“I think, Sir Henry, that the poetry qualifies the author to write a play on the subject of Dame Potiphar and her recusant lover; and as for his calling—that last metaphor of the cloud in a black coat or cloak, with silver lining, would have dubbed him a tailor with me, only that I happen to know that he is a schoolmaster by profession, and by political opinions qualified to be Poet Laureate to Cromwell; for what Colonel Everard has repeated with such unction, is the production of no less celebrated a person than John Milton.”
“John Milton!” exclaimed Sir Henry in astonishment—“What! John Milton, the blasphemous and bloody-minded author of the Defensio Populi Anglicani!—the advocate of the infernal High Court of Fiends; the creature and parasite of that grand impostor, that loathsome hypocrite, that detestable monster, that prodigy of the universe, that disgrace of mankind, that landscape of iniquity, that sink of sin, and that compendium of baseness, Oliver Cromwell!”
“Even the same John Milton,” answered Charles; “schoolmaster to little boys, and tailor to the clouds, which he furnishes with suits of black, lined with silver, at no other expense than that of common sense.”
“Markham Everard,” said the old knight, “I will never forgive thee— never, never. Thou hast made me speak words of praise respecting one whose offal should fatten the region-kites. Speak not to me, sir, but begone! Am I, your kinsman and benefactor, a fit person to be juggled out of my commendation and eulogy, and brought to bedaub such a whitened sepulchre as the sophist Milton?”
“I profess,” said Everard, “this is hard measure, Sir Henry. You pressed me—you defied me, to produce poetry as good as Shakspeare’s. I only thought of the verses, not of the politics of Milton.”
“Oh yes, sir,” replied Sir Henry; “we well know your power of making distinctions; you could make war against the King’s prerogative, without having the least design against his person. Oh Heaven forbid! But Heaven will hear and judge you. Set down the beverage, Phœbe”—(this was added by way of parenthesis to Phœbe, who entered with refreshment)—“Colonel Everard is not thirsty—You have wiped your mouths, and said you have done no evil. But though you have deceived man, yet God you cannot deceive. And you shall wipe no lips in Woodstock, either after meat or drink, I promise you.”
Charged thus at once with the faults imputed to his whole religious sect and political party, Everard felt too late of what imprudence he had been guilty in giving the opening, by disputing his uncle’s taste in dramatic poetry. He endeavoured to explain—to apologise.
“I mistook your purpose, honoured sir, and thought you really desired to know something of our literature; and in repeating what you deemed not unworthy your hearing, I profess I thought I was doing you pleasure, instead of stirring your indignation.”
“O ay!” returned the knight, with unmitigated rigour of resentment— “profess—profess—Ay, that is the new phrase of asseveration, instead of the profane adjuration of courtiers and cavaliers—Oh, sir, profess less and practise more—and so good day to you. Master Kerneguy, you will find beverage in my apartment.”
While Phœbe stood gaping in admiration at the sudden quarrel which had arisen, Colonel Everard’s vexation and resentment was not a little increased by the nonchalance of the young Scotsman, who, with his hands thrust into his pockets, (with a courtly affectation of the time,) had thrown himself into one of the antique chairs, and, though habitually too polite to laugh aloud, and possessing that art of internal laughter by which men of the world learn to indulge their mirth without incurring quarrels, or giving direct offence, was at no particular pains to conceal that he was exceedingly amused by the result of the Colonel’s visit to Woodstock. Colonel Everard’s patience, however, had reached bounds which it was very likely to surpass; for, though differing widely in politics, there was a resemblance betwixt the temper of the uncle and nephew.