" He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously and 
 eagerly." See page 76
 
 For Faith and Freedom 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 Author of "All in a Garden Fair," etc. 
 
 FIFTH AVENUE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ? A
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 FAREWELL SUNDAY. 
 
 The morning of Sunday, August the 23d, in the year ot 
 grace 1662, should have been black and gloomy, with the 
 artillery of rolling thunder, dreadful flashes of lightning, 
 and driving hail and wind to strip the orchards and lay low 
 the corn. For on that day was done a thing which filled 
 the whole country with grief, and bore bitter fruit, in after- 
 years, of revenge and rebellion. Because it was the day 
 before that formerly named after Bartholomew, the dis- 
 ciple, it hath been called the Black Bartholomew of England, 
 thus being likened with that famous day (approved by the 
 pope) when the Frencn l^rotestants were treacherously 
 massacred by their king. It should rather be called " Fare- 
 well Sunday," or "Exile Sunday," because on that day two 
 thousand godly ministers preached their last sermon in the 
 churches where they had labored worthily and with good 
 fruit, some during the time of the Protector, and some even 
 longer, because among them were a few who possessed their 
 benefices even in the time of the late King Charles the First, 
 And, since on that day two thousand ministers left their 
 churches and their houses, and laid down their worldly 
 wealth for conscience' sake, there were also as many wives 
 who went with them, and, I dare say, three or four times as 
 many innocent and helpless babes. And, further (it is said 
 that the time was fixed by design and deliberate malice of our 
 enemies), the ministers were called upon to make their 
 choice only a week or two before the day of the collection 
 of their tithes. In other words, they were sent forth to the
 
 4 t^Ok FATTH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 world al the season when their purses were the leanest ; iii- 
 deed, with most country clergymen, their purses shortly 
 before the collection of tithes become well-nigh empty. It 
 was also unjust that their successors should be permitted to 
 collect tithes due to those who were ejected. 
 
 It is fitting to begin this history with the Black Bartholo- 
 mew, because all the troubles and adventures which after- 
 wards befell us were surely caused by that accursed day. 
 One knows not, certainly, what other rubs might have been 
 ordained for us by a wise Providence (always with the 
 merciful design of keeping before our eyes the vanity of 
 worldly things, the instability of fortune, the uncertainty of 
 life, and the wisdom of looking for a hereafter which shall 
 be lasting, stable, and satisfying to the soul. ) Still it must 
 be confessed, such trials as were appointed unto us were, 
 in severity and continuance, far beyond those appointed to 
 the ordinary sort, so that I cannot but feel at times uplifted 
 (I hope not sinfully) at having been called upon to endure 
 so much. Let me not, however, be proud. Had it not 
 been for this day, for certain our boys would not have been 
 tempted to strike a blow — vain and useless as it proved — 
 for the Protestant religion and for liberty of conscience : 
 while perhaps I should now be forbidden to relate our suf- 
 ferings, were it not for the glorious revolution which has re- 
 stored toleration, secured the Protestant ascendency, and 
 driven into banishment a prince, concerning whom all 
 honest men pray that he and his son (if he have, indeed, a 
 son of his own) may never again have authority over this 
 realm. 
 
 This Sunday, I say, should have wept tears of rain over 
 the havoc which it witnessed ; yet it was fine and clear, the 
 sun riding in splendor, and a warm summer air blowing 
 among the orchards and over the hills and around the vil- 
 lage of Bradford Orcas, in the shire of Somerset. The 
 wheat (for the season was late) stood gold-colored in the 
 fields, ready at last for the reaper ; the light breeze bent 
 down the ears so that they showed like waves over which 
 the passing clouds make light and shade ; the apples in the 
 orchards were red and yellow and nearly ripe for the press , 
 in the gardens of the ]\Ianor House, hard by the church, the 
 sunflowers and the hollyhocks were at their tallest and their 
 best ; the yellow roses on the wall were still in clusters ; the 
 sweet-peas hung with tangles of vine and flower upon their 
 stalks ; the bachelors' buttons, the sweet mignonette, the 
 nasturtium, the gillyflowers and stocks, the sweetwilliam*
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. j 
 
 and the pansies, offered their late summer blossoms to the 
 hot sun among the lavender, thyme, parsley, sage, feverfew 
 and vervain of my lady's garden. Oh ! I know how it all 
 looked, though I was as yet unborn. How many times 
 have I stood in the churchyard and watched the same scene 
 at the same sweet season ! On a week-day one hears the 
 thumping and the groaning of the mill below the church ; 
 there are the voices of the men at work, the yo-hoing of 
 the boys who drive, and the lumbering of the carts. You 
 can even hear the spinning-wheels at work in the cottages. 
 On Sunday morning everything is still, save for the war- 
 bling of the winged tribe in the wood, the cooing of the 
 doves in the cot, the clucking of the hens, the grunting of 
 the pigs, and the droning of the bees. These things dis- 
 turb not the meditations of one who is accustomed to them. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the morning, the sexton, an ancient 
 man and rheumatic, hobbled slowly through the village, 
 key in hand, and opened the church door. Then he went 
 into the tower and rang the first bell. I suppose this bell is 
 designed to hurry housewives with their morning work, and 
 to admonish the men that they incline their hearts to a 
 spiritual disposition. This done, the sexton set open the 
 doors of the pews, swept out the squire's and the rector's in 
 the chancel, dusted the cushions of the pulpit (the reading- 
 desk at this time was not used), opened the clasps of the 
 great Bible, and swept down the aisle : as he had done 
 Sunday after Sunday for fifty years. When he had thus 
 made the church ready for the day's service, he went into 
 the vestry, which had only been used since the establish- 
 ment of the Commonwealth for the registers of birth, death, 
 and marriage. 
 
 At one side of the vestry stood an ancient black-oak 
 coffer, the sides curiously graven, and a great rusty key in 
 the lock. The sexton turned the key with some difficulty, 
 threw open the lid, and looked in. 
 
 "Ay," he said, chuckling, "the old surplice and the old 
 Book of Common Prayer. Ye have had a long rest ; 'tis 
 time for both to come out again. When the surplice is out 
 the book will stay no longer locked up. These two go in and 
 out together. I mind me now — "' Here he sat down, and 
 his thoughts wandered for a space ; perhaps he saw himself 
 once more a boy running in the fields, or a young man 
 courting a maid. Presently he returned to the task befor«r 
 him, and drew forth an old and yellow roll which he shook 
 cut It was the surplice which had oncp been white.
 
 t FOX FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 ''Here you are," he said; "put you away for a matter of 
 twelve year and more and you bide your time ; you know 
 you will come back again ; you are not in any hurry. Even 
 the sexton dies ; but you die not, you bide your time. 
 Everything comes again. The old woman shall give you 
 a taste o' the suds and the hot iron. Thus we go up and 
 thus we go down.' He put back the surplice and locked 
 the great Book of Common Prayer — musty and damp after 
 twelve years' imprisonment. " Fie 1 " he said, " the leather 
 is parting from the boards, and the leaves they do stick to- 
 gether, Shalt have a pot of paste, and then lie in the sun 
 before thou goest back to the desk ; whether 'tis mass or 
 Common Prayer, whether 'tis Independent or Presbyterian, 
 folk mun still die and be buried — ay, and married and born 
 — whatever they do say. Parson goes and preacher comes ; 
 preacher goes and parson comes; but sexton stays." He 
 chuckled again, put back the surplice and the book, and 
 locked the coffer. 
 
 Then he slowly went down the church and came out of 
 the porch, blinking in the sun and shading his old eyss. 
 He sat down upon the flat stones of the old cross, and pres- 
 ently nodded his head and dropped off asleep. 
 
 It was a strange indifference in the man. A great and 
 truly notable thing was to be accomplished that day. But 
 he cared nothing. Two thousand godly and learned men 
 were to go forth into poverty for liberty of conscience — this 
 man's own minister was one of them. He cared nothing. 
 The king was sowing the seed from which should spring a 
 rod to drive forth his successor from the kingdom. In the 
 village the common sort were not moved. Nothing con- 
 cerns the village folk but the weather and the market prices. 
 As for the good sexton, he was very old : he had seen the 
 Church of England displaced by the Presbyterians and the 
 Presbyterians by the Independents, and now these were 
 again to be supplanted by the Church of England. He had 
 been sexton through all these changes. He heeded them 
 not ; why, his father, sexton before him, could remember 
 when the mass was said in the church and the Virgin was 
 worshipped, and the folk were driven like sheep to confes- 
 sion. All the time the people went on being born, and 
 marrying, and dying. Creed doth not, truly, affect these 
 things nor the sexton's work. Therefore this old gaffer, 
 having made sure that the surplice was in the place where 
 it had lain undisturbed for a dozen years, and remembering 
 that it must be washed and ironed fur the following Sunday,
 
 FOR FAITFI AND FREEDOM. j 
 
 sat down to bask in the sun, his mind at rest, and dropped 
 off into a gentle sleep. 
 
 At ten o'clock the bell-ringers came trampling up the stone 
 steps from the road, and the sexton woke up. At ten they 
 used to begin their chimes, but at the hour they ring for live 
 minutes only, ending with the clash of all five bells together. 
 At a quarter-past ten they chime again, for the service, 
 which begins at half-past ten. 
 
 At the sound of these chimes the whole village begins to 
 move slowly towards the church. First come the children, 
 the bigger ones leading those who are little by the hand ; 
 the boys come next, but unwillingly, because the sexton is 
 diligent with his cane, and some of those who now go up 
 the steps to the church will comedown with smarting backs, 
 the reward of those who play or laugh during the service. 
 Then come the young men, who stand about the church- 
 yard and whisper to each other. After them follow the 
 elders and the married men, with the women and the girls. 
 Five minutes before the half-hour the ringers change the 
 chime for a single bell. Then those who are outside gather 
 in the porch and wait for the quality 
 
 When the single bell began, there came forth from the rec- 
 tory the rector himself, Mr. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of 
 Divinity, who was this day to deliver his soul and lay down 
 his charge. He wore the black gown and Geneva bands, 
 for the use of which he contended. At this time he was a 
 young man of thirty — tall and thin. He stooped in the 
 shoulders because he was continually reading ; his face was 
 grave and austere ; his nose thin and aquiline ; his eyes 
 bright — never was any man with brighter eyes than my 
 father ; his hair, which he wore long, was brown and curly ; 
 his forehead high, rather than broad ; his lips were firm. 
 In these days, as my mother hath told me, and as I well be- 
 lieve, he was a man of singular comeliness, concerninj^ 
 which he cared nothing. Always from childhood upwarcl 
 he had been grave in conversation and seriously inclined in 
 mind. If I think of my father as a boy (no one ever seems 
 to thmk that his father was once a boy), I am fain to com- 
 pare him with Humphrey, save for certain bodily defects, 
 my father having been like a priest of the altar for bodily 
 perfection. That is to say, I am sure that, like Humphrey, 
 he had no need of rod or ferule to make him learn his lessons, 
 and, like that dear and fond friend of my childhood, he 
 would willingly sit in a corner and read a book while the 
 the other boys played and \\cnt a-lumting or a-nesting.
 
 8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 And very early in life he was smitten with the conviction 
 of sin, and blessed with such an inward assurance of salva- 
 tion as made him afterwards steadfast in all afflictions. 
 
 He was not a native of this country, having been born in 
 New England. He came over, being then eighteen years 
 of age, to study at Oxford, that university being purged of 
 malignants, and, at the time, entirely in the hands of the 
 godly. He was entered of BaUiol College, of which society 
 he became a fellow, and was greatly esteemed for his 
 learning, wherein he excelled most of the scholars of his 
 time. He knew and could read Hebrew, Chaldee, and the 
 ancient Syriac, as well as Latin and Greek. Of modern 
 languages he had acquired Arabic, by the help of which he 
 had read the book which is called the Koran of the False 
 Prophet Mohammed ; French and Italian he also knew and 
 could read easily. As for his opinions, he was an In- 
 dependent, and that not meekly or with hesitation, but with 
 such zeal and vehemence that he considered all who dif- 
 lered from him as his personal enemies — nay, the very 
 enemies of God, For this reason, and because his personal 
 habits were too austere for those who attained not to his 
 spiritual height, he was more feared than loved. Yet his 
 party looked upon him as their greatest and stoutest cham- 
 pion. 
 
 He left Oxford at the age ot five or six and twenty, and 
 accepted the living of Bradford Orcas, offered him by Sir 
 Christopher Challis at that place. Here he had preached for 
 six years, looking forward to nothing else than to remain 
 there, advancing in grace and wisdom, until the end of his 
 days. So much was ordered, indeed, for him ; but not 
 quite as he had designed. Let no man say that he knoweth 
 the future, or that he can shape out his destiny. You shall 
 hear presently how Benjamin arrogantly resolved that his 
 future should be what he chose, and what came of that im- 
 pious resolution. 
 
 My father's face was always austere ; this morning it was 
 more serious and sterner than customary, because the day was 
 to him the most important in his life, and he was about to 
 pass from a position of plenty (the Rectory of Bradford 
 Orcas is not rich, but it affords asut^ciency) to one of penury. 
 Those who knew him, however, had no doubt of the course 
 he was about to take. Even the rustics knew that their 
 minister would never consent to wear a surplice or to read 
 the Book of Common Prayer, or to keep holy days — you 
 have seen how the sextoii opened the box and took out th?
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDO.\t. ^ 
 
 surplice ; yet my father had said nothing to him concerning 
 his intentions. 
 
 In his hand he carried his Bible — his own copy, I have it 
 still, the margins covered with notes in his writing — bound 
 in black leather, worn by constant handling, with brass 
 clasps. Upon his head he had a plain black silk cap, which 
 he wore constantly in his study and at meals to keep ofi 
 draughts. Indeed, I loved to see him with his silk cap 
 rather than with his tall steeple-hat, with neither ribbon nor 
 ornament of any kind, in which he rode when he after- 
 wards went about the country to break the law in exhort- 
 ing and praying with his friends. 
 
 Beside him walked my mother, holding in her hand her 
 boy, my brother Barnaby, then three years of age. As for 
 me, I was not yet born. She had been weeping ; her eyes 
 were red and swollen with tears ; but when she entered the 
 church she wept no more, bravely listening to the words 
 which condemned to poverty and hardship herself and her 
 children, if any more should be born to her. Alas, poor 
 soul I What had she done that this affliction should befall 
 her ? What had her innocent boy done } For upon her — 
 not upon her husband — would fall the heavy burden of 
 poverty, and on her children the loss. Yet never by a sin- 
 gle word of complaint did she make her husband sorry that 
 he had obeyed the voice of conscience, even when there 
 was nothing left in the house, not so much as the widow's 
 cruse of oil. Alas, poor mother, once so free from care \ 
 what sorrow and anxiety wert thou destined to endure for 
 the tender conscience of thy husband ! 
 
 At the same time — namely, at the ringing of the single 
 bell — there came from the manor-house, hard by the church, 
 his honor, Sir Christopher, with his family. The worthy 
 knight was then about fifty years of age, tall and handsome 
 still — in his later years there was something of a heavenly 
 sweetness in his face, created, I doubt not, by a long life 
 of pious thoughts and worthy deeds. His hair was streaked 
 with gray, but not yet white ; he wore a beard of the kind 
 called stiletto, which was even then an ancient fashion, and 
 he was dressed more soberly than is common with gentle- 
 men of his rank, having no feather in his hat, but a simple 
 ribbon round it, and though his ruffles were of lace and the 
 kerchief round his neck was lace, the color of his coat was 
 plain brown. He leaned upon a gold-headed cane on ac- 
 count of an old wound (it was inflicted by a Cavalier's mus- 
 ket-ball when he was a captain in the army of Lord Essex).
 
 10 FOR FATTH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 The wound left him somewhat lame, yet not so lame bui 
 that he could very Avell walk about his fields and could ride 
 his horse, and even hunt with the otter-hounds. By his side 
 walked madame, his wife. After him came his son, Hum- 
 phrey, newly married, and with Humphrey his wife ; and 
 last came his son-in-law, the Rev. Philip Boscorel, M, A., 
 late fellow of All-Souls' College, Oxford, also newly married, 
 with his wife, Sir Christopher's daughter, Patience. Mr. 
 Boscorel, like my father, was at that time thirty years of 
 age. Like him, too, his face was comely and his features 
 fine ; yet they lacked the fire and the earnestness which 
 marked my father's. And in his silken cassock, his small 
 white bands, his lace ruffles, and his dainty walk, it seemed 
 as if Mr. Boscorel thought himself above the common run 
 of mankind and of superior clay. 'Tis sometimes the way 
 with scholars and those who survey the world from the 
 eminence of a library. 
 
 Sir Christopher's face was full of concern, because he 
 loved the young man who was this day to throw away his 
 livelihood ; and although he was ready himself to worship 
 after the manner prescribed by law, his opinions were rather 
 Independent than Episcopalian. As for ]Mr. Boscorel, who 
 was about to succeed to the ejected minister, his face wore 
 no look of triumph, which would have been ungenerous. 
 He was observed, indeed, after he had silently gone through 
 with the service of the day with the help of a prayer-book, 
 to listen diligently unto the preacher. 
 
 The people, I have already said, knew already what was 
 about to happen. Perhaps sc;/ie of them (but I think not) 
 possessed a copy of the old prayer-book. This, they knew, 
 was to be restored, with the surplice, and the observance of 
 holy days, feasts, and fasts, and the kneeling at the admin- 
 istration of the Holy Communion. Our people are crafts- 
 men as much as they are rustics ; every week the master 
 clothiers' men drive their pack-horses into the village laden 
 with wool, and return with yarn ; ihey are not, therefore, 
 so brutish and sluggish as most ; yet they made no outward 
 show of caring whether Prelacy or Independence was to 
 have the sway. Perhaps the abstruse doctrines which my 
 father loved to discuss were too high for them ; perhaps 
 his austerity was too strict for them, so that he was not be- 
 loved by them. Perhaps, even, they would have cared 
 little if they had heard that Bishop Bonner himself was 
 coming back. Religion, to country folk, means, mostly, 
 the going to church on Sunday morning. That done,
 
 For faith and freedom. i t 
 
 man's sendee of prayer and praise to his Creator is also 
 done. If the form be changed the church remains, and the 
 churchyard ; one shepherd followeth another, but the flock 
 is always the same. Revolutions overthrow kings, and 
 send great heads to the block ; but the village heedeth not 
 unless civil war pass that way. To country folk what dif- 
 ference } The sky and the fields are unchanged. Under 
 Queen Mary they are Papists ; under Queen Elizabeth they 
 are Protestants. They have the Prayer Book under King 
 James and King Charles ; under Oliver they have had the 
 Presbyterian and Independent ; now they have the book of 
 Common Prayer and the surplice again. Yet they remain 
 the same people, and tell the same stories, and, so far as I 
 know, believe the same things — viz., that Christ Jesus saves 
 the soul of every man who truly believes in him. Why, if 
 it were not for his immortal soul — concerning which he 
 takes but little thought — the rustic might be likened unto the 
 patient beast whom he harnesseth to his plough and to his 
 muck-cart. He changeth no more ; he works as hard ; he 
 is as long-enduring ; his eyes and his thoughts are as much 
 bound by the hedge, the lane, and the field ; he thinks and 
 invents and advances no more. Were it not, I say, for the 
 Church, he would take as little heed of any thingas his ox 
 or his ass; his village would become his country ; his squire 
 would become his king ; the nearest village would become 
 the camp of an enemy ; and he would fall into the condi- 
 tion of the ancient Briton when Julius Caesar found every 
 tribe fighting against every other. 
 
 I talk as a fool. For sometimes there falls upon the tor- 
 pid soul of the rustic a spark which causes a mighty flame 
 to blaze up and burn fiercely within him. I have read how 
 a simple monk, called Peter the Hermit, drew thousands of 
 poor, illiterate, credulous persons from their homes and letl 
 them, a mob armed with scythes and pikes, across Europe 
 to the deserts of Asia Minor, where tliey miserably perished. 
 I have read also of Jack Cade, and how he drew the multi- 
 tudes after him, crying aloud for justice or death. And I 
 myself have seen these sluggish spirits suddenly fired with 
 a spirit which nothing could subdue. The sleeping soul I 
 have seen suddenly starting into life : strength and swift- 
 ness have I seen suddenly put into sluggish limbs : light 
 and fire have I seen gleaming suddenly in dull and heavy 
 eyes. Oh ! it was a miracle : but I have seen it. Anc^ 
 having seen it, I cannot despise these lads of the plough.
 
 J 3 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 these honest boys of Somerset, nor can I endure to heac 
 them laug-hed at or contemned. 
 
 Bradford Orcas, in the Hundred of Horethorne, Somerset, 
 is a village so far from the great towns that one would think 
 a minister might have gone on praying and preaching after 
 his own fashion without being discovered. But the arm of 
 the law is long. 
 
 The nearest town is Sherborne, in Dorsetshire, to which 
 there is a bridle-path across the fields ; it is the market-town 
 for the villages round it Bradford Orcas is a very obscure 
 little village, with no history and no antiquities. It stands 
 in the southeastern corner of the county, close to the western 
 declivity of the Corton Hills, which here sweep round so as 
 to form a valley, in which the village is built along the 
 banks of a stream. The houses are for the most part of 
 stone, with thatched roofs, as is the custom in our country ; 
 the slopes of the hills are covered with trees, and round the 
 village there stand goodly orchards, the cider from which 
 cannot be surpassed. As for the land, but little of it is ara- 
 ble ; the greater part is a sandy loam or stone brash. The 
 church, which in the superstitious days was dedicated to 
 St. Nicolas, is built upon a hillock, a rising ground in the 
 west of the village. This building of churches upon hil- 
 locks is a common custom in our parts, and seemeth laud- 
 able, because a church should stand where it can be seen 
 by all the people, and by its presence remind them of death 
 and of the judgment. This practice doth obtain at Sher- 
 borne, where there is a very noble church, and at Huish 
 Episcopi, and at many other places in our county. Our 
 church is fair and commodious, not too large for tiie con- 
 gregation, having in the west a stone tower embattled, and 
 consisting of a nave and chancel with a very fine roof of 
 carved woodwork. There is an ancient yew-tree in the 
 churchyard, from which in old times bows were cut ; some 
 of the bows yet hang in the great hall of the manor-house. 
 Among the graves is an ancient stone cross, put up no man 
 knows when, standing in a six-sided slab of stone, but the 
 top was broken off at the time of the Reformation ; two or 
 three tombs are in the churchyard, and the rest is covered 
 with mounds, beneath which lie the bones and dust of 
 former generations. 
 
 Close to the churchyard, and at the northeast corner, is 
 the manor-house, as large as the. church itself, but not so 
 ancient It was built in the reign of Henry VII. A broad 
 arched gateway leads into a c^urt, wherein is the entrance
 
 POk FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 n 
 
 to the house. Over the gateway is a kind of tower, but not 
 detached from the house. In the wall of the tower is a 
 panel, lozenge shaped, in which are carved the arms of the 
 Challis family. The house is stately, with many gables, 
 and in each casement windows set in richly carved stone 
 tracery. As for the rooms within the house, I will speak of 
 them hereafter. At present I have the churchyard in my 
 mind. There is no place upon the earth which more I love. 
 To stand in the long grass among the graves ; to gaze upon 
 the wooded hills beyond, the orchards, the meadows, the 
 old house, the venerable church, the yew-tree ; to listen to 
 the murmur of the stream below and the singing of the lark 
 above ; to feel the fresh breeze upon my cheek — oh ! I do 
 this daily. It makes me feel young once more ; it brings 
 back the days when I stood here with the boys, and when 
 Sir Christopher would lean over the wall and discourse with 
 us gravely and sweetly upon the love of God and the fleeting 
 joys of earth (which yet, he said, we should accept and be 
 happy withal in thankfulness), and the happiness unspeak- 
 able that awaiteth the Lord's saints. Or, if my thoughts 
 continue in the past, the graveyard brings back the presence 
 and the voice of Mr. Boscorel. 
 
 "In such a spot as this," he would say, speaking softly 
 and slowly, "the pastorals of Virgil or Theocritus might 
 have been written. Here would the shepherds hold their 
 contests. Certainly they could find no place, even in sunny 
 Sicily or at Mantua itself, where (save for three months in 
 the year) the air is more delightful. Here they need not to 
 avoid the burning heat of a sun which gently warms but 
 never burns ; here they would find the shade of the grove 
 pleasant in the soft summer season. Innocent lambs in- 
 stead of kids (which are tasteless) play in our meadows ; 
 the cider which we drink is, I take it, more pleasing to the 
 palate than was their wine flavored with turpentine. And 
 our viols, violins, and spinnets are instruments more de- 
 lightful than the oaten pipe, or the cithara itself." Then 
 would he wave his hand, and quote some poet in praise of 
 a country life — 
 
 " There 13 no man but may make his paradise, 
 And it is nothing but his love and dotage 
 Upon the world's foul joys that keeps Inm out on 'it. 
 For he that lives retired in mind and spirit 
 Is still in Paradise." 
 
 "But, child," he would add, with a sigh, "one may not
 
 u 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 
 
 always wish to be in Paradise. The world's joys lie else* 
 where. Only, when youth is gone — then Paradise is best" 
 The service began after the manner of the Independents, 
 with a long- prayer, during which the people sat. JMr. Bos- 
 corel, as I have said, went through his own service in 
 silence, the Book of Common Prayer in his hand. After the 
 prayer, the minister read a portion of Scripture, which he 
 expounded at length and with great learning. Then the 
 congregation sang that Psalm which begins — 
 
 " Triumphing songs with glorious tongues 
 Let's oifer unto Him." 
 
 This done, the rector ascended the pulpit for the last time, 
 gave out his text, turned his hour-glass, and began his 
 sermon. 
 
 He took for his text those verses in St. Paul's second epistle 
 to the Corinthians, vi., 3-10, in which the apostle speaks of 
 his own ministry as if he were actually predicting the tribu- 
 lation which was to fall upon these faithful preachers of a 
 later time — "In much patience, in affliction, in necessities, 
 in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in 
 labor, in watchings, in fastings — "could not the very words 
 be applied to my father ? 
 
 He read the text three times, so that everybody might 
 fully understand the subject upon which he was to preach — 
 namely, the faithfulness required of a minister of the gospel. 
 I need not set down the arguments he used or the reasons 
 he gave for his resolution not to conform with the Act of 
 Uniformity. The rustics sat patiently listening, with no 
 outward sign of assent or of sympathy. But their conduct 
 afterwards proved abundantly to which side their minds in- 
 clined. As for me, I am a woman, and therefore inclined 
 to obey the voice of authority, so that, had I been born a 
 Papist, such I should have continued ; and I am now a 
 member of the Church of England because my husband is 
 of that church, yet not of the kind which is called high. 
 
 It behooves us all to listen with respect when scholars 
 and Avise men inquire into the reasons of things. Yet the 
 preachings and ex])ositions which such as my father be- 
 stowed upon their flocks did certainly awaken men's minds 
 to consider by themselves the things which many think too 
 high for them. It is a habit which may lead to the foun- 
 dation of false and pernicious sects. And it certainly is not 
 good that men should preach the doctrines of the Anabap*
 
 FOk FAITH AiVp FREEDOM. 15 
 
 tists, the Fifth Monarchy men, or the Quakers. Yet it is 
 better that some should be deceived than that all should be 
 slaves. I have been assured by one — I mean Humphrey — 
 who hath travelled, that in those countries where the priest 
 taketh upon himself the religion of the people, so that they 
 think to be saved by attending mass, by fasting, confession, 
 penance, and so forth, that not only does religion itself be- 
 come formal, mechanical, and inanimate, but in the very 
 daily concerns and business of life men grow slothful and 
 lack spirit. Their religion, which is the very heat of the 
 body, the sustaining and vital force of all man's actions, is 
 cold and dead. Therefore, all the virtues are cold also, and 
 with them the courage and the spirit of the people. Thus 
 it is that Italy hath fallen aside into so many small and 
 divided kingdoms. And for this reason, Spain, in the opin- 
 ion of those who know her best, is now falling rapidly into 
 decay. 
 
 I am well assured by those who can remember that the 
 intelligence of the village-folk greatly increased during the 
 period when they were encouraged to search the Scriptures 
 for themselves. Many taught themselves to read, others 
 had their children taught, in order that they might read or 
 hear, daily, portions of the Scriptures. It is now thirty 
 years since authority resumed the rule ; the village-folk 
 have again become, to outward seeming, sheep who obey 
 without questioning. Yet it is observed that when they are 
 within reach of a town — that is to say, of a meeting-house 
 — they willingly flock to the service in the afternoon and 
 evening. 
 
 It was with the following brave words that my father 
 concluded his discourse : 
 
 " Seeing, therefore, my brethren, how clear is the Word 
 of God on these points ; and considering that we must 
 always obey God rather than man ; and observing that here 
 we plainly see the finger of God pointing to disobedience 
 and its consequences, I am constrained to disobey. The 
 consequence will be to me that I shall stand in this place 
 no more : to you, that you will have a stranger in your 
 church. I pray that he may be a godly person, able to 
 divide the Word, learned and acceptable. 
 
 " As for me, I must go forth, perhaps from among you 
 altogether. ^ If persecutions arise, it may behoove me and 
 mine to seek again that land beyond the seas whither my 
 fathers fled for the sake of religious liberty. Whatever 
 happens, I must fain preach the gospel. It is laid upon m*
 
 tl5 Jt-'OR FAiril AXD JREEDOM. 
 
 to preach. If I am silent, it will be as if death itself had 
 fallen upon me. My brethren, there have been times— 
 and those times may return — when the elect have had to meet, 
 secretly, on the sides of barren hills and in the heart of the 
 forest, to pray together and to hear the Word. I say that 
 these times may return. If they do, you M'ill find m^ 
 willing, I hope and pray, to brave for you the worst that 
 our enemies can devise. Perhaps, however, this tyranny 
 may pass over. Already the Lord hath achieved one great 
 deliverance for this ancient realm. Perhaps another may 
 be in his secret purposes when we have been chastened, 
 as, for our many sins, we richly deserve. Whether in 
 affliction or in prosperity, let us always say, ' The Lord's 
 name be praised ! ' 
 
 " Now, therefore, for the sand is running low and I may 
 not weary the young and the impatient, let me conclude. 
 Farewell, sweet Sabbaths ! Farewell, the sweet expound- 
 ing of the Word ! Farewell, sweet pulpit ! Farewell, sweet 
 faces of the souls which I have yearned to present pure 
 and washed clean before the throne ! Islj brethren, I go 
 about, henceforth, as a dog which is muzzled ; another man 
 will fill this pulpit ; our simple form of worship is gone ; 
 the prayer-book and the surplice have come back again. 
 Pray God we see not confession, penance, the mass, the 
 inquisition, the enslavement of conscience, the stake, and 
 the martyrs' axe ! " 
 
 Then he paused and bowed his head, and everybody 
 thought that he had finished. 
 
 He had not. He raised it again, and threw out his arms 
 and shouted aloud, while his eyes glowed like fire 
 
 ''No! I will not be silent. I will not. I am sent nito 
 the world to preach the gospel. I have no other business. 
 I must proclaim the Word as I hope for everlasting life : 
 brethren, we shall meet again. In the woods and on the 
 hills we shall find a temple ; there are houses where two or 
 three may be gathered together, the Lord himself being in 
 their midst Never doubt that I am ready, in season and 
 out of season, whatever be the law, to preach the gospel of 
 the Lord ! " 
 
 He end»d, and straightway descended the pulpit stair, and 
 stalked out of the church, the people looking after him with 
 awe and wonder. But Mr. Boscorel smiled and wagged his 
 head, with a kind of pity.
 
 FOX FAITH AND FREEDOM, ij 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 OUR HOME. 
 
 Thus did my father, by his own act and deed, strip him- 
 self of all his worldly wealth. Yet, having nothing-, he 
 ceased not to put his trust in the Lord, and continued to sit 
 among his books, never asking whence came the food pro- 
 vided for him. I think, indeed, so wrapped was he in 
 thought, that he knew not. As for procuring his daily food, 
 my mother it was who found out the way. 
 
 Those who live in other parts of this kingdom do not know 
 what a busy and populous country is that of Somerset. 
 Apart from the shipping and the great trade with Ireland, 
 Spain, and the West Indies carried on from the port of 
 Bristol, we have our great manufactures of cloth, in which 
 we are surpassed by no country in the world. The town of 
 Taunton alone can boast of eleven hundred looms always 
 at work making sagathies and Des Roys ; there are many 
 looms at Bristol, where they make for the most part druggets 
 and cantaloons ; there they are in great numbers at that 
 rich and populous town of Frome Selwood, where they 
 manufacture the Spanish medleys. Besides the cloth workers, 
 we have, in addition, our knitted-stocking trade, which is 
 carried on mostly at Glastonbury and Shepton Mallet. Not 
 only does this flourishing trade make the masters rich and 
 prosperous (it is not uncommon to find a master with his 
 twenty — ay, and his forty — thousand pounds), but it tills all 
 the country with work, so that the towns are frequent, 
 populous, and full of everything that men can want ; and 
 the very villages are not like those which may be seen 
 in other parts, poor and squalid, but well built and com- 
 fortable. 
 
 Every cottage has its spinning-wheel. The mother, wheiv 
 she is not doing the work of the house, sits at the wheel ; thf 
 girls, when they have nothing else to do, are made to knil 
 stockings. Every week the master-clothier sends round his 
 men among the villages, their pack-horses laden with wool , 
 every week they return, their y *u:ks laden with yarn, ready 
 for the loom.
 
 1 8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 There is no part of England where the people are more 
 prosperous and more contented. Nowhere are there more 
 towns, and all thriving : nowhere are the villages better 
 built : nor can one find anywhere else more beautiful 
 churches. Because the people make good wages they are 
 independent in their manners ; they have learned things sup- 
 posed to be above the station of the humble ; most of them 
 in the towns, and many in the villages, are able to read. 
 This enables them to search the Scriptures, and examine 
 into doctrine by the light of their own reason, guided by 
 grace. And to me, the daughter of a Nonconforming 
 preacher, it does not seem wonderful that so many of them 
 should have become stiff and sturdy Nonconformists. 
 This was seen in the year 1685, and, again, two or three 
 years later, when a greater than Monmouth landed on the 
 western shores. 
 
 My mother, then, seeing no hope that her husband would 
 earn, by any work of his own, the daily bread of the house- 
 hold, bravely followed the example of the women in the vil- 
 lage. That is to say, she set up her spinning-wheel, and 
 spent all the time that she could spare spinning the wool 
 into yarn ; while she taught her little boy first, and after- 
 wards her daughter — as soon as I was old enough — to 
 manage the needles, to knit stockings. What trade, indeed, 
 could her husband follow save one — and that, by law, pro- 
 hibited ? He could not dig; he could not make anything ; 
 he knew not how to buy or sell ; he could only study, 
 write, and preach. Therefore, while he sat among his 
 books in one room, she sat over her wheel in the other, 
 working for the master-clothiers of Frome Selwood. It still 
 makes my heart to swell with pity and with love when 1 
 think upon my mother, thus spending herself and being 
 spent, working all day, huckstering with the rough pack- 
 horsemen more accustomed to exchange rude jests with the 
 rustics than to talk with gentle-women. And this she con- 
 tinued to do year after year, cheerful and contented, so that 
 her husband should never feel the pinch of poverty. Love 
 makes us willing slaves. 
 
 My father, happily, was not a man whose mind was 
 troubled about food. He paid no heed at all to what he 
 ate, provided that it was sufficient for his needs ; he would 
 sup his broth of pork and turnips and bread, after thanks 
 rendered, as if it were the finest dish in the world ; and a 
 piece of cold bacon with a hot cabbage would be a least for 
 him. The cider which he drank was brewed by my mother
 
 1^'OR FAITH AND PJiEEDOAf. 
 
 ^ 
 
 fr(im her own apples ; to him it was as good as if it had 
 been Sherris or Rhenish. I say that he did not even know 
 how his food was provided for him ; his mind was at all 
 ^ mes occupied with subjects so lofty that he knew not what 
 was done under his very eyes. The hand of God, he said, 
 doth still support his faithful. Doubtless we cannot look 
 back upon those years without owning- that we were so 
 supported. But my mother was the instrument ; nay, my 
 father sometimes even compared himself with satisfaction 
 unto the prophet Elijah whom the ravens fed in the Brook 
 Cherith, bringing him flesh and bread in the morning, and 
 flesh and bread in the evening. I suppose my father thought 
 that his bacon and beans came to him in the same manner. 
 
 Yet we should sometimes have fared but poorly had it not 
 been for the charity of our friends. Many a fat capon, green 
 goose, side of bacon, and young grunter came to us from 
 the manor-house, with tobacco, which my father loved, and 
 wine to comfort his soul ; yea, and clothes for us all, else 
 had we gone barefoot and in rags. In this way was many 
 an ejected Elijah at that time nourished and supported. 
 Fresh meat we should never have tasted, any more than 
 the humblest around us, had it not been for our good 
 friends at the manor-house. Those who live in towns can- 
 not understand how frugal and yet sufficient may be the 
 fare of those who live in the country and have gardens and 
 orchards. Cider was our drink, which we made ourselves ; 
 we had some sweet apple-trees, which gave us a stock of 
 russets and pippins for winter use; we had bees (but we 
 sold most of our honey) ; our garden grew salads and 
 onions, beans and the like ; skim milk we could have from 
 the manor-house for the fetching ; for breakfast we had 
 bread and milk, for dinner bread and soft cheese, with a 
 lettuce or an apple ; and bread or bread-and-butter for sup- 
 per. For my father there was always kept a piece of bacon 
 or fat pork. 
 
 Our house was one of the cottages in the village ; it is a 
 stane house (often I sit down to look at it, and to remem- 
 ber those days of humility) with a thick thatch. It had two 
 rooms below and two garrets above. One room was made 
 into a study or library for my father, where also he slept 
 !ipon a pallet. The other was kitchen, spinning-room, parlor, 
 all in one. The door opened upon the garden, and the floor 
 was of stone, so that it was cold. But when Barnaby be- 
 gan to find the use of his hands, he procured some boards, 
 which he laid upon the stones, and so we had a wooden
 
 •O FOR FAITir AND FREEDOM. 
 
 floor ; and in winter across the door was hung a curtaiu t4 
 keep off the wind. 
 
 The walls were whitewashed, and over all my mother 
 had written texts of Scripture with charcoal, so that godly 
 admonition w^as ever present to our eyes and minds. She 
 also embroidered short texts upon our garments, and I have 
 still the cradle in which I was laid, carved (but I do not 
 know by whose hand) with a verse from the Word of God. 
 My father used himself, and would have us employ, the 
 words of the Bible even for the smaller occasions of daily 
 use ; nor would he allow that anything was lawful unless it 
 was sanctioned by the Bible, holding that in the Word was 
 everything necessary or lawful. Did Barnaby go shooting 
 with Sir Christopher and bring him a rabbit .' — Lo ! David 
 bade the children of Israel teach the use of the bow. Did 
 my mother inscruct and amuse me with riddles .<* — She had 
 the warrant of Scripture for it in the example of Samson. 
 Did she sing psalms and spiritual songs to while away the 
 time and make her w^ork less irksome and please her little 
 daughter.? — In the congregation of Nehemiah there were 
 two hundred forty and five singing men and singing wo> 
 men. 
 
 My father read and expounded the Bible to us twice a day 
 — morning and evening. Besides the Bible we had few 
 books which we could read. As for my mother, poor soul, 
 she had no time to read. As for me, when I grew older I 
 borrowed books from the manor-house or Mr. Boscorel. 
 And there were " Old IMr. Dod's Sayings " and "Plain Di- 
 rections by Joseph Large" always on the shelf beside the 
 Bible. 
 
 Now, while my father worked in his study and my 
 brother Barnaby either sat over his lesson-book, his hands 
 rammed into his hair, as if determined to lose nothing, not 
 the least scrap of his portion (yet knowing full well that on 
 the morrow there w^ould not be a word left in his poor un- 
 lucky noddle, and once more the whip), my mother would 
 sit at her wheel earning the daily bread. And, when I was 
 little, she would tell me, speaking very softly, so as not to 
 disturb the wrestling of her husband with a knotty argu- 
 ment, all the things which you have heard — how my father 
 chose rather poverty than to worship at the altar of Baal ; and 
 who two thousand pious ministers, like-minded with himselt, 
 left their pulpits and went out into the cold for conscience' 
 sake. So that I was easily led to think that there were no 
 Christian martyrs and confessors more excellent and praise-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREFDOAf. 2 X 
 
 worthy than these ejected ministers (which still I believe), 
 Then would she tell me further of how they fared, and how 
 the co'nmon people do still reverence them. There was 
 the history of John Norman, of Bridge water : Joseph Chad- 
 wick, of Wrenford ; Felix Howe, of West Torrington ; 
 George Minton, and many others. She also instructed me 
 very early in the history of the Protestant uprising over the 
 best half of Europe, and showed me how against fearful 
 odds, and after burnings and tortures unspeakable, the good 
 people of Germany, the Netherlands, and Great Britain 'A^on 
 their freedom from the pope, so that my heart glowed with- 
 in me to think of the great goodness and mercy which caused 
 me to be born in a Protestant country. She also instructed 
 me, later, m the wickedness of King Charles, whom they now 
 called a martyr, and in the plots of that king, and Laud 
 his archbishop, and how king and archbishop were both 
 overthrowii ancl perished when the people arose and would 
 bear no more. In line, my mother made me, from the 
 beginning, a Puritan. As I remember my rr.other always 
 she was paie of cheek and thin, her voice was gentle ; 
 yet with her very gentleness she would make the blood to 
 run quick in the veins and the heart to beat. 
 
 How have I seen the boys spring to their feet when she 
 has talked with them of the great civil war and the Restora- 
 tion ! But always soft and gentle ; her blue eyes never 
 flashing ; no wrath in her heart ; but the truth, which often 
 causeth righteous anger, always upon her tongue. 
 
 One day, I remember, when I was a little girl playing in 
 the garden, Mr. Boscorel walked down the village in his 
 great silken gown, which seemed always new, his lace ruffs, 
 and his white bands, looking like a bishop at least, and 
 Walking delicately, holding up his gown to keep it from the 
 dust and mud. When he spoke it was in a mincing speech, 
 «ot like our rough Somersetshire ways. He stopped at our 
 »-ate, and looked down the garden. It was a summer day, 
 the doors and windows of the cottage were open ; at our 
 ivindow sat my father bending over his books, in his rusty 
 g'own and black cap, thin and lank ; at the door sat my 
 mother at her wheel. 
 
 "Child," said the rector, " take heed thou never forget 
 In thine age the thing which thou seest daily in thy child- 
 hood. " 
 
 1 knew not what he meant. 
 
 " Read and mark," he said ; " yea, learn by heart what 
 tjie Wise M^n h^th said uf the good woman : 'She layei}]
 
 22 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 her hand to the spindle . . . she maketh fine linen and 
 
 selleth it . . . she eateth not the bread of idleness 
 
 Let her works praise her in the gates.' " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 
 The family of Challis, of Bradford Orcas, is well known; 
 here there has always been a Challis from time immemorial. 
 They are said to have been on the land before the time of 
 the Conqueror. But because they have never been a great 
 family like the Mohuns of Dunster, but only modest gentle- 
 folk with some four or five hundred pounds a year, they 
 have not suffered, like those great houses, from the civil wars, 
 which when they raged in the land, brought in their train so 
 many attainders, sequestrations, beheadings, imprisonments, 
 and fines. Whether the barons fought, or whether Cava- 
 liers and Koundheads, the Challises remained at Bradford 
 Orcas. 
 
 Since the lands is theirs and the village, it is reasonable 
 that they should have done everything that has been done 
 for the place. One of them built the church, but I know 
 not when; another built the tower; another gave the peal 
 of bells. He who reigned here in the time of Henry VII. 
 built the manor-house; another built the mill; the monu- 
 ments in the church are all put up to the memory of Chal- 
 lises dead and gone; there is one, a very stately tomb, which 
 figures to the life Sir William Challis (who died in the time 
 of Queen Elizabeth), carved in marble, and colored, kneel- 
 ing at a desk; opposite to him is his second wife, Grace, 
 also kneeling. Behind the husband are three boys on their 
 knees, and behind the wife are three girls. Apart from this 
 group is the effigy of Filipa, Sir Christopher's first wife, with 
 four daughters kneeling behind her. I was always sorry 
 for Filipa, thus separated and cut off from the society of her 
 husband. There are brasses on the floor with figures of 
 other Challises, and tablets in the wall, and the Challis coat- 
 of-arms is everywhere cut in lozenges, painted in wood, 
 and shining in the east window. It always seemed to me, 
 in my young days, that it was the grandest thing in the 
 world to be a Challis.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 23 
 
 In this family there was a laudable practice with the 
 younger sons that they stayed not at home, as is too often 
 their custom, leading- indolent lives without ambition or 
 fortune, but they sallied forth and sought fortune in trade, 
 or in the law, or in the Church, or in foreign service — wher- 
 ever fortune is to be honorably won — so that, though I dare 
 say some have proved dead and dry branches, others have 
 put forth flowers and fruit abundantly, forming new and 
 vigorous trees sprung from the ancient root. Thus, some 
 have become judges, and some bishops, and some great 
 merchants ; some have crossed the ocean, and are now set- 
 tled in the Plantations ; some have attained rank and estates 
 in the service of Austria. Thus, Sir. Christopher's brother 
 Humphrey went to London and became a Levant merchant 
 and adventurer, rising to great honor and becoming alder- 
 man. I doubt not that he would have been made lord mayor 
 but for his untimely death. And as for his wealth, which 
 was rumored to be so great — but you shall hear of this in 
 due time. 
 
 That goodly following of his household which you have 
 seen enter the church on Farewell Sunday, was shortly 
 afterwards broken into by death. There fell upon the vil- 
 lage (I think it was in the year 1665) the scourge of a putrid 
 fever, of which there died, besides numbers of the village 
 folk, madame herself — the honored wife of Sir Christopher 
 — Humphrey his son, and Madame Patience Boscorel, his 
 daughter. There were left to Sir Christopher, therefore, 
 only his daughter-in-law and his infant grandson Robin. 
 And in that year his household was increased by the arrival 
 of his grand-nephew Humphrey. This child was the grand- 
 son of Sir Christopher's brother, the Turkey or Levant mer- 
 chant of whom I have spoken. He was rich and prosper- 
 ous ; his ships sailed out every year laden with I know not 
 what, and returned with tigs, dates, spices, gums, silks, and 
 all kinds of precious commodities from Eastern parts. It is, 
 I have been told, a profitable trade, but subject to terrible 
 dangers from Moorish pirates, who must be bravely fought 
 and beaten off, otherwise ship and cargo will be taken, and 
 captain and crew driven into slavery. Mr. Challis lived in 
 Thames Street, close to Tower Hill. It is said that he lived 
 here in great splendor, as betits a rich merchant who is also 
 an alderman. 
 
 Now, in the year 1665, as is very well known, the plague 
 broke out in the City. There were living in the house the 
 alderman, his wife, his son, his son's wife, « daughter, and
 
 24 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 his grandson, little Humphrey. On the first outbreak of 
 the pestilence they took counsel together, and resolved that 
 the child should be first sent away to be out of danger, and 
 that they would follow if the plague spread. 
 
 This was done, and a sober man, one of their porters or 
 warehousemen, carried the child, with his nurse, all the 
 way from London to Bradford Orcas. Alas ! Before the 
 boy reached his great-uncle, the house in Thames Street 
 was attacked by the plague, and every one therein perished. 
 Thus was poor little Humphrey deprived of his parents. I 
 know not who were his guardians or trustees, or what steps, 
 if any, were taken to inquire into the alderman's estate ; but 
 when, next year, the Great Fire of London destroyed the 
 house in Thames Street, with so many others, all the estate, 
 whatever it had been, vanished, and could no more be 
 traced. There must have been large moneys owing. It is 
 certain that he had shares in ships. It has been supposed 
 that he owned many houses in the City, but they were de- 
 stroyed and their very sites forgotten, and no deeds or papers, 
 or any proof of ownership, were left. Moreover, there was 
 nobody charged with inquiring into this orphan's affairs. 
 Therefore, in the general confusion nothing at all was saved 
 out of what had been a goodly property, and the child 
 Humphrey was left without a guinea in the world. Thus 
 unstable is Fortune. 
 
 I know not whether Humphrey received a fall in his in- 
 fancy, or whether he was born with his deformity, but the 
 poor lad grew up with a crooked figure, one shoulder being 
 higher than the other, and his legs short, so that he looked 
 as if his arms were too long for him. We, who saw him 
 thus every day, paid no heed, nor did he suffer from any 
 of those cruel gibes and taunts which are often passed upon 
 lads thus afflicted. As he was by nature or misfortune 
 debarred from the rough sports which pleased his cousins, 
 the boy gave himself up to reading and study, and to music. 
 His manner of speech was soft and gentle ; his voice was 
 always sweet, and afterwards became strong as well, so 
 that I have never heard a better singer. His face — ah ! my 
 brother Humphrey, what a lovely face was thine ! All 
 goodness, surely, was stamped upon that face. Never, never 
 did an un-worthy thought defile that candid soul, or a bad 
 action cast a cloud upon that brow ! Where art thou now, 
 oh, Humphrey! brother and fond companion — whither hast 
 thou fled? 
 
 As for Robin, Sir Christopher's grandson, 1 think he was
 
 !■ OR FAITH A.\D I-KEEDOM. 2i> 
 
 always what he is still, namely, a man of a joyous heart 
 and a cheerful countenance. As a boy he laughed con- 
 tinually, would sing more willingly than read, would play 
 rather than work, loved to course and shoot and ride bettei 
 than to learn Latin grammar, and would readily off coat and 
 fight with any who invited him. Yet not a fool or a clown, 
 but always a gentleman in manners, and one who read such 
 things as behoove a country gentleman, and scrupulous as 
 to the point of honor. Such as he is still such he was 
 always. And of a comely presence, with a rosy cheek and 
 bright eyes, and the strength of a young David, as well as his 
 ruddy and goodly countenance. The name of David I am 
 told, David means "darling." Therefore, ought my Robin to 
 have been named David. There were two other boys — Barn- 
 aby, my brother, who was six years older than myself, and 
 therefore, always a great boy ; and Benjamin, the son of 
 the Rev. INIr. Boscorel, the rector. Barnaby grew up so 
 broad and strong that at twelve he would have passed easily 
 for seventeen ; his square shoulders, deep chest, and big 
 limbs made him like a bull for strength. Yet he was 
 shorter than most, and looked shorter than he was by rea- 
 son of his great breadth. He was always exercising his 
 strength ; he would toss the hay with the haymakers, and 
 carry the corn for the reapers, and thresh with the flail, and 
 guide the plough. He loved to climb great trees, and to 
 fell them with an axe. Everybody in the village admired 
 his wonderful strength. Unfortunately, he loved not books, 
 and could never learn anything, so that when, by dint of 
 great application and many repetitions, he had learned a 
 little piece of a Latin verb, he straightway forgot it in the 
 night, and so, next day, there was another flogging. But 
 that he heeded little. He was five years older than Robin, 
 and taught him all his woodcraft — where to find pheasants' 
 eggs, how to catch squirrels, how to trap weasels and 
 stoats, how to hunt the otter, how to make a goldfinch 
 whistle and a raven talk — never was there such a master of 
 that wisdom which doth not advance a man in the world. 
 
 Now, before Barnaby's birth, his mother, after the man- 
 ner of Hannah, gave him solemnly unto the Lord all the 
 days of his life, and after his birth, her husband, after the 
 manner of Elkanah, said "Do what seemeth thee good; 
 only the Lord establish his word." He was, therefore, ic/ 
 become a minister, like his father before him. Alas ! po*/ 
 Barnaby could not even learn the Latin verbs, and hj9 
 heart, it was found, as he grew older, was wholly set upon
 
 9^ FOR FAITH AA'D FREEDOi%f. 
 
 the things of this world. Wherefore, my mother praytei 
 for him daily while she sat at her work, that his heart might 
 be turned, and that he might get understanding. 
 
 As for the fourth of the boys, Benjamin Boscorel, he was 
 about two years younger than Barnaby, a boy who, for want 
 of a mother, and because his father was careless of him, 
 grew up rough and coarse in manners and in speech, and 
 boastful of his powers. To hear Ben talk you would 
 think that all the boys of his school (the grammar-school 
 of Sherborne) were heroes ; that the Latin taught was of a 
 quality superior to that which Robin and Humphrey learned 
 of my father ; and that when he himself went out into the 
 world superiority of his parts would be immediately pre- 
 ceived and acknowledged. 
 
 Those who watch boys at play together — girls more 
 early learn to govern themselves and to conceal their 
 thoughts, if not their tempers — may, after a manner, pre- 
 dict the future character of every one. There is the man 
 who wants all for himself, and still wants more, and will take 
 all and yield nothing, save on compulsion, and cares not a 
 straw about his neighbor — such was Benjamin as a boy. 
 There is the man who gives all generously — such as Robin. 
 There is, again, the man whose mind is raised above the 
 petty cares of the multitude, and dwells apart, occupied 
 with great thoughts — such was Humphrey. Lastly, there 
 is the man who can act, but cannot think, who is born to 
 be led, who is full of courage and of strength, and leavesall 
 to his commander, captain, or master — such was Barnaby. 
 
 As I think of these lads it seems as if the kind of man 
 into which each would grow must have been stamped upon 
 their foreheads. Perhaps to the elders this prognostic was 
 easy to read. 
 
 They suffered me to play with them or to watch them at 
 play. When the boys went off to the woods I went with 
 ihom. I watched them set their traps — I ran when they 
 ran. And then, as now, I loved Robin and Humphrey. 
 But I could not endure — no ; not even the touch of him — 
 Benjamin, with the loud laugh and the braggart voice, who 
 laughed at me because I was a girl and could not fight 
 The time came when he did not laugh at me because I was 
 a girl. And oh ! to think — only to think — of the time that 
 came after that 1
 
 Jl^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SIR CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 At the mere remembrance of Sir Christopher, I am fain to 
 lay down my pen and to weep, as for one whose goodness 
 was unsurpassed, and whose end was undeserved. Good 
 works, I know, are rags, and men cannot deserve the mercy 
 of God by any merits of their own ; but a good man — a man 
 whose heart is full of justice, mercy, virtue, and truth — is so 
 rare a creature, that when there is found such an one his 
 salvation seems assured. Is it not wonderful that there are 
 among us so many good Christians, but so few good men 1 
 I am, indeed, in private duty bound to acknowledge Sir 
 Christopher's goodness to me and to mine. He was, as I 
 have said, the mainstay of our household. Had we de- 
 pended wholly on my mother's work, we should sometimes 
 have fared miserably indeed. Nay, he did more. Though 
 a justice of the peace, he invited my father every Sunday 
 evening to the manse-house for spiritual conversation, not 
 ©nly for his own profit, but knowing that to expound was 
 to my father the breath of his nostrils, so that if he could 
 not expound he must die. In person. Sir Christopher was 
 tall ; after the fashion (which I love) of the days when he 
 was a young man, he wore his own hair, which, being now 
 white and long, became his venerable face much better than 
 any wig — white, black, or brown. He was generally 
 dressed, as became his station of simple country gentleman, 
 in a plush coat with silver buttons, and for the most part he 
 wore boots, being of an active habit and always walking; 
 about his fields or in his garden among his flowers and his 
 fruit-trees. He was so good a sportsman that with his rod, 
 his gun, or his hawk he provided his table with everything 
 except beef, mutton, and pork. In religion he inclined to 
 Independency, being above all things an upholder of private 
 judgment ; in politics, he denied the divine right, and 
 openly said that a Challis might be a king as well as a 
 Stuart ; he abhorred the pope and all his works ; and though 
 he was now for a monarchy, he would have the kiM;;^'s own 
 power limited by the Parlian^ent \\\ his manners he was
 
 28 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 grave and dignified ; not austere, but one who loved a 
 cheerful companion. He rode once a week, on market day, 
 to Sherborne, where he dined with his brother justices, hear- 
 ing and discussing the news, though news comes but slowly 
 from London to these parts — it was fourteen days after the 
 landing of the king, in the year 1660, that the bells of Sher- 
 borne Minster rang for that event. Sometimes a copy o{ 
 the London Gazette came down by the Exeter coach, or some 
 of the company had lately passed a night where the coacl: 
 stopped, and conversed with travellers from London and 
 heard the news. For the rest of the week, his honor was 
 at home. For the most part he sat in the hall. In the 
 middle stands the great oak table where all the household 
 sit at meals together. There was little difference between 
 the dishes served above and those below the salt, save that 
 those above had each a glass of strong ale or of wine after 
 dinner and supper. One side of the hall was hung with 
 arras worked with representations of herbs, beasts, and 
 birds. On the other side was a great chimney, where in 
 the winter a noble fire was kept up all day long. On either 
 side of it hung fox skins, otter skins, polecat skins, with 
 fishing-rods, stags'-heads, horns, and other trophies of the 
 chase. At the end was a screen covered with old coats-of- 
 mail, helmets, bucklers, lances, pikes, pistols, guns with 
 match-locks, and a trophy of swords arranged in form of a 
 star. Below the cornice hung a row of leathern jerkins, 
 black and dusty, which had formerly been worn in place of 
 armor by the common sort. In the oriel window was a 
 sloping desk, having on one side the Bible, and on the 
 other Fox's "Book of IMartyrs." Below was a shelf with 
 other books, such as Vincent Wing's Almanack, King 
 Charles's " Golden Rules," "Glanville on Apparitions," the 
 "Complete Justice," and the "Book of Farriery." There 
 was also in the hall a great sideboard, covered with Turkey 
 work, pewter, brass, and fine linen. In the cupboard be 
 low was his honor's plate, reported to be worth a grea' 
 deal of money. 
 
 Sir Christopher sat in a high chair, curiously carved, with 
 arms and a triangular seat. It had belonged to the family 
 for many generations. Within reach of the chair v'as the 
 tobacco-jar, his pipe, and his favorite book — namely, "The 
 Gentleman's Academic : or the Book of St. Alban's, being a 
 work on Hunting, Hawking, and Armorie," by Dame 
 Juliana Berners, who wrote it two hundred and fifty years 
 ago. Sir Christopher loved especially to read aloud a
 
 POR PAITH AND Jp-REEDOM. 
 
 2g 
 
 chapter in which it was proved that the distinction between 
 gentleman and churl began soon after the creation, when 
 Cain proved himself a churl, and Seth was created gentle- 
 man and esquire, or armiger, by Adam, his father. This 
 distinction was renewed after the flood by Noah himself, a 
 gentleman by lineal descent from Seth. In the case of his 
 sons, Ham was the churl, and the other two were the gentle- 
 men. I have sometimes thought that, according to this 
 author, all of us who are descended from Shem or Japhet 
 should be gentlemen, in which case there would be 110 
 churl in Great Britain at all. But certainly there are many ; 
 so that, to my poor thinking. Dame Juliana Berners must 
 be wrong. 
 
 There is, in addition to the great hall, the best parlor. But 
 as this was never wanted, the door of it was never opened 
 except at cleaning time. Then, to be sure, one saw a room 
 furnished very grand, with chairs in Turkey work, and 
 hung round with family portraits. The men were clad in 
 armor, as if they had all been soldiers or commanders ; the 
 women were mostly dressed as shepherdesses, with crooks 
 in their hands and flowing robes. In the garden was a long 
 bowling green, where in summer Sir Christopher took great 
 pleasure in that ancient game ; below the garden was a 
 broad fish-pond, made by damming the stream ; above and 
 below the pond there are trout, and in the pond are carp and 
 jack. A part of the garden was laid out for flowers, a part 
 for the stillroom, and a part for fruit. I have never seen 
 anywhere a better ordered garden for the stillroom. Every- 
 thing grew therein that the housewife wants : sweet cicely, 
 rosemary, burnet, sweet basil, chives, dill, clary, angelica, 
 lipwort, tarragon, thyme, and mint ; there were, as T-ord 
 Bacon, in his " Essay on Gardens," would have, "whole 
 alleys of them to have the pleasure when you walkor tread. " 
 There were thick hedges to keep off the east wind in spring, 
 so that one would enjoy the sun when that cold wind was 
 blowing. But in Somerset that wind hath not the bitterness 
 that it possesses along the eastern shores of the land. 
 
 Every morning Sir Christopher sat in his justice's chair 
 under the helmets and the coats of armor. Sometimes 
 gypsies would be brought before him, charged with stealing 
 poultry or poisoning pigs; or a rogue and vagabond would 
 stray into the parish ; these gentry were very speedily whip- 
 ped out of it. As for our own people, there is nowhere a 
 more quiet and orderly village ; quarrels there are with the 
 clothiers' men, who will still try to beat down the value of
 
 so 
 
 FOI! FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 the women's work, and bickerings sometimes between the 
 women themselves. Sir Christopher was judge for all. 
 Truly he was a patriarch like unto Abraham, andafather to 
 his people. Never was sick man suffered to want for medi- 
 cines and succor ; never was aged man suffered to lack 
 food and fire ; did any youth show leanings towards sloth, 
 profligacy, or drunkenness, he was straightway admonished, 
 and that right soundly, so that his back and shoulders would 
 remind him for many days of his sin. By evil-doers Sir 
 Christopher was feared as much as he was beloved by all 
 good men and true. This also is proper to one in high 
 station and authority. 
 
 In the evening he amused himself in playing backgam- 
 mon with the boys, or chess with his son-in-law, Mr. 
 Boscorel ; but the latter with less pleasure, because he was 
 generally defeated in the game. He greatly delighted in 
 the conversation and society of that learned and ingenious 
 gentleman, though on matters of religion and of politics his 
 son-in-law belonged to the opposite way of thinking 
 
 I do not know why Mr. Boscorel took upon himself holy 
 orders. God forbid that I should speak ill of any in author- 
 ity, and especially of one who was kind and charitable to 
 all, and refused to become a persecutor of those who de- 
 sired freedom of conscience and of speech. But if the chief 
 duty of a minister of the gospel is to preach, then was Mr. 
 Boscorel little better than a dog who cannot bark. He did 
 not preach ; that is to say, he could not, like my father, 
 mount the pulpit, Bible in hand, and teach, admonish, argue, 
 and convince without a written word. He read every Sun- 
 day morning a brief discourse, which might, perhaps, have 
 instructed Oxford scholars, but would not be understood by 
 the common people. As for arguments on religion, spiritual 
 conversation, or personal experience of grace, he would 
 lever suffer such talk in his presence, because it argued 
 private judgment and caused, he said, the growth of spiritual 
 pride. And of those hot Gospellers whose zeal brings them 
 to prison and the pillory, he spoke with contempt. His 
 conversation, I must acknowledge, was full of delight and 
 instruction, if the things which one learned of him were not 
 vanities. He had travelled in Italy and in France, and he 
 loved to talk of poetry, architecture, statuary, medals and 
 coins, antiquities and so forth — things harmless, and, per- 
 haps, laudable in themselves, but for a preacher of the 
 gospel, who ought to think of nothing but his sacred call- 
 ing, they are surely superfluities. Or he would talk of th*
 
 POR j-AJTJI A.XD 2-REEDOM. X\ 
 
 manners and customs of strange countries, and especially 
 of the pope. This person, whom I have been taught to look 
 upon as from the very nature of his pretensions the most 
 wicked of living men, Mr. Boscorel regarded with as much 
 toleration as he bestowed upon an Independent. Thus he 
 would tell us of London and the manners of the great ; of 
 the king, whom he had seen, and the court, seeming to 
 wink at things which one ought to hold in abhorrence. He 
 even told us of the playhouse, which, according to my 
 father, is the most subtle engine ever invented by the devil 
 for the destruction of souls. Yet Mr. Boscorel sighed to 
 think that he could no longer visit that place of amusement. 
 He loved also music, and played movingly upon the vio- 
 loncello ; and he could make pictures with pen, pencil, or 
 brush. I have some of his pamtings still, especially a 
 picture which he drew of Humphrey playing the fiddle, his 
 great eyes looking upward as if the music were drawing 
 his soul to heaven. I know not why he painted a halo about 
 his face. Mr. Boscorel also loved poetry, and quoted 
 Shakespeare and Ben Jonson more readily than the word 
 God. 
 
 In person he was of a goodly countenance, having clear- 
 cut features ; a straight nose, rather long ; soft eyes, and a 
 gentle voice. He was dainty in his apparel, loving fine 
 clean linen, and laced neckerchiefs, but was not a gross 
 feeder ; he drank but little wine, but would discourse upon 
 fine wines, such as the Tokay of Hungary, Commandery 
 wine from Cyprus, and the like, and he seemed ])etter 
 pleased to watch the color of the wine in the glass, and to 
 breathe its perfume, than to drink it. Above all things he 
 hated coarse speech and rude manners. He spoke of men 
 as if he stood on an eminence watching them, and always 
 with pity, as if he belonged to a nobler creation. How 
 ciouki such a man have such a son ?
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREELOM. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE RUNAWAY. 
 
 Everybody hath heard, and old people still remember, how 
 one act after the other was passed for the suppression of 
 the Nonconformists, whom the Church of England tried to 
 extirpate, but could not. Had these laws been truly carried 
 into effect there would have been great suffering among the 
 Dissenters ; but, in order to enforce them, every man's hand 
 would have been turned against his neighbor, and this — 
 thank God ? — is not possible in Somerset. 
 
 For example, the Act of Conformity provided not only for 
 the ejectment of Nonconforming ministers (which was duly 
 carried out), but also enacted that none of them should take 
 scholars without the license of the bishop. Yet many of the 
 ejected ministers maintained themselves in this way, openly, 
 without the bishop's license. They were not molested, 
 though they might be threatened by some hot Episcopalian ; 
 nor were the bishops anxious to set the country afire by 
 attempting to enforce this law. One must not take from an 
 honest neighbor, whatever an unjust law may command, 
 his only way of living. 
 
 Again, the act passed two years later punished all per- 
 sons with fine and imprisonment who attended conventi- 
 cles. Yet the conventicles continued to be held over the 
 whole country, because it was impossible for the justices to 
 fine and imprison men with whom they sat at dinner every 
 T^arket-day. with whom they took their punch and tobacco, 
 whom they knew to be honest and God-fearing folk. Agaim, 
 how could they fine and imprison their own flesh and 
 blood .? Why, in every family there were some who loved 
 the meeting-house better than the steeple-house. Laws 
 have little power when they are against the conscience of 
 the people. 
 
 Thirdly, there was an act prohibiting ministers from re- 
 siding within five miles of the village or town where they 
 had preached. This was a most cruel and barbarous act, 
 because it sent the poor ministers away from the help of 
 tbeir friends. Yet how was it regarded? My father, for
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 7,^ 
 
 his part, continued to live at Bradford Orcas without let oi 
 Hindrance, and so, no doubt, did many more. 
 
 Again, another act was passed giving authority to justices 
 of the peaci; to break open doors and to take in custody per- 
 sons found assembling for worship. I have heard of dis- 
 turbances at Taunton, where the magistrates carried things 
 with a high hand ; but I think the people who met to wor- 
 ship after their own fashion were little disturbed. Among 
 the Churchmen were some, no doubt, who remembered the 
 snubs and rubs they had themselves experienced, and the 
 memory may have made them revengeful. All the persecu- 
 tion, it is certain, was not on this side of the Church. 
 There was, for instance, the case of Dr. Walter Raleigh, 
 Dean of Wells, who was clapped into a noisome prison 
 where the plague had broken out. He did not die of that 
 disease, but was done to death in the jail, barbarously, by 
 one David Barrett, shoemaker, who was never punished for 
 the murder, but was afterwards made constable of the City. 
 There was also the case of the Rev. Dr. Piers, whom I have 
 myself seen, for he lived to a good old age. He was a pre- 
 bendary of Wells and, being driven forth, was compelled to 
 turn farmer, and to work with his own hands — digging, hoe- 
 ing, ploughing, reaping, and threshing — when he should 
 have been in his study. Every week this reverend and 
 learned doctor of divinity was to be seen at Ilminster Mar- 
 ket, standing beside the pillars with his cart, among the 
 farmers and their wives, selling his apples, cheese, and 
 cabbages. 
 
 I say that no doubt many remembered these things. Yet 
 the affection of the people went forth to the Nonconformists 
 and the ejected ministers, as was afterwards but too well 
 proved. I have been speaking of things which happened 
 before my recollection. It was in the year 1665, four years 
 after the ejection, that I was born. My father named me 
 Grace Abounding, but I have never been called by any other 
 name than my first. 1 was thus six years younger than my 
 brother Barnaby, and two years younger than Robin and 
 Humphrey. 
 
 The first thing that I can recollect is a kind of picture, 
 preserved, so to speak, in my head. At the open door is a 
 woman spinning at the wheel. She is a woman with a pale, 
 grave face ; she v/orks diligently, and for the most part in 
 silence ; if she speaks, it is to encourage or to admonish a 
 little girl who plays in the garden outside. Her lips move 
 as she works, because she communes with her thoutj;hts all
 
 34 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 day long-. From time to time she turns her head and looks 
 with anxiety into the other room, where sits her husband 
 at his table. 
 
 Before him stand three boys. They are Barnaby, Robin, 
 and Humphrey. They are learning- Latin. The room is 
 piled with books on shelves and books on the floor. In the 
 corner is a pallet, which is the master's bed by night I hear 
 the voices of the boys who repeat their lessons, and the 
 admonishing of their master. I can see through the open 
 door the boys themselves. One, a stout and broad lad, is 
 my brother Barnaby ; he hangs his head and forgets his les- 
 son, and causes his father to punish him every day. He 
 recei*. es admonition with patience, yet profiteth nothing. 
 The next is Humphrey ; he is already a lad of grave and 
 modest carriage, who loves his books and learns diligently. 
 The third is Robin, whose parts are good, were his applica- 
 tion equal to his intelligence. He is impatient, and longs 
 for the time when he may close his book and go to play 
 again. 
 
 Poor Barnaby ! at the sight of a Latin grammar he would 
 feel sick. He would willingly have taken a flogging every 
 day — to be sure, that generally happened to him — in order 
 to escape his lessons and be off to the fields and woods. 
 
 It was the sight of his rueful face — yet never sad except 
 at lessons — which made my mother sigh when she saw him 
 dull but patient over his book. Had he stayed at home I 
 know not what could have been done with him, seeing that 
 to become a preacher of the gospel was beyond even the 
 power of prayer (the Lord having clearly expressed his will 
 in this matter). He would have had to clap on a leathern 
 apron, and become a wheelwright or blacksmith ; nothing 
 better than an honest trade was possible for him. 
 
 But (whether happily or not) a strange whim seized the 
 boy when he was fpurteen years of age. He would go tc 
 sea. How he came to think of the sea I know not ; he 
 had never seen the sea ; there were no sailors in the vil- 
 lag-e ; there was no talk of the sea. Perhaps Humphrey, 
 wno read many books, told him of the great doings of our 
 sailors on the Spanish main and elsewhere. Perhaps some 
 of the clothiers' men, who are a roving and unsettled crew, 
 had been sailors ; some, I know, bad been soldiers under 
 Oliver. However, this matters not, Barnaby must needs 
 become a sailor. 
 
 When first he broke this resolution, which he did secretly, 
 to fiis mother, she began to weep and lament, because
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 35 
 
 everybody knows how dreadful is the life of a sailor, and 
 how full of dangers. She begged him to put the thought 
 out of his head, and to apply himself again to his books. 
 
 " Mother," he said, "it is no use. What comes in at one 
 ear goes out at the other. Nothing sticks ; I shall never be 
 a scholar." 
 
 " Then, my son, learn an honest trade." 
 
 " What 1 Become the village cobbler — or the black- 
 smith ? Go hat in hand to his honor, when my father should 
 have been a bishop, and my mother is a gentlewoman } 
 That will I not. I will go and be a sailor. All sailors are 
 gentlemen. 1 shall rise, and become first mate, and then 
 second captain, and lastly, captain in command. Who 
 knows ? I may go and tight the Spaniard, if I am lucky." 
 
 " Oh, my son, canst thou not stay at home and go to 
 church, and consider the condition of thine immortal soul ? 
 Of sailors it is well known that their language is made up 
 of profane oaths, and that they are all profligates and drunk- 
 ards. Consider, my son " — my mother laid her hand upon 
 his arm — "what were heaven to me, if I have not my dear 
 children with me as well as my husband .? How could I 
 praise the Lord if I were thinking of my son who was not 
 with me .? but — ah ! Heaven forbid the thought ! " 
 
 Barnaby made no reply. What could he say in answer 
 to my mother's tears .-* Yet I think she must have under- 
 stood very well that her son, having got this resolution in- 
 to Ms head, would never give it up. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, " when thou wast a little baby in my 
 arms, Barnaby — who are now so big and strong " — she 
 looked at him with the wonder and admiration that women 
 feel when their sons grow big and stout — "I prayed that 
 God would accept thee as an offering for his service. Thou 
 art vowed unto the Lord, my son, as much as Samuel. Do 
 you think he complained of his lessons ? What would have 
 happened, think you, to Samuel, if he had taken off his 
 ephod and declared that he would serve no longer at the 
 altar, but must take spear and shield, and go to fight the 
 Amalekite .'' " 
 
 Said Barnaby, in reply, speaking from an unregenerate 
 heart, " Mother, had I been Samuel, to wear an cphod and 
 to learn the Latin syntax every day, I should have done 
 that. Ay ! I would have done it, even if I knew that at 
 the first skirmish an arrow would pierce my heart." 
 
 It was after a great flogging, on account of the passive 
 voice or some wrestling with the syntax that Barnaby
 
 ^6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM 
 
 plucked up courage to tell his father what he wished to da 
 
 " With my consent," said my father, sternly, "thou shalt 
 never become a sailor. As soon would I send thee to be- 
 come a buffoon in a playhouse. Never dare to speak of it 
 again. " 
 
 Barnaby hung his head and said nothing. 
 
 Then my mother, who knew his obstinate disposition, 
 took him to Sir Christopher, who chid him roundly, telling 
 him that there was work for him on land, else he would 
 liave been born beside the coast, where the lads take nat- 
 urally to the sea ; that being, as he was, only an ignorant 
 hoy, and landborn, he could not know the dangers which 
 he would encounter ; that some ships are cast away on 
 desert islands, where the survivors remain in misery until 
 they died, and some on lands where savages devour them, 
 and some are dragged down by calamries and other dread- 
 ful monsters, and some are burned at sea, their crews having 
 to choose miserably between burning and drowning, and 
 some are taken by the enemy, and the sailors clapped into 
 dungeons and tortured by the accursed Inquisition. 
 
 Many more things did Sir Christopher set forth, showing 
 the miserable life and the wretched end of the sailor. But 
 Barnaby never changed countenance ; and though my 
 mother bade him note this and mark that, and take heed 
 unto his honor's words, his face showed no melting. 'Twas 
 always an obstinate lad ; nay, it was his obstinacy alone 
 which kept him from his learning. Otherwise, he might 
 perhaps have become as great a scholar as Humphrey. 
 
 "Sir," he said, when Sir Christopher had no other word to 
 say, " with submission, I would still choose to be a sailor, 
 if I could." 
 
 In the end he obtained his wish. That is to say, since 
 no one would help him towards it, he helped himself. And 
 this, I think, is the only way in which men do ever get what 
 they want 
 
 It happened one evening that there passed through the 
 village a man with a pipe and tabor, on which he played 
 so movingly that all the people turned out to listen. For 
 my own part I was with my mother, yet I ran to the garden- 
 gate and leaned my head over, drawn by the sound of the 
 music. Presently the boys and girls began to take hands 
 and to dance. I dare not say that to dance is sinful, because 
 David danced. But it was so regarded by my father, so 
 that when he passed by them, on his way home from taking 
 the »Af, and actually saw his own son Barnaby in the middle
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 37 
 
 of the dancers, footing it with them all, leading one girl up 
 and the other down at "John come and kiss me now," he 
 was seized with a mighty wrath, and, catching his son 
 sharply by the ear, led him out of the throng and so home. 
 For that evening Barnaby went supperless to bed, with the 
 promise of such a flogging in the morning as would cause 
 him to remember for the rest of his life the sinfulness of 
 dancing. Never had I seen my father so angry. I trembled 
 before his wrathful eyes. But Barnaby faced him with 
 steady looks, making answer none, yet not showing the 
 least repentance or fear. I thought it was because a flog- 
 ging had no terrors for him. The event proved that I was 
 wrong, for when we awoke in the morning he was gone. 
 He had crept down-stairs in the night ; he had taken half a 
 loaf of bread and a great cantle of soft cheese, and had 
 gone away. I knew for my part, very well, that he had not 
 gone for fear of the rod ; he had run away with design to 
 go to sea. Perhaps he had gone to Bristol ; perhaps to 
 Plymouth ; perhaps to Lyme. My mother wept, and my 
 father sighed ; and for ten years more we neither saw nor 
 heard anything of Barnaby, not even whether he was dead 
 or living. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BENJAMIN, LORD CHANCELLOR. 
 
 Summer follows winter, and winter summer, in due course, 
 turning children into young men and maidens, changing 
 school into work, and play into love, and love into marriage, 
 and so onwards to the churchyard, where we all presently 
 lie, hopeful of heaven's mercy, whether Mr. Boscorel did 
 stand beside our open grave in his white surplice, or my 
 father in his black gown. 
 
 Barnaby was gone ; the other three grew tall, and would 
 still be talking of the lives before them. Girls do never look 
 forward to the future with the eagerness and joy of boys. 
 To the dullest boy it seems a fine thing to be master of his 
 own actions, even if that liberty lead to whipping-post, 
 pillory, or gallows. To boys of ambition and imagination 
 the ^ifts of Fortune show like the splendid visions of ^
 
 38 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 prophet They think that earthly fame will satisfy the 
 soul. Perhaps women see these glories and their true worth 
 with clearer eye, as not desiring them. And truly it seems 
 a small thing, after a life spent in arduous toil, and with 
 one foot already in the grave, to obtain fortune, rank, or 
 title. 
 
 Benjamin and Humphrey were lads of ambition. To 
 them, but in fields which lay far apart, the best life seemed 
 to be that which is spent among men on the ant-hill where 
 all are driving and being driven, loading each other with 
 burdens intolerable, or with wealth or with honors, and 
 then dying and being forgotten in a moment — which we call 
 London. In the kindly country one stands apart and sees 
 the vanity of human wishes. Yet the ambition of Hum- 
 phrey, it must be confessed, was noble, because it was not 
 for his own advancement, but for the good of mankind. 
 
 "I shall stay at home," said Robin. '-'You two may go 
 if you please. Perhaps you v.'ill like the noise of London, 
 where a man cannot hear himself speak, they say, for the 
 roaring of the crowd, the ringing of the bells, and the rum- 
 bling of the carts. As for me, what is good enough for my 
 grandfather will be surely good enough for me." 
 
 It should, indeed, be good enough for anybody to spend 
 his days after the manner of Sir Christopher, administering 
 justice for the villagers, with the weekly ordinary at Sher- 
 borne for company, the green fields and his garden for 
 pleasure and for exercise, and the welfare of his soul for 
 prayer. Robin, besides, loved to go forth with hawk and 
 gun ; to snare the wild creatures ; to hunt the otter and the 
 fox ; to bait the badger, and trap the stoat and weasel ; to 
 course the hares. But cities and crowds, even if they 
 should be shouting in his honor, did never draw him, even 
 after he had seen them. Nor was he ever tempted to believe 
 any ma):iner of life more full of delight and more consistent 
 with the end of man's creation than the rural life, the air of 
 the fields, the following of the plough for the men, and the 
 spinning-wheel for the women. 
 
 " I shall be a lawyer," said Benjamin, puffing out his 
 cheeks and squaring his shoulders. "Very well, then, I 
 shall be a great lawyer. What ? None of your pettifog- 
 ging tribe for me : I shall step to the front, and stay there. 
 What? Some one must have the prizes and the promotion. 
 There are always places falling vacant and honors to be 
 g-iver* away : they shall be given to me. ^^ hy not to me 
 as well as another ? "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 3^ 
 
 "Well," said Robin, "you are strong enough to take 
 them, willy-nilly." 
 
 " I am strong enough," he replied, with conviction. 
 " First, I shall be called to the outer bar, where I shall plead 
 in stuff — I saw them at Exeter last 'sizes. Next, I shall be 
 summoned to become king's counsel, when I shall flaunt it 
 in silk. Who but 1 1 " Then he seemed to grow actually 
 three inches taller, so great is the power of imagination. 
 He M''as already six feet in height, his shoulders broad, and 
 his face red and tiery, so that now he looked very big and 
 tall. " Then my inn will make me a bencher, and I shall 
 sit at the high table in term-time. And the attorneys shall 
 run after me and fight with each other for my services in 
 court, so that in every great case I shall be heard thunder- 
 ing before the jury, and making the witnesses perjure them- 
 selves with terror — for which they will be afterwards flogged. 
 I shall belong to. the king's party — none of your canting 
 Whigs for me. When the high-treason cases come on, I 
 shall be the counsel for the crown. That is the high-road 
 to advancement. " 
 
 "This is very well, so far," said Robin, laughing. "Ben 
 is too modest, however. He does not get on fast enough." 
 
 " All in good time," Ben replied. " I mean to get on as 
 fast as anybody. But I shall follow the beaten road. First 
 favor with attorneys and those who have suits in the courts ; 
 then the ear of the judge. I know not how one gets the ear 
 of the judge — " he looked despondent for a moment, then 
 he held up his head again — "Ijut I shall find out. Others 
 have found out — why not I 'i What } I am no fool, am 1 ? " 
 
 " Certainly not, Ben. But as yet we stick at king's 
 counsel." 
 
 " After the car of the judge, the favor of the crown. What 
 do I care who is king ? It is the king who hath preferment 
 and place and honors in his gift. Where these are given 
 away, there shall I be found. Next am I made sergeant-at- 
 'aw. Then I am saluted as 'brother' by the judges on the 
 bench, while all the others burst with envy. After that I 
 shall myself be called to the bench. I am already ' my lord 
 — ' why do you laugh, Robin.? — and a knight : Sir Benjamin 
 Boscorel — Sir Benjamin." Here he puffed out his checks 
 again and swung his shoulders like a very great person 
 indeed. 
 
 " Proceed, Sir Benjamin," said Humphrey, gravely, while 
 Robin laughed. 
 
 •* When I am a judge J promise ;{ou I will rate the bar-
 
 40 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 risters and storm at the witnesses and admonish the jury uiv 
 til there shall be no other question in their minds but to find 
 out first what is my will in the case, and then to govern 
 themselves accordingly. I will be myself judge and jury 
 and all. Oh ! I have seen the judge at last Exeter 'sizes. 
 He made all to shake in their shoes. I shall not stop there. 
 Chief baron I shall be, perhaps — but on that point I have 
 not yet made up my mind — and then lord chancellor." He 
 paused to take breath, and looked around him, grandeur 
 and authority upon his brow. "Lord chancellor," he re- 
 peated, "on the woolsack ! " 
 
 "You will then," said Robin, "be raised to the peerage 
 — first Lord Boscorel ; or perhaps, if your lordship will so 
 honor this poor village, Lord Bradford Orcas — " 
 
 " Earl of Sherborne I have chosen for title, " said Benja- 
 min. "And while I am climbing up the ladder, where 
 wilt thou be, Humphrey } Grovelling in the mud with the 
 poor devils who cannot rise } " 
 
 "Nay, I shall have a small ladder of my own, Ben. I 
 find great corrifort in the thought that when your lordship 
 is roaring and bawling with the gout — your noble toe being 
 like a ball of fire and your illustrious foot swathed in flannel 
 — I shall be called upon to drive away the pain, and you 
 will honor me with the title not only of humble cousin, but 
 also of rescuer and preserver. Will it not be honor enough 
 to cure the Right Honorable the Earl of Sherborne 
 (first of the name), the lord chancellor, of his gout and to 
 restore him to the duties of his great office, so that once 
 more he shall be the dread of evil-doers and of all who have 
 to appear before him ? As yet, my lord, your extremities, 
 I perceive, are free from that disease — the result, too often, 
 of that excess in wine which besets the great." 
 
 Here Robin laughed again, and so did Benjamin. No- 
 body could use finer language than Humphrey, if he 
 pleased. 
 
 "A fine ambition I " said Ben. "To wear a black velvet 
 coat and a great wig ; to carry a gold-headed cane ; all day 
 long to listen while the patient tells of his gripes and pains ; 
 to mix boluses and to compound nauseous draughts ! 
 
 " Well," Humphrey laughed," if you are lord chancellor, 
 Ben, you will, I hope, give us good laws, and so make the 
 nation happy and prosperous. While you are doing this. I 
 will be keeping you in health for the good of the country. 
 I say that this is a fine ambition." 
 
 "An4 Robin, here, will sit in the great chair, and have
 
 tOk I-'A/TH AA^D freedom. 4 1 
 
 he rogues haled before him, and order the head-borough to 
 bring out his cat-o'-nine-tails. In the winter evenings he 
 will play backgammon, and in the summer bowls. Then 
 a posset, and to bed. And never any change from year to 
 year. A fine life, truly ? " 
 
 "Truly, I think it is a very fine life," said Robin ; "while 
 you make the laws, I will take care that they are obeyed. 
 What better service is there than to cause good laws to be 
 obeyed? Make good laws, my lord chancellor, and be 
 t!iankful that you will have faithful, law-abiding men to 
 carry them out." 
 
 Thus they talked. Presently the time came when the 
 l:i(ls must leave the village and go forth to prepare for such 
 course as should be allotted to them, whether it led to great- 
 ness or to obscurity. 
 
 Benjamin went first, being sixteen years of age and a 
 {;reat fellow as I have said, broad-shouldered and lusty, with 
 a red face, a strong voice and a loud laugh. In no respect 
 (lid he resemble his father, who was delicate in manner and 
 in speech. He was to be entered at Gray's Inn, where, under 
 some counsel learned in the law, he was to read until such 
 lime as he should be called. 
 
 He came to bid me farewell, which at first, until he 
 frightened me with the things he said, I took kindly of 
 him. 
 
 "Child," he said, "I am going to London, and, I sup' 
 pose, I shall not come back to this village for a long time, 
 Nay, were it not for thee, I should not wish to come back 
 at all." 
 
 " Why for me, Ben ? " 
 
 "Because — " here his red face became redder, and he 
 stammered a little ; but not much, for he was ever a lad of 
 confidence — "because, child, thou art notyet turned twelve 
 which is young to be hearing of such a thing. Yet a body 
 may as well make things safe. And as for Humphrey or 
 Robin interfenng, I will break their heads with my cudgel 
 if they do. Remember that, then." He shook his finger at 
 me, threatening. 
 
 " In what business should they interfere .-' " I asked. 
 
 "Kiss me, Grace" — here he tried to lay his arm round 
 my neck, but I ran away. "Oh! if thou art skittish, I 
 care not : all in good time. Very well, then ; let us make 
 things safe. Grace, when I am come back thou wilt be 
 seventeen or eighteen, which is an age when girls should 
 marry — "
 
 42 
 
 FOk FATTir AMD FREEDOM. 
 
 " I will have nothing to do with marrying, Ben.'' 
 
 "Not yet. If I mistake not, child, thou wilt then be as 
 beautiful as a rose in June." 
 
 " I want no foolish talk, Ben. Let me go." 
 
 "Then I shall be twenty-one years of age, practising in 
 the courts. I shall go the Western Circuit, in order to see 
 thee often — partly to keep an eye upon thee and partly to 
 warn off other men. Because, child, it is my purpose to 
 marry thee myself. Think upon that, now." 
 
 At this I laughed. 
 
 "Laugh if you please, my dear ; I shall marry thee as 
 soon as the way is open to the bench and the Avoolsack. 
 What.'* I can see a long way ahead. I will tell thee what 
 I see. There is a monstrous great crowd of people in the 
 street staring at a glass coach. ' Who is the lovely lady .? ' 
 they ask. ' The lovely lady ' — that is you, Grace ; none 
 other — ' with the diamonds at her neck and the gold chain, 
 in the glass coach ? ' says one who knows her liveries ; 
 " 'tis the lady of the great lord chancellor, the Earl of Sher- 
 borne. ' And the women fall green with envy of her hap- 
 piness and great good-fortune and her splendor. Courage, 
 child ; I go to prepare the way. Oh ! thou knowest not 
 the grand things that I shall pour into thy lap when I am a 
 judge." 
 
 This was the first time that any man spoke to me of love. 
 But Benjamin was always masterful, and had no respect for 
 such a nice point as the wooing of a maiden — which, me- 
 thinks, should be gentle and respectful, not as if a woman 
 was like a savage to be tempted by a string of beads, or so 
 foolish as to desire with her husband such gauds as 
 diamonds, or gold chains, or a glass coach. Nor doth a 
 woman like to be treated as if she was to be carried off by 
 force like the Sabine women of old. 
 
 The rector rode to London with his son. It is a long 
 journey, over rough ways ; but it pleased him once more 
 to see that great city, where there are pictures and statues 
 and books to gladden the hearts of such as love these things. 
 And on the way home he sojourned for a few days at his 
 old college of All-Souls, where were still left one or two of 
 his old friends. Then he rode back to his village. " There 
 are but two places in this country," he said, " or perhaps 
 three, at most, where a gentleman and a scholar, or one 
 who loveth the fine arts, would choose to live. They are 
 London and Oxford, and perhaps the sister university upon 
 the Granta. Well, I have once more been privileged tc
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 43 
 
 •vitness the humors of the court and the town ; I have once 
 more been permitted to sniff the air of a great library. Let 
 us be thankful. " He showed his thankfulness with a sigh 
 which was almost a groan. 
 
 It was three years before we saw Benjamin again. Then 
 he returned, but not for long. Like his father, he loved 
 London better than the country, but for other reasons. 
 Certainly, he cared nothing for those arts which so much 
 delighted the rector, and the air of a coffee-house pleased 
 him more than the perfume of books in a library. When 
 he left us he was a rustic ; when he came back he was 
 already what they call a fopling : that is to say, when he 
 went to pay his respects to Sir Christopher, his grandfather, 
 he wore a very fine cravat of Flanders lace, with silken 
 hos- ; and lace and ribbons at his wrist. He was also scented 
 with bergamot, and wore a peruke, which, while he talked, 
 he combed and curled, to keep the curls of this monstrous 
 head-dress in place. Gentlemen must, I '-uppose, wear 
 this invention, and one of the learned professions must 
 show the extent of the learning by the splendors of his full- 
 bottomed wig. Yet I think that a young man looks most 
 comely while he wears his own hair. He had cocked his 
 hat, on which were bows, and he wore a sword. He spoke 
 also in a mincing London manner, having forsworn the 
 honest broad speech of Somerset ; and (but not in the pres- 
 ence of his elders) he used strange oaths and ejaculations. 
 
 " Behold him !" said his father, by no means displeased 
 at his son's foppery, because he ever loved the city fashions 
 and thought that a young man did well to dress and to 
 comport himself after the way of the world. "Behold liim ! 
 Thus he sits in the coffee-house ; thus he shows himself in 
 the pit Youth is the time for finery and for folly. Alas I 
 would that we could bring back that time ! What saith 
 John Dryden — glorious John — of Sir Fopling.? — 
 
 ' His various modes from various fashions follow : 
 One taught the toss, ami one the new French wallow ; 
 His sword-knot this, his cravat that, designed, 
 And this the yard-long snal<e he twirls behind 
 From one the sacred periwig he gained. 
 Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.' " 
 
 "Well, Ben," said Sir Christopher, " if the mode can help 
 *hee to the bench why not follow the mode? " 
 
 "It will not hinder, sir," Ben replied. "A man who 
 yiath his fortune to make does well to be scon everywhere, 
 and to be dressed like other men of his time."
 
 44 FOR FAITir AND FREEDOM. 
 
 One must do Benjamin the justice to acknowledge that 
 though, like the young gentlemen his friends and com- 
 panions his dress was foppish, and his talk was of the 
 pleasures of the town, he suffered nothing to stand in the 
 way of his advancement. He was resolved upon being a 
 great lawyer, and, therefore, if he spent the evening iii 
 drinking, singing, and making merry, he was reading in 
 chambers or else attending the courts all the day, ana 
 neglected nothing that would make him master of Ir.i; 
 profession. And, though of learning he had little, hi^ 
 natural parts were so good, and his resolution was so 
 strong, that I doubt not he would have achieved his 
 ambition had it not been for the circumstances whicb. 
 afterwards cut short his career. His cours« of life, 
 by his own boasting, was profligate ; his friends were 
 drinkers and revellers ; his favorite haunt was the tavern, 
 where they all drank punch and sang ungodly songs, and 
 smoked tobacco ; and of religion he seemed to have no 
 care whatever. 
 
 I was afraid fhat he would return to the nauseous subject 
 which he had opened three years before. Therefore, I con- 
 tinued with my mother, and would give him no chance to 
 speak with me. But he found me, and caught me return- 
 ing home one evening. 
 
 "Grace," he said, "I feared that I might have to go away 
 without a word alone with thee." 
 
 " I want no words alone, Benjamin. Let me pass ! " for 
 he stood before me in the way. 
 
 "Not so fast, pretty ! " — he caught me by the wrist, and, 
 being a young man so strong and determined, he held me 
 as by a vice. "Not so fast, Mistress Grace. First, my 
 dear, let me tell thee that my purpose still holds — nay " — 
 here he swore a most dreadful, impious oath — " I am more 
 resolved than ever. There is not a woman, even m Lon- 
 don, that is to be compared with thee, child. Whet ? 
 Compared with thee .'' Why, they are like the twinkling 
 stars compared with the glorious queen of night. What 
 did I say? — that at nineteen thou wouldst be a miracle of 
 beauty? Nay, that time hath come already ! I love thee, 
 child 1 I love thee, I say, ten times as much as ever I 
 lored thee before ! " 
 
 He gasped, and then breathed hard ; but still he held me 
 fast. 
 
 "Idle compliments cost a man nothing, Benjamin. Say 
 irfiat you meant to say and let me go. If you hold me
 
 hVR FAITH AND FJikEDOM. ^ J 
 
 any longer I will cry out and bring your father to learn the 
 the reason." 
 
 "Well," he said, "I will not keep thee. I have said what 
 I wanted to say. My time hath not yet arrived. I am short- 
 ly to be called, and shall then begin to practise. When I 
 come back here again, 'twill be with a ring in one hand, 
 and in the other the prospect of the woolsack. Think upon 
 that while I am gone. ' Your ladyship ' is finer than plain 
 'madame,' and the court is more delightful than a village 
 green among the pigs and ducks. Think upon it well : 
 thou art a lucky girl ; a plain village girl to be promoted 
 to a coronet ! However, I have no fears for thee ; thou 
 wilt adorn the highest fortune. Thou wilt be worthy of 
 the great place whither I shall lead thee. What? Is Sir 
 George Jeffreys a better man than I ? Is he of better 
 family? Had he better interest ? Is he a bolder man ? Not 
 so. Yet was Sir George a common sergeant at twenty- 
 three, and recorder at thirty : chief justice of Chester at 
 thirty-two. What he has done I can do. Moreover, Sir 
 George hath done me the honor to admit me to his com- 
 pany, and will advance me. This he hath promised, both 
 in his cups and when he is sober. Think it over, child : 
 a ring in one hand and a title in the other ! " 
 
 So Benjamin went away again. I was afraid when I 
 thought of him and his promise, because I knew him of 
 old ; and his eyes were as full of determination as when he 
 would fight a lad of his own age and go on fighting till the 
 other had had enough. Yet he could not marry me against 
 my will. His own father would protect me, to say nothing 
 of mine. 
 
 I should have told him then — as I had told him before — 
 that I would never marry him. Then, perhaps, he would 
 have been shaken in his purpose. The very thought of 
 marrying him filled me with terror unspeakable. I was 
 afraid of him not only because he was so masterful — nay, 
 women like a man to be strong of will — but because he had 
 no religion in him and lived like an atheist, if such a wretch 
 there be ; at all events, with unconcern about his soul ; 
 and because his life was profligate, his tastes were gross, and 
 he was a drinker of much wine. Even at the manor-house 
 I had seen him at supper drinking until his cheeks were 
 puffed out and his voice grew thick. What kind of happi- 
 ness would there be for a wife whose husband has to be 
 carried home by his varlets too heavy with drink to stand 
 or to speak ?
 
 46 FOR FAITH AND FKEFDOM. 
 
 Alas ! there is one thing which girls, happily, do nevei 
 apprehend. They cannot understand how it is possible for 
 a man to become so possessed with the idea of their charms 
 (which they hold themselves as of small account, knowing 
 how fleeting they are, and of what small value) that he will 
 go through tire and water for that woman ; yea; and break 
 all the commandments, heedless of his immortal soul, rather 
 than suffer another man to take her — and that even though 
 he knows that the poor creature loves him not, or loves an- 
 other man. If maidens knew this, I think that they would go 
 in fear and trembling lest they should be coveted by some 
 wild beast in human shape, and prove the death of the gal- 
 lant gentleman, whom they would choose for their lover. 
 Or they would make for themselves convents and hide in 
 them, so great would be their fear. But it is idle to speak 
 of this, because, say what one will, girls can never under- 
 stand the power and the vehemence of love, when once it 
 hath seized and doth thoroughly possess a man. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 MEDICINE DOCTOR. 
 
 Humphrey did not, like Benjamin, brag of the things he 
 would do when he should go forth into the world. Never- 
 theless, he thought much about his future, and frequently 
 he discoursed with me about the life that he fain would lead. 
 A young man, I think, wants some one with whom he may 
 speak freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul. 
 We who belong to the sex which receives but does not create 
 or invent, which profits by man's good work, and suffers 
 from the evil which he too often does, have no such thoughts 
 and ambitions. 
 
 "I cannot," he would say, "take upon me holy orders, 
 as Mr. Boscorel would have me, promising, in my cousin 
 Robin's name, this living after his death, because, though I 
 am in truth a mere pauper and dependant, there are in me 
 none of those prickings of the Spirit which I could interpret 
 into a divine call for the ministry ; next, because I could 
 not in conscience sign the Thirty-nine Articles while I still 
 keld that the Nonconformist way of worship was more con-
 
 FOR FA I 'fir AND FRFFDOA/. 47 
 
 sonant with the Word of God. And, again, I am of the 
 opinion that the law, which forbids any but a well-formed 
 man from serving at the altar, hath in it something eternal. 
 It denotes that as no cripple may serve at the earthly altar, 
 so in heaven, of which the altar is an emblem, all those 
 who dwell therein shall be perfect in body as in soul. What, 
 then, is such an one as myself, who hath some learning 
 and no fortune, to do } Sir Christopher, my benefactor will 
 maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. This 
 \s more than I could have expected. Therefore, I am re- 
 solved to take a degree in medicine. It is the only profes- 
 sion fit for a misshapen creature like mc. They will not 
 laugh at me when I alleviate their pains." 
 "Could any one laugh at you, Humphrey } " 
 "Pray Heaven I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect 
 of me." He laughed, but not with merriment ; for, indeed, 
 a cripple or a hunchback cannot laugh mirthfully over his 
 own misfortune. "Some men speak scornfully of the pro- 
 fession," he went on. "The great French playwright, 
 Monsieur Moliere, hath made the physicians the butt and 
 laughing-stock of all Paris. Yet consider. It is medicine 
 which prolongs our days and relieves our pains. Before 
 the science was studied, the wretch who caught a fever in 
 the marshy forest lay down and died ; an ague lasted all 
 one's life ; a sore throat putrefied and killed ; a rheumatism 
 threw a man upon the bed from which he would never rise. 
 The physician is man's chief friend. If our sovereigns 
 studied the welfare of humanity as deeply as the art of war, 
 they would maintain, at a vast expense, great colleges of 
 learned men continually engaged in discovering the secrets 
 of nature — the causes and the remedies of disease. What 
 better use can a man make of his life than to discover one 
 —only one — sacret which will drive away part of the agony 
 of disease ? The Jews, more merciful than the Romans, 
 stupefied their criminals after they were crucified ; so they 
 died, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the physi- 
 cian, though in the end all men must die, may help them 
 to die without pain. Nay, I have even thought that we 
 might devise means of causing the patient by some potent 
 drug to fall into so deep a sleep that even the surgeon's 
 knife shall not cause him to awaken." 
 
 He therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my 
 father many learned books of the ancients on the science 
 and practice of medicine, and studied botany with the help, 
 of such books as he could procure.
 
 4§ FOR IAIT?f AND FREEbOM, 
 
 Some men have but one side to them — that is to say, th« 
 only active part of them is engaged in but one study ; the 
 rest is given up to rest or indolence. Thus Benjamin 
 studied law diligently, but nothing else. Humphrey, for 
 his part, read his Galen and his Celsus, but he neglected 
 not the cultivation of those arts and accomplishments in 
 which Mr. Boscorel was as ready a teacher as he was a 
 ready scholar. He thus learned the history of painting and 
 sculpture and architecture, and that of coins and medals, so 
 that at eighteen Humphrey might already have set up as a 
 virtuoso. 
 
 Nor was this all. Still, by the help of the rector, he 
 learned the use of the pencil and the brush, and could both 
 draw prettily and paint in water-colors, whether the cottages 
 or the church, the cows in the fields, or the woods and hills. 
 I have many pictures of his painting which he gave me 
 from time to time. And he could play sweetly, whether on 
 the spinnet, or the violin, or the guitar, spending many 
 hours every week with Mr. Boscorel playing duettos to- 
 gether ; and willingly he would sing, having a rich and full 
 voice very delightful to hear. When I grew a great girl, 
 and had advanced far enough, I was permitted to play with 
 them. There was no end to the music which Mr. Boscorel 
 possessed. First, he had a great store of English ditties 
 such as country-people love — as, "Sing all a green willow,"' 
 "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," or " Once I loved a 
 maiden fair," There was nothing rough or rude in these 
 songs, though I am informed that much wickedness is 
 taught by the ribald songs that are sung in playhouses and 
 coffee-rooms. And when we were not playing or singing, 
 Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry — portions from Shake- 
 speare or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton's " Paradise Lost ; " 
 or from Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever 
 lived, " yet marred," said Mr. Boscorel, "by much coarse- 
 ness and corruption." Now, one day, after we had been 
 thus reading — one winter afternoon, when the sun lay upon 
 the meadows — Humphrey walked home with me, and on 
 the way confessed, with many blushes, that he, too, had 
 been writing verses. And with that he lugged a paper out 
 of his pocket. 
 
 "They are for thine own eyes only, Grace. Truly, my 
 dear, thou hast the finest eyes in the world. They are for 
 no other eyes than thine," he repeated. " Not for Robin, 
 mind, lest he laugh ; poetry hath in it something sacred, so 
 that even the writer of bad verses cannot bear to have them
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 4^ 
 
 laughed at When thou art a year or two older thou wilt 
 understand that they were written for thy heart as well as 
 for thine eyes. Yet, if thou like the verses, they may be 
 seen by Mr. Boscorel, but in private ; and if he laug;h at 
 them do not tell me. Yet, again, one would like to know 
 what he said ; wherefore, tell me, though his words be like 
 a knife in my side." 
 
 Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his 
 master in art, and fearing. 
 
 In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said 
 ftiat, for a beginner, they were very well — very well, in- 
 deed ; that the rhymes were correct, and the metre true ; 
 that years and practice would give greater firmness, and 
 that the crafty interlacing of thought and passion, which 
 was the characteristic of Italian verse, could only be learned 
 by much reading of the Italian poets. More he said, speak- 
 ing upon the slight subject of rhyme and poetry with as 
 much seriousness and earnestness as if he were weighing 
 and comparing texts of Scripture. 
 
 Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh. 
 
 "Child,'" he said. "To none of us is given what most 
 we desire. For my part, I longed in his infancy that my 
 son should grow up even as Humphrey, as quick to learn ; 
 with as true a taste ; with as correct an ear ; with a hand so 
 skillful. But — you see, I complain not, though Benjamin 
 loves the noisy tavern better than the quiet coffee-house 
 where the wits resort. To him such things as verses, art, 
 and music are foolishness. I say that I complain not ; but 
 I would to Heaven that Humphrey were my own, and that 
 his shoulders were straight, poor lad ! Thy father hath made 
 him a Puritan ; he is such as John Milton in his youth — and 
 as beautiful in face as that stout Republican. I doubt not 
 that we shall have from the hand of Humphrey, if he live 
 and prosper, something tine, the nature of which, whether 
 it is to be in painting, or in music, or in poetry, I know 
 not Take the verses, and take care that thou lose them 
 not ; and, child — remember — the poet is allowed to say what 
 he pleases about a woman's eyes. Be not deceived into 
 thinking — But no — no — there is no fear. Good-night, 
 thou sweet and innocent saint." 
 
 I knew not then what he meant, but these are the verses ; 
 and I truly think that they are very moving and religious. 
 For if woman be truly the most beautiful work of the Creator 
 (which all men aver), then it behoove* her all the morestili 
 to point upwaxU. I read them with a pleasure and surprise 
 
 4
 
 5° 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 that filled my whole soul, and inflamed my heart with pious 
 joy: 
 
 " Around, above, and everywhere 
 
 The earlh haih many a lovely thing; 
 The zephyrs sofl, the flowers fair, 
 
 The babbling brook, the bubbling springy 
 
 " The gray of dawn, the azure sky, 
 
 The sunset glow, the evening gloom; 
 The warbling thrush, the skylark high, 
 The blossoming hedge, the garden's bloom. 
 
 ** The sun in state, the moon in pride, 
 The twinkling stars in order laid; 
 The winds that ever race and ride. 
 The shadows flying o'er the glade. 
 
 ** Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth, 
 To charm the eye and witch the soul; 
 Yet one there is of passing worth — 
 For that one thing I give the whole. 
 
 *' The crowning work, the last thing made, 
 Creation's masterpiece to be — 
 Bend o'er yon stream, and there displayed 
 This wondrous thing reflected see. 
 
 " Behold a face for heaven designed; 
 See how those eyes thy soul betray — 
 Love — secret love — there sits enshrined; 
 And upward still doth point the way." 
 
 When Humphrey went away, he did not, like Benjamin, 
 come blustering and declaring that he would marry me, 
 and that he would break the skull of any other man who 
 dared to make love to me— not at all; Humphrey, with 
 tears in his eyes, told me that he was sorry I could not go 
 to Oxford as well ; that he was going to lose the sweetest 
 companion ; and that he should always love me : and then 
 he kissed me on the forehead, and so departed. Why should 
 he not always love me ? 1 knew very well that he loved 
 me, and that I loved him. Although he was so young, 
 being only seventeen when he was entered at Exeter Col- 
 lege, I suppose there never was a young gentleman went 
 to the University of Oxford with so many accomplishments 
 and so much learning. By my father's testimony he read 
 Greek as if it were his mother tongue, and he wrote and 
 conversed easily in Latin ; and you have heard what arts 
 and accomplishments he added to this solid learning. He 
 was elected to a scholarship at his college, that of Exeter, 
 find, after he took his degree as bachelor of medicine, he
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 5I 
 
 was made a fellow of All-Souls, where Mr. Boscorel him- 
 self had also been a fellow. This election was not only a 
 great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learned 
 young man especially desires — the means of living and of 
 pursuing his studies. 
 
 While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christo- 
 pher, to Mr. Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he 
 sent such new books and pamphlets as he thought would 
 interest him). To me he sent sometimes drawings and 
 sometimes books, but never verses. 
 
 Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present) when 
 he had obtained his fellowship, he ask-ed for and obtained 
 leave of absence and permission to study medicine in those 
 great schools which far surpass, they say, our English 
 schools of medicine. These are that of Montpellier; the 
 yet more famous school of Padua, in Italy ; and that of 
 Leyden, whither many Englishmen resort for study, no- 
 tably Mr. Evelyn, whose book called "Sylva" wasin the 
 rector's library. 
 
 He carried on during the whole of this time a correspond- 
 ence with Mr. Boscorel on the painting, statues, and archi- 
 tecture to be seen wherever his travels carried him. These 
 letters Mr. Boscorel read aloud, with a map spread before 
 him, discoursing on the history of the place and the chief 
 things to be seen there, before he began to read. Surely 
 there never was a man so much taken up with the fine arts, 
 especially as they were practised by the ancients. 
 
 There remains the last of the boys — Robin, Sir Christo- 
 pher's grandson and heir. I should like this book to be all 
 about Robin — yet one must needs speak of the others. I 
 declare that from the beginning there never was a boy more 
 happy, more jolly ; never any one more willing to be al- 
 ways making some one happy. He loved the open air, 
 the wild creatures, the trees, the birds, everything that lives 
 beneath the sky; yet not like my poor brother Barnaby — a 
 hater of books. He read all the books which told about 
 creatures, or hunting, or country life ; and all voyages and 
 travels. A fresh-colored, wholesome lad, not so grave as 
 Humphrey, nor so moody as Benjamin, who always seemed 
 to carry with him the scent of woods and fields. He was 
 to Sir Christopher what Benjamin was to Jacob. Even my 
 father loved him though he was so poor a scholar. 
 
 Those who stayed at home have homely wits — therefore 
 Robin must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thither 
 ^e year after his cousiii, I never learned that he obtained
 
 yi POA' PAirir AND t'^REkDO.\t. 
 
 a scholarship, or that he was considered one of the youngei 
 pillars of that learned and ancient university ; or, indeed, 
 that he took a degree at all. 
 
 After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study 
 juslice's law and fit himself for the duties h« would have 
 to fulfill. Also his grandfather would have him acquire 
 some knowledge of the court and the city, and the ways of 
 the great and the rich. This, too, he did ; though he never 
 learned to prefer those ways to the simple customs and hab- 
 its of his Somerset village. 
 
 He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell. 
 
 " Poor Grace !" he said, taking both my hands in his. 
 ' ' What wilt thou do when I am gone .? ' 
 
 Indeed, since Humphrey went away, we had been daily 
 companions ; and at the thought of being thus left alone the 
 tears were running down my cheeks. 
 
 " Why, sweetheart," he said, " to think that I should ever 
 make thee cry — I who desire nothing but to make thee al- 
 ways laugh and be happy ! What wilt thou do ? Go often 
 to my mother. She loves thee as if her own daughter. Go 
 and talk to her concerning me. It pleaseth the poor soul 
 to be still talking of her son. And forget not my grand- 
 father. Play backgammon with him ; fill his pipe for him ; 
 sing to the spinnet for him ; talk to him about Humphrey 
 and me. And forget not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor 
 man looks as melancholy since Humphrey went away as a 
 turtle robbed of her nest. I saw him yesterday opening one 
 of his drawers full of medals, and he sighed over them fit to 
 break his heart. He sighed for Humphrey, not for Ben. 
 Well, child, what more ? Take Lance" — 'twas his dog — 
 " for a run every day ? make George Sparrow keep an eye 
 upon the stream for otters ; and — there are a thousand things 
 but I will write them down. Have patience with the dear 
 old man when he will be still talking about me." 
 
 "Patience, Robin," I said. "Why, we all love to talk 
 about thee." 
 
 " Do you alllove to talk about me.? 'Dost thou, too 
 Grace? Oh, my dear, my dear?' Here he took me in his 
 arms and kissed me on the lips. "Dost thou also love to 
 talk about me? Why, my dear, I shall think of nothing but 
 of thee. Because — oh ! my dear — my dear I I love thee 
 with all my heart." 
 
 Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing 
 more than that we all loved him, and he loved us all. 
 
 " Grace I will write letters to thee. I will put them in
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 53 
 
 the packet for my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that 
 I am always thinking of thee." 
 
 He was as good as his word. But the letters were so full 
 of the things he was doing and seeing that it was quite clear 
 that his mind had plenty of room for more than one object. 
 
 To be sure, I should have been foolish, indeed, had I de- 
 sired that his letters should tell me that he was always 
 thinking about me, when he should have been attending to 
 his business. 
 
 After a year in London his grandfather thought that he 
 should travel. Therefore, he went abroad and joined Hum- 
 phrey at Montpellier, and with him rode northward to Ley- 
 den, where he sojourned while his cousin attended the lec- 
 tures of that famous school. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 A ROYAL PROGRESS. 
 
 When all the boys were gone the time was quiet, indeed, 
 for those who were left behind. My mother's wheel went 
 spinning still, but I think that some kindness on the part of 
 Mr. Boscorel as well as Sir Christopher caused her weekly 
 tale of yarn to be of less importance. And as for me, not 
 only would she never suffer me to sit at the spinning-wheel, 
 but there was so much request of me (to replace the boys) 
 that I was nearly all the day either with Sir Christopher or 
 with madame, or with Mr. Boscorel. 
 
 Up to the year 1680, or thereabouts I paid no more atten- 
 tion to political matters than any young woman with n-o 
 knowledge may be supposed to give. Yet, of course, I was 
 on the side of liberty, both civil and religious. How should 
 that be otherwise, my father being such as he was, muzzled 
 for all these years, the work of his life prevented and de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 It was in that year, however, that I became a most zeal- 
 ous partisan and lover of the Protestant cause in the way 
 that I am about to relate. 
 
 Everybody knows that there is no part of Great Britian 
 (not even Scotland) where the Protestant religion hath sui> 
 portcrs more stout and stanch than Somerset and Devon-
 
 54 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 shire. I hope I shall not be accused of disloyalty to Queen 
 Anne, under whom we flourish and are happy, when I say 
 that in the West ot England we had grown — I know not 
 how — to regard the late misguided Duke of Monmouth as 
 the champion of the Protestant faith. When, therefore, the 
 duke came into the West of England in the year 1680, five 
 years befora the Rebellion, he was everywhere received 
 with acclamations and by crowds who gathered round him 
 to witness their loyalty to the Protestant faith. They came 
 also to look upon the gallant commander who had defeated 
 the French and the Dutch, and was said (but erroneously) 
 to be as wise as he was brave, and as religious as he was 
 beautiful to look upon. As for his wisdom, those who 
 knew him best have since assured the world that he had lit- 
 tle or none, his judgment being always swayed and deter- 
 mined for him by crafty and subtle persons seeking their 
 own interests. And as for his religion, whatever .iiay have 
 been his profession, good works were wanting — as is now 
 very well known. But at that time, and among our people, 
 the wicked ways of courts were only half understood. 
 And there can be no doubt that, whether he was wise or 
 religious, the show of affection with which the duke was 
 received upon this journey turned his head, and caused him 
 to think that these people would rally round him if he called 
 upon them. And I suppose that there is nothing which 
 more delights a prince than to believe that his friends are 
 ready even to lay down their lives in his behalf. 
 
 At that time the country was greatly agitated by anxiety 
 concerning the succession. Those who were nearest the 
 throne knew that King Charles was secretly a papist. We 
 in the country had not learned that dismal circumstance : 
 yet we knew the religion of the Duke of York. Thousands 
 there were, like Sir Christopher himself, who now lamented 
 the return of the king, considering the disgraces which had' 
 fallen upon the country. But what was done could not be 
 undone. They, therefore, asked themselves if the nation 
 would suffer an avowed papist to ascend a Protestant 
 throne. If not, what should be done.? And here, as every- 
 body knows, was opinion divided. For some declared 
 that the Duke of Monmouth, had he his rights, was the 
 lawful heir ; and others maintained in the king's own word 
 that he was never married to Mistress Lucy Waters. There- 
 fore they would have the Duke of York's daughter, a Prot- 
 estant princess, married to William of Orange, proclaimed 
 queen, The Monmouth party were strong, however, and
 
 FOR FA 1 77/ AND FREEDOM. 55 
 
 ft was even said — Mr. Henry Clark, minisier of Crewkern, 
 wrote a pamphlet to prove it — that a poor woman, Eliza- 
 beth Parcet by name, touched the duke (he being 
 ignorant of the thing) for king's evil, and was straight- 
 way healed. Sir Christopher laughed at the story, saying 
 that the king himself, whether he was descended from a 
 Scot ish Stuart or from King Solomon himself, could no more 
 cure that dreadful disease than the seventh son of a seventh 
 5on (as oome foolish people believe), or the rubbing of the 
 partaffec ted by the hand of a man that had been hanged (as 
 others do foolishly believe), which is the reason why on 
 the gibbets the hanging corpses are always handless. 
 
 I' was noised abroad beforehand that the duke was going 
 to ride through the West Country in order to visit his 
 friends. The progress (it was more like a royal progress 
 than the journey of a private nobleman) began with his 
 visit to Mr. Thomas Thynne, of Longleat House. It is 
 said that his chief reason for going to that house was to 
 connect himself with the obligation of the tenant of Lor^g- 
 leat to give the king and his suite a night's lodging when 
 they visited that part of the country, jNIr. Thynne, who 
 entertained the duke on this occasion, was the same who 
 was afterwards murdered in London by Count Konigsmark. 
 They called him "Tom of Ten Thousand. " The poet Dry- 
 den hath written of this progress in that poem wherein, 
 under the fabled name of Absalom, he figures the duke : 
 
 " Me now begins his progross to ordain, 
 "With chariots, hoisonicn, and a niuijeroiis train. 
 Fame runs before him as th(^ morning star, 
 And shouts of joy sakile him from afar. 
 Each housfi rooi'ives him as a guardian god. 
 And consecrates the place of his abode." 
 
 It was for his hospitable treatment of the duke thai Mr, 
 Thynne was immediately afterwards deprived of the com- 
 mand of the Wiltshire militia. 
 
 "Son-in-law," said Sir Christopher, "I would ride out to 
 meet the duke in respect to his Protestant professions. As 
 for any pretensions he may have to the succession, I know 
 nothing of them." 
 
 " I will 'ide with you, sir," said the rector, " to meet the 
 son of the king. And as for any Protestant professions, 1 
 know nothing of them. His grace remains, I believe, with- 
 in the pale of the Church as by law established. Let us all 
 ride out together."
 
 5(5 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 Seeing that my father also rode with them, it is certaii\ 
 that there were many and diverse reasons why so many 
 thousands gathered together to welcome the duke. Madame, 
 Will's mother, out of her kind heart, invited me to accom- 
 pany her, and gave me a white frock to wear and blue 
 ribbons to put into it. 
 
 We n>ade, with our servants, a large party. We were al- 
 so joined by many of the tenants, with their sons and wives, 
 so that when we came to Ilchester, Sir Christopher was 
 riding at the head of a great company of sixty or more, and 
 very fine they looked, all provided with blue favors in 
 honor of the duke. 
 
 From Bradford Orcas to Ilchester is but six miles as the 
 crow flies, but the ways (which are narrow and foul in 
 winter) do so wind and turn about that they add two miles 
 at least to the distance. Fortunately the season was sum- 
 mer — namely, August — when the sun is hottest and the 
 earth is dry so that no one was bogged on the way. 
 
 We started betimes — namely, at six in the morning — be- 
 cause we knew not for certain at what time the duke would 
 arrive at Ilchester. When we came forth from the manor- 
 house the farmers were already waiting for us, and so, after 
 greetings from his honor, they fell in, and followed. We 
 first took the narrow and rough lane which leads to the 
 high-road ; but, when we reached it, we found it full of 
 people riding, like ourselves, or trudging, staff in hand, all 
 m the same direction. They were going to gaze upon the 
 Protestant duke, who, if he had his way, would restore 
 freedom of conscience and abolish the acts against the Non- 
 conformists. We rode through Marston Magna, but only 
 the old people and the little children were left there ; in the 
 fields the ripe corn stood waiting to be cut ; in the farm- 
 yards the beasts were standing idle ; all the hinds were gone 
 to Ilchester to see the duke. And I began to fear lest when ■ 
 we got to Ilchester we should be too late. At Marston we 
 left the main road and entered upon a road (call it a track 
 rather than a road) across the country, which is here flat 
 and open. In winter it is miry and boggy, but it was row 
 dry and hard. This path brought us again to the main road 
 in two miles, or thereabouts, and here we were but a mile 
 or so from Ilchester. Now, such a glorious sight as await- 
 ed us here I never expected to see. Once again, after five 
 years, I was to see a welcome still more splendid ; but 
 nothing can ever efface from my memory that day. For 
 first the roadSj as I have said, were thronged with rustics,
 
 FOJ^ FAITJf AXD FREEDOM. 57 
 
 and next, when we rode into the town we found it filled 
 with gentlemen most richly dressed, and ladies so beautiful 
 and with such splendid attire that it dazzled my eyes to 
 look upon them. It was a grand thing to see the gentle- 
 men take off their hats and cry, "Huzza for brave Sir 
 Christopher ! " Everybody knew his opinions and on what 
 side he had fought in the Civil War. The old man bent his 
 head, and I thmk that he Avas pleased with this mark of 
 honor. 
 
 The town which, though ancient, is now decayed and 
 hath but few good houses in it, was now made glorious 
 with bright-colored cloths, carpets, flags, and ribbons. There 
 were bands of music ; the bells of the church \vere ringing ; 
 the main street was like a fair with booths and stalls, and 
 in the market-place there were benches set up with white 
 canvas covering, where sat ladies in their fine dresses, some 
 of them with naked shoulders, unseemly to behold. Yet it 
 was pretty to see the long curls lying on their white shoul- 
 ders. Some of them sat with half-closed eyes, which, I 
 have since learned, is a fashion of the court. Mostly, they 
 wore satin petticoats, and demi-gownsalso of satin, furnish- 
 ed with a long train. Our place was beside the old cross 
 with its gilt ball and vane. The people who filled the streets 
 rame from Sherborne, from Bruton, from Shepton, from 
 Glastonbury, from Langport, from Somerton, and from all the 
 villages round. It was computed that there were twenty 
 thousand of them. Two thousand at least rode out to meet 
 the duke and followed after him when he rode through the 
 town. And, oh ! the shouting as he drew near, the clashing of 
 bells, the beating of the drums, the blowing of the horns, 
 the firing of the guns, as if the more noise they made the 
 greater would be the duke. 
 
 Since that day I have not wondered at the power which 
 a prince hath of drawing men after him, even to the death. 
 Never was heir to the crown received with such joy and 
 welcome as was this young man, who had no title to the 
 crown, and was base-born. Yet, because he was a brave 
 young man, and comely aboveall other young men, gracious 
 ©f speech, and ready with a laugh and a joke, and because 
 he was the son of the king, and the reputed champion of the 
 Protestant faith, the people could not shout too loud for 
 him. 
 
 The duke was at this time in the ])rime of manhood, be- 
 ing thirty-five years of age. "At that age," Mr. Boscorel 
 used to say, "one would desire to remain if the body of
 
 ^S FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 clay were immortal. For then the volatile humors of youth 
 have been dissipated The time of follies has passed ; love 
 is regarded with the sober eyes of experience ; knowledge 
 has been acquired ; skill of eye and hand has been gained, 
 if one is so happy as to be a follower of art and music ; 
 wisdom hath been reached, if wisdom is ever to be attained. 
 But wisdom," he would add, " is a quality generally lack- 
 ing at every period of life." 
 
 " When last I saw the duke," he told us while we waited, 
 " was fifteen years ago, in St. James's Park. He was walk- 
 ing with the king, his father, who had his arm about his 
 son's shoulders, and regarded him fondly. At that time he 
 was, indeed, a very David for beauty. I suppose that he 
 hath not kept that singular loveliness which made him the 
 darling of the court. That, indeed, were not a thing to be 
 desired or expected. He is now the hero of Maestricht, and 
 the Chancellor of Cambridge University." 
 
 And then all hats were pulled off, and the ladies waved 
 their handkerchiefs, and the men shouted, and you would 
 have thought the bells would have pulled the old tower 
 down with the vehemence of their ringing ; for the duke 
 was riding into the town. 
 
 He was no longer a beautiful boy, but a man at whose 
 aspect every heart was softened. His enemies, in his pres- 
 ence, could not blame him ; his friends, at sight of him, 
 could not praise him, of such singular beauty was he pos- 
 sessed. Softness, gentleness, kindness, and good will 
 reigned in his large soft eyes ; graciousness sat upon his 
 lips, and all his face seemed to smile as he rode slowly be- 
 tween the lane formed by the crowd on either hand. 
 
 What said the poet Dryden in that same poem of his from 
 which I have already quoted } — 
 
 " Early in foreign fields he won renown 
 With Kings and States allied to Israel's crown; 
 In peace tlie thoughts of war he could remove, 
 And seemed as he were only born for love. 
 Whate'er he did was done with so much ease, 
 In him alone 'twas natural to please; 
 His motions all accompanied with grace, 
 And Paradise was opened in his face." 
 
 Now I hare to tell of what happened to me — of all people 
 in the world, to me — the most insignificant person in the 
 whole crowd. It chanced that as the duke came near the 
 spot beside the cross where we were standing, the press irt 
 front obliged him to stop. He looked about him while he
 
 FOE FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 1% 
 
 waited, smiling still and bowing to the people. Presently 
 his eyes fell upon me, and he whispered a gentleman who 
 rode beside him, yet a little in the rear. This gentleman 
 laughed, and dismounted. What was my confusion when 
 he advanced towards me and spoke to me ! 
 
 "Madame," he said, calling me " madame ! " "His 
 grace would say one word to you, with permission of your 
 friends." 
 
 "Go with this gentleman, child," said Sir Christopher, 
 laughing. Everybody laughs — I know not why — when a 
 girl is led out to be kissed. 
 
 "Fair white rose of Somerset," said his grace — 'twas the 
 most musical voice in the world, and the softest. "Fair 
 white rose " — he repeated the words — "let me be assured 
 of the welcome of llchester by a kiss from your sweet lips, 
 which I will return in token of my gratitude." 
 
 All the people who heard these words shouted as if they 
 would burst themselves asunder. And the gentleman who 
 had led me forth lifted me so that my foot rested on the 
 duke's boot, while his grace laid his arm tenderly round my 
 waist and kissed me twice. 
 
 " Sweet child," he said, " what is thy name .? " 
 
 " By your grace's leave," I said, the words being very 
 strange, " I am the daughter of Dr. Comfort Eykin, an 
 ejected minister. I have come with Sir Christopher Challis, 
 who stands yonder." 
 
 " Sir Christopher ! " said the duke, as if surprised. " Let 
 me shake hands with Sir Christo])hcr. I take it kindly, Sir 
 Christopher, that you have so far honored me." So he gave 
 the old man, who stepped forward bareheaded, his hand, 
 still holding me by the waist. " I pray that we may meet 
 again, Sir Christopher, and that before long." Then he drew 
 a gold ring, set with emeralds, from his forefiiiger, and 
 placed it upon mine, and kissed me again, and then suffered 
 me to be lifted down. And you may be sure that it was 
 with red cheeks that I took my place among my friends. 
 Yet Sir Christopher was pleased at the notice taken of him 
 by the duke, and my father was not displeased at the part I 
 had been made to play. 
 
 When the duke had ridden through the town, many of the 
 people followed after, as far as White Lackington, which is 
 close to Ilminster. So many were they that they took 
 down a great piece of the park paling to admit them all : 
 and there, under a Spanish chestnut-tree, the duke drank to 
 the health of all the people.
 
 So FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 At Ilminster, whither he rode a few days later ; at Chard, ■ 
 at Ford Abbey, at Wkyton, and at Exeter — wherever h« 
 went, he was received with the same shouts and acclama- 
 tions. It is no wonder, therefore, that he should believe, a 
 few years later, that those people would follow him when 
 he drew the sword for the Protestant religion. 
 
 One thing is certain — that in the west of England, from 
 the progress of Monmouth to the rebellion, there was un- 
 easiness, with an anxious lookmg forward to troubled times. 
 The people of Taunton kept as a day of holiday and thanks- 
 giving the anniversary of the raising of Charles's siege. 
 When the mayor, in 1683, tried to stop the celebration, 
 they nearly stoned him to death. After this, Sir George 
 Jeffreys, afterwards Lord Jeffreys, who took the spring 
 circuit in 1684, was called upon to report on the loyalty of 
 the west country. He reported that the gentry were loyal 
 and well disposed. But he knew not the mind of the 
 weavers and spinners of the country. 
 
 It was this progress, the sight of the duke's sweet face, 
 his flattery of me, and his soft words, and the ring he gave 
 me, which made me from that moment such a partisan of 
 his cause as only a woman can be. Women cannot fight, 
 but they can feel ; and they cannot only ardently desire, but 
 they can despise and contemn those who think otherwise. 
 I cannot say that it was I who persuaded our boys five years 
 later to join the duke ; but I can truly say that I did and 
 said all that a woman can ; that I rejoiced when they did so ; 
 and that I should never have forgiven Robin had he joined 
 the forces of the Papist king. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WITH THE ELDERS. 
 
 So we went home again, all well pleased, and I holding 
 the duke's ring tight, I promise you. It was a most beauti- 
 ful ring when I came to look at it ; a great emerald was in 
 the midst of it, with little pearls and emeralds set alternately 
 around it. Never was such a grand gift to so humble a 
 person. I tied it to a black ribbon and put it in the box 
 whJth held my clothes. But sometimes I could not forbeai
 
 1^0 R FAITH AND FREEDOM. 6 1 
 
 the pleasure of wearing it round my neck, secretly ; not for 
 the joy of possessing the ring so much as for remembering 
 the lovely face and the gracious words of the giver. 
 
 At that time I was in my sixteenth year, but well grown 
 for my age. Like my father, I am above the common 
 stature of women. We continued for more than four years 
 longer to live without the company of the boys, which 
 caused me to be much in the society of my elders, and as 
 much at the manor-house and the rectory as at home. At 
 the former place Sir Christopher loved to have me with him 
 all day long, if my mother would suffer it ; when he walked 
 in his garden I must be at his side. When he awoke after 
 his afternoon sleep he liked to see me sitting ready to talk 
 to him. 1 must play to him and sing to him ; or I must 
 bring out the backgammon board ; or I must read the last 
 letters from Robin and Humphrey. Life is dull for an old 
 man whose friends are mostly dead, unless he have the 
 company of the young. So David in his old age took to 
 himself a young wife, when, instead, he should have com- 
 forted his heart \vith the play and prattle of his grand- 
 children — of whom, I suppose, there must have been many 
 families. 
 
 Now, as I was so much with his honor, I had much talk 
 with him upon things on which wise and ancient men do 
 not often converse with girls, and I was often present when 
 he discoursed with my father or with his son-in-law, the 
 rector, on high and serious matters. It was a time of great 
 anxiety and uncertainty. There were great pope burnings 
 in the country ; and when some were put in pillory for 
 riot at these bonfires not a hand was lifted against them. 
 They had one at Sherborne on November 17, the anniver- 
 sary of Queen Elizabeth's coronation day, instead of Novem- 
 ber 5. Boys went about the streets asking for halfpence 
 and singing — 
 
 '* Up with the ladder, 
 
 And down with the rope ; 
 Give us a penny 
 
 To burn the old pope." 
 
 There were riots in Taunton, where the High-Church 
 party burned the pulpit of a meeting-house ; people went 
 about openly saying that the Roundheads would soon 
 come back again. From Robin we heard of the popish 
 plots and the flight of the Duke of York, and afterwards of 
 Monmouth's disgrace and e.xile. At all the market towns 
 where men gathered together they talked of these things.
 
 t2 FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOkF. 
 
 and manywhispered together : a thing which Sir ChristopheT 
 loved not, because it spoke of conspiracies and secret plots, 
 whereas he was all for bold declaration of conscience. 
 
 In short, it was an anxious time, and everybody undei- 
 stood that serious things would happen should the king die. 
 There were not wanting, besides, omens of coming ills — if 
 you accept such things as omens or warnings. To Taun- 
 ton (afterwards the town most affected by the Rebellion) a 
 plain warniiiig was vouchsafed by the rumbling and thun- 
 dering and shaking of the earth itself, so that dishes were 
 knocked down and cups broken, and plaster shaken off the 
 walls of houses. And once (this did I myself see with my 
 own eyes) the sun rose with four other suns for. com- 
 panions — a most terrifying sight, though Mr. Boscorel, who 
 spoke learnedly on omens, had an explanation of this mira- 
 cle, which he said was due to natural causes alone. And 
 at He Brewers there was a monstrous birth of two girls with 
 but one body from the breast downwards ; their names 
 were Aquila and Priscilla ; but I believe they lived but a 
 short time. 
 
 I needs must tell of Mr. Boscorel because he was a man 
 the like of whom I have never since beheld. I believe 
 there can be few men such as he was, who could so readily 
 exchange the world of heat and argument for the calm and 
 dispassionate air of art and music. Even religion (if 1 may 
 venture to say so) seemed of less importance to him than 
 airt I have said that he taught me to play upon the spin- 
 net Now that Humphrey was gone, he desired my com- 
 pany every day, in order, he pretended, that I might grow 
 perfect in my performance, but in reality because he was 
 lonely at the rectory, and found pleasure in my company. 
 We played together — he upon the violoncello and I upon 
 the spinnet — such music as he chose. It was sometimes 
 grave and solemn music, such as Lulli's " Miserere " or 
 his " De Profundis ; " sometimes it was some part of a 
 Roman Catholic mass : then was my soul uplifted and 
 wafted heavenwards by the chords, which seemed prayer 
 and praise fit for the angels to harp before the throne. 
 Sometimes it was music which spoke of human passions, 
 when I would be, in like manner, carried out of myself. 
 My master would watch not only my execution, commend- 
 ing or correcting, but he would also watch the effect of the 
 music upon my mind. 
 
 "We are ourselves," he said, "like unto the instruments 
 upon which we play. For as one kind of instrument, ats
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 63 
 
 the drum, produces but one note; and another, as the cym- 
 bals, but a clashing which is in itself discordant, but made 
 effective in a band ; so others are, like the most delicate and 
 sensitive violins — those of Cremona — capable of producing 
 the finest music that the soul of man hath ever devised. 
 It is by such music, child, that some of us mount unto 
 heaven. As for me, indeed, I daily feel more and more 
 that music leadeth the soul upward, and that, as regards 
 the disputations on the Word of God, the letter indeed 
 killeth, but the spirit which music helpeth us to feel — the 
 spirit, I say, giveth life." He sighed, and drew his bow 
 gently across the first string of his violoncello. " 'Tis a 
 time of angry argument. The Word of God is thrown from 
 one to the other as a pebble is shot from a sling. It wearies 
 me. In this room, among these books of music, my soul 
 finds rest, and the spiritual part of me is lifted heaven- 
 wards. Humphrey and you, my dear, alone can compre- 
 hend this saying. Thou hast a mind like his, to feel and 
 understand what music meaiis. Listen!" Here he exe- 
 cuted a piece of music at which the tears rose to my eyes. 
 "That is from the Romish mass which we are taught 
 ignorantly to despise. My child, I am, indeed, no Catholic, 
 and I hold that ours is the purer church; yet, in losing the 
 mass we have lost the great music with which the Catholics 
 sustain the souls. Some of our anthems, truly, are good; 
 but what is a single anthem, finished in ten minutes, com- 
 pared with a grand mass which lasts three hours ?" 
 
 Then he had portfolios filled with engravings, which he 
 would bring forth and contemplate with a kind of rapture, 
 discoursing upon the engraver's art and its difficulties, so 
 that I should not, as in the case with ignorant persons, sup- 
 pose that these things were produced without much training 
 and skill. He had also boxes full of coins, medals, and 
 transparent gems carved most delicately with heathen gods 
 and goddesses, shepherds and swains, after the ancient 
 fashion, unclothed and unashamed. On these things he 
 would gaze with admiration which he tried to teach me, 
 but could not, because I caniiot believe that we may with- 
 out blame look upon such figures. Nevertheless, they were 
 most beautiful, the hands and faces and the very hair so 
 delicately and exquisitely carved that you could hardly be- 
 lieve it possible. And he talked solemnly and scholarly of 
 these gauds, as if they were things which peculiarly de- 
 served the attention of wise and learned men. Nay, he 
 would^'be even lifted out of himself in considering themu
 
 ($4 POR FAITH AND FREEDOAf. 
 
 "Child," he said, "we know not, and we cannot even 
 guess, the wonders of art that in heaven we shall learn to 
 accomplish " — as if carving and painting were the occupa- 
 tion of angels ! — " or the miracles of beauty and of dexter- 
 ity that we shall be able to design and execute. Here, the 
 hand is clumsy and the brain is dull ; we cannot rise above 
 ourselves ; we are blind to the beauty with which the Lord 
 hath tilled the earth for the solace of human creatures. 
 Nay ; we are not even tender with the beauty that we see 
 and love. We suffer maidens sweet as the dreams of 
 poets to waste their beauty unpraised and unsung. I am 
 old, child, or I would praise thee in immortal verse. IMuch 
 I fear that thou wilt grow old without the praise of sweet 
 numbers. Well ; there is no doubt more lasting beauty of 
 face and figure hereafter to joy the souls of the elect. And 
 thou wilt make his happiness for one man on earth. Pray 
 Heaven, sweet child, that he look also to thine ! " 
 
 He would say such things with so grand an air, speaking 
 as if his words should command respect, and with so kindly 
 an eye and a soft smile, while he gently stroked the side of 
 his nose, which was long, that I was always carried away 
 with the authority of it, and not till after I left him did I be- 
 gin to perceive that my father would certainly never allow 
 that the elect should occupy themselves with the frivolous 
 pursuits of painting and the fine arts, but only with the 
 playing of their harps and the singing of praises. It was 
 this consideration which caused him to consent that his 
 daughter should learn the spinnet. I did not tell him (God 
 forgive me for the deceit, if there was any !) that we some- 
 times played music written for the mass ; nor did I repeat 
 what Mr. Boscorel said concerning art and the flinging 
 about of the Word of God, because my father was wholly 
 occupied in controversy, and his principal, if not his only, 
 weapon was the Word of God. 
 
 Another pleasure which we had was to follow Humphrey 
 in his travels by the aid of his letters and a 7nappa viiindi, 
 or atlas, which the rector possessed. Then I remember 
 when we heard that the boys were ubout to ride together 
 through France from Montpellier to Leyden in Holland, we 
 had on the table the great map of France. There were 
 many drawings, coats-of-arms, and other pretty things on 
 the map. 
 
 "It is now, ' said Mr. Boscorel, finding out the place he 
 wanted, and keeping his forefinger upon it, "nearly thirty 
 jrears since I made the grand tour, being then governor tO
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 65 
 
 the young Lord Silchesier who afterwards died of the plague 
 in London. Else had I been now a bishop, who am forgotten 
 in this little place. The boys will ride, I take it, by the 
 same road which we took ; first, because it is the high-road 
 and the safest ; next, because it is the best provided with 
 inns and resting-places ; and, lastly, because it passes 
 through the best part of his most Christian majesty's domin- 
 ions, and carries the traveller through his finest and most 
 stately cities. From Montpellier they will ride — follow my 
 finger, child — to Nismes. Before the Revocation it was a 
 great place for those of the Reformed religion, and a popu- 
 lous town. Here they will not fail to visit the Roman 
 temple which still stands. It is not, indeed, such a noble 
 monument as one may see in Rome ; but it is in good pres- 
 ervation, and a fair example of the later style. They will 
 also visit the great amphitheatre, which should be cleared 
 of the mean houses which are now built up within it, and 
 so exposed in all its vastness to the admiration of the world. 
 After seeing these things they will direct their way across a 
 desolate piece of country to Avignon, passing on the way 
 the ancient Roman aqueduct called the Pont de Gard. At 
 Avignon they will admire the many churches and the walls, 
 and will not fail to visit the Palace of the Popes during the 
 Great Schism. Thence they will ride northwards, unless they 
 wish first to see the Roman remains at Aries. Thence will 
 they proceed up the valley of the Rhone, through many 
 stately towns, till they come to Lyons, where, doubtless 
 they will sojourn for a few dayi. Next they will journey 
 through the rich country of Burgundy, and from the ancient 
 town of Dijon will reach Paris through the city of Fontaine- 
 bleau. On the way they will see many windo'vs, noble 
 houses and castles, with rich towns and splendid churches. 
 In no country are there more splendid churches, built 
 in the Gothic style, which we have now forgotten. Some 
 of them, alas ! have been defaced in the wars (so-called of re- 
 ligion), where, as happened also to us, the delicate carved 
 work, the scrolls and flowers and statues were destroyed, 
 and the painted windows broken. Alas I that men should 
 refuse to suffer art to become the minister and handmaid of 
 religion ! Yet in the first and most glorious temple in 
 which the glory of the Lord was visibly present, there were 
 carved and graven lilies, with lions, oxen, chariots, cheru- 
 bim, palm-trees, and pomej^-ranalcs. "' 
 
 He closed his atlas and sat down. 
 
 "Child," he said, meditating. "For a scholar, in his
 
 ^5 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 youth, there is no pleasure comparable with the pleasure of 
 travelling in strange countries, among the monuments of 
 ancient days. My own son did never, to my sorrow, de- 
 sire the pleasant paths of learning, and did never show any 
 love for the arts, in which I have always taken so great de- 
 light. He desireth rather the companionship of men ; he 
 loveth to drink and sing ; and he nourisheth a huge ambi- 
 tion. 'Tis best that we are not all alike. Humphrey should 
 have been my son. Forget not, my child, that he hath 
 desired to be remembered to thee in every letter which he 
 hath written." 
 
 If the rector spoke much of Humphrey, madam made 
 amends by talking continually of Robin, and of the great 
 things that he would do when he returned home. Justice 
 of the peace, that he would certainly be made ; captain first 
 and afterwards colonel in the Somerset Militia, that also 
 should he be; knight of the shire, if he were ambitious — but 
 that I knew he would never be ; high sheriff of the county, 
 if his slender means permitted^ — for the estate was not worth 
 more than six or seven hundred pounds a year. Perhaps 
 he would marry an heiress : it would be greatly to the ad- 
 vantage of the family if an heiress were to come into it with 
 broad acres of her own ; but she was not a woman who 
 would seek to control her son in the matter of his affections, 
 and if he chose a girl with no fortune to her back, if she 
 was a good girl and pious, madam would never say him 
 nay. And he would soon return. The boy had been at 
 Oxford and next in London, learning law, such as justices 
 require. He was now with Humphrey at the University of 
 Leyden, doubtless learning more law. 
 
 "My dear," said madam, "we want him home. His 
 grandfather groweth old, though still, thank God, in the 
 full possession of his faculties. Yet a young maa's pres- 
 ence is needed. I trust and pray that he will return as he 
 went, innocent, in spite of the many temptations of the 
 wicked city. And, oh ! child — what if he should have lost 
 his heart to some designing city hussy ! " 
 
 He came — as ye shall hear immediately — Robin came 
 kome. Would to God that he had waited, if only for a 
 single month ! Had he not come all our afflictions would 
 have been spared us ! Had he not come that good old man 
 Sir Christopher — but it is vain to imagine what might have 
 been. We are in the hands of the Lord ; nothing that hap- 
 pens to us is permitted but by him, and for some wise pur- 
 pose was Sir Christopher in his old age — alas 1 why should 
 anticipate what I have to narrate .?
 
 }<0R h-AITJI AND FREEDOM. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 LE ROY EST MORT. 
 
 In February of the year 1685 King Charles II. died. 
 
 Sir Christopher himself brought us the news from Sher- 
 borne, whither he had gone, as was his wont, to the weekly 
 ordinary. He clattered up the lane on his cob, and halted 
 at our gate. 
 
 "Call thy father, child. Give you good-day, Madam 
 Eykin. Will your husband leave his books and come forth 
 for a moment? Tell him I have news." 
 
 My father rose and obeyed. His gown was in rags ; his 
 feet were clad in cloth shoon, which I worked for him ; his 
 cheek was wasted; but his eye was keen. He was lean 
 and tall ; his hair was as white as Sir Christopher's, though 
 he was full twenty years younger. 
 
 •'Friend and gossip," said Sir Christopher, " the king is 
 dead. " 
 
 "Is Charles Stewart dead.?" my father replied. "He 
 cumbered the earth too long. For five-and-twenty years 
 hath he persecuted the saints. Also he hath burnt incense 
 after the abomination of the heathen. Let his lot be as the 
 lot of Ahaz." 
 
 " Nay ; he is buried by this time. His brother the Duke 
 of York hath been proclaimed king." 
 
 "James the Papist It is as though Manasseh should 
 succeed to Ahaz. And after him Jehoiakim. " 
 
 *• Yet the bells will ring and we shall pray for the king ; 
 and wise men, Friend Eykin, will do well to keep silence." 
 
 " There is a time to speak and a time to keep silence. It 
 may be that the time is at hand when a godly man must 
 stretch forth his hand to tear down the Scarlet Woman, 
 though she slay him in the attempt." 
 
 "It may be so, friend Eykin ; yet stretch not forth thy 
 hand until thou art well assured of the divine command. 
 The king is dead. Now will my son-in-law ring out the 
 bells for the new king, and we shall pray for him, as we 
 prayed for his brother. It is our duty to pray for all in au- 
 thority, though to the prayers of a whole nation there
 
 It tOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 
 
 seemeth, so far as human reason can perceive, no answer * 
 
 " I, for one, will pray no more for a king who is a papist 
 Rather will I pray daily for his overthrow." 
 
 " King Charles is said to have received a priest before he 
 died. Yet it is worse that the king should be an open than 
 a secret Catholic. Let us be patient. Dr. Eykin, and await 
 the time." 
 
 So he rode up the village, and presently the bells were 
 set a-ringing, and they clashed as joyously, echoing around 
 the Corton Hills, as if the accession of King James II. was 
 the only thing wanted to make the nation prosperous, 
 happy, and religious. 
 
 My father stood at the gate after Sir Christopher left him. 
 The wind was cold, and the twilight was falling and his cas- 
 sock was thin, but he remained there motionless, until my 
 mother went out and drew him back to the house by the 
 arm. He went into his own room, but he read no more 
 that day. 
 
 In the evening he came forth and sat with us, and while 
 I sat sewing, my mother spinning, by the light of the fire, 
 he discoursed, which was unusual with him, upon things 
 and peoples and the best form of government, which he 
 held to be a commonwealth, with a strong man for presi- 
 dent. But he was to hold his power from the people, and 
 was to lay it down frequently, lest he should in his turn be 
 tempted to become a king. And if he were to fall away 
 from righteousness, or to live in open sin, or to be a merry- 
 maker, or to suffer his country to fall from a high place 
 among the nations, he was to be displaced, and be forced 
 to retire. As for the man Charles, now dead, he would be- 
 come, my father said, an example to all future ages, and a 
 warning of what may happen when the doctrine of Divine 
 Right is generally accepted and acted upon ; the king him- 
 self being not so much blamed by him as the practice of 
 hereditary rule which caused him to be seated upon the 
 throne, when his true place, my father said, was among the 
 lackeys and varlets of the palace. "His brother James," 
 he added, "had now an opportunity which occurred to few 
 • — for he might become another Josiah. But I think he will 
 neglect that opportunity," he concluded ; "yea, even if Hil- 
 kiah the Priest were to bring him a message from Huldah 
 the Prophetess ; for he doth belong to a family which, by 
 the divine displeasure, can never perceive the truth. Let 
 us now read the Word, and wrestle with the Lord iu 
 prayer. "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 5^ 
 
 Next we heard that loyal addresses were poured in from 
 all quarters congratulating the king, and promising most 
 submissive obedience. One would have thought that the 
 people were rejoiced at the succession of a Roman Catholic ; 
 it was said that the king had promised liberty of conscience 
 unto all ; that he claimed that liberty for himself, and that 
 he went to mass daily and openly. 
 
 But many there were who foresaw trouble. Unfortunately, 
 one of them was Sir Christopher, who spoke his mind at all 
 times too fiercely for his safety. IMr. Boscorel, also, was of 
 opinion that civil war would speedily ensue. 
 
 " The kings friends," he said, " may for a time buy the 
 support of the Noncomformists, and make a show of re- 
 ligious liberty. Thus may they govern for a while. But it 
 is not in the nature of the Roman Catholic priest to coun- 
 tenance religious liberty, or to sit down contented with less 
 than all the pie. They must forever scheme and intrigue 
 for more power. Religious liberty .? It means to them the 
 eternal damnation of those who hold themselves free to 
 think for themselves. They would be less than human if 
 they did not try to save the souls of the people by docking 
 their freedom. They must make this country even as 
 Spain or Italy. Is it to be believed that they will suffer the 
 Church to retain her revenues, or the universities to remain 
 out of their control ? Nay, will they allow the grammar 
 schools to be in the hands of Protestants .' Never ! The 
 next generation will be wholly CathoUc, imless the present 
 generation send king and priests packing." 
 
 These were treasonable words, but they were uttered in 
 the hall of the manor-house with no other listeners than Sir 
 Christopher and the rector. 
 
 "Seeing these things, son-in-law, " said Sir Christopher, 
 "what becomes of Right Divine.' Where is the duty of 
 non-resistance ! " 
 
 "The doctrine of Right Divine, "said Mr. Boscorel, "in- 
 cludes the divine institutic)n of a monarchy, which, I con- 
 fes8, is manifestly untenable, because the Lord granted a 
 king to the people only because they clamored for one. 
 Also, had the institution been of divine foundation, the Jews 
 would never have been allowed to live under the rule of 
 judges, tetrarchs, and Roman governors." 
 
 "You have not always spoken so plainly," said Sir 
 Christopher. 
 
 "Nay; why be always proclaiming to the world your 
 thoug;hts and opinions.'' Besides, even if the doctrine of
 
 JO ^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 non-resistance were sound, there may be cases in whicVj 
 just laws may be justly set aside. I say not that this is 
 one, as yet. But if there were danger of the ancient super- 
 stitions being thrust upon us to the destruction of our souls, 
 I say not. Nay ; if a starving- man take a loaf of bread, 
 there being no other way possible to save his life, one would 
 not, therefore, hold him a thief. Yet the law remains." 
 
 "Shall the blood which hath been poured out for the 
 cause of liberty prove to be shed in vain ? " asked Sir Chris- 
 topher." 
 
 "Why, sir," said the rector, " the same question might be 
 asked in France, where the Protestants fought longer and 
 against greater odds than we in this country. Yet the blood 
 of those martyrs hath been shed in vain ; the Church of 
 Rome is there the conqueror indeed. It is laid upon the 
 Protestants, even upon us, who hold that we are a true 
 branch of the ancient Apostolic Church, to defend ourselves 
 continually against an enemy who is always at unity, 
 always guided by one man, always knows what he ■wants, 
 and is always working to get it. We, on the other hand, do 
 not know our own minds, and must forever be quarrelling 
 among ourselves. Nevertheless, the heart of the country is 
 Protestant ; and sooner or later the case of conscience may 
 arise whether — the law remaining unchanged — we may not 
 blamelessly break the law? " 
 
 That case of conscience was not yet ripe for considera- 
 tion. There needed first many things — including the mar- 
 tyrdom of saints and innocent men and poor, ignorant rus- 
 tics — before the country roused herself once more to seize 
 her liberties. Then as to that poor doctrine of Divine 
 Right, they all made a mouthful of it, except only a small 
 and harmless band of nonjurors. 
 
 At the outset, whatever the opinions of the people — who 
 could have been made to rise as one man — the gentry re- 
 mained loyal. Above all things, they dreaded another civil 
 war. 
 
 *' We must fain accept the king's professions," said the 
 rector. "If we have misgivings, let us disguise them. 
 Let us rather nourish the hope that they are honestly meant ; 
 and let us wait. England will not become another Spain 
 in a single day. Let us wait. The stake is not yet set up 
 in Smithfield, and the Inquisition is not yet established in 
 the country." 
 
 It was in this temper that the king's accession found Sit 
 Christopher. Afterwards ho was accused of having har*
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7! 
 
 bored designs against the king from the beginning. That, 
 indeed, was not the case. He had no thought of entering 
 into any such enterprise. Yet he never doubted that in the 
 end there would be an uprising against the rule of the priests. 
 Nor did he doubt that the king would be pushed on by his 
 advisers to one pretension after another for the advance- 
 ment of his own prerogative and the displacement of the 
 Protestant Church. Nay, he openly predicted that there 
 would be such attempts ; and he maintained — such was his 
 wisdom — that, in the long run, the Protestant faith would 
 beestablished upon a surer foundation than ever. But as for 
 conspiring or being cognizant of any conspiracy, that was 
 untrue. Why, he was at this time seventy-five years of age 
 — a time when such men as Sir Christopher have continual- 
 ly before their eyes death and the judgment. 
 
 As for my father, perhaps I am wrong, but in the daily 
 prayers of night and morning, and in the "Grace before 
 meat," he seemed to find a freer utterance, and to wrestle 
 more vehemently than was his wont on the subject of the 
 Scarlet Woman, offering himself as a willing martyr and 
 confessor, if by the shedding of his blood the great day of 
 her final overthrow might be advanced ; yet always humble, 
 not daring to think of himself as anything but an instru- 
 ment to do the will of his Master. In the end, his death 
 truly helped, with others, to bring a Protestant king to the 
 throne of these isles. And since we knew him to be so 
 deep a scholar, always reading and learning, and in no 
 sense a man of activity, the thing which he presently did 
 amazed us all. Yet we ought to have known that one who 
 is under the divine command to preach the Word of God, 
 and hath been silenced by man for more than twenty years, 
 so that the strength of his manhood hath run to waste and 
 is lost — it is a most terrible and grievous thing for a man to 
 be condemned to idleness — may become like unto one of 
 those burning mountains of which we sometimes read in 
 books of voyages. In him, as in them, the inner fires rage 
 and burn, growing ever stronger and fiercer, until presently 
 they rend asunder the sides of the mountain and burst forth, 
 pouring down liquid fire over the unhappy valleys beneath, 
 with showers of red-hot ashes to destroy and cover up the 
 smiling homesteads and the fertile meadows. 
 
 It is true that my father chafed continually at the inaction 
 forced upon him, but his impatience was never so strong «s 
 at this time, namely, after the accession of King James. It 
 drove him from his books jind out iiUo the fields and lanes.
 
 tj2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 where he walked to and fro, waving his long arms, and 
 someti^oes crying aloud and shouting in the woods, as if 
 compelled to cry out in order to quench some raging fever 
 or heat of his mind. 
 
 About this time, too, I remember, they began to talk of 
 the exiles in Holland, The Duke of Monmouth was there 
 with -the Earl of Argyle, and with them a company of fire- 
 brands eager to get back to England and their property. 
 
 I am certain now that my father (and perhaps through 
 his information. Sir Christopher also) was kept acquainted 
 with the plots and designs that were carried on in the Low 
 Countries. Nay ; I am also certain that his informant was 
 none other than Humphrey, who was still in Leyden. I 
 have seen a letter from him, written, as I now understand, 
 in a kind of allegory or parable, in which one thing was said 
 and another meant. Thus, he pretends to speak of Dutch 
 gardening : " The gardeners," he says, " take infinite pains 
 that their secrets shall not be learned or disclosed. I know, 
 however, that a certain blue tulip much desired by many 
 gardeners in England, will be taken across the waters this 
 year, and I hope that by next year the precious bulb may 
 be fully planted in English soil. The preparation of the 
 soil necessary for the favorable reception of the bulb is well 
 known to you, and you will understand how to mix your 
 soil and to add manure and so forth. I myself expect to 
 finish what I have to do in a few weeks, when I shall cross 
 to London, and so ride westwards, and hope to pay my 
 respects to my revered tutor in the month of June next. It 
 may be that I shall come with the tulip, but that is not 
 certain. Many messages have been received offering large 
 sums of money for the bulb, so that it is hoped that tlie 
 Dutch gardeners will let it go. — From H. C. " 
 
 The tulip, you see, was the Duke of IVIonmouth, and the 
 Dutch gardeners were the Scotch and English exiles then in 
 Holland, and the English gardeners were the duke's friends, 
 and H. C. was Humphrey Challis. 
 
 I think that Sir Christopher must have known of this cor- 
 respondence, because I now remember that my father would 
 sit with him for many hours looking at a map of England, 
 and had been conversing earnestly, and making notes in a 
 book. These n:tes he made in the Arabic character, which 
 no one but himself could read. I therefore suppose that he 
 was estimating the number of Nonconformists who might 
 be disposed to aid in such an enterprise as Humphrey'* 
 "gardeners" were contemplating.
 
 FOR FAITH Aj\'D FREEDOM. 
 
 n 
 
 Robin, who certainly was no conspirator, also wrote a 
 letter from Leyclen about this time saying that something 
 was expected, nobody knew what ; but that the exiles were 
 meeting constantly, as if something were brewing. 
 
 It was about the first week in June that the news came to 
 us of Lord Argyle's landing. This was the beginning. 
 After that, as you will hear, the news came thick and fast ; 
 every day som ^thing fresh, and something to quicken the 
 most sluggish pulse. To me, at least, it seemed as if the 
 breath of God himself was poured out upon the country, 
 and that the people were everywhere resolved to banish the 
 accursed thing from their midst. Alas ! that simple country 
 maid was deceived ! The accursed thing was to be driven 
 forth, but not yet. The country party hated the pope, but 
 they dreaded civil war ; and, indeed, there is hardly any 
 excuse for that most dreadful scourge, except the salvation 
 of the soul and the safeguarding of liberties. They would 
 gladly welcome a rising, but it must be general and uni- 
 versal. They had for five-and-twenty years been taught 
 the wickedness of rebellion, and now there was no way to 
 secure the Protestant faith except by rebellion. Unhappily, 
 the rebellion began before the country gentlemen were 
 ready to begin. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 Before the storm breaks there sometimes falls upon the 
 e<irth a brief time when the sun shines in splendor from a 
 clear sky. The air is balmy and delightsome, the birds sing 
 in the coppice, and the innocent lambs leap in the meadows. 
 Then, suddenly, black clouds gather from the north ; the 
 wind blows cold ; in a minute the sky is black ; the light- 
 nings flash, the thunders roll, the wind roars, the hail beats 
 down and strips the orchard of its promise, and silences 
 the birds cowering in the branches, and drives the trem- 
 bling sheep to take shelter in the hedges. 
 
 This was to be my case. You shall understand how for 
 a single day — it was no more — I was the happiest girl in all 
 the world 
 
 I may without any shime confess that I have always
 
 r4 
 
 POR t'Alrir AND FREEDOM. 
 
 loved Robin from my earliest childhood. That was no great 
 wonder, seeing what manner of boy he was, and how he 
 was always kind and thoughtful for me. We were at first 
 only brother and sister together, which is natural and rea- 
 sonable when children grow up together ; nor can I tell 
 when or how we ceased to be brother and sister, save that 
 it may have been when Robin kissed me so tenderly at 
 parting, and told me that he should always love me. I do 
 n<^t think that brothers do generaly protestlove and promise 
 continual affection. Barnaby certainly never declared his 
 love for me, nor did he ever promise to love me all his life. 
 Perhaps, had he remained longer, he might have become as 
 tender as he was good-hearted ; but I think that tenderness 
 towards a sister is not in the nature of a boy. I loved 
 Robin, and I loved Humphrey, both as if they were 
 brothers ; but one of them ceased to be my brother, while 
 the other, in consequence, remained my brother always. 
 
 A girl may be ignorant of the world as I was, and of 
 lovers and their ways as I was, and yet she cannot grow from 
 a child to a woman without knowing that when a young man 
 who hath promised to love her always, speaks of her in 
 every letter, he means more than common brotherly love. 
 Nor can any woman be indifferent to a man who thus re- 
 gards her ; nor can she think upon love without the desire 
 of being herself loved. Truly, I had always before my eyes 
 the spectacle of that holy love which consecrates every part 
 of life. I mean in the case of my mother, whose waking 
 and sleeping thoughts were all for her husband ; who 
 worked continually and cheerfully with her hands that he 
 might be enabled to study without other work, and gave up 
 her whole life, without grudging — even reckoning it her 
 happiness and his privilege — in order to provide food and 
 shelter for him. It was enough reward for her that he 
 should sometimes lay his hand lovingly upon her head, or 
 turn his eyes with affection to meet hers. 
 
 It was the night of June 12, as I lay in bed, not yet 
 asleep, though it was already past nine o'clock, that I heard 
 the trampling of hoofs crossing the stream and passing our 
 cottage. Had I known who were riding those horses there 
 would have been but little sleep for me that night. But I 
 knew not, and did not suspect, and so, supposing that it 
 was only one of the farmers belated, I closed my eyes, and 
 presently slept until the morning. 
 
 About five o'clock, or a little before that time, I awoke, 
 the sun having already arisen, and being now well above
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 7j 
 
 the hill. I arose softly, leaving my mother asleep still, 
 and, having dressed quckly, and prayed a little, I crepl 
 softly down the stairs. In the house there was such a stillness 
 that I could even hear the regular breathing of my father as 
 he slept upon his pallet among his books ; it was chill and 
 damp (as is the custom in the early morning)in the room 
 where we lived and worked. Yet, when I threw open door 
 and shutter and looked outside, the air was full of warmth 
 and refreshment ; as for the birds, they had long since left 
 their nests, and now were busy looking for their breakfast ; 
 the larks were singing overhead, and the bees already hum- 
 ming and droning. Who would lie abed when he could get up 
 and enjoy the beauty of the morning? When I had breathed 
 awhile, with pleasure and satisfaction, the soft air, which 
 was laden with the scent of flowers and of hay, I went in- 
 doors again, and swept and dusted the room. Then I 
 opened the cupboard, and considered the provision for 
 breakfast. For my father there would be a slice of cold 
 bacon with a good crust of homemade bread (better bread or 
 sweeter was nowhere to be had) and a cup of cidei; unarm- 
 ing to the spirits and good, for one who is no longer young, 
 against any rawness of the morning air. For my mother 
 and myself there would be, as soon as our neighbors' cows 
 were milked, a cup of warm milk and bread soaked in it 
 'Tis a breakfast good for a grown person as well as for a 
 child, and it cost us nothing but the trouble of going to 
 take it. 
 
 When I had swept the room and laid everything in its 
 place I went into the garden, hoe in hand, to weed the beds 
 and trim the borders. The garden was not very big, it is 
 true, but it produced many things useful for us ; notably 
 onions and sallet, besides many herbs good for the house, 
 for it was a fertile strip of ground, and planted in every 
 part of it Now, such was the beauty of the morning and 
 the softness of the air that I presently forgot the work 
 about which I had come into the garden, and sat down in 
 the shade upon a bench, suffering my thoughts to wander 
 hither and thither. Much have I always pitied those poor 
 folk in towns who can never escape from the noise and 
 clatter of tongues, and sit somewhere in the sunshine or 
 the shade, while the cattle low in the meadows and the 
 summer air makes the leaves to rustle, and suffer their 
 thoughts to wander here and there. Every morning when 
 I arose was this spectacle of nature's gladness presented to 
 my e^es. but not every moniing could my spirit (which
 
 j6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 sometimes crawls as if fearing the light of day and the face 
 of the sun) rise to meet and greet it, and to feel it calling 
 aloud for a hymn of praise and thanksgiving. For, indeed, 
 this is a beautiful world if we could always suffer its lovli- 
 ness (which we cannot for the earthliness of our natures) to 
 sink into our hearts. I know not what I thought this morn- 
 ing ; but I remember, while I considered the birds, which 
 neither reap nor sow, nor take any thought of to-morrow, 
 yet are daily fed by Heaven, that the words were whispered 
 HI mine ear, " Are ye not much better than they.? " And this, 
 without doubt, prepared my heart for what should follow. 
 
 While I sat thinking of I know not what, there came foot- 
 steps — quick footsteps — along the road ; and I knew those 
 footsteps, and sprang to my feet, and ran to the garden- 
 gate crying "Robin ! — it is Robin ! '.' 
 
 Yes ; it was Robin. 
 
 He seized me by both hands, looking in my face curiously 
 and eagerly. 
 
 "Grace!" he said, drawing a deep breath; "Oh! but 
 what hath happened to thee .? " 
 
 " What should happen Robin .? " 
 
 " Oh ! thou art changed, Grace ! I left thee almost a child, 
 and now — now — I thought to catch thee in my arms — a 
 sweet rustic nymph — and now — fain must I go upon my 
 knees to a goddess." 
 
 "Robin!" Who, indeed, would have expected such 
 language from Robin } 
 
 "Grace," he said, still gazing upon me with a kind of 
 wonder which made me blush, " do you remember when 
 we parted, four years ago, the words we said .? As for me, 
 I have never forgotten them. I was to think of thee always ;, 
 1 was to love thee always. Truly I may say that there is 
 never a day but thou hast been in my mind. But not like 
 this. " He continued to look upon me as upon some strange 
 creature, so that I began to be frightened, and turned away. 
 
 "Nay, Grace, forgive me. I am one who is dazzled by 
 the splendor of the sun. Forgive me ; I cannot speak. I 
 thought of a village beauty, rosy-cheeked, sweet and whole- 
 some as an August quarander, and I find — " 
 
 " Robin — not a goddess." 
 
 "Well, then, a woman tall and stately, and more beauti- 
 ful than words can sa3^" 
 
 " Nay, Robin, you do but flatter. That is not like the old 
 Robin I remember and" — I should have added — "loved." 
 but the word stuck.
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 77 
 
 "I swear, sweet saint — if I may swear — nay, then I do 
 affirm that I do not flatter.- Hear me tell a plain tale. I 
 hav€ travelled far since last I saw thee ; I have seen the 
 great ladies of the court both of St. James's and of the 
 Louvre ; I have seen the famous beauties of Provence and 
 the black-eyed witches of Italy ; but nowhere have I seen 
 a woman half so fair." 
 
 " Robin — you must not ! Nay, Robin — you shame me ! "' 
 
 Then he knelt at my feet, and seized my hand and kissed 
 it. Oh, the foolishness of a man in love ! And yet it pleases 
 us. No woman is worth it. No woman can understand 
 it; nor can she comprehend the power and might of man's 
 love, nor why he singles out her alone from all the rest, 
 and fills his heart wholly with her, so that all other women 
 are henceforward as his sisters. It is wonderful ; it is most 
 wonderful. Yet it pleases us. Nay, we thank God for it 
 with all our heart and with all our soul. 
 
 I would not, if I could, set down all the things which 
 Robin said. First, because the words of love are sacred ; 
 next, because I would not that other women should know 
 the extravagance of his praise. It was in broken words, be- 
 cause love can never be eloquent. 
 
 As for me, what could I do ? what could I say .? For I 
 had loved him from my very childhood, and now all my 
 heart went out from me and became his. I was all his. I 
 was his slave to command. That is the quality of earthly love 
 by which it most clearly resembles the heavenly love ; so 
 that just as the godly man is wholly devoted to the will of 
 the Lord in all things great and small, resigned to his chas- 
 tisements, and always anxious to live and die in his service, 
 so in earthly love one must be wholly devoted to the per- 
 son whom one loves. 
 
 And Robin was come home again, and I was lying in his 
 arms, and he was kissing me, and calling me all the sweet 
 and tender things that he could invent, and laughing and 
 sighing together as if too happy to be quiet. Oh ! sweetest 
 moments of my life ! Why did they pass so quickly ? Oh ! 
 sacrament of love, which can be taken only once, and yet 
 changes the whole of life, and fills it with memory which is 
 wholly sweet ! In all other earthly things there is some- 
 thing of bitterness. In this holy joy of pure and sacred 
 love there is no bitterness — no ; not any. It leaves behind 
 nothing of reproftch or of repentance, of shame or of sorrow. 
 It is altogether holy. 
 
 Now, when my boy had somewhat recovered from his
 
 78 l^OR FAITH AND FREEDO.Xt. 
 
 first rapture, and I had assured him very earnestly that 1 
 was not, indeed, an angel, but a most sinful woman, daily 
 offending in my inner thoughts (which he received, indeed, 
 with an appearance of disbelief and scorn), I was able to 
 consider his appearance, which was now very fine, though 
 always, as I learned when I saw him among other gentle- 
 men, with some soberness as became one whose upbring- 
 ing inclined him to soberness of dress as well as of speech 
 and manner, He wore a long wig of brown hair, which 
 might have been his own but for its length ; his hat was 
 laced and cocked, which gave him a gallant and martial 
 appearance ; his neckcloth was long and of fine lace ; beside 
 him, in my russet gown, I must have looked truly plain and 
 rustic ; but Robin was pleased not to think so, and love is 
 a great magician to cheat the eyes. 
 
 He was home again ; he told me he should travel no 
 more (yet you shall hear how far he afterwards travelled) ; 
 his only desire now was to stay at home and live as his 
 grandfather had lived, in his native village; he had nothing 
 to pray for but the continuance of my love — of which, in- 
 deed, there was no doubt possible. 
 
 It was now close upon six o'clock, and I begged him to 
 go away for the present, and if my father and Sir Christo- 
 pher should agree, and it should seem to his honor a fit and 
 proper thing that Robin should marry a girl so penniless as 
 myself, why — then — we might meet again after breakfast, 
 or after dinner ; or, indeed, at any other time, and so dis- 
 course more upon the matter. So he left me, being very 
 reluctant to go ; and I, forgetting my garden and what 1 
 had come forth to do, returned to the house. 
 
 You must understand that all these things passed in the 
 garden divided from the lane by a thick hedge, and that 
 ])assers-by — but there were none — could not, very well, 
 have seen what was done, though they might have heard 
 what was said. But if my father had looked out of his 
 window he could have seen, and if my mother had come 
 down-stairs she also might have seen through the window, 
 or through the open door. Of this I thought not upon, nor 
 was there anything to hide ; though one would not willing- 
 ly suffer any one, even one's own mother, to see and listen 
 at such a moment. Yet mother has since told me that she 
 saw Robin on his knees kissing my hands, but she with- 
 drew and would not look again. 
 
 When I stepped within the door she was at work with 
 her wheel, and looked up with a smile upon her hps, and
 
 FOk FAITH AND h'REEDOM. 79 
 
 tears were in her eyes. Had I known what she had seen, 
 I should have been ashamed. 
 
 "Daughter," she said, softly, " thy cheek is burning red. 
 Hast thou, perchance, been too long in the sun ? " 
 
 " No, mother, the sun is not too hot." 
 
 " Daughter," she went on, still smiling through tears, 
 " thine eyes are bright and glowing. Hast thou a touch of 
 fever by ill chance .? " 
 
 "No, mother, I have no fever." 
 
 "Child, thy lips are trembling and thy hands are shak- 
 ing. My dear, my dear, what is it.'' Tell thy mother all." 
 
 She held out her arms to me, and I threw myself at her 
 feet and buried my head in her lap as if I had been again a 
 child. 
 
 "Mother! mother!" I cried, "Robin hath come home 
 again, and he says he loves me, and nothing will do but 
 he must marry me." 
 
 " My dear," she said, kissing and fondling me, "Robin 
 hath always been a good lad, and I doubt not that he hath 
 returned unspotted from the world ; but, nay, do not let us 
 be tco sure. For, first, his honor must consent, and then 
 madam ; and thy father must be asked — and he would 
 never, for any worldly honor suffer thee to marry an ungod- 
 ly man. As for thy lack of fortune, I know not if it will stand 
 in the way; and as for family, thy father, though he was 
 born in New England, cometh of a good stock, and I myself 
 am a gentlewoman, and on both sides we bear an ancient 
 coat-of-arms. And as for thyself, my dear, thou art — I 
 thank God for it ! — of a sweet temper and an obedient dis- 
 position. From the earliest thou hast never given thy 
 mother any uneasiness, and I think thy heart hath been 
 mercifully disposed towards goodness from thy childhood 
 upward. It is a special grace in this our long poverty and 
 oppression ; and it consoles me partly for the loss of my 
 son Barnaby." Here she was silent for a space, and her 
 eyes filled and brimmed over. "Child," she said, earnest- 
 ly, " thou art comely in the eyes of men ; that have 1 known 
 for long. It is partly for thy sweet looks that Sir Christo- 
 pher loves thee ; Mr. Boscorel plays music with thee be- 
 cause his eyes love to behold the beauty of woman. Nay, 
 I mean no reproach, becau.sc it is the nature of men to love 
 all things beautiful, whether it be the plumage of a bird or 
 the shape of a woman's head. Yes ; thou art beautiful, my 
 dear. Beauty passes, but love remains. Thy husband will, 
 perchance, never cease to think thee lovely if he still proves
 
 ,0 FOR FAITIT AA'D FKEEboM. 
 
 daily thy goodness and the loveliness of thy heart. My 
 dear, thou hast long comforted thy mother; now shalt thou 
 go, with the blessing of the Lord, to be the solace and the 
 joy of thy husband." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HUMPHREY. 
 
 Presently my father came in, the Bible in his hand. By 
 his countenance it was plain that he had been already en- 
 gaged in meditation, and that his mind was charged as with 
 a message. 
 
 Alas ! to think of the many great discourses that he pro- 
 nounced (being as a dog who must be muzzled should he 
 leave the farm-yard) to us women alone. If they were 
 written down the world would lift up its hands with wonder, 
 and ask if a prophet indeed had been vouchsafed to this un- 
 happy country. The Roman Church will have that the 
 time of saints did not end with the last of the apostles ; that 
 may be, and yet a saint has no more power after death 
 than remains in his written words and in the memory of his 
 life. Shall we not, however, grant that there may still be 
 prophets, who see and apprehend the meaning of words 
 and of things more fully than others even as spiritually- 
 minded as themselves } Now, I say, considering what 
 was immediately to befall us, the passage which my father 
 read and expounded that m.orning was in a manner truly 
 prophetic. It was the vision of the basket of summer fruit 
 ^vhich was vouchsafed to the prophet Amos. He read to us 
 that terrible chapter — everybody knows it, though it hath 
 but fourteen verses : 
 
 "I will turn your feasts into mourning aiid all your songs 
 into lamentation. ... I will send a famine int he land; not a 
 famine of bread or a thirst of water, but of hearing the words 
 of the Lord." 
 
 He then applied the chapter to these times, saying that 
 the Scriptures and the prophecies apply not only to the 
 Israel of the time when Amos or any other prophet lived, 
 but to the people of God in all ages, yet so that sometimes 
 one prophet seems to deliver the message that befits the 
 time, and sometimes another. All these things prophesied 
 by Amos had come to pass in this country of Great Britain,
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. %\ 
 
 SO that there was, and had now been for twenty-five years, 
 a grievous famine and a sore thirst for the words of the 
 Lord. He continued to explain and to enlarge upon this 
 topic for nearly an hour, when he concluded with a fervent 
 prayer that the famine would pass away and the sealed 
 springs be open again for the children of grace to drink and 
 be refreshed. 
 
 This done, he took his breakfast in silence, as was his 
 wont, loving not to be disturbed by any earthly matters 
 when his mind was full of his morning discourse. When he 
 had eaten the bread and meat and taken the cup of cider, 
 he arose and went back to his own room, and shut the 
 door. We should have no more speech of him until 
 dinner-time. 
 
 '* I* will speak with him, my dear," said my mother. "But 
 not yet Let us wait till we hear from Sir Christopher." 
 
 " I would that my father had read us a passage of en- 
 couragement and promise on this morning of all mornings," 
 J said. 
 
 My mother turned over the leaves of the Bible. "I will 
 read you a verse of encouragement," she said. "It is the 
 word of God as much as the Book of the Prophet Amos." 
 So she found and read for my comfort words which had a 
 new meaning to me : 
 
 "My beloved spake and said unto me, ' Rise up, my love, 
 my fair one, and come away. For, lo ! the winter is past, 
 the rain is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the earth ; 
 the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of 
 the turtle is heard in our land 1 The fig-tree putteth forth her 
 green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good 
 smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.' " 
 
 And again, these that follow : 
 
 "Set me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon thine 
 arm ; for love is strong as death ; jealousy is cruel as the 
 grave ; the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most 
 vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither 
 can the floods drown it. If a man would give all the 
 substaace of his house for love it would utterly be con- 
 temned." 
 
 In these gracious, nay, these enraptured words, doth the 
 Bible speak of love ; and though I am not so ignorant as 
 not to know that it is the love of the Church for Christ, yet 
 I am persuaded by my own spiritual experience — whatever 
 doctors of divinity may argue — that the earthly love of hus- 
 band and wii« may be spoktn of in these very words as
 
 $2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 being the type of that other and higher love. And in this 
 matter I know that my mother would also confirm my 
 judgment. 
 
 It might have been between nine and ten that Humphrey 
 came. Surely he was changed more than Robin ; for the 
 great white periwig which he wore (being a physician) fall- 
 ing upon his shoulders did partly hide the deformity of his 
 shoulder, and the black velvet coat did also become him 
 mightily. As for his face, that was not changed at all. It 
 had been grave and serious in youth ; it was now more 
 grave and more serious in manhood. He stood in the door- 
 way, not seeing me — I was making a pudding for dinner, 
 with my sleeves rolled up and my arms white with flour. 
 
 "Mistress Eykin," he said, "are old friends passed out of 
 mind?" 
 
 "Why," my mother left her wheel and gave him her hand, 
 "'tis Humphrey! I knew that we should see thee this 
 morning, Humphrey. Is thy health good, my son, and is 
 all well with thee?" 
 
 " All is well, madam, and my health is good How is 
 my master — thy husband ? " 
 
 "He is always well, and — ^but thou knowest what 
 fnanner of life he leads. Of late he hath been much dis- 
 quieted ; he is restless — his mind runs much upon the 
 prophecies of war and pestilence. It is the news from 
 London and the return of the mass which keep him uneasy. 
 Go in and see him, Humphrey. He will willingly suffer 
 thee to disturb him, though we must not go near him in his 
 hours of study." 
 
 " Presently ; but where is my old playfellow — where is 
 Grace?" 
 
 '* She is behind you, Humphrey. " 
 
 He turned, and his pale face flushed when he saw me. 
 
 "Grace ?" he cried. "Is this Gra^e ? Nay, she is 
 changed indeed I I knew not — I could not expect — nay, 
 how could one expect — " 
 
 "There is no change," said my mother, sharply. ' ' Grace 
 was a child, and is now a woman ; that is all." 
 
 " Humphrey expects," I said, " that we should all stop 
 still while time went on. You were to become a bachelor 
 of medicine, sir, and a fellow of All-Souls' College, and to 
 travel in Italy and France, and to come back in a velvet 
 coat, and a long sword, and a periwig over your shoulders ; 
 and I was to be a little gin still." 
 
 Humphrey shook his heac\
 
 FOR PAITH AI^£> PHEEDOAf. 8^ 
 
 " It is not only that," he said ; " thoug;h I confess that 
 one did not make due allowance for the flight of time. It is 
 that the sweet-faced child has become — " 
 
 "No, Humphrey," I said. "I want no compliments. 
 Go now, sir, and speak with my father. Afterwards you 
 shall tell me all that you have been doing-." 
 
 He obeyed, and opened my father's door. 
 
 " Humphrey !" My father sprang to his feet. "Wel- 
 come, my pupil ! Thou bringest good news .? Nay ; I 
 have received thy letters : I read the good news in thy 
 face — I see it in thine eyes. Welcome home 1 " 
 
 " Sir, I have, indeed, great news," said Humphrey. 
 
 Then the door was closed. 
 
 He stayed there for half an hour and more ; and we 
 heard from within earnest talk — my father's voice some- 
 limes uplifted, loud and angry, but Humphrey's always 
 low, as if he did not wish us to overhear them. So, not to 
 seem unto each other as if we \vere listening, mother and I 
 talked of other things, such as the lightness of the pudding 
 and the quantity of suet which should be put into it, and the 
 time it should boil in the pot, and other things as women 
 can whose hearts are full, yet they must needs be talking. 
 
 " Father hath much to say to Humphrey," I said, after a 
 time ; " he doth not use to like such interruption V 
 
 " Humphrey's conversation is no interruption, my dear. 
 They think the same thoughts and talk the same language. 
 Your father may teach and admonish us, but he can only 
 converse with a scholar such as himself. It is not the least 
 evil of our oppression that he hath been cut off from the 
 society of learned men, in which he used to take so much 
 delight. If Humphrey remains here a little while you 
 shall see your father lose the eager and anxious look which 
 hath of late possessed him. He will talk to Humphrey, 
 and will clear his mind. Then he will be contented again 
 for a while, or, at least, resigned." 
 
 Presently Humphrey came forth. His face was grave 
 and serious. My father came out of the room after him. 
 
 " Let us talk more," he said — " let us resume our talk. 
 Join me on the hillside, where none can hear us. It is, 
 indeed, the vision of the basket of summer fruit that we 
 read this morning." His face was working with some in- 
 ward excitement, and his eyes were full of a strange light 
 as of a glad conqueror, or of one — forbid the thought ! who 
 M'as taking a dire revenge. He strode down the garden 
 and out into the lanes.
 
 84 FO^ FA/TIT AND FREEDOM. 
 
 " Thus," said my mother, " will he walk out and som^ 
 times remain in the woods, walking, preaching to the winds, 
 and swinging his arms the whole day long. Art thou a 
 physician, and canst thou heal him, Humphrey ? " 
 
 ••If the cause be removed, the disease will be cured. 
 Perhaps before long the cause will be removed. ' 
 
 " The cause — oh ! the cause — what is the cause but the 
 tyranny of the law ? He who was ordered by Heaven it- 
 self to preach, is silent for five-and-twenty years. His very 
 life hath been taken from him. And you talk of removing 
 the cause .' " 
 
 "Madam, if the law suffer him once more to preach 
 freely, would that satisfy him — and you .? " 
 
 My mother shook her head. ''The law, the law, "she said ; 
 " now we have a Papist on the throne, it is far more likely 
 to lead my husband to the stake than to set him free." 
 
 "That shall we shortly see," said Humphrey. 
 
 My mother bent her head over her wheel as one who 
 wishes to talk no more upon the subject. She loved not to 
 speak concerning her husband to any except to me. 
 
 I went out into the garden with Humphrey. I was fool- 
 ish. I laughed at nothing. I talked nonsense. Oh! I was 
 so happy that if a pipe and tabor had been heard in the vil- 
 lage I should have danced to the music, like poor Barnaby 
 the night before he ran away. I regarded not the grave and 
 serious face of my companion. 
 
 "You are merry, Grace," said Humphrey. 
 
 "It is because you are come back again — you and Robin. 
 Oh I the time has been long and dull — and now you have 
 come back we shall all be happy again. Yes ; my father 
 will cease to fret and rage : he will talk Latin and Greek 
 with you ; Sir Christopher will be happy only in looking 
 upon you ; madam will have her son home again ; and Mr. 
 Boscorel will bring out all the old music for you. Hum- 
 phrey, it is a happy day that brings you home again." 
 
 " It may be a happy day also for me," he said; "but 
 there is much to be done. When the business we have in 
 hand is accomplished — " 
 
 "What business, Humphrey.? " For he spoke so graA-'ely 
 that it startled me. 
 
 " 'Tis busmess of which thy father knows, child. Nay, 
 let us not talk of it. I think and hope that it is as good as 
 accomplished now before it is well taken in hand. It is 
 not of that business that I would speak. Grace, thou art so 
 beautiful and »o tall — "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. %^ 
 
 "Nay, Humphrey. I must not be flattered." 
 
 "And I so crooked." 
 
 "Humphrey, I will not hear this talk. You, so great a 
 scholar, thus to speak of yourself! " 
 
 " Let me speak of myself, my dear. Hear me for a mo- 
 ment." I declare that I had not the least thought of what 
 he was going to say, my mind being wholly occupied with 
 the idea of Robin. 
 
 "I am a physician, as you doubtless know. Medicinae 
 Doctor of Oxford, of Padua, Montpellier, and Leyden. I 
 know all — I may fairly say, and without boasting — that 
 may be learned by one of my age from schools of medicine 
 and from books on the science and practice of healing. I 
 believe, in short, that I am as good a physician as can be 
 found within these seas. I am minded, as soon as tran- 
 quillity is restored, to set up as a physician in London, 
 where I have already many friends, and am assured of 
 some support. I think, humbly speaking, that reasonable' 
 success awaits me. Grace — you know that I have loved 
 you all my life — will you marry me, crooked as I am ; Oh ! 
 you cannot but know that I have loved you all my life. 
 Oh ! child," he stretched forth his hands, and in his eyes 
 there was a world of longing and of sadness which moved 
 my heart. "My dear, the crooked in body have no friends 
 among men ; they cannot join in their rough sports, nor 
 drink with them, nor fight with them. They have no chance 
 of happiness but in love, my dear. My dear, give me that 
 chance .-" I love thee. Oh ! my dear, give me that chance .'' " 
 Never had I seen Humphrey so moved before. I fell 
 guilty and ashamed in the presence of this passion of which 
 1 was the most unworthy cause. 
 
 "Oh! Humphrey, stop — for Heaven's sake stop ! because 
 I am but this very morning promised to Robin, who loves 
 me, too — and I love Robin, Hum])hrey." He sank 1)ack, 
 pale and disordered, and I thought that he would swoon, 
 but he recovered. " Humjihrey, never doubt that I love 
 you, too. But oh ! I love Robin, and Robin loves me. " 
 
 "Yes, dear — yes, child — yes, Grace, " he said, in broken 
 accents. "I understand. Everything is for Robin — every- 
 thing for Robin. Why, I might have guessed it ! For 
 Robin, the straight and comely figure ; for Robin, the 
 strength; for Robin, the inheritance ; for Robin, happy love. 
 For me, a crooked body ; for me, a feeble frame ; for me, 
 the loss of fortune ; for me, contempt and poverty ; for me, 
 the loss of love — all for Robin — all for Robin ) '"
 
 96 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Humphrey — surely thou wouldst not envy or be jealous 
 of Robin ! " Never had I seen him thus moved, or heard 
 him thus speak 
 
 He made no answer for a while. Then he said slowly 
 and painfully, 
 
 " Grace, I am ashamed. Why should not Robin have 
 all? Who am I that I should have anything ? Forgive me, 
 child. I have lived in a paradise which fools create for 
 themselves. I have suffered myself to dream that what I 
 ardently desired was possible and even probable. Forgive 
 me. Let me be as before — your brother. Will you forgive 
 me, dear ? " 
 
 "Oh, Humphrey ! there is nothing for me to forgive." 
 
 " Nay, there is much for me to repent of Forget it, then, 
 if there is nothing to forgive." 
 
 " I have forgotten it already, Humphrey." 
 
 " So — " he turned upon me his grave, sweet face (to think 
 of it makes me yearn with tenderness and pity to see that 
 face again) — "So, farewell, fond dream! Do not think, 
 my dear, that I envy Robin. 'Tw^as a sweet dream ! Yet 
 I pray that Heaven in wrath may forget me if ever I suffer 
 this passion of envy to hurt my cousin Robin or thyself! " 
 
 So saying, he burst from me with distraction in his face. 
 Poor Humphrey ! Alas ! when I look back and consider 
 this day, there is a doubt which haunts me. Always had I 
 loved Robin : that is most true. But I had always loved 
 Humphrey that is most true. What if it had been Humph- 
 rey instead of Robin who had arisen in the early morning 
 to find his sweetheart in the garden when the dew was yet 
 upon the grass ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 ONE DAY. 
 
 In times of great sorrow the godly person ought to look 
 forward to the never-ending joy and happiness that will 
 follow this short life. Yet we still look backward to the 
 happy time that is past and can never come again. And 
 then how happy does it seem to have been in comparison 
 with present affliction ! 
 
 It pleased Heaven after many trials to restore my earthly
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 87 
 
 happiness, at least, in its principal part, which is earthly 
 love. Some losses — grievous and lamentable — there were 
 which could not be restored. Ye^ for a long- time I had no 
 other comfort (apart from that hope which I trust was never 
 suffered to harm me) than the recollection of a single day 
 irom dewy morn till dusky eve. I began that day with 
 the sweetest joy that a girl can ever experience — namely, 
 the return of her lover and the happiness of learning that 
 he loves her more than ever, and the knowledge that her 
 heart hath gone forth from her and is wholly his. To such 
 a girl the woods and fields become the very Garden of 
 Eden ; the breath of the wind is as the voice of the Lord 
 blessing another Eve ; the very showers are the tears of 
 gladness and gratitude ; the birds sing hymns of praise ; the 
 leaves of the trees whisper words of love ; the brook prattles 
 of kisses ; the flowers offer incense ; the royal course of the 
 sun in splendor, the glories of the sunrise and sunset, the 
 twinkling stars of night, the shadows of the flying clouds, 
 the pageant of the summer day — these are all prepared for 
 that one happy girl and for her happy lover ! Oh, divine 
 gift of love ! which thus gives the whole world with its 
 fruits in season to the pair ! Nay, doth it not create them 
 anew? What was Adam without Eve.? And was not Eve 
 created for no other purpose than to be a companion to the 
 man ? 
 
 I say, then, that this day, when Robin took me in his 
 arms and kissed me — not as he had done when we parted 
 and I was still a child, but with the fervent kiss of a lover 
 . — was the happiest day in all my life. I say that I have 
 never forgotten that day, but, by recalling any point of it, 
 I remember all ; how he held my hand and how he made 
 me confess that I loved him : how we kissed and parted. 
 to meet again. As for poor Humphrey, I hardly gave him 
 so much as a thought of pity. Then, how we wandered 
 along the brook hand in hand ! 
 
 "Never to part again, my dear," said the fond lover. 
 "Here will we love, and here we will die. Let Benjamin 
 become, if he please, lord chancellor, and Humphrey a 
 gfreat physician ; they will have to live among men in 
 towns, where every other man is a rogue. We shall live 
 in this sweet country place, where the people may be rude 
 but they are not knaves. Why, in that great city of London, 
 where the merchants congregate upon the exchange and 
 look so full of dignity and wisdom, each man is thinking 
 p^U the time that, if he fail to overreach his neighbor, that
 
 88 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 neighbor will overrtach him. Who would live such a life 
 when he can pass it in the fields with such a companion as 
 my Grace ? 
 
 The pleasures of London had only increased his thirst for 
 the country life. Surely, never was seen a swain more 
 truly rustic in all his thoughts ! The fine ladies at the play- 
 house, with their painted fans, made him think of one who 
 wore a russet frock in Somersetshire, and did not paint hei 
 sweet face — this was the way he talked. The plays they 
 acted could never even be read, much less witnessed, by 
 that dear girl — so full of wickedness they were. At the 
 assemblies the ladies were jealous of each other, and had 
 scornful looks when one seemed preferred ; at the taverns 
 the men drank and bellowed songs and quarrelled ; in the 
 streets they fought and took the wall and swaggered ; 
 there was nothing but fighting among the baser sort with 
 horrid imprecations ; at the coffee-house the politicians 
 argued and quarrelled. Nay, in the very churches the 
 sermons were political arguments, and while the clergyman 
 read his discourse the gallants ogled the ladies. All this 
 and more he told me. 
 
 To hear my boy, one would think there was nothing in 
 London but what was wicked and odious. No doubt it is 
 a wicked place, where many men live together ; those who 
 are wicked easily find each other out, and are encouraged 
 in their wickedness, "^'et there must be many honest and 
 God-fearing persons, otherwise the judgment of Heaven 
 would again fall upon that city as it did in the time of 
 plague and in the great fire. 
 
 "My pretty Puritan, "said Robin, "I am now come away 
 from that place, and I hope never to see it again. Oh ! 
 native hills, I salute you ! Oh ! woods and meadows, 1 
 have returned, to wander again in your delightful shade.' 
 Then, which was unusual in my boy and would have better 
 become Mr. Boscorel or Humphrey, he began to repeat 
 verses. I knew not that he had ever learned any : 
 
 " As I range these spacious fields, 
 Feast on all that nature yields ; 
 Everything inspires delight, 
 Charms my smell, my taste, my sight ; 
 Every rural sound 1 hear 
 Soothes my soul and tunes my ear." 
 
 I do not know where Robin found these verses, but as he 
 repeated them, waving his arin around, I thought that 
 Humphrey himself never made sweeter lines.
 
 FOR FAirn AND FREEDOM. g^ 
 
 He then told me how Humphrey would certainly become 
 the most learned physician of the time, and that he was 
 already master of a polite and dignified manner which would 
 procure him the patronage of the great and the confidence 
 of all. It was pleasant to hear him praise his cousin with- 
 out jealousy or envy. To be sure, he knew not then — 
 though afterwards I told him — that Humphrey was his rival. 
 Even had he known this, such was the candor of my Robin 
 and the integrity of his soul that he would have praised him 
 even more loudly. 
 
 One must not repeat more of the kind and lovely things 
 that the dear boy said while we strolled together by the 
 brookside. 
 
 While we walked — 'twas in the forenoon, after Hum- 
 phrey's visit — Sir Christopher, his grandfather, in his best 
 coat and his gold-laced hat which he commonly kept for 
 church, and accompanied by madam, walked from the 
 manor-house through the village till they came to our cot- 
 tage. Then, with great ceremony, they entered, Sir Chris- 
 topher bowing low and madam dropping a deep courtesy 
 to my mother, who sat humbly at her wheel. 
 
 " Madam," said Sir Christopher, ''we would, with your 
 permission, say a few words with the learned Dr. Eykin 
 and yourself." 
 
 My father, who had now returned and was in his room, 
 came forth when he was called. His face had recovered 
 something of its serenity, but his eyes were still troubled. 
 Madam sat down ; but Sir Christopher and my father stood. 
 
 "Sir," said his honor, "I will proceed straight to the 
 point. My grandson desires to marry your daughter. 
 Robin is a good lad ; not a scholar if you will ; for his re- 
 ligion, the root of the matter is in him ; for the goodness of 
 his heart, I will answer ; for his habit of life, he hath, so 
 far as we can learn, acquired no vile vices of the city — he 
 doth neither drink nor gamble, nor waste his health and 
 strength in riotous living ; and for his means, they are my 
 own. All that I have will be his. 'Tis no great estate, but 
 'twill serve him as it hath served me. Dr. Eykin, the boy's 
 mother and I have come to ask your daughter in marriage. 
 We know her worth, and we are well satisfied that our boy 
 hath made so good and wise a choice." 
 
 "They were marrying and giving in marriage when the 
 Flood came ; they will be marrying and giving in marriage 
 in the great day of the Lord," said my father.
 
 90 
 
 FOk FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Yes, gossip ; but that is no reason why they should not 
 be marrying and giving in marriage." 
 
 "You ask my consent?" said my father. "This surprise4 
 me. The child is too young : she is not yet of marriageable 
 
 "Husband, she is nigh upon her twentieth birthday I 
 
 "I thought she had been but twelve or thereabouts! 
 My consent .'' Why, Sir Christopher, in the eye of the 
 world this is great condescension on your part to take a pen- 
 niless girl. I looked, I suppose, to the marriage of my 
 daughter some time — perhaps to a farmer — yet — yet, we 
 are told that a virtuous woman has a price far above rubies ; 
 and that it is she who buildeth up the house, and we are 
 nowhere told that she must bring her husband a purse of 
 gold. Sir Christopher, it would be the blackest ingratitude 
 in us to deny you anything even if this thing were against 
 the mind of our daughter." 
 
 "It is not — it is not," said my mother. 
 
 "Wherefore, seeing that the young man is a good man as 
 youths go, though in the matter of the syntax he hath yet 
 much to learn ; and that his heart is disposed towards religion, 
 I am right glad that he should take our girl to wife." 
 
 " Bravely said ! cried Sir Christopher. " Hands upon it, 
 man ! And we will have a merry wedding. But to-day I 
 bid you both to come and feast with us. We will have 
 holiday and rejoicing." 
 
 "Yes," said my father, "we will feast, though to-mor- 
 row comes the Deluge." I know now what he meant, but 
 at that time we knew not, and it seemed to his honor a 
 poor way of rejoicing at the return of the boys and the 
 betrothal of his daughter thus to be foretelling woes. 
 "The vision of the plumb-line is before mine eyes," my 
 father went on. " Is the land able to bear all this ? We 
 talk of feasting and of marriages. Yet a few days or per- 
 haps already. But we will rejoice together, my old friend 
 and benefactor — we will rejoice together." With these 
 words he turned and went back to his room, and, after some 
 tears with my mother, madam went home and Sir Chris- 
 topher with her. But in honor to the day he kept on his 
 best coat 
 
 Robin suffered me to go home, but only that I might put 
 on my best frock ( I had but two) and make my hair 
 straight which had been blown into curls, as was the way 
 with my hair. And then, learning from my mother with 
 the utmost satisfaction what had passed, he lead me by the
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 9 1 
 
 hand, as if I were already his bride, and so to the manor- 
 house, where first Sir Christopher saluted me with great 
 kindness, calling- me his dear grand-daughter, and saying 
 that next to Robin's safe return he asked for nothing more 
 than to see me Robin's wife. And madam kissed me, with 
 tears in her eyes, and said that she could desire nothing 
 better for her son, and that she was sure I should do my 
 best endeavors to make the boy happy. Then Humphrry 
 as quietly as if he had not also asked me to be his wife, 
 kissed my hand, and wished me joy ; and Mr. Boscorel 
 also kissed me, and declared that Robin ought to be the 
 happiest dog on earth. And so we sat down to our feast. 
 
 The conversation at dinner was graver than the occasion 
 demanded. For though our travellers continually answered 
 questions about the foreign lands and peoples they had seen 
 yet the subject returned always to the condition of the 
 country, and to what would happen. 
 
 After dinner we sat in the garden, and the gentlemen 
 began to talk of right divine and of non-resistance, and here 
 it seemed to me as if Mr. Boscorel was looking on as from 
 an eminence apart For when he had once stated the texts 
 and arguments upon which the High Church party do most 
 rely he retired and made no further objections, listening in 
 silence while my father held forth upon the duty of rising 
 against wicked princes. At last, however, being challenged 
 to reply by Humphrey, Mr. Boscorel then made answer : 
 
 "The doctrine that subjects may or may not rebel against 
 their sovereign is one which I regard with interest so long 
 as it remains a question of logic and argument only. 
 Unfortunately, the times are such that we may be called 
 upon to make a practical application of it : in which case 
 there may follow once more civil war, with hard knocks 
 on both sides, and much loss of things temporal. Where- 
 fore to my learned brother's arguments, which I admit t(- 
 be plausible, I will, for the present, offer no reply, except 
 to pray Heaven that the occasion may not arise of converg- 
 ing a disputed doctrine into a rule of conduct. " 
 
 Alas ! even while he spoke the messenger was speeding 
 swiftly towards us who was to call upon all present to take 
 a side. 
 
 The question is now. I hope, decided forever ; but many 
 men had first to die. It was not decided then, but three 
 years later, when King William cut the knot, and, with the 
 applause of the nation, pulled down his father-in-law and 
 mounted the throne him»elf with his gracious consort W«
 
 93 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 are agreed, at last, that kings, like judges, generals, and all 
 great officers of state, are to hold their offices in good 
 behavior. If they enter into machinations against the 
 liberty of the people and desert the national religion, they 
 must descend, and let another take their place. But before 
 that nght could be established for the country, streams o' 
 blood must first flow. 
 
 While they talked, we — I mean madam, my mother, and 
 myself — sat and listened. But my mind was full of anothei 
 subject, and I heard but little of what was said, noting 
 chiefly the fiery ardor of my father and the careless grace 
 of Mr. Boscorel. 
 
 Presently my father, \\'\\o was never easy in the company 
 of Mr. Boscorel — (so oil and water will not agree to fill a 
 cup in friendship) — and, besides, being anxious to rejoin 
 the society of his books, arose and went away, and with 
 him my mother — he, in his ragged cassock, who was a 
 learned scholar ; she, in her plain homespun, was a gentle- 
 woman by birth. Often had I thought of our poverty with 
 bitterness. But now it was with a softened heart that I 
 saw them walk side by side across the lawns. For now I 
 understood plainly — and for the first time — how love can 
 strengthen and console. INIy mother was poor, but she 
 was not therefore unhappy. 
 
 Mr. Boscorel also rose and went away with Humphrey. 
 They went to talk of things more interesting to the rector 
 than the doctrine of non-resistance ; of painting, namely, 
 and statuary and models. And when we presently walked 
 from the rectory gardens we heard a most gladsome scrap- 
 ing of fiddle-strings within, which showed that the worthy 
 man was making the most of Humphrey's return. 
 
 When Sir Christopher had taken his pipe of tobacco he 
 fell asleep. Robin and I walked in the garden and renewed 
 our vows. Needs must that I should tell him all that I had 
 done or thought since he went away. As if the simple 
 thoughts of a country-maid should be of interest to a man ! 
 Yet he seemed pleased to question and to listen, and pres- 
 ently broke into a rapture, swearing that he was in love 
 with an angel. Young lovers may, it is feared, fall into 
 grievous sin by permitting themselves these extravagances 
 of speech and thought ; yet it is hard to keep them sober, 
 and besides (because every sin in man meeteth with its cor- 
 respondent in woman), if the l()\'cr be extravagant, the 
 maiden takes pleasure in his extravagance. To call a mor- 
 tal, full of imperfections, an angel, is little short of bias-
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 93 
 
 •hemy. Yet I heard it with, I confess, a secret pleasure. 
 We know ourselves and the truth concerning- ourselves ; we 
 do not deceive ourselves as to our imperfections ; yet we 
 are pleased that our lovers should so speak and think of us 
 as if we were angels indeed. 
 
 Robin told me, presently ceasing his extravagances for a 
 while, that he was certain something violent was on foot. 
 To be sure, everybody expected so much. He said, more- 
 over, that he believed Humphrey had certain knowledge of 
 what was going to happen ; that before they left the Low 
 Countries Humphrey had been present at a meeting of the 
 exiles in Rotterdam, where it was well known that Lord 
 Argyle's expedition was resolved upon ; that he had been 
 much engaged in London after their return, and had paid 
 many visits, the nature of which he kept secret : and that 
 on the road there was not a town and scarcely a village 
 where Humphrey had not some one to visit. 
 
 "My dear," he said, " Humphrey is slight as to stature 
 and strength, but he carries a stout heart. There is no man 
 more bitter against the king than he, and none more able if 
 his counsels were listened to. Monmouth, I am certain, 
 purposes to head an expedition into England like that of 
 Lord Argyle in Scotland. The history of England hath 
 many instances of such successful attempts. King Stephen, 
 King Henry IV., King Henry VH., are all examples. If 
 Monmouth lands, Humphrey will join him, I am sure. 
 And I, my dear — " he paused. 
 
 " And you too, Robin? Oh! must you too go forth to 
 fight? And yet, if the duke doth head a rising all the 
 world would follow. Oh I to drive away the papist king 
 and restore our liberty ? " 
 
 "My dear, I will do what my grandfather appro\'es. If 
 it be my duty to go, he will send me forth." 
 
 I had almost forgotten to say that madam took me to her 
 own chamber, where she opened a box and pulled out a 
 gold chain, very fine. This she hung about my neck and 
 bade me sit down, and gave me some sound advice, re- 
 minding me that woman was the weaker vessel, and should 
 look to her husband not only to love and cherish her, but 
 also to prevent her from falling into certain grievous sins, 
 as of temper, deceitfulness, vanity, and the like, to which 
 the weaker nature is ever prone. IMany other things she 
 said, being a good and virtuous woman, but I pass them 
 over. 
 
 After supper we went again into the garden, the weather
 
 §4 i'OR FAITN AND FREEDOM. 
 
 being warm and fine. The sun went down, but the sky 
 was full of light, though it was past nine o'clock and time 
 for me to go home and to bed. Yet we lingered. The birds 
 had gone to sleep ; there was no whisper of the wind ; the: 
 village was in silence. And Robin was whispering in mv 
 ear. I remember — I remember the very tones of his voice, 
 which were low and sweet. I remember the words he 
 said : " Sweet love ! Sweet love i How could I live so 
 long without thee ?" I remembe.my swelling heart and 
 my glowing cheeks. Oh ! Robin — Robin ! Oh ! poor 
 heart } poor maid ! The memory of this one day was 
 nearly all thou hadst to feed upon for so long — so long a 
 time ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 B A R N A B Y. 
 
 Suddenly we heard footsteps, as of those who are run* 
 ning, and my father's voice speaking loud. 
 
 "Sing, O daughter of Zion ! Shout, O Israeli Be gla<? 
 and rejoice with all thy heart ! " 
 
 " Now, in the name of Heaven," cried Sir Christopher 
 '* what meaneth this ? " 
 
 *' The arm of the Lord ! The deliverance of Israel ! " 
 
 He burst upon us, dragging a man with him by the arm. 
 In the twilight 1 could only see, at first, that it was a 
 broad, thick-set man. But my father's brave form looked 
 taller as he waved his arms and cried aloud. Had he been 
 clad in a sheepskin, he would have resembled one of those 
 ancient prophets whose words were always in his mouth. 
 
 "Good friend, " said Sir Christopher, " what meaneth 
 these cries .'' Whom have we here I " 
 
 Then the man with my father stepped forward and took 
 off his hat. Why, I knew him at once ; though it was ten 
 years since I had seen him last ! 'Twas my brothei 
 Barnaby — none other — come home again. He was now a 
 great strong man — a stouter have I never seen, though he 
 was somewhat under the middle height, broad in the 
 shoulders, and thick of chest. Beside him Robin, though 
 reasonable in breadth, showed like a slender sapling. But 
 he had still the same good-natured face, though now much
 
 FOR FAITH AA'D FREEDOM. 
 
 95 
 
 broader. It needed no more than the first look to know my 
 brother Barnaby again. " Barnaby, " I cried, " Barnaby, 
 hast thou forgotten me ? " I caught one of his great hands 
 — never, surely, were there bigger hands than IBarnaby's ! 
 " Hast thou forgotten me .'' " 
 
 " Why," he said, slowly — 'twas ever a boy slow of speech 
 and of understanding — " belike, "tis sister. '' He kissed my 
 forehead. " It is sister,'' he said, as if he were tasting a 
 cup of ale and was pronouncing on its quality. "How dost 
 thou, sister ? Bravely, I hope. Thou art grown, sister. 
 I have seen my mother, and — and— she does bravely, too ; 
 though I left her crying. 'Tis their way, the happier they 
 be." 
 
 "Barnaby.?" said Sir Christopher, "is it thou, scape- 
 grace ? Where hast thou — But first tell us what has 
 happened. Briefly, man." 
 
 " In two words, sir : the Duke of Monmouth landed the 
 day before yesterday at Lyme-Regis with my Lord Grey 
 and a company of a hundred — of whom I was one." 
 
 The duke had landed ! Then what Robin expected had 
 come to pass ! and my brother Barnaby was with the in 
 surgents ! My heart beat fast. 
 
 " The Duke of Monmouth hath landed ! " Sir Christopher 
 repeated, and sat down again, as one who knows not what 
 may be the meaning of the news. 
 
 " Ay, sir, the duke hath landed. We left Holland on the 
 24th of May, and we made the coast at Lyme at daybreak 
 on Thursday the nth. 'Tis now, I take it, Saturday. The 
 duke had with him on board ship Lord Grey, Mr. Andrew 
 Fletcher of Saltoun, Mr. Heywood Dare of Taunton — '' 
 
 " I know the man," said Sir Christopher, " for an im- 
 pudent, loud-tongued fellow." 
 
 " Perhaps he was, sir," said Barnaby, gravely. "Per- 
 haps he was, but now — " 
 
 "How ' was ' ? " 
 
 " He was shot on Thursday evening by Mr. Fletcher for 
 offering him violence with a cane, and is now dead. " 
 
 " 'Tis a bad beginning. Go on, Barnaby." 
 
 " The duke had also Mr. Ferguson, Colonel Venner, Mr. 
 Chamberlain, and others whom I cannot remember. First 
 we set Mr. Dare and Mr. Chamberlain ashore at Seatown, 
 whence they were to carry intelligence of the rising to the 
 duke's friends. The duke landed at seven o'clock with his 
 company, in seven boats. First, he fell on his knees, and 
 prayed aloud. Then he drew his sword, and we all marched
 
 ^g FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 after to the market-place where he raised his flag and 
 caused the declaration to be read. Here it is, your honor. 
 Me lugged out a copy of the declaration, which Sir Christopher 
 put aside, saying that he would read it in the morning. 
 
 " Then we tossed our hats and shouted 'A Monmouth ! 
 A Monmouth ! " Sixty stout young fellows listed on the 
 spot. Then we divided our forces, and begin to land the 
 cannon — four pretty pieces as you could wish to see — and 
 ihe arms, of which I doubt if we have enough, and the 
 powder — two hundred and fifty barrels. The duke lay on 
 Thursday night at the George. Next day before dawn, the 
 country people began flocking in." 
 
 " What gentlemen have come in } " 
 
 " I know not, sir — my duty was most of the day on 
 board, In the evening I received leave to ride home, and, 
 indeed, Sir Christopher, to carry the duke's declaration to 
 yourself And now we shall be well rid of the king, the 
 pope and the devil." 
 
 " Because," said my father, solemnly — " because with 
 lies ye have made the hearts of the righteous sad whom I 
 have not made sad." 
 
 "And what doest thou among this goodly company, 
 Friend Barnaby ? " 
 
 "I am to be a captain in one of the regiments," said Bar- 
 naby, grinning with pride; "though a sailor, yet can I 
 fight with the best. My colonel is Mr. Holmes ; and my 
 major, Mr. Parsons. On board the frigate I was master, 
 and navigated her." 
 
 "There will be knocks, Barnaby ; knocks, I doubt." 
 
 "By your honor's l«ave, I have been where knocks were 
 flying for ten years, and I will take my share, remembering 
 still the treatment of my father and the poverty of my 
 mother." 
 
 " It is rebellion, Barnaby ! — rebellion ! " 
 
 " Why, sir, Oliver Cromwell was a rebel. And your honor 
 fought in the army of the Earl of Essex — and what was he 
 but a rebel .'' " 
 
 I wondered to hear my brother speak with so much bold- 
 ness, who ten years before had bowed low and pulled his 
 hair in presence of his honor. Yet Sir Christopher seemed 
 to take this boldness in good part. 
 
 "Barnaby, "he said, "thou art a stout and proper lad, 
 and I doubt not thy courage — nay, I see it in thy face, 
 which hath resolution in it, and yet is modest ; no ruffler ot 
 boaster art thou, Friend Barnaby. Yet — yet — if rebellion
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 97 
 
 fail — even rebellion in a just cause — then those who rise 
 lose their lives in vain, and the cause is lost, until better 
 times." This he said as one who speaketh to himself. I 
 saw him look upon his grandson. "The king is — a papist," 
 he said, "that is most true. A papist should not be suf- 
 fered to rule this country. Vet to rise in rebellion ! Have a 
 care, lad ! What if the time be not yet ripe? How know we 
 who will join the duke .-* " 
 
 "The people are flocking to his standard by thousands,'' 
 said Barnaby. "When I rode away last night the duke's 
 secretaries were writing down their names as fast as they 
 could be entered ; they were landing the arms and already 
 exercising the recruits. And such a spirit they show, sir, it 
 would do your heart good only once to witness ! " 
 
 Now, as I looked at Barnaby, I became aware that he 
 was not only changed in appearance, but that he was also 
 very nneiy dressed — namely, in a scarlet coat and a sword 
 with a silken sash, with laced ruffles, a gold-laced hat, a 
 great wig, white breeches, and a flowered waistcoat. In 
 the light of day, as I afterwards discovered, there were stains 
 of wine visible upon the coat, and the ruffles were torn, and 
 the waistcoat had marks upon it as of tar. One doth not, 
 to be sure, expect in the sailing-master of a frigate the same 
 neatness as in a gallant of St. James's. Yet our runaway 
 lad must have prospered. 
 
 "What doth the duke intend?" Sir Christopher asked him. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I know not. 'Tis said by some that he 
 will raise the West Country ; and by some that he will 
 march north into Cheshire, where he hath many friends ; 
 and by others that he will march upon London, and call up- 
 on all good Protestants to rise and join him. We look t(i 
 have an army of twenty thousand within a week. As for 
 the king, it is doubted whether he can raise a paltry five 
 thousand to meet us. Courage, dad " — he dared to call his 
 father, the Rev. Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, "dad!" 
 — and he clapped him lustily upon the shoulder ; "thou 
 shalt mount the pulpit yet ; ay, of Westminster Abbey if it 
 so please you I " 
 
 His father paid no heed to this conversation, being wrap- 
 ped in his own thoughts. 
 
 "I know not," said Sir Christopher. " what to think, the 
 news is sudden. And yet — and yet — " 
 
 "We waste time," cried my father, stamping his foot. 
 "Oh ! we waste the time talking. What helps it to talk? 
 Every honest man must now be up and doing. Why, it is 
 
 7
 
 ^8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 
 
 a plain duty laid upon us. The finger of Heaven is visible, 
 I say, in this. Out of the very sins of Charles Stuart hath the 
 instrument for the destruction of his race been forged. A 
 plain duty, I say. As for me, I must preach and exhort. 
 As for my son, who was dead and yet liveth " — he laid his 
 hand upon Barnaby's shoulder — "time was when I prayed 
 that he might become a godly minister of God's Word. 
 Now I perceive clearly that the Lord hath ways of his own. 
 My son shall fight and I shall preach. Perhaps he will 
 rise and become another Cromwell ! '' — Barnaby grinned. 
 
 " Sir," said my father, turning hotly upon his honor, "I 
 perceive that thou art lukewarm. If the cause be the Lord's, 
 what matter for the chances.? The issue is in the hands of 
 the Lord. As for me and my household, we M'ill serve the 
 Lord. Yea, I freely offer myself, and my son, and my wife, 
 and my daughter — even my tender daughter — to the cause 
 of the Lord. Young men and maidens, old men and chil- 
 dren, the voice of the Lord calleth ! '' 
 
 Nobody made reply ; my father looked before him, as if 
 he saw in the twilight of the summer night a vision of what 
 was to follow. His face, as he gazed, changed. His eyes, 
 which were fierce and fiery, softened. His lips smiled. 
 Then he turned his face and looked upon each of us in turn 
 — upon his son and upon his wife and upon me, upon 
 JRobin, and upon Sir Christopher. 
 
 " It is, indeed," he said, "the will of the Lord. Why, 
 what though the end be violent death to me, and to all of us 
 ruin and disaster 1 We do but share the afflictions foretold 
 in the vision of the basket of summer fruit. What is death .'' 
 What is the loss of earthly things compared with what shall 
 follow to those who obey the voice that calls .' Children, 
 let us be up and doing. As for me, I shall have a season 
 of freedom before I die. For twenty-tive years have I been 
 muzzled or compelled to whisper and mutter in corners and 
 hiding-places. I have been a dumb dog. I, whose heart 
 was full and overflowing with the sweet and precious Word 
 of God ; I, to whom it is not life, but death, to sit in silence ! 
 Now I shall deliver my soul before I die. Sirs, the Lord 
 hath given to every man a weapon or two with which to 
 fight To me he hath given an eye and a tongue for dis- 
 coursing and proclaiming the word of sacred doctrine. I 
 have been muzzled— a dumb dog — though sometimes I have 
 been forced to climb among the hills and speak to the bend- 
 ing tree-tops. Now I shall be free again, and I will speak, 
 and all the ends of the earth shall hear,"
 
 POR FAITH AA'D FREEDOM. 
 
 9<l 
 
 His eyes gleamed, he panted and gasped and waved his 
 arms. 
 
 "As for sister, dad," said Barnaby, "she and mothei 
 may bide at home." 
 
 "No, they shall go with me. I offer my wife, my son, 
 my daughter, and myself to the cause of the Lord." 
 
 "A camp is but a rough place for a woman," said Bar- 
 naby. 
 
 " She is offered : she is dedicated ; she shall go with us. " 
 
 I know not what was in his mind, or why he wished that 
 I should go with him, unless it was a desire to give every- 
 thing that he had — to hold back nothing — to the Lord : 
 therefore he would give his children as well as himself. As 
 for me, my heart glowed to think that I was even worthy to 
 join in such a cause. What could a woman do } But that 
 I should find out. 
 
 " Robin," I whispered, "'tis religion calls. If I am to 
 be among the followers of the duke, thou wilt not remain 
 behind t " 
 
 " Child — it was my mother who whispered to me ; I had 
 not seen her coming — "Child, let us obey him. Perhaps ii 
 will be better for him if we are at his side. And there is 
 Barnaby. But we must not be in their Avay. We shall find 
 a place to sit and wait. Alas ! that my son hath returned to 
 us only to go fighting. We will go with them, daughter." 
 
 "We should be better without women," said Barnaby, 
 grumbling ; "I would as lief have a woman on shipboard 
 as in the camp. To be sure, if he has set his heart upon 
 it — and then he will not stay long in camp, where the curs- 
 ing of the men is already loud enough to scare a preacher 
 out of his cassock. Dad, I say — " But my father wa& 
 fallen again into a kind of rapture, and heard nothing. 
 
 "When doth the duke begin his march .-*" he said, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " I know not. But we shall find him, never fear." 
 
 " I must have speech with him at the earliest possible 
 time. Plours are precious, and we waste them — we waste 
 them." 
 
 "Well, sir, it is bedtime. To-n"vorrow we can ride ; un- 
 less, because it is the Sabbath, you would choose to wait till 
 Monday. And as to the women, by your leave, it is mad- 
 ness to bring them to a camp." 
 
 "Wait till Monday? Art thou mad, Barnaby! Why, I 
 have things to tell the duke. Up ! let us ride all night. 
 To-morrow is the Sabbath, and I will preach. Yea — I will
 
 iOO FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 preach. My soul longeth — yea, even it fainteth, for the 
 courts of the Lord. Quick ! quick ! let us mount and ride 
 all nig-ht I " 
 
 " Lads," said Sir Christopher, "'you are fresh from Hol- 
 land. Knew you aught of this } " 
 
 " Sir," said Humphrey, "I have already told Dr. Eykin 
 what to expect. I knew that the duke was coming. Robin 
 did not know, because I would not drag him into the con- 
 spiracy. I knew that the duke was coming, and that without 
 delay. I have myself had speech in Amsterdam with his 
 grace, who comes to restore the Protestant religion and to 
 give freedom of worship to all good Protestant people. His 
 friends have promises of support everywhere. Indeed, sir, 
 I think that the expedition is well planned, and is certain of 
 support. Success is in the hands of the Lord ; but we do 
 not expect that there will be any serious opposition. With 
 submission, sir, I am under promise to join the duke. I 
 came over in advance to warn his friends, as I rode from 
 London, of his approach. Thousands are waiting in read- 
 iness for him. But, sir, of all this, I repeat, Robin knew 
 nothing. I have been for three months in the councils of 
 those who desire to drive forth the popish king, but Robin 
 have I kept in the dark." 
 
 "Humphrey," said Robin, "am not I a Protestant?" 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A NIGHT AND MORNING AT LYME-REGIS. 
 
 When I read of men possessed by some spirit — that is to 
 say, compelled to go hither and thither where, but for the 
 spirit, they would not go, and to say things which they would 
 not otherwise have said — I think of our midnight ride to 
 Lyme, and of my father then, and of the three weeks' mad- 
 ness which followed. It was some spirit — whether of good 
 or evil, I cannot say, and I dare not so much as to ques- 
 tion — which seized him. That he hurried away to join the 
 duke on the first news of his landing, without counting the 
 cost or weighing the chances, is easy to be understood. 
 Like Humphrey, he was led by his knowledge of the great 
 numbers who hated the Catholic religion to believe that they,
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. lOi 
 
 like himself, would rise with one accord. He also remem- 
 bered the successful rebellion against the first Charles, and 
 expected nothing less than a repetition of that success. 
 This, I knew, was what the exiles in Holland thought and 
 believed. The duke, they said, was the darling of the peo- 
 ple ; he was the Protestant champion : who would not press 
 forward when he should draw the sword.'' But what man in 
 his sober senses would have dragged his wife and daughter 
 with him to the godless riot of a camp .? Perhaps he wanted 
 them to share his triumph, to listen while he moved the sol- 
 diers as that ancient hermit Peter moved the people to the 
 Holy Wars ? But I know not. He said that I was to be, 
 like Jephthah's daughter, consecrated to the cause of the 
 Lord ; and what he meant by that I never understood. 
 
 He was so eager to start upon the journey that he would 
 not wait a moment. The horses must be saddled ; we must 
 mount and away . Not that they were Sir Christopher's horses 
 which we borrowed ; this also was noted afterwards for the 
 ruin of that good old man, with other particulars : as that 
 Monmouth's declaration was found in the house (Barnaby 
 brought it ) ; one of Monmouth's captains, Barnaby Eykin 
 by name, had ridden from Lyme to Bradford in order to see 
 him ; he was a friend of the preacher Dr. Eykin ; he was 
 grandfather to one of the rebels and grand-uncle to another , 
 with many other things. But these were enough. 
 
 "Surely, surely, friend, " said Sir Christopher, "thou wilt 
 not take wife and daughter .? They cannot help the cause ; 
 they have no place in a camp." 
 
 " Young men and idens : one with another. Quick I 
 we waste the time. " 
 
 " And to ride all night, consider, man — all night long ! " 
 
 " What is a night } They will have all eternity to 
 rest in." 
 
 " He hath set his heart upon it," said my mother. " Let 
 us go ; a night's uneasiness will not do much harm. Let 
 us go, Sir Christopher, without further parley. " 
 
 " Go then, in the name of God," said the old man. 
 "Child, give me a kiss." Pie took me in his arms and kissed 
 me on the forehead. "Thou art, then," he said tenderly, 
 "devoted to the Protestant cause. Why, thou art already 
 promised to a Protestant since this morning : forget not that 
 promise, child. Humphrey and Barnaby will i^rotcct thee — ■ 
 and — " 
 
 " Sir." said Robin, "by your leave, I alone have the right 
 V) i^o wj'th her and to protect her. "
 
 I02 I-'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM: 
 
 "Nay, Robin," I said, "stay here until Sir Christopher 
 himself bids thee go. That will be very soon. Remember 
 thy promise. We did not know, Robin, an hour ago that 
 the promise would be claimed so soon. Robin " — for he 
 murmured — " I charge thee, remain at home until — " 
 
 " I promise thee sweetheart." But he hung his head and 
 looked ashamed. 
 
 Sir Christopher, holding my hand, stepped forth upon the 
 grass and looked upward into the clear sky, where in the 
 transparent twilight we could see a few stars twinkling. 
 
 "This, Friend Eykin — this, Humphrey," he said, gravely, 
 " is a solemn night for all. No more fateful day hath ever 
 come to any of us ; no ! not that day when I join Hamp- 
 den's new regiment and followed with the army of Lord 
 Essex. Granted that we have a righteous cause, we know 
 not that our leader hath in him the root of the matter. To 
 rise against the kmg is a most weighty matter — fatal if it fail, 
 a dangerous precedent if it succeed. Civil war is, of all 
 wars, the most grievous ; to fight under a leader who doth 
 not live after the laws of God is, methinks, most danger- 
 ous. The duke hath lit a torch which will spread flames 
 everywhere — " 
 
 "It is the voice of the Lord which calleth us ! " my father 
 interrupted. "To-morrow I shall speak again to God's 
 elect." 
 
 " Sir," said Humphrey, very seriously, " I pray you think 
 not that this enterprise hath been rashly entered upon, nor 
 that we depend upon the judgment of the duke alone. It 
 is, unhappily, true that his life is sinful, and so is that of 
 Lord Grey, who hath deserted his lawful wife for her sister. 
 But those who have pushed on the enterprise consider that 
 the duke is, at least, a true Protestant. They have, more- 
 over, received solid assurances of support from every 
 quarter. You have been kept in the dark from the begin- 
 ning at my own earnest request, because, though I knew 
 full well your opinion, I would not trouble your peace or 
 endanger your person. Suffer us, then, to depart, and, for 
 yourself, do nothing ; and keep — oh ! sir, I entreat you — 
 keep Robin at home until our success leaves no room for 
 doubt." 
 
 "Go, then, go," said Sir Christopher; " I have grievoui; 
 misgivings that all is not well. But go, and Heaven bless 
 the cause ! " 
 
 Robin kissed me, whispering that he would follow, and 
 that before many days : and so we mounted and rode forth.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 103 
 
 In such hot haste did we depart that we took with us no 
 change of raiment er any provision for the journey at all, 
 save that Barnaby, who, as 1 afterwards found, never forgot 
 the provisions, found time to get together a small parcel of 
 bread and meat, and a flask of Malmsey, with which to 
 refresh our spirits later on. We even rode away without 
 any money. 
 
 My father rode one horse and my mother sat behind him ; 
 then I followed, Barnaby marching manfully beside me, and 
 Humphrey rode last. The ways are rough, so that those 
 who ride, even by daylight, go but slowly ; and we riding 
 between high hedges, went much too slowly for my father, 
 who, if he spoke at all, cried out impatiently, "Quicker ! 
 quicker ! we lose the time." 
 
 He sat bending over the horse's head, with rounded 
 shoulders, his feet sticking out on either side, his long white 
 hair and his ragged cassock floating in the wind. In his 
 left hand he carried his Bible as a soldier carries his sword ; 
 on his head he wore the black silk cap in which he daily 
 sat at work. He was praying and meditating ; he was 
 preparing the sermon which he would deliver in the 
 morning. 
 
 Barnaby plodded on beside me ; night or day made no 
 "difference to him. He slept when he could, and worked 
 when he must. Sailors keep their watch day and night 
 without any difference. 
 
 "It was Sir Christopher that I came after," he told me 
 presently. "Mr. Dare — who hath since been killed by Mr. 
 Fletcher — told the duke that if Sir Christopher Challis would 
 only come into camp, old as he is, the country gentlemen 
 of his opinions would follow to a man, so respected is he. 
 Well, he will not. But we have his nephew, Humphrey ; 
 and, if I mistake not, we shall have his grandson — if kisses 
 mean anything. So Robin is thy sweetheart, sister ; thou 
 art a lucky girl. And we shall have dad to preach. Well. 
 I know not what will happen, but some will be knocked o' 
 tne head, and if dad goes in the way of knocks — But what- 
 everhappens, he will get his tongue again, and so he will 
 be happy. " 
 
 "As for preaching," he went on, speaking with due 
 pauses, because there was no hurry and he was never one 
 of those whose words flow easily, "if he thinks to preach 
 daily, as they say was done in Cromwell's time, 1 doubt if 
 he will find many to listen, for by the look of the fellows 
 who are crowding into canu) they will love the clinking of
 
 I04 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 the can better than the division of the text. But if he cause 
 his friends to join he will be welcomed ; and for devoting 
 his wife and daughter, that, sister, with submission, is rank 
 nonsense, and the sooner you get out of the camp, if you 
 must go there, the better. Women aboard ship are bad 
 enough, but in camp they are the devil." 
 
 "Barnaby, speak not lightly of the Evil One." 
 "Where shall we bestow you when the fighting comes.-' 
 Well, it shall be in some safe place." 
 
 "Oh, Barnaby ! will there be fighting ? " 
 " Good lack, child ! what else will there be .'' " 
 "As the walls of Jericho fell down at the blast of the 
 trumpet, so the king's armies will be dispersed at the ap- 
 proach of the Lord's soldiers." 
 
 "That was a long time ago, sister. There is now no 
 trumpet-work employed in war, and no priests on the march ; 
 but plenty of fighting to be done before anything is accom- 
 plished. But have no fear. The country is rising. They 
 are sick at heart already of a popish king. I say not that it 
 will be easy work ; but it can be done, and it will be done, 
 before we all sit down again. " 
 
 "And what will happen when it is done ? " 
 "Truly, I know not. When one king is sent a-packing 
 they put up another, I suppose. My father shall have the 
 biggest church in the country to preach in ; Humphrey will 
 be made physician to the new king — nothing less ; you shall 
 marry Robin, and he shall be made a duke or a lord at least ; 
 and I shall have command of the biggest ship in the king's 
 navy, and go to fight the Spaniards, or to trade for negroes 
 on the Guinea coast." 
 
 "And suppose the duke should be defeated? " 
 "Well, sister, if he is defeated it will go hard with all of 
 us. Those who are caught will be stabbed with a Bridport 
 dagger, as they say. Ask not such a question ; as well ask 
 a sailor what will happen to him if his ship is cast away. 
 Some may escape in boats and some by swimming, and 
 some are drowned, and some are cast upon savage shores. 
 Every man must take his chance. Never again ask such a 
 question. Nevertheless, I fear my father will get his neck 
 as far in the noose as I myself But remember, sister, do 
 you and my mother keep snug. Let others carry on the 
 rebellion, do you keep snug. For, d'ye see, a man takes 
 his chance, and if there should happen a defeat and the 
 rout of these country lads, I could e'en scud by myself be- 
 fore the gale, and maybe gel to u seaport an4 so aboar4»nrl
 
 ton FAITJI A\D J'KEMDOM. I05 
 
 away while the chase was hot. But for a woman — keep 
 snug, I say, therefore." 
 
 The night, happily, was clear and fine. A slight breeze 
 was blowing from the northwest, which made one shiver, 
 yet it was not too cold. I heard the screech-owl once or 
 twice, which caused me to tremble more than the cold. 
 The road, when we left the highway, which is not often 
 mended in these parts, became a narrow lane full of holes 
 and deep ruts, or else a track across open country. But 
 Barnaby knew the way. 
 
 It was about ten of the clock when we began our journey, 
 and it was six in the morning when we finished it. I sup- 
 pose there are few women who can boast of having taken 
 so long a ride and in the night. Yet, strange to say, I felt 
 no desire to sleep ; nor was I wearied with the jogging of 
 ihe horse, but was sustained by something of the spirit of 
 my father. A wonderful thing it seemed to me that a simple 
 country maid, such as myself, should help in putting down 
 the Catholic king ; women there have been who have played 
 great parts in history — Jael, Deborah, Judith, and Esther, 
 for example ; but that I should be called (since then I have 
 discovered that I was not called), this, indeed, seemed truly 
 wonderful. Then I was going forth to witness the array of 
 a gallant army about to fight for freedom and for religion, 
 just as they were arrayed forty years before, when Sif 
 Christopher was a young man and rode among them. 
 
 My brother, this stout Barnaby, was one of them ; my 
 father was one of them ; Humphrey was one of them ; and 
 in a little while I was very sure (because Robin would feel 
 no peace of mind if I was with the insurgents and he was 
 still at home), my lover would be with them too. And I 
 pictured to myself a holy and serious camp, filled with godly 
 sober soldiers listening to sermons and reading the Bible, 
 going forth to battle with hymns upon their lips ; and withal 
 >o valiant that at their very first onset the battalions of the 
 king would be shattered. Alas ! any one may guess the 
 foolish thoughts of a girl who had no knowledge of the 
 world nor any experience. Yet all my life I have been 
 taught that resistance was at times a sacred duty, and that 
 the divine right of the (so-called) Lord's Anointed was a 
 vain superstition. So far, therefore, was I better prepared 
 than most women for the work in hand. 
 
 When we rode through Sherborne all the folk were a-bed 
 and the streets were empty. From Sherborne our way lay 
 through Yetminster and Evershott to Beaminster, wkert
 
 106 i^OR FAITH AKD FREEDOM. 
 
 we watered and rested the horses, and took some of Bar- 
 naby's provisions. The country through which we rode 
 was full of memories of the last great war. The Castle of 
 Sherborne was twice besieged ; once by Lord Bedford, 
 when the Marquis of Hertford held it for the king. That 
 siege was raised ; but it was afterwards taken by Fairfax, 
 with its garrison of six hundred soldiers, and was then de- 
 stroyed, so that it is now a heap of ruins ; and as for Bea- 
 minster, the town hath never recovered from the great fire 
 when Prince Maurice held it, and it is still half in ruins', 
 though the ivy hath gro-\vn over the blackened walls of the 
 burned houses. The last great war of which I had heard so 
 much ! And now, perhaps, we were about to begin another. 
 It was two o'clock in the morning when we dismounted 
 at Beaminster. My mother sat down upon a bench and 
 fell instantly asleep. My father walked up and down im- 
 patiently, as grudging every minute. Barnaby, for his part, 
 made a leisurely and comfortable meal, eating his bread 
 and meat— of which I had some — and drinking his Malmsey 
 with relish, as if we were on a journey of pleasure and there 
 was plenty of time for leisurely feeding. Presently he arose 
 with a sigh (the food and wine being all gone), and said 
 that the horses, being now rested, we might proceed. So 
 he lifted my mother into her seat and we went on with the 
 journey, the day now breaking. 
 
 The way, I say, was never tedious to me, for I \vas sus- 
 tained by the novelty and the strangeness of the thing. Al- 
 though I had a thousand things to ask Barnaby, it must be 
 confessed that for one who had travelled so far he had mar- 
 vellous little to tell. I dare say that the deck and cabins of 
 a ship are much the same whether she be on the Spanish 
 ]\Iain or in the Bristol Channel, and sailors, even in port, 
 are never an observant race, except of weather and so forth. 
 It was strange, however, only to look upon him and to 
 mark how stout a man he was grown and how strong, and 
 yet how he still spoke like the old Barnaby, so good-natured 
 and so dull with his book, who was daily flogged for his 
 Latin grammar, and bore no malice, but prepared himself 
 to enjoy the present when the flogging was over, and not 
 to anticipate the certain repetition of the flogging on the 
 morrow. He spoke in the same slow way, as if speech 
 were a thing too precious to be poured out quickly ; and 
 there was always sense in what he said (Barnaby was only 
 stupid in the matter of syntax), though he gave me not such 
 answers as I could have wished. However, he confessed.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. lof 
 
 little by little, something of his history and adventures. 
 When he ran away, it was, as we thought, to the port of 
 Bristol, where he presently found a berth as cabin-boy on 
 board a West-Indiaman. In this enviable post — everybody 
 on board has a cuff or a kick or a rope's-end for the boy — 
 he continued for some time. "But," said Earnaby, "you 
 are not to think that the rope's-end was half so bad as my 
 father's rod ; nor the captain's oath so bad as my father's 
 rebuke ; nor the rough work and hard fare so bad as the 
 Latin syntax." Being so strong, and a hearty, willing lad 
 to boot, he was quickly promoted to be an able seaman, 
 when there were no more rope's-endings for him. Then, 
 having an ambition above his station, and not liking his 
 rude and ignorant companions of the fo'k'sle (which is the 
 forepart of a ship, where the common sailors sleep and eat), 
 and being so fortunate as to win the good graces of the 
 supercargo first and of the captain next, he applied his leis- 
 ure time (when he had any leisure) to the method of taking 
 observations, of calculating longitudes and latitudes, his 
 knowledge of arithmetic having fortunately stuck in his 
 mind longer than that of Latin. These things, I understand, 
 are of the greatest use to a sailor and necessary to an ofiicer. 
 Armed with this knowledge, and the recommendation of his 
 superiors, Barnaby was promoted from before the mast and 
 became what they call a mate, and so rose by degrees until 
 he was at last second captain. But by this time he had 
 made many voyages to the West Indies, to New York and 
 Baltimore, and to the West Coast of Africa in the service of 
 his owners, and, I dare say, had procured much wealth for 
 them, though but little for himself. And being at Rotterdam 
 upon his owners' business, he was easily persuaded — being 
 always a stout Protestant, and desirous to strike a blow in 
 revenge for the ejection of his father — to engage as second 
 captain on board the frigate which brought over the Duke 
 of Monmouth and his company, and then to join him ou 
 his landing. This was the sum of what he had to tell me. 
 He had seen many strange people, wonderful things, and 
 monsters of the deep; Indians, whom the cruelty and 
 avarice of the Spaniards have well-nigh destroyed, the sugar 
 plantations in tlie islands, negro slaves, negroes free in their 
 own country, sharks and calamaries, of which I had read 
 and heard — he had seen all these things, and still remained 
 (in his mind, I mean) as if he had sc<mi nothing. So won- 
 derfully made are some men's mmds tkat whatever they soc 
 they_«re in U9vny moved.
 
 108 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 I say, then, that Barnaby answered my questions, as w«, 
 rode along, briefly, and as if such matters troubled him not. 
 When I asked him, for example, how the poor miserable 
 slaves liked being captured and sold and put on board ship 
 crowded together for so long a voyage, Barnaby replied thai 
 he did not know, his business being to buy them and carry 
 them across the water, and if they rebelled on board ship 
 to shoot them down or flog them ; and when they got to 
 Jamaica to sell them : where, if they would not work, they 
 would be flogged until they came to a better mind. It 
 a man was born a negro, what else, he asked, could he ex- 
 pect? 
 
 There was one question which I greatly desired to ask 
 him, but dared not. It concerned the welfare of his soul. 
 Presently, however, Barnaby answered that question before 
 I put it. 
 
 " Sister, " he said, "my mother's constant affliction con- 
 cerning me, before I ran away, was as to the salvation of my 
 soul. And truly, that seems to me so difficult a thing to 
 compass (like navigation to an unknown port over an un- 
 known sea set everywhere with hidden rocks and liable to 
 sudden gusts) that I cannot understand how a plain man 
 can ever succeed in it. Wherefore it comforted me mightily 
 after I got to sea to learn on good authority that there is an- 
 other way, which, compared with my father's, is light and 
 easy. In short, sister, though he knows it not, there is one 
 religion for lands-folk and another for sailor-folk. A sailor 
 (everybody knows) cannot get so much as a sail bent with- 
 out cursing and swearing — this, which is desperately wicked 
 ashore, counts for nothing at all afloat : and so with many 
 other things ; and the long and the short of it is that if a 
 sailor does his duty, fights his ship like a man, is true to 
 his owners and faithful to his messmates, it matters not one 
 straw whether he hath daily sworn great oaths, drunk him- 
 self (whenever he went ashore) as helpless as a log, and 
 kissed a pretty girl whenever his good luck gave him a 
 chance — which does, indeed, seldom come to most sailors '' 
 — he added this with a deep sigh — "I say, sister, that for 
 such a sailor, when his ship goes down with him, or when 
 he gets a grapeshot through his vitals, or when he dies of 
 fever, as happens often enough in the hot climates, there is 
 no question as to the safety of his soul, but he goes straight 
 to heaven. What he is ordered to do when he gets there," 
 said Barnaby, "I cannot say; but it will be something, I 
 doubt not, that a sailor will like to do. V/hercfoie, lister.
 
 tVR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \o% 
 
 you can set my mother's heart — poor soul ! — quite at rest 
 on this important matter. You can tell her that you have 
 conversed with me, and that I have that very same inward 
 assurance of which my father speaks so much and at such 
 length. The very same assurance it is — tell her that And 
 beg her to ask me no questions upon the matter." 
 
 "Well, Barnaby ; but art thou sure — " 
 
 " It is a heavenly comfort," he replied, before I hf-d time 
 to finish, *' to have such an assurance. For why.? A man 
 that hath it doth never more trouble himself aboat what 
 shall happen to him after he is dead. Therefore he goes 
 about his duty with an easy mind ; and so, sister, no more 
 upon this head, if you love me and desire peace C^ mind 
 for my mother." 
 
 So nothing more was said upon that subject then or after- 
 wards. A sailor to be exempted by right of his calling from 
 the religion of the landsman ! 'Tis a strange and danger- 
 ous doctrine. But if all sailors believe it, yet how can it be? 
 This question, I confess, is too high for me. And as for 
 my mother, I gave her Barnaby's message, begging her at 
 the same time not to question him further. And she sighed 
 but obeyed. 
 
 Presently Barnaby asked me if we had any money. 
 
 I had none, and I knew that my mother could have but 
 little. Of course, my father never had any. I doubt if he 
 had possessed a single penny since his ejection. 
 
 "Well," said Barnaby, "I thought to give my money to 
 mother. But I now perceive that if she has it she will give 
 it to dad ; and if he has it, he will give it all to the duke for 
 the cause — wherefore, sister, do you take it and keep it, not 
 for me, but to be expended as seemeth you best." He 
 lugged out of his pocket a heavy bag. "Here is all the 
 money I have saved in ten years. Nay — I am not as some 
 sailors, one that cannot keep a penny in purse, but must 
 needs fling all away. Here are two hundred and fifty gold 
 pieces. Take them, sister. Hang the bag round thy neck, 
 and never part with it, day or night. And say nothing 
 about the money either to mother or to dad, for he will as- 
 suredly do with it as I have said. A time may come when 
 thou wilt want it" 
 
 Two hundred and fifty gold pieces I Was it possrble that 
 Barnaby could be so rich? I took the bag and hung it round 
 my waist — not my neck — by the string which he had tied 
 above the neck, and, as it was covered by my mantl% »•■
 
 lie I'OR FA/TJI AXD FREEDO.\f. 
 
 body ever suspected that I had this treasure. In the end, 
 as you shall hear, it was useful. 
 
 It was now broad daylight, and the sun was up. As we 
 drew near Bridport there stood a man in the road armed 
 with a halbert. 
 
 "Whither go ye, good people ?" he asked. 
 
 " Friend," said Barnaby, flourishing his oaken staff, "we 
 ride upon our own business. Stand aside, or thou mayest 
 henceforth have no more business to do upon this 
 earth ! ' 
 
 *' Ride on then — ride on," he replied, standing aside with 
 great meekness. This was one of the guards whom they 
 posted everywhere upon the roads in order to stop the peo- 
 ple who were flocking to the camp. In this way many 
 were sent back, and many were arrested on their way to 
 join Monmouth. " 
 
 Now, as we drew near to Bridport, the time being about 
 four o'clock, we heard the firing of guns and a great shout- 
 ing. 
 
 "They have begun the fighting," said Barnaby. "I knew 
 it would not be long a-coming. " 
 
 It was. in fact, their first engagement, when the Dorset- 
 shire militia were driven out of Bridport by the duke's 
 troops, and there would have been a signal victory at the 
 very outset but for the cowardice of Lord Grey, who ran 
 away with the horse. 
 
 Well, it was a strange and a wonderful thing to think that 
 flose at hand were men killing each other on the Sabbath ; 
 yea, and some lying wounded on the roads ; and that civil 
 war had again begun. 
 
 "Let us push on," said Humphrey, "out of the way of 
 these troops. They are but country lads all of them. If 
 they retreat they will run ; and if they run they will be 
 seized with a panic, and will run all the way back to Lyme 
 trampling on everything that is in the road." 
 
 This was sound advice, which we followed, taking an 
 upper track which brought us into the high-road a mile or so 
 nearer Charmouth. 
 
 I do not think there can be anywhere a finer road than 
 that which runs from Charmouth to Lyme. It runneth over 
 high hills sometimes above the sea which rolls far below, 
 and sometimes above a great level inland plain, the name 
 of which I have forgotten. The highest of the hills is called 
 Golden Cap ; the reason why was plainly shown this 
 morning when the sky was clea^ and the sun was shining
 
 lOK FAITH Ai\'D FREEDOM. 1 1 j 
 
 from the southeast full upon this tall pico. When we got 
 into this road we found it fuh of young fellows, lusty and 
 well conditioned, all marching, running, walking, shouting, 
 and singing on their way to join IMonmouth. Some were 
 adorned with flowers, some wore the blue favor of the duke 
 some had cockades in their hats, and some again were armed 
 with musket or with sword ; some carried pikes, some 
 knives tied on to long poles, some had nothing but thick 
 cudgels, which they brandished valiantly. At sight of 
 these brave fellows my father lifted his head and waved his 
 hand, crying " A Monmouth ! a Monmouth ! Follow me, 
 brave lads ! "just as if he had been a captain encouraging 
 his men to charge. 
 
 The church of Lyme standeth high upon .the cliff which 
 faces the sea ; it is on the eastern side of the town, and be- 
 fore you get to the church, on the way from Charmouth, 
 there is a broad field also on the edge of the cliff. It was 
 this field that was the first camp of Monmouth's men. There 
 were no tents for the men to lie in, but there were wagons 
 filled, I suppose, with munitions of war ; there were booths 
 where things were sold, such as hot sausages fried over a 
 charcoal fire, fried fish, lobsters and periwinkles, cold bacon 
 and pork, bread, cheese, and such like, and barrels of beer 
 and cider on wooden trestles. The men were haggling for 
 the food and drink, and already one or two seemed fuddled. 
 Some were exercising in the use of arms ; some were danc- 
 ing, and some singing. And no thought or respect paid at 
 all to the Sabbath. Oh ! was this the pious and godly camp 
 which I had expected. 
 
 "Sister," said Barnaby, "this is a godly and religious 
 place to which the wisdom of dad hath brought thee. Per- 
 haps he meaneth thee to lie in the open like the lads." 
 
 "Where is the duke ?" asked my father, looking wrath- 
 fully at these revellers and Sabbath-breakers. 
 
 " The duke lies at the George Inn," said Barnaby. "I 
 will show the way." 
 
 In the blue parlor of the George the duke was at that 
 time holding a council. There were different reports as to 
 the Bridport affair. Already it was said that Lord Gray 
 was unfit I:) lead the horse, having been the first to run 
 away ; and some said that the militia were driven out of 
 the town in a panic, and some that they made a stand and 
 that our mei% had fled. I know not what was the truth, and 
 now it matters little, except that the first action of our men 
 brought them little honor. When the council was finished.
 
 tti ^-'OA' FA J Til AXD J-7^J£ED0M. 
 
 the duke sent word that he would receive Dr. Challis (thai 
 was Humphrey) and Dr. Comfort Eykin. 
 
 So they were introduced to the presence of his grace, and 
 first my father — as Humphrey told me — fell into a kind of 
 ecstasy, praising- God for the landing of the duke, and fore- 
 telling such speedy victory as would lay the enemies of the 
 country at his feet. He then drew forth a roll of paper in 
 which he had set down, for the information of the duke, 
 the estimated number of the disaffected in every town of 
 the south and west of England, with the names of such as 
 could be trusted not only to risk their own bodies and estates 
 in the cause, but would stir up and encourage their friends. 
 There were so many on these lists that the duke's eyes 
 brightened as he read them. 
 
 " Sir, " he said, "if these reports can be depended upon 
 we are indeed made men. What is your opinion. Dr. 
 Challis ? " 
 
 " My opinion, sir, is that these are the names of friends 
 and well-wishers ; if they see your grace well supported at 
 the outset they will flock in ; if not, many of them will stand 
 aloof." 
 
 " Will Sir Christopher join me.?" asked the duke. 
 
 " No, sir ; he is now seventy-five years of age." 
 
 Then the duke turned away. Presently he returned to the 
 lists and asked many questions. 
 
 "Sir," said my father, at length, "I have given you the 
 names of all that I know who are well-affected to the Prot- 
 estant cause ; they are those who have remained faithful to 
 the ejected ministers. Many a time have I secretly 
 preachcfi to them. One thing is wanting ; the assurance 
 that yo*ur grace will bestow upon us liberty of conscience 
 and freedom of worship. Else will not one move hand or 
 foot." 
 
 "Why," said the duke, "for what other purpose am I 
 come } Assure them, good friend, assure them in my 
 name ; make the most solemn pledge that is in your power 
 and in mine." 
 
 ' In that case, sir," said my father, "I will at once write 
 letters with my own hand to the brethren everywhere. 
 There are many honest country lads who will carry the 
 letters by ways where they are not likely to be arrested and 
 searched. And now, sir, I pray your leave to preach to 
 these your soldiers. They are at present drinking, swear- 
 ing, and breaking the Sabbath. The campaign which 
 should be begun with prayer and huiBiiliation for the »int
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 115 
 
 of the country hath been begun with many deadly sins, with 
 merriment, and with fooling-. Suffer me, then, to preach to 
 them." 
 
 "Preach, by all means," said the duke. "You shall 
 have the parish church. I fear, sir, that my business will 
 not suffer me to have the edification of your sermon, but I 
 hope that it will tend to the soberness and earnestness o* 
 my men. Forgive them, sir, for their lightness of heart. 
 They are for the most part young. Encourage them by 
 promises rather than by rebuke. And so, sir, for this oc- 
 casion, farewell ! " 
 
 In this way my father obtained the wish of his heart, 
 and preached once more in a church before the people who 
 were the young soldiers of Monmouth's army. 
 
 I did not hear that sermon, because I was asleep. It was 
 in tones of thunder that my father preached to them. He 
 spoke of the old war, and the brave deeds that their fathers 
 had done under Cromwell ; theirs was the victory. Now, 
 as then, the victory should be theirs, if they carried the spirit 
 of faithfulness into battle. He warned them of their sins, 
 sparing none ; and, in the end, he concluded with such a 
 denunciation of the king as made all who heard it, and had 
 been taught to regard the king's majesty as sacred, open 
 their mouths and gape upon each other ; for then, for the 
 first time, they truly understood what it was that they were 
 engaged to do. 
 
 While my father waited to see the duke, Barnaby went 
 about looking for a lodging. The town is small, and the 
 houses were all filled, but he presently found a cottage (call 
 it rather a hut) on the shore beside the Cobb, where, on 
 promise of an extravagant payment, the fisherman's wife 
 consented to give up her bed to my mother and myself 
 Before the bargain was concluded, I had laid myself down 
 upon it and was sound asleep. 
 
 So I slept the whole day ; though outside there was such 
 a trampling on the beach, such a landing of stores and 
 creaking of chains as might have awakened the Seven Sleep- 
 ers. But me nothing could awaken. 
 
 In the evening I woke up refreshed. My mother was 
 already awake, but for weariness could not move out of her 
 chair. The good woman of the cottage, a kindly soul, 
 brought me rough food of some kind with a drink of water 
 — the army had drunk up all the milk, eaten all the cheese, 
 the butter, the eggs, and the pork, beef, and mutton in the 
 place. And then Humj ^rc^' came and asked if I would go
 
 1 1 4 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 with him into the town to see the soldiers. So I went, and 
 glad I was to see the sight. But, Lord ! to think that it was 
 the Sabbath evening. For the main street of Lyme was full 
 of men, swaggering with long swords at their sides and 
 some with spears — feathers in their hats and pistols stuck 
 in their belts, all were talking loud, as I am told is the cus- 
 lom in a camp of soldiers. Outside the George there was a 
 barrel on a stand, and venders and drawers ran about with 
 cans, fetching and carrying the liquor for which the men 
 continually called. Then at the door of the George there 
 appeared the duke himself with his following of gentlemen. 
 All rose and huzzaed while the duke came down the steps 
 and turned towards the camp outside the town. 
 
 I saw his face very well as he passed. Indeed, I saw him 
 many times afterwards, and I declare that my heart sank 
 when first I gazed upon him as he stood upon the steps of 
 the George Inn. For on his face, plain to read, was the 
 sadness of coming ruin. I say I knew front that moment 
 what would be his end. Nay, I am no prophetess nor am 
 I a witch to know beforehand the counsels of the Almighty ; 
 yet the Lord hath permitted by certain signs the future to 
 become apparent to those who know how to read them. 
 In the Duke of Monmouth the signs Avere a restless and un- 
 easy eye, on air of preoccupation, a trembling mouth, and 
 a hesitating manner. There M'as in him nothing of the con- 
 fidence of one who knows that fortune is about to smile 
 upon him. This, I say, was my first thought about the 
 duke, and the first thought is prophecy. 
 
 There sat beside the benches a secretary, or clerK, who 
 took down the names of recruits. The duke stopped and 
 looked on. A young man in a sober suit of brown, in ap- 
 pearance different from the country lads, was giving in his 
 name. 
 
 " Daniel Foe, your grace," said the clerk, looking up. 
 "He is from London." 
 
 "From London," the duke repeated. "I have many 
 friends in London. I expect them shortly. Thou art a 
 worthy lad and deservest encourag^ement " So he passe4 
 on his waj'.
 
 FOR FAl TH AND FJiEEDOM. 1 1 5 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ON THE MARCH. 
 
 At daybreak, next morning-, the drums began to beat and 
 the trumpets were blown, and after breakfast the newly 
 raised army marched out in such order as was possible. 1 
 have not to write a history of this rebellion, which hath 
 already been done by able hands ; I speak only of what I 
 saw, and the things with which I was concerned. 
 
 First, then, is true that the whole country was quickly 
 put into a ferment by the duke's landing ; and had those 
 who planned the expedition provided a proper supply of 
 arms, the army would have quickly mustered twenty thou- 
 sand men, all resolute and capable of meeting any force 
 that the king could have raised. Nay, it would have grown 
 and swelled as it moved. But there were not enough arms. 
 Everything promised well for him. But there were no 
 arms for half those who came in. The spirit of the Devon 
 and Somerset militia was lukewarm ; they ran at Bridport, 
 at Axminster, and at Chard ; nay, some of them even de- 
 serted to join the duke. There were thousands scattered about 
 the country — those, namely, who still held to the doctrines 
 of the persecuted ministers, and those who abhorred the 
 Catholic religion — who wished well and would have joined 
 — Humphrey knew well-wishers by the thousand whose 
 names were on the lists in Holland — but how could they 
 join when the army was so ill-found } And this was the 
 principal reason, I am assured, why the country gentlemen 
 did not come in at first — because there were no arms. How 
 can soldiers fight when they have no arms ? How could 
 the duke have been suffered to begin with so scanty a pre- 
 ])aration of arms .? Afterwards, when Monmouth proclaimed 
 himself king, there were, perhaps, other reasons why the 
 well-wishers held aloof. Some of them, certainly, who 
 were known to be friends of the duke (among them Mr. 
 Prideaux, of Ford Abbey) were arrested and thrown into 
 prison, while many thousands who were flocking to the 
 standard were either turned back or seized and thrown into 
 prison. 
 
 As for the quality of the troops who formed the army, I 
 know nothing, except that at Sedgemoor they continued to 
 fig;ht valiantly after their leaders had fled. Thejr were raw
 
 tt6 J'OR }-AITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 troops — mere country lads — and their officers were, for the 
 most part, simple tradesmen who had no knowledge of the 
 art of war. Dare the younger was a goldsmith ; Captain 
 Perrot was a dyer ; Captain Hucker, a maker of serge; and 
 so on with all of them. It was unfortunate that Mr. Andrew 
 Fletcher, of Saltoun, should have killed Mr. Dare the elder 
 on the first day, because, as everybody agrees, he was the 
 most experienced soldier in the whole army. The route 
 ]-)roposed by the duke was known to everybody. He in- 
 tended to march through Taunton, Bridgwater, and Bristol 
 to Gloucester, where he thought he would be joined by a 
 new army raised by his friends in Cheshire. He also 
 reckoned on receiving adherents everywhere on the road, 
 and on easily defeating any force that the king should be 
 able to send against him. How he fared in that scheme 
 everybody knows. 
 
 Long before the army was ready to march, Humphrey 
 came to advise with us. First of all, he had endeavored to 
 have speech with my father, but in vain. Henceforth my 
 father seemed to have no thought of his wife and daughter. 
 Humphrey at first advised us to go home again. "As foi 
 your dedication to the cause," he said, "I think that he 
 hath already forgotten it, seeing that it means nothing, and 
 that your presence with us cannot help. Go home, madam, 
 and let Grace persuade Robin to stay at home in order to 
 take care of you." 
 
 " No," said my mother ; " that may we not do. I mus) 
 obey my husband, who commanded us to follow him. 
 Whither he goeth there I will follow." 
 
 Finding that she was resolute upoii this point, Humphrey 
 told us that the duke would certaimy march upon Taunton, 
 where more than half of the town were his friends. He 
 therefore advised that we should ride to that place — not 
 following the army, but going across the country, most of 
 which is a very wild and desolate part, where we should 
 have no fear except from gypsies and such wild people, who 
 might be robbers and rogues, but who were all now making 
 the most of the disturbed state of the country and running 
 about the roads plundering and thieving. But he said he 
 would himself provide us with a guide, one who knew the 
 way, and a good stout fellow, armed with a cudgel, at 
 least. To this my mother agreed, fearing to anger her 
 husband if she should disturb him at his work of writing 
 letters. 
 
 Humphrey had little trouble in finding the guide for us.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 117 
 
 He was an honest lad from a place called Holford, in the 
 Quantock Hills, who, finding that there were no arms for 
 him, was going home again. Unhappily, when we got to 
 Taunton, he was persuaded — partly by me, alas ! — to re- 
 main. He joined Barnaby's company, and was either 
 killed at Sedgemoor, or one of those hanged at Weston, 
 Zoyland, or Bridgwater. For he was no more heard of. 
 This business settled, we went up to the churchyard in 
 order to see the march of the army out of camp. And a 
 brave show the gallant soldiers made. 
 
 First rode Colonel Wade with the vanguard. After them, 
 with a due interval, rode the greater part of the Horse, al- 
 ready three hundred strong, under Lord Grey of Wark. 
 Among them was the company sent by Mr. Speke, of White 
 Lackington, forty very stout fellows, well armed and 
 mounted on cart-horses. The main army was composed of 
 four regiments. The first was the Blue Regiment, or the 
 duke "s own, whose colonel was the aforesaid Wade. They 
 formed the van, and were seven hundred strong. The 
 others were the White, commanded by Colonel Foukes, the 
 Green by Colonel Holmes, and the Yellow by Colonel Fox. 
 All these regiments were fully armed, the men wearing 
 favors or rosettes in their hats and on their arms of the 
 color from which their regiment was named. 
 
 The duke himself, who rode a great white horse, was 
 surrounded by a small bodyguard of gentlemen (afterwards 
 they became a company of forty), richly dressed and well 
 mounted. With him were carried the colors, embroidered 
 with the words "Pro Religione et Libertate. " This was 
 the second time that I had seen the duke, and again I felt 
 at sight of his face the foreknowledge of coming woe. On 
 such an occasion the chief should show a gallant mien and 
 a face of cheerful hope. The duke, however, looked 
 g-loomy, and hung his head. 
 
 Truly, it seemed to me as if no force could dare so much 
 as to meet this great and invincible army. And certainly 
 there could nowhere be gathered together a more stalwart 
 set of soldiers, nearly all young men, and full of spirit. 
 They shouted and sang as they marched. Presently there 
 passed us my brother Barnaby, with his company of the 
 Green Regiment. It was easy to perceive by the handling 
 of his arms and by his bearing that he was accustomed to 
 act with others, and already he had so instructed his men 
 that they set an example to the rest both in their orderliness 
 of march and the carriage of their weapon^,
 
 1 1 8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 After the main army they carried the ordnance — foul 
 small cannon — and the ammunition in wagons with guards 
 and horsemen. Lastly there rode those who do not fight, 
 yet belong to the army. These were the chaplain to the 
 army. Dr. Hooke, a grave clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
 land : Mr. Ferguson, the duke's private chaplain, a fiery 
 person, of whom many hard things have been said, which 
 here concern us not ; and my father, who thus rode openly 
 with the other two, in order that the Nonconformists might 
 be encouraged by his presence, as an equal with the two 
 chaplains. He was clad in a new cassock, obtained I know 
 not whence. He sat upright in the saddle, a Bible in his 
 hand, the long white locks lying on his shoulders like a 
 peruke, but more venerable than any wig. His thin face 
 was flushed with the joy of coming victory, and his eyes 
 fla.shed fire. If all the men had shown such a spirit the 
 army would have overrun the whole country. The four 
 surgeons — Dr. Temple, Dr. Gaylard, Dr. Oliver, and Hum- 
 phrey — followed, all splendid in black velvet and great 
 periwigs. Lastly marched the rearguard ; but after the 
 army there followed such a motley crew as no one can con- 
 ceive. There were gypsies, with their black tents and 
 carts, ready to rob and plunder ; there were the tinkers, who 
 are nothing better than gypsies, and are said to speak their 
 language ; there were men with casks on wheels filled with 
 beer or cider ; there were carts carrying bread, cakes, bis- 
 cuits, and such things as one can buy in a booth or at a 
 fair ; there were women of bold and impudent looks, singing as 
 they walked ; there were, besides, whole troops of country 
 lads, some of them mere boys, running and strutting along 
 in hopes to receive arms and to take a place in the regi- 
 ments. 
 
 Presently they were all gone, and Lyme was quit of them. 
 What became in the end of all the rabble rout which followed 
 the army I know not. One thing was certain : the godly 
 disposition, the pious singing of psalms, and the devout ex- 
 position of the Word which I had looked for in the army 
 were not apparent. Rather there was evident a tumultuous 
 joy, as of schoolboys out for a holiday — certainly no school- 
 boys could have made more noise or showed greater happi- 
 ness in their faces. Among them, however, there were 
 some men of middle age, whose faces showed a different 
 temper ; but these were rare. 
 
 "Lord help them ! " said our friendly fisherwoman, who
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ \^ 
 
 stood with us. "There wjll be hard knocks before those 
 fine fellows go home again." 
 
 "They fight on the Lord's side," said my mother ; "there- 
 fore they may be killed, but they will not wholly perish." 
 
 As for the hard knocks, they began without any delay, 
 and on that very morning. For at Axminister they en- 
 countered the Somerset and Devon militia, who thought to 
 join their forces, but were speedily put to flight by the rebels 
 — a victory which greally encouraged them. 
 
 It hath been maliciously said that we followed the army 
 — as if we were two sutler women — on foot, I suppose, 
 tramping in the dust, singing ribald songs like those poor 
 creatures whom we saw marching out of Lyme. You have 
 heard how we agreed to follow Humphrey's advice. Well, 
 we left Lyme very early the next morning (our fisherwoman 
 having now become very friendly and loath to let us go) 
 and rode out, our guide (poor lad ! his death lies heavy on 
 my soul, yet I meant the best ; and, truly, it was the side 
 of the Lord) marching beside us armed with a stout blud- 
 g'eon. We kept the main road (which was very quiet at 
 this early hour) as far as Axminster, where we left it; and, 
 after crossing the river by a ford or wash, we engaged up- 
 on a track, or path, which led along the banks of a little 
 stream for a mile or two — as far as the village of Chardstock. 
 Here we made no halt; but, leaving it behind, we struck 
 into a most wild and mountainous country full of old forests 
 and great bare places. It is called the Forest of Neroche, 
 and is said to shelter numbers of gypsies and vagabonds, 
 and to have in it some of those wild people who live in the 
 hills and woods of Somerset and do no work except to 
 gather the dry broom and tie it up, and so live hard and 
 hungry lives, but know not any master. These are re- 
 ported to be a harmless people, but the gypsies are danger- 
 ous because they are ready to rob and even murder. I 
 thought of Barnaby's bag of gold and trembled. However, 
 we met with none of them on the journey, because they 
 were all running after IMonmouth's army. There was no 
 path over the hills by the way we took ; but our guide knew 
 the country so well that he needed none, pointing out the 
 hills with a kind of pride as if they belonged to him, and 
 telling us the name of every one ; but these I have long 
 since forgotten. The country, however, I can never for- 
 get, because it is so wild and beautiful. One place I re- 
 member. It is a very strange and wonderful place. There 
 is a vast great earthwork surrounded by walls of stone, but
 
 1 20 I-'OK FAITH AA'D FREEDOM. 
 
 these are ruinous. It stands on a hill, called Blackdown, 
 which looks over into the Vale of Taunton. The guide said 
 it was called Castle Ratch, and that it was built long- ago by 
 the ancient Romans. It is not at all like Sherborne Castle, 
 which Oliver Cromwell slighted when he took the place, 
 and blew it up with gunpowder ; but Sherborne was not 
 built by the Romans. Here, after our long walk, we halted 
 and took the dinner of cold bacon and bread which we had 
 brought with us. The place looks out upon the beautiful 
 Vale of Taunton, of which I had heard. Surely, there can- 
 not be a more rich, fertile, and lovely place in all England 
 than the Vale of Taunton. Our guide began to tell us of 
 the glories of the town, its wealth and populousness — and 
 all for Monmouth, he added. When my mother was rested 
 were mounted our nags and went on, descending into the 
 plain. Humphrey had provided us with a letter commend- 
 atory. He, who knew the names of all who were well-af- 
 fected, assured us that the lady to whom the letter was ad- 
 dressed, IMiss Susan Blake by name, was one of the most 
 forward in the Protestant cause. She was well known and 
 much respected, and she kept a school for young gentle- 
 women, where many children of the Nonconformist gentry 
 were educated. He instructed us to proceed directly to her 
 house, and to ask her to procure for us a decent and safe 
 lodging. He could not have given us a letter to any better 
 person. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Taunton. 
 The streets were full of people running about, talking, now 
 in groups and now by twos and threes ; now shouting and 
 now whispering ; while we rode along the street a man ran 
 bawling — 
 
 "Great news ! great news ! Monmouth is upon us with 
 twice ten thousand men ! " 
 
 It seems that they had only that day learned of the defeat 
 of the militia by the rebels. A company of the Somerset 
 militia were in the town, under Colonel Luttrell, in order 
 to keep down the people. 
 
 Taunton is, as everybody knows, a most rich, prosperous, 
 and populous town. I had never before seen so many 
 houses and so many people. Why, if the men of Taunton 
 declared for the duke his cause was already won. For 
 there is nowhere, as I could not fail to know, a greater 
 stronghold of Dissent than this town, except London, and 
 none where the Nonconformists have more injuries to re- 
 member. Only two years before this their meeting-houses
 
 i-OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 12I 
 
 had been broken into, and their pulpits and pews brought 
 out and burned, and they were forced, against their con- 
 science, to worship in the parish church. 
 
 We easily found Miss Blake's house, and giving our 
 horses to the guide, we presented her with our letter. She 
 was a young woman somewhat below the common stature, 
 quick of speech, her face and eyes full of vivacity, and 
 about thirty years of age. But when she had read the letter, 
 and understood who we were and whence we came, she 
 first made a deep reverence to my mother, and then she 
 took my hands and kissed me. 
 
 " Madam," she said, " believe me, my poor house will 
 be honored indeed by the presence of the wife and the daugh- 
 ter of the godly Dr. Comfort Eykin. Pray, pray, go on fur- 
 ther. I have a room that is at your disposal. Go thither, 
 madam, I beg, and rest after your journey. The wife of 
 Dr. Eykin ! 'Tis indeed an honor." And so, with the kindest 
 words, she led us upstairs, and gave us a room with a bed 
 in it, and caused Vv^ater for washing to be brought, and pres- 
 ently went out with me to buy certain things needful for us, 
 who were indeed rustical in our dress, to present the ap- 
 pearance of gentlewomen ; thanks to Barnaby's heavy purse, 
 I could get them without telling n«y mother anything about 
 it. She then gave us supper, and told us all the news. The 
 king, she said, was horribly afraid, and it was rumored that 
 the priests had all been sent away to France ; the Taunton 
 people were resolved to give the duke a brave reception ; 
 all over the country, there was no doubt, men would rally 
 by thousands ; she was in a rapture of joy and gratitude. 
 Supper over, she took us to ker schoolroom, and here — oh ! 
 the pretty sight ! — her schoolgirls were engaged in working 
 and embroidering flags for the duke's army. 
 
 "I know not," she said, " whether his grace will conde- 
 scend to receive them. But it is all we women can do." 
 Poor wretch ! she afterwards suffered the full penalty for 
 her zeal. 
 
 All that evening we heard the noise of men running about 
 the town, with the clanking of weapons and the commands 
 of officers ; but we knew not what had happened. 
 
 Lo 1 in the morning the glad tidings that the militia had 
 left the town. Nor was that all ; for at daybreak the people 
 began to assemble, and, there being none to stay them, 
 broke into the great church, and took possession of the arms 
 that had been deposited for safety in the tower. They also 
 opened the prison, and set free a worthy Noncomformist
 
 12 J FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 divine named Vincent All the morning the mob ran about 
 the streets shouting, "A Monmouth ! a Monmouth ! " the 
 magistrates and Royalists not daring so much as to show 
 their faces, and there was nothing talked of but the over- 
 throw of the king and the triumph of the Protestant religion. 
 Nay, there were fiery speakers in the market-place and be- 
 fore the west porch of the church, who mounted on tubs 
 and exhorted the people. Grave merchants came forth and 
 shook hands with each other ; ministers who had been in 
 hiding now walked forth boldly. It was truly a great day 
 for Taunton. 
 
 The excitement grew greater when Captain Hucker, a 
 well-known serge-maker of the town, rode in with a troop 
 of Monmouth's horse. Captain Hucker, had been seized by 
 Colonel Phillips on the charge of receiving a message from 
 the duke, but he escaped and joined the rebels, to his 
 greater loss, as afterwards appeared. However, he now 
 rode in to tell his fellow-townsmen of his own wonderful 
 and providential escape, and that the duke would certainly 
 arrive the next day, and he exhorted them to give him such 
 a welcome as he had a right to expect at their hands. He 
 also reminded them that they were the sons of the men who, 
 forty years before, defended Taunton under Admiral Blake. 
 There was a great shouting and tossing of caps after Cap- 
 tain Hucker's address, and no one could do too much for 
 the horsemen with him, so that I fear these brave fellows 
 were soon fain to lie down and sleep till the fumes of the 
 strong ale should leave their brains. 
 
 All that day and half the night we sat in Miss Blake's 
 schoolroom finishing the flags, in which I was permitted to 
 join. There were twenty-seven flags in all presented to the 
 army by the Taunton maid. — twelve by Miss Blake and fif- 
 teen by one Mrs. Musgrave, also a schoolmistress. And 
 now, indeed, seeing that the militia at Axminster had fled 
 almost at the mere aspect of one man, and those of Taun- 
 ton had also fled away secretly by night, and, catching the 
 zeal of our kind entertainer, and considering the courage and 
 spirit of these good people, I began to feel confident again, 
 and my heart, which had fallen very low at the sight of the 
 duke's hanging head and gloomy looks, rose again, and all 
 danger seemed to vanish. And so, in a mere fool's para- 
 dise, I continued happy indeed until the fatal news of Sedg»- 
 moor fight awoke us all from our fond dreams.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 
 
 "J 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 TAUNTON. 
 
 I NEVER weary in thinking of the gayety and happineas 
 of those four days at Taunton among the rebels. There 
 was no more doubt in any of our hearts ; we were all con- 
 fident of victory, and that easy, and perhaps bloodless. As 
 was the rejoicing at Taunton, so it would be in every town 
 of the country. One only had to look out of window in 
 order to feel assurance of that victory, so jolly, so happy, 
 so confident looked every face. 
 
 ' ' Why, " said Miss Blake, ' ' in future ages even we women, 
 who have only worked the flags, will be envied for our 
 share in the glorious deliverance. Great writers will speak 
 ")f us as they speak of the Roman women." Then all our 
 eyes sparkled, and the needles flew faster, and the flags 
 grew nearer to completion. 
 
 If history should condescend to remember the poor maids 
 of Taunton at all it will be, at best, with pity for the afflic- 
 tions which afterwards fell upon them ; none, certainly, 
 will envy them ; but we shall be forgotten. Why should 
 we be remembered.'' Women, it is certain, have no busi- 
 ness with affairs of state, and especially none with rebel- 
 lions and civil wars. Our hearts and passions carry us 
 away. The leaders in the cause which we have joined ap- 
 pear to us to be more than human ; we cannot restrain 
 ourselves, we fall down and worship our leaders, especially 
 in the cause of religion and liberty. 
 
 Now, behold ! On the very morning after we arrived at 
 Taunton I was abroad in the streets with Miss Blake, look- 
 ing at the town, which hath shops full of the most beautiful 
 and precious things, and wondering at the great concourse 
 of people (for the looms were all deserted, and the work- 
 men were in the streets filled with a martial spirit), I saw rid- 
 ing into the town no other tliaii Roliin himself. Oh ! how my 
 heart leaped up to sec liini ! He was most gallantly dressed, 
 in a purple coat with a crimson sash over his shoulders to 
 carry his sword ; he had pistols in his holsters, and wore 
 ^reat riding-boots, and with him rode a company of a doztn
 
 134 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 young men, mounted on good, strong nags ; why, they 
 were men of our own village, and 1 knew them every one. 
 They were armed with muskets and pikes — I knew where 
 they came from — and when they saw me the fellows all 
 began to grin, and to square their shoulders so as to look 
 more martial. But Robin leaped from his horse. 
 
 " 'Tis Grace ! '" he cried. "Dear heart ! Thou art then 
 safe, so far? Madam, your servant." Here he took off his 
 hat to Miss Blake. "Lads, ride on the White Hart, and 
 call for what you want, and take care of the njigs. This is 
 a joyful meeting, sweetheart. ' Here he kissed me. "The 
 duke, they say, draws thousands daily. I thought to find 
 him in Taunton by this time. Why, we are as good as vic- 
 torious already. Humphrey, I take it, is with his grace. 
 My dear, even had the cause of freedom failed to move me 
 I had been dragged by the silken ropes of love. Truly, I 
 could not choose but come. There was the thought of these 
 brave fellows marching to battle, and I all the time skulk- 
 ing at home, who had ever been so loud upon their side. 
 And there was the thought of Humphrey, braving the dan- 
 gers of the field, tender though he be, and I, strong and 
 lusty, sitting by the tire and sleeping on a featherbed ; and 
 always there was the thought of thee, my dear, among these 
 rude soldiers — like Milton's lady among the rabble rout — 
 because well I know that even Christian warriors (so called) 
 are not lambs ; and, again, there was my grandfather, who 
 could find no rest, but continually walked to and fro, with 
 looks that at one time said, 'Go, my son,' and at others, 
 'Nay ; lest thou receive a hurt ; ' and the white face of my 
 mother, which said, as plain as eyes could speak, ' He ought 
 to go, he ought to go ; and yet he may be killed.' " 
 
 "Oh, Robin! Pray God there prove to be no more 
 fighting. " 
 
 "Well, my dear, if I am not tedious to madam here — " 
 
 "Oh, sir!" said Miss Blake, "it is a joy to hear this 
 talk." She told me, afterwards, that it was a joy to look 
 upon so gallant a gentleman, and such a pair of lovers. She, 
 poor thing, had no sweetheart. 
 
 "Then on Monday," Robin continued, "the day before 
 yesterday, I could refrain no longer, but laid the matter be- 
 fore my grandfather. Sweetheart ! there is no better man 
 in all the world." 
 
 " Of that I am well assured, Robin." 
 
 "First, he said that if anything befell me he should go 
 down in sorrow to his grave ; yet that as to his own end
 
 POM. FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 1*5 
 
 An old man so near the grave should not be concerned 
 about the manner of his end so long as he should keep to 
 honor and duty. Next, that in his own youth he had him- 
 self gone forth willingly to fight in the cause of liberty, 
 without counting the risk. Thirdly, that if my conscience 
 did truly urge me to follow the duke I ought to obey that 
 voice in the name of God. And this with tears in his eyes, 
 and yet a lively and visible satisfaction that, as he himself 
 had chosen, so his grandson would choose. ' Sir,' I said, 
 ' that voice of conscience speaks very loudly and clearly. 
 I cannot stifle it. Therefore, by your good leave, I will go.' 
 Then he bade me take the best horse in the stable, and gave 
 me a purse of gold, and so I made ready." 
 
 Miss Blake, at this point, said that she was reminded of 
 David. It was, I suppose, because Robin was so goodly a 
 lad to look upon ; otherwise, David, though an exile, did 
 never endeavor to pull King Saul from his throne. 
 
 " Then," Robin continued, " I went to my mother. She 
 wept, because war hath many dangers and chances ; but 
 she would not say me 'nay.' And in the evening 
 when the men came home I asked who would go with 
 me. A dozen stout fellows — you know them all, sweet- 
 heart — stepped forth at once ; another dozen would have 
 come, but their wives prevented them. And so, mounting 
 them on good cart-horses, I bade farewell and rode away. " 
 
 "Sir," said Miss Blake, "you have chosen the better 
 part. You will be rewarded by so splendid a victory that 
 it will surprise all the world ; and for the rest of your life 
 — yes, and for generations afterwards — you will be ranked 
 among the deliverers of your country. It is a great privi- 
 lege, sir, to take part in the noblest passage of English his- 
 tory. Oh!" — she clasped her hands — "I am sorry that 
 I am not a man, only because I would strike a blow in this 
 sacred cause. But we are women, and we can but pray 
 and make flags. We cannot die for the cause." 
 
 The event proved that women can sometimes die for the 
 cause, because she herself, if any woman ever did, died for 
 her cause. 
 
 Then Robin left us in order to take steps about his men 
 and himself Captain Hucker received them in the name 
 •f the duke. They joined the cavalry, and Robin was 
 made a captain. This done, he rode out with the rest to 
 meet the duke. 
 
 Now, when his approach was known everybody who had 
 a horse rode forth to meet him, so that there followed him,
 
 ttb FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 not counting his army, so great a company that they almost 
 made another army. Lord Grey rode on one side of him, 
 and Colonel Speke on the other ; Dr. Hooke, the chaplain, 
 and my father rode behind. My heart swelled with joy to 
 hear how the people, when they had shouted themsel\es 
 hoarse, cried out for my father, because his presence showed 
 that they would have once more that liberty of worship for 
 want of which they had so long languished. The duke's 
 own chaplain, Mr. Ferguson, had got a naked sword in his 
 hand, and was marching on foot, crying out, in a most 
 vainglorious manner, "I am Ferguson, the famous Fergu' 
 son, that Ferguson for whose head so many hundred 
 pounds were offered. I am that man ! I am that man ! " 
 He wore a great gown and cassock, which consorted ill 
 with the sword in his hand ; and in the evening he preached 
 in the great church, while my father preached in the old 
 meeting-house to a much larger congregation, and, I ven- 
 ture to think, a much more edifying discourse. 
 
 The army marched through the town in much the same 
 order as it had marched out of Lyme, and it seemed not 
 much bigger, but the men marched more orderly and there 
 was less laughing and shouting. But the streets were so 
 thronged that the men could hardly make their way. 
 
 As soon as it was reported that the duke was within a 
 mile (they had that day marched sixteen miles, from Ilmin- 
 ster) the chiwch bells were set a ringing ; children came out 
 with baskets of flowers in readiness to strew them at his 
 feet as he should pass — roses and lilies and all kinds of 
 summer flowers, so that his horse had most delicate carpet 
 to walk upon ; the common people crowded the sides of 
 the streets ; the windows were filled with ladies who waved 
 their handkerchiefs and called aloud on Heaven to 
 bless the good duke, the brave duke, the sweet and 
 lovely duke. If there were any malcontents in the 
 town they kept snug ; it would have cost them dear even to 
 have been seen in the streets that day. The duke showed 
 on this occasion a face full of hope and happiness ; indeed, 
 if he had not shown a cheerful countenance on such a day, 
 he would have been something less, or something greater, 
 than human. I mean that he would have been either in- 
 sensible and blockish not to be moved by such a welcome, 
 or else he would have been a prophet, as foreseeing what 
 would follow. He rode bareheaded, carrying his hat in his 
 )kand ; he was dressed in a shining corslet with a blue silk 
 •carf and a purple coat ; his long brown hair hung^ in curl»
 
 fOR FAITH AND FR£:j£DOM. 1 27 
 
 upon his shoulders ; his sweet hps were parted with a gra- 
 cious smile ; his beautiful brown eyes — never had any prince 
 more lovely eyes — looked pleased and benignant ; truly 
 there was never made any man more comely than the Duke 
 of Monmouth. The face of his father, and that of his uncle. 
 King James, were dark and gloomy, but the duke's face was 
 naturally bright and cheerful ; King Charles's long nose in 
 him was softened and reduced to the proportions of manly 
 beauty ; in short, there was no feature that in his father 
 was harsh and unpleasing bul was in him sweet and beauti- 
 ful. If I had thought him comely and like a king's son 
 when four years before he made his progress, I thought him 
 now ten times as gracious and as beautiful. He was thin- 
 ner in the face, which gave his appearance the greater 
 dignity ; he had ever the most gracious smile and the most 
 charming eyes ; and at such a moment as this who could 
 believe the things which they said about his wife and Lady 
 Wentworth .? No — they were inventions of his enemies ; 
 they must be base lies ; so noble a presence could not 
 conceal a guilty heart ; he must be as good and virtuous as 
 he was brave and lovely. Thus we talked, sitting in the 
 window, and thus we cheered our souls. Even now, to 
 think how great and good he looked on that day, it is diffi- 
 cult to believe that he was in some matters so vile. I am 
 not of those who expect one kind of moral conduct from one 
 man and a different kind from another : there is but one set 
 of commandments for rich and poor, for prince and peasant 
 But the pity of it, oh ! the pity of it, with a prince ! 
 
 Never, in short, did one see such a tumult of joy ; it is 
 impossible to speak otherwise : the people had lost their 
 wits with excess of joy. Nor did they show their welcome 
 in shouting only, for all doors were thrown wide open and 
 supplies and necessaries of all kinds were sent to the soldiers 
 in the camp outside the town, so that the country lads 
 declared they had never fared more sumptuously. There 
 now rode after the duke several Nonconformist ministers, 
 beside my father. Thus there was th^ pious Mr. Lark, of 
 Lyme ; he v/as an aged Baptist preacher, who thought it no 
 shame to his profession to gird on a sword and to command 
 a troop of horse ; and others there were, whose names I for- 
 get, who had come forth to join the deliverer. 
 
 In the market-place the duke halted, while his declaration 
 was read aloud. One thing I could not approve. They 
 dragged forth three of the justices — High Churchmen, and 
 standing stoutly for King James — and forced them to listen,
 
 128 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 bareheaded, to the declaration ; a things which came neat 
 afterwards to their destruction. Yet they looked sour and 
 unwilling, as any one would have testified. The declara- 
 tion was a long document, and the reading of it took half 
 an hour at least ; but the people cheered all the time. 
 
 After this they read a proclamation, warning the soldiers 
 against taking aught without payment. But Robin 
 laughed, saying that this was the way with armies, where 
 the general was always on the side of virtue, yet the 
 soldiers were always yielding to temptation in the matter 
 of sheep and poultry ; that human nature must not be too 
 much tempted, and camp rations are sometimes scanty. 
 But it was a noble proclamation, and I cannot but believe 
 that the robberies afterwards complained of were committed 
 by the tattered crew who followed the camp, rather than by 
 the brave fellows themselves. 
 
 The duke lay at Captain Huckers house, over against the 
 Three Cups Inn. This was a great honor for Mr. Hucker, 
 a plain serge-maker, and there were many who were envi- 
 ous, thinking that the duke should not have gone to the 
 house of so humble a person. It was also said that for his 
 services Mr. Hucker boasted that he should expect nothing 
 less than a coronet and the title of peer, once the business 
 was safely despatched. A peer to be made out of a master 
 serge-maker ! But we must charitably refuse to believe all 
 that is reported, and, indeed (I say it with sorrow of that 
 most unfortunate lady. Miss Blake), much idle tattle coii- 
 cerning neighbors was carried on in her house, and I was 
 told that it was the same in every house of Taunton, so that 
 the women spent all their time in talking of their neighbors' 
 affairs, and what might be going on in the houses of their 
 friends. This is a kind of talk which my father would 
 never permit, as testifying to idle curiosity and leading to 
 undue importance concerning things which are fleeting and 
 trivial. 
 
 However, the duke was bestowed in Captain Huckers 
 best bed ; of that there was no doubt, and the bells rang 
 and bonfires blazed, and the people sang and shouted in the 
 streets.
 
 fOU FAITH AND FREEDOM. j zg 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON. 
 
 I 
 
 The next day was made remarkable in our eyes by an 
 event which, though doubtless of less importance than the 
 enlistment of a dozen recruits, seemed a very great thing 
 indeed — namely, the presentation to the duke of the colors 
 embroidered for him by Susan Blake's schoolgirls. I was 
 myself permitted to walk with the girls on this occasion, as 
 if I had been one of them, though a stranger to the place 
 and but newly arrived — such was the kindness of Susan 
 Blake and her respect for the name of the learned and pious 
 Dr. Eykin. 
 
 At nine of the clock the girls who were to carry the flags 
 began to gather in the schoolroom. There were twenty- 
 seven in all, but twelve only were the pupils of Miss Blake. 
 The others were the pupils of Mrs. Musgrave, another 
 school-mistress in the town. I remember not the names of 
 all the girls, but some of them I remember. One was 
 Katharine Bovet, daughter of Colonel Bovet : she it was who 
 walked first and named those who followed ; there was 
 also Mary Blake, cousin of Susan, who was afterwards 
 thrown into prison with her cousin, but presently was par- 
 doned. Miss Hucker, daughter of Captain Hucker, the 
 master serge-maker who entertained the duke, was another 
 — these were of the White Regiment; there were three 
 daughters of Captain Herring, two daughters of Mr. Thomas 
 Baker, one of Monmouth's privy-councillors ; Mary Meade 
 was the girl who carried the famous golden flag ; and others 
 whom I have forgotten. When we were assembled, being 
 dressed all in white, and each maid wearing the Monmouth 
 colors, we took our flags and sallied forth. In the street 
 there was almost as great a crowd to look on as the day be- 
 fore, when the duke rode in ; and, certainly, it was a very 
 pretty sight to see. First marched a man playing on the 
 croud very briskly ; after him. one who beat a tabor, and 
 one who played a fife ; so that we had music on our 
 march. When the music sU)p])C(l we lifted our voices 
 and sang a psalm all together ; that done the croiider beg-an 
 again.
 
 5 j^ FOR FAITH AND FREF.DOM. 
 
 As for the procession, no one surely had ever seen th<i 
 like of it After the music walked six-and-twenty girls, the 
 youngest eight and the oldest not more than twelve. They 
 marched two by two, very orderly, all dressed in white 
 with blue favors, and every girl carrying in her hands a flag 
 of silk embroidered by herself, assisted by Miss Blake or 
 some other older person, with devices appropriate to the 
 nature of the enterprise in hand. For one flag had upon it, 
 truly figured in scarlet silk, an open Bible, because it was 
 for liberty to read and expound that book that the men were 
 going forth to fight. Upon another was embroidered a great 
 cross ; upon a third were the arms of the duke ; a fourth bore 
 upon it, to show the zeal of the people, the arms of the 
 town of Taunton ; and a fifth had both a Bible and a drawn 
 sword ; and so forth, every one with a legend embroidered 
 upon it plain for all to read. The flags were affixed to stout 
 white staves, and as the girls walked apart from each other 
 and at a due distance the flags, all flying in the wind, 
 made a pretty sight indeed, so that some of the women 
 who looked on shed tears. Among the flags was one which 
 I needs must mention, because, unless the device was com- 
 municated by some person deep in the duke's counsels, it 
 most strangely jumped with the event of the following day. 
 Mary Meade, poor child, carried it. We called it the Golden 
 Flag, because it had a crown worked in gold thread upon it 
 and the letters " J. R." A fringe of lace was sewn round it, 
 so that it was the richest flag of all. What could the crown 
 with the letters "J. R. " mean, but that James, Duke of 
 Monmouth, would shortly assume the crown of these three 
 kingdoms } 
 
 Last of all walked Miss Susan Blake, and I by her side. 
 She bore in one hand a Bible bound in red leather stamped 
 with gold, and in the other a naked sword. 
 
 The duke came forth to meet us standing bareheaded before 
 the porch. There were standing beside and behind him the 
 Lord Grey,his two chaplains. Dr. Hooke and Mr. Ferguson, 
 and my father, Mr. Larke, the Baptist minister of Lyme 
 Regis (he wore a corslet and carried a sword), and the col- 
 onels of his regiment. His body-guard were drawn up across 
 the street, looking brave and si)lendid in their new favors. 
 The varlets waited beyond with the horses for the duke's 
 party. Who, to look upon the martial array, the bravery of 
 the guard, the gallant bearing of all, the confidence in their 
 looks, and the presence, which should surely bring a 
 blessing, of the ministers of religion, would think that all
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 n\ 
 
 this pomp and promise could be shattered at a single blow? 
 
 As each girl advanced in her turn she knelt on one knee 
 and offered her flag, bowing her head (we had practised 
 this ceremony several times at the school until we were all 
 quite perfect in our parts). Then the duke stepped forward 
 and raised her,- tenderly kissing her. Then she stood 
 aside, holding her flag still in her hands. 
 
 My turn — because I had no flag — came last but one. Miss 
 Susan Blake being the last. — Now — I hope it was not folly 
 or a vainglorious desire to be distinguished by any particu- 
 lar notice of his grace — I could not refrain from hanging 
 the ring which the duke had given me at Ilchester five years 
 ago outside my dress by a blue ribbon. Miss Blake to 
 whom I had told the story of the ring, advised me to do so, 
 partly to show my loyalty to the duke, and partly because 
 it was a pretty thing and one which some women would 
 much desire to possess. 
 
 Miss Katharine Bovet informed the duke that I was the 
 daughter of the learned preacher. Dr. Comfort Eykin. When 
 I knelt he raised me. Then, as he was about to salute 
 me, his eyes fell upon the ring, and he looked fiist at 
 me and then at the ring. 
 
 "Madam," he said, "this ring I ought to know. If I 
 mistake not, there are the initials of 'J. S.' upon it ? " 
 
 "Sir," I replied, "the ring was your own. Your grace 
 was so good as to bestow it upon me in your progress 
 through the town of Ilchester, five years ago." 
 
 "Gad so!" he said, laughing; "I remember now. 
 'Twas a sweet and lovely child whom I kissed — and now thou 
 art a sweet and lovely maiden. Art thou truly the daughter 
 of Dr. Comfort Eykin .? " — he looked behind him ; but my 
 father neither heard nor attended, being wrapped in thought. 
 " 'Tis strange : his daughter! 'Tis, indeed wonderful that 
 such a child should — " Here he stopped. " Fair Rose of 
 Somerset I called thee then. Fair Rose of Somerset I call thee 
 again. Why, if I could place thee at the head of my army 
 all England would certainly follow, as if Helen of Troy or 
 Queen Venus herself did lead." So he kissed me on the 
 check with much warmth — more indeed, than was necessary 
 to show a gracious and friendly good-will ; and suffered 
 me to step aside. " Dr. Eykin's daughter ! " he repeated, 
 with a kind of wonder. " Why should not Dr. Eykin have 
 a daughter ? " 
 
 When I told Robin of this gracious salutation he first 
 turned very red and then he laughed. Then he said that
 
 IJ2 FOR FAITH AND FkEE£>OM. 
 
 everybody knew the duke, but he must not attempt any 
 court freedoms in the Protestant camp ; and if he were to 
 try — Then he broke off short, changed color again, and 
 then he kissed me, saying that, of course, the duke meant 
 nothing but kindliness, but that, for his own part, he desired 
 not his sweetheart to be kissed by anybody but himself 
 So I suppose my boy was jealous. But the folly of being 
 jealous of so great a prince, who could not possibly have 
 the least regard for a simple country maiden, and who 
 had known the great and beautiful court ladies : it made 
 me laugh to think that Robin could be so foolish as to be 
 jealous of the duke. 
 
 Then it was Miss Susan Blake's turn. She stepped for- 
 ward very briskly, and knelt down and placed the Bible in 
 the duke's left hand and the sword in his right. 
 
 " Sir," she said (speaking the words we had made up and 
 she had learned), " it is in the name of the women of 
 Taunton — nay, of the women of all England — that I give 
 you the Book of the Word of God, the most precious treas- 
 ure vouchsafed to man, so that all may learn that you are 
 come for no other purpose than to maintain the right of the 
 English people to search the Scriptures for themselves, and 
 I give you also, sir, a sword with which to defend those 
 rights. In addition, sir, the women can only give your 
 grace the offering of their continual prayers in behalf of the 
 cause, and for the safety and prosperity of your highness 
 and your army." 
 
 " Madam," said the duke, much moved by this spectacle 
 of devotion, " I am come, believe me, for no other purpose 
 than to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal 
 my defence with my blood, if that need be." 
 
 Then the duke mounted and we marched behind him in 
 single file, each girl led by a soldier, till we came to the 
 camp, when our flags were taken from us and we returned 
 home and took off our white dresses. 1 confess that I laid 
 mine down with a sigh. White becomes every maiden, and 
 my only wear till then had been of russet brown. And all 
 that day we acted over again — in our talk and in our 
 thoughts — our beautiful procession, and we repeated the 
 condescending words of the duke, and admired the gracious- 
 ness of his kisses, and praised each other for our admirable 
 behavior, and listened, with pleasure unspeakable, while 
 Susan Blake prophesied that we should become immortal 
 by the ceremony of that day.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FKEEDOM. 
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 KING MONMOUTH AND HIS CAMP. 
 
 Next day, the town being thronged with people and the 
 young men pressing in from all quarters to enroll them- 
 selves (over four thousand joined the colors at Taunton 
 alone), another proclamation was read — that, namely, by 
 which the duke claimed the throne. Many opinions have 
 been given as to this step. For the duke's enemies main- 
 tain, first, that his mother was never married to King 
 Charles the Second (indeed, there is no doubt that the king 
 always denied the marriage) ; next, that an illegitimate son 
 could never be permitted to sit upon the ancient throne of 
 this realm ; and, thirdly, that in usurping the crown the 
 duke broke faith with his friends, to whom he had solemnly 
 given his word that he would not put forward any such pre- 
 tensions. Nay, some have gone so far as to allege that he 
 was not the son of Charles at all, but of some other whom 
 they even name ; and they have pointed to his face as show- 
 ing no resemblance at all to that swarthy and gloomy- 
 looking king. On the other hand, the duke's friends say 
 that there were in his hands clear proof of the marriage ; that 
 the promise given to his friends was conditional, and one 
 which could be set aside by circumstances ; that the country 
 gentry, to whom a republic w^as most distasteful, were 
 afraid that he designed to re-establish that form of govern- 
 ment ; and, further, that his friends were all fully aware, 
 from the beginning, of his intentions. 
 
 On these points I know nothing; but when a thing has 
 been done, it is idle to spend time in arguing that it was 
 well or ill done. James, Duke of Monmouth, was now 
 James, King of Great Britain and Ireland ; and if we were 
 all rebels before, who had risen in the name of religion and 
 liberty, I suppose we were all ten times as much rebels 
 now, when we had, in addition, set up another king, and 
 declared King James to be an usurper, and no more than 
 the Duke of York. Nay, that there might be wanting no 
 single circumstance of aggravation, it was in this proclama- 
 tion declared that the Duke of York had caused his brother.
 
 134 FOR FATTH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 the late king, to be secretly poisoned. I know not what 
 foundation exists for this accusation ; but I have been told 
 that it gave offence unto many, and that it was an ill-advised 
 thing to say. 
 
 The proclamation was read aloud at the market cross by 
 Mr. Tyler, of Taunton, on the Saturday morning, before a 
 great concourse of people. It ended with the words, "We 
 therefore, the noblemen, gentlemen, and commons at pres- 
 ent assembled, in the names of ourselves and of all the 
 loyal and Protestant noblemen, gentlemen, and commons 
 of England, in pursuance of our duty and allegiance, and 
 for the delivering of the kingdom from popery, tyranny, and 
 oppression, do recognize, publish, and proclaim the said 
 high and mighty Prince James, Duke of IMonmouth, as 
 lawful and rightful sovereign and king, by the name of James 
 II., by the grace of God, King of England, Scotland, France, 
 and Ireland, Defender of the Faith. God save the King ! " 
 
 After this the duke was always saluted as king, prayed 
 for as king, and styled "his majesty." He also touched 
 some (as only the king can do) for the king's-evil, and, it is 
 said, wrought many miracles of healing — a thing which, 
 being noised abroad, should have strengthened the faith of 
 the people in him. But the malignity of our enemies caused 
 these cases of healing to be denied, or else explained as 
 fables and inventions of the duke's friends. 
 
 Among the accessions of this day was one which I cannot 
 forbear to mention. It was that of an old soldier who had 
 been one of Cromwell's captains. Colonel Basset by name. 
 He rode in — being a man advanced in years, yet still strong 
 and hale — at the head of a considerable company raised by 
 himself. 'Twas hoped that his example would be followed 
 by the adhesion of many more of Cromwell's men, but the 
 event proved otherwise. Perhaps, being old Republicans, 
 they were deterred by the proclamation of IMonmouth as 
 king. Perhaps they had grown slothful with age, and were 
 now unwilling to face once more the dangers and fatigues 
 of a campaign. Another recruit was the once-famous Col- 
 onel Perrot, who had been engaged with Colonel Blood in 
 the robbery of the crown jewels — though the addition of a 
 robber to our army was not a matter of pride. He came, it 
 was afterwards said, because he was desperate, his fortunes 
 broken, and with no other hope than to follow the fortunes 
 of the duke. 
 
 It became known in the course of tlic day that the army 
 was to march on the Sunday. Therefore everybody on
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 135 
 
 Saturday evening repaired to the camp : some to bid fare- 
 well and Godspeed to their friends, and others to witness 
 the humors of a camp. I was fortunate in having Robin 
 for a companion and a protector — the place being rough 
 and the behavior and language of the men coarse even be- 
 yond what one expects at a country fair. The recruits still 
 kept pouring in from all parts ; but, as I have already 
 said, many were disheartened when they found that there 
 were no arms, and went home again. They were not all riot- 
 ous and disorderly. Some of the men, those, namely, who 
 were older, and more sober-minded, we found gathered to- 
 gether in groups, earnestly engaged in conversation. 
 
 "They are considering the proclamation," said Robin. 
 "Truly, we did not expect that our duke would so soon be- 
 come king. They say he is illegitimate. What then .-* 
 Let him mount the throne by right of arms, as Oliver Crom- 
 well could have done had he pleased — who asks whether 
 Oliver was illegitimate or no.? The country will not have 
 another commonwealth — and it will no longer endure a 
 Catholic king. Let us have King Monmouth, then : who 
 is there better.? " 
 
 In all the camp there was none who spoke with greater 
 cheerfulness and confidence than Robin. Yet he did not 
 disguise from himself that there might be warm work. 
 
 " The king's troops, " he said, "are, closing in all round 
 us. That is certain. Yet, even if they all join we are still 
 more numerous and in much better heart; of that 1 am as- 
 sured. At Wellington, the Duke of Albemarle commands 
 the Devonshire Militia ; Lord Churchill is at Chard with the 
 Somerset Regiment ; Lord Bath is reported to be marching 
 upon us with the Cornishmen ; The Duke of Beaufort hath 
 the Gloucester Militia at Bristol ; Lord Pembroke is at Chip- 
 penham with the Wiltshire Trainbands ; Lord Feversham is 
 on the march with the king's standing army. What then ? 
 are these men Protestants or are they Papists? Answer mc 
 that, sweetheart." 
 
 Alas ! had they been true Protestants there would have 
 been such an answer as would have driven King James 
 across the water three years sooner. 
 
 The camp was now like a fair, only much finer and bigger 
 than any fair I have ever seen. That of Lyme-Regis could 
 not be compared with it. There were booths where they 
 sold ginger-bread, cakes, ale, and cider ; Monmouth favors 
 for the recruits to sew upon tlieir hats or sleeves ; shoes 
 and stockings were sold in some, and even chap-books were
 
 136 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 displayed. Men and women carried about in baskets lasf 
 year's withered apples, with Kentish cobs and walnuts ; 
 there were booths where they fried sausages and roasted 
 pork all day long ; tumblers and clowns were performing in 
 others ; painted and dressed up girls danced in others ; there 
 was a bull-baiting ; a man was making a fiery oration on 
 the duke's proclamation ; but I saw no one preaching a ser- 
 mon. There were here and there companies of country 
 lads exercising with pike and halbert ; and others, more ad- 
 vanced, with the loading and firing of their muskets. There 
 were tables at which sat men with cards and dice, gam- 
 bling ; shouting when they won and cursing when they lost ; 
 others, of more thrifty mind, sat on the ground practising 
 their trade of tailor or cobbler — thus losing no money, 
 though they did go soldiering ; some polished weapons and 
 sharpened swords, pikes and scythes ; nowhere did we find 
 any reading the Bible, or singing hymns, or listening to 
 sermons. Save for the few groups of sober men of whom I 
 have spoken, the love of amusement carried all away ; and 
 the officers of the army, who might have turned them back 
 to sober thought, were not visible. Everywhere noise ; 
 everywhere beating of drums, playing of pipes, singing of 
 songs, bawling, and laughing. Among the men there ran 
 about a number of saucy gypsy girls, their brown faces 
 showing under red kerchiefs, their black eyes twinkling 
 (truly they are pretty creatures to look upon when they are 
 young ; but they have no religion, and say of themselves 
 that they have no souls.) These girls talked with each 
 other in their own language, which none out of their own 
 nation — except the tinker-folk, who are said to be their 
 cousins — understand. But English they talk very well, and 
 they are so clever that, it is said, they will talk to a Somer- 
 setshire man in good broad Somerset, and to a man of Nor- 
 folk in his own speech, though he of Norfolk would not un- 
 derstand him of Somerset. 
 
 " They are the vultures," said Robin, "who follow for 
 prey. Before the battle these women cajole the soldiers out 
 of their money, and after the battle their men rob and even 
 murder the wounded and plunder the dead." 
 
 Then one of them ran and stood before us. 
 
 " Let me tell thy fortune, handsome gentleman ? Let me 
 tell thine, fair lady.? A sixpence or a groat to cross my 
 palm, captain, and you shall know all that is to happen." 
 
 Robin laughed, but gave her sixpence. 
 
 ''Look me in the face, fair lady " — she SDoke good, plain
 
 hVR FAITH AND FREEDOMt. t^f 
 
 English, this black-eyed wench, though but a moment be- 
 fore she had been talking broad Somerset to a young recruit 
 — "look me in the face; yes. All is not smooth. He 
 loves you ; but there will be separation and trouble. One 
 comes between, a big man with a red face ; he parts you. 
 There is a wedding, I see your ladyship plain. Why, you 
 are crying at it, you cry all the time ; but I do not see this 
 gentleman. Then there is another wedding — yes, another 
 — and I see you at both. You will be twice married. Yet 
 be of good heart, fair lady," 
 
 She turned away and ran after another couple, no doubt 
 with much the same tale. 
 
 "How should there be a wedding," I asked, " if I am 
 there and you not there, Robin — and I to be crying .'' And 
 how could I — oh ! Robin — how could I be married twice ? " 
 
 "Nay, sweetheart, she could not tell what wedding it was. 
 She only uttered the gibberish of her trade ; I am sorry that 
 I wasted a sixpence upon her." 
 
 "Robin, is it magic that they practise — these gypsies.'' 
 Do they traffic with the devil .? We ought not to suffer 
 witches to live among us." 
 
 " Most are of opinion that they have no other magip than 
 the art of guessing, which they learn to do very quickly, 
 putting things together, from their appearance; so that if 
 brother and sister walk out together they are taken to be 
 lovers, and promised a happy marriage and many children." 
 
 That may be so, and perhaps the fortune told by this gypsy 
 was only guesswork. But I cannot believe it ; for the event 
 proved that she had in reality possessed an exact knowledge 
 of what was about to happen. 
 
 Some of the gypsy women — but these were the older 
 women, who had lost their good looks, though not their im- 
 pudence — were singing songs, and those, as Robin told me, 
 songs not fit to be sung ; and one old crone, sitting before 
 her tent beside a roaring wood-fire over which hung a great 
 saucepan, sold charms against shot and steel. The lads 
 bought these greedily, giving sixpence apiece for them ; so 
 that the old witch must have made a sackful of money. 
 They came and looked on shyly. Then one would say to 
 the other, "What thinkest, lad.' Is there aught in \iV 
 And the other would say, " Truly I know not ; but she is 
 a proper witch, and I'll buy one. We may have to fight. 
 Best make sure of a whole skin." And so he bought one, 
 and then all bought. The husbands of the gypsy women 
 were engaged, meantime, we understood, ii^ robbing the
 
 1 3 8 i-OR PA J Til AXD FREED OM. 
 
 farmyards in the neighborhood, the blame being after« 
 wards laid upon our honest soldiers. 
 
 'rhcn there was a ballad-monger singing a song about a 
 man and a broom, and selling it (to those who would buy) 
 printed on a long slip of paper. The first lines were — 
 
 " There was an old man and he lived in a wood, 
 And his trade it was malcing a broom," 
 
 but I heard no more, because Robin hurried me away. 
 Then there were some who drunk too much cider or beer, 
 and were now reeling about with stupid faces and glassy 
 eves ; there were some who were lying speechless or asleep 
 ui)on the grass ; and some were cooking supper over fires 
 after the manner of the gypsies. 
 
 " I have seen enough, Robin," I said. " Alas for sacred 
 Religion if these are her defenders ! " 
 
 "'Tis always so," said Robin, "in time of war. We 
 must encourage our men to keep up their hearts. Should we 
 l)c constantly reminding them that to-morrow half of them 
 may be lying dead on the battle-field } Then they would 
 mope and hang their heads, and would presently desert." 
 
 "One need not preach of death, but one should preach of 
 godliness and of sober joy. Look but at those gypsy 
 wenches and those lads rolling about drunk. Are these things 
 decent .'* If they escape the dangers of war, will it make 
 them happy to look back upon the memory of this camp ? 
 Is it tit preparation to meet their Maker .? " 
 
 "In times of peace, sweet saint, these lads remember 
 easily that in the midst of life we are in death, and they 
 govern themselves accordingly. In times of war every man 
 hopes for his own part to escape with a whole skin, though 
 his neighbor fall. That is why we are all so blithe and jolly. 
 Let us now go home, before the night falls and the mirth be- 
 comes riotous and unseemly." 
 
 We passed a large booth whence there issued sounds of 
 singing. It was a roofless enclosure of canvas. Some ale- 
 house man of Taunton had set it up. Robin drew aside the 
 canvas door. 
 
 " Look in," he said. "See the brave defenders of religion 
 keeping up their hearts." 
 
 It was furnished with benches and rough tables ; at one end 
 were casks. The benches were crowded with soldiers, every 
 man with a pot before him, and the varlets were running 
 backward and forward with cans of ale and cider. Most of
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 n% 
 
 the men were smoking' pipes of tobacco, and they were 
 singing a song which seemed to have no end. One bawled 
 the hnes, and when it came to the " Let the hautboys play 1 " 
 and the " Huzza ! " they all roared out together : 
 
 " Now, now, the duke's health, 
 And let tlie hautboys play. 
 While the troops on their march shall 
 
 Huzza 1 huzza I huzza] 
 Now, now, the duke's health, 
 And let the hautboys play. 
 While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore 
 Huzza! huzza! huzza! " 
 
 They sart^; this verse several times over. Then another began : 
 
 •• Now, now. Lord Gray's health, 
 And let the hautboys play, 
 WJule the troops on their march shall 
 
 Huzza I huzza! huzza] 
 Kow, BOW, Lord Gray's health, 
 
 And let the hautboys play, 
 While the drums and the trumpets sound from the shore 
 Huzza! huzza! huzza! 
 
 Next a third voice took it up : 
 
 "Now now, the colonel's health, 
 And let the haittboys play," 
 
 and then a fourth and a fifth,' and the last verse was bawled 
 as lustily and with so much joy that one would have thought 
 the mere singing would have gotten them the victory. Men 
 are so made, I suppose, that they cannot work together with- 
 out singing and music to keep up their hearts. Sailors sing 
 whe4i they weigh anchor ; men who unlade ships sing as 
 they carry out the bales ; even Cromwell's Ironsides could 
 not march in silence, but sang psalms as they marched. 
 
 The sun was set and the twilight falling when we left the 
 camp ; and there was no abatement of the roaring and sing- 
 ing, but rather an increase. 
 
 " They will go on," said Robin, "until the drink or their 
 money gives out; then they will lie down and sleep. You 
 have now seen a camp, sweetheart. It is not, truth to say, 
 as decorous as a conventicle, nor is the talk so godly as in 
 Sir Christopher's hall. For rough fellows there must be rough 
 play ; in a month these lads will be veterans ; the singing 
 will have grown stale to them ; the black-eyed gypsy-women 
 will have no more power to charm away their money ; thejr
 
 I40 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 will understand the meaning of war ; the camp will be sobel 
 if it is not religious. " 
 
 So he walked homeward, I, for my part, saddened to think 
 in what a spirit of riot these young men, whom I had pictur- 
 ed so full of godly zeal, were preparing to meet the chance 
 of immediate death and judgment. 
 
 " Sweet," said Robin, "1 read thy thoughts in thy troubled 
 eyes. Pray for us. Some of us will fight none the worse for 
 knowing that there are good women who pray for them. " 
 
 We were now back in the town ; the streets were still full of 
 people, an'd no one seemed to think of bed. Presently we 
 passed the Castle Inn : the windows were open, and we 
 could see a great company of gentlemen sitting round a 
 table on which were candles lit and bowls full of strong 
 drink ; nearly every man had his pipe at his lips and his glass 
 before him, and one of them was singing to the accompani- 
 ment of a guitar. Their faces were red and swollen, as if 
 they had taken too much. At one end of the table sat 
 Humphrey. What? could Humphrey, too, be a reveller 
 with the rest .-' His face, which was gloomy, and his eyes, 
 which were sad, showed that he was not. 
 
 "The officers have supped together, " said Robin. "It 
 may be long before we get such good quarters again. A 
 cup of hipsy and a song in good fellowship, thou wilt not 
 grudge so much ? " 
 
 " Nay," I said, "'tis all of a piece. Like man, like mas- 
 ter. Officers and men alike — all drinking and singing. Is 
 there not one good man in all the army } " 
 
 As I spoke one finished a song at which all laughed, ex- 
 cept Humphrey, and drummed the table with their fists and 
 shouted. 
 
 Then one who seemed to be the president of the table 
 turned to Humphrey. 
 
 "Doctor, "he said, "thou wilt not drink, thou dost not 
 laugh, and thou hast not sung. Thou must be tried by court- 
 martial, and the sentence of the court is a brimming glass 
 of punch, or a song." 
 
 "Theii, gentlemen," said Humphrey, smiling, " I will 
 give you a song. But blame me not if you mislike it ; I 
 made the song in praise of the sweetest woman in the world, " 
 He took the guitar and struck the strings. When he began 
 to sing my cheeks flamed and my breath came and went, 
 for I knew the song ; he had given it to me four years agone. 
 Who was the sweetest woman in the world.'' Oh ! he made 
 this song for me 1 he made this song for me, and none bu^
 
 I'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 141 
 
 me ! But these rude revellers would not know that — and 1 
 never guessed that the song was for me. How could I 
 think that he would write these extravagances for me 1 But 
 poets vannot mean what they say. 
 
 "As rides the moon in azure skies, 
 Tlie ivviiikliiig stars beside; 
 As when in splendor she doth rise, 
 Their lesser lights they hide. 
 So ijeside Celia, when her face we see, 
 All unregarded other maidens be. 
 
 *' As Helen in the town of Troy 
 Shone fair beyond all thought, 
 That to behold her was a joy 
 By death too poorly bought. 
 So when fair Celia deigns the lawn to grace, 
 All life, all joy, dwells in her lovely face. 
 
 " As the sweet river floweth by 
 Green banks and alders tall, 
 It stayeth not for prayer or sigh. 
 Nor answereth if we call. 
 So Celia heeds not though Love cry and weep; 
 She heavenward wendeth while we earthward creep. 
 
 " The marbled saint, so cold and pure, 
 Minds naught of earthly ways; 
 Nor can man's gauds entice or lure 
 That fixed heavenly gaze. 
 So Celia, though thou queen and empress art, 
 To heaven, to heaven alone, belongs thy heart." 
 
 Now while Humphrey sang this song, a hush fell upon 
 the revellers ; they had expected nothing but a common 
 drinking song. After the bawling and the noise and the 
 ribaldry 'twas like a breath of fresh air after the closeness of 
 a prison ; or like a drink of pure water to one half dead 
 with thirst. 
 
 "Robin," I said, "there is one good man in the camp." 
 I say that while Humphrey sang this song — which, to be 
 sure, was neither a drinking-song, nor a party-song, nor a 
 song of wickedness and folly — the company looked at each 
 other in silence, and neither laughed nor offered to interrupt. 
 Nay, there were signs of grace in some of their faces which 
 became gr«».ve and thoughtful. When Humphrey finished 
 it, he laid 4own the guitar and rose up with a bow, saying, 
 "I have Sung my song, gentlemen all — and so, good- 
 night 1 " a^d walked out of the room. 
 
 " Robir>," I said again, "thank God, there is one good 
 man in tl»e camp ! I had forgotten Humphrey."
 
 142 t-Ok t^AlT IT AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Yes," Robin replied; " Humphrey is a good man, ft 
 ever there was one. But he is g-Uim. Something- oppresses 
 him. His eyes are troubled, and he hangs his head ; or if 
 he laughs at all, it is as if he would rather cry. Yet all the 
 way home from Holland he was joyful, save when his head 
 was held over the side of the ship. He sang and laughed ; 
 he spoke of great things about to happen. I have never 
 known him more happy. And now his face is gloomy, anc 
 he sighs when he thinks no one watcheth him. Perhaps, 
 like thee, sweet, he cannot abide the noise and riot of the 
 camp. He would fain see every man Bible in hand.- To-day 
 he spent two hours with the duke before the council, and 
 was with thy father afterwards. 'Tis certain that the duke 
 hath great confidence in him. Why is he so gloomy ? He 
 bitterly reproached me for leaving Sir Christopher, as if he 
 alone had a conscience to obey or honor to remember ! " 
 
 Humphrey came forth at this moment and stood for a 
 moment on the steps. Then he heaved a great sigh and 
 walked away slowly, with hanging head, not seeing us. 
 
 " What is the matter with him } " said Robin. " Perhaps 
 they flout him for being a physician. These fellows have 
 no respect for learning or for any one who is not a country 
 gentleman. Well, perhaps when we are on the march he 
 will again pick up his spirits. They are going to sing again. 
 Shall we go, child ? " 
 
 But the president called a name which made me stop a 
 little longer. 
 
 "Barnaby!" he cried; "jolly Captain Bamaby ! Now 
 that Doctor Graveairs hath left us we will begin the night. 
 Barnaby, my hero, thy song. Fill up, gentlemen ! The 
 night is young, and to-morrow we march. Captain Barna- 
 by, tip us a sea-song. Silence, gentlemen, for the captain's 
 song. " 
 
 It was my brother that they called upon — no other. He 
 got up from his place at the summons and rose to his feet. 
 Heavens ! what a broad man he seemed compared with 
 those who sat beside him ! His face was red and his 
 cheeks swollen because of the strong drink he had taken. 
 In his hand he held a full glass of it. Robin called it hipsy 
 — and it is a mixture of wine, brandy, and water, with 
 lemon juice and sugar — very heady and strong. 
 
 Said not Barnaby that there was one religion for a lands- 
 man and another for a sailor ? I thought of that as he stood 
 looking round him. If it were so, it would be truly a happy 
 circumstance for most sailors ; but I know not on what as-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 143 
 
 surance this belief can be argued. Then Barnaby waved 
 his hand. 
 
 " Yoho ! my lads ! " he shouted. " The ship's in port 
 and the crew has gone ashore ! " 
 
 Then he began to sing in a deep voice which made the 
 glasses ring — 
 
 "Shut the door — lock the door — 
 Out of window fling the key. 
 
 Hasten; bring me more, bring me more: 
 Fill it up. Fill it up for me. 
 
 The daylight which you think, 
 
 The daylight which you think, 
 
 The daylight which you think, 
 'Tis but the candle's flicker: 
 
 The morning star will never wink, 
 
 The morning star will never wink, 
 Till there cometli stint of liquor. 
 
 For 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple all around the world, my lads, 
 
 And the sun in drink is nightly lapped and curled. 
 
 And to-night let us drink, and to-morrow we'll to sea; 
 
 For 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple — yes, 'tis tipple, tipple, tipple- 
 Makes the world and us to jee! " 
 
 "Take me home, Robin," I said, " I have seen and heard 
 enough. Alas 1 we have need of all the prayers that we can 
 utter from the depths of our heart, and more I " 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 benjamin's warning. 
 
 Since I have so much to tell of Benjamin's evil conduct, it 
 must, in justice, be recorded of him that at this juncture he 
 endeavored, knowing more of the world than we of Somer- 
 set, to warn and dissuade his cousins from taking part in 
 any attempt which should be made in the west. And this 
 he did by means of a letter written to his father. I know 
 not how far the letter might have succeeded, but unfortu- 
 nately it arrived two or three days too late, when the boys 
 had already joined the insurgents. He wrote : 
 
 "Honored Sir, — I write this epistle, being much concerned inspirit 
 lest my grandfather, whose leanings are well known, not only in hl« 
 own county but also to the court, .should be drawn into, or become C09-
 
 (44 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 riizant of, some attempt to raise the West Country against their lawful 
 king. It will nut be news to you tliat the Earl of Argyle hath landecj 
 in tjcolland. where he will meet with a reception which will doubtless 
 cause him to repent of his rashness. It is also currently leported, and 
 everywhere believed, that the Duke of Moninoulli intends immediately 
 to embark and cross the sea with the design of raising ilie country in 
 rebellion. The Dissenters, who have been going about with sour looks 
 for fivc-and-Lwenty years, venture now to smile and look pleased in an- 
 ticipation of another civil war. This may follow, but its termination, I 
 think, will not be what they expect. 
 
 " I have also heard that my C(msin Humphrey, Dr. Ey kin's favorite 
 pupil, who hath never concealed his opinions, hath lately returned from 
 Holland (where the exiles are gathered) and passed through London ac- 
 companied by Kobin. I have fui ther learned that while in London he 
 visited (but alone, without Robin's knowledge) many of those who are 
 known to be friends of the duke and red-hot Protestants. Wherefore I 
 greatly fear that he hath been in correspondence with the exiles, and is 
 cognizant of their designs, and may even be their messenger to an- 
 nounce the intentions of his Protestant cliampion. Certain I am that 
 should any chance occur of striking a blow for freedom of worship, my 
 cousin, though he is weak and of slender frame, will join the attempt. 
 He will also endeavor to draw after him every one in his power. There- 
 fore, my dear father, use all your influence to withstand liim, and if he 
 must, for his part, plunge into ruin, persuade my grandfather and my 
 cousin Robin to stay quiet at home. 
 
 " I hear it on the best authority that the temper of the country, and 
 especially in your part of it, hatli been carefully studied by the govern- 
 ment and is perfectly well known. Those who would risk life and 
 lands for the Duke of Monmouth are few indeed. He may, perhaps, 
 draw a rabble after him, but no more. The fat tradesmen who most 
 long for the conventicle will not fight though they may pray for him. 
 The country gentlemen may V)e Protestants, but they are mostly for the 
 (/hurch of England and the king. It is quite true that his majesty is a 
 Roman Catholic, nor hath he ever concealed or denied his religion, being 
 one who scorns deceptions. It is also trtie that his profession of faith 
 is a stumbling-block to many who find it hard to reconcile their teach- 
 ing of non-resistance and divine right with the introduction of the mass 
 and the Romish priest. But the country hath not yet forgotten the 
 iron rule of the Independent, and rather than suffer him to return the 
 people will endure a vast deal of royal preiogative. 
 
 " It is absolutely certain — assure my grandfather on this point, what- 
 ever he may leai'u from Humphrey — that the better sort will never join 
 Monmouth, whether he comes as another Cromwell to restore the Com- 
 monwealtii, or whether he aspires to the crown and dares to maintain 
 — a thing which King Charles did always stoutly deny — that his motlier 
 was married. Is it credible that the ancient throne of tliese kingdoms 
 should be mounted by the baseborn son of Lucy Waters ? 
 
 "I had last night the honor of drinking a bottle of wine with that 
 great lawyer. Sir George Jeffreys. The conversation turned upon this 
 subject. We were assured by the jud^e that the affections of the people 
 are wholly with the king; that the liberty of worship which he demands 
 for himself he will extend to the country, so that the la-t pretence of 
 reason for disaffection shall be removed. Why should the people run 
 after Monmouth when, if he were successful, he would give no more 
 than the king is ready to give. I was also privately warned by Sir 
 G«orge that my grandfather's name is unfavorably noted, and faJS a»
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 14^ 
 
 tions and speeches will be watched. Therefore, sir, I humbly beg that 
 you will represent to him and to my cousins, and to Dr. Eykin himself, 
 first, the hopelessness of any such enterprise and the certainty of de- 
 feat; and next, the punishment which will fall upon the rebels and 
 upon those who lend them any countenance. Men of such a temper as 
 Dr. Comfort Eykin will doubtless go to ilie scaffold willingly, with their 
 mouths full of the texts which they apply to themselves on all occa- 
 sions. For such I have no pity; yet. for the sake of his wife and 
 daughter, I would willingly, if I could, save him from the fate which 
 will be his if Monmouth lands on the west. And as for my grand- 
 father, 'tis terrible to think of his white hairs blown by the breeze 
 while the hangman adjusts the knot, and I should shudder to see the 
 blackened limbs of Robin stuck upon poles for all the world to see. 
 
 *• It is my present intention, if my affairs permit, to follow my for- 
 tunes on the western circuit in the autumn, when I shall endeavor to 
 ride from Taunton or Exeter to Bradford Orcas. My practice grows 
 apace. Daily I am heard in the courts. The judges already know me 
 and listen to me. The juries begin to feel the weiglit of my arguments. 
 The attorneys besiege my chambers. For a junior I am in great de- 
 mand. It is my prayer that you, sir, may live to see your son chancel- 
 lor cf the exchequer and a peer of the realm. Less than chancellor 
 will not content me. As for marriage, that might hinder my rise — J 
 shall not marry yet. There is in your parish, sir, one who knows ray 
 mind upon this matter. I shall be pleased to think that you will as 
 sure her — j'ou know very well whom I mean — that my mind is unalter- 
 ed and that my way is now plain before me. 
 
 "So, I remain, with dutiful respect, your obedient son, 
 
 ■'B. B." 
 
 This letter arrived, I say, after the departure of Robin with 
 his company of village lads. 
 
 When Mr. Boscorel had read it slowly and twice over, so 
 as to lose no point of the contents, he sat and pondered 
 awhile. Then he arose and with troubled face he sought 
 Sir Christopher, to whom he read it through. Then he 
 waited for Sir Christopher to speak. 
 
 "The boy writes, "said his honor, after awhile, "accord- 
 ing to his lights. He repeats the things he hears said by 
 his boon companions. Nay, more, he believes them. Why, 
 it is easy for them to swear loyalty and to declare in their 
 cups where the affections of the people are placed." 
 
 " Sir Christopher, what is done cannot be undone. The 
 boys are gone — alas ! — but you still remain. Take heed for 
 a space what you say as well as what you do. " 
 
 " How should they know the temper of the country? " Sir 
 Christopher went on, regardless. "What doth the foul- 
 mouthed profligate, Sir George Jeffreys, know concerning 
 sober and godly people? These are not noisy templars ; 
 they are not profligates of the cf)urt ; they are not haunters of 
 tavern and pothouse ; they are not those who frequent the 
 playhouse. Judge Jeffreys knows none such, They are
 
 ^46 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 lovers of the Word of God ; they wish to worship after theii 
 fashion ; they hate the pope and all his works. Let us heal 
 what these men say upon the matter. " 
 
 "Nay," said Mr. Boscorel, " I care not greatly what they 
 say. But would to God the boys were safe returned." 
 
 "Benjamin means well," Sir Christopher went on, "I take 
 this warning- kindly ; he meant well. It pleases me that in 
 the midst of the work and the feasting which he loves he 
 thinks upon us. Tell him, son-in-law, that I thank him for 
 his letter. It shows that he has preserved a good heart" 
 
 "As for his good heart," Mr. Boscorel stroked his nose 
 with his forefinger, " so long as Benjamin gets what he 
 wants, which is Benjamin's mess, and five times the mess of 
 any other, there is no doubt of his good heart. " 
 
 " Worse things than these," said Sir Christopher, "were 
 said of us when the civil wars began. The king's troops 
 would ride us down ; the country would not join us ; those 
 of us who were not shot or cut down in the field would be 
 afterwards hanged, drawn, and quartered. Yet we drove 
 the king from his throne." 
 
 "And then the king came back again. So we go up and 
 so we go down. But about this expedition and about these 
 boys my mind misgives me." 
 
 "Son-in-law," Sir Christopher said, solemnly, " I am now 
 old, and the eyes of my mind are dim, so that I no longer 
 discern the signs of the times, or follow the current of the 
 stream ; moreover, we hear but little news, so that I cannot 
 even see any of those signs. Yet to men in old age, before 
 they pass away to the rest provided by the Lord, there cometh 
 sometimes a vision by which they are enabled to ses clearly 
 when younger men are still groping their way in a kind of 
 twilight. Monmouth hath landed ; my boys are with him ; 
 they are rebels ; should the rising fail, their lives are forfeit, 
 and that of my dear friend. Dr. Comfort Eykin ; yea, and 
 my life as well, belike, because I have been a consenting 
 party. Ruin and death will, in that event, fall upon all of 
 us. Whether it will so happen I know not, nor do I weigh 
 the chance of that event against the voice of conscience, duty, 
 and honor. My boys have obeyed that voice ; they have 
 gone forth to conquer or to die. My vision doth not tell me 
 what will happen to them. But it shows me the priest fly- 
 ing from the country, the king flying from the throne, and 
 that fair angel whom we call freedom of conscience return- 
 ing to bless the land. To know that the laws of God will 
 triumph — ought not that to reconcile a man alreiu'.y seventy-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FkEEDOM I47 
 
 five years of age to death, even a death upon the gallows ? 
 What matter for this earthly body so that it be spent until the 
 end in the service of the Lord ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 WE WAIT FOR THE END. 
 
 I HAVE said that my father from the beginning unto the end 
 of this business was as one beside himself, being in a^ ecstasy 
 or rapture of mind, insomuch that he heeded nothing. The 
 letters he sent out to his friends the Nonconformists either 
 brought no answer or else they heaped loads of trouble, 
 being interaepted and read, upon those to whom they were 
 addressed. But he was not moved. The defection of his 
 friends and of the gentry caused him no uneasiness. Nay, 
 he even closed his eyes and ears to the drinking, the profane 
 oaths, and the riotous living in the camp. Others there 
 were, like-minded with himself, who saw the hand of the 
 Lord in this enterprise, and thought that it would succeed by 
 a miracle. The desertions of the men which afterwards fol- 
 lowed, and the defection of those who should have joined — 
 these things were but the weeding of the host, which should 
 be still further weeded, as in a well-known chapter in the 
 Book of Judges, until none but the righteous should be left 
 behind. These things he preached daily, and with mighty 
 fervor, to all who would listen, but these were few in num- 
 ber. 
 
 As regards his wife and daughter, he took no thought for 
 them at all, being wholly enwrapped in his work : he did 
 not so much as ask if we had money — to be sure, for five- 
 and-twenty years he had never asked that question — or if 
 we were safely bestowed or if we were well. Never have I 
 seen any man so careless of all earthly affections when he 
 considered the work of the Lord. But when the time came 
 for the army to march what were we to do.^ Where should 
 we be bestowed } 
 
 " As to following the army," said Robin, "that is absurd. 
 We know not whither we may march or what the course of 
 events may order. You cannot go home without an armed 
 escort, for the country is up, the clubmen are out every-
 
 148 POk FA iTff AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 where to protect their cattle and horses ; a rough and rude 
 folk they would be to meet, and the gypsies are robbing 
 and plundering. Can you stay here until we come back, 
 or until the country hath settled down again? " 
 
 Miss Blake generously promised that we should stay with 
 her as long as we chose, adding many kind things about 
 myself, out of friendship and a good heart ; and so it Was 
 resolved that we should remain in Taunton, where no harm 
 could befall us, while my father still accompanied the army 
 to exhort the soldiers. 
 
 "I will take care of him," said Barnaby. "He shall not 
 preach of a morning till he hath, taken breakfast, nor shall 
 he go to bed until he hath had his supper. So long as the 
 provisions last out he shall have his ration. After that I 
 cannot say. Maybe we shall all go on short commons, as 
 hath happened to me already; and, truth to tell, I love it 
 not. All these things belong to the voyage and are part of 
 our luck. Farewell, therefore, mother. Heart up. All 
 will go well. Kiss me, sister ; we shall all come back 
 again. Never fear. King Monmouth shall be crowned in 
 Westminster, dad shall be Archbishop of Canterbury, and 
 I shall be captain of a king's ship. All our fortunes shall be 
 made, and you, sister, shall have a great estate, and shall 
 marry whom you please — Robin or another. As for the 
 gentry who have not come forward, hang 'em ! we'll divide 
 their estates between us and so change places, and they will 
 be so astonished at not bemg shot for cowardice that they 
 will rejoice and be glad to clean our boots. Thus shall we 
 all be happy." 
 
 So they marched away, Monmouth being now at the head 
 of an army seven thousand strong, and all in such spirits 
 that you would have thought nothing could withstand them. 
 And when I consider and remember how that army marched 
 back, with the cheers of the men and the laughter and jokes 
 of the young recruits, the tears run down my cheeks for 
 thinking how their joy was turned to mourning, and life 
 was exchanged for death. The last I saw of Robin was 
 that he was turning in his saddle to wave his hand, his face 
 full of confidence and joy. The only gloomy face in the 
 whole army that morning was the face of Humphrey. 
 Afterwards I learned that almost from the beginning he fore- 
 saw certain disaster. In the tirst place, none of those on 
 whom the exiles of Holland had relied came into camp ; 
 these were the backbone of the Protestant party, the sturdy 
 blood that had been freely shed against Charles the First
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 149 
 
 This was a bitter disappointment. Next, he saw in the 
 army nothing but a rabble of country lads, with such 
 officers as Captain Hucker, the serg-e-maker, instead of the 
 country gentlemen with their troops, as had been expected, 
 and from the beginning he distrusted the leaders, even the 
 duke himself. So he hung his head, and laughed not with 
 the rest. But his doubts he kept locked up in his own heart. 
 Robin knew none ot them. 
 
 It was a preity sight to see the Taunton women walking 
 out for a mile and more with their lovers who had joined 
 Monmouth. They walked hand in hand with the men ; 
 they wore the Monmouth favors. They had no more doubt 
 or fear of the event than their sweethearts. 
 
 Those who visit Taunton now may see these women 
 creeping about the streets lonely and sorrowful, mindful still 
 of that Sunday morning when they saw their lovers for the 
 last time. 
 
 When I consider the history of this expedition I am amazed 
 that it did not succeed. It was, surely, by a special judg- 
 ment of God that the victory was withheld from Monmouth 
 and reserved for William. I say not (presumptuously)that 
 the judgment was pronounced against the duke on account 
 of his sinful life, but I think it was the will of Heaven that 
 the country should endure for three years the presence of a 
 prince who was continually seeking to advance the Catholic 
 religion. The people were not yet ripe perhaps, for that 
 universal disgust which caused them without bloodshed (in 
 this island at least) to pull down King James from his throne. 
 When, I say, I consider the temper and the courage of 
 that great army which left Taunton, greater than any which 
 the king could bring against it ; when I consider the mul- 
 titudes who flocked to the standard at Bridgwater, I am, 
 indeed, lost in wonder at the event. 
 
 From Sunday, the twenty-first, when the army marched 
 out of Taunton, till the news came of their rout on Seuge- 
 moor, we heard nothing certain about them. On Tuesday 
 the Duke of Albemarle, hearing that the army had gone, 
 occupied Taunton with the militia, and there were some 
 who expected severities on account of the welcome given 
 to the duke and the recruits whom he obtained here. 
 But there were no acts of revenge that I heard of ; and. 
 indeed, he did not stay long in the town. As for us, we 
 remained under the shelter of Miss Blake's roof, and daily ex- 
 pected news of some great and signal victorv. But none 
 pame, s^v? one letter. Everyday we looked for this n^ws,
 
 ISO 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 and every day we planned and laid down the victorious 
 inarch for our army. 
 
 "They will first occupy Bristol," said Miss Blake. "That 
 is certain, because there are many stout Protestants in 
 Bristol, and the place is important. Once master of that 
 great city, our king will get possession of ships, and so will 
 have a fleet. There are, no doubt, plenty of arms in the 
 town, with which he will be able to equip an army ten 
 times greater than that which he now has. Then — with, 
 say, thirty thousand men — he will march on London. The 
 militia will, of course, lay down their arms or desert at the 
 approach of this great and resolute army. The king's regi- 
 ments will prove, I expect, to be Protestants, every man. 
 Oxford will open her gates. London will send out her 
 trainbands to welcome the deliverer, and so our king will 
 enter in triumph, and be crowned at Westminster Abbey — • 
 one King James succeeding another. Then there shall be 
 restored to this distracted country " — being a schoolmistress, 
 Miss Blake could use language worthy of the dignity of 
 history — " the blessings of religious freedom ; and the pure 
 word of God, stripped of superstitious additions made by 
 men, shall be preached through the length and breadth of 
 the land." 
 
 " What shall be done," I asked, " with the bishops } " 
 
 "They shall be suffered to remain," she said, speaking 
 with a voice of authority, "for those congregations which 
 desire a prelacy, but stripped of their titles and of their vast 
 revenues. We will not persecute, but we will never suffer 
 one church to lord it over another. Oh ! when will the 
 news come ? Where is the army now ? " 
 
 The letter of which I have spoken was from Robin. 
 
 " Sweetheart," he said, " all goes well so far. At Bridg- 
 water we have received a welcome only second to that <>( 
 Taunton. The mayor and aldermen proclaimed our king 
 at the high cross, and the people have sent to the camj: 
 great store of provisions and arms of all kinds. We are now 
 six regiments of foot, with a thousand cavalry, besides the 
 king's own bodyguard. We have many good friends at 
 Bridgwater, especially one Mr. Roger Hoar, who is a rich 
 merchant of the place, and is very zealous in the cause. 
 Your father preached on Sunday evening from the text 
 Deuteronomy vii. 5: 'Ye shall destroy their altars, and 
 break down their images, and cut down their groves, and 
 burn their graven images with tire.' It was a most moving 
 discourse, which fired the hearts of all who heard it.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ 5 1 
 
 "They say that our chief is downhearted because the 
 nobility and gentry have not come in. They only wait 
 for the first victory, after which they will come in by hun- 
 dreds. But some of our men look forward to depriving them 
 of their estates and dividing them among themselves ; and 
 already the colonels and majors are beginning to reckon up 
 the great rewards which await them. As for me, there is 
 but one reward for which I pray, namely, to return untc 
 Bradford Orcas and to the arms of my sweet saint Lord 
 Churchill is reported to be at Chard : there has been a brush 
 in the Forest of Neroche between the scouts, and it is said 
 that all the roads are guarded so that recruits shall be arrest- 
 ed, or at least driven back. Perhaps this is the reason why 
 the gentry sit down. Barnaby says that, so far, there have 
 been provisions enough and to spare, and he hopes the 
 present plenty may continue. No ship's crew can fight, he 
 says, on half rations. Our march will be on Bristol. I 
 hope and believe that when we have gotten that great town 
 our end is sure. Humphrey continueth glum." 
 
 Many women there were who passed that time in prayer, 
 continually offering up supplications on behalf of husband, 
 brother, lover, or son. But at Taunton the rector, one 
 Walter Harte, a zealous High Churchman, came forth from 
 hiding, and, with the magistrates, said prayers daily for 
 King James the Second. 
 
 To tell what follows is to renew a time of agony unspeak- 
 able. Yet must it be told. Farewell, happy days of hope 
 and confidence ! Farewell, the sweet exchange of dreams ! 
 Farewell to our lovely hero, the gracious duke ! All the 
 troubles that man's mind can conceive were permitted to be 
 rained upon our heads — defeat, wounds, death, prison — 
 nay, for me such a thing as no one could have expected or 
 even feared — such a fate as never entered the mind of man 
 to invent. 
 
 When the duke marched out of Bridgwater across Sedge- 
 moor to Glastonbury, the weather, which had been hot and 
 fine, became cold and rainy, which made the men uncom- 
 fortable. At Glastonbury they camped in the ruins of the 
 old abbey. Thence they went to Shcpton Mallet, the spirits 
 of the men still being high. From Shepton Mallet they 
 marched to a place called Pensford, f)nly five miles from 
 Bristol. Here they heard that the bridge over the Avon at 
 Keynsham was broken down. This being presently re- 
 paired, the army marchetl across. They were then within 
 easy reach pf Bristol,
 
 153 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM 
 
 And now began the disasters of the enterprise. Up to 
 this time everything had prospered. Had the duke boldiy 
 attacked Bristol (I speak not of my own wisdom, having 
 none in such matters of warfare) he would have encountered 
 no more than twenty companies or thereabouts of militia 
 and a regiment of two hundred and fifty horse. Moreover, 
 Bristol was full of dissenters, who wanted nothing but en- 
 couragement to join the Protestant champion. Not only 
 the duke's friends, but also his enemies, agree in declaring 
 that it wanted nothing but courage to take that great, rich, 
 and populous city, where he would have found everything 
 that he wanted — men and money, arms and ammunition. 
 I cannot but think that for his sms, or for the sins of the 
 iiation, a judicial blindness was caused to fall upon the 
 duke, so that he chose, of two ways open to him, that 
 which led to his destruction. In short, he turned away 
 from Bristol and drew up his forces against Bath. When he 
 summoned that city to surrender they shot his herald and 
 scoffed at him. Then, instead of taking the town, the duke 
 retired to Philip's Norton, where, 'tis said, he expected some 
 great reinforcements. But none came ; and he now grew 
 greatly dejected, showing his dejection in his face, which 
 could conceal nothing. Yet had he fought an action with 
 his half-brother, the l3uke of Grafton, in which he was vic- 
 torious, a thing which ought to have helped him. In this 
 action Lieutenant Blake, !Miss Blake's cousin, was killed. 
 From Philip's Norton the army marched to Frome, and 
 here, such was the general despondency, that two thousand 
 men — a third of the whole army — deserted in the night and 
 returned to their own homes. I think, also, it was at PYome 
 that they learned the news of Lord Argyle s discomfiture. 
 
 Then a council was held at which it was proposed that 
 the army should be disbanded and ordered to return, seeing 
 that the king had proclaimed a pardon to all who would 
 j-jcacefully lay down their arms and return home ; and that 
 the duke, with Lord Grey and those who would be certainly 
 exempted from that pardon, should make the best of their 
 way out of the country. 
 
 Alas ! There was a way open to safety of all those pooi 
 men ; but again was the duke permitted to choose the other 
 way, that, namely, which led to the destruction of h:s army 
 and himself. Yet they say that he himself recommended 
 the safer course. He must have known that he wanted 
 arms and ammunition, that his men were deserting, and 
 that no more recruits came in. Colonel Yenncr, one of hi^
 
 I'OR FAITJl AXD l'REEDO.\t 153 
 
 principal men, was at this juncture sent away to Holland in 
 order to get assistance in arms and money. And the king's 
 proclamation of pardon was carefully kept from the knowl- 
 edge of the soldiers. 
 
 On July the fourth the army returned to Bridgwater, and 
 now Dr. Hooke, chaplain to the army, and some of the 
 officers were sent away secretly in order to raise an insur- 
 rection in London and elsewhere, the only hope now being 
 that risings in various parts would call away some of the 
 king's forces from the west. Some of the Taunton men in 
 the army rode from Bridgwater to see their friends. But 
 we women (who for the most part remained at home) 
 learned no news save that as yet there had been no signal 
 victory ; we did not hear of the large desertions nor of the 
 duke's despondency. Therefore we continued in our fool's 
 paradise and looked for nothing but some great and crown- 
 ing mercy. Those who are on the side of the Lord are al- 
 ways expecting some special interference : whereas they 
 ought to be satisfied with being on the right side, whether 
 victory or defeat be intended for them. In this enterprise I 
 doubt not that those godly men (there were indeed some 
 godly men) who fell in battle or were afterwards executed, 
 received their reward, and that a far, far greater reward than 
 their conduct deserved — for who can measure the short 
 agony of death beside the everlasting life of glory and joy 
 unspeakable ? 
 
 The last day of this fatal expedition was Sunday the fifth 
 day of July: so that it took no more than three weeks in 
 all between its first beginning and its failure. Only three 
 weeks ! But how much longer was it before the punish- 
 ment and the expiation were concluded .? Nay, are they 
 even yet concluded, when thousands of innocent women 
 and children still go in poverty and mourning for the loss 
 of those who should have worked for them ? 
 
 In the morning my father preached to the soldiers on the 
 text (Joshua xxii. 22), "The Lord God of gods, the Lord 
 God of gods, he knoweth, and Israel he shall know, if it 
 be in rebellion, or if in transgression against the Lord, 
 (save us not this day)." 
 
 And now the time was come when the last battle was to 
 be fought. 
 
 The Earl of Feversham, who had been at Somcrton, 
 marched this day across Scdgcmoor and encamped at 
 Weston Zoyland, which is but five or six miles from Bridg- 
 water. Now it chanced that one William Sparke of Ched*
 
 1 54 ^^^' FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 zoy, hearing' of this advance, climbed the church tower, 
 and by aid of a spying-glass, such as sailors use at sea, 
 discerned clearly the approach of the army and its halt at 
 Weston, Being a well-wisher to the duke, he sent one of 
 his men, Richard Godfrey by name, with orders to spy into 
 and learn the position and numbers of the earl's army and 
 to carry his information straightway to Bridgwater. This 
 duty the fellow promised and most faithfully performed. 
 
 The duke had already learned the approach of Lord f'ever- 
 sham, and being now well-nigh desperate with his con- 
 tinued losses, and seeing his army gradually wasting away, 
 with no fresh recruits, he had resolved upon not waiting to 
 be attacked, but on a retreat northwards, hoping to get 
 across the bridge at Keynsham and so march into Shrop- 
 shire and Cheshire, where still he hoped to raise another 
 army. But (says he who hath helped me with this brief 
 account of the expedition) the retreat, which would have 
 been harassed by Lord Feversham's horse, would have 
 turned into flight ; the men would have deserted in all di- 
 rections, and when the remains of the army arrived at Keyn- 
 sham Bridge they would certainly have found it occupied 
 by the Duke of Beaufort. 
 
 The carriages were already loaded in readiness for this 
 march — it was to begin at nightfall — when the arrival of the 
 man Godfrey, and the news that he brought, caused the 
 duke to change everything. For he now perceived that 
 such a chance was offered him as had never before occurred 
 since his landing, viz., a night surprise, and, if he were 
 fortunate, the rout of the king's best troops. 
 
 It is said that had the duke shown the same boldness in 
 the matter of Bristol that he showed in this night at- 
 tack he would have gained that city first and his own 
 cause next. Nor did it appear at all a desperate attempt. 
 For though Lord Feversham had twenty-five hundred men 
 v/ith him, horse and foot, with sixteen field pieces, the duke 
 had nearly three thousand foot and six hundred horse with 
 four field pieces ; and though the king's troops included 
 many companies of grenadiers, with a battalion of that 
 famous regiment the Coldstream Guards, and some hundred 
 horse of the king's regiment and dragoons, the duke had 
 with him at least two thousand men well armed and reso- 
 lute, as the event showed. Besides this he had the advan- 
 tage of the surprise and confusion of a night attack. And, 
 in addition, the camp was not entrenched, the troopers had
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 5 5 
 
 all gone to bed, the foot soldiers were drinking cider, and 
 the officers were reported to be all drunk. 
 
 Therefore it was resolved that the intended' flight into 
 Shropshire should be abandoned, and that the whole mat- 
 ter should be brought to an issue this very night. 
 
 Had the attack succeeded all might yet have gone well 
 with the duke. His enemies boasted that his raw country 
 lads would be routed at the first charge of regular soldiers 
 if he proved the contrary, those who had deserted bin- 
 would have returned, those who held aloof would join ; it 
 was not the cause which found men lukewarm, it was the 
 doubt — and nothing but the doubt, whether the duke's en- 
 terprise would be supported. And I have never heard that 
 any found aught but commendation of the boldness and 
 spirit which brought us the battle of Sedgemoor, 
 
 All that day we spent in quiet meditation, in prayer, \v 
 the reading of the Bible, and in godly discourses; and 
 herein I must commend the modesty as well as the piety oi 
 Miss Susan Blake, in that she invited my mother, as her 
 elder, and the wife of an eminent minister, to conduct the 
 religious exercises, though as the hostess she might have 
 demanded that privilege. We stirred not abroad at all. The 
 meeting-houses, which had been opened when the duke 
 marched in, were now closed again. 
 
 In the evening while we sat together discoursing upon 
 the special mercies vouchsafed to the people ol the Lord, 
 a strange thing happened. Nay, I do not say that news 
 may not have reached Taunton already of the duke's inten- 
 tions and of the position of the king's forces. But this seems 
 incredible, since it was not known, except to the council 
 by whom it was decided, till late in the afternoon, and il 
 was not to be thought that these would hurry to spread the 
 news abroad and so ruin the whole affair. The window- 
 being open then, we could hear the voices of those who 
 talked in the street below. Now there passed two men, and 
 they were talking as they went. Said one — and these were 
 the words we heard — 
 
 "I tell thee that the duke will have no more to do than 
 to lock the stable doors and so seize the troopers in their 
 beds." 
 
 We all started and listened. The voice below repeated — 
 
 "I say, sir, and 1 have it at first hand, that he hath but 
 to lock the stable doors and so seize all the troopers in their 
 beds."
 
 J 56 ran FAIT.V a::d FREEDOM. 
 
 Then they passed on their way. 
 
 Said my mother. "My husband hath told me that nol 
 only may the conscience be awakened by a word which 
 seemeth chance, but the future may be revealed by words 
 which were perhaps meant in another sense. What wc 
 have heard this evening- may be a foretelling of victory. My 
 children, let us pray, and so to bed." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 
 
 It was five o'clock when I awoke next morning. Though 
 the hour was so early, I heard a great tramping and running 
 about the streets, and, looking out of window, I saw a con- 
 course of the town's people gathered together listening to 
 one who spoke to them. But in the middle of his speech 
 they broke away from him and ran to another speaker, and 
 so distractedly and with such gestures that they were clearly 
 much moved by some news, the nature of which I could 
 not guess. For in some faces there was visible the outward 
 show of triumph and joy, and on others there lay plainly 
 visible the look of amazement or stupefaction, and in the 
 street I saw some women weeping and crying. What had 
 happened } Oh ! what had happened .? Then, while I was 
 still dressing, there burst into the room Susan Blake, her- 
 self but half dressed, her hair flying all abroad, the comb in 
 her hand. 
 
 "Rejoice ! " she cried. "Oh, rejoice, and give thanks 
 unto the Lord ! What did we hear last night } That the duke 
 had but to shut the stable doors and seize the troopers in 
 their beds. Look out of window — see the people run- 
 ning and listening eagerly. Oh ! 'tis the crowning mercy 
 that we have looked for, the Lord hath blown and his 
 enemies are scattered. Remember the strange words we 
 heard last night. What said the unknown man } nay, he 
 said it twice. ' The duke had but to lock the stable doors ; " 
 nay, and yesterday I saw, and last night I heard, the screech 
 owl thrice, which was meant for the ruin of our enemies. 
 Oh, Grace, Grace, this is a joyful day ! " 
 
 " But look, " I said, "they have a downcast look; they
 
 I'OR FAITH AND FIi£JSDOM, 
 
 157 
 
 run about as if distracted ; and some are wringing their 
 hands." 
 
 " 'Tis with excess of joy," she replied, looking out of the 
 window with me, though her hair was flying in the wind. 
 "They are so surprised and so rejoiced that they can- 
 not speak or move." 
 
 " But there are women weeping and wailing; why do 
 they weep .? " 
 
 " It is for those who are killed. Needs must in every 
 great victory that some are killed — poor, brave fellows ! — 
 and some are wounded. Nay, my dear, thou hast three at 
 least at the camp who are dear to thee, 'and God knows I 
 have many. Let us pray that we do not have to weep like 
 those poor women." 
 
 She was so earnest in her looks and words, and I myself 
 so willing to believe, that I doubted no longer. 
 
 "Listen ! oh, listen !" she cried, "never, never before 
 have bells rung a music so joyful to my heart." 
 
 For now the bells of the great tower of St. Mary's began 
 to ring — clash, clash, clash, all together as if they were 
 cracking their throats with joy ; and at the sound of the 
 bells those men in the street, who seemed to me stupefied as 
 by a heavy blow, put up their hands to their ears and fled, 
 as if they could not bear the noise, and the women who 
 wept wrung their hands and shrieked aloud in anguish, as if 
 the joy of the chimes mocked the sorrow of their hearts. 
 
 " Poor creatures ! " said Susan. " From my heart I pity 
 them. But the victory is ours, and now it only remains to 
 offer up our humble prayers and praises to the Throne of all 
 mercy." 
 
 So we knelt and thanked God. 
 
 "O Lord, we thank and bless thee! O Lord, we thank 
 and bless thee ! " cried Susan, the tears of joy and gratitude 
 running down her cheeks. Outside, the noise of hurrying 
 feet and voices increased, and more women shrieked — and 
 still the joy bells clashed and clanged. 
 
 "O Lord, we thank thee! O Lord, we bless thee!" 
 Susan repeated on her knees, her voice broken with her joy 
 and triumph. 'Twas all that she could say. 
 
 I declare that at that moment I had no more doubt of the 
 victory than I had of the sunshine. There could be no doubt. 
 The joy bells were ringing ; how should we know that the 
 Rev. Mr. Hartc, the vicar, caused them to be rung, and not 
 our friends ? There could be no manner of doubt. The 
 people running to and fro in the street had heard the news
 
 158 ^-'OR FAirll AND FIiEEDO.\t. 
 
 and were rushing to tell each other and to hear more. The 
 women who wept were mothers or wives of the slain ; 
 again, we had encouraged each other with assurances of our 
 success so that we were already fully prepared to believe 
 that it had come. Had we not seen a splendid army some 
 thousand strong march out of Taunton town, led by the 
 bravest man and most accomplished soldier in the English 
 nation.? Was not the army on the Lord's side? Were we 
 not in a Protestant country ? Were not the very regiments 
 of the king Protestants .? Why go on .'' and yet — oh I sad to 
 think ! — while we knelt and prayed the army was scattered 
 like a cloud of summer gnats by a shower and a breeze, and 
 hundreds lay dead upon the field, and a thousand men were 
 prisoners, and many were already hanging in gemmaces 
 upon the gibbets, where they remained till King William's 
 coming suffered them to be taken down, and the rest were 
 flying in every direction, hoping to escape. 
 
 " O Lord, we thank thee ! O Lord, we bless thee ! " 
 
 While thus we prayed we heard the door below burst open 
 and a tramping of a man's boots, and Susan, hastily rolling 
 up her hair, ran down-stairs followed by mother and myself. 
 
 There stood Barnaby. Thank God ! one of our lads was safe 
 out of the fight. His face and hands w^ere black wdth pow- 
 der ; his red coat, which had been so fine, was now smirched 
 with mud and stained with I know not what marks of 
 weather, of mud, and of gunpowder ; the right-hand side was 
 torn away, he had no hat upon his head, and a bloody clout 
 was tied about his forehead. 
 
 " Barnaby ! " I cried. 
 
 "Captain Barnaby ! " cried Susan, clasping her hands. 
 
 " My son ! " cried mother ; oh ! thou art wounded. Quick, 
 Grace, child ; a basin of water, quick ! " 
 
 " Nay, 'tis but a scratch," he said ; " and there is no time 
 for nursing." 
 
 "When — where — how," we all cried together, "was the 
 victory won ? Is the enemy cut to pieces } Is the war fin- 
 nished } " 
 
 "Victory .? " he repeated, in his slow way, "what victory ? 
 Give me a drink of cider, and if there is a morsel of victual 
 in the house — " 
 
 I hurried to bring him both cold meat and bread and a cup 
 full of cider. He began t^ cat and drink. 
 
 "Why," he said, talking between his mouthfuls, "if 
 the worst come, 'tis hotter to face it with a — Your health, 
 madam;" he nish ;d the cider. "Another cup, sister, H
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. tjj 
 
 you love me. I have neither eaten nor drunk since yester- 
 day at seven o'clock, or thereabouts." He said no more un- 
 til he had cleared the dish of the gammon, and left nothing- 
 but the bone. This he dropped into his pocket. "When the 
 provisions are out," he said, wisely, "there is good gnawing 
 in the shank bone of a ham. " Then he drank up the rest of 
 the cider and looked around. "Victory.? Did some one 
 speak of victory ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes ; where was it ? Tell us quick. " 
 
 "Well; there was in some sort a victory. But the king 
 had it." 
 
 "What mean you, Barnaby .? the king had it? What 
 king .? " 
 
 " Not King Monmouth. That king is riding away (o find 
 some port and get some ship, I take it, which will carry hiin 
 back to Holland." 
 
 "Barnaby, what is it.? Oh! what is it.? Tell us all." 
 
 "All there is to tell, sister, is that our army is clean cut 
 to pieces and that those of us who are not killed or prisoners 
 are making off with what speed they may. As for me, I 
 should have thrown away my coat and picked up some old 
 duds and got off to Bristol and so aboard ship and away, 
 but for dad." 
 
 "O Barnaby ! " cried my mother, " what hath happened 
 to him .? Where is he ? " 
 
 "I said, mother," he replied, very slowly and looking in 
 her face strangely, "that I would look after him, didn't I? 
 Well, when we marched cut of Bridgwater at nightfall, 
 nothing would serve but he must go too. I think he com- 
 pared himself with Moses, who stood afar off and held up 
 his arms. Never was there any man more eager to get at 
 the enemy than dad. If he had not been a minister now, 
 what a soldier he would have made ! " 
 
 "Goon. Quick, Barnaby." 
 
 "I can go, sister, no quicker than I can. That is quite 
 sure. " 
 
 " Where is he, my son ? " asked my mother. 
 
 Barnaby jerked his thumb over his left shoulder. 
 
 " He is over there, and he is safe enough for the present 
 Well, after the battle was over, and it was no use going on 
 any longer, Monmouth and Lord Grey having already rui» 
 *way — " 
 
 " Run away .? Run away .? " 
 
 " Run away, sister. Aboard ship the captain stands by 
 tla« crew to the last, and if they strike he is prisoner with
 
 lOo I- OR FAITJI AND FREEDOM. 
 
 them. Ashore, the general runs away and leaves his men t-o 
 find out when they will give over fighting. We fought 
 until there was no more ammunition, and then we ran with 
 the rest Now I had not gone far, before I saw lying on 
 the moor at my very feet the poor old dad." 
 
 "O!" 
 
 "He was quite pale, and I thought he was dead. So I 
 was about to leave him, when he opened his eyes. ' What 
 cheer, dad } ' I asked. He said nothing. So I felt his pulse 
 and found him breathing. ' But what cheer, dad .•* ' I asked 
 him again. 'Get up and come with me.' He looked 
 around as if he understood me not, and he shut his eyes 
 again. Now when you run away the best thing is to run as 
 fast and to run as far as you can. Yet I could not run with 
 dad lying in the road half dead. So while I tried to think 
 what to do, because the murdering dragoons were cutting 
 us down in all directions, there came galloping past a pony 
 harnessed to a kind of go-cart where I suppose there had 
 been a barrel or two of cider for the soldiers. The creature 
 was mad with the noise of the guns, and I had much ado to 
 catch him and hold the reins while I lifted dad into the cart. 
 When I had done that I ran by the side of the horse and 
 drove him off the road across the moor, which was rough 
 going — but for dear life one must endure much — to North 
 Marton, where I struck the road to Taunton and brought 
 him safe, so far." 
 
 "Take me to him, Barnaby, " said my mother. "Take 
 me to him." 
 
 ' ' Why, mother, " he said, kindly, ' ' I know not if 'tis wise. 
 For, look you, if they catch us, me they will hang or shoot, 
 though dad they may let go for he is sped already ; and for 
 a tender heart like thine 'twould be a piteous sight to see thy 
 son hanging from a branch with a tight rope round his neck 
 and thy husband dead on a hand-cart." 
 
 " Barnaby, take me to him — take me to him." 
 
 "O! Is it true.? Is it true.? O Captain Barnaby, is it 
 really true.? Then why are the bells a-ringing?" 
 
 Clash ! clash ! clash ! The bells rang out louder and 
 louder. One would have thought the whole town was re- 
 joicing. Yet there were a thousand lads marched out of 
 Taunton town, and I know not how many ever came home 
 again. 
 
 ' ' They are ringing, " said Barnaby, ' ' because King Mon- 
 mouth's army is scattered and the rebellion is all over. 
 Well, we have had our chance and we are dished. Now
 
 rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. l6l 
 
 must we sing small again. Madam," he said, earnestly, 
 addressing- Susan, "if I remember right they were your 
 hands that carried the naked sword and the Bible." 
 
 "They were my hands." 
 
 "And they were your scholars who worked the flags and 
 gave them to the duke that day when you walked in a pro- 
 cession .'' " 
 
 "They were my scholars," she said, proudly. 
 
 " Then, madam, seeing that we have, if all reports be 
 true, a damned unforgiving kind of king, my advice to you 
 is to follow my example, and run. Hoist ail sail, madam, 
 and fly to some port — any port. Fly false colors. When 
 hanging, flogging, branding, and the like amusements set 
 in, I think they will remember the maids of Taunton. 
 That is my advice, madam." 
 
 "Sir,' said Susan, bravely, though her cheek grew pale 
 when he spoke of floggings and brandings, "I thank you. 
 Whither should I fly } Needs must I stay here and beai 
 whatever affliction the Lord may lay upon me ; and since 
 our Protestant hero is defeated, methinks it matters little 
 what becomes of any of us." 
 
 " Why," Barnaby shook his head, " King Monmouth is 
 defeated, that is most true ; but we who survive have got 
 ourselves to look after. Sister, get a basket and put into it 
 provisions." 
 
 " What will you have, Barnaby ? " 
 
 " Everything that you can carry. Cold bacon for choice ,• 
 and bread, and a bottle of brandy if you have any, and all 
 you can lay hands upon. With your good leave, madam." 
 • " Oh, sir, take all, take all. I would to God that every- 
 thing I have in the world could be used for the succor of 
 these my friends." And M'ith that she began to weep and 
 to cry. 
 
 I filled a great basket with all that there was in the house, 
 and he took it upon his arm. And then we came away 
 with many tears and fond farewells from this kind soul who 
 had done so much for the cause, and was now about to pay 
 so neavy a penalty for her zeal. 
 
 Outside, in the street, the people recognized him for one 
 of Monmouth's captains, and pressed round him and asked 
 him a thousand cjuestions ; but he answered shortly. 
 
 "We were drubbed, I tell you. King Monmouth hath 
 run away. We have all run away. How should I know 
 ,how many are killed.'' Every man who doth not wish to 
 be hanged had best run away and hide. The j^ame is up,
 
 1 62 FOR FAITH A XD FREEDOM. 
 
 friend, we are sped. What more can I say ? How do 1 
 know, in the devil's name, whose fault it w^s ? How can 
 I tell, madam, if your son is safe ? If he is safe make him 
 creep into a hiding-place. " And so on, to a hundred who 
 crowded after him and questioned him as to the nature and 
 meaning of the defeat. Seeing that no more news could be 
 got from him, the people left off following us, and we got 
 out of the town on the east side where the road leads tu 
 Ilminster, but it is a bad road and little frequented. 
 
 Here Barnaby looked about him carefully, to make sure 
 that no one was observing us ; and then, finding that no one 
 was within sight, he turned to the right down a grassy lane 
 between hedges. 
 
 " 'Tis this way that I brought him,'' he said. " Poor old 
 man ! He can now move neither hand nor foot, and his 
 legs will no more be any use to him. Yet he seemed in no 
 pain, though the jolting of the cart must have shaken him 
 more than a bit." 
 
 The lane led into a field, and that field into another and 
 a smaller one, with a plantation of larches on two sides and 
 a brook shaded with alders on a third side. In one corner 
 was a linney with a thatched roof supported on wooden 
 pillars in front, and closed in at back and sides. It w-as 
 such a meadow as is used for the pasture of cattle and the 
 keeping of a bull. 
 
 At the entrance of this meadow Barnaby stopped and 
 looked about him with approbation. 
 
 " Here,'' he said, slowly, " is a hiding-place fit for King 
 Monmouth himself. A road unfrequented; the rustics all 
 gone off to the wars, though now, I doubt not, having had 
 their belly full of fighting. I sup]5ose there were once 
 cattle in the meadow, but they are either driven away by 
 the clubmen for safety, or they have been stolen by the 
 gypsies. No troopers will this day come })rying along this 
 road ; or, if they do search the wood, which is unlikely, 
 they will not look in the linney ; here can we be snug until 
 we make up our minds what course is best." 
 
 " Barnaby," I said, " take us to my father without more 
 speech." 
 
 " I have laid him," he went on, " upon the bare ground 
 in the linney, but it is soft and dry lying, and the air is 
 warm, though last night it rained and w^s cold. He looks 
 happy, mother, and I doubt if ho hath any feeling left in 
 his limbs. Once I saw a man shot in the backbone and 
 never moved afterwards, but he lived for a bit. Here he is. "
 
 I'^OR FAI'fll AjVD freedom 1(^)3 
 
 Alas ! lying motion less on his back, his head bare, his 
 white hair lying over his face, his eyes closed, his cheek 
 white, and no sign of life hi him except that his breast 
 gently heaved, was my father. Then certain words which 
 'ae uttered came back to my memory. " What matters the 
 end,'' he said, "if I have freedom of speech for a single day? " 
 
 ]My mother threw herself on her knees beside him and 
 raised his head. 
 
 "Ah ! my heart," she cried, "my dear heart, my husband, 
 have they killed thee .? Speak, my clear ; speak if thou canst ! 
 Art thou in pain .? Can we do aught to relieve thee .'' Oh ! 
 is this the end of all .? " 
 
 But my father made no reply. He opened his eyes, but 
 they did not move ; he looked straight before him, but he 
 saw nothing. Then he murmured, in a low voice, " Lord, 
 now let thy servant depart in peace. So let all thine enemies 
 perish, Lord." 
 
 And this, until the end, was the burden of all ; he spoke 
 no word to show that he knew any one, or that he was in 
 pain, or that he desired anything. He neither ate nor drank, 
 yet for many weeks longer he continued to live. 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 OUR FLIGHT. 
 
 Thus we began our miserable flight. Thus, in silence, we 
 sat in the shade of the linncy all the morning. Outside, the 
 blackbird warbled in the wood, and the lark sang in the sky. 
 But we sat in silence, not daring so much as to ask each 
 other if those things were real, or if we were dreaming a 
 dreadful dream. Still and motionless lay my father's body 
 as if the body of a dead man. He felt no pain, of that I am 
 assured. It makes me sick even to think that he might 
 have suffered pain from his wound. He had no sense at all 
 of what Wcis going on, yet once or twice during the long 
 trance or paralysis in which he had fallen he opened his lips 
 and spoke after his old manner in the words of the Bible, but 
 in a disjointed manner, as one who is in a dream or delirium. 
 And he breathed gently, so that he was not dead. Barnaby, 
 for his part, threw himself upon his face, and laying his head
 
 164 i'OK FAITH AXD J-KEEDOM. 
 
 Upon his arm fell asleep instantly. The place was ver} 
 quiet ; at the end of the meadow was a brook and there was 
 a wood upon the other side ; we could hear the prattling of 
 the water over the pebbles ; outside the linney a great elm- 
 tree stretched out its branches ; presently I saw a squirrel 
 sitting upon one and peering curiously at us, not at all afraid, 
 so still and motionless w^e were. I remember that I envied 
 the squirrel. He took no thought even for his daily bread. 
 And the hedge sparrows, no more afraid than if the linney 
 was empty, hopped into the place and began picking about 
 among the straw. And so the hours slowly passed away, 
 and by degrees I began to understand a little better what 
 had happened to us ; for at the first shock one could not per- 
 ceive the extent of the disaster, and we were as in a dream 
 when we followed Barnaby out of the town. The great and 
 splendid army was destroyed ; that gallant hero, the duke, 
 was in flight ; those of the soldiers who were not killed or 
 taken prisoners were running hither and thither trying to es- 
 cape ; my father was wounded — stricken to death as it 
 seemed, and deprived of power to move, to feel, or to think. 
 While I considered this, I suddenly remembered how he had 
 turned his eyes from gazing into the sky, and asked me what 
 it mattered even if the end would be death to him and ruin 
 unto all of us .'' And I do firmly believe that at that moment 
 he had an actual vision of the end, and really saw before his 
 eyes the very things that were to come to pass, and that he 
 knew all along what the end would be. Yet he had deliv- 
 ered his soul — why, then, he had obtained his prayer — and 
 by daily exhortation had, doubtless, done much to keep up 
 the spirit of those in the army who wxre sober and godly 
 men. Did he also, like Sir Christopher, have another vision 
 which should console and encourage him } Did he see the 
 time to follow when a greater than the duke should come 
 and bring with him the deliverance of the country } There 
 are certain gracious words with which that vision closes 
 which he loved to read and to expound — the vision, I mean, 
 of the basket of summer fruit Did those words ring in his 
 mind and comfort him even in the prospect of his own end .'' 
 Then my thoughts, which were swift and yet beyond his 
 control, left him and considered the case of Barnaby. He 
 had been a captain in the Green Regiment ; he would be 
 hanged for certain if he were caught. ]\Iy sweetheart, my 
 Robin, had also been a captain in the duke's army. All the 
 duke's officers would be hanged if they were caught. But 
 perhaps Robin was already dead — dead on the battle-field — •
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 65 
 
 hi* face white, his hands stiff, blood upon him somewhere, 
 and a cruel wound upon his dear body. Oh, Robin ! Yet 
 I shed no tears. Humphrey, too, who had been one of the 
 duke's chirurgeons, he would also be surely hanged if he 
 were caught. Why, since all would be hanged, why not 
 hang mother and me as well, and so an end .? 
 
 About noon Barnaby began to stir ; then he grunted and 
 went to sleep again ; presently he moved once more ; then 
 he rolled over on his broad back and went to sleep again. 
 It was not until the sun was quite low that he awoke, sit- 
 ting up suddenly, and looking about him with quick sus- 
 picion, as one who hath been sleeping in the country of an 
 enemy or where wild beasts are found. 
 
 Then he sprang to his feet and shook himself like a do^. 
 
 "Sister," he said, "thou shouldst have awakened me 
 earlier. I have slept all day. Well, we are safe so far." 
 Here he looked cautiously out of the linney towards the 
 wood and the road. 
 
 "So far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not 
 wait until to-morrow, but budge to-night. For not only 
 will the troopers scour the country, but they will offer re- 
 wards, and the gypsies, aye, and even the country folks, 
 will hasten to give information out of their greedy hearts. 
 We must budge this very night. " 
 
 "Whither shall we go, Barnaby?" 
 
 He went on as if he had not heard my question. 
 
 "We shall certainly be safe for to-night, but for to-mor- 
 row, I doubt. Best not run the chance, for to-day their 
 hands are full ; they will be hanging the prisoners. Some 
 they will hang first, and try afterwards ; some they will try 
 first and hang afterwards. What odds if they are to be 
 hanged in the end } The cider orchards never had such 
 fruit as they will show this autumn if the king prove re- 
 vengeful, as to judge by his sour face he will be." Here he 
 cursed the king, his sour face, his works and ways, his 
 past, his present, and his future in round language which I 
 hope his wounded father did not hear. 
 
 " We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere until 
 the unlucky Monmouth men will be suffered to return home 
 in peace. Ay, 'twill be a month and more, I take it, be- 
 fore the country will be left quiet. A month and more. 
 And dad not able to crawl." 
 
 " Where shall we be snug, Barnaby .? " 
 
 "That, sister, is what I am trying to find out — how to lie 
 snug^ with a couple of women and a wounded man wUq
 
 1 66 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 cannot move. 'Twas madness of the poor old dad to bring 
 thee to the camp, child. For now we cannot — any of us — - 
 part company, and if we stay together "twill maybe bring 
 our necks to the halter." 
 
 "Leave us, Barnaby," I said. "Oh, leave us to do 
 what we can for the poor sufferer, and save thyself" 
 
 " Ta, ta, ta, sister — knowest not what thou sayest. Let 
 me consider. There may be some way of safety. As for 
 provisions, now, we have the basket full, enough for two 
 days, say. What the plague did dad, the poor old man, 
 want with women when fighting was on hand.'' When the 
 fighting is done, I grant you, Avomen with the tobacco and 
 punch are much in place. There are some pretty songs, 
 now, that I have heard about women and drink." 
 
 " Barnaby, is this a time to be talking of such things as 
 drink and singing ! " 
 
 "All times are good. Nevertheless, all company is not 
 fitting, wherefore, sister, I say no more." 
 
 "Barnaby, knowest thou aught of Robin? or of Hum- 
 phrey .-* " 
 
 "I know nothing. They may be dead; they may be 
 wounded and prisoners ; much I fear, knowing the spirit of 
 the lads, that both are killed. Nay, I saw Humphrey before 
 the fight, and he spoke to me." 
 
 " What did Humphrey say .?" 
 
 "I asked why he hung his head and looked so glum, 
 seeing that we were at last going forth to meet the king's 
 army. This I said because I knew Humphrey to be a lad 
 of mettle, though his arm is thin and his body is crooked. 
 'I go heavy, Barnaby,' said he, speaking low lest others 
 should hear, ' because I see plainly that unless some signal 
 success come to us, this our business will end badly.' Then 
 he began to talk about the thousands who were to have 
 been raised all over the country ; how he himself had brought 
 to the duke promises of support gathered all the way from 
 London to Bradford Orcas ; and how his friends in Holland 
 were promised both men and arms, but none of these prom- 
 ises had been kept ; how dad had brought promises of sup- 
 port from all the Nonconformists of the west, but hard- 
 ly any save at Taunton had come forward ; and how the 
 army was melting away, and no more recruits coming in. 
 And then he said that he had been the means of bringing so 
 many to the duke, that if they died their death would lie 
 upon his conscience. And he spoke lovingly of Robin and 
 of thee, sister. And so we parted and I saw him no more
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 1 67 
 
 As for what he said about success, I minded it not a straw. 
 Many a croaker turns out in the long- run to be brave in the 
 tight. Doubtless he is dead ; and Robin, too. Both are 
 dead I take it, sister ; thou hast lost thy sweetheart Cry a 
 little, my dear," he added, kindly. "It will ease the pain 
 at thy heart. 'Tis natural for a woman to cry." 
 
 " I cannot cry, Barnaby. I wish I could — the tears rise 
 •lo my eyes, but my throat is dry." 
 
 "Try a prayer or two, sister. 'Twas wont to comfort the 
 heart of my mother when she was in trouble." 
 
 " A prayer, brother } I have done nothing but pray since 
 this unfortunate rebellion began. A prayer } Oh, I cannot 
 pray. If I vi^ere to pray now it would be as if my words 
 were echoed back from a wall of solid rock. We were 
 praying all yesterday — we made the Sabbath into a day of 
 prayer without ceasing, and the morning, when you opened 
 the door, we were praising and thanking God for the mercy 
 of the great victory bestowed upon us. And at that time 
 the poor brave men — " 
 
 "Ay ! They were brave enough to the end," said 
 Barnaby. 
 
 " The poor brave men lying cold and dead upon the field 
 (among them, maybe, Robin), and the prisoners huddled 
 together somewhere, and men hanging already upon the 
 gibbets. We were praising God, and my father lying on 
 the ground stricken to death, and thou a fugitive, and all of 
 us ruined. Prayer } How could I pray from such a pit of 
 woe .? " 
 
 " Child " — my mother lifted her pale face — " in the darkest 
 hour pray without ceasing. Even if there happen a darkei 
 hour than this, in everything by prayer and supplication 
 with thanksgiving let your requests be made known — with 
 thanksgiving, my daughter." 
 
 Alas ! I could not obey the apostolic order. 'Twas too 
 much for me. So we fell into silence. When the sun had 
 quite gone down, Barnaby went forth cautiously. Presently 
 he came back. 
 
 "There is no one on the road," he said ; " we may now 
 go on our way. The air of Taunton is dangerous to us. It 
 breeds swift and fatal diseases. I have now resolved what 
 to do. I will lift my father upon the cart again and put in 
 the pony. Four or five miles sou'west or thereabouts is 
 Black Down, which is a No Man's Land. Thither will we 
 go and hide in the combs, where no one ever comes except 
 the (jypsies, "
 
 l58 FOR FAITN AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "How shall we live, Barnaby? " 
 
 "That," he said, "we shall find out when we come to 
 look about us. There is provision for two days. The nights 
 are warm ; we shall find cover or make it with branches. 
 There is water in the brooks, and dry wood to burn. There 
 we may, perhaps, be safe. When the country is quiet we 
 will make our way across the hills to Bradford Orcas, where 
 no one will molest you, and I can go off to Bristol or Lyme, 
 or wherever there are ships to be found. When sailors are 
 shipwrecked, sister, they do not begin by asking what they 
 shall do on dry land ; they ask only to feel the stones be- 
 neath their feet. We must think of nothing now but of a 
 place of safety. " 
 
 " Barnaby, are the open hills a proper placefor a wounded 
 man 1 " 
 
 "Why, child, for a choice between the hills and what else 
 may happen if we stay here, give me the hills, even for a- 
 wounded man. But, indeed,"' he whispered, so that my 
 mother should not hear him, "he will die. Death is written 
 on his face. I know not how long he will live, but he 
 must die. Never did any man recover from such evil 
 plight" 
 
 He harnessed the pony to the cart, which was little more 
 than a couple of planks laid side by side, just as he had 
 brought him from Taunton. My mother made a kind of 
 pillow for him with grass tied up in her kerchief, and so we 
 hoped that he would not feel the jogging of the cart. 
 
 "The stream," said Barnaby, "comes down from the 
 hills. Let us follow its course, but upward." 
 
 It was a broad stream with a shallow bed, for the most 
 part flat and pebbly, and on either side of the stream lay a 
 strip of soft turf broad enough for the cart to run upon, so 
 that as long as that lasted we had very easy going ; my 
 mother and I walking one on each side so as to steady the 
 pillow, and keep the poor head upon it from pain. But 
 whether we went easy or whether we went rough, that head 
 made no sign of feeling aught, and lay, just as in the linney, 
 33 if dead. Once it had spoken ; now it was silent again. 
 
 I cannot tell how long we went on beside that stream. 
 'Twas in a wild, uncultivated country ; the ground ascended ; 
 the stream became narrower and swifter ; presently the 
 friendly strip of turf failed altogether, and then we had trouble 
 to keep the cart from upsetting. I went to the pony's head, 
 and Barnaby, going behind the cart, lifted it over the rough 
 places and sometimes carried his end of it. The ni^ht wa#
 
 yok FAITH AXD J'A'EEDOAr. l6^ 
 
 chilly, my feet were wet with splashing in the brook, and 
 I was growing faint with hunger when Barnaby called a halt 
 
 " We are now," he said, "at the head of the stream. In 
 half an hour or thereabouts it will be break of day. Let us 
 rest. Mother, you must eat something. Come, sister, 'tis 
 late for supper and full early for breakfast Take some meat 
 anil bread and half a cup of cider." 
 
 1 1 is all I remember of that night 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE CAMP IN THE COMB. 
 
 Our camping-place, when I awoke in the morning, I found 
 to be near the head of a most beautiful comb or valley 
 among the Black Down Hills. I knew it not at the time, 
 but it was not far from that old Roman castle which we had 
 peissed on our way to Taunton, called Castle Ratch. The 
 hills rose steep on either hand, their slopes hidden by trees. 
 At o«r feet the brook took its rise in a green quagmire. 
 The birds were singing, and the sun was already high and 
 the air was warm, though there was a fresh breeze blowing. 
 The warmth and sweetness filled my soul when I awoke, 
 and I sat up with joy, until, suddenly, I remembered why we 
 were here, and who were here with me. Then my heart 
 sank like a lump of lead in water. I looked around. My 
 father lay just as he had been lying all the day before, motion- 
 less, white of cheek, and as one dead, save for the slight 
 motion of his chest and the twitching of his nostril. As I 
 looked at him in the clear morning light it was borne in up- 
 on me very strongly that he was indeed dead, inasmuch as 
 his soul seemed to have fled ; he saw nothing, he felt noth- 
 ing ; if the flies crawled over his eyelids he made no sign of 
 disturbance ; yet he breathed, and from time to time he spoke 
 but as one that dreameth. Beside him lay my mother sleep- 
 ing, worn out by the fatigues of the night Barnaby had 
 laid his coat to cover her so that she should not take cold, and 
 he had piled a little heap of dead leaves to make her a pillow. 
 He was lying at her feet, head on arm, sleeping heavily 
 What should be douc, I wondered, when next he woke ?
 
 170 
 
 i^OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 First I went down the comb u little way till the stream 
 was deep enough, and there I bathed my feet, which were 
 swollen and bruised by the long walk up the comb. In the 
 midst of this misery I can remember the pleasure of dabbling 
 my feet in the cool water, and afterwards of walking about 
 barefoot in the grass. (I disturbed an adder which was 
 sleeping on a flat stone in the sun, and it lifted its venomous 
 head and hissed, but did not spring upon me.) Then I wash- 
 ed my face and hands and made my hair as smooth as with- 
 out a comb it was possible. When I had done this I re- 
 membered that perhaps my father might be thirsty, or at 
 least able to drink, because he seemed no more to feel hunger 
 or thirst. So I filled the tin pannikin (it M^as Barnaby's) with 
 water, and tried to pour a little into his mouth. He seemed 
 to swallow it and I gave him a little more, until he would 
 swallow no more. (Observe that he took no other nourish- 
 ment than wine or milk or a few drops of broth until the 
 end. ) So I covered his face with a handkerchief to keep off 
 the flies, and left him. Then I looked into the basket. All 
 that there was in it would not be more than enough for 
 Barnaby's breakfast, unless his appetite should fail him for 
 fear of being captured. There was in it a piece of bacon, a 
 large loaf of bread, a lump of cheese, and half a bottle of 
 cider — nothing more. When these provisions were done, 
 what next .'' Could we venture into the nearest village and 
 buy food ? Or to the first farmhouse 1 Then we might fall 
 straight into the jaws of the enemy, who were probably 
 running over the whole country in search of the fugitives. 
 Could we buy without money } Could we buy without 
 arousing suspicions .? If the people were well inclined to the 
 Protestant cause we might trust them. But how could we 
 tell that .'' So in my mind I turned over everything except the 
 one thing which might have proved our salvation, and that 
 you shall hear directly. Also, which was a very strange 
 thing, I quite forgot that I had tied by a string round my 
 waist and well concealed Barnaby's bag of gold — two hun- 
 dred and fifty pieces. There was money enough and to spare. 
 I discovered next that our pony had run away in the night. 
 The cart was there, but no pony to drag it. Well ; it was 
 not much, but it seemed an additional burden to bear. I 
 ventured a little way up the valley, following a sheep track 
 which mounted higher and higher. I saw no sign anywhere 
 of man's presence ; it is marked in woods by circles of burnl 
 cinders, by trees felled, by bundles of broom or fern tied up ; 
 or by shepherds' huts 1 Here there was nothing at all ; you
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \']\ 
 
 would have said that the place had never been visited by man. 
 Presently I came to a place where the woods ceased, the 
 last of the trees being much stunted and blown over from the 
 west; and then the top of the hill began, not a. sharp peak 
 or point, but a great open plain swelling out here and flat 
 there, with many of the little hillocks which people say are 
 ancient tombs. And no trees at all, but only bare turf, so 
 that one could see a great way off. But there was no sign 
 of man anywhere ; no smoke in the comb at my feet ; no 
 shepherd on the hill. At this juncture of our fortunes any 
 stranger might be rai enemy. Therefore I returned so far 
 well pleased. 
 
 Barnaby was now awake, and was inspecting the basket 
 of provisions. 
 
 "Sister," he said, "we must go upon half rations for 
 breakfast, but I hope, unless my skill fails, to bring you 
 something better for supper. The bread you shall have and 
 mother. The bacon may keep till to-morrow. The cider 
 you had better keep against such times as you feel worn 
 out and want a cordial, though a glass of Nantz were better, 
 if Nantz grew in the woods." He looked around as if to 
 see whether a miracle would not provide him with a flask 
 of strong drink, but seeing none, shook his head. 
 
 "As for me," he went on, " 1 am a sailor and 1 under- 
 stand how to forage. Therefore, yesterday morning 1 took 
 the liberty of dropping the shank of the ham into my i)ocket. 
 Now you shall see." 
 
 He produced this delicate morsel, and sitting down be- 
 gan to gnaw and to bite into the bone with his strong teeth, 
 exactly like a dog. This he continued with every sign of 
 satisfaction for a quarter of an hour or so, when he desisteil 
 and replaced the bone in his pocket. 
 
 "We throw away the bones," he said. " The dogs gnaw 
 them and devourthem. Think youthatit is for their amuse- 
 ment .-* Notso ; but forthejuices and the nourishment thatare 
 in and around the bone ; for the marrow and for the meat 
 that still will stick in odd corners." He went down to the 
 stream with the pannikin and drank a cup or two of water 
 to finish what they call a horses meal, namely the foodtirst 
 and the water afterwards. 
 
 "And now," he said, " I have breakfasted. Itis true that 
 I am still hungry, but 1 have eaten enough to carry me on 
 a while. Many a poor lad cast away on a desert shore 
 would find the shank of a ham a meal tit for a king — ay — 
 and » meal or two after that 1 shall make a dinner pro«-
 
 172 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 ently off this bone. And I shall still keep it against a time 
 when there may be no provision left." 
 
 "And now," he said, looking around him, "let us con- 
 sider. The troopers, I take it, are riding along the roads. 
 Whether they will ride over these hills I know not, but 1 
 think they will not, because their horses cannot well ride up 
 these combs. Certainly, if they do, it will not be by the 
 way we came. We are here, therefore, hidden away snug. 
 Why should we budge? Nowhere is there a more deserted 
 part of the country than Slack Down, on whose side we are. 
 And I do not think, further, that we should find anywhere 
 a safer place to hide ourselves in than this comb, where, I 
 dare to say, no one comes unless it be the gypsies or the 
 broomsquires all the year round. And now they are all 
 laden with the spoil of the army ; for after a battle this gen- 
 try swoop down upon the field like the great birds which I 
 have seen in India upon the carcasses of drowned beasts, 
 and plunder the dead. Next they must go into towns in or- 
 der to sell their booty ; then they will be fain to drink about 
 till all is spent; so they will leave us undisturbed. There- 
 fore, we will stay here, sister. First I will go try the old 
 tricks by which I did often in the old^n time improve the 
 fare at home. Next I will devise some way of making a 
 more comfortable resting-place. Thank the Lord for fine 
 weather so fax." 
 
 He was gone a couple of hours. During that time my 
 mother awoke. Her mind was broken by the suddenness 
 of this trouble, and she cared no more to speak, sitting still 
 by the side of husband and watching for any change in him. 
 But I persuaded her to take a little bread and a cup of cider. 
 
 When Barnaby came back he brought with him a black- 
 bird, a thrush, and two wood-pigeons. He had not for- 
 gotten the tricks of his boyhood, when he would often bring 
 home a rabbit, a hare, or trout, which he caught with a pin 
 or with his hand, tickling them. So that my chief terror. 
 that we might be forced to abandon our hiding-place through 
 sheer hunger, was removed. But Barnaby was full of all 
 kinds of devices. 
 
 He then set to work with his great knife, cutting down a 
 quantity of green branches, which he laid out side by side 
 with their leaves on, and then bound them together, clever- 
 ly interlacing the smaller shoots and branches with each 
 other, so that he made a long kind of hurdle about six feet 
 high. This, which by reason of the leaves was :;■ ■ ust im- 
 pervious to the wind, he disposed round the truui^a of three
 
 POk FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ ^^ 
 
 young trees growing near each other. Thus he made a small 
 three-cornered inclosure. Again, he cut other and thicker 
 branches, and laid them over and across this hurdle, and 
 cut turf, which he placed upon the branches, so that here 
 was now a hut with a roof and walls complete. Said I not 
 that Barnaby was full of devices } 
 
 "There, " he said, when all was ready, " is a house for 
 you. It will have to rain hard and long before the water 
 begins to drop through the branches which make the roof 
 and the slabs of turf. Well, 'tis a shelter. Not so comfort- 
 able as the old cottage, perhaps, but nearly as commodious. 
 If it is not a palace, it will serve us to keep off the sun by 
 day and the dew by night' 
 
 Next he gathered a great quantity of dry fern, dead leaves, 
 and heather ; and these he disposed within the hut so that 
 they made a thick and warm carpet or covering. Nay, at 
 night they even formed a covering for the feet, and prevented 
 one from feeling cold. When all was done, he lifted my 
 father gently, and laid him with great tenderness upon the 
 carpet within the rude shelter. 
 
 "This shall be a warmer night for thee than the last, 
 dad, "he said. " There shall be no jolting of thy poor bones. 
 What, mother 1 We can live here till the cold weather 
 comes. The wind will perhaps blow a bit through the leaves 
 to-night, but not much, and to-morrow I will see to that 
 Be easy in your mind about the provisions" — alas I my 
 poor mother was thinking of anything in the world except 
 the provisions — " there are rabbits and birds in plenty, we 
 can eat them ; bread we must do without when what we 
 have is gone ; and as for strong drink and tobacco" — he 
 siglied heavily — " they will come again when better times 
 are served out." 
 
 In these labors I helped as much as I was able, and par- 
 ticularly in twisting the branches together, and thus the 
 whole day passed, not tediously, and without any alarms, 
 the labor being cheered by the hopefulness of Barnaby's 
 honest face. No one, to look at that face, could believe 
 that he was flying for his life, and would be hanged if he 
 were caught After sunset we lit a fire, but a small one 
 only, and well hidden by the woods, so that its light might 
 not be seen from below. Then Barnaby dexterously 
 plucked and trussed the birds, and roasted them in the 
 embers, so that, had my heart been at rest, I should have 
 had a most delicious supper. And I confess that I did be- 
 gin to pluck up a httle courage, and to hope that we might
 
 174 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 yet escape, and that Robin might be living. After suppe! 
 my motliier prayed, and I could join with more of resigna- 
 tion and something of faith. Alas ! in times of trial, how 
 easily doth the Christian fall from faith ! The day before 
 prayer seemed to me a mockery ; it was as if all prayer were 
 addrcosed to a deaf God, or to one who will not hear ; 
 for our prayers had all been for safety and victory, and we 
 were suddenly answered with disaster and defeat. 
 
 After supper Barnaby sat beside the embers and began to 
 talk in a low voice. 
 
 "'Twill be ..^ sorrowful barley-mow song this year," he 
 said; "a dozen brave lads from Bradford alone will be 
 dead. " 
 
 "Not all dead, Barnaby. Oh, not all ! " 
 
 "I know not. Some are prisoners, some are dead, some 
 are running away." Then he began to sinrg, in a low 
 voice, 
 
 '"Here's health to the barley-mow I' 
 
 "I remember, sister, when I would run a mile to hear that 
 song, though my father flogged me for it in the morning. 
 'Tis the best song ever written." He went on singing in a 
 kind of whisper, 
 
 " 'We'll drink it out of the nipperkin, boys.' 
 
 " Robin was a famous hand at singing it, but Humphrey 
 found the words too rustical. Humphrey was ever for fine 
 words, like Mr. Boscorel. 
 
 " 'We'll drink it out of the jolly brown bowl.' 
 
 " I think I see him now — poor Robin ! Well, he is no more. 
 He used to laugh in all our faces while he sang it 
 
 " ' We'll drink it out o' tlie river, my boys ; 
 
 Here's a health to tlie barley-mow ! 
 
 The river, tlie well, tlie pipe, the hogshead, the half-hogshead, the 
 anker, the half-anker, the gallon, the pottle, the quart, the pint, 
 the half-pint, ihe quarter-pint, tlie nipperkin, the jolly brown 
 bowl, my boys. 
 
 Here's a health to the barley-mow !' " 
 
 He trolled out the song in a melodious whisper. Oh, 
 Barnaby, how didst thou love good companionship, with 
 singing and drinking ! 
 
 " 'Twill be lonely for thee, sister, at Bradford, when thou 
 dost return. Sir Christopher, I take it. will not long hold up
 
 POR PAITir AND FREEDOM. 
 
 175 
 
 his head, and madam will pine away for the loss of Robin, 
 and mother looks as if she would follow after, so white and 
 wan is she to look at. If she would speak or complain or 
 cry it would comfort her, poor soul ! 'Twas a sad day for 
 her when she married the poor old dad. Poverty and hard 
 work, and now a cruel end to her marriag^e — poor mother I " 
 
 " Barnaby, you tear my heart." 
 
 " Nay, child, 'tis better to talk than to keep silence. 
 Better have your heart torn than be choked with your pain. 
 Thou art like unto a man who hath a wounded leg-, ana ii 
 he doth not consent to have it cut off, though the anguish be 
 sharp, he will presently bleed to death. Say to thyself, 
 therefore, plain and clear, ' Robin is dead ; I have lost my 
 sweetheart. ' " 
 
 " No 1 no ! Barnaby. I cannot say those cruel words. 
 Oh, I cannot say them. I cannot feel that Robin is truly 
 dead." 
 
 " Put the case that he is living. Then he is either a 
 prisoner or he is in hiding. If a prisoner, he is as good as 
 dead, because the duke's officers and the gentlemen who 
 joined him they will never forgive, that is quite certain. If 
 I were a prisoner I should feel my neck already tightened. 
 If he is not a prisoner, where is he to hide .-' whither betake 
 himself ? I can get sailors' duds, and go abroad before the 
 mast, and ten to one nobody will find me out ; because, 
 d'ye see, I can talk the sailors' language, and I know their 
 manners and customs. But Robin — what is Robin to do } 
 Best say to thyself, 'I have lost my sweetheart.' So wilt 
 thou all the sooner recover thy cheerfulness." 
 
 " Barnaby, you know not what you say. Alas ! if my 
 Robin is dead, if my boy is truly dead, then I ask for noth- 
 ing more than swift death, speedy death, to join him and 
 be with him." 
 
 "If he escape, he will make for Bradford Orcas, and 
 hide in the Gorton woods. That is quite certain. They 
 always make for home. I would that we were in that friendly 
 place, so that you could go live in the cottage, and bring 
 provisions, with tobacco, to us, unsuspected and unseen. 
 When we have rested here awhile we will push across the 
 hills, and try to get along by night ; but it is a weary way 
 to drag that wounded man. However — " he broke off, and 
 said, earnestly, "Make up thy mind,' child, to the worst. 
 "Tis as if a shipwrecked man should hope that enough ot 
 the ship would float to carry him home withal. Make up 
 thy mind. We are all ruined and lost — all — all — all. Thy
 
 1 ^6 FOR FAITH AND FKEFDOAf. 
 
 father is dying ; thy lover is dead ; thou art thyself in grea\ 
 danger by reason or that affair at Taunton. Everything be» 
 ing gone, turn round, therefore, and make thy self as com- 
 fortable as possible. What will happen we know not. 
 Therefore count every day of safety for gain, and every 
 meal for a respite." 
 
 He was silent for a while, leaving me to think over what 
 he had said. Here, indeed, was a philosopher. Things being 
 all lost, and our affairs in a desperate condition, we were to 
 turn round and make ourselves as comfortable as we could. 
 This, I suppose, is what sailors are wont to do ; certainly 
 they are a folk more exposed to misfortune than others, and 
 therefore, perhaps, more ready to make the best of what- 
 ever happens. 
 
 " Barnaby," I said, presently, "how can I turn roun<f 
 and make myself comfortable ?" 
 
 " The evening is still," he said, without replying. " See, 
 there is a bat, and there another. If it were not for the 
 trouble in there " — he pointed to the hut — " I should be easy 
 in my mind and contented. I could willingly live here a 
 twelvemonth. Why, compared with the lot of the poor 
 devils who must now be in prison, what is ours .-' They get 
 the foul and stinking drink, with bad food, in the midst of 
 wounded men whose hurts are putrefying, with jail fever, 
 and with the whipping-post or the gallows to come. We 
 breathe sweet air ; we find sufficient food. To-morrow, if 
 I know any of the signs, thou shalt taste a roasted hedge- 
 hog, dish fit for a king. I found at the bottom of the comb 
 a pot left by some gypsies. Thou shalt have boiled sorrel 
 and mushrooms to thy supper. If we stay here long enough 
 there will be nuts and blackberries and whortleberries. 
 Pity, a thousand pities, there is not a drop of drink. I dream 
 of punch and hipsy. Think upon what remains, even if 
 thou canst not bear to think of what is lost. Hast ever seen 
 a tall ship founder in the waves ? They close over her as 
 she sinks, and in an instant it is as if that tall ship, with all 
 her crew, had never been in existence at all. The army of 
 Monmouth is scattered and ruined. Well, it is with us, 
 midst these woods, just as if there had been no army. It 
 has been a dream, perhaps. Who can tell ? sometimes all 
 the past seems to me to have been a dream. And the future 
 is a dream. But the present we have. Let us be conten/ 
 therewith." 
 
 He spoke slowly, and with measured accents, as one ea 
 chanted
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. \ 7 7 
 
 "It is ten years and more since last I breathed the air ot 
 the hills. I knew not that I loved so much the woods and 
 valleys and the streams. Some day, if I survive this adven- 
 ture, I will build me a hut and live here, alone in the woods. 
 Why, if I were alone, I should have an easy heart If I 
 were driven out of one place I could find another. I am in 
 no hurry to get down among- men and towns. Let us all 
 stay here and be happy. But there is dad — who lives not, 
 yet is not dead. Sister, be thankful for thy safety in the 
 woods, and think not too much upon the dead." 
 
 We lived in this manner, the weather being for the most 
 part fine and warm, but with showers now and then, for a 
 fortnight or thereabouts, no one coming up the comb and 
 there being still no sign of man's presence in the hills. Our 
 daily fare consisted of the wild birds snared by Bamaby, 
 such creatures as rabbits, hedgehogs, and the like, which he 
 caught by ingenious ways, and trout from the brook, which 
 he caught with a twisted pin very dexterously ; there were 
 also mushrooms and edible leaves, such as the nettle, wild 
 sorrel, and the like, of which he knew ; these we boiled and 
 ate. He also plucked the half-ripe blackberries and boiled 
 them to make a sour drink that would grip his throat, be- 
 cause he could not endure plain cold water. And he made 
 out of the bones of the birds a kind of thin broth for my 
 father, of which he daily swallowed a teaspoonful or so. 
 So that we fared well, if not sumptuously. The bread, to 
 be sure, which Barnaby left for mother and me, was com- 
 ing to the last crust, and I know not how we should have 
 got more without venturing into the nearest village. 
 
 Now as I talked every night with my brother I found out 
 what a brave and simple soul it was ; always cheerful and 
 hopeful, talking always as if we were the most fortunate 
 people in the world, instead of the most miserable, and yet, 
 by keeping the truth before me, preventing me from getting 
 into another fool's paradise as to our safety and Robin's 
 escape, such as that into which I had fallen after the army 
 marched out of Taunton. I understand now that he was 
 always thinking how to smooth and soften things for me, so 
 that I might not go distracted with anxiety and grief, finding 
 work for me, talking to me about other things — in short, the 
 most thoughtful and affectionate brother in all the world. 
 As for my mother, he could do nothing to move her. She 
 still sat beside her wounded husband, watching all day long- 
 for any sign of consciousness or change. 
 
 Seeing that Bamaby was so good and gentle a creature, I
 
 1 78 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 could not understand how it was that in the old time h« 
 used to get a flogging most days for some offence or other, 
 so that I had grown up to believe him a very wicked boy 
 indeed. I put this question to him one night. 
 
 He put it aside for a while, replying in his own fashion. 
 
 "I remember dad, " he said, "before thou canst, sistei 
 He was always thin and tall, and he always stooped as he 
 Wiilked. But his hair, which now is white, was brown and 
 fell in curls which he could not straighten. He was always 
 .mighty grave ; no one, I am sure, ever saw him laugh. I 
 have never seen him so much as smile except sometimes 
 when he dandled thee upon his knee, and thou wouldst 
 amuse him with innocent prattle. All his life he hath spent 
 in finding out the way to heaven. I suppose he hath truly 
 discovered a way, and a mighty thorny and difficult way it 
 is, so that I know not how any can succeed in reaching that 
 port by such navigation. The devil of it is, that he believes 
 there is no other way ; and he seemed never so happy as 
 when he had found another trap or pitfall to catch the un- 
 wary and send them straight to hell 
 
 " For my part," Barnaby went on slowly, " 1 could never 
 love such a life. I>et others, if they will, find out the rough 
 aitd craggy ways to heaven. For my part, I am content to 
 go along the plain and smooth high-road with the rest of 
 mankind, though it lands us at a lower place in heaven. 
 Well, I dare say I shall find mates, and we will be as comfort- 
 able as we can. Let my father find out what is coming in the 
 other world ; let me take what comes in this. Some of it is 
 sweet and some is bitter, some of it makes us laugh and 
 sing and dance, and some makes us curse and swear and 
 bellow out, as when one is lashed to the hatches and the 
 cat falls on his naked back. Sometimes, sister, I think the 
 naked negroes of the West Coast the happiest people in the 
 world. Do they troable their heads about the way to 
 heaven .? Not they. What comes they take, and they ask 
 no more. Has it made dad the happier to find out how 
 few are those who will sit b-^side him in heaven .? Not so, 
 he would have been happier if he had been a jolly plough- 
 boy whistling to his team, or a jolly sailor singing over his 
 pannikin of drink of a Saturday night. He tried to make 
 me follow in his footsteps ; he Hogged me daily in the hope 
 of making me take like himself to the trade of proving to 
 people out of the Holy Bible that they are surely damned. 
 The more he flogged the less 1 yearned after that trade, till 
 at last I resolved that, come what would, 1 woul4 riever
 
 l''OR FAIT// AND F/^EE/JO.\/. 
 
 179 
 
 thump a pulpit like him in conventicle or church. Then, if 
 you will believe me, sister, I grew tired of flogging-, which 
 when it comes every day wearies a boy at fourteen or fifteen 
 more than you would think ; and one day while I was danc- 
 ing to the pipe and tabor with some of the village girls, as 
 bad luck would have it, dad came by. " Child of Satan ! '' 
 he cried, seizing me by the ear. Then to the girls, "Youv 
 laughter shall be turned into mourning," and so lugged me 
 home and sent me supperless to bed with the promise of 
 such a flogging in the morning as should make all previous 
 floggings seem mere fleabites or joyous ticklings in compar- 
 ison. This decided me. So, in the dead of night, I crept 
 softly down the stairs, cut myself a great hunch of bread- 
 and-cheese, and so ran away and went to sea." 
 
 " Barnaby, was it well done — to run away .'' " 
 
 "Well, sister, 'tis done, and if it was ill done, 'tis now, 
 no doubt, forgotten. Now, remember I blame not my 
 father ; before all things he would save my soul alive. That 
 was why he flogged me. He knew but one way, and along 
 that way he would drive me. So he flogged me the harder. 
 I blame him not. Yet had I remained he would doubtless 
 be flogging me still. Now, remember again, that ever since 
 I understood anything I have always been enraged to think 
 upon the monstrous oppression which silenced him and 
 brought us all to poverty, and made my mother, a gentle 
 woman born, work her fingers to the bone, and caused me 
 to choose between being a beggarly scholar, driven to teach 
 brats and endure flouts and poverty, or to put on an apron 
 and learn a trade. Therefore, when I found that Monmouth 
 was going to hoist his flag, I came with him in order to 
 strike a blow, and I hoped a good blow too, at the op- 
 pressors. " 
 
 "You have struck that blow, Barnaby; and where arc 
 we ? " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "We are in hiding. Some of the king's troopers did I 
 make to bite the dust. They may hang me for it if they 
 will ; they will not brmg those troopers back to life. Well, 
 sister, I am sleepy. Good-night." 
 
 We might have continued this kmd of life I know not how 
 much longer, certainly till the cold nights came. The 
 weather continued fine and warm ; the hut kept off dews at 
 night ; we lay warm among the heather and the ferns ; Bar- 
 naby found a sufficiency of food ; my father grew no worse 
 to outward seeming, and we seemed in safety.
 
 igo i'Ok I-AITJI Ai\D 2-KEEDOM. 
 
 Then an ill chance and my own foolishness marred all. 
 
 One day in the afternoon, Barnaby being- away looking 
 after his snares and gins, I heard lower down the comb 
 voices of boys talking. This affrighted me terribly. The 
 voices seemed to be drawing nearer. Now, if the children 
 came up as high as our encampment they could not fail to 
 s-c the signs of habitation. There was the hut among the 
 trees and the iron pot standing among the gray embers of 
 1 ist night's fire. The cart stood on one side. We could not 
 possibly remain hidden. If they should come up so far and 
 lind us they would certainly carry the report of us down to 
 the village. 
 
 I considered, therefore, what to do, and then ran quickly 
 down the comb, keeping among the trees so as not to be 
 seen. 
 
 After a little I discovered a little way off a couple of boys 
 about nine years of age. They were common village boys, 
 rosy-faced and wholesome ; they carried a basket and they 
 were slowly making their way up the stream, stopping now 
 to throw a stone at a squirrel, and now to dam the running 
 water, and now looking to tind a nut or lilbert ripe enough 
 to be eaten. By the basket which they carried 1 knew that 
 they were come in search of whortleberries, for which pur- 
 pose they would have to get quite to the end of the comb 
 and the top of the hill. 
 
 Therefore I stepped out of the wood and asked them 
 whence they came and whither they were going. 
 
 They told me in the broadest Somersetshire (the language 
 which I love and would willingly have written this book in it, 
 but for the unfortunate people who cannot understand it) 
 that they were sent by their parents to get whortleberries, and 
 that they came from the little village of Corfe, two miles 
 down the valley. This was all they had to say, and they 
 stared at me as shyly as if they had never before encountered a 
 stranger. I clearly perceive now that I ought to have en- 
 gaged them in conversation and drawn them gently down 
 the valley in the direction of their village until we reached 
 the first appearance of a road, when I could have bidden 
 them farewell or sent them up the hill by another comb. 
 But I was so anxious that they should not come up any 
 higher that I committed a great mistake and warned them 
 against going on. 
 
 " Boys,' I said, "beware ! If you go higher up the comb 
 you will certainly meet wild men who always rob and beat 
 boys " — here they trembled, though they had not a penny in
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. l8i 
 
 the world. "Ay, boys, and sometimes have been known 
 to murder them. Turn back — turn back — and come no 
 further. " 
 
 The boys were very much frightened, partly at the appari- 
 tion of a stranger where they expected to find no one, and 
 partly at the news of wild and murderous men in a place 
 where they had never met with any one at all, unless it 
 might have been a gypsy camp. After gazing at me stupidly 
 for a little while they turned and ran away as fast as their 
 legs could carry them, down the comb. 
 
 I watched them running, and when they were out of sight 
 I went back again, still disquieted, because they might re- 
 turn. 
 
 When I told Barnaby in the evening, he, too, was uneasy. 
 For, he said, the boys would spread abroad the report that 
 that there were people in the valley. What people could 
 they be but fugitives .-' 
 
 "Sister," he said, "to-morrow morning must we change 
 our quarters. On the other side of the hills looking south oi 
 to the east in Neroche Forest we may make another camp 
 and be still more secluded. For to-night I think we are in 
 safety. " 
 
 What happened was exactly as Barnaby thought. For the 
 lads ran home and told everybody that up in the comb there 
 were wild men who robbed and murdered people ; that a 
 lady had come out of the wood and warned them to go no 
 further lest they should be robbed and murdered. They 
 were certain it was a lady and not a country woman, nor 
 was it a witch, nor a fairy or elf, of whom there are many 
 on Black Down. No, it was a young lady. 
 
 This strange circumstance naturally set the villagers a 
 talking ; they talked about it at the inn whither they nightly 
 repaired. 
 
 In ordinary times they might have talked about it to their 
 heart's content and no harm done, but in these times talk was 
 dangerous. In every little village there are one or two 
 whose wits are sharper than the rest, and therefore they do 
 instigate whatever mischief is done in that village. At Corfe 
 the cobbler it was who did the mischief. For he sat thinking 
 while the others talked, and he presently began to understand 
 that there was more in this than his fellows imagined. He 
 knew the hills ; there were no wild men upon them whc 
 would rob and murder two simple village boys ; gypsief 
 there were, and broom-squires sometimes, and hedge-tearers, 
 but murderers of boys, none. And who was the young lady."
 
 1 82 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 Then he guessed the whole truth. There were people lying 
 hidden in the comb ; if people hidden, they were Mon- 
 mouths rebels. A reward would be given for their capture. 
 Fired with this thought, he grasped his cudgel and walked 
 off to the village of Orchard Portman where, as he had heard, 
 there was a company of grenadiers sent out to scour the 
 country. He laid his information and received the promise 
 of reward. He got that reward in short, but nothing pros- 
 pered with him afterwards. His neighbors, who were all 
 for Monmouth, learned what he had done and shunned him ; 
 he grew moody, he fell into poverty, who had been a thriv- 
 ing tradesmen, and he died in a ditch. The judgments of 
 the Lord are sometimes swift and sometimes slow, yet they 
 are always sure. Who can forget the dreadful end of Tom 
 Boilman, as he was called, the only wretch who could be 
 found to cut up the limbs of the hanged men and dip them 
 in the caldrons of pitch.? For he was struck dead by light- 
 ning — an awful instance of the wrath of God. 
 
 Early next morning, about five of the clock, I sat before 
 the hut in the shade. Barnaby was up and had gone to look 
 at his snares. Suddenly I heard steps below, and the sound 
 as of weapons clashing against each other. Then a man 
 came into sight — a fellow he was with a leathern apron, 
 who stood gazing about him. There was no time for me to 
 hide, because he immediately saw me arid shouted to them 
 behind him to come on quickly. Then a dozen soldiers, all 
 armed, ran out of the wood and made for the hut. 
 
 " Gentlemen," I cried, running to meet them. "Whom 
 seek you .'' " 
 
 "Who are you } " asked one who seemed to be a sergeant 
 over them. " Why are you hiding ? " 
 
 Then a thought struck me. I know not if I were wise or 
 foolish. 
 
 " Sir," I replied. " My father it is true was with the Duke 
 of Monmouth, but he was wounded and now lies dead in 
 this hut. You will suffer us to bury our dead in peace." 
 
 ' ' Dead, is he } That will we soon see. " 
 
 So saying, he entered the hut and looked at the prostrate 
 form. He lifted one hand and let it drop. It fell like the 
 hand of one who is recently dead. He bent over the body 
 And laid his hand upon the forehead. It was cold as death. 
 The lips were pale as wax and the cheeks were white. He 
 opened an eye ; there was no expression or light in it. 
 
 " Humph ! " he said, -'He §eems dead, How did he 
 come here ? "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 183 
 
 ''My mother and I drove him here for safety in yonder 
 cart. The pony hath run away. " 
 
 "That may be so. That may be so. He is dressed in a 
 cassock. What is his name.? " 
 
 " He was Dr. Comfort Eykin, an ejected minister and 
 preacher in the duke's army." 
 
 "A prize if he had been alive." Then a sudden suspicion 
 seized him. He had in his hand a drawn sword. He pointed 
 it at the breast of the dead man. " If he be truly dead," he 
 said, "another wound will do him no harm. Wherefore" 
 — he made as if he would drive the sword through my father's 
 breast, and my mother shrieked and threw herself across the 
 body. 
 
 "So," he said, with a horrid grin, " I find that he is not 
 dead, but only wounded. IMy lads, here is one of Mon- 
 mouth's preachers. But he is sore wounded." 
 
 " Oh ! " I cried. " For the love of God suffer him to die 
 in peace." 
 
 "Ay, ay, he shall die in peace, I promise you so much. 
 Meanwhile, madam, we will take better care of him in II- 
 minster Jail than you can do here. The air is raw upon 
 these hills. " The fellow had a glib tongue and a mocking 
 manner. " You have none of the comforts which a wounded 
 man requires. They are all to be found in Ilminster prison, 
 whither we shall carry him. There will he have nothing to 
 think about, with everything found for him. Madam, your 
 father will be well bestowed with us." 
 
 At that moment I heard the footsteps of Barnaby crunch- 
 ing among the brushwood. 
 
 ' ' Fly, Barnaby, fly, " I shrieked. ' ' The enemy is upon us. " 
 
 He did not fly. He came running. He rushed upon the 
 soldiers and hurled this man oneway and that man another, 
 swinging his long arms like a pair of cudgels. Had he had 
 a cudgel I believe he would have sent them all flying. But 
 he had nothing except his arms and his fists. And in a 
 minute or two the soldiers had surrounded him, each with 
 a bayonet pointed, and such a look in every man's eye as 
 meant murder had Barnaby moved. 
 
 "Surrender," said the sergeant. 
 
 Ikirnaby looked around leisurely. 
 
 " Well," he said, "I suppose I must. As for roy name, 
 it is Barnaby Eykin, and for my rank, captain in the Green 
 Regiment of the duke's valiant army." 
 
 "Stop," said the sergeant, drawing a paper from hi:i 
 pocket
 
 X 84 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 " Captain Eykin," he began to read, " has been a sailor. 
 Rolls in his walk. Height about five foot five. Very broad 
 in the shoulders. Long in the arms, of great strength." 
 
 "That is so," said Barnaby, complacently. 
 
 " Bandy legs." 
 
 "Brother," said Barnaby, "is that so writ?" 
 
 "It is so, captain." 
 
 "I did not think," said Barnaby, "that the malignity of 
 the enemy would be carried so far. Bandy legs ! Yet you 
 see — ^Well, fall in, sergeant. We are your prisoners. Bandy 
 legs ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 JUDGE JEFFREYS. 
 
 How can I tell — oh, how can I sit down to tell in cold 
 blood the story of all that followed ! Some parts of it for 
 very pity I must pass oven All that has been told or writ- 
 ten of the Bloody Assize is most true, and yet not half that 
 happened can be told. There are things, I mean, which 
 the historian cannot for the sake of pity, decency, and con- 
 sideration for living people relate, even if he hath seen them. 
 You who read the printed page may learn how in one place 
 so many were hanged ; in another place so many ; how 
 some were hanged in gemmaces, so that at every cross- 
 road there was a frightful gibbet with a dead man on it ; 
 how some died of small-pox in the crowded prisons, and 
 some of fever; and how Judge Jeffreys rode from town to 
 town followed by gangs of miserable prisoners driven after 
 him to stand their trial in towns where they would be 
 known ; how the wretched sufferers were drawn and quar- 
 tered, and their limbs seethed in pitch and stuck up over the 
 whole country ; how the women and boys of tender years 
 were flogged through market towns — you, I say, who read 
 these things on the cold page presently (even if you be a 
 stickler for the right divine and hold rebellion as a mortal 
 sin) feel your blood to boil with righteous wrath. The hand 
 of the Lord was afterwards heavy upon those who ordered 
 these things ; nay, at the very time (this is a most remark- 
 able judgment) when this inhuman judge was thundering
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDOAt. I §5 
 
 at his victims, so that some went mad and even dropped 
 down dead with fear, he was himself, as Humphrey hath 
 told me, suffering the most horrible pain from a dire dis- 
 ease, so that the terrors of his voice and of his fiery eyes were 
 partly due to the agony of his disease, and he was enduring 
 all through that assize, in his own body pangs greater than 
 any that he ordered. As for his miserable end and the fate 
 that overtook his master, that we know, and candid souls 
 cannot but confess that here were truly judgments of God 
 visible for all to see and acknowledge. But no pen can 
 truly depict what the eye saw and the ear heard during that 
 terrible time. And, think you, if it was a terrible and a 
 wretched time for those who had no relations among the 
 rebels, and only looked on and saw these bloody executions, 
 and heard the lamentations of the poor women who lost 
 their lovers or their husbands, what must it have been for 
 me and those like me, whose friends and all whom they 
 loved — yea, all — all were overwhelmed in one common 
 ruin and expected nothing but death } 
 
 Our own misery I cannot truly set forth. Sometimes the 
 memory of it comes back to me, and it is as if long after- 
 wards one should feel again the sharpness of the surgeon's 
 knife. Oh, since I must write down what happened, let me 
 be brief. And you who read it, if you find the words cold 
 where you would have looked for fire — if you find no tears 
 where there should have been weeping and wailing — re- 
 member that in the mere writing have been shed again (but 
 these you cannot see) tears which belonged to that time, 
 and in the writing have been renewed, but these you can- 
 not hear, the sobbings and wailings and terrors of ttiat 
 dreadful autumn. 
 
 The soldiers belonged to a company of grenadiers of Tre- 
 lawny's Regiment, stationed at llminster, whither they car- 
 ried the prisoners. First ihey handcuffed Earnaby, but on 
 his giving his parol not to escape they let him go free, and 
 he proved useful in the handling of the cart on which my 
 imhappy father lay. And though the soldier's talk was 
 ribald, their jests unseemly, and their cursing and swearing 
 seemed verily to invite the wrath of God, yet they proved 
 honest fellows in the main. They offered no rudeness 
 to us, nor did they object to our going with the prisoners; 
 nay, they even gave us bread and meat and cider from their 
 own provisions when they halted for dinner at noon. Bar- 
 naby walked sometimes with the soldiers and sometimes 
 with us; with them he talked freely, and as if he were their
 
 1 86 /'OA' FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 comrade and not their prisoner ; for us he put in a word of 
 encouragement or consolation such as, "Mother, we shall 
 find a way out of this coil yet," or " Sister, we shall cheat 
 Tom Hangman. Look not so gloomy upon it ; " or again, 
 he reminded us that many a shipwrecked sailor gets safe 
 ashore, and that where there are so many they cannot hang 
 all — would the king, he asked, hang up the whole county 
 of Somerset ? But he had already told me too much. In 
 his heart I knew he had small hope of escape. Yet he pre- 
 served his cheerfulness and walked towards his prison (to 
 outward seeming) as insensible of fear and with as uncon- 
 cerned- a countenance as if he were going to a banquet or 
 a wedding. This cheerfulness of his was due to a happy 
 confidence in the ordering of things, rather than to insensi- 
 bility. A sailor sees men die in many ways, yet himself re> 
 mains alive. This gives him something of the disposition 
 of the Orientalist, who accepts his fate with outward uncon- 
 cern whatever it may be. Perhaps (I know not) there may 
 have been in his mind that religious assurance of which he 
 told me. Did Barnaby at this period, when death was very 
 near unto him, really believe that there was one religion for 
 landsmen and another for sailors.-* One way to heaven for 
 ministers, another for seamen.? Indeed I cannot tell ; yet 
 how otherwise account for his courage and cheerfulness at 
 all times, even in the very presence of death } 
 
 "Brother," he asked the sergeant, " we have been lying 
 hid for a fortnight and have heard no news. Tell me, how 
 go the hangings } " 
 
 " Why, captain," the fellow replied, with a grin, " in this 
 respect there is little for the rebels to complain of They 
 ought to be satisfied, so far, with the attentions paid to them. 
 Lord Feversham hanged twenty odd to begin with. Captain 
 Adlaw and three others are trussed up in chains for their 
 greater honor ; and, in order to put the rest in good heart, 
 one of them ran a race with a horse, being promised his 
 life if he should win. When he had beaten the horse, his 
 lordship, who was ever a merry man, ordered him to be 
 hanged just to laugh at him. And hanged he was." 
 
 "Ay," said Barnaby, "thus do the Indians in America 
 torture their prisoners first and kill them afterwards." 
 
 "There are two hundred prisoners lying in Weston Zoy- 
 land church," the sergeant went on ; "they would been 
 hanged too, but the bishop interfered. Now they are wait- 
 ing to be tried. Lord ! what signifies trial, except to give 
 them longer rope ? "
 
 FOK FAITH AND FREEDOM. i%>j 
 
 " Aj, ay : and how go things in Bridgwater and Taun- 
 ton ? " 
 
 " From Weston to Bridgwater there is a line of gibbets 
 already ; in Taunton twenty, I believe, have swung — twenty, 
 at least. The drums beat, the fifes played, and the trum- 
 pets sounded, and Color.?! Kirke drank to the health of every 
 man (such was his condescension) before he was turned 
 off. 'Twould have done your heart good, captain, only tc 
 see the bravo show."' 
 
 " Ay, ay, " said Barnaby ; " very like, very like. Perhaps 
 I shall have the opportunity of playing first part in another 
 brave show if all goes well. Plath the duke escaped.? " 
 
 ' ' We heard yesterday that he is taken somewhere near 
 the New Forest. So that he will before long lay his lovely 
 head upon the block. Captain, your friends have brought 
 their pigs to a pretty market." 
 
 " The"y have, brother, they have," replied Barnaby, with 
 unmoved countenance. "Yet many a man hath recoA'^ered 
 from worse straits than these." 
 
 I listened with sinking heart. Much I longed to ask if 
 the sergeant knew aught of Robin, but I refrained least 
 merely to name him might put the soldiers on the lookout 
 for him, should he (happily) be in hiding. 
 
 Next the serj^ -nnt told us (which terrified me greatly) tha\ 
 there was no part of the country where they v/ere not 
 scouring for fugitives ; that they were greatly assisted by 
 the clergy, who, ha cald, were red-hot for King James ; that 
 the men were found hiding (as wc had hidden) in linncys, 
 in hedges, in barns, i i \/oods ; that they were captured by 
 treachery, by information laid, and even, most cruel thing 
 of all, by watching and following the men's sweethearts 
 who were found taking food to them. He said, also, that 
 at the present rate they would have to enlarge their prisons 
 to admit ten times their number, for they were haling into 
 them not only the men who had followed Monmouth, but 
 also those who had helped him with money, arms or men. 
 The sergeant was a brutal fellow, yet there was about 
 him something of good-nature, and even of compas- 
 sion, for the men he had captured. Yet he seemed to take 
 delight in speaking of the sufferings of the unfortunate pris- 
 oners. The soldiers, he told us, were greatly enraged 
 towards the rebels ; not, I suppose, on account of their re- 
 bellion, because three years later they themselves showed 
 how skin-deep was their loyalty, but because the rustics, 
 whom they thought contemptible, had surprisi,'d and nearly
 
 iSg FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 beaten them. And this roused in them the spirit of revenge. 
 
 " Captain," said the sergeant, "'tis pity that so lusty a 
 gentleman as thou shouldst die. Hast thou no friends at 
 court ? No ? Nor any who would spealc fc^r thee ? 'Tis 
 pity. Yet a man can die but once. With ouch a neck as 
 thine, bespeak, if so much grace be accorded thee, a long 
 rope and a high gallovv^s. 'Ti:. when it comes to the quar- 
 tering " — he stopped and shook his head — " but there — I 
 wish you wel'. out of it, captar\" 
 
 In the evening, just before sunset, we arrived at Ilminster, 
 after a sad and "\/eary march of ten miles at least — but we 
 could not leave the prisonero until we knew hov.' and where 
 they were bestowed ; and during all this time my mother, 
 who commonly walked not abroad from one Sabbath to the 
 next, was possessed with such a spirit that she seemed to 
 feel no weariness. When we rode all night in order to join 
 the duke she complained not ; when we rode painfully 
 across the country to Taunton she murmured not, nor when 
 we carried our wounded man up the rough and steep comb ; 
 no, nor on this day when she walked beside her husband's 
 head, careful lest the motion of the cart should cause him 
 pain. But he felt nothing, poor soul ! He would feel noth- 
 ing any more. 
 
 Ilminster is a goodly town, rich and prosperous with its 
 spinners and weavers ; this evening, however, there was 
 no one in the streets except the troopers, who swaggered up 
 and down or sat drinking at the tavern door. There is a 
 broad, open place before the market, which stands upon 
 great stone pillars. Outside the market is the clink, or 
 prison, whither the soldiers were taking their prisoners. 
 The troopers paid not the least heed to our mournful little 
 procession : a wounded man ; a prisoner in scarlet and lace, 
 but the cloth tattered and stained and the lace torn ; there 
 were only two more men on their way to death — what doth 
 a soldier care for the sight of a man about to die ! 
 
 " Mother," said Barnaby, when we drew near the prison 
 doors, " come not within the prison. I will do all that I 
 can for him. Go now^ and find a decent lodging ; and, sister, 
 mark ye, the lads in our army were rough, but they were 
 as lambs compared with these swaggering troopers. Keep 
 snug, therefore, and venture not far abroad." 
 
 I whispered ia his ear that I had his bag of money safe, 
 so that he could have whatever he wanted if that could be 
 bought. Then the prison doors were closed and we stood 
 \vithout.
 
 Jf^OJ^ FAlTir AXD FREEDOM. 1 89 
 
 It would have been hard, indeed, for the wife and daugh- 
 ter of Dr. Comfort Eykin not to find a lodging among godly 
 people, of whom there are always many in every town of 
 Somerset. We presently obtained a room in the house of 
 one Martha Prior, widow of the learned and pious Joshua 
 Prior, whilom preacher and ejected minister. Her case 
 was as hard as our own. This poor woman had two sons 
 only, and both had gone to join the duke ; one already 
 risen to be a serge-maker and one a draper of the town. 
 Of her sons she could hear no news at all, whether they 
 were alive or dead ; if they were already dead, or if they 
 should be hanged, she would have no means of support, 
 and so must starve or eat the bread of charity. (I heard 
 afterwards that she never did hear anything of them, so it 
 is certain that they must have been killed on the battle-field 
 or cut down by the dragoons in trying to escape. But the 
 poor soul survived not long their loss.) 
 
 The church of Ilminster stands upon a rising ground : on 
 the north is the grammar-school, and on the other three sides 
 are houses of the better sort, of which Mrs. Prior had one. 
 The place which surrounds the churchyard and hath no inn 
 or ale-house in it, is quiet and retired. The soldiers came 
 not thither, except once or twice with orders to search the 
 houses (and with a private resolution to drink everything 
 that they might lay hands upon), so that, for two poor 
 women in our miserable circumstances, we could not have 
 a more quiet lodging. 
 
 Despite our troubles, I slept so well that night that it 
 was past seven in the morning when I awoke. The needs 
 of the body do sometimes overcome the cares of the spirit. 
 For a whole fortnight had we been making our beds on the 
 heather, and therefore without taking off our clothes, and 
 that day we had walked ten miles at least with the soldiers, 
 so that I slept without moving or waking all the night. In 
 the morning I dressed quickly and hurried to the jail, not 
 knowing whether I might be admitted, or should be allowed 
 speech of Barnaby. Outside the gate, however, I found a 
 crowd of people going into the prison and coming out of it 
 Some of the women like ourselves were weeping — they 
 were those whose brothers or lovers, husbands or sons, 
 were in those gloomy walls. Others there were who 
 brought for such of the prisoners as had money to buy 
 them, eggs, butter, white bread, chickens, fruit, and all 
 kinds of provisions ; some brought wine, cider, and ale ; 
 some, tobacco. The warders who stood at the gates made
 
 1 90 fOR FAITH JLND FREEDOM. 
 
 no opposition to those who would enter. I pressed in with 
 a beating heart, prepared for a scene of the most dreadful 
 repentance and g-loomy forebodings. What I saw was 
 quite otherwise. 
 
 The gates of the prison opened upon a courtyard, not 
 very big, where the people were selling their wares, and 
 some of the prisoners were walking about, and some were 
 chaffering with the women who had the baskets. On the 
 right-hand side of the yard was the clink, or prison, itself; 
 on the left hand were houses for the warders or ofticers of 
 the prison. In general a single warder, constable, or head- 
 borough is enough, for a town such as Ilminster, to keep 
 the peace of the prison ; which is for the most part empty 
 save when they enforce some new act against Noncon- 
 formists and fill it with them or with Quakers. Now, how- 
 ever, so great was the press that, instead of two, there were 
 a dozen guards, and, instead of a stout cudgel, they went 
 armed with pike and cutlass to keep order and nrevent es- 
 capes. Six of them occupied the gatehouse ; other six were 
 within, in a sort of guard-house, where they slept, on the 
 left hand of the court. 
 
 The ground-floor of the clink we found to be a large room, 
 at least forty feet each side in bigness. On one side of it 
 was a great fireplace, where, though it was the month of 
 July, there was burning a great fire of Welsh coal, partly 
 for cooking purposes, because all that the prisoners ate was 
 cooked at this fire, and partly because a great fire kept con- 
 tinually burning sweetens the air and wards off jail fever. 
 On another side was a long table and several benches. 
 Thick wooden pillars supported thejoists of the rooms above ; 
 the windows were heavily barred, but the shutters were 
 down, and there was no glass in them. In spite of fire and 
 open windows the place was stifling, and smelt most horri« 
 ble. Never have I breathed so foul an air : there lived in 
 this room about eighty prisoners (later on the numbers were 
 doubled) ; some were smoking tobacco and drinking cider 
 or ale ; some were frying pieces of meat over the fire ; and 
 the tobacco, the ale, the wine, the cooking, and the people 
 themselves — nearly all country lads, unwashed, who had 
 slept, since Sedgemoor at least, in the same clothes with- 
 out once changing — made such an air that jail fever, putrid 
 throats, and small-pox (which afterwards broke out) should 
 have been expected sooner. 
 
 They were all talking, laughing, and even singing, ■• 
 that, in addition to the noisome stench of the place, there
 
 fUR tAlTH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 19 
 
 «ras such a din as one may hear at Sherborne Fair of an 
 evening. I expected, as 1 have said, a gloomy silence, 
 with the rattling of chains, the srroans of those who looked 
 for death, and perhaps a godly repentance visible upon 
 every countenance. Yet they were all laughing, except a 
 few who sat retired, and who were wounded. I say that 
 they were all laughing. They had nothing to expect but 
 death, or at the best to be horribly flogged, to be transported, 
 to be fined, branded, and ruined. Yet they laughed. What 
 means the hardness and indifference of nien? Could they 
 not think of the women they had left at home ? I warrant 
 that none of them were laughing. 
 
 Among them, a pipe of tobacco in his lips and a mug of 
 strong ale before him on the table, his hat flung backward, 
 sat Barnaby, his face showing, apparently, complete satis- 
 faction with his lot. 
 
 When he saw us at the door he rose and came to meet us. 
 
 " Welcome," he said. " This is one of the places where 
 King Monmouth's men are to receive the honor due to 
 them. Courage, gentle hearts. Be not cast down. Every- 
 where the prisons are full, and more are brought in every 
 day. Our very numbers are our safety. They cannot hang 
 us all. And, harkee," here he whispered, "sister, we now 
 know that Colonel Kirke hath been selling pardons at ten 
 pounds, twenty pounds, and thirty pounds apiece. Where- 
 fore we are well assured that, somehow or other, we shall 
 be able to buy our release. There are plenty besides Colo- 
 nel Kirke who will sell a prisoner his freedom." 
 
 "Where is your father 1 " asked my mother. 
 
 " He is bestowed above, where it is quieter, except for 
 the groaning of the wounded. Go upstairs and you will 
 find him. And there is a surprise for you besides. You 
 will find with him one you little expect to see." 
 
 " Oh, Barnaby, is there new misery for me ? Is Robin a 
 prisoner .'' " 
 
 "Robin is not here, Sis ; and as for misery, why, that is 
 as you take it. To be sure the man above is in prison, but 
 no harm will hap;^en to him. Why should it ? He did not go 
 out with Monmouth's men. But go upstairs, go upstairs 
 and see jfor yourselves."
 
 I4i FOR FArTH AND FkF.F.DnM. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IN ILMINSTER JAIL. 
 
 I KNOW not whom I expected to find in consequence of 
 Barnaby's words, as we went up the dark and dirty stairs 
 which led to the upper room. Robin was not a prisoner, 
 why, then — but I know not what I thouglit, all being 
 strange and dreadful. 
 
 At the top of the stairs we found ourselves in a room of 
 the same size as the lower chamber, but not so high, and 
 darker, being a gloomy place indeed, insomuch that it was 
 not for some minutes that one could plainly discern things. 
 It was lighted by a low, long window, set very close with 
 thick bars, the shutters thrown open so that all the light 
 and air possible to be admitted might come in. It had a 
 great fireplace, but there was no fire burning, and the air of 
 the room ste"uck raw, though outside it was a warm and 
 sunny day. The roof was supported, as in the room below, 
 by means of thick square pillars, studded with great nails, 
 set close together, for what purpose I know not. Every 
 pari of the woodwork in the room was in the same way 
 stuck full of nails. On the floor lay half a score of mat- 
 tresses, the property of those who could afford to pay the 
 warders an exorbitant fee for the luxury. At Ilminster, as, 
 I am told, at Newgate, the chief prison in the country, the 
 same custom obtains of exacting heavy fees from the poor 
 wi etches clapped into ward. It is, I suppose, no sin to rob 
 the criminal, the debtor, the traitor, or the rebel. For those 
 who had nothing to pay there were only a few bundles of 
 straw. And on these were lying half a dozen wretches 
 whose white faces and glazed eyes showed that they would 
 indeed cheat Tom the Hangman, though not in the way 
 that Barnaby hoped. These were wounded either in Sedge- 
 moor fight or in their attempt to escape. 
 
 Aiy father lay on a pallet bed. His face showed not the 
 least change. His eyes were closed, and you would have 
 thought him dead. And beside him, also on a pallet, sat. 
 to my astonishment, none other than Sir Christopher him- 
 self. 
 
 He rose and came to meet us. smiling sadly.
 
 '^OR tAITH AND f^REEDOM. 
 
 193 
 
 "Madam," he said, taking my mother's v.ctiid, "we 
 meet in a doleful place, and we are indeed in wretched 
 plight. I cannot bid you welcome ; I cannot say that I am 
 glad to see you. There is nothing that I can say of com- 
 fort or of hope, except, which you know already, that we 
 are always in the hands of the Lord."' 
 
 "Sir Christopher,"' said my mother, "it was kind and 
 neighborly in you to come. But you were always his best 
 friend. Look at his poor, white face " — she only thought 
 upon her husband. " You would think him dead. More 
 than a fortnight he hath lain thus — motionless. I think he 
 feels no pain. Husband, if thou canst hear me, make some 
 sign, if it be but to shut one eye. No," she cried. "Day 
 after day have I thus entieated him and he makes no 
 answer. He neither sees nor hears. V^et he doth not die, 
 wherefore I think that he may yet recover speech and sit 
 up again, and presently, perhaps, walk about and address 
 himself again unto his studies." 
 
 She waited not for any answer, but knelt down beside 
 him and poured some drops of milk into the mouth of the 
 sick man. Sir Christopher looked at her mournfully and 
 shook his head. 
 
 Then he turned to me and kissed me without saying a 
 word. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! ■' I cried, "how could you know that my 
 father would be brought into this place ? "With what good- 
 ness of heart have you come to our help," 
 
 "Nay, child," he replied, gravely. "I came because I 
 had no choice but to come. Like your father and your 
 brother, Grace, I am a prisoner. " 
 
 "You, sir.^ You a prisoner .-* Why, you were not with 
 the duke." 
 
 "That is most true, and yet a prisoner. Why, after the 
 news of Sedgemoor fight I looked for nothing else. They 
 tried to arrest Mr. Speke, but he has fled ; they have locked 
 up Mr. Prideaux of Ford Abbey ; Mr. Trenchard has retired 
 across the seas. Why should they pass me over } Nay, 
 there were abundant proofs of my zeal for the duke. My 
 grandson and my grandnephcw had joined the rebels. 
 Your father and brother rode over to Lyme on my horses ; 
 with my grandson rode off a dozen lads of the village. 
 What more could they want.-* More-over, I am an old 
 soldier of Lord Essex's army ; and, to finish, they found in 
 the window-seat a copy of Monmouth's declaration, which, 
 indeed I had forgotten, or I might have destroyed it,"
 
 194 
 
 rOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 ** Alas ! alas ! " I cried, wringing- my hands with teari 
 "Your honor, too, a prisoner ! " 
 
 Since the sergeant spoke to Barnaby about the interest ot 
 friends, I had been thinking that Sir Christopher, whose 
 power and interest, I fondly thought, must be equal to those 
 of any lord in the land, would interpose to save us all. 
 And he was now a prisoner himself, involved in the com- 
 mon ruin. One who stands upon a bridge and sees with 
 terror the last support carried away by the raging flood, feels 
 such despair as fell upon my soul. 
 
 *' Oh, sir," I cried again. ''It is line upon line — woe 
 upon woe." 
 
 He took my hand in his and held it tenderly. 
 
 "My child, "he said, "to an old man of seventy-five 
 what doth it matter whether he die in his bed or whether he 
 die upon a scaffold .? Through the pains of death, as through 
 a gate, we enter upon our rest." 
 
 " It is dreadful ! " I cried again. "I cannot endure it." 
 
 "The shame and ignominy of this death," he said, "I 
 shall, I trust, regard lightly. We have struck a blow for 
 freedom and for faith. Well, we have been suffered to fail. 
 The time hath not yet come. Yet, in the end, others shall 
 carry on the cause, and religion shall prevail. Shall we 
 murmur, who have been God's instruments .'' " 
 
 "Alas ! alas ! " I cried again. 
 
 "To me, sweet child, it is not terrible to contemplate 
 my end. But it is sad to think of thee, and of thy grave 
 and bitter loss. Hast thou heard news of Robin and of 
 Humphrey ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, are they also in prison } They are here } " 
 
 "No, but I have news of them. I have a letter brought 
 to me but yesterday. Read it, my child, read it. " 
 
 He pulled the letter out of his pocket and gave it to me. 
 Then I read aloud, and thus it ran : 
 
 " Honored Sib and Grandfather, — I am writing this letter from 
 the prison of Exeter, where, with Huinplirey and about two hundred 
 or more of our poor fellows, I am laid by the heels and shall so con- 
 tinue until we shall all be tried. 
 
 " It is rumored that Lord Jeffreys will come down to try us, and we 
 are assured by rumor that the king shows himself revengeful and is 
 determined that there shall be no mercy shown. After Sedgemoor fight 
 Ihey hanged, as you will have heard, many of the prisoners at Weston 
 Zoyland, at Bridgwater, and at Taunton, v.ithout trial. If the king con- 
 tinue in this disposition it is very certain tliat though the common sort 
 may be forgiven, tlie gentlemen and those who were officers in the rebel 
 army will certainly not escape. Therefore, I have no hopes but to
 
 t'OR FAITH AXD J'KEEDOM. io* 
 
 "Conclude my life upon the gallows, a thing which, I confess, I had 
 never looked to do. 1 hope to meet my fate with courage and resigna- 
 tion. 
 
 *' Humphrey is with me; and it is some comfort (though I know not 
 why) that we shall stand or fall together; for if I was a captain in the 
 army, he was a chirurgeon. That he was also a secret agent of the 
 exiles, and that he stirred up the duke's friends on his way from Lon- 
 don to .Sherborne, that they know not, or it would certainly go hard 
 with him. What do I say ? Since they will hang him, things cannot 
 very well go harder. 
 
 "When the fight was over and the duke and Lord Grey fled, there 
 was nothing left but to escape as best as we might. I hope that som« 
 of our Bradford lads will make their way home in safety; they stood 
 their ground and fought valiantly. Nay, if we had been able to arm all 
 who volunteered and would have enlisted, and if our men had all 
 shown such a spirit as your valiant lads of Bradford Orcas, then, I say, 
 the enemy must have been cut to pieces. 
 
 " When I had no choice left but to run I took the road to Bridg- 
 water, intending to ride back to that place where, perhaps, our forces 
 might be rallied. But this proved hopeless. There I found, however, 
 Humphrey, and we resolved that the safest plan would be to ride by 
 way of Taunton, leaving behind us the great body of the king's army, 
 and so escape to London, if possible, where we should certainly find 
 hiding-places in plenty until the pursuit should be at an end. Our 
 plan was to travel along byways and bridlepaths, and that by night 
 only, hiding by day in barns, linneys, and the like. We ha(l money 
 for the charges of our journey. Humphrey would travel as a physician 
 returning to London from Bath, as soon as we had gotten out of the 
 insurgent's country. I was to be his servant. Thus we arranged the 
 matter in our minds, and already I thouglit that we were safe and in 
 hiding somewhere in London, or across the seas in the Low Countries 
 again. 
 
 '' Well, to make short my story, we got no farther than Exeter, where 
 we were betrayed by a rascal countryman who recognized us, caused 
 us to be arrested, and swore to us. Thereupon we were clapped into 
 jail, where we now lie. 
 
 " Hoird sir, Humphrey, I am sorry to write, is much cast down, not 
 because he dreads death, which he doth not, any more than to lie upon 
 his bed; but because he lialh, he says, drawn so many to their ruin. 
 He numbers me among those, though, indeed, it was none of his 
 doing, but of my own free will, that 1 entered upon this business, which, 
 contrary to reasonable expectation, hath turned out so ill. Wherefore, 
 dear sir, since there is no one in the world whose opinion and coiuisel 
 Humphrey so greatly considers as your own, I pray you, of your good- 
 ness, send him some words of consolation and cheer." 
 
 "That will I, right readily," said Sir Christopher. "At 
 least the poor lad cannot accuse himself of dragging me into 
 the clink." 
 
 "I hoar" (continued Robin's) letter "that my mother hath gone 
 with Mr. Boscorel to London to learn if aught can be done for us. If 
 she do not return before we are finished, bid her think kindly of Ilmu- 
 phrey. and not to lay these things to his charge. As for my dear girl, 
 my Grace, I hear nothing of her. Miss Blake, who led themaid* when
 
 t9^ 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 they gave the flags to the duke, is, I hear, clapped into prison. Gra<?4 
 is not spoken of. I am greatly i)erturbed in spirit concerning her, and 
 I would gladly, if t.hiit might be compassed, have speech with her before 
 I die. I fear she will grieve and weep, but not more than I myself at 
 leaving her, poor maid! I hear, also, nothing concerning her father, 
 who was red-hot for the cause, and therefore, 1 fear, will not be passed 
 over or forgotten; nor do I hear aught of Barnaby, who I hope hath es- 
 caped on shipboard, as he said that he should do if things went ajar. 
 Where are tiiey all! The roads are covered with rough men, and it is 
 not fit for such as Grace and her mother to be travelling. I hope that 
 they have returned in safety to Bradford Orcas, and that my old mas- 
 ter, Dr. Eykin, hath forgotten his zeal for the Protestant duke and is 
 already seated again among his books. If that is so, tell Grace, honored 
 sir, that there is no hour of the day or night but I think of her con- 
 tinually; that the chief pang of my approaching fate is the thought 
 that I shall leave her in sorrow, and that I cannot say or do anything 
 to stay her sorrow. Comfort her I cannot, save with words which will 
 come better from the saintly lips of her father. I again pray thee to 
 assure lu-r of my faithful love. Tell her that the recollection of her 
 sweet face and steadfast eyes fills me with so great a longing that I 
 would fain die at once so as to bring nearer the moment when we shall 
 be able to sit together in heaven. My life hath been sanctified, if I 
 may say so in humility, by her presence in my heart, which drove away all 
 common and unclean things. Of such strength is earthly love. Nay, 
 I could not, I now perceive, be happy even with the joys of heaven if 
 she were not by my side. Where is she, my heart, my love? Pray God 
 she is in safety. 
 
 " And now, sir, I liave no more to say. The prison is a hot and 
 reeking place; at night it is hard to bear the foulness and the stench of 
 it. Humphrey says that we may shortly expect some jail fever or small- 
 
 Eox to break out among us, in which case the work of the judges may 
 e lightened. The good people of this ancient city are in no way afraid 
 %}i the king's vindictiveness, bnt send in of their bounty quantity of 
 provisions — fruit, eggs, fresh meat, salted meat, ale and cider — every 
 day for the poor prisoners, which shows which way their opinions do 
 lean even although the clergy are against us. Honored sir, I am sure 
 and certain that the miscarriage of our enterprise was caused by the 
 conduct of those who had us in hand. In a year or two there shall be 
 seen (but not by us) another uprising, under another leader, with an- 
 other end. 
 
 "So no more, I send to thee, dear and honored sir, my hoimden 
 duty and my grateful tlianks, for all that I owe to your tender care and 
 affection. Pray my mother, for me, to mourn no more for me than is 
 becoming to one of her purity and virtue. 
 
 "Alas! it is in thinking upon her, and upon my poor lost dear, that 
 my heart is well-nigh torn in pieces. But (tell Humphrey) through no 
 fault — no— through no fault of his. 
 
 "From thy dutiful and obedient grandson, R. C." 
 
 I read this all throuo-h. Then I folded up the letter and 
 returned it to Sir Christopher. As he took it the tears came 
 into his dear and venerable eyes and rolled down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "My dear, my dear," he said, " it is hard to bear. Every 
 one who is dear to thee will go ; there is an end of all ;
 
 h'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 197 
 
 unless some way, of which we know nothing, be opened 
 unto us. " 
 
 " Why," I said, "if we were all dead and buried and our 
 souls together in heaven — " 
 
 "Patience, my dear," said the old man. 
 
 " Oh, must they all die— all .? My heart will burst. Oh, 
 sir, will not one suffice for all } Will they not take me and 
 hang me, and let the rest go free .? " 
 
 "Child, "he took my hand between his own, "God knows 
 that if one life would suffice for all, it should be mine. Nay, 
 I would willingly die ten times over to save thy Robin for 
 thee. He is not dead yet, however. Nor is he sentenced. 
 There are so many involved that we may hope for a large 
 measure of mercy. Nay, more. His mother hath gone to 
 London, as he says in his letter, with my son-in-law, Philip 
 Boscorel, to see if aught can be done, even to the selling of 
 my whole estate, to procure the enlargement of the boys. 
 I know not if anything can be done, but be assured that 
 Philip Boscorel will leave no stone unturned." 
 
 "Oh, can money buy a pardon.? I have two hundred 
 gold pieces. They are Barnaby's — " 
 
 "Then, my dear, they must be used to buy pardon for 
 Barnaby and thy father ; though I doubt whether any par- 
 don need be bought for one who is brought so low." 
 
 Beside the bed my mother sat crouched, watching his 
 white face as she had done all daylong in our hiding-place. 
 I think she heeded nothing that went on around her, being 
 wrapped in her hopes and prayers for the wounded man. 
 
 Then Sir Christopher kissed me gently on the forehead, 
 
 "They say the king is unforgiving, my dear. Expect 
 not, therefore, anything. Say to thyself, every morning, 
 that all must die. To know the worst brings with it some- 
 thing of consolation. Robin must die ; Humphrey must 
 die ; your brother Barnaby must die ; your father, but he is 
 well-nigh dead already, and myself — all must die upon the 
 scaffold, if we escape this noisome jail. In thinking this, 
 remember who will be left. My dear, if thou art as a widow, 
 and yet a maiden, I charge thee that thou forget thine own 
 private griefs, and minister to those who will have none but 
 thee to help them. Live not for thyself, but to console and 
 solace those who, like thyself bereaved, will need thy ten- 
 der cares,"
 
 igS FOR FAITH AND FREEDOit, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 BEFORE THE ASSIZE. 
 
 Then we sat down and waited. Day after day we went 
 to the prison where my mother sat by my father, whose 
 condition never changed in the least, being always that of 
 one who slept, or, if his eyes were open^, was unconscious, 
 and, though he might utter a few words, had no command 
 of his mind or of his speech. Wherefore we hoped that he 
 suffered nothing. 'Twas a musket-ball had struck, the 
 surgeon said, in his backbone between the shoulders, where- 
 by his powers of motion and of thought were suspended. 
 I know not whether it was attempted to remove the ball, or 
 whether it was lodged there at all, because I am ignorant, 
 and to me, whether he had been struck in the back or no, it 
 was to my mind certain that the Lord had granted my 
 father's earnest prayer that he should again be permitted to 
 deliver openly the message that was upon his soul ; nay, 
 had given him three weeks of continual and faithful preach- 
 ing, the fruits of which, could we perceive them, should be 
 abundant. That prayer granted, the Lord, I thought, was 
 calling him to rest. Therefore I looked for no improvement. 
 
 One other letter came from Exeter, with one for me, with 
 which (because I could not leave my mother at such a time) 
 I was forced to stay my soul, as the lover in the canticle 
 stays his soul with apples. I have that letter still ; it hath 
 been with me always ; it lay hung from my neck in the 
 little leathern bag in which I carried the duke's ring. I read 
 it again and again until I knew it by heart ; yet still I read 
 it again, because even to look at my lover's writing had in 
 it something of comfort even when things were at their worst 
 and Egyptian darkness lay upon my soul. But the letter I 
 cannot endure to copy out, or suffer others to read it, be- 
 cause it was written for mine own eye, and none other's. 
 " Oh, my love ! " he said ; " oh, my tender heart," and then 
 a hundred prayers for my happiness, and tears for my tears, 
 and hopes for the future, which would be not the earthly 
 life, but the future reserved by merciful Heaven for those 
 who have been called and chosen. As for the sharp and
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 199 
 
 painful passagie by which we must travel from this world 
 to the next, Robin bade me take no thought of that, but to 
 think oi him either as my lover walking with me beside the 
 stream, or as a spirit waiting for me to join him in the heav- 
 enly choir. And so with so many farewells (the letter br-- 
 ing written when they expected the judges to arrive and the 
 assize to begin) as showed his tender love for me. No, 1 
 cannot write down this letter for the eyes of all to read. 
 There are things which must be kept hidden in our own 
 hearts ; and, without doubt, every woman to whom gooil 
 fortune hath given a lover like Robin, with a heart as fond 
 and a pen as ready (though he could never, like Humphrey 
 write sweet verses), hath received an epistle or two like un- 
 to mine for the love and tenderness, but (I hope) without 
 the sadness of impending deatli. 
 
 It was four weeks after we were brought to Ilminster thai 
 the news came to us of the coming trials. There were five 
 judges, but the world knows but of one, namely, George, 
 Lord Jeffreys, Chief-Justice of England ; and now, indeed, 
 we began to understand the true misery of our situation. Foi 
 every one knew the character of the judge, who, though a 
 young man still, was already the terror alike of prisoners, 
 witnesses, and juries. It promised to be a black and bloody 
 assize indeed, since this man was to be the judge. 
 
 The aspect of the prison by this time was changed. The 
 songs and merriment, the horseplay and loud laughter, by 
 which the men had at first endeavored to keep up their 
 hearts, were gone. The country lads pined and languished 
 in confinement ; their cheeks grew pale, and their eyes 
 heavy. Then the prison was so crowded that there was 
 barely room for all to lie at night, and the yard was too 
 small for all to walk therein by day. In the morning, though 
 they opened all the shutters, the air was so foul that in go- 
 ing into it from the open, one felt sick and giddy, and was 
 sometimes fain to run out and drink cold water. Oh, the 
 terrible place for an old man such as Sir Christo])her ! ^'ct 
 he endured, without murmuring, the foulness and the hard- 
 ness, comforting the sick, still reproving blasphemies, and 
 setting an example of cheerfulness. The wounded men all 
 died, I believe ; which, as the event proved, was lucky for 
 them. It would have saved the rest much suffering had 
 they all died as well. And to think that this was only one 
 of many prisons thus crowded with poor captives ! At 
 Wells, Philip's Norton, Shepton Mallet, Bath, Bridgwater, 
 Taunton, Ilchcster, Somcrtoii. Langport, Bristol, and Kxctcr,
 
 200 f'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 there was a like assemblage of poor wretches thus waiting 
 their trials. 
 
 I said that there was now little singing. There was, how- 
 ever, drinking enough, and more than enough. They drank 
 to drown their sorrows and to forget the horrid place in 
 which they lay, and the future which awaited them. When 
 they were drunk they would bellow some of their old songs, 
 but the bawling of a drunkard will not communicate to his 
 companions the same joy as the music of a merry heart. 
 
 While we were expecting to hear that the judge had ar- 
 rived at Salisbury the fever broke out in the prison of II- 
 minster. At Wells they were afflicted with the small-pox, 
 but at Ilminster it was jail fever which fell upon the poor 
 prisoners. Everybody hath heard of this terrible disorder, 
 which is communicated by those who have it to those who 
 go among them, namely, to the warders and turnkeys, and 
 even to the judges and the juries. Onthefirst day after it broke 
 out, which was with an extraordinary virulence, four poor 
 men died and were buried the next morning. After this no 
 day passed but there were funerals at the churchyard, and 
 the mounds of their graves — the graves of those poor coun- 
 trymen who thought to fight the battle of the Lord — stood 
 side by side in a long row growing continually longer. We 
 — that is, good Mrs. Prior and myself — sat at the window 
 and watched the funerals, praying for the safety of those we 
 loved. 
 
 So great was the fear of infection in the town that no one 
 was henceforth allowed within the prison, nor were the 
 warders allowed to come out of it. This was a sad order 
 for me, because my mother chose to remain within the 
 prison, finding a garret at the house of the chief constable, 
 and I could no longer visit that good old man Sir Christo- 
 pher, whose only pleasure left had been to converse with 
 me daily, and, as I now understand, by the refreshment the 
 society of youth brings to age, to lighten the tedium of his 
 imprisonment. 
 
 Henceforth, therefore, I went to the prison door every 
 morning and sent in my basket of provisions, but was not 
 suffered to enter, and though I could have speech with my 
 mother or with Barnaby, they were on one side the bars and 
 I on the other. 
 
 It was at this time that I made the acquaintance of Mr. 
 George Penne. This creature (a villain, as I afterwards dis- 
 covered, of the deepest dye) was to external appearance 
 ^ grave and sober merchant, He was dressed in brown
 
 FOR FAITH AND FRFEDOAf. 2ot 
 
 cloth and carried a g-old-headed stick in his hand. He came 
 to llminster about the end of August or the beginning of 
 September, and began to inquire particularly into the names 
 and the circumstances of the prisoners, pretending (such 
 was his craftiness) a great tenderness for their welfare. He 
 did the same thing, we heard afterwards, wherever the 
 Monmouth prisoners were confined. At llminster, the 
 fever being in the jail, he was not permitted to venture 
 within, but stood outside and asked of any who seemed to 
 know, who and what were the prisoners within and what 
 were their circumstances. 
 
 He accosted me one morning when I was standing at the 
 wicket waiting for my basket to be taken in. 
 
 " Madam," he said, " you are doubtless a friend of some 
 poor prisoner. Your father or your brother may unhappily 
 be lying within." 
 
 Now I had grown somewhat cautious by this time. 
 Wherefore, fearing some kind of snare or trap, I replied, 
 gravely, that such indeed might be the case. 
 
 "Then, madam," he said, speaking in a soft voice and 
 looking full of compassion, " if that be so, suffer me, I pray 
 you, to wish him a happy deliverance ; and this indeed from 
 the bottom of my heart." 
 
 "Sir, "I said, moved by the earnestness of his manner, 
 " I know not who you may be, but I thank you. Such a 
 wish, I am sure, will not procure you the reward of a prison. 
 Sir, I wish you a good-day. " 
 
 So he bowed and left me and passed on. 
 
 But next day I found him in the same place. And his 
 eyes were more filled with compassion than before, and his 
 voice was softer. 
 
 "I cannot sleep, madam," he said, "for thinking of these 
 poor prisoners ; I hear that among them is none other than 
 Sir Christopher Challis, a gentleman of great esteem and 
 well stricken in years. And there is also the pious and 
 learned (but most unfortunate) Dr. Comfort Eykin, who 
 rode with the army and preached daily, and is now, I hear, 
 grievously wounded and bedridden." 
 
 "Sir," I said, "Dr. Comfort Eykin is my father. It is 
 most true that he is a prisoner, and that he is wounded." 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh and wiped a tear from his eyes. 
 
 "It is now certain," he said, " that Lord Jeffreys will 
 come down to conduct the trials. Nay, it is reported that 
 he has already arrived at Salisbury, breathing fire and rc- 
 Teng;e, and that he hath with him four other judg^es and -»
 
 202 FOR FAITH aXD FREEDOM. 
 
 troop of horse. What they will do with so many prisoners 
 I know not. I fear that it will go hard with all ; but, as 
 haj^pcns in such cases, those who have money, and know 
 how to spend it, may speedily get their liberty." 
 
 '• How are they to spend it ? " 
 
 '• \\ hy, madam, it is not indeed to be looked for that you 
 should know. But when the time comes for the trial, should 
 I, as will very likely happen, be in the way, send for me, 
 and whatever the sentence, I warrant we shall find a way 
 to "scape it — even if it be a sentence of death. Send for 
 nie ; my name is George Penne, and I am a well-known 
 merchant of Bristol." 
 
 It was then that Barnaby came to the other side of the 
 wicket. We could talk, but could not touch each other. 
 
 "All is well, sis," he said, "dad is neither better nor 
 worse, and Sir Christopher is hearty, though the prison is 
 like the 'tween decks of a ship with yellow-jack aboard, 
 just as sweet and pleasant for the air and just as merry for 
 the crew." 
 
 " Barnaby," I said, " the judges are now at Salisbury." 
 
 "Ay, ay ; I thought they would have been there before. 
 We shall be tried, they tell me, at Wells, which it is thought 
 will be taken after other towns. So there is still a tidy 
 length of rope. Sis, this continual smoking of tobacco to 
 keep off infection doth keep a body dry. Cider will serve, 
 but let it be a runlet at least. 
 
 "He called you sister, madam," said I\Ir. Penne, curi- 
 ously. " Have you brother as well as father in this 
 place ? " 
 
 "Alas ! sir, I have not only my father, my mother, and 
 my brother in this place, but my father-in-law (as I hoped 
 soon to call him), and in Exeter jail is my lover and his 
 cousin. Oh, sir. if you mean honestly — " 
 
 "Madam," he laid his hand upon his breast, "I am all 
 honesty. I have no other thought, I swear to you, than to 
 save, if possible, the lives of these poor men." 
 
 He walked with me to my lodging and I there told him 
 not only concerning our own people, but also all that I knew 
 of the prisoners in this jail ; they were for the most part poor 
 and humble men. He made notes in a bo«k, which 
 caused me some misgivings, but he assured me again and 
 again that all he desired was to save their lives. And I now 
 understand that he spoke the truth indeed, but not the whole 
 truth. 
 
 "Your brother, for instance," he said; "oh, madam,
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 203 
 
 'twere a thousand pities that so brave a young man, so 
 stout withal, should be hanged, drawn, and quartered. And 
 your lover at Exeter, doubtless a tall and proper youth ; and 
 the other whom you have named. Dr. Humphrey Challis, 
 and your father-in-law (as 1 hope he will be), Sir Christo- 
 pher, and your own father. Why, madam," he grew quite 
 warm upon it, "if you will but furnish some honest mer- 
 chant — I say not myself, because I know not if you would 
 trust me — but some honest merchant with the necessary 
 moneys, I will engage that they shall all be saved from 
 hanging. To be sure these are all captains and officers, and 
 to get their absolute pardon will be a great matter, perhaps 
 above your means. Yet Sir Christopher hath a good estate 
 I am told." 
 
 This George Penne was, it is true, a Bristol merchant, en- 
 gaged in the East India trade ; that is to say, he bought 
 sugar and tobacco, and had shares in ships which sailed to 
 and from Bristol and the West Indies, and sometimes made 
 voyages to the Guinea Coast for negroes. But, in common 
 with many Bristol merchants, he had another trade, and a 
 very profitable trade it is, namely, what is called kidnap- 
 ping ; that is, buying or otherwise securing criminals who 
 have been pardoned or reprieved on condition of going to 
 the plantations. They sell these wretches for a term of 
 years to the planters and make a great profit by the transac- 
 tion. And, foreseeing that there would presently be a rare 
 abundance of such prisoners, the honest Mr. George Penne 
 was going from prison to prison, finding out what persons 
 of substance there were who would pay for their sentence 
 to be thus mitigated. In the event, though things were 
 not ordered exactly as he could have wished, this worthy 
 man (his true worth you shall presently learn) made a pretty 
 penny, as the saying is, out of the prisoners. What he 
 made out of us, and by what lies, you shall learn. But, by 
 ill-fortune, he got not the fingering of the great sums which 
 he hoped of us. 
 
 And now the news, from Winchester first, and from Dor- 
 chester afterwards, filled the hearts of all with a dismay 
 which is beyond all power of words to tell. For if an an- 
 cient lady of good repute (though the widow of a regicide), 
 such a woman as Lady Lisle, seventy years of age, could 
 be condemned to be burned, and was in fact beheaded, for 
 no greater offence than harboring two rebels herself, igno- 
 rant of who they were, or whence they came, what could 
 any hope who had actually borne arms ? And, again, at
 
 204 ^'OJ^ FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 Dorchester, thirty who pleaded not guilty were found guilty 
 and condemned to be hanged, and nearly three hundred 
 who pleaded guilty were sentenced to be hanged at the 
 same time. It was not an idle threat intended to terrify the 
 rest, because thirteen of the number were executed on the 
 following Monday, and eighty afterwards. Among those 
 who were first hanged were many whom we knew. The 
 aged and pious Dr. Sampson Larke, the Baptist minister of 
 Lynn, for instance, was one. Colonel Holmes (whom the 
 king had actually pardoned) was another, and young Mr. 
 Hewling, whose case was like that of Robin's. This terri- 
 ble news caused great despondency and choking in the prison, 
 where also the fever daily carried off one or two. 
 
 Oh, my poor heart fell, and I almost lost the power of 
 prayer, when I heard that from Dorchester the judge was 
 riding in great state, driving his prisoners before him, to 
 Exeter, where there were two hundred waiting their trial 
 And among them Robin — my Robin. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BENJAMIN. 
 
 It was the evening of September the sixteenth, about nine 
 of the clock. I was sitting alone in my lodging. Down- 
 stairs I heard the voice of the poor widow, Mrs. Prior, who 
 had received us. She was praying aloud with some godly 
 friends for the safety of her sons. These young men, as I 
 have said, were never more heard of, and were therefore al- 
 ready, doubtless, past praying for. I, who ought to have 
 been praying with them, held Robin's last letter in my 
 hands. I knew it by heart, but I must still be reading it 
 again and again ; thinking it was his voice which was in- 
 deed speaking to me, trying to feel his presence near me, to 
 hear his breath, to see his very eyes. In the night, waking 
 or sleeping, I still would hear him calling to me aloud. 
 " My heart — my life — my love!" he would cry. I heard 
 him, I say, quite plainly. By special mercy and grace this 
 power was accorded to me, because I have no doubt that 
 in his mind, while lying in his noisome prison, he did, turn
 
 1-Ok h'AITH AND FREEDOM. 205 
 
 his thoughts, yea, and the yearnings of his fond heart to the 
 maid he loved. But now the merciless judge who had sen- 
 tenced three hundred men to one common doom — three hun- 
 dred men ! was such a sentence ever known ? — had left 
 Dorchester, and was already, perhaps, at Exeter. Oh ! Per- 
 haps Robin had by this time stood his trial ; what place was 
 left for prayer? For if the poor ignorant clowns were con- 
 demned to death, how much more the gentlemen, the oflficers 
 of Monmouth's army. Perhaps he was already executed — 
 my lover — my boy — my Robin — taken out and hanged, and 
 now a cold and senseless corpse. Then the wailings and 
 prayers of the poor woman below, added to tiie distraction 
 of these thoughts, made me feel as if I were indeed losing 
 my senses. At this time it was blow upon blow ; line upon 
 line ; the sky was black ; the heavens were deaf. Is there, 
 can there be, a more miserable thing than to feel that the 
 very heavens are deaf.? The mercy of the Lord, his kindly 
 hearkening to our cries and prayers, these we believe as we 
 look for the light of day and the warmth of the sun. Nay, 
 this belief is the very breath of our life, so that there is none 
 but the most hardened and abandoned sinner who doth not 
 still feel that he hath in the Lord a Father as well as a judge. 
 To lose that belief — 'twere better to be a lump of senseless 
 clay. The greatest misery of the lost soul, even greater 
 than his continual torment of lire, and his never ending 
 thirst, and the gnawing of remorse, must be to feel that the 
 heavens are deaf to his prayers ; deaf forever and forever. 
 
 At this time my prayers were all for safety. " Safety, 
 good Lord, give them safety. Save them from the execu- 
 tioner. Give them safety." Thus, as Barnaby said, the ship- 
 wrecked mariner clinging to the mast asks not for a green, 
 pleasant, and fertile shore, but for land — only for land. I 
 sat there musing sadly, the Bible on the table and a lighted 
 candle. I read not in the Bible, but listened to the wailing 
 of the poor soul below, and looked at the churchyard with- 
 out, the moonlight falling upon the fresh mounds which 
 covered the graves of the poor, dead prisoners. Suddenly I 
 heard a voice — a loud and harsh voice — and footsteps. 1 
 knew both footsteps and voice, and I sprang to my feet 
 trembling, because I was certain that some new disaster had 
 befallen us. 
 
 Then the steps mounted the stairs, the door was opened, 
 and Benjamin — none other than Benjamiji — appeared. What 
 did he here ? He was so big, with so red a face, that his 
 presence seemed to fill the room. And with him — what did
 
 2o6 ^^OR Paith and freedom. 
 
 this mean ? — came madam herself, who I thought to hav* 
 been at Exeter. Alas ! her eyes were red with weeping, her 
 cheeks were thin and wasted with sorrow ; her lips were 
 trembling. 
 
 " Grace ! " she cried, holding out her hands, " Child, these 
 terrible things are done, and yet we live. Alas ! we live. 
 Are our hearts made of stone that we still live t As for me, 
 I cannot die, though I lose all — all — all." 
 
 " Dear madam, what hath happened ? More misery ! 
 more disaster ! Oh, tell me — tell me." 
 
 " Oh, my dear they have been tried ; they have been 
 tried and they are condemned to die, both Robin — my son 
 Robin — and with him Humphrey, who dragged him into the 
 business and alone ought to suffer for both. But there is now 
 no justice in the land. No — no more justice can be had. 
 Else Humphrey should have suffered for all." 
 
 There was something strange in her eyes ; she did not look 
 like a mother robbed of her children ; she gazed upon me as 
 if there were something else upon her mind, as if the con- 
 demnation of her son was not enough ! 
 
 " Robin will be hanged," she went on. " He hath been 
 the only comfort of my life since my husband was taken 
 from me, when he was left an infant in my arms. Robin 
 will be hanged like any common gypsy caught stealing a 
 sheep. He will be hanged and drawn and quartered, and 
 those goodly limbs of his will be stuck upon poles for all to 
 see. " 
 
 Truly I looked for nothing less. Barnaby bade me look 
 for nothing less than this, but at the news I fell into a swoon. 
 So one who knoweth beforehand that he is to feel the sur- 
 geon's knife, and thinks to endure the agony without a cry, 
 is fain to shriek and scream when the moment comes. 
 
 When I recovered I was sitting at the open window, 
 madam applying a wet cloth to my forehead. 
 
 " Have no fear," Benjamin was saying. " She will do 
 what you command her, so only that he may go free." 
 
 " Is there no way but that ? " she asked. 
 
 " None." And then he swore a great oath. 
 
 ]My eyes being open and my sense returned, I perceived 
 that Mrs. Prior was also in the room. And I wondered (in 
 such moments the mind finds relief in trifles) that Benjamin's 
 face should have grown so red and his cheeks so fat. 
 
 " Thou hast been in a swoon, my dear," said madam, 
 " but 'tis past." 
 
 " Why is Benjamin here ? " I a.'^ked.
 
 fiOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 20) 
 
 He looked at madam, who cast down her eyes, I knew 
 not why. 
 
 " Benjamin is now our only friend,'' she replied, without 
 looking up. " It is out of his kindness — yes, his kindness 
 of heart — that he hath come. " 
 
 " I do not understand. If Robin is to die, what kindness 
 can he show .'' " 
 
 " Tell her, Benjamin," said madam, " tell her of the trials 
 at Exeter. " 
 
 " His lordship came to Exeter," Benjamin began, "on 
 the evening of September the thirteenth, escorted by many 
 country gentlemen and a troop of horse. I had the honor 
 of riding with him. The trials began the day before yester- 
 day, the fourteenth. " 
 
 "Pray, good sir," asked the poor woman who had lost 
 her son, " did you observe my boy among the prisoners?" 
 
 " How the devil should I know your boy .? " he replied, 
 turning upon her roughly, so that she asked no more ques- 
 tions. "If they were rebels they deserve hanging," here 
 she shrieked aloud and fled the room. ' ' The trials began 
 with two fellows who pleaded ' not guilty,' but were quickly 
 proved to have been in arms and were condemned to death. 
 One of them being sent out to instant execution, the rest 
 who were brought up that day, among whom were Robin 
 and Humphrey, pleaded guilty, being partly terrified and 
 partly persuaded that it was their only chance of escape. 
 So they, too, were condemned, two hundred and forty in 
 all, every man Jack of them, to be hanged, drawn and quar- 
 tered, and their limbs to be afterwards stuck on poles for 
 the greater terror of evil-doers ; " he said these words with 
 such a fire in his eyes, and such a dreadful threatening 
 voice as made me tremble. "Then they were all taken 
 back to jail, where they will lie until the day of execution, 
 and the Lord have mercy upon their souls ! " 
 
 The terrible fudge Jeffreys himself could not look more 
 terrible than Benjamin when he uttered the prayer with 
 which a sentence to death is concluded. 
 
 "Benjamin, were you in the court to see and hear the 
 condemnation of your own cousins 1 " 
 
 "I was. I sat in the body of the court, in the-fxlace re- 
 served for counsel." 
 
 "Could you say nothing that wo-uld help them ? " 
 
 " Nothing. Not a word from any one could help them. 
 Consider, one of them was an officer, and one of them was 
 a surgeon Ir the army. The ignorant rustics whom they
 
 _'(I8 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 led maj' some of them escape, but the officers can look for 
 no mercy." 
 
 "Madam," I cried, "I must see llobin before he dies, 
 though God knows there are those here who want my ser- 
 vices daily. Yet I must see Robin. He will not die easy 
 unless he sees me and kisses me once." 
 
 Madam made no reply. 
 
 "For a week," said Benjamin, "they are safe. I do not 
 think they will be executed for a week at least. But it is 
 not wise to reckon on a reprieve even for an hour; the judge 
 may at any time order their execution." 
 
 "I will go to-morrow." 
 
 "That will be seen," said Benjamin. 
 
 "My dear," said madam, "my nephew Benjamin is a friend 
 of the judge, Lord Jeffries." 
 
 "Say rather a follower and admirer of that great, learned 
 and religious man. One who is yet but a member of the 
 outer bar must not assume the style and title of friend to a 
 man whose next step must be the woolsack." 
 
 Heavens ! He called the inhuman wretch who had sen- 
 tenced an innocent old woman of seventy to be burned alive, 
 and five hundred persons to be hanged, and one knows not 
 how many to be inhumanly flogged — great and religious ! 
 
 "If interest can save any," madam said, softly, "Benja- 
 min can command that interest, and he is on the side of 
 mercy, especially where his cousins are concerned." 
 
 I now observed that madam, who had not formerly been 
 wont to regard her nephew with much affection, observed 
 toward him the greatest respect and submission. 
 
 "Madam," he replied, "you know the goodness of my heart. 
 What man can do shall be done by me, not only for Robin, 
 but for the others who are involved with hini in common 
 ruin. But there are conditions with which I have taken pains 
 to acquaint you." 
 
 Madam sighed heavily and looked as if she would speak, 
 but refrained, and I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks. 
 
 "What conditions, Benjamin?" I asked him. "Conditions! 
 For trying to save your own cousins and your own grand- 
 father ! Conditions ! Why, you should be moving heaven 
 and earth for tb',m instead of making conditions." 
 
 "It needs not so much exertion," he replied, with an un- 
 becoming grin. "First, Grace, I must own, child, that the 
 two years or thereabouts since I saw thee last have added 
 greatly to thy charms, at which I rejoice." 
 
 "Oh, what have my charms to do with the business ?"
 
 I'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 209 
 
 "Much, as thou wilt presently discover. But let me re- 
 mind you both that there threaten — nay, there are actually 
 overhanging- — disasters, the like of which never happen save 
 in time of civil war and of rebellion. My grandfather is in 
 prison, and will be tried on a charge of sending men and 
 horses to join Monmouth. Nay, the duke's proclamation 
 was found in his house ; he will be certainly condemned, 
 and his estates contiscated. So there will be an end of as 
 old a tamily as lives in Somerset. Then there is thy father, 
 child, who was preacher to the army, and did make mis- 
 chief in stirring up the fanatical zeal of many. Think you 
 that he can escape .? Then there is thy brother, Barnaby, 
 who was such a fool as to meddle in what concerned him 
 not, and now will hang therefor. What can we expect.? 
 Are men to go unpunished who thus rebel against the Lord's 
 Anointed } Is treason, rank treason, the setting-up of a 
 pretender prince (who is now lying headless in his coffin) 
 as the rightful heir to be forgiven .'' We must not look for 
 it. Alas ! madam, had I been with you instead of that 
 conceited, fanatical, crookback Humphrey, whom I did 
 ever detest, none of these things should have happened." 
 
 "Humphrey,"! said, "has more worth in his fingers 
 than you in your great body, Benjamin." 
 
 " My dear, my dear, do not anger Benjamin. Oh, do not 
 anger our only friend." 
 
 " She may say what she pleases. My time will come. 
 Listen, then. They must all be hanged unless I can suc- 
 ceed in getting them pardoned." 
 
 " Nay, but forgive my rudeness, Benjamin ; they arc your 
 own cousins ; it is your own grandfather. What need of 
 conditions.'' Oh, what does this mean .? Are you a man of 
 flesh and blood } " 
 
 " My conditions, child, will assure you that such is truly 
 the nature of my composition." 
 
 " If money is wanted" — I thought of my bag of gold, 
 and of Mr. Penne's hints — "how much will suffice? " 
 
 " I know not. If it comes to buying them off, more thou- 
 sands than could be raised on the Bradford Orcas estates. 
 Put money out of mind." 
 
 "Then, Benjamin, save them if thou canst. ' 
 
 "His lordship knows that I have near relations con- 
 cerned ill the rebellion. Yet, he assured me, if his own 
 brothers were among the ])ris()ners he would hang them 
 till." 
 
 "Nay, thez^ Benjamin, I say no more, Tell me wha\
 
 2IO FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 are these conditions, and if we can grant or contrive them, 
 we will comply." I had no thought of what was meant bj 
 his conditions. Nor did I even guess until the morning 
 when madam told me. " Oh, madam is there anything in 
 the world — anything that we would not do to save them ? "' 
 
 Madam looked at me with so much pity in her eyes that 
 I wondered. It was pity for me, and not for her son thot 1 
 read in that look. Why did she pity me ? 
 
 I understood not. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " there are times when women arc 
 called upon to make sacrifices which they never thought to 
 make, which seem impossible to be even asked." 
 
 "Oh, there are no sacrifices which we would not gladly 
 make. What can Benjamin require that we should not glad- 
 ly do for him .? Nay, he is Robin's cousin, and your nephew, 
 and Sir Christopher's grandson. He will, if need be, join 
 us in making these sacrifices." 
 
 " I will," said Benjamin. "I will join you in making that 
 sacrifice with a willing heart. " 
 
 " I will tell her to-morrow," said madam. " No, I can- 
 not tell her to-night. Let us rest Go, sir, leave us to our 
 sorrow. It may be that we may think the sacrifice too great 
 even for the lives and safety of those we love. Go, sir, for 
 to-night, and return to-morrow." 
 
 " Surely, child," said madam, presently, when he was, 
 gone and we were alone, " we are the most unhappy women 
 in the world. " 
 
 "Nay," I replied. "There have been other women be- 
 fore us who have been ruined and widowed by civil wars 
 and rebellions. If it be any comfort to think that others 
 have suffered like ourselves, then we may comfort ourselves. 
 But the thought brings no consolation to me." 
 
 ' ' Hagar, " said madam, ' ' was a miserable woman because 
 she was cast out by the man she loved, even the father of 
 her son. Rachel was unhappy until the Lord gave her a 
 son. Jephthah's daughter was unhappy, my dear : there 
 is no case except hers which may be compared with ours, 
 and Jephthah's daughter was happy in one circumstance, 
 that she was permitted to die. Ah ! happy girl she died. 
 That was all her sacrifice, to die for the sake of her father. 
 But what is ours "i " 
 
 So she spoke in riddles, or dark sayings, of which I under- 
 stood nothing. Nevertheless, before lying down, I did 
 solemnly, and in her presence and hearing, aloud, upon 
 my knees, offer unto Almighty God myself — my very life
 
 FOR FAiril AND FREEDO.^f. 211 
 
 —if SO that Robin could be saved. And then, with lighter 
 heart than I had known for long, I lay down and slept. 
 
 At midnight or thereabouts madam woke me up. 
 
 "Child, "she said, "I cannot sleep. Tell me truly, is 
 there nothing that thou wouldst refuse for Robm's sake?" 
 
 "Nothing, verily. Ah, madam, can you doubt it ? " 
 ' Even if it were a sacrifice of which he would not ap- 
 prove .'' " 
 
 " Believe me, madam, there is nothing that I would not 
 do for Robin's safety." 
 
 "Child, if we were living in the days of persecution 
 wouldst thou hear the mass and adopt the Catholic religion 
 to save thy lover's life.?" 
 
 "Oh, madam, the Lord will never try us above our 
 strength. " 
 
 "Sleep, my child, sleep. And pray that as thy temp- 
 tation, so may be thy strength." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ON WHAT CONDITIONS? 
 
 In the morning I awoke with a lighter heart than I had 
 known for a long time. Benjamin was going to release 
 our prisoner : I should go to meet Robin at the gate of his 
 prison ; all would be well, except that my father would 
 never recover. We should return to the village, and every- 
 thing should go on as before. Oh, poor fond wretch ! 
 How was I deluded, and oh, miserable day that ended 
 with such shame and sadness, yet began with so much 
 hope. 
 
 Madam was already dressed. She was sitting at the win- 
 dow looking into the churchyard. She had been crying. 
 Alas, how many women in Somersetshire were then weep- 
 ing all day long ! 
 
 "Madam," I said, "we now have hope. We must not 
 weep and lament any more. Oh, to have at least a little 
 hope, when we have lived so long in iles])air, it makes one 
 breath again. Benjamin will save our prisoners for us. 
 Oh, after all, it is Benjamin who will help us. We did not
 
 iti FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 use to love Benjamin because he was rude and masterful, 
 and wanted everything for himself, and would never give 
 up anything. Yet, you see, he had after all a good heart" 
 • — madam groaned — "and he cannot forget, though he fol- 
 loweth not his grandfather's opinions, that he is his honor's 
 grandson — the son of his only daughter — ^'and your nephew, 
 and first cousin to Robin and second cousin once removed 
 to Humphrey and Barnaby, playfellows of old. Why, these 
 are ties which bind him as with ropes. He needs must 
 bestir himself to save their lives. And since he says that 
 he can save them, of course he must have bestirred him. 
 self to some purpose. Weep no more, dear madam. Your 
 son will be restored to us. We shall be happy again, thanks 
 to Benjamin." 
 
 " Child, '' she replied, " my heart is broken ; it is broken, 
 I say. Oh, to be lying dead and at peace m yonder church- 
 yard ! Never before did I think that it must be a happy 
 thing to be dead and at rest, and to feel nothing and to 
 know nothing. " 
 
 "But, madam, the dead are not in their graves ; there 
 lie only the bodies, their souls are above." 
 
 "Then they still think and reniember. Oh, can a time 
 ever come when things can be forgotten } Will the dead 
 ever cease to reproach themselves t " 
 
 She wrung her hands m an ecstacy of grief, though I 
 knew not what should move her so. Indeed, she was com- 
 monly a woman of sober and contained disposition, entirely 
 governed both in her temper and in her words. What was 
 in her mind that she should accuse herself.' Then, while 
 I was dressing, she went on talking, being still full of this 
 strong passion. 
 
 "I shall have my boy back again," she said. "Yes he 
 will come back to me. And what will he say to me when 
 I tell him all } Yet I fnusl have him back. Oh, to think 
 of the hangman tymg the rope about his neck" — she shud- 
 dered and trembled — "and afterwards the cruel knife " — she 
 clasped her hands and could not say the words. " I see the 
 comely limbs of my boy — oh, the thought tears my heart- 
 it tears me through and through ; I cannot think of anything 
 else day or night ; and yet in the prison he is so patient and 
 so cheerful. I marvel that men can be so patient with this 
 dreadful death before them." She broke out again into 
 another passion of sobbing and crying. Then she became 
 calmer and tried to speak of things less dreadful. 
 
 "When first I visited my boy in prison," she said, " Hum-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 213 
 
 phrey came humbly to ask my pardon. Poor lad ! I have 
 had hard thoughts of him. It is certain that he was in the 
 plot from the beginning-. Yet had he not gone so far, should 
 we have sat down when the rising began } But he doth still 
 accuse himself of rashness and calls himself the cause of all 
 our misfortunes. He fell upon his knees, in the sight of all, 
 to ask forgiveness, saying that it was he and none other who 
 had brought ruin upon us all. Then Robin begged me to 
 raise him up and comfort him, which I did, putting aside 
 my hard thoughts and telling him that being such stubborn 
 Protestants our lads could not choose but join the duke 
 whether he advised it or whether he did not. Nay, I told 
 him that Robin would have dragged him willy-nilly. And 
 so I kissed him, and Robin took him by the hand and 
 solemnly assured him that his grandfather had no such 
 thought in his mind." 
 
 "Nay," I said, "my father and Barnaby would certainly 
 have joined the duke, Humphrey or not. Never were any 
 men more eager for rebellion." 
 
 "I have been to London," she went on. " 'Tis a long 
 journey and I effected nothing, for the mind of the king, I 
 was assured, is harder than the nether millstone. My 
 brother-in-law Boscorel went with me, and I left him there. 
 But I have no hope that he will be able to help us, his old 
 friends being much scattered and many of them dead, and 
 some hostile to the court and in ill favor. So I returned, 
 seeing that if I could not save my son I could be with him 
 until he died. The day before yesterday he was tried, if 
 you call that a trial when hundreds together plead guilty 
 and are all alike sentenced to death." 
 
 " Have you been home since the trial } " 
 
 " I went to the prison as soon as they were brought back 
 from court. Some of the people — for they were all con- 
 demned to death, every one — were crying and lamenting. 
 And there were many women among them, their wives or 
 their mothers, and these were shrieking and wringing their 
 hands, so that it was a terrible spectacle. But some of the 
 men called for drink and began to carouse, so that they 
 might drown the thought of impending death. My dear, I 
 never thought to look upon a scene so full of horror. As for 
 our own boys, Robin was patient and even cheerful, and 
 Humphrey, leading us to the most quiet spot in that dread- 
 ful place, exhorted us to lose no time in weejiing or vain 
 laments, but to cheer up and console our hearts with the 
 thought that (ieath, even violent death, is but a brief pang,
 
 214 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 and life is but a short passage, and that heaven awaits us 
 beyond. Humphrey should have been a minister, such is 
 the natural piety and goodness of his heart. So he spoke of 
 the happy meeting in that place of blessedness where earthly 
 love would be purged of its grossness and our souls shall 
 be so glorified that we shall each admire the beauty of the 
 other. Then Robin talked of you, my dear, and sent thee a 
 loving message, bidding thee grieve for him, but not with- 
 out hope, and that a sure and certain hope of meeting again. 
 There are other things he bade me tell thee, but now I can- 
 not — oh, I must not" 
 
 "Nay, madam, but if they are words that he wished me 
 to hear .? 
 
 "Why, they were of his constant love and — and — no, 1 
 cannot tell them." 
 
 "Nay," I said, " fret not thy poor heart with thinking any 
 more of the prison, for Benjamin will surely save him, and 
 then we shall love Benjamin all our lives." 
 
 " He will perhaps save him. And yet — oh, how can I 
 tell her.? — we shall shed many more tears. How can I tell 
 her.? How can I tell her.' " 
 
 So she broke off again, but presently recovered and went 
 on talking. In time of great trouble the mind wanders 
 backward and forward, and though one talks still, it is dis- 
 jointedly. So she w^ent back to the prison. 
 
 "The boys have been well, though the prison is full and 
 the air is foul. Yet there hath been as yet no fever, for 
 which they are thankful. At first they had no money, the 
 soldiers who took them prisoners having robbed them of 
 their money, and indeed stripped them, as well, to their 
 shirts, telling them that shirts were good enough to be 
 hanged in. Yet the people of Exeter have treated the pri.;- 
 oners with great humanity, bringing them, daily, food and 
 drink, so that there has been nothing lacking. The time, 
 however, doth hang upon their hands in a place where there- 
 is nothing to do all day but to think of the past and to dread 
 the future. One poor lady, I was told, hath gone distracted 
 w^ith the terror of this thought. Child, every day that I 
 visited my son, while he talked with me, always cheerful 
 and smiling, my mind turned continually to the scaffold and 
 the gibbet." Then she returned to the old subject, from 
 which she could in no way escape. "I saw the hangman. 
 I saw my son hanging to the shameful tree — oh ! my son ! 
 my son !- — till I could bear it no longer and would hurry 
 away from the prison jmd walk about the town over the
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 2 1 5 
 
 fields — yea, all night long — to escape the dreadful thouglit. 
 Oh, to be blessed with such a son and to have him torn from 
 my arms for such a death. If he had been killed upon the 
 field of battle 'twould have been easier to bear. But now he 
 dier daily, he dies a thousand deaths in my mind. My child" 
 — she turned again to the churchyard — "the rooks are caw- 
 ing in their nests ; the sparrows and the robins hop among 
 the graves ; the dead hear nothing ; all their troubles are 
 over, all their sins are forgiven. '' 
 
 I comforted her as well as I could. Indeed, I understood 
 not at all what she meant, thinking that perhaps all her 
 trouble had caused her to be in that frame of mind when a 
 woman doth not know whether to laugh or to cry. And 
 then, taking my basket, I saUied forth to provide the day's 
 provisions for my prisoners. 
 
 " Barnaby, " I said, when he came to the wicket, " I have 
 good news for thee.'' 
 
 " What good news } That I am to be flogged once a year 
 in every market town in Somersetshire, as will happen to 
 young Tutchin ? " 
 
 "No, no, not that kind of news; but freedom, brother, 
 hope for freedom." 
 
 He laughed. "Who is to give us freedom? " 
 
 " Benjamin hath found a way for the enlargement of all." 
 
 "Ben Boscorel } What, will he stir finger for the sake of 
 anybody .-* Then, Sis, if I remember Ben aright, there will 
 be something tor himself. But if it is upon Ben that we are 
 to rely we are truly well sped. On Ben, quotha ! '' 
 
 "Brother, he told me so himself." 
 
 " 'Ware hawks, sister. If Ben is at one end of the rope 
 and the hangman at the other, I think I know who will be 
 stronger. Well, child, believe Ben if thou wilt. Thy father 
 looks strange this morning; he opened his eyes and seemed 
 to know me. I wonder if there is a change. 'Tis wonderful 
 how he lasts. There are six men sickened since yesterday 
 of the fever ; three of them brought in last week are already 
 dead. As for the singing that we used to hear, it is all over, 
 and if the men get drunk they are dumb drunk. Sir Chris- 
 topher looks but poorly this morning. I hope he will not 
 take the fever. He staggered when he arose, which is 
 a bad sign." 
 
 "Tell mother, Barnaby, what Benjamin hath undertaken 
 to do." 
 
 "Nay, that shall I not, liecause, look you, I beliave it 
 not There is some trick or lie at the bottom, unless Ben
 
 8l6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 hath repented and changed his disposition, which used to 
 be two parts wolf, one part bear, and the rest fox. If there 
 were anything left it was serpent. Well, sister, I am no 
 grumbler, but I expect this job to be over in a fortnight or 
 so, when they say the Wells Assizes will be held. Then we 
 shall all be swinging ; and 1 only hope that we may carry 
 with us into the court such a breath ot jail fever as shall lay 
 the judge himself upon his back and end his days. In the 
 next world he will meet the men whom he has sentenced, 
 and it will fare worse for him in their hands than with fifty 
 thousand devils." 
 
 So he took a drink of the beer, and departed within the 
 prison, and for three weeks I saw him no more. 
 
 On my way home I met Benjamin. 
 
 "Hath madam told you yet of my conditions.? " he asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Not yet. She will doubtless tell me presently. Oh, 
 what matter for the conditions. It can only be something 
 good for us, contrived by your kind heart. Ben, I have told 
 Barnaby, who will not believe in our good-fortune." 
 
 " It is, indeed, something very good for you, Alice, as you 
 will find. Come with me, and walk in the meadows, be- 
 yond the reach of this doleful place, where the air reeks 
 with jail fever, and all day long they are reading the funeral 
 service." 
 
 So he led me out upon the sloping sides of a hill, where 
 we walked awhile upon the grass very pleasantly, my mind 
 being now at rest. 
 
 " You have heard of nothing," he said, " of late, but of 
 the rebellion and its consequences. Let us talk about 
 London. 
 
 So he discoursed concerning his own profession and his 
 prospects, which, he said, were better than those of any 
 other young lawyer, in his own opinion. " For my prac- 
 tice, " he said, "I already have one which gives me an in- 
 come far beyond my wants, which are simple. Give me 
 plain fare, and for the evening a bottle or two of good wine, 
 with tobacco, and friends who love a cheerful glass. I ask 
 no more. My course lies clear before me ; I shall become 
 a king's counsel ; I shall be made a judge ; presently I shall 
 become lord chancellor. What did I tell thee, child, long 
 ago? Well, that time has now arrived." 
 
 Still I was so foolish, being so happy, tliat I could not 
 understand what he meant. 
 
 ''I fim sure, Benjamin,'' I said, "that v/c at luime shal.'
 
 P'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 17 
 
 ever rejoice, and be proud of your success. Nobody will 
 be more happy to hear of it tlian Robin and I." 
 
 Here he turned very red, and muttered something. 
 
 "You find your happiness in courts and clubs and Lon- 
 don," I went on ; "as for Robin and myself, we shall find 
 ours in the peaceful place which we have always decided to 
 have. " 
 
 "What the devil — " he cried ; " hath she not told you the 
 condition } She came with me for no other purpose. I 
 have borne with her company all the way from Exeter for 
 this only. Go back to her, and ask what it is. Go back, I 
 say, and make her tell. What, am I to take all this trouble 
 for nothing } " 
 
 His face was purple with sudden rage. His eyes were 
 fierce, and he roared and bawled at me. Why, what had 
 I said? How had I angered him.? 
 
 "Benjamin,"! cried, " what is the matter.? How have 
 I angered you ? " 
 
 "Go back," he roared again. "Tell her that if I pres- 
 ently come and find thee still in ignorance 'twill be the worse 
 for all. Tell her that I say it ; 'twill else be worse for all." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A SLIGHT THING AT THE BEST 
 
 So I left Benjamin much frightened, and marvelling both 
 at his violent passion and at the message which he sent to 
 madam. 
 
 She was waiting for me at the lodging. 
 
 "Madam," I said, "I have seen Benjamin. He is very 
 angry. He bade me go home and ask you concerning his 
 conditions. We must not anger our best friend, dear 
 madam." 
 
 She rose from her chair and beg-an to walk about wring-- 
 mg her hands, as if torn by some violent emotion. 
 
 "Oh, my child!" she cried; "Grace, come to my arms 
 ■ — if it is for the last time — my daughter 1 IMore then ever 
 mine, though I must never call thee daughter." She held 
 me in her arms, kissing mo tenderly. " IMy dear, we agreed
 
 2 1 8 i-OK J-AIJ'II AA'D FREEDOM. 
 
 that no sacrifice is too great for the safety of our boy. Yes, 
 we ag-reed to that. Let us kiss each other before we do a 
 thing- after which we can never kiss each other again. No, 
 never again. ' 
 
 "Why not again, madam .'' " 
 
 "Oh!" — she pushed me from her — " it is now eight oi 
 the clock. He will be here at ten. I promised I would tell 
 thee before he came. And all is in readiness." 
 
 ' ' For what, madam } " 
 
 Why, even then I guessed not her meaning, though I 
 might have done so ; but I never thought that so great a 
 wickedness was possible. 
 
 " No sacrifice should be too greatfor us," she cried, clasp- 
 ing her head with her hands, and looking wildly about; 
 "none too great Not even the sacrifice of my own son's 
 love ; no, not that W'hy, let us think of the sacrifices men 
 make for their country, for their religion. Abraham was 
 ready to offer his son Isaac ; Jephthah sacrificed his daugh- 
 ter ; King ^lesha slew his eldest son for a burnt-offering. 
 Thousands of men die every year in battle for their country. 
 What have we to offer.'' If we give ourselves it is but a 
 slight thing that we offer, at the best " 
 
 "Surely, madam," I cried, "you know that we would 
 willingly die for the sake of Robin." 
 
 " Yes, child, to die to die — were nothing. It is to live — 
 we must live for Robin." 
 
 " I understand not madam." 
 
 " Listen, then, for the time presses ; and if he arrived and 
 find that I have not broken the thing to thee he will perhaps 
 ride back to Exeter in a rage. When I left my son, after the 
 trial, being very wretched and without hope, I found Ben- 
 jamin waitin-j for me at the prison gates. He walked with 
 me to my lodging, and on the way he talked of what w^as 
 in my mind. First he said that for the better sort, there 
 was little hope, seeing that the king was revengeful and the 
 judge most wrathful, and in a mood which allowed of no 
 mercy. Therefore it would be best to dismiss all hopes of 
 ]iardon or of safety either to these two or to the prisoners of 
 Jlminster. Now, when he had said this a great many times, 
 we being now arrived at my lodging, he told me that there 
 was, in my case, a way out of the trouble, and one way 
 only ; that if we consented to follow that way, which, he 
 said, would do no manner of harm to either of us or to our 
 prisoners, he would undertake, and faithfully engage to 
 secure, the safety of all our prisoners. I prayed him to
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 219 
 
 point out this way, and after much entreaty he consented." 
 
 " What is the way ? " I asked, having not the least sus- 
 picion. And yet the look in her eyes should have told me 
 what was coming-. 
 
 " Is it true, child, that long ago you were betrothed to 
 Benjamin } 
 
 "No, madam. That is most untrue." 
 
 " He says that, when you were quite a little child, he in- 
 formed you of his intention to marry you, and none but you. " 
 
 "Why, that is true, indeed." And now I began to under- 
 stand the way that was proposed, and my heart sank within 
 me. " That is true. But to tell a child such a thing is not 
 a betrothal. " 
 
 " He says that only three or four years ago he renewed 
 that assurance." 
 
 "So he did, but I gave him no manner of encourage- 
 ment." 
 
 " He says that he promised to return and marry you when 
 he had arrived at some practice, and that he engaged to be- 
 come lord chancellor, and make you a peeress of the realm." 
 
 " All that he said, and more, yet did I never give him the 
 least encouragement, but quite the contrary, for always have 
 I feared and disliked Benjamin. Never at any time was it 
 possible for me to think of him in that way. That hr 
 knows, and cannot pretend otherwise. Madam, doth Ben- 
 jamin wish evil to Robin because I am betrothed to him } 
 
 " He also says, in his rude way — Benjamin was always 
 a rude and coarse boy — that he had warned you long ago 
 that if any one else came in his way he would break the 
 head of that man." 
 
 " Yes, I remember that he threatened some violence." 
 
 "My dear," — madam took my hand — "his time of re- 
 venge is come. He says that he has the life of the mai. 
 whom you love in his own hands, and he will, he swears, 
 break his head for him, and so keep the promise made to 
 you by tying the rope round his neck. My dear, Benjamin 
 has always been stubborn and obstinate from his birth. Stul)- 
 born and obstinate was he as a boy ; stubborn and obstinatt- 
 is he now ; he cares for nobody in the world except himself; 
 he has no heart, he has no tenderness, he has no scruples ; 
 if he wants a thing he will trample on all the world to gel 
 it, and break all the laws of God. I know what manner ol 
 life he leads. He is the friend and companion of the dread- 
 ful judge who goeth about like a raging lion. Kvery night 
 ilo Ihc}' drink together until they are speechless, and cannot
 
 220 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 stand. Their delight it is to drink and smoke tobacco, with 
 unseemly jests and ribald songs which would disgrace the 
 play-house or the country fair. Oh, 'tis the life of a hog 
 that he delights in. Yet for all that he is, like his noble 
 friend, full of ambition. Nothing will do but he must rise 
 in the world. Therefore he works hard at his profession. 
 and—" 
 
 " Madam, the condition — what is the condition } P^): 
 Heaven's sake, tell me quickly. Is it — is it — oh, no, no, 
 no 1 Anything but that." 
 
 " My child ! my daughter ! " — she laid her hand upon 
 /ny head — " it is that condition ; that, and none other. Oh, 
 my dear, it is laid upon thee to save us ; it is to be thy work 
 alone ; and by such a sacrifice as, I think, no woman ever 
 yet had to make. Nay, perhaps it is better not to make it, 
 after all. Let all die together, and let us live out our allotted 
 lives in sorrow. I thought of it all night, and it seemed 
 better so ; better even that thou wert lying in thy graA^e. 
 His condition ! Oh, he must be a devil thus to barter for the 
 lives of his grandfather and his cousins ; no human being, 
 surely, would do such a thing. The condition, my dear is, 
 that thou must marry him, now, this very morning ; and, this 
 once done, he will at once take such steps — I know not 
 what they may be, but I take it that his friend, the judge, 
 will grant him the favor — such steps, I say, as well release 
 unto us all our prisoners." 
 
 At tirst I made no answer. 
 
 " If not,'' she added, after a while, " they shall all be 
 surely hanged." 
 
 I remained silent. It is not easy, at such a moment, to 
 collect one's thoughts and understand what things mean. 1 
 asked her, presently, if there was no other way. 
 
 " None," she said ; there was no other way. 
 
 " What shall I do .? what shall I do .? " I asked. "God, it 
 seems, hath granted my daily prayer. But how ? Oh, 
 what shall I do .'' " 
 
 " Think of what thou hast in thy power." 
 
 " But to marry him ; to marry Benjamin. Oh, to marry 
 him ! How should I live 1 How should I look the world 
 in the face } " 
 
 " My dear, there are many other unhappy wives. There 
 are other husbands brutal and selfish ; there are other men 
 as wicked as my nephew. Thou wilt swear in church to 
 love, honor, and obey him. Thy love is already hate; thy 
 honor is contempt ; thy obedience will be the obedience of
 
 POR FAITH AJVD FRJLEDOM. 22 1 
 
 a slave. Y&t death cometh at length, even to a slave and 
 to the harsh taskmaster." 
 
 " Oh, madam, miserable indeed is the lot of those whose 
 only friend is death." 
 
 She was silent, leaving me to think of this terrible con- 
 dition. 
 
 " What would Robin say .? What would Humphrey say .? 
 Nay, what would his honor himself say .? " 
 
 "Why, child," she replied, with a kind of laugh, "it 
 needs not a wizard to tell what they would say. For one 
 and all, they would rather go to the gallows than buy their 
 lives at such a price. Thy brother Barnaby would mount 
 the ladder with a cheerful heart rather than sell his sister to 
 buy his life. That we know already. Nay, we know 
 more. For Robin will never forgive his mother who suf- 
 fered thee to do such a thing. So shall I lose what I value 
 more than life — the love of my only son. Yet would I buy 
 his life at such a price. My dear, if you love your lover I 
 lose my son. Yet we will save him whether he will or no." 
 She took my hands and pressed them in her own. "My 
 dear, it will be worse for me than for you. You will have 
 a husband, it is true, whom you will loathe ; yet you will 
 not see him, perhaps, for half the day at least, and perhaps 
 he will leave thee to thyself for the other half. But for me, 
 I shall have to endure the loss of my son's affections all 
 my life, because I am very sure and certain that he can 
 never forgive me. Think, my dear. — Shall they all die — 
 all ; think of father and brother and of your mother; or will 
 you willingly endure a life of misery with this man for 
 husband in order that they may live ? " 
 
 ' ' Oh, madam, " I said. ' ' as for the misery, any other kind 
 of misery I would willingly endure ; but it is marriage — 
 marriage. Yet who am I that I should choose my sacri- 
 rice .'' Oh, if good works were of any avail, then would the 
 way to heaven be opened wide for me by such an act and 
 such a life. Oh, what will Robin say of me ? What will 
 he think of me ? Will he curse me and loathe me for being 
 able to this thing? Should I do it.? Is it right? Doth 
 God command it ? Yet to save their dear lives ; only to 
 set them free ; to send that good old man back to his home ; 
 to suffer my father to die in peace. I must do it — I must 
 do it. Yet Robin could never forgive me. Oh, he told me 
 that betrothal was a sacrament. I have sworn to be his. 
 Yet to save kis life — I cannot hesitate. If it is wrong, I 
 pray that Robin will forgive mc. Tell him that — oh, tell
 
 22 2 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 him that it is I who am to die, instead of him. Perhaps 
 God will suffer me to die quickly. Tell him that I loA'ed him 
 and only him ; that I would rather have died ; that for his 
 life alone I would not have done this thing because he would 
 not have suffered it. But it is for all — it is for all. Oh, he 
 must forgive me. Some day you will send me a message 
 5)f forgiveness from him. But I must go away and live in 
 London far from all of you, never to see him or any one of 
 you again, not even my own mother. It is too shameful a 
 thing to do. And you will tell his honor, who hath always 
 loved me, and would willingly have called me his grand- 
 daughter. It was not that I loved not Robin — God knoweth 
 that — but for all — for him and Robm and all — to save his 
 gray hairs from the gallows, and to send him back to his 
 home. Oh, tell him that — " 
 
 "My dear, my dear,"' she replied, but could say no more. 
 
 Then for a while we sat in silence with beating hearts. 
 
 " I am to purchase the lives of five honest men," I said, 
 presently, "by my own dishonor. I know very M'ell that 
 it is by my dishonor and my sin that their lives are to be 
 bought. It doth not save me from dishonor that I am first 
 to stand in the church and be married according to the 
 Prayer Book. Nay, does it not make the sin greater and 
 the dishonor more certain, that I shall first swear what I 
 cannot ever perform, to love and honor that man ?" 
 
 "Yes, girl, yes," said madam; "but the sin is mine 
 more than yours. Oh, let me bear the sin upon myself." 
 
 " You cannot ; it is my sin and my dishonor. Nay, it is 
 a most dreadful wicked thing that I am to do. It is all the 
 sins in one. I do not honor my parents in thus dishonor- 
 ing myself , I kill myself — the woman that my Robin 
 loved. I steal the outward form which belonged to Robin 
 and give it to another. I live in a kind of adultery. It is 
 truly a terrible sin in the sight of Heaven. Yet I will do 
 it. I must do it. I love him so that I cannot let him die. 
 Rather let me be overwhelmed with shame and reproach if 
 only he can live ! " 
 
 " Said I not, my dear, that we two could never kiss each 
 other ao^ain } When two men have conspired together to 
 commit a crime they consort no more together, it is said, 
 but go apart and loathe each other. So it is now with us." 
 
 So I promised to do this thing. The temptation was be- 
 yond my strength. Yet had I possessed more faith I should 
 have refused. And then great indeed would have been my 
 reward. Alas 1 How was I punished for my want of
 
 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 223 
 
 faith ! Well, it was to save my lover. Love makes us 
 strong for evil as well as strong for good. 
 
 And all the time to think that we never inquired or proved 
 his promises ! To think that we never thought of doubting 
 or. of asking how he, a young barrister, should be able to 
 save the lives of four active rebels, and one who had been 
 zealous in the cause } That two women should have been 
 so simple is now astonishing. 
 
 When the clock struck ten I saw Benjamm walking across 
 the churchyard. It was part of the brutal nature of the man 
 that he should walk upon the graves, even those newly 
 made and not covered up with turf He swung his great 
 burly form, and looked up at the window with a grin which 
 made madam tremble and shrink back. But for me I was 
 not moved by the sight of him, for now I was strong in 
 resolution. Suppose one who hath made up her mind to 
 go to the stake for her religion, as would doubtless have 
 happened unto many had King James been allowed to 
 continue in his course, do you think that such a woman 
 would begin to tremble at the sight of her executioner.' 
 Not so. She would arise and go forth to meet him with 
 pale face, perhaps (because the agony is sharp"), but with a 
 steady eye. Benjamin opened the door and stood looking 
 from one to the other. 
 
 " Well," he said to madam, roughly, "you have by this 
 time told her the condition." 
 
 "I have told her. Alas ! I have told her, and already I 
 repent me that I have told her." 
 
 " Doth she consent ? " 
 
 "She does. It shall be as you desire." 
 
 '■Ha!" Benjamin drew a long breath. "Said I not, 
 sweetheart," he turnea to me, "that I would break the 
 head of any who came between us.? What! Have I not 
 broken the head of my cousin when I take away his girl? 
 Very well, then. hx\(S. that to good purpose. Very well, 
 then. It remains to carry out the condition." 
 
 "The condition," I said, " I understand to be this. If I 
 become your wife, Benjamin, you knowing full well that I 
 love another man, and am already promised to him — " 
 
 "Ta, ta, ta," he said. " That you are promised to an- 
 other man matters not one straw. That you love another 
 man I care nothing. What? I promise, sweetheart, that 
 I will soon make thee forget that other man. And as for 
 loving any other man after marrying me, that, d'ye see, my
 
 2 24 ^^^ FAITH A.VD FREEDOM. 
 
 pretiy, will be impossible. Oh, thou shalt be the fondest 
 wife in the Three Kingdoms." 
 
 " Nay, if such a thing cannot move your heart, I say no 
 more. If I marry you, then all our prisoners will be en- 
 larged ? " 
 
 "I swear" — he used a great round oath, very horrid 
 from the lips of a Christian man — "I swear that if you 
 marry me, the three, Robin, Humphrey, and Barnaby shall 
 all save their lives. And as for Sir Christopher and your 
 father, they also shall be enlarged. Can I say aught in 
 addition .? " 
 
 I suspected no deceit. I understood, and so did madam, 
 that this promise meant the full and free forgiveness of all. 
 Yet there was something of mockery in his eyes which 
 should have made us suspicious ; but I, for one, was young 
 and ignorant, and madam was country-bied and truthful. 
 
 "Benjamin," I cried, falling on my knees before him, 
 " think what it is you ask ! think what a wicked thing you 
 would have me do ! To break my vows, who am promised 
 to your cousin ! and would you leave your grandfather to 
 perish all for a whim about a silly girl .? Benjamin, you are 
 playing with us. You cannot, you could not sell the lives, 
 the very lives of your mother, father, and your cousins for 
 such a price as this ! The play has gone far enough, Ben- 
 jamin. Tell us that it is over, and that you never meant 
 to be taken seriously. And we will forgive you the an- 
 guish you have caused us." 
 
 "Get up," he said, "get up, I say, and stop this folly." 
 He then began to curse and to swear. "Playing, is it? 
 You shall quickly discover that it is no play, but serious 
 enough to please you all, Puritans though you be. Playing ! 
 Get up, I say, and have done." 
 
 " Then," I said, " there is not in the whole world a more 
 inhuman monster than yourself." 
 
 "Oh, my dear, my dear, do not anger him," cried 
 madam. 
 
 "All is fair in love, my pretty," said Benjamin, with a 
 grin. "Before marriage call me what you please — inhu- 
 man monster — anything that you please. After marriage 
 my wife will have to sing a different tune." 
 
 " Oh, Benjamin, treat her kindly," madam cried. 
 
 " I mean not otherwise. Kmdness is my nature ; I am 
 too kind for my own interests. Obedience I expect, and 
 good temper and a civil tongue, with such respect as is due 
 to one who intends to be lord chancellor. Come child, no
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 22^ 
 
 more hard words. Thou shalt be the happiest woman, i 
 say, in the world. What ? Monmouth's rebellion was only 
 contrived to make thy happiness. Instead of a dull coun- 
 try-house thou shalt have a house in London ; instead of 
 the meadows thou shalt have the parks ; instead of skv- 
 larks, the singers at the play-house ; in due course thou 
 shalt be my lady — " 
 
 "Oh, stop, stop! I must marry you since you make 
 me, but the partner in your ambitions will I never be.' 
 
 "My dear," madam whispered, "speak him fair. Be 
 humble to him. Remember he holds in his hand the liv^s 
 of all." 
 
 " Yes " — Benjamin overheard her — "the lives of all. The 
 man who dares to take my girl from me — mine — deserves 
 to die. Yet so clement, so forgiving, so generous am I, 
 that I am ready to pardon him. He shall actually save his 
 life. If, therefore, it is true that (before marriage) you love 
 that man and are promised to him, come to church with me 
 out of your great love to him in order to save his life. But 
 if you love him not, then you can love me, and therefore 
 can come to please yourself. Willy-nilly — what.-* am I to 
 be thwarted in such a trifle.? Willy-nilly, I say, I will marry 
 thee. Come, we waste the time." 
 
 He seized my wrist as if he would have dragged me to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 "Benjamin," cried madam, "be merciful. She is but a 
 girl, and she loves my poor boy. Be merciful. Oh, it is 
 not yet too late." She snatched me from his grasp and stood 
 between us — her arms outstretched. "It is not too late. 
 They may die and we will go in sorrow, but not in shame. 
 They may die. Go, murderer of thy kith and kin. Go, 
 send thy grandfather to die upon the scaffold, but at least 
 leave us in peace." 
 
 "No, madam," I said. "With your permission, if there 
 be no other way, I will save their lives." 
 
 "Well, then," Benjamin said, sulkily, "there must be an 
 end of this talk and no further delay. Else, by the Lord, I 
 know not what may happen. Will Tom Boilman delay to 
 prepare his caldron of hot pitch ? If we wait much longer 
 Robin's arms and legs will be seething in that broth. Doth 
 the judge delay with his warrant.? Already he signs it. Al- 
 ready they are putting up the gibbet on which he will hang. 
 Come, I say." 
 
 Benjamin was sure of his prcv, 1 suppose, because we 
 
 IS
 
 2 26 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 found the clergyman waiting for us in the church, ready with 
 surplice and book. The clerk was standing beside him, 
 also with his book, open at the service for marriage. While 
 they read the service madam threw herself prostrate on the 
 communion steps, her head in her hands, as one who suffers 
 the last extremeties of remorse and despair for sin too griev- 
 ous to be ever forgiven. Let us hope that sometimes wc 
 may judge ourselves more harshhMhan Heaven itselt dotli 
 judge us. 
 
 The clerk gave me away, and was the only witness of th^i 
 marriage besides that poor distracted mother. 
 
 'Twas a strange wedding. There had been no banns put 
 up ; the bride was pale and trembling ; the bridegroom was 
 gloomy ; the only other person present wept upon her 
 knees, while the parson read through his ordered prayer 
 and psalm and exhortation ; there was no sign of rejoic- 
 ing. 
 
 " So," said Benjamin, when all was over. "Now, thou art 
 my wife. They shall not be hanged therefore. Come, 
 wife, we will this day ride to Exeter, where thou shalt thy- 
 self bear the joyful news of thy marriage and their safety 
 to my cousins. They will own that 1 am a loving and 
 a careful cousin." 
 
 He led me, thus talking out of church. Now, as we left 
 the churchyard there passed through the gates — oh, baleful 
 omen ! — four men carrying between them a bier ; upon it 
 was the body of another poor prisoner dead of jail fever. I 
 think that even the hard heart of Benjamin — now my hus- 
 band ! oh, merciful Heavens, he was my husband — quailed, 
 and was touched with fear at meeting this most sure and 
 certain sign of coming woe, for he muttered something in 
 his teeth, and cursed the bearers aloud for not choosing 
 another time. 
 
 My husband then — -1 must needs call him my husband — 
 told me brutally that I must ride with him to Exeter, v\'here 
 I should myself bear the joyful news of their safety to his 
 cousins. I did not take that journey, nor did I bear the 
 news, nor did I ever after that moment set eyes upon 
 him again ; nor did I ever speak to him again. His wife 
 1 remained, I suppose, because I was joined to him in 
 church. But I never saw him after that morning, and the 
 reason why you shall now hear. 
 
 At the door of our lodging, whi.h was, you know, hard 
 by the church, stood Mr. Boscorel himself. 
 
 "What means this? " he asked, with looks troubled and
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 227 
 
 confused. "What doth it mean, Benjamin? What hath 
 happened, in the name of God ? " 
 
 "Sir," said Benjamin, "you know my character. Vou 
 will acknowledge that I am not one of those who are easily 
 turned from their purpose. Truly, the occasion is not 
 favorable for a wedding, but yet I present to you my newly 
 married wife. ' 
 
 "Thy wife, child! he thy husband.? Why, thou art 
 betro.thed to Robin! Hath the world gone crazy? Do I 
 hear aright ? Is this — this — this — a time to be marrying ? 
 Hast thou not heard I — hast thou not heard, I say ? " 
 
 "Brother-in-law," said madam, "it is to save the lives of 
 all that this is done." 
 
 "To save the lives of all?" IMr. Boscorel repeated. 
 "Why — why — hath not Benjamin, then, told what hath 
 happened, and what hath been done ? " 
 
 "No, sir, I have not," said his son; " I had other fish to 
 fry." 
 
 " Not told them ? Is it possible ? " 
 
 " Benjamin hath promised to save all their lives if this 
 child would marry him. To save their lives hath Grace 
 consented, and I with her. He will save them through his 
 great friendship with Judge Jeffreys." 
 
 " Benjamin to save their lives! Sirrah," he returned to 
 his son with great wrathin his face, " what villainy is this ? 
 Thou hast promised to save their lives ? What villainy, I 
 say, is this ? Sister-in-law, did he not tell you what hath 
 been done ! " 
 
 " He has told us nothing. Oh, is there new misery ? " 
 
 "Child" — Mr. Boscorel spoke with the tears running 
 down his cheeks — "thou art betrayed, alas I most cruelly 
 and foully betrayed. !My son — would to God that I had 
 died before that I should say so ! — is a villain. For, first, 
 the lives of these young men are already saved, and he hath 
 known it for a week and more. Learn, then, that with the 
 help of certain friends I have used such interest at court that 
 for these three I have received the promise of safety. Yet 
 they will not be pardoned. They are given, among other 
 prisoners, to the courtiers and the ladies-in-waiting. One 
 Mr. Jerome Nipho hath received and entered on his list the 
 names of Robin and Humphrey Challis and Barnaby Kykin ; 
 they will be sold by him and transported to Jamaica, or 
 elsewhere, for a term of years. " 
 
 " They were already saved ! " cried madam. " He knew, 
 then, when they were tried and sentenced that their lives
 
 228 I'Ok FAITJI AND FREEDOM. 
 
 were already spared ? Oh, child ! poor child ! oh, Grace 1 
 oh, my daughter ! what misery have we brought upon 
 thee ! '' 
 
 Benjamin said nothing. On his face lay a sullen scowl 
 of obstinacy. As for me, I was clinging to madam's arm. 
 This man was my husband, and Robin was already saved ; 
 and by lies and villainy he had cheated us. 
 
 "They were already saved," Mr. Boscorel continued. 
 •' Benjamin knew it. I sent him a letter that he might teH 
 his cousins. My son — alas 1 I say again — my only son — 
 my only son — my son is a villain ! " 
 
 " No one shall take my girl," said Benjamin. "What? 
 A.11 is fair in love." 
 
 " He has not told you either what hath happened in the 
 prison ? Thou hadst speech I hear with Barnaby, early this 
 morning, child } The other prisoners " — he lowered his 
 voice, and folded his hands, as in prayer — "they have 
 since been enlarged." 
 
 " How .'* " madam asked ; "is Sir Christopher free } " 
 
 "He hath received his freedom from One who neverfails 
 to set poor prisoners free. JNIy father-in-law fell dead in the 
 courtyard at nine o'clock this morning ; weep not for him, 
 But, child, there is much more ; about that same time thy 
 father breathed his last He, too, is dead. He, too, hath 
 his freedom. Benjamin knew of this as well, Alice, my 
 child ; " the kindly tears of compassion rolled down his 
 face. " I have loved thee always, my dear; and it is my 
 son who hath wrought this wickedness — my own son — my 
 only son — " He shook his cane in Benjamin's face. "Oh, 
 villain ! " he cried, " oh, villain ! " 
 
 Benjamin made no reply. But his face was black and his 
 eyes obstinate. 
 
 •'There is yet more — oh, there is more. Thou hast lost 
 thy mother as well, for at the sight of her husband's death 
 his poor patient wife could no longer bear the trouble, but 
 she, too, fell dead of a broken heart ; yea, she fell dead upon 
 his dead body — the Lord showed her this great and crown- 
 ing mercy, so that they all died together. This, too, Ben- 
 jamin knew. Oh, villain ! villain 1 " 
 
 Benjamin heard unmoved, except that his scowl grew 
 blacker. 
 
 " Go ! " his father continued ; "I load thee not, my son, 
 with a father's curse. Thy wickedness is so great that thy 
 punishment will be exemplary. The judgments of God de- 
 scend upon the most hardened. Get thee gone out of mjr
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 
 
 229 
 
 sight ! Let me never more behold thee until thou hast felt 
 the intolerable pain ef remorse. Get thee hence, I say ! 
 Begone ! " 
 
 " I rjo not," said Benjamin, " without my loving wife. I 
 budge not, I say, without my tender and loving wife. 
 Come, my dear/' 
 
 He advanced with outstretched hands, but I broke away 
 andfied, shrieking. As I ran, Mr. Boscorel stood before his 
 son and barred the way, raising his right hand. 
 
 " Back, boy — back ! " he said, solemnly, " Back, I say ; 
 before thou reach thy most unhappy wife, thou must first 
 pass over thy father's body. " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE VISION OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 I RAN SO fast, being then young and strong, that Benjamin, 
 I am sure, could not have overtaken me had he tried, be- 
 cause he was already gross of body and short of breath in 
 consequence of his tippling. I have since heard that he 
 did not follow me, nor did he dare to push aside his father. 
 But he laughed, and said, "Let her run; let her run. I 
 warrant I shall find her and bring her back," thinking, I sup- 
 pose, that I had run from him as a girl in play runs from 
 her companions. I ran also so long, fear lending me 
 strength, that the sun was getting even intw the afternoon 
 before I ventured to stop. I looked round from time to 
 time, but saw no one following mo. I do not remember by 
 what road, track, or path I went ; pasture-fields and planta- 
 tions, I remember ; twice I crossed a stream on stepping- 
 stones ; once I saw before me a village with a church tower, 
 but this I avoided for fear of the people. When I ventured 
 to stop I was in a truly wild and desolate country — our 
 county of Somerset hath in it many such wild places given 
 over to forests, fern, and heather. Presently I remembered 
 the place, though one forest is much like another, and I knew 
 that I had been in this place before, on that day when we 
 rode from Lyme to Taunton, and again on the day when we 
 walked prisoners with the soldiers \o llrniuster. I wgs on 
 thQ Black Down hill again,
 
 '3° 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 When, therefore, I understood where I was, I began to 
 recover a little from the first horror -which had driven me to 
 fly like oiiC possessed of an evil spirit, and seeing that no 
 one was in pursuit, I began to collect my senses, and to 
 ask myself wliither I was going and what I should do. I 
 was then in that ancient enclosure called Castle Ratch, from 
 whose walls one looks down upon the broad vale of Taunton 
 Dean. In the distance I thought I could discern the great 
 tower of St. Mary's Church, but perhaps that was only my 
 irnagination. I sat down upon the turf under these ancient 
 walls* and set myself to consider my condition, which was 
 indeed forlorn. 
 
 First, I had no friends or protectors left in the whole 
 world, because after what I had done I could never look 
 upon Robin, or even Humphrey again ; nor could I impor- 
 tune madam, because she would not anger her son (I repre- 
 sented him in my mind as most unforgiving) ; nor could I 
 seek the help of Air. Boscorel, because that now might help 
 his son to find me out, and everybody knows that a hus- 
 band may command the obedience of his wife. And Sir 
 Christopher was dead, and my father was d«ad, and my 
 mother was dead, and I could not even weep beside their 
 coffins, or follow their bodies to the grave. A woman with- 
 out friends in this world is like unto a traveller in a sandy 
 desert without a bottle of water. 
 
 Yet was I so far better than some of these poor friendless 
 creatures, because I had, concealed upon me, a bag con- 
 taining all the money which Barnaby had given me, two 
 hundred and fifty gold pieces, save a little which we had 
 expended at Taunton and Ilminster. This is a great sum, 
 and by its help I could, I thought with satisfaction, live for 
 a long time, perhaps all my life, if I could find some safe 
 retreat among godly people. 
 
 No friends .'' Why, there was Susan Blake, of Taunton : 
 she who walked with the maids when they gave Alonmouth 
 the Bible, the sword, and the flags. I resolved that I would 
 go to her and tell her all that had happened. Out of her 
 kindness she would take me in, and help me to find some 
 safer hiding-place, and perhaps some honest way of living, 
 so as to save his money against l^arnaby's return from the 
 plantations. 
 
 Then I thought I would find out the valley where we had 
 lived for a fortnight, and rest for one night in the hut and 
 in the early morning before caybreak walk down the comb, 
 and so into Taunton, while as yet the town was still sleep-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 231 
 
 ing ; and this I did. It was very easy to find the head oi 
 the comb, and the source of the stream where we had made 
 our encampment. Close by, beneatli tlie trees, was Ear- 
 naby's hut; no one had been tliere to disturb or destroy it, 
 but the leaves upon the boughs which formed its sides were 
 now dead. Within it the fern and the heath, which had 
 formed my bed, were still dry. Outside, the pot hung- over 
 the black embers of our last fire ; and, to my great joy, in 
 the basket which had contained our provisions, I found a 
 large crust of bread. It was, to be sure, dry and hard, but 
 I dipped it in the running water of the stream, and made 
 my supper with it. For dessert I had blackberries, which 
 were now ripe, and are nowhere bigger or sweeter than on 
 Black Down. There were also filberts and nuts also ripe, 
 of which I gathered a quantity, so that I had breakfast pro' 
 vided for me, as well as supper. 
 
 When I had done this I was so tired, and my head so 
 giddy with the terror of the day, that I lay down upon the 
 fern in the hut and there fell fast asleep, and so continued 
 until far into the night. 
 
 Now, in my sleep, a strange thing happened unto me. 
 For my own part I account it nothing less than a vision 
 granted unto me by mercy and special grace of Heaven. 
 Those who read of it may call it what they please. It was 
 in this wise : There appeared before my sleeping eyes (but 
 they seemed wide open), as it were, a broad and open cam- 
 paign ; presently there came running across the plain in 
 great terror, shrieking and holding her hands aloft, a girl 
 whose face I could not see. She ran in this haste and ter- 
 rible anguish of fear because there followed after her a troop 
 of dogs barking and yelping. Behind the dogs rode on 
 horseback one whose face I saw not any more than that of 
 the girl. He cursed and swore (I knew the voice, but could 
 not tell in my dream to whom it belonged), and cracked a 
 horrid whip, and encouraged the dogs, lashing the laggards. 
 In his eyes (though his face was in some kind of shadow), 
 there was such a look as I remembered in Benjamin's when 
 he put the ring upon my finger — a look of resolute and hun- 
 gry wickedness, which made me tremble and shake. 
 
 Now, as I looked, the dogs still gained upon her who ran 
 and screamed, as if in a few moments they would s]-)ring 
 upon her and tear her flesh from her bones. Then, sudden- 
 ly, between her who ran and those who pursued there arose 
 an awful form. He was clad in white, and in his hand he 
 bore a sword, and he turned upon that hunter a face tilled
 
 »$x 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 with wrath. Lightnings shot from his eyes, and a cloud ol 
 thunder lay upon his brow. At the sight of that face the 
 dogs stopped in their running, cowered, and fell dead. And 
 at the dreadful aspect of that face the hunter's horse fell 
 headlong, and his rider, falling also, with a shriek of terror, 
 broke his neck, and so lay prostrate and dead. Then this 
 dreadful minister of God's wrath turned from him to the fly- 
 ing figure ; and lo ! his face was now transformed ; his eyes 
 became soft and full of love ; he smiled graciously ; a crown 
 of glory was upon his head ; white robes flowed downward 
 to his feet ; his fiery sword was a palm-branch : he was the 
 Angel of Consolation. "Have no more fear," he said, 
 "though the waves of the sea rise up against thee and the 
 winds threaten to drown thee in the deep. Among the un- 
 godly and the violent thou shalt be safe : in all times of 
 peril the Lord will uphold thee : earthly joy shall be thine. 
 Be steadfast unto the end." 
 
 And then I looked again, those blessed words ringing in 
 my ears : and behold ! I saw then, which I had not seen 
 before, that the flying figure was none other than myself; 
 that he who cruelly hunted with the dogs and the whip was 
 none other than my husband ; and that the Angel of Wrath, 
 who became the Angel of Consolation, was none other than 
 my father himself But he was glorified. Oh, the face 
 was his face, that any one could see, but it was changed 
 with something — I know not what — so far brighter and 
 sweeter than the earthly face that I marvelled. Then the 
 vision disappeared, and I awoke. 
 
 So bright and clear had it been that I seemed to see it 
 still, though I was sitting up with my eyes open and it was 
 night Then it slowly vanished. Henceforth, however, 1 
 was assured of two things : first, that no harm would hap- 
 pen unto me, but that I should be protected from the malice 
 of my enemies, whatever they might design (indeed, 1 had 
 but one enemy, to wit, the man who had that morning 
 sworn to love and cherish me) ; and, next, that I had seen 
 with mortal eyes what, indeed, had been vouchsafed to few 
 — the actual spiritual body — the glorified body, like to the 
 earthly, but changed — with which the souls of the elect are 
 clothed. 
 
 So I arose now without the least fear. It was night, but 
 in the east there showed the first gray of the dawn, and the 
 birds were already beginning to twitter as if they were 
 dreaming of the day. The wind was fresh and I was lightly 
 glad, but the splendor uf the vision made nie forget th?
 
 POk PAiT/f A^rPf FREEDOM. i j j 
 
 cold. Oh, I had received a voice from heaven. How could 
 I henceforth fear anything ? Nay, there was no room even 
 for grief, though those terrible things had fallen upon me, 
 and I was now alone and friendless, and the world is full 
 of ungodly men. 
 
 It must have been about half-past four in the morning. 
 It grew lighter fast, so that not only the trees became visi- 
 ble, but the black depths between them changed into glades 
 and underwood, and I could see my way down the comb 
 beside the stream. Then, without waiting for the sun to rise 
 (which he presently did in warmth and splendor), I started, 
 hoping to get into Taunton before the people were up and 
 the streets became crowded. But I did not know the dis- 
 tance, which must have been seven miles at least, because 
 it was nearly eight o'clock when I reached the town, having 
 followed the course of the stream through three villages, 
 which I have since learned must have been those of Pit- 
 niinster, Troll, and Wilton. 
 
 It was market-day and the streets were full of country 
 people — some of them were farmers, with bags of corn in 
 their hands, going to the corn-market, and some with carts 
 full of fresh fruit and other things. Their faces were heavy 
 and sad, and they talked in whispers, as if they were afraid. 
 They had, indeed, good cause for fear, for the prison held 
 over five hundred unfortunate men waiting for their trial, 
 and the terrible judge was already on his way, with his 
 carts filled with more prisoners rumbling after him. Already 
 Colonel Kirke had caused I know not how many to be 
 hanged, and the reports of what had been done at Dor- 
 chester and Exeter sufficiently prepared the minds of the 
 wretched prisoners at Taunton for what was about to be 
 done there. Among them was the unfortunate Captain 
 Hucker, the serge-maker, who had looked for a peerage 
 and was now to receive a halter. There was also among 
 them that poor man, Mr. Simon Hamlyn, who was hanged 
 only for riding into Taunton in order to dissuade his son 
 from joining Monmouth. This the Mayor of Taunton 
 pointed out to the bloodthirsty judge, but in vain. The 
 whole five hundred prisoners were in the end sentenced to 
 death, and one hundred and forty-five actually suffered, to 
 the great indignation of those who looked on, even of the 
 king's party. Nay, at one of the executions, when nineteen 
 were hanged at the same time, and a great fire was made so 
 that the sufferers might actually see before their death the 
 fire that wsis to burn their bowels, the very soldiers w«p^
 
 4^4 ^(^f^ FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 saying that it was so sad a thing they scarce knew how to 
 bear it. Three years later the hard heart of the king met 
 with its proper punishment. 
 
 The soldiers were among the crowd, some leaning against 
 bulkheads, some drinking at the alehouses, some haggling 
 for the fruit ; some were also exercising upon Castle Green, 
 They looked good-natured, and showed in their faces none 
 of the cruelty and rage which belonged to their officers. But 
 M'hat a doleful change from the time when Monmouth's sol- 
 diers filled the town, and all hearts were full of joy and 
 every face shone with happiness ! What a change indeed ! 
 
 As I passed among the crowd one caught me by the arm. 
 It was a little old woman, her face all wrinkled and puck- 
 ered. She was sitting on a stool beside a great basket full 
 of apples and plums, and a little pipe of tobacco within her 
 lips. 
 
 "Mistress,"' she whispered, taking the pipe from her 
 mouth, "thou were with the maids the day of the flags, I 
 remember thy pretty face. What dost thou here al)road 
 among the people t The air of Taunton town is uii'.v'hole- 
 some. There may be others who will remember thee as 
 well as I. Take an old woman's advice and get thee gone. 
 How fares it with thy father, the worthy Dr. Eykin } " 
 
 "Alas ! " I said, " he died in llminster jail." 
 
 " 'Tis pity. But he was old and pious. He hath gone 
 to glory. Whither will those poor lads in the jail go when 
 they are hanged } Get thee gone — get thee gone. The 
 air is already foul with dead men's bodies. They tell strange 
 stories of what hath been done by women for the safety of 
 their brothers. Get thee gone, pretty maid, lest something 
 worse than prison happen to thee. And Judge Jeffreys is 
 cominsT hither like the devil, having: much wrath." 
 
 I could not tell her that nothing would happen to me be- 
 cause I was protected by a heavenly guard, 
 
 "I was in the town forty ^ears agone," the old womari 
 went on, " when Blake defended it, and we were well nigh 
 starved ; but never have I seen such things as have been 
 done here since the duke was routed. Get thee gone ; 
 haste away as from the mouth of hell ; get thee gone, poor 
 child." 
 
 So I left her ar.d went on my way, hanging my head in 
 hopes that no one else would recognize me. Fortunately 
 no one did. though I saw many faces which I had seen in 
 the town l)eforc. They were then tossing their caps and. 
 •houting for Monmouth, but were now gloomily whisper
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 235 
 
 ing-, as if every man feared that his own turn would come 
 next. Over the great gateway of the castle was stuck up a 
 high row of heads, arms, and legs of rebels blackened with 
 pitch — a horrid sight. Unto this end had come those brave 
 fellows who went forth to dethrone the king. No one 
 noticed or accosted me, and 1 arrived safely at Susan's 
 house. The door seemed shut, but when I pushed I found 
 that it was open, the lock having been broken from its fas- 
 tening. Barnaby did that, I remembered. I went in, shut- 
 ting it after me. Ko doubt Susan was with her children in 
 the schoolroom. Strange that she should not repair her 
 lock, and that at a time when the town was full of soldiers, 
 who always carry with them their riotous and lawless fol- 
 lowers. 'Twas unlike her orderly housekeeping. 
 
 There was no one in the back parlor, where Susan com- 
 monly took her meals and conducted the morning and even- 
 ing prayers. The dishes were on the table as if of last night's 
 supper, or yesterday's dinner. This was also unlike a tidy 
 housewife. 1 opened the door of the front parlor. Though 
 it was already past the hour for school, there were no chil- 
 dren in the room : the lesson books and copying-books and 
 slates lay about the floor. What did this untidy litter mean .? 
 Then I went upstairs and into the bedrooms, of which there 
 were three ; namely, two on the floor above and one a 
 garret. No one was in them, and the beds had not been 
 made. There remained only the kitchen ; no one was 
 there. The house was quite empty. 1 observed also that 
 the garden, w^iich was wont to be kept with the greatest 
 neatness, now looked neglected ; the ripe plums were drop- 
 ping from the branches trained upon the wall ; the apples 
 lay upon the grass ; the flower-beds were cumbered with 
 weeds ; grass grew in the walks ; the lawn, which had been 
 so neat and trim, was covered with long grass. 
 
 What had happened.^ \Vhere was Susan.'* Then I seemed 
 to hear her voice above chanting God for the victory, as she 
 had done when i5arnal)y burst in upon us ; and 1 heard her 
 singing a hymn with the children, as she had done while we 
 all sat embroidering the flags. Oh ! the pretty flags ! And 
 oh I the pretty sight of the innocents in white and blue car- 
 rying those flags ! The house was filled with the sounds 
 of bygone happiness. Mad I stayed another moment I am 
 certain that I should have seen the ghosts of those who filled 
 the rooms in the hnppy rlnys wIt^h the armv was in the 
 town. But I did not stay. Not knowing what to do or 
 whither to fly, I ran quickly out of the house, thinking; only
 
 4^6 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 to get away from the mournful silence ot the empty and do 
 serted rooms. Then, as I stepped into the street, I met, 
 face to face, none other than Mr. George Penne, the kind- 
 hearted gentleman who had compassionated the prisoners 
 at Ilminster. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIL 
 
 MR. GEORGE PENNE. 
 
 "'Tis no other than the Fair Maid of Ilminster! " said Mr. 
 Penne, with surprise. "Madam, with submission, is it safe 
 — is it prudent — for one who walked with the maids of 
 Taunton on a certain memorable day to venture openly into 
 the streets of this city at such a time } Judge Jeffreys doth 
 approach to hold his court. Thy friends are in prison or in 
 hiding. The maids are scattered all. " 
 
 "I sought shelter," I said, "at the house of Susan Blake, 
 the schoolmistress." 
 
 "How? You have not heard, then. Miss Susan Blake 
 is dead." 
 
 ' ' She is dead } " 
 
 "She died in Dorchester Jail, whither she was sent, being 
 specially exempted from any pardon. 'Twas fever carried 
 her off. She is dead. Alas ! the waste of good lives. She 
 might have bought her freedom after a while, and then — but 
 — well — 'tis useless to lament these mishaps. " 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " I cried, wringing my hands. "Then am 
 I in evil plight indeed. All, all are dead — all my friends arc 
 dead. " 
 
 " Madam," he replied, very kindly, "not all your friends, 
 if I may say so. I have, I assure you, a most compassion- 
 ate heart. I bleed for the sufferings of others ; I cannot rest 
 until I have brought relief This is my way. Oh, I take 
 not credit to myself therefor ; it is that I am so constituted. 
 I am not proud or uplifted on this account. Only tell me 
 your case ; intrust your safety to me. You may do so 
 safely, if you reflect for one moment because — see — one 
 word from me and you would be taken to prison by yon 
 worthy clergyman, who is none other than the Rev. Mr. 
 vValter Harte, the Rector of Taunton. No one is more ac- 
 tive against the rebels, and he would rejoice in committing
 
 2-OK i-'AITH A.VD I-REEDOM. j^^ 
 
 thee on 4he charge of having been among the maids. A 
 word from me would, I say, cause you to be hauled to jail. 
 But, observe, I do not speak that word. God forbid that I 
 should speak that word ! " 
 
 "Oh, sir," I said, "this goodness overwhelms me." 
 
 "Then, madam, for greater privacy, let us go back into 
 the house and converse there." 
 
 So we went back to the empty house and sat in the back 
 parlor. 
 
 " As for the nature of your trouble, madam," he began, 
 " I hope you have no dear brothers or cousins among those 
 poor fellows in Taunton Jail." 
 
 "No, sir, my only brother is at Ilminster ; and my cousins 
 are far away in New England." 
 
 "That is well. One who, like myself, is of a compas- 
 sionate disposition, cannot but bewail the grievous waste in 
 jail fever, small-pox, scarlet fever or putrid throat (to say 
 nothing of the hangings) which now daily happens in the 
 prison. What doth it avail to hang and quarter a man when 
 he might be usefully set to work upon his majesty's plaiita- 
 tions ! It is a most sinful and foolish waste, I say ' — he 
 spoke with great sincerity and warmth — " and a robbing of 
 the pockets of honest merchants." 
 
 "Indeed, sir," I said, "your words prove the goodness 
 of your heart." 
 
 " Let my deeds, rather than my words, prove that. How 
 fare the prisoners with whom you are most concerned .? " 
 
 "Alas ! Sir Christopher is dead ; and my father hath also 
 died of his wound." 
 
 " So — indeed — more waste. They are dead. More waste. 
 But one was old. Had Sir Christopher been sent to the 
 plantations his value would have but a small — though, in- 
 deed, a ransom — but he is dead ; and your father being 
 wounded — but they are dead, and so no more need be said. 
 There are, however, others, if I remember aright. " 
 
 "There is my brother in Ilminster prison, and — " 
 
 " Yes, the two young gentlemen, Challis is their name, 
 in Exeter. I have seen them and conversed with them. 
 Strong young men, especially one of them. 'Tis sad indeed 
 to think that they may be cut off in the very bloom of their 
 age, when they would command so high a price in Jamaica 
 or Barbadoes. I ventured to beg, before their trial, that they 
 would immediately begin to use whatever interest they 
 might be able to command, in order to get their sentence 
 (which was certain) commuted. Many will be suffered to
 
 23^ J^OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 go abroad; why not these young gentlemen ? But they have 
 no interest, they assured me, and therefore I fear that they 
 will die. 'Tis most sad. They cannot hang all, that is quite 
 true ; but, then, these young gentlemen were officers in the 
 army, and therefore an example will be made of them, it 
 they have no interest at court." 
 
 "Well sir," I told him, pleased to find him of such a 
 kindly and thoughtful disposition, "you will be glad to hear 
 that they are already pardoned, and have been presented 
 by the king to a gentleman at court." 
 
 " Aha ! Sayest thou so ? " His eyes glittered, and he rubbed 
 his hands. "This is indeed joyful news. One of them, Mr. 
 Robin Challis is a goodly lad, like to whom there are few 
 sent out to the plantations. He will certainly fetch a good 
 price. The other, Mr. Humphrey, who is somewha.t 
 crooked, will go for less. Who hath obtained the gift of 
 these young gentlemen } " 
 
 " It is a person named Mr. Nipho. " 
 
 " jNIr. Jerome Nipho. I know him well. He is a good 
 Catholic — I mean a papist — and is much about the court. 
 He is lucky in having had many prisoners given to him. 
 And now, madarri, I hope you will command my services. " 
 
 " In what way, sir .? " 
 
 " In this way. I am, as I have told yon," here he wagged 
 his head, and winked both eyes, and laughed pleasantly, 
 "one of those foolish busybodies who love to be still doing 
 good to their fellow-creatures. To do good is my whole 
 delight. Unfortunately the opportunities are rare of confer- 
 ring exemplary benefit upon my fellow-men. But here the 
 way seems clear." 
 
 He rubbed his hands and laughed again, repeating that 
 the way was clear before him, so that I believed myself for- 
 tunate in falling in with so virtuous a person. 
 
 "Oh, sir," I cried, " would that the whole world would 
 so live and so act ! " 
 
 "Truly, if it did, we should have the prisons cleared. 
 There should be no more throwing away of the good lives in 
 hanging ; no more waste of stout fellows and lusty wenches 
 by fever and small-pox. All should go to the planta- 
 tions — all. Now, madam, to our business, which is the ad- 
 vantage of these young gentlemen. Know, therefore, that 
 Mr. Jerome Nipho, with all those who have received pres- 
 ents of prisoners, straightway sell them to peisons who en- 
 gage to transport them across the seas to his majesty's plan-- 
 tations in Jamaica, Virginia, .or elsewhere. Here they are
 
 POR FAITIf AXD J'R££JDOM. 
 
 
 
 bound to work for a certain term of years. Call it not work, 
 h owe ver^ " he added, quickly; "say, rather, that they are 
 invited every day to exercise themselves in the cotton and 
 the sugar fields. The climate is delightful ; the sky is sel- 
 dom clouded ; there are never any frosts or snows ; it is al- 
 ways summer ; the fruits are delicious ; they have a kind of 
 spirit distilled from the sugar-canes, which is said to be 
 finer and more wholesome than the best Nantz ; the food is 
 palatable and plentiful, though plain. The masters, or em- 
 ployers (call them rather friends), are gentlemen of the 
 highest humanity, and the society is composed of sober 
 merchants, wealthy planters, and gentlemen, like your 
 brother, who have had the m-isfortune to differ in opinions 
 with the government." 
 
 "Why, sir," I said, " I have always understood that the 
 transported prisoners are treated with the greatest inhuman- 
 ity, forced to work in heat such as we never experience, 
 driven with the lash, and half starved, so that none evei 
 come back." 
 
 He shook his head gently. " See now," he said, " how 
 prejudices arise ! Who could have thought that the planta- 
 tions should be thus regarded.? 'Tis true that there are es- 
 tates cultivated by convicts of another kind ; I mean rob- 
 bers, highwaymen, petty thieves, and the like, Bristol doth, 
 every year, send away a ship-load at least of such. Nay ; 
 'tis reported that rather than hang murderers' and the like, 
 the Bristol merchants buy them of the magistrates ; but this 
 is out of the kindness of their hearts. INIadam," he thrust 
 his hand into his bosom, and looked me in the face, " I, 
 myself, am sometimes engaged in that trade. I, myself, 
 buy these unhappy prisoners, and send them to estates 
 where, I know, they will be treated with the greatest kind- 
 ness. Do I look like a dishonest man, madam ? I\Iy name 
 it is George Penne, and I am known by every man of credit 
 in Bristol. Do I talk like one who would make money out 
 of his neighbor's sufferings .'* Nay, if that is so, let us part 
 at once, and say no more. Madam, your humble servant ; 
 no harm is done, your humble servant, madam." He put 
 his hat under his arm, and made as if he would go. But 1 
 begged him to remain, and to advise me further in the 
 matter. 
 
 Then I asked him if transported persons ever came home 
 ag^ain. 
 
 " Surely," he replied, "some of them come home laden 
 with gold. Some possessed of places both of honor and of
 
 146 J-'OJ^ i-AITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 profit, who return to visit their friends, and then go back ta 
 the new country. It is a very Eldorado, or Land of Gold, 
 to those who are willing to work ; and for those who have 
 money, and choose to buy exemption from work, it is only 
 an agreeable residence, in cheerful society, for a certain 
 term of years. Have you, by chance, madam, any friends 
 who can influence Mr. Jerome Nipho ? " 
 
 "No, sir; I have none. 
 
 "Then will I, myself, communicate with that gentle- 
 man. Understand, madam, that I shall have to pay him so 
 much a head for every prisoner ; that I shall be engaged to 
 place every man on board ship ; that the prisoners will then 
 be taken across the seas, and again sold. But in the case 
 of those who have money, a ransom can be procured by 
 means of which they will not have to work." 
 
 So far he had spoken in the belief that I was at Taunton 
 on my brother's business, or that of my friends. I told 
 him, therefore, that certain events had occurred which 
 would prevent me from seeing the prisoners at Exeter. 
 And, because I could not forbear from weeping while I 
 spoke, he very earnestly begged me to inform him fully, in 
 every particular, as to my history ; adding that his benev- 
 olence was not confined to the unhappy case of prisoners, 
 but that it was ready to be extended in any other direction 
 that happy chance might offer. 
 
 Therefore being, as you have seen, so friendless and so 
 ignorant, and so fearful of falling into my husband's hands, 
 and, at the same time, so grateful to this good man for his 
 kindly offers (indeed, I took him for an instrument provided 
 by Heaven for the safety promised in my vision of the 
 night), that I told him everything exactly, concealing 
 nothing ; nay, I even told him of the bag of gold which I 
 had tied round my waist; a thing which I had hitherto con- 
 cealed, because the money was not mine, but Barnaby'a 
 But I told it to Mr. Penne. 
 
 While I related my history he interrupted me by frequent 
 ejaculations, showing his abhorrence of the wickedness 
 with which Benjamin compassed his design ; and when I 
 finished he held up his hands in amazement. 
 
 "Good God!" he cried, "that such a wretch should 
 Hve ! That he should be allowed still to cumber the earth ! 
 What punishment were fitting for this devil in the shape of 
 man ? Madam, your case is indeed one that would move 
 the heart of Nero himself. What is to be done? " 
 
 "Nay, that I know not. For if I go back to our villag*
 
 FOR FATTH AND FREEDOM. t\ t 
 
 ne will find me there ; and if I find out some hidlng-placu 
 he will seek me out and find me ; I shall never know rest 
 or peace again. For of one thing am I resolved ; I will 
 die, yea, I will indeed die, before I will become his wife 
 more than I am at present" 
 
 "1 cannot but commend that resolution, madam. Bv.i 
 (to be plain with you) there is no place in the world more 
 unsafe for you than Taunton at this time. Therefore, if you 
 please, I will ride with you to Bristol without delay." 
 
 "Sir, I cannot ask this sacrifice of your business." 
 
 "My business lies at Bristol. I can do no more here 
 until Judge Jeffreys hath got through his hangings, of 
 which, I fear, there may be many, and so more sinful waste 
 of good convicts. Let us therefore hasten away as quickly 
 as may be. As for what shall be done afterwards, that we 
 will consider on the way." 
 
 Did ever a woman in misfortune meet with so good a 
 man .-* The Samaritan himself was not of better heart. 
 
 Well, to be brief, half an hour afterwards we mounted 
 and rode to Bristol, by way of Bridgwater (this town was 
 even more melancholy than Taunton), taking three days, 
 the weather being now wet and raining, so that the ways 
 were bad. Now, as we rode along, Mr. Penae and I side 
 by side, and his servant behind, armed with a blunderbuss, 
 our conversation was grave, turning chiefly on the impru- 
 dence of the people in following Monmouth, when they 
 should have waited for the gentry to lead the way. I found 
 my companion (whom I held to be my benefactor) sober in 
 manners and in conversation ; no drunkard ; no use of pro- 
 fane oaths ; and towards me, a woman whom he had (so to 
 say) in his power, he behaved always with the greatest cere- 
 mony and politeness. So that I hoped to have found in 
 this good man a true protector. 
 
 When we reached Bristol he told me that, for my better 
 safety, he would lodge me apart from his own house ; and 
 so took me to a house in Broad Street, near St. John's Gate, 
 where there was a most respectable old lady of grave 
 aspect, though red in the cheek. 
 
 "I have brought you, madam," he said, "to the house 
 of a lady whose virtue and piety are well known." 
 
 "Sir," said the old lady, "this house is well known for 
 the piety of those who use it And everybody knows that 
 you are all goodness." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Penne. "No man is good. We can 
 bu^ try our best. In *hig house, however, ma<i»m, yon 
 
 •6
 
 i42 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 will be safe. I beg and implore you not at present to stir 
 abroad, for reasons which you very well know. This good 
 woman has three or four daughters in the house who are 
 sometimes, I believe, merry — " 
 
 "Sir," said the old lady, " children will be foolish." 
 
 "True; true," he replied, laughing. "Take care, then, 
 that they molest not madam. " 
 
 "No, sir, they shall not." 
 
 "Then, madam, for the moment I leave you. Rest and 
 be easy in your mind. I have, I think, contrived a plan 
 which will answer your case perfectly. ' 
 
 In the evening he returned and sent me word, very 
 ceremoniously, that he desired the favor of a conversation 
 with me. As if there could be anything in the world that I 
 desired more. 
 
 "Madam," he said, "1 have considered carefully your 
 case, and I can find but one advice to give." 
 
 ' ' What is it, sir ? " 
 
 "We might," he went on, "find a lodging for you in 
 some quiet VVelsh town across the channel. At Chepstow, 
 for instance, or at Newport, you might find a home for a 
 while. But the country being greatly inflamed with dis- 
 sensions, there would everywhere be the danger of some 
 fanatical busybody inquiring into your history — whence you 
 came, why you left your friends, and so forth. And again, 
 in every town there are Avomen (saving your presence, 
 madam) whose tongues tittle-tattle all day long. Short 
 work they make of a stranger. So that I see not much safety 
 in a small town. Then again you might find a farmhouse 
 where they would receive you. But your case is not that 
 you wish to be hidden for a time, as one implicated in the 
 Monmouth business. Not so ; you desire to be hidden all 
 your life, or for the life of the man who, if he finds you, may 
 compel you to live with him ; and to live for — how lonj"; .' 
 Sixty years, perhaps, in a dull and dirty farmhouse, amon^^ 
 rude boors, w^ould be intolerable to a person of your m tn- 
 ners and accomplishments." 
 
 "Then, sir, in the name of Heaven" — for I began to be 
 wearied with this lengthy setting up of plans only to pul] 
 them down again — " what shall I do .? " 
 
 "You might go to London. At first I thought that Lon 
 don offered the best hope of safe retreat. There are parts 
 of London wiiere the gentlemen of the robe are never seen, 
 and where you might be safe. Thus, about the eastern 
 parts of the city there are n?yer any lawyers at all.^ There
 
 POR FAITH AND FKEEno.'if. 
 
 l\l 
 
 you might be safe. But yet, it would be a perpetual risk. 
 Your face, madam, if I may say so, is one which will not 
 be quickly forgotten when it hath once been seen. You 
 would be persecuted by would-be lovers ; you would go in 
 continual terror, knowing that one you fear was living only 
 a mile away .from you. You would have to make up some 
 story to maintain, which would be troublesome ; and pres- 
 ently the time would come when you would have no more 
 money. What then would you do .? " 
 
 "Pray, sir, if you can, tell me what you think I should do, 
 since there are so many things that I cannot do." 
 
 "Madam, I am going to submit to you a plan which 
 seems to me at once the safest and the best You have, 
 you tell me, cousins in the town of Boston, which is in New 
 England.'' 
 
 " Yes ; I have heard my father speak of his cousins." 
 
 "I have, myself, visited that place, and have heard men- 
 tion of certain Eykins as gentlemen of substance and reputa- 
 tion. I propose, madam, that you should go to these cousins, 
 and seek a home among them. "' 
 
 " Leave England } You would have me leave this coun- 
 try and go across the ocean to America .? " 
 
 "That is my advice. Nay, Madam,'' he assumed a most 
 serious manner, "do not reject this advice suddenly. 
 Sleep upon it. You are not going among strangers, but 
 among your own people, by whom the name of your pious 
 and learned father is, doubtless, held in great honor. You 
 are going from a life (at best) of danger and continual care, 
 to a place where you will be certainly free from persecution. 
 Madam, sleep uoon it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 ON BOARD THE " JOLLY THATCHER- 
 
 I LAY awake all night, thinking of this plan. The more I 
 thought upon it the more I was pleased with it. To fly 
 from the country was to escape the pursuit of my husband, 
 who would never give over looking for me, because he was 
 so obstinate and masterful. I should also escape the re- 
 proaches of my lover, Robin, and break myself altogether from
 
 f 44 POk FAI; J! AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 a passion which was now, through my own rashness, becom6 
 sinful. I might also break myself from the loathing and 
 hatred which I now felt towards my wicked husband, and 
 might even, in time, and after much prayer, arrive at for- 
 giving him. At that time, yea, and for long afterwards, I 
 did often surprise myself in such a fit of passion as, I verily 
 believe, would have made me a murderess, had opportunity, 
 or the Evil One, sent that man my way. Yea, not once, 
 or twice, but many times, have I thus become a murderess 
 in thought and wish and intention. I confess this sin with 
 shame, though I have long since repented of it : to have 
 been so near unto it, nay, to have already committed it in 
 my imagination, covers me with shame. And now, when 
 I sometimes — my lord, the master of my affections, doth 
 allow it — visit the prison of Ilchester, and find therein some 
 poor wretch who hath yielded to temptation and sudden 
 wrath, which is the possession by the devil, and so hath 
 committed what I only imagined, my heart goes forth to 
 that poor creature, and I cannot rest until I have prayea 
 with her, and softened her heart, and left her to go contrite 
 to the shameful tree. Nay, since, as you shall hear, I have 
 been made to pass part of my life among the most wicked 
 and profligate of my sex, I am filled with the thought that 
 the best of us are not much better than the worst, and that 
 the worst of us are in some things as good as the best, so 
 that there is no room for pride and self-sufficiency, but 
 much for humiliation and distruct of one's own heart. 
 
 Well, if I would consent to fly from the country, across 
 the seas I should find kith and kin who would shelter me. 
 There should I learn to think about other things. Poor 
 wretch ! as if I could ever forget the village ; and, Robin, 
 oh, that I should have to try, even to try, to forget Robin. 
 I was to learn that though the skies be changed, the heart 
 remains the same. 
 
 How I fled, and whither, you shall now hear. 
 
 Mr. George Penne came to see me next morning — sleek 
 and smiling and courteous. 
 
 " Madam," he said, " may I know your decision, if you 
 have yet arrived at one ? " 
 
 "Sir, it is already made. I have slept upon it ; I have 
 prayed upon it. I will go." 
 
 "That is well. It is also most opportune, because a ship 
 sails this very day ; it is most opportune, I say : even provi- 
 dential. She will drop down the Channel with the coming 
 tide. You will want a few things for the voyage."
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 245 
 
 " It will be winter when we arrive, and the winters in 
 that country are cold. I must buy some thicker clothing. 
 Will there be any gentlewomen on board } '' 
 
 "Surely" — he smiled — "surely. There will be, I am 
 told, more than one gentlewoman on board that ship ; there 
 will be, in fact, a large and a cheerful company, of tnat you 
 may be assured. Well, since that is settled, a great load of 
 care is removed, because I have heard that your husband 
 rode into Taunton with Judge Jeffreys ; that he learned from 
 some one, I know not from whom, of your presence in the 
 town, and of your departure with me. " 
 
 " It must have been the market woman." 
 
 "Doubtless, the market-woman." ( I have often asked 
 myself whether this was a falsehood or not.) "And he is 
 even now speeding towards Bristol, hoping to find you. 
 Pray Heaven that he hath not learned with whom you fled." 
 
 " Oh ! " I cried, "let us go on board the ship at once ; 
 let us hasten." 
 
 "Nay, there is no hurry for a few hours. But stay within 
 doors. Everything that is wanting for the voyage shall be 
 put no board for you. As for your meals, you will eat with" 
 — here he paused for a moment — " with the rest of thecom- 
 pany, under the care of the captain. For your berth, it will 
 be as comfortable as can be provided. Next, as to the money. 
 You have, I understand, two hundred pounds and more." 
 I took the bag from my waist, and rolled out the contents. 
 There were in all two hundred and forty-five pounds and a 
 few shillings. The rest had been expended at Ilminster. 
 
 He counted it carefully, and then replaced the money in 
 the bag, 
 
 " The Eykins, of Boston, in New England," he said, "are 
 people of great credit and substance. There will be no 
 necessity for you to take with you this money, should you 
 wish it to be expended to the advantage of your brothorand 
 your friends." 
 
 " Take it all, kindsir. Take it all, if so it will help them in 
 their need." 
 
 " Nay, that will not do, either, " he replied, smiling, his 
 hand upon the bag ; "for, first, the captain of your ship 
 must be paid for his passage ; next, you must not go among 
 strangers, though your own kith and kin, with no money at 
 all in purse. Therefore I will set aside, by your good leave, 
 fifty pounds, for your private purse. So, fifty pounds. A 
 letter to my correspondent, at Boston, which I will write, 
 will cause him to pay you this money on your landing.
 
 246 POR FAITJI AND FREEDOM. 
 
 This is a safer method than to carry the money in a bag^ ef 
 purse, which may be stolen. But if the letter be lost another 
 can be written. We merchants, indeed,, commonly send 
 three such letters of advice, in case of shipwreck and loss of 
 the bags. This done, and the expenses of the voyage pro- 
 vided, there remains a large sum, which, judiciously spent, 
 will, I think, insure for your friends from the outset the 
 treatment reserved for prisoners of distinction who can afford 
 to pay. Namely, on their arrival they will be bought, as it 
 is termed, by worthy merchants, who, having been pre- 
 viously paid by me, will suffer them to live where they please 
 without exacting of them the least service or work. Their 
 relatives at home will forward them the means of sub- 
 sistence, and so their exile will be softened for them. If 
 you consent thereto, madam, I will engage that they shall 
 be so received, with the help of this money." 
 
 If I consented, indeed! With what joy did I give my 
 consent to such laying out of my poor Barnaby's money \ 
 Everything now seemed turning to the best, thanks to my 
 new and benevolent friend. 
 
 At his desire therefore, I wrote a letter to Barnaby, recom- 
 mending him to trust himself, and to advise Robin and Hum- 
 phrey to trust themselves, entirely to the good offices of this 
 excellent man. I informed him that I was about to cross 
 the seas to our cousins in New England, in order to escape 
 the clutches of the villain who had betrayed me. And then 
 I told him how his money had been bestowed, and bade 
 him seek me, when he should be released from the plant- 
 ations, wherever they might send him, at the town of Bos- 
 ton, among his cousins. The letter Mr. Penne faithfully 
 promised to deliver. {Nota bene. The letter was never 
 given to Barnaby.) 
 
 At the same time he wrote a letter for me to give to his 
 correspondent at Boston, telling me that on reading that 
 letter his friend would instantly pay me the sum of fifty 
 pounds. 
 
 Thus was the business concluded. And I could not find 
 words, I told him, to express the gratitude which I felt for 
 so much goodness towards one who was a stranger to him. 
 I begged him to suffer me to repay at least the charges to 
 which he had been put at the inns and the stabling, since he 
 took me into his own care and protection. But he would 
 take nothing. Money, he said, as,payment for such services 
 as he had been enabled to render," would be abhorrent to his 
 nature, Should good deeds be bought .-* was it seemly that
 
 FOA' FAITH AND FREEDOM. 24^ 
 
 a mercharit of credit should sell an act of common Christian 
 charity ? 
 
 "What]"' he asked, "are we to see a poor creature in 
 danger of being- imprisoned if she is recognized, and of being 
 carried off against her will by a husband whom she loathes, 
 if he tinds her — are we to see such a woman, and not be in- 
 stantly fired by every generous emotion of compassion and 
 indignation to help that woman at the mere cost of a few 
 days' service and a few guineas spent ? " 
 
 I was greatly moved, even to tears, at these words and 
 at all this generosity, and I told him that I could not suffi- 
 ciently thank him for all he had done, and that he should 
 have my prayers always. 
 
 "I hope I may, madam," he said, smiling strangely. 
 "When the ship hath sailed, you will remember, perhaps, 
 the fate of Susan Blake, and whatever may be your present 
 discomfort on board a rolling ship, say to yourself that this 
 is better than to die in a noisome prison. You will also un- 
 derstand that you have fallen into the haiids of a respectable 
 merchant, who is much more lenient than Judge Jeffreys, 
 and will not consent to the wasting of good commercial 
 stuff in jails and on gibbets." 
 
 " Nay, sir," I said, "what doth all this mean 1 " 
 
 "Nothing, madam, nothing. I was only anxious that 
 you should say to yourself, ' Thus and thus have I been 
 saved from a jail. Such was Mr. Penne's humanity.'" 
 
 " Understand it .? Oh, dear sir, I repeat, that my words 
 arc not strong enough to express my gratitude." 
 
 "Now, madam, no doubt, your gratitude runs high. 
 Whether to-morrow — " 
 
 " Can I ever forget .? To-morrow.? To-morrow? Surely, 
 sir — " 
 
 "Well, madam, we will wait until to-morrow. INIear.- 
 time, lie snug and quiet all day, and in the afternoon I will 
 come for you. Two hundred and forty-five pounds. "lis 
 not a great sum, but a good day's work — a good day's work 
 — added to the satisfaction of helping a most unfortunate 
 young gentleman — most unfortunate." 
 
 What did the good man mean by still talking of the mor- 
 row ? 
 
 At half-past twelve the good woman of the house brou'dif 
 me a plate of meat and some bread. 
 
 "So," she said (her face was red, and I think she had 
 l)een drinking), "he hath determined to put you on boarj 
 M'ith the rest. I hear."
 
 24? FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 " Husti \ If you have heard, say nothing." 
 
 "He thinks he can buy my silence. Come, madam, 
 though, indeed, some would rather take their chance with 
 Judge Jeffreys — they say he is a man who can be moved 
 by the face of a Avoman — than with — Well, as for my 
 silence, there — It is usual, madam, to compliment the 
 landlady, and though, I confess, you are not of the kind 
 which do commonly frequent this house, yet one may ex- 
 pect — " 
 
 "Alas, my good woman, I have nothing. Mr. Penne has 
 taken all my money." 
 
 "What, you had money 1 And you gave it to Mr. Penne? 
 You gave it to him ? Nay, indeed — Why, in the place 
 where thou art going — " 
 
 She was silent, for suddenly we heard Mr. Penne's step 
 outside. And he opened the door. 
 
 "Come," he said, roughly. "The captain says that he 
 will weigh anchor in an hour; the tide serves, come." 
 
 I hastened to put on my hat and mantla 
 
 " Farewell," I said, taking the old woman's hand. "I 
 have nothing to give thee but my prayers. Mr. Penne, who 
 is all goodness, will reward thee for thy kindness to me." 
 
 "He all goodness !" repeated the old woman. "He.'* 
 why, if there is upon the face of the whole earth — " 
 
 "Come, child," I\Ir. Penne seized my hand and dragged 
 me away. 
 
 "The woman," he said, "hath been drinking. It is a 
 bad habit she hath contracted of late. I must see into it, 
 and speak seriously to her. But a good nature at heart ; 
 come, we must hasten. You will be under the special care 
 of the captain. I have provided a boxful of warm clothing 
 and other comforts. I think there is nothing omitted that 
 may be of use. Come." 
 
 He hurried me along the narrow streets until we came to 
 a quay, where there were a great number of ships, such as 
 I had never before seen. On one of them the sailors were 
 running about clearing away things, coiling ropes, tossing 
 sacks and casks aboard with such a yo-hoing and noise as 
 I never in my life heard before. 
 
 " 'Tis our ship," said Mr. Penne. Then he led me along 
 a narrow bridge, formed by a single plank, to the deck of 
 the ship. There stood a gentleman of a very tierce and 
 resolute aspect, armed with a sword hanging from a scarlet 
 sash, and a pair of pistols in his belt. 
 
 "Captain," said Mr. Penne, "arc all aboard?"
 
 POR FAITfl AND FREEDO.\l. _-.;,, 
 
 "Ay, we have all our cargo. And a pretty crew they 
 are. Is this the last of them ? Send her for'ard." 
 
 " Madam," said Mr. Penne, "suffer me to lead you to a 
 place where, until the ship sails and the officers have time 
 to take you to your cabin, you can rest and be out of the 
 way. It is a rough assemblage, but at sailing one has no 
 choice." 
 
 Gathered in the forepart of what they called the waist 
 there was a company of about a hundred people. Some 
 were young, some old ; some were men, some women. 
 Some seemed mere children. All .alike showed in their 
 faces the extreme of misery, apprehension, and dismay. 
 
 "Who are these } " I asked. 
 
 "They will tell you themselves, presently. Madam, 
 farewell." With that Mr. Penne left me standing among this 
 crowd of wretches, and, without waiting for my last words 
 of gratitude, hurried away immediately. 
 
 I saw him running across a plank to the quay. Then the 
 boatswain blew a shrill whistle ; the plank was shoved 
 over ; some ropes were cast loose, and the ship began to 
 move slowly down the river with the tide, now beginning 
 to run out, and a wind from the northeast. 
 
 I looked about me. What were all these people .? Why 
 were they going to New England .? Then, as the deck was 
 now clearer, and the sailors, I suppose, at their stations, I 
 ventured to walk towards the after-part of the ship, with the 
 intention to ask the captain for my cabin. As I did so, a 
 man stood before me armed with a great cane which he 
 brandished, threatening with a horrid oath to lay across my 
 back if I ventured any further aft. 
 
 " Prisoners, for'ard," he cried. "Back you go, or, by tlu 
 Lord ! " 
 
 " Prisoner .?" I said ; "I am no prisoner. I am a pas- 
 senger. " 
 
 "Passenger.? Why, as for that, you are all passengers."' 
 
 "All .? Who arc these, then ? " 
 
 He informed me with plainness of speech who and what 
 they were ; convicts taken from the prisons, branded in the 
 hand, and sentenced to transportation. 
 
 " But I am a passenger," I repeated. ' Mr. Penne hath 
 paid for my passage to New England. He hath paid the 
 captain." 
 
 "The ship is bound for Barbadoes, rot New England. 
 'Tis my duty not to stir from this spot, but here's the mate, 
 tell him."
 
 ■ISO 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 This was a young man armed like the captain, with pis' 
 tols and sword. 
 
 "Sir," I said, "I am a passenger brought on board by 
 Mr. Penne, whose passage hath been paid to New Eng- 
 land. " 
 
 "By Mr. George Penne, you say?" 
 
 "The same. He hath engaged a cabin for me, and hath 
 purchased clothes and — " 
 
 "Is it possible," said the mate, "that you do not know 
 where you are, and whither you are going .'' " 
 
 "I am going, under the special care of the captain, to 
 the city of Boston in New England, to my cousin Mr. Eykin, 
 a gentleman of credit and substance of that town." 
 
 He gazed at me with wonder. 
 
 " I will speak to the captain," he said, and left me stand- 
 ing there. 
 
 Presently he returned. "Come with me," he said. 
 
 "You are Grace Eykin," said the captain, who had with 
 him a paper from which he read. 
 
 "That is my name." 
 
 "On a certain day in July, your father being a preacher 
 in the army of the Duke of Monmouth, you walked with a 
 procession of girls bearing flags which you presented to that 
 rebel. " 
 
 "It is true, sir." 
 
 "You have been given by the king to some great lord or 
 other, I know not whom, and by him sold to the man Penne, 
 who hath put you on board this ship, the Jolly Thatcher, 
 port of London, to be conveyed, with a hundred prisoners, 
 all rogues and thieves, to the island of Barbadoes, where you 
 will presently be sold as a servant for ten years, after which 
 period, if you choose, you will be at liberty to return to 
 England. " 
 
 Then, indeed, the captain before me seemed to reel about, 
 And I fell fainting at his feet
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 3|r 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THEGOODSAMARITAN. • 
 
 This was indeed the truth ; I had parted with my money 
 ©n the word of a villain ; I put myself into his power by 
 telling him the whole of my sad story ; and on the promise 
 of sending me by ship to my cousins in New England he 
 had entered my name as a rebel sold to himself (afterwards 
 I learned that he made it appear as if I was one of the hun- 
 dred given to I\Ir. Jerome Nipho, all of whom he afterwards 
 brought and sent to the plantations), and he had then shipped 
 me on board a vessel on the point of sailing with as vile a 
 company of rogues, vagabonds, thieves, and drabs as were 
 ever raked together out of the streets and the prisons. 
 
 When I came to my senses the captain gave me a glass of 
 cordial, and made me sit down on a gun-carriage while he 
 asked me many questions. I answered them all truthfully, 
 concealing only the reason of my flight, and of my visit to 
 Taunton, where, I told him truly, 1 hoped to see my un- 
 happy friend. Miss Blajce, of whose imprisonment and death 
 I knew nothing. 
 
 " Madam," said the captain, stroking his chin, "your 
 case is indeed a hard one. Yet your name is entered on my 
 list, and I must deliver your body at St. Michael's port, 
 Barbadoes, or account for its absence. This must I do ; I 
 have no other choice. As for your being sold to Mr. 
 George Penne by Mr. Jerome Nipho, this may very well be 
 without your knowing even that you had been given to that 
 gentleman by the king. They say that the maids of 
 Taunton have all been given away, mostly to the queen's 
 maids of honor, and must either be redeemed at a great 
 price, or be sold as you have been. On the other hand, 
 there may be villainy ; and in this case it might be danger- 
 ous for you to move in the matter lest you be apprehended, 
 and sent to jail as a rebel, and so a worse fate happen unto 
 you." 
 
 He then went on t(j tell me that this pretended merchant, 
 this Mr. George Penne, was the most notorious kidnapjier in 
 the whole of Bristol ; that he was always rakini^ the prison*
 
 252 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 of rogues, and sending them abroad for sale on the planta- 
 tions ; that at this time he was looking to make a great profit 
 because there were so many prisoners that all could not be 
 hanged, but most must be either flogged and sent about 
 their business, or else sold to him and his like for servitude. 
 
 " As for any money paid for your passage," he M'ent on, 
 " I assure you, madam, upon my honor, that nothing at all 
 has been paid by him, nor has he provided you wich any 
 change of clothing, or provisions of any kind for the voyage ; 
 nor hath he asked or bargained for any better treatment of 
 you onboard than is given to the rogues below, and that, 
 madam," he added, " is food of the coarsest, and planks, for 
 sleep, of the hardest. The letter which you have shown 
 me is a mere trick. I do not think there is any such person 
 in Boston ; it is true, however, that there is a family of your 
 name in Boston, and that they are substantial merchants. 
 I make no doubt that as he hath treated you, so he will 
 treat your friends, and that all the money which he has 
 taken from you will remain in his own pocket." 
 
 " Then," I cried, " what am I to do.? Where look for 
 help?" 
 
 "'Tis the damnedest villain !" cried the captain, swear- 
 ing after the profane way of sailors. " When nextl put in 
 at the port of Bristol, if the IMonmouth scare be over, I will 
 take care that all the world shall know what he hath done. 
 But, indeed, he will not care. The respectable merchants 
 have nothing to say with him ; he is now an open Catholic, 
 who was formerly concealed in that religion. Therefore he 
 thinks his fortune is at the flood. But what is to be done, 
 madam ? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I know not." 
 
 He considered awhile. His face was rough, and colored 
 like a ripe plum with the wind and the sun ; but he looked 
 honest, and he did not, like Mr. Penne, pretend to shed 
 tears over my misfortunes. 
 
 " Those who join rebellions," he said, but not unkindly, 
 " generally find themselves out in their reckoning in the 
 end. What the deuce have gentlewomen to do with the 
 pulling down of kings ? I warrant, now, you thought you 
 were doing a grand thing, and so you must needs go walk- 
 ing with those pretty fools, the maids of Taunton ; well, 'tis 
 past praying for ; George Penne is such a villain thai keel- 
 hauling is too good for him. flogged through the fleet at 
 Spithead he should be. Madam, 1 am not one who favors 
 rebels ; y§t you cannot sleep and mess with the scum down
 
 POfi FAITH AAD t''kEEDOM. ^53 
 
 yonder. 'Twould be worse than inhuman — their talk and 
 their manners would kill you. There is a cabin aft which 
 you can have ; the furniture is mean, but it will be your own ; 
 while you are aboard you shall mess at my table if you will 
 so honor me. You shall have the liberty of the quarter-deck. 
 I will also find for you, if I can, among the women aboard, 
 one somewhat less villainous than the rest, who shall be 
 your grumeta, as the Spaniards say ; your servant, that is, 
 to keep your cabin clean, and do your bidding. When we 
 make Barbadoes there is no help for it, but you must go 
 ashore with the rest and take your chance. " 
 
 This was truly generous of the captain, and I thanked him 
 with all my heart He proved as good as his word, for 
 though he was a hard man, who duly maintained discipline, 
 flogging his prisoners with rigor, he treated me during the 
 whole voyage with kindness and pity, never forgetting daily 
 to curse the name of George Penne, and to drink to his 
 confusion. 
 
 The voyage lasted six weeks. At first we had rough 
 weather, with heavy seas and rolling waves. Happily I 
 was not made sick by the motion of the ship, and could 
 always stand upon the deck and look at the waves (a spect- 
 acle, to my mind, the grandest in the whole world). But I 
 fear there was much suffering among the poor wretches, my 
 fellow-prisoners. They were huddled and crowded together 
 below the deck ; they were all seasick ; there was no doctor 
 to relieve their sufferings nor were there any medicines for 
 those who were ill. Fever presently broke out among them, 
 so that we buried nine in the first fortnight of our voyage. 
 After this, the weather growing warm and the sea moderat- 
 ing, the sick mended rapidly and soon all were well again. 
 
 I used to stand upon the quarter-deck and look at them 
 gathered in the waist below. Never had I seen such a com- 
 pany. They came, I heard, principally from London, 
 which is the rendezvous or headquarters of all the rogues in 
 the country. They were all in rags ; had any one among 
 them possessed a decent coat it would have been snatched 
 from his back the very first day ; they were dirty from the 
 beginning ; many of them had cuts and wounds on their 
 heads gotten in their fights and quarrels, and these were 
 bound about with old clouts ; their faces were not fresh 
 colored and rosy like the faces of our honest country lads, 
 but pale and sometimes covered with red blotches caused 
 by their evil lives and their hard drinking ; on their fore- 
 heads was clearly set the seal of Satan. Never did 1 behold
 
 *54 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 wickedness so manifestly stamped upon the human couiv 
 tenance. They were like monkeys for their knavish and 
 thievish tricks. They stole everything that they could lay 
 hands upon ; pieces of rope, the sailors' knives when they 
 could get them, even the marlin spikes, if they were left 
 about. When they were caught and flogged they would 
 make the ship terrible with their shrieks, being cowa)rds as 
 prodigious as they were thieves. They lay about all day, 
 ragged and dirty, on deck in the place assigned to them, 
 stupidly sleeping, or else silent and dumpish, except for 
 some of the young fellows who gambled with cards, I know 
 not for what stakes, and quarrelled over the game and 
 fought It was an amusement among the sailors to make 
 these lads fight on the forecastle, promising a pannikin of 
 rum to the victor. For this miserable prize they would 
 fight with the greatest fury and desperation, even biting one 
 another in their rage, while the sailors clapped their hands 
 and encouraged them. Pity it is that the common sort 
 do still delight themselves with sport so brutal. On shore 
 these fellows would be rejoicing in cock-fights and bull- 
 baitings ; on board they baited the prisoners. 
 
 There were among the prisoners twenty or thirty 
 women, the sweepings of the Bristol streets. They, too. 
 would fight as readily as the men until the captain forbade 
 it under penalty of a flogging. These women were to the 
 full as wicked as the men ; nay, their language was worse, 
 insomuch that the very sailors would stand aghast to hear 
 the blasphemies they uttered, and would even remonstrate 
 with them, saying, "Nan," or "Poll" — they were all Polls 
 and Nans — " 'tis enough to cause the ship to be struck with 
 lightning. Give over now ; wilt sink the ship's company 
 with your foul tongue .? " But the promise of a flogging 
 kept them from fighting. Men, I think, will brave anything^ 
 for a moment's gratification, but not even the most hardened 
 women will willingly risk the pain of the whip. 
 
 The captain told me that of these convicts, of whom 
 every year whole ship-loads are taken to Virginia, to Jam- 
 aica, and to Barbadoes, not one in a hundred ever returns. 
 " For," he said, "the work exacted from them is so severe, 
 with so much exposure to a burning sun, and the fare is 
 so hard, that they fall into fevers and calentures, and besides 
 the dangers from the heat and the bad food there is a drink 
 called rum, or arrack, which is distilled from the juice of 
 the sugar-cane, and another drink called mobbie, distilled 
 from potatoes, which inflames their blood and causes many
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 2^5 
 
 to die before their time. Moreover, the laws a:e harsh, 
 and there is too much tiogg-ing- and branding- and hanging. 
 So that some fall into despair, and in that condition of minu 
 die under the first illness which seizes on them." 
 
 " Captain," I said, "you forget that I am also to become 
 one of these poor wretches." 
 
 The captain swore lustily that on his return he would 
 seek out the villain Penne and break his neck for him. 
 Then he assured me that the difference between myself and 
 the common herd would be immediately recognized, that a 
 rebel is not a thief, and must not be so treated, and that I 
 had nothing to fear ; nay, that he himself would say what 
 he could in my favor. But he entreated me with the utmost 
 vehemence to send home an account of where I was and 
 what I was enduring to such of my friends as might have 
 either money to relieve me from servitude or interest to 
 procure a pardon. Alas ! I had no friends. Mr. Boscorel, 
 I knew full well, would move heaven and earth to help me. 
 But he could not do that without his son finding out where 
 I was, and this thought so moved me that I implored the 
 captain to tell no one who I was or what was my history, 
 and for greater persuasion I revealed to him those parts of 
 my history which I had hitherto concealed, naming my 
 marriage, and the reason of that rash step and my flight. 
 
 " Madam," he said, " I would that I had the power of re- 
 venging these foul wrongs. For them, I swear, I would 
 kidnap both Mr. George Penne and Mr. Benjamin Boscorel, 
 and, look you, I would make them mess with the scum and 
 the sweepings whom we carry for'ard ; and I would sell 
 them to the most inhuman of the planters, by whom they 
 would be daily beaten and cuffed and flogged ; or, better 
 still, wouldcause them to be sold at Havana to the Spaniards, 
 where they would be employed, as are the English prisoners 
 commonly by that cruel people, namely, in fetching water 
 under negro overseers. I leave you to imagine how long 
 they would live and what terrible treatment they would 
 receive. " 
 
 So it was certain that I was going to a place where I must 
 look for very little mercy unless I could buy it, and where 
 the white servant was regarded as worth so many years of 
 work; not so much as a negro, because he doth sooner sink 
 under the hardships of his lot, while the negro continues 
 frolick and lusty, and marries and has children, even though 
 he has to toil all day in the sun. and is flogged continually 
 to make him work with the greater heart.
 
 >56 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 Among' the womerx on board was a young woman, not 
 more than eighteen or thereabout, wVto was called Deb. 
 She had no other name. Her birthplace she knew not, but 
 she had run about the country with some tinkers, whose 
 language, she said, is called Shelta by those people. This 
 she could still talk. They sold her in Bristol, after which 
 her history is one which I learn is common in towns. When 
 the captain bade her come to the cabin, and ordered her to 
 obey me in whatsoever I commanded, she looked stupidly 
 at him, shrinking from him if he moved, as if she were ac- 
 customed (which was indeed the case) to be beaten at every 
 word. I made her first clean herself and wash her clothes. 
 This done she slept in my cabin, and, as the captain 
 promised, became my servant. At first she was not only 
 afraid of ill-treatment, but she would wilfully lie ; she pur- 
 loined things and hid them ; she told me so many tales 
 about her past life, all of them different, that I could believe 
 none. Yet when she presently found out that I was not 
 going to beat her, and that the captain did never offer to 
 cuff or kick her (which the poor wretch expected), she left 
 off telling falsehoods and became as handy, obliging, and 
 useful a creature as one could desire. She was a great 
 strapping girl, black eyed and with black hair, as strong as 
 any man, and a good-looking creature as well to those who 
 like great women. 
 
 This Deb, when, I say, she ceased to be afraid of me, be- 
 gan to tell me her true history, which was, I suppose, only 
 remarkable because she seemed not to know that it was 
 shameful and wicked. She lived, as the people among 
 whom she had been brought up lived, without the least sense 
 or knowledge of God. Indeed, no heathen savage could be 
 more without religion than the tinkers and gypsies on the 
 road. They have no knowledge at all ; they are born ; 
 they live ; they die ; they are buried in a hedgeside and are 
 forgotten. It was surprising to me to find that any woman 
 could grow up in a Christian country so ignorant and so un- 
 cared for. In the end she showed every mark of penitence 
 and fell into a godly and pious life. 
 
 My captain continued in the same kindness towards me 
 throughout the voyage, suffering me to mess at his table, 
 where the provisions were plain but wholesome, and en- 
 couraging me to talk to him, taking pleasure in my simple 
 conversation. In the mornings when, with a fair wind and 
 full sail the ship ploughed through the water, while the sun 
 •was hot overhead, he would make me a seat with a pillow
 
 roR fhiiji aa'd freedom. 
 
 257 
 
 in the shade, and would then entreat me to tell him about 
 the rebellion and our flight to Black Down. Or he would 
 encourage me in serious talk (though his own conversation 
 with his sailors was overmuch garnished with profane oaths), 
 listening with grave face. And sometimes he would ask me 
 questions about the village of Bradford Orcas, my mothel 
 and her wheel, Sir Christopher and the rector, showing a 
 wonderful interest in everything that I told him. It was 
 strange to see how this man, hard as he was with the pris- 
 oners (whom it was necessary to terrify, otherwise they 
 might mutiny), could be so gentle towards me, a stranger. 
 and a costly one too, because he was at the expense of 
 maintaining me for the whole voyage, and the whole time 
 being of good manners, never rude or rough, or offering 
 the least freedom or familiarity, a thing which a woman in 
 my defenceless position naturally fears. He could not have 
 shown more respect unto a queen. 
 
 One evening at sunset, when we had been at sea six weeks, 
 iie came to me as I was sitting on the quarter-deck, and 
 pointed to what seemed a cloud in the west " 'Tis tne 
 island of Barbadoes," he said. "To-morrow, if this wind 
 keeps fair, we shall make the port of St. ^Michael's, which 
 some call the Bridge, and then, madam, alas ! " — he fetched 
 a deep sigh — "I must put you ashore and part with the 
 sweetest companion that ever sailed across the ocean." 
 
 He said no more, but left me as if he had other things to 
 say but stifled them. Presently the sun went down and 
 darkness fell upon the v/aters ; the wind also fell and the 
 sea was smooth, so that there was a great silence. "To- 
 morrow," I thought, "we shall reach the port, and I shall 
 be landed with these wretches and sent perhaps to toil in the 
 fields." But yet my soul was upheld by the vision which 
 had been granted to me upon the Black Down hills, and I 
 feared nothing. This I can say without boasting, because I 
 had such weighty reasons for the faith that was in me. 
 
 The captain presently came back to me. 
 
 " Madam, " he said, ' ' suffer me to open my mind to you. " 
 
 "Sir," I told him, "there is nothing which I could refuse 
 you saving my honor."' 
 
 ' I must confess," he said, " I have been torn in twain for 
 love of you, madam, ever since you did me the honor to 
 mess at my table — nay, iicai" me out — and I have been 
 minded a thousand times to assure you, first, that your mar- 
 riage is no marriage, and that you have not indeed any hus- 
 band at all ; next, that since you can never go back to ycMi 
 
 19
 
 t^S FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 old sweetheart, 'tis better to find another who would protect 
 and cherish you ; and, thirdly, that I am ready, ay, and 
 longing, now to become your husband and protector, and to 
 love you with all my heart and soul." 
 
 " Sir. " I said, ' ' I thank you for telling me this, which, indeed, 
 I did not suspect. But I am (alas ! as you know) already married 
 (even though my marriage be no true one), and can never 
 forget the love which I still must bear to my old sweet- 
 heart, Wherefore I may not listen to any talk of love. " 
 
 " If," he replied, "you were a woman after the common 
 pattern, you would right gladly cast aside the chains of this 
 marriage ceremony. But, madam, you are a saint, there- 
 fore I refrained," he sighed. "I confess that I have been 
 dragged as by chains to lay myself at your feet. Well, that 
 must not be," he sighed again; "yet I would save you, 
 madam, from the dangers of this place. The merchants 
 and planters do for the most part, though gentlemen of good 
 birth, lead debauched and ungodly lives, and I fear that 
 though they may spare you the hardships of the field, they 
 may offer you other and worse indignities." 
 
 I answered in the words of David : "the Lord hath de- 
 livered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of 
 the bear, he wull deliver rhe out of the hand of the Philis- 
 tines. " 
 
 " Nay, but there is a way. You need not land at all. It 
 is but a scratch of the pen, and I will enter y-our name 
 among those w^ho died upon the voyage. There will be no 
 more inquiry any more than after the other names, and then 
 I can carry you back with me to the port of London, whither 
 I am bound after taking in my cargo.'' 
 
 For a space I was sorely tempted. Then I reflected. It 
 would be, I remembered, by consenting to the captain's 
 treachery towards his employers, nothing less, that I could 
 escape this lot. 
 
 "No, sir," I said, "I thank you from my heart for all 
 your kindness and for your forbearance. But we may not 
 consent together unto this sin. Again I thank you. But I 
 must suffer w^hat is laid upon me." 
 
 He knelt at my feet and kissed my hands, saying nothing 
 more, and presently I went to my cabin ; and so ended my 
 first voyage across the great Atlantic Ocean. In the morn- 
 ing, when I awoke, we were beating off Carlisle Bay, and I . 
 felt like unto one of those Christian martyrs of whom I have 
 read, whom they were about to lead forth and cast unto the 
 lions.
 
 J^VR FAWII AND FREEDOM 35^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE WHITE SLAVE. 
 
 When we dropped anchor in the port or road of Carlisle 
 Bay we were boarded by a number of gentlemen who wel- 
 comed the captain, asked him the news, and drank with 
 him. I meantime kept in my cabin, knowing that I must 
 shortly come forth ; and presently I heard the boatswain's 
 pipe, and the order to all the prisoners to come on deck. 
 Then one knocked softly at my door. It was the captain. 
 
 " Madam," he said, with a troubled voice, "it is not too 
 late. Suffer me, I pray you, to enter your name as one of 
 those who died on the voyage. It is no great deception : 
 the villain Penne will alone be hurt'by it ; and I swear to 
 take you home, and to place you, until better times, with 
 honest and God-fearing people in London." 
 
 " Oh, sir," I replied, "tempt me not, I pray you. Let 
 me go forth and take my place among the rest. " 
 
 He entreated me again : but, finding that he could not 
 prevail, he suffered me to come out. Yet such was his 
 kindness to the last, that he would not place me with the 
 rest, but caused his men to give me a chair on the quarter- 
 deck. Then I saw that we were all to be sold. The pris- 
 oners were drawn up standing in lines, one behind the 
 other, the men on one side and the women on the other. 
 The hardships of the voyage had brought them so low that, 
 with their. rags and dirt, and their dull scowls and savage 
 faces, and their thin, pale checks, they presented a forbidding 
 appearance indeed. 
 
 Three or four gentlemen (they were, I found, planters of 
 this island) were examining them, ordering them to lift up 
 their arms, stretch out their legs, open their mouths, and, 
 in short, treating them like so many cattle, at which the 
 women laughed with ril)ald words, but the men looked as 
 if they would willingly, if they dared, take revenge. 
 
 " Faugh 1 " cried one of the planters, " here is a goodly 
 collection indeed ! The island is like to become the dust- 
 heap of Great Britain, where all the rubbish may be shot. 
 Captain, how long before these bags of bones will drop to
 
 jii:) jOJ^ faith AA'D FREEbOAL 
 
 pieces/' vVell. sweet ladies and fair gentlemen " — he made 
 a mock bow to the prisoners — ■' you are welcome. After 
 the voyage, a little exercise will do you good. You will 
 find the air of the fields wholesome, and the gentlewomen, 
 I assure you, will discover that the drivers and overseers 
 will oblige any who want to dance with a skipping-rope." 
 
 There were now twenty or thirty gentlemen, all of them 
 merchants and planters, on board, and a man stepped for- 
 ward with a book and pencil in hand, who was, I perceived, 
 the salesman. 
 
 "Gentlemen, he said, " this parcel of servants " (he called 
 them a parcel, as if they were a bale of dry-goods) "is con- 
 signed to my care by Mr. George Penne, of Bristol, their 
 owner. They are partly from that city and partly from 
 London, though shipped at the port of Bristol. A tedious 
 voyage, following after a long imprisonment in Newgate 
 and Bridewell, hath, it is true, somewhat reduced them. 
 But there are among them, as you will find on examination, 
 many lusty fellows and stout wenches, and I doubt not that 
 what you buy to-day will hereafter prove good bargains. 
 They are to be sold without reserve and to the highest bid- 
 der. Robert Bull " — he read the first name on the list 
 — "Robert Bull, shoplifter. Stand forth, Robert Bull." 
 
 There arose from the deck, where he had been lying, a 
 poor wretch who looked as if he could hardly stand, wasted 
 with fever and privation, his eyes hollow (yet they looked 
 full of wicked cunning). The planters shook their heads. 
 
 "Come, gentlemen," said the salesman, "we must not 
 judge by appearances. He is at present, no doubt, weak, 
 but not so weak as he looks. I warrant a smart cut or two 
 of the whip would show another man. Who bids for Robert 
 Bull .? " 
 
 He was sold, after a little parley, for the sum of five pounas. 
 Then the speaker called another, naming his offence as a 
 qualification. No pillory could be more shameful. Yet the 
 men looked dogged and the women laughed. 
 
 The sale lasted for three or four hours, the prisoners being 
 knocked down, as they say, for various sums, the greatest 
 price being given for those women who were young and 
 strong. The reason (I have been told) is that the women 
 make better servants, endure the heat more patiently, do not 
 commonly drink the strong spirit which destroys the men, 
 and though they are not so strong, do more \vork. 
 
 Last of all the men called my name. " Grace Eykin. 
 rebel. Stand forth, Grace Eykin.'"
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 26 1 
 
 " Do not g'o down among' them," said the captain. " Let 
 them see at once that yours is no common case. Stand 
 here. " 
 
 He led me to the top of the ladder or steps, which they 
 call the companion, leading from the waist to the quarter- 
 deck. 
 
 " Madam,"' he said, " it will be best to throw back your 
 hood. " 
 
 This I did, and so stood before them all bareheaded. 
 
 Oh, you who are women of gentle nature, think of such a 
 thing as thus to stand exposed to the curious gaze of rough 
 and ribald men ; to be bought and sold like a horse or an ox 
 at the fair. At first my eyes swam, and I saw nothing, and 
 should have fallen, but the captain placed his hand upon my 
 arm, and so I was steadied. Then my sight cleared, and I 
 could look down upon the faces of the men below. There 
 was no place whither I could fly and hide ; it would be more 
 shameful still (because it might make them laugh) to burst 
 into tears. Why, I thought, why had I not accepted the 
 captain's offer, and suffered my name to be entered as one 
 of those who had died on the voyage and been buried in the 
 sea.-* 
 
 Down in the waist the gentleman gazed and gasped in 
 astonishment It was no new thing for the planters to buy 
 political prisoners. Oliver Cromwell sent over a ship-load 
 of Irishmen first, and another ship-load of those engaged in 
 the rising of Penruddock and Grove (among them were 
 gentlemen, divines, and officers, of whom a few yet survived 
 on the island). But as yet no gentlewoman at all had heen 
 sent out for political reasons. Therefore, I suppose, they 
 looked so amazed, and gazed first at me and then at one an- 
 other and then gasped for breath. 
 
 "Grace Eykin, gentlemen," said the salesman, who had a 
 tongue which, as they say, ran upon wheels, " is a young 
 gentlewoman, the daughter, I am informed, of the Rev. 
 Comfort Eykin, Doctor of Divinity, deceased, formerly 
 Rector of Bradford Orcas in the County of Somerset, and 
 sometime fellow of his college at Oxford, a very learned 
 divine. She hath had the misfortune to have taken part in 
 the Monmouth rebellion, and was one of those maids of 
 Taunton who gave the duke his flags, as you have heard by 
 the latest advices. Therefore she is sent aljioad for a term 
 often years. Gentlemen, there can be no doubt that her 
 relations will not endure that this young lady, as beautiful as 
 fhe is unfortunate, and as tender as she is beautiful, should
 
 262 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 be exposed to the same hard treatment as the rogues and 
 thieves whom you have just had put up for sale. They will, 
 I am. privately assured" — I heard this statement with amaze- 
 ment — "gladly pui'chase her freedom; after which, unless 
 she is permitted to return, the society of our colony will re- 
 joice in the residence among them of one so lovely and so 
 accomplished. Meantime she must be sold like the rest." 
 
 "Did Monmouth make war with women for his followers?" 
 asked a gentleman of graver aspect than most. "I, for one, 
 will have no part or share in such traffic. Are English gen- 
 tlewomen, because their friends are rebels, to be sent into the 
 fields with the negroes?" 
 
 "Your wife would be jealous," said another; and then 
 they all laughed. 
 
 I understood not, until afterwards, that the buying and 
 selling of such a person as I appeared to be is a kind of 
 gambling. That is to say, the buyer hopes to get his profit, 
 not by any work that his servant should do, but by the 
 ransom that his friends at home should offer. And so they 
 began to bid, with jokes rude and unseemly, and much 
 laughter while I stood before them, still bareheaded. 
 
 "Ten pounds," one began. "Twelve," cried another. 
 "Fifteen," said a third, and so on, the price continually 
 rising — and the salesman, with honeyed tongue, continually 
 declaring that my friends (as he very well knew) would con- 
 sent to give any ransom, any, so only that I was set free 
 from, servitude — until, for sixty pounds, no one offering a 
 higher price, I was sold to one whose appearance I liked the 
 least of any. He was a gross, fat man, with puffed cheeks 
 and short neck, who had bought already about twenty of the 
 servants. 
 
 "Be easy," he said, to one who asked him how he looked 
 to get his money back. "It is not for twice sixty pounds 
 that I will consent to let her go. What is twice sixty pounds 
 for a lovely piece like this?" 
 
 Then the captain, who had stood beside me saying noth- 
 ing, interfered. 
 
 "Madam," he said, "you can put up your hood again. 
 And hark ye, sir" — he spoke to the planter — "remember 
 that this is a pious and virtuous gentlewoman, and" — here 
 he swore a round oath— "if T hear, when I make this port 
 again, that you have offered her the least freedom, you 
 shall answer to me for it. Gentlemen all," he went on, "I 
 verily believe that you will shortly have the greatest wind- 
 fall that hath ever happened to you, compared with which
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 263 
 
 fhe Salisbury rising' was but a fleabite. For the trials of the 
 Monmouth rebels were already begun when I left the port 
 of Bristol, and though the judges are sentencing all alike to 
 death, they cannot hang them all, therefore his majesty's 
 plantations, and Barbadoes in particular, will not only have 
 whole cargoes of stout and able-bodied servants, compared 
 with whom these poor rogues are like so many worthless 
 weeds, but there will also be many gentlemen, and perhaps 
 gentlewomen, like madam, here, whose freedom will be 
 bought of you. So that I earnestly advise and entreat you 
 not to treat them cruelly, but with gentleness and for- 
 bearance, whereby you will be the gainers in the end, and 
 will make their friends the readier to find the price of ran- 
 som. Moreover, you must remember, that though gentle- 
 men may be flogged at whipping-posts and beat over the 
 head with canes, as is your habit with servants both black 
 and white, when the time of their deliverance arrives they 
 will be no longer slaves, but gentlemen again, and able once 
 more to stand upon the point of honor, and to run you through 
 the body, as you will richly deserve for your barbarity. And 
 in the same way, any gentlewoman who may be sent here 
 have brothers and cousins who will be ready to perform the 
 same act of kindness on their behalf. Remember that very 
 carefully, gentlemen, if you please. " 
 
 The captain spoke to all the gentlemen present, but in the 
 last words he addressed himself particularly unto my new 
 master. It was a warning likely to be very serviceable, 
 the planters being one and all notoriously addicted to beat- 
 ing and whipping their servants. And I have no doubt that 
 these words did a great deal towards assuring for the unfor- 
 tunate gentlemen who presently arrived such considera- 
 tion and good treatment as they would not otherwise have 
 received. 
 
 The island of Barbadoes, as many people know, is one of 
 the Caribby Islands. It is, as to size, a small place, not 
 more than twenty miles in length by fifteen in l)readth, but 
 in population it is a very considerable place indeed, for it is 
 said to have as many people in it as the city of Bristol. It 
 is completely settled, and of the former inhabitants not one 
 is left. They were the people called Indian.s or Caribs, and 
 how tliey perished I know not. The island hath four ports 
 of which the principal is that of St. Michael, or the Bridge, 
 or Bridgetown, in Carlisle Bay. The heat by day is very 
 great, and there is no winter, but summer all the year 
 round. There is, however, a cool bree/.c from the sea,
 
 2(54 P(^^^ FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 which moderates the heat A great number of vessels cal\ 
 here every year (there is said to be one every day, but this 
 I cannot believe). They bring to the island all kinds of 
 European manufactures, and take away with them cargoes 
 of jMuscovada sugar, cotton, ginger, and logwood. The 
 island hath its shores covered with plantations, being (the 
 people say) already more thickly cultivated than any part 
 of England, with fewer waste places, commons, and the 
 like. The fruits which grow here are plentiful and deli- 
 cious, such as the pineapple, the papaw, theguava, the bon- 
 annow, and the like ; but they are not for the servants and 
 the slaves. The fertility of the country is truly astonish- 
 ing ; and the air, though full of moisture, whereby knives 
 and tools of all kind quickly rust and spoil, is considered 
 more healthy than that of any other West Indian island. 
 But for the poor creatures who have to toil in the hot sun the 
 air is full of fatigue and thirst ; it is laden with fevers, cal- 
 entures, and sunstrokes. Death is always in their midst ; 
 and after death, whatever awaits them cannot be much 
 worse than their condition on the island. 
 
 After the sale was finished the captain bade me farewell 
 with tears in his eyes, and we were taken into boats and con- 
 veyed ashore, I, for my part, sitting beside my purchaser, 
 who addressed no word at all to me. I was, however, 
 pleased to find that among the people whom he had bought 
 was the girl Deb, who had been my maid (if a woman who 
 is a convict may have a maid who is a sister convict). 
 When we landed we walked from the quay or landing-place 
 to a great building like a barn, which is called a barracoon, 
 in which are lodged the negro slaves and servants before 
 they go to their masters. But at this time it was empty. 
 Hither came presently a certain important person in a great 
 wig and a black coat, followed by two negro beadles, and 
 carrying a long cane or stick. After commanding silence, 
 this officer read to us in a loud voice those laws of the 
 colony which concern servants, and especially those who, 
 like ourselves, are transported for various offences. I for- 
 get what those laws were, but they seemed to be of a cruel 
 and vindictive nature, and all ended with flogging and ex- 
 tension of the term of service. I remember, for instance, 
 because the thought of escape from a place in the middle of 
 the ocean seemed to me mad, that, by the law, if any one 
 should be caught endeavoring to run away he should be first 
 flogged, and then made to serve three years after his term 
 >fas expired, and that no ship was allowed to trade withtb(«
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. i6* 
 
 Island, or to put in for water, unless the captain had given 
 security with two inhabitants of the island in the sum of 
 £2,000 sterling not to carry off any servant without the 
 owner's consent. 
 
 When these laws had been read the officer proceeded, further 
 to inform us that those who were thus sent out were sent to 
 workasapunishment ; thatthe work would be hard, not light; 
 and that those who shirked their M^ork, or were negligent in 
 their work, would be reminded of their duties in the manner 
 common to plantations ; that if they tried to run away they 
 would most certainly be caught, because the island was but 
 small ; and that when they were caught, not only would 
 their term of years be increased, but that they would most 
 certainly receive a dreadful number of lashes. He added, 
 further, that as nothing would be gained by malingering, 
 sulking, or laziness, so on the other hand our lot might be 
 lightened by cheerfulness, honesty, and zeal. A more surly, 
 ill-conditioned crew I think he must have never before ha- 
 rangued. They listened, and on most faces I read the deter- 
 mination to do no more work than was forced from them. 
 This is, I have learned, how the plantation servants do com- 
 monly begin ; but the most stubborn spirit is not proof 
 against the lash and starvation. Therefore, before many 
 days they are as active and as zealous as can be desired, 
 and the white men, even in the fields, will do double the 
 work that can be got out of the black. 
 
 Then this officer went away, followed by his beadles, 
 who cast eyes of regret upon us, as if longing to stay and 
 exercise their wands of office upon the prisoners' backs. 
 This done, we were ordered to march out. My master's 
 horse was waiting for him, led by a negro, and two of his 
 overseers, also mounted, and carrying whips in their hands, 
 waited his commands. He spoke with them a few minutes, 
 and then rode away. 
 
 They brought a long cart, with a kind of tilt to it, drawn 
 by two asses (here they call them asscncgoes), and invited 
 me courteously to get into it. It was loaded with cases 
 and boxes, and a negro walked beside the beasts. Then we 
 set out upon our march. First walked tlic twenty servants, 
 men and women, newly bought by the master ; after them, 
 or at their side, rode the overseers, roughly calling on the 
 laggards to quicken their pace, and cracking their whips 
 horribly. Then came the cart in which I sat. The sun was 
 high in the heavens, for it was not more than three of the 
 clock ; the road was white, and covered with dust; andthQ
 
 2(t(, I'OA' FAITH AKD 1-REkDOM. 
 
 distance was about six or seven miles, and we went slovvl)^ 
 so that it was already nigh unto sunset when we arrived at 
 the master's estate. 
 
 Thus was I, a gentlewoman born, sold in the island of 
 Barbadoes for a slave. Sixty pounds the price I fetched. 
 Oh, even now, when it is all past long since, I remember 
 still with shame how I stood upon the quarter-deck, my 
 hood thrown back, while all those men gazed upon me, and 
 jiassed their ribald jests, and cried the money they would 
 give for me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE FIRST DAY OF SERVITUDE. 
 
 Thus began my captivity. Thus I began to sit beside the 
 waters of Babylon, more wretched than the daughters of 
 Zion, because they wept together while I wept alone. I 
 looked for no release or escape until the Lord should merci- 
 fully please to call me away by opening the gate of death. 
 For even if I were released, if by living out the ten years of 
 servitude I could claim my freedom, of what use would it 
 be to me? Whither could I fly .-* Where hide myself .^ Yet 
 you shall hear, if you will read, how a way, terrible at first 
 and full of peril, was unexpectedly opened, and in what a 
 strange manner was wrought my deliverance. 
 
 We arrived at our new master's estate, which was, as I 
 have said, about seven miles from the port, towards sun- 
 down. We were marched (rather driven) to a kind of vil- 
 lage, consisting of a double row of huts or cottages, forming 
 a broad street, in the middle of which there were planted a 
 large number of the fruit-trees named here bonannows (they 
 are a kind of plantain). The green fruit was hanging in 
 clusters, as yet unripe, but the leaves, which are also the 
 branches, being for the most part blown into long shreds or 
 rags by the wind, had an untidy appearance. The cottages 
 looked more like pigsties for size and shape ; they were 
 built of sticks, withes, and plantain-leaves both for sides 
 and for roof. Chimneys had they none, nor windows ; 
 some of them had no door, but an opening only. Thus are 
 housed the servants and the slaves of a plantation. The 
 furniture within is such as the occupants contrive. Some-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 267 
 
 times there is a hammock or a pallet, with grass mats and 
 rugs ; there are some simple platters and basins ; in each 
 hut there are two, three, or four occupants. 
 
 Here let me, in brief, make an end of describing the build- 
 ings on this estate, which were, I suppose, like those of 
 every other. If you were to draw a great square on which 
 to lay down or figure the buildings, you would have in one 
 corner the street, or village of the people ; next to the village 
 lies the great pond which serves for drinking water as well 
 as for washing ; the negroes are fond of swimming and 
 bathing in it, and they say that the water is not fouled there- 
 by, which I could not understand. In the opposite corner 
 you must place the ingenio, or house where the sugar-canes 
 are brought to be crushed and ground and the sugar is 
 made ; there are all kinds of machines with great wheels, 
 small wheels, cogs, gutters for running the juice, and con- 
 trivances which I cannot remember. Some of the ingenios 
 are workedby a wind-mill, others by horses and assenegoes ; 
 there is in every one a still, where they make that fiery 
 spirit which they call kill-devil. Near the ingenio are the 
 stables, where there are horses, oxen, assenegoes, and the 
 curious beast, spoken of in Holy Writ, called the camel. < It 
 hath been brought here from Africa, and is much used for 
 carrying the sugar. The open space around the ingenio is 
 generally covered and strewn with trash, which is the 
 crushed stalk of the cane ; it always gives forth a sour smell 
 (as if fermenting) which I cannot think to be wholesome. 
 In the fourth corner is the planter's house. Considering that 
 these people sometimes grow so rich that they come home 
 and buy great estates, it is wonderful that they should con- 
 sent to live in houses so mean and paltry. They are of 
 wood, with roofs so low that one can hardly stand upright 
 in them ; and the people are so afraid of the cool wind which 
 blows from the east that they have neither doors nor win- 
 dows oil that side, but will have; them all towards the west, 
 whence cometh the chief heat of tne sun, namely, the after- 
 noon heat. Their furniture is rude, and they have neither 
 tapestry nor wainscoted walls, nor any kind of ornament. 
 Yet they live always in the greatest luxury, eating and drink- 
 ing of the best. Some of the houses (my master's among 
 them) have an open veranda, as they call it — in Somerset- 
 shire we should call it a linney — running round three sides 
 of the house, with coarse canvas curtains which can be let 
 down so as to keep out the sun, or drawn up to admit the 
 air. But their way of living, though they eat and drink of
 
 • 268 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 the best, is rude even compared with that of our farmers al 
 home ; and a thriving tradesman, say of Taunton, would 
 scorn to live in such a house as contenteth a wealthy planter 
 of Barbadoes. Behind the house was a spacious garden in 
 which grew all kmds of fruits and vegetables, and all round 
 the buildings, on every side, stretched the broad fields of 
 sugar-canes, which when they are in their flower, or blos- 
 som of gray and silver, wave in the wind more beautifully 
 than even a field of barley in England. 
 
 On the approach of our party, and the voices of the over- 
 seers, a gentlewoman (so at least she seemed) came out of 
 the house, and stood upon the veranda shading her eyes and 
 looking at the gang of wretches. She was dressed splendid- 
 ly in a silken gown and flowered petticoat, as if she were a 
 very great lady indeed ; over her head lay a kerchief of rich 
 black lace ; round her neck was a gold chain. When she 
 slowly descended the steps of the veranda and walked to- 
 wards us, I observed that she was of a darker skin than is 
 customary to find at home ; it was, indeed, somewhat like 
 the skin of the gypsy people ; her features were straight and 
 regular ; her hair was quite black ; her eyes were also black 
 and large, shaped like almonds. On her wrists were heavy 
 gold bracelets, and her fingers were loaded with rings. She 
 seemed about thirty years of age ; she was a woman of tall 
 and fine presence, and she stood and moved as if she were 
 a queen. She presently came forth from the veranda and 
 walked across the yartl towards us. 
 
 "Let me look at them — your new batch," she said, speak- 
 ing languidly, and with an accent somewhat foreign. 
 "How many are there.-' Where do they come from? 
 Who is this one, for instance } She took the girl named 
 Deb by the chin, and looked at her as if she were some 
 animal to be sold in the market. "A stout wench, truly. 
 What was she over there .? " 
 
 The overseer read the name and the crimes of the prisoner. 
 Madam (this was the only name by which I knew her) 
 pushed her away disdainfully. 
 
 "Well," she said, "she will find companions enough 
 here. I hope she will work without the whip. Hark ye, 
 girl," she added, with, I think, kindly interest, " it goes 
 still to my heart when I hear that the women have been 
 trounced, but the work must be done. Remember that. 
 And who are those.'' and those.'' " She pointed with con- 
 tempt to the poor creatures covered with dirt and dust, and 
 in the ragg^ed, miserabU* clothes they had worn all the
 
 I-OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. ^69 
 
 Voyage. "Street sweepings, rogues, and thieves, all. Let 
 them know," she said, grandly, "what awaits those who 
 skulk, and those who thieve. And whom have we here .'' " 
 She turned to me. "Is this some fine city madam, fresh 
 from Bridewell .-' " 
 
 "This prisoner, " said the overseer, "is described as a 
 rebel in the late Monmouth rising." 
 
 "A rebel.'' truly.?" she asked with curiosity. "Were 
 Monmouth's soldiers women.-* We heard by the last ship 
 something of this. Madam, I know not why you must 
 needs become a rebel, but, this, look you, is no place for 
 gentlewomen to sit down and fold their arms." 
 
 "Madam," I replied, "I look for nothing less than to 
 work, being now a convict, though I was never tried and 
 condemned — I know not by whom — to transportation in 
 his majesty's plantations." 
 
 " Let me look at your hands," she said, sharply. " Why, 
 of what use are those little fingers 1 they have never done 
 any work; and your face — prithee, turn back your hood." 
 I obeyed, and her eyes suddenly softened. Lideed, I looked 
 not for this sign of compassion, and my own tears began to 
 flow. " 'Tis a shame ! " she cried. "'Tis a burning shame 
 to send so young a woman, a gentlewoman, and one with 
 such a face to the plantations! Have they no bowels.' 
 Child, who put thee aboard the ship .? " 
 
 "I was brought on board by one ]\Ir. Penne, who de- 
 ceived me promising that I should be taken to New England 
 where I have cousins. '' 
 
 "We will speak of this presently. Meantime since we 
 must by the law find you some work to do — can you sew .'' " 
 
 "Yes, madam, I can perform any kind of needlework 
 from plain sewing to embroidery." 
 
 "What mean they," she cried again, "by sending a 
 helpless girl alone with such a crew } The very Spaniards 
 of whom they talk so much would blush for such barbarity. 
 They would send her to a convent where the good nuns 
 would treat her kindly. Well, madam or miss, thou art 
 bought, and the master may not, by law, release you. But 
 there is a way of which we will talk presently. Mean- 
 while, thou canst sit in the sewing-room where we may 
 find thee work. " 
 
 "I thanked her; she would have said more. But there 
 came forth from the house witli staggering step the man 
 who had bought us. He had now put off his wig and his 
 scarlet coat, and wore a white dressing-gown and a lincu
 
 if POR PAlTIi A.K'D PKEEDOM. 
 
 night-cap. He had in his hand a whip, which he cracked 
 as he walked. 
 
 "Child," said madam, quickly, "pulldown your hood. 
 Hide your face. He hath been drinking and at such times 
 he is dangerous. Let him never set eyes upon thee save 
 when he is sober. 
 
 He came rolling and staggering, yet not so drunk but he 
 could speak, though his voice was thick. 
 
 "Oho !" he cried. "Here are the new servants. Stand 
 up every man and woman. Stand up, I say. " Here he 
 cracked his whip, and they obeyed, trembling. But madam 
 placed herself in front of me. "Let me look at ye." 
 He walked along the line calling the unhappy creatures 
 vile and foul names. Oh, shame thus to mock their misery ! 
 "What ! " he cried. " you think you have come to a country 
 where there is nothing to do but lie on your backs and eat 
 turtle and drink mobbie ; what ! You shall find out your 
 mistake!" Here he cracked his whip again, " You shall 
 work all day in the field, not because you like it, but because 
 you must. For your food it shall be lobloUie, and for your 
 drink water from the pond. What, I say ! Those who 
 skulk shall learn that the Newgate cat is tender compared 
 with her brother of Barbadoes. Tremble, therefore, ye 
 devils, all, tremble ! " 
 
 They trembled visibly. All were now subdued. Those 
 of them who swaggered, the dare-devil reckless blades, 
 when first we sailed, were now transformed into cowardly, 
 trembling wretches, all half starved, and some reduced 
 with fevers, with no more spirit left than enabled them still 
 to curse and swear. The feeblest of mortals, the lowest of 
 human wretches, has still left so much of strength and will 
 that he can sink his immortal soul lower still ; a terrible 
 power, truly. 
 
 Then madam drew me aside, gently, and led me to a 
 place like a barn where many women, white and black, sat 
 sewing, and a great quantity of little black babies and naked 
 children played about under their charge. The white 
 women were sad and silent ; the blacks, I saw with sur- 
 prise, were all chattering and laughing. The negro is 
 happy if he have enough to eat and drink, whether he be 
 slave or free. Madam sat down upon a bench and caused 
 me to sit beside her. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, kindly, "what this means. When 
 did women begin to rebel .? If men are such fools as to go 
 forth and fight, let them ; but for women — "
 
 I'VK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 471 
 
 "Indeed," I told her, " I did not fight." 
 
 Then nothing would do but I must tell her all from the 
 beginning — my name, my family, and my history. But I 
 told her nothing about my marriage. 
 
 "So," she said, "you have lost father, mother, brother, 
 lover, and friends by this pretty business, and all because 
 they will not suffer the king to worship in his own way. 
 Well, 'tis hard for you. To be plain, it may be harder than 
 you think, or I can help. You have been bought for sixty 
 pounds, and that not for any profit that your work will bring 
 to the estate, because such. as you are but a loss and a burden, 
 but only in the hope that your friends will pay a great 
 sum for ransom." 
 
 " Madam, I have indeed no friends left who can do this 
 for me. " 
 
 "If so, it is indeed unfortunate. For presently the mas- 
 ter will look for letters on your behalf, and if none come, I 
 know not what he may threaten or what he may do. But 
 think — try to find some one. Consider, your lot here must 
 be hard at best, whereas if you are released you can live 
 where you please ; you may even marry whom you please, 
 because beautiful young gentlewomen like yourself are 
 scarce indeed in Barbadoes. 'Tis Christian charity to set you 
 free. Remember, child, that money will do here what I 
 suppose it will do anywhere. All are slaves to money. 
 You have six months before you in which to write to your 
 friends and to receive an answer. If in that time nothing 
 comes, I tell thee again, child, that I know not what will 
 happen. As for the life in the fields, it would kill thee in a 
 week." 
 
 "Perhaps, if the Lord so wills," I replied, helplessly, 
 "that may be best. Friends have I none now, nor any 
 whom I could ask for help, save the Lord alone. I will 
 ask for work in the fields. " 
 
 "Perhaps he may forget thee," she said, meaning the 
 master. "But no; a man who hath once seen thy face 
 will never forget thee. My dear, he told me when he came 
 home that he had bought a woman whose beauty will set 
 the island in flames. Pray Heaven he come not near thee 
 when he is in liquor. Hide that face, child, hide that face. 
 Let him never see thee. Oh, there are dangers worse than 
 labor in the fields, worse than whip of overseer." She 
 sprang to her feet and clasped her hands. "You talk of 
 the Lord's will ! What hath the Lord to do with this place? 
 Here is nothing but debauchery and drinking, cruelty and
 
 I^J FOR FAITH AND FR£:&Jt>OM. 
 
 greed. Why have they sent here a woman who prays ? ** 
 
 Then she sat down again and took my hand. 
 
 •' Tender maid, " she said, " thy face is exactly such aa 
 the face of a certain saint ; 'tis in a picture which hangs in 
 the chapel of the convent where the good nuns brought me 
 up long ago, before I came to this place — long ago. Yes, 
 I forget the name of the saint ; thou hast her face. She 
 stood, in the picture, surrounded by soldiers who had red 
 hair, and looked like devils — English devils, the nuns said. 
 Her eyes were raised to heaven and she prayed. But what 
 was done unto her I know not, because there was no other 
 picture. Now she sits upon a throne in the presence of the 
 mother of God. " 
 
 The tears stood in her great black eyes. I take it that she 
 was thinking of the days when she was young. 
 
 "Well, we must keep thee out of his way. While he is 
 sober he listens to reason, and thinks continually upon his 
 estate and his gains. When he is drunk no one can hold 
 him, and reason is lost upon him.'' 
 
 She presently brought me a manchet of white bread and a 
 glass of Madeira wine, and then told me that she would 
 give me the best cottage that the estate possessed, and for 
 my better protection another woman to share it with me. I 
 thanked her again, and asked that I might have the girl 
 called Deb, which she readily granted. 
 
 And so my first day of servitude ended in thus nappily 
 finding a protector. As for the cottage, it was a poor thing, 
 but it had a door and a window with a shutter. The furniture 
 was a pallet with two thick rugs and nothing more. INIy 
 condition was desperate indeed, but yet, had I considered, I 
 had been so far most mercifully protected. I was shipped 
 as a convict (it is true) by a treacherous villain, but on the 
 ship I found a compassionate captain who saved me from 
 the company among whom I must otherwise have dwelt. 
 I was sold to a drunken and greedy planter, but I found a 
 compassionate woman who promised to do what she could. 
 And I had for my companion the woman who had become 
 a most faithful maid to me upon the voyage, and who still 
 continued in her fidehty and her love. And greater mercit* 
 yet were in store, as you shall see.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM 373 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON. 
 
 Thus delivered from the slavery of the fields, I began to 
 work, an unprofitable servant, among those who made and 
 mended the garments of the servants and negroes. On an 
 estate so large as this there is always plenty to be done by 
 the seamstresses and needlewomen. Thus, to every woman 
 is given by the year four smocks, two petticoats, and four 
 coifs, besides shoes, which are brought from England by 
 the ships. Those who wait in the house have, in addition, 
 six smocks and three waistcoats. To the men are given six 
 shirts ; and to every man and woman a rug or gown of thick 
 stuff to cast about them when they come home hot, so thai 
 they may not catch cold, a thing which throws many into a 
 fever. All these things have to be made and mended on the 
 estate. 
 
 As for the children, the little blacks, they run about with- 
 out clothing, their black skin sufficing. The women who 
 are engaged upon the work of sewing are commonly those 
 of the white servants who are not strong enough for the 
 weeding and hoeing in the fields, or are old and past hard 
 work. Yet the stuff of which the smocks and shirts is made 
 is so coarse that it tore the skin from my fingers, which, 
 when madam saw, she brought me fine work, namely, for 
 herself. She was also so good as to provide me with ci 
 change of clothes, of which I stood sadly in need, and ex- 
 cused my wearing the dress of the other women. I hope 
 that I am not fond of fine apparel more than becomes a 
 modest woman ; but I confess that the thought of wearing 
 this livery of servitude, this coarse and common dress of 
 smock, petticoat, and coif, all of rough and thick stuff, like 
 canvas, with a pair of shoes, and no stockings, filled my very 
 soul with dismay. None of the many acts of kindness 
 shown me by madam was more gratefully received than 
 her present of clothes — not coarse and rough to the skin, 
 nor ugly and common, befitting prisoners and criminals, 
 but soft and pleasant to wear, and fit for the heat of the 
 climate, 'Twas no great hardship, certainly, to rise early 
 find to sit all day with needle and thread in a ereat room 
 
 18
 
 2 74 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 well aired. The company, to be sure, was not what one 
 would have chosen, nor was the language of the poor crea- 
 tures who sat with me — prison and Bridewell birds all ot 
 them — such as my poor mother would have desired her 
 daughter to hear. The food was coarse, but I was often at 
 the house when the master was away, and there madam 
 would constantly give me something from her own table — ;: 
 dish of chocolate, rightly called the Indian nectar, made so 
 thick and strong that a spoon stands upright in it, or a gla; s 
 of Madeira, if my cheeks looked paler than ordinary. I a 
 this country the great heat of the air seems to suck out and 
 devour the heat of the body, so that those of European birth, 
 if they are not nourished on generous diet, presently fall 
 into a decline or wasting away, as is continually seen in the 
 case of the white servants, both men and women, who die 
 early, and seldom last more than five or six years. 
 
 Briefly, madam seemed to take great pleasure in my con- 
 versation, and would either seek me in the workroom or 
 would have me to the house, asking questions as to my 
 former life. For herself, I learned that she had been born 
 in Cuba, and had been brought up by nuns in a convent, 
 but how or why she came to this place I knew not, nor did 
 I ask. Other gentlewomen of the island I never saw, and I 
 think there were none who visited her. Nor did she show 
 kindness to the women-servants (except to myself), treating 
 them all, as is the fashion in that country, as if they were 
 so many black negroes, not condescending to more than a 
 word or a command, and if this were disobeyed they knew 
 very well what to expect from her. But to me she continued 
 throughout to be kind and gracious, thinking always how 
 she could lighten my lot. 
 
 In this employment, therefore, I continued with such con- 
 tentment as may be imagined, which was rather a forcetl 
 resignation to the will of the Lord than a cheerful heart. 
 But I confess that I looked upon the lot of the other women 
 with horror, and was, indeed, thankful that I was si)ared the 
 miseries of those who go forth to the fields. They begin at 
 six in the morning and work until eleven, when they come 
 home to dinner. At one o'clock they go out again and re- 
 turn at sunset, which in this country is nearly always about 
 half-past six. But let no one think that work in the fields in 
 Barbadoes may be compared with work in the fields at 
 home. For in England there are cloudy skies and cold, 
 wintry days in plenty, but in Barbadoes, save when the rain 
 fitlls in prodigious cjuwtiUes, the skies have no tl^uds, b\it
 
 hVk t'AITH AXD FREEDOM. 275 
 
 are clear blue all the year round ; the sun burns with a heat 
 iKii'jlerable, so that the eyes are well-nigh blinded, the head 
 aches, the limbs fail, and but for fear of the lash the wretched 
 toiler would lie down in the nearest shade. And a terrible 
 thirst (all this was told me by the girl Deb) seizes the throat, 
 all day long, which nothing can assuage but rest. For the 
 least skulking the whip is laid on, and if there be a word of 
 impatience or murmuring it is called stark mutiny, for which 
 the miserable convict, maia or woman, is tied up and flogged 
 with a barbarity which would be incredible to any were it 
 not for the memory of certain floggings in our own country. 
 Besitles the lash they have also pillory and the stocks, and 
 the overseers carry, in addition to their whip, a heavy cane, 
 with which they constantly belabor the slaves, both white 
 and black. I say slaves, because the white servants are 
 nothing less, save that the negroes are far better off, and re- 
 ceive infinitely better treatment than the poor white creatures. 
 Indeed, the negro being the absolute property of his master, 
 both he and his children, to ill-treat him is like the wanton 
 destruction of cattle on a farm, whereas there is no reason 
 in making the convicts last out more than the ten years of 
 their servitude, or even so long, because many of them are 
 such poor creatures when they arrive, and so reduced by the 
 miseries of the voyage, and so exhausted by the hard labor 
 to which they are put, that they bring no profit to the master, 
 but quickly fall ill, and die like rotten sheep. Like rotten 
 sheep, I say, they die, without a word of Christian exhorta- 
 tion, and like brute creatures who have no world to come are 
 they buried in the ground. Again, the food served out to 
 these poor people is not such as should be given to white 
 people in a hot climate. There is nothing but water to 
 drink, and that drawn from ponds, because in Barbadoes 
 there are few springs or rivers. It is true that the old hands, 
 who have learned how to manage, contrive to make plantain 
 wine, and get, by hook or by crook, mobbie (which is a 
 strong drink made from potatoes), or kill-devil, which is the 
 wQ.\v spirit distilled from sugar. Then, for solid food, the 
 servants are allowed five pounds of salt l)eef for each person 
 every week, and this so hard and stringy that no boiling will 
 make it soft enough for the teeth. Sometimes, instead of the 
 beef, they have as much salt fish, for the most part stinking ; 
 with this, aportion of ground Indian corn, which is made into' 
 akinii of porridge, and called loblollie. This is the slai)le of 
 the food, and there are no rustics at home who do not live 
 better and have more nourishing; food.
 
 27< i'OR FAITH AXD F/iJS£DOM, 
 
 I do not deny that the convicts are for the most part a 
 most horrid crew, who deserve to suffer if any men ever did ; 
 but it was sad to see how the faces of the people were 
 pinched with hunger and wasted with the daily fatigues, and 
 how their hollow eyes were full of despair. Whatever their 
 sins may have been, they were at least made in God's own 
 image ; no criminal, however wicked, should have been 
 used with such barbarity as was w-reaked upon the people of 
 this estate. The overseers were chosen (being themselves 
 also convicts) for their hardness of heart. Nay, did they 
 show the least kindness towards the poor creatures whom 
 they drove they would themselves be forced to lay dowm the 
 whip of office and to join the gang of those who toiled. 
 And over them was the master, zealous to exact the last 
 ounce of strength from the creatures whom he had bought. 
 Did the good people of Bristol who buy the sugar and mo- 
 lasses and tobacco of the Indies know or understand the 
 tears of despair and the sweat of agony which are forced 
 with every pound of sugar, they would abhor the trade 
 which makes them rich. 
 
 The companion of my sleeping-hut, the girl Deb, was a 
 great, strapping wench, who bade fair to outlast her ten 
 years of servitude, even under the treatment to which, with 
 the rest, she was daily subjected. And partly because she 
 was strong and active, partly because she had a certain kind 
 of beauty (the kind which belongs to the rustic and is ac- 
 companied by good-humor and laughter), she would per- 
 haps have done well, as some of the women do, and ended 
 by marrying an overseer, but for events which presently 
 happened. Yet, strong as she was, there was no evening 
 when she did not return worn out with fatigue, her cheeks 
 burning, her limbs weary, yet happy because she had one 
 more day escaped the lash, and had the night before her in 
 which to rest. If it is worth noting, the women were from 
 the outset the most willing workers and the most eager to 
 satisfy their taskmasters ; the men, on the other hand, went 
 sullen and downcast, thinking only how to escape the over- 
 seer's whip, and going through the work with angry and 
 revengeful eyes. I think that some great mutiny might have 
 happened upon this estate — some wild revenge — so desper- 
 ate were these poor creatures, and so horrible were the scourg- 
 ings they endured and the shrieks and cursings which they 
 uttered. Let me not speak of these things. 
 
 There are other things which make a residence in Barba- 
 does, even to the wealthy, full of annoyances and irritations.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. zjf 
 
 The place is filled with cockroaches, great spiders, horrid 
 scorpions, centipedes, and lizards. There are ants which 
 swarm everywhere, and there are clouds of flies ; and at 
 night there are mosquitoes and merrywings, which by their 
 bites have been known to drive new-comers into fever, or 
 else into a kind of madness. 
 
 In the evenings, after supper, there reigned a melancholy 
 silence in the village, the people for the most part taking 
 rest with weary limbs. Sometimes there would be a quarrel, 
 with horrid oaths and curses, and perhaps some fighting. 
 But these occasions were rare. 
 
 From the house there came often the noise of singing, 
 drinking, and loud talking when other planters would ride 
 over for a drinking-bout. There was also sometimes to be 
 heard the music of the theorbo, upon which madam played 
 very sweetly, singing Spanish songs ; so that it seemed a 
 pity for music so sweet to be thrown away upon this selfish 
 crew. It made me think of Humphrey and of the sweet 
 and holy thoughts which he would put into rhymes, and 
 then fit the rhymes with music which seemed to breathe 
 those very thoughts. Alas ! in the village of Bradford Orcas 
 there would be now silence and desolation : the good old 
 squire was dead ; my father dead ; the young men sent to 
 the plantations ; no one left at all but the rector and madam, 
 his sister-in-law ; and I, alas ! a slave. Perchance at that 
 moment the rector might be slowly drawing his bow across 
 the strings of his violoncello, thinking of those who formerly 
 played with him ; or perhaps he would be sorrowfully taking 
 out his cases and gazing for a little consolation upon the figures 
 of his goddesses and his nymphs — only to think of the place 
 and of those who once lived there tore my poor heart to 
 pieces. 
 
 One evening, when there was a great noise and talking 
 at the house, while we were sitting upon our beds, with no 
 other light than that of the moon, madam herself came to 
 the cottage. 
 
 "Child," she said, " nothing will do but that the gentle- 
 men must see thy beauty. Nay, no harm shall happen 
 while I am there. So much they know. But he hath so 
 bragged about thy beauty, and the great price he will de- 
 mand for ransom, that the rest are mad to see thee. I swear 
 that not the least rudeness shall be offered thee. They are 
 drinking, it is true, but they are not yet drunk. Come." 
 
 So I arose and followed her. First she took me to her 
 OWh room, where she took off my hood and threw over HK
 
 278 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 a long white lace mantilla, which covered my head and fell 
 over my shoulders and below the waist 
 
 See sighed as she looked me. 
 
 " Poor innocent ! " she said, " if money could buy thai 
 face there is not a man in the room but would give all he 
 hath and count it gain. Canst thou play or sing?" 
 
 I told her that I had some knowledge of the theorbo. 
 Therefore she brought me hers, and bade me sing to the 
 gentlemen and then retire quickly. So I followed her into 
 the living or keeping room, where a dozen gentlemen were 
 sitting round the table. A bowl of punch was on the table, 
 and every man had his glass before him and a pipe of to- 
 bacco in his hand. Some of their faces were flushed with 
 wine. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said madam, " our prisoner hath consented 
 to sing one song to you, after which she will ask permis- 
 sion to bid you good-night. " 
 
 So they all clapped their hands and rapped the table, and 
 I, being indeed terrified, but knowing very well that to show 
 fear would be the worst thing I could do, touched the 
 strings and began my song. I sang the song which 
 Humphrey made, and which he sang to the officers at 
 Taunton when the duke was there. 
 
 When I finished I gave back the theorbo to madam, courte- 
 sied to the gentlemen, and quickly stepped back to madam's 
 room, while they all bellowed and applauded, and roared 
 for me to come back again. But I put on my hood and 
 slipped out to the cottage, where I lay down beside Deb 
 and quickly fell asleep. (It is a great happiness in these 
 hot latitudes that when a new-comer hath once got over 
 the trouble of the merrywings he falleth asleep the moment 
 he lies down, and so sleeps through the whole night.) 
 
 But in the morning madam came to see me while I was 
 sewing. 
 
 " Well, child," she said, laughing, " thou hast gotten a 
 lover who swears that he will soon have thee out of this hell. ' 
 
 " A lover ! " I cried. " Nay ; that may God forbid ! '' 
 
 " 'Tis true. Young Mr. Anstiss it is. While thou wast 
 singing he gazed on thy pretty face and listened as one 
 enchanted. I wonder — but no, thou hast no eyes for such 
 things. And when thou wast gone he offered the master 
 four times the sum he paid for thee ; yea, four times, or six 
 times, saying that he meant honorably, and that if any man 
 dared to whisper anything to the contrary he would cut his 
 throat, "
 
 hOR FAITH AXn FREEDOM. 
 
 279 
 
 " Alas, madam. I must never marry — either this Mi 
 Anstiss or any other. " 
 
 '* Tut, tut ; this is foolish maid's nonsense. Granted you 
 have lost your old lover, there are plenty more. Suppose 
 he hath lost his old sweetheart, there are plenty more, as I 
 doubt not he hath already proved. Mr. Anstiss is a very 
 pretty young gentleman ; but the master would not listen, 
 saying that he waited for the lady's friends." 
 
 And so passed six weeks, or thereabouts, for the only 
 count of time I kept was from Sunday to Sunday. On that 
 day we rested ; the negroes, who are no better than heathens, 
 danced. The white servants lay about in the shade, and 
 drank what they could ; in one cottage only on that godless 
 estate prayers were offered. 
 
 And then happened that great event which in the end 
 proved to be a chp,nge ot my whole life, and brought happi- 
 ness out of misery, and joy out of suffering, though at first 
 it seemed only a dreadful addition to my trouble. Thus is 
 the course of things ordered for us, and thus the greatest 
 blessings follow upon the most threateningjuncture. What 
 this was I will tell in a few words. 
 
 It was about the third week in September when I em- 
 barked, and about the third week in November when the 
 ship made her port. Therefore I take it that it was one day 
 about the beginning of the year 1686, when madam came 
 to the workroom and told me that a ship had arrived, carry- 
 ing a cargo of two hundred rebels and more, sent out to 
 work upon the plantations, like myself, for the term of ten 
 years. She also told me that the master was gone to the 
 Bridge in order to buy some of them. Not, she said, that 
 he wanted more hands, but he expected that there would be 
 among them persons of quality who would be glad to buy 
 their freedom. He still, she told me, looked to make a 
 great profit out of myself, and was thinking to sell me, un- 
 less my friends in England speedily sent proposals for my 
 ransom, to the young planter who was in love with me. 
 This did not displease me. I have not thought it necessary 
 to tell how Mr. Anstiss came often to the estate, and con- 
 tinually devised schemes for looking at me, going to the 
 ingenio, whence he could see those who sat in the workroom, 
 and even sending me letters, vowing the greatest extrava- 
 gance of passion ; I say I was not displeased because there 
 was in this young gentleman's face a certain goodness of 
 disposition clearly marked, so that even if I beciame his 
 property I thought I might persuade him to relinquislj
 
 28o FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 thoughts of love, even if I had to trust myself entirely to his 
 honor, and tell him all. But, as you shall hear, this project 
 of the master's was brought to naught. 
 
 As for the rebels, I was curious to s'ee them. Some I 
 might recognize ; to some I might perhaps be of a little use 
 at the outset in guarding them against dangers. I did not 
 fear, or think it likely, that there would be any among them 
 vvhom I might know, or who might know me. Yet the 
 thing which I least suspected and the least feared — a thing 
 which one would have thought so unlikely as to make the 
 event a miracle ; nay, call it rather the merciful ordering of 
 all — that thing I say, actually happened. 
 
 The newly bought servants arrived at about five in the 
 evening. 
 
 I looked out of the workroom to see them. Why, 1 
 seemed to know their faces — all their face^. They were our 
 brave West Country lads, whom I had last seen marching 
 gallantly out of Taunton town to victory and glory (as they 
 believed) ; now, pale with the miseries of the voyage, thin 
 with bad food and disease, hollow-cheeked and hollow- 
 eyed, in rags and dirt, barefooted, covered with dust, grimy 
 for want of washing, their beards grown all over their faces, 
 with hanging heads stood these poor fellows. There were 
 thirty of them ; some had thrown themselves on the ground 
 as if in the last extremity of fatigue ; some stood with the 
 patience that one sees in brute beasts who are waiting to be 
 killed ; and in a group together stood three — oh, merciful 
 Heaven ! was this misery also added to my cup ? They 
 were Robin, Barnaby, and Humphrey. Robin's face, heavy 
 and pale, betrayed the sorrow of his soul. He stood as 
 one who neither careth for nor regarded anything. INfy 
 heart fell like lead to witness the despair which was visible 
 in his attitude, in his eyes, in his brow. But Barnaby 
 showed still a cheerful countenance, and looked about him 
 as it he were arriving a welcome guest instead or a slave. 
 
 "You know any of them, child.'' " madam asked. 
 
 "Oh, madam," I cried, "they are my friends ; they are 
 my friends. Oh, help them ; help them." 
 
 "How can I help them ?" she replied, coldly. "They 
 are rebels, and they are justly punished. Let them write 
 home for money if they have friends, and so they can be 
 ransomed To make them write the more movingly the 
 master hath resolved to send them all to work in the tields. 
 The harder they work, he says, the more they will desire ty 
 be free again." 
 
 "Xn th? fields ! Oh, Robin I mv poor Robin ! '
 
 }-'0K FAITH AA'D FREEDOM. jgi 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 H U M P H R E y's narrative. 
 
 With these words — "Oh, Robin! Robin! — the history 
 as set down in my mistress's handwriting- suddenly comes 
 to an end. The words are titting, because her whole heart 
 was full of Robin, and though at this time it seemed to the 
 poor creature a sin still to nourish affection for her old sweet- 
 heart, I am sure — nay, I have it on her own confession — 
 that there was never an hour in the waking day when Robin 
 was not in her mind, though between herself and her former 
 Lover stood the dreadful figure of her husband. I suppose 
 that, although she began this work with the design to com- 
 plete it, she had not the courage, even when years had 
 passed away, and much earthly happiness had been her re- 
 ward, to write down the passages which follow. Where- 
 fore (and for another reason, namely, a confession which 
 must be made by myself before I die) I have taken upon 
 myself to finish that part of Grace Eykin's history which re- 
 lates to theMonmoutli rising and its unhappy consequences. 
 You have read how (thanks to my inexperience and igno- 
 rance of conspiracies, and belief in men's promises) we were 
 reduced to the lowest point of disgrace and poverty. Grace 
 did not tell, because till afterwards she did not know, that 
 on Sir Christopher's death his estate was declared confiscated, 
 and presently bestowed upon Benjamin by favor of Lord 
 Jeffreys, so that he whose ambition it was to become lord 
 chancellor was already (which he had not expected,) the 
 Lord of the Manor of Bradford Orcas. But of this here- 
 after. 
 
 I have called her my mistress. Truly, all my life she 
 hath been to me more than was ever Laura to Petrarch, or 
 even Beatrice to the great Florentine. The ancients rep- 
 resented every virtue by a goddess, a "grace, or a nymph. 
 Nay, the arts were also feminine (yet subject to the informing 
 influence of the other sex, as the muses had Apollo for their 
 director and chief) To my mind every generous senti- 
 ment, every worthy thought, all things that are gracious, 
 all things that lift my soul above the common herd, belong
 
 282 POR FAITH AiVD FREEDOM. 
 
 not to me, but to my mistress. In my youth it was sbe 
 who encourag-ed me to the practice of those arts by which 
 the soul is borne heavenwards. I mean the arts of poetry 
 and of music ; it was she who listened patiently when I 
 would still be prating of myself, and encouraged the ambi- 
 tions which had already seized my soul. So that if I turned 
 a set of verseis smoothly, it was to Grace that I gave them, 
 and for her that I wrote them. When we played heavenly 
 music together the thoughts inspired by the strain were like 
 the Italian painter's vision of the angels which attend the 
 V^irgin. I mean that, sweet and holy as they are, they fall 
 far short of the holiness and sweetness of her whom they 
 honor. So whatever my thoughts, or my ambitions, amid 
 them all I saw continually the face of Grace, always filled 
 with candor and with sweetness. That quality which en- 
 ables a woman to think always about others, and never 
 about herself, was given to Grace in large aiid plenteous 
 measure. .If she talked wiii me, her soul was all mine ; 
 if she was waiting on madam, or upon Sir Christopher, or 
 upon the rector, or on her own mother, she knew their in- 
 most thoughts, and divined all their wants. Nay, long 
 afterwards, in the daily exercise of work and study, at the 
 University of Oxford, in the foreign schools of IMontpellier, 
 Padua, and Leyden, it was Grace who, though far away, 
 encouraged me. I could no longer hear her voice, but her 
 steadfast eyes remained in my mind like twin stars that 
 dwell in heaven. This is a wondrous power given to a few 
 women, that they should become, as it were, angels sent 
 from heaven, lent to the earth awhile, in order to fill men's 
 minds with worthy thoughts and to lead them in the heaven- 
 ly way. The Romish Church holds that the age of miracles 
 hath never passed, which I do also believe, but not in the 
 sense taught by that church. Saints there are among us 
 still, who daily work miracles, turning earthly clay into the 
 jasper and precious marble of heaven. 
 
 Again, the great poet INIilton hath represented his Virtuous 
 Lady unharmed among- the rabble rout of Comus, protected 
 by her virtue alone. Pity that he hath not also shown a 
 young- man led by that sweet lady, encouraged, warned, 
 and guarded along that narrow way, beset with quag and 
 pitfall, along which he must walk, who would willingly 
 climb to higher place. And all this apart from earthly love 
 as in the case of those two Italian poets. 
 
 More, I confess, I would have had, and presumptuously 
 longed for it ; nay, c/en j-iraycd for it with such yearnings
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 283 
 
 and longings as seemed to tear my very heart asunder. 
 But this was denied to me. 
 
 In September, 1685, ten weeks after the fight of Sedge- 
 m«or, we, being by that time well tired of Exeter prison, 
 were tried by Lord Jeffreys. It was no true trial, for we were 
 all advised to plead guilty, upon which thejudge bellowed and 
 roared at us, abusing us in such language as I never thought 
 to hear from the bench, and finally sentenced us all to deatn. 
 (A great deal has been said of this roaring of the judge, but 
 I am willing to excuse it in great measure, on the ground of 
 the disease from which he was then suffering. I myself, 
 who had heard that he was thus afflicted, saw the drops of 
 agony upon his forehead, and knew that if he was not bawl- 
 ing at us, he must have been roaring on his own account.) 
 So we were marched back to prison, and began to prepare 
 for the last ceremony, which is, I think, needlessly horrible 
 and barbarous. To cut a man open while he is still living 
 is a thing not practised even by the savage Turk. At this 
 gloomy time my cousin Robin set a noble example of forti- 
 tude which greatly encouraged the rest of us. Nor would 
 he ever suffer me to reproach myself (as I was continually 
 tempted to do) with having been the cause of the ruin which 
 had fallen upon the whole of our unfortunate house. Nay, 
 he went further, and insisted and would have it that had I 
 remained in Holland he himself would have joined the duke, 
 and that I was in no way to blame as an inciter to this un- 
 fortunate act. We knew by this time that Sir Christopher 
 had been arrested, and conveyed to Ilminster jail, and thai 
 with him were Dr. Eykin, grievously wounded, and Bar- 
 naby, and that Grace, with her mother, was also at Ilminster. 
 Mr. Boscorel, for his part, was gone to London in order to 
 exert whatever interest he might possess on behalf of all. 
 With him went madam, Robin's mother, but she returned 
 licfore the trial, much dejected, so that we were not encour- 
 aged to hope for anything from that quarten Madam be- 
 gan to build some hopes at this time from Benjamin, be- 
 cause he, who had accompanied the judges from London, 
 was the boon companion every night of Lord Jeffreys him- 
 self. But it is one thing to be permitted to drink and sing 
 with a man at night, and another thing to procure of him 
 the pardon of rebels, and those not the common sort, but 
 leaders and captains. That Benjamin would attempt to 
 save us I did not doubt, because in common decency and 
 humanity he must needs try to save his grandfather and his 
 cousins. Eyt that he >vould elfect anything, that indeed 1
 
 384 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 doubted. Whether he did make an attempt I know not. 
 He came not to the prison, nor did he make any sign that 
 he knew we were among- the prisoners. What he contrived, 
 the plot which he laid, and the villainy with which he ca-- 
 ried it out, you have already read. Well, I shall have much 
 more to say about Benjamin. For the moment, let hin; 
 pass. 
 
 I say, then, that we were lying in Exeter jail, expectin^^t i 
 be called out for execution at any hour. \\'e were sitting i . 
 the courtyard on the stone bench, with gloomy hearts. 
 
 " Robin ! Humphrey ! lads both ! " cried a voice wc knew. 
 It was the rector, Mr. Boscorel, himself, who called us. 
 "Courage, lads ! " he cried, yet looked himself as mournful 
 as man can look. "I bring you good news. I have this 
 day ridden from Ilminster. There is other news not so 
 good. Good news, I say ; for you shall live, and not die ! 
 I have so far succeeded that the lives are spared of Robin 
 Challis, captain in the rebel cavalry ; Barnaby Eykin, cap- 
 tain of the green regiment; and Humphrey Challis, chirur- 
 geon to the duke. Yet must you go to the plantations, poor 
 lads ! there to stay for ten long years. Well, we will hope 
 to get your pardon and freedom long before that time is 
 over. Yet you must perforce sail across the seas." 
 
 "Lad," cried Robin, catching my hand, "cease to tear 
 thy heart with reproaches. See ! none of us will die, after 
 all." 
 
 "On the scaffold, none," said Mr. Boscorel. "On the 
 scaffold none," he repeated. 
 
 "And what saith my grandfather, sir.?" Robin asked. 
 
 He is also enlarged, I hope, at last And how is the 
 learned Dr. Eykin .-* And Grace, my Grace, where is she } '' 
 
 "Young man," said the rector, " prepare for tidings of the 
 worst — yes, of the very worst. Cruel news I bring to you, 
 boys — and for myself. " (He hung his head. ) ' ' Cruel news 
 — shameful news." 
 
 Alas I you know already what he had to tell us. Worse 
 than the death of that good old man, Sir Christopher, worse 
 than the death of the unfortunate Dr. Eykin and his much 
 tried wife, there was the news of Grace's marriage and of 
 her flight ; and at hearing this we looked at each other in dis- 
 may, and Robin sprang to his feet and cried aloud for ven- 
 geance upon the villain who had done this thing. 
 
 " It is my own son," said Mr. Boscorel, "yet spare him 
 not He deserves all that you can call him and more. 
 Shameful news I had to tell you. Where the poor child hath
 
 t-'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 285 
 
 found a retreat, or how she fares I know not. Robin, ask 
 me not to curse my own son. What is done will bring its 
 punishment in due time. Doubt it not. But of punishment 
 we need not speak. If there were any way — any way pos- 
 sible — out of it. But there is none. It is a fatal blow. 
 Death itself alone can release her. Consider, Humphrey, 
 consider. You are not so distracted as your cousin. Con- 
 sider, I say, that unhappy girl is Benjamin's lawful wife. If 
 he can find her, he may compel her to live with him. She 
 is his lawful wife, I say. It is a case in which there is no 
 remedy. It is a wickedness for which there is no help until 
 one of the twain shall die." 
 
 There was, indeed, no help or remedy possible. I will 
 not tell of the madness which fell upon Robin at this news, 
 nor of the distracted things he said, nor how he wept for 
 Grace at one moment and the next cursed the author of this 
 wickedness. There was no remedy. Yet Mr. Boscorel 
 solemnly promised to seek out the poor innocent girl, forced 
 to break her vows for the one reason which could excuse 
 her — namely, to save the lives of all she loved. 
 
 " They were saved already," INIr. Boscorel added. "He 
 knew that they were saved. He had seen me. He had the 
 news that I brought from London. He knew it and he lied 
 unto her. There is no single particular in which his wicked- 
 ness can be excused or defended. Yet, I say, curses are of 
 no avail. The hand of God is heavy upon all sinners, and 
 will presently fall upon my unhappy son. I pray that be- 
 fore that hand shall fall his heart may be touched with re- 
 pentance. " 
 
 But Robin fell into a melancholy from which it was im- 
 possible to rouse him. He who, while death upon the scaf- 
 fold seemed certain, was cheerful and brave, now, when his 
 life was spared, sat heavy and gloomy, speaking to no one ; 
 or if he spoke, then in words of rage and impatience. 
 
 Mr. Boscorel remained at Exeter, visiting us daily until the 
 time came when we were removed. He brought with him 
 one day a smooth-tongued gentleman, in sober attire, who 
 was, he told us, a West Indian merchant of Bristol, named 
 George Penne. You have read and known already how great 
 a villain was this man. 
 
 " This gentleman," said INIr. Boscorel, "is able and will- 
 ing, for certain considerations: to assist you in your exile. 
 You have been given, among many others, by the king, to 
 one Mr. Jerome Nipho, who hath sold all his convicts to this 
 g;entleman. In hi« turn, he is under bonds to ship you for
 
 286 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 the plantations, where you will be sold again to the planters. " 
 
 " Sirs " — Mr. Penne looked from one to the other of us with 
 compassionate eyes — "I have heard your melancholy case 
 and it will be to my great happiness if 1 may be able in any 
 way to soften the rigors of your exile. Be it known to 
 you that I have correspondents in Jamaica, Barbadoes, and 
 Virginia ; and that for certain sums of money, these, my 
 friends will readily undertake to make your servitude one 
 merely in name. In other words, as I have already inform- 
 ed his reverence, I have bought you in the hope of being 
 useful to you — I wish I could thus buy all unhappy prisoners 
 — and I can, on paying my friends what they demand, secure 
 to you freedom from labor, subject only to the condition of 
 remaining abroad until your term is expired or your friends 
 at home have procured your pardon. " 
 
 " As for the price, Humphrey," said ]Mr. Boscorel, "that 
 shall be my care. It is nearly certain that Sir Christopher's 
 estates will be confiscated, seeing that he died in prison 
 under the charge of high-treason, though he was never tried. 
 Therefore we must not look to his lands for any help. What 
 this gentleman proposes is, however, so great a thing, that 
 we must not hesitate to accept his offer gratefully." 
 
 " I must have," said Mr. Penne, "seventy pounds for 
 each prisoner. I hear that there is a third young gentleman 
 of your party now in the same trouble at Ilminster. I shall, 
 therefore, ask for two hundred guineas — two hundred guineas 
 in all. It is not a large sum in order to secure freedom. 
 Those who cannot obtain this relief have to work in the 
 fields or in the mills, under the hot sun of the Spanish Main. 
 They are subject to the whip of the overseer, they have 
 wretched food ; they are W'orse treated than the negroes, 
 because the latter are slaves for life and the former 
 for ten years only. By paying two hundred guineas 
 only, you will all be enabled to live at your ease. INIean- 
 while, your friends at home will be constantly endeavoring 
 to procure your pardon. I myself, though but a simple 
 merchant of Bristol city, can boast some influence, which I 
 will most readily exert to the utmost in your behalf — " 
 
 " Say no more, sir," said Mr. Boscorel, interrupting him. 
 " The bargain is concluded. These young gentlemen shall 
 not be subjected to any servitude. I will pay you two 
 hundred guineas." 
 
 " I would, sir," — Mr. Penne laid his hand, which was 
 large, white, and soft, the hand of a liar and a traitor, upon 
 his treacherous heart — "I would to Hearen, sir," he said,
 
 't^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 287 
 
 " that I could undertake this service for less. If vcvy cor- 
 respondents were men of tender hearts the business should 
 cost you nothing- at all. But they are men of business. They 
 say that they live not abroad for pleasure, but for profit ; 
 they cannot forego any advantage that may offer. As for 
 me, this job brings me no profit. Upon my honor, gentle- 
 man, profit from such a source I should despise. Every 
 guinea that you give me will be placed to the credit of my 
 correspondents, who will, I am assured, turn a pretty penny 
 by the ransom of the prisoners. But that we cannot help. 
 And as for me, I say it boldly in the presence of this learned 
 and pious clergyman, I am richly rewarded with the satisfac- 
 tion of doing a generous thing. That is enough, I hope, for 
 any honest man. " 
 
 The fellow looked so benevolent and smiled with so much 
 compassion that it was impossible to doubt his word. Be- 
 sides, Mr. Boscorel had learned many things during the 
 journey to London ; among others, that it would be possible 
 to buy immunity from labor for the convicts. Therefore, 
 he hesitated not, but gave him what he demanded ; taking 
 in return a paper, which was to be shown to Mr. Penne's 
 correspondents, in which he acknowledged the receipt of the 
 money, and demanded in return a release from actual servi- 
 tude. This naper I put carefully in my pocket with my 
 note-book and my case of instruments. 
 
 It was, so far as my memory serves me, about six weeks 
 after our pardon was received when we heard that we were 
 to be marched to Bristol, there to be shipped for some port 
 or other across the ocean. At Taunton wc were joined by 
 a hundred poor fellows as fortunate as ourselves ; and at 
 Bridgwater by twenty more, whose lives had been bought by 
 Colonel Kirke. Fortunate we esteemed ourselves, for every- 
 where the roads were lined with legs, heads, trunks, and 
 arms, boiled and blackened in pitch, stuck up for the terror 
 of the country. Well, you shall judge how fortunate we 
 were. 
 
 When we reached Bristol, we found Mr. Pennc upon the 
 quay with some other merchants. He changed color when 
 he saw us, but quickly ran to meet us, and whispered that 
 we were on no account to betray his goodness in the matter 
 of ransom, otherwise it might be the undoing of us all, and 
 perhaps cause his own imprisonment. He also told me that 
 the ship was bound for Barbadoes, and we should have to 
 mess with the other prisoners on the voyage, but that it 
 would all be made up to us when we arrived. He further
 
 3 88 I'OR FAiril AND l•^REEDO^f. 
 
 added that he had requested his correspondent* to entertain 
 us ujitil money should arrive from England, and to become 
 our bankers for all that we should want. And with that he 
 clasped my hand tenderly, and with a " God be wi' ye " he 
 left us. and we saw him no more. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX.. 
 
 ROBIN, HUMPHREY, AND BARNABY REACH BARBADOES. 
 
 It was a numerous company gathered together on the 
 deck of the ship. By their dress they were country lads ; 
 by their pale cheeks they were prison birds like ourselves ; 
 by their dismal faces they were also, like ourselves, rebels 
 condemned to the plantations. Alas ! how many of these 
 poor fellows have returned to their homes, and how many 
 lie in the graves of Jamaica, Virginia, and Barbadoes? As 
 for preparations for a voyage, not one of us could make any, 
 either of clothes or of provisions. There was not among the 
 whole company so much as a change of clothes : nay, there 
 was not even a razor, and our faces were bristling horribly 
 with the beards which before long made us look like so 
 many Heyducs. 
 
 Among them I presently discerned, to my great joy, no 
 other than Barnaby. His coat of scarlet was now so ragged 
 and stained that neither color nor original shape could be 
 discerned ; his ruffles and cravat of lace were gone, and the 
 scarlet sash, which had formerly carried his hanger, was 
 gone also. In a word, he was in rags and covered with the 
 dust of the road. Yet his jolly countenance showed a satis- 
 faction which contrasted greatly with the dejection of his 
 companions. He sniffed the scent of tar and ropes with a 
 joy which was visible to all, and he contemplated the ship 
 and her rigging with the air of one who is at home. 
 
 Then he saw us, and shouted to us while he made his way 
 among the rest 
 
 " What cheer, ho ! Humphrey, brave lad of boluses ? " — 
 never did any man grasp the hand of a friend with greater 
 vigor. "This is better, I say, than the accursed prison, 
 where one gets never a breath of fresh air. Here one begins 
 to smell salt water and tarred rope, which is a downright
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 289 
 
 wholesome smell Already I feel hearty again. I would 
 willingly drink a tankard of black beer. What, Robin, 
 what ! We are not going to be hanged after all. Lift up thy 
 head therefore ; is this a time for looking glum .? We shall 
 live to hang Judge Jeffreys yet — what! Thy looks aie 
 poorly, lad. Is it the prison or is it thy disappointment.? 
 That villain Benjamin ! Hark ye, Robin " — some men's 
 faces look black when they threaten, but Barnaby's grew 
 broader, as if the contemplation of revenge made him the 
 happier — "hark ye, this is my business. No one shall in- 
 terfere with me in this. Benjamin is my affair. No one 
 but I myself must kill Benjamin : not you, Humphrey, be- 
 cause he is your cousin ; nor you Robin, because you must 
 not kill Grace's husband, even to get back your own sweet- 
 heart." Barnaby spoke wisdom here ; in spite of Robin's 
 vows, he could not get Grace for himself by killing her hus- 
 band, unworthy though he was. " Benjamin," he went on, 
 "may call her wife, but if he seek to make her his wife, if I 
 know Sis aright, he will meet his match. As for her safety, 
 I know that she must be safe. For why } Wherever there 
 are folks of her religious kidney there will she find frienas. 
 Cheer up, Robin ; soon or late I will kill this fine husband 
 of hers. " 
 
 But Robin shook his head. 
 
 Barnaby then asked if I knew whither we were bound. I 
 told him Barbadoes, according to the information given me 
 by I\Ir. Penne. 
 
 "Why," said Barnaby, rubbing his hands, " this is brave 
 news indeed. There is no place I would sooner choose. 
 'Tis a small island, to begin with ; give me a small island so 
 that the sea runneth all around it, and is everywhere within 
 easy reach. Where there is sea there are boats : where there 
 are boats there are the means of escape. Cheer up, my lads I 
 I know the Spanish Main right well. Give me a tight boat, 
 1 care not how small, and a keg of water, and I will sail her 
 anywhere. Ha ! We are bound to Barbadoes, are we.'' this 
 is brave news ! " 
 
 I asked him next what kind of a place it is. 
 
 "'Tis a hot place," he replied. " A man is always thirsty, 
 and there is plenty to drink except water, which is said to be 
 scarce. But the merchants and planters want none. They 
 have wine of the best, of Spain and France and of Madeira. 
 Cider and strong ale they import from England. And drinks 
 they make in the country — perino and mobbie, I remember, 
 guppo and plantain wine and kill-devil. 'Tis a rar« country
 
 3^ FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 for drink, and many there be who die of too much. Hold 
 up thy head, Robin ; we will drink damnation to Benjamin 
 yet. But 'tis I who shall kill him. Courage, I say. What ! 
 Our turn will come again."' 
 
 I told him, then, what had been done by Mr. George Penne, 
 namely, the ransom bought by the rector for us all. 
 
 " Why," he said, with some discontent, " we shall not be 
 long upon the island, after all, and perhaps the money might 
 have been better bestowed. But 'twas kindly done of the 
 rector. As for the banishment, I value it not one farthing. 
 One place is as good as another, and for my own part 1 love 
 the West India islands. We shall have our choice among 
 them all, because where there are boats and the open sea a 
 man can go whithersoever pleaseth him best. The voyage 
 out," — he glanced round him— " will, I fear, be choking work ; 
 the rations will be short, there will be neither drink, nor to- 
 bacco, and at nights we shall lie close. A more melancholy 
 company I never saw. Patience, my lads, our turn will 
 come.'' 
 
 Well, 'twas a special mercy that we had with us one man, 
 at least, who preserved his cheerfulness, for the rest of the 
 company were as melancholy as King James himself could 
 have desired. Indeed, to look back upon the voyage is to 
 recall the most miserable time that can be imagined. Fiist 
 of all, as I have said, we were wholly unprepared for a voy- 
 age, having nothing at all with us. Thus we had bad 
 weather at the outset, which not only made our people ill, 
 but caused the biscuit to be all spoiled, so that before the 
 end of the voyage a few pease with the sweepings of the 
 biscuit-room, and som.etimes a little tough beef, was all our 
 diet, and for drink nothing, not so much as a pannikin ol 
 beer, but water, and that turbid and not too much of it 
 
 As for me, I kept my health chiefly by the method com- 
 mon among physicians : namely, by watching the symp- 
 toms of others. But mostly was I concerned with the 
 condition of Robin. For the poor lad, taking so much to 
 heart the dreadful villainy which had been practised upon 
 Grace, never once held up his head, and would talk and 
 think of nothing else but of that poor girl. 
 
 " Where is she ? " he asked a hundred times. "Where hath 
 she found a shelter and a hiding-place? How shall she es- 
 cape the villain, who will now do what he pleases, since we 
 are out of his way .-* And no help for her ; not any until she 
 die, or until he dies. And we cannot even send her a letter 
 to console her poor heart Humphrey, it drives me mad to
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 29: 
 
 think that every day carries us farther from her. If 1 
 could but be with her, to protect her against her husband ! 
 Humphrey, Barnaby said well, I could not get her back to 
 me over the dead body of her husband. But to protect her, 
 to stand between her and the man she hath sworn to obey ! " 
 There is no more dangerous condition of the mind than 
 that which we call despair. It is, I take it, a disease, and 
 that of the most dangerous kind. I have observed many 
 men in that condition. With some the devil enters into 
 them, finding all the doors open and unguarded ; nay, and 
 receives a warm welcome. With others it is as if the body 
 itself were left without its armor ; a cheerful and hopeful mind 
 being certainly an armor against disease, capable of warding 
 off many of those invisible arrows which are always flying 
 about the air, and striking us down with fevers, agues, cal- 
 entures, and other pains and grievous diseases. 
 
 I marvel that more of the men on board were not sick ; 
 for, to begin with, the water was thick and swarmed with 
 wriggling creatures, difficult to avoid in drinking ; and then, 
 though during the day we were supposed to be on deck 
 (where the air was fresh even if the sun was hot), at night 
 we were terribly crowded below, and lay too close for health 
 or comfort. However, we finally made Carlisle Bay, and 
 the port of St. Michaels, or the liridge. And I must say this 
 for Barnaby, that he maintained throughout the whole voy- 
 age his cheerfulness, and that he never ceased to make his 
 plans for escape, drawing on a paper, which he procured, a 
 rough chart of the Spanish INIain, with as many islands as he 
 could remember. Of these there are hundreds, desolate and 
 safe for fugitives, some with neither water nor green trees, 
 and some with springs and woods, wild fruit, land turtles on 
 the shore, fish in the sea, and everything that man can de- 
 sire. We made the land one day in the forenoon. 
 
 " Barbadoes," said Barnaby, pointing to a little cloud far 
 away on the horizon. " Well, of this job I am well-nigh 
 sick. To-morrow, if the wind holds, we shall have sailed 
 round the island, and shall beat up for Carlisle Bay. Well, it 
 is lucky for us that we have this letter of Mr. Penne's. We 
 will go — I know the place well — to the sign of the Rock and 
 Turtle, kept by old ]\Iother Rosemary, if she lives still, or if 
 she be dead by one of her daughters — she had fifty daughters 
 at least, all buxom mulatto girls. There will we put off these 
 fithy rags, have a wash in a tul) of fine water, get shaven, 
 and then with smooth chins and clean shirts we will sit down 
 to a dinner such as the old woman knows how to make—
 
 igi POR FAIT// AND FREEDOM. 
 
 a potato pudding and Scots coUops, with Rhenish wine, anil 
 afterwards a cool cup of beverage, which is nothing in the 
 world but squeezed limes with sugar and water, fit for such 
 a womanly stomach as yours, doctor. With this and a pipe 
 (^f tobacco, and perhaps a song and (when your worship 
 hath gone to bed) a dance from one of the girls — I say, my 
 lad, with this I shall be ready to forget Sedgemoor, and to 
 forgive Judge Jeffreys. When we are tired of Barbadoes, we 
 will take boat and sail away; I know one island at least 
 where they care nothing for King James. Thither will we 
 go. my lad." 
 
 \\'ell, what we found at our port and how we fared was 
 not quite as Barnaby expected and hoped, as you shall hear. 
 But I must admire the cunning of the man Penne, who not 
 only took from Grace, poor child, all her brother's money, 
 amounting to two hundred and lifty pounds or thereabouts 
 (which you have read) on the pretext of bestowing it for the 
 advantage of all, but also received two hundred guineas from 
 Mr. Boscorel on the same pretence. This made in all four 
 hundred and fifty pounds. And not one penny, not a single 
 penny, of this great sum did the man spend upon the purpose 
 for which it was given him. 
 
 You have heard how the merchants and planters came 
 aboard the ships which put in with servants and slaves, and 
 how these are put for sale, one at a time. As was the sale 
 described by Grace, just such was ours. Though, I take it, 
 our lads were not so miserable a company as were those on 
 board her ship. Pale of cheek they looked, and dejected, 
 and some were sick with various disorders, caused by the 
 continement of the prison or the sufferings of the voyage. 
 They put us up one after the other, and we were sold. I for- 
 get what I myself fetched, and, indeed, it matters not, save 
 that many jests were passed at our expense, and that when 
 one was put up, as Robin, for instance, who had been a cap- 
 tain in the rebel army, the salesman was eloquent in praise 
 of his rich and illustrious family, who would never endure 
 that this unfortunate man should continue in servitude. But 
 Barnaby put his tongue in his cheek and laughed. 
 
 When the sale was concluded, we were bundled into boats 
 and taken ashore to the barracoon, of which you have heard 
 from Grace. Here the same officer as read to her party the 
 laws concerning servants and their duties, and the punish- 
 ments which await transgressions, read them also to our- 
 selves. 
 
 " Faith," Baniaby whispered, "there will be great scoring
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 «93 
 
 of backs before many days are done, unless their bark is 
 worse than their bite. " 
 
 This done, I thought it was time to present my letter. 
 Therefore I stepped forward and informed the officer, who, 
 by reason of his gown and wig, and the beadles who were 
 with him, I judged to be some lawyer, that, with my cousin 
 and another, I held a letter which should hold us free from 
 servitude. 
 
 " Ay, ay," he said. " Where is that letter? " 
 
 So I gave it to him. Twas addressed to one Jonathan 
 Polwhele, and enjoined him to receive the three prisoners, 
 named Humphrey Challis, Robin Challis, and Barnaby 
 Eykin, pay for them such sums as would reasonably be re- 
 quired to redeem them from servitude, and to advance them 
 such moneys as they would want at the outset for maintain- 
 ance, the whole to be accounted for in IMr. Jonathan Pol- 
 whele's next dispatches to his obedient much obliged servant, 
 G. P. 
 
 "Sir," said the officer, when he had read the letter through, 
 "it is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele. There is no mer- 
 chant or planter of that name on the whole island." 
 
 He gave me back the letter. " If this, " he said, "is all 
 you have to show, there is no reason why you and your 
 friends should not march with the rest. " 
 
 Truly, we had nothing else to show. Not only was there 
 no one named Polwhele on the island, but there never had 
 been any one of that name. Therefore it was plain that we 
 had been tricked, and that the man named George Penne was 
 a villain. Alas, poor Barnaby ! Where now were his cool 
 cups and his pipe of tobacco } Then the officer beckoned to 
 a gentleman — a sober and grave person — standing near him, 
 and spoke to him. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the merchant, "permit me to read this 
 letter. So, it is the handwriting of Mr. George Penne, which 
 I know well. There is here some strange mistake. The 
 letter is addressed to Mr. Jonathan Polwhele. But there is 
 no one of that name in the place. I am, myself, Mr. Penne's 
 correspondent in this island ; my name, gentlemen, is Sefton ; 
 not Polwhele. " 
 
 "Sir," I said, "do you know Mr. Penne?" 
 
 " I have never seen him. He consigns to my care once 
 or twice a year a cargo of transported servants, being rogues 
 and thieves sent here instead of to the gallows. He ships 
 them k> my care, I say, as he hath shipped the company 
 i^rrived this nrioming, and I sell them for him, taking for my
 
 294 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 share a percentage, as agreed upon, and remitting to him the 
 balance in sugar and tobacco." 
 
 " Is there no letter from him ? " 
 
 "There is a letter in which he advises me of so many 
 rebels consigned to me in order to be sold. Some among 
 them, he says, were captains and officers in ]\Ionmouth's 
 army, and some are of good family, among whom he espe- 
 cially names Robin and Humphrey Challis. But there is not 
 a word about ransom. " 
 
 "Sir, I said, knowing nothing as yet of Grace and her 
 money, "two hundred guineas have been paid to INIr. Penne 
 by the Rev. Philip Boscorel, Rector of Bradford Orcas, for 
 our ransom." 
 
 "Nothing is said of this," he replied, gravely. " Plainly, 
 gentlemen, without despatches from Mr. Penne, I cannot act 
 for you. You have a letter. It is written by that gentle- 
 man ; it is addressed to Mr. Polwhele ; it says nothing about 
 Barbadoes, and would serve for Jamaica or for Virginia. So 
 great a sum as two hundred guineas cannot have been for- 
 gotten. I exhort*you, therefore, to patience until other letters 
 arrive. Why, two hundred guineas would have gone far to 
 redeem you all three, and to maintain you for a great while. 
 Gentlemen, I am grieved for you, because there is no help 
 for it, but that you must go with the planter who hath bought 
 you, and obey his orders. I will, however, send to J^Ir. 
 Penne an account of this charge, and I would advise that 
 you lose no time in writing to your friends at home." 
 
 "Heart up, lad, "' cried Barnaby, for I turned faint upon 
 this terrible discovery, and would have fallen, but he held me 
 up. ' ' Patience, our turn will come. " 
 
 "Write that letter," said the merchant again — "write that 
 letter quickly, so that it may go with the next vessel. Other- 
 wise the work is sometimes hard and the heat is great. " So 
 he turned and left us. 
 
 "Courage, man," said Barnaby. "To every dog his day. 
 If now, for five minutes only, I couldhavemy thumb on Mr. 
 Penne's windpipe and my fingers round his neck ! And I 
 thought to spent the evening joyfully at Mother Rosemary's. 
 Courage, lad ; I have seen already," he whispered, "a dozen 
 boats in the bay, any one of which will serve our turn. " 
 
 But Robin paid no heed, whatever happened. He stood 
 up when his name was called, and was sold without showing 
 an.y emotion. When he found that we had been tricked he 
 seemed as if he neither heard nor regarded. 
 
 When all was ready we were marched, twenty in number,
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 295 
 
 along a white and dusty road, to our estate. • By great good- 
 fortune, rather than by Providence, we were all bought by 
 the same master. He was, it is true, a bad man, but to be 
 together was a happiness which we 'Could not expect. He 
 bought us all because he understood that we belonged to the 
 same family, and that one of position, in the hope of receiv- 
 ing substantial ransom. This man rode with us, accom- 
 panied by two overseers (these were themselves under the 
 same sentence), who cracked their whips continually, and 
 cursed us if we lagged. Their bark was worse, we after- 
 wards found, than their bit* ; for it was only in the master's 
 presence that they behaved thus brutishly, and in order to 
 curry favor with him, and to prevent being reduced again to 
 the rank of those who served in the field. There was no 
 doubt, from the very outset, that we were afflicted with a 
 master whose like, I would hope, is not to be found upon 
 the island of Barbadoes. Briefly, he was one whose appear- 
 ance, voice, and manner all alike proclaimed him openly to 
 all the world as a drunkard, a profligate, and a blasphemer. 
 A drunkard he was of that kind who are seldom wholly 
 drunk, and yet are never sober ; who begin the day with a 
 glass, and go on taking more glasses all day long ; with 
 small ale for breakfast, strong ale and ^Madeira for dinner, a 
 tankard in the afternoon, and for supper more strong ale and 
 Madeira, and before bed another tankard. As for compas- 
 sion, or tenderness, or any of the virtues which a man who 
 holds other men in slavery ought to possess, he had none 
 of them. 
 
 Let me speak of him with no more bitterness than is nec- 
 essary. We have, I think, all forgiven him, and he hath 
 long since gone to a place where he can do no more harm 
 to any, but awaiteth judgment, perhaps, inthesure and certain 
 hope of which the funeral service speaks. But this is open 
 to doubt. 
 
 When we arrived at the estate the master dismounted, 
 gave his horse to a negro, and ordered us to be drawn up in 
 line. 
 
 He then made a short speech. He said that he had bought 
 us, rebels and villains as we were, and that he meant to get his 
 money's worth out of us, or he would cut us all to pieces. 
 Other things he told us which I pass over, because they 
 were but repetitions of this assurance. He then proceeded 
 to examine us in detail. When he came to me, he cursed 
 and swore because, he said, he had been made to pay for a 
 sound, proper man, and had trot 7\ crookback for his barg^ain.
 
 ,^6 POR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 I told him that, with submission, he might find the crook- 
 back, who was a physician, a more profitable bargain than 
 many a stronger man. 
 
 " What !" he roared. "Thou art a physician, eh ? Wouldst 
 slink out of the field-work and sit idle among bottles and bo- 
 luses .'' John," he turned to one of the overseers, "pay 
 particular attention, I command thee, to this learned physi- 
 cian. If he so much as turn round in his work, make his 
 shoulders smart " 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," said the overseer. 
 
 " And what art thou, sirrah ? " He turned next to Barnaby. 
 "Another learned physician, no doubt ; or a divine, a 
 bishop, likely, or a dean at the least" 
 
 "As for what I was," said Barnaby, " that is neither here 
 nor there. For what I am — I suppose I am your servant 
 for ten years, until our pardons are sent us. " 
 
 "Thou art an impudent dog, I dare swear," returned the 
 master. "I remember thou wast a captain in the rebel 
 army, once a sailor ; well, take care, lest thou taste the cat" 
 
 " Gentlemen who are made to taste the cat," said Bar- 
 naby, '*are apt to remember the taste of it when their time 
 is up. " 
 
 " What ! " he cried. " You dare to threaten } Take that 
 and that" and so began to belabor him about the head. I 
 trembled, lest Barnaby should return the blows. But he 
 did not He only held up his arm to protect his head, and 
 presently, when the master desisted, he shook himself like 
 a dog. 
 
 "I shall remember the taste of that wood," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 The master looked as if he would renew the cudgelling, 
 but thought better of it 
 
 Then, without more violence, we were assigned our 
 quarters. A cottage or hut was given to us ; we were served 
 with a hammock and a rug each ; a pannikin, basin, spoon, 
 and platter for each ; a Monmouth cap, two shirts, common 
 and coarse, two pair of canvas breeches, and a pair of shoes 
 for each, so that we looked for all the world like the fellows 
 who live by loading and unloading the ships in the port of 
 Bristol. Yet the change after the long voyage was grateful. 
 They served us next with some of the stuff they called loblol- 
 lie, and then the night fell, and we lay down in our hammocks, 
 which were certainly softer than the planks of the ship, and 
 then fell fast asleep in spite of the humming and the biting 
 pf the merrywino^s, and so slept till the break of d^ij,
 
 JfOJi FAITlt AND J'\kE£POM, i^^ 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 WITH THE HOE. 
 
 Beforh it was daylight we were aroused by the discord- 
 «nt clang of the bell. Work was about to begin. 
 
 In these latitudes there is little twilight ; the day begin as it 
 ends, with a kind of suddenness. I arose, being thus sum- 
 tnoned, and looked out Long rays o* light were shooting 
 up the sky from the east, and, though the stars were still visi- 
 ble, the day was fast breaking. In a few moments it be- 
 came already so light that I could see across the yard, or 
 what the Italians would call the piazza, with its ragged bon- 
 unnow leaves, the figures of our fellow-slaves moving about 
 the huts, and their voices, alas ! — sad and melancholy are 
 the voices of those who work upon his majesty's plantations. 
 'I "wo old negresses went about among the new-comers car- 
 rying a bucket full of a yellow mess which they distributed 
 among us, and giving us to understand that this bowl of 
 yellow porridge or loblollie, made out of Indian corn, was 
 all we should have before dinner. They also gave us to un- 
 derstand in their broken English, which is far worse than the 
 jargon talked by some of our country people, that we should 
 have to prepare our own meals for the future, and that they 
 would show us how to make this delectable mess. 
 
 ' ' Eat it, " .said Barnaby. ' ' A pig is "better fed at home. Eat 
 jt, Robin, lest thou faint in the sun. Perhaps there will be 
 something better for dinner. Heigh-ho ! only to think of 
 Mother Rosemary's, where I thought to lie last night 1 Pa- 
 tience lads." 
 
 One would not seem to dwell too long on the simple fare of 
 convicts, therefore I will say, once for all, that our rations 
 consisted of nothing at all but the Indian meal, and of salt 
 beef or salt fish. The old hands and the negro slaves know 
 how to improve their fare in many ways, and humane mas- 
 ters will give their servants quantities of the fruits such as 
 grow here in great abundance, as plantains, lemons, limes, 
 bonannows, guavas, and the like. And many of the black 
 slaves have small gardens behind their huts, where they 
 grow onions. yan»6, potatoes, and other things, which they
 
 298 ^'OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 \:ultivate on Sundays. They arc all great thieves also, steal- 
 ing, whenever they can, poultry, eggs, and fruits, so that they 
 grow fat and sleek, while the white servants daily grow more 
 meagre and fall into diseases by the poorness of the food. 
 Then, as to drink ; there are many kinds of drink (apart 
 from the wines of Spain, Portugal, Canary, Madeira, and 
 France) made in the country itself : such as mobbie, which 
 ■ '■> a fermented liquor of potatoes ; and perino, from the 
 iquor of chewed cassava root; punch, which is water and 
 sugar left to work for ten days ; rum, which is distilled in 
 every ingenio, and is a spirit as strong as brandy, but not 
 so wholesome. Those who have been long in the island, 
 even the servants, though without a penny, know how and 
 where to get these drinks ; and since there is no consoler, to 
 the common sort, so good as strong drink, those who are 
 able to drink every day of these things become somewhat 
 reconciled to their lot 
 
 '* Come out, ye dogs of rebels and traitors ! " It was the 
 loud and harsh voice of the master himself who thus disturb- 
 ed us at our breakfast. 'Twas his custom thus to rise early 
 and to witness the beginning of the day's work. And 'twas 
 his kindly nature which impelled him thus to welcome and 
 encourage his newly bought slaves. '"' Come out, I say. Ye 
 shall now show of what stuff ye are made. Instead of pull- 
 ing down your lawful king, ye shall pull up your lawful 
 master and make him rich. If ye never did a day's work in 
 your lives, ye shall now learn the how b}' the must. Come 
 forth, I say, ye lazy, guzzling skulkers." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Barnaby, leisurely scraping his bowl. "We 
 are like, indeed, to be overfed here. "He rolled, sailor-fashion, 
 out of the hut 
 
 " Barnaby," I said, " for God's sake say nothing to anger 
 the master. There is no help but in patience and in hope." 
 
 So we too went forth. The master, red-faced as he was, 
 looked as if he had been drinking already. 
 
 " So," he cried. " Here is the learned physician. Your 
 health, doctor. And here is the gallant captain, who was 
 once a sailor. The air of the fields, captain, will remind you, 
 perchance, of the quarter-deck. This young gentleman 
 looks so gallant and gay that I warrant he will ply the hoe 
 with a light and frolic heart. Your healths, gentlemen. 
 Hark ye now. You are come of a good stock, I hear. There- 
 fore have I bought you at a great price, looking to get my 
 money back and more. Some planters would suffer you to 
 lie at your ease cockered up witii bonavist and Madeira till-
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 299 
 
 ttie money comes. As for me, I shall now show you what 
 3'ou will continue to do unless the money comes. There- 
 tore you will at once, I doubt not, ask for paper and pen 
 and presently write. Si.xty pounds a piece, gentlemen, nof 
 one penny less, will purchase your freedom. Till then, the 
 fields. And no difference between white and black, but one 
 whip for both. ' 
 
 We made no reply, but took the hoes which were given 
 out to us, and marched with the rest of the melancholy 
 troop. 
 
 There were as many blacks as whites ; we were divided 
 into gangs, with every gang a driver armed with a whip ; 
 and over all the overseers, who, by their severity, showed 
 their zeal for the master. The condition of slavery hath in 
 it something devilish both for those who are slaves and those 
 who are masters. The former it drives into despair and 
 fills with cunning, dishonesty, treachery, and revenge. 
 Why, the slaves, have been known to rise in rebellion, and 
 while they had the power have inflicted tortures unheard of 
 upon their masters. The latter it makes cruel and unfeel- 
 ing ; it tempts them continually to sins of all kinds ; it puts 
 into their power the lives, the bodies — nay, the very souls 
 of the poor folk whom they buy. I do maintain and con- 
 ceal not my opinion, that no man ought, in a Christian 
 country, to be a slave except for a term of years, and then 
 for punishment. I have been myself a slave, and I know 
 the misery and the injustice of the condition. But it is idle to 
 hope that the planters will abandon this means of cultivat- 
 ing their estates, and it is certain that in hot countries no 
 man will work except by compulsion. 
 
 The whip carried by the driver is a dreadful instrument, 
 long, thick, and strongly plaited, with a short handle. It is 
 coiled and slung round the shoulders when it is not being 
 used to terrify or to punish, and I know well that its loutl 
 crack produces upon the mind a sensation of fear and ot 
 horror, such as the thunder of artillery or the sight of the 
 enemy charging could never cause even to a cowanl. The 
 fellows are also extremely dexterous in the use of it ; they 
 can inflict a punishment not worse than the flogging of a 
 schoolboy ; or, with no greater outward show of strength, 
 they will cut and gash the flesh like a Russian executioner 
 with his cruel instrument which they call the knout. 
 
 For slight offences, such as laziness or carelessness in the 
 fiel4, the former-is administered ; but for serious offences 
 i^ latter. One sad execution (I cannot call it less) I my-
 
 300 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 self witnessed. What the poor wretch had done I know 
 not, but I can never forget his piercing shrieks as the whip 
 cut into the bleeding flesh. This is not punishment ; it is 
 savage and revengeful cruelty. Yet the master and the 
 overseers looked on with callous eyes. 
 
 They marched us to a field about half a mile from our vil- 
 lage or camp, and there, drawing us up in a line, set us tc^ 
 work. Our task was with the hoe, to dig out square holes 
 each of the same depth and size, in which the sugar-cani^s 
 are planted, a small piece of old cane being laid in each. 
 These holes are cut with regularity and exactness, in long 
 lines and equally distant from each other. It i^ the driver's 
 business to keep all at work at the same rate of progress, so 
 that no one should lag behind, no one should stop to rest or 
 breathe, no one should do less than his neighbors. The 
 poor wretches, with bent bodies streaming with their e.x- 
 ertions, speedily become afflicted with a burning thirst, 
 their legs tremble, their backs grow stiff and ache, their 
 whole bodies become full of pain ; and yet they may not 
 rest nor stand upright to breathe awhile, nor stop to drink, 
 until the driver calls a halt. From time to time the negroes, 
 men and women alike, were dragged out of the ranks and 
 laid on the ground, three or four at a time, to receive lashes for 
 not making the holes deep enough or fast enough. At home one 
 can daily see the poor creatures flogged in Bridewell ; every 
 day there are rogues tied to the cartwheel and flogged well- 
 nigh to death ; but a ploughman is not flogged for the badness 
 of his furrow, nor is a cobbler flogged because he maketh his 
 shoon ill. And our men do not shriek and scream so wildly 
 as the negroes, who are an ignorant people, and have never 
 learned the least self-restraint. It was horrid also to see how 
 their bodies were scarred with the marks of old floggings, 
 and branded with letters to show by whom they had been 
 bought. As for our poor fellows, who had been brave re- 
 cruits in Monmouth's army, they trembled at the sight and 
 worked all the harder, yet some of them with the tears in 
 their eyes, to think that they should be brought to such a 
 dismal fate, and to herd with these poor ignorant black 
 people. 
 
 'Twas the design of the master to set us to the very hardest 
 work from the beginning, so that we should be the more 
 anxious to get remission of our pains. For it must not be 
 supposed that all the work on the estate was so hard and 
 irksome as that with the hoes, which is generally kept for 
 the strongest and hardiest of the negroes, men and women.
 
 POR FAITH AXD 1-KEEDOM. 30I 
 
 There are many other employments : some are put to weed 
 the canes ; some to fell wood, come to cleave it ; some to 
 attend the ingenio, the boiling-house, the still-house, the 
 curing-house ; some to cut the maize ; some to gather pro- 
 visions, of bonavist, maize, yams, potatoes, cassava, and the 
 like ; some for the smith's forge ; some to attend to the oxen 
 and sheep ; some to the camels and assenegoes, and the 
 like — so that had the master pleased he might have set us to 
 work better fitted to English gentlemen. Well, his greedi- 
 ness and cruelty were defeated, as you will see. As for the 
 domestic economy of the estate, there were on it five hundred 
 acres of land, of which two hundred were planted with sugar, 
 eighty for pasture, one hundred and twenty for wood, twenty 
 for tobacco, five for ginger, and as many for cotton-wool, 
 and seventy for provisions — viz., corn, potatoes, plantains, 
 cassava, and bonavist, with a few for fruit. There were 
 ninety-six negroes, two or three Indian women with their 
 children, and twenty-eight Christian servants, of whom we 
 were three. 
 
 At eleven o'clock we were marched back to dinner. At 
 one we went out again, the sun being at this time of the day 
 very fierce, though January is the coldest month in the year. 
 We worked till six o'clock in the evening, when we re- 
 turned. 
 
 "This, " said Robin, with a groan, "is what we have now 
 to do every day for ten years." 
 
 " Heart up, lad," said Barnaby. "Our time will come. 
 Give me time to turn round, as a body may say. Why, the 
 harbor is full of boats. Let me get to the port and look 
 round a bit If we had any money now, but that is past 
 praying for. Courage and patience. Doctor, you hoe too 
 fast. No one looks for zeal. Follow the example of the 
 black fellows who think all day long how they shall get off 
 with as little work as possible. As for their lash, I doubt 
 whether they dare to lay it about us, though they may talk. 
 Because you see, even if we do not escape, we shall som.e 
 time or other, through the rector's efforts, get a pardon, and 
 then we are gentlemen again, and when that moment ar- 
 rives I will make this master of ours fight, willy-nilly, and I 
 will kill him, d'ye see, before I go home to kill Benjamin." 
 
 He then went on to discourse, either with the hope of 
 raising our spirits, or because it cheered his mind just to set 
 them forth, upon his plans for the means of escape, 
 
 "A boat," he said, " I can seize. There are many which 
 would serve our purpose. But a boat without victuals
 
 jo2 i'OK FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 would be of little use. One would not be accused of steal- 
 ing, yet we may have to break into. the store and take there- 
 from some beef or biscuit. But where to store our victuals } 
 We may have a voyage of three or four hundred knots be- 
 fore us. That is nothing for a tight little boat when the 
 hurricane season is over. We have no compass either, I 
 must lay hands upon a compass. The first Saturday . night 
 1 will make for the port and cast about. Lift up your head, 
 Robin. Why, man, all bad times pass if only one hath 
 jiatience." 
 
 It was this very working in the field by which the master 
 thought to drive us to despair which caused in the long run 
 our deliverance, and that in the most unexpected manner. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 ONCONDITIONS. 
 
 This servitude endured for a week, during which we were 
 driven forth daily with the negroes to the hardest and most 
 intolerable toil, the master's intention being so to disgust us 
 with the life as to make us write the most urgent letters to 
 our friends at home. Since, as we told him, two hundred 
 guineas had been already paid on our account — though none 
 of the money was used for the purpose — he supposed that 
 another two hundred could easily be raised. Wherefore, 
 while those of the new servants who were common country 
 lads were placed in the ingenio, or the curing-house, where 
 the work is sheltered from the scorching sun, we were made 
 to endure every hardship that the place permitted. In the 
 event, however, the man's greed was disappointed, and his 
 cruelty made of none avail. 
 
 In fact, the thing I had foreseen quickly came to pas.s. 
 When a man lies in a lethargy of despair his body, no longer 
 fortified by a cheerful mind, ])resently falls into any disease 
 which is lurking in the air. Diseases of all kinds may be 
 likened unto wild beasts — invisible, always on the prowl, 
 seeking whom they may devour. The young fall victims 
 to some, the weak to others ; the drunkards and gluttons to 
 others ; the old to others ; and the lethargic again to others. 
 It was not surprising to. me. therefore, when Robin, coming
 
 /OA' FAITH AND J-REEDOM. ^oj 
 
 home one evening, fell to shivering and shaking, chattering 
 witn his teeth, and showing every external sign of cold, 
 though the evening was still warm and the sun had that day- 
 been more than commonly hot. Also, he turned av.-ay from 
 his food and would eat nothing. Therefore, as there was 
 nothing we could give him, we covered him with our rugs, 
 and he presently fell asleep. But in. the morning when we 
 awoke, behold ! Robin was in a high fever, his hands and 
 head burning hot, his cheek flushed red, his eyes rolling, 
 and his brain wandering. I went forth and called the over- 
 seer to come and look at him. At first he cursed and swore, 
 saying that the man was malingering — that is to say, pre- 
 tending to be sick in order to avoid work — that, if he were 
 a negro instead of a gentleman, a few cuts with his lash 
 should shortly bring him to his senses ; that, for his part, he 
 liked not this mixing of gentlemen with negroes ; and that 
 finally, I must go and bring forth my sick man or take it 
 upon myself to face the master, who would probably drive 
 him afield with the stick. 
 
 "Sir," I said, "what the master may do, I know not. 
 Murder may be done by any who are wicked enough. For 
 my part, I am a physician, and I tell you that to make this 
 man go forth to work will be murder. But, indeed, he is 
 lightheaded, and with a thousand lashes you could not make 
 him understand or obey." 
 
 Well, he grumbled, but he followed me into the hut. 
 
 "The man hath had a sunstroke," he said, "I wonder 
 that any of you have escaped. Well, we can carry him to 
 the siclfhouse, where he will die. When a new hand is 
 faken this way, he always dies." 
 
 "Perhaps he will not die," I said, "if he is properly 
 '.reated. If he is given nothing but this diet of loblollie and 
 p.alt beef, and nothing to drink but the foul water of the 
 pond, and no other doctor than an ignorant old ncgress, he 
 will surely die." 
 
 "Good Lord, man !" said the fellow, "what do you 
 expect in this country ? It is the master's loss, not mine 
 'Jarry him between you to the sick-house." 
 
 So we carried Robin to the sick-house. 
 
 At home we should account it a barn ; being a great 
 place with a thatched roof, the windows open, without 
 shutter or lattice, the door breaking away from its hinges. 
 Within there was a black, lying on a pallet, groaning most 
 piteously. The poor wretch, for something that he had 
 done, I know not what, had his flesh cut to pieces with the
 
 304 ^-'Ok FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 whip. With him was an old negress, mumbling and 
 mouthing'. 
 
 We laid Robin on another pallet, and covered him with a 
 rug. 
 
 "Now, man," said the overseer, "leave him there, and 
 come forth to your work." 
 
 " Nay," I said, " he must not be left. I am a i)hysician, 
 and I must stay beside him." 
 
 "If he were your son, I would not suffer you to stay with 
 him." 
 
 " Man," I cried, " hast thou »o pity ? " 
 
 "Pity ! " — the fellow grinned — " pity ! quotha, pity ! Is 
 this a place for pity .? Why, if I showed any pity I should 
 be working beside you in the fields. It is because 1 have 
 no pity that I am an overseer. Look here ! " (He showed 
 me his left hand, which had been branded with a red-hot 
 iron.) "This was done in Newgate, seven years ago and 
 more. Three years more I have to serve. That done, I 
 may begin to show some pity, not before. Pity is scarce 
 among the drivers of Barbadoes. As well ask the beadle 
 for pity when he flogs a 'prentice." 
 
 "Let me go to the master, then.? " 
 
 " Best not — best not. Let this man die, and keep your- 
 self alive. The morning is the worst time for him, because 
 last night's drink is still in his head. Likely as not you will 
 only make the sick man's case, and your own, worse. 
 Leave him in the sick-house, and go back to him in the 
 evening." 
 
 The man spoke with some compassion in his eyes. Just 
 then, however, a negro boy came running from the houses 
 and spoke to the overseer. 
 
 " \Vhy," he said, " nothing could be more pat. You can 
 speak to the master if you please. He is in pain, and madam 
 sends for Dr. Humphrey Challis. Go, doctor. If you cure 
 him, you will be a lucky man. If you cannot cure him, 
 the Lord have mercy upon you ! Whereas, if you suffer 
 him to die," he added, with a grin and a whisper, "every 
 man on the estate will fall down and worship you. Let 
 him die— let him die." 
 
 I followed the boy, who took me to that part of the 
 house which fronts the west and north. It was a mean 
 house of wood, low and small, considering how wealthy a 
 man was the master of it ; on three sides, however, there 
 was built out a kind of loggia, as the Italians call it, of 
 wood instead of marble, forming a cloister, or open cham-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 305 
 
 ber, outside the house. They call it a veranda, and part ot 
 it they hang with mats, made of grass, so as to keep it 
 shaded in the afternoon and evening, when the sun is in 
 the west The boy brought me to this place, pointed to a 
 chair where the master sat, and then ran away as quickly 
 as he could. 
 
 It was easy to understand why he ran away. Because 
 the master, at this moment, sprang out of his chair, and be- 
 gan to stamp up and down the veranda, roaring and curs- 
 ing. He was clad in a white linen dressing-gown and linen 
 nightcap. On a small table beside him stood a bottle of 
 beer, newly opened, and a silver tankard. 
 
 When he saw me, he began to swear at me for my delay 
 in coming, though I had not lost a moment. 
 
 "Sir," I said, " if you will cease railing and blaspheming, 
 I will examine into your malady. Otherwise, I will do 
 nothing for you. " 
 
 "What ! " he cried, "you dare to make conditions with 
 me, you dog, you ? " 
 
 " Fair words, " I said, "fair words. lam your servant, 
 to work on your plantation as you may command. I am 
 not your physician ; and I promise you, sir, upon the honor 
 of a gentleman, and without using the sacred name which 
 is so often on your lips, that if you continue to rail at me, I 
 will suffer you to die rather than stir a little finger in your 
 help. " 
 
 "Suffer the physician to examine the place," said a wom- 
 an's voice, " What good is it to curse and to swear .? " 
 
 The voice came from a hammock swinging at the end of 
 the veranda. It was made, I observed, of a kind of coarse 
 grass loosely woven. 
 
 The man sat down, sulkily bade me find a remedy for the 
 pain which he was enduring. So I consented ; and ex- 
 amined his upper jaw, where I soon found out the cause of 
 his pain in a good-sized tumor, formed over the fangs of a 
 grinder. Such a thing causes agony even to a person of 
 cool blood, but to a man whose veins are inflamed with 
 strong drink the pain of it is maddening. 
 
 "You have got a tumor," I told him. "It has been 
 forming for some days. It has now nearly, or quite, reached 
 its head. It began about the time when you w^ere cursing 
 and insulting certain unfortunate gentlemen who are for the 
 time under your power. Take it, therefore, as a divine 
 judgment upon you for your cruelty and insolence." 
 
 He glared at mc, but said nothing, the hope of relief 
 
 29
 
 3o6 /OA' FAJTJI AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 causing fiim to receive this admonition with patience if not 
 yn g^ood part. Besides, my finger was still upon the spot, 
 and if I so much as pressed gently I could cause him agony 
 unspeakable. Truly, the power of the physician' is great. 
 
 "■ The pain," I told him, "is already grown almost intol- 
 erable. But it will be much greater in a few hours unless 
 something is done. It is now like unto a little ball of red- 
 hot fire in your jaw ; in an hour or two it will seem as if the 
 whole of your face was a burning fiery furnace ; your cheek 
 will swell out until your left eye is closed ; your tortures, 
 which now make you bawl, will then make you scream ; 
 you now walk about and stamp ; you will then lie down on 
 your back and kick. No negro slave ever suffered half so 
 much under your accursed lash as you will suffer under this 
 tumor — unless something is done."' 
 
 " Doctor " — it was again the woman's voice froni the ham- 
 mock — "you have frightened him enough." 
 
 "Strong drink," I went on, pointing to the tankard, "will 
 only make you worse. It inflames your blood and adds 
 fuel to the raging fire. Unless something is done, the pain 
 will be followed by delirium, that by fever, and the fever by 
 death. Sir, are you prepared for death .? " 
 
 He turned horribly pale, and gasped. 
 
 "Do something for me," he said. "Do something for 
 me, and that without more words." 
 
 "Nay, but I will first make a bargain with you. There 
 is in the sick-house a gentleman, my cousin, Robin Challis 
 by name, one of the newly arrived rebels, and your servant. 
 He is lying sick unto death of a sunstroke and fever, caused 
 by your hellish cruelty in sending him out to work in the 
 fields with the negroes, instead of putting him to light labor 
 in the ingenio or elsewhere. I say, his sickness is caused 
 by your barbarity. Wherefore, I will do nothing for you at 
 all— do you hear .'' — nothing — nothing — unless I am set free 
 to do all I can for him. Yea, and I must have such cordials 
 and generous diet as the place can afford, otherwise I will 
 not stir a finger to help you. Otherwise endure the torments 
 of the damned ; ra\c in madness and in fever. Die, and go 
 to your own place. I will not help you. So. That is my 
 last word. " 
 
 Upon this I really thought that the man had gone stark 
 staring mad. For, at the impudence of a mere servant, 
 though a gentleman of far better family than his own, dar- 
 ing to make conditions \\'ith him. he became purple in th« 
 tlieeks, and, seizing his ^reat stick, which lay on the table.
 
 FOR FATTH ASW FREEDOM. 307 
 
 he began belaboring- me with all his mig-ht about the head 
 and shorlders. But I caug-ht up a chair and used it for a 
 shield, while he capered about, striking wildly and swear- 
 ing most horribly. 
 
 At this moment the lady who was in the hammock stepped 
 out of it and walked towards us slowly, like a queen. She 
 was without any doubt the most beautiful woman I had 
 ever seen. She was dressed in a kind of dressing-gown of 
 flowered silk, which covered her from head to foot ; her 
 head was adorned with the most lovely glossy-black ring- 
 lets ; a heavy gold chain lay round her neck, and a chain of 
 gold with pearls was twined in her hair so that it looked 
 like a coronet ; her fingers were covered with rings, and 
 gold bracelets hung upon her bare white arms. Her figure 
 was tall and full ; her face inclined to the Spanish, being 
 full and yet regular, with large black eyes. Though I was 
 fighting with a madman, I could not resist the wish that I 
 could paint her. And I plainly perceived that she was one 
 of that race which is called quadroon, being most likely the 
 daughter of a mulatto woman and a white father. This 
 was evident by the character of her skin, which had in it 
 what the Italians call the morhidessa, and by a certain dark 
 hue under the eyes. 
 
 " Why," she said, speaking to the master as if he had been 
 a petulant schoolboy, "you only make yourself worse by 
 all this fury. Sit down and lay aside your stick. And you, 
 sir," she addressed herself to me, "you may be a great 
 physician and at home a gentleman ; but here you are a 
 servant, and, therefore, bound to help your master in all 
 you can without first making conditions." 
 
 "I know too well," I replied. "He bought me as his 
 servant, but not as his physician. I will not heal him with- 
 out my fee. And my fee is that my sick cousin be attended 
 tf) with humanity." 
 
 " Take him away ! " cried the master, beside himself with 
 rage. "Clap him in the stocks. Let him sit there all day 
 long in the sun. He shall have nothing to eat or to drink. 
 In the evening he shall be flogged. If it were the Duke of 
 Monmouth himself he should be tied up and flogged. 
 Where the devil are the servants .-* " 
 
 A great hulking negro came running. 
 
 "Vouhave now," I told him quietly, "permitted your- 
 self to be inflamed with violent rage. The pain will there- 
 fore more rapidly increase ; when it becomes intolerable you 
 will be glad to send for me."
 
 The negro dragged nie away (but I made no resistance), 
 and led me to the courtyard where stood the stocks and a 
 whipping-post. He pointed to the latter with a horrid grin, 
 and then laid me fast in the former. Fortunately he left me 
 my hat, otherwise the hot sun would have made an end of 
 me. I was, however, quite easy in my mind. I knew 
 that this poor wretch, who already suffered so horribly, 
 would before long feel in that jaw of his, as it were, a ball 
 ol re; he would drink in order to deaden the pain, but the 
 win would only make the agony more horrible. Then he 
 would be forced to send for me. 
 
 This, in fact, was exactly what he did. 
 
 I sat in those abominable stocks for no more than an 
 hour. Then madam herself came to me followed by the 
 negro fellow who had locked my heels in those two holes. 
 
 "He is now much worse, " she said. "He is now in 
 pain that cannot be endured. Canst thou truly relieve his 
 sufferings ? " 
 
 " Certainly I can. But on conditions. INfy cousin will 
 die if he is neglected. Suffer me to minister to his needs. 
 Give me what I want for him and I will cure your — " I did 
 not know whether I might say "your husband" — so I 
 changed the words into " my master. After that I will 
 cheerfully endure again his accursed cruelty of the fields." 
 
 She bade the negro unlock the bar. 
 
 "Come," she said. "Let us hear no more about any 
 bargains. I will see to it that you are able to attend to 
 your cousin. Nay, there is an unfortunate young gentle- 
 woman here, a rebel, and a servant like yourself; for the 
 fast week she doth nothing but weep for the misfortunes of 
 her friends ; meaning you and your company. I will ask 
 her to nurse the sick man. She will desire nothing better, 
 being a most tender-hearted woman. And as for you, it 
 will be easy for you to look after your cousin and your 
 master at the same timcj." 
 
 "Then, madam," I replied, "take me to him, and I will 
 speedily do all I can ^o relieve him. " 
 
 I found my patient in a condition of mind and body most 
 dangerous. I wondered that he had not already fallen into 
 a fit, so great was his wrath and so dreadful his pain. He 
 rolled his eyes, his cheeks were purple, he clenched his fists, 
 he would have gnashed his teeth but for the pain in his jaw. 
 '■ Make yourself easy," said madam. "This learned phy- 
 sician will cause your pain to cease. I have talked with 
 him, and put him into a better mind."
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 3oy 
 
 The master shook his head, as much as to say that abetter 
 mind would hardly be arrived at without the assistance oi 
 the whipping-post But the emergency of the case prevented 
 that indulgence. Briefly, therefore, I took out my lancet 
 and pierced the place, which instantly relieved the pain. 
 Then I placed him in bed, bled him copiously, and forbade 
 his taking anything stronger than small beer. Freedom 
 from pain and exhaustion presently caused him to fall into a 
 deep and tranquil sleep. After all this was done, I was 
 anxious to see Robin. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " I have now done all I can. He will 
 awake at noon, I dare say. Give him a little broth, but not 
 much. There is danger of fever. You had better call me 
 again when he awakes. Warn him, solemnly, that rage, 
 revenge, cursing and beating must be all postponed untii 
 such time as he is stronger. I go to visit my cousin in the 
 sick-house, where I await your commands." 
 
 " Sir, " she said, courteously, " I cannot sufficiently thatik 
 your skill and zeal. You will find the nurse of whom I 
 spoke in the sick-room with your cousin. She took with 
 her some cordial, and will tell me what else you order for 
 your patient. I hope your cousin may recover. But in- 
 deed — " she stopped and sighed. 
 
 "You would say, madam, that it would be better for him, 
 and for all of us, to die ; perhaps so. But we must not 
 choose to die, but rather strive to live, as more in accord- 
 ance with the Word of God." 
 
 "The white servants have been hitherto the common 
 rogues and thieves, and sweepings of your English streets," 
 she said. "Sturdy rogues are they all, who fear naught 
 but the lash, and have nothing of tenderness left but tender 
 skins ; they rob and steal ; they will not work, save by 
 compulsion ; they are far worse than the negroes for lazi- 
 ness and drunkenness. I know not why they are sent out, 
 or why the planters buy them, when the blacks do so much 
 better serve their turn, and they can without rei)roach beat 
 and flog the negroes, while to flog and beat the whites is by 
 some accounted cruel." 
 
 "All this, madam, is doubtless true, but my friends are 
 not the sweeping of the street." 
 
 " No, but you are treated as if you were. It is n new 
 thing having gentlemen among the servants, and the plant- 
 ers are not yet accustomed to them. They are a masterful 
 and a wilful folk, the planters of Barbadoes ; from childhood 
 upward they have their own war, nnd brook not oppositioi),
 
 310 
 
 FOR FAITH A.\'D FREEDOM. 
 
 You have seen into what a madness of wrath you threw the 
 master by your opposition. Believe me, sir, the place is not 
 wholesome for you and for your friends. The master looks 
 to get a profit, not from your labor, but by your ransom. 
 Sir," she looked me very earnestly in the face, "if you 
 have friends at home, if you have any friends at all, entreat 
 them, command them, immediately to send money for your 
 ransom. It will not cost them much. If you do not get the 
 money you will most assuredly die, with the life that you 
 will have to live. All the white servants die except the very 
 strongest and lustiest, whether they work in the fields or in 
 the garden, or in the ingenio, or in the stables — they die. 
 They cannot endure the hot sun and the hard fare. They 
 presently catch fever, or a calenture, or a cramp, and so 
 they die. This young gentlewoman who is now with your 
 cousin will presently fall into melancholy and die. There 
 is no help for her, or for you — believe me, sir — there is no 
 hope but to get your freedom." She broke off here, and 
 never at any other time spoke to me again upon this sub- 
 ject. 
 
 In three weeks' time, indeed, we were to regain our free- 
 dom, but not in the way madam imagined. 
 
 Before I go on to tell of the wonderful surprise which 
 awaited me, I must say that there was, after this day, no 
 more any question about field Avork for me. In this island 
 there was then a great scarcity of physicians — nay, there 
 were none properly qualified to call themselves physicians, 
 though a few quacks ; the sick servants on the estates were 
 attended by the negresses, some of whom have, I confess, a 
 wonderful knowledge of herbs, in which respect they may 
 be likened to our countrywomen, who for fevers, agues, 
 toothache, and the like, are as good as any physician in the 
 world. It was therefore speedily rumored abroad that there 
 was a physician upon my masters estate, whereupon there 
 was immediately a great demand for his services ; and hence- 
 forth I went daily, with the master's consent, to visit the sick 
 people on the neighboring estates ; nay, I was even called 
 upon by his excellency the lieutenant-governor himself, Mr. 
 Steed, for a complaint from which he suffered. And I noV 
 only gave advice and medicines, but I also received a fee, 
 just as if I had been practicing in London. But the fees 
 went to my master, who took them all, and offered me no 
 better diet than before. That, however, mattered little, be- 
 cause wherever I went I asked for and always received food 
 of a more g-encrous kind, and a glass or two of wine, so that
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 3ir 
 
 I fared well and kept my health during the short time that 
 we remained upon the island. I had also to thank madam 
 for many a glass of Madeira, dish of cocoa, plate of fruit, 
 and other things, not only for my patient Robin, but also 
 for myself, and for another, of whom I have now to speak. 
 
 When, therefore, the master was at length free from p.iin, 
 and in a comfortable sleep, I left him, with madam's per- 
 mission, and sought the sick-house in a most melancholy 
 mood, because I believed that Robin would surely die what- 
 ever I should do. And I confess that, having had but little 
 experience of sunstroke, and the kind of fever Avhich follow- 
 eth upon it, and having no books to consult, and no medicine 
 at hand, I knew not what I could do for him. And the 
 boasted skill of the physician, one must confess, availeth lit- 
 tle against a disease which hath once laid hold upon a man. 
 'Tis better for him so to order the lives of his patients while 
 they are well as to prevent disease, just as those who 
 dwell beside an unruly river, as I have seen upon the great 
 river Rhone, build up a high levee, or bank, which it cannot 
 pass. 
 
 In the sick-house, the floor was of earth without boards ; 
 there was no other furniture but two or three wooden pallets ; 
 on each a coarse mattress with a rug ; and all was horribly 
 filthy, unwashed, and foul. Beside the pallet where Robin 
 lay there knelt, praying, a woman with her head in her 
 hands. Heavens ! There was then in this dark and heath- 
 enif^h place one woman who still remembered her Maker. 
 
 Robin was awake. His restless eyes rolled about, his 
 hands clutched uneasily at his blanket, and he was talking. 
 Alas ! the poet" brain, disordered and wandering, carried him 
 back to the old village. He was at home again in imagina- 
 tion, though we were so far away. Yea, he had crossed 
 the broad Atlantic, and was in fair Somerset among the 
 orchards and the hills. And only to hear him talk me tears 
 rolled down my cheeks. 
 
 ■'Grace, "he said. Alas! he thought that he was again 
 with the sweet companion of his youth. "Grace, the nuts 
 arc ripe in the woods. We will to-morrow take a basket and 
 go gather them. Benjamin shall not come to spoil sport ; 
 besides, he would want to cat them all himself Humphrey 
 shall come, and you, and I That will be enough. " 
 
 Then his thoughts changed again. "Oh, my dear," he 
 said — in a moment he had passed over ten years, and was 
 now with his mistress, a child no longer — " My dear, thou 
 hast so sweet a face. Nowhere in the whole world is there
 
 3i« 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 SO sweet a face. I have always loved thy face ; not a day 
 but it has been in my mind. Always my love, my sweet- 
 heart, my soul, my life. My dear, we will never leave the 
 country ; we want no grandeur of rank and state and town ; 
 we will always continue here. Old age shall find vis lovers 
 still. Death cannot part us ; oh, my dear ; save for a little 
 while, and then sweet Heaven will unite us again to love 
 each other forever and forever — " 
 
 "Oh, Robin! Robin! Robin!" 
 
 I knew that voice. Oh, heavens ! 'Was I dreaming? Was I 
 too, wandering .' Were we all back in Somerset .'' 
 
 For the voice was none other than the voice of Grace her- 
 ael£ 
 
 CHAPTER XUL 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 "Grace I" I cried. 
 
 She rose from her knees and turned to meet me. Het 
 face was pale ; her eyes were heavy, and they were full ot 
 tears, 
 
 "Grace ! " 
 
 " I saw you when you came here, a week ago," she said. 
 *' Oh, Humphrey, I saw you, and I was ashamed to let 
 you know that 1 was here." 
 
 "Ashamed? My dear, ashamed? But now — why — 
 what dost thou here ? " 
 
 " How could I meet Robin's eyes after what I had done?" 
 
 " It was done for him, and for his mother, and for all of 
 us. Poor child, there is no reason to be ashamed." 
 
 "And now I meet him and he is in a fever and his mind 
 wanders. He knows me not. " 
 
 "He is sorely stricken, Grace. I know not how the 
 disease may end — mind and body are sick alike. For the 
 mind I can do nothing, for the body I can do little ; yet, 
 with cleanliness and good food we may hel]:) him to mend. 
 But tell me, child, in the name of Heaven, how earnest thou 
 in this place ? " 
 
 But before anything she would attend to the sick man. 
 Amd presently she brought half a dozen negresses, who 
 cleaned and swept the place, and sheets were fetched, and
 
 POR FAITH AiVD FREEDOM. 
 
 313 
 
 a linen shirt, in which we dressed our patient, with such 
 other things as we could devise for his comfort. Then I 
 bathed his head with cold water, continually changing- his 
 bandages, so as to keep him cool ; and I took some blood 
 from him, but not much, because he was greatly reduced 
 oy bad food and hard work. 
 
 When he was a little easier we talked. But, heavens ! to 
 think of the villainy which had worked its will upon this 
 poor child ! As if it were not enough that she should be 
 forced to fly from a man who had so strangely betrayed 
 her ! And as if it were not enough that she should be robbed 
 of all her money, but she must also be put on board 
 falsely and treacherously, as one, like ourselves, sentenced 
 to ten years' servitude in the plantations ! For, indeed, I 
 knew and was quite certain that none of the maids of 
 Taunton were thus sent abroad. It was notorious, before 
 we were sent away, that, with the exception of Susan Blake, 
 who died of jail fever at Dorchester, all the maids were 
 given to the queen's ladies, and by them suffered to go 
 free on the payment by their parents of thirty to forty pounds 
 apiece. And as for Grace, she was a stranger in the place, 
 and it was not known that she had joined that unfortunate 
 procession. So that if ever a man was kidnapper and vil- 
 lian, that man was George Penne. 
 
 It behooves a physican to keep his mind, under all circum- 
 stances, calmed and composed. He must not suffer him- 
 self to be carried away by passion, by rage, hatred, or even 
 anxiety ; yet I confess that my mind was clean distracted 
 by the discovery that Grace herself was with us, a prisoner 
 like ourselves. I was, I say, distracted, nor could I tell 
 what to think of this event and its consequences. For, to 
 begin with, the pooi child was near those who would protect 
 her. But what kind of protection could be given by such 
 helpless slaves ? Then was she beyond her husband's 
 reach ; he would not, it was quite certain, get possession of 
 her at this vast distance. So far she was safe. But 'hen 
 the master who looked to make a i)rofit by her, as he looked 
 to make a profit by us — through the ransom of her fric: .ds ! 
 She had no friends to ransom her. There was but one — 
 the rector — and he was her husband's father. The time 
 would come when the avarice of the master would make 
 him do or threaten something barbarous towards her. Then 
 she had found favor with madam, this beautiful mulatto 
 woman, whom Grace innocently supposed to be the master's 
 wife. And there was the young planter, who wished to
 
 ^14 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 buy her with the honorable intention of marrying her. In 
 short, I know not what to think or to say, because at one 
 moment it seemed as if it were the most providential thing 
 in the world that Grace should have been brought here, 
 and the next moment it seemed as if her presence only 
 magnified our evils. 
 
 "Nay," she said, when I opened my mind to her, 
 "seeing that the world is so large, what but a special rul- 
 ing of Providence could have brought us all to this same 
 island, out of the whole multitude of isles, and then again 
 to this same estate, out of so many.'' Humphrey, your 
 faith was wont to be stronger. I believe — nay, I am 
 quite sure — that it was for the strengthening and help of 
 all alike that this hath been ordained, First, it enables me 
 to nurse my poor Robin ; mine, alas ! no longer. Yet 
 must I still love him as long as I have a heart to beat." 
 
 " Love him always, child," I said ; " this is no sin to love 
 the companion of thy childhood, thy sweetheart, from 
 whom thou wast torn by the most wicked treachery — " but 
 could say no more, because the contemplation of that 
 sweet face, now so mournful, yet so patient, made my voice 
 to choke and my eyes to fill with tears. Said I not that a 
 physician must still keep his mind free from all emotion ? 
 
 All that day I conversed with her. We agreed that, for 
 the present, she should neither acknowledge nor conceal the 
 truth from madam, upon whose good-will was now placed 
 all our hopes. That is to say, if madam questioned her she 
 was to acknowledge that we were her former friends ; but if 
 madam neither suspected anything nor asked her anything 
 she should keep the matter to herself She told me during 
 this day all that had happened unto her since I saw her last, 
 when we marched out of Taunton. Among other things, I 
 heard of the woman called Deb, who was now working in 
 the corn-fields (she was one of a company whose duty it 
 was to weed the canes). In the evening this woman, when 
 the people returned, came to the sick-house. She was a 
 great, strapping woman, stronger than most men. She was 
 dressed, like all the women on the estate, in a smock and 
 petticoat, with a thick coif to keep off the sun, and a pair of 
 strong shoes. 
 
 She came to help her mistress, as she fondly called Grace. 
 She wanted to sit up and watch the sick man. so that her 
 mistress might go to sleep ; but Grace refused. Then this 
 taithful creature rolled herself up in her rug and laid herself
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 3^5 
 
 at the door, so that no one should g-o in or out without step- 
 ping over her ; and so she fell asleep. 
 
 Then we began our night-watch, and talked in whispers, 
 sitting by the bedside of the fevered man. Presently I for- 
 got the wretchedness of our condition, the place where we 
 were, our hopeless, helpless lot, our anxieties and our fears, 
 in the joy and happiness of once more conversing with my 
 mistress. She spoke to me after the manner of the old days, 
 but with more seriousness, about the marvellous workings 
 of the Lord among his people, and presently we began to 
 talk of the music which we love to play, and how the sweet 
 concord and harmony of the notes lifts up the soul ; and of 
 pictures and painting, and ]\Ir. Boscorel's drawings and my 
 own poor attempts, and my studies in the schools, and so 
 forth, as if my life were indeed but just beginning, and in- 
 stead of the Monmouth cap and the canvas breeches and 
 common shirt I was once more arrayed in velvet, with a 
 physician's wig and a gold-headed cane. 
 
 Lastly, she prayed, entreating merciful Heaven to bestow 
 health of mind and enlargement of body to the sick man 
 upon the bed, and her brother, and her dear friend (meaning 
 myself), and to all the poor sufferers for religion. And she 
 asked that, as it had been permitted that she should be 
 taken from her earthly lover by treachery, so it might now 
 be granted to her to lay down her life for his, so that he 
 might go free and she die in his place. 
 
 Through the open window I saw the four stars which 
 make the constellation they call the Cruseroes, being like a 
 cross fixed in the heavens. The night was still, and there 
 was no sound save the shrill noise of the cigala, which is 
 here as shrill as in Padua. Slave and master, bondman and 
 free were all asleep save in this house, where Robin rolled 
 his heavy head and murmured without ceasing, ami 
 Grace communed with her God. Surely, surely, I thought, 
 here was fio room for doul)t. Tliis my mistress had been 
 brought here by the hand of God himself to be as an angel 
 or messenger of his own for our help and succor — haply for our 
 spiritual help alone, seeing; that no longer was there any help 
 from man.
 
 3i6 i^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 BARNABY HEARS THE NEWS. 
 
 Th« master, my patient, got up from his bed in a few 
 days, somewhat pale and weak after his copious blood-let- 
 ting- and the drastic medicines with which I purged the gross- 
 ness of his habit and expelled the noxious humors caused 
 by his many intemperances. These had greatly injured 
 what we call (because we know not what it is nor what 
 else to call it) the pure volatile spirit, and, so to speak, 
 turned sour the humor radicalis, the sweet oil and balsamical 
 virtues of the body. I gave him such counsel as was fitting 
 for his case, admonishing him urgently to abstain from strong 
 liquors, except in their moderate use ; to drink only after 
 his meals, to keep his head cool and sober, and, above all 
 things, to repress and govern his raging temper, which 
 would otherwise most certainly catch him by the throat like 
 some fierce and invisible devil, and throw him into a fit, and 
 so kill him. I told him, also, what might be meant by the 
 wise man (who certainly thought of all the bearings which 
 his words could have) when he said that one who is slow to 
 wrath is of great understanding, namely, that many men do 
 throw away their lives by falling into excessive fits of rage. 
 But I found that the words of Holy Scripture had ^ittle au- 
 thority over him: for he lived without prayer or praise, 
 trampled on the laws of God, and gave no heed at all to the 
 flight of time and the coming of the next world. 
 
 For a day or two he followed my injunctions, taking a 
 tankard of small ale to his breakfast, the same quantity with 
 his dinner, a pint of INladeira for his supper, and a sober 
 glass or two before going to bed. But when he grew well 
 his brother planters came round him again, the drinking 
 was renewed, and in the morning I would find him again 
 with parched throat, tongue dry, and shaking hand, ready 
 to belabor, to curse, and to rail at everybody. If one 
 wanted an example for the young how strong drink biteth 
 like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, here was a case 
 the sight of which might have caused all young men to for- 
 swear drunkenness. Alas ! there are plenty of such ex- 
 amples to be seen in every part of England, yet the younger
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM'. 
 
 zn 
 
 men still continue to drink, and that, I think, worse than 
 their fathers. This man, however, who was not yet five- 
 and-thirty, in the very prime of strong and healthy man- 
 hood, had his finger-joints swollen and stony from taking- 
 much wine ; he commonly ate but little meat, craving con- 
 tinually for more drink ; and his understanding, which was 
 by nature, I doubt not, clear and strong, was now brutish 
 and stupid. Thinking over this man, and of the power, 
 even unto death, which he possessed over his servants and 
 slaves, the words came into my mind, "It is not for kings, 
 O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine, nor for princes 
 strong drink." 
 
 Nay, more (and this I say knowing that many godly men 
 will not agree with me), I am fully persuaded that there is 
 no man in the whole world so good and so strong in virtue 
 and rehgion that he should be suffered to become the mas- 
 ter or despot over any other man, even over a company of 
 poor and ignorant blacks, or a gang of transported thieves. 
 When I think of those unhappy people, driven forth in the 
 morning, heavy-eyed and down-cast, to the hard day's 
 work, and when I remember how they crept home at night, 
 after being driven, cursed, and beaten all day long, and 
 when I think upon their drivers, overseers, and masters, 
 and of their hard and callous hearts, I am moved to cry 
 aloud (if any would hear me) that to be a slave is wretched 
 indeed, but that to own and drive slaves should be a thing 
 most dangerous for one who would continue a member of 
 Christ's Church. 
 
 When I told Barnaby the surprising news that his sister 
 was not only safe, but was a servant, like ourselves, upon 
 the same estate, I looked that he would rejoice. On the 
 contrary, he fell into a strange mood, swearing at this il 
 stroke, as he called it. He said that he never had Uie least 
 doubt as to her safety, seeing there were so many in the 
 West Country who knew and respected her father, and 
 would willingly shelter her. Then he dwelt upon certain 
 evils of which, I confess, I had thought little, which might 
 befall her. And, lastly, he set forth with great plainnessthe 
 increased dangers in escaping when one has to carry a wo- 
 man or a wounded man — a thing he pointed out which had 
 caused his own capture after Scdgemoor. 
 
 Then he opened up to me the whole business of our 
 escape. 
 
 " Last Saturday night," he said, "while you were sleep- 
 ing, I made my way to the port, and having a few shillings
 
 ^T^ ^OR I-'AIJ'JI AND FREEDOfd. 
 
 left, I sought out a tavern. There is one hard by the Bridge, 
 a house of call for sailors, where I had the good-fortune to 
 find a fellow who can do for us all we want, if his money- 
 hold out, which I doubt. He is a carver by trade, and a 
 convict like ourselves, but is permitted by his master to 
 work at his trade in the town. He hath been, it is true, 
 branded in the hand, but, Lord, what signifies that.' He 
 was once a thief; well, he is now an honest lad again, who 
 asks for nothing but to get home again. John Nuthall is his 
 name." 
 
 "Go on, Barnaby. We are already in such good com- 
 pany that another rogue or two matters little." 
 
 "This man came here secretly last night, while you were 
 in the sick-house, lad. He is very hot upon gettLiig away. 
 And because I am a sailor, and can navigate a craft (which 
 he cannot do), he will take with him not only myself, but 
 also all my party. Now listen, Humphrey. He hath 
 bought a boat of a Guinea man in the harbor ; and because, 
 to prevent the escape of servants, every boat is licensed, 
 and her owner has to give security to the governor's ofticers, 
 he hath taken this boat, secretly, up a little creek of which 
 he knows, and hath there sunk her three feet deep. The 
 masts, the sails, the oars, and the other gear he hath also 
 bestowed in a secret place. But we cannot sail without 
 Water, provisions, nor without a compass, at least. If our 
 party is to consist of sister, Robin, you, Joha Nuthall, and 
 myself, live in all, we shall have to load the boat with pro- 
 visions, and I must have a compass. I look for a boatful 
 with ourselves and John Nuthall. Now we have Sis as 
 well ; and the boat is but small. Where shall we get pro- 
 visions } and where shall we lay our hands upon the money 
 to buy what we want ? " 
 
 He could talk of nothing else, because his mind was full 
 of his plan. Yet it seemed to me a most desperate enter- 
 prise thus to launch a small boat upon the wide ocean, and 
 in this cockleshell to brave the waves which are often fatal 
 to the tallest ships. 
 
 "Tut, man," said Barnaby. "We are not now in the 
 season of the tornadoes, and there is no other danger upon 
 these seas. I would as lief be in an open boat as in a 
 brigantine. Sharks may follow us, but they will not attack 
 a boat ; calamaries they talk of, big enough to lay their 
 arms round the boat, and so to drag it under ; but such 
 monsters have I never seen, any more than I have seen the 
 j:reat whale of Norway or the monstrous birds of the South"
 
 FOR I'A/TH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 319 
 
 em Seas. There is only one danger, Humphrey, my lad " — 
 here he laid his hand upon mine, and became mighty 
 serious — "if we are taken we shall be flogged, all of us. 
 Thirty-nine lashes they will lay on, and they will brand us. 
 For myself, I value not their thirty-nine lashes a brass farth- 
 ing, nor their branding with a hot iron, which can but make 
 a man jump for a day or two. To me this risk against the 
 chance of escape matters nothing. Why, when I was 
 cabin-boy I got daily more than thirty-nine lashes, kicks, 
 cuffs, and rope's-endings. Nay, I remember, when we sat 
 over the Latin syntax together, my daily ration must have 
 been thirty-nine, more or less, and dad's ami was stronger 
 than you would judge to look at him. If they catch me, let 
 them lay on their thirty-nine, and be damned to them. But 
 you and Robin, I doubt, think otherwise. " 
 
 "I would not willingly be flogged, Barnaby, if there were 
 any way of escape, even by death." 
 
 "So I thought. So I thought." 
 
 "And as for Robin, if he recovers, which I doubt, he, 
 too, if I know him, would rather be killed than be flogged." 
 
 "That comes of Oxford," said Barnaby. "And then 
 there is Sis. Humphrey, my lad, it goes to my heart to 
 think of that poor girl, stripped to be lashed like a black slave 
 or a Bristol drab. " 
 
 " Barnaby, slie must never run that dreadful risk." 
 
 "Then she must remain behind. And here she runs that 
 risk every day. What prevents yon drunken sot — the taste 
 of that stick still sticks in my gizzard — I say, what prevents 
 him from tying her up to-day, or to-morrow, or every day ? " 
 
 " Barnaby, I say that she must never run that risk, for if 
 we are caught — "' I stopped. 
 
 " Before we are caught you would say, Humphrey. We 
 are of the same mind there. But who is to kill her ? Not 
 Robin, for he loves her ; not you, because you have too 
 great a kindness for her ; not I, because I am her brother. 
 What should I say to my mother when I meet her after we 
 are dead, and she asks me who killed Grace ? " 
 
 " Barnaby, if she is to die, let us all die together." 
 
 "Ay," he replied, "though I have, I confess, no great 
 stomach for dying, yet, since we have got her with us, it 
 must be done. 'Tis easy to let the water into the boat, and 
 so, in three minutes, with no suspicion at all, and my mother 
 never to know anything about it, she would have said her 
 last prayers, and we should be all sinking together with 
 never a gasp left."
 
 320 
 
 FOR FAITH A\D FREEDOM. 
 
 I took him, after this talk, to the sick-house, wnerc Grace 
 was beginning- her second night of nursing. Barnaby 
 sakited his sister as briefly as if her presence were the thing 
 he most expected. 
 
 The room was Ht by a horn lantern containing a candle, 
 which gave enough light to see Robin on the bed antHirace 
 standing beside him. Tlae woman called Deb was sitting on_ 
 the floor, wrapped in her rug. 
 
 *• Sis," said Barnaby, " I have heard from Humphrey how 
 thou wast cozened out of thy money and enticed on board 
 ship. Well, this world is full of villains, and I doul»t whether 
 I shall live to kill them all. One I must kill, and one I must 
 cudgel. Patience, therefore, and no more upon this head. 
 Sis, dost love to be a servant .? " 
 
 "Surely not, Barnaby."' 
 
 " Wouldst like to get thy freedom again } '' 
 
 " I know not the meaning of thy words, brother. Madam 
 says that those who have interest at home may procure par- 
 dons for their friends in the plantations. Also that those 
 whose friends have money may buy their freedom from ser- 
 vitude. I am sure that Mr. Boscorel would Avillingly do this 
 for Robin and for Humphrey, but for myself, how can I ask ? 
 How can I ever let him know where I am and in what con- 
 dition ? " 
 
 " Ay, ay. But I meant not that way. Child, wilt thou 
 trust thyself to us ? '' 
 
 She looked at Robin. '' I cannot leave him," she said. 
 
 " No, no. We shall wait till he is dead, or, perhaps, bet- 
 ter " — but he only added this to please his sister. ' ' When 
 he is better. Sis, thou wilt not be afraid to trust thyself with 
 us ? " 
 
 " I am not afraid of any danger, even of death, with you, 
 if that is the danger in your mind, Barnaby." 
 
 "Good! Then we understand each other. There are 
 other dangers for a young and handsome woman, and may 
 be worse dangers. Hast any money at all, by chance? ' 
 
 " Nay, the man Penne took all my money. '" 
 
 Barnaby, for five or six minutes, without stopping, spoke 
 upon this topic after the manner of a sailor. " INIy turn will 
 come," he added. "No money, child.' 'Tis a great pity. 
 Had we a few gold pieces now ! Some women have rings 
 and chains. But, of course — " 
 
 "Nay, brother, chains I never had; and as for rings, 
 there were but two that ever I liad — one from Robin the day 
 that I was plighted to him, and one from the man that made
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 %t\ 
 
 m© many him and put it on in church. The former did I 
 break and throw away when I agreed for your dear hves, 
 Barnaby. Oh, for the Hves of all ! " 
 
 " I know, I know," said Barnaby. " Patience, patience. 
 Oh, I shall get such a chance some day ! " 
 
 " The other I threw away when I tied from my husband 
 at the church door." 
 
 " Ay, ay, If we only had a little money. 'Tis a pity 
 that we should fail for want of a little money." 
 
 " Why," said Grace, " I had quite forgotten. I have 
 something that may bring money." She pulled from her 
 neck a black ribbon, on which wa:. a little leathern bag 
 " 'Tis the ring the duke gave me at Ilchestcr long ago. I have 
 never parted with it. ' God grant, ' he said, when he gave it 
 tome, 'that it may bring thee luck.' Will the ring help, 
 Barnaby .'' ' 
 
 I took it first from her hand. 
 
 " Why," I said, " it is a sweet and costly ring. Jewels, I 
 know, and have studied. If I mistake not, these emeralds 
 must be worth a great sum. But how shall we dispose of 
 so valuable a ring in this place, and without causing suspi- 
 picion } " 
 
 " Give it to me." Barnaby took it, looked at it, and laid 
 it, bag and all, in his pocket " There are at the port mer- 
 chants of all kinds, who will buy a ship's cargo of sugar one 
 minute, and the next will sell you as red herrings. They 
 will also advajice you money upon a ring. As for suspicion, 
 there are hundreds of convicts and servants here, 'lis but 
 to call the ring the property of such an one, and no questions 
 will be asked. My friend John Nuthall, the carver, shall do 
 this for us. And now, Sis, I think that our business is as good 
 *s done. Have no fear, we shall getaway. First get Robin 
 well, and then — " Here Barnaby gazed upon her face with 
 affection and with pity. " But, sister, understand rightly, 
 'tis no child's play of hide-and-go-seek. 'Tis life or death — 
 life or death. If we fly we must never come back again, 
 understand that well. " 
 
 " Since we are in the Lord's hands, l)rothcr, why should 
 we fear ? Take me with you ; let me die, if you must die ; 
 and if you live I am content to live with you, so that my 
 husband never finds me out. " 
 
 21
 
 33« FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A SCARE. 
 
 There is between the condition of the mind and that of 
 the body an interdependence which cannot but be recognized 
 by every physician. So greatly has this connection affected 
 some of the modern physicians, as to cause doubts in their 
 minds whether there be any life at all hereafter, or if, when 
 the pulse ceases to beat, the whole man should become a 
 dead and senseless lump of clay. In this they confuse the 
 immortal soul with the perishable instruments of brain and 
 body through which in life, it manifests its being, and be- 
 trays its true nature, M'hether of good or ill. 
 
 Thus the condition in which Robin now lay clearly corre- 
 sponded, as I now understand, with the state of his mind in- 
 duced by the news that Grace to save his life had been be- 
 trayed into marrying his cousin. For, at the hearing of that 
 dreadful news he was seized with such a transport of rage 
 (not against that poor innocent victim, but against his cous- 
 in) as threatened to throw him into madness, and on recover- 
 ing from this access he presently fell into a kind of despair in 
 which he languished during the whole voyage. So also in 
 a corresponding manner after a fever, the violence of which 
 was like to have torn him to pieces, he fell into a lethargy in 
 which, though his fever left him, he continued to wander in 
 his mind and grew, as I covild not fail to mark, daily weaker 
 in his body, refusing to eat, though Grace brought him daily 
 broth of chicken, delicate panadas of bread-and-butter, fruit 
 boiled with sugar, and other things fit to tempt a sick man's 
 appetite, provided by the goodness of madam. This lady 
 was in religion a Romanist ; by birth she was a Spanish 
 quadroon ; to escape the slavery to which the color of her 
 grandmother doomed her, she escaped from Cuba and found 
 her way to Jamaica, where she met with our master. And 
 whether she was lawfully married unto him I will not, after 
 her kindness to Grace and her faithfulness to myself as re- 
 gards Robin, so much as ask. 
 
 Robin, therefore, though the fever left him, did not mend. 
 On the contrary, as I have said, he grew daily weaker, so
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEJDO.V. 
 
 i^i 
 
 that I marvelled at his lasting so long, and looked to see him 
 die, as so many die, in the early morning, when there is a 
 sharpness or eagerness in the air, and the body is exhausted 
 by long sleep. Yet he died not. 
 
 And now you shall hear how, through the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth s ring, we escaped from our servitude. "God grant," 
 said the duke, " that it bring thee good luck." This was a 
 light and unconsidered prayer, forgotten as soon as uttered, 
 meant only to please the ear of a child. And yet, in a man- 
 ner most marvelous to consider, it proved the salvation of us 
 all. What better luck could that ring cause than that we 
 should escape from the land of Egypt — the House of Bond- 
 age? 
 
 "I have disposed of the ring," Barnaby told me a few days 
 later. "That is to say, John Xuthall hath secretly pledged 
 it with a merchant for twenty guineas. He said that the 
 ring belonged to a convict, but many of them have brought 
 such precious things with them in order to buy their freedom. 
 He owns that the stones are fine, and very wiUingly gave the 
 money on their security." 
 
 "Then nothing remains," I said, "but to get away." 
 
 "John Nuthall has bought provisions and all we want, 
 little by little, so as to excite no suspicion ; they are secretly 
 and safely bestowed, and half the money still remains in his 
 hands. How goes Robin .'' " 
 
 "He draws daily nearer to his grave. We cannot depart 
 until he either, mends or dies. 'Tis another disaster, Bar- 
 naby. " 
 
 "Ay, but of disaster we must not think. Robin will die ; 
 yet our own case may be as bad if it comes to scuttling the 
 ship. Cheer up, lad ! many men die, but the world goes on. 
 Poor Robin ! Every man for himself, and the Lord for us 
 all. Sis will cry ; but even if Robin recovers, he cannot 
 marry her, a consideration which ought to comfort her. And 
 for him, since nothing else will serve him, it is best that he 
 should die. Better make an end at once than go all his life 
 with hanging head for the sake of a woman. As if there 
 are not plenty of women in the world to serve his turn." 
 
 "I know not what ails him that he doth not get better. 
 The air is too hot for him ; he hath lost his appetite. Bar- 
 naby," I cried, moved to a sudden passion of pity such as 
 would often seize me at that time, "saw one ever ruin more 
 complete than ours .-* Had we been fighting for Spain and 
 the accursed Inquisition we could not have been more 
 heavily punished. And we were fighting on the Lord's side."
 
 334 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOAf. 
 
 " We were — dad was with us, too. And see how he waa 
 served. The Lord, it seems, doth not provide his servants 
 with arms, or with ammunition, or with commanders. Other- 
 wise, the duke this day would be in St. James's Palace wear- 
 ing his father's crown, and you would be a court physician 
 with a great wig and a velvet coat, instead of a Monmouth 
 cap and a canvas shirt. And I should be an admiral. But 
 what doth it profit to ask why and wherefore ! Let us first 
 get clear of the wreck. Well, I wish we were to take Robin 
 with us. 'Twill be a poor business going back to Bradford 
 Orcas without him. " 
 
 We waited, therefore, day after day, for Robin either to 
 get better or to die, and still he lingered, seemingly in a 
 waste or decline, but such as I had never before seen, and I 
 know not what would have happened to him, whether he 
 would have lived or died. But then there happened a thing 
 which caused us to wait no longer. It was this : 
 
 The master, having, according to his daily custom, gone 
 the round of his estate, that is to say, having seen his ser- 
 vants all at work under their drivers — some planting with 
 the hoe, some weeding, some cutting the maize, some gath- 
 ering yams, potatoes, cassava, or bonavist for provisions, 
 some attending the ingenio or the still-house — did unluckily 
 take into his head to visit the sick-house. What was more 
 unfortunate, this desire came upon him after he had taken a 
 morning dram, and that of the stiffest ; not, indeed, enough 
 to make him drunk, but enough to make him obstinate and 
 wilful. When I saw him standing at the open door, I per- 
 ceived by the glassiness of his eyes and the unsteadiness of 
 his shoulders that he had already began the day s debauch. 
 He was now in the most dangerous condition of mind. 
 Later in the day, when he was more advanced in drink, he 
 might be violent, but he would be much less dangerous, be- 
 cause he would afterwards forget what he had said or done 
 in his cups. 
 
 "So, Sir Doctor," he said, "I have truly a profitable pair 
 of servants — one who pretends to cure everybody and so 
 escapes work, and your cousin who pretends to be sick, and 
 so will do none. A mighty bargain I made, truly, when I 
 bought you both. " 
 
 "With submission, sir," I said, "I have within the last 
 week earned for your honor ten guineas' worth of fees.'' 
 
 "Well, that is as it may be. How do I know what hath 
 gone into your own pocket ? Where is this malinger fellow ? 
 Make him sit up. Sit up, I say, ye skulking dog — sit up 1 *
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 325 
 
 "Sir," I said, still speaking with the greatest humility, 
 " nobody but the Lord can make this man sit up." And, 
 indeed, Robin did not comprehend one word that was 
 said. 
 
 " I gave fifty pounds for him only a month ago. Am I to 
 lose all that money, I ask ? Fifty pounds, because I was 
 told that he was a gentleman, and would be ransomed by 
 his family. Hark ye, doctor, you must either cure this man 
 for me, or else, by the Lord ! you shall have his ransom 
 added to your own. If he dies, I will double your price, 
 mark that." 
 
 I said nothing, hoping that he would depart. As for 
 Grace, she had turned her back upon him at his first appear- 
 ance (as madam had ordered her to do), so that he might 
 not notice her. 
 
 Unfortunately he did not depart, but came into the room, 
 looking about him. Certainly he was not one who would 
 suffer his servants to be negligent even in the smallest 
 things. 
 
 "Here is fine work," he said. "Sheets of the best — 
 a pillow ; what hath a servant to do with such luxuries } " 
 
 " My cousin is a gentleman," I told him, "and accus- 
 tomed to lie in linen. The rug which is enough for him 
 in health must have a sheet to it as well now that he is 
 sick." 
 
 " Humph ! And whom ha\'c we here ? Wlio iwt thc)u, 
 madam, I wish to know ? " 
 
 Grace turned 
 
 "I an^ your honor's servant," she said. "1 am cni- 
 ployed in this sick-house when I am not in the sewing- 
 room." 
 
 "A servant? oh, madam, I humbly crave your pardon. 
 I took you for some fine lady. I am honored by having 
 such a servant. All the rest of my women servants go in 
 plain smock and petticoats. But — "here he smiled — "to 
 so lovely a girl as Grace Eykin — fair Grace — sweet Grace — ■ 
 we must give the bravest and daintiest. To thee, my dear, 
 nothing can be denied. Those dainty cheeks, those white 
 hands, were never made to adorn a common coif. Mistress 
 Grace, we must be better accpiaintcd. This is no fit place 
 for you. Not the sick-house, but the best room in my house 
 shall be at thy service." 
 
 "Sir, I ask for nothing but to sit retired, and to render 
 such service as is in my power." 
 
 "To sit retired? Why, that cannot be longer suffered.
 
 326 FOR FAITH AND FREED03f. 
 
 'Twould be a sin to keep hidden any longer this treasure, 
 this marvel, I say, of beauty and grace. INIy servant? Nay, 
 'tis I, 'tis the whole island, who are thy servants. Thou to 
 render service ? 'Tis for me, madam, to render service to 
 thy beauty." He took off his hat and flourished it, making 
 a leg. 
 
 "Then, sir," said Grace, "suffer me, I pray, to go about 
 my business, which is with this sick man, and not to hear 
 compliments." 
 
 He caught her hand and would have kissed it, but she 
 drew it back. 
 
 "Nay, coy damsel," he said, "I swear I will not go 
 without a kiss from thy lips. Kiss me, my dear." 
 
 She started back and I rushed between them. At that 
 moment madam herself appeared. 
 
 "What do you here.? "' she cried, catching his arm. 
 " What has this girl to do with you.'' Come away* Come 
 away and leave her in peace." 
 
 "Go back to the house, woman ! " he roared, breaking 
 from her and flourishing his stick so that I thought he was 
 actually going to cudgel her. "Go back, or it will be the 
 worse for you. What ! am I master here, or you ? Go 
 back, I say ! " 
 
 Then a strange thing happened. She made no reply, 
 but she turned upon him eyes so full of authority that she 
 looked like a queen. He shifted his feet, made as if he 
 would speak, and finally obeyed and went out of the place 
 to his own house with the greatest meekness, soberness, 
 and quietness. 
 
 Presently madam came back. 
 
 "I blame thee not, child," she said. "It is with him as 
 I have told thee. When he begins to drink the devil enters 
 into him. Dost think he came here to see the sick man ? 
 No, but for thy fair eyes, inflamed with love as well as with 
 drink. At such times no one can rule him but myself, and 
 even I may fail. Keep snug, therefore. Perhaps he may 
 forget thee again. But, indeed, I know not." 
 
 She sighed and left u».
 
 f^OK FAITH AND FREEDOM. ja/ 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 BARNABY THE AVENGER. 
 
 Thk man did not come back. During the whole day 1 
 remained with Grace in fear. But he molested us not. 
 
 When the sun set and the field-hands returned, 1 was in 
 two minds whether to tell Barnaby what had happened or 
 not But when I saw his honest face, streaked with the 
 dust of the day's work, and watched him eating his lump of 
 salt beef and basin of yellow porridge with as much satis- 
 faction as if it had been a banquet of all the dainties, I could 
 not bear, without greater cause, to disturb his mind. 
 
 "To-night," he told me, when there was no more beef 
 and the porridge was all eaten, " there is a great feast at the 
 Bridge. I would we had some of their sherries and Madeira. 
 The Governor of Nevis landed yesterday, and is entertained 
 to-day by our governor. All the militia are feasting, offi- 
 cers and men ; nobody will be on the lookout anywhere ; 
 and it is a dark night, with no moon. What a chance for 
 us, could we make our escape to-night ! There may never 
 again happen such a chance for us. How goes Robin ? " 
 
 And so after a little more talk we lay down in our ham- 
 mocks, and I, for one, fell instantly asleep, having no fear 
 at all for Grace ; first, because the master would be now at 
 the Bridge feasting, and too drunk for anything but to 
 sleep ; and next, because she had with her the woman Deb, 
 as stout and lusty as any man. 
 
 The master was not at the Bridge with the rest of the 
 planters and gentlemen. Perhaps the drink which he took 
 in the morning caused him to forget the great banquet. 
 However that may be, he was, most unluckily for himself 
 drinking at home and alone, yet dressed in his best coat and 
 wig, and with his sword, all of which he had put on for the 
 governor's banquet. 
 
 After a while the devil entered into him, finding easy ad- 
 mission, S9 to speak — all doors thrown wide open and 
 tven a welcome in that debauched and ]irofligate soul. 
 About eight o'clock, therefore, i)r()mi)ted by the Evil One, 
 the master rose and stcalthilv crept out of the house.
 
 2 28 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 It was a dark night, but he needed no light to guide his 
 footsteps. He crossed the court and made straight for the 
 sick-house. 
 
 He pushed the door open and stood for a httle looking 
 within. By the light of the horn lantern he saw the girl 
 whose image was in his mind. The sight might have caused 
 him to return, repentant and ashamed. For she was on 
 her knees, praying aloud beside the bedside of the sick 
 man. 
 
 As he stood in the door the woman named Deb, who lay 
 upon the floor asleep, woke up and raised her head. But 
 he saw her not. Then she sat up, watching him with sus- 
 picion. But his eyes were fixed on the figure of Grace. 
 Then she sprang to her feet, for now she knew that mischief 
 was meant, and she stood in readiness, prepared with her 
 great strong arms to defend her mistress. But he thought 
 nobody was in the house but Grace and the sick man. He 
 saw nothing but the girl at the bedside. 
 
 I say that I was sleeping. I was awakened at the sound 
 of a shriek ; I knew the voice ; I sprang from the hammock. 
 
 "God of mercy!" I cried. "It is Grace! Barnaby, 
 awake — awake, I say ! It is the cry of Grace ! " 
 
 Then I rushed to the sick-house. 
 
 There I saw Grace shrieking and crying for help. And 
 before her the master struggling and wrestling with the 
 woman Deb. She had her arms round his neck, and made 
 as if she were trying to throttle him. Nay, I think that she 
 would have throttled him, so strong she was and possessed 
 of such a spirit, and by the light of the lantern gleaming 
 upon the blade I saw that his sword had either fallen from 
 his hand or from the scabbard, and now lay upon the floor. 
 
 " Standback ! " cried Barnaby, pushing me aside. "Leave 
 ^o of him, woman. Let me deal with him." 
 
 The thing was done in a moment. Merciful heavens ! 
 To think that thus suddenly should the soul of man be 
 called to its account ! I had seen the poor /ellows shot 
 down and cut to pieces on Sedgemoor, but then they knew 
 that they were going forth to fight and so might be killed. 
 There was time before the battle for a prayer ; but this man 
 had no time, and he was more than half drunk as well. 
 
 He lay at our feet, lifeless, Barnaby standing over him 
 with a broken sword in his hand. 
 
 For a while no one spoke or moved. But the woman 
 called Deb gasped and panted, and even laughed, as one 
 who is well pleased because slic halh had her revenge,
 
 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 33^ 
 
 The madam herself, clad in a long white night-dress and 
 with bare feet, suddenly pushed us aside and fell upon her 
 knees beside the wounded man. 
 
 She lifted his head. The face was pale and the eyes 
 closed. She laid it gently down and looked round. 
 
 "You have killed him," she said, speaking not in a rage 
 or passion, but quietly. " You have killed him. To-morrow 
 you will hang. You will all hang." 
 
 We said nothing. 
 
 "Doctor, " she turned to me, "tell me if he is dead or 
 living. " 
 
 She snatched the lantern and held it, while I made such 
 examination as was possible. I opened his waistcoat and 
 laid back his shirt. The sword had run straight through him 
 and broken off short, perhaps by contact with his ribs. The 
 broken point remained in the wound and the flesh had closed 
 around it, so that, save for a drop of blood or two oozing 
 out, there was no flow. 
 
 It needs not great knowledge to understand that when a 
 
 man hath six inches of steel in his body which cannot be 
 
 ■pulled out, and when he is bleeding inwardly, he must die. 
 
 Still, as physicians use, I did not tell her so. 
 
 " Madam," I said, "he is not dead. He is living. While 
 there is life there is hope." 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried, "why did he buy you when he could 
 have had the common sort? You will hang — you will hang, 
 every one." 
 
 "That shall we presently discover," said Barnaby. 
 "Humphrey, we have now no choice left ; what did I tell 
 thee about the chances of the night.? We must go this night 
 As for this villain, let him bleed to death." 
 
 "Go } " said madam. " Whither, unhappy men, will you 
 go } There is no place in the island where you can hide, 
 but with bloodhounds they will have you out. You can go 
 nowhere in this island but you will be found and hanged, 
 unless you are shot like rats in a hole." 
 
 "Come, Humphrey, "said Barnaby, "we will carry Robin. 
 This poor woman must go too ; she will else be hanged for 
 trying to throttle him. Well, she can lend a hand to carry 
 Robin. Madam, by your leave we will not hang, nor will 
 be shot. In the — in the — the cave — that I know of your 
 bloodhounds will never find us." 
 
 " Madam," I said, "it is true that we shall attempt to es- 
 cape. For what hath happened I am truly sorry. Yet we 
 may not suffer such a thing as waa this night attempted
 
 330 J-'OR FAiril AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 without resistance. Else should we be worse than the ig^ 
 norant blacks. The master will perhaps live and not die. 
 Listen, and take heed therefore." 
 
 " Doctor," she said, "do not leave me. Stay with me, or 
 he will die. Doctor, stay with me and I will save your life. 
 I will swear that you came at my call.' Stay with me ; I 
 will save Grace as well. I will save you both. You shall 
 be neither flogged nor hanged. I swear it ; I will^ say that 
 I called you for help when it was too late. Only this man 
 and this woman shall hang. Who are they.? a rogue 
 and — " 
 
 Barnaby laughed aloud. 
 
 " Doctor," she said, " if you stay, he will perhaps, re- 
 cover and forgive you all — " 
 
 Barnaby laughed again. 
 
 "Madam," I told her, "better death upon the gallows 
 than any further term of life with such a man." 
 
 " Oh ! " she cried. " He will die where he is lying." 
 
 " That may be, I know not." I gave her certain directions, 
 bidding her, above all, watch the man and cause him to lie 
 perfectly quiet, and not to speak a word even in a whisper, 
 and to give him a few drops of cordial from time to time. 
 
 " Come," said Barnaby, " we lose time which is precious. 
 Madam, if your husband recover — and for my part I care 
 nothing whether he recover or whether he die ; but if he 
 should recover, tell him from me, Captain Barnaby Eykin, 
 that I shall very likely return to this island, and that I shall 
 then, the Lord helping, kill him in fair duello to wipe out the 
 lash of the cudgel which he was good enough once to lay 
 about my head. If he die of this trifling thrust with his own 
 sword, he must lay that to the account of my sister. Enough, " 
 said Barnaby, " we will now make our way to the woods, 
 and the cave. " 
 
 This said, Barnaby went to the head of Robin's bed and 
 ordered Deb to take the foot, and so between them they carried 
 him forth with them, while Grace followed, and I went 
 last. 
 
 We heard, long afterwards, though one Mn Anstiss, the 
 same young gentleman who loved Grace and would have 
 married her, what had happened when we were gone. An 
 hour, or thereabouts, afterwards, madam woke up one of 
 the overseers, telling him what had happened, and bidding 
 him be ready at daybreak, with the bloodhounds, horses, 
 and loaded guns, to follow in pursuit and bring us back, 
 There -would be, they thought, no difficulty at all in catch-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 33« 
 
 iwg" us, because we were encumbered by a sick man and two 
 women. 
 
 There was, however, more difficulty than they expected. 
 For the footsteps led the bloodhounds to the seashore, and 
 here the trace was lost, nor could it ever afterwards be re- 
 covered. And though the hue and cry was out over all the 
 island, and the woods and the ravines and caves, where run- 
 away neg-roes hide, were searched, we were never found. 
 Therefore, since no boat at all was missing (the Guineaman 
 had sailed away), it was certain that we could not have es- 
 caped by sea. It was fortunate, indeed, that Barnaby drop- 
 ped no hint about the sea, otherwise there would have been 
 despatched some of the boats of the port in search of us, and 
 in that case the scuttling of our craft might have been neces- 
 sary. For, had we been caught, we should certainly have 
 been hanged for murder, after being flogged for attempted 
 escape. For the master died. He lay speechless until the 
 day broke ; then he became conscious, and presently breath- 
 ed his last in great anguish of body and terror of mind. 
 What hath since become of madam and of that miserable 
 family of servants and slaves I know not Certain it is that 
 they could not find a more barbarous or a more savage 
 master in place of him whom Barnaby slew, if they were 
 to search the whole of the Spanish Main and the islands 
 upon it 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 A PERILOUS VOYAGE. 
 
 In this way, unexpected and tragical, arrived our chance 
 of escape. We walked to Carlisle Bay by way of the sea- 
 shore, so that we might be met by none, and in order that 
 the bloodhounds (if they should use them) in the morning 
 might be thrown off the track. On the march that stout and 
 lusty wench who carried one end of the bed neither called for 
 a halt nor complained of the burden she carried all the way. 
 It was nigh unto midnight when we arrived at the creek in 
 which the boat lay sunk. This was within a stone's throw 
 of John Nuthall's cottage, where were bestowed the mast 
 sails, oars, and gear, with such provisions as he had gotten to*
 
 332 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 gether for the voyage. The man was sleeping when Barnaby 
 called him, but he quickly got up, and in less than an hour 
 we had the boat hauled out of the water, the provisions hastily 
 thrown in, the mast stepped, our sick man and the woman plac- 
 ed in the bows, the stern and middle of the boat being encum- 
 bered with our provisions ; we had pushed down the muddy 
 and stinking creek, we had hoisted sail, and we were stealing 
 silently out of Carlisle Bay under a light breeze. Three or four 
 ships were lying in the bay, but either there was no watch kept 
 aboard, or (which is more probable) it was no one's business 
 to hail a small sail boat going out, probably for fishing at dawn. 
 Besides, the night was so dark that we may very well have 
 escaped notice. However that might be, in a quarter of an 
 hour we were well out at sea, beyond the reach of the guns 
 of Carlisle Bay, no longer visible to the ships in port, and 
 without any fear of being seen until daybreak. The wind, 
 which sometimes dropped altogether in the night, still con- 
 tinued favorable, though very light. 
 
 "My lads," said Barnaby, presently, drawing a long 
 breath, "I verily believe that we have given them the slip 
 this time. In the morning they may go forth, if they please, 
 with their bloodhounds to hunt for us. Let them hunt. 
 If any inquiry is made for us at the Bridge, no boat will be 
 missing, and so no suspicion will be awakened. They \\\\\ 
 then, I suppose, search for us among the caves and ravines 
 of which 1 have heard, where there are hiding-places in 
 plenty, but no water to drink, so that the poor devils who 
 run away and seek a refuge there are speedily forced to 
 come out for water, and so are caught or shot down. Well, 
 they will hunt a long time before they find us. This boat 
 makes a little water, but I think not much. If she proves 
 water-tight and the breeze holds, by daylight we should be 
 well to the south of the Island : courage, therefore — all will 
 be well yet. How goes Robin } " 
 
 He was lying as easily as we could manage for him, one 
 rug over him and another under him. Grace sat on one 
 side of him, and the woman they call Deb on the other. 
 Then, because the boat sometimes shipped a little water when 
 she dipped in the waves, Barnaby rigged a tarpaulin round 
 the bows to prevent this, and (but this was not till next day) 
 over the tarpaulin he made out of a rug and a spare spar a 
 low tilt which, unless the weather grew bad, should shelter 
 those three by night from dew and spray, and by day from 
 the sun overhead and the glare and heat of tl:ie water, 
 
 " Peb," he said softly, " art afraid.' "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 333 
 
 "No, sir; not while my mistress is here" (meaning 
 Grace). 
 
 " If we are taken we shall all be flogged well-nigh unto 
 death, and very likely hanged as well." 
 
 "I am not afraid, sir." 
 
 " We may spring a leak," said Barnaby, " and so all go 
 to the bottom and be devoured. Art not afraid to die ? " 
 
 "No, sir; not if I hold my mistress by the hand, so that 
 she may take me whither she goes herself." 
 
 "Good," said Barnaby. "As for me, I shall have to go 
 alone. Well, there will be a goodly company of us. Go 
 to sleep, my girl. In the morning we will serve around 
 the first ration, with, perhaps, if all be well, a dram of 
 cordial." 
 
 In the dim light of the stars I watched all night the three 
 figures in the bow. Robin lay white and motionless ; Grace 
 sat covered with her hood, bending over him ; and Deb, 
 from whose head her coif had fallen, lay head on arm sound 
 asleep. She had no fear, any more than a common soldier 
 has when he goes into action, because he trusts his captain. 
 Thus began our voyage, in an open boat, twenty feet 
 long, with a company of three sound men, two women, 
 and a sick man. For arms, in case we needed them, we 
 had none at all. If any ship crossed our track and should 
 call upon us to surrender, we could not deny that we were es- 
 caped convicts, because the dress of all but one proclaimed 
 the fact. Who, in such a climate, would choose to wear 
 a coarse shirt and canvas breeches, with a Monmouth cap, 
 except it was a servant or a slave who had no choice, but 
 must take what is given him ? 
 
 But we should not surrender, come what might. If we 
 could neither fight nor fly, we could sink. Said Barnaby in 
 the dead of the night, whispering in my ear, "Lad, 'tis 
 agreed between us, we will have that clear. Sooner than 
 be taken we will scuttle the ship, and so sink altogethei . 
 If 'tis accounted murder, the blame shall lie between us." 
 
 A little before daybreak the breeze freshened and the wave"? 
 began to rise, but not so high as to threaten the boal, 
 which proved indeed a most gallant little craft, dancing 
 over the waters as if she enjoyed being driven by the breeze. 
 Some boats, as sailors will tell you, being always apt t ) 
 compare these craft with living creatures, come thus froli-: 
 and sprightly from their makers' hands, while others, bui!t 
 of the same material, and on the same lines, are, on the 
 contrary, and always remain, heavy and lumpish, just as
 
 334 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FRLEDOM. 
 
 some children are lively and gay, while others, bom of thd 
 same parents, are dull and morose. 
 
 Then the sun rose, seeming to leap out of the water, a 
 must glorious ball of fire, which instantly warmed the cool 
 air, and began to burn and scorch our hands and faces. 
 In these hot latitudes one understands what the ancients 
 meant when they spoke of the dreadful sun-god, who both 
 gives and destroys life, and is so beneficial and yet so ter- 
 rible. We, who live in a cold country, are sometimes 
 greatly comforted by the sun, but are never burned ; we 
 feel his warmth, but understand not his power. 
 
 Then Barnaby began to gaze curiously all round the horizon. 
 We had no glass or telescope, but his eyes were to him as 
 good as any telescope is to most men. 
 
 " I thank the Lord,"' he said, drawing breath. (It was 
 rare for Barnaby thus openly to give praise.) " There is no 
 sail in sight. To be sure we have the day before us. But 
 yet — " here he began to talk as some men use when they 
 desire to place before their own minds, clearly, the position 
 of affairs. ' ' Very well, then — Barbadoes laying thirty 
 miles or more northeast by north. Vessels bound for the 
 island from Bristol, commonly sailing round the north. 
 Very well, then — we are out of their track. Yet — then again 
 — some are driven south by stress of- weather. Ay, there 
 is our danger. Yet again, if one should see us, would she 
 bear down upon us ? I greatly doubt it. The wind will 
 continue, that is pretty sure. If they were to discover that 
 we had gone by boat, would they sail after us 1 Why, whom 
 could they send .? And whither would they steer } And what 
 boat have they that can sail faster than this little craft ? Yet 
 we are pretty low down in the water. Humphrey, lad," he 
 turned upon me his broad and sunburnt face, full of cheer- 
 fulness, "we are not within many hours of scuttling yet. 
 A tight boat, a fair wind, a smooth sea ; let us hope for the 
 best, How goes Robin } " 
 
 There was no change in Robin, either for better or for 
 worse. 
 
 "Sis," said Barnaby, "art sleeping still, Sis? Wake up 
 and let us eat, drink, and be jolly. What ! Grace, I say ? 
 Why, we have escaped. We are far away at sea. Let us 
 laugh and sing. If there were room in this coi^kle I would 
 dance also." 
 
 She lifted her head and threw back her hood. Ah ! what 
 a mournful face was there.
 
 POR FAITH AXD J-RhEDO.\L 
 
 tl'i 
 
 "Oh, brother," she said, "canst thou laugh and sing? 
 Hast thou forgotten last night ? " 
 
 " Why, no," he replied, " one must not forget last night, 
 because it was the night of our escape. All else, I own, I can 
 forget Let it not stick in thy gizzard, my dear, that the 
 man frightened thee. Rejoice rather that he thus afforded 
 me a chance of giving him a taste of his own cold iron." 
 
 ''Nay, brother," she said, shaking her head; then she 
 looked round her. "We are a long way from the land," 
 she said. "When will they send out a ship to bring us 
 ')ack } " 
 
 "Why, d'ye see.?" Barnaby replied. "Give us twelve 
 hours more, and they may send out all their fleet, if they 
 have one, and sail the wide world round for us, and yet not 
 capture us. And now let us overhaul the provisions, and 
 examine the ship's stores." Grace pulled her hood down 
 again and said no more. The woman they called Deb was 
 now wide awake, and staring about her with the greatest 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "Come John Nuthall," Barnaby went on. "We are 
 hungry and thirsty. Where is the list I made for thee .? 
 Thou art our purser, our supercargo, our cook, and our steward. 
 Thou art also bo's'n and carpenter and half the crew. Where 
 is my list, I say ? Give it me and we will examine our 
 stores. Look up, Sis ; never cry over what is done and 
 over. What ! A villain hath received a lesson and thou 
 hangest thy head therefore. Look up, I say. There is now 
 hope for all ; thou shalt merrily dance at my wedding 
 yet. " 
 
 Then he read the list, and examined each parcel or box 
 with great care. 
 
 " A hundred and a half of bread ; a soft cheese ; plantains ; 
 a keg of water — nine gallons ; six bottles of Canary — not one 
 broken ; a compass ; a half-hourglass ; a spare rug — 'tis over 
 Robin's legs ; flint and steel ; a bit of tarpaulin ; a hatchet 
 and hammer ; a saw ; some nails ; a spar or two ; a coil of 
 rope and yarn ; a lump of tobacco — we can chew it, though 
 I would rather put it into a pipe. Candles — Faugh ! they 
 are run together in a lump ; they will serve to calk some- 
 thing presently." 
 
 We had, in fact, no light during our voyage, but the tallow 
 proved useful when (I think it was the next day) the boat 
 started a leak. 
 
 This was all our store. 'Twas not much for six people, 
 but Barnaby hoped that the voyage would be short. If he
 
 '};^^ FOR J-AJT/I AXD FKEEDO.U. 
 
 should be disappointed, who would not put up with short 
 rations for a day or two for the sake of freedom ? 
 
 " And now," he said, when everything- was stowed away 
 according to his mind, " we will have breakfast. Our pro- 
 visions are not great things, but after the accursed loblollie. 
 a bit of bread and cheese will be a feast." 
 
 A feast indeed it was, and our captain gratified us by 
 opening a flask of Canary, which raised all our hearts. Strange 
 ;hat men should be able to recover their spirits, which should 
 oe independent of the creature comforts, by a dram of wine. 
 
 As for Barnaby, I thought he would have kissed the bottle. 
 
 " It is now three nionths and more," he said, "that we 
 have had nothing save a sup of kill-devil fresh from the still 
 and now we are mercifully permitted to taste again a glass 
 of Canary. ' ' ' Tis too much, " he sighed, drinking his ration. 
 " Well, we have birt a few bottles, and the voyage may be 
 longer than we hope. Therefore, we must go upon short 
 allowance. But fear not, sis; there shall always be enough 
 for Robin, poor lad." 
 
 He then proceeded to tell us what he intended, and whither 
 he would steer. 
 
 " We have no chart," he said. "What then .? I can draw 
 one as good as they are made to steer by in these seas. " 
 He could not draw one because he had no paper or pencil, 
 but he carved one with the point of his knife on the seat, and 
 marked out our course upon it day by day. "See," he said, 
 ' ' here is Barbadoes. Our course all night hath been sou'west. 
 She now makes five knots an hour. It is now eight, I take 
 it, and we must therefore be about forty miles from Barba- 
 does. To-morrow morning we should make the Grenadilloes, 
 which are a hundred and fifty miles from Carlisle Bay. Hark 
 ye ! there may be a Bristol vessel sailing from Great Granada 
 to Barbadoes, or the other way. That would be the devil. 
 But such ships are rare, and there is no trade between the 
 two islands. Well ; we shall give Granada as wide a berth 
 as may be." Here he considered a little. "Therefore, 
 'twill be our wiser plan to bear more to the south. Once 
 south of Granada, I take it, there will be no more danger. 
 Off the main of South America the sea is covered with islands. 
 They are No INIan's Land. Inhabitants have they none 
 Navigators for the most part know them not. English, French, 
 and Spanish ships come never to these islands. My purpose, 
 therefore, is to put in at Great Margaritos or Tortuga, for 
 rest and fresh water, and so presently make the Dutch island 
 of Cura9oa. "
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. -i^^-j 
 
 " And after that ? " 
 
 "Then, my lad, we shall take ship to some country where 
 a sailor may get a berth and a physician may find patients. 
 It must be to Holland first ; but never fear, we shall get 
 back to England some time, and perhaps, fight another 
 battle, with a different tale to tell afterwards.'' 
 
 As the day advanced the coast of Barbadoes continually 
 receded, until, before sunset, the island lay like a purple 
 cloud low down in the horizon. The northeast breeze blew 
 steadily, but the sun caused a most dreadful heat in the air, 
 and our eyes smarted from the glare of the water and the 
 spray that was blown upon us. It was at this time that 
 Barnaby constructed the tilt of which I have spoken. The 
 sea lay spread out round us in a broad circle of which we 
 were the centre, and the cloudless blue sky lay over us like 
 unto a roof laid there for us alone. It is only in a ship one 
 doth feel thus alone in the centre of creation — even as if 
 there were nothing but the sea around, the sky above, and 
 our boat in the centre. Thus must the patriarch, Noah, have 
 felt when his ark floated upon the vast face of the water, 
 and even the tops of the high hills were hidden and covered 
 over. All day Barnaby scanned the horizon anxiously, but 
 there came into sight no sail or ship whatever. To us, who 
 sometimes see the vessels lying in a crowded port and hear 
 how they bring argosies from every land, it seems as if every 
 part of the ocean must be covered with sails, driving before 
 the wind from whatever quarter it may blow. But he who 
 considers the mappa mundi\x\\\ presently discover that there 
 are vast expanses of sea where never a sail is seen, unless 
 it be the fugitive sail of the pirate or the bark canoe of the 
 native. We were now nearing such a lonely sea or part of 
 the ocean. Barnaby knew, what these planters did not, \\ow 
 to steer across the unknown water to a port of safety beyond. 
 
 At midday our captain served out another drink of \\-atcr, 
 and to Robin I gave a sop of bread in Canary, which he 
 seemed to suck up and to swallow with readiness. 
 
 In such a voyage, wdiere there is nothing to do but to keep 
 the ship on her course and to watch the horizon for a strange 
 sail, one speedily falls into silence and sits manyhours with- 
 out speech ; sometimes falling asleep, lulled by the ripple 
 of the water as the boat flies through it. 
 
 I have said nothing about the man John Nuthall. He was 
 a plain, honest-looking man, and we found him, throughout 
 all this business, faithful, brave, and patient, obedient to 
 Barnaby, and of an even temper, and contented with his 
 
 «a
 
 338 FOR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 share. That he had formerly been a thief in his native 
 country cannot be denied, but I hope that we shall not deny 
 to any man the right of repentance. Barnaby divided the 
 crew — namely, himself, John Nuthall, and me — into three 
 watches, of eight hours each, of which each man kept two 
 at a stretch. Thus, beginning the day at noon, which was 
 the only time we knew for certain, Barnaby would himself 
 — but this was after the first two days — lie down and sleep 
 till sunset or a little later. Then John Nuthall lay down an I 
 took his turn of sleep till Barnaby thought it was two o'clock 
 in the morning, when he woke him and I took his place. 
 But for the first day or two Barnaby slept not at all, and the 
 whole of the voyage he slept as a good watch-dog sleeps — 
 namely, with one eye open. 
 
 At sunset he gave out another pannikin of cold water to 
 each of us, a ration of bread and cheese, and a dram of wine. 
 Then he commanded John Nuthall to lie down and sleep, 
 while I took the tiller, and he himself held the ropes. Then 
 the night fell once more upon us. 
 
 Presently, while we sat there in silence, Grace rose up 
 from her seat and came aft and sat down beside me. 
 
 "Humphrey," she whispered, " think you that he is truly 
 dead ? " She was speaking not of Robin, but of the master. 
 
 " I know not, my dear." 
 
 "I can think of nothing but of that man's sudden end, 
 and of what may happen to us. Say something to comfort 
 me, Humphrey. You always had some good word to say 
 — like manna for refreshment. My soul is low in the dust. 
 I cannot even pray." 
 
 "Why, my dear, what could I say .'' 'Tis true that the 
 man was struck down, and that suddenly. And yet — " 
 
 " To think that my brother — that Barnaby — should have 
 killed him." 
 
 ' ' Why, " said Barnaby, ' ' if some one had to kill him, why 
 not I as well as another 1 What odds who killed him } " 
 
 "Oh," she said, "that a man should be called away at 
 such a moment, when his brain was reeling with wine and 
 wicked thoughts." 
 
 " He was not dead," I told her, though I knew very well 
 what would be the end, " when we came away. Many a 
 man recovers who hath had a sword thrust through the body. 
 He may now be on the mend — who can tell .'' " yet I knew, 
 I say, very well how it must have ended. "Consider, my 
 dear, he tempted the wrath of God, if any man ever did. If 
 he is destroyed, on his own head be it, not im ours. If
 
 tOR FAITH AND l-REEDOM. 339 
 
 he recover, he will have had a lesson which will serve him 
 for the rest of his life. If he doth not recover, he may have 
 time left him for something of repentance and of prayer. 
 Why, Grace, if we get safely to our port we ought to con- 
 sider the punishment of this sinner, which was in self- 
 defence, as one may truly say, the very means granted by 
 Providence for our own escape. How else should we have 
 got away ? How else should we have resolved to venture 
 all. even to carrying Robin with us .'' " All this, I repeat, I 
 said to encourage her, because, if I know aught of wounds, 
 a man bleeding inwardly of a sword-thrust through his vitals 
 would have short time for the collecting of his thoughts or 
 the repentance of his sins, being as truly cut off in the midst 
 of them as if he had been struck down by a thunderbolt. A 
 man may groan and writhe under the dreadful torture of such 
 a wound, but there is little room for meditation or for 
 repentance. 
 
 Then I asked her if she were in fear as to the event of the 
 voyage. 
 
 " 1 fear nothing," she told me, "but to be captured and 
 taken back to the place whence we came, there to be put in 
 ])rison and flogged. That is my only fear. Humphrey, we 
 have suffered so much that this last shame would be too 
 great for me to bear. Oh, to be tied up before all the men 
 and flogged like the black women. 'Twould kill me, 
 Humphrey." 
 
 "Grace," I said, very earnestly, "art thou, indeed, brave 
 enough to endure death itself rather than this last barbarity .-• " 
 
 "Oh, death, death!" she cried, clasping her hands, 
 " what is death to me, who have lost everything 1 " 
 
 "Ay, but consider, my dear. To die at sea — it means to 
 sink down under the cold water, out of the light of day ; to 
 be choked for want of air ; perhaps to be devoured quick by 
 sharks ; to lie at the bottom of the water, the sea-weed grow- 
 ing over your bones ; to be rolled about by the troubled 
 waves — " 
 
 " Humphrey, these are old wives' tales. Why, if it had 
 been lawful, I would have killed myself long ago. But I 
 must not lose heaven as well as earth. A brief pang it is to 
 die, and then to be happy forever. What do I care whether 
 the sea-weed covers my bones or the cold clay .'' Oh, 
 Humphrey, Humphrey ! why should I care any longer to 
 Hve ? " 
 
 "My dear," I said, "if we escape in safety there may 
 yet be happiness in store. No man knoweth the future."
 
 ^40 ^O/^ FAJ-J'Jf .LVD IREEDd.\f. 
 
 She shook her head. " Happiness,"' I told her, " doth not 
 commonly come to man in the way which he most desires 
 and prays ; for if he doth obtain the thing for which he 
 hath so ardently prayed, he presently finds that the thing- 
 bringeth not the joy he so much expected. Or it comes too 
 late, as is the case often with honors and wealth, when one 
 foot is already in the grave. I mean, my dear, that we 
 must not despair, because the thing which most we desired 
 is taken from us. Perhaps we ought not to desire anything 
 at all except what the Lord shall provide. But that is a 
 hard saying, and if men desired nothing, it is certain that 
 they would no longer work." I talked thus at length to 
 divert her mind from her troubles. "To thee, poor child," 
 I said, "have been given afflictions many and great — the 
 loss of godly parents, a husband whom thou must avoid, 
 and the deprivation of earthly love. Yet, since thou art so 
 brave, Grace, I will tell thee. I thought not to tell thee 
 anything of this — " 
 
 "What, Humphrey, what.?" 
 
 "Briefly, Grace, thou shalt not be taken alive." 
 
 " How, unless you kill me.?" 
 
 "We are agreed, my dear, Barnaby and I, that if we can- 
 not escape any boats which may pursue us, the boat shall 
 be sunk, and so we shall drown together. Indeed, Grace, 
 I confess that I am n.ot myself so much in love with life as 
 to return to that captivity and intolerable oppression from 
 which we have gotten away. Therefore, be assured, we 
 will all drown rather than go back," 
 
 "Oh ! " she sighed, heavily, "now shall I fear nothing. 
 I have not lost everything since I have thee still — and 
 Barnaby. Alas ! my head has been so full of what madam 
 said — that we should be certainly caught, and all of us flog- 
 ged. To be flogged! Who would not rather die?" She 
 shivered and trembled. "To be flogged! Humphrey, 1 
 could not bear the shame." She trembled and shivered at 
 the very thought. 
 
 " Fear not, my dear," I said, "there are those on the 
 boat who love thee too well to suffer that extreme of bar- 
 barity. Put that fear out of thy mind. Think only that 
 we may have to die, but that we shall not be taken. To 
 die, indeed, is very likely our fate, for we have but a quar- 
 ter of an inch of frail wood between us and the seas. If a 
 storm should arise, we fill with water and go down ; if the 
 wind should drop we should be becalmed, and so perish
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 341 
 
 miserably of hunger and thirst; if Barnaby steer not 
 aright — " 
 
 " Humphrey," said Barnaby, " fill not her innocent head 
 with rubbish. 'Tis not the time of tornadoes, and there will 
 be no storm ; the wind at this season never drops, therefore 
 we shall not lie becalmed ; and as for my steering aright, 
 why, with a compass — Am I a lubber ? " 
 
 "Brother," she said, " if I am not to be flogged the rest 
 concerns me little. Let us say no more about it. I am 
 now easy in my mind. Robin sleeps, Humphrey. He 
 hath slept since the sun went down, and this afternoon he 
 looked as if he knew me. Also, he took the bread sopped 
 in Canary eagerly, as if he relished it." 
 
 "These seas," said Barnaby, "are full of sharks, I tell 
 you." 
 
 I knew not what he meant, because we were speaking of 
 Robin. 
 
 " Sharks have got their share of sense as well as humans," 
 he went on. 
 
 Still I understood him not. 
 
 "When a man on board a ship is going to die the sharks 
 find it out, and they follow that ship until he does die and 
 is flung overboard. Then they devour his body and go 
 away, unless there is more to follow. I have looked for 
 sharks, and there are none following the boat, wherefore, 
 though I am not a doctor, I am sure that Robin will not 
 die. " 
 
 " I know not at all," I said, " how that may be. There 
 are many things believed by sailors which are superstitions, 
 fond beliefs nourished by the continual presence of perils. 
 On the other hand, the senses of man are notoriously as 
 far below those of creatures as their intellects are abox'c 
 them, yet a skilful man may read the premonition of death 
 in a sick man's face. Therefore, I know not but a shark 
 may have a sense like unto the eye of a hawk, or the scent 
 of a hound, with which to sniff the approach of death afar 
 off. Let us comfort ourselves, Grace, with Barnaby's as- 
 surance. ''' 
 
 "Tis a well-proved and tried thing," said Barnaby ; " and 
 sailors, let me tell thee, master doctor, have no superstitions 
 or idle beliefs." 
 
 "Well, that maybe. As to Robin's disease, I can pro- 
 nounce nothing upon it. Nay, had I the whole library o/ 
 Padua to consult I could learn nothing that would help me. 
 First, the mind falls into a languisliing and spiritless condi-
 
 342 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOAt. 
 
 tion. That causeth the body to lie open to attacks of any 
 disease which may be threatening. Then, the body, being 
 ill at ease, works upon the mind, and causes it to wander 
 beyond control. So that the soul, which is bound up with 
 body and mind, cannot show herself or manifest her will. 
 It is the will which shows the presence of the soul — the will 
 M'hich governs body and mind alone. But, it I know aught 
 of disease, if a change comes upon Robin, it will either 
 swiftly cure or swiftly kill." 
 
 " Humphrey," she whispered, "if he recover, kow shall 
 I meet his face.'' How shall I reply when he asks me con- 
 cerning my faith .' " 
 
 "j\Iy dear, he knows all. Twas that knowledge, the' 
 pity of it, and the madness of it, believe me, which threw 
 him into so low a condition." 
 
 " I have looked daily for reproaches in thy kind eyes, 
 Humphrey. I have found none, truly. But, from Robin. 
 Oh ! I dare not think of meeting those eyes of his." 
 
 "Reproach thee will he never, Grace. Sorrow and love, 
 I doubt not, will lie in his eyes all his life. What thou hast 
 done was for him and for thy father and thy brother and for 
 all of us. But oh, the pity and the villainy 1 Fear not to 
 meet the poor lad's eyes, Grace." 
 
 " I long to see the light of reason in those dear eyes^ 
 and yet I fear. Humphrey, I am married, but against 
 my will. I am a wife, and yet no wife. I am resolved 
 that, come what may, I will never, never go to my hus- 
 band. And I love my Robin still. Oh ! " she sobbed, "I 
 love my Robin still." 
 
 "If we die," I told her, " you shall go down with your 
 arm round his neck, and so you shall die together." 
 
 Then we sat silent awhile. 
 
 "My dear," I said, " lie down and take some sleep." 
 
 " I cannot sleep, Humphrey, for the peace of mind which 
 hath fallen upon me. If Robin come to his senses again I 
 shall not fear him. And the night, it is so peaceful — so cool 
 and so peaceful." (The wind had dropped till there was 
 barely enough to fill the sail, and only enough way on the 
 boat to make a soft murmur of the water along her sides. ) 
 "The sea is so smooth ; the sky is so bright, and so full of 
 stars. Can there be anywhere a peace like this ? Alas ! if 
 we could sail still upon a silent and a peaceful ocean. But 
 we must land somewhere. There will be men ; and where 
 there are men there is wickedness, with drink and wrath and 
 evil passions, such as we \\ix\c left behind us. Plumphrey,
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 343 
 
 oh, my brother Humphrey, it would be sweet if the boat 
 would sink beneath us now, and so, with Robin's hand in 
 mine, we could all go together to the happy land where 
 there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage." 
 
 From beneath 'the tilt there came a voice — 1 verily believe 
 it was the answer sent straight from heaven to comfort this 
 poor, faithful soul. "Grace" — it was the voice of Robin, 
 in his right mind at last. "Grace," he said, "we will con- 
 tinue to love each other, yet without sin." 
 
 "Oh, Robin, Robin." She moved quickly to his side and 
 fell upon her knees. ' ' Robin, thou wilt recover. " 
 
 "Stay," I interposed. "Robin will first have a cup of 
 (Cordial. " 
 
 " I have been sleeping," he said. "I know not what 
 hath happened. We are in a boat, it seems, and on the 
 open sea. Unless I am still dreaming, we are slaves to a 
 planter in Barbadoes. And this is Grace, who was in Eng- 
 land — and I know not what it means." 
 
 " You have been ill, Robin," I told him. "You have 
 been nigh unto death. Many things have happened of 
 which we will speak, but not now. Grace is at your side 
 and Barnaby is navigating the boat. Drink this cup of wine 
 — so. Sleep now, and in the morning, if it please Heaven, 
 you shall be so strong that you shall hear everything. Ask 
 no more questions, but sleep. Give him your hand, Grace." 
 
 She obeyed me, sitting at his side and taking his hand in 
 hers, and so continued for the rest of the night, Robin sleep- 
 ing peacefully. 
 
 In a word, he was restored. The fresh sea-breeze brought 
 him back to life and reason ; and though he was still weak, 
 he was now as sound in his mind as any man could desire 
 to be. And in the morning we told him all that had been 
 done, whereat he marvelled. 
 
 Grace might love him still. That was most true ; yet 
 between them stood the man. Why, there was another 
 man in the boat who also loved a girl he could never wed. 
 His passion, I swear, was full of constancy, tenderness, 
 and patience, ^^'ould Robin be as patient.'' 
 
 When the day broke again we were still sailing over a 
 lovely sea, with never a sail in sight and never a sign of 
 land. 
 
 But now Robin was sitting up, his face pale and his hands 
 thin ; but the light of reason was in his eyes, and on his 
 lips Buch a smile of tenderness as we were wont to see there 
 in the days of old.
 
 344 
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Said I not," cried Barnaby, "that he would recover? 
 Trust the sharks for common-sense. And again an open 
 sea, with never a sail in sight. Praise the Lord therefore. " 
 
 But Grace, when the sun rose above the wares, threw 
 back her hood and burst forth into singing : 
 
 " O Lord, how glorious is thy grace I 
 And wondrous large thy love I 
 At such a dreadful tune and place 
 To such as faithful prove." 
 
 The tears came into my eyes only to see the change that 
 had fallen upon her gracious, smiling countenance ; it was 
 not, truly, the sweet and happy face that we remembered 
 before her troubles fell upon her, but that face graver with 
 the knowledge of evil and of pain. And now it was like 
 unto such a face as one may see in many an altar-piece in 
 Italy, glorilied with gratitude and love. 
 
 Then the woman called Deb fell to weeping and blubber- 
 ing for very joy that her mistress looked happy again. 
 'Twas a faithful, loving creature. 
 
 " Humphrey," said Grace, "forgive me that I murmured. 
 Things that are done cannot be undone. Robin is restored 
 to us. With three such brothers, who should not be con- 
 tent to live ? I hope, now, that we shall get safely to our 
 port ; but if we die, we shall die contented in each other's 
 arms. Going through the vale of misery," she added, 
 softly, "we will use it as a well." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 «rE SAIL FOR THE BAHAMAS. 
 
 "I TAKE it," said Barnaby, on the third morning— the 
 weather continuing fine and the sea clear of ships — "that 
 we are now clear out of the track of any British vessels. 
 We may fall into the hands of the Spaniard, but he is mild 
 and merciful of late, compared with his temper a hundred 
 years ago. 'Tis true we have given him many lessons m 
 humanity. We should no^\', before nightfall, make the 
 islands of Testigos ; but I think they are only rocks and sandy
 
 lOK FAITH AXU FREEDOM. 
 
 M5 
 
 flats, such as they call Keys, where we need not land, see- 
 ing- that we should get nothing by so doing, except to go 
 out of the way, and so make the rations shorter. Robin" — 
 'twas at breakfast, when he served out a dram of wine to 
 every one — -"I drink to thy better health, lad. Thou hast 
 cheated the devil — Nay, Sis, look not so angry ; I meant, 
 thou wilt not go to heaven — this bout. Up heart, then, and 
 get strong. We will find thee another sweetheart shall make 
 thee lift up thy head again. What ! is there but one woman 
 in the world.? " 
 
 "I was saying, then," he went on, "that we shall pres- 
 ently make the islands of Testigos. There followeth there- 
 after, to one who steereth west, a swarm of little islands. 
 'Twas here that the pirates used to lie in the good old days, 
 snug and retired, with their girls and their drink. Ay, and 
 plenty of both. A happy time they had ! " Barnaby wagged 
 his head and sighed. "South of this archipelago, which I 
 will some day visit in order to search for treasure, there 
 lieth the great and mountainous island of Margaritos. This 
 great island we shall do well to keep upon our south, and 
 so bear away to the desert island of Tortuga, where we 
 shall find wafer for certain, and that, I have been told, the 
 best spring-water that flows ; turtles we may also find, and 
 fish we may catch ; and when we have recovered our 
 strength with a few days' rest ashore we will once more put 
 to sea, and make for the island of Cura(^oa and the protec- 
 tion of the Dutchmen." 
 
 It needs not to tell much more about the voyage, in which 
 we were favored by Heaven with everything that we could 
 desire — steady breeze from the best quarter, a sea never too 
 rough, provisions in sufficiency, the absence of any ships, 
 and, above all, the recovery of Robin. 
 
 I say, then, that we sighted, and presently passed, the 
 group of islets called the Testigos ; that we coasted along the 
 great island of Margaritos, where we landed not, because 
 Barnaby feared that certain smoke which we saw might be- 
 token the presence of the Spaniard, whom, in spite of his new 
 character for mildness, he was anxious to avoid. 'Tis strange 
 thus to sail along the shore of a great island whereon are no 
 inhabitants, or, if any, a few sailors put in for water, for 
 turtle, and for cocoanuts ; to see afar off the forests climbing 
 round the mountain-sides, the waterfalls leaping over the 
 precipices, and to think of the happy life one might lead in 
 such a place, far from men and their ways. I confess, since 
 my mistress will nevcrsce this page, that my thoughts for a
 
 34ti FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 whole day, while we sailed along the shores of Margaritos, 
 turned upon those pirates of whom Barnaby spoke. They 
 lived here at ease and in gi'eat happiness. 'Tis of such a life 
 that a man sometimes dreams; but if he were suffered so to 
 lie in sloth, farewell heaven, farewell future hopes, farewell 
 our old talk of lifting the soul above the flesh! Let us hence- 
 forth live the lives of those who are content, since they can 
 have no more, with a few years of love and wine and revelry ! 
 It is in climates like that of the West Indies that such a 
 temptation seizes on men the most strongly, for here every- 
 thing is made for man's enjoyment. Here is no cold, no 
 frost, no snow or ice; here eternal summer reigns and the 
 world seems made for the senses and for nothing else. Of 
 these confessions enough. 'Twas impossible that in such a 
 luxurious dream the image of Grace could have any part. 
 
 We landed, therefore, on the desert island of Tortuga, 
 where we remained for several days, hauling up our boat and 
 covering her with branches to keep off the sun. Here we 
 lived luxuriously upon turtle, fresh fish, the remains of our 
 bread, and what was left of our Canary, setting up huts in 
 which we could sleep, and finding water of the freshest and 
 brightest I ever saw. Here Robin mended apaqe, and began 
 to walk about with no more help from his nurses. 
 
 We were minded, as I have said, to sail as far as the island 
 of Curacoa, but an accident prevented this. 
 
 One day, when we had been ashore for ten days or there- 
 abouts, we were terrified by the sight of a small vessel rigged 
 in the fashion of a ketch — that is, with a small mizzen — beat- 
 ing about outside the bay, which is the only port of Tortuga. 
 
 "She will put in here," said Barnaby; "that is most cer- 
 tain. Now, from the cut of her, she is of New England 
 build, and from the handling of her she is undermanned, and 
 I think that we have nothing to fear from her, unless she is 
 bound for Barbadoes, or for Granada or Jamaica." 
 
 Presently the vessel came to anchor, and a small boat was 
 lowered, into which three men descended. They were un- 
 armed. 
 
 "She is certainly from New England," said Barnaby 
 "Well, they are not from Barbadoes in quest of us, other- 
 wise they would not send ashore three unarmed men to cap- 
 ture four desperate men. That is certain. And as we can- 
 not hide our boat, though we might hide ourselves, I will 
 e'en go forth and parley with these strangers." 
 
 This he did, we watching from a safe place. The con.-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 347 
 
 rersation was long and earnest, and apparently friendly. 
 Presently Barnaby returned to us. 
 
 "There offers," he said, " a chance which is perhaps bet- 
 ter than to make for Cura^oa, where, after all, we might get 
 scurvy treatment These men, in a word, are privateers ; 
 or, since we are at war with none, they are pirates. They 
 fitted out a brigantine, or bilander, I know not which, and 
 designed to sail round Cape Horn, to attack the Spaniard on 
 the South Seas. On the way they took a prize, which you 
 now see in the bay. Ten men were sent aboard to navigate 
 her as a tender to their ship. But they fell into bad weather 
 off Brazil, and their ship went down with all hands. Now 
 they are bound for Providence, only seven hands left, and 
 they will take us aboard and carry us to that island for our 
 services. Truly, I think we should go. They have provi- 
 sions in plenty, with Madeira wine, and Providence is too 
 far for the arm of King James to reach. What say ye all .'' 
 Grace, what sayest thou 1 " 
 
 "Truly, brother, I say nothing." 
 
 "Then we will agree, aixl go with them." 
 
 We went on board, taking with us a good supply of turtle, 
 clear water, and cocoanuts, being all that the isle afforded. 
 Honest fellows we found our pirates to be. They belonged 
 to the island of Providence, in the Bahamas, which have lonj^ 
 been the rendezvous of English privateers. Ten years before 
 this the Spaniards plucked up courage to attack and destroy 
 the settlement, when those who escaped destruction found 
 shelter in some of the adjacent islands or on the mainland ot 
 Virginia. Now, some of them have come back again, and 
 this settlement, or colony, is re-established. 
 
 Thither, therefore, we sailed. It seemed as if we were 
 become a mere shuttlecock of fortune, beaten and driven 
 hither and thither upon the face of the earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVni. 
 
 THE ISLAND OF PROVIDENCB. 
 
 It was some time in the month of March, Anno Domini 
 1686, that we landed in Providence. The settlement, from 
 which the Spaniards had now notliing to fear, then consisted
 
 348 J^R FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 (it is now, I leaiji, much larger) of no more than one 
 hundred and fifty people in all, the men being all sailors, and 
 ready to carry on again the old trade of privateer or pirate 
 as you please to call it, when they should be strong enough 
 to buy or hire a ship and to equip her. 
 
 We stayed on the island for two years and a quarter, or 
 thereabouts. It is one of an archipelago, for the most part. 
 I believe, desert. The settlement was, as I have said, bui 
 a small one, living in scattered houses. There were plenty 
 of these to spare (which had belonged to the former settle 
 ment), if only one took the trouble to clear away the creep- 
 ing plants and cut down the trees which had grown up round 
 them since the Spaniards came and destroyed the colony. 
 Such a house, built of wood, with a shingle roof, we found 
 convenient for us, and after we had cleared the ground round 
 about it, and repaired it, we lived in it. Some of the people 
 helped us to a porker or two and some chickens. They also 
 gave us some salt beef and maize to start with. That we 
 had little money (only what was left over from the sale of 
 Grace's ring) made no difference to us here, because no one 
 had any at all, and at this time there was neither buying nor 
 selling on the island ; a happy condition of things which 
 will not, I take it, last long. So great is the fertility of the 
 ground here, and such is the abundance which prevails, that 
 we very shortly found ourselves provided with all that we 
 wanted to make life pleasant. Work there was for us, but 
 easy and pleasant work, such as weeding our patches of 
 vegetables and fruit in the early mornings, or going to fish, 
 or planting maize, or attending to our pigs, poultry, and 
 turkeys ; and for the rest of the time sitting in the shade con- 
 versing. It is none too hot in this place, though one would 
 not, in the summer, walk abroad at noon ; nor is it ever too 
 cold. All the fruits which flourish under the tropics grow 
 here, with those also which belong to the temperate zone. 
 Here are splendid forests, where you can cut the mahogany- 
 tree and build your house, if you please, of that lovely wood. 
 Here we ourselves grew, for our use, maize, tobacco, coffee, 
 cocoa, plantains, pines, potatoes, and many other fruits and 
 vegetables. 
 
 Bamaby soon grew tired ot this quiet life, and went ou 
 board a vessel bound for New England, promising that we 
 should hear from him. After two years we did receive a 
 letter from him, as you shall 'mniediately learn. When he 
 was gone we carried on a fiuicl and peaceful life. Books, 
 paper, and pen there were none upon the island. Nor were
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 549 
 
 • 
 (here any clothes, so that the raggedness of our attire (we 
 were dressed in the sailors' clothes our friends the privateers 
 gave us) became incredible. I made some kind of guitar 
 on which we played, and in the evening we would have 
 very good playing and singing together of such pieces and 
 songs as we could remember. I read verses, too, foramuse- 
 ment, and Grace learned them. We found our brother- 
 settlers a rough but honest folk ; to them we taught many 
 arts : how to procure sea-salt, how to make wine from 
 pineapples, how to cure the tobacco-leaf — things which 
 greatly added to their comfort ; and seeing that there was 
 no church on the island, we every Sabbath had a meeting 
 for prayer and exhortation. 
 
 Seemg, then, that we had all that man could desire, with 
 perfect freedom from anxiety, our liberty, a delightful climate, 
 and plenty to eat and drink — ay, and of the very best — and 
 that at home there was nothing for us but prison again, and 
 to be sent back to the place whence we had escaped, we 
 ought, every one will acknowledge, to have felt the greatest 
 contentment and gratitude for this sure and quiet refuge. 
 We did not. The only contented members of our house- 
 hold were John Nuthall and the woman Deb, who cheerfully 
 cultivated the garden and fed the poultry and pigs (for we 
 had now everything around us that is wanting to make life 
 pleasant). Yet we were not contented. I could read the 
 signs of impatience in the face whose changes I had studied 
 for so long. Other women would have shown their discon- 
 tent in ill-temper and a shrewish tongue. Grace showed 
 hers in silence, sitting apart, and communing with herself. 
 I dare say I also showed my own discontent ; for I confess 
 that I now began to long vehemently for books. Consider, 
 it was more than two years since I had seen a book. There 
 were no books at all on the island of Providence ; not one 
 book except a Bible or two, and perhaps a Book of Common 
 Prayer. I longed, therefore, for the smell of leather bind- 
 ings, the sight of books on shelves, and the holy company 
 of the wise and the ingenious. No one, again, could look 
 upon Robin without perceiving that he was afflicted with a 
 constant yearning for that which he could not have. What 
 that was I understood very well, although he never opened 
 his mouth unto me. 
 
 Now I confess that at this time I was grievously tormented 
 with the thought that Grace's marriage, having been no true 
 marriage, because, first, she was betrayed and deceived, 
 and, next, she had left her husband at the very church porch,
 
 350 fOR FAIIH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 there was no reason in the world why she should not dis- 
 regard that ceremony altogether, and contract a marriage 
 after her own heart. I turned this over in my mind a long 
 while, and, indeed, I am still of the opinion that there woirid 
 have been nothing sinful in such an act. But the law of 
 the country would not so regard it. That is quite true. 
 If, therefore, I had advised these unhappy lovers in such a 
 sense they would have been compelled to live for the rest 
 of their lives on this island, and their offspring would have 
 been illegitimate. So that, though the letter of the law 
 caused a most cruel injustice — sununiim Jus, sumnium 
 ne/as — it was better that it should be obeyed. In the end it 
 was a most happy circumstance that it was so obeyed. 
 
 I have presently to relate the means by which this injus- 
 tice was removed. As for my own share in it, I shall 
 neither exaggerate nor shall I extenuate it. I shall not de- 
 fend it. I shall simply set it down, and leave judgment to a 
 higher court than the opinion of those who read these pages. 
 I must, however, acknowledge that, partly on Barbadoes 
 and partly on Providence, I learned from the negresses, 
 who possess many secrets, and have a wonderful knowl- 
 edge of plants and their powers, the simple remedies with 
 which they treat fevers, agues, rheumatisms, and other 
 common disorders. I say simple, because they will, with 
 a single cup of liquor, boiled with certain leaves, or with a 
 pinch of some potent powder gotten from a plant, effect a 
 speedier cure than our longest prescriptions, even though 
 they contain more than fifty different ingredients. Had I 
 possessed this knowledge, for example, while we lay in 
 Exeter jail, not one prisoner (except the old and feeble) 
 should have died of the fever. This said, you will under- 
 stand presently what it was I did. 
 
 It was, then, about the month of March, ni the year 1688, 
 ;hat a ship, laden with wine, and bound from New York to 
 Jamaica, put in at the port of Providence. Her captain 
 carried a letter for me, and this was the first news of the 
 world that came to us since our flight. 
 
 The letter was from Barnaby. It was short, because Bar- 
 naby had never practised the art of letter-writing, but it was 
 l^ertinent. First he told us that he had made the acquaint- 
 (uice, at Boston (I mean the little town Boston, of New Eng- 
 land), of his cousins, whom he found to be substantial 
 merchants (so that here at least the man George Penne lied 
 not) and zealous upholders of the independent way of think- 
 ing; that these cousins had given him a hearty welcome
 
 iVk FAITH Ai\D FREEDOM. 35 I 
 
 for the sake of his father ; that he had learned from them, 
 first, that the Monmouth business was long since concluded, 
 and so great was the public indignation against the cruelties 
 of«the Bloody Assize that no one would be again molested 
 on that account, not even those who had been sent abroad, 
 should they venture to return. He also said, but this we 
 understood not, that it was thought things would, before 
 long, improve. 
 
 "And now," he continued, " my cousins, tinding that I 
 am well skilled, and have already navigated a ship with 
 credit, have made me captain of their own vessel, ihe Pilgrim, 
 which sails every year to Bristol and back again. She will 
 be despatched in the month of August or September. Come, 
 therefore, by the first ship which will set you ashore either 
 at New York or at Boston, and I will give you all a passage 
 home. Afterwards, if you find not a welcome there, you 
 may come back with me. Here a physician may find 
 practice, Robin may find a farm, and sister will be safe. 
 From B. E. " 
 
 At this proposal we pricked up our ears, as you may very 
 well believe. Finally, we resolved to agree to it, promising 
 each other to protect Grace from her husband and to go back 
 to Boston with Barnaby if we found no reason to stay in 
 England. But the woman called Deb, though she wept at 
 leaving her mistress, would not go back to the place where 
 her past wickedness might be remembered, and as John 
 Nuthall was also unwilling, for the same reason, to return, 
 and as this honest couple had now a kindness for each other, 
 I advised them to marry, and remain where they were. 
 There was on the island no minister of religion, nor any 
 magistrate, or form of government whatever (yet all were 
 honest), therefore I ventured to hear their vows of fidelity, 
 and prayed with them while I joined tlieir hands — a form of 
 marriage, to my mind, as binding and as sacred as any 
 wanting the assistance of a priest. So we handed over to 
 them all our property (which was already as much theirs as 
 ours), and left them in that sunny and delightful place. If the 
 man was a repentant thief, the woman was a repentant Mag- 
 dalen, and so they were well matched. I hope and believe 
 that, being well resolved for the future, they will lead a 
 godly and virtuous life, and will be blessed with children 
 who will never learn the reason why their parents left their 
 native country. 
 
 There is little trade at Providence, but many vessels touch 
 at the port, because it lies between the English possessions
 
 352 ^'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOAt. 
 
 \\\ America and those in the West Indies. They put in for 
 water, for fruit, and sometimes, if they are short-handed, for 
 men, most of them in the place being sailors. Therefore we 
 had not to wait long- before a vessel put in bound from 
 Jamaica to New York. We bargained with the captain for a 
 passage, agreeing that he should find us provisions and 
 wine, and that we would pay him (by means of Barneby) 
 on our reaching Boston (which is but a short distance from 
 Xew York). Strange to say, though we had been discon- 
 tented with our lot, when we sailed away Grace fell to weep- 
 ing. We had murmured, and our murmuring was heard. 
 We shall now live out what is left to us in England, and we 
 shall die and be buried among our own folk. Yet there are 
 times when I remember the sweet and tranquil life we led in 
 the island of Providence, its soft and sunny air, the cool sea- 
 breeze, the shade of its orange-groves, and the fruits which 
 grew in such abundance to our hands. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 In one thing alone the villain Penne spoke the truth. The 
 Eykin family of Boston (I say again of New England) was 
 one of the most considerable in the place, great sticklers for 
 freedom and for religion (but, indeed, it is a most God-fear- 
 ing town, and severe towards transgressors). They received 
 us with so much kindness that nothing could surpass it ; we 
 were treated as Christian martyrs at the least, and towards 
 Grac-?, of whose cruel lot they had heard from Barnaby, 
 chey howed (but that no one could help) an affection quite 
 ancommon. They generously furnished us all with apparel 
 becoming our station, and with money for our daily occa- 
 sions ; they approved of our going with Barnaby, but in the 
 event of onr finding no welcome, or means of livelihood at 
 home, and if Grace should be molested by her husband, 
 they engaged us to return to New England. Here, they 
 said, Robin might become a farmer, if he had no inclination 
 for trade ; they would joyfully receive Grace to live with 
 them ; and I myself would certainly find practice as a phy- 
 sician, while Barnaby should continue to command their
 
 FOR FAITH- AND FREEDOM. 
 
 353 
 
 ;hip. When I considered the many conveniences which 
 exist in Boston (it is already, though young, better provided 
 with everything than Barbadoes), the excehence of the 
 climate, the books which are there, the printing-press which 
 hath already been established, the learned ministers, th« col- 
 lege, the schools, and the freedom of religion, I should have 
 been nothing loath to remain there. But I was constrained 
 first to go home. I found also, which astonished me, so 
 great a love of liberty that the people speak slightingly of 
 the English at home who tamely suffer the disabilities of the 
 Nonconformists and the prerogative of the crown, and they 
 ask why, when the country had succeeded in establishing a 
 commonwealth, they could not keep it. It certainly cannot 
 be denied, as they argue, that Israel acted against the will 
 of the Lord in seeking a king. 
 
 So we left them. But in how changed a condition did we 
 now cross the ocean. Instead of huddling in a noisome and 
 stinking dungeon, unclean for want of water, ill fed, and 
 with no change of raiment, we had now comfortable cabins, 
 clothes such as become a gentleman, and food of the best. 
 And Barnaby, who had then sat humbly in the waist, where 
 the prisoners were confined, now walked the quarter-deck, a 
 lace kerchief round his neck, lace ruffles at his wrists, a 
 scarlet coat, a sword at his side, and gold lace in his hat, the 
 captain of the ship. 
 
 The winds were contrary, and it was not until the last 
 days of October that we arrived at Bristol. Here we lay for 
 a few days while Barnaby transacted his business, resolving 
 to remain in retirement, for fear of accidents, until our cap- 
 tain should be ready to ride with us to Bradford Orcas. 
 
 The first news we learned was joyful indeed. It was that 
 the Prince of Orange himself was about to invade England, 
 with intent to drive his father-in-law from the throne. (He 
 had, indeed, already sailed, but his fleet was driven back by 
 a storm. ) It was also stated that he had with him a great 
 army of Dutch and English, and such preparations of arms 
 and ammunition as (it was hoped) would make such a fail- 
 ure as that of our unhappy duke impossible. 
 
 We also confirmed Barnal)y's information that Monmouth's 
 men could now go about without fear or molestation. As 
 to the position of affairs at Bradford Orcas, we could learn 
 nothing. 
 
 There was one point in which I was curious : namely, as 
 to what Barnaby would do in the matter of the villain Penne. 
 On the one hand it was certain that Barnaby would not for-
 
 354 
 
 FOR FAITH jiiVD FREEDOM. 
 
 get this man, nor was he likely to sit down with his arms 
 folded after he had been robbed of so great a sum. 
 
 Therefore, I was not surprised when, the evening before 
 we rode out of Bristol, he brought a big bag of blue stuff in 
 his hands and poured out the contents, a vast shower of gold 
 pieces, into the lap of his astonished sister. 
 
 "Grace," he said, " I bring you back your money. Yo', 
 will tind it all here, andJNIr. Boscorel's money to boot. IK- 
 hath disgorged.'' 
 
 With that he s-at down and laughed, but as one who hat'.! 
 a joke in secret, and would tell us no more. 
 
 For a day or two after this he would (on the road to Brad- 
 ford Orcas) begin to laugh at intervals, rolling about in his 
 saddle, shaking his sides, choking with laughter, insomuch 
 that I presently lost patience with him, and, as a physician, 
 ordered 'him instantly to make full confidence, or I would 
 not answer for it but he would have a fit. 
 
 Then he told us what he had done. 
 
 Towards five in the afternoon, when the winter day is 
 ended, he repaired to the man Penne's counting-house, a 
 place easily found on inquiry, having with him one of those 
 fellows who bawl at fairs, selling medicines and charms, 
 drawing teeth, letting blood, and so forth. At the sight of 
 a sea-captain, many of whom came to this place, the worthy 
 merchant's servant without suspicion opened the door of his 
 private office, or chamber, where I\Ir. Penne transacted his 
 affairs. Barnaby found him dozing by the fire, his wig on 
 the table, a silk handkerchief over his head, and the candles 
 already lighted. 
 
 He awoke, however, on the opening of the door. 
 
 " Friend," said Barnaby, " I am Captain Barnaby Eykin, 
 commanding the ship Pilgrim from Boston, at your service. 
 1 am also brother to the young woman, Grace Fykin, whom 
 you robbed ('twas my money) of two hundred and lifty 
 pounds, and afterwards kidnapped. " 
 
 Mr. Penne looked about him and would have cried out for 
 assistance ; but Barnaby clapped a pistol to his forehead. 
 Then he sank in his chair and gasped. 
 
 " Stir not," said his enemy. "I am also one of the three 
 rebels for whose ransom the Reverend Philip Boscorel, 
 Rector of Bradford Orcas, paid the sum of two hundred and 
 ten pounds — which you have also stolen.'' 
 
 "Sir," said Mr. Penne, "upon my honor those moneys 
 Were sent to Barbadoes. Upon my honor, sir." 
 
 ' ' You will therefore," said Barnaby, taking no heed of this
 
 FOR FAITH AND rt^LEDOM. 
 
 355 
 
 assurance, "pay over to me the sum of four hundred and 
 sixty pounds with interest at five per cent for three years, 
 which I have calculated. The whole amount is five hun- 
 dred and twenty-nine pounds. Begin by paying this." 
 Well, to make a long story short, though the man protested 
 that he had not so much in the world, yet he presently 
 opened his strong box and counted out the money, all in 
 gold. This done he hoped to be let off. 
 
 "There now remains," said Barnaby, "the punishment. 
 And I forgot sister's ring. I ought to have added fifty pounds 
 for that ; but time presses. Perhaps I shall come back ; I 
 did intend to kill thee, brother, for thy great villainy. 
 However — " 
 
 He then beckoned the man with him, who lugged out of 
 his pocket an instrument which made Mr. Penne shake and 
 quake with terror. Barnaby then informed his victim that 
 as he had been the means of inflicting grievous bodily suffer- 
 ing upon four undeserving people, it was meet and right 
 that he himself should experience something which, by its 
 present agony, should make him compassionate for the fu- 
 ture, and by its permanence of injury should prevent his 
 ever forgetting that compassion for the rest of his life. 
 
 He therefore, he told him, intended to draw from his head 
 four of his stoutest and strongest grinders. 
 
 This, in a word, he did, the man with him dragging them 
 out with the pincers, Barnaby holding the pistol to the poor 
 wretch's head, so that he should not bellow and call for as- 
 sistance. 
 
 His laughter was caused by the remembrance of the 
 twisting of the man's features in this agony and by his 
 moanings and groanings. The grinders he had brought 
 away with him in his pocket, and showed them in triumph. 
 It was late in the afternoon when we rode into Bradford 
 Orcas. The wintry sun, now setting, lay upon the woods, 
 yellow and red with the autumn leaves not yet fallen. As 
 we neared the village the sun went down and a mist began 
 to rise. The doors wero closed and no one looked forth to 
 greet us ; the old cottage where Grace was born and lived, 
 so long was empty still ; the door was open, the shutter 
 hung upon one hinge ; the honey hives were overturned, 
 the thatch was broken, the garden was neglected. 
 
 "Why, Sis," said Barnaby, "thy mother is not there, nor 
 dad ; is he ? Poor old dad ! " 
 
 We rode up the village till we came to the church and the 
 manor-house beside it. Alas ! the house itself was closed,
 
 J5^ 
 
 FOR FAITH A.Vn FRFFDOyf. 
 
 which had formerly stood open to all. There was no smoke 
 from its chimneys, and the grass grew in the courtyard. 
 We dismounted and opened the door, which was not locked. 
 We went into the house ; all was cold, was empty, and de- 
 serted. The twilight falling outside made the rooms dark. 
 Beside the fireplace stood Sir Christopher's great chair, 
 empty ; his tankard was on the table, and his tobacco, pipe, 
 and — strange — lay forgotten, the unhappy duke's proclama- 
 tion. 
 
 Then a truly wonderful thing happened. Barnaby says 
 that I must have dreamed it, for he saw nothing. Suddenly 
 Sir Christopher appeared sitting in the chair ; on his knees 
 lay the Bible, open. Beside him stood with upraised fore- 
 finger, as if commenting on some knotty point, the Rev. 
 Dr. Comfort Eykin. I declare that I saw them plainly, as 
 plainly as I now behold the paper on which I write. They 
 were but as shadows in the dark, shadows of the empty 
 room, and they appeared but for a moment and then van- 
 ished, and I saw them no more. 
 
 " Come to the rectorv," said Robin. "It chokes us to be 
 here." 
 
 "Listen," said Grace, outside the house. 
 From the rectory there came the sound of a violoncello. 
 Then was the good rector himself there, comforting his 
 soul. 
 
 We opened the garden gate and walked softly across the 
 lawn and looked in at the window ; 'twas made after the 
 foreign fashion, to open upon the lawn. Beside the fire sat 
 madam, her hands clasped, thin, pale, and prematurely aged. 
 Thus had she sat for three long years, still waiting for news 
 of her son. 
 
 The rector laid down his bow, crossed the room, and sat 
 down to the spinnet, on which he played prettily, but not 
 with such command as he possessed over the other instru- 
 ment. He played — I caught Grace's hand — an air of my 
 own making, to which I had set certain words, also of my 
 own. 
 
 Then, while he played, we began to sing outside the 
 window, Grace singing treble, or first, and I the second part, 
 the words of that little song. We sang it piano, or softly, 
 at first, and then crescendo, or louder : 
 
 "As rides the 7110011 in azure skies 
 The twinkling stars beside ; 
 As when in splendor she doth rise, 
 The lesser lights they hide.
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 357 
 
 " So beside Celia, when her face we see, 
 All unregarded other maidens be." 
 
 When we began, softly as I said, the rector looked round 
 him, playing still and listening. He thought the voices were 
 in his own brain, echoes or memories of the past. Madam 
 heard them, too, and sat up, listening as one who listens in 
 a dream. When we sang louder, madam sprang to her feet 
 and held out her arms, but the rector played the verse quite 
 through. Then he opened the window for us. 
 " My son, my son ! " cried madam. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE GREAT LORD CHANCELLOR. 
 
 But the Prince of Orange had already landed. 
 
 We learned this news next day, and you may be sure that 
 we were in the saddle again and riding to Exeter, there to 
 join his standard. 
 
 This we did with the full consent of madam and of Grace ; 
 much as we had suffered already, they would not deter us, 
 because this thing would have been approved by Sir Chris- 
 topher and Dr. Eykin. Therefore we went. 
 
 My second campaign, as everybody knows, was blood- 
 less. To begin with, we had an army, not of raw country 
 lads armed indifferently and untrained, but of veteran troops, 
 fifteen thousand strong, all well equipped, and with the best 
 general in Europe at their head. At first, indeed, such was 
 the dread in men's mind caused by Lord Jeffrey's cruelties, 
 few came in ; yet this was presently made up by what fol- 
 lowed, when, without any fighting at all, the king's rcgiment« 
 melted away, his priests tied, and his friends deserted him. 
 This was a very different business from that other, when we 
 followed one whom I now know to have been a mere tinsel 
 pretender, no better fitted to be a king than a vagabond 
 actor at a fair is fit to be a lord. Alas ! what blood was 
 wasted in that mad attempt, of which I was myself one of 
 the most eager promoters ! I was then young, and I be- 
 lieved all that I was told by the conspirators in Holland ; I 
 took their list of well-wishers for insurgents already armed 
 and waiting only for a signal ; 1 thought the roll of noble
 
 358 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 names set down for sturdy Protestants as that of men al- 
 ready pledged to the cause ; I believed that the whole nation 
 would rise at the first opportunity to turn out the priests ; I 
 even believed in the legitimacy of the duke, and that against 
 the express statement of his father (if King Charles was in 
 reality his father), and I believed what they told me of his 
 ^ rincely virtues, hisknowledgeoftheartufwar, andhisheroic 
 valor. I say that I believed all these things, and that I be- 
 came a willing and zealous tool in their hands. As for what 
 those who planned the expedition believed, I know not ; 
 nor will any one now ever learn what promises were made 
 to the duke, what were broken, and why he was, from the 
 outset, save for a few days at Taunton, so dejected and 
 disappointed. As for me, I shall always believe that the un- 
 happy man, unwise and soft-hearted, was betrayed by those 
 whom he trusted. 
 
 It is now an old tale, though King Monmouth will not 
 speedily be forgotten in the West Country, nor will the 
 memor}'- of the Bloody Assize. The brave lads who follow- 
 ed him are dead and buried, some in unhonored graves hard 
 by the place where they were hanged ; some under the burn- 
 ing sun of the West Indies ; the duke himself hath long since 
 paid the penalty of his rash attempt All is over and ended, 
 except the memory of it. 
 
 It is now common history, known to everybody, how the 
 Prince of Orange lingered in the West Country, his army 
 inactive, as if he knew (doubtless he was well informed 
 upon the particular) that the longer he remained idle, the 
 more likely was the king's cause to fall to pieces. There 
 are some who think that if King James had risked an ac- 
 tion he could not but have gained, whatsoever its event ; I 
 mean that, the blood of his soldiers once roused, they would 
 have remained steadfast to him and would have fought for 
 him. But this he dared not to risk, wherefore the prince 
 did nothing, while the king's regiments fell to pieces, and 
 his friends deserted him. It was in December when the 
 prince came to Windsor, and I with him, once more chir- 
 urgeon in a rebel army. While there I rode to London, 
 partly with the intention of judging for myself on the temper 
 of this people, partly because, after so long an absence, I 
 wished once more to visit a place where there are books and 
 pictures, and partly because there were certain roots and 
 herbs which I desired to communicate to the college of phy- 
 sicians in Warwick Lane. It happened to be the very day 
 when the king's first flig-ht — that, namely, when he was
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 359 
 
 f*ken in the Isle of Sheppy — became known. The streets 
 in the city of London I found crowded with people hurrying 
 to and fro, running in bands and companies, shouting and 
 crying as if in the presence of some great and imminent 
 danger. It was reported, and currently believed, that the 
 disbanded Irish soldiers had begun to massacre the Protes- 
 tants. There was no truth at all in the report, but yet the 
 bells were ringing from all the towers, the crowds were ex- 
 horting each other to tear down and destroy the Romish 
 chapels, to hunt for and to hang the priests, and especially 
 Jesuits (I know not whether they found any), and to shout 
 for the Prince of Orange. I stood aside to let the crowds 
 (thus religiously disposed) run past, but there seemed no 
 end to them. Presently, however (this was in the front of 
 the new Royal Exchange), there drew near another kind of 
 crowd. There marched six or eight sturdy fellows bearing 
 stout cudgels and hauling along a prisoner. Round them 
 there ran shrieking, hooting, and cursing a mob of a hundred 
 men and more ; they continually made attacks upon the 
 guard, fighting them with sticks and fists, but they were 
 always thrust back. I thought at first that they had caught 
 some poor wretched priest whom they desired to murder. 
 But it proved to be a prize worth many priests. As they 
 drew nearer, I discerned the prisoner. He was dressed in 
 the garb of a common sailor, with short petticoats (what 
 they call slops) and a jacket ; his cap had been torn off, 
 leaving the bare skull, which showed that he was no sailor 
 (because common sailors do not wear wigs) ; blood was 
 flowing down his cheek from a fresh wound ; his eyes rolled 
 hither and thither in an extremity of terror ; I could not 
 hear what he said, for the shouting of those around him, 
 but his lips moved, and I think he was praying his guards 
 to close in and to protect him. Never, surely, -was seen a 
 more terror-stricken creature. 
 
 I knew his face. Once seen (I had seen it once) it could 
 never be forgotten. The red and bloated cheeks which even 
 his fear could not make pale ; the eyes, more terrible than 
 have been given to any other human creature, these I could 
 not forget ; in dreams I sec them still. I saw that face at 
 Exeter, when the cruel judge exulted over our misery, and 
 rejoiced over the sentence which he pronounced. Yea, he 
 laughed when he told us how we should swing, but not till 
 we were dead, and then the knife — delivering his sentence so 
 that no single point of its horror should be lost to us. Yes ; 
 it was the face of Judge Jeffreys — none other — this abject
 
 j(5o FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 wretch was that great Judge. Why, when we went back t« 
 our prison, there were some who cast themselves upon the 
 ground, and for terror of what was to come fell into a mere 
 dementia. And now I saw him thus humbled, thus dis- 
 graced, thus threatened, thus in the last extremity and agony 
 of terror. 
 
 They had discovered him thus disguised and in hiding at 
 SI tavern in Wapping, and were dragging him to the presence 
 of the lord mayon It is a long distance from Wapping to 
 Guildhall, and they went but slowly, because they were 
 beset and surrounded by these wolves who howled to have 
 his blood. And all the way he shrieked and trembled for 
 fear ! 
 
 Sure and certain is the vengeance of the Lord ! 
 
 This Haman, this unjust judge, was thus suffering, at the 
 hands of the savage mob, pangs far worse than those en- 
 dured by the poor rustics whom he had delivered to the 
 executioner. I say worse, because I have not only read, 
 but have myself proved, that the rich and the learned, those, 
 (hat is, who live luxuriously, and those who have power to 
 imagine and to feel beforehand, do suffer far more in disease 
 than the common ignorant folk. The scholar dies of terror 
 before ever he feels the surgeon's knife, while the rustic bares 
 his limb, insensible and callous, however deep the cut, or 
 keen the pain. I make no doubt, therefore, that the great 
 lord chancellor, while they haled all the way from Wap- 
 ping to Guildhall, suffered as much as fifty ploughboys flog- 
 ged at the cart-tail. 
 
 Many thousands there were who desired revenge upon 
 him. I know not what revenge would satisfy the implaca- 
 ble, because revenge can do no more than kill the body ; 
 but his worst enemy should be satisfied with this his dread- 
 ful fate. Even Barnaby, who was sad because he could get 
 no revenge on his own account (he wanted a bloody battle, 
 with the rout of the king's armies, and the pursuit of a flying 
 enemy, such as had happened at Sedgemoor), was satisfied 
 with the justice which was done to that miserable man. It 
 is wonderful that he was not killed amidst so many threaten- 
 ing cudgels ; but his guards prevented that, not for any love 
 they bare him, but quite the contrary (more unforgiving 
 faces one never saw) ; for they intended to hand him over 
 to the lord mayor, and that he should be tried for all his 
 cruelties and treacheries, and perhaps experience, himself 
 that punishment of hanging and disembowelling which he 
 had inflicted on so many ignorant and misled men.
 
 Jrdk FAITH AND FREEDOAf. j6t 
 
 How he was committed to the Tower, where he shortly 
 died in the greatest torture of body as well as mind, every- 
 body knows. 
 
 CHAPTER LL 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 Now I am come to the last event of this history, and I 
 have to write down the confession of my own share in that 
 event For the others — for Grace and Robin — the thing 
 must be considered as the crown and completion of all the 
 mercies. For me — what is it } But you shall hear. When 
 the secrets of all hearts are laid open, then will Grace hear it 
 also ; what she will then say, or what think, I know not. 
 It was done for her sake ; for her happiness have I laid this 
 guilt upon my soul. Nay, when the voice of conscience 
 doth exhort me to repent, and to confess my sin, then there 
 still ariseth within my soul, as it were, the strain of a joyful 
 hymn, a song of gratitude that I was enabled to return her 
 to freedom and the arms of the man she loved. If any 
 learned doctor of divinity, or any versed in that science 
 which the Romanists love (they call it casuistry), should 
 happen to read this chapter of confession, I pray that they 
 consider my case, even though it will then be useless as far 
 as I myself am concerned, seeing that I shall be gone be- 
 fore a judge who will, I hope — even though my earthly af- 
 fections do not suffer me to separate my sin from the conse- 
 quences which followed — be more merciful than I have 
 ieserved. 
 
 While, then, I stood watching this signal example of God's 
 ^-rath, I was plucked gently by the sleeve, and turning, saw 
 one whose countenance I knew not. He was dressed as a 
 lawyer, but his gown was ragged and his bands yellow. 
 He looked sunk in poverty, and his face was inflated with 
 those signs which proclaim aloud the habit of immoderate 
 drinking. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " if I mistake not, you are Dr. Humphrey 
 Challis." 
 
 "The same, sic, at your service," I replied, with some 
 misgivings ; and yet, being one of the prince's following, 
 there needed none.
 
 j^Ht ^'OJi FAirn AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "I have seen you, sir, in the chambers of your cousin, 
 Mr. Benjamin Boscorel, my brother learned in the law. We 
 drank together, though I remember, you still passed the 
 bottle. It is now four or five years ago ; I wonder not that 
 you have forgotten me. We change quickly, we who are 
 the jolly companions of the bottle ; we drink our noses red, 
 and we paint our cheeks purple. Nay, we drink ourselves 
 out of our last gumea and our very apparel. What then, 
 sir.? A short life and a merry. Sir, yonder is a sorry sight. 
 The first law officer of the crown thus to be hauled along 
 the streets by a howling mob. Ought such a thing to be suf- 
 fered ? 'Tis a sad and sorry sight, I say." 
 
 "Sir," I replied, hotly, "ought such villains as Judge 
 Jeffreys to be suffered to live ! " 
 
 He considered a little, as one who is astonished and de- 
 sires to collect his thoughts. Perhaps he had already taken 
 more than a morning draught. 
 
 " I remember now," he said. " My memory is not so 
 good as it was. We drink that away as well. Yes, I re- 
 member ; I crave your forgiveness, doctor. You were 
 yourself engaged with Monmouth. Your cousin told me as 
 much. Naturally, you love not this good judge, who yet 
 did nothing but what the king, his master, ordered him to 
 do. I, sir, have often had the honor of sitting over a bottle 
 with his lordship. When his infirmities allowed — though 
 not yet old he is grievously afflicted — he had no equal for a 
 song or a jest, and would drink so long as any Avere left to 
 keep him company. Ha ! They have knocked him down, 
 now they will kill him. No ; he is again upon his feet. 
 Those who protect him close in ; so, they have passed out 
 of our sight Doctor, shall we crack a flask together .? I 
 have no money, unhappily, but I will, with pleasure, drink 
 at thy expense." 
 
 I remembered the man's face now, but not his name. 
 'Twas one of Ben's boon companions. Well, if hard drink- 
 ing brings men so speedily to rags and poverty, even though 
 it be a merry life, which I doubt, give me moderation. 
 
 " Pray, sir," I said, coldly, "have me excused. I am no 
 drinker. " 
 
 "Then, doctor, you will, perhaps, lend me, until we 
 meet again, a single guinea." I foolishly complied with this 
 request. " Doctor, I thank you," he said. "Will you now 
 come and drink with me, at my expense.? Sir, I say plainly. 
 you do not well to refuse a friendly glass. I could tell you 
 many things, if you would but drink with me, concerning
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. ■j^^^'i^ 
 
 my Lord Jeffreys. There are things which would make 
 you laugh. Come, doctor, I love not to drink alone. Your 
 cousin, now, was always ready to drink with any man, 
 until he fell ill. " 
 
 " How, is my cousin ill .? " 
 
 "Assuredly. He is sick unto death. Yesterday I went to 
 visit him, thinking to drink a glass with him, and, perhaps, 
 to borrow a guinea or two, but found him in bed and rav- 
 ing. If you will drink with me, doctor, I can tell you many 
 curious things about your cousin. And now, I remember, 
 you were sent to the plantations ; your cousin told me so. 
 You have returned before your time. Well, the king hath 
 run away ; you are doubtless safe. Your cousin hath got- 
 ten his grandfather's estate. Lord Jeffreys, who loved him 
 mightily, procured that grant for him. When your cousin 
 wakes at night he swears that he sees his grandfather by 
 his bedside, looking at him reproachfully, so that he drinks 
 the harder — 'tis a merry life. He hath also married a wife, 
 and she ran away from him at the church door, and he now 
 cannot hear of her or find her anywhere. So that he curses 
 her and drinks the harder — oh, 'tis always the jolliest dog. 
 They say that he is not the lawyer that he was, and that his 
 clients are leaving him. All mine have left me long since. 
 Come and drink with me, doctor." 
 
 I broke away from the poor toper who had drunk up his 
 wits as well as his money, and hurried to my cousin's 
 chambers, into which I had not thought to enter,, save as 
 one who brings reproaches — a useless burden. 
 
 Benjamin was lying in bed ; an old crone sat by the fire, 
 nodding. Beside her was a bottle, and she was, I found, 
 half drunk. Her I quickly sent about her business. No 
 one else had been attending him. Yet he was laid low, as I 
 presently discovered with that kind of fever which is bred in 
 the villainous air of our prisons — the same fever which had 
 carried off his grandfather. 
 
 Perhaps if there were no foul and stinking wards, jails, 
 and chinks, this kind of fever would be banished altogether, 
 and be no more seen. So, if we could discover the origin 
 and cause of all diseases we might, once more, restore man 
 to his primitive condition, which I take to have been one 
 /ree from any kind of disease or infirmity, designed at first 
 by his Creator so to live forever, and after the Fall, enabled, 
 when medicine hath so far advanced, to die of old age after 
 such prolong^ation of life and strenjjth as yet we cannot ev«n 
 understand.
 
 364 ^OR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Cousin," I said, "I am sorry to find thee lying m this 
 condition." 
 
 " Ay," he replied, in a voice weak and low, not like his 
 old blustering tones. "Curse me and upbraid me if yon 
 will. How art thou come hither? Is it the ghost of Hum- 
 phrey .? Art thou dead, like my grandfather ? Are we on the 
 plantations of Barbadoes ? " 
 
 " Indeed I am no ghost, Benjamin. As for curses, I have 
 none ; and as for reproaches, I leave them to your con- 
 science. " 
 
 " Humphrey, I am sore afflicted. I am now so low that 
 I cannot even sit upright in my bed. But you are a doctor ; 
 you will bring me back to health. I am already better only 
 for seeing you here." 
 
 I declare that as yet I had no thought, no thought at all, 
 of what I was to do. I was but a physician in presence of 
 a sick man, and therefore bound to help him if I could. 
 
 I asked him, first, certain questions, as physicians use, con- 
 cerning his disorder and its symptoms. I learned that, after 
 attending at the court, he was attacked by fits of shivering 
 and of great heat, being hot and cold alternately, and that 
 in order to expel the fever he had sat drinking the whole 
 evening — a most dangerous thing to do. Next, that in the 
 morning he had been unable to rise from his bed, and being 
 thirsty had drunk more wine — a thing enough of itself to 
 kill a man in such a fever. Then he lost his head, and 
 could tell me no more what had happened until he saw me 
 standing by his bedside. In short, he had been in delirium, 
 and was now in a lucid interval, out of which he would pres- 
 ently fall a-wandering again, and perhaps raving ; and so 
 another lucid interval, after which he would die unless some- 
 thing could be done for him. 
 
 I liked not his appearance nor the account whictiTie gave 
 me, nor did I like his pulse or the strange look in his eyes. 
 Death doth often show his coming by such a prophetic 
 terror of the eyes. 
 
 " Humphrey," he said, pitifully. " It was by no fault ol 
 mine that thou wast sent to the plantations." 
 
 "That I know full well, cousin," I answered him. " Be 
 easy on that score. " 
 
 " And as for Grace," he went on. " All is fair in love." 
 
 I made n» reply because, at this point, a great temptation 
 assailed my soul. 
 
 You have heard how Ilearned many secrets of the women 
 while I was abroad. Now. while we were in Providence
 
 FOR FAITH A.VD FKEED9M. 
 
 365 
 
 Island, I found a woman of the breed they call half-caste, 
 that is, half Indian and half Portuguese, living in what she 
 called wedlock with an English sailor, who did impart to 
 me a great secret of her own people. I obtained from her, 
 not only the knowledge of a most potent drug (known al- 
 ready to the Jesuits), but also a goodly quantity of the drug 
 itself. This, with certain other discoveries and observations 
 of my own, I was about to communicate to the college in 
 Warwick Lane. 
 
 As for this drug, I verily believe it is the most potent 
 medicine ever yet discovered. It is now some years since 
 it was first brought over to Europe by the Jesuits, and is 
 therefore called Pulvis Jesuiticus, and sometimes Peruvian 
 Bark. When administered at such a stage of the fever as 
 had now been reached by my unhappy cousin, it seldom 
 fails to vivify the spirits and so to act upon the nerves as to 
 restore the sinking, and to call back to life a man almost 
 moribund. 
 
 Remembering this, I lugged the packet out of my pocket 
 and laid it on the table. 
 
 " Be of good cheer, cousin, " I said. "I have a drug 
 which is strong enough, with the help of God, to make a 
 dying man sit up again. Courage, then." 
 
 When I had said these words my temptation fell upon 
 me. It came in the guise of a voice which whispered in 
 my ear. 
 
 " Should this man die," it said, "there will be freedom 
 for Grace. She can then marry the man she loves. She 
 will be restored to happiness. While he lives she must 
 still continue in misery, being cut off from love. Let him 
 die, therefore." 
 
 " Humphrey," said Ben, " in this matter of Grace ; if she 
 will come to me, I will make her happy. But I know not 
 where she is hidden. Things go ill with me since that un- 
 lucky day. I would to God I had not done it. Nothing 
 hath gone well since ; and I drink daily to hide her face. 
 Yet at night she haunts me, with her father who threatens, 
 and her mother who weeps, and my grandfather who re- 
 proaches. Humphrey, tell me, what is it, man ? What 
 mean your looks ? " 
 
 For while he spoke that other voice was in my ears also. 
 
 " Should he die Grace will be happy again. Should he 
 Hve she will continue in misery." At these words, which 
 were but my own thoughts, yet involuntary, I felt so great 
 a pity, such an overwhelming love for Grace, that my spirit
 
 366 ^'OR FAITH AXD FREEDOM. 
 
 was wholly carried away. To restore-her freedom 1 Oil, 
 what price was too great for such a gift ? Nay, I was 
 seized with the thought that to give her so great a thing, 
 even my own destruction would be a light price to pay. 
 Never, until that moment, had I known how fondly and 
 truly I loved her ; why, if it were to be done over again — 
 but this matters not — I have to make my confession. 
 
 "Humphrey, speak!" I suppose that my trouble 
 showed itself in my face. 
 
 "Thou art married to Grace," I said, slowly. "That 
 cannot be denied. So long as thou livest, Benjamin, 
 so long will she be robbed of everything that she desires ; 
 so long will she be unhappy. Now, if thou shouldst die — " 
 
 "Die ! I cannot die; I must live." He tried to raise 
 himself, but he was too weak. "Cousin, save my life!" 
 
 "If thou shouldst die, Benjamin," I went on, regard- 
 less of his words, "she will be set free. It is only 
 by thy death that she can be set free. Say, then, to 
 thyself, "I have done this poor woman so great an injury 
 that nothing but my death can atone for it. \\'illingly, 
 therefore, will I lay down my life, hoping thus to atone for 
 this abominable wickedness." 
 
 " Humphrey, do not mock me. Give me — give me — 
 give me speedily the drug of which you spoke. I die — ^I 
 die — oh, give me of your drug ! " 
 
 Then I took the packet containing the Piilvis Jesuiticus and 
 threw it upon the fire, where in a moment it was a little 
 heap of ashes. 
 
 "Now, Benjamin," I said, "I cannot help thee- lliou 
 must surely die." 
 
 He shrieked, he wept, he implored me to do something to 
 keep him alive. He began to curse and to swear. 
 
 "No one can now save thee, Benjamin," I told him. 
 "Not all the College of Physicians, not all the medicines 
 in England. Thou must die. Listen and heed. In a short 
 time, unless thy present sickness causeth thee to expire, there 
 will fall upon thee another fit of fever and delirium, after 
 which another interval of reason. Perhaps another ; but yet 
 thou must surely die. Prepare thy soul, therefore. Is there 
 any message for Grace that thou wouldst send to her, being 
 now at the point of death 1 " 
 
 His only answer was to curse and weep alternately. 
 
 Then I knelt beside his bed, and prayed aloud for him ; 
 but incessantly he cried for help, wearing^ himself out with 
 prayers and curses.
 
 hOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. 367 
 
 •* Benjamin," I said, when I had thus prayed awhile, but 
 faiefFectually, " I shall take to Grace, instead of these curses, 
 which avail nothing, a prayer for pardon, in order to touch 
 her heart and cause her to think of thee with forgiveness, as 
 of one who repented at the end. This I shall do for her sake. 
 I shall also tell thy father that thy death was repentant, and 
 shall take to him also a prayer for forgiveness as from thee. 
 This will lighten his sorrow, and cause him to remember 
 thee with the greater love. And to Robin, too, so that he 
 may cease to call thee villain, I will carry not these ravings 
 but a humble prayer, as from thyself, for forgiveness." 
 
 This is my confession. I, who might have saved my cousin, 
 suffered him to die. 
 
 The sick man, when he found that prayers or curses would 
 not avail, fell to moaning, rolling his head from side to side. 
 When he was thus quiet I prayed again for him, exhorting 
 him to lift up his soul to his Judge, and assuring him of our 
 full forgiveness. But, indeed, I know not if he heard or un- 
 derstood. It was then about four of the clock, and growing 
 dark. I lit a candle and examined him again. I think that 
 he was now unconscious. He seemed as if he slept I sat 
 down and watched. 
 
 I think that at midnight, or thereabouts, I must have fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 When I awoke the candle was out and the fire was out 
 The room was in perfect darkness. I laid my hand upon 
 my cousin's forehead. He was cold and dead. 
 
 Then I heard the voice of the watchman in the street 
 "Past two o'clock, and a frosty morning." 
 
 The voice which I had heard before whispered again in my 
 ear. 
 
 "Grace is free, Grace is free. Thou — thou — thou alone 
 hast set her free. Thou hast killed her husband. " 
 
 I threw myself upon my knees, and spent the rest of thai 
 long night in seeking for repentance. But, even as now, the 
 lamentation of a sinner was mingled with the joy of think- 
 ing that Grace was free at last, and by none other hand than 
 mine. 
 
 This is my confession. I might have saved my cousin, 
 and I suffered him to die. Wherefore I have left the profes- 
 sion in which it was my ambition to distinguish myself, and 
 am no longer anything but a poor and obscurt person living 
 on the charity of my friends in a remote village. 
 
 Two days afterwards I was sitting at tlie table k)okinj>
 
 368 i'Ok FAIl'M AND FKJ^EDOM. 
 
 through the dead man's papers, when I heard a footstep o« 
 
 the stair. 
 
 It was Bamaby, who broke noisily into the room. 
 "Where is Benjamin?" he cried. "Where is that 
 
 villain ? " 
 
 "What do you want with him? " 
 
 " I want to kill him. I am come to kill him." 
 
 "Look upon the bed, Barnaby." I laid back the sheet and 
 
 showed him the pale face of the dead man. "The hand of 
 
 the Lord — or that of another — hath already killed him. Art 
 
 thou now content?" 
 
 CHAPTER LIL 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 In the decline of years, when the sixtieth birthday is near 
 at hand, and one looks not to live much longer, and the fu- 
 ture hath no fresh joy to bring with it, but only infirmities 
 of age and pain, it is profitable and pleasant to look back 
 upon the past, to observe the guidance of the Unseen Hand, 
 to repent one's sins, and to live over again those seasons, 
 whether of sorrow or of joy, which we now perceive to have 
 been providentially ordered. 
 
 This have I done, both in reading the history of our lives, 
 as related by my mistress, and in writing this latter part. 
 To the former have I added nothing, nor have I subtracted 
 anything therefrom, because I would not suffer the sweet 
 and candid soul of her whom I have always loved to be 
 tarnished by any words of mine breaking in upon her own 
 as jarring notes in some lovely harmony. It is strictly laid 
 upon me to deliver her words just as she hath written thwn 
 down. 
 
 Now, after the death of Benjamin, I took it upon myself, 
 being his cousin, in the absence of his father, to examine 
 the papers which he had left. Among them I found abun- 
 dance of songs, chiefly in praise of wine and women, with, 
 tavern bills. Also there were notes of legal cases, very 
 voluminous ; and I found notes of payment made to various 
 persons engaged in inquiring after his wife in those towns 
 of the West Country where her father's name would pro-
 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM, 369 
 
 cure triends for her. But there was no will : Benjamin had 
 died (never looking for so early an end) without making any 
 will. Therefore all his estate, including the manor of Brad- 
 ford Orcas — indeed, he had nothing else — now belonged to 
 Grace, a widow who had never been a wife. 
 
 It is thirty years ago and more. King William III, is 
 dead. Queen Anne is dead. King George, who cannot, 
 they say, speak English, but is a stout Protestant, sits upon 
 our throne. The Nonconformists are free, save that they 
 cannot enter the universities, and are subject to other dis- 
 abilities, which will doubtless be removed in the course of 
 years. But English people, I think, love power beyond all 
 earthly things, and so long as the Church is in a majority, 
 the Churchmen will exercise their power and will not part 
 with it To us of Bradford Orcas it matters little. We wor- 
 ship at the parish church. Every Sunday I contemplate, as 
 I did fifty years ago, the monument of Filipa kneeling apart, 
 and of her husband and his second wife kneeling together. 
 There is a new tablet in the chancel put up to the memory 
 of Sir Christopher, and another to that of Dr. Comfort Eykin. 
 Their bodies lie somewhere among the mounds on the north 
 side of Ilminster church. 
 
 Forty years ago, as you have seen, there stood three boys 
 in tho garden of the manor-house, discoursing on their 
 future. One wished never to go anywhere, but to remain 
 always a country gentleman, like his grandfather ; one 
 would be a great lawyer, a judge, even the lord chancellor; 
 the third would be a great physician. Lo ! the end of all. 
 The first, but after divers miseries, perils, and wanderings, 
 hath attained to his desire ; the second lies buried in the 
 churchyard of SL Andrews, Holborn, forgotten long since 
 by his companions — who indeed are now with him in the 
 pit — and remembered only among his own kin for the great 
 wickedness which he wrought before the Lord ; and as for 
 the third and last, no illustrious physician is he, but one 
 who lives obscure, but content, in a remote village, in the 
 very cottage where his mistress was born, with books and 
 music, and the society of the sweetest woman who ever 
 graced this earth for his solace. She was always gracious 
 — she was gracious in her childhood ; gracious as a maiden ; 
 more gracious still is she in these latter days when her hair 
 is gray and her daughters stand about her tall and comely. 
 
 Now, had I administered that powder — that sovereign 
 remedy (the Pulvis Jesuitkus) — what would have been hex 
 
 7u\
 
 370 i''OK FAITH AND FREEDOM. 
 
 "Humphrey," said Robin. " a penny for thy thoughts.* 
 
 " Robin, I was thinking — it is not a new thing, but thirty 
 years old — that Cousin Benjamin never did anything in his 
 life so useful as to die. " 
 
 "Ay. Poor Benjamin ! That he had at the end the grace 
 to ask our forgiveness and to repent hath in it something of 
 a miracle. We have long forgiven him. But consider. We 
 were saved from the fight ; we were saved from the sea ; 
 we were saved from slavery ; we were enabled to strike 
 the last blow for the Protestant religion. What were all 
 these blessings worth if Benjamin still lived 1 To think, 
 Humphrey, that Grace would never have been my wife, 
 and never a mother, and all these children should have re- 
 mained unborn. I say, that though we may not desire the 
 death of a sinner, we were not human if we rejoiced not at 
 the death of our poor cousin." 
 
 Yes, that is the thought which will not suffer me to re- 
 pent A pinch of the Pidvis Jesuiticus, and he might have 
 been living unto this very day. Then would Grace have 
 lost the crowning blessing of a woman's life. 
 
 Yet, I was, it is true, a physician, whose duty it is to 
 save life — even the life of the wretched criminal who is to 
 die upon the gallows. 
 
 Yet, again. If he had been saved. As I write these lines 
 I see my mistress walking down the village street. She 
 looks over my garden gate ; she lifts the latchet and enters, 
 smiling gravely and tenderly. A sober happiness sits upon 
 her brow. The terror of her first marriage has long been 
 forgotten. 
 
 Why, as I watch her tranquil life, busy with her house- 
 hold and her children ; full of the piety which asks not — as 
 her father was wont to ask — how and where the mercy of 
 Heaven is limited, and if, indeed, it will embrace all she 
 loves ; as I mark the tender love of husband and of children, 
 which lies around her like a garment and prevents all her 
 doings, there comes back to me continually a bedroom in 
 which a man lies dying. Again in memory, again in m- 
 /entio?i, I throw upon the fire that handful oi Pulvis Jesuiticus 
 K^hich should have driven away his fever and restored him 
 to health again. A great and strong man he was, who 
 might have lived till eighty years. Where then would have 
 been that love, where those children, where that tranquil 
 heart, and that contented mind ? " Tzvili not save his life" I 
 say apain, in my mind, '* Iwil/ not save him. He shall die." 
 
 "Humphrey," my mistress says, "leave thy books
 
 FOJi FAITH AA'D FREEDOM, 371 
 
 awhile and walk with me. The winter sun is warm upon 
 the hills. Come, dear cousin. It is the day when Ben- 
 jamin died, repentant What better could we wish ? What 
 greater blessing could have been bestowed upon him and 
 upon us than a true repentance and to die ? Oh, dear bro- 
 ther, let us walk and talk of these blessings which have 
 been showered upon my und^erving head" 
 
 r 
 
 i 
 
 THE END.
 
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