“Goodman Shaw,” said one to his neighbour, “what think you of Master Hamnet Hyde to-day?”
The man addressed shook his head sadly before he answered.
“Methinks we shall not have many more sermons from him unless he alters greatly.”
The curate, it should be stated, had preached that morning.
“Thou art right, goodman,” went on the first speaker, “but it comes into my mind that there is one remedy he has not yet tried, which it were worth his while to put to the test. Someone should suggest it to him.”
“And what is that, pray?” “Why, the Royal Touch. Let him visit the King, and be touched for the evil. There was a pedlar called on my dame but yestereen, and he told a great tale of the marvellous cures wrought by His Majesty King James, God bless him. Why should not our curate journey up to London, and get the King to remove his sickness?”
“Why not, indeed. Thou hast spoken wisely.”
It should be mentioned that in those days the cure of disease by the patient being “touched” by the Royal fingers was widely believed in. It was asserted that kings were specially endowed by God with the power of healing by touch; and of all the monarchs who ever ruled in England, none were believed to have received this truly royal gift in such abundance as that Most High and Mighty Prince, James the First.
A suggestion of the sort mentioned by the gossip was not likely, therefore, to be neglected, and accordingly the idea was laid pertinently before the curate, who eventually made up his mind to seek the royal remedy. With this object in view, he mounted his horse, and, attended by his friends, journeyed southward to see the king. Before setting out on the journey, he commended himself to God, for the roads were infested with highwaymen, and it was a perilous venture to travel from Longdendale to London at that time. There was a goodly congregation in the old church at Mottram, and from the heart of every worshipper there went up a fervent prayer for the curate on the occasion of the last service specially held before his departure.
On the morrow the whole village was early astir, for it was known that the curate would that morning set out upon his journey; and a numerous array of villagers gathered in the street before the parson’s door as the hour of departure drew nigh.