THE BROKEN FONT.
A
STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR.
BY THE
AUTHOR OF “TALES OF THE WARS OF OUR TIMES,”
“RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PENINSULA,”
&c. &c. &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMAN,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1836.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
PREFACE.
It is impossible to read or meditate concerning that period of historyin which the scene and action of my tale are laid without partaking ofthe feelings of both parties in that great quarrel, and “being (in aninnocent sense) on both sides.”
In such a spirit has my story been conceived and written. Until thesword was drawn, the more generous and constitutional Royalists wereseparated by but a faint line from the best and most patriotic men ofthe Parliament party.
I have, however, confined myself more particularly to thecontemplation of those miseries and violent acts of persecution whichthe appeal to arms brought upon many private families, and especiallyupon those of the clergy.
In the contrivance of such a fiction, it became necessary to introducepictures of fanaticism and hypocrisy, and to describe scenes ofcruelty and of low interested persecution; but such parts of the storymust not be considered separately from the rest. The general tenor ofmy volumes will, I trust, be found in strict consistency with thatcharity that “thinketh no evil,” but “hopeth all things.”
[Pg 1]
THE BROKEN FONT.
CHAPTER I.
Thus till man end, his vanities goe round,
In credit here, and there discredited;
Striving to binde, and never to be bound;
To governe God, and not bee governed:
Which is the cause his life is thus confused,
In his corruption, by these arts abused.
Lord Brooke.
It was the early afternoon of a fine open day in the last week ofApril, in the year 1640. The sun shone warm; not a breath of wind wasstirring the tender foliage of the tall trees, or the delicate flowerof the lowly harebell beneath the hedge-rows. All was still, save thatat intervals the voice of the cuckoo was heard—loud, but yetmellow—from the bosom of a neighbouring wood. The swains in[Pg 2] thefield lay stretched in the shade, as though summer were already come:in gardens and court-yards not a sound of labour or a clatter of lifedisturbed the silence of the hour.
In a shady alcove, which looked out on the bowling alley of MilvertonHouse, sate the worthy old master of the mansion, with one leg crossedover the other, a book upon his knee, and a kindly smile playingacross his manly features. Not far distant, upon the steps which ledup to the near end of a stately terrace, was seated a fair littlegirl, about six years of age. A thick laurel protected her with itsshadow; and it might be seen by the paper in her hand, by the motionof her lips, and by the sway of her littl                        
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