carried a basket, and they were slowly making their way up the stream, stopping now to throw a stone at a squirrel., and now to dam the running water, and now to find a nut or filbert ripe enough to be eaten. By the basket which they carried I knew that they 174 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. were come in search of whortleberries, for which purpose they would have to get quite to the end of the comb and the top of the hill. Therefore I stepped out of the wood and asked them whence they came and whither they were going. They told me in the broadest Somersetshire (the language which I love, and would willingly have written this book in it, but for the unfortunate people who can not understand it) that they were sent by their parents to get whortleberries, and that they came from the little village of Corfe, two miles down the valley. This was all they had to say, and they stared at me as shyly as if they had never before encountered a stranger. I clearly perceive now that I ought to have engaged them in conversation, and drawn them gently down the valley in the direction of the village until we reached the first appearance of a road, when I could have bidden them farewell, or sent them up the hill by another coomb. But I was so anxious that they should not come up any higher that I committed a great mis- take, and warned them against going on. “ Boys,” I said, “ beware. If you go higher up the coomb you will certainly meet wild men, who always rob and beat boys.” Here they trembled, though they had not a penny in the world. “ Ay, boys, and sometimes have been known to murder them. Turn back, turn back, and come no further.” The boys were very much frightened, partly at the ajipari- tion of a stranger where they expected to find no one, and partly at the news of wild and murderous men in a place where they had never met with any one at all, unless it might have been a gypsy camp. After gazing at me stupidly for a little while they turned and ran away, as fast as their legs could carry them, down the coomb. I watched them running, and when they were out of sight I went back again, still disquieted, because they might return. When I told Barnaby, in the evening, he too was uneasy. For, he said, the boys would spread abroad the report that there were people in the valley. What people could there be but fugitives?” “ Sister,” he said, “to-morrow morning must we change our quarters. On the other side of the hills looking south, or to the east in Neroche Forest, we may make another camp, and be still more secluded. For to-night I think we are in safety. ” What liapponed was exactly as Barnaby thought. For the lads ran home and told everybody that up in the coomb there were wild men who robbed and murdered people; that a lady FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 175 had come out of the wood and warned them to go no further lest they should be robbed and murdered. They were certain it was a lady, and not a countrywoman, nor was it a witch, nor a fairy or elf, of whom there are many on Black Down. No; it was a young lady. This strange circumstance naturally set the villagers a-talk- ing; they talked about it at the inn, whither they nightly repaired. In ordinary times they might have talked about it to their hearts’ content and no harm done, but in these times talk was dangerous. In every little village there are one or two whose wits are sharper than the rest, and therefore they do instigate whatever mischief is done in that village. At Corfe the cob- bler it was who did the mischief. For he sat thinking while the others talked, and he presently began to understand that there was more in this than his fellows imagined. He knew the hills; there were no wild men upon them who would rob and murder two simple village boys. Gypsies there were, and broom-squires sometimes, and hedge-tearers, but murderers of boys — none. And who was the young lady? Then he guessed the whole truth; there were people lying hidden in the coomb; if people hidden, they were Monmouth’s rebels! A reward would be given for their capture. Fired with this thought he grasped his cudgel, and walked off to the village of Orchard Portman, where, as he had heard, there was a company of grenadiers sent out to scour the country. He laid his infor- mation, and received the promise of reward. He got that re- ward, in short, but nothing prospered with him afterward. His neighbors, who were all for Monmouth, learned what he had done, and shunned him. He grew moody; he fell into poverty, who had been a thriving tradesman, and he died in a ditch. The judgments of the Lord are sometimes swift and sometimes slow, yet they are always sure. 'Who can forget the dreadful end of Tom Boilman, as he was called, the only wretch who could be found to cut up the limbs of the hanged men and dip them in the cauldrons of pitch? For he was struck dead by lightning — an awful instance of the wrath of God. Early next morning, about five of the clock, I sat before the hut in the shade, llarnaby was up, and had gone to look at his snares. Suddenly I heard steps below, and the sound of weapons clashing against each other. Then a man came into sight — a fellow he was with a leathern aj>ron, who stood gazing about him. There was no time for me to hide, because he immediately saw me, and shouted to them behind to come 176 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. on quickly. Then a dozen soldiers, all armed, ran out of the wood and made for the hut. “ Gentlemen,” I cried, running to meet them, “whom seek you?” “ Who are you?” asked one, who seemed to be a sergeant over them. “ Why are you hiding?” Then a thought struck me. I know not if I was wise or foolish. “ Sir,” I replied, “ my father, it is true, was with the Duke of Monmouth. But he was wounded, and now lies dead in this hut. You will suffer us to bury our dead in peace. ” “ Dead is he? That will we soon see.” So saying he entered the hut and looked at the prostrate form. He lifted one hand and let it drop. It fell like the hand of one who is recently dead. He bent over the body and laid his hand upon the forehead. It was cold as death. The lips were pale as wax, and the cheeks were white. He opened an eye; there was no expression or light in it. “ Humph!” he said. “ He seems dead. How did he come here?” “ My mother and I drove him here for safety in yonder cart. The pony hath run away. ” “ That may be so — that may be so. He is dressed in a cassock. What is his name?” “ He was Doctor Comfort Eykin, an ejected minister, and preacher in the duke’s army.” “ A prize if he had been alive.” Then a sudden suspicion seized him. He had in his hand a drawn sword. He pointed it at the breast of the dead man. “ If he be truly dead,” he said, “ another wound will do him no harm. Wherefore — ” He made as if he would drive the sword through my father’s breast, and my n^other shrieked and threw herself across the body. “ So!” he said, with a horrid grin, “ I find that he is not dead, but only wounded. My lads, here is one of Monmouth’s preachers, but he is sore wounded.” • “Oh!” I cried, “ for the love of God suffer him to die in peace.” “Ay, ay, he shall die in peace; I .promise you so much. Meanwhile, madame, we will take better care of him in Ilminster jail than you can do here. The air is raw upon these hills. ’ ’ The fellow had a glib tongue and a mocking manner. “ You have none of the comforts which a wounded man requires. They are all to be found in Ilminster prison, whither we shall carry him. There will he have nothing to FOE FAITH AND FKEEDOM. J 77 think about, with everything found for him. Madame, your father will be well bestowed with us. ” At that moment I heard the footsteps of Barnaby crunching among the brushwood. “Fly! Barnaby, fly!” I shrieked. “The enemy is upon us.” He did not fly. He came running. He rushed upon the soldiers and hurled this man one way and that man another, swinging his long arms like a pair of cudgels. Had he had a cudgel I believe he would have sent them all flying. But he had nothing except his arms and his fists; and in a minute or two the soldiers had surrounded him, each with a bayonet pointed, and such a look in every man’s eye as meant murder had Barnaby moved. “ Surrender!” said the sergeant. Barnalpy looked around leisurely. “Well,” he said, “I suppose I must. As for my name, it is Barnaby Eykin, and for my rank, I was captain in the Green Regiment of the duke’s valiant army.” “ Stop!” said the sergeant, drawing a paper from his pocket. “ 4 Captain Eykiii/ 99 he began to read, “ ‘ has been a sailor. Rolls in his walk; height, about five foot five; very broad in the shoulders; long in the arms; of great strength.’ ” “ That is so,” said Barnaby, complacently. “ 6 Bandy legs.’ ” “ Brother,” said Barnaby, “ is that so writ?” “ It is so, captain.” “ I did not think,” said Barnaby, “ that the malignity of the enemy would be carried so far. Bandy legs! Yet you see — well — Fall in, sergeant; we are your prisoners. Bandy legs!” CHAPTER XXV. How can I tell — oh! how can I sit down to tell in cold blood the story of all that followed? Some parts of it, for very jiity, I must pass over. All that has been told or written of the Bloody Assize is most true, and yet not half that happened can be told. There are things, I mean, which the historian can not, for the sake of pity, decency, and consideration for living people, relate, even if he hath seen them. You who read the printed page may learn how in one place so many were hanged; in another place so many; how some were hung in gemmaces, so that at every cross-road there was a frightful gibbet with a dead man on it; how some died of small-pox in 178 FOR FAITH. AND FREEDOM. the crowded prisons, and some of fever; and how Judge Jef- freys rode from town to town followed by gangs of miserable prisoners driven after him to stand their trial in towns where they would be known; how the wretched sufferers were drawn and quartered, and their limbs seethed in pitch and stuck up over the whole country; how the women and boys of tender years were flogged through market towns — you, I say, who read these things on the cold page, presently (even if you be a stickler for the Right Divine, and hold rebellion as a mortal sin) feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand of the Lord was afterward heavy upon those who ordered these things; nay, at the very time (this is a most remarkable judg- ment) when this inhuman judge was thundering at his victims — so that some went mad and even dropped down dead with fear— he was himself, as Humphrey hath assured me, suffering the most -horrible pain from a dire disease; so that the terrors of his voice and of his fiery eyes were partly due to the agony of his disease, and he was enduring all through that Assize, in his own body, pangs greater than any that he ordered. As for his miserable end, and the fate that overtook his master, that we know; and candid souls can not but confess that here were truly judgments of God, visible for all to see and acknowledge. But no j)en can truly depict what the eye saw and the ear heard during that terrible time. And, think you, if it was a terrible and a wretched time for those who had no relations among the rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody executions and heard the lamentations of the poor women who lost their lovers or their husbands, what must it have been for me, and those like me, whose friends and all whom they loved — yea, all, all — were overwhelmed in one common ruin, and expected nothing but death? Our own misery I can not truly set forth. Sometimes the memory of it comes back to me, and it is as if long afterward one should feel again the sharpness of the surgeon’s knife. Oh! since I must write down what happened, let me be brief. And you who read it, if you find the words cold where you would have looked for fire, if you find no tears where there should have been weeping and wailing, remember that in the mere writing have been shed again (but these you can not see) tears which belonged to that time, and in the writing have been renewed (but these you can not hear) the sobbings and wailings and terrors of that dreadful autumn. The soldiers belonged to a company of grenadiers of Trelaw- ny’s regiment, stationed at Ilminster, whither they carried the prisoners. First they handcuffed Barnaby, but on his giving FOR FAITH AFTD FREEDOM. 179 his parole not to escape, they let him go free; and he proved useful in the handling of the cart on which my unhappy father lay. And though the soldiers* talk was ribald, their jests un- seemly, and their cursing and swearing seemed verily to invite the wrath of God, yet they proved honest fellows in the main. They offered no rudeness to us, nor did they object to our going with the prisoners; nay, they even gave us bread and meat and cider from their own provisions when they halted for dinner at noon. Barnaby walked sometimes with the soldiers, and sometimes with us; with them he talked freely, as if he were their comrade and not their prisoner: for us he put in a word of encouragement or consolation such as, “ Mother, we shall find a way out of this coil yet/* or, “ Sister/ we shall cheat Tom Hangman; look not so gloomy upon it;** or, again, he reminded us that many a shipwrecked sailor gets safe ashore, and that where there are so many they can not hang all. “ Would the king,** he asked, “ hang up the whole county of Somerset?** But he had already told me too much. In his heart I kr*£w he had small hope of escape; yet he preserved his cheerfulness, and walked toward his prison (to outward seeming) as insensible of fear and with as unconcerned a coun- tenance as if he were going to a banquet or a wedding. This cheerfulness of his was due to happy confidence in the order- ing of things rather than to insensibility. A sailor sees men die in many ways, yet himself remains alive. This gives him something of the disposition of the Orientalist, who accepts his fate with outward unconcern, whatever it may be. Perhaps (I know not) there may have been in his mind that religious assurance of which he told me. Did Barnaby at this period, when death was very near unto him, really believe that there was one religion for landsmen and another for sailors? oneway to heaven for ministers, another for seamen? Indeed I can not tell; yet how otherwise account for his courage and cheer- fulness at all times — even in the very presence of de£th? “ Brother,** he asked the sergeant, “ we have been lying hid for a fortnight, and have heard no nows. Tell me how go the hangings?** “ Why, captain/* the fellow replied, with a grin, “in this respect there is little for the rebels to complain of. They ought to be satisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them. Lord Feversham hanged twenty odd, to begin with. Captain Adlaw and three others are trussed up in chains for their great honor; and in order to put the rest in good heart, one of them ran a race with a horse, being promised his life if he should win. When he had beaten the horse his lordship, who was a 180 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. merry man* ordered him to be hanged just to laugh at him. And hanged he was.” “ Ay ,” said Barnaby, “ thus do the Indians in America torture their prisoners first and kill them afterward.” “ There are two hundred prisoners lying in Weston Zoyland church,” the sergeant went on. “ They would have been hanged too, but the bishop interfered. Now they are waiting to be tried. Lord! what signifies trial, except to give them longer rope?” “ Ay, ay. And how go things in Bridgewater and Taun- ton?” “'From Weston to Bridgewater there is a line of gibbets already; in Taunton twenty,.. I believe, have swung — twenty at least. The drums beat, the fifes played, and the trumpets sounded, and Colonel Kirke drank to the health of every man (such was his condescension) before he was turned off. *Twould have done your heart good, captain, only to see the brave show. ” “Ay, ay,” said Barnaby; “very like, very like. Perhaps I shall have the opportunity of playing first part in another brave show if all goes well. Hath the duke escaped?” We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near the New Forest. So that he will before long lay his lovely head upon the block. Captain, your friends have brought their pigs to a pretty market.” “ They have, brother; they have,” replied Barnaby, with unmoved countenance. “ Yet many a man hath recovered from worse straits than these. ” I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if the sergeant knew aught of Robin, but I refrained, lest merely to name him might put- the soldiers on the look-out for him, should he happily be in hiding. Next the sergeant told us (which terrified me greatly) that there was "no part of the country where they were not scour- ing for fugitives; that they were greatly assisted by the clergy, who, he said, were red-hot for King James; that the men were found hiding, as we had hidden, in linneys, in hedges, in barns, in woods; that they were captured by treachery — by informa- tion laid, and even, most cruel thing of all, by watching and following the men’s sweethearts who were found taking food to them. He said also that, at the present rate, they would have to enlarge their prisons to admit ten times their number, for they were haling into them not only the men who had fol- lowed Monmouth, but also those who had helped him with money, arms, or men. The sergeant was a brutal fellow, yet FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 181 there was about him something of good nature and even of compassion for the men he had captured. Yet he seemed to take delight in speaking of the sufferings of the unfortunate prisoners. The soldiers, he told us, were greatly enraged to- ward the rebels — not, I suppose, on account of their rebellion, because three years later they themselves showed how skin- deep was their loyalty, but because the rustics, whom they thought contemptible, had surprised and nearly beaten them. And this roused in them the spirit of revenge. “ Captain,” said the sergeant, “ *tis a pity that so lusty a gentleman as thou shouldst die. Hast thee no friends at court? Ho? Nor any who would speak for thee? ’Tis pity. Yet a man can die but once. With such a neck as thine, be- speak, if so much grace be accorded thee, a long rope and a high gallows. Else, when it comes to the quartering ” — he stopped and shook his head — 6 ‘ but there — I wish you well out of it, captain.” In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster, after a sad and weary march *bf ten miles at least; but we could not leave the prisoners until we knew how and where they were bestowed; and during all this time my mother, who com- monly walked not abroad from one Sabbath to the next, was possessed with such a spirit that she seemed to feel no weari- ness. When we rode all night, in order to join the duke, she complained not; when we rode painfully across to Taunton, she murmured not; nor when we carried our wounded man up the rough and steep coomb; no, nor on this day, when she walked beside her husband’s head, careful lest the motion of the cart should cause him pain. But he felt nothing, poor soul! He would feel nothing any more. Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its spin- ners and weavers. This evening, however, there was no one in the streets except the troopers, who swaggered up and down, or sat drinking at the tavern door. There is a broad open place before the market, which stands upon great stone pillars. Outside the market is the clink, or prison, whither the soldiers were taking their prisoners. The troopers paid not the least heed to our mournful little procession — a wounded man, a prisoner in scarlet and lace, but the cloth tattered and stained and the lace torn. There were only two more men on their way to death. What doth a soldier care for the sight of a man about to die?” “ Mother,” said Barnaby, when we drew near the prison doors, “ come not within the prison. I will do all that I can for him. Go now and find a decent lodging, and, sister, mark 182 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ye, the lads in our army were rough, but they were as lambs compared with these swaggering troopers. Keep snug, there- fore, and venture not far abroad.” I whispered in his ear that I had his bag of money safe, so that he could have whatever he wanted if that could be bought. Then the prison doors were closed, and we stood without. It would have been hard indeed for the wife and daughter of Dr. Comfort Eykin not^to find a lodging among godly people, of whom there are always many in every town of Somerset. We presently obtained a room in the house of one Martha Prior, widow of the learned and pious J oshha Prior, whilom preacher and ejected minister. Her case was as hard as our own. This poor woman had two sons only, and both had gone to join the duke: one already risen to be a serge-maker and one a draper, of the town. Of her sons she could hear no news at all, whether they were alive or dead. If they were already dead, or if they should be hanged, she would have no means of support, and so must starve or eat the bread of charity. (I heard afterward that she never did hear anything of them, so that it is certain that they must have been killed on the bat- tle-field or cut down by the dragoons in trying to escape. But the poor soul survived not long their loss. ) The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground; on the north is the grammar-school, and on the other three sides are houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one. The place, which surrounds the church-yard, and hath no inn or ale-house in it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came not thither, except once or twice, with orders to search the houses (and with a private resolution to drink everything that they might lay their hands upon), so that for two poor women in our miserable circumstances we could not have a more quiet lodging. Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it was past seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs of the body do sometimes overcome the cares of the spirit. For a whole fortnight had we been making our beds on the heather, and therefore without taking off our clothes, and that day we had walked ten miles, at least, with the soldiers, so that I slept without moving or waking all the night. In the morning we dressed quickly and hurried to the jail, not knowing whether I might be admitted or should be allowed speech of Barnaby.' Outside the gate, however, I found a crowd of people going into the prison and coming out of it. Some of them, women like ourselves, were weeping — they were those whose brothers or lovers, husbands or sons, were in those gloomy walls. FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 183 Others there were who brought for such of the prisoners as had money to buy them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, fruit, and all kinds of provisions; some brought wine, cider, and ale — some, tobacco. The warders who stood at the gates made no opposition to those who would enter. I pressed in with a beating heart, prepared for a scene of the most dreadful repentance and gloomy forebodings. What I saw was quite otherwise. The gates of the prison opened upon a court-yard, not very big, where the people were selling their wares, and some of the prisoners were Walking about, and some wery chaffering with the women who had the baskets. On the right-hand side of the yard was the clink, or prison itself; on the left hand were houses for the warders or officers of the prison. In general a single warder, constable, or headborough is enough for a town such as Ilminster, to keep the peace of the prison, which is for the most part empty, save when they enforce some new Act against Non-conformists, and fill it with them or with Quakers. Now* however, so great was the press that, instead of two, there were a dozen guards, and instead of a stout cudgel, they went armed with pike and cutlass to keep order and prevent escapes. Six of them occupied the gate-house; other six were within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept on the left hand of the court. The ground-floor of the clink we found to be a large room, at least forty feet each side in bigness. On one side of it was a great fire-place, where, though it was the month of July, there was burning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly for cook- ing purposes, because all that the prisoners eat was cooked at this fire, and partly because a great fire kept continually burn- ing sweetens the air and wards off jail fever. On another side was a long table and several benches. Thick wooden pillars supported the joists of the rooms above; the windows were heavily barred, but the shutters were down, and there was no glass in them. In spite of fire and open windows the place was stifling, and smelled most horrible. Never have I breathed so foul an air. There lived in this room about eighty prisoners (later on the numbers were doubled); some were smoking tobacco and drinking cider or ale; some were frying pieces of meat over the fire; and the tobacco, the ale, the wine, the cooking, and the people themselves — nearly all country lads, unwashed, who had slept, since Sedgemoor, at least, in the same clothes, without once changing — made such an air that jail fever, putrid throats, and small-pox (which afterward broke out) should have been expected sooner. 184 FOR FAITH AHD FREEDOM. They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, so that, in addition to the noisome stench of the place, there was such a din as one may hear at Sherborne Fair of an evening. I ex- pected, as I have said, a gloomy silence, with the rattling of chains, the groans of those who looked for death, and perhaps a godly repentance visible upon every countenance. Yet they were all laughing, except a few who sat retired, and who were wounded. 1 say that, they were all laughing. They had noth- ing to expect but death, or at the best to be horribly flogged, to be transported, to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yet they laughed! What means the hardness and indifference of men? Could they not think of the women they had left at home? I warrant that none of them were laughing. Among them — a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of strong ale before him on the table, his hat flung backward — sat Barnaby, his face showing, apparently, complete satisfac- tion with his lot. When he saw us at the door he rose and came to meet us. “ Welcome,'” he said. “This is one of the places where King Monmouth/ s men are to receive the honor due to them. Courage, gentle hearts. Be not cast down. Everywhere the prisons are full, and more are brought in every day. Our very numbers are our safety. They can not hang us all. And, hark!** here he whispered, “ sister, we now know that Colonel Kirke hath been selling pardons at ten pounds, twenty pounds, and thirty pounds apiece. Wherefore we are well assured that somehow or other we shall be able to buy our release. There are plenty besides Colonel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his freedom/* “ Where is your father?** asked my mother. “ He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for the groaning of the wounded. Go upstairs and you will find him. And there is a surprise for you besides. You will find with him one you little expect to see.** “ Oh, Barnaby, is there new misery for me? Is Robin a prisoner?** “ Robin is not here, sis, and as for misery, why, that is as you take it. To be sure, the man above is in prison, but no harm will happen him. Why should it? He did not go out with Monmouth*s men. But go upstairs — go upstairs — and see for yourselves. ** EHD OF FTRST HALF. ADVERTISEMENTS. 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The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from larger type ami on better paper than any other series published. A handsome catalogue conta ining complete and classified lists of all George Munro's publications will be mailed to any address on receipt of 10 cents. The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers and 25 cents for double numbers, by the publisher. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Munro's Publishing House* (P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vamlewater Street, New York. NUMERICAL. CATALOGUE. [ When ordering by mail please order by numbers. 1 1 Yolande. By William Black.. 20 2 Molly Bawn. “The Duchess” 20 3 Mill on the Floss, The. By George Eliot 20 4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida ” 20 5 Admiral's Ward, The. By Mrs. Alexander 20 6 Portia. By “The Duchess ”... 20 7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 1st and 2d half, each 20 9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. By “ Ouida” 20 10 Old Curiosity Shop, The. By Charles Dickens 20 11 John Halifax. Gentleman. By Miss Mulock. 2 parrs, eaeh. 20 12 Other People’s Money. By Emile Gaboriau 20 13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess” 10 15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bront6 20 16 Phyllis. By “The Duchess”.. 20 17 Wooing O’t, The. By Mrs. Alex- ander 20 18 Shandon Bells. By Wm. Black 20 19 Her Mother’s Sin. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 10 20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile Gaboriau 20 21 Sunrise : A Story of These Times By Wm. Black 20 22 David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. Vol. 1 20 22 David Copperfield. By Charles Dickens. Vol. m 20 23 Princess of Thule, A. By Will- iam Black 20 24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. Vol. 1 20 24 Pickwick Papers. By Charles Dickens. 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By Bulwer Lytton 20 41 Oliver Twist. By Chas. Dickens 20 42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 43 Mystery of Orcival, The. By Emile Gaboriau. 20 44 Macleod of Dare. Wm. Black. 20 45 Little Pilgrim, A. By Mrs. Oli- phant 10 46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade 20 47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oli- phant 20 48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn 20 49 That Beautiful Wretch. By William Black 20 50 Strange Adventures of a Phae- ton, The. By William Black. 20 51 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. Braeme 20 52 New Magdalen, The. By Wilkie Collins 10 53 Story of Ida, The. By Francesca 10 54 Broken Wedding-Ring, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 55 Three Guardsmen, The. By Alexander Dumas 20 56 Phantom Fortune. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 57 Shirley. By Charlotte BrontA 20 58 By the Gate of the Sea. By D. Christie Murraj^ 10 59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstey 20 60 Last of the Mohicans, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson 10 62 Executor, The. By Mrs. Alex- ander 20 63 Spy, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 64 Maiden Fair, A. Charles Gibbon 10 65 Back to the Old Home. By Mary Cecil Hay 10 66 Romance of a Poor Voung Man, The. By Octave Feuillet 10 67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- more. First half 20 67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- more. Second half 20 68 Queen Amongst Women, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 69 Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 '70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- mance. By William Black . . 10 71 struggle for Fame, A. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 20 72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 73 Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s Victory. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne”.*. 20 74 Aurora Floyd.. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 75 Twenty Years After. By Alex- ander Dumas 20 76 Wife in Name Only; or, A Bro- ken Heart. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 77 Tale of Two Cities, A. By Charles Dickens 20 78 Madcap Violet. By Wm. Black 20 79 Wedded and Parted. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 80 June. By Mrs. Forrester 81 Daughter of Heth, A. By Will- iam Black 82 Sealed Lips. F. Du Boisgobey. 83 Strange Story, A. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 84 Hard Times. By Chas. Dickens 10 85 Sea Queen, A. By W. Clark Russell 20 86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 20 87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at Fifteen. By Jules Verne 20 88 Privateersman, The. By Cap- tain Marryat 20 89 Red Eric, The. By R. M. Ballan- tyne 10 90 Ernest Maltravers. By SirE.Bul- wer Lytton 20 91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. First half 20 91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. Second half 20 92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiog- raphy 20 94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Diok- ens. First half 20 94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dick- ens. Second half 20 95 Fire Brigade, The. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Bal- lantyne 10 97 All in a Garden Fair. By Wal- ter Besant 20 98 Woman-Hater, A. By Charles Reade 20 99 Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. Edwards 20 100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By Jules Verne 20 101 Second Thoughts. By Rhoda Broughton 20 102 Moonstone, The. Wilkie Collins 20 103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 10 104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- gobey. 1st half 20 104 Coral Pin, The. By F. Du Bois- gobey. half 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 3 105 Noble Wife, A. John Saunders 30 106 .Bleak House. By Charles Dick- ens. First half 20 1®6 Bleak House. By Charles Dick- ens. Second half 20 107 Dombey and Son. By Charles Dickens. First half 20 107 Dombey and Son. By Charles Dickens. Second half 20 108 Cricket on the Hearth, The. By Charles Dickens 10 108 Doctor Marigold. By Charles Dickens 10 109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 20 110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 111 Little School-master Mark, The. By J. H. Sliorthouse 10 112 Waters of Marah, The. By John Hill 20 113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. G. Wightwick 10 114 Some of Our Girls. By Mrs. C. J. Eiloart 20 115 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. Adolphus Trollope 10 116 Moths. By “Ouida” 20 117 Tale of the Shore and Ocean, A. By William H. G. Kingston.. 20 118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and Eric Dering. “ The Duchess ” 10 119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. By “The Duchess” 10 120 Tom Brown’s School Days at Rugby. By Thomas Hughes. 20 121 Maid of Athens. By Justin McCarthy 20 122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 20 123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 124 Three Feathers. By Wm. Black 20' 125 Monarch of Mincing Lane, The. By William Black 20 126 Kilmeny. By William Black. . 20 127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. By “ Ouida ” 10 129 Rossmoyne. By “The Duchess” 10 130 Last of the Barons, The, By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 1st half.. 20 130 Last of the Barons, The. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 2d half.. 20 131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. First half 20 131 Our Mutual Friend. By Charles Dickens. Second half 20 132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By Charles Dickens 10 133 Peter the Whaler. By William H. G. Kingston 10 134 Witching Hour, The, and Other Stories. By “ The Duchess ” . 10 135 Great Heiress, A : A Fortune in Seven Checks. By R. E. Fran- cillon 10 ISC “That Last Rehearsal,” and Other Stcries. By “ The Duchess” 10 137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. By Wm. Black 20 139 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- maid, The. By Thomas Hardy 10 140 Glorious Fortune, A. By Wal- ter Besant 10 141 She Loved Him! By Annie Thomas 10 142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas 20 143 One False, Both Fair. By John B. Harwood 20 144 Promises of Marriage. By Emile Gaboriau 10 145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The Man. By Robert Buchanan. 20 146 Love Finds the Way, and Other Stories. By Walter Besant and James Rice 10 147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Troll- ope 20 148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- thor of “Dora Thorne” 10 149 Captain’s Daughter, The. From the Russian of Pushkin 10 150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. Speight 10 151 Ducie Diamonds. The. By C. Blatherwick 10 152 Uncommercial Traveler, The. By Charles Dickens 20 153 Golden Calf, The. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 154 Annan Water. By Robert Buch- anan 20 155 Lady Muriel’s Secret. By Jean Middlemas 20 156 “Fora Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. Herbert Martin 20 157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W. Robinson 20 158 Starling, The. By Norman Macleod, D.D 10 159 Captain Norton’s Diary, and A Moment of Madness. By Florence Marryat 10 160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah Tytler 10 161 Lady of Lyons, The. Founded on the Play of that title by Lord Lytton 10 162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 163 Winifred Power. By Joj^ce Dar- rell 20 164 Leila ; or. The Siege of Grenada. By Bulwer Lytton 10 165 History of Henry Esmond, The. By William J\i. Thackeray. . . 30 166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By “The Duchess” 10 167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie Collins 20 168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens and Collins 10 169 Haunted Man, The. By Charles Dickens 10 170 A Great Treason. By Mary Hoppus. First half.. .20 4 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY —Pocket Edition. 170 A Great Treason. By Mary Hoppus. Second half 171 Fortune’s Wheel. By “The Duchess ” 172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 173 Foreigners, The. By Eleanor C. Price 174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. 175 Love’s Random Shot. By Wilkie Collins 176 An April Day. By Philippa Prit- tie Jephson 177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs. Oliphant 178 More Leaves from the Journal of a Life in the Highlands. By Queen Victoria 179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. Far jeon 180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. Clark Russell 181 New Abelard, The. By Robert Buchanan T 182 Millionaire, The 183 Old Contrairy, and Other Sto- ries. By Florence Marryat . . 184 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris 185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- jendie 186 Canon’s Ward, The. By James Payn 187 Midnight Sun, The. ByFredrika Bremer 188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- ander 190 Romance of a Black Veil. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author ot “Dora Thorne” 191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles Lever 192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. Warden 193 Rosery Folk, The. By G. Man- ville Fenn 194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!” By Alison 195 “ Way of the World, The.” By David Christie Murray 196 Hidden Perils. Mary Cecil FT ay 197 For Her Dear Sake. By Mary Cecil Hay 198 Husband’s Story, A 199 Fisher Village, The. By Anne 200 An Old Man’s Love. By Anthony Trollope 201 Monastery, The. By Sir Walter Scott 202 Abbot, The. Sequel to “ The Monastery.” By Sir Walter Scott 203 John Bull and His Island. By Max O’Rell. 204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 205 Minister’s Wife, The. By Mrs. Oliphant.. 206 Picture, The, and Jack of All Trades. By Charles Reade. . . 207 Pretty Miss Neville. By B. M. Croker 20 208 Ghost of Charlotte Cray, The, and Other Stories. By Flor- ence Marryat 10 209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. By W. Clark Rus*sell 10 210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 211 Octoroon, The. By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. First half 20 212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dragoon. By Charles Lever. Second half 20 213 Terrible Temptation, A. By Chas. Reade ". 20 214 Put Yourself in His Place. By Charles Reade \ 20 215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 217 Man She Cared For, The. By F. W. Robinson 218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of the Forges. From the French of Georges Oh net 220 Which Loved Him Best? By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By Helen B. Mathers 222 Sun-Maid, The. By Miss Grant 223 Sailor’s Sweetheart, A. By W. Clark Russell 224 Arundel Motto, The. By Mary Cecil Hay 225 Giant’s Robe, The. By F. Anstey 226 Friendship. By “Ouida” 227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton . 228 Princess Napraxine. “Ouida” 229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? By Mrs. Alexander — 230 Dorothy Forster. By Walter Besant 231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy. By Charles Reade 232 Love and Money; or, A Peril- ous Secret. By Chas. Reade. 233 “ I Say No;” or, The«Love-Let- ter Answered. By Wilkie Col- lins 234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. By Miss M. E. Braddon 235 “ It is Neyer Too Late tomend. ” By Charles Reade 236 Which Shall It Be? By Mrs. Alexander 237 Repented at Leisure. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 239 Signa.. By “Ouida” 240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 241 Baby’s Grandmother, The. By U B. Walford 10 20 10 20 20 20 10 10 20 10 10 10 10 20 10 20 10 20 10 20 10 10 20 10 10 10 20 20 20 10 10 10 20 20 10 20 30 10 gggg g g g g g g g S ggggg g gg S S 88 88 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 5 242 Two Orphans, The. By D’En- nery ^ 243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By Charles Lever. First half... 243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” By Charles Lever. Second half. 244 Great Mistake, A. By the author of “ Cherry ” 245 Miss Tommy. By Miss Mulock 246 Fatal Dower, A. By the Author of “His Wedded Wife” 247 Armourer’s Prentices, The. By Charlotte M. Yonge 248 House on the Marsh, The. By F. Warden 249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” By Charlotte M. Braeme, au- thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, Diana’s Discipline. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 251 Daughter of the Stars, The, and Other Tales. By Hugh Con- way, author of “ Called Back ” 252 Sinless Secret, A. By “ Rita ” 253 Amazon, The. By Carl Vosmaer 254 Wife’s Secret, The, and Fair but False. Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 255 Mystery, The. By Mrs. Henry Wood 256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. ByL. B. Walford 257 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Ser- geant 258 Cousins. ByL. B. Walford 259 Bride of Monte- Cristo, The. A Sequel to “ The Count of Monte-Cristo.” By Alexan- der Dumas 260 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 261 Fair Maid, A. By F. W. Robin- son 262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. By Alexander Dumas. Part I 262 Count of Monte-Cristo, The. By Alexander Dumas. Part II 263 An Ishmaelite. By Miss M. E. Braddon 264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. By Fortune Du Boisgobey . . . 265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and Other Advent- ures. By William Black 266 Water-Babies, The. A Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley 207 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 268 Lady Gay’s Pride ; or. The Mi- ser’s Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 269 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- gene Sue. Part 1 270 Wandering Jew, The. By Eu- gene Sue. Part II 30 271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- gene Sue. Part I . . 30 271 Mysteries of Paris, The. By Eu- gene Sue. Part II 30 272 Little Savage, The. By Captain Marryat 10 273 Love and Mirage ; or, The Wait- ing on an Island. By M. Betham-Ed wards 10 274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, Princess of Great Britain and Ireland. Biographical Sketch and Letters 10 275 Three Brides, The. By Char- lotte M. Yonge 10 276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By Florence Marryat (Mrs. Francis Lean) 10 277 Surgeon’s Daughters, The, by Mrs. Henry Wood. A Man of His Word, by W. E. Norris. . . 10 278 For Life and Love. By Alison. 10 279 Rattlin, the Reefer. By Captain Marryat 20 280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- ciety. By Mrs. Forrester 10 281 Squire’s Legacy, The. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 282 Donal Grant. By George Mac- Donald 1 20 263 Sin of a Lifetime, The. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 284 Doris. By “ The Duchess ” — 10 285 Gambler’s Wife, The 20 286 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By F. Warden 20 267 At War With Herself. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 923 At War With Herself. By Char- lotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or From Out the Gloom. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. From Out the Gloom. By Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her True Light. By a “Brutal Saxon ” 10 290 Nora’s Love Test. By Maty Cecil Hay 20 291 Love’s Warfare. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 292 Golden Heart, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne”. 10 293 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 10 20 20 20 10 20 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 20 20 10 20 10 10 20 30 30 20 10 20 10 20 20 20 30 6 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 948 Shadow of a Sin, The. By Char- lotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 294 Hilda; or, The False Yow. By Charlotte M. Braeme 10 294 Lady Hutton’s Ward. By Char- lotte M. Braeme 10 928 Hilda; or. The False Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large lotte M. Braeme. (Large type) 20 295 Woman’s War, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme 10 952 Woman’s War, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 296 Rose in Thorns, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne”., 10 297 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- riage Yow. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 953 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- ' riage Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 298 Mitchelhurst Place. By Marga- ret Veley 10 299 Fatal Lilies, The. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 10 300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of Love. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway 10 302 Blatchford Bequest, The. By Hugh Conway, author of “Called Back” 10 303 Ingledew House. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thome” 10 304 In Cupid’s Net. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 305 Dead Heart, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne”.... 10 306 Golden Dawn, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 307 Two Kisses. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 10 308 Beyond Pardon. C. M. Braeme 20 309 Pathfinder, The. By J. Feni- more Cooper 20 310 Prairie, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 311 Two Years Before the Mast. By R. H. Dana, Jr 20 312 Week in Killarney, A. By “ The Duchess” 10 313 Lover’s Creed, The. By Mrs. Cashel-Hoey 20 314 Peril. By Jessie Fotliergill ... 20 815 Mistletoe Bough, The. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline Rodney’s Secret. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 317 By Mead and Stream. By Chas. Gibbon 20 318 Pioneers, The ; or, The Sources of the Susquehanna. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven Fables. By R. E. Franeillon. 10 320 Bit of Human Nature, A. By David Christie Murray 10 321 Prodigals, The: And Their In- heritance. By Mrs. Oliphant. 10 322 Woman’s Love-Story, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 323 Willful Maid, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne”. 20 324 In Luck at Last. By Walter Besant 10 ~325 Portent, The. By George Mac- donald 10 326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for Men and Women. By George Macdonald 10 327 Raymond’s Atonement. (From the German of E. Werner.) By Christina Tyrrell 20 328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. (Translated from the French of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) First half 20 828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. (Translated from the French of Fortune Du Boisgobey.) Second half 20 229 Polish Jew, The. (Translated from the French by Caroline A. Merighi.) By Erckmann- Chatrian 10 330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price.. 20 332 Judith Wynne. By author of “ Lady Lovelace ” 20 333 Frank Fairlegh : or, Scenes From the Life of a Private Pupil. By Frank E. Smedley 20 334 Marriage of Convenience, A. By Harriett Jay 10 335 White Witch, The. A Novel. . . 20 336 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 337 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam Graeme of Mossgray, including some Chronicles of the Borough of Fendie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 338 Family Difficulty, The. By Sa- rah Doudney 10 339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. By Mrs. Alexander 10 340 Under Which King? By Comp- ton Reade 20 341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. By Laura Jean Libbey 20 342 Baby, The. By “ The Duchess ” 10 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 7 843 Talk of the Town, The. By James Payn 30 344 “Wearing of the Green, The.” By Basil 20 345 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 346 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan Muir 10 347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott Vince 20 348 From Pdst to Finish. A Racing Romance. By Hawley Smart 20 349 Two Admirals, The. A Tale of the Sea. By j. Fenimore Cooper 20 350 Diana of the Crossways. By George Meredith 10 351 House on the Moor, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 352 At Any Cost. By Edw. Garrett 10 353 Black Dwarf, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 354 Lottery of Life, The. A Story of New York Twenty Years Ago. By John Brougham. . . 20 355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. Norris 10 356 Good Hater, A. By Frederick Boyle 20 357 John. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 358 Within the Clasp. By J. Ber- wick Harwood 20 359 Water-Witch, The. By J. Feni- more Cooper 20 360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francil- lon 20 361 Red Rover, The. A Tale of the Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 362 Bride of Lammermoor, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 363 Surgeon’s Daughter, The. By Sir Walter Scott 10 364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Wal- ter Scott 10 365 George Christy; or, The Fort- unes of a Minstrel. By Tony Pastor 20 366 Mysterious Hunter, The; or, The Man of Death. By Capt. L. C. Carleton 20 367 Tie and Trick. By Hawley Smart 20 368 Southern Star, The ; or, The Dia- mond Land. By Jules Verne 20 369 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- phry Ward 10 370 LucyCrofton. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 371 Margaret Maitland. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 372 Phyllis’ Probation. By the au- thor of “ His Wedded Wife ”. 10 373 Wing-and-Wing. By J. Feni- more Cooper. 20 874 Dead Man’s Secret, The ; or, Tho Adventures of a Medical Stu- dent. By Dr. Jupiter Paeon. . 20 375 Ride to Khiva, A. By Captain Fred Burnaby, of the Royal Horse Guards.^ 20 876 Crime of Christmas Day, The. By the author of “ My Ducats and My Daughter ” 10 377 Magdalen Hepburn ; A Story of the Scottish Reformation. By Mrs. Oliphaut. 20 378 Homeward Bound; or, The Chase. By J. F. Cooper 20 379 Home as Found. (Sequel to “ Homeward Bound.”) By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted Knoll. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 381 Red Cardinal, The. By Frances Elliot 10 382 Three Sisters ;' or, Sketches of a Highly Original Family. By Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. . . 10 383 In traduced to Society. By Ham- ilton Aide 10 384 On Horseback Through Asia Minor. By Captain Fred Bur- naby 20 385 Headsman, The; or, The Ab- baye des Vignerons. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite Comtesse.” Octave Feuillet. 10 387 Secret of the Cliffs, The. By Charlotte French 20 388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through Clouds to Sunshine. By the author of “ Love or Lands?”. 10 389 Ichabod. A Portrait. By Bertha Thomas 10 390 Mildred Trevanion. By “ The Duchess ” 10 391 Heart of Mid-Lothian, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 392 Peveril of the Peak. By Sir Walter Scott 20 393 Pirate, The. By Sir Walter Scott 20 394 Bravo, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 395 Archipelago on Fire, The. By Jules Verne 10 396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leaguer of Boston. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 398 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. By Robert Buchanan 10 399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee. . 20 400 Wept of Wish-Ton -Wish, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 403 An English Squire. By C. R. Coleridge t 20 404 In Durance Vile,’ and Other Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 405 My Friends and I. Edited by Julian Sturgis 10 406 Merchant’s Clerk, The. By Sam- uel Warren 10 8 THE SEASIDE LIBBABY— Pocket Edition. 407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil Hay.... 20 409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- Melville 20 410 Old Lady Mary. By Mrs. Oli- phant 10 411 Bitter Atonement, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 412 Some One Else. By B. M. Croker 20 413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Fen- imore Cooper 20 414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to “ Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 415 Ways of the Hour, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 417 Fair Maid of Perth, The; or, St. Valentine’s Day. By Sir Walter Scott 20 418 St. Ronan’s Well. By Sir Walter Scott 20 419 Chainbearer, The; or, The Lit- tlepage Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 420 Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 421 Redskins, The; or, Indian and In jin. Being the conclusion of the Littlepage Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore Cooper. . .... 20 422 Precaution. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 423 Sea Lions, The; or, The Lost Sealers. By J. F. Cooper 20 424 Mercedes of Castile; or, The Voyage to Cathay. By J. Fen- imore Cooper 20 425 Oak-Openings, The; or, The Bee-Hunter. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- worth Taylor 20 427 Remarkable History of Sir Thomas Upmore, Bart., M.P., The. Formerly known as “ Tommy Upmore.” By R. D. Blackmore 20 428 Z6ro: A Story of Monte-Carlo. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 10 429 Boulderstone : or, New Men and Old Populations. By W. Sime 10 430 Bitter Reckoning, A. By the au- thor of “ By Crooked Paths ” 10 431 Monikins, The. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 432 Witch’s Head, The. By H. Rider Haggard 20 433 My Sister Kate. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 10 434 Wyllard’s Weird. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 435 Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg Castle. By George Taylor. .. 20 Stella. By Fanny Lewald 20 Life and Adventures of Martin Ohuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- ens. First half 20 Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit. By Charles Dick- ens. Second half 20 Found Out. By Helen B. Mathers 10 Great Expectations. By Charles Dickens. . 20 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. By Charles Dickens 10 Sea Change, A. By Flora L. Shaw 20 Ranthorpe. By George Henry Lewes 20 Bachelor of the Albany, The. . . 10 Heart of Jane Warner, The. By Florence Marryat 20 Shadow of a Crime, The. By Hall Caine 20 Dame Durden. By “Rita”... 20 American Notes. By Charles Dickens 20 Pictures From Italy, and The Mudfog Papers, &c. By Chas. Dickens 20 Peeress and Player. By Flor- ence Marryat 20 Godfrey Helstone. By Georgi- ana M. Craik 20 Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar. G. J. Whyte-Melville 20 In the West Countrie. By May Crommelin 20 Lottery Ticket, The. By F. Du Boisgobey 20 Mystery of Edwin Drood, The. By Chas. Dickens 20 Lazarus in London. By F. W. Robinson 20 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative of Every-day Life and Every- day People. By Charles Dick- ens 20 Russians at the Gates of Herat, The. By Charles Marvin. ... 10 Week of Passion, A; or, The Dilemma of Blr. George Bar- ton the Younger. By Edward Jenkins 2© Woman's Temptation, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 Woman’s Temptation, A. By Charlotte BI. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 Under a Shadow. By Char- lotte BI. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 His Wedded Wife. By author of “ A Fatal Dower ” 20 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- land. By Lewis Carroll. With forty - two illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 Redgauntlet. By Sir Walter Scott 20 436 437 437 438 439 440 441 442 443 444 445 446 447 448 449 450 451 452 453 454 455 456 457 458 459 951 460 461 462 463 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 9 464 Newcomes, The. By William Makepeace Thackeray. Part I 20 464 Newcomes, The. By William Makepeace Thackeray. Part II 20 465 Earl's Atonement, The. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 466 Between Two Loves. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 467 Struggle fora Ring, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 468 Fortunes, Good and Bad, of a Sewing-Girl, The. By Char- lotte M. Stanley 10 469 Lady Darner's Secret: or, A Guiding Star. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 20 470 Evelyn’s Folly. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 20 471 Thrown on the World. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 472 Wise Women of Inverness, The. ByWm. Black 10 473 Lost Son, A. By Mary Linskill. 10 474 Serapis. By George Ebers 20 475 Prima Donna’s Husband, The. 20 By F. Du Boisgobey 476 Between Two Sins; or. Married in Haste. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 10 477 Affinities. A Romance of To- day. By Mrs. Campbell -Praed 10 478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Part 1 20 478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- ter. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Part II 20 479 Louisa. By Katharine S. Mac- quoid 20 480 Married in Haste. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 481 House That Jack Built, The. By Alison 10 482 Vagrant Wife, A. By F. Warden 20 483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By theauthorof “A Golden Bar” 10 484 Although He Was a Lord, and Other Tales. Mrs. Forrester. 10 485 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren Cobban 10 486 Dick’s Sweetheart. By “ The Duchess” 20 487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 488 Joshua Haggard's Daughter. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 489 Rupert Godwin. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 490 Second Life, A. By Mrs. Alex- ander 20 491 Society in London. By a For- eign Resident. ... . 10 492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. By S. S. Winter. Illustrated 10 493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. By Lucas Malet 20 494 Maiden All Forlorn, A, and Bar- bara. By “ The Duchess ”... 10 495 Mount Royal. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 497 Lady’s Mile, The. By Miss M. E.' Braddon 20 498 Only a Clod. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 499 Cloven Foot, The. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 500 Adrian Vidal. By W. E. Norris 20 501 Mr. Butler’s War'd. By F. Mabel Robinson 20 502 Carriston's Gift. By Hugh Conway, author of “Called Back ” 10 503 Tinted Venus, The. By F. Anstey 10 504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. By John Coleman. Illustrated. 10 505 Society of London, The. By Count Paul Vasili 10 506 Lady Lovelace. By the author of “Judith Wynne” 20 507 Chronicles of the Canongate, and Other Stories. By Sir Walter Scott 10 508 Unholy Wish, The. By Mrs. Henry Wood 10 509 Nell Haffenden. By Tighe Hop- kins.. 20 510 Mad Love, A. By the author of “Lover and Lord” 10 511 Strange World, A. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 512 Waters of Hercules, The 20 513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry Wood 10 514 Mj stery of Jessy Page, The, and Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry Wood 10 515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- maine’s Divorce. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 517 Passive Crime, A, and Other Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 10 518 Hidden Sin, The. A Novel 20 519 James Gordon's Wife, A Novel 20 520 She's All the World to Me. By Hall Caine 10 521 'Entangled. By E. Fairfax Byrrne 20 522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, The Steel Gauntlets. By F. Du Boisgobey 20 523 Consequences of a Duel, The. Bv F. Du Boisgobey 20 10 THE SEASIDE LIBHAKY— Pocket Edition. 524 Strangers and Pilgrims. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories. By Hugh Conway, author of “Called Back” 10 526 Madame De Presnel. By E. Frances Poynter 20 527 Days of My Life. The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 528 At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 529 Doctor’s Wife, The. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 530 Pair of Blue Eyes, A. By Thom- as Hardy 20 531 Prime Minister, The. By An- thony Trollope. First Half.. 20 531 Prime Minister, The. By An- thony Trollope. Second Half 20 532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 533 Hazel Kirke. By Marie Walsh 20 534 Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 20 535 Henrietta’s Wish; or. Domi- neering-. By Charlotte M. Yonge 10 536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- drew Lang 10 537 Piccadilly. Laurence Oliphant 10 538 Fair Country Maid, A. By E. Fairfax Byrrne 20 539 Silvermead. By Jean Middle- mas 20 540 At a High Price. By E. Werner 20 541 “As it Fell Upon a Day,” by “The Duchess,” and Uncle Jack, by Walter Besant 10 542 Fenton’s Quest. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 543 Family Affair, A. By Hugh Conway, author of “ Called Back ” 20 544 Cut by the County; or, Grace Darnel. By Miss M. E. Brad- don 10 545 Vida s Story. By author of “ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime 10 547 Coquette’s Conquest, A. By Basil 20 548 Fatal Marriage, A, and The Shadow in the Corner. By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- er’s Secret, and George Caul- field’s Journey. By Miss M. E. Braddon 10 550 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 10 551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By Rosa N. Carey. 2 parts, each 20 552 Hostages to Fortune. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 553 Birds of Prey. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (A Se- quel to “ Birds of Prey.”) By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 555 Cara Roma. By Miss Grant 20 556 Prince of Darkness, A. By F. Warden 20 557 To the Bitter End. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 558 Poverty Corner. By G. Manville Fenn 20 559 Taken at the Flood. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 560 Asphodel. By Miss M. E. Brad- don 20 561 Just As I Am ; or, A Living Lie. By Miss M. E Braddon 20 562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- road of Life. By Frank E. Smedley 20 563 Two Sides of the Shield, The. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 564 At Bay. By Mrs. Alexander. . . 10 565 No Medium. By Annie Thomas 10 566 Royal Highlanders, The; or, The Black Watch in Egypt. By James Grant. 20 567 Dead Men’s Shoes. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 568 Perpetual Curate, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 569 Harry Muir. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 571 Paul Carew’s Story. By Alice Comyns Carr 10 572 Healey. By Jessie Fothergill. 20 573 Love’s Harvest. B. L. Farjeon 20 574 Nabob, The: A Story of Paris- ian Life and Manners. By Al- phonse Daudet 20 575 Finger of Fate, The. By Cap- tain Mayne Reid 20 576 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 20 577 In Peril and Privation. By James Payn 10 578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules Verne. (Illustrated.) Parti. 10 578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules Verne. (Illustrated.) Part II 10 578 Mathias Sandorf. By Jules Verne. (Illustrated.) Part III 10 579 Flower of Doom, The, and Other Stories. ByM. Betham- Ed wards 10 580 Red Route, The. By William Sime 20 581 Betrothed, The. (I Promessi Sposi,) Alessandro Manzoni. 20 582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. By Mrs. J. H. Needell 20 583 Victory Deane. By Cecil Griffith 20 584 Mixed Motives 10 585 Drawn Game. A. By Basil 20 586 “For Percival.” By Margaret Veley... 20 587 Parson o’ Dumford, The. By G. Manville Fenn 20 588 Cherry. By the author of “A Great Mistake” 10 589 Luck of the Darrells, The. By James Payn 20 590 Courting of Mary Smith, The. By F. W. Robinson 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 11 591 Queen of Hearts, The. By Wil- kie Collins 20 592 Strange Voyage, A. By W. Clark Russell 20 593 Berna Boyle. By IJrs. J. H. Riddell 20 594 Doctor Jacob. By Miss Betham- Ed wards 20 595 North Country Maid, A. By Mrs. R. Lovett Cameron. .... 20 596 My Ducats and My Daughter. By the author of “ The Crime of Christmas Day” 20 597 Haco the Dreamer. By William Sime 10 598 Corinna. By “Rita” 10 599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. By George Temple 10 600 Houp-La. By John Strange Winter. (Illustrated) 10 601 Slings and Arrows, and other Stories. By Hugh Conway, author of “Called Back”... 10 602 Camiola: A Girl With a Fortune. By Justin McCarthy 20 603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. First Half 20 603 Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- ond Half 20 604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. First Half 20 604 Innocent: A Tale of Modern Life. By Mrs. Oliphant. Sec- ond Half 20 605 Ombra. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 606 Mrs. Hollyer. By Georgiana M. Craik 20 607 Self-Doomed. By B. L. Far jeon 10 608 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. In Two Parts, each . . 20 609 Dark House, The : A Knot Un- raveled. By G. Manville Fenn 10 610 Story of Dorothy Grape, The, and Other Tales. By Mrs. Henry Wood 10 611 Babylon. By Cecil Power 20 612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author of “Doctor Edith Romney ”. 20 613 Ghost’s Touch, The. By Wilkie • Collins 10 6M No. 99. By Arthur Griffiths... 10 615 Mary Anerley. By R. D. Black- more 20 616 Sacred Nugget, The. By B. L. Far jeon 20 617 Like Dian’s Kiss. By “ Rita ”. 20 618 Mistletoe Bough. The. Christ- mas. 1885. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- Home Ford. By May Crom- melin 20 620 Between the Heather and the Northern Sea. By M. Linskill 20 621 Warden, The. By Anthony Trollope 10 622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. By Anthony Trollope 10 623 My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie Collins 10 624 Primus in Indis. By M. J. Col- quhoun 10 625 Erema; or, My Father’s Sin. By R. D. Blackmore 20 626 Fair Mystery, A. By Charlotte M. Braerne, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 627 White Heather. By Wm. Black 20 628 Wedded Hands. By the author of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 629 Cripps, the Carrier. By R. D. Blackmore 20 630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore. First half 20 630 Cradock Nowell. By R. D. Blackmore. Second half 20 631 Christo well. By R. D. Blackmore 20 632 Clara Vaughan. ByR. D. Black- more 20 633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. Blackmore. 1st half 20 633 Maid of Sker, The. By R. D. Blackmore. 2d half. 20 634 Unforeseen, The. By Alice O’Hanlon 20 635 Murder or Manslaughter? By Helen B. Mathers 10 636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- more. 1st half . 20 636 Alice Lorraine. By R. D. Black- more. 2d half 20 637 What’s His Offence? By author of “ The Two Miss Flemings ” 20 638 In Quarters with the 25th (The Black Horse) Dragoons. By J. S. Winter 10 639 Othmar. “Quida.” 2 parts, each 20 640 Nuttie’s Father. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 641 Rabbi’s Spell, The. By Stuart C. Cumberland 10 642 Britta. By George Temple 10 643 Sketch-book of Geoffrey Cray- on, Gent, The. By Washing- ton Irving 20 644 Girton Girl, A. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains. By Rhoda Broughton 10 646 Master of the Mine, The. By Robert Buchanan 20 647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- melin 10 648 Angel of the Bells, The. By F. Du Boisgobey . . . 20 649 Cradle and Spade. By William Sime 20 650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- quel to “ Ernest Maltravers.”) By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 20 651 “Self or Bearer.” By Walter Besant 10 652 Lady With the Rubies, The. By E. Marlitt. . 20 653 Barren Title, A. T. W. Speight 10 054 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. By Mrs. Molesworth 10 12 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— -Pocket Edition. 655 Open- Door, The. By Mrs. Oli- phant 656 Golden Flood, The. By R. E. Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 657 Christmas Angel. By B. L. Far- jeon 658 History of a Week, The. By Mrs. L. B. Walford 659 Waif of the “ Cynthia, 11 The. By Jules Verne. 660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss Jane Porter. 1st half 660 Scottish Chiefs, The. By Miss Jane Porter. 2d half 661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- tie Murray 662 Mystery of Allan Grale, The. By Isabella Fyvie Mayo ... 663 Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover 664 Rory O’More. By Samuel Lover 665 Dove in the Eagle's Nest, The. By Charlotte M. Yonge 666 My Young Alcides. By Char- lotte M. Yonge — 667 Golden Lion of Granpere, The. By Anthony Trollope — 668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French Romance 669 Philosophy of Whist, The. By William' Pole 670 Rose and the Ring, The. By W. M. Thackeray. Illustrated 671 Don Gesualdo. By “ Ouida. 11 . . 672 In Maremma. By V Ouida. 11 1st half 672 In Maremma. By “ Ouida. 11 2d half 673 Story of a Sin. By Helen B. Mathers 674 First Person Singular. By Da- vid Christie Murray 675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thacke- ray 676 Child’s History of England, A. By Charles Dickens 677 Griselda. By the author of “A Woman’s Love-Story” 678 Dorothy’s Venture. By Mary Cecil Hay 679 Where Two Ways Meet. By Sarah Doudney 680 Fast and Loose. By Arthur Griffiths 681 Singer’s Story, A. By May Laff an 682 In the Middle Watch. By W. Clark Russell 683 Bachelor Vicar of Newforth, The. By Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe 684 Last Days at Apswich 685 England under Gladstone. 1880 —1885. By Justin H. McCar- thy, M.P 686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. By Robert Louis Stevenson 687 Country Gentleman, A. By Mrs. Oliphant 688 Man of Honor, A. By John Strange Winter. Illustrated. 10 689 Heir Presumptive, The. By Florence Marryat 20 690 Far From the Madding Crowd. By Thorrfas Hardy 20 691 Valentine Strange. By David Christie Murray 20 692 Mikado, The. and other Comic Operas. Written by W. S. Gilbert. Composed by Arthur Sullivan 20 693 Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot 20 694 John Maidment. By Julian Sturgis 20 695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and Deuce. By David Christie Murray 20 696 Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Miss Jane Porter 20 697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 697 Pretty Jailer, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 698 Life’s Atonement, A. By David Christie Murray 20 699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half ... 20 699 Sculptor’s Daughter, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half. ... 20 700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony Trollope. First half 20 700 Ralph the Heir. By Anthony Trollope. Second half 20 701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 701 Woman in White, The. Wilkie Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- lins. First half 20 702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- lins. Second half 20 703 House Divided Against Itself, A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- son 10 705 Woman I Loved, The, and the Woman Who Loved Me. By Isa Blagden 10 706 Crimson Stain, A. By Annie Bradshaw 10 707 Silas Marner: The Weaver of Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- myra. By William Ware. First half 20 709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- myra. By William Ware. Second half 10 710 Greatest Heiress in England, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 711 Cardinal Sin, A. By Hugh Con- way, author of “ Called Back” 20 712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant Allen 20 10 10 10 10 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 10 10 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 20 10 20 10 20 20 10 20 10 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 13 713 “ Cherry Ripe.” By Helen B. Mathers 20 714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By Tighe Hopkins 20 715 I Have Lived and Loved. By Mrs. Forrester 20 716 Victor and Vanquished. By Mary Cecil Hay '. . 20 717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Mar- riage Verdict. By Alexander Dumas 20 718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power O’Donoghue 20 719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. By Lord Byron 10 720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, Bart 20 721 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 20 722 What’s Mine’s Mine. By George Macdonald 20 723 Mauleverer’s Millions. By T. Wemyss Reid 20 724 My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. Forrester 20 725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. By Silvio Pellico 10 726 My Hero. By Mrs. Forrester.. 20 727 P air Women. By Mrs. Forrester 20 728 Janet’s Repentance. By George Eliot : 10 729 Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester... 20 730 Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, The 10 731 Bayou Bride. The. By Mrs. Mary E. Bryan ... 20 732 From Olympus to Hades. By Mrs. Forrester 20 <33 Lady Branksmere. By “The Duchess” 20 734 Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 20 735 Until the Day Breaks. By Emily Spender 20 736 Roy and Viola. Mrs. Forrester 20 737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie Murray 10 738 In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall 20 739 Caged Lion, The. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 740 Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 20 741 Heiress of Hilldrop, The; or, The Romance of a Young Girl. By Charlotte M Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 742 Love and Life. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark Russell. 1st half 20 743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark Russell. 2d half 20 744 Diana Carew.; or. For a Wom- an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- gle for Love. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 746 Cavalry Life; or, Sketches and Stories in Barracks and Out. By J. S. Winter 20 Our Sensation Novel. Edited by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. 10 Hurrish : A Study. By the Hon. Emily Lawiess 20 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By Mabel Collins 20 An Old Story of My Farming Daj^s. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 An Old Story of My Farming Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 Great Voyages and Great Navi- gators. Jules Verne. 1st half JO Great Voyages and Great Navi- gators. Jules Verne. 2d half 20 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. By Juliana Horatio Ewing. . . 10 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. Rider Haggard 20 How to be Happy Though Mar- ried. By a Graduate in the University of Matrimony..!. 20 Margery Daw. A Novel 20 Strange Adventures of Captain Dangerous, The. By George Augustus Sala 20 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence Alma Tadema 10 “Good-bye, Sweetheart!” By Rlioda Broughton 20 In Shallow Waters. By Annie Armitt 20 Aurelian ; or, Rome in the Third Century. By William Ware. 20 Will Weatherhelm. By William H. G. Kingston 20 Impressions of Theophrastus Such. By George Eliot 10 Midshipman, The, Marmaduke Merry. Wm. H. G. Kingston. 20 Evil Genius, The. By Wilkie Collins 20 Not Wisely, But Too Well. By Rhoda Broughton 20 No. XIII. ; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal. Emma Marshall 10 Joan. By Rhoda Broughton. . 20 Red as a Rose is She. By Rhoda Broughton 20 Cometh Up as a Flower. By Rhoda Broughton 20 Castle of Otranto, The. By Horace W T alpole 10 Mental Struggle, A. By “The Duchess”. 20 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood Trader. By R. M. Ballantyne 20 Mark of Cain, The. By Andrew Lang 10 Life and Travels of Mungo Park, The 10 Three Clerks, The. By Anthony Trollope 20 Pdre Goriot. By H. De Balzac 20 Voyages and Travels of Sir John Mauudeville, Kt., The. . 10 Society’s Verdict. By the au- thor of “ My Marriage ” 20 Doom ! An Atlantic Episode. By Justin II. McCarthy, M.P. 10 747 748 749 750 750 751 751 752 753 754 755 756 757 758 759 760 761 762 763 764 765 766 767 768 769 770 771 772 773 774 775 1 776 777 778 779 14 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 780 Rare Pale Margaret. By the au- thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 Grant. 10 782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 782 Closed Door, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 783 Chantry House. By Charlotte M. Yonge : — 20 784 Two Miss Flemings, The. By au- thor of “ What’s His Offence?” 20 785 Haunted Chamber, The. By “The Duchess” 10 786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By author of “ Petite’s Romance ” 20 787 Court Royal. A Story of Cross Currents. By S. Baring-Gould 20 788 Absentee, The. An Irish Story. By Maria Edgeworth 20 789 Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. By Lewis Carroll. With fifty illustrations by John Tenniel. 20 790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 790 Chaplet of Pearls, The ; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. Charlotte M. Yonge. 2d half 20 791 Mayor of Casterbridge, The. By Thomas Hardy 20 792 Set in Diamonds. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 20 793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. First half 20 793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Second half. . . 20 794 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Al- exander 20 795 Sam’s Sweetheart. By Helen B. Blathers 20 796 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 797 Look Before You Leap. By Mrs. Alexander 20 798 Fashion of this World, The. By Helen B. Blathers 10 799 My Lady Green Sleeves. By Helen B. Mathers 20 800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes from the Life of a Spinster. Charlotte M. Yonge. 1st half 20 800 Hopes and Fears; or, Scenes from the Life of a Spinster. Charlotte BI. Yonge. ' 2d half 20 801 She Stoops to Conquer, and The Good-Natured Man. By Oliver Goldsmith 10 802 Stern Chase, A. By Mrs.Cashel- Hoey 20 803 Major Frank. By A. L. G. Bos- boom-Toussaint 20 804 Living or Dead. By Hugh Con- way, author of “Called Back ” 20 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- ander. 1st half 20 Freres, The. By Mrs. Alex- ander. 2d half 20 Her Dearest Foe. By Mrs. Alex- ander. First half 20 Her Dearest Foe. By Blrs. Alex- ander. Second half 20 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 King Arthur. Not a Love Story. By Bliss Blulock 20 Witness My Hand. By the au- thor of “ Lady Gwendolen’s Tryst” 10 Secret of Her Life, The. By Ed- ward Jenkins . 20 Head Station, The. By Mrs. Campbell-Praed 20 No Saint. By Adeline Sergeant 20 Army Society. Life in a Garri- son Town. By John Strange WTnter 10 Heritage of Langdale, The. By Blrs. Alexander. ;. 20 Ralph W 7 ilton’s Weird. By Blrs. Alexander 10 Rogues and Vagabonds. By George R. Sims, author of “’Ostler Joe” 20 Stabbed in the Dark. By Blrs. E. Lynn Linton 10 Pluck. By John Strange Winter 10 Fallen Idol, A. By F. Anstey. . . 20 Doris’s Fortune. By Florence Warden 20 World Between Them, The. By Charlotte Bl. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne.” 20 Passion Flower, A. A Novel. .. 20 Heir of the Ages, The. By James Payn 20 Her Own Doing. W. E. Norris 10 Master Passion, The. By Flor- ence Blarryat 20 Cynic Fortune. By D. Christie Murray 20 Effie Ogilvie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 Prettiest Woman in Warsaw, The. By Mabel Collins 20 Actor’s Ward, The. By the au- thor of “A Fatal Dower ”.. . 20 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Con- way, author of “Called Back” 20 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- thor of “ The Two Bliss Flem- ings,” etc 20 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis Stevenson 20 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules Verne. First half 10 Ticket No. “ 9672.” By Jules Verne. Second half 10 Ballroom Repentance, A. By Blrs. Annie Edwards 20 Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 Point of Honor, A. By Mrs. An- nie Edwards 20 805 805 806 806 807 808 809 810 811 812 813 814 815 816 817 818 819 820 821 822 823 824 825 826 827 828 829 830 831 832 833 833 834 8=35 836 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 15 8S7 Vagabond Heroine, A. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 838 Ought We to Visit Her? By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 839 Leah: A Woman of Fashion. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 840 One Thing Needful;- or, The Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. E. Braddon . . 20 841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 842 Blue-Stocking, A. By Mrs. An- nie Edwards 10 843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie Edwards , 20 845 Philip Earnscliffe; or, The Mor- als of May Fair. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. Annie Edwards. 1st half 20 846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 848 My Friend Jim. By W. E. Norris 20 849 Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay 20 850 Playwright’s Daughter, A. By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. First half 20 851 Cry of Blood, The. By F. Du Boisgobey. Second half 20 852 Under Five Lakes; or, The Cruise of the “ Destroyer.” By M. Quad 20 853 True Magdalen, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 854 Woman’s Error, A. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 855 Dynamiter, The. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Fanny Van de Grift Stevenson 20 856 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- ert Louis Stevenson 20 857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the Red House. By Mary E. Bryan. First half 20 857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the Red House. By Mary E. Bryan. Second half 20 858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. Marlitt 20 859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century Idyl, and The Prince of the 100 Soups. By Vernon Lee 20 860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- ence Marryat 20 861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- ence Marryat 20 862 Ugly Barrington. By “ The Duchess.” 10 863 “ My Own Child.” By Florence Marryat 20 864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence Marryat 20 Written in Fire. By Florence Marryat 20 Miss Harrington’s Husband; or, Spiders of Society. By Flor- ence Marryat 20 Girls of Feversham, The. By Florence Marryat 20 Petronel. By Florence Marryat 20 Poison of Asps, The. By Flor- ence Marryat 10 Out of His Reckoning. By Flor- ence Marryat 10 Bachelor’s Blunder, A. By W. E. Norris 20 With Cupid’s Eyes. By Flor- ence Manyat. . 20 Harvest of Wild Oats, A. By Florence Marryat 20 House Party, A. By “ Ouida ”. 10 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds. By “The Duchess” 20 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange Winter 10 Facing the Footlights. By Flor- ence Marryat 20 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- Gould 10 Touchstone of Peril, The. By R. E. Forrest 20 Son of His Father, The. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 Mohawks. In Two Parts, each 20 Children of Gibeon. By Walter Besant 20 Once Again. By Mrs. Forrester 20 Voyage to the Cape, A. By W. Clark Russell 20 Les Miserables. Victor Hugo. Part 1 20 Les Mis6rables. Victor Hugo. Part II 20 Les Misdrables. Victor Hugo. PartHI 20 Paston Carew, Millionaire and Miser. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton 20 Modern Telemachus, A. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 Treasure Island. Robert Louis Stevenson 10 An Inland Voyage. By Robert Louis Stevenson 10 Mistletoe Bough, The. Christ- mas, 1886. Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon 20 Vera Nevill; or, Poor Wisdom’s Chance. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 That Winter Night; or, Love’s Victory. Robert Buchanan. . 10 Love’s Conflict. By Florence Marryat. First half 20 Love’s Conflict. By Florence Marryat. Second half 20 Doctor Cupid. By Rhoda Broughton 20 Star and a Heart, A. By Flor- ence Marryat 10 Guilty River, The. By Wilkie Collins 20 865 866 867 888 869 870 871 872 873 874 875 876 877 87’8 879 880 881 882 883 884 885 885 885 886 887 888 889 890 891 892 893 893 894 895 896 16 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 897 An ere. By Florence Marryat. . . 20 898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Julia • and Her Romeo, by David Christie Murray, and Romeo and Juliet, by William Black. 20 899 Little Stepson, A. By Florence Marryat 10 900 Woman’s Wit, By. By Mrs. Al- exander / 20 901 Lucky Disappointment, A. By Florence Marryat 10 902 Poor Gentleman, A. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 903 Phyllida. By Florence Marryat 20 904 Holy Rose, The. By Walter Be- sant 10 905 Fair-Haired Alda, The. By Flor- ence Marry at 20 906 World Went Very Well Then, The. By Walter Besant 20 907 Bright Star of Life, The. By B. L. Farjeon 20 908 Willful Young Woman, A 20 909 Nine of Hearts, The. By B. L. Farjeon 20 910 She: A History of Adventure. By H. Rider Plaggard 20 911 Golden Bells: A Peal in Seven Changes. By R. E. Francillon 20 912 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. Two Parts, each 20 913 Silent Shore, The. By John Bloundelle- Burton 20 914 Joan Wentworth. By Katha- rine S. Macquoid 20 915 That Other Person. By Mrs. Alfred Hunt. Two Parts, each 20 916 Golden Hope, The. By W. Clark Russell. „ .. ... * 20 917 Case of Reuben Malachi, The. By H. Sutherland Edwards.. 10 918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- gobey. First half - 20 918 Red Band, The. By F. Du Bois- gobey. Second half 20 919 Locksley Hall Sixty Years Af- ter, etc. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L 10 920 Child of the Revolution, A. By the author of “ Mademoiselle Mori ” 20 921 Late Miss Hollingford, The. By Rosa Mulholland 10 922 Marjorie. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne.” . 20 287 At War With Herself. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 10 923 At War With Herself. By Char- lotte M. Braeme. (Large type edition) 20 924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 925 The Outsider. Hawley Smart. 20 926 Springhaven. By R. D. Black- more. 1st and 2d half , each . 20 927 Sweet Cymbeline. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, . author of “Dora Thorne” 20 294 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme 10 928 Hilda; or, The False Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 929 The Belles of Lynn; or, The Miller's Daughter. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 930 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette Carey. In Two Parts, each.. 20 931 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 932 Queenie’s Whim. Rosa Nou- chette Carey. Two Parts, each 20 933 A Hidden Terror. Mary Albert 20 934 Wooed and Married. Rosa Nou- chette Carey. 2 parts, each. . 20 935 Borderland. Jessie Fothergill. 20 936 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou- chette Carey. Two Parts, each 20 937 Cashel Byron’s Profession. By George Bernard Shaw 20 938 Cranford. By Mrs. Gaskeli 20 939 Why Not? Florence Marryat.. 20 940 The Merry Men, and Other Tales and Fables. By Robert Louis Stevenson 20 941 Jess. By II. Rider Haggard. . . 20 942 Cash on Delivery. By F. Du Boisgobey : 20 943 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love that Hath Us in His Net.” By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 944 The Professor. By Charlotte Bronte 20 945 The Trumpet-Major. Thomas Hardy 20 946 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins 20 947 Publicans and Sinners; or, Lu- cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. Braddon. First half 20 947 Publicans and Sinners: or, Lu- cius Davoren. By Miss M. E. Braddon. Second half 20 293 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- lotte M- Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 948 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s Hidden Depths. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “The Duch- ess.” (Large type edition). . . 20 950 Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess ” 10 459 Woman’s Temptation, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 17 951 Woman's Temptation, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne 11 10 895 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” *. 10 952 Woman’s War, A. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 297 Hilary’s Folly; or. Her Mar- riage Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 10 953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- riage Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 954 A Girl’s Heart. By the author of “Nobody’s Darling” 20 288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. From Out the Gloom. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 955 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. From Out the Gloom. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 956 Her Johnnie. By Violet Whyte 20 957 The Woodlanders. By Thomas Hardy 20 958 A Haunted Life; or, Her Terri- ble Sin. Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 959 Dawn. By H. Rider Haggard. 20 960 Elizabeth’s Fortune. By Bertha Thomas 20 961 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 962 Sabina Zembra. By William Black. First half 20 962 Sabina Zembra. By William Black. Second half 20 963 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 961 A Struggle for the Right; or, Tracking the Truth 20 965 Periwinkle. By Arnold Gray. . 20 966 He, by the author of “King Solomon’s Wives”; and A Siege Baby and Childhood’s Memories, by J. S. Winter 20 23? Repented at Leisure. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne.” (Large type edition) 20 967 Repented at Leisure. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 10 968 Blossom and Fruit; or, Ma- dame’s Ward. By the author of “ Wedded Hands 20 969 The Mystery of Colde Fell ; or, Not Proven. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 20 9?'0 King Solomon’s Wives; or, The Phantom Mines. By Hyder Ragged. (Illustrated) 20 971 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in Blankhampton. By John Strange Winter 20 972 Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 20 973 The Squire’s Darling. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” First half 20 974 Strathmore; or, Wrought bj*- His Own Hand. By “ Ouida.” Second half 20 975 A Dark Marriage Morn. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 976 Robur the Conqueror; or, A Trip Round the World in a Flying Machine. Jules Verne 20 977 The Haunted Hotel. By Wilkie Collins 20 978 Her Second Love. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile Gaboriau. Parti 20 979 The Count’s Secret. By Emile Gaboriau. Part II 20 980 To Call Her Mine. By Walter Besant 20 981 Granville deVigne; or, Held in Bondage. By “Ouida.” 1st half 20 981 Granville deVigne; or. Held in Bondage. By “Ouida.” 2d half 20 982 The Duke’s Secret. By Char- lotte 31. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 983 Uarda. A Romance of Ancient Egypt. By George Ebers 20 984 Her Own Sister. By E^ S. Williamson 20 985 On Her Wedding Morn, and The 3Iystery of the Holly- Tree. Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 986 The Great Hesper. By Frank Barrett 20 987 Brenda Yorke, and Upon the Waters. By 3Tary Cecil Hay. 20 988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty Leigh. Charlotte 31. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 20 989 Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider Haggard 20 990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s Promise. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 991 Mr. 3Tidshipman Easy. By Cap- tain Marry at ~. 20 992 Marrying and Giving in 3Iar- riage. By Mrs. Molesworth... 20 993 Fighting the Air. By Florence Marry at 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 18 ' 994 A Penniless Orphan. By W. Heimburg 20 995 An Unnatural Bondage, and That Beautiful Lady. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne” 20 996 Idalia. By “ Ouida.” 1st half. 20 996 Idalia. By “Ouida.” 2d half. 20 99T Forging the Fetters, and The Australian Aunt. By Mrs. Alexander 20 998 Open, Sesame! By Florence Marryat 20 999 The Second Wife. E. Marlitt. 20 1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 1000 Puck. By “ Ouida.” 2d half. 20 1001 Lady Adelaide’s Oath; or. The Castle's Heir. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 1002 Marriage at a Venture. By Emile Gaboriau 20 1003 Chandos. By “ Ouida.” 1st half 20 1003 Chandos. By “Ouida.” 2d half 20 1004 Mad Dumaresq. By Florence Marryat 20 1005 99 Dark Street. F. W. Robinson 20 1006 His Wife’s Judgment. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 20 1007 Miss Gascoigne. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell 20 1008 A Thorn in Her Heart. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 1009 In an Evil Hour, and Other Stories. By “ The Duchess ” 20 1010 Golden Gates. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 1011 Texar’s Vengeance; or, North Versus South. Jules Verne. Part 1 20 1011 Texar’s Vengeance ; or, North Versus South. By J ules Verne Part II 20 1012 A Nameless Sin. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne ” 20 1013 The Confessions of Gerald Estcourt. Florence Marryat. 20 1014 A Mad Love. By Charlotte M. Rrnpmfi niitlint' nf “ Thorne” 20 1015 A Thousand Francs Reward. By Emile Gaboriau 20 1016 A Modern Circe. By “The Duchess” 20 1017 Txicotrin. TheStory of a Waif and Stray. “Ouida.” 1st half 20 1017 Tricotrin. The Story of a Waif and Stray. “Ouida.” 2d half 20 1018 Two Marriages. By Miss Mu- lock 20 1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. Norris. 1st half 20 1019 Major and Minor. By W. E. Norris. 2d half 20 1020 Michael Strogoff ; or, The Cou- rier of the Czar. Jules Verne 20 1021 The Heir to Ashley, and The Red -Court Farm. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 1022 Driven to Bay. By Florence Marryat 20 1023 Next of Kin— Wanted. By M. Betham-Ed wards 20 1024 Under the Storm; or. Stead- fast’s Charge. By Charlotte M. Yonge 20 1025 Daisy’s Dilemma. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 1026 A Dark Inheritance. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 1027 A Life’s Secret. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 1028 A Devout Lover ; or, A Wasted Love. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cam- eron. 20 1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 1st half 20 1029 Armadale. By Wilkie Collins. 2d half 20 1030 The Mistress of Ibichstein. By Fr. Henkel 20 1031 Irene’s Vow. By Charlotte M. Braeme, author of “Dora Thorne” 20 1032 Mignon’s Husband. By John Strange Winter. 20 1033 Esther: A Story for Girls. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 1034 The Silence of Dean Maitland. By Maxwell Gray 20 1035 The Duchess. By “ The Duch- ess” 20 1036 Like and Unlike. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 1037 Scheherazade: A London Night’s Entertainment. By Florence Warden 20 1038 Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mulock 20 1039 Driver Dallas. By John Strange Winter '. 10 1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- thor of “A Great Mistake.” First half 20 1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal. By the au- thor of “ A Great Mistake.” Second half 20 1041 Home Again. By George Mac- donald 20 1042 Lady Grace. Mrs. Henry Wood 20 1043 Faust. By Goethe 20 1044 The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark Russell 20 1045 The 13th Hussars. By Emile Gaboriau 20 1046 Jessie. By the author of “ Ad- die’s Husband ” 20 1047 Marvel. By “The Duchess”.. 20 1043 The Wreck of the “Grosvenor.” By W. Clark Russell 20 1049 A Tale of Three Lions, and On Going Back. H. Rider Haggard *20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition. 19 1050 The Tour of the World in 80 Days. By Jules Verne 20 1051 The Misadventures of John Nicholson. By Robert Louis Stevenson... 10 1052 Signa’s Sweetheart. By Char- lotte M. Braeme, author of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 1053 Young Mrs. Jardine. By Miss Mulock 20 1054 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- ander 20 1055 Katharine Regina. By Walter Besant 20 1050 The Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers. 1st half 20 1056 The Bride of the Nile. By George Ebers. 2d half 20 1057 A Life Interest. B}^ Mrs. Alex- ander 20 1058 Masaniello ; or. The Fisherman of Naples. Alexander Dumas 20 1059 Confessions of an English Opi- um-Eater, and The English Mail-Coach. By Thomas De Quincey 20 1060 The Lady of the Lake. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart 20 1061 A Queer Race : The Story of a Strange People. By William Westall 20 1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First War-Path. By J. Fenimore Cooper. First half 20 1062 The Deerslayer; or, The First War-Path. By J. Fenimore Cooper. Second Half 20 1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. First half 20 1063 Kenilworth. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Second half 20 1064 Only the Governess. By Rosa Nouchette Carey 20 1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His Greatness, and His Fall. By Walter Besant 20 1066 My Husband and I. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. First half 20 1067 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. Second half 20 1068 Vendetta! or, The Story of One Forgotten. By Marie Corelli. 20 1069 Polikouchka. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 1070 A Life’s Mistake. By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 20 1071 The Death of Ivan Iliitch. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 1072 Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude Forde 20 1073 Two Generations. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 10 1074 Stormy Waters. By Robert Buchanan 20 1075 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. By Fergus W. Hume 20 1076 The Mystery of an Omnibus. By F. Du Boisgobey 20 1077 The Nun’s Curse. Bj t Mrs. J. H. Riddell 20 1078 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile Gaboriau. First half 20 1078 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile Gaboriau. Second half 20 1079 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- shire Regiment. By John Strange Winter 20 1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 1080 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 1081 Too Curious. By Edward J. Goodman 20 1082 The Severed Hand. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 1082 The Severed Hand. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 2a 1083 The Little Old Man of the Bat- ignolles. By Emiie Gaboriau 10 1084 Chris. By W. E. Norris 20 1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 1085 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 1086 Nora. By Carl Detlef 20 1087 A Woman’s Face; or, A Lake- land Mystery. By F. Warden 20 1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 20 1088 The Old Age of Monsieur Le- coq. By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 20 1089 Home Sounds. By E. Werner 20 1090 The Cossacks. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 20 1091 A Modern Cinderella. By Char- lotte M. Braeme 10 1092 A Glorious Gallop. By Mrs. Edward Kennard 20 1093 In the Schillingscourt. By E. Marlitt 20 1094 Homo Sum. By George Ebers . 20 1095 The Legacy of Cain. By Wilkie Collins 20 1096 The Strange Adventures of a House-Boat. William Black 20 1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife. By George Ebers 20 1098 The Fatal Three. By Miss M. E. Braddon 20 1099 The Lasses of Leverhouse. By Jessie Fothergill 20 1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will. By H Rider Haggard 20 1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. I. By George Ebers 20 1101 An Egyptian Princess. Vol. II. By George Ebers 20 1102 Young Mr. Barter’s Repent- ance. By David Christie Mur- ray 10 1103 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. By “The Duchess” 20 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY— Pocket Edition, 1104 The Heir of Linne. By Rob- ert Buchanan. ............... 20 1105 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Rider Haggard 20 1106 The Emperor. By George Ebers 20 1107 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. By H. F. Wood. . . . . . 20 1108 Sebastopol. By Count Lyof Tolstoi 20 1109 Through the Long Nights. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. First half 20 1109 Through the Long Nights. By Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. Second half 20 1110 The Silverado Squatters. By Robert Louis Stevenson 10 1111 In the Counselor’s House. By E. Marlitt 20 1112 Only a Word. By George Ebers 20 1113 The Bailiff’s Maid. By E. Mar- litt 20 1114 The Sisters. By George Ebers . 20 1115 The Countess Gisela. By E. Marlitt 20 1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- phry Ward. 1st half 20 1116 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- phry Ward. 2d half .' 20 1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. Winter 10 1118 The Elect Lady. By George Macdonald 20 1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. First half 20 1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. Second half 20 1120 The Story of an African Farm. By Ralph Iron (Olive Schrei- ner) 20 1121 Booties’ Children. By John Strange Winter 10 1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 1123 Under - Currents. By “ The Duchess” 20 1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. Croker 20. 1125 The Mystery of a Turkish Bath. By “Rita” 10 1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By Florence Marry at ’. 20 1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. Hume - 20 1128 Cousin Pons. By Honors De Balzac 20 1129 The Flying Dutchman : or, The Death Ship. By W. Clark Russell 20 1130 The Owl-House. By E. Marlitt 20 1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. First half 20 1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. Second half 20 1132 In Far Lochaber. By William Black 20 1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes at Brookfield Earl. By Char- lotte M. Yonge 20 1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By Charlotte M. Braeme 20 1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- chette Carey 20 1136 The Princess of the Moor. By E. Marlitt 20 1137 Prince Charming. By the au- thor of “ A Great Mistake ” . . 20 1138 A Recoiling Vengeance. By Frank Barrett 20 1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By Thomas Hughes. Vol. I 20 1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By Thomas Hughes. Vol. II 20 1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H. Rider Haggard 20 1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. First half 20 1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. Second half 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. Part 1 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. Part II 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. Bj r Samuel Warren. Part III... 20 1143 The Inner House. By Walter Besant 20 1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- ton. 1st half 20 1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- ton. 2d half 20 1145 My Fellow Laborer, and The Wreck of the “ Copeland.” By H. Rider Haggard 20 1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George Meredith. 1st half 20 1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George Meredith. 2d half 20 1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 1st half 20 1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 2d half 20 1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. Shortliouse 20 1149 Donovan: A Modern English- man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 1149 Donovan: A Modern English- man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- dith. 1st half 20 1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- dith. 2d half 20 1151 For Faith and Freedom. By Walter Besant 20 1152 From the Earth to the Moon. • By Jules Verne. Illustrated. 20 1153 Round the Moon. By Jules Verne. Illustrated 20 1154 A Judgment of God. By E. Werner 20 1155 Lured Away; or, The Story of a Wedding - Ring, and The Heiress of Arne. By Char- lotte M. Braeme 20 THE SEASIDE LIBRARY -Pocket Edition Always Unchanged and Unabridged. WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED PAPER COVER. LATEST ISSUES: NO. PRICrc. 669 Pole on Whist 20 *432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By H. Rider Haggard 20 1117 Princess Sarah. By John S. Winter 10 1118 The Elect Lady. By George Macdonald 20 1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. First half 20 1119 No Name. By Wilkie Collins. Second half 20 1120 The Story of an African Farm. By Ralph* Iron (Olive Schrei- ner) 20 1121 Booties’ Children. By John Strange Winter 10 1122 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 20 1123 Under - Currents. By “ The Duchess” 20 1124 Diana Barrington. By B. M. Croker 20 1125 The Mystery of a Turkish Bath. By “Rita” 10 1126 Gentleman and Courtier. By Florence Marry at 20 1127 Madam Midas. By Fergus W. Hume 20 1128 Cousin Pons. By Hor>or6 De Bcilzctc 20 1129 The Flying Dutchman; or, The Death Ship. By W. Clark Russell 20 1130 The Owl-House. By E. Marlftt 20 1131 Thelma. By Marie' Corelli. First half 20 1131 Thelma. By Marie Corelli. Second half 20 1132 In Far Lochaber. By William Black 20 1133 Our New Mistress; or, Changes at Brookfield Earl. By Char- lotte M. Yonge 20 1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By Charlotte M. Braeme 20 1135 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- cherte Carey 20 1136 The Princess of the Moor. By E. Marlitt 20 1137 Prince Charming. By the au- thor of “ A Great Mistake . 20 1138 A Recoiling Vengeance. By Frank Barrett 20 NO. PRICK. 1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By Thomas Hughes. Vol. I 20 1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. By Thomas Hughes. Vol. IT 20 1140 Colonel Quariteh, V. C. By H. Rider Haggard 20 1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. First half 20 1141 The Rogue. By W. E. Norris. Second half 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. Part 1 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. Part II 20 1142 Ten Thousand a Year. By Samuel Warren. Part III... 20 1143 The Inner House. By Walter Besant 20 1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- ton. 1st half 20 1144 Rienzi. By Sir E. Bulwer Lyt- ton. 2d half 20 1145 My Fellow Laborer, and The Wreck of • the “ Copeland.” By H. Rider Haggard 20 1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George Meredith. 1st half 20 1146 Rhoda Fleming. By George Meredith. 2d half 20 1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 1st half 20 1147 Knight-Errant. ByEdnaLyall. 2d half 20 1148 The Countess Eve. By J. H. Shorthouse 20 1149 Donovan: A Modern English- man. By Edna Lyall. 1st half 20 1149 Donovan : A Modern English- man. By Edna Lyall. 2d half 20 1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- dith. 1st half 20 1150 The Egoist. By George Mere- dith. 2d half 20 1151 For Faith and Freedom. By- Walter Besant. 1st half 20 1151 For Faith and Freedom. By Walter Besant. 2d half 20 1154 A Judgment of God. By E. Werner 20 1156 A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- ence Warden 20 A handsome catalogue containing complete and classified lists of all George Munro's publications will be mailed to any address on receipt of 10 cents. The foregoing works, contained in Thic Ska^idic Library, Pocket Edition, are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Address GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, P. O. Box 3761. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. "The UNHAPPY BOY" <* "The HAPPY BOY." Ak Gurnet 6* 6*ae-th T%f /*V pJ-M) / \ 3 0 2 072807917 THE CELEBRATED mm SOHMER BRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS, FIRST PRIZE DIPLOMA. Centennial Exntbt* Hpn, 1876: Montreal. 1381 and 1382. The enviable po- sition Sohmer & Co. hold among American Piano Manufacturers is solely due to the merits of their in* •truments. ARB AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR And preferred by the leading artists. SOHMER At CO.. Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street. N. Y. k luxtff* 00 .? «xtracif r0 ’ , * l, e chnicesf fl° WEr s. nD kerchief They are used in Conservato* ries, Schools and Seminaries, on ac- count oi their su- perior tone and unequaled dura- bility. The SOHMER Piano is a special favorite with tho leading musicia ns and critics. J Colgate & Cos jam e and trade mar ^ on *1 and trade on m each bottle assure ^ r Purchasers> fSUpEnon IV. ra m - *®**»*m mm** n li