THE BROKEN FONT.
A
STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR.

BY THE
AUTHOR OF “TALES OF THE WARS OF OUR TIMES,”
“RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PENINSULA,”
&c. &c. &c.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMAN,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1836.

London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

PREFACE.

It is impossible to read or meditate concerning that period of history in which the scene and action of my tale are laid without partaking of the feelings of both parties in that great quarrel, and “being (in an innocent sense) on both sides.”

In such a spirit has my story been conceived and written. Until the sword was drawn, the more generous and constitutional Royalists were separated by but a faint line from the best and most patriotic men of the Parliament party.

I have, however, confined myself more particularly to the contemplation of those miseries and violent acts of persecution which the appeal to arms brought upon many private families, and especially upon those of the clergy.

In the contrivance of such a fiction, it became necessary to introduce pictures of fanaticism and hypocrisy, and to describe scenes of cruelty and of low interested persecution; but such parts of the story must not be considered separately from the rest. The general tenor of my volumes will, I trust, be found in strict consistency with that charity that “thinketh no evil,” but “hopeth all things.”

THE BROKEN FONT.

CHAPTER I.

It was the early afternoon of a fine open day in the last week of April, in the year 1640. The sun shone warm; not a breath of wind was stirring the tender foliage of the tall trees, or the delicate flower of the lowly harebell beneath the hedge-rows. All was still, save that at intervals the voice of the cuckoo was heard—loud, but yet mellow—from the bosom of a neighbouring wood. The swains in the field lay stretched in the shade, as though summer were already come: in gardens and court-yards not a sound of labour or a clatter of life disturbed the silence of the hour.

In a shady alcove, which looked out on the bowling alley of Milverton House, sate the worthy old master of the mansion, with one leg crossed over the other, a book upon his knee, and a kindly smile playing across his manly features. Not far distant, upon the steps which led up to the near end of a stately terrace, was seated a fair little girl, about six years of age. A thick laurel protected her with its shadow; and it might be seen by the paper in her hand, by the motion of her lips, and by the sway of her little head and neck, that she was committing some task to memory, with that pleasure that makes a pastime even out of a lesson. Out on the smooth green an old flap-mouthed hound, whose hunting days were long past, lay basking in the sun, among the dispersed bowls, which the last players had idly neglected to put away; and with them a boy’s bow and arrow had been left, or forgotten, on the ground. The child’s murmur was lower than the soft coo from the dove-cote, or the gentle music of the fountain; and there was a hush of quiet about all these whispers of created life that was in harmony with the general silence.

The shadow of the dial had crept on nearly half an hour before this repose was broken. It was so at last, by a hot boy of fourteen, with vest unbuttoned, and without a hat, who came to seek his bow and arrow. The glad cry of “I have found them!” dispelled the silence: the little girl thrust her paper into her bosom, and jumped up at the sound of the welcome voice; and the old man looked up, and, putting his book down on the seat beside him, scolded the noble boy for having left the bowls out to be scorched and injured by the sun.

With no abatement of good humour, the cheerful boy, eagerly helped by the little girl, gathered them up, and carried them into the bowl-house. The old hound was too much accustomed to the thing even to stir for it, though one of the bowls almost touched his nose.

This duty done, the boy, upon whose mind one thing lay uppermost, with that abruptness which belongs to nature and to boyhood, propounded to his great-uncle, Sir Oliver Heywood, the following most startling question:—

“Was it not, sir, a very wicked thing to cut off Mr. Prynne’s ears?”

Had it suddenly thundered the old knight could not have been more surprised; and, if a wasp had stung him in a tender place, he could not have been less pleased.

“Master Prynne! what do you know about Master Prynne, you foolish boy?”

“O, I know—I know very well! they cut off his ears because he didn’t like plays; and that was very cruel! What a shame it would be to cut off the ears of old Josh. Cross, that takes care of your hawks, because he didn’t like to hear Stephen play upon the fiddle!”

“Why, Arthur, what has come to you, boy? who has been teaching you this nonsense? If Master Prynne had lost his head, instead of his ears, it would be no more than he deserved, and I hope he may live to own it.”

At this rebuke the boy coloured, and hung his head; but added, as if pleading for his fault,—

“It was Master Noble said so; and you know, sir, you have told us all to mind what he says, for he is always in the right.”

Sir Oliver bade him hastily go play; and the boy, taking his little niece by the hand, they ran out of the bowling-green at one angle, while the good old knight, not a little discomposed by the incident, ascended slowly to the terrace. Here he found old Philip, the keeper of the buttery, seated at the far end, in the shade, in the calm enjoyment of a pipe. Instead of the wonted word of pleasant greeting, Sir Oliver told him, in a rough tone, to go and seek instantly for Master Noble, and send him thither.

While the kind old serving man went away with his message in no comfortable mood—for the young tutor was as great a favourite in kitchen as in hall—the old gentleman paced the terrace with a leisurely and thoughtful step; and made frequent stops and soliloquies on the strange and unexpected words and sentiments which he had just heard from the lips of his open and artless boy. While thus engaged, we will leave him for a few moments to place before our reader the state of the family at the time of which we write.

At the village of Milverton, in Warwickshire, upon a sweet spot above the valley of the Avon, Sir Oliver Heywood, the descendant of a successful and honoured merchant, occupied a fair and pleasant mansion erected in the reign of Elizabeth by his wealthy father.

The family at Milverton House consisted of the worthy knight, a maiden sister, his