7. VII.
NEWBURY.
Such is one of the pictures in that long gallery of
memory I spoke of. Shall I try to describe another?
The name of the first picture is “Chalgrove;” the
name of the second is “Newbury.”
It was the dewy dawn of a September morning, and
the forests were burning away, flushed with the fiery
hues of autumn. A dreamy and memorial sadness
seemed to fill the air, and not a breath of wind agitated
the foliage, as the light in the east deepened. It was
an enchanting landscape of field and forest and hamlet;
peace reigned over all, as I think it always seems
to reign on the eve of battle. And this day the semblance
was as deceptive as usual, for the royal and parliamentary
armies were in face of each other, and about
to close in in combat.
The king had prospered of late; but the tide seemed
turning. Rupert had stormed the battlements of Bristol
and reduced that city; but the king had been compelled
to raise the siege of Gloucester. My lord Essex
entered it, but saw best to retreat soon on London.
His majesty thereupon followed quickly. Suddenly
the opponents found themselves in face of each other
near Newbury. 'Twas the morning of the great battle
there that I have tried to describe,—a dreamy morn of
September, when the coo of the ring-dove seemed an
appropriate sound, not the bellowing of cannon.
I emerged at full speed from a copse towards the royal
line of battle, having ridden as close as possible to tthe
enemy's front to ascertain their position.
“Good-morrow, Mr. Cecil,” said a calm voice near;
and, turning my head, I recognized Lord Falkland sitting
his horse motionless on a grassy knoll, from which he
looked with sad eyes towards the enemy.
I checked my horse and saluted profoundly.
“Do you know that your lordship flatters me very
greatly by recalling my face and name?” I said. “'Tis
a way to win hearts, were they not already your lordship's.”
The nobleman bowed.
“You do me an honor and a pleasure, Mr. Cecil.
But why should I not recall your name, and your face
too?”
“I am obscure, my lord; the king's secretary of state
might well lose sight of me.”
He shook his head.
“In this world, Mr. Cecil,” he said, “there is
neither high nor low. Is the worm on a leaf so much
higher than one on the ground? All are poor and
insignificant alike. 'Tis the heart that makes the
gentleman, not the star on the breast. And is there
anything nobler than to be a true gentleman? I know
of nothing. To be a peer of the realm is but
little.”
He turned his eyes towards the enemy, and was silent
for a moment.
“I moralize for your amusement, sir,” he said, “but
I am somewhat sad to-day. I have been thinking of
poor Hampden and of
our appointment.”
He uttered the last words in a low tone and with a
singular expression.
“You were present at our interview yonder;—did
you hear our last greeting, Mr. Cecil?”
“I heard it, my lord,” I replied, in a low voice.
“And again on Chalgrove field, last June, when that
great man was wounded to the death;—did you hear
the words he uttered?—`Remember, we shall meet again!'
he said; and do you know I think that meeting will be
soon?”
He smiled, as he spoke, with the sweet and noble
composure habitual to him.
“See, this is not a fancy of the moment, my friend,”
he said.
And, holding up his arm, he called my attention to
the extraordinary richness of the silk and velvet composing
his dress.
“I donned this fine suit,” he added, with the same
sad smile, “that the enemy, when I fall, shall not find
me look slovenly or indecent.”
“When you fall, my lord! I pray you choose your
phrases in presence of one who ventures to say that his
love for you is great. Say if you fall, not when, I
beseech your lordship.”
Falkland shook his head.
“Do you know the saying of the Orientals, my
friend,—`The word uttered is the master'? I have said
`when I fall;' I add `when I fall to-day.”'
My head drooped. In presence of this profound
composure and hopelessness I was powerless to struggle.
“Your lordship smiles,” I murmured, at length. “I
know, as all England knows, that you are the bravest
of the brave; I did not know that so great an intelligence
yielded to fancies and presentiments.”
As I spoke thus, Lord Falkland turned his head and
looked at me with his extraordinary sweet smile. 'Twas
a face exquisitely noble that I looked upon at that
moment.
“God is good to his creatures in many ways, my
friend,” he said. “Shall I speak my whole heart, and
explain his goodness to me in forewarning me of my
death? The moment will be a happy one to me. I
am weary of these times, and foresee much misery to my
country; but I shall be spared that. My eyes will not
see it. I shall be out of it ere night.”
I think I must have sighed grievously, for Lord Falkland
added, quickly,—
“Do not lament thus, my friend. What is death?
'Tis a bugbear that frightens children or cowards, not
men. I fear it not. And yet 'twould be pardonable
were I to regret leaving the world. My station in it is
honorable; my taste for the pursuit of learning and
mental pleasures—the only true ones—is great; my
household I believe love me; and his majesty does me
the honor to confide in my faith, though I once strove
in parliament to deprive him of some powers deemed
by him his just prerogatives. I have loved liberty and
struggled to secure it. When its friends went farther
and attempted the overthrow of monarchy, I left them.
In that decision I have never wavered, and think that
falling under the royal flag I fall under the flag of
England. But I weary you, Mr. Cecil; and, what is
worse, perhaps I detain you. You are a soldier on
duty; I only a poor civilian wandering to and fro and
musing. Farewell, sir! You are young, and God grant
you may see happier days. I am not old, but am rather
weary of my life. I shall disappear while the sky is
dark still, and not see the sun shine again.”
I pointed to the sun, which soared at that moment
above the forest.
“See, my lord,” I muttered, through tears that
seemed choking me, “there he is shining.”
“'Tis to set soon; and, short as that time will be, I
shall not see it.”
He turned his horse as he spoke, made me a salute
full of gracious kindness, and disappeared in the wood.
As I lost sight of him, a single cannon roared across the
fields. Echoing shouts rose from the woods far and
near as the grim sound was heard; and suddenly Rupert
at the head of his horsemen burst like a thunderbolt
upon the enemy.
I have no heart to enter minutely into the details of
the battle of Newbury. One picture only stays in my
memory, and will stay always. Prince Rupert's charge
broke the enemy's horse, but they rallied, and again he
made a headlong charge. Before this second charge
they fled, hotly pursued by Rupert; but suddenly we
came upon the enemy's infantry armed with their long
and deadly pikes, which pierced the bodies of the horses
or hurled their riders from the saddle.
From this hedge of steel the cavaliers of Rupert recoiled.
He was forced to fall back, and, riding beside
him, I saw his face flaming hot, his eyes flashing. With
hoarse and strident voice he endeavored to rally his
men. In this he at length succeeded; and as he formed
a new line I heard loud exclamations near.
I turned my head quickly. At the same moment an
officer rode up to Prince Rupert.
“Well!” the prince exclaimed.
“Lord Falkland is shot, my lord!”
Without a word the prince went at full speed towards
the group pointed out. Scarce aware of the breach of
discipline, I spurred from the ranks of the Guards and
followed. At the spectacle which met my eyes a groan
forced its way from my bosom. The nobleman lay on
the sward, his head supported upon the shoulder of an
officer. His face was as pale as death, and his breast
was bloody. His eyes were closed, but his lips smiled.
“My lord! my lord! Speak, I pray you!” exclaimed
Prince Rupert, in a broken voice.
Falkland opened his eyes, and, from the position of
his head, saw me first.
“Ah! 'tis you who spoke, my friend,” he murmured.
“Well, see—my presentiment—!”
He ceased, breathing heavily; but in a moment he
resumed:
“I said—my heart bled—for my country, but I would
be out of it ere night.”
His eyes were fixed upon the blue sky above him.
“Here I am, friend,” he murmured; “I thought
'twould not be long.”
I alone knew to whom he addressed those words.
As they left Lord Falkland's lips, his head fell back,
and he expired. Even in death the noble face retained
its expression of exquisite sweetness, and the lips wore
the same sad smile.
The battle of Newbury, like the combat of Chalgrove,
decided little, for Essex fell back in the night.
But Falkland was gone—like Hampden! Who could
take their places? For me, who knew them and loved
them as founts of honor, there were no others like them.
When they disappeared, I felt as though England were
accursed.
