A long discussion ensued. Lord Broghill demurred, Cromwell insisted, and at length the former acquiesced in the Protector’s offer, with the proviso that he would never be called upon to lift his sword against his sovereign master. It is a matter of history what a distinguished part Lord Broghill played in this Irish campaign.
In the pleasure ground not far from Marston there stood a quaint little cottage, one room of which had been fitted up by my uncle for his favourite daughter, Louisa, a beautiful, blooming girl, and my chosen friend, who was cut off by smallpox a few years later, at the early age of nineteen. The little cot served as a summer, or pleasure, house; we children were allowed to have tea in it, and to dig and delve in the small garden before it to our heart’s content. There was an historical interest connected with this small dwelling which enhanced its merit in my eyes.
HONBLE. EDMUND BOYLE, AFTERWARDS EIGHTH EARL OF CORK, BORN 1787.
HONBLE. RICHARD BOYLE, ELDER BROTHER OF ABOVE, DIED YOUNG.
HONBLE. COURTENAY BOYLE, BORN 1770, AFTERWARDS VICE-ADMIRAL, K.C.B.
On quitting the service of the Parliament, Lord Orrery, as he then was, retired to his seat at Marston Bigot, and went on Sunday, as was his custom, to the small church adjoining the house. There he sat for some time awaiting the arrival of the usual clergyman, and his patience being exhausted, he rose to return home. His steward, who was in the congregation, told him there was a minister present who offered his services both as reader and preacher. Lord Orrery expressed his gratitude, “and was never more edified than he was on that day by the sense, learning and piety of the discourse.” He waylaid the clergyman, complimented him on his sermon, and invited him to dinner at the house. When seated at table, his lordship enquired of his new friend every particular of his life and fortune.
THE ROMANCE OF A COTTAGE
“My lord,” was the reply, “my name is Asberry. I am a clergyman of the Church of England, and a devoted subject to the king. I and my son have lived for a long time within a few paces of your lordship’s house, in fact, under the garden wall, in a poor cottage. I have a little money, and some few books, and my boy and I dig and read by turns, submitting ourselves cheerfully to the will of Providence.”
Lord Orrery was much pleased with the conversation and manner of this learned and worthy man, and obtained for him a small annual income without the obligation of taking the Covenant, and was in other ways beneficial to him. Mr Asberry lived for some years longer at Marston, and died, worthily lamented. It is easy to believe that this historical incident made Asberry Cottage doubly interesting to our young imaginations. Marston, which has been much enlarged and improved by the present owner, did not lay claim to the title of a fine house and property, more especially when placed in contrast with the “most august house in England”—for Longleat[[17]] could be seen from the windows, and is within a walk. The park also is but small, though, in my eyes, remarkable for containing a Glastonbury Thorn. The legend is well known—that Joseph of Arimathæa (how he came to England it would be difficult to imagine) planted the staff which he held in his hand in the soil (ever afterwards considered sacred) of Glastonbury, and the staff blossomed. Certain it is that when every other tree in the surrounding woods is bare at Christmas, the hawthorn at the entrance of Marston park is oftentime in flower! I have seen it with my own eyes, and always looked upon it as a real miracle. The house is charmingly situated on a slope, and commands a beautiful view, with hills in the distance, and the tower of Stourhead, where King Alfred unfurled his standard against the Danes. Stourhead was once the property of the ancient family of the Stourtons, who bear as their coat-of-arms six fountains, in remembrance of the six springs which rise thereabouts in the valley of the Stour—a fact in heraldry that I doubt not is well known to the head of that noble house.
[17]. Residence of the Marquis of Bath.
The house at Marston is a perfect sun-trap, and although the building could lay no claim to architectural beauty, yet as the birthplace of my father and of many of my ancestors, whose portraits adorn the walls, I dearly loved the place, where so many of our Christmasses were spent with innumerable cousins of different ages. Cousins we were indeed, for the master and mistress of that house were cousins themselves, and my father’s brother had married my mother’s sister.