Legends of Lancashire 40

Legends of Lancashire 40

The weary months of winter passed on, and Mary Evelyn was a gentle

maniac. Unremitting were the attentions of her humble friends, but

she heeded them not. She was always, when awake, playing with the

counterpane of her little bed; starting up, and shrieking in her

sport.

 

“Arthur Montressor,” she would say, “why do you go forth alone

to gather flowers for me? Must I not accompany you, and gather

the most beautiful for your own auburn locks? Ah! there is an old

venerable man enters. How beautiful are those white locks, and that

meek, meek face. Go, Arthur. I must stay here, alone, with the

headless man! headless, look at him,--gory neck! Ha, ha!”

 

Spring came, and the good dame brought flowers and strewed them

upon the pillow. They were steeped in the morning’s dew, and as

Mary applied them to her burning forehead, and parched lips, she

smiled and seemed to be pleased. But she played with them, and

their heads came off.

 

“Yes, yes,--he was beheaded!”

 

After this she daily became calmer, until she was herself again;

the beautiful and blushing Mary Evelyn. Yet, think not that the

madness had departed! Reason is like a mirror; break it,--you may

replace the fragments,--still it is broken. She loved to wander

forth along the glen, or into the cave. Her soul was like a harp,

which every spirit of Nature could touch. Madness had sublimed many

a thought and feeling, until they seemed to hold converse with

the spiritual world.--Nature is more personal than is generally

thought. She has a soul as well as senses. The latter are the

pleasant sights, the sweet fragrance, and the music of voices,

but the soul of Nature is that deep internal working every where,

whose will operates upon the senses. Have we not felt the throbbing

of its pulse of life, and can she live without a soul? Nature,

therefore, is earth’s best comforter to the lonely, because she

feels and acts--a free agent.

 

Mary Evelyn could now also enjoy the conversation of the miller and

his wife.

 

“Miss Evelyn,” Hans once in good humour remarked, “we thought that

you never would speak to us. But, as my mother used to observe,

‘persons may carry an egg long in their pocket, and break it at

last.’”

 

Whenever Miss Evelyn wished to be alone, she could retire to her

own little apartment, which opened into the back of the glen, or

wander into the cave, where the various sounds of the brook falling

amidst the rocks and cavities, and the notes of the birds, whose

nests were there, beguiled her melancholy.

 

Meanwhile active hostilities between the King and Parliament had

commenced. The sword had been unsheathed, and blood was already on

its edge. Counter acts, threats, and impeachments, ceased, and the

field was taken. Lancashire, echoing the voice of Lord Strange,

declared for Charles, and engaged in the struggle. A few of the

principal towns had been seized upon, and held by the Royalists, in

spite of the assaults of the Parliamentary forces; but the latter,

under the command of the most able generals, and fresh with the

enthusiasm of a new-born liberty, were soon to be successful.

 

The inmates of Dunald Mill were not altogether ignorant of these

troublous times. The clapper made a constant noise, and Rachel’s

speech, of which she naturally had a great fluency, was incessant:

still, these combined agencies could not deafen their ears to all

the reports. On the sabbath, when they repaired to Lancaster,

although it was the day of peace, there were no subjects of

conversation afloat, except rumours of war. In the church, many a

seal had the parson opened, amidst thunderings and lightnings, and

black horses, and white horses, and red horses, and riders bearing

bows, conquering and to conquer, had spurred forth. Then he would,

from scripture prophecy, delineate the character of the opposite

leaders in the war. When Lord Strange planted the royal standard in

the county, the parson’s text was, “Who is this that cometh from

Edom?” Edom, he very judiciously considered, as synonymous with

Lathom, the family seat of his lordship. When Oliver Cromwell was

reported to be marching into Lancashire, at the head of a body of

men, whom he had himself levied and disciplined, he travelled into

the Apocalypse, and gave out the following;--“And they had tails

like unto scorpions, and there were stings in their tails, and

their power was to hurt men, five months. And they had a king over

them, who is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the

Hebrew tongue is Abaddon.”

 

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

thorough bad un!”

 

Often did he descend into the valley of vision, and take a view of

the dry bones; or enter the field of battle called Armageddon. He

would then pray, and the clerk held up his hands and stayed them,

lest Amalek might prevail. And truly for the length of an hour

he prayed, as some of the dissolute Royalists remarked, without

ceasing or sneezing. Alas! cavalier parsons could quote and apply

scripture language as ludicrously and blasphemously as roundhead

ranters!

 

Thus, war had lately been the constant theme. It seemed to be

pleasant to Miss Evelyn; and when all the tender and the beautiful

of her sex were imploring success on the handsome king, she

supplicated a blessing upon the arms of the fierce republicans, and

when news came of victory on the side of the Royalists, the cloud

which passed over her brow betokened that she considered herself

as one of the vanquished.

 

One Sunday morning, Hans, after donning his holiday attire, entered

the little room in front, where they generally sat together, and

found his wife and Miss Evelyn unprepared to attend him to church.

 

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

 

“Yea, Hans,” was the reply, “my lady and I have agreed to stay at

Bethel, and not go up to Zion. It is not safe for females to travel

in such dangerous times. Nor can I enjoy the privileges of Zion at

present. Whenever I enter the church, my thoughts are disquieted

within me. It is so near the castle, and I think more of cannons

and soldiers, than any thing else. Nor is the parson clothed with

salvation, he speaks always of war. God will indeed make this a

Bethel, and Rachel Skippon shall sing aloud for joy.”

 

“Yes, my dear friends,” said Mary Evelyn with enthusiasm, “how

delightfully shall we spend the Sabbath! the little glen behind,

shall be our church, where no roof but that canopy above, can

intercept our ascending praise. The flowers shall be our hymn

books. Nay, nay, they whisper of a Creator, but not of a Saviour.

Even the lilies which he pointed out so beautifully when on earth,

are silent of Him! How calm is every object around! In what a holy

and sabbath repose do the rays fall, as if they were the feet of

angels, dancing so lightly upon our earth!”

 

“Yes,” replied Hans, in true christian feeling, “the sabbath was

made for man, and not man for the sabbath. Take away this day,

and we could not tell what heaven is. And yet that profane prince

proclaimed sports thereon, and appointed that his book should be

laid on the pulpit, along with the book of life. But, I must away

to the public ordinances. Should war come to Lancaster, which side

must I fall into? Alas, Evelyn speaks so beautifully of the holy

puritans, who hate a tyrant over their consciences, that for some

time I have ceased to pray for him who is called King.”

 

“Hans,” replied the dame, with some warmth, “if I thought you could

be so foolish as to take the sword, as truly as I live, I would

this moment disable you from leaving the house. But you could not

mean this;--no, no. Well, you can go, and to entice you home,

I shall prepare some savoury meat, such as thy soul loveth, of

which you may eat in abundance, and praise the Lord. Wont you bid

farewell to your wife?”

 

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

 

“Do you intend to disable me?” he asked, as he put her arms from

about him. “Thirty-five long years have I lived with you, and

never listened to such language. But since you have become Job’s

wife, I must be Job, and shew patience. Come, wife, kiss me,”

and he gave a loud and hearty laugh, which he suppressed when he

remembered that it was the sabbath.

 

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

unseemly.”

 

“Verily, dame, Miss Evelyn knew what kissing meant before. She

blushes--Good morning, Miss Evelyn. Good morning, dame. Hush, just

one, do not make a disturbance; it is the sabbath.”

 

The miller walked up the glen, and soon gained the highway. At

every step he beheld proofs of the bad effects of the “Book of

Sports.” No crowds were to be seen moving to church, but they were

loitering by the way, engaged in mirth and games.

 

“Ha!” exclaimed Hans, as he beheld an old man tottering on before

him,--“who can this be? I should know his gait, but then, his

apparel is changed. It is old Sir Robert; but before, he was always

dressed as a gay cavalier.”

 

The old knight turned round. His white locks hung over a

plain-fashioned coat, and his hat was stripped of the proud plume

which he had once sported. His age might be seventy, although his

face was rosy.

 

“Well, well, good miller,” he kindly said, “art thou alone also? I

left my beloved daughters at home, for I am fearful of the times.”

 

“You have nothing to fear, Sir Robert,” replied the miller, “in

Lancaster, since you are a Royalist.”

 

“A Royalist!” echoed the knight, and he shook his head. “Not much

of that now; no, no. The king has become a tyrant, and I disown his

cause. A gallant nephew of mine, a roundhead by principle, in a

battle of last month, was made prisoner, and the king gave him no

quarter--but death!”

 

“The taking away of life,” rejoined the miller, “Charles seems to

consider as his kingly prerogative.”

 

“His turn will come at last, Republicans say it _shall_, Death says

it _will_. And what is a King? The meanest beggar. The poor man may

only have one morsel of bread,--the king demands the half of it,

and he is not frightened, for all his pride, and by his thoughts of

dirt and scab to eat it. He,--a great man! Go to the treasury, and

there you will see the widow’s mite, and the starving man’s alms!

and Charles puts forth his white hand and takes them!”

 

“Yea, truly,” said Hans, “I am more independent in my cottage,

than Charles in his palace. I earn my bread by labour, but he just

puts on a few robes which we have all patched up with our own rags,

blows a whistle which we have bought for him, and plays with a toy

which he calls a sceptre, and for all this he receives his million.”