University of Virginia Library

1. BOOK I.

1. I.
CECIL COURT.

My life has been so restless and adventurous that I
go back with delight to my early years, spent at the
old home of my family in Warwickshire, England.

Cecil Court was a peaceful, charming old place, on
the banks of the Avon, low-pitched, built of brick,
with Elizabethan windows, a flower-decorated terrace,
and approached by a broad avenue overshadowed by
lofty elms. You entered a large hall running from front
to rear, with a winding staircase on the right, the balustrade,
like the wainscoting, of heavy oak, carved and
darkened by age. On the right was the sitting-room,
with polished oak floor, tall-backed chairs, a wide fireplace
with huge old andirons, a tall mantelpiece, and
a dozen portraits on the walls. This apartment was,
properly speaking, the dining-room, the drawing-rooms
occupying the opposite wing, but in progress of time
it had come to be used as the sitting-room, and our old
neighbors invariably went thither unannounced to find
my father. On the second floor were the chambers,

which were numerous and furnished in the style of the
reign of Queen Elizabeth.

The family estate was by no means large, consisting
indeed of but a few hundreds of acres, cultivated by
two or three old tenants, grown gray-headed on the
place. My father had never given his assent, however,
to any diminution of the size of the old Cecil Court
park,—an extensive chase of the freshest and greenest
turf, dotted with century oaks, beneath which the cattle
grazed undisturbed, and a few deer wandered, tame
and confiding. Seen from a distance, through the
waving foliage of its great trees, Cecil Court was a
peaceful and attractive picture. On the right, beyond
a green hillock, gleamed the still waters of a pond and
the dancing waves of a little stream. The sylvan
scene was calm and friendly, and you would have said
that life here was as tranquil and serene as the slow
movement of the white clouds floating over the blue
sky.

Our household was small, consisting only of my
father, my elder brother Harry, my younger sister
Cicely, an old housekeeper, and a few old servants,
whose heads had turned white in the service of the
family, and who performed their duties with the regularity
and more than the silence of machines. I often
think now that a large part of the happiness of human
beings depends upon the possession of such silent old
household attendants. Never a word was uttered nor
an order given. Comfort, kindness, and silence reigned,
and the exact wine my father wished was placed at his
elbow, without a word addressed to the old majordomo
waiting, calm and silent, behind his chair.

Do not fancy from this picture, worthy reader, that
the Cecils were very well-to-do in the world. We
had barely enough; and although the country-people
called my father “the Squire,” and took off their hats
to him with the profoundest deference, that was more
a tribute to his kindly nature, which made all love him,
than to his possessions. The estate had once been
very large, but had dwindled away. Still, we had
enough to live upon as gentlefolks, and my father's
fondness for reading and study caused him to forget
the narrowness of his fortunes. He was a very tall
and distinguished-looking person, with long gray hair,
which he powdered and tied with a ribbon, a broad
and lofty forehead, blue eyes full of candor and simplicity,
and lips wearing habitually a smile of great
sweetness. His dress was plain, but about his whole
appearance there was an air of grace and distinction
which never changed. His manner was the same to a
peer of the realm and to a plowman,—his bow to the
last as courteous as to the first. In a word, good
reader, my father was a gentleman of extreme pride,
simplicity, and naturalness,—thought himself, I dare
say, as good as the peer, and perhaps in many things
no better than the plowman.

I do not remember my dear mother, who died in my
infancy, taking away with her, people said, much of
the sunshine of my father's life,—for to the last they
were more like young lovers than old married people.
For her, my father kept his courtliest bows and his
sweetest smiles. The great aim of his life seemed to
be to make her happy; and when she died, the old
neighbors said that he went about as though he had

lost something without which he could not live. This,
however, was before my time, and when I first remember
him my father had regained his calmness, at least.
His smile was full of sadness, but of great sweetness
too, as I have said. Once I found him in tears, gazing
at a withered flower my dear mother had given him
upon their wedding-day; but such evidences of emotion
were infrequent. I recall him now, most clearly,
sitting in his great arm-chair, reading a folio containing
the dramas of his friend and neighbor Mr. Shakspeare,
whom he knew in his own younger days, and
esteemed highly.

A few words will introduce my brother Harry and
my sister Cicely. Harry was a year or two my senior,
a brave, handsome youth, full of sunshine and gayety,
who had hunted every fox in the county from his boyhood,
and ended by entering that select company of
young gentlemen, the Queen's Guardsmen, at Hampton
Court. In doing so, he had consulted both his own
wishes and his love for me. The revenues of Cecil
Court were insufficient to send us both to Oxford, and,
as I was destined for the law, Harry declared that I
should go, he becoming a guardsman. I accordingly
went to Oxford, and Harry to London,—I became a
fellow-commoner of Baliol College, and he a gay
young gallant. When this history opens, I had just
returned to Cecil Court, and Harry was in the Guards.

Of Cicely, my little sister, I shall say nothing at
this time, and scarce more of that important personage,
the writer of these memoirs. The said gentleman,
Edmund Cecil by name, was a country youth
who fancied himself a great philosopher; liberal in

politics, but a monarchist for all that, and by no means
pleased with the near prospect of becoming a denizen
of the Inns of Court at London. It would have
pleased him far better to have remained at Cecil Court
in idleness,—reading, dreaming, wandering about the
old park, and shaping cloud-castles for his own entertainment.
He was, in truth, a most useless and incapable
person, content to let the current waft him,
without using his oars, and asking only silence and
liberty to peruse the pages of Mr. William Shakespeare,
for whom he had inherited his father's fondness.

Such a life was impossible, however; and one day
my father informed me that he had made every arrangement
for my entrance at the Inns of Court. My lodgings
had been engaged in Essex Court, with young
Master John Evelyn, and nothing now prevented me
from commencing the study of my future profession.

“'Tis the best career I can think of for my boy,”
my father said, with his sweet smile, now filled with
tenderness. “Cecil Court goes to Harry, but perchance
you will be Chief Justice some day, my son.
So take the old sword yonder,—every gentleman
should wear a sword,—the best horse in the stable, and
Dick the hostler will ride with you to London.”

My heart sank at the very phrase “Inns of Court,”
but there was some consolation in that magical word
“London.”

“I will be ready at daylight, sir,” I said, taking my
father's hand and kissing it.

“That is well, my boy; and I need give you few
counsels. Be a good man, my dear; be honest and
true. Study hard; for remember 'tis the educated brain

that rules the world. Avoid as far as possible the
political commotions just beginning; for neither on
the king's side nor the parliament's is the full right.
The Cecils must be of the royal party, if the issue
comes; but his majesty construes his prerogative far
too liberally for my views. With him you must side
nevertheless, if honor will let you, and you side with
either. But remember that the Cecil honor is above
and before all,—even that of the king, who is, after
all, but the first gentleman of his kingdom.”

My father stopped, and laid his hand upon my
head.

“God bless my boy!” he said, in a faltering voice;
and, turning away, he went out of the room, leaving me
in tears.

At daylight I set out for London. The whole household
had assembled to bid me good-by, and the old
servants uttered many earnest blessings, for in their
eyes I was yet but a child. Then my father pressed
my hand closely, Cicely put her arms around my neck
and kissed me, her face wet with tears, I mounted,
waved my hand, and, followed by joyous Dick the
hostler, went forth into the future.

My father stood on the old porch until I was out of
sight. Reaching an eminence distant half a mile from
the hall, it again appeared, and my dear father was
standing there still. My heart went back to him, and
to all the familiar localities I was bidding farewell to.
With something strange in my throat which seemed
about to choke me, I gazed long from the hill on the
fields and forests of my childhood; then, turning my
horse's head, I set forward at a gallop,—Dick the

hostler made his best effort to keep up with me,—and
Cecil Court disappeared from my eyes.

I was afloat upon the surge of that ocean which is
called the great world.

2. II.
MY ADVENTURE AT WENDOVER.

As though to indicate the adventurous character of
the career I was to run, a singular incident befell me
on this the first day of my journey.

But first I will attempt, reader, to present you with
an outline of myself as I thus went forth from the
family nest,—a callow fledgeling, scarce winged as yet,
—gazing around me eagerly on the fertile lands, on
the old minsters and castles, and the fields so soon to
be trampled.

The Edmund Cecil who thus rode to seek his fortune,
was a youth of twenty-three, slight, active, with
brown eyes, and hair of the same color; and he wore
a dark cloth riding-habit, chamois boots, a hat with a
black feather, and the old family sword clattering
against his hunting-spurs. A downy mustache and
royale, after the fashion of the time, set off the face,—
a face in which, I think, hope and happiness must have
shone; for the youth found something charming in the
idea of London, whither he was going, and bestrode
with delight his favorite hunter from the Cecil Court
stables. There were not many there now; the Cecils
were poor; but what was poverty to the young knight-errant?

Youth was stronger,—youth, the source of
nearly every joy; to return to which to-day, when my
pulse rarely throbs, I would give all the experience
and wisdom I have since acquired! Experience?
Wisdom? The tints of autumn are charming, and the
sunset is of solemn beauty; but spring is sweeter than
autumn, the dawn fresher than evening! My old age
is happy, and I am content with it. But oh for the
curls and roses, the eye and pulse, of twenty!

I passed Aylesbury, in Buckinghamshire, and slept at
the Cat and Bagpipes, an inn in the small town of Wendover.
I had just descended at sunrise, and was about
to resume my journey, when a traveling-carriage, coming
from the north and drawn by four spirited horses,
rattled up to the door, and through the window I
caught sight of an exquisite face. It was that of a
young lady apparently about twenty, her countenance
half concealed by a cloak and hood. I could
still discern its outlines, however; and its rare beauty
was unmistakable. The cheeks were rosy, the eyes
large and earnest, the lips mild and full of a charming
innocence and sweetness. Such was the occupant of
the coach,—a woman, evidently her attendant, being
the sole other person visible.

The coach stopped, and the driver leaped down.

“Fresh horses for London!” he cried to the portly
landlord, who had hastened out.

At the sound of that voice I started, and my whole
attention was now concentrated upon the speaker. He
was a mere coachman, at least in costume,—huge overall,
plain beaver, a handkerchief bundled around his
throat, and heavy top-boots. I went closer, and looked

under the low hat. The coachman was my brother
Harry, of the Queen's Guardsmen!

Our eyes met, and he turned quickly, endeavoring
to conceal his face. I began to laugh, and called out,—

“Don't you know me, Harry?”

Thereat the supposed coachman turned, and whispered,—

“'Ware hawks, Ned!—on secret service for her
majesty!”

He said no more, but went to the coach and seemed
to propose that the young lady should breakfast therein;
for, in compliance with a rapid order, food was brought,
and she ate hastily.

Meanwhile fresh horses were rapidly attached;
the postilion mounted; Harry cracked his whip with
the air of a born Jehu, and the carriage set off, the
horses going at a gallop.

Harry had carefully avoided a private interview. He
had simply whispered, in passing me,—

“I will see you in London.”

Ten minutes afterwards, the carriage had disappeared
over the crest of a hill, leaving me standing in the
middle of the street gazing after it.

I hastened to follow; but it was half an hour before
I got to saddle. I then rode on rapidly, but did not
catch up with the carriage. It had disappeared like
a dream,—a visionary equipage drawn by phantom
horses.

3. III.
THE LADY OF WENDOVER AGAIN.

London was visible, as I approached, from a great
distance, with its canopy of smoke; and I cantered
gayly into the famous city, making my way, after inquiries
of wayfarers, towards Essex Court, where my
lodgings had been engaged.

In front of the palace of Whitehall, with which I
was familiar from one other visit in my boyhood to
London, a very great crowd had assembled. So dense
was the mass of human beings that I pushed my horse
through it with difficulty, followed by Dick the hostler;
and the appearance of this crowd was singular. It consisted,
apparently, of apprentices of the various trades
in the City, their hair cut extremely short; and almost
all carried in their hands staves upon which were placards
bearing the word “Liberty.” The great mass of
human beings uttered vociferous cries, and kept their
eyes fixed upon the palace, in front of which I now
saw a long row of carriages drawn up, with the royal
arms upon the panels.

“What is the cause of this excitement, sir?” I said
to a burly individual standing near me.

“The tyrant is about to fly with his family, and we
are come to stop him,” was the stern reply.

“The tyrant, sir?” I said.

“Others call him Charles the First of England.”

“Good heavens, sir!” I exclaimed, “'tis not possible
that violence is meant by his majesty's faithful
subjects to his person and his family!”

My interlocutor looked fixedly at me, and, tightening
the grasp on his stick, was apparently about to take
the offensive, when a great wave bore him ten feet from
me. A hand caught my bridle, and my horse was
thrown on his haunches. A moment afterwards, hoofstrokes
were heard: a detachment of the king's body-guard
pushed their horses through the crowd, the
procession of coaches filled with ladies followed, and
another detachment brought up the rear.

I had been swept away, still on horseback, by the
great wave, and was looking at the carriages, when I
recognized in one of them the face of the young lady
whom I had encountered at Wendover. She was clad
in velvet and laces now, and was even more beautiful.
I was gazing at the calm, proud face, conscious of little
save her very great loveliness, when a man rushed up
to the coach,—it was my burly friend with the staff,—
thrust the “Liberty” placard into the young lady's
face, and uttered some words apparently of insult; for
the calm face quickly flushed. This proceeding enraged
me; and, leaping to the ground, I grasped the person
guilty of this indignity by one of his ears, dragging
him violently back. He uttered a yell of anger at this
unceremonious assault, turned, and caught me by the
throat; and, although I had drawn and directed my
sword's point towards his breast, I was about to be
dragged down and trampled under foot by the crowd,
when a voice near me cried,—

“Hold hard, Ned! We are coming.”

It was the voice of Harry, who rode at the head of
the detachment of horse in rear.

“You will please allow me to pass, good people,”
he said, in his loud, hearty voice. “I don't want to
ride against anybody; and, as this gentleman is my
brother—”

He pushed at my big opponent, struck him with his
horse's chest, and drew me, hot and furious, towards him.

“'Ware hawks, Ned!” he said, laughing. “There's
Dick brandishing his arms and holding your horse.
Mount, and fall in with the Guards! or I think these
worthies will eat you up!”

Dick had pushed through and reached my side, still
clinging to my horse's bridle. I threw myself into the
saddle, and took my place in the line,—Dick imitating
me. No further violence was offered any one; and an
hour afterwards the procession of coaches, containing,
as I now ascertained, the queen, the royal family, and
maids of honor, issued from London.

Then I saw rising before me the imposing walls of
Hampton Court; the procession passed through the
park; the Guards were drawn up in a double line, and
between these walls of silk, plumes, and steel, the queen
and the rest entered the palace.

I was looking with interest and admiration upon the
bevy of beautiful young ladies as they passed in and
disappeared, when the voice of Harry beside me said,—

“What was the trouble about yonder, Ned?”

I told him all.

“Oho! Well, that's like a Cecil! And it was the
fair Miss Frances Villiers whose knight you became,”

“Is her name Frances Villiers?”

“Yes; her Majesty's favorite maid of honor.”

“Well, I think I did right, Harry—”

“You won the right to enter the guards of her
majesty; and I'll apply for your appointment before
I sleep, Ned. Come on! follow me to the guard-room.”

4. IV.
HOW HARRY HAD COME TO DRIVE A COACH ALL THE
WAY TO SCOTLAND.

The guard-room at Hampton Court was an apartment
of large extent, with tables against the wall beneath
the tall windows, and around these tables a
number of the gay young gallants of the Guards were
already engaged at dice,—laughing, jesting, and exchanging
comments on the events of the morning.

Harry had just made me acquainted with some of
his friends,—and I could see at a glance that he was a
favorite with the mercurial young gentlemen of the
Guards,—when an usher entered, glided to him, and
spoke in a low tone.

“Wait here, Ned,” he said. “I am sent for.” And
taking his gray beaver, with its floating plume, he
followed the usher.

He was absent for a quarter of an hour, during which
time the guard-room resounded with jests, laughter, the
rattle of dice, and the clatter of flagons on the tables.
I was gazing at this animated scene, when Harry touched

me on the shoulder, made a sign to me to follow him,
and, leading the way, conducted me through a long
corridor to the left wing of the palace.

“You are about to enjoy the satisfaction of being
thanked for your chivalric gallantry, Ned, by the
prettiest pair of lips at the court of England,” said
my brother, laughing. “Come on! Be firm, but
determined; modest, but devoted!”

And, still with his gay laugh, Harry opened a door,
beyond which, in a small but richly-decorated apartment,
I saw seated the young lady of the inn at
Wendover.

“I have the honor of presenting my brother Edmund,
Miss Villiers,” Harry said, bowing low, with his plume
trailing on the floor. “He begs to assure you of his
very profound respect.” And Harry discreetly fell back.

The young lady inclined her head graciously, in response
to my low bow, and I observed in her bearing
the same air of calmness and repose. Nothing seemed
to shake this singular serenity.

“I fear you make quite a court ceremony of this
interview with a simple maid of honor, Mr. Cecil,”
she said to Harry; and it is impossible to conceive
anything sweeter and calmer than the accents of her
voice. Raising her great, limpid eyes to my face, she
added, “Mr. Cecil has informed me that it was yourself
to whom I was indebted for assistance to-day, sir;
and I thank you sincerely.”

The beautiful girl abashed me. I could only bow
low again, when Harry's gay voice interposed.

“Ned is overcome, Miss Villiers. In a word, accept
the devotion of the Cecil family at large; and should

you kindly take us under your ladyship's protection,
secure my brother's appointment to a place in the
Guards.”

I could not protest that I was about to become
one of the long-robe fraternity,—to be frank, I was
quite ashamed of the fact,—and, with a throb of satisfaction,
remained silent.

“Mr. Cecil wishes an appointment?” said Miss
Villiers. “I am sure he may secure that.”

“He is discreet as well as brave,” Harry said,
quietly. “He saw and recognized me at Wendover.”

The young lady turned her head quickly, and a
slight color came to her face.

“I am sorry, sir,” she said, somewhat stiffly. “I had
hoped—”

“That no one save myself and her majesty was
informed of that escapade? But think, Miss Villiers, I
alone was to blame.”

He turned to me, and added, “This is the best
time and place to inform you frankly, Ned, of the
meaning of that encounter. It is due to Miss Villiers,
who has not ceased to cherish sentiments of
displeasure towards me. Know, then, that Miss
Villiers is confidential maid of honor to her majesty,
and that her devotion knows no bounds. Well, her
majesty desired, recently, to send an oral message to
his majesty, who is in Scotland. The times are troubled
and dangerous; written communications are liable to
be intercepted: in a word, Miss Villiers offered to go
to Scotland and convey the message in person. Am I
right, Miss Villiers? and have I your permission to
proceed?”

“Yes, sir,” returned the young lady, with the slight
color still in her cheeks. “I even desire that Mr.
Cecil shall be informed of the meaning of that singular
adventure.”

“I see that your displeasure continues, madam,”
said Harry; “but I can only submit. Pardon me, I
pray you, for still speaking of you in your presence as
though you were absent.”

He bowed, and went on, addressing himself to me.

“Her majesty accepted the offer of Miss Villiers,
and it was arranged that she should travel with a lady's
maid only, but the coach was to be driven by an old
and trusted servitor. When it left London it was I,
however, who drove, and for a simple reason. A
young lady would necessarily be exposed, traveling
thus alone, to peril; so I locked up the old servitor,
mounted the seat of the coach, and it was only when
it had proceeded a day's journey, nearly, that Miss
Villiers perceived the ruse. I need not say that she
was very angry, and perhaps justly angry. But the
die was cast; the message was pressing. The coach
continued its way, and beyond Doncaster the advantage
of being driven by an able-bodied young man in place
of an infirm old servitor became apparent, did it not,
madam?”

And, with lurking enjoyment of his triumph in his
handsome eyes, Harry turned to the young lady.

“Continue, sir,” she said.

“Footpads, Ned!” Harry said, laughing. “The
coach was attacked. The coachman heroically discharged
his pistols and unhorsed one of the knights
of the road; the rest fled. The coach imitated them,

and we reached Scotland, to return speedily over the
same ground London-ward. In traveling, no time was
lost. The coach was driven on day and night, as you
may understand from the fact that we reached Wendover
as you were coming down to breakfast. Peste!
as her majesty's French maids say, I have not yet
caught up with my lost sleep. I nod in the saddle,
and snore while rattling the dice! To conclude, Miss
Villiers most generously made my peace with her
majesty. I am becoming a court favorite, they tell me;
and after the assault of the footpads I regained, and
still enjoy, the luxury of a good conscience and an
exalted opinion of myself.”

It was impossible to resist Harry's gayety. A smile
came to Miss Villiers's lips, and she said,—

“Mr. Cecil was born to be an advocate in the courts
of law. He will end by forcing me to thank him for
locking up the queen's servitor.”

“No, madam,” said Harry, bowing low, and speaking
with an earnestness in strong contrast to his former
levity; “I shall be content if you pardon a very audacious
escapade—”

As he uttered the words, an usher summoned Miss
Villiers to attend the queen. She rose, and for the
first time I observed the queenly outline of her person.
There was something regal in her; a slight bend in her
neck gave her appearance an indescribable grace. She
smiled faintly, inclined her head, and, gliding rather
than walking, disappeared.

“By heavens, she's a queen!” exclaimed Harry.
“Come, Ned, and rest easy; from this moment you
are as good as one of her majesty's Guards. My pockets

are full of gold; I make you a present of your uniform!
Long live her majesty—and her maids of
honor!”

5. V.
I ENTER THE QUEEN'S GUARDS.

I shared Harry's bed that night, and was waked by
the trumpet sounding reveillé.

The Guardsmen paraded in the court,—stiff, motionless,
sitting their horses in line, and answering gruffly
to their names as the roll was called. The gay gallants
of the guard-room were turned to wooden figures;
but at the order to return to quarters they again broke
forth into jests and laughter.

As Harry came in, his rapier rattling against his
boots, I saw that he held a paper in his hand.

“Here is what one of the queen's ushers has just
brought, Ned,” he said.

I looked at the paper; it was my appointment to a
place in the queen's Guards.

“You see Miss Villiers stands by her friends, Ned,”
said Harry. “Come and don one of my old uniforms.
From this moment you are a Guardsman!”

He laughed, and put his arm round my neck. Of
all the faces I ever saw, Harry's came nearest sunshine
when he thus laughed.

The day passed in a round of excitement. I did not
reflect upon the scant respect paid my father in thus

cavalierly turning my back on the profession for which
he had destined me. Had the eyes of Frances Villiers
already worked their magic on me? I know not; but
I hailed the change in my destiny with delight. Let
me add here, as I shall pass soon to stirring events,
that my dear father manifested no displeasure at the
unceremonious step thus taken, but sent me his full approval;
and I had no sooner received my appointment
then I set about my arrangements. These were speedily
made. The tailor of the Guardsmen, in Rosemary Lane,
near the Tower, came and took my measure for my
uniform,—in the mean while I donned an old one of
Harry's;—Dick the hostler declared his strong wish
to remain and attend to my horses, and so behold me
suddenly a full-fledged guardsman of the queen!

I was to commence my duties more speedily than I
supposed. I had just entered the guard-room, about
noon, when Harry came in, and I could see that he was
angry.

“What is the matter?” I said.

He drew my arm through his own, and dragged me
rather than led me out.

“The matter is insolence and cruelty, Ned!” he
said, with a sort of growl peculiar to him when anything
moved him. “The crop-eared knaves in parliament
have insulted her majesty!”

“Insulted?”

“Judge! Here comes to-day a messenger with a
paper from that rascal Pym and the rest, that her majesty
`must surrender her young family into their hands
during the absence of the king, lest she should take an
opportunity of making papists of them.”'

“And her majesty has replied?”

“That her sons were under tuition of their governors,
who were not papists: she obeyed the will of her
husband that they should not be brought up in her religion.
And this is not all!”

“What more, Harry?”

“Secret information has just arrived that a parliamentary
order has been sent to a magistrate near Oatlands,
where the royal family now are, to be ready
with a part of the militia in the park of the palace to-night,—where
he would be joined by a body of cavalry,—and
await further orders.”

“They mean to seize on the royal family!”

Harry burst out into such oaths as I will not record.

“At their peril!” he said. “I say no more now,
but—”

The trumpet was heard without, sounding “Boots
and Saddles,” and the palace was in commotion. Harry
was hastening out, when an usher came in, looking
rapidly around.

“I am ordered to summon the first two gentlemen
of the Guards I meet, to her majesty's presence,” he
said.

“Come on, Ned!”

Harry was already rushing after the usher. I followed.
We passed along a great corridor, through a magnificent
suite of apartments, then into an antechamber,
where, at a sign from the usher, Harry paused, while
we were being announced.

“Let them come in!” exclaimed a voice in a decided
French accent.

A moment afterwards I had followed my brother

into a large apartment richly furnished and half filled
with maids of honor, among whom stood a lady clad
in black, with a pallid face and piercing eyes. This
lady, I heard afterwards, was the secret enemy of her
majesty, Lady Carlisle.

In one corner, near a prie-dieu, stood a father confessor
in black robes. On the carpet gamboled a small
black dog, the famous Mitte, so intimately associated
with her majesty's wanderings and perils.

Lastly, at a table, where she wrote rapidly, sat the
queen.

6. VI.
HORSES FOR FRANCE.

Her majesty Queen Henrietta Maria—or “Mary,”
as King Charles and his followers always called her—
seemed to labor under great emotion.

She was a very beautiful person of about thirty,
of an exquisite clear brunette complexion, with glossy
brown hair, and large black eyes which sparkled like
stars. It was impossible not to admire her extreme
delicacy of features and the noble and imposing air
of her whole person. I am not skillful in costume, and
rarely recall what a human being wears, but I remember
the rich brocade the queen wore that day, the full lace
ruffles, the little cape, called a berthe, I think, and the
bodice finished around the bosom and at the waist
with a purple band. A string of pearls confined her

magnificent brown hair; on her bosom lay a cross suspended
from a necklace: it was in this very costume,
I think, that she was drawn by the great painter Vandyke,
and inspired in Mr. Edmund Waller, the poet,
the fine lines,—
When I first saw “the whole world's mistress,” on that
autumn day at Hampton Court, she was in a rage;
the fine eyes flashed, and the clear brunette face was
crimson with anger.

“The messengers!” she said, without looking up,
and continuing to write rapidly.

The usher respectfully approached and uttered a few
words. The queen raised her head, and one of her
slender and beautiful hands went rapidly and nervously
to the cross upon her bosom. She had opened her
lips to speak, when a second usher entered and
asked an audience for some one whose name I did not
hear.

“The magistrate! the very one! Admit him!”
came from the queen, quickly.

The usher hastened out, and soon returned with a
portly, red-faced justice, who bowed low.

“I crave permission to lay this order before your
majesty,” said the justice. “It is from the parliament,
and directs me to summon the militia and patrol Oatlands
Park.”

“Obey your order, sir!” exclaimed the queen.

“I must disobey your majesty. Nothing will ever

induce me to obey any order other than her own or
the king's.”

The queen rose with a brilliant flash of her proud
eyes.

“Thanks, sir! thanks! His majesty shall know of
this. But return and do exactly what the parliament
has dictated, and be tranquil. We shall further explain
this: at present return and obey your orders.”

There was no room for reply. The magistrate left
the apartment, and the queen resumed her seat and
wrote a few more lines.

“This to Lord Digby, in London,” she said, extending
a paper towards Harry, who bowed low as he
received it.

“This to its address,” the queen added; and as she
held out the paper her eyes met my own.

I thought I heard at the same moment a faint murmur
from Miss Villiers, who stood near the queen.

“It is well; lose no time, Mr. Cecil.”

I retired blushing with delight at this utterance of
my name by the queen. She was so beautiful as she
sat there with that ring of rose-buds, her maids of honor,
around her, that the sternest Puritan, I think, would
have flushed with pleasure as I did.

Harry and myself left the court-yard at the same
moment, at a gallop.

“Huzza for Queen Mary!” he cried, as he disappeared.

The note to Lord Digby, as I afterwards ascertained,
contained an urgent request that his lordship would
muster his friends and proceed on that very night
to Oatlands Park. The letter borne by myself was

addressed to a gentleman residing some miles from
Hampton Court, who possessed a stud of horses
famous for blood and speed,—the queen designing to
make use of them in bearing off her children, if necessary,
to France.

I soon reached the old manor-house of the gentleman
in question,—Colonel Edward Cooke, of the royal
forces. Colonel Cooke was a tall and stately old
cavalier, with piercing eyes, a stern expression, but
slightly ameliorated by the ghost of a smile, and the
bearing of a thorough soldier.

“Say to her majesty, sir,” he said, with a bow, as
he read the note in his great hall, “that all I possess
is at her command,—including my heart and sword,—
both by day and by night.”

With this reply, which I saw, from the sudden flash
of the eye, came from the speaker's heart, I returned
to Hampton Court; and the response of Colonel Cooke
was conveyed to her majesty by Miss Frances Villiers,
who was installed in the antechamber as a sort of
adjutant-general.

“Her majesty bids me thank you, Mr. Cecil,” the
young lady said, coming out again and gazing at me
with her great calm eyes. “I counsel you to sup now:
the Guards will move in half an hour.”

As she spoke, the trumpet sounded “To horse!”
the Guards rapidly drew up in the court-yard; and, with
a decided gnawing in his stomach, Mr. Edmund Cecil
took his place in the line.

Every man was fully armed, and an expedition of
some sort was evidently on the tapis.

7. VII.
WHAT TOOK PLACE BY MOONLIGHT IN OATLANDS PARK.

As night fell, an odd cavalcade left Hampton Court.
It consisted of a number of coaches, containing her
majesty and the ladies of her suite; behind these the
Guards; and behind the Guards a motley rout of
ushers, footmen, serving-men of every description, and
even scullions from the kitchens,—all, with scarce an
exception, bearing arms of some sort. So quaint was
this armament, indeed, that it was difficult to restrain
one's laughter. The serving-men carried cleavers and
carving-knives, and the scullions had caught up the
spits and other weapons more useful in peace than in
war. Altogether, the spectacle was a comedy, whose
fantastic humor still moves me, as it returns to my
memory.

What did it mean, everybody asked himself, and
whither was her majesty going? The reply was that
she was “going to spend the evening in the park at
Oatlands;” and doubtless it was her majesty's desire
that her household should go too, as she had ordered
their attendance, with the singular direction that every
one should be armed!

No one of this generation will ever look upon Oatlands,—the
ancient dower residence and favorite resort
of the queens of England for so many reigns,—with

its old walls, its moat and fosses, its shady park and
secluded landscape. It was leveled to the ground
during the civil wars, and is only a name now; but on
that autumn evening of 1641 it was yet untouched.
As the queen entered the vast park and drew near the
ancient building, frowning from behind its moat and
with the drawbridge up, the great oaks waved their
variegated arms above the queer cavalcade,—their tops
silvered by the first rays of the rising moon.

Suddenly the trumpet of the Guards rang out; and as
the queen's coach stopped before the drawbridge, the
palace front became alive with faces. Then the drawbridge
was seen to descend, the coaches entered, and
the Guards, followed by the motley rout, clattered over
the bridge.

The queen was assisted from her coach by a tall and
bland-looking gentleman of about sixty, richly clad,—
Lord Harry Jermyn, as I soon discovered, her grand
equerry and confidential secretary.

Lord Jermyn smiled, and uttered a few words.

“It is well, my lord,” her majesty replied. “Have
my palfrey saddled, and be ready to attend me.”

The broad portals of the palace then swallowed the
bevy of fair ladies; the Guards, followed by their nondescript
allies, recrossed the drawbridge, and were drawn
up in the park; and, to return to myself, I remained
for half an hour suffering the pangs of starvation.

Then, in the half-gloom, horses' hoofs were heard
upon the drawbridge, a lady's scarf glimmered in the
moonlight, and the queen appeared, mounted upon her
palfrey, attended by Lord Jermyn, who rode at her side.

The queen rode straight to the officer commanding

her Guards, and gave him an order. He immediately
turned, and ordered,—

“Attention! Form squads of three, passing off
from the right, and patrol the park. If any suspicious
characters are encountered, arrest them, and report
with them here. March!”

At the word, the Guards separated into squads, and
scattered in every direction. I followed with two companions
a by-way winding through the densest portion
of the park; and we were riding on, keeping a good
lookout, when the trampling of hoofs was heard in
front. I was in advance of my companions, and, drawing
rein, ordered, “Halt!”

The tramp drew nearer, and in the moonlight I saw
advancing a body of about one hundred horsemen. I
repeated the order to halt, and drew my pistol, cocking
it. The column halted, and a single horseman rode
forward.

“This is a patrol?” the horseman said, in a commanding
voice.

“Yes. What party is that?”

“Friends of the queen. Permit us to pass.”

“Impossible, sir. I do not know you,” I replied.

“Move aside!” was the response, in a haughty tone;
and, as he spoke, the horseman advanced upon me.

“Halt, or you are dead!” I said, putting my pistol
to his breast; whereat he paused, in some astonishment.

“I am Lord Digby, come hither by the queen's
order,” he said, gruffly.

“I do not know your lordship. You have, doubtless,
your order on your person?”

“I have.” And, drawing his sword with one hand,

he presented with the other the queen's letter. A glance
at it in the bright moonlight terminated every doubt.

“Pass, my lord,” I said, bowing. “Your lordship
will appreciate my course. Our orders are imperative
to stop all persons.”

“Your name, sir?”

“Edmund Cecil, of her majesty's Guards, my lord.”

His lordship simply saluted, and ordered, “Forward!”
as I rode into the wood with my companions.
I had made an enemy of Lord Digby, it seemed; but
then I had carefully obeyed orders; and, careless of
the consequences, I continued to patrol the park with
my two companions.

Nothing suspicious met our eyes, and we were returning
in the direction of the palace, when I saw,
through a vista in the trees, a party of about twenty
horsemen. We rode at once towards them; and one
of my companions demanded who they were. No
reply was made; and I rode in advance, repeating the
question. The group of horsemen grew agitated, and
moved to and fro. The movement unmasked one of
the party, who carried a fat buck across the saddle in
front of him.

“You are poachers, assailing the king's deer!” I
cried. “Halt, and give yourselves up!”

A shot replied. It issued from a sort of blunderbuss
in the hands of one of the party, and the bullet passed
through the rim of my gray beaver. I fired in return,
and drove my horse at the owner of the blunderbuss,
reached his side, closed in with him, and recognized
the burly young man who had insulted Miss Villiers on
the way to Hampton Court.

I had clutched him by the throat, and had nearly
dragged him from the saddle, when he struck me a
heavy blow on the temple, which threw me to the
ground. As I fell, I heard cries and the trample of
hoofs; the poachers fled; and I saw around me a confused
crowd, in the midst of which the bright moonlight
fell upon the flashing eyes and enraged face of
the queen. It was the lioness, ready to protect
her young,—to contend in person, if necessary, with
those bent on robbing her of her children. The
beautiful face was superb in its wrath and defiance:
it towered above me for a moment, and then I lost
consciousness.

I was lying on a couch in the palace when I regained
my senses, and some one was bathing an ugly wound
on my temple, which bled freely. As all traces of it,
save a slight scar, have disappeared for thirty years or
more, I will not weary the reader with a tedious account
of this particular “broken head.” One incident
remains unalterably in my memory, however. A
beautiful face appeared for an instant at the door, and
a low, sweet voice said,—

“Her majesty desires to know if Mr. Cecil's hurt is
dangerous.”

The leech replied in the negative, and the face disappeared;
but a blessed influence remained with me.
It was the voice of Frances Villiers which had uttered
those low words,—the eyes of the beautiful girl which
had sent their healing balm into my heart. I fell
asleep soon afterwards, and dreamed of the face.
From that moment I seldom lost sight of it, waking or
sleeping: in a word, Frances Villiers began to be, what

she very soon became, the sole object of my waking
thoughts and my dreams.

Such had been the events of the night in Oatlands
Park. The lioness had mounted guard over her offspring,
defying her enemies; and the long moonlight
night passed undisturbed.

8. VIII.
WHAT A PIE CONTAINED.

On the next morning I got up, buckled on my
sword, and reported for duty. Harry came up and
hugged me with ardor.

“Here's the hero of the encounter!” he cried, “the
only human being everybody talks of—”

“Even her majesty,” said a grave and courtly voice
behind me; and, turning round, I saw Lord Digby.

His lordship smiled with an air of great courtesy, and
held out his hand.

“I have come to compliment your good soldiership,
Mr. Cecil, in persistently halting me in the park last
night,” he said. “You serve her majesty as she ought
to be served, and I offer you my compliments, sir.”

He bowed, and passed on, leaving me charmed at my
sudden importance! I seemed about to become somebody!
A lucky accident had raised me from obscurity,
and I had even attracted the attention of her
majesty,—who from that moment, as the reader will

perceive, remembered my name and honored me with
her august regard.

The court returned on the same evening to Hampton
Court; but before the cortége left Oatlands an
incident of a very comic nature occurred,—one which
made everybody laugh, and introduced an afterwards
famous personage.

I had just risen from the mess-table in the guard-room,
where I had dined, when shouts of laughter from
the great hall of the palace, where her majesty was also
dining, attracted our attention. So loud and unceremonious
was this laughter that it drew us irresistibly
towards the door. I hastened thither with the rest,
glanced through the half-open door, and at first was
almost unable to believe my eyesight.

Her majesty sat at table with her maids of honor
and attendant lords, and on the broad board, immediately
in front of her plate, knelt a figure scarce two
feet in height,—a manikin clad in full cavalier costume,
with top-boots, a minute sword at his side, with a
plumed beaver in one hand, and the other hand upon
his heart.

Behind the dwarf was seen a huge pie, from which
he had popped up, I soon discovered, at the moment
when the pastry was cut. The queen had started back
in utter amazement, but the dwarf had respectfully
stepped towards her plate. There he had stopped,
fallen upon one knee, and offered his respectful homage
to her majesty, his hand resting devotedly upon his
heart.

As I reached the door and took in this odd spectacle,
the shouts of laughter, defying all ceremony,

ceased. Her majesty turned towards Lord Jermyn, and
said, in high good humor,—

“We owe this surprise to you, my lord.”

Lord Jermyn, with his bland and courtly smile, returned,—

“Your majesty has concluded justly: the comedy
comes after the melodrame. This little gentleman is
one of your majesty's most faithful subjects, and, knowing
your majesty's taste for small people, I have planned
this surprise.”

The queen gazed with suppressed smiles at the dwarf,
and then at Lord Jermyn.

“Thanks, my lord. We accept your gift, and take
into our service—how call you him?”

“Geoffrey Hudson, your majesty.”

The queen extended her hand and drew the small
sword of the manikin from its scabbard. With the
same expression of struggling merriment, she then
touched the dwarf's shoulder with the weapon, and
said,—

“Rise, Sir Geoffrey Hudson: we take you into our
service.”

The manikin rose, and made a bow so profound
that his head nearly touched the table. He was scarce
two feet, as I have said, in height.

“I thank your majesty,” he said, in a small, piping
voice, “and will endeavor to serve her faithfully, however
small my stature.”

A great laugh saluted the words, and the dwarf's
face flushed with anger, as he darted quick glances
around him.

“I recommend caution to gentlemen who would

avoid Sir Geoffrey's sword-thrust!” said Lord Jermyn,
laughing.

And Sir Geoffrey having leaped nimbly to the floor,
where he walked up and down with great gravity and
dignity, the banquet proceeded and terminated.

When her majesty set out on her return to Hampton
Court in the afternoon, I observed that the singular
manikin had been furnished with a seat among the
maids of honor in one of the coaches. The taste for
such strange beings was at that epoch a passion almost:
thus, the young ladies welcomed him warmly, instead
of betraying any aversion; and on the arrival of the
queen at Hampton Court he was supplied with an
apartment, and became formally a member of the royal
household.

He will reappear more than once in the progress of
these memoirs; and an event which I shall relate in its
place will show that, small as this strange human insect
might be, his sting was mortal.

9. IX.
I GO TO ROSEMARY LANE, AND MEET WITH AN UGLY
ADVENTURE.

I was quite charmed with the new course which my
life had now taken, and—thinking continuously of a
young lady with great, calm eyes—grew sedulous of
my personal appearance, and thought of my tailor.

Going to try on my new uniform, I met with two

personages, the one fantastic, the other terrible; and
of these I shall now speak.

The name of the tailor was Joyce, and his shop was
not far from the Tower. The gentlemen of the Guards
had made him the fashion, by a species of caprice:
he had sent to take my measure, on receiving a message
from Harry; and the emissary, when leaving me,
requested with an air of importance that I would come
to his master's shop and try on the uniform “during
the process of its construction,” as nothing caused Mr.
Joyce such pain as to supply gentlemen with ill-fitting
garments.

I hastened therefore, a day or two after the events
just described, to visit the shop of Mr. Joyce, tailor,
in Rosemary Lane. Leaving my horse in the Guardsmen's
stables at Whitehall, I proceeded on foot; and it
was nearly evening when I at last reached Rosemary
Lane, where a tall house toppling forward was pointed
out to me as the shop of the tailor.

He was at work as I entered,—a small, important-looking
man, snipping viciously with a great pair of
shears,—and greeted me with a nonchalant air, very
unusual in a tradesman. Summoning an apprentice, he
gave him an order, and, taking no further notice of me,
strolled to the doorway. His hands were thrust beneath
his coat-skirts, he carried his nose in the air, and only
returned to the lower world, as 'twere, when his apprentice
brought the half-finished coat.

At a sign from him the apprentice approached me.
I removed my coat, and tried on the new garment.
He of the elevated nose then walked around me and
surveyed me from all sides.

“Take up in the waist,” he said to the apprentice.
“More—more—not so much—more—there.”

He then gazed at me from head to foot.

“If you would hold up your head,” he said,—
“there. The coat will fit. Be good enough to write
your name here.”

He laid a large ledger before me. I saw there the
names of Ireton and Cromwell.

“So you are court and parliament tailor indifferently?”
I remarked, laughing.

“Yes,” said Mr. Joyce, carelessly. “I make for
Guardsmen and parliament people, the court and the
Roundhead class, as the new term has it.”

“And your own politics?”

“Roundhead,” said Mr. Joyce, coolly.

He then drew his hands from beneath his coat-skirts,
informed me that my uniform would be sent me in three
days, turned his back on me, and began snipping away
again with his great shears.

Such was my first sight of this personage, who was
to become historic. I went out of his shop, half
angry and half amused. But night began to fall, I was
far from Whitehall, and the narrow and winding street
—a sort of ditch between the tall, toppling houses on
each side—was far from presenting a very cheerful appearance.
There was something decidedly cut-throatish
about it; and footpads then swarmed in London. A
dim lamp beginning to twinkle at long intervals, from
the ropes suspended across the street, only rendered
darkness visible, to use Mr. Milton's fine expression.
So I determined to issue from this suspicious-looking

place as soon as possible, and set forward, walking
rapidly towards the Tower.

I had gone about two hundred paces, when a roystering
party of apprentices apparently, armed with clubs,
came towards me, and, as they passed, one of them
jostled me rudely. As he did so, I looked at him;
our eyes met: it was the burly young man with whom
I had grappled in Oatlands Park.

“Fall on!” he shouted, suddenly. “I know this
popinjay, and you know him! He chased us in the
park,—and he pulled my ear, the fiend seize him!”

As he uttered these words, the speaker rushed upon
me, lifting his club to brain me.

“Hark! tackle to him, Hulet!” cried his friends;
“show him—”

A hoarse growl from my enemy drowned the rest.
He struck straight at me, and his associates closed in
on me at the same moment, reminding me of a pack of
hounds around a hare.

I was not precisely a hare, however, and I had my
rapier to meet the cudgel. With the determination to
give a good account of one or two of my assailants
at least, I lunged at the man called Hulet, and ran him
through the fleshy part of his arm. The wound seemed
to render him furious. He aimed a blow at my head
with his cudgel; I parried; the blow fell on my rapier,
and the treacherous iron snapped within a foot of the
hilt.

A loud cry followed; my assailants closed in upon
me, forced me to the wall, struck at me, keeping
out of reach of my sword-stump,—and I began to
realize that in a few moments I would probably be

knocked down and left senseless or dead on he paving-stones.

I looked hastily around. All the shops were closed.
I was in front of a gloomy-looking house, whose windows
were fast-barred, and against the door of this
house my assailants had now forced me.

“Kill him, Hulet!” rose in a wrathful shout, and
the whole party threw themselves upon me, aiming at
my head with their clubs. I endeavored in vain to
parry this storm of blows; my back was against the
door of the gloomy house; I lunged with my sword-stump,
shouting for the watch without result; then a
heavy blow fell upon my forehead, and I staggered,
dropping the stump of my weapon.

As I did so, the door against which I leaned opened
suddenly, and I felt myself dragged in. As the apprentices
rushed towards it, it was shut in their faces.
I then heard a bar fall, and a chain drawn across the
door. A voice said, “You are safe, sir,”—the voice
of a woman; and, half conscious, half fainting, with a
tremendous buzzing in my ears, I found myself led into
an apartment, where there was an arm-chair: into this
I fell, and the same voice said,—

“God be thanked! They have not killed you, sir!”

10. X.
A TERRIBLE PERSONAGE.

I raised my languid eyes and gazed at the speaker.
She was a girl of about twenty, evidently of the middle
or lower class, but pale,—I might say aristocratic,—and
with large blue eyes, which looked at me with womanly
sweetness and a sort of sad sympathy.

In her face this air of sadness predominated. A deep
melancholy seemed to weigh upon her, banishing all
her smiles and roses.

“You are safe, sir,” she said, in the same low, sweet
voice. “These brawls are growing terribly common. If
I had not heard the noise of staves and the cries, you
might have been murdered.”

“I had indeed scarce a chance of preserving my life,
I think,” I returned; “but, thanks to your courage, I
am scarce hurt.”

“Your head, sir—”

“'Tis nothing; a little faintness.”

“I will prepare a reviving draught.”

And, with deft fingers, the maiden busied herself in
mingling a flagon of wine, sugar, and species, which she
presented to me with the same air of sad sweetness and
grace.

I had half emptied the draught, when a door in rear
of the apartment opened, and a man of tall stature,

carrying a little, curly-haired child upon his shoulder,
came into the room. At sight of me he stopped, almost
started, and seemed about to retire. Before he could
do so, the maiden went forward hastily, and spoke to
him in a low tone. Thereupon he bowed, and came
forward, saying, in a deep, melancholy, and tremulous
voice,—

“You are welcome, sir.”

The man's whole demeanor agreed with the voice.
Never have I seen a human being the victim, apparently,
of such profound and hopeless depression.
There was something sepulchral, almost, in the expression
of his long, thin face, around which fell hair once
black, but now threaded with silver. The eyes were
sunken in their sockets and surrounded with dark
rings. The thin lips wore an expression of utter discouragement.
His dress was simple, and not striking
in any particular,—that of a retired trader,—of dark
and plain stuff. His manner in advancing was almost
painfully hesitating and reluctant.

“My father, sir,” said the maiden, whose sadness
remained unchanged. “I have explained your presence;
and now you must require food, sir. You shall
have the best our poor house affords.”

The maiden proceeded then to busy herself spreading
food upon a small table, and, the man having taken
his seat opposite me, we entered into conversation.
Meanwhile, the child played about the room, turning
everything upside down and laughing gleefully. The
melancholy personage followed all these gambols with
a glance of sorrowful affection, leaning back in his
chair; when all at once I saw him rise quickly and

hasten towards the child, who had half opened the door
of a sort of closet in the wall.

The man dragged him back quickly, and hastily
closed the door. As he did so, I caught what appeared
to be the gleam of some bright steel object, and I know
not what sombre influence this abrupt movement of the
man exerted upon me. His pale face had flushed, his
bosom heaved; and, glancing accidentally at the maiden,
I saw that she was trembling and seemed about to burst
into tears.

What was the meaning of this strange scene? I
vainly asked myself that question. The man offered no
explanation. Resuming his seat, and holding the boy
on his knee now, he gradually grew composed again,
and continued the conversation in which we had been
engaged when he started up. It had related to the
public events of the time, and the struggle going on
between King Charles and his parliament.

“I know not which side you espouse, sir,” said the
man, in his melancholy and tremulous voice, “but I confess
to you that my sympathies are with his majesty.”

“And mine; but would he were well out of this
dangerous conflict!”

“His majesty will not rid himself of his enemies
until force is employed.”

“Force? Ah! you mean the exercise of the royal
right to try and punish. But that is perilous, 'tis said.
The superior strength seems on the other side. Witness
Strafford, on Tower Hill: these men tore him from the
very arms of the king.”

At the name of Strafford my host became as pale as
a corpse.

“Yes,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice.

“If they drank the blood of Strafford, that powerful
and resolute enemy, any man's head in the kingdom
may fall. 'Tis said that never was human being more
resolute than he; and the story is that his eyes opened
and his lips muttered some words even after his head
was severed.”

My host's pallor had become fearful.

“'Tis true,” he murmured. “I—saw him!”

“You were present at his execution?”

“Yes.”

“Sufficiently near to see plainly?”

“Sufficiently near.”

“Then this theory that life continues after decapitation
is well founded?”

“Yes.”

The voice seemed to issue from some sepulchral
vault. The man's eyes were fixed, almost stony.

“Life continues—for hours almost—after—decapitation,”
he said, in a slow, tremulous, monotonous
voice, with a strange absent intonation, as though the
speaker were soliloquizing. “The brain, when the neck
is severed, is like a besieged fortress,—besieged, but
not yet taken; the outposts are carried,—its communications
are cut off,—but life is there still;—the facial
muscles act,—the lips move,—the eyes open,—the volition
is maimed, but not paralyzed,—the teeth snap,—
the brows contract. I have—seen that!”

He stopped, his pale face bathed in cold sweat. At
the same moment the maiden, whose cheeks were as
wan almost as the speaker's, came to him, touched his
shoulder, and said, in a faint voice,—

“There, father; you frighten our guest. Supper is
ready.”

The man uttered a sigh almost as profound as a
groan. The maiden placed before me a small table,
upon which food was arranged, and, looking at the
man, added,—

“Your supper, father.”

He shrank back. “No, Janet,” he murmured; “it
would be disgraceful thus to take advantage of—”
He stopped.

“True,” the maiden said, turning away with a
quivering lip. “I had forgotten, father. I thought
that kindness offered and accepted made us equal.
Yes! yes! pardon me! We have no right to—”

The rest of the sentence was drowned in a sob. I
could scarce swallow a few mouthfuls. The strange
scene banished all desire for food. I rose, and
said,—

“Thanks for your hospitality, sir; and yours, my
kind, good friend. I have regained all my strength
now, and will take my departure, with warm thanks.
You have saved my life, I think, friends; and Heaven
will reward you.”

“God grant it!” came from the man, who rose, his
hand resting tenderly and watchfully on the bright
head of the child.

“Let me look and see if the street is safe before you
go, sir,” said the maiden.

She went to the door, and returned in a moment, informing
me that she saw no one.

I put on my beaver, and, going to the door, said,
“Thanks, friends, again; and now farewell.”

As I spoke, I extended my hand towards the tall
man, but he suddenly drew back.

“I cannot—touch your hand, sir!—As I could not
sup with you—”

I gazed at him in astonishment.

“It would be—disgraceful!”

His tones were broken, and the words seemed forced
from him.

“You do not know who I am,—and yet you came
near knowing.—My dear child opened that terrible
closet!”

“The closet?” I murmured, overcome with astonishment.
“I saw nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Save what appeared to be the gleam of steel.”

The man half thrust me towards the door behind him.
The maiden Janet bent down weeping, her face covered
by her hands.

“That steel was—shall I tell you, sir?”

A sort of convulsion passed over the speaker's face.

“Speak!” I said, almost trembling.

“It was the axe of the executioner! I could not sit
with you at table, or take your hand when you offered
it. I am Gregory Brandon, the headsman of London!”

As he uttered these words in a hoarse and stifled
voice, the headsman groaned. A moment afterwards
he had closed the door: I was alone in the dim-lit
thoroughfare: from behind the door I heard a second
groan, with which mingled the sobs of a woman.

11. XI.
THE CAVALIER IN PURPLE VELVET.

I issued from Rosemary Lane, passed beneath the
shadow of the Tower, which rose grim and lugubrious
above the houses, reached Whitehall, mounted, and
returned towards Hampton Court, plunged in thought,
and overcome by the strange scene which I had
witnessed.

I had been the guest of the headsman! But for this
terrible person's refusal to accept the hand I had offered,
my own would have clasped the bloody palm which
had severed so many necks.

I shuddered almost at the thought,—living over the
whole scene again. The hand resting so tenderly on
the bright curls of the child had struck off the proud
head of Strafford! Within a few feet of me, there in
that mysterious closet, was the frightful instrument
which had so often cut through flesh, blood-vessels, and
vertebræ, from whose keen, impassive edge human
blood had so often been wiped! Seated opposite me
in friendly talk, the talk of guest and host, was the
grim human being who had entered the cell of the
condemned as with the tramp of a fate, bound the firm
or trembling arms, hobbled the feet with the inexorable
cord, and, striking the victim on the shoulder when
the moment came, had muttered, in his hoarse voice,
“You belong to me now!”

All the way to Hampton Court I was thinking of my
singular adventure; but as I came in front of the palace
a figure, visible through one of the tall windows, banished
every other thought. It was the figure of Frances
Villiers, standing erect in the full light of the flambeaux
flooding the apartment. She was clad in rich
brocade, cut low, so that her exquisite neck was clearly
revealed; the beautiful head, with the looped-up pearls,
was bent towards one fair shoulder. She was smiling
with her habitual expression of grave sweetness, and
apparently listening to some one.

I drew rein, and, concealed beneath the shadow of a
great oak, gazed long at the girl who had now become
more dear to me than my life. In a day, an hour, as
it were, I had come to love her with all the power of
my being. She had waked up my slumbering heart,
and henceforward I felt that she, and she alone, was
my queen!

Pardon this gush of romance, friend,—'tis an old
gray-head that indulges in it. Many decades have
flown since then; I am aged, and the bloom of life is
gone; but I remember, and will until I die, the beautiful
figure I gazed on that night through the windows
of the palace of Hampton Court.

I was still watching the exquisite figure, as it moved
to and fro in attendance on the queen, when a sudden
trampling was heard in the great avenue, and a party
of horsemen, three or four in number, came on at
headlong speed.

The incident aroused me from my reverie with something
like a shock. Who were these horsemen who
presumed to ride in so careless a manner towards the

palace? It was lèse-majesté, almost, to pay this small
respect to the queen. Could some partisans of the
parliament design an insult, or a raid on the deer?
Resolved to know, I spurred to meet them, and, interposing
myself in the way, ordered them to halt.

No attention whatever was paid to my order. On
the contrary, I was nearly ridden over. A cavalier,
richly clad in purple velvet slashed with satin, a deep
lace collar, and wearing a gray beaver with a feather,
rushed by me at full speed; the rest followed. They
all clattered to the great gateway, and then a sudden
commotion followed, to ascertain the character of
which I hastened to the palace.

The Guards were hastening to form line, and every
sword was brought to the salute. The cavalier in the
purple velvet habit had leaped to the ground. He was
a person of middle age, with curling hair worn long,
mustache and royale, large, mournful eyes, a long, thin
face, and a very graceful person. There was something
commanding in his air, and I was not long left
in doubt as to his identity. The palace was in commotion;
figures passed and repassed hurriedly in the
queen's apartment, at which I had been gazing; then,
as the cavalier of the velvet habit gave his bridle to
one of his attendant gentlemen, the great staircase
suddenly blazed, the flambeau-bearers descended, and
in the midst of her maids of honor, gathered round
her like a flock of doves, her majesty the queen was
seen to come rapidly down the staircase.

As she came, the melancholy face of the cavalier filled
with smiles. It was the expression of a husband who
loves his wife and returns after long absence. He

hastened towards her; they met in the full light of the
flambeaux, and were clasped in a close embrace.

“Sweet heart!” exclaimed the cavalier, with glowing
cheeks.

“Dear heart!” was the queen's response, in a murmur,
and on the two faces I could see the sunshine of
the heart.

They then drew back, as though to avoid the eyes
of those around them, and passed up the great staircase
between a double line of lords and ladies, her
majesty leaning fondly on her companion's arm. The
light of the flambeaux fell upon them in a sort of
glory. They disappeared, and, as they were lost sight
of, a great shout rose, rolling through the palace,—

“Long live their majesties!”

I had seen King Charles I. at last. He had left his
escort on the road from Scotland, mounted his horse
like a common cavalier, and, attended by only a few
of his lords, had ridden straight to Hampton Court to
see Queen Mary.

12. XII.
THE LITTLE QUEEN.

Scandal said that their majesties had not been
always so devoted, or at least that furious storms had
swept the matrimonial skies.

From London, the young king, just married by
proxy, had hastened to Dover to meet the little queen

of sixteen; caught her in his arms when she offered to
kneel; and, in reply to her address, “Sire, I am come
into this your majesty's country to be at your command,”
exclaimed, “You have not fallen into the
hands of enemies and strangers, and I will be no longer
master myself than while I am servant to you.” And
then what the French call enfantillages followed. The
king, noticing that her head reached to his shoulder,
glanced at her feet to ascertain if her height were not
due to her high-heeled shoes. Whereupon the little
queen drew aside her skirt, exhibited her small feet
with all the coquetterie of a French girl, and said,
“Sire, I stand on my own feet; I have no help from
art: thus high am I, neither higher nor lower!”

This joy and laughter of the little daughter of the
famous Henry of Navarre was truly a strange contrast
to her after-woes. But then all was bright and smiling.
The fatal conflicts of the future threw no shadows before.
The youthful pair were greeted by great crowds upon
the Thames, and fêted everywhere; and no raven
croaked from the hollow tree to interrupt the joy,
romance, and sunshine of their nuptials.

I have seen the portrait of Queen Henrietta at this
period, painted by Vandyke, and the face and form
are exquisite. In the picture she has a fair complexion,
fine dark eyes, and hair of a chestnut color. The
slight and delicate figure is clad in a dress of white
satin, with a tightly-fitting bodice decorated with pink
ribbon; the sleeves full, with ruffles; the arms encircled
by bracelets. Around her neck she wears a fine
pearl necklace; a red ribbon twisted with pearls is
woven amid her glossy hair behind the head. 'Tis a

gracious, smiling maiden, full of youth and joy, on
whose forehead grief has never cast its shadow.

The shadow was approaching: private infelicities
preceded the public; the fond lovers were to come to
angry words, and criminations and recriminations.

All arose from the Catholic attendants of the queen,
who fostered in every manner the religious differences
between the pair, and went so far as openly to defy
the king. Under this he was restive; and one morning
his wrath burst forth. He came to the queen's
apartments at Whitehall, and found the French ladies
curveting and dancing in the presence of her majesty.
The scene shocked his ideas of dignity and ceremony:
he took the hand of the queen and conducted her to
his own apartment, where he locked her majesty in;
then he sent word by Lord Conway to the French
ladies to leave Whitehall and repair to Somerset House,
where they were to await his pleasure. Thereupon
rose a grand lament and the din of angry female
voices. Loud cries arose; defiant words were heard,—
in the midst of which a guard appeared, and with little
ceremony caused them to vacate the apartment, the
door of which was inexorably locked behind them.

A sad scene ensued between their majesties thereupon.
The queen ran to the window to bid her dear
French attendants farewell. The king drew her back,
saying, “Be satisfied; it must be so.” The queen
broke from him and rushed to the window, the panes
of which she struck so violently with her clenched
hands that the glass flew to pieces and crashed down
into the court. The king succeeded at last in drawing
her majesty away from the window,—the shocking

scene ended,—and the king wrote his grace the Duke
of Buckingham, “I command you to send all the
French away to-morrow out of the town,—if you can, by
fair means, but stick not long in disputing; otherwise
force them away, driving them away like so many wild
beasts, until you have shipped them, and so the devil
go with them.”

The command was obeyed: in the midst of a great
mob, hooting at and cursing the Frenchwomen, the
ladies were ejected from Somerset House. They retreated,
raging, scolding, gesticulating, and were sent
out of the country. The king had conquered.

There were other painful scenes. The king himself
related how, after retiring to bed with her majesty one
night, they had a passionate altercation as to the appointment
of the queen's revenue-officers. Read the
narrative: 'tis painful. The king, falling into a rage,
bade her majesty “remember to whom she spoke!”
To which she replied, with passionate weeping, that
“she was not of such base quality as to be used so!”
There is a long distance, you see, reader, between this
state of things and the scene I witnessed at Hampton
Court. In the one case it is husband and wife squabbling
and scolding like Jack and Gill fallen out; in
the other it is the fond pair embracing each other,
with “Dear heart!” “Sweet heart!” heard between
their kisses!

We old people have seen that often on our journey
through life! Alas! men and women grow angry,
are unjust and unkind, often; but happy are the married
pairs who truly love and cherish each other. The
sunshine comes after the storm; all clouds disappear;

and even after that scene in which their majesties
struggled at the broken window in Whitehall, 'tis said
that the king and queen made friends speedily and
“were very jocund together!”

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.”

14. XIV.
I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. CROMWELL.

I was so much astonished at this sudden revelation
of the identity of my traveling-companion, that I gazed
at him in stupid silence.

Thereupon the cordial smile returned to his fine
face, and he said,—

“We have conversed under a mask, as 'twere, sir;
and I take no umbrage at the opinions you have expressed
of a certain Mr. Hampden. I confess, even,
that the maxim noscitur a sociis bears with some justice
upon him, and perhaps justifies your views of him. But
now let us abandon these mooted subjects. We differ
in political views, but I dare to say that you are as true
and honest an English gentleman as any. I would fain
claim for myself the same character: I am called hospitable
at least, and there is my house through the oaks.
Will it please you, sir—see, the sun has set—to spend
the night with me?”

I refused, and then accepted. There was something
so gracious and noble in my companion's utterances
that I could not resist.

“Thanks, Mr. Hampden,” I said. “I accept your
hospitality as cordially as you offer it. I am named
Edmund Cecil,—a poor guardsman of the queen.”

“Of the Cecils of Warwickshire?”

“The same.”

“I know your father well, and esteem him highly,
Mr. Cecil. But here is my poor house.”

We entered a great park, and just at dusk came in
front of a large and handsome manor-house, built in
the Elizabethan style, and indicating wealth and consideration
in its proprietor.

In the great drawing-room I was presented to Mr.
Hampden's charming household; and in the faces which
greeted me with smiles, as in all the appointments of
the mansion, I observed that indefinable grace and distinction
which never deceives.

I had just returned the hospitable greetings of the
amiable family, when there came into the apartment a
robust personage, clad in a dark cloth suit entirely
without decoration, heavy boots covered with dust, and
an old slouch hat discolored by sun and rain. This
personage, despite the negligence of his attire, had yet
something lofty and imposing in the carriage of his
person: he advanced with an air of almost haughty
independence,—absorbed, it would seem from the absent
expression of his large eyes, in thoughts wholly
disconnected from his surroundings.

“The terrible Mr. Cromwell!” said my host, in a
low tone, smiling as he spoke. And I was presented
to the personage who so completely justified afterwards
the adjective now applied to him in jest.

Mr. Cromwell saluted me in an absent manner, and
then removed his hat, which he seemed to have forgotten.
I soon learned that he had just arrived from
Huntingdon, riding out of his way, to accompany Mr.
Hampden, his cousin, to London; and the evening
passed in desultory conversation. What chiefly impressed

me in this afterwards celebrated man was his
rough earnestness, the pith and force of his utterances,
which seemed to go right to the core of every subject,
and the occasional employment of scriptural names
and phrases in his conversation. I never before heard
Ahab, Baal, Og, and other Biblical personages alluded
to with such frequency or apparent gusto. And Mr.
Cromwell never smiled; he was profoundly in earnest,
and all his utterances were weighty. Even when
relating how an ape had snatched him from his cradle,
when an infant, and borne him, chattering, to the roof
of his father's house, and how he had been rescued
from drowning, when he had already sunk twice, and
his nose and mouth were filled with water, he did not
indulge in the faintest approach to a smile, but garnished
those narratives, like the rest of his discourse,
with names and allusions from the Old Testament
Scriptures.

This culminated when at bedtime he offered up a
prayer. It was an extraordinary prayer, deeply earnest
and devout; I might almost say passionate in its evident
outpouring from his inmost heart; but here too
were the inevitable Old Testament names and references.
When Mr. Cromwell rose from his knees, after
his long and fervent prayer, his eyes were as dreamy as
though fixed upon another world: he scarcely returned
the addresses of the family, and retired from the room
with the absent air of one who is walking in his sleep.

Such was the appearance of this extraordinary person
on that evening. He was commonplace; he became
terrible. He wore plain cloth; he came to wear royal
velvet. He was then Mr. Cromwell, unknown save as

a country member; he was to become known throughout
the world as the slayer of King Charles I., the Lord
Protector of England, and one of the greatest sovereigns
that ever sat upon the English throne.

On the next morning I bade Mr. Hampden and his
excellent household farewell, and, riding rapidly to
make up for lost time, arrived late in the evening at
Hampton Court.

15. XV.
A COMBAT BY MOONLIGHT.

As I dismounted in the court-yard of the palace,
Harry came out and hugged me after the French
fashion introduced by the followers of her majesty.

“Here's a laggard!” cried Harry. “What was the
attraction at Woodstock, Ned? Did you lose yourself
in the labyrinth built to hide Fair Rosamond?”

“I don't believe there is any labyrinth, Harry; and
I've been to Cecil Court.”

I proceeded to give my brother news of home, and
to describe my meeting with Mr. Hampden; then,
seeing signs of unwonted activity in the palace, I asked
their meaning.

“His majesty is to make his royal entry into London
to-morrow. You are just in time, Ned. We're
all going,—Guards, courtiers, maids of honor, dwarfs,
and all!”

“Dwarfs?”

“I mean that his worship Sir Geoffrey Hudson, now
become a great favorite with her majesty, will grace the
occasion with his presence, no less than the largest of
us. And do you know, Ned, this little manikin and
mere hop-o'-my-thumb is a decided character?”

“I should think as much.”

“I mean that he is no mere plaything, weak in head
as in body, like the rest of his pigmy species, but a man
in feeling, and in brain too,—grave, serious, and courageous.
His deformity is a source of deep mortification
to him; and when the maids of honor caress him
lap-dog fashion, he looks at them as though he would
bite them, uttering a singular sort of snarl, and plainly
resents their treatment of him as though he were a
plaything.”

“And towards the men?”

“He is stern and bitter. 'Tis the fashion to tease
him; and that sallow-faced Coftangry of the Guards
takes the lead. Hark! there they are in the guard-room
now. I hear the piping voice of the dwarf and
the gibing tones of Coftangry. Let us go see!”

We entered the guard-room, where a singular spectacle
presented itself. Some young noblemen of the
Guards—for half the company were lords—were standing
in a circle around some object upon the floor,
which I made out on a nearer approach to be the figure
of the dwarf. The manikin, who was less than two
feet in height, wore a very rich costume,—velvet cloak,
plumed beaver, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes
with large rosettes. At his side hung a miniature dress
sword, about the length of a knitting-needle; and his

face flamed with anger, as he fixed his eyes spitefully
upon a tall, sallow-faced young gentleman with a
sneering expression of countenance, who was teasing
the pigmy for the general amusement.

“Come, come, your knightship,” said Coftangry,
with a sneer; “dance a galliard for our entertainment.
Hop, hop, Sir Hop-o'-my-thumb!”

“Were I a lady, sir,” said the dwarf, in his thin,
piping voice, “I know what I never should do.”

“What is that, pray?”

“I should never hop in a galliard with such a tallow-faced
anatomy as yourself!”

The retort raised a loud laugh. Coftangry was immensely
unpopular, and the dwarf had touched his
tender point,—his lath-like body and sallow complexion.

“'Twas but yesterday,” piped the dwarf, “that I
overheard two of her majesty's maids of honor conversing.
One said, `Who is this Coftangry, and how
do such people get to court?' `I know not,' returned
the other, `unless they are dug up and brought as
curiosities.”'

A second laugh came from the group, and Coftangry
grew furious.

“If you were not a wretched pigmy,” he cried,
losing his self-possession and giving way to anger, “I
would chastise you upon the spot!”

The dwarf bounded with rage.

“Chastise me? You dare not attempt it! I wear a
sword!” he shrilled.

“Ha, ha!” came from Coftangry, in forced merriment;
“a skewer, you would say!”

The dwarf whipped out his weapon, and the circle
suddenly widened.

“No fighting in the palace, gentlemen!” cried one
of the young nobleman, with mock earnestness.

“True,” the dwarf growled, returning his sword to
its scabbard; “but this tallow-face has gibed at me,
and I return his insult—thus!”

With incredible agility, the pigmy leaped upon a
chair, thence to the long table near, and, before Coftangry
divined his intention, bestowed a violent slap
upon the Guardsman's face. It was delivered with all
the energy of hatred, and rang through the apartment.
Coftangry uttered a cry of rage.

“Woe to you, cur!” he shouted; and he was about
to smite the erect and defiant dwarf to the earth, when
a hand was laid on his shoulder, and Harry's voice
said,—

“You don't mean to strike that little man, I hope,
sir? You will exterminate him!”

“Who are you?” growled Coftangry, wheeling
round.

“My name is Cecil, sir,” was the reply.

“Well, I counsel you, Mr. Cecil, to attend to your
own affairs!”

Harry flushed red, and went close to Coftangry.

“I make this my affair, sir,” he said, “since 'tis
always the business of a gentleman to protect the weak
from outrage.”

“You shall answer for this instrusion!”

“I am quite willing to do so, sir,” said Harry, in a
low tone. “The moon is shining; there is the park;
five minutes' walk will take us out of view.”

Coftangry had, apparently, not expected a proposition
so sudden and direct. He was silent for a moment,
and became very pale, but he saw that all eyes were
fixed upon him. The consequence was that fifteen
minutes afterwards Harry and himself were standing
opposite each other, sword in hand, in a remote
portion of the park, a number of the Guardsmen
having accompanied the adversaries to witness the
encounter.

Such affairs were at that time of every-day occurrence,
and seldom resulted in more than a few scratches,
when the friends of the parties would declare that
honor was satisfied.

Such was the result on this occasion. It was a singular
encounter,—a very burlesque. Harry lunged,
expecting his opponent to parry. He did nothing of
the sort, and Harry ran his sword-hand on Coftangry's
point, wounding himself.

“'Tis plain you're no swordsman, sir; I will therefore
disarm without hurting you,” said my brother.

As he spoke, Coftangry's rapier flew twenty paces,
and Harry coolly returned his sword to its scabbard.

“Take your life, sir,” he said; “I have no use for
it. Good-evening, sir.”

And, winding a handkerchief around his bleeding
hand, he left the spot, accompanied by his friends.

Such was the termination of the impromptu duel;
beginning and ending in a few minutes, under the
moonlight in Hampton Court park. I have spoken
of it because it was the preface to a duel with more
deadly results; but that incident will be narrated in its
place.

I pass to the king's entry into London now, and to
the great and unfortunate events which marked the few
succeeding days.

16. XVI.
SIR THEODORE MAYHERNE.

The royal entry into London was an imposing pageant.
The king rode in front on horseback, reining
in his spirited charger, decorated with rich housings;
and on his left hand rode the Prince of Wales, afterwards
his majesty Charles II., at that time a handsome
boy of eleven.

Behind the king came the queen, in her state-coach
drawn by six white horses, their heads and backs surmounted
by nodding plumes. And in the royal coach
also rode the children of her majesty, bright-faced
little ones, looking with ardent interest upon the crowd.
Then came the coaches, with the royal suite; behind, the
Guards; last of all a vast multitude following, crowding
close, and shouting, “God save the king!”

'Tis impossible to recall this scene, when that cry
was heard for the last time, without sadness and a
sinking of the heart. Alas! the dark hours were coming,
the shadow was even then descending upon those
human beings.

The procession reached Whitehall and disappeared;
then the crowd dispersed.

I was just unbuckling my sword, when Harry, who
had entered the guard-room of the palace a moment
before me, said,—

“This hand of mine hurts confoundedly, Ned!
Serves me right for fighting with that awkward cub
Coftangry! It is swelling. I wish you would go ask
my friend Sir Theodore Mayherne to come look at it.”

“Sir Theodore Mayherne, Harry? Who is he?”

“Their majesties' household physician, and a great
friend of mine. He lives in Gray's Inn Lane, and is
a perfect wolf, but an excellent surgeon and gentleman.”

I set off at once to find the wolf, and soon reached
Gray's Inn Lane, where I was directed to a handsome
house and admitted by a servant in black. A moment
afterwards, a portly personage, with long gray hair flying
about his face, and the air of a lion interrupted in
his repast, entered the room like a hurricane.

“Your pleasure, sir!” thundered the lion, wolf, or
hurricane,—whichever the reader pleases.

“Sir Theodore Mayherne, I believe, sir?”

“An absurd question! Who else could I be?”

I smiled. “You might be a thunder-storm! if that
response be not too unceremonious, Sir Theodore.”

“Unceremonious? Not a bit! I hate ceremony!
A thunder-storm? Ha! ha!” And the portly person
shook. “That is the way I like people to talk to me,”
he added: “it's natural, expresses the thought. I'm sick
of mincing and cant, and bowing and scraping, and
French ways! What's your business?”

I saw that I had to do with an original who liked
coming to the point.

“Harry Cecil, of the queen's guards, has hurt his
hand in a duel, and wishes you to come look at it.”

“Harry Cecil!—a crack-brained jackanapes! What
the devil have I to do with Harry Cecil? 'Tis as much
as I can do to patch up her majesty's nerves, broken
down by her popish fasts and vigils and penances
and all the rest of their devil's inventions!”

I rose and bowed. “Thanks, Sir Theodore. I will
tell Harry you are coming, then.” The thunder-storm
looked at me with a lurking smile. “He is at Whitehall,”
I added.

“Well, I'll come! These scatterbrains, with their
roystering and fighting, and drinking and swearing,—
mark my words, sir, the canting rascals of parliament
will clip their love-locks! Harry Cecil is one of the
worst of them,—your brother, from the likeness, no
doubt,—a pestilent rascal!” And, turning his back
upon me abruptly, Sir Theodore Mayherne, physician
to their majesties, disappeared from the apartment.

17. XVII.
I VISIT A GENTLEMAN AFTERWARDS FAMOUS THROUGHOUT
THE WORLD.

I left the house of the original character with whom
I had thus become acquainted, and was walking along
Gray's Inn Lane on my way back to Whitehall, when
there came forth from a handsome house a tall and

noble-looking gentleman, in whom I recognized at once
my host of Buckinghamshire, Mr. Hampden.

“Give you good-day, Mr. Cecil,” he said, grasping
my hand with cordial regard: “it seems our fate to
encounter each other. What brings you to Gray's Inn
Lane, where I reside, on this chill morning?”

I explained my mission, and Mr. Hampden shook
his head.

“You young gentlemen are too fond of that sword-amusement,
I fear,” he said; “but 'tis, unfortunately,
out of my power to preach at length on this vice. I
once practiced it.”

“Is it possible?” I said, smiling; “the grave and
serious Mr. Hampden, of the parliament?”

“He was once as bad as the worst, Mr. Cecil! Let
us be honest! And I think even my good cousin Cromwell
must plead guilty to the same charge.”

“Mr. Cromwell! that enthusiast in matters of religion!”

“Was in his youth a roystering blade, fond of
catches at midnight and the foam of flagons! Thus
you see, Mr. Cecil, neither the grave Mr. Hampden
nor the pious Mr. Cromwell can with a very good
grace preach peace and order to the young gentlemen
of this generation! I know but one person who
seems to me immaculate,—a young man whose genius
will render his name more famous than all others of
his epoch. He lives in Aldersgate Street, and I am
going to visit him. Will it please you to accompany
me?”

“With great pleasure,” I said; and ten minutes'
walk brought us to a small house, set in a contracted

garden. From within the house was heard the sound
of an organ.

“Our friend is playing upon his organ: 'tis his
favorite entertainment,” said my companion. “I
will use no ceremony, and enter, since he would never
hear our knocking.”

He opened the door as he spoke, and led the way to
an apartment on the right of the entrance. It was
poorly, almost meanly, furnished; in one corner stood
a small erect organ with green hangings above, and at
this organ sat a man of about thirty, playing a devotional
piece, in which he was so absorbed as not to
notice our entrance.

Mr. Hampden approached and touched him on the
shoulder. He turned his head, and I never saw a face
of more delicate beauty. The eyes were large and
thoughtful; the lips thin, with an expression of grave
austerity; the cheeks rosy, the high forehead as fair as
a woman's, and around this beautiful countenance fell
long fair hair, parted in the middle and reaching to the
shoulders.

He rose, and bowed with grave courtesy, taking Mr.
Hampden's offered hand.

“I have brought my friend Mr. Cecil to see you,
Mr. Milton,” said my companion.

Mr. Milton repeated his salute.

“Of her majesty's Guards, I believe, sir,” he said,
glancing at my uniform. “I witnessed the royal
entry to-day,—a very imposing spectacle.”

“You?” said Mr. Hampden. “Then wonders will
never cease. I had supposed you safe at home here,
composing your poems or treatises, Mr. Milton. What

fancy now possesses you, and when will you carry out
your design of writing your epic on paradise lost by
our first parents?”

Mr. Milton shook his head somewhat sadly.

“Never, I fear,” he replied.

“Are you afraid that our father Adam would not
support you in your favorite theory?”

“What is that, Mr. Hampden?”

“Polygamy—that 'tis allowed in the Scriptures.”

“Do you deny that it is therein taught? The proof
is very easy,” said Mr. Milton, quietly.

“And so you, Mr. Milton, I, and our friend Mr.
Cecil have, each and all of us, the right to espouse two,
or ten, or twenty wives, if we fancy?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Milton; and he was going to open
an Old Testament Scriptures, when his friend stopped
him, smiling.

“I fear you will corrupt our consciences, my worthy
sir. We are not of the line of the patriarchs. Let us
leave polygamy and return to letters. You are engaged
in composing something other than political, I
trust. 'Tis so wearisome, that species of discussion.
Ah! here are some sheets. Is it permitted me to look
at them?”

Mr. Milton made a movement with his hand.

“'Tis only some rhymes of the woods and fields,”
he said. “I please myself in the din of this great city
by thus returning to my youth in fancy.”

Mr. Hampden had taken up the written sheets, and
now read aloud in his deep and musical voice a truly
exquisite passage from the afterwards celebrated poem
styled “L'Allegro,” a name no doubt bestowed upon

it in consequence of Mr. Milton's fondness for the
Italian tongue. The reader was plainly an expert in
the difficult art of managing the human voice. A
charming sweetness marked his intonation, and the
glow upon his cheeks indicated the admiration with
which the lines of the poet—yet unknown—inspired
him.

The reading ended, and I, at least, was silent from
admiration. I think Mr. Hampden was pleased with
this expression of my face; for he said to me,—

“Is not that pure music, sir?”

He turned, as he spoke, to Mr. Milton, and said, in
his deep rich voice,—

“'Tis truly like a breath from the fields of England,
Mr. Milton, and the melody to my ear is wonderful.
But

does injustice to greater men, I think,—to Mr. Beaumont,
Mr. Fletcher, and rare Ben Jonson.”

“Such, I know, is the common opinion, Mr. Hampden,”
said the other; “but I cannot share it. The
brain that originated `The Tempest' and conceived
the wonderful tragedy of `Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,'
is, to my thinking, the greatest in our English
letters. Others are tall; Shakespeare is a giant, methinks.
I would be content, wellnigh, to have reached
gray hairs could I have seen and talked with him.”

I said with a smile, when my host thus spoke,—

“I think my father would exchange ages with you
upon that understanding, Mr. Milton. We live near
Startford-on-Avon, and Mr. Shakspeare was a good

friend of my father when the latter was young. He
often came to Cecil Court, as our house is named, and
was excellent company, and full of smiles and sweetness,
I'm told. You cannot know him now, since he
is long dead; but if you will visit us you shall sit in
the chair he was accustomed to use, drink from his
favorite cup, and see his name which he wrote with
his own hand on a window-pane.”

“That would please me greatly, sir; but I am a
prisoner here, I fear. I teach children for bread, and
the birds have flown but recently. You must go?”
for I had risen some moments before. “Thanks for
your visit, Mr. Cecil,” said Mr. Milton; and, conducting
me to the door, he made me a bow of much
grace, in which he was imitated by Mr. Hampden,
who remained.

Such was my first interview with the afterwards
famous author of “Paradise Lost,” a poem so grand
that its fame must extend throughout the world. I
afterwards read with wonder those august verses, and
thought of the long-haired young author. His “Comus”
and “L'Allegro” and “Il Penseroso” pleased
me even more. The latter, published a few years afterwards,
have a singular charm for me. In reading them,
even now, a delightful freshness exhales from them; I
fall to dreaming under the influence of that exquisite
music, and forget the bitterness of the political partisan
in my admiration of the sublimest of the English poets.

18. XVIII.
A MOONLIGHT COLLOQUY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED IT.

I returned to Whitehall; and on the same night
occurred an incident which revealed to me the secret
springs of one of those events which overturn monarchies.

It was nearly midnight, and I was passing beneath
the trees of St. James's Park, near the palace, when
the figures of two persons approached, and by the
bright moonlight I could see that they were in animated
conversation.

“I swear to your majesty that I speak upon sure
information!” said the voice of Lord Digby. I recognized
it without difficulty, though the speaker was
greatly moved.

“'Tis impossible!” replied the voice of the king,
which was equally unmistakable. “Impeach the queen?
Wherefore? 'Twould be too infamous and absurd,
Digby!”

“Infamous? Yes, your majesty! But absurd?”

“Have they aught against her?”

The other was silent.

“Speak!” the king said. “Whereon can impeachment
of her majesty rest?”

“Will your majesty permit me to speak without
ceremony?”

“Yes; speak plainly! You rack me, Digby! My

heart sinks. Speak! How and why should these people
impeach my wife?”

“Her majesty is a papist, sire.”

“Content!—but that is naught. What more?”

“She is striving to convert her husband!”

“'Tis false! She has never attempted any such
thing!”

“They profess to believe it, no less, your majesty.”

“They will profess to believe anything to my prejudice
or hers! Aught more?”

“They declare that your alleged attacks on the
privileges of parliament are in consequence of her
majesty's arguments, and from the fact that you cannot
resist her appeals.”

“False! false! All false, Digby! Woe to these
slanderers!”

“They are powerful, your majesty.”

“I will show them that I too am powerful.”

“Beware, sire! Let an humble subject speak plainly.
They will crush you!”

“Crush me? 'Tis well, Digby. I will save them
the trouble by first crushing them!”

I had drawn aside to permit the king and his companion
to pass. Lost in the shadow, they did not perceive
me; but I could see the king's expression of wrath,
and Digby's unconcealed joy, as the moonlight fell
upon their faces.

“I will strike at the leaders in this infamous scheme!”
exclaimed the king. “I have the names here in my
heart!” He struck his breast as he spoke. “From
this moment I swear to strike them without mercy!”

As the king spoke, he passed beyond hearing, and a

moment afterwards the two figures had disappeared in
the palace.[1]

Shall I relate what followed the incident in St. James's
Park? This is not a history of the reign of King
Charles I.; I would not repeat what is contained in the
great histories,—above all, would not discuss the squabbles
of king and parliament. But a few words are
necessary here, to explain after-events. It was King
Charles who defied his enemies first, and in a manner
most weak and imprudent.

In brief words, his majesty sent one of his household
to prefer a charge of treason against five prominent
members of the parliament. On the next day he demanded
the persons of the five; and, the parliament
refusing to surrender them, the king proceeded at the
head of an armed guard to arrest them in person.

It is said that the gods make lunatics of those whom
they are going to destroy. His majesty was acting
illegally, he was also acting madly. Time never was
when a king of England was an irresponsible despot,
unchecked by any law and competent to seize upon
the persons of its representatives. As yet, however,
respect for the kingly authority was great; and it was
thought best by the parliament that the five members
should escape. Time was given them for this by the
intrigues of Lady Carlisle, the black-eyed Venus whom
I had seen at Hampton Court. The king had just left

Whitehall, and the queen in great agitation sat, watch
in hand, with her eyes on the dial. The king had
indicated an hour when—should no “ill news” come
from him—all would be well; and, the hour having
arrived, the queen exclaimed to Lady Carlisle,—

“Rejoice with me, for at this hour the king is, as I
have reason to hope, master of his realm; for Pym and
his confederates are arrested before now!”

The words are said to have caused Lady Carlisle to
give a great start. She was a friend, secretly, of the
enemies of the king. She invented some pretext now
to leave the queen's apartment; hastened out, sent a
messenger to warn the threatened members, and, owing
to delay in the movements of the king, the messenger
arrived in time.

When his majesty entered the Parliament House, the
birds had thus flown. A violent scene ensued. Loud
cries of “Privilege! privilege!” rang through the hall.
The Speaker knelt to his majesty, but refused to pledge
himself for the delivery of the accused, and the king
retired, discomfited.

With this crow-bar King Charles I. overturned his
throne. London suddenly blazed with rage at the
attempted arrests. Great crowds escorted the members
of parliament to the hall; the king retired ingloriously
to Hampton Court, and from thence sent word that
he would abandon the prosecution of the members and
respect parliamentary privileges!

Oh, inglorious! He was brave, and not deficient in
intelligence,—what made him thus act with such folly
and timidity? 'Twas not conviction of having acted
wrongfully: his majesty believed in his kingly prerogative

always. Was it the spirit of intrigue, the
intent to temporize?

A great sovereign, observant of the right, would
never have begun that bad business. A resolute despot
would have marched upon the malcontents and crushed
them then and there. King Charles did neither. He
struck the tiger with his whip, and, when the animal
turned snarling, retreated before him. From that moment
he was doomed, and was king only in name.

This occurred wellnigh half a century since. King
and parliament are gone. I, an exile, am only musing
and thinking, “How strange was all that!”

The royal family had all gone back to Hampton
Court; and the queen was in despair, it is said, when
she learned that her indiscretion had prevented the
arrest of the members. Madame de Motteville, whom
I knew well afterwards,—her majesty's intimate friend,
—told me of the meeting of Charles and his queen
after the attempted arrest. The queen threw herself
into the king's arms, and with passionate tears upbraided
herself for her fault. In narrating the scene to Madame
de Motteville, she stopped, choked with tears, and
sobbed out praises of her husband's unaltered tenderness.
“Never did he treat me with less kindness,”
she faltered out, “than before it happened, though I
had ruined him.”

Events from this time rushed onward. It soon came
to be whispered through the palace that her majesty
was going on a visit to Holland, with the design of
conducting the princess-royal, then a child, to her
child-spouse the Prince of Orange.

The parliament had issued a circular to the nobility,

calling on them to arm and prevent the king from
withdrawing farther than Hampton Court. Strange
to say, however, they scarcely opposed the projected
journey of the queen to Holland.

Before the queen's departure a singular event occurred,
and this event I shall now relate.

19. XIX.
THE STING OF AN INSECT.

I was posted one night on guard in the anteroom
to the queen's apartments, and, having been up very
late on the preceding night, leaned against the doorway,
half dozing.

From this condition I was aroused by a light footfall
approaching along the corridor; and a moment afterwards
the dwarf, Sir Geoffrey Hudson, made his appearance,
laboring under great excitement.

My brother's espousal of his cause had made him the
friend of the whole Cecil family; and, seeing me, he
now stopped, and began to speak in a piping voice,
which indicated both agitation and anger.

“I have discovered who did all the mischief,” he
squeaked.

“What mischief?” I asked.

“Warning the parliament people that his majesty
was coming to arrest them.”

“Ah? Tell me.”

The dwarf looked guardedly around. Then he made

signs that I should sit down on a bench under one of
the windows. I did so; and then the manikin mounted
with surprising agility to the sill of the window, where
his position enabled him to lean down close to my
ear.

“Coftangry!” he whispered.

“Is it possible? One of the queen's guardsmen!
What object—”

“He was the tool only.”

“The tool of whom?”

“My lady Carlisle.”

I stared at the small speaker. “It is not possible!”
I said.

“I know it!” was the venomous ejaculation. “Coftangry
is mad about her ladyship. Her eyes have turned
his head. I saw them together, whispering hurriedly
in one of the corridors, that day his majesty went to
the parliament. I saw Coftangry hasten out,—lost sight
of him,—but this evening discovered all.”

“In what manner?”

“I was lying beneath a couch in the antechamber to
the blue-room. Her ladyship came in with Coftangry,
and sat down on the couch. I heard every word they
said; he is mad about her; and she made him betray
the queen!”

It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of the
speaker. He was passionately in earnest; his eyes
blazed, and his small form trembled with excitement.

“An ugly affair!” I said; “and I will take prompt
action in the matter. The queen's guardsmen shall
not rest under the imputation of harboring a spy and
traitor in their ranks.”

“No,” said the dwarf; “you must promise me to
leave the affair in my hands.”

“In your hands?”

“Yes. I exact that, Mr. Cecil,—for the moment, at
least.”

“What cours have you determined upon?”

“That is my affair.”

“I cannot make you any promise,” I said. “This
concerns her majesty.”

The dwarf knit his brows, and reflected for a moment.
At last he said,—

“When were you posted here, Mr. Cecil?”

“An hour and a half ago. But why do you ask?”

“What is the length of your watch?”

“Two hours. But how can that interest you?”

“It interests me greatly,” was the cool reply of the
dwarf. “And, as I have now told you all, Mr. Cecil,
I will bid you good-evening.”

As he uttered the words, he sprang to the floor with
his habitual agility, made me a bow full of grave courtesy,
and then hurried off in the direction of the
ground-floor of the palace. I looked after him in some
astonishment, unable to make out his design, and reflecting
upon the tenor of his statement.

So the subtle and brilliant glances of my lady Carlisle
had made Coftangry a traitor! Lured on by her
caressing eyes and ruby lips, he had sold faith and
honor! I was still meditating on this piteous exhibition
of a man's weakness, when footsteps approached.
It was the new guard coming to relieve me; and I
was soon free to return to the guard-room.

As I descended and approached the door, I heard a

loud altercation. I hastened on, entered the guard-room,
and saw Coftangry and the dwarf facing each
other, both raging.

“You are a traitor! Are you a coward too?”
came in piping tones, full of wrath, from Hudson.

“Is this pigmy to continue thus to insult the queen's
guardsmen?” exclaimed Coftangry.

“This pigmy,” hissed the dwarf, “is as well-born
as you are!—is, moreover, a belted knight, which you
are not, and defies you to single combat!”

The words raised a storm in the guard-room; but
a large majority sided with the dwarf.

“He is right!” cried one. “Beware how you refuse
him, Coftangry. You will dishonor her majesty,
who has knighted him.”

The tumult continued for fifteen minutes longer;
then everything grew quiet. The dwarf had carried
his point. On the next morning at daylight, Coftangry
was to meet him in a secluded part of the park,
each on horseback with pistols, in order to equalize
the combatants.

I was a witness of the singular scene which duly followed
this arrangement.

Just as the first streak of dawn was seen above the
great oaks of the Hampton Court park, Coftangry
and Sir Geoffrey Hudson, his diminutive opponent,
made their appearance on horseback at the retired spot
selected for the encounter. Each was accompanied by
one friend; and a number of the Guardsmen who had
followed them formed a group near.

The countenance of Coftangry wore a satirical and
mocking expression, which, added to his sallow complexion,

did not render him a very attractive spectacle.
He seemed to regard the whole affair as an “excellent
jest,” and, drawing his cloak around him, took his
place with an air of mingled amusement and disdain.

The dwarf was cool and determined. His eyes were
fixed upon his adversary with an expression of cold
menace. He wore a light velvet cloak, from beneath
which protruded his minute sword; over his brow
drooped a plumed hat. It seemed impossible that his
short legs could enable him even to retain his seat on
the big horse he rode; but he did retain it, holding
the reins and directing the animal with the ease of a
perfect horseman.

In five minutes all was arranged, and the adversaries
were placed near and facing each other. Then the
word was given, and the dwarf drew his pistol.

Coftangry, with a short laugh, drew—a squirt.

“Here is the weapon I have chosen to meet this
chivalric paladin!” he said. “I feared lest a pistol-bullet
might prove a cannon-ball to this sparrow!”

He raised the squirt, and, uttering a second laugh,
aimed at the dwarf.

“Ready!” he said.

A flush of rage rose to the face of Hudson.

“Are you a gentleman, or a clodhopper?” he
snapped. “Or simply a coward?”

“Come on!” cried Coftangry, with feigned laughter;
though it was easy to see how much the dwarf's words
stung him.

The dwarf looked towards his adversary's friend,
and, lowering his pistol, pointed with the other hand to
Coftangry. The gesture was full of such contempt that

Coftangry turned pale. The words of the Guardsman
appearing as his second in the duel did not soothe him
much.

“If you wish any further aid of mine, Mr. Coftangry,”
said his friend, “you must conform to the
rules of combat, and meet Sir Geoffrey Hudson with
the weapons of a gentleman.”

“I have no pistol with me!” growled Coftangry, in
reply.

The dwarf threw back his cloak, and drew a second
pistol from his belt. He took both by the handles,—
they were small, but exquisitely chased and mounted,—
and, holding them out, said,—

“Here are pistols! Take one; I will take the
other.”

The words ended all further parley. It was not
possible to make longer any opposition. A moment
afterwards, Coftangry and the dwarf were sitting their
horses at the distance of fifteen paces from each other,
pistol in hand, and awaiting the word.

It was given, and a simultaneous report was heard,—
the crack of a popgun it seemed,—accompanied by a
puff of smoke.

The dwarf remained erect, curbing his startled horse
with a firm hand. Coftangry reeled, dropped his rein,
and fell from his horse.

All ran to him, and raised him up. The bullet had
pierced his heart. Five minutes afterwards, whilst
attempts were being made to stanch his wound, his
head fell back, a gurgling sound escaped from his lips,
and he expired.

Such was one of the most singular events I have

ever witnessed; and I have related all the details to
afford some idea of the strange complexion of affairs
at that epoch. The queen had taken into her household,
as a plaything, this pigmy of only two feet in
height: a full-grown man had mimicked him; he had
demanded satisfaction for the wrong; pistols fired from
horseback had equalized giant and pigmy; and it was
the bullet from the dwarf's pistol which penetrated
the full-grown man's heart. Such, I repeat, was this
strange event,—not the result of my fancy, but an
actual occurrence during the reign of his majesty
Charles I. The moral, I think, is, Do not laugh at
misfortune, and beware of the smallest insects, if their
sting is mortal!

The death of Coftangry created a great excitement
in the palace for two or three days. But there was no
one to punish. The dwarf had set spurs to his horse,—
if he wore spurs,—and disappeared. His unfortunate
victim was buried, and the event passed from all minds.
Memory of the dead is short in this world:—at courts,
I think, it is shortest of all!

20. XX.
GOOD-BY, SWEET-HEART!

The queen's arrangements then in rapid progress for
her journey to Holland contributed largely to banish
the fate of Coftangry from all minds.

This proposed journey plunged me into veritable
despair. It was understood speedily that her Guards
would not accompany the queen,—that this body of
élite, under Lord Bernard Stuart, would remain with
the king. I was a member of the Guards, and must
continue with them, and thus for weeks, months,
years, it might be, would not see—Frances Villiers!

I fancy I see one of my grandchildren—some little
maiden of seventeen, let us say—smiling archly as
she reads the above words in her grandpapa's memoirs.
She will have seen, perchance, the old gentleman who
pens them, and will wonder if ever the flowers of
love bloomed under the snow of his hair. Yes, little
one! that snow had not yet fallen at the time I write
of: my life was in its springtime; the first violets
bloomed. I would have plucked all the world contained,
could I have done so, to make a bouquet du
corsage for Frances Villiers!

So I was really in despair when I thought I should
see her no more for a long time: her tranquil smile
which greeted me every day had become a sort of
necessity of my life. Harry, too, seemed full of gloom.

“Hang it, Ned,” he said, “how will I be able to
sustain life, my boy, without a glance now and then
from the eyes of the fair Frances?” And it was only
long afterwards, as the reader will see, that I came to
understand what was hidden under that jest.

Thus I moped, seeing my sunshine about to leave
me; but 'tis certain that parting must take place in
life, and I summoned all my philosophy. I think Miss
Frances saw the gloom on the faces of the two Cecils;
but she said nothing, remained quite calm, and one
morning entered the coach which followed that bearing
her majesty towards Dover, with entire composure, and
naught more than her habitual composed sweetness.

The queen was thus en route for Holland, and King
Charles, surrounded by a party of noblemen and
followed by the queen's Guards, escorted the coach on
horseback.

The journey was to be marked by one or two incidents,—affecting
both his majesty and my humble
self.

As the cortége came in sight of Dover, where a
vessel awaited the queen, a party of horsemen was
seen rapidly approaching from the direction of London.
As the queen descended from her chariot on
the jetty, the horsemen reached the spot, and a tall
cavalier of dignified appearance, the leader apparently,
dismounted, gave his bridle to a man, and approached
the king, doffing his plain round hat as he did so.

His majesty looked at the new-comer over his shoulder,
and with an expression which indicated little satisfaction.
The dialogue which followed was brief and to
the point.

“Sir William Strickland, I believe? Your good
pleasure, sir?”

The tone of the king was imperious, haughty, and
not a little disdainful.

“Your majesty will first permit me,” returned the
gentleman, “to assure your majesty of my very profound
respect.”

The king made a curt movement of the head.

“You come on the part of my parliament, doubtless,
sir?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Your errand, sir?”

“A very painful one, your majesty. I am commissioned
by the parliament to beg that before the
departure of her majesty the queen for Holland, the
law excluding the bishops from sitting as peers in the
House of Lords may receive your majesty's approval.”

The king's brow darkened more and more.

“In other words, unless I permit this iniquitous
scheme to become a law of the realm, the parliament
will not permit her majesty to depart for Holland?”

Sir William Strickland was silent.

“Is it not so, sir?” exclaimed the king, with rising
anger.

“I am unfortunate in being the bearer of a message
displeasing to your majesty,” was the diplomatic
reply.

A flush of anger and disdain rose to the face of the
king. Around him, all faces wore a similar expression.

The king hesitated. At that moment her majesty
touched his arm, drew him aside, and for some minutes
spoke with him in animated tones. The result was

that the king, with an expression of suppressed displeasure,
turned to Sir William Strickland, and said,—

“Be it as you and the parliament will, sir. You
have doubtless the required form for the passage of the
act by commission?”

Sir William bowed low, and, drawing a paper from
his breast, presented it with profound respect to the
king. As he did so, a clerkish-looking individual of
his party approached with pen and ink, which the
emissary presented to the king with the same air of
deference.

The king rapidly, and with a sort of flirt of the
pen, affixed his signature to the paper, and Sir William
received it from his hands with a low bow. The king
scarcely acknowledged it,—turned his back,—and a few
minutes afterwards the party of parliamentarians were
riding away.

“So much for that,” murmured the king. “Events
seem hastening.”

With these words, he seemed to dismiss the whole
scene from his mind. In half an hour her majesty,
with the princess and her suite, was on board the vessel
which was to bear her away, and the king and queen
parted from each other on the deck with a long embrance.
The eyes of the queen were filled with tears,
and the king's face flushed with emotion. A last embrace
was exchanged; the king went ashore again; the
vessel spread her sails.

The king, however, seemed unable to tear himself
from the sight of the queen. He sat his horse,
gazing at the vessel upon whose deck the queen stood
erect, waving her handkerchief; and this salute he

returned by raising and holding aloft his gray beaver,
with its floating plume. The handkerchief continued
to wave from the deck, and, as the course of the ship
was along the shore, the king, surrounded by his noblemen
and guards, rode along, keeping it in sight. In
this manner his majesty passed over a distance of four
leagues, ever keeping the ship in sight, and straining
his eyes to see the white speck moving to and fro upon
the deck.

At last a fresh breeze sprung up, and the bark flew
like a sea gull towards the open channel. From a lofty
cliff, and motionless in the keen winter's wind, the
king looked his last. Slowly the vessel faded,—then
it resembled a dark speck,—then it vanished. As it
disappeared, the king drew a long and labored breath,
let his head fall, and slowly turned his horse to retrace
his steps.

I shall always remember that scene; and think to-day,
as I thought then, that there is nothing more
respectable than the faithful love of husband and wife.
What are rank and power and wealth beside this?
And all wandering loves,—how mean and poor they
seem in presence of this beautiful and noble sentiment,
on which I think the All-seeing smiles!

Doubtless King Charles I. committed terrible errors
as a ruler; but for all that he was a good husband. A
court full of frail beauties could never induce him to
turn his eyes from the wife God had given him.

21. XXI.
HOW I WAS COMPELLED FOR A TIME TO TAKE NO
FURTHER PART IN PUBLIC AFFAIRS.

An irritating incident followed close upon this painful
scene, and, as the reader will soon perceive, this
incident seriously affected my own person.

The king had just turned his horse's head to ride
back to London, when Sir William Strickland again
came on at the head of his party of horsemen, and,
reaching the spot, dismounted a second time, and approached
the king with the same air of deep respect.

The eyes of the king filled with sudden fire.

“What now, sir?” he exclaimed, in accents so abrupt
and haughty that they resembled a blow struck.

“I am deeply pained to offend your majesty,” began
Sir William Strickland.

“A truce to words and ceremony!” rejoined the
king. “You are not here, sir, as my friend or loyal
subject. Your business, sir! And I beg that you will
dispatch it briefly, as we are not in the mood to be
annoyed to-day.”

The emissary bowed low again, and said,—

“I would fain spare your majesty annoyance.
Briefly, a courier reached me on my way back to London,
bearing the paper I hold in my hand, which is
addressed to your majesty.”

The king caught the paper with a movement of rage

almost. His eye ran over it: suddenly he crumpled
it up and threw it upon the ground.

“Tell these people—” he began. Then he stopped,
and seemed to realize how unbecoming his anger must
appear. His eyes were fixed with a cold and haughty
expression upon Sir William Strickland.

“Do you know the contents of that paper, sir?” he
said.

“I do not, your majesty.”

“It is a `petition,'—everything is a `petition' now,—
in which the gentlemen of my parliament considerately
ask that I will not deprive them of the charms of my
company; they will be in despair if I absent myself
from London, and will be plunged into melancholy if
I even remove the Prince Charles from them. Will I
therefore, they say, `be pleased to reside nearer the
metropolis, and not take the prince away from them'?
It would afflict them, these tender-hearted gentlemen!
'Tis this that yonder paper contains, sir.”

The emissary inclined his head before the royal displeasure,
but was silent.

“The meaning is simple!” added the king, with disdain
in eye and lip. “My good subjects of the parliament
design making me and my son prisoners. They
have assailed my prerogative, they would lay hands on
my person. I am intractable, they would render me
docile. 'Tis an ingenious device, sir,—is it not?—this
humble `petition' of my humble subjects?”

Sir William Strickland bowed profoundly; but I
could see from the obstinate expression of his countenance
that he was unmoved.

“You do not reply, sir,” said the king, in the

same tone. “You do not think the device ingenious,
then?”

“Your majesty will pardon me for declaring that I
regard it as natural.”

“That is the opinion of Sir William Strickland,
Baronet?”

A slight color tinged the face of Sir William at these
words. With sudden embarrassment he bowed low,
but made no reply. The king gazed at him for a
moment in silence, and then said, coolly,

“I will reply to this petition within three days, sir.
Does that suffice, or am I compelled to respond here
and now?”

“That will assuredly answer every purpose; and I
now beg to take my leave of your majesty.”

With these words, Sir William Strickland, who had
begun to betray some signs of discomposure at the
threatening faces around him, made the king a profound
inclination, and, mounting his horse, rode
away.

The king gazed after him for a moment, and said to
a nobleman of his suite,—

“So pass away one's old friends to the enemy's
standard! 'Tis scarce two years since I made this gentleman
a baronet: I would not upbraid him with it,
but he had the grace to blush as he remembered it.
Well, a truce to all this. Things hasten more than
ever! Before three days have passed—”

He suddenly stopped, and the sentence remained
unfinished. Some scruple, if not some secret resolve,
seemed to check him,—the latter, it appeared.

“That message to the parliament may involve the

appearance of trick,” he muttered. “In three days, I
said. The message must be modified.”

He turned quickly to an officer of the Guard.

“Captain Hyde, take two or three gentlemen of the
Guard, and ride after Sir William Strickland. Say on
my part that I will make a speedy reply—use those words
—to the petition of the parliament, if it be not made
in three days.”

Captain Hyde bowed low, and turned to select two
or three of the Guard. I caught his eye, and he nodded;
then he indicated one other. A moment afterwards
we were all riding at full speed after Sir William Strickland,
whose party was visible on the crest of a hill in
our front.

The guardsmen of the queen possessed fine horses
and were hard riders. We went on at a pace which
would soon have borne us over the distance separating
us from Sir William Strickland, but this very rapidity
defeated our object: the emissary seemed to suspect
something, and also pressed forward at a rapid gallop.

Thus it was that the affair became a chase. The king
had followed us with the rest of his suite, and Sir
William now plainly regarded the aspect of things as
hostile. The war had begun!—the royal forces were
pressing the retreating representatives of parliament!

The speed of the Guardsmen's horses at last enabled
them to come up with the parliamentarians,—but I was
not present at the scene: I was in fact unaware of my
existence. My horse, a fine bay, had enabled me for
some time to keep the lead of the pursuing party: an
old fox-hunter, he went on at a thundering rush, when
unfortunately a stone in the road caused him to stumble

and fall. I rolled beneath him, his full weight fell
upon me, and I dislocated my shoulder.

I only remember thereafter that the king stopped
beside me, and raised my head: there was a group
around; then I fainted. Half an hour afterwards I
revived, and was dimly conscious that a surgeon was
setting my shoulder. Then I fainted again—was aware
that I was placed in a vehicle—the vehicle moved:
when I opened my eyes next, I was lying on a couch in
a lofty antechamber at Whitehall, and Harry was
sitting beside me, holding my hand and gazing at me
tenderly.

“So, Ned,” he said, “here you are yourself at last
again. How do you feel?”

“Badly, Harry; but not so very badly. This is
Whitehall?”

“Yes; we brought you here, the king's affairs summoning
him to London: arrived an hour since, just at
sunset, and you were so weak that you were laid upon
this couch. Better remain here, wrapped in your
cloak, until morning: I will watch beside you. Meanwhile,
Dick is riding post to Cecil Court to bring the
coach. 'Twill doubtless come speedily, and you must
go thither till your recovery.”

As Harry spoke, his name was pronounced at the
door: he was absent from my side a moment, and then,
returning, said, with some annoyance,—

“I must go on post for two hours, Ned. Then I
will return to you. Compose yourself to sleep: no one
will disturb you in this part of the palace; and the
moon through the oriel yonder will be sufficient
light.”

“Content, Harry; I will sleep,” I said.

And, drawing my cloak around me with my well
arm, I closed my eyes.

22. XXII.
THE PORTRAIT OF STRAFFORD.

Nearly two hours had passed, I think, after Harry's
disappearance, when I was aroused from my dreamy
half-slumber by footsteps on a side corridor leading to
the anteroom in which I lay. A moment afterwards
the door opened, a figure slowly entered, and this
figure paused in front of a portrait upon which the
moonlight fell in a flood of light. A second glance
told me that the new-comer was King Charles. He
was clad in a dressing-gown of velvet; his head, with
its long curling hair, was bare; and the pale, melancholy
face, with an unhappy light in the dark eyes, was
turned towards the portrait, upon which the king fixed
a long and absorbed look. So intense indeed was that
gaze that my eyes followed it and fell upon the portrait.

It represented a man past middle age, and the face
was an extraordinary one. Dark, harsh features; eyes
full of dauntless courage, mingled with a sort of stern
severity, and mournful foreboding, as it were, of some
approaching calamity; lips upon which were written an
unshrinking resolve, a will all iron; and in the poise
of the grand head something majestic, calm, and imposing;—such
was the portrait which the moonlight fell

upon, and at which the king now gazed, standing
motionless as a statue in front of it.

At least ten minutes passed, and not a muscle of the
king's figure stirred. Then I saw his bosom heave, a
low groan issued from his lips, and he raised one hand
to his eyes, as though to brush away tears.

Whose was this portrait which had aroused such
terrible emotion? for the tears of kings are terrible,
and burn as they fall. I knew not, but was soon to
know. The king was still looking with the same absorbing
gaze upon the picture, when another figure appeared
at the door, remained there for a moment motionless,
then entered the apartment, treading noiselessly, and
stood beside the king. The shadow of the new-comer—
a man—was thrown upon the wall. The king started,
and turned with a wild look towards the man; then,
drawing a long, deep breath, Charles exclaimed, in a
broken voice,—

“Oh, Digby! methought that— I am unnerved
to-night, and this face—”

He turned again towards the portrait.

“The eyes haunt me,” he murmured, “the mournful
eyes of the man I sent to his death! Strafford!
Strafford! Would to God I had died before I grew a
coward and allowed cozening voices to persuade me to
your death!”

The king pressed his thin white hand to his forehead
as he spoke, and, interrupting Lord Digby, who essayed
to speak, added, in the same broken voice,—

“There are deeds that brand men as cowards in history.
I thought myself brave once, but I signed that
terrible warrant! It was forced from me, they tell me

to console me. I resisted, protested, refused, they say,
but I signed at last! Well, that day, Digby, was the
blackest of my life. I was a forsworn gentleman! I
was a king, and I acted as a coward! I had the power
to say no, and I said yes. Strafford was my friend,—
faithful unto the death; and my return for all was to
send him to that death with my own hand!”

The speaker's emotion was overpowering as he
uttered these words. He covered his face with his
hands, and sobbed like a child. His frame shook. A
shudder passed through my own frame as I looked and
listened.

Lord Digby seemed to experience the same emotion,
and could scarce speak.

“I beseech your majesty,” he said at last, “to cease
this fearful talk, and retire from this apartment. What
evil spirit counseled your majesty to come hither?”

“No evil spirit, Digby, but the conscience in my
breast,” murmured the king.

“Your majesty exaggerates the part borne by yourself
in the death of Strafford. That signature to the
death-warrant was forced by enemies; the very bishops
counseled it: the good of the realm was paramount.”

“No good comes out of evil: 'twas cruel cowardice,
Digby, and has borne its fruits.”

“Cowardice! that word again? Who will dare call
your majesty a coward?”

“History!”

The word was uttered with a solemnity that thrilled
through me.

“Let us banish all glosses and party passion from
this question,” said the king, gloomily. “For the

opinions of this generation I care little, esteeming them
but lightly. My reign is stormy and divides all minds;
royal prerogative and democratic power are at issue:
wonder not, then, that my bitter enemies charge me
with untold crimes. I am a tyrant, a violator of my
word, the author of the fearful Irish massacre; I am a
despot, reigning by fraud and falsehood and duplicity;
of all the monsters of history, Charles I. of England is
the most monstrous. And these charges, Digby, are
so bitterly insisted upon that all men's minds will soon
be poisoned against me. Well, I care not. I never
violated my word of gentleman yet. I claimed, as to
tonnage and the rest, what I thought my just and immemorial
prerogative only. When I heard of the Irish
murders, I shuddered like the most protestant of my
subjects. In my own heart I am guiltless of all this;
but history will bring against me another charge, and
of this I am guilty!”

He spoke in a low tone, motioning to Lord Digby
to be silent.

“I am guilty of that man's death,” he said, raising
his hand slowly, and pointing to the picture. “He
worked for me, fought for me, served me faithfully.
And I, who should have defended him, abandoned him
to his enemies. Of fraud, falsehood, tyranny, I am
guiltless: the charges pass me by as the idle wind. Of
Strafford's blood I am guilty! When that head, that
should have worn the crown, fell on Tower Hill,
Charles, the first of the name, of England, was forsworn!”

I could see in the moonlight that the king's forehead
was covered with drops of cold sweat. He had

mastered himself by an immense effort, but the tears
and agony of the outer man a moment before seemed,
so to speak, to have struck inward. The wound bled
internally and was past cure.

The king continued to gaze for a long time upon
the portrait. At last his lips opened, and he muttered,
in tones almost inaudible,—

“Farewell, Strafford! 'Twere better to have lost my
crown than to have consented to your death! But the
deed is done. I carry in my breast an ineradicable
remorse! Smiles and happiness are not for me any
longer on this earth! Yet I go to my work. I am
king, and dare not shrink. You are no longer beside
me, with your great brain and fearless soul, to be my
strong tower of defense! I go on my path alone.
Farewell! Something tells me that I will ere long
rejoin you.”

As he uttered these words, the king went towards the
door, but, as though the great rugged head of the portrait,
with its dark eyes, still fascinated him, looked
over his shoulder at it as he moved away.

I shall never forget the face of the king as I saw it
then in the moonlight. It was deadly pale, and in the
eyes was that settled gloom which is seen in all his
portraits.

A moment afterwards he was gone with Lord Digby,
and the steps died away on the corridor.

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.