13. XIII.
MY TRAVELING-COMPANION.
I was sent at daylight on the morning succeeding
the king's arrival, to bear a dispatch to Woodstock
Palace for her majesty, and, having fulfilled my duty,
determined to gallop across country and spend an
hour with my father at Cecil Court.
I shall not dwell upon this visit, which was a very
great pleasure to me,—home events are not of interest
to all,—but come to my first meeting with a very noble
as well as a very famous man, whom I encountered on
the highway, in Buckinghamshire, towards evening, on
my way back to London.
I had just emerged from a belt of woods, and saw
the sun setting across the beautiful fields, when a horseman
riding in front of me attracted my attention, and
I was very soon beside him.
He turned his head, and bade me good-day so courteously
that I checked my horse's speed and rode on
with him. He was a man of middle age, clad in a
rich dark pourpoint, and wearing a black hat and excellent
riding-boots. His figure was lofty and commanding;
his face very noble, and full of grave courtesy
and sweetness. When he spoke, his voice had
an extraordinary calmness and simplicity, which simplicity
was indeed plain in every detail of face, figure,
and bearing.
In ten minutes I felt entirely at my ease with the
stranger, and we rode on side by side, conversing
upon public events with perfect freedom.
“His majesty has returned from Scotland,” said my
companion. “I am glad to know that: her majesty
will be made happy by seeing him again.”
I smiled, and said, “You are plainly a royalist, and
not one of the new party, sir.”
My companion smiled in his turn. “I am scarce a
royalist in the ordinary meaning of the term, sir; but
sure 'tis a pleasure to all honest men to know that a
good husband is safely restored to his wife, and to contemplate
with satisfaction the little domestic picture
of their meeting.”
“Assuredly; and, after all, the king is not perhaps so
black as he is painted.”
“He is not, sir. It is the vice of partisan feeling to
drive men to extremes. His majesty, in my opinion,—
to be frank,—has committed very great faults. It is
scarce too harsh, I think, to say that his conceptions
of the royal prerogative, if carried out, would overturn
all civil liberty; but that is no proof that he is
cruel or licentious, or a despot from love of despotism.”
The words were uttered with great sadness.
“Shall I imitate your frankness, and utter my
thought plainly, sir?” I said.
“Surely.”
“Were I his majesty, then, I should fear adversaries
holding your views more than all the Pyms, Cromwells,
and Hampdens in the world.”
“The Hampdens?” asked the stranger, smiling.
“Do you refer to Mr. John Hampden, the member
from Buckinghamshire?”
“The same, sir.”
“Is he so violent and dangerous a personage?”
“I do not know Mr. Hampden, but such is his
reputation.”
The stranger rode on for some moments in silence.
“I had not supposed that Mr. Hampden bore so
bad a character,” he said, at length. “What are the
grounds, I pray you, sir, of such an opinion of that
gentleman?”
“His prominence in opposition to the levying of
ship-money by his majesty. Mr. Hampden was the
first person of high position who opposed the royal
prerogative.”
“True,” the stranger said, somewhat sadly; “and
so the fellow-subjects of Mr. Hampden—honorable
gentlemen—think him violent, and a demagogue!
Pity!—but may we not regard Mr. Hampden's motives
as conscientious?”
“His friends do, doubtless,—not the adherents of
his majesty.”
“That sums up all, I fear, sir,” the stranger returned;
“and I will not undertake a defense of Mr. Hampden,—
of whom, however, it may be said with truth that he
risked a good estate rather than pay twenty shillings
without warrant of law for the exaction. Yes, his
friends will defend him, his adversaries denounce him,
as you say. To the first, he is a sincere lover of law
and liberty; to the second, a pestilent demagogue,
itching for notoriety and power. So be it: one day
his true character will doubtless be known.”
“Meanwhile, were I acquainted with Mr. Hampden,
I think I should give him some advice, sir,” I said.
“And pray what would be the advice?” my companion
said, smiling courteously.
“Not to act with Pym, Ireton, Cromwell, and other
extremists, who are ready to go all lengths.”
“`All lengths' is a strong expression, sir,” the
stranger returned, with his immovable grave sweetness.
“The gentlemen you name have the repute of aiming
only at a redress of grievances.”
“They will not stop there.”
“You would say—”
“That revolutions begin with the pen, and end with
the sword,—and shall I add something more terrible?”
“What?”
“With violence: the cup of the poisoner or the axe
of the headsman.”
My companion started, and his countenance grew
cold and stern in an instant. A flash darted from his
eyes, and his cheek became pale.
“That is a bitter charge against good men,” he said.
“What induces you to believe that any living Englishman
is ready to turn assassin?”
“The philosophy of revolutions,” I returned, “and
the history I have read.”
“And the political struggles of the period we live
in may result in the death of his majesty, you think,
by the hands of his own subjects?”
“`May' has many meanings, sir. 'Tis not impossible,—is
it?”
My companion rode on without uttering a word. A
mile at least was passed over thus, in profound silence.
Then the stranger raised his head, which had been
drooping. “You have broached a terrible idea,” he
said; “one which my mind never up to this time entertained.
I will not discuss it. I shrink from the very
thought with a species of horror. I can conceive that
Mr. Cromwell and others might oppose the king,—even
in open combat on the field of battle, perhaps; either
side may inaugurate that struggle, and the other will
accept the gage of defiance; but that the king's life
can ever be threatened with poison or the executioner's
axe on this soil of England,—that, sir, I will never believe,—never!
the thought is too frightful!”
“I hope 'tis only my fancy.”
“And I, sir. I cannot speak for others; but for one
of those you have named I can answer without hesitation.
He might oppose the king's adherents—even
the king himself—in battle; but he would sooner lay
down his own life than touch with a finger the person
of his majesty. I can answer for that person, I say;
and I have the best of all rights to do so,—for I am
that John Hampden of whom we have spoken.”
