“Which is old Prynne?” said one.—“That’s he,” said his neighbour, “with his black head clipped close, looking, for all the world, like a skull-cap.”—“See how the old boy grins.”—“He’s no beauty.”—“Hurrah! hurrah!”—“Can you hear, old boy?”—“I wonder if a man can hear without his ears.”—“To be sure a’ can, all the better.”—“Well, he can’t have the ear-ache no more.”—“Don’t talk so unfeeling.”—“Look, poor dear good man, he is as white as a sheet.”—“That is prison and hunger.”—“This is your bishops’ work—od rot ’em—their turn shall come.”
With such vulgarities were mixed the solemn tones and pious expressions of many a sincere Christian, giving utterance to praise and thanksgiving for the deliverance of these persecuted men; while, here and there, a strong voice would be heard, above the crowd, denouncing the tyranny of the church and the crown in coarse language, in which the Establishment was likened to the whore of Babylon,—and the Archbishop of Canterbury was pointed out to the vengeance of the rabble.
Such language would, in a moment of calm reflection, have been utterly revolting to the feelings of Cuthbert. He would have shut his ears to the base and bloody cry, and hurried away from the wretches who gave it utterance, as from the company of sinners, whose feet were already planted in the paths of wickedness, and were swift to shed blood. But now, though such fierce cries gave a jar to his better dispositions and nobler nature, they were regarded as the natural ebullitions of an irritated mob; and he stood among them as a partaker of their guilt by the sanction of his presence.
Nothing is so blind—nothing is so deaf—nothing can stoop so low—as party spirit;—and at no period of English history was this more fully exemplified than at that of which we are now speaking. The Cavaliers, on their side, were not without the support of a rabble of their own; and by these, the slang of the tavern, the bear garden, and the brothel, was exhausted to furnish epithets of scorn, contempt, and ridicule, by which they might insult their fanatical opponents.
To the mental eye of Cuthbert the two victims of a severe and intolerant hierarchy stood out in large and disproportionate grandeur,—filling all the foreground of the picture upon which he now gazed to the exclusion of all other objects.
He saw them bearing the evident marks of torture and degradation on their mutilated forms. They had been thus treated, according to his notion, for a mere error in judgment—they were sufferers for conscience-sake:—his heart grew hot within him,—and he would have called down fire from heaven on the heads of their oppressors.
He accompanied the crowd all through Westminster; and, in the eagerness of his excited mood, pressed in once close to the horse of Prynne, that he might utter a “God save you, master!” to the stern Puritan, face to face.
There was a keen twinkle of triumph in the little eyes of the sour precisian, which showed that he felt his day of revenge would soon come, and that it would be his turn to play inquisitor towards his late haughty oppressor.
However, he would have been more than human had he been superior to such an infirmity, after sustaining injuries so great.
It happened on the day of this public entry of Prynne and Burton that Cuthbert was alone in the quarter of Westminster; and having remained a long time gazing on the show, he went into a tavern in a narrow street behind the Abbey to refresh.