The Last of the Barons — Complete
by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton · English · Gutenberg #7727 · 1,513,610 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Last of the Barons — Complete
Author: Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton
Release date: November 26, 2004 [eBook #7727]
Most recently updated: August 28, 2016
Language: English
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THE LAST OF THE BARONS
By Edward Bulwer Lytton
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
I dedicate to you, my indulgent Critic and long-tried Friend, the work
which owes its origin to your suggestion. Long since, you urged me
to attempt a fiction which might borrow its characters from our own
Records, and serve to illustrate some of those truths which History is
too often compelled to leave to the Tale-teller, the Dramatist, and the
Poet. Unquestionably, Fiction, when aspiring to something higher than
mere romance, does not pervert, but elucidate Facts. He who employs it
worthily must, like a biographer, study the time and the characters
he selects, with a minute and earnest diligence which the general
historian, whose range extends over centuries, can scarcely be
expected to bestow upon the things and the men of a single epoch. His
descriptions should fill up with colour and detail the cold outlines
of the rapid chronicler; and in spite of all that has been argued by
pseudo-critics, the very fancy which urged and animated his theme
should necessarily tend to increase the reader’s practical and familiar
acquaintance with the habits, the motives, and the modes of thought
which constitute the true idiosyncrasy of an age. More than all, to
Fiction is permitted that liberal use of Analogical Hypothesis which is
denied to History, and which, if sobered by research, and enlightened
by that knowledge of mankind (without which Fiction can neither harm
nor profit, for it becomes unreadable), tends to clear up much that
were otherwise obscure, and to solve the disputes and difficulties of
contradictory evidence by the philosophy of the human heart.
My own impression of the greatness of the labour to which you invited me
made me the more diffident of success, inasmuch as the field of English
historical fiction had been so amply cultivated, not only by the most
brilliant of our many glorious Novelists, but by later writers of high
and merited reputation. But however the annals of our History have been
exhausted by the industry of romance, the subject you finally pressed
on my choice is unquestionably one which, whether in the delineation of
character, the expression of passion, or the suggestion of historical
truths, can hardly fail to direct the Novelist to paths wholly untrodden
by his predecessors in the Land of Fiction.
Encouraged by you, I commenced my task; encouraged by you, I venture,
on concluding it, to believe that, despite the partial adoption of that
established compromise between the modern and the elder diction,
which Sir Walter Scott so artistically improved from the more rugged
phraseology employed by Strutt, and which later writers have perhaps
somewhat overhackneyed, I may yet have avoided all material trespass
upon ground which others have already redeemed from the waste. Whatever
the produce of the soil I have selected, I claim, at least, to have
cleared it with my own labour, and ploughed it with my own heifer.
The reign of Edward IV. is in itself suggestive of new considerations
and unexhausted interest to those who accurately regard it. Then
commenced the policy consummated by Henry VII.; then were broken up the
great elements of the old feudal order; a new Nobility was called
into power, to aid the growing Middle Class in its struggles with the
ancient; and in the fate of the hero of the age, Richard Nevile, Earl of
Warwick, popularly called the King-maker, “the greatest as well as the
last of those mighty Barons who formerly overawed the Crown,” [Hume
adds, “and rendered the people incapable of civil government,”--a
sentence which, perhaps, judges too hastily the whole question at issue
in our earlier history, between the jealousy of the barons and the
authority of the king.] was involved the very principle of our existing
civilization. It adds to the wide scope of Fiction, which ever loves
to explore the twilight, that, as Hume has truly observed, “No part
of English history since the Conquest is so obscure, so uncertain, so
little authentic or consistent, as that of the Wars between the two
Roses.” It adds also to the importance of that conjectural research
in which Fiction may be made so interesting and so useful, that “this
profound darkness falls upon us just on the eve of the restoration of
letters;” [Hume] while amidst the gloom, we perceive the movement of
those great and heroic passions in which Fiction finds delineations
everlastingly new, and are brought in contact with characters
sufficiently familiar for interest, sufficiently remote for adaptation
to romance, and above all, so frequently obscured by contradictory
evidence, that we lend ourselves willingly to any one who seeks to help
our judgment of the individual by tests taken from the general knowledge
of mankind.
Round the great image of the “Last of the Barons” group Edward the
Fourth, at once frank and false; the brilliant but ominous boyhood of
Richard the Third; the accomplished Hastings, “a good knight and gentle,
but somewhat dissolute of living;” [Chronicle of Edward V., in Stowe]
the vehement and fiery Margaret of Anjou; the meek image of her “holy
Henry,” and the pale shadow of their son. There may we see, also, the
gorgeous Prelate, refining in policy and wile, as the enthusiasm and
energy which had formerly upheld the Ancient Church pass into the
stern and persecuted votaries of the New; we behold, in that social
transition, the sober Trader--outgrowing the prejudices of the rude
retainer or rustic franklin, from whom he is sprung--recognizing
sagaciously, and supporting sturdily, the sectarian interests of his
order, and preparing the way for the mighty Middle Class, in which our
Modern Civilization, with its faults and its merits, has established its
stronghold; while, in contrast to the measured and thoughtful notions
of liberty which prudent Commerce entertains, we are reminded of the
political fanaticism of the secret Lollard,--of the jacquerie of the
turbulent mob-leader; and perceive, amidst the various tyrannies of the
time, and often partially allied with the warlike seignorie, [For it
is noticeable that in nearly all the popular risings--that of Cade, of
Robin of Redesdale, and afterwards of that which Perkin Warbeck made
subservient to his extraordinary enterprise--the proclamations of the
rebels always announced, among their popular grievances, the depression
of the ancient nobles and the elevation of new men.]--ever jealous
against all kingly despotism,--the restless and ignorant movement of a
democratic principle, ultimately suppressed, though not destroyed, under
the Tudors, by the strong union of a Middle Class, anxious for security
and order, with an Executive Authority determined upon absolute sway.
Nor should we obtain a complete and comprehensive view of that most
interesting Period of Transition, unless we saw something of the
influence which the sombre and sinister wisdom of Italian policy
began to exercise over the councils of the great,--a policy of refined
stratagem, of complicated intrigue, of systematic falsehood, of
ruthless, but secret violence; a policy which actuated the fell
statecraft of Louis XI.; which darkened, whenever he paused to think and
to scheme, the gaudy and jovial character of Edward IV.; which appeared
in its fullest combination of profound guile and resolute will in
Richard III.; and, softened down into more plausible and specious
purpose by the unimpassioned sagacity of Henry VII., finally attained
the object which justified all its villanies to the princes of its
native land,--namely, the tranquillity of a settled State, and the
establishment of a civilized but imperious despotism.
Again, in that twilight time, upon which was dawning the great invention
that gave to Letters and to Science the precision and durability of the
printed page, it is interesting to conjecture what would have been
the fate of any scientific achievement for which the world was less
prepared. The reception of printing into England chanced just at the
happy period when Scholarship and Literature were favoured by the great.
The princes of York, with the exception of Edward IV. himself, who had,
however, the grace to lament his own want of learning, and the taste
to appreciate it in others, were highly educated. The Lords Rivers and
Hastings [The erudite Lord Worcester had been one of Caxton’s warmest
patrons, but that nobleman was no more at the time in which printing is
said to have been actually introduced into England.] were accomplished
in all the “witte and lere” of their age. Princes and peers vied with
each other in their patronage of Caxton, and Richard III., during his
brief reign, spared no pains to circulate to the utmost the invention
destined to transmit his own memory to the hatred and the horror of all
succeeding time. But when we look around us, we see, in contrast to the
gracious and fostering reception of the mere mechanism by which
science is made manifest, the utmost intolerance to science itself. The
mathematics in especial are deemed the very cabala of the black art.
Accusations of witchcraft were never more abundant; and yet, strange
to say, those who openly professed to practise the unhallowed science,
[Nigromancy, or Sorcery, even took its place amongst the regular
callings. Thus, “Thomas Vandyke, late of Cambridge,” is styled (Rolls
Parl. 6, p. 273) Nigromancer as his profession.--Sharon Turner, “History
of England,” vol iv. p. 6. Burke, “History of Richard III.”] and
contrived to make their deceptions profitable to some unworthy political
purpose, appear to have enjoyed safety, and sometimes even honour, while
those who, occupied with some practical, useful, and noble pursuits
uncomprehended by prince or people, denied their sorcery were despatched
without mercy. The mathematician and astronomer Bolingbroke (the
greatest clerk of his age) is hanged and quartered as a wizard, while
not only impunity but reverence seems to have awaited a certain Friar
Bungey, for having raised mists and vapours, which greatly befriended
Edward IV. at the battle of Barnet.
Our knowledge of the intellectual spirit of the age, therefore, only
becomes perfect when we contrast the success of the Impostor with the
fate of the true Genius. And as the prejudices of the populace ran high
against all mechanical contrivances for altering the settled conditions
of labour, [Even in the article of bonnets and hats, it appears that
certain wicked falling mills were deemed worthy of a special anathema in
the reign of Edward IV. These engines are accused of having sought, “by
subtle imagination,” the destruction of the original makers of hats and
bonnets by man’s strength,--that is, with hands and feet; and an act of
parliament was passed (22d of Edward IV.) to put down the fabrication
of the said hats and bonnets by mechanical contrivance.] so probably,
in the very instinct and destiny of Genius which ever drive it to a war
with popular prejudice, it would be towards such contrivances that a
man of great ingenuity and intellect, if studying the physical sciences,
would direct his ambition.
Whether the author, in the invention he has assigned to his philosopher
(Adam Warner), has too boldly assumed the possibility of a conception so
much in advance of the time, they who have examined such of the works
of Roger Bacon as are yet given to the world can best decide; but
the assumption in itself belongs strictly to the most acknowledged
prerogatives of Fiction; and the true and important question will
obviously be, not whether Adam Warner could have constructed his model,
but whether, having so constructed it, the fate that befell him was
probable and natural.
Such characters as I have here alluded to seemed, then, to me, in
meditating the treatment of the high and brilliant subject which your
eloquence animated me to attempt, the proper Representatives of the
multiform Truths which the time of Warwick the King-maker affords to our
interests and suggests for our instruction; and I can only wish that the
powers of the author were worthier of the theme.
It is necessary that I now state briefly the foundation of the
Historical portions of this narrative. The charming and popular “History
of Hume,” which, however, in its treatment of the reign of Edward IV. is
more than ordinarily incorrect, has probably left upon the minds of many
of my readers, who may not have directed their attention to more
recent and accurate researches into that obscure period, an erroneous
impression of the causes which led to the breach between Edward IV. and
his great kinsman and subject, the Earl of Warwick. The general notion
is probably still strong that it was the marriage of the young king to
Elizabeth Gray, during Warwick’s negotiations in France for the alliance
of Bona of Savoy (sister-in-law to Louis XI.), which exasperated the
fiery earl, and induced his union with the House of Lancaster. All our
more recent historians have justly rejected this groundless fable,
which even Hume (his extreme penetration supplying the defects of his
superficial research) admits with reserve. [“There may even some doubt
arise with regard to the proposal of marriage made to Bona of Savoy,”
etc.--HUME, note to p. 222, vol. iii. edit. 1825.] A short summary of
the reasons for this rejection is given by Dr. Lingard, and annexed
below. [“Many writers tell us that the enmity of Warwick arose from his
disappointment caused by Edward’s clandestine marriage with Elizabeth.
If we may believe them, the earl was at the very time in France
negotiating on the part of the king a marriage with Bona of Savoy,
sister to the Queen of France; and having succeeded in his mission,
brought back with him the Count of Dampmartin as ambassador from Louis.
To me the whole story appears a fiction. 1. It is not to be found in the
more ancient historians. 2. Warwick was not at the time in France. On
the 20th of April, ten days before the marriage, he was employed in
negotiating a truce with the French envoys in London (Rym. xi. 521), and
on the 26th of May, about three weeks after it, was appointed to treat
of another truce with the King of Scots (Rym. xi. 424). 3. Nor could he
bring Dampmartin with him to England; for that nobleman was committed a
prisoner to the Bastile in September, 1463, and remained there till
May, 1465 (Monstrel. iii. 97, 109). Three contemporary and well-informed
writers, the two continuators of the History of Croyland and Wyrcester,
attribute his discontent to the marriages and honours granted to the
Wydeviles, and the marriage of the princess Margaret with the Duke of
Burgundy.”--LINGARD, vol. iii. c. 24, pp. 5, 19, 4to ed.] And, indeed,
it is a matter of wonder that so many of our chroniclers could have
gravely admitted a legend contradicted by all the subsequent conduct
of Warwick himself; for we find the earl specially doing honour to the
publication of Edward’s marriage, standing godfather to his first-born
(the Princess Elizabeth), employed as ambassador or acting as minister,
and fighting for Edward, and against the Lancastrians, during the five
years that elapsed between the coronation of Elizabeth and Warwick’s
rebellion.
The real causes of this memorable quarrel, in which Warwick acquired his
title of King-maker, appear to have been these.
It is probable enough, as Sharon Turner suggests, [Sharon Turner:
History of England, vol. iii. p. 269.] that Warwick was disappointed
that, since Edward chose a subject for his wife, he neglected the more
suitable marriage he might have formed with the earl’s eldest daughter;
and it is impossible but that the earl should have been greatly chafed,
in common with all his order, by the promotion of the queen’s relations,
[W. Wyr. 506, 7. Croyl. 542.] new men and apostate Lancastrians. But it
is clear that these causes for discontent never weakened his zeal for
Edward till the year 1467, when we chance upon the true origin of the
romance concerning Bona of Savoy, and the first open dissension between
Edward and the earl.
In that year Warwick went to France, to conclude an alliance with Louis
XI., and to secure the hand of one of the French princes [Which of the
princes this was does not appear, and can scarcely be conjectured. The
“Pictorial History of England” (Book v. 102) in a tone of easy decision
says “it was one of the sons of Louis XI.” But Louis had no living
sons at all at the time. The Dauphin was not born till three years
afterwards. The most probable person was the Duke of Guienne, Louis’s
brother.] for Margaret, sister to Edward IV.; during this period, Edward
received the bastard brother of Charles, Count of Charolois, afterwards
Duke of Burgundy, and arranged a marriage between Margaret and the
count.
Warwick’s embassy was thus dishonoured, and the dishonour was aggravated
by personal enmity to the bridegroom Edward had preferred. [The Croyland
Historian, who, as far as his brief and meagre record extends, is the
best authority for the time of Edward IV., very decidedly states the
Burgundian alliance to be the original cause of Warwick’s displeasure,
rather than the king’s marriage with Elizabeth: “Upon which (the
marriage of Margaret with Charolois) Richard Nevile, Earl of Warwick,
who had for so many years taken party with the French against the
Burgundians, conceived great indignation; and I hold this to be the
truer cause of his resentment than the king’s marriage with Elizabeth,
for he had rather have procured a husband for the aforesaid princess
Margaret in the kingdom of France.” The Croyland Historian also speaks
emphatically of the strong animosity existing between Charolois and
Warwick.--Cont. Croyl. 551.] The earl retired in disgust to his castle.
But Warwick’s nature, which Hume has happily described as one of
“undesigning frankness and openness,” [Hume, “Henry VI.,” vol. iii. p.
172, edit. 1825.] does not seem to have long harboured this
resentment. By the intercession of the Archbishop of York and others,
a reconciliation was effected, and the next year, 1468, we find Warwick
again in favour, and even so far forgetting his own former cause
of complaint as to accompany the procession in honour of Margaret’s
nuptials with his private foe. [Lingard.] In the following year,
however, arose the second dissension between the king and his
minister,--namely, in the king’s refusal to sanction the marriage of his
brother Clarence with the earl’s daughter Isabel,--a refusal which was
attended with a resolute opposition that must greatly have galled the
pride of the earl, since Edward even went so far as to solicit the Pope
to refuse his sanction, on the ground of relationship. [Carte. Wm. Wyr.]
The Pope, nevertheless, grants the dispensation, and the marriage takes
place at Calais. A popular rebellion then breaks out in England. Some of
Warwick’s kinsmen--those, however, belonging to the branch of the Nevile
family that had always been Lancastrians, and at variance with the
earl’s party--are found at its head. The king, who is in imminent
danger, writes a supplicating letter to Warwick to come to his aid.
[“Paston Letters,” cxcviii. vol. ii., Knight’s ed. See Lingard, c. 24,
for the true date of Edward’s letters to Warwick, Clarence, and
the Archbishop of York.] The earl again forgets former causes for
resentment, hastens from Calais, rescues the king, and quells the
rebellion by the influence of his popular name.
We next find Edward at Warwick’s castle of Middleham, where, according
to some historians, he is forcibly detained,--an assertion treated by
others as a contemptible invention. This question will be examined
in the course of this work; [See Note II.] but whatever the true
construction of the story, we find that Warwick and the king are still
on such friendly terms, that the earl marches in person against a
rebellion on the borders, obtains a signal victory, and that the rebel
leader (the earl’s own kinsman) is beheaded by Edward at York. We
find that, immediately after this supposed detention, Edward speaks of
Warwick and his brothers “as his best friends;” [“Paston Letters,” cciv.
vol. ii., Knight’s ed. The date of this letter, which puzzled the worthy
annotator, is clearly to be referred to Edward’s return from York,
after his visit to Middleham in 1469. No mention is therein made by
the gossiping contemporary of any rumour that Edward had suffered
imprisonment. He enters the city in state, as having returned safe and
victorious from a formidable rebellion. The letter goes on to say: “The
king himself hath (that is, holds) good language of the Lords Clarence,
of Warwick, etc., saying ‘they be his best friends.’” Would he say
this if just escaped from a prison? Sir John Paston, the writer of
the letter, adds, it is true, “But his household men have (hold) other
language.” very probably, for the household men were the court creatures
always at variance with Warwick, and held, no doubt, the same language
they had been in the habit of holding before.] that he betroths his
eldest daughter to Warwick’s nephew, the male heir of the family. And
then suddenly, only three months afterwards (in February, 1470), and
without any clear and apparent cause, we find Warwick in open rebellion,
animated by a deadly hatred to the king, refusing, from first to last,
all overtures of conciliation; and so determined is his vengeance,
that he bows a pride, hitherto morbidly susceptible, to the vehement
insolence of Margaret of Anjou, and forms the closest alliance with
the Lancastrian party, in the destruction of which his whole life had
previously been employed.
Here, then, where History leaves us in the dark, where our curiosity
is the most excited, Fiction gropes amidst the ancient chronicles, and
seeks to detect and to guess the truth. And then Fiction, accustomed
to deal with the human heart, seizes upon the paramount importance of
a Fact which the modern historian has been contented to place amongst
dubious and collateral causes of dissension. We find it broadly and
strongly stated by Hall and others, that Edward had coarsely attempted
the virtue of one of the earl’s female relations. “And farther it erreth
not from the truth,” says Hall, “that the king did attempt a thing once
in the earl’s house, which was much against the earl’s honesty; but
whether it was the daughter or the niece,” adds the chronicler, “was
not, for both their honours, openly known; but surely such a thing WAS
attempted by King Edward,” etc.
Any one at all familiar with Hall (and, indeed, with all our principal
chroniclers, except Fabyan), will not expect any accurate precision as
to the date he assigns for the outrage. He awards to it, therefore, the
same date he erroneously gives to Warwick’s other grudges (namely, a
period brought some years lower by all judicious historians) a date at
which Warwick was still Edward’s fastest friend.
Once grant the probability of this insult to the earl (the probability
is conceded at once by the more recent historians, and received without
scruple as a fact by Rapia, Habington, and Carte), and the whole
obscurity which involves this memorable quarrel vanishes at once.
Here was, indeed, a wrong never to be forgiven, and yet never to be
proclaimed. As Hall implies, the honour of the earl was implicated in
hushing the scandal, and the honour of Edward in concealing the offence.
That if ever the insult were attempted, it must have been just previous
to the earl’s declared hostility is clear. Offences of that kind
hurry men to immediate action at the first, or else, if they stoop to
dissimulation the more effectually to avenge afterwards, the outbreak
bides its seasonable time. But the time selected by the earl for his
outbreak was the very worst he could have chosen, and attests the
influence of a sudden passion,--a new and uncalculated cause of
resentment. He had no forces collected; he had not even sounded his own
brother-in-law, Lord Stanley (since he was uncertain of his intentions);
while, but a few months before, had he felt any desire to dethrone the
king, he could either have suffered him to be crushed by the popular
rebellion the earl himself had quelled, or have disposed of his person
as he pleased when a guest at his own castle of Middleham. His evident
want of all preparation and forethought--a want which drove into rapid
and compulsory flight from England the baron to whose banner, a few
months afterwards, flocked sixty thousand men--proves that the cause of
his alienation was fresh and recent.
If, then, the cause we have referred to, as mentioned by Hall and
others, seems the most probable we can find (no other cause for such
abrupt hostility being discernible), the date for it must be placed
where it is in this work,--namely, just prior to the earl’s revolt. The
next question is, who could have been the lady thus offended, whether
a niece or daughter. Scarcely a niece, for Warwick had one married
brother, Lord Montagu, and several sisters; but the sisters were married
to lords who remained friendly to Edward, [Except the sisters married to
Lord Fitzhugh and Lord Oxford. But though Fitzhugh, or rather his son,
broke into rebellion, it was for some cause in which Warwick did not
sympathize, for by Warwick himself was that rebellion put down; nor
could the aggrieved lady have been a daughter of Lord Oxford, for he was
a stanch, though not avowed, Lancastrian, and seems to have carefully
kept aloof from the court.] and Montagu seems to have had no daughter
out of childhood, [Montagu’s wife could have been little more than
thirty at the time of his death. She married again, and had a family by
her second husband.] while that nobleman himself did not share Warwick’s
rebellion at the first, but continued to enjoy the confidence of Edward.
We cannot reasonably, then, conceive the uncle to have been so much more
revengeful than the parents,--the legitimate guardians of the honour
of a daughter. It is, therefore, more probable that the insulted maiden
should have been one of Lord Warwick’s daughters; and this is the
general belief. Carte plainly declares it was Isabel. But Isabel it
could hardly have been. She was then married to Edward’s brother, the
Duke of Clarence, and within a month of her confinement. The earl had
only one other daughter, Anne, then in the flower of her youth; and
though Isabel appears to have possessed a more striking character of
beauty, Anne must have had no inconsiderable charms to have won the
love of the Lancastrian Prince Edward, and to have inspired a tender and
human affection in Richard Duke of Gloucester. [Not only does Majerus,
the Flemish annalist, speak of Richard’s early affection to Anne, but
Richard’s pertinacity in marrying her, at a time when her family was
crushed and fallen, seems to sanction the assertion. True, that Richard
received with her a considerable portion of the estates of her parents.
But both Anne herself and her parents were attainted, and the whole
property at the disposal of the Crown. Richard at that time had
conferred the most important services on Edward. He had remained
faithful to him during the rebellion of Clarence; he had been the
hero of the day both at Barnet and Tewksbury. His reputation was then
exceedingly high, and if he had demanded, as a legitimate reward,
the lands of Middleham, without the bride, Edward could not well have
refused them. He certainly had a much better claim than the only other
competitor for the confiscated estates,--namely, the perjured and
despicable Clarence. For Anne’s reluctance to marry Richard, and the
disguise she assumed, see Miss Strickland’s “Life of Anne of Warwick.”
For the honour of Anne, rather than of Richard, to whose memory one
crime more or less matters but little, it may here be observed that
so far from there being any ground to suppose that Gloucester was an
accomplice in the assassination of the young prince Edward of Lancaster,
there is some ground to believe that that prince was not assassinated at
all, but died (as we would fain hope the grandson of Henry V. did
die) fighting manfully in the field.--“Harleian Manuscripts;” Stowe,
“Chronicle of Tewksbury;” Sharon Turner, vol. iii. p. 335.] It is also
noticeable, that when, not as Shakspeare represents, but after long
solicitation, and apparently by positive coercion, Anne formed her
second marriage, she seems to have been kept carefully by Richard from
his gay brother’s court, and rarely, if ever, to have appeared in London
till Edward was no more.
That considerable obscurity should always rest upon the facts connected
with Edward’s meditated crime,--that they should never be published
amongst the grievances of the haughty rebel is natural from the very
dignity of the parties, and the character of the offence; that in such
obscurity sober History should not venture too far on the hypothesis
suggested by the chronicler, is right and laudable. But probably it will
be conceded by all, that here Fiction finds its lawful province, and
that it may reasonably help, by no improbable nor groundless conjecture,
to render connected and clear the most broken and the darkest fragments
of our annals.
I have judged it better partially to forestall the interest of the
reader in my narrative, by stating thus openly what he may expect, than
to encounter the far less favourable impression (if he had been hitherto
a believer in the old romance of Bona of Savoy), [I say the old romance
of Bona of Savoy, so far as Edward’s rejection of her hand for that
of Elizabeth Gray is stated to have made the cause of his quarrel with
Warwick. But I do not deny the possibility that such a marriage had
been contemplated and advised by Warwick, though he neither sought
to negotiate it, nor was wronged by Edward’s preference of his fair
subject.] that the author was taking an unwarrantable liberty with the
real facts, when, in truth, it is upon the real facts, as far as they
can be ascertained, that the author has built his tale, and his boldest
inventions are but deductions from the amplest evidence he could
collect. Nay, he even ventures to believe, that whoever hereafter shall
write the history of Edward IV. will not disdain to avail himself of
some suggestions scattered throughout these volumes, and tending to
throw new light upon the events of that intricate but important period.
It is probable that this work will prove more popular in its nature
than my last fiction of “Zanoni,” which could only be relished by those
interested in the examinations of the various problems in human life
which it attempts to solve. But both fictions, however different and
distinct their treatment, are constructed on those principles of art
to which, in all my later works, however imperfect my success, I have
sought at least steadily to adhere.
To my mind, a writer should sit down to compose a fiction as a painter
prepares to compose a picture. His first care should be the conception
of a whole as lofty as his intellect can grasp, as harmonious and
complete as his art can accomplish; his second care, the character of
the interest which the details are intended to sustain.
It is when we compare works of imagination in writing with works of
imagination on the canvas, that we can best form a critical idea of the
different schools which exist in each; for common both to the author
and the painter are those styles which we call the Familiar, the
Picturesque, and the Intellectual. By recurring to this comparison we
can, without much difficulty, classify works of Fiction in their
proper order, and estimate the rank they should severally hold. The
Intellectual will probably never be the most widely popular for the
moment. He who prefers to study in this school must be prepared for much
depreciation, for its greatest excellences, even if he achieve them, are
not the most obvious to the many. In discussing, for instance, a modern
work, we hear it praised, perhaps, for some striking passage, some
prominent character; but when do we ever hear any comment on its harmony
of construction, on its fulness of design, on its ideal character,--on
its essentials, in short, as a work of art? What we hear most valued in
the picture, we often find the most neglected in the book,--namely, the
composition; and this, simply because in England painting is recognized
as an art, and estimated according to definite theories; but in
literature we judge from a taste never formed, from a thousand
prejudices and ignorant predilections. We do not yet comprehend that the
author is an artist, and that the true rules of art by which he should
be tested are precise and immutable. Hence the singular and fantastic
caprices of the popular opinion,--its exaggerations of praise or
censure, its passion and reaction. At one while, its solemn contempt for
Wordsworth; at another, its absurd idolatry. At one while we are stunned
by the noisy celebrity of Byron, at another we are calmly told that he
can scarcely be called a poet. Each of these variations in the public is
implicitly followed by the vulgar criticism; and as a few years back our
journals vied with each other in ridiculing Wordsworth for the faults
which he did not possess, they vie now with each other in eulogiums upon
the merits which he has never displayed.
These violent fluctuations betray both a public and a criticism utterly
unschooled in the elementary principles of literary art, and entitle the
humblest author to dispute the censure of the hour, while they ought to
render the greatest suspicious of its praise.
It is, then, in conformity, not with any presumptuous conviction of his
own superiority, but with his common experience and common-sense, that
every author who addresses an English audience in serious earnest is
permitted to feel that his final sentence rests not with the jury before
which he is first heard. The literary history of the day consists of a
series of judgments set aside.
But this uncertainty must more essentially betide every student, however
lowly, in the school I have called the Intellectual, which must ever
be more or less at variance with the popular canons. It is its hard
necessity to vex and disturb the lazy quietude of vulgar taste; for
unless it did so, it could neither elevate nor move. He who resigns the
Dutch art for the Italian must continue through the dark to explore
the principles upon which he founds his design, to which he adapts his
execution; in hope or in despondence still faithful to the theory which
cares less for the amount of interest created than for the sources from
which the interest is to be drawn; seeking in action the movement of the
grander passions or the subtler springs of conduct, seeking in repose
the colouring of intellectual beauty.
The Low and the High of Art are not very readily comprehended. They
depend not upon the worldly degree or the physical condition of the
characters delineated; they depend entirely upon the quality of the
emotion which the characters are intended to excite,--namely, whether of
sympathy for something low, or of admiration for something high. There
is nothing high in a boor’s head by Teniers, there is nothing low in
a boor’s head by Guido. What makes the difference between the two? The
absence or presence of the Ideal! But every one can judge of the
merit of the first, for it is of the Familiar school; it requires a
connoisseur to see the merit of the last, for it is of the Intellectual.
I have the less scrupled to leave these remarks to cavil or to sarcasm,
because this fiction is probably the last with which I shall trespass
upon the Public, and I am desirous that it shall contain, at least, my
avowal of the principles upon which it and its later predecessors have
been composed. You know well, however others may dispute the fact,
the earnestness with which those principles have been meditated and
pursued,--with high desire, if but with poor results.
It is a pleasure to feel that the aim, which I value more than the
success, is comprehended by one whose exquisite taste as a critic
is only impaired by that far rarer quality,--the disposition to
over-estimate the person you profess to esteem! Adieu, my sincere and
valued friend; and accept, as a mute token of gratitude and regard,
these flowers gathered in the Garden where we have so often roved
together. E. L. B.
LONDON, January, 1843.
PREFACE TO THE LAST OF THE BARONS
This was the first attempt of the author in Historical Romance upon
English ground. Nor would he have risked the disadvantage of comparison
with the genius of Sir Walter Scott, had he not believed that that great
writer and his numerous imitators had left altogether unoccupied the
peculiar field in Historical Romance which the Author has here sought to
bring into cultivation. In “The Last of the Barons,” as in “Harold,”
the aim has been to illustrate the actual history of the period, and
to bring into fuller display than general History itself has done the
characters of the principal personages of the time, the motives by which
they were probably actuated, the state of parties, the condition of
the people, and the great social interests which were involved in what,
regarded imperfectly, appear but the feuds of rival factions.
“The Last of the Barons” has been by many esteemed the best of the
Author’s romances; and perhaps in the portraiture of actual character,
and the grouping of the various interests and agencies of the time, it
may have produced effects which render it more vigorous and lifelike
than any of the other attempts in romance by the same hand.
It will be observed that the purely imaginary characters introduced are
very few; and, however prominent they may appear, still, in order not
to interfere with the genuine passions and events of history, they are
represented as the passive sufferers, not the active agents, of the
real events. Of these imaginary characters, the most successful is
Adam Warner, the philosopher in advance of his age; indeed, as an ideal
portrait, I look upon it as the most original in conception, and the
most finished in execution, of any to be found in my numerous prose
works, “Zanoni” alone excepted.
For the rest, I venture to think that the general reader will obtain
from these pages a better notion of the important age, characterized by
the decline of the feudal system, and immediately preceding that great
change in society which we usually date from the accession of Henry
VII., than he could otherwise gather, without wading through a vast mass
of neglected chronicles and antiquarian dissertations.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BOOK I
THE ADVENTURES OF MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE
CHAPTER
I The Pastime-ground of old Cockaigne
II The Broken Gittern
III The Trader and the Gentle; or, the Changing Generation
IV Ill fares the Country Mouse in the Traps of Town
V Weal to the Idler, Woe to the Workman
VI Master Marmaduke Nevile fears for the Spiritual Weal of his
Host and Hostess
VII There is a Rod for the Back of every Fool who would be Wiser
than his Generation
BOOK II
THE KING’S COURT
CHAPTER
I Earl Warwick the King-maker
II King Edward the Fourth
III The Antechamber
BOOK III
IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES FROM THE KING’S COURT TO THE STUDENT’S
CELL, AND RELATES THE PERILS THAT BEFELL A PHILOSOPHER FOR
MEDDLING WITH THE AFFAIRS OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER
I The Solitary Sage and the Solitary Maid
II Master Adam Warner grows a Miser, and behaves Shamefully
III A Strange Visitor--All Ages of the World breed World-
Betters
IV Lord Hastings
V Master Adam Warner and King Henry the Sixth
VI How, on leaving King Log, Foolish Wisdom runs a-muck on
King Stork
VII My Lady Duchess’s Opinion of the Utility of Master Warner’s
Invention, and her esteem for its Explosion
VIII The Old Woman talks of Sorrows, the Young Woman dreams
of Love; the Courtier flies from Present Power to
Remembrances of Past Hopes, and the World-Bettered opens
Utopia, with a View of the Gibbet for the Silly Sage he
has seduced into his Schemes,--so, ever and evermore,
runs the World away
IX How the Destructive Organ of Prince Richard promises Goodly
Development
BOOK IV
INTRIGUES OF THE COURT OF EDWARD IV
CHAPTER
I Margaret of Anjou
II In which are laid Open to the Reader the Character of Edward
the Fourth and that of his Court, with the Machinations of
the Woodvilles against the Earl of Warwick
III Wherein Master Nicholas Alwyn visits the Court, and there
learns Matter of which the Acute Reader will judge for
himself
IV Exhibiting the Benefits which Royal Patronage confers on
Genius,--also the Early Loves of the Lord Hastings; with
other Matters Edifying and Delectable
V The Woodville Intrigue prospers--Montagu confers with
Hastings, visits the Archbishop of York, and is met on the
Road by a strange Personage
VI The Arrival of the Count de la Roche, and the various
Excitement produced on many Personages by that Event
VII The Renowned Combat between Sir Anthony Woodville and the
Bastard of Burgundy
VIII How the Bastard of Burgundy prospered more in his Policy than
With the Pole-axe--and how King Edward holds his Summer
Chase in the Fair Groves of Shene
IX The Great Actor returns to fill the Stage
X How the Great Lords come to the King-maker, and with what
Proffers
BOOK V
THE LAST OF THE BARONS IN HIS FATHERS HALLS
CHAPTER
I Rural England in the Middle Ages--Noble Visitors seek the
Castle
Of Middleham
II Councils and Musings
III The Sisters
IV The Destrier
BOOK VI
WHEREIN ARE OPENED SOME GLIMPSES OF THE FATE BELOW THAT ATTENDS THOSE
WHO ARE BETTER THAN OTHERS, AND THOSE WHO DESIRE TO MAKE OTHERS
BETTER. LOVE, DEMAGOGY, AND SCIENCE ALL EQUALLY OFF-SPRING OF THE
SAME PROLIFIC DELUSION,--NAMELY, THAT MEAN SOULS (THE EARTH’S
MAJORITY) ARE WORTH THE HOPE AND THE AGONY OF NOBLE SOULS, THE
EVERLASTING SUFFERING AND ASPIRING FEW.
CHAPTER
I New Dissentions
II The Would-be Improvers of Jove’s Football, Earth--The Sad
Father and the Sad Child--The Fair Rivals
III Wherein the Demagogue seeks the Courtier
IV Sibyll
V Katherine
VI Joy for Adam, and Hope for Sibyll--and Popular Friar Bungey!
VII A Love Scene
BOOK VII
THE POPULAR REBELLION
CHAPTER
I The White Lion of March shakes his Mane
II The Camp at Olney
III The Camp of the Rebels
IV The Norman Earl and the Saxon Demagogue confer
V What Faith Edward IV purposeth to keep with Earl and People
VI What befalls King Edward on his Escape from Olney
VII How King Edward arrives at the Castle of Middleham
VIII The Ancients rightly gave to the Goddess of Eloquence a Crown
IX Wedded Confidence and Love--the Earl and the Prelate--the
Prelate and the King--Schemes--Wiles--and the Birth of a
Dark Thought destined to eclipse a Sun
BOOK VIII
IN WHICH THE LAST LINK BETWEEN KING-MAKER AND KING SNAPS ASUNDER
CHAPTER
I The Lady Anne visits the Court
II The Sleeping Innocence--the Wakeful Crime
III New Dangers to the House of York--and the King’s Heart
allies itself with Rebellion against the King’s Throne
IV The Foster-brothers
V The Lover and the Gallant--Woman’s Choice
VI Warwick returns-appeases a Discontented Prince-and confers
with a Revengeful Conspirator
VII The Fear and the Flight
VIII The Group round the Death-bed of the Lancastrian Widow
BOOK IX.
THE WANDERERS AND THE EXILES
CHAPTER
I How the Great Baron becomes as Great a Rebel
II Many Things briefly told
III The Plot of the Hostelry--the Maid and the Scholar in
their Home
IV The World’s Justice, and the Wisdom of our Ancestors
V The Fugitives are captured--the Tymbesteres reappear--
Moonlight on the Revel of the Living--Moonlight on the
Slumber of the Dead
VI The Subtle Craft of Richard of Gloucester
VII Warwick and his Family in Exile
VIII How the Heir of Lancaster meets the King-maker
IX The Interview of Earl Warwick and Queen Margaret
X Love and Marriage--Doubts of Conscience--Domestic Jealousy--
and Household Treason
BOOK X.
THE RETURN OF THE KING-MAKER
CHAPTER
I The Maid’s Hope, the Courtier’s Love, and the Sage’s Comfort
II The Man awakes in the Sage, and the She-wolf again hath
tracked the Lamb
III Virtuous Resolves submitted to the Test of Vanity and the
World
IV The Strife which Sibyll had courted, between Katherine and
herself, commences in Serious Earnest
V The Meeting of Hastings and Katherine
VI Hastings learns what has befallen Sibyll, repairs to the
King, and encounters an old Rival
VII The Landing of Lord Warwick, and the Events that ensue
thereon
VIII What befell Adam Warner and Sibyll when made subject to the
Great Friar Bungey
IX The Deliberations of Mayor and Council, while Lord Warwick
marches upon London
X The Triumphal Entry of the Earl--the Royal Captive in the
Tower--the Meeting between King-maker and King
XI The Tower in Commotion
BOOK XI
THE NEW POSITION OF THE KING-MAKER
CHAPTER
I Wherein Master Adam Warner is notably commended and
advanced--and Greatness says to Wisdom, “Thy Destiny
be mine, Amen”
II The Prosperity of the Outer Show--the Cares of the Inner Man
III Further Views into the Heart of Man, and the Conditions
of Power
IV The Return of Edward of York
V The Progress of the Plantagenet
VI Lord Warwick, with the Foe in the field and the Traitor at
The Hearth
BOOK XII
THE BATTLE OF BARNET
CHAPTER
I A King in his City hopes to recover his Realm--A Woman in
her Chamber fears to forfeit her own
II Sharp is the Kiss of the Falcon’s Bear
III A Pause
IV-VI The Battle
VII The last Pilgrims in the long Procession to the Common Bourne
BOOK I. THE ADVENTURES OF MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE.
CHAPTER I. THE PASTIME-GROUND OF OLD COCKAIGNE.
Westward, beyond the still pleasant, but even then no longer solitary,
hamlet of Charing, a broad space, broken here and there by scattered
houses and venerable pollards, in the early spring of 1467, presented
the rural scene for the sports and pastimes of the inhabitants of
Westminster and London. Scarcely need we say that open spaces for the
popular games and diversions were then numerous in the suburbs of the
metropolis,--grateful to some the fresh pools of Islington; to others,
the grass-bare fields of Finsbury; to all, the hedgeless plains of vast
Mile-end. But the site to which we are now summoned was a new and maiden
holiday-ground, lately bestowed upon the townsfolk of Westminster by the
powerful Earl of Warwick.
Raised by a verdant slope above the low, marsh-grown soil of
Westminster, the ground communicated to the left with the Brook-fields,
through which stole the peaceful Ty-bourne, and commanded prospects,
on all sides fair, and on each side varied. Behind, rose the twin green
hills of Hampstead and Highgate, with the upland park and chase of
Marybone,--its stately manor-house half hid in woods. In front might be
seen the Convent of the Lepers, dedicated to Saint James, now a palace;
then to the left, York House, [The residence of the Archbishops of
York] now Whitehall; farther on, the spires of Westminster Abbey and the
gloomy tower of the Sanctuary; next, the Palace, with its bulwark and
vawmure, soaring from the river; while eastward, and nearer to
the scene, stretched the long, bush-grown passage of the Strand,
picturesquely varied with bridges, and flanked to the right by the
embattled halls of feudal nobles, or the inns of the no less powerful
prelates; while sombre and huge amidst hall and inn, loomed the gigantic
ruins of the Savoy, demolished in the insurrection of Wat Tyler. Farther
on, and farther yet, the eye wandered over tower and gate, and arch
and spire, with frequent glimpses of the broad sunlit river, and the
opposite shore crowned by the palace of Lambeth, and the Church of St.
Mary Overies, till the indistinct cluster of battlements around the
Fortress-Palatine bounded the curious gaze. As whatever is new is for
a while popular, so to this pastime-ground, on the day we treat of,
flocked, not only the idlers of Westminster, but the lordly dwellers of
Ludgate and the Flete, and the wealthy citizens of tumultuous Chepe.
The ground was well suited to the purpose to which it was devoted.
About the outskirts, indeed, there were swamps and fish-pools; but a
considerable plot towards the centre presented a level sward, already
worn bare and brown by the feet of the multitude. From this, towards
the left, extended alleys, some recently planted, intended to afford,
in summer, cool and shady places for the favourite game of bowls; while
scattered clumps, chiefly of old pollards, to the right broke the space
agreeably enough into detached portions, each of which afforded its
separate pastime or diversion. Around were ranged many carts, or wagons;
horses of all sorts and value were led to and fro, while their owners
were at sport. Tents, awnings, hostelries, temporary buildings, stages
for showmen and jugglers, abounded, and gave the scene the appearance of
a fair; but what particularly now demands our attention was a broad plot
in the ground, dedicated to the noble diversion of archery. The reigning
House of York owed much of its military success to the superiority of
the bowmen under its banners, and the Londoners themselves were jealous
of their reputation in this martial accomplishment. For the last fifty
years, notwithstanding the warlike nature of the times, the practice of
the bow, in the intervals of peace, had been more neglected than seemed
wise to the rulers. Both the king and his loyal city had of late taken
much pains to enforce the due exercise of “Goddes instrumente,” [So
called emphatically by Bishop Latimer, in his celebrated Sixth Sermon.]
upon which an edict had declared that “the liberties and honour of
England principally rested!”
And numerous now was the attendance, not only of the citizens,
the burghers, and the idle populace, but of the gallant nobles who
surrounded the court of Edward IV., then in the prime of his youth,--the
handsomest, the gayest, and the bravest prince in Christendom.
The royal tournaments (which were, however, waning from their ancient
lustre to kindle afresh, and to expire in the reigns of the succeeding
Tudors), restricted to the amusements of knight and noble, no doubt
presented more of pomp and splendour than the motley and mixed assembly
of all ranks that now grouped around the competitors for the silver
arrow, or listened to the itinerant jongleur, dissour, or minstrel, or,
seated under the stunted shade of the old trees, indulged, with eager
looks and hands often wandering to their dagger-hilts, in the absorbing
passion of the dice; but no later and earlier scenes of revelry ever,
perhaps, exhibited that heartiness of enjoyment, that universal holiday,
which attended this mixture of every class, that established a rude
equality for the hour between the knight and the retainer, the burgess
and the courtier.
The revolution that placed Edward IV. upon the throne had, in fact, been
a popular one. Not only had the valour and moderation of his father,
Richard, Duke of York, bequeathed a heritage of affection to his brave
and accomplished son; not only were the most beloved of the great barons
the leaders of his party; but the king himself, partly from inclination,
partly from policy, spared no pains to win the good graces of that
slowly rising, but even then important part of the population,--the
Middle Class. He was the first king who descended, without loss of
dignity and respect, from the society of his peers and princes, to join
familiarly in the feasts and diversions of the merchant and the trader.
The lord mayor and council of London were admitted, on more than one
solemn occasion, into the deliberations of the court; and Edward had not
long since, on the coronation of his queen, much to the discontent of
certain of his barons, conferred the Knighthood of the hath upon four of
the citizens. On the other hand, though Edward’s gallantries--the
only vice which tended to diminish his popularity with the sober
burgesses--were little worthy of his station, his frank, joyous
familiarity with his inferiors was not debased by the buffooneries
that had led to the reverses and the awful fate of two of his royal
predecessors. There must have been a popular principle, indeed, as well
as a popular fancy, involved in the steady and ardent adherence which
the population of London in particular, and most of the great cities,
exhibited to the person and the cause of Edward IV. There was a feeling
that his reign was an advance in civilization upon the monastic virtues
of Henry VI., and the stern ferocity which accompanied the great
qualities of “The Foreign Woman,” as the people styled and regarded
Henry’s consort, Margaret of Anjou. While thus the gifts, the courtesy,
and the policy of the young sovereign made him popular with the middle
classes, he owed the allegiance of the more powerful barons and the
favour of the rural population to a man who stood colossal amidst the
iron images of the Age,--the greatest and the last of the old Norman
chivalry, kinglier in pride, in state, in possessions, and in renown
than the king himself, Richard Nevile, Earl of Salisbury and Warwick.
This princely personage, in the full vigour of his age, possessed all
the attributes that endear the noble to the commons. His valour in the
field was accompanied with a generosity rare in the captains of the
time. He valued himself on sharing the perils and the hardships of his
meanest soldier. His haughtiness to the great was not incompatible
with frank affability to the lowly. His wealth was enormous, but it
was equalled by his magnificence, and rendered popular by his lavish
hospitality. No less than thirty thousand persons are said to have
feasted daily at the open tables with which he allured to his countless
castles the strong hands and grateful hearts of a martial and unsettled
population. More haughty than ambitious, he was feared because he
avenged all affront; and yet not envied, because he seemed above all
favour.
The holiday on the archery-ground was more than usually gay, for the
rumour had spread from the court to the city that Edward was about to
increase his power abroad, and to repair what he had lost in the eyes of
Europe through his marriage with Elizabeth Gray, by allying his sister
Margaret with the brother of Louis XI., and that no less a person than
the Earl of Warwick had been the day before selected as ambassador on
the important occasion.
Various opinions were entertained upon the preference given to France
in this alliance over the rival candidate for the hand of the
princess,--namely, the Count de Charolois, afterwards Charles the Bold,
Duke of Burgundy.
“By ‘r Lady,” said a stout citizen about the age of fifty, “but I am not
over pleased with this French marriage-making! I would liefer the stout
earl were going to France with bows and bills than sarcenets and satins.
What will become of our trade with Flanders,--answer me that, Master
Stokton? The House of York is a good House, and the king is a good king,
but trade is trade. Every man must draw water to his own mill.”
“Hush, Master Heyford!” said a small lean man in a light-gray surcoat.
“The king loves not talk about what the king does. ‘T is ill jesting
with lions. Remember William Walker, hanged for saying his son should be
heir to the crown.”
“Troth,” answered Master Heyford, nothing daunted, for he belonged to
one of the most powerful corporations of London,--“it was but a scurvy
Pepperer [old name for Grocer] who made that joke; but a joke from a
worshipful goldsmith, who has moneys and influence, and a fair wife of
his own, whom the king himself has been pleased to commend, is another
guess sort of matter. But here is my grave-visaged headman, who always
contrives to pick up the last gossip astir, and has a deep eye into
millstones. Why, ho, there! Alwyn--I say, Nicholas Alwyn!--who would
have thought to see thee with that bow, a good half-ell taller than
thyself? Methought thou wert too sober and studious for such man-at-arms
sort of devilry.”
“An’ it please you, Master Heyford,” answered the person thus
addressed,--a young man, pale and lean, though sinewy and large-boned,
with a countenance of great intelligence, but a slow and somewhat formal
manner of speech, and a strong provincial accent,--“an’ it please you,
King Edward’s edict ordains every Englishman to have a bow of his
own height; and he who neglects the shaft on a holiday forfeiteth one
halfpenny and some honour. For the rest, methinks that the citizens of
London will become of more worth and potency every year; and it shall
not be my fault if I do not, though but a humble headman to your
worshipful mastership, help to make them so.”
“Why, that’s well said, lad; but if the Londoners prosper, it is because
they have nobles in their gipsires, [a kind of pouch worn at the girdle]
not bows in their hands.”
“Thinkest thou then, Master Heyford, that any king at a pinch would
leave them the gipsire, if they could not protect it with the bow? That
Age may have gold, let not Youth despise iron.”
“Body o’ me!” cried Master Heyford, “but thou hadst better curb in thy
tongue. Though I have my jest,--as a rich man and a corpulent,--a lad
who has his way to make good should be silent and--But he’s gone.”
“Where hooked you up that young jack fish?” said Master Stokton, the
thin mercer, who had reminded the goldsmith of the fate of the grocer.
“Why, he was meant for the cowl, but his mother, a widow, at his own
wish, let him make choice of the flat cap. He was the best ‘prentice
ever I had. By the blood of Saint Thomas, he will push his way in good
time; he has a head, Master Stokton,--a head, and an ear; and a
great big pair of eyes always looking out for something to his proper
advantage.”
In the mean while, the goldsmith’s headman had walked leisurely up to
the archery-ground; and even in his gait and walk, as he thus repaired
to a pastime, there was something steady, staid, and business-like.
The youths of his class and calling were at that day very different from
their equals in this. Many of them the sons of provincial retainers,
some even of franklins and gentlemen, their childhood had made them
familiar with the splendour and the sports of knighthood; they had
learned to wrestle, to cudgel, to pitch the bar or the quoit, to draw
the bow, and to practise the sword and buckler, before transplanted from
the village green to the city stall. And even then, the constant
broils and wars of the time, the example of their betters, the holiday
spectacle of mimic strife, and, above all, the powerful and corporate
association they formed amongst themselves, tended to make them as wild,
as jovial, and as dissolute a set of young fellows as their posterity
are now sober, careful, and discreet. And as Nicholas Alwyn, with
a slight inclination of his head, passed by, two or three loud,
swaggering, bold-looking groups of apprentices--their shaggy hair
streaming over their shoulders, their caps on one side, their short
cloaks of blue torn or patched, though still passably new, their
bludgeons under their arms, and their whole appearance and manner not
very dissimilar from the German collegians in the last century--notably
contrasted Alwyn’s prim dress, his precise walk, and the feline care
with which he stepped aside from any patches of mire that might sully
the soles of his square-toed shoes.
The idle apprentices winked and whispered, and lolled out their tongues
at him as he passed. “Oh, but that must be as good as a May-Fair
day,--sober Nick Alwyn’s maiden flight of the shaft! Hollo, puissant
archer, take care of the goslings yonder! Look this way when thou
pull’st, and then woe to the other side!” Venting these and many similar
specimens of the humour of Cockaigne, the apprentices, however, followed
their quondam colleague, and elbowed their way into the crowd gathered
around the competitors at the butt; and it was at this spot, commanding
a view of the whole space, that the spectator might well have formed
some notion of the vast following of the House of Nevile. For everywhere
along the front lines, everywhere in the scattered groups, might be
seen, glistening in the sunlight, the armourial badges of that mighty
family. The Pied Bull, which was the proper cognizance [Pied Bull
the cognizance, the Dun Bull’s head the crest] of the Neviles, was
principally borne by the numerous kinsmen of Earl Warwick, who rejoiced
in the Nevile name. The Lord Montagu, Warwick’s brother, to whom
the king had granted the forfeit title and estates of the earls of
Northumberland, distinguished his own retainers, however, by the special
request of the ancient Montagus.--a Gryphon issuant from a ducal crown.
But far more numerous than Bull or Gryphon (numerous as either seemed)
were the badges worn by those who ranked themselves among the peculiar
followers of the great Earl of Warwick. The cognizance of the Bear
and Ragged Staff, which he assumed in right of the Beauchamps, whom he
represented through his wife, the heiress of the lords of Warwick,
was worn in the hats of the more gentle and well-born clansmen and
followers, while the Ragged Staff alone was worked front and back on
the scarlet jackets of his more humble and personal retainers. It was
a matter of popular notice and admiration that in those who wore these
badges, as in the wearers of the hat and staff of the ancient Spartans,
might be traced a grave loftiness of bearing, as if they belonged to
another caste, another race, than the herd of men. Near the place where
the rivals for the silver arrow were collected, a lordly party had
reined in their palfreys, and conversed with each other, as the judges
of the field were marshalling the competitors.
“Who,” said one of these gallants, “who is that comely young fellow just
below us, with the Nevile cognizance of the Bull on his hat? He has the
air of one I should know.”
“I never saw him before, my Lord of Northumberland,” answered one of the
gentlemen thus addressed; “but, pardieu, he who knows all the Neviles by
eye must know half England.” The Lord Montagu--for though at that moment
invested with the titles of the Percy, by that name Earl Warwick’s
brother is known to history, and by that, his rightful name, he
shall therefore be designated in these pages--the Lord Montagu smiled
graciously at this remark, and a murmur through the crowd announced that
the competition for the silver arrow was about to commence. The butts,
formed of turf, with a small white mark fastened to the centre by a
very minute peg, were placed apart, one at each end, at the distance of
eleven score yards. At the extremity where the shooting commenced, the
crowd assembled, taking care to keep clear from the opposite butt,
as the warning word of “Fast” was thundered forth; but eager was the
general murmur, and many were the wagers given and accepted, as some
well-known archer tried his chance. Near the butt that now formed the
target, stood the marker with his white wand; and the rapidity with
which archer after archer discharged his shaft, and then, if it missed,
hurried across the ground to pick it up (for arrows were dear enough not
to be lightly lost), amidst the jeers and laughter of the bystanders,
was highly animated and diverting. As yet, however, no marksman had hit
the white, though many had gone close to it, when Nicholas Alwyn stepped
forward; and there was something so unwarlike in his whole air, so prim
in his gait, so careful in his deliberate survey of the shaft and his
precise adjustment of the leathern gauntlet that protected the arm from
the painful twang of the string, that a general burst of laughter from
the bystanders attested their anticipation of a signal failure.
“‘Fore Heaven!” said Montagu, “he handles his bow an’ it were a
yard-measure. One would think he were about to bargain for the
bow-string, he eyes it so closely.”
“And now,” said Nicholas, slowly adjusting the arrow, “a shot for the
honour of old Westmoreland!” And as he spoke, the arrow sprang gallantly
forth, and quivered in the very heart of the white. There was a general
movement of surprise among the spectators, as the marker thrice shook
his wand over his head. But Alwyn, as indifferent to their respect as
he had been to their ridicule, turned round and said, with a significant
glance at the silent nobles, “We springals of London can take care of
our own, if need be.”
“These fellows wax insolent. Our good king spoils them,” said Montagu,
with a curl of his lip. “I wish some young squire of gentle blood would
not disdain a shot for the Nevile against the craftsman. How say you,
fair sir?” And with a princely courtesy of mien and smile, Lord Montagu
turned to the young man he had noticed as wearing the cognizance of
the First House in England. The bow was not the customary weapon of
the well-born; but still, in youth, its exercise formed one of the
accomplishments of the future knight; and even princes did not disdain,
on a popular holiday, to match a shaft against the yeoman’s cloth-yard.
[At a later period, Henry VIII. was a match for the best bowman in his
kingdom. His accomplishment was hereditary, and distinguished alike his
wise father and his pious son.] The young man thus addressed, and whose
honest, open, handsome, hardy face augured a frank and fearless nature,
bowed his head in silence, and then slowly advancing to the umpires,
craved permission to essay his skill, and to borrow the loan of a shaft
and bow. Leave given and the weapons lent, as the young gentleman took
his stand, his comely person, his dress, of a better quality than that
of the competitors hitherto, and, above all, the Nevile badge worked in
silver on his hat, diverted the general attention from Nicholas Alwyn.
A mob is usually inclined to aristocratic predilections, and a murmur
of goodwill and expectation greeted him, when he put aside the gauntlet
offered to him, and said, “In my youth I was taught so to brace the bow
that the string should not touch the arm; and though eleven score yards
be but a boy’s distance, a good archer will lay his body into his bow
[‘My father taught me to lay my body in my bow,’ etc.,” said Latimer, in
his well-known sermon before Edward VI.,--1549. The bishop also herein
observes that “it is best to give the bow so much bending that the
string need never touch the arm. This,” he adds, “is practised by many
good archers with whom I am acquainted, as much as if he were to hit
the blanc four hundred yards away.”
“A tall fellow this!” said Montagu; “and one I wot from the North,” as
the young gallant fitted the shaft to the bow. And graceful and artistic
was the attitude he assumed,--the head slightly inclined, the feet
firmly planted, the left a little in advance, and the stretched sinews
of the bow-hand alone evincing that into that grasp was pressed the
whole strength of the easy and careless frame. The public expectation
was not disappointed,--the youth performed the feat considered of all
the most dexterous; his arrow, disdaining the white mark, struck the
small peg which fastened it to the butts, and which seemed literally
invisible to the bystanders.
“Holy Saint Dunstan! there’s but one man who can beat me in that sort
that I know of,” muttered Nicholas, “and I little expected to see him
take a bite out of his own hip.” With that he approached his successful
rival.
“Well, Master Marmaduke,” said he, “it is many a year since you showed
me that trick at your father, Sir Guy’s--God rest him! But I scarce take
it kind in you to beat your own countryman!”
“Beshrew me!” cried the youth, and his cheerful features brightened into
hearty and cordial pleasure, “but if I see in thee, as it seems to me,
my old friend and foster-brother, Nick Alwyn, this is the happiest hour
I have known for many a day. But stand back and let me look at thee,
man. Thou! thou a tame London trader! Ha! ha! is it possible?”
“Hout, Master Marmaduke,” answered Nicholas, “every crow thinks his own
baird bonniest, as they say in the North. We will talk of this anon an’
thou wilt honour me. I suspect the archery is over now. Few will think
to mend that shot.”
And here, indeed, the umpires advanced, and their chief--an old mercer,
who had once borne arms, and indeed been a volunteer at the battle of
Towton--declared that the contest was over,--“unless,” he added, in
the spirit of a lingering fellow-feeling with the Londoner, “this young
fellow, whom I hope to see an alderman one of these days, will demand
another shot, for as yet there hath been but one prick each at the
butts.”
“Nay, master,” returned Alwyn, “I have met with my betters,--and, after
all,” he added indifferently, “the silver arrow, though a pretty bauble
enough, is over light in its weight.”
“Worshipful sir,” said the young Nevile, with equal generosity, “I
cannot accept the prize for a mere trick of the craft,--the blanc was
already disposed of by Master Alwyn’s arrow. Moreover; the contest was
intended for the Londoners, and I am but an interloper, beholden to
their courtesy for a practice of skill, and even the loan of a bow;
wherefore the silver arrow be given to Nicholas Alwyn.”
“That may not be, gentle sir,” said the umpire, extending the prize.
“Sith Alwyn vails of himself, it is thine, by might and by right.”
The Lord Montagu had not been inattentive to this dialogue, and he
now said, in a loud tone that silenced the crowd, “Young Badgeman, thy
gallantry pleases me no less than thy skill. Take the arrow, for thou
hast won it; but as thou seemest a new comer, it is right thou shouldst
pay thy tax upon entry,--this be my task. Come hither, I pray thee, good
sir,” and the nobleman graciously beckoned to the mercer; “be these five
nobles the prize of whatever Londoner shall acquit himself best in the
bold English combat of quarter-staff, and the prize be given in this
young archer’s name. Thy name, youth?”
“Marmaduke Nevile, good my lord.”
Montagu smiled, and the umpire withdrew to make the announcement to the
bystanders. The proclamation was received with a shout that traversed
from group to group and line to line, more hearty from the love and
honour attached to the name of Nevile than even from a sense of the
gracious generosity of Earl Warwick’s brother. One man alone, a sturdy,
well-knit fellow, in a franklin’s Lincoln broadcloth, and with a hood
half-drawn over his features, did not join the popular applause. “These
Yorkists,” he muttered, “know well how to fool the people.”
Meanwhile the young Nevile still stood by the gilded stirrup of the
great noble who had thus honoured him, and contemplated him with that
respect and interest which a youth’s ambition ever feels for those who
have won a name.
The Lord Montagu bore a very different character from his puissant
brother. Though so skilful a captain that he had never been known to
lose a battle, his fame as a warrior was, strange to say, below that
of the great earl, whose prodigious strength had accomplished those
personal feats that dazzled the populace, and revived the legendary
renown of the earlier Norman knighthood. The caution and wariness,
indeed, which Montagu displayed in battle probably caused his success as
a general, and the injustice done to him (at least by the vulgar) as a
soldier. Rarely had Lord Montagu, though his courage was indisputable,
been known to mix personally in the affray. Like the captains of modern
times, he contented himself with directing the manoeuvres of his
men, and hence preserved that inestimable advantage of coolness and
calculation, which was not always characteristic of the eager hardihood
of his brother. The character of Montagu differed yet more from that
of the earl in peace than in war. He was supposed to excel in all those
supple arts of the courtier which Warwick neglected or despised; and if
the last was on great occasions the adviser, the other in ordinary life
was the companion of his sovereign. Warwick owed his popularity to his
own large, open, daring, and lavish nature. The subtler Montagu sought
to win, by care and pains, what the other obtained without an effort. He
attended the various holiday meetings of the citizens, where Warwick
was rarely seen. He was smooth-spoken and courteous to his equals, and
generally affable, though with constraint, to his inferiors. He was a
close observer, and not without that genius for intrigue, which in rude
ages passes for the talent of a statesman. And yet in that thorough
knowledge of the habits and tastes of the great mass, which gives wisdom
to a ruler, he was far inferior to the earl. In common with his brother,
he was gifted with the majesty of mien which imposes on the eye; and his
port and countenance were such as became the prodigal expense of velvet,
minever, gold, and jewels, by which the gorgeous magnates of the day
communicated to their appearance the arrogant splendour of their power.
“Young gentleman,” said the earl, after eying with some attention the
comely archer, “I am pleased that you bear the name of Nevile. Vouchsafe
to inform me to what scion of our House we are this day indebted for the
credit with which you have upborne its cognizance?”
“I fear,” answered the youth, with a slight but not ungraceful
hesitation, “that my lord of Montagu and Northumberland will hardly
forgive the presumption with which I have intruded upon this assembly
a name borne by nobles so illustrious, especially if it belong to those
less fortunate branches of his family which have taken a different
side from himself in the late unhappy commotions. My father was Sir Guy
Nevile, of Arsdale, in Westmoreland.”
Lord Montagu’s lip lost its gracious smile; he glanced quickly at the
courtiers round him, and said gravely, “I grieve to hear it. Had I
known this, certes my gipsire had still been five nobles the richer.
It becomes not one fresh from the favour of King Edward IV. to show
countenance to the son of a man, kinsman though he was, who bore arms
for the usurpers of Lancaster. I pray thee, sir, to doff, henceforth, a
badge dedicated only to the service of Royal York. No more, young man;
we may not listen to the son of Sir Guy Nevile.--Sirs, shall we ride to
see how the Londoners thrive at quarter-staff?”
With that, Montagu, deigning no further regard at Nevile, wheeled his,
palfrey towards a distant part of the ground, to which the multitude was
already pressing its turbulent and noisy way.
“Thou art hard on thy namesake, fair my lord,” said a young noble, in
whose dark-auburn hair, aquiline, haughty features, spare but powerful
frame, and inexpressible air of authority and command, were found all
the attributes of the purest and eldest Norman race,--the Patricians of
the World.
“Dear Raoul de Fulke,” returned Montagu, coldly, “when thou hast reached
my age of thirty and four, thou wilt learn that no man’s fortune casts
so broad a shadow as to shelter from the storm the victims of a fallen
cause.”
“Not so would say thy bold brother,” answered Raoul de Fulke, with a
slight curl of his proud lip. “And I hold, with him, that no king is so
sacred that we should render to his resentments our own kith and kin.
God’s wot, whosoever wears the badge and springs from the stem of Raoul
de Fulke shall never find me question over much whether his father
fought for York or Lancaster.”
“Hush, rash babbler!” said Montagu, laughing gently; “what would King
Edward say if this speech reached his ears? Our friend,” added the
courtier, turning to the rest, “in vain would bar the tide of change;
and in this our New England, begirt with new men and new fashions,
affect the feudal baronage of the worn-out Norman. But thou art a
gallant knight, De Fulke, though a poor courtier.”
“The saints keep me so!” returned De Fulke. “From overgluttony, from
over wine-bibbing, from cringing to a king’s leman, from quaking at a
king’s frown, from unbonneting to a greasy mob, from marrying an old
crone for vile gold, may the saints ever keep Raoul de Fulke and his
sons! Amen!” This speech, in which every sentence struck its stinging
satire into one or other of the listeners, was succeeded by an awkward
silence, which Montagu was the first to break.
“Pardieu!” he said, “when did Lord Hastings leave us, and what fair face
can have lured the truant?”
“He left us suddenly on the archery-ground,” answered the young Lovell.
“But as well might we track the breeze to the rose as Lord William’s
sigh to maid or matron.”
While thus conversed the cavaliers, and their plumes waved, and their
mantles glittered along the broken ground, Marmaduke Nevile’s eye
pursued the horsemen with all that bitter feeling of wounded pride
and impotent resentment with which Youth regards the first insult it
receives from Power.
CHAPTER II. THE BROKEN GITTERN.
Rousing himself from his indignant revery, Marmaduke Nevile followed one
of the smaller streams into which the crowd divided itself on dispersing
from the archery-ground, and soon found himself in a part of the holiday
scene appropriated to diversions less manly, but no less characteristic
of the period than those of the staff and arrow. Beneath an awning,
under which an itinerant landlord dispensed cakes and ale, the humorous
Bourdour (the most vulgar degree of minstrel, or rather tale-teller)
collected his clownish audience; while seated by themselves--apart, but
within hearing--two harpers, in the king’s livery, consoled each other
for the popularity of their ribald rival, by wise reflections on the
base nature of common folk. Farther on, Marmaduke started to behold
what seemed to him the heads of giants at least six yards high; but on
a nearer approach these formidable apparitions resolved themselves to
a company of dancers upon stilts. There, one joculator exhibited the
antics of his well-tutored ape; there, another eclipsed the attractions
of the baboon by a marvellous horse that beat a tabor with his forefeet;
there, the more sombre Tregetour, before a table raised upon a lofty
stage, promised to cut off and refix the head of a sad-faced little boy,
who in the mean time was preparing his mortal frame for the operation by
apparently larding himself with sharp knives and bodkins. Each of these
wonder-dealers found his separate group of admirers, and great was the
delight and loud the laughter in the pastime-ground of old Cockaigne.
While Marmaduke, bewildered by this various bustle, stared around him,
his eye was caught by a young maiden, in evident distress, struggling in
vain to extricate herself from a troop of timbrel-girls, or tymbesteres
(as they were popularly called), who surrounded her with mocking
gestures, striking their instruments to drown her remonstrances, and
dancing about her in a ring at every effort towards escape. The girl
was modestly attired as one of the humbler ranks, and her wimple in
much concealed her countenance; but there was, despite her strange
and undignified situation and evident alarm, a sort of quiet, earnest
self-possession,--an effort to hide her terror, and to appeal to the
better and more womanly feelings of her persecutors. In the intervals of
silence from the clamour, her voice, though low, clear, well-tuned, and
impressive, forcibly arrested the attention of young Nevile; for at that
day, even more than this (sufficiently apparent as it now is), there was
a marked distinction in the intonation, the accent, the modulation of
voice, between the better bred and better educated and the inferior
classes. But this difference, so ill according with her dress and
position, only served to heighten more the bold insolence of the musical
Bacchantes, who, indeed, in the eyes of the sober, formed the most
immoral nuisance attendant on the sports of the time, and whose hardy
license and peculiar sisterhood might tempt the antiquary to search
for their origin amongst the relics of ancient Paganism. And now, to
increase the girl’s distress, some half-score of dissolute apprentices
and journeymen suddenly broke into the ring of the Maenads, and were
accosting her with yet more alarming insults, when Marmaduke, pushing
them aside, strode to her assistance. “How now, ye lewd varlets! ye make
me blush for my countrymen in the face of day! Are these the sports of
merry England,--these your manly contests,--to strive which can best
affront a poor maid? Out on ye, cullions and bezonians! Cling to me,
gentle donzel, and fear not. Whither shall I lead thee?” The apprentices
were not, however, so easily daunted. Two of them approached to the
rescue, flourishing their bludgeons about their heads with formidable
gestures. “Ho, ho!” cried one, “what right hast thou to step between the
hunters and the doe? The young quean is too much honoured by a kiss from
a bold ‘prentice of London.”
Marmaduke stepped back, and drew the small dagger which then formed the
only habitual weapon of a gentleman. [Swords were not worn, in peace, at
that period.] This movement, discomposing his mantle, brought the silver
arrow he had won (which was placed in his girdle) in full view of the
assailants. At the same time they caught sight of the badge on his hat.
These intimidated their ardour more than the drawn poniard.
“A Nevile!” said one, retreating. “And the jolly marksman who beat Nick
Alwyn,” said the other, lowering his bludgeon, and doffing his cap.
“Gentle sir, forgive us, we knew not your quality. But as for the
girl--your gallantry misleads you.”
“The Wizard’s daughter! ha, ha! the Imp of Darkness!” screeched the
timbrel-girls, tossing up their instruments, and catching them again on
the points of their fingers. “She has enchanted him with her glamour.
Foul is fair! Foul fair thee, young springal, if thou go to the nets.
Shadow and goblin to goblin and shadow! Flesh and blood to blood and
flesh!”--and dancing round him, with wanton looks and bare arms, and
gossamer robes that brushed him as they circled, they chanted,--
“Come, kiss me, my darling,
Warm kisses I trade for;
Wine, music, and kisses
What else was life made for?”
With some difficulty, and with a disgust which was not altogether
without a superstitious fear of the strange words and the outlandish
appearance of these loathsome Delilahs, Marmaduke broke from the ring
with his new charge; and in a few moments the Nevile and the maiden
found themselves, unmolested and unpursued, in a deserted quarter of
the ground; but still the scream of the timbrel-girls, as they hurried,
wheeling and dancing, into the distance, was borne ominously to the
young man’s ear. “Ha, ha! the witch and her lover! Foul is fair! foul is
fair! Shadow to goblin, goblin to shadow,--and the devil will have his
own!”
“And what mischance, my poor girl,” asked the Nevile, soothingly,
“brought thee into such evil company?”
“I know not, fair sir,” said the girl, slowly recovering her self; “but
my father is poor, and I had heard that on these holiday occasions one
who had some slight skill on the gittern might win a few groats from the
courtesy of the bystanders. So I stole out with my serving-woman,
and had already got more than I dared hope, when those wicked
timbrel-players came round me, and accused me of taking the money from
them. And then they called an officer of the ground, who asked me my
name and holding; so when I answered, they called my father a wizard,
and the man broke my poor gittern,--see!”--and she held it up, with
innocent sorrow in her eyes, yet a half-smile on her lips,--“and they
soon drove poor old Madge from my side, and I knew no more till you,
worshipful sir, took pity on me.”
“But why,” asked the Nevile, “did they give to your father so unholy a
name?”
“Alas, sir! he is a great scholar, who has spent his means in studying
what he says will one day be of good to the people.”
“Humph!” said Marmaduke, who had all the superstitions of his time,
who looked upon a scholar, unless in the Church, with mingled awe and
abhorrence, and who, therefore, was but ill-satisfied with the girl’s
artless answer,
“Humph! your father--but--” checking what he was about, perhaps harshly,
to say, as he caught the bright eyes and arch, intelligent face lifted
to his own--“but it is hard to punish the child for the father’s
errors.”
“Errors, sir!” repeated the damsel, proudly, and with a slight disdain
in her face and voice. “But yes, wisdom is ever, perhaps, the saddest
error!”
This remark was of an order superior in intellect to those which
had preceded it: it contrasted with the sternness of experience the
simplicity of the child; and of such contrasts, indeed, was that
character made up. For with a sweet, an infantine change of tone and
countenance, she added, after a short pause, “They took the money! The
gittern--see, they left that, when they had made it useless.”
“I cannot mend the gittern, but I can refill the gipsire,” said
Marmaduke.
The girl coloured deeply. “Nay, sir, to earn is not to beg.” Marmaduke
did not heed this answer; for as they were now passing by the stunted
trees, under which sat several revellers, who looked up at him from
their cups and tankards, some with sneering, some with grave looks, he
began, more seriously than in his kindly impulse he had hitherto done,
to consider the appearance it must have to be thus seen walking in
public with a girl of inferior degree, and perhaps doubtful repute.
Even in our own day such an exhibition would be, to say the least,
suspicious; and in that day, when ranks and classes were divided with
iron demarcations, a young gallant, whose dress bespoke him of gentle
quality, with one of opposite sex, and belonging to the humbler orders,
in broad day too, was far more open to censure. The blood mounted to
his brow, and halting abruptly, he said, in a dry and altered voice: “My
good damsel, you are now, I think, out of danger; it would ill beseem
you, so young and so comely, to go farther with one not old enough to be
your protector; so, in God’s name, depart quickly, and remember me when
you buy your new gittern, poor child!” So saying, he attempted to place
a piece of money in her hand. She put it back, and the coin fell on the
ground. “Nay, this is foolish,” said he.
“Alas, sir!” said the girl, gravely, “I see well that you are ashamed of
your goodness. But my father begs not. And once--but that matters not.”
“Once what?” persisted Marmaduke, interested in her manner, in spite of
himself.
“Once,” said the girl, drawing herself up, and with an expression that
altered the whole character of her face--“the beggar ate at my father’s
gate. He is a born gentleman and a knight’s son.”
“And what reduced him thus?”
“I have said,” answered the girl, simply, yet with the same half-scorn
on her lip that it had before betrayed; “he is a scholar, and thought
more of others than himself.”
“I never saw any good come to a gentleman from those accursed books,”
said the Nevile,--“fit only for monks and shavelings. But still, for
your father’s sake, though I am ashamed of the poorness of the gift--”
“No; God be with you, sir, and reward you.” She stopped short, drew
her wimple round her face, and was gone. Nevile felt an uncomfortable
sensation of remorse and disapproval at having suffered her to quit him
while there was yet any chance of molestation or annoyance, and his eye
followed her till a group of trees veiled her from his view.
The young maiden slackened her pace as she found herself alone under
the leafless boughs of the dreary pollards,--a desolate spot, made
melancholy by dull swamps, half overgrown with rank verdure, through
which forced its clogged way the shallow brook that now gives its name
(though its waves are seen no more) to one of the main streets in the
most polished quarters of the metropolis. Upon a mound formed by the
gnarled roots of the dwarfed and gnome-like oak, she sat down and wept.
In our earlier years, most of us may remember that there was one day
which made an epoch in life,--that day that separated Childhood from
Youth; for that day seems not to come gradually, but to be a sudden
crisis, an abrupt revelation. The buds of the heart open to close no
more. Such a day was this in that girl’s fate. But the day was not yet
gone! That morning, when she dressed for her enterprise of filial love,
perhaps for the first time Sibyll Warner felt that she was fair--who
shall say whether some innocent, natural vanity had not blended with the
deep, devoted earnestness, which saw no shame in the act by which the
child could aid the father? Perhaps she might have smiled to listen to
old Madge’s praises of her winsome face, old Madge’s predictions that
the face and the gittern would not lack admirers on the gay ground;
perhaps some indistinct, vague forethoughts of the Future to which the
sex will deem itself to be born might have caused the cheek--no, not to
blush, but to take a rosier hue, and the pulse to beat quicker, she knew
not why. At all events, to that ground went the young Sibyll, cheerful,
and almost happy, in her inexperience of actual life, and sure, at
least, that youth and innocence sufficed to protect from insult. And now
she sat down under the leafless tree to weep; and in those bitter tears,
childhood itself was laved from her soul forever.
“What ailest thou, maiden?” asked a deep voice; and she felt a hand laid
lightly on her shoulder. She looked up in terror and confusion, but
it was no form or face to inspire alarm that met her eye. It was a
cavalier, holding by the rein a horse richly caparisoned; and though his
dress was plainer and less exaggerated than that usually worn by men
of rank, its materials were those which the sumptuary laws (constantly
broken, indeed, as such laws ever must be) confined to nobles. Though
his surcoat was but of cloth, and the colour dark and sober, it was
woven in foreign looms,--an unpatriotic luxury, above the degree of
knight,--and edged deep with the costliest sables. The hilt of the
dagger, suspended round his breast, was but of ivory, curiously wrought,
but the scabbard was sown with large pearls. For the rest, the stranger
was of ordinary stature, well knit and active rather than powerful, and
of that age (about thirty-five) which may be called the second prime
of man. His face was far less handsome than Marmaduke Nevile’s, but
infinitely more expressive, both of intelligence and command,--the
features straight and sharp, the complexion clear and pale, and under
the bright gray eyes a dark shade spoke either of dissipation or of
thought.
“What ailest thou, maiden,--weepest thou some faithless lover? Tush!
love renews itself in youth, as flower succeeds flower in spring.”
Sibyll made no reply; she rose and moved a few paces, then arrested her
steps, and looked around her. She had lost all clew to her way homeward,
and she saw with horror, in the distance, the hateful timbrel-girls,
followed by the rabble, and weaving their strange dances towards the
spot.
“Dost thou fear me, child? There is no cause,” said the stranger,
following her. “Again I say, What ailest thou?” This time his voice was
that of command, and the poor girl involuntarily obeyed it. She related
her misfortunes, her persecution by the tymbesteres, her escape,--thanks
to the Nevile’s courtesy,--her separation from her attendant, and her
uncertainty as to the way she should pursue.
The nobleman listened with interest: he was a man sated and wearied
by pleasure and the world, and the evident innocence of Sibyll was a
novelty to his experience, while the contrast between her language and
her dress moved his curiosity. “And,” said he, “thy protector left thee,
his work half done; fie on his chivalry! But I, donzel, wear the spurs
of knighthood, and to succour the distressed is a duty my oath will
not let me swerve from. I will guide thee home, for I know well all the
purlieus of this evil den of London. Thou hast but to name the suburb in
which thy father dwells.”
Sibyll involuntarily raised her wimple, lifted her beautiful eyes to the
stranger, in bewildered gratitude and surprise. Her childhood had passed
in a court, her eye, accustomed to rank, at once perceived the high
degree of the speaker. The contrast between this unexpected and delicate
gallantry and the condescending tone and abrupt desertion of Marmaduke
affected her again to tears.
“Ah, worshipful sir!” she said falteringly, “what can reward thee for
this unlooked-for goodness?”
“One innocent smile, sweet virgin!--for such I’ll be sworn thou art.”
He did not offer her his hand, but hanging the gold-enamelled rein over
his arm, walked by her side; and a few words sufficing for his guidance,
led her across the ground, through the very midst of the throng. He felt
none of the young shame, the ingenious scruples of Marmaduke, at the
gaze he encountered, thus companioned. But Sibyll noted that ever and
anon bonnet and cap were raised as they passed along, and the respectful
murmur of the vulgar, who had so lately jeered her anguish, taught her
the immeasurable distance in men’s esteem between poverty shielded by
virtue, and poverty protected by power.
But suddenly a gaudy tinsel group broke through the crowd, and wheeling
round their path, the foremost of them daringly approached the nobleman,
and looking full into his disdainful face, exclaimed, “Tradest thou,
too, for kisses? Ha, ha! life is short,--the witch is outwitched by
thee! But witchcraft and death go together, as peradventure thou mayest
learn at the last, sleek wooer.” Then darting off, and heading her
painted, tawdry throng, the timbrel-girl sprang into the crowd and
vanished.
This incident produced no effect upon the strong and cynical intellect
of the stranger. Without allusion to it, he continued to converse with
his young companion, and artfully to draw out her own singular but
energetic and gifted mind. He grew more than interested,--he was both
touched and surprised. His manner became yet more respectful, his voice
more subdued and soft.
On what hazards turns our fate! On that day, a little, and Sibyll’s pure
but sensitive heart had, perhaps, been given to the young Nevile. He had
defended and saved her; he was fairer than the stranger, he was more
of her own years and nearer to her in station; but in showing himself
ashamed to be seen with her, he had galled her heart, and moved the
bitter tears of her pride. What had the stranger done? Nothing but
reconciled the wounded delicacy to itself; and suddenly he became to her
one ever to be remembered, wondered at,--perhaps more. They reached an
obscure suburb, and parted at the threshold of a large, gloomy, ruinous
house, which Sibyll indicated as her father’s home.
The girl lingered before the porch; and the stranger gazed, with the
passionless admiration which some fair object of art produces on one
who has refined his taste, but who has survived enthusiasm, upon the
downcast cheek that blushed beneath his gaze. “Farewell!” he said; and
the girl looked up wistfully. He might, without vanity, have supposed
that look to imply what the lip did not dare to say,--“And shall we meet
no more?”
But he turned away, with formal though courteous salutation; and as he
remounted his steed, and rode slowly towards the interior of the city,
he muttered to himself, with a melancholy smile upon his lips, “Now
might the grown infant make to himself a new toy; but an innocent heart
is a brittle thing, and one false vow can break it. Pretty maiden! I
like thee well eno’ not to love thee. So, as my young Scotch minstrel
sings and plays,--
‘Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers,
Sic peril lies in paramours!’”
[A Scotch poet, in Lord Hailes’s Collection, has the following lines in
the very pretty poem called “Peril in Paramours:”--
“Wherefore I pray, in termys short,
Christ keep these birdis bright in bowers,
Fra false lovers and their disport,
Sic peril lies in paramours.”]
We must now return to Marmaduke. On leaving Sibyll, and retracing his
steps towards the more crowded quarter of the space, he was agreeably
surprised by encountering Nicholas Alwyn, escorted in triumph by a
legion of roaring apprentices from the victory he had just obtained over
six competitors at the quarter-staff.
When the cortege came up to Marmaduke, Nicholas halted, and fronting
his attendants, said, with the same cold and formal stiffness that
had characterized him from the beginning, “I thank you, lads, for your
kindness. It is your own triumph. All I cared for was to show that you
London boys are able to keep up your credit in these days, when there’s
little luck in a yard-measure, if the same hand cannot bend a bow, or
handle cold steel. But the less we think of the strife when we are in
the stall, the better for our pouches. And so I hope we shall hear no
more about it, until I get a ware of my own, when the more of ye that
like to talk of such matters the better ye will be welcome,--always
provided ye be civil customers, who pay on the nail, for as the saw
saith, ‘Ell and tell makes the crypt swell.’ For the rest, thanks are
due to this brave gentleman, Marmaduke Nevile, who, though the son of a
knight-banneret who never furnished less to the battle-field than fifty
men-at-arms, has condescended to take part and parcel in the sports of
us peaceful London traders; and if ever you can do him a kind turn--for
turn and turn is fair play--why, you will, I answer for it. And so
one cheer for old London, and another for Marmaduke Nevile. Here goes!
Hurrah, my lads!” And with this pithy address Nicholas Alwyn took off
his cap and gave the signal for the shouts, which, being duly performed,
he bowed stiffly to his companions, who departed with a hearty laugh,
and coming to the side of Nevile, the two walked on to a neighbouring
booth, where, under a rude awning, and over a flagon of clary, they were
soon immersed in the confidential communications each had to give and
receive.
CHAPTER III. THE TRADER AND THE GENTLE; OR, THE CHANGING GENERATION.
“No, my dear foster-brother,” said the Nevile, “I do not yet comprehend
the choice you have made. You were reared and brought up with such
careful book-lere, not only to read and to write--the which, save the
mark! I hold to be labour eno’--but chop Latin and logic and theology
with Saint Aristotle (is not that his hard name?) into the bargain, and
all because you had an uncle of high note in Holy Church. I cannot say
I would be a shaveling myself; but surely a monk with the hope of
preferment is a nobler calling to a lad of spirit and ambition than
to stand out at a door and cry, ‘Buy, buy,’ ‘What d’ye lack?’ to spend
youth as a Flat-cap, and drone out manhood in measuring cloth, hammering
metals, or weighing out spices?”
“Fair and softly, Master Marmaduke,” said Alwyn, “you will understand
me better anon. My uncle, the sub-prior, died,--some say of austerities,
others of ale,--that matters not; he was a learned man and a cunning.
‘Nephew Nicholas,’ said he on his death-bed, ‘think twice before you tie
yourself up to the cloister; it’s ill leaping nowadays in a sackcloth
bag. If a pious man be moved to the cowl by holy devotion, there is
nothing to be said on the subject; but if he take to the Church as a
calling, and wish to march ahead like his fellows, these times show him
a prettier path to distinction. The nobles begin to get the best things
for themselves; and a learned monk, if he is the son of a yeoman, cannot
hope, without a specialty of grace, to become abbot or bishop. The king,
whoever he be, must be so drained by his wars, that he has little land
or gold to bestow on his favourites; but his gentry turn an eye to
the temporalities of the Church, and the Church and the king wish to
strengthen themselves by the gentry. This is not all; there are
free opinions afloat. The House of Lancaster has lost ground, by its
persecutions and burnings. Men dare not openly resist, but they
treasure up recollections of a fried grandfather, or a roasted
cousin,--recollections which have done much damage to the Henries, and
will shake Holy Church itself one of these days. The Lollards lie hid,
but Lollardism will never die. There is a new class rising amain, where
a little learning goes a great way, if mixed with spirit and sense.
Thou likest broad pieces and a creditable name,--go to London and be
a trader. London begins to decide who shall wear the crown, and the
traders to decide what king London shall befriend. Wherefore, cut thy
trace from the cloister, and take thy road to the shop.’ The next day
my uncle gave up the ghost.--They had better clary than this at the
convent, I must own; but every stone has its flaw.”
“Yet,” said Marmaduke, “if you took distaste to the cowl, from reasons
that I pretend not to judge of, but which seem to my poor head very bad
ones, seeing that the Church is as mighty as ever, and King Edward is
no friend to the Lollards, and that your uncle himself was at least a
sub-prior--”
“Had he been son to a baron, he had been a cardinal,” interrupted
Nicholas, “for his head was the longest that ever came out of the north
country. But go on; you would say my father was a sturdy yeoman, and I
might have followed his calling?”
“You hit the mark, Master Nicholas.”
“Hout, man. I crave pardon of your rank, Master Nevile. But a yeoman is
born a yeoman, and he dies a yeoman--I think it better to die Lord Mayor
of London; and so I craved my mother’s blessing and leave, and a part
of the old hyde has been sold to pay for the first step to the red gown,
which I need not say must be that of the Flat-cap. I have already taken
my degrees, and no longer wear blue. I am headman to my master, and my
master will be sheriff of London.”
“It is a pity,” said the Nevile, shaking his head; “you were ever a
tall, brave lad, and would have made a very pretty soldier.”
“Thank you, Master Marmaduke, but I leave cut and thrust to the gentles.
I have seen eno’ of the life of a retainer. He goes out on foot with his
shield and his sword, or his bow and his quiver, while Sir Knight sits
on horseback, armed from the crown to the toe, and the arrow slants off
from rider and horse, as a stone from a tree. If the retainer is not
sliced and carved into mincemeat, he comes home to a heap of ashes,
and a handful of acres, harried and rivelled into a common; Sir Knight
thanks him for his valour, but he does not build up his house; Sir
Knight gets a grant from the king, or an heiress for his son, and Hob
Yeoman turns gisarme and bill into ploughshares. Tut, tut, there’s no
liberty, no safety, no getting on, for a man who has no right to the
gold spurs, but in the guild of his fellows; and London is the place for
a born Saxon like Nicholas Alwyn.”
As the young aspirant thus uttered the sentiments, which though others
might not so plainly avow and shrewdly enforce them, tended towards that
slow revolution, which, under all the stormy events that the superficial
record we call HISTORY alone deigns to enumerate, was working that great
change in the thoughts and habits of the people,--that impulsion of the
provincial citywards, that gradual formation of a class between knight
and vassal,--which became first constitutionally visible and distinct
in the reign of Henry VII., Marmaduke Nevile, inly half-regretting and
half-despising the reasonings of his foster-brother, was playing with
his dagger, and glancing at his silver arrow.
“Yet you could still have eno’ of the tall yeoman and the stout retainer
about you to try for this bauble, and to break half a dozen thick heads
with your quarter-staff!”
“True,” said Nicholas; “you must recollect we are only, as yet, between
the skin and the selle,--half-trader, half-retainer. The old leaven will
out,--‘Eith to learn the cat to the kirn,’ as they say in the North. But
that’s not all; a man, to get on, must win respect from those who are
to jostle him hereafter, and it’s good policy to show those roystering
youngsters that Nick Alwyn, stiff and steady though he be, has the old
English metal in him, if it comes to a pinch; it’s a lesson to yon lords
too, save your quality, if they ever wish to ride roughshod over our
guilds and companies. But eno’ of me.--Drawer, another stoup of the
clary--Now, gentle sir, may I make bold to ask news of yourself? I saw,
though I spake not before of it, that my Lord Montagu showed a cold face
to his kinsman. I know something of these great men, though I be but a
small one,--a dog is no bad guide in the city he trots through.”
“My dear foster-brother,” said the Nevile, “you had ever more brains
than myself, as is meet that you should have, since you lay by the steel
casque,--which, I take it, is meant as a substitute for us gentlemen
and soldiers who have not so many brains to spare; and I will willingly
profit by your counsels. You must know,” he said, drawing nearer to the
table, and his frank, hardy face assuming a more earnest expression,
“that though my father, Sir Guy, at the instigation of his chief, the
Earl of Westmoreland, and of the Lord Nevile, bore arms at the first for
King Henry--”
“Hush! hush! for Henry of Windsor!”
“Henry of Windsor!--so be it! yet being connected, like the nobles I
have spoken of, with the blood of Warwick and Salisbury, it was ever
with doubt and misgiving, and rather in the hope of ultimate compromise
between both parties (which the Duke of York’s moderation rendered
probable) than of the extermination of either. But when, at the battle
of York, Margaret of Anjou and her generals stained their victory by
cruelties which could not fail to close the door on all conciliation;
when the infant son of the duke himself was murdered, though a prisoner,
in cold blood; when my father’s kinsman, the Earl of Salisbury, was
beheaded without trial; when the head of the brave and good duke,
who had fallen in the field, was, against all knightly and king-like
generosity, mockingly exposed, like a dishonoured robber, on the gates
of York, my father, shocked and revolted, withdrew at once from the
army, and slacked not bit or spur till he found himself in his hall at
Arsdale. His death, caused partly by his travail and vexation of spirit,
together with his timely withdrawal from the enemy, preserved his name
from the attainder passed on the Lords Westmoreland and Nevile; and my
eldest brother, Sir John, accepted the king’s proffer of pardon, took
the oaths of allegiance to Edward, and lives safe, if obscure, in his
father’s halls. Thou knowest, my friend, that a younger brother has but
small honour at home. Peradventure, in calmer times, I might have bowed
my pride to my calling, hunted my brother’s dogs, flown his hawks,
rented his keeper’s lodge, and gone to my grave contented. But to a
young man, who from his childhood had heard the stirring talk of
knights and captains, who had seen valour and fortune make the way to
distinction, and whose ears of late had been filled by the tales of
wandering minstrels and dissours, with all the gay wonders of Edward’s
court, such a life soon grew distasteful. My father, on his death-bed
(like thy uncle, the sub-prior), encouraged me little to follow his own
footsteps. ‘I see,’ said he, ‘that King Henry is too soft to rule his
barons, and Margaret too fierce to conciliate the commons; the only hope
of peace is in the settlement of the House of York. Wherefore, let not
thy father’s errors stand in the way of thy advancement;’ and therewith
he made his confessor--for he was no penman himself, the worthy old
knight!--indite a letter to his great kinsman, the Earl of Warwick,
commending me to his protection. He signed his mark, and set his seal to
this missive, which I now have at mine hostelrie, and died the same day.
My brother judged me too young then to quit his roof; and condemned me
to bear his humours till, at the age of twenty-three, I could bear no
more! So having sold him my scant share in the heritage, and turned,
like thee, bad land into good nobles, I joined a party of horse in their
journey to London, and arrived yesterday at Master Sackbut’s hostelrie
in Eastchepe. I went this morning to my Lord of Warwick; but he was gone
to the king’s, and hearing of the merry-makings here, I came hither
for kill-time. A chance word of my Lord of Montagu--whom Saint Dunstan
confound!--made me conceit that a feat of skill with the cloth-yard
might not ill preface my letter to the great earl. But, pardie! it
seems I reckoned without my host, and in seeking to make my fortunes too
rashly, I have helped to mar them.” Wherewith he related the particulars
of his interview with Montagu.
Nicholas Alwyn listened to him with friendly and thoughtful interest,
and, when he had done, spoke thus,--
“The Earl of Warwick is a generous man, and though hot, bears little
malice, except against those whom he deems misthink or insult him; he is
proud of being looked up to as a protector, especially by those of his
own kith and name. Your father’s letter will touch the right string,
and you cannot do better than deliver it with a plain story. A young
partisan like thee is not to be despised. Thou must trust to Lord
Warwick to set matters right with his brother; and now, before I say
further, let me ask thee, plainly, and without offence, Dost thou so
love the House of York that no chance could ever make thee turn sword
against it? Answer as I ask,--under thy breath; those drawers are
parlous spies!”
And here, in justice to Marmaduke Nevile and to his betters, it is
necessary to preface his reply by some brief remarks, to which we must
crave the earnest attention of the reader. What we call PATRIOTISM,
in the high and catholic acceptation of the word, was little if at all
understood in days when passion, pride, and interest were motives little
softened by reflection and education, and softened still less by the
fusion of classes that characterized the small States of old, and marks
the civilization of a modern age. Though the right by descent of the
House of York, if genealogy alone were consulted, was indisputably
prior to that of Lancaster, yet the long exercise of power in the latter
House, the genius of the Fourth Henry, and the victories of the Fifth,
would no doubt have completely superseded the obsolete claims of the
Yorkists, had Henry VI. possessed any of the qualities necessary for
the time. As it was, men had got puzzled by genealogies and cavils; the
sanctity attached to the king’s name was weakened by his doubtful right
to his throne, and the Wars of the rival Roses were at last (with two
exceptions, presently to be noted) the mere contests of exasperated
factions, in which public considerations were scarcely even made the
blind to individual interest, prejudice, or passion.
Thus, instances of desertion, from the one to the other party, even by
the highest nobles, and on the very eve of battle, had grown so common
that little if any disgrace was attached to them; and any knight or
captain held an affront to himself an amply sufficient cause for the
transfer of his allegiance. It would be obviously absurd to expect in
any of the actors of that age the more elevated doctrines of party faith
and public honour, which clearer notions of national morality, and the
salutary exercise of a large general opinion, free from the passions of
single individuals, have brought into practice in our more enlightened
days. The individual feelings of the individual MAN, strong in
himself, became his guide, and he was free in much from the regular and
thoughtful virtues, as well as from the mean and plausible vices, of
those who act only in bodies and corporations. The two exceptions to
this idiosyncrasy of motive and conduct were, first, in the general
disposition of the rising middle class, especially in London, to connect
great political interests with the more popular House of York. The
commons in parliament had acted in opposition to Henry the Sixth, as
the laws they wrung from him tended to show, and it was a popular and
trading party that came, as it were, into power under King Edward. It
is true that Edward was sufficiently arbitrary in himself; but a
popular party will stretch as much as its antagonists in favour of
despotism,--exercised, on its enemies. And Edward did his best to
consult the interests of commerce, though the prejudices of the
merchants interpreted those interests in a way opposite to that in which
political economy now understands them. The second exception to the mere
hostilities of individual chiefs and feudal factions has, not less than
the former, been too much overlooked by historians. But this was a still
more powerful element in the success of the House of York. The hostility
against the Roman Church and the tenets of the Lollards were shared by
an immense part of the population. In the previous century an ancient
writer computes that one half the population were Lollards; and though
the sect were diminished and silenced by fear, they still ceased not to
exist, and their doctrines not only shook the Church under Henry VIII.,
but destroyed the throne by the strong arm of their children, the
Puritans, under Charles I. It was impossible that these men should not
have felt the deepest resentment at the fierce and steadfast persecution
they endured under the House of Lancaster; and without pausing to
consider how far they would benefit under the dynasty of York, they
had all those motives of revenge which are mistaken so often for the
counsels of policy, to rally round any standard raised against their
oppressors. These two great exceptions to merely selfish policy, which
it remains for the historian clearly and at length to enforce, these:
and these alone will always, to a sagacious observer, elevate the Wars
of the Roses above those bloody contests for badges which we are at
first sight tempted to regard them. But these deeper motives animated
very little the nobles and the knightly gentry; [Amongst many instances
of the self-seeking of the time, not the least striking is the
subservience of John Mowbray, the great Duke of Norfolk, to his old
political enemy, the Earl of Oxford, the moment the last comes into
power, during the brief restoration of Henry VI. John Paston, whose
family had been sufficiently harassed by this great duke, says, with
some glee, “The Duke and Duchess (of Norfolk) sue to him (Lord Oxford)
as humbly as ever I did to them.”--Paston Letters, cccii.] and with them
the governing principles were, as we have just said, interest, ambition,
and the zeal for the honour and advancement of Houses and chiefs.
“Truly,” said Marmaduke, after a short and rather embarrassed pause,
“I am little beholden as yet to the House of York. There where I see a
noble benefactor, or a brave and wise leader, shall I think my sword and
heart may best proffer allegiance.”
“Wisely said,” returned Alwyn, with a slight but half sarcastic smile;
“I asked thee the question because--draw closer--there are wise men in
our city who think the ties between Warwick and the king less strong
than a ship’s cable; and if thou attachest thyself to Warwick, he will
be better pleased, it may be, with talk of devotion to himself than
professions of exclusive loyalty to King Edward. He who has little
silver in his pouch must have the more silk on his tongue. A word to a
Westmoreland or a Yorkshire man is as good as a sermon to men not born
so far north. One word more, and I have done. Thou art kind and affable
and gentle, my dear foster-brother, but it will not do for thee to be
seen again with the goldsmith’s headman. If thou wantest me, send for
me at nightfall; I shall be found at Master Heyford’s, in the Chepe. And
if,” added Nicholas, with a prudent reminiscence, “thou succeedest at
court, and canst recommend my master,--there is no better goldsmith,--it
may serve me when I set up for myself, which I look to do shortly.”
“But to send for thee, my own foster-brother, at nightfall, as if I were
ashamed!”
“Hout, Master Marmaduke, if thou wert not ashamed of me, I should be
ashamed to be seen with a gay springal like thee. Why, they would say in
the Chepe that Nick Alwyn was going to ruin. No, no. Birds of a feather
must keep shy of those that moult other colours; and so, my dear young
master, this is my last shake of the hand. But hold: dost thou know thy
way back?”
“Oh, yes,--never fear!” answered Marmaduke; “though I see not why so
far, at least, we may not be companions.”
“No, better as it is; after this day’s work they will gossip about both
of us, and we shall meet many who know my long visage on the way back.
God keep thee; avise me how thou prosperest.”
So saying, Nicholas Alwyn walked off, too delicate to propose to pay his
share of the reckoning with a superior; but when he had gone a few paces
he turned back, and accosting the Nevile, as the latter was rebuckling
his mantle, said,--
“I have been thinking, Master Nevile, that these gold nobles, which it
has been my luck to bear off, would be more useful in thy gipsire
than mine. I have sure gains and small expenses; but a gentleman gains
nothing, and his hand must be ever in his pouch, so--”
“Foster-brother,” said Marmaduke, haughtily, “a gentleman never
borrows,--except of the Jews, and with due interest. Moreover, I too
have my calling; and as thy stall to thee, so to me my good sword.
Saints keep thee! Be sure I will serve thee when I can.”
“The devil’s in these young strips of the herald’s tree,” muttered
Alwyn, as he strode off; “as if it were dishonest to borrow a broad
piece without cutting a throat for it! Howbeit, money is a prolific
mother: and here is eno’ to buy me a gold chain against I am alderman
of London. Hout, thus goes the world,--the knight’s baubles become the
alderman’s badges--so much the better!”
CHAPTER IV. ILL FARES THE COUNTRY MOUSE IN THE TRAPS OF TOWN.
We trust we shall not be deemed discourteous, either, on the one hand,
to those who value themselves on their powers of reflection, or, on the
other, to those who lay claim to what, in modern phrenological jargon,
is called the Organ of Locality, when we venture to surmise that the two
are rarely found in combination; nay, that it seems to us a very evident
truism, that in proportion to the general activity of the intellect
upon subjects of pith and weight, the mind will be indifferent to those
minute external objects by which a less contemplative understanding will
note, and map out, and impress upon the memory, the chart of the road
its owner has once taken. Master Marmaduke Nevile, a hardy and acute
forester from childhood, possessed to perfection the useful faculty
of looking well and closely before him as he walked the earth; and
ordinarily, therefore, the path he had once taken, however intricate
and obscure, he was tolerably sure to retrace with accuracy, even at no
inconsiderable distance of time,--the outward senses of men are usually
thus alert and attentive in the savage or the semi-civilized state. He
had not, therefore, over-valued his general acuteness in the note and
memory of localities, when he boasted of his power to refind his way to
his hostelrie without the guidance of Alwyn. But it so happened that
the events of this day, so memorable to him, withdrew his attention from
external objects, to concentrate it within. And in marvelling and musing
over the new course upon which his destiny had entered, he forgot to
take heed of that which his feet should pursue; so that, after wandering
unconsciously onward for some time, he suddenly halted in perplexity
and amaze to find himself entangled in a labyrinth of scattered suburbs,
presenting features wholly different from the road that had conducted
him to the archery-ground in the forenoon. The darkness of the night had
set in; but it was relieved by a somewhat faint and mist-clad moon, and
some few and scattered stars, over which rolled, fleetly, thick clouds,
portending rain. No lamps at that time cheered the steps of the belated
wanderer; the houses were shut up, and their inmates, for the most part,
already retired to rest, and the suburbs did not rejoice, as the city,
in the round of the watchman with his drowsy call to the inhabitants,
“Hang out your lights!” The passengers, who at first, in various small
groups and parties, had enlivened the stranger’s way, seemed to him,
unconscious as he was of the lapse of time, to have suddenly vanished
from the thoroughfares; and he found himself alone in places thoroughly
unknown to him, waking to the displeasing recollection that the
approaches to the city were said to be beset by brawlers and ruffians
of desperate characters, whom the cessation of the civil wars had flung
loose upon the skirts of society, to maintain themselves by deeds of
rapine and plunder. As might naturally be expected, most of these had
belonged to the defeated party, who had no claim to the good offices or
charity of those in power. And although some of the Neviles had sided
with the Lancastrians, yet the badge worn by Marmaduke was considered
a pledge of devotion to the reigning House, and added a new danger to
those which beset his path. Conscious of this--for he now called to mind
the admonitions of his host in parting from the hostelrie--he deemed it
but discreet to draw the hood of his mantle over the silver ornament;
and while thus occupied, he heard not a step emerging from a lane at his
rear, when suddenly a heavy hand was placed on his shoulder. He started,
turned, and before him stood a man, whose aspect and dress betokened
little to lessen the alarm of the uncourteous salutation. Marmaduke’s
dagger was bare on the instant.
“And what wouldst thou with me?” he asked.
“Thy purse and thy dagger!” answered the stranger.
“Come and take them,” said the Nevile, unconscious that he uttered a
reply famous in classic history, as he sprang backward a step or so, and
threw himself into an attitude of defence. The stranger slowly raised
a rude kind of mace, or rather club, with a ball of iron at the end,
garnished with long spikes, as he replied, “Art thou mad eno’ to fight
for such trifles?”
“Art thou in the habit of meeting one Englishman who yields his goods
without a blow to another?” retorted Marmaduke. “Go to! thy club does
not daunt me.” The stranger warily drew back a step, and applied a
whistle to his mouth. The Nevile sprang at him, but the stranger warded
off the thrust of the poniard with a light flourish of his heavy weapon;
and had not the youth drawn back on the instant, it had been good-night
and a long day to Marmaduke Nevile. Even as it was, his heart beat
quick, as the whirl of the huge weapon sent the air like a strong wind
against his face. Ere he had time to renew his attack, he was suddenly
seized from behind, and found himself struggling in the arms of two men.
From these he broke, and his dagger glanced harmless against the tough
jerkin of his first assailant. The next moment his right arm fell to his
side, useless and deeply gashed. A heavy blow on the head--the moon,
the stars reeled in his eyes--and then darkness,--he knew no more. His
assailants very deliberately proceeded to rifle the inanimate body, when
one of them, perceiving the silver badge, exclaimed, with an oath, “One
of the rampant Neviles! This cock at least shall crow no more.” And
laying the young man’s head across his lap, while he stretched back the
throat with one hand, with the other he drew forth a long sharp knife,
like those used by huntsmen in despatching the hart. Suddenly, and in
the very moment when the blade was about to inflict the fatal gash, his
hand was forcibly arrested, and a man, who had silently and unnoticed
joined the ruffians, said in a stern whisper, “Rise and depart from thy
brotherhood forever. We admit no murderer.”
The ruffian looked up in bewilderment. “Robin--captain--thou here!” he
said falteringly.
“I must needs be everywhere, I see, if I would keep such fellows as thou
and these from the gallows. What is this?--a silver arrow--the young
archer--Um.”
“A Nevile!” growled the would-be murderer.
“And for that very reason his life should be safe. Knowest thou not that
Richard of Warwick, the great Nevile, ever spares the commons? Begone!
I say.” The captain’s low voice grew terrible as he uttered the last
words. The savage rose, and without a word stalked away.
“Look you, my masters,” said Robin, turning to the rest, “soldiers must
plunder a hostile country. While York is on the throne, England is a
hostile country to us Lancastrians. Rob, then, rifle, if ye will; but
he who takes life shall lose it. Ye know me!” The robbers looked down,
silent and abashed. Robin bent a moment over the youth. “He will live,”
he muttered. “So! he already begins to awaken. One of these houses will
give him shelter. Off, fellows, and take care of your necks!”
When Marmaduke, a few minutes after this colloquy, began to revive, it
was with a sensation of dizziness, pain, and extreme cold. He strove to
lift himself from the ground, and at length succeeded. He was alone;
the place where he had lain was damp and red with stiffening blood. He
tottered on for several paces, and perceived from a lattice, at a little
distance, a light still burning. Now reeling, now falling, he still
dragged on his limbs as the instinct attracted him to that sign of
refuge. He gained the doorway of a detached and gloomy house, and sank
on the stone before it to cry aloud; but his voice soon sank into deep
groans, and once more, as his efforts increased the rapid gush of the
blood, became insensible. The man styled Robin, who had so opportunely
saved his life, now approached from the shadow of a wall, beneath which
he had watched Marmaduke’s movements. He neared the door of the house,
and cried, in a sharp, clear voice, “Open, for the love of Christ!”
A head was now thrust from the lattice, the light vanished; a minute
more, the door opened; and Robin, as if satisfied, drew hastily back,
and vanished, saying to himself, as he strode along, “A young man’s
life must needs be dear to him; yet had the lad been a lord, methinks I
should have cared little to have saved for the people one tyrant more.”
After a long interval, Marmaduke again recovered, and his eyes turned
with pain from the glare of a light held to his face.
“He wakes, Father,--he will live!” cried a sweet voice. “Ay, he will
live, child!” answered a deeper tone; and the young man muttered to
himself, half audibly, as in a dream, “Holy Mother be blessed! it is
sweet to live.” The room in which the sufferer lay rather exhibited
the remains of better fortunes than testified to the solid means of the
present possessor. The ceiling was high and groined, and some tints
of faded but once gaudy painting blazoned its compartments and hanging
pendants. The walls had been rudely painted (for arras [Mr. Hallam
(“History of the Middle Ages,” chap. ix. part 2) implies a doubt whether
great houses were furnished with hangings so soon as the reign of Edward
IV.; but there is abundant evidence to satisfy our learned historian
upon that head. The Narrative of the “Lord of Grauthuse,” edited by Sir
F. Madden, specifies the hangings of cloth of gold in the apartments in
which that lord was received by Edward IV.; also the hangings of white
silk and linen in the chamber appropriated to himself at Windsor.
But long before this period (to say nothing of the Bayeux
Tapestry),--namely, in the reign of Edward III. (in 1344),--a writ was
issued to inquire into the mystery of working tapestry; and in 1398 Mr.
Britton observes that the celebrated arras hangings at Warwick
Castle are mentioned. (See Britton’s “Dictionary of Architecture
and Archaelogy,” art. “Tapestry.”)] then was rare, even among the
wealthiest); but the colours were half obliterated by time and damp. The
bedstead on which the wounded man reclined was curiously carved, with a
figure of the Virgin at the head, and adorned with draperies, in which
were wrought huge figures from scriptural subjects, but in the dress
of the date of Richard II.,--Solomon in pointed upturned shoes, and
Goliath, in the armour of a crusader, frowning grimly upon the sufferer.
By the bedside stood a personage, who, in reality, was but little past
the middle age, but whose pale visage, intersected with deep furrows,
whose long beard and hair, partially gray, gave him the appearance of
advanced age: nevertheless there was something peculiarly striking in
the aspect of the man. His forehead was singularly high and massive; but
the back of the head was disproportionately small, as if the intellect
too much preponderated over all the animal qualities for strength in
character and success in life. The eyes were soft, dark, and brilliant,
but dreamlike and vague; the features in youth must have been regular
and beautiful, but their contour was now sharpened by the hollowness of
the cheeks and temples. The form, in the upper part, was nobly shaped,
sufficiently muscular, if not powerful, and with the long throat and
falling shoulders which always gives something of grace and dignity to
the carriage; but it was prematurely bent, and the lower limbs were thin
and weak, as is common with men who have sparely used them; they seemed
disproportioned to that broad chest, and still more to that magnificent
and spacious brow. The dress of this personage corresponded with the
aspect of his abode. The materials were those worn by the gentry, but
they were old, threadbare, and discoloured with innumerable spots and
stains. His hands were small and delicate, with large blue veins, that
spoke of relaxed fibres; but their natural whiteness was smudged with
smoke-stains, and his beard--a masculine ornament utterly out of fashion
among the younger race in King Edward’s reign, but when worn by the
elder gentry carefully trimmed and perfumed--was dishevelled into all
the spiral and tangled curls displayed in the sculptured head of some
old Grecian sage or poet.
On the other side of the bed knelt a young girl of about sixteen, with a
face exquisitely lovely in its delicacy and expression. She seemed
about the middle stature, and her arms and neck, as displayed by the
close-fitting vest, had already the smooth and rounded contour of
dawning womanhood, while the face had still the softness, innocence, and
inexpressible bloom of a child. There was a strong likeness between her
and her father (for such the relationship, despite the difference of
sex and years),--the same beautiful form of lip and brow, the same rare
colour of the eyes, dark-blue, with black fringing lashes; and perhaps
the common expression, at that moment, of gentle pity and benevolent
anxiety contributed to render the resemblance stronger.
“Father, he sinks again!” said the girl.
“Sibyll,” answered the man, putting his finger upon a line in a
manuscript book that he held, “the authority saith, that a patient so
contused should lose blood, and then the arm must be tightly bandaged.
Verily we lack the wherewithal.”
“Not so, Father!” said the girl, and blushing, she turned aside, and
took off the partelet of lawn, upon which holiday finery her young eyes
perhaps that morning had turned with pleasure, and white as snow was the
neck which was thus displayed; “this will suffice to bind his arm.”
“But the book,” said the father, in great perplexity--“the book telleth
us not how the lancet should be applied. It is easy to say, ‘Do this and
do that;’ but to do it once, it should have been done before. This is
not among my experiments.”
Luckily, perhaps, for Marmaduke, at this moment there entered an old
woman, the solitary servant of the house, whose life, in those warlike
times, had made her pretty well acquainted with the simpler modes of
dealing with a wounded arm and a broken head. She treated with great
disdain the learned authority referred to by her master; she bound the
arm, plastered the head, and taking upon herself the responsibility to
promise a rapid cure, insisted upon the retirement of father and child,
and took her solitary watch beside the bed.
“If it had been any other mechanism than that of the vile human body!”
muttered the philosopher, as if apologizing to himself; and with that he
recovered his self-complacency and looked round him proudly.
CHAPTER V. WEAL TO THE IDLER, WOE TO THE WORKMAN.
As Providence tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, so it possibly might
conform the heads of that day to a thickness suitable for the blows and
knocks to which they were variously subjected; yet it was not without
considerable effort and much struggling that Marmaduke’s senses
recovered the shock received, less by his flesh-wound and the loss of
blood, than a blow on the seat of reason that might have despatched a
passable ox of these degenerate days. Nature, to say nothing of Madge’s
leechcraft, ultimately triumphed, and Marmaduke woke one morning in full
possession of such understanding as Nature had endowed him with. He
was then alone, and it was with much simple surprise that he turned his
large hazel eyes from corner to corner of the unfamiliar room. He began
to retrace and weave together sundry disordered and vague reminiscences:
he commenced with the commencement, and clearly satisfied himself that
he had been grievously wounded and sorely bruised; he then recalled the
solitary light at the high lattice, and his memory found itself at
the porch of the large, lonely, ruinous old house; then all became a
bewildered and feverish dream. He caught at the vision of an old man
with a long beard, whom he associated, displeasingly, with recollections
of pain; he glanced off to a fair face, with eyes that looked tender
pity whenever he writhed or groaned under the tortures that, no doubt,
that old accursed carle had inflicted upon him. But even this face
did not dwell with pleasure in his memory,--it woke up confused and
labouring associations of something weird and witchlike, of sorceresses
and tymbesteres, of wild warnings screeched in his ear, of incantations
and devilries and doom. Impatient of these musings, he sought to leap
from his bed, and was amazed that the leap subsided into a tottering
crawl. He found an ewer and basin, and his ablutions refreshed and
invigorated him. He searched for his raiment, and discovered it all
except the mantle, dagger, hat, and girdle; and while looking for these,
his eye fell on an old tarnished steel mirror. He started as if he had
seen his ghost; was it possible that his hardy face could have waned
into that pale and almost femininely delicate visage? With the
pride (call it not coxcombry) that then made the care of person the
distinction of gentle birth, he strove to reduce into order the tangled
locks of the long hair, of which a considerable portion above a part
that seemed peculiarly sensitive to the touch had been mercilessly
clipped; and as he had just completed this task, with little
satisfaction and much inward chafing at the lack of all befitting
essences and perfumes, the door gently opened, and the fair face he had
dreamed of appeared at the aperture.
The girl uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm at seeing the patient
thus arrayed and convalescent, and would suddenly have retreated; but
the Nevile advanced, and courteously taking her hand--
“Fair maiden,” said he, “if, as I trow, I owe to thy cares my tending
and cure--nay, it may be a life hitherto of little worth, save to
myself--do not fly from my thanks. May Our Lady of Walsingham bless and
reward thee!”
“Sir,” answered Sibyll, gently withdrawing her hands from his clasp,
“our poor cares have been a slight return for thy generous protection to
myself.”
“To thee! ah, forgive me--how could I be so dull? I remember thy face
now; and, perchance, I deserve the disaster I met with in leaving thee
so discourteously. My heart smote me for it as my light footfall passed
from thy side.”
A slight blush, succeeded by a thoughtful smile--the smile of one who
recalls and caresses some not displeasing remembrance--passed over
Sibyll’s charming countenance, as the sufferer said this with something
of the grace of a well-born man, whose boyhood had been taught to serve
God and the Ladies.
There was a short pause before she answered, looking down, “Nay, sir, I
was sufficiently beholden to you; and for the rest, all molestation was
over. But I will now call your nurse--for it is to our servant, not
us, that your thanks are due--to see to your state, and administer the
proper medicaments.”
“Truly, fair damsel, it is not precisely medicaments that I hunger and
thirst for; and if your hospitality could spare me from the larder a
manchet, or a corner of a pasty, and from the cellar a stoup of wine
or a cup of ale, methinks it would tend more to restore me than those
potions which are so strange to my taste that they rather offend than
tempt it; and, pardie, it seemeth to my poor senses as if I had not
broken bread for a week!”
“I am glad to hear you of such good cheer,” answered Sibyll; “wait but a
moment or so, till I consult your physician.”
And, so saying, she closed the door, slowly descended the steps, and
pursued her way into what seemed more like a vault than a habitable
room, where she found the single servant of the household. Time, which
makes changes so fantastic in the dress of the better classes, has a
greater respect for the costume of the humbler; and though the
garments were of a very coarse sort of serge, there was not so great a
difference, in point of comfort and sufficiency, as might be supposed,
between the dress of old Madge and that of some primitive servant in
the North during the last century. The old woman’s face was thin and
pinched; but its sharp expression brightened into a smile as she caught
sight, through the damps and darkness, of the gracious form of her young
mistress. “Ah, Madge,” said Sibyll, with a sigh, “it is a sad thing to
be poor!”
“For such as thou, Mistress Sibyll, it is indeed. It does not matter for
the like of us. But it goes to my old heart when I see you shut up here,
or worse, going out in that old courtpie and wimple,--you, a knight’s
grandchild; you, who have played round a queen’s knees, and who might
have been so well-to-do, an’ my master had thought a little more of the
gear of this world. But patience is a good palfrey, and will carry us
a long day. And when the master has done what he looks for, why, the
king--sith we must so call the new man on the throne--will be sure to
reward him; but, sweetheart, tarry not here; it’s an ill air for your
young lips to drink in. What brings you to old Madge?”
“The stranger is recovered, and--”
“Ay, I warrant me, I have cured worse than he. He must have a spoonful
of broth,--I have not forgot it. You see I wanted no dinner myself--what
is dinner to old folks!--so I e’en put it all in the pot for him. The
broth will be brave and strong.”
“My poor Madge, God requite you for what you suffer for us! But he has
asked”--here was another sigh, and a downcast look that did not dare to
face the consternation of Madge, as she repeated, with a half-smile--“he
has asked--for meat, and a stoup of wine, Madge!”
“Eh, sirs! And where is he to get them? Not that it will be bad for the
lad, either. Wine! There’s Master Sancroft of the Oak will not trust us
a penny, the seely hilding, and--”
“Oh, Madge, I forgot!--we can still sell the gittern for something. Get
on your wimple, Madge--quick,--while I go for it.”
“Why, Mistress Sibyll, that’s your only pleasure when you sit all alone,
the long summer days.”
“It will be more pleasure to remember that it supplied the wants of my
father’s guest,” said Sibyll; and retracing the way up the stairs, she
returned with the broken instrument, and despatched Madge with it, laden
with instructions that the wine should be of the best. She then once
more mounted the rugged steps, and halting a moment at Marmaduke’s
door, as she heard his feeble step walking impatiently to and fro, she
ascended higher, where the flight, winding up a square, dilapidated
turret, became rougher, narrower, and darker, and opened the door of her
father’s retreat.
It was a room so bare of ornament and furniture that it seemed merely
wrought out of the mingled rubble and rough stones which composed the
walls of the mansion, and was lighted towards the street by a narrow
slit, glazed, it is true,--which all the windows of the house were
not,--but the sun scarcely pierced the dull panes and the deep walls
in which they were sunk. The room contained a strong furnace and a rude
laboratory. There were several strange-looking mechanical contrivances
scattered about, several manuscripts upon some oaken shelves, and
a large pannier of wood and charcoal in the corner. In that
poverty-stricken house, the money spent on fuel alone, in the height
of summer, would have comfortably maintained the inmates; but neither
Sibyll nor Madge ever thought to murmur at this waste, dedicated to what
had become the vital want of a man who drew air in a world of his own.
This was the first thing to be provided for; and Science was of more
imperative necessity than even Hunger.
Adam Warner was indeed a creature of remarkable genius,--and genius, in
an age where it is not appreciated, is the greatest curse the iron Fates
can inflict on man. If not wholly without the fond fancies which led the
wisdom of the darker ages to the philosopher’s stone and the elixir, he
had been deterred from the chase of a chimera by want of means to pursue
it! for it required the resources or the patronage of a prince or noble
to obtain the costly ingredients consumed in the alchemist’s crucible.
In early life, therefore, and while yet in possession of a competence
derived from a line of distinguished and knightly ancestors, Adam
Warner had devoted himself to the surer and less costly study of the
mathematics, which then had begun to attract the attention of the
learned, but which was still looked upon by the vulgar as a branch
of the black art. This pursuit had opened to him the insight into
discoveries equally useful and sublime. They necessitated a still more
various knowledge; and in an age when there was no division of labour
and rare and precarious communication among students, it became
necessary for each discoverer to acquire sufficient science for his own
collateral experiments.
In applying mathematics to the practical purposes of life, in
recognizing its mighty utilities to commerce and civilization, Adam
Warner was driven to conjoin with it, not only an extensive knowledge
of languages, but many of the rudest tasks of the mechanist’s art;
and chemistry was, in some of his researches, summoned to his aid.
By degrees, the tyranny that a man’s genius exercises over his life,
abstracted him from all external objects. He had loved his wife
tenderly, but his rapid waste of his fortune in the purchase of
instruments and books, then enormously dear, and the neglect of all
things not centred in the hope to be the benefactor of the world, had
ruined her health and broken her heart. Happily Warner perceived not her
decay till just before her death; happily he never conceived its cause,
for her soul was wrapped in his. She revered, and loved, and never
upbraided him. Her heart was the martyr to his mind. Had she foreseen
the future destinies of her daughter, it might have been otherwise. She
could have remonstrated with the father, though not with the husband.
But, fortunately, as it seemed to her, she (a Frenchwoman by birth) had
passed her youth in the service of Margaret of Anjou, and that haughty
queen, who was equally warm to friends and inexorable to enemies, had,
on her attendant’s marriage, promised to ensure the fortunes of her
offspring. Sibyll at the age of nine--between seven and eight years
before the date the story enters on, and two years prior to the fatal
field of Towton, which gave to Edward the throne of England--had been
admitted among the young girls whom the custom of the day ranked amidst
the attendants of the queen; and in the interval that elapsed before
Margaret was obliged to dismiss her to her home, her mother died. She
died without foreseeing the reverses that were to ensue, in the hope
that her child, at least, was nobly provided for, and not without
the belief (for there is so much faith in love!) that her husband’s
researches, which in his youth had won favour of the Protector Duke of
Gloucester, the most enlightened prince of his time, would be crowned at
last with the rewards and favours of his king. That precise period was,
indeed, the fairest that had yet dawned upon the philosopher. Henry VI.,
slowly recovering from one of those attacks which passed for imbecility,
had condescended to amuse himself with various conversations with
Warner, urged to it first by representations of the unholy nature of
the student’s pursuits; and, having satisfied his mind of his learned
subject’s orthodoxy, the poor monarch had taken a sort of interest, not
so much, perhaps, in the objects of Warner’s occupations, as in that
complete absorption from actual life which characterized the subject,
and gave him in this a melancholy resemblance to the king. While the
House of Lancaster was on the throne, the wife felt that her husband’s
pursuits would be respected, and his harmless life safe from the fierce
prejudices of the people; and the good queen would not suffer him to
starve, when the last mark was expended in devices how to benefit his
country:--and in these hopes the woman died!
A year afterwards, all at court was in disorder,--armed men supplied the
service of young girls, and Sibyll, with a purse of broad pieces, soon
converted into manuscripts, was sent back to her father’s desolate home.
There had she grown a flower amidst ruins, with no companion of her own
age, and left to bear, as her sweet and affectionate nature well did,
the contrast between the luxuries of a court and the penury of a hearth
which, year after year, hunger and want came more and more sensibly to
invade.
Sibyll had been taught, even as a child, some accomplishments little
vouchsafed then to either sex,--she could read and write; and Margaret
had not so wholly lost, in the sterner North, all reminiscence of
the accomplishments that graced her father’s court as to neglect the
education of those brought up in her household. Much attention was given
to music, for it soothed the dark hours of King Henry; the blazoning of
missals or the lives of saints, with the labours of the loom, were also
among the resources of Sibyll’s girlhood, and by these last she had,
from time to time, served to assist the maintenance of the little
family of which, child though she was, she became the actual head. But
latterly--that is, for the last few weeks--even these sources failed
her; for as more peaceful times allowed her neighbours to interest
themselves in the affairs of others, the dark reports against Warner had
revived. His name became a by-word of horror; the lonely light at the
lattice burning till midnight, against all the early usages and habits
of the day; the dark smoke of the furnace, constant in summer as in
winter, scandalized the religion of the place far and near. And finding,
to their great dissatisfaction, that the king’s government and the
Church interfered not for their protection, and unable themselves
to volunteer any charges against the recluse (for the cows in the
neighbourhood remained provokingly healthy), they came suddenly, and,
as it were by one of those common sympathies which in all times the huge
persecutor we call the PUBLIC manifests when a victim is to be crushed,
to the pious resolution of starving where they could not burn. Why buy
the quaint devilries of the wizard’s daughter?--no luck could come of
it. A missal blazoned by such hands, an embroidery worked at such a
loom, was like the Lord’s Prayer read backwards. And one morning, when
poor Sibyll stole out as usual to vend a month’s labour, she was driven
from door to door with oaths and curses.
Though Sibyll’s heart was gentle, she was not without a certain strength
of mind. She had much of the patient devotion of her mother, much of the
quiet fortitude of her father’s nature. If not comprehending to the full
the loftiness of Warner’s pursuits, she still anticipated from them an
ultimate success which reconciled her to all temporary sacrifices. The
violent prejudices, the ignorant cruelty, thus brought to bear against
existence itself, filled her with sadness, it is true, but not unmixed
with that contempt for her persecutors, which, even in the meekest
tempers, takes the sting from despair. But hunger pressed. Her father
was nearing the goal of his discoveries, and in a moment of that pride
which in its very contempt for appearances braves them all, Sibyll
had stolen out to the pastime-ground,--with what result has been seen
already. Having thus accounted for the penury of the mansion, we return
to its owner.
Warner was contemplating with evident complacency and delight the
model of a machine which had occupied him for many years, and which he
imagined he was now rapidly bringing to perfection. His hands and
face were grimed with the smoke of his forge, and his hair and beard,
neglected as usual, looked parched and dried up, as if with the constant
fever that burned within.
“Yes, yes!” he muttered, “how they will bless me for this! What Roger
Bacon only suggested I shall accomplish! How it will change the face of
the globe! What wealth it will bestow on ages yet unborn!”
“My father,” said the gentle voice of Sibyll, “my poor father, thou hast
not tasted bread to-day.”
Warner turned, and his face relaxed into a tender expression as he saw
his daughter.
“My child,” he said, pointing to his model, “the time comes when it will
live! Patience! patience!”
“And who would not have patience with thee, and for thee, Father?” said
Sibyll, with enthusiasm speaking on every feature. “What is the valour
of knight and soldier--dull statues of steel--to thine? Thou, with
thy naked breast, confronting all dangers,--sharper than the lance and
glaive, and all--”
“All to make England great!”
“Alas! what hath England merited from men like thee? The people, more
savage than their rulers, clamour for the stake, the gibbet, and the
dungeon, for all who strive to make them wiser. Remember the death of
Bolingbroke, [A mathematician accused as an accomplice, in sorcery, of
Eleanor Cobham, wife of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, and hanged upon
that charge. His contemporary (William Wyrcestre) highly extols his
learning.]--a wizard, because, O Father!--because his pursuits were
thine!”
Adam, startled by this burst, looked at his daughter with more attention
than he usually evinced to any living thing. “Child,” he said at length,
shaking his head in grave reproof, “let me not say to thee, ‘O thou of
little faith!’ There were no heroes were there no martyrs!”
“Do not frown on me, Father,” said Sibyll, sadly; “let the world
frown,--not thou! Yes, thou art right. Thou must triumph at last.”
And suddenly, her whole countenance changing into a soft and caressing
endearment, she added, “But now come, Father. Thou hast laboured
well for this morning. We shall have a little feast for thee in a few
minutes. And the stranger is recovered, thanks to our leechcraft. He is
impatient to see and thank thee.”
“Well, well, I come, Sibyll,” said the student, with a regretful,
lingering look at his model, and a sigh to be disturbed from its
contemplation; and he slowly quitted the room with Sibyll.
“But not, dear sir and father, not thus--not quite thus--will you go to
the stranger, well-born like yourself? Oh, no! your Sibyll is proud,
you know,--proud of her father.” So saying, she clung to him fondly,
and drew him mechanically, for he had sunk into a revery, and heeded her
not, into an adjoining chamber, in which he slept. The comforts even of
the gentry, of men with the acres that Adam had sold, were then few
and scanty. The nobles and the wealthy merchants, indeed, boasted many
luxuries that excelled in gaud and pomp those of their equals now.
But the class of the gentry who had very little money at command were
contented with hardships from which a menial of this day would revolt.
What they could spend in luxury was usually consumed in dress and the
table they were obliged to keep. These were the essentials of dignity.
Of furniture there was a woful stint. In many houses, even of knights,
an edifice large enough to occupy a quadrangle was composed more of
offices than chambers inhabited by the owners; rarely boasting more than
three beds, which were bequeathed in wills as articles of great value.
The reader must, therefore, not be surprised that Warner’s abode
contained but one bed, properly so called, and that was now devoted to
Nevile. The couch which served the philosopher for bed was a wretched
pallet, stretched on the floor, stuffed with straw,--with rough say,
or serge, and an old cloak for the coverings. His daughter’s, in a room
below, was little better. The walls were bare; the whole house boasted
but one chair, which was in Marmaduke’s chamber; stools or settles of
rude oak elsewhere supplied their place. There was no chimney except in
Nevile’s room, and in that appropriated to the forge.
To this chamber, then, resembling a dungeon in appearance, Sibyll drew
the student, and here, from an old worm-eaten chest, she carefully
extracted a gown of brown velvet, which his father, Sir Armine, had
bequeathed to him by will,--faded, it is true, but still such as the
low-born wore not, [By the sumptuary laws only a knight was entitled to
wear velvet.] trimmed with fur, and clasped with a brooch of gold. And
then she held the ewer and basin to him, while, with the docility of a
child, he washed the smoke-soil from his hands and face. It was
touching to see in this, as in all else, the reverse of their natural
position,--the child tending and heeding and protecting, as it were, the
father; and that not from his deficiency, but his greatness; not because
he was below the vulgar intelligences of life, but above them. And
certainly, when, his patriarchal hair and beard smoothed into order,
and his velvet gown flowing in majestic folds around a figure tall and
commanding, Sibyll followed her father into Marmaduke’s chamber, she
might well have been proud of his appearance; and she felt the innocent
vanity of her sex and age in noticing the half-start of surprise with
which Marmaduke regarded his host, and the tone of respect in which he
proffered him his salutations and thanks. Even his manner altered to
Sibyll; it grew less frank and affable, more courtly and reserved: and
when Madge came to announce that the refection was served, it was with a
blush of shame, perhaps, at his treatment of the poor gittern-player
on the pastime-ground, that the Nevile extended his left hand, for his
right was still not at his command, to lead the damsel to the hall.
This room, which was divided from the entrance by a screen, and, except
a small closet that adjoined it, was the only sitting-room in a day
when, as now on the Continent, no shame was attached to receiving
visitors in sleeping apartments, was long and low; an old and very
narrow table, that might have feasted thirty persons, stretched across
a dais raised upon a stone floor; there was no rere-dosse, or fireplace,
which does not seem at that day to have been an absolute necessity in
the houses of the metropolis and its suburbs, its place being supplied
by a movable brazier. Three oak stools were placed in state at the
board, and to one of these Marmaduke, in a silence unusual to him,
conducted the fair Sibyll.
“You will forgive our lack of provisions,” said Warner, relapsing into
the courteous fashions of his elder days, which the unwonted spectacle
of a cold capon, a pasty, and a flask of wine brought to his mind by a
train of ideas that actively glided by the intervening circumstances,
which ought to have filled him with astonishment at the sight, “for
my Sibyll is but a young housewife, and I am a simple scholar, of few
wants.”
“Verily,” answered Marmaduke, finding his tongue as he attacked the
pasty, “I see nothing that the most dainty need complain of; fair
Mistress Sibyll, your dainty lips will not, I trow, refuse me the
waisall. [I.e. waissail or wassal; the spelling of the time is adopted
in the text.] To you also, worshipful sir! Gramercy! it seems that there
is nothing which better stirs a man’s appetite than a sick bed. And,
speaking thereof, deign to inform me, kind sir, how long I have been
indebted to your hospitality. Of a surety, this pasty hath an excellent
flavour, and if not venison, is something better. But to return, it
mazes me much to think what time hath passed since my encounter with the
robbers.”
“They were robbers, then, who so cruelly assailed thee?” observed
Sibyll.
“Have I not said so--surely, who else? And, as I was remarking to your
worshipful father, whether this mischance happened hours, days, months,
or years ago, beshrew me if I can venture the smallest guess.”
Master Warner smiled, and observing that some reply was expected from
him, said, “Why, indeed, young sir, I fear I am almost as oblivious as
yourself. It was not yesterday that you arrived, nor the day before,
nor--Sibyll, my child, how long is it since this gentleman hath been our
guest?”
“This is the fifth day,” answered Sibyll.
“So long! and I like a senseless log by the wayside, when others are
pushing on, bit and spur, to the great road. I pray you, sir, tell me
the news of the morning. The Lord Warwick is still in London, the court
still at the Tower?”
Poor Adam, whose heart was with his model, and who had now satisfied
his temperate wants, looked somewhat bewildered and perplexed by this
question. “The king, save his honoured head,” said he, inclining his
own, “is, I fear me, always at the Tower, since his unhappy detention,
but he minds it not, sir,--he heeds it not; his soul is not on this side
Paradise.”
Sibyll uttered a faint exclamation of fear at this dangerous
indiscretion of her father’s absence of mind; and drawing closer to
Nevile, she put her hand with touching confidence on his arm, and
whispered, “You will not repeat this, Sir! my father lives only in his
studies, and he has never known but one king!”
Marmaduke turned his bold face to the maid, and pointed to the
salt-cellar, as he answered in the same tone, “Does the brave man betray
his host?”
There was a moment’s silence. Marmaduke rose. “I fear,” said he, “that
I must now leave you; and while it is yet broad noon, I must indeed be
blind if I again miss my way.”
This speech suddenly recalled Adam from his meditations; for whenever
his kindly and simple benevolence was touched, even his mathematics and
his model were forgotten. “No, young sir,” said he, “you must not
quit us yet; your danger is not over. Exercise may bring fever. Celsus
recommends quiet. You must consent to tarry with us a day or two more.”
“Can you tell me,” said the Nevile, hesitatingly, “what distance it is
to the Temple-gate, or the nearest wharf on the river?”
“Two miles, at the least,” answered Sibyll.
“Two miles!--and now I mind me, I have not the accoutrements that beseem
me. Those hildings have stolen my mantle (which, I perceive, by the way,
is but a rustic garment, now laid aside for the super-tunic), and my hat
and dague, nor have they left even a half groat to supply their place.
Verily, therefore, since ye permit me to burden your hospitality longer,
I will not say ye nay, provided you, worshipful sir, will suffer one of
your people to step to the house of one Master Heyford, goldsmith, in
the Chepe, and crave one Nicholas Alwyn, his freedman, to visit me. I
can commission him touching my goods left at mine hostelrie, and learn
some other things which it behooves me to know.”
“Assuredly. Sibyll, tell Simon or Jonas to put himself under our guest’s
order.”
Simon or Jonas! The poor Adam absolutely forgot that Simon and Jonas had
quitted the house these six years! How could he look on the capon, the
wine, and the velvet gown trimmed with fur, and not fancy himself back
in the heyday of his wealth?
Sibyll half smiled and half sighed, as she withdrew to consult with her
sole counsellor, Madge, how the guest’s orders were to be obeyed, and
how, alas! the board was to be replenished for the evening meal. But in
both these troubles she was more fortunate than she anticipated.
Madge had sold the broken gittern, for musical instruments were then,
comparatively speaking, dear (and this had been a queen’s gift), for
sufficient to provide decently for some days; and, elated herself with
the prospect of so much good cheer, she readily consented to be the
messenger to Nicholas Alwyn. When with a light step and a lighter heart
Sibyll tripped back to the hall, she was scarcely surprised to find the
guest alone. Her father, after her departure, had begun to evince much
restless perturbation. He answered Marmaduke’s queries but by abstracted
and desultory monosyllables; and seeing his guest at length engaged in
contemplating some old pieces of armour hung upon the walls, he stole
stealthily and furtively away, and halted not till once more before his
beloved model.
Unaware of his departure, Marmaduke, whose back was turned to him, was,
as he fondly imagined, enlightening his host with much soldier-like
learning as to the old helmets and weapons that graced the hall.
“Certes, my host,” said he, musingly, “that sort of casque, which has
not, I opine, been worn this century, had its merits; the vizor is less
open to the arrows. But as for these chain suits, they suited only--I
venture, with due deference, to declare--the Wars of the Crusades, where
the enemy fought chiefly with dart and scymetar. They would be but a
sorry defence against the mace and battle-axe; nevertheless, they were
light for man and horse, and in some service, especially against foot,
might be revived with advantage. Think you not so?”
He turned, and saw the arch face of Sibyll.
“I crave pardon for my blindness, gentle damsel,” said he, in some
confusion, “but your father was here anon.”
“His mornings are so devoted to labour,” answered Sibyll, “that he
entreats you to pardon his discourtesy. Meanwhile if you would wish to
breathe the air, we have a small garden in the rear;” and so saying, she
led the way into the small withdrawing-room, or rather closet, which was
her own favourite chamber, and which communicated, by another door, with
a broad, neglected grassplot, surrounded by high walls, having a raised
terrace in front, divided by a low stone Gothic palisade from the green
sward.
On the palisade sat droopingly, and half asleep, a solitary peacock; but
when Sibyll and the stranger appeared at the door, he woke up suddenly,
descended from his height, and with a vanity not wholly unlike his
young mistress’s wish to make the best possible display in the eyes of
a guest, spread his plumes broadly in the sun. Sibyll threw him some
bread, which she had taken from the table for that purpose; but the
proud bird, however hungry, disdained to eat, till he had thoroughly
satisfied himself that his glories had been sufficiently observed.
“Poor proud one,” said Sibyll, half to herself, “thy plumage lasts with
thee through all changes.”
“Like the name of a brave knight,” said Marmaduke, who overheard her.
“Thou thinkest of the career of arms.”
“Surely,--I am a Nevile!”
“Is there no fame to be won but that of a warrior?”
“Not that I weet of, or heed for, Mistress Sibyll.”
“Thinkest thou it were nothing to be a minstrel, who gave delight; a
scholar, who dispelled darkness?”
“For the scholar? Certes, I respect holy Mother Church, which they tell
me alone produces that kind of wonder with full safety to the soul, and
that only in the higher prelates and dignitaries. For the minstrel, I
love him, I would fight for him, I would give him at need the last penny
in my gipsire; but it is better to do deeds than to sing them.”
Sibyll smiled, and the smile perplexed and half displeased the young
adventurer. But the fire of the young man had its charm.
By degrees, as they walked to and fro the neglected terrace, their talk
flowed free and familiar; for Marmaduke, like most young men full of
himself, was joyous with the happy egotism of a frank and careless
nature. He told his young confidante of a day his birth, his history,
his hopes, and fears; and in return he learned, in answer to the
questions he addressed to her, so much, at least, of her past and
present life, as the reverses of her father, occasioned by costly
studies, her own brief sojourn at the court of Margaret, and the
solitude, if not the struggles, in which her youth was consumed. It
would have been a sweet and grateful sight to some kindly bystander
to hear these pleasant communications between two young persons so
unfriended, and to imagine that hearts thus opened to each other might
unite in one. But Sibyll, though she listened to him with interest, and
found a certain sympathy in his aspirations, was ever and anon secretly
comparing him to one, the charm of whose voice still lingered in her
ears; and her intellect, cultivated and acute, detected in Marmaduke
deficient education, and that limited experience which is the folly and
the happiness of the young.
On the other hand, whatever admiration Nevile might conceive was
strangely mixed with surprise, and, it might almost be said, with fear.
This girl, with her wise converse and her child’s face, was a character
so thoroughly new to him. Her language was superior to what he had ever
heard, the words more choice, the current more flowing: was that to be
attributed to her court-training or her learned parentage?
“Your father, fair mistress,” said he, rousing himself in one of the
pauses of their conversation--“your father, then, is a mighty scholar,
and I suppose knows Latin like English?”
“Why, a hedge-priest pretends to know Latin,” said Sibyll, smiling; “my
father is one of the six men living who have learned the Greek and the
Hebrew.”
“Gramercy!” cried Marmaduke, crossing himself. “That is awsome indeed!
He has taught you his lere in the tongues?”
“Nay, I know but my own and the French; my mother was a native of
France.”
“The Holy Mother be praised!” said Marmaduke, breathing more freely;
“for French I have heard my father and uncle say is a language fit for
gentles and knights, specially those who come, like the Neviles, from
Norman stock. This Margaret of Anjou--didst thou love her well, Mistress
Sibyll?”
“Nay,” answered Sibyll, “Margaret commanded awe, but she scarcely
permitted love from an inferior: and though gracious and well-governed
when she so pleased, it was but to those whom she wished to win. She
cared not for the heart, if the hand or the brain could not assist her.
But, poor queen, who could blame her for this?--her nature was turned
from its milk; and, when, more lately, I have heard how many she trusted
most have turned against her, I rebuked myself that--”
“Thou wert not by her side?” added the Nevile, observing her pause, and
with the generous thought of a gentleman and a soldier.
“Nay, I meant not that so expressly, Master Nevile, but rather that I
had ever murmured at her haste and shrewdness of mood. By her side, said
you?--alas! I have a nearer duty at home; my father is all in this world
to me! Thou knowest not, Master Nevile, how it flatters the weak to
think there is some one they can protect. But eno’ of myself. Thou wilt
go to the stout earl, thou wilt pass to the court, thou wilt win the
gold spurs, and thou wilt fight with the strong hand, and leave others
to cozen with the keen head.”
“She is telling my fortune!” muttered Marmaduke, crossing himself again.
“The gold spurs--I thank thee, Mistress Sibyll!--will it be on the
battle-field that I shall be knighted, and by whose hand?”
Sibyll glanced her bright eye at the questioner, and seeing his wistful
face, laughed outright.
“What, thinkest thou, Master Nevile, I can read thee all riddles without
my sieve and my shears?”
“They are essentials, then, Mistress Sibyll?” said the Nevile, with
blunt simplicity. “I thought ye more learned damozels might tell by the
palm, or the--why dost thou laugh at me?”
“Nay,” answered Sibyll, composing herself. “It is my right to be
angered. Sith thou wouldst take me to be a witch, all that I can tell
thee of thy future” (she added touchingly) “is from that which I have
seen of thy past. Thou hast a brave heart, and a gentle; thou hast a
frank tongue, and a courteous; and these qualities make men honoured and
loved,--except they have the gifts which turn all into gall, and bring
oppression for honour, and hate for love.”
“And those gifts, gentle Sibyll?”
“Are my father’s,” answered the girl, with another and a sadder change
in her expressive countenance. And the conversation flagged till
Marmaduke, feeling more weakened by his loss of blood than he had
conceived it possible, retired to his chamber to repose himself.
CHAPTER VI. MASTER MARMADUKE NEVILE FEARS FOR THE SPIRITUAL WEAL OF HIS
HOST AND HOSTESS.
Before the hour of supper, which was served at six o’clock, Nicholas
Alwyn arrived at the house indicated to him by Madge. Marmaduke, after
a sound sleep, which was little flattering to Sibyll’s attractions, had
descended to the hall in search of the maiden and his host, and finding
no one, had sauntered in extreme weariness and impatience into the
little withdrawing-closet, where as it was now dusk, burned a single
candle in a melancholy and rustic sconce; standing by the door that
opened on the garden, he amused himself with watching the peacock,
when his friend, following Madge into the chamber, tapped him on the
shoulder.
“Well, Master Nevile. Ha! by Saint Thomas, what has chanced to thee?
Thine arm swathed up, thy locks shorn, thy face blanched! My honoured
foster-brother, thy Westmoreland blood seems over-hot for Cockaigne!”
“If so, there are plenty in this city of cut-throats to let out the
surplusage,” returned Marmaduke; and he briefly related his adventure to
Nicholas.
When he had done, the kind trader reproached himself for having
suffered Marmaduke to find his way alone. “The suburbs abound with these
miscreants,” said he; “and there is more danger in a night walk near
London than in the loneliest glens of green Sherwood--more shame to the
city! An’ I be Lord Mayor one of these days, I will look to it better.
But our civil wars make men hold human life very cheap, and there’s
parlous little care from the great of the blood and limbs of the
wayfarers. But war makes thieves--and peace hangs them! Only wait till I
manage affairs!”
“Many thanks to thee, Nicholas,” returned the Nevile; “but foul befall
me if ever I seek protection from sheriff or mayor! A man who cannot
keep his own life with his own right hand merits well to hap-lose it;
and I, for one, shall think ill of the day when an Englishman looks more
to the laws than his good arm for his safety; but, letting this pass, I
beseech thee to avise me if my Lord Warwick be still in the city?”
“Yes, marry, I know that by the hostelries, which swarm with his badges,
and the oxen, that go in scores to the shambles! It is a shame to the
Estate to see one subject so great, and it bodes no good to our peace.
The earl is preparing the most magnificent embassage that ever crossed
the salt seas--I would it were not to the French, for our interests lie
contrary; but thou hast some days yet to rest here and grow stout, for I
would not have thee present thyself with a visage of chalk to a man who
values his kind mainly by their thews and their sinews. Moreover, thou
shouldst send for the tailor, and get thee trimmed to the mark. It would
be a long step in thy path to promotion, an’ the earl would take thee
in his train; and the gaudier thy plumes, why, the better chance for
thy flight. Wherefore, since thou sayest they are thus friendly to
thee under this roof, bide yet a while peacefully; I will send thee the
mercer, and the clothier, and the tailor, to divert thy impatience. And
as these fellows are greedy, my gentle and dear Master Nevile, may I
ask, without offence, how thou art provided?”
“Nay, nay, I have moneys at the hostelrie, an’ thou wilt send me my
mails. For the rest, I like thy advice, and will take it.”
“Good!” answered Nicholas. “Hem! thou seemest to have got into a poor
house,--a decayed gentleman, I wot, by the slovenly ruin!”
“I would that were the worst,” replied Marmaduke, solemnly, and under
his breath; and therewith he repeated to Nicholas the adventure on the
pastime-ground, the warnings of the timbrel-girls, and the “awsome”
learning and strange pursuits of his host. As for Sibyll, he was
evidently inclined to attribute to glamour the reluctant admiration with
which she had inspired him. “For,” said he, “though I deny not that the
maid is passing fair, there be many with rosier cheeks, and taller by
this hand!”
Nicholas listened, at first, with the peculiar expression of shrewd
sarcasm which mainly characterized his intelligent face, but his
attention grew more earnest before Marmaduke had concluded.
“In regard to the maiden,” said he, smiling and shaking his head, “it is
not always the handsomest that win us the most,--while fair Meg went a
maying, black Meg got to church; and I give thee more reasonable warning
than thy timbrel-girls, when, in spite of thy cold language, I bid
thee take care of thyself against her attractions; for, verily, my dear
foster-brother, thou must mend and not mar thy fortune, by thy love
matters; and keep thy heart whole for some fair one with marks in her
gipsire, whom the earl may find out for thee. Love and raw pease are two
ill things in the porridge-pot. But the father!--I mind me now that I
have heard of his name, through my friend Master Caxton, the mercer, as
one of prodigious skill in the mathematics. I should like much to see
him, and, with thy leave (an’ he ask me), will tarry to supper. But what
are these?”--and Nicholas took up one of the illuminated manuscripts
which Sibyll had prepared for sale. “By the blood! this is couthly and
marvellously blazoned.”
The book was still in his hands when Sibyll entered. Nicholas stared at
her, as he bowed with a stiff and ungraceful embarrassment, which often
at first did injustice to his bold, clear intellect, and his perfect
self-possession in matters of trade or importance.
“The first woman face,” muttered Nicholas to himself, “I ever saw that
had the sense of a man’s. And, by the rood, what a smile!”
“Is this thy friend, Master Nevile?” said Sibyll, with a glance at
the goldsmith. “He is welcome. But is it fair and courteous, Master
Nelwyn--”
“Alwyn, an’ it please you, fair mistress. A humble name, but good
Saxon,--which, I take it, Nelwyn is not,” interrupted Nicholas.
“Master Alwyn, forgive me; but can I forgive thee so readily for thy
espial of my handiwork, without license or leave?”
“Yours, comely mistress!” exclaimed Nicholas, opening his eyes,
and unheeding the gay rebuke--“why, this is a master-hand. My Lord
Scales--nay, the Earl of Worcester himself--hath scarce a finer in all
his amassment.”
“Well, I forgive thy fault for thy flattery; and I pray thee, in my
father’s name, to stay and sup with thy friend.” Nicholas bowed low,
and still riveted his eyes on the book with such open admiration, that
Marmaduke thought it right to excuse his abstraction; but there was
something in that admiration which raised the spirits of Sibyll, which
gave her hope when hope was well-nigh gone; and she became so vivacious,
so debonair, so charming, in the flow of a gayety natural to her, and
very uncommon with English maidens, but which she took partly, perhaps,
from her French blood, and partly from the example of girls and maidens
of French extraction in Margaret’s court, that Nicholas Alwyn thought he
had never seen any one so irresistible. Madge had now served the evening
meal, put in her head to announce it, and Sibyll withdrew to summon her
father.
“I trust he will not tarry too long, for I am sharp set!” muttered
Marmaduke. “What thinkest thou of the damozel?”
“Marry,” answered Alwyn, thoughtfully, “I pity and marvel at her. There
is eno’ in her to furnish forth twenty court beauties. But what good can
so much wit and cunning do to an honest maiden?”
“That is exactly my own thought,” said Marmaduke; and both the young men
sunk into silence, till Sibyll re-entered with her father.
To the surprise of Marmaduke, Nicholas Alwyn, whose less gallant manner
he was inclined to ridicule, soon contrived to rouse their host from his
lethargy, and to absorb all the notice of Sibyll; and the surprise was
increased, when he saw that his friend appeared not unfamiliar with
those abstruse and mystical sciences in which Adam was engaged.
“What!” said Adam, “you know, then, my deft and worthy friend Master
Caxton! He hath seen notable things abroad--”
“Which, he more than hints,” said Nicholas, “will lower the value of
those manuscripts this fair damozel has so couthly enriched; and that
he hopes, ere long, to show the Englishers how to make fifty, a
hundred,--nay even five hundred exemplars of the choicest book, in a
much shorter time than a scribe would take in writing out two or three
score pages in a single copy.”
“Verily,” said Marmaduke, with a smile of compassion, “the poor man must
be somewhat demented; for I opine that the value of such curiosities
must be in their rarity; and who would care for a book, if five hundred
others had precisely the same?--allowing always, good Nicholas, for thy
friend’s vaunting and over-crowing. Five hundred! By’r Lady, there would
be scarcely five hundred fools in merry England to waste good nobles on
spoilt rags, specially while bows and mail are so dear.”
“Young gentleman,” said Adam, rebukingly, “meseemeth that thou wrongest
our age and country, to the which, if we have but peace and freedom, I
trust the birth of great discoveries is ordained. Certes, Master Alwyn,”
he added, turning to the goldsmith, “this achievement maybe readily
performed, and hath existed, I heard an ingenious Fleming say years ago,
for many ages amongst a strange people [Query, the Chinese?] known to
the Venetians! But dost thou think there is much appetite among those
who govern the State to lend encouragement to such matters?”
“My master serves my Lord Hastings, the king’s chamberlain, and my lord
has often been pleased to converse with me, so that I venture to say,
from my knowledge of his affection to all excellent craft and lere,
that whatever will tend to make men wiser will have his countenance and
favour with the king.”
“That is it, that is it!” exclaimed Adam, rubbing his hands. “My
invention shall not die!”
“And that invention--”
“Is one that will multiply exemplars of books without hands; works of
craft without ‘prentice or journeyman; will move wagons and litters
without horses; will direct ships without sails; will--But, alack! it is
not yet complete, and, for want of means, it never may be.”
Sibyll still kept her animated countenance fixed on Alwyn, whose
intelligence she had already detected, and was charmed with the profound
attention with which he listened. But her eye glancing from his sharp
features to the handsome, honest face of the Nevile, the contrast was so
forcible, that she could not restrain her laughter, though, the moment
after, a keen pang shot through her heart. The worthy Marmaduke had
been in the act of conveying his cup to his lips; the cup stood arrested
midway, his jaws dropped, his eyes opened to their widest extent, an
expression of the most evident consternation and dismay spoke in every
feature; and when he heard the merry laugh of Sibyll, he pushed his
stool from her as far as he well could, and surveyed her with a look of
mingled fear and pity.
“Alas! thou art sure my poor father is a wizard now?”
“Pardie!” answered the Nevile. “Hath he not said so? Hath he not spoken
of wagons without horses, ships without sails? And is not all this what
every dissour and jongleur tells us of in his stories of Merlin? Gentle
maiden,” he added earnestly, drawing nearer to her, and whispering in a
voice of much simple pathos, “thou art young, and I owe thee much.
Take care of thyself. Such wonders and derring-do are too solemn for
laughter.”
“Ah,” answered Sibyll, rising, “I fear they are. How can I expect the
people to be wiser than thou, or their hard natures kinder in their
judgment than thy kind heart?” Her low and melancholy voice went to the
heart thus appealed to. Marmaduke also rose, and followed her into the
parlour, or withdrawing-closet, while Adam and the goldsmith continued
to converse (though Alwyn’s eye followed the young hostess), the former
appearing perfectly unconscious of the secession of his other listeners.
But Alwyn’s attention occasionally wandered, and he soon contrived to
draw his host into the parlour.
When Nicholas rose, at last, to depart, he beckoned Sibyll aside. “Fair
mistress,” said he, with some awkward hesitation, “forgive a plain,
blunt tongue; but ye of the better birth are not always above aid, even
from such as I am. If you would sell these blazoned manuscripts, I can
not only obtain you a noble purchaser in my Lord Scales, or in my
Lord Hastings, an equally ripe scholar, but it may be the means of my
procuring a suitable patron for your father; and, in these times, the
scholar must creep under the knight’s manteline.”
“Master Alwyn,” said Sibyll, suppressing her tears, “it was for
my father’s sake that these labours were wrought. We are poor and
friendless. Take the manuscripts, and sell them as thou wilt, and God
and Saint Mary requite thee!”
“Your father is a great man,” said Alwyn, after a pause.
“But were he to walk the streets, they would stone him,” replied Sibyll,
with a quiet bitterness.
Here the Nevile, carefully shunning the magician, who, in the nervous
excitement produced by the conversation of a mind less uncongenial than
he had encountered for many years, seemed about to address him--here, I
say, the Nevile chimed in, “Hast thou no weapon but thy bludgeon? Dear
foster-brother, I fear for thy safety.”
“Nay, robbers rarely attack us mechanical folk; and I know my way better
than thou. I shall find a boat near York House; so pleasant night and
quick cure to thee, honoured foster-brother. I will send the tailor and
other craftsmen to-morrow.”
“And at the same time,” whispered Marmaduke, accompanying his friend
to the door, “send me a breviary, just to patter an ave or so. This
gray-haired carle puts my heart in a tremble. Moreover, buy me a
gittern--a brave one--for the damozel. She is too proud to take money,
and, ‘fore Heaven, I have small doubts the old wizard could turn my
hose into nobles an’ he had a mind for such gear. Wagons without horses,
ships without sails, quotha!”
As soon as Alwyn had departed, Madge appeared with the final
refreshment, called “the Wines,” consisting of spiced hippocras and
confections, of the former of which the Nevile partook in solemn
silence.
CHAPTER VII. THERE IS A ROD FOR THE BACK OF EVERY FOOL WHO WOULD BE
WISER THAN HIS GENERATION.
The next morning, when Marmaduke descended to the hall, Madge, accosting
him on the threshold, informed him that Mistress Sibyll was unwell, and
kept her chamber, and that Master Warner was never visible much before
noon. He was, therefore, prayed to take his meal alone. “Alone” was
a word peculiarly unwelcome to Marmaduke Nevile, who was an animal
thoroughly social and gregarious. He managed, therefore, to detain the
old servant, who, besides the liking a skilful leech naturally takes to
a thriving patient, had enough of her sex about her to be pleased with
a comely face and a frank, good-humoured voice. Moreover, Marmaduke,
wishing to satisfy his curiosity, turned the conversation upon Warner
and Sibyll, a theme upon which the old woman was well disposed to be
garrulous. He soon learned the poverty of the mansion and the sacrifice
of the gittern; and his generosity and compassion were busily engaged in
devising some means to requite the hospitality he had received, without
wounding the pride of his host, when the arrival of his mails, together
with the visits of the tailor and mercer, sent to him by Alwyn, diverted
his thoughts into a new channel.
Between the comparative merits of gowns and surcoats, broad-toed shoes
and pointed, some time was disposed of with much cheerfulness and
edification; but when his visitors had retired, the benevolent mind of
the young guest again recurred to the penury of his host. Placing his
marks before him on the table in the little withdrawing parlour,
he began counting them over, and putting aside the sum he meditated
devoting to Warner’s relief. “But how,” he muttered, “how to get him to
take the gold. I know, by myself, what a gentleman and a knight’s son
must feel at the proffer of alms--pardie! I would as lief Alwyn had
struck me as offered me his gipsire,--the ill-mannered, affectionate
fellow! I must think--I must think--”
And while still thinking, the door softly opened, and Warner himself,
in a high state of abstraction and revery, stalked noiselessly into
the room, on his way to the garden, in which, when musing over some new
spring for his invention, he was wont to peripatize. The sight of the
gold on the table struck full on the philosopher’s eyes, and waked him
at once from his revery. That gold--oh, what precious instruments, what
learned manuscripts it could purchase! That gold, it was the breath of
life to his model! He walked deliberately up to the table, and laid his
hand upon one of the little heaps. Marmaduke drew back his stool, and
stared at him with open mouth.
“Young man, what wantest thou with all this gold?” said Adam, in a
petulant, reproachful tone. “Put it up! put it up! Never let the poor
see gold; it tempts them, sir,--it tempts them.” And so saying, the
student abruptly turned away his eyes, and moved towards the garden.
Marmaduke rose and put himself in Adam’s way. “Honoured sir,” said the
young man, “you say justly what want I with all this gold? The only gold
a young man should covet is eno’ to suffice for the knight’s spurs
to his heels. If, without offence, you would--that is--ahem!--I
mean,--Gramercy! I shall never say it, but I believe my father owed your
father four marks, and he bade me repay them. Here, sir!” He held out
the glittering coins; the philosopher’s hand closed on them as the
fish’s maw closes on the bait. Adam burst into a laugh, that sounded
strangely weird and unearthly upon Marmaduke’s startled ear.
“All this for me!” he exclaimed. “For me! No, no, no! for me, for IT--I
take it--I take it, sir! I will pay it back with large usury. Come to me
this day year, when this world will be a new world, and Adam Warner
will be--ha! ha! Kind Heaven, I thank thee!” Suddenly turning away, the
philosopher strode through the hall, opened the front door, and escaped
into the street.
“By’r Lady,” said Marmaduke, slowly recovering his surprise, “I need
not have been so much at a loss; the old gentleman takes to my gold as
kindly as if it were mother’s milk. ‘Fore Heaven, mine host’s laugh is
a ghastly thing!” So soliloquizing, he prudently put up the rest of his
money, and locked his mails.
As time went on, the young man became exceedingly weary of his own
company. Sibyll still withheld her appearance; the gloom of the old
hall, the uncultivated sadness of the lonely garden, preyed upon his
spirits. At length, impatient to get a view of the world without, he
mounted a high stool in the hall, and so contrived to enjoy the prospect
which the unglazed wicker lattice, deep set in the wall, afforded. But
the scene without was little more animated than that within,--all was
so deserted in the neighbourhood,--the shops mean and scattered, the
thoroughfare almost desolate. At last he heard a shout, or rather hoot,
at a distance; and, turning his attention whence it proceeded, he beheld
a figure emerge from an alley opposite the casement, with a sack under
one arm, and several books heaped under the other. At his heels followed
a train of ragged boys, shouting and hallooing, “The wizard!
the wizard!--Ah! Bah! The old devil’s kin!” At this cry the dull
neighbourhood seemed suddenly to burst forth into life. From the
casements and thresholds of every house curious faces emerged, and many
voices of men and women joined, in deeper bass, with the shrill tenor
of the choral urchins, “The wizard! the wizard! out at daylight!” The
person thus stigmatized, as he approached the house, turned his face
with an expression of wistful perplexity from side to side. His lips
moved convulsively, and his face was very pale, but he spoke not. And
now, the children, seeing him near his refuge, became more outrageous.
They placed themselves menacingly before him, they pulled his robe,
they even struck at him; and one, bolder than the rest, jumped up, and
plucked his beard. At this last insult, Adam Warner, for it was he,
broke silence; but such was the sweetness of his disposition, that it
was rather with pity than reproof in his voice, that he said,--
“Fie, little one! I fear me thine own age will have small honour if thou
thus mockest mature years in me.”
This gentleness only served to increase the audacity of his persecutors,
who now, momently augmenting, presented a formidable obstacle to
further progress. Perceiving that he could not advance without offensive
measures on his own part, the poor scholar halted; and looking at the
crowd with mild dignity, he asked, “What means this, my children? How
have I injured you?”
“The wizard! the wizard!” was the only answer he received. Adam shrugged
his shoulders, and strode on with so sudden a step, that one of the
smaller children, a curly-headed laughing rogue, of about eight years
old, was thrown down at his feet, and the rest gave way. But the
poor man, seeing one of his foes thus fallen, instead of pursuing his
victory, again paused, and forgetful of the precious burdens he carried,
let drop the sack and books, and took up the child in his arms. On
seeing their companion in the embrace of the wizard, a simultaneous cry
of horror broke from the assemblage, “He is going to curse poor Tim!”
“My child! my boy!” shrieked a woman, from one of the casements; “let go
my child!”
On his part, the boy kicked and shrieked lustily, as Adam, bending his
noble face tenderly over him, said, “Thou art not hurt, child. Poor
boy! thinkest thou I would harm thee?” While he spoke a storm of
missiles--mud, dirt, sticks, bricks, stones--from the enemy, that had
now fallen back in the rear, burst upon him. A stone struck him on the
shoulder. Then his face changed; an angry gleam shot from his deep, calm
eyes; he put down the child, and, turning steadily to the grown people
at the windows, said, “Ye train your children ill;” picked up his sack
and books, sighed, as he saw the latter stained by the mire, which he
wiped with his long sleeve, and too proud to show fear, slowly made for
his door. Fortunately Sibyll had heard the clamour, and was ready to
admit her father, and close the door upon the rush which instantaneously
followed his escape. The baffled rout set up a yell of wrath, and the
boys were now joined by several foes more formidable from the adjacent
houses; assured in their own minds that some terrible execration
had been pronounced upon the limbs and body of Master Tim, who still
continued bellowing and howling, probably from the excitement of finding
himself raised to the dignity of a martyr, the pious neighbours poured
forth, with oaths and curses, and such weapons as they could seize in
haste, to storm the wizard’s fortress.
From his casement Marmaduke Nevile had espied all that had hitherto
passed, and though indignant at the brutality of the persecutors, he
had thought it by no means unnatural. “If men, gentlemen born, will read
uncanny books, and resolve to be wizards, why, they must reap what they
sow,” was the logical reflection that passed through the mind of that
ingenuous youth; but when he now perceived the arrival of more important
allies, when stones began to fly through the wicker lattice, when
threats of setting fire to the house and burning the sorcerer who
muttered spells over innocent little boys were heard, seriously
increasing in depth and loudness, Marmaduke felt his chivalry called
forth, and with some difficulty opening the rusty wicket in the
casement, he exclaimed: “Shame on you, my countrymen, for thus
disturbing in broad day a peaceful habitation! Ye call mine host a
wizard. Thus much say I on his behalf: I was robbed and wounded a few
nights since in your neighbourhood, and in this house alone I found
shelter and healing.”
The unexpected sight of the fair young face of Marmaduke Nevile, and the
healthful sound of his clear ringing voice, produced a momentary effect
on the besiegers, when one of them, a sturdy baker, cried out, “Heed him
not,--he is a goblin. Those devil-mongers can bake ye a dozen such every
moment, as deftly as I can draw loaves from the oven!”
This speech turned the tide, and at that instant a savage-looking man,
the father of the aggrieved boy, followed by his wife, gesticulating and
weeping, ran from his house, waving a torch in his right hand, his arm
bare to the shoulder; and the cry of “Fire the door!” was universal.
In fact, the danger now grew imminent: several of the party were already
piling straw and fagots against the threshold, and Marmaduke began to
think the only chance of life to his host and Sibyll was in flight by
some back way, when he beheld a man, clad somewhat in the fashion of a
country yeoman, a formidable knotted club in his hand, pushing his way,
with Herculean shoulders, through the crowd; and stationing himself
before the threshold and brandishing aloft his formidable weapon, he
exclaimed, “What! In the devil’s name, do you mean to get yourselves all
hanged for riot? Do you think that King Edward is as soft a man as King
Henry was, and that he will suffer any one but himself to set fire to
people’s houses in this way? I dare say you are all right enough in the
main, but by the blood of Saint Thomas, I will brain the first man who
advances a step,--by way of preserving the necks of the rest!”
“A Robin! a Robin!” cried several of the mob. “It is our good friend
Robin. Harken to Robin. He is always right.”
“Ay, that I am!” quoth the defender; “you know that well enough. If I
had my way, the world should be turned upside down, but what the poor
folk should get nearer to the sun! But what I say is this, never go
against law, while the law is too strong. And it were a sad thing to see
fifty fine fellows trussed up for burning an old wizard. So, be off
with you, and let us, at least all that can afford it, make for Master
Sancroft’s hostelrie and talk soberly over our ale. For little, I trow,
will ye work now your blood’s up.”
This address was received with a shout of approbation. The father of the
injured child set his broad foot on his torch, the baker chucked up his
white cap, the ragged boys yelled out, “A Robin! a Robin!” and in
less than two minutes the place was as empty as it had been before the
appearance of the scholar. Marmaduke, who, though so ignorant of books,
was acute and penetrating in all matters of action, could not help
admiring the address and dexterity of the club-bearer; and the danger
being now over, withdrew from the casement, in search of the inmates of
the house. Ascending the stairs, he found on the landing-place, near
his room, and by the embrasure of a huge casement which jutted from the
wall, Adam and his daughter. Adam was leaning against the wall, with his
arms folded, and Sibyll, hanging upon him, was uttering the softest and
most soothing words of comfort her tenderness could suggest.
“My child,” said the old man, shaking his head sadly, “I shall never
again have heart for these studies,--never! A king’s anger I could
brave, a priest’s malice I could pity; but to find the very children,
the young race for whose sake I have made thee and myself paupers, to
find them thus--thus--” He stopped, for his voice failed him, and the
tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Come and speak comfort to my father, Master Nevile,” exclaimed Sibyll;
“come and tell him that whoever is above the herd, whether knight or
scholar, must learn to despise the hootings that follow Merit. Father,
Father, they threw mud and stones at thy king as he passed through
the streets of London. Thou art not the only one whom this base world
misjudges.”
“Worthy mine host!” said Marmaduke, thus appealed to, “Algates, it were
not speaking truth to tell thee that I think a gentleman of birth and
quality should walk the thoroughfares with a bundle of books under his
arm; yet as for the raptril vulgar, the hildings and cullions who
hiss one day what they applaud the next, I hold it the duty of every
Christian and well-born man to regard them as the dirt on the crossings.
Brave soldiers term it no disgrace to receive a blow from a base hind.
An’ it had been knights and gentles who had insulted thee, thou mightest
have cause for shame. But a mob of lewd rascallions and squalling
infants--bah! verily, it is mere matter for scorn and laughter.”
These philosophical propositions and distinctions did not seem to have
their due effect upon Adam. He smiled, however, gently upon his guest,
and with a blush over his pale face, said, “I am rightly chastised, good
young man; mean was I, methinks, and sordid to take from thee thy good
gold. But thou knowest not what fever burns in the brain of a man who
feels that, had he wealth, his knowledge could do great things,--such
things!--I thought to repay thee well. Now the frenzy is gone, and
I, who an hour ago esteemed myself a puissant sage, sink in mine own
conceit to a miserable blinded
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