23. XXIII.
I RETURN TO CECIL COURT.
On the morning succeeding this strange scene, I was
removed to a bedchamber in the palace, and three
days afterwards my father arrived in the family chariot,
and I was borne from my couch to it.
My father followed; Harry bade me an affectionate
farewell; and then the old coach, with its four horses,
moved slowly away towards Cecil Court.
As I left the palace, I observed something which
forcibly arrested my attention. In the great court-yard
were drawn up the entire company of the queen's
Guard, with the servants in rear; and near the great
entrance stood grooms holding three horses, completely
equipped,—one of which I knew to be the favorite
riding-horse of the king. About the horses, the Guardsmen,
their retainers, everything and everybody, there
was something which indicated a long journey rather
than a brief ride.
I was still gazing back through the window of the
chariot at the line of Guardsmen, armed and ready,
when a great shout arose in front, and I turned in the
direction of the sound. The spectacle was striking.
As far as the eye could see, the street was crammed with
a great multitude, and in the centre of the thoroughfare
moved a procession, first of men and then of
women,—a procession strange, wild, fierce, with inflamed
faces, violent gestures—moving furies. As I
afterwards discovered, they were the guild of porters,
the watermen of the Thames, beggars,—then forming a
distinct guild; and the women were from the markets,
brawny, masculine persons, with bare arms and furious
visages, clad in little better costume than their nondescript
associates. All were marching to the Parliament
House to offer their “petitions.”
For a moment, it seemed that the chariot and the
head of the great column would come in conflict. The
coachman, directed by my father, drew to one side,
however,—we were about to avoid the anticipated
collision,—when one of the multitude, uttering a
curse, caught the leaders by the bridle, and ordered
the coachman to turn about and retrace his steps.
“Why, the movement is impossible, friend,” said
my father, in his calm voice. “Should my horses
attempt to turn, they would trample upon some one.”
“Hear him!” shouted the man, one of the “beggars,”
and clad in rags: “he says he will trample upon
the people! Down with them!”
The words aroused a sort of fury in the crowd. The
horses were violently seized by the bridles; a rush was
made upon the ponderous coach, beneath which it
shook, and half turned over; in a moment it would have
been broken to pieces, in all probability, and its inmates
trampled under foot, when a commanding voice cried,
“Hold!” and a plain-looking personage forced his
way through the crowd.
His very appearance seemed to produce a magical
effect.
“Pym!”
That name escaped from a hundred lips; and an
instant afterwards, Mr. Pym by a simple gesture, it
seemed, had cleared a space around the vehicle.
“Permit this gentleman to proceed on his way,”
said Mr. Pym. “No time is to be lost. Parliament
awaits the worthy porters and the rest with their petitions.”
A shout rose, and the crowd obeyed. The chariot
was no longer molested, and Mr. Pym, whom I saw
that day for the first and last time, disappeared. He
died soon afterwards, and, 'tis said, regretted his part
in the excesses of the parliament. I know not; but 'tis
certain that he was disinterested in his course: he
ruined his private fortune, and died poor.
The coach proceeded then without further molestation
upon its way, and we had just reached the suburbs
of London when the clatter of hoofs came behind
and rapidly approached. I glanced through the window:
it was the Guardsmen, moving at a quick trot.
At their head rode the king, and beside him the
Princes Charles and James, afterwards Charles II. and
James II. All were richly clad,—the boys like their
father,—but they wore their swords, and moved steadily
forward.
A moment, and the cavalcade had passed, Harry
waving his hand to me. We were now beyond the
city, and, instead of towards Hampton Court, the king's
party turned northward.
“Look! see the road his majesty takes, my son!”
said my father.
“It is the road to—”
“York! From this moment civil war begins!”
My father's surmise was correct. Finding himself a
virtual prisoner at Whitehall or Hampton Court, the
king had resolved to free himself, had mounted his
horse in front of Whitehall, and, riding past the
great procession, which saluted him with threatening
murmurs, had left London, to take refuge at York.
I could take no part in the coming conflict. I was
in bed at Cecil Court, pale, feeble, wholly powerless
indeed, with a compound fracture of the shoulder-blade.
