CHAP. XV.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Marvell.
Although Bristol was at this time garrisoned by the Parliamentary troops, Martin Noble and old Peter, by whom he was accompanied, found no difficulty at the barriers, for the city was not besieged,—and being on foot, they entered without suspicion.
The doublet and cloak of Martin being cut in the Italian fashion, he easily passed in that large and busy port as one newly arrived from Leghorn and Genoa, and as one engaged in some commercial venture. His first care was to secure the little property which he had brought from Italy, and which, save one bag of a hundred pieces in ready money, consisted entirely in paintings, drawings, and engravings, with a few antiques. The value of this small collection might have amounted to twelve hundred pieces. It was now necessary to part with these for whatever they might produce. His object being to send the whole price of them, beyond the sum necessary for his own equipment as a volunteer soldier of horse, to his parents. The captain and crew of the vessel in which he had returned home were all so cheerfully devoted to his interests, that he procured his baggage to be privately landed; and having unpacked and carefully arranged them in his apartment at a large inn near the quay, he went forth in search of a purchaser. He had not far to seek: the contents of an open shop kept by a Venetian in that same quarter at once pointed out whither many a collection of those curious toys of human invention, whether in the fine arts or in plate or furniture, round which the strange children of manhood will fasten fondness, already lay in dull divorce from the pleasant chambers they had once adorned. The broker consented to go to the inn and look at his pictures with a cold and wily slowness. There was only one small original which had been given Martin; the rest were exquisite copies, executed by his brother artists or himself. The engravings and the articles of virtu (many of them presents) were selected with the finest taste; and a magical feeling was associated in the breast of Martin with every trifle or scrap in his portfolios. Though his mind was healthy and strong, and the necessity of the sacrifice was obvious, yet he could bear no work of bargaining, no words of depreciation. He bade the dealer look them over silently, and take them at his own price. Nor was he at all disappointed when the sum of three hundred and fifty pieces were paid down for little heart treasures, from which, in happier circumstances, he would at no price have consented to be separated. Of this sum he despatched two hundred and fifty, by the safe hands of old Peter, to his parents, and the remainder, with what he had already by him, was amply sufficient to purchase a horse, a handsome buff coat, and good arms.
During his residence in Italy, to relieve the sedentary labours of the studio, he had always used horse exercise, fencing, and the play of the broad sword, and having a vigorous and comely person and a quick eye, had great skill in all these exercises. He little thought in those days that he must exchange the wonderful art to which his genius was wedded for that of war; the peaceful studio and the open landscape for the noisy camp and the cloudy battle-field.
He effected his departure from Bristol, and his journey to the headquarters of the Marquis of Hertford and Prince Maurice, who were then coming westward, with considerable address. By a few pieces well bestowed he obtained passports as a foreign artist for London; and, lading a sumpter-horse with two packages in which his great saddle and his arms were well concealed, he rode his trained horse in such furniture and clothing, and with such a bridle, as disguised its quality. Moreover, by avoiding the large towns, and travelling circuitous ways, through many of those lovely coombes or valleys with which the western counties abound, he exposed himself to as little observation as was possible. He slept in lonely places under a tree, and he snatched his refreshment through the day at farm-houses or little rustic inns. There was a consciousness in his bosom, that of this brief and precious season of his life the most was to be made. The weaning was at hand: the trials and the solemn chances of warfare lay before him in all their stern reality. The glorious arts were left behind as childish things; and he was passing through those scenes of nature in which the love of heaven is plainly mirrored. He loved the beautiful; in all things loved it: but, alone in the far windings of a sheltered vale, where trees and grass and waters blend their beauties; where cattle lie down, and the white lamb gambols,—with tears of thanksgiving he worshipped. Nor less in the still secluded forest, where rivulets make gentle music, he worshipped. Such spots are sacred: they are not solitudes; they are peopled, most thickly peopled, with innocent spirits, whom we cannot see; but we feel their presence, and tread softly in their quiet paradise. It was the last leisure of Martin’s life, and the sweet scenes coloured his mind for ever; and afterwards, in coarse companies, and in the tumultuous camp, his memory would steal away back to those vales of peace, as to some hallowed visions, and lie awhile entranced, till laughter loud, or cannon’s voice, did wake him. It was on this journey that he for the last time exercised the art he loved.
In a deep still valley, with wooded hills on either side, and a small clear river that flowed between them, he stopped at noon before a solitary farm. The goodwife made him welcome. In her little hall she spread his clean repast, and there, in the window, sat her daughter with a child in her arms. It were easy to see she was its mother. If ever face was sweet and comely,—if ever eyes were calm, and brow was open,—if ever human forehead looked meet for the seal of Heaven, hers did, as it shone fair and pure beneath her dark and parted hair. The child, too, was of curly and surpassing beauty, and stretched its little arms with smiles. The obeisance of this young mother was modest,—but her blush was faint, and innocence itself. A sampler framed in oak hung upon the wall. Martin asked if it was her work, and she said “Yes—the prize sampler worked in her ninth year,”—and took it down; and, in fine needle-work, he read the following lines:—
“Even as a nurse, whose child’s imperfect pace
Can hardly lead his foot from place to place,
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go,
Nor does uphold him for a step or two;
But, when she finds that he begins to fall,
She holds him up and kisses him withal.
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand
Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand;
But when he sees his feeble strength begin
To fail, he gently takes him up again.”
Quarles.
He put it down, subdued to a sudden tenderness, and then asked the name of her child; she said it was christened “Charles,” and then caressed it more closely, and sighed; adding, “It’s a good name, but it has brought me my first sorrow, for it’s with King Charles my husband is; and they that go to the wars may never come back again.”
She resumed her seat in the window; and, putting down the child, who could run stoutly about after his grandmother, she began to ply her needle in silence. Here, as her head was naturally bent downwards, Martin sketched a happy resemblance of her on his tablets, while she, unconscious, sat thinking of her fond husband far away, and daily exposed to wounds or death. Martin rode away from this dwelling; and, and at some distance, looking back, through a summer shower he saw it arched over by a glorious rainbow, and asked a blessing on that fair young mother from the God of hope.
Thus and here he took leave of peaceful life for ever. That same evening his horses’ hoofs were clattering over the pavement of a small town in Dorsetshire, filled with royal troopers; and, finding that Robert Dormer, the Earl of Caernarvon, was there in person, his journey was at an end. He had brought a particular letter of introduction to this youthful nobleman from one of his near relatives, then residing at Rome, in a declining state of health, and had been also intrusted to deliver to him a curious antique ring as a token of the abiding love and friendship of a dying man. The letter spoke very favourably of Martin; but was not written with any expectation that it would be presented under circumstances and with an object like those which now induced Martin to deliver it. He had engaged at Bristol a sprightly young horse-boy, who had whistled his long marches cheerfully by the side of the sumpter-horse, and who was not a little delighted at being now permitted to unpack saddle and equipments, and to see Martin put on a buff coat and a royal scarf. As soon as our volunteer was dressed, he proceeded to the quarters of Lord Caernarvon, sent up his letter and name, was instantly admitted, and met with a kind reception.
The evening was cheerless and rainy, and the Earl was engaged at the game of tables, now better known by the name of backgammon, with a gentleman of a very fine person, about his own age, while a bright eyed youth of seventeen sat eagerly watching the game.
The Earl gave Martin a friendly look, and bade him take a seat till the game was done; for he had already satisfied himself, by a glance, that it was a letter on private affairs, though he had not opened it.
“You are from Bristol, young man. What news among our friends in that neighbourhood, or rather among our enemies within?”
“I was so situated, my Lord, that I am not so well acquainted with the condition of the garrison, or the state of the place, as your Lordship. My sole business there was to get my baggage out of the vessel in which I came from Italy, to equip myself for camp, and to join the royal army.”
“From Italy!” said Lord Caernarvon; “indeed! From what part?”
“I sailed from the port of Leghorn; but came from Rome only a few days before.”
“Here, Arthur,” said the Earl, “take my place, and finish the game.—Sir Charles, you will excuse me.”
He now took his letter to the window, and immediately read it with attention. Then approaching Martin, he took him cordially by the hand.
“I am afraid to ask how you left Edward Herbert; for in this letter he seems to consider his recovery as impossible.”
“I am sorry to say, my Lord, that he is a dying man; but he suffers very little pain, and is as calm and resigned as any person under such circumstances can be. I am the bearer of his last token of affection for the Lady Caernarvon.”
Here he drew forth a small case, containing a signet ring, of great antiquity. Upon the stone, which was a clear beryl, the engraved symbol was a genius, with an inverted torch.
As Lord Caernarvon was silently and thoughtfully examining this gem, the door of the apartment was opened by a grave, mournful looking gentlemen in a neglected dress, who said,—
“Well, Caernarvon, I shall start at eleven, on my return to the King’s quarters, and will direct the escort to march back to you after they have halted eight hours. I shall only take them thirty miles; and as there is a moon, we shall have a pleasant ride. What have you got in your hand?” he added, observing the ring.
“It is is a farewell token from Edward Herbert to his cousin Sophia: if you remember, Falkland, the youth was a great favourite of yours.”
Lord Falkland took the ring, and looked upon it in silence for more than two minutes, then gave it back to Caernarvon with a sigh, and going close to the window, from which Caernarvon had advanced, Martin distinctly heard him ingeminate the word “Peace, peace,” while he raised his eyes towards the rainy sky. Yet was the tone of voice so low, and it came so deeply from within, that nobody else could distinguish what he uttered; and no one seemed to notice the inarticulate sound, as if it was a habit of grief and abstraction common to the man.
Caernarvon himself was not in spirits the whole evening,—though, as a party of more than twelve were assembled at his supper table, he was necessarily engaged in much conversation on the state and prospects of the war.
However, before this hour he introduced Martin in a particular manner to Sir Charles Lambert and Arthur Heywood, when they had finished their game; and he presented him to the Lord Falkland, who was very gracious,—but told him with a mournful smile that he must for awhile forget the fair creations of Raphael, and prepare himself for the study of severer subjects.
His relationship to Cuthbert Noble was soon discovered by young Arthur; and it would have been impossible for him to have received more cordial and friendly attentions than both Sir Charles and the boy readily offered. They expressed their sorrow in a delicate yet becoming manner that Cuthbert should be in the ranks of the Parliamentary army, and congratulated Martin, as well as themselves, on the probability that they should be spared the pain of acting, for the present, against that division of the enemy’s force with which he was known to be serving, as their own march lay westward, to join the Cornish army.
Martin rode with the regiment of horse commanded by Lord Caernarvon, as a volunteer, and soon became a favourite with that nobleman, whose excellent example in the office and duty of a soldier it was his pride to imitate. Moreover, this nobleman took delight in the society of the youth, because he himself had, before the war, been a great traveller, and an exact observer of the manners of many nations; not only visiting the south of Europe, but also Turkey and other countries of the East. Therefore, in as far as any alleviating happiness could consist with a campaign life, in a warfare carried on in the heart of one’s own country, Martin was fortunate.
Nor is it to be denied that genius has so many sources of enjoyment that in no condition can they be all dried up. To love the beautiful in all things is a high privilege; and feelings of rapture, as of awe, may be extracted from objects which only impress ordinary minds with pain or terror. If the calm lake, the green valley, and the pale primrose soothe us with sweet pictures of peace, the stormy ocean, the rifted rock, and the blasted tree, can and do stir us with a deep delight. Thus war has its glories and its solemnities for the eye and for the ear of man; and his heart may throb with emotions the most sublime upon a battle-field, and at the wailing trumpets of a vanquished and a flying foe.