In Taunton Town: A Story of the Rebellion of James Duke of Monmouth in 1685

IN TAUNTON TOWN.

HISTORICAL TALES

BY

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IN TAUNTON TOWN. A Story of the Days of the Rebellion of James, Duke of Monmouth, in 1685.

SHUT IN. A Tale of the Wonderful Siege of Antwerp in the Year 1585.

THE LOST TREASURE OF TREVLYN. A Story of the Days of the Gunpowder Plot.

IN THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY. A Tale of the Times of the Black Prince.

LOYAL HEARTS AND TRUE. A Story of the Days of Queen Elizabeth.

The Church and the King. A Tale of England in the Days of Henry VIII.

In post 8vo volumes, cloth extra. Price 2s. 6d. each.

EVIL MAY-DAY. A Story of 1517.

IN THE WARS OF THE ROSES.

THE LORD OF DYNEVOR. A Tale of the Times of Edward the First.

THE SECRET CHAMBER AT CHAD.

Published by

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T. Nelson and Sons, London, Edinburgh, and New York

IN TAUNTON
TOWN

James, Duke of Monmouth.

T. NELSON & SONS

LONDON, EDINBURGH & NEW YORK

In Taunton Town

A Story of the
Rebellion of James Duke of Monmouth
in 1685

By

E. EVERETT-GREEN

Author of "In the Days of Chivalry," "The Church and the King,"
"The Lord of Dynevor," "Shut In"
"&c. &c.

T. NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York
1896

CONTENTS.

I.	THE SNOWE FAMILY,	9
II.	MY CAREER IS SETTLED,	25
III.	MY NEW HOME,	42
IV.	MY NEW LIFE,	59
V.	I GET AMONGST FINE FOLK,	79
VI.	VISCOUNT VERE,	95
VII.	A WINTER OF PLOTS,	112
VIII.	"LE ROI EST MORT,"	129
IX.	THE MUTTERING OF THE STORM,	146
X.	MY RIDE TO LYME,	163
XI.	OUR DELIVERER,	180
XII.	BACK TO TAUNTON,	197
XIII.	THE REVOLT OF TAUNTON,	214
XIV.	A GLORIOUS DAY,	230
XV.	THE MAIDS OF TAUNTON,	250
XVI.	"THE TAUNTON KING,"	264
XVII.	ON THE WAR-PATH,	281
XVIII.	IN PERIL IN A STRANGE CITY,	297
XIX.	A BAPTISM OF BLOOD,	314
XX.	IN SUSPENSE,	331
XXI.	BACK AT BRIDGEWATER,	348
XXII.	FATAL SEDGEMOOR,	364
XXIII.	TERRIBLE DAYS,	381
XXIV.	THE PRISONER OF THE CASTLE,	398
XXV.	JUST IN TIME,	413
XXVI.	THE TERRIBLE JUDGE,	430
XXVII.	THE JUDGE'S SENTENCES,	447
XXVIII.	PEACE AFTER STORM,	463
XXIX.	MY LORD AND MY LADY,	478
XXX.	A CHRISTMAS SCENE,	490
	EPILOGUE,	497

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IN TAUNTON TOWN.

CHAPTER I.

THE SNOWE FAMILY.

I certainly never thought when I was young that I should live to write a book! Scarce do I know how it betides that I have the courage to make so bold, now that I am well stricken in years, and that my hair has grown grey. To be sure (if I may say so without laying myself open to the charge of boasting, a thing abhorrent to me), I have always been reckoned something of a scholar, notwithstanding that I was born a farmer's son, and that my father would have been proud could he but have set his name on paper, as men of his station begin to do now-a-days, and think little of it. But times have changed since I was a boy—perhaps for the better, perhaps for the worse; who knows? Anyhow, there is more of learning in the world, for sure, though whether more of honesty let others be the judge!

And now, how and when am I to begin my tale?

Sitting over the fire and recalling stirring scenes of bygone days, it seems simple enough to record in writing my memories of those times when we good folks of the West Country thought we had found a deliverer who would break from the neck of England the yoke of the hated Papist tyranny which was being laid upon us (at least so we all feared and believed) by one whose name is yet spoken in these parts with a curse. But when one sits to a table with quill and ink-horn beside one, then it does not appear so simple a task; and inasmuch as I have no skill in such matters as the writing of chronicles, I must e'en go to work my own fashion, and if that fashion be a poor one, must ask pardon of all such as may have the patience or complaisance to read my poor story.

Well, then, it seems that the first thing to do is to state who I am, and how it came about that I was so mixed up with that brief period of history which has left such indelible marks in the hearts of the people of our fair West Country. The former is quickly and easily explained; the latter will be unfolded as this narrative proceeds.

My father was one Joseph Snowe, a farmer of some substance, and the eldest of three brothers. He was a man of some importance, being the owner of Five Gable Farm at Shorthorne; and Shorthorne—as I suppose all men know—lies midway betwixt Taunton and Bridgewater, two notable fair towns of our fertile and pleasant county of Somerset.

There was an old saw spoken anent the Snowe family which said that the men thereof who were not farmers and tillers of the soil were brewers of malt liquor and the keepers of hostelries. Nor would it become me to deny with too much eagerness the truth of this saying, seeing that I myself have been master of an inn these many years, and that I have brothers who both till the soil and sell and make malt liquor.

But to return to my father and his two brothers. Five Gable Farm had belonged to the Snowes as far back as we cared to ask questions. It had passed from father to son for many generations; and since I was the youngest of six brothers, there seemed little likelihood of its passing to alien hands for many a day to come.

My father's name was Joseph—as became the eldest of the house; for Joseph was a great name in the Snowe family. Next to him came Uncle John, of whom I shall have much to say in these pages; and last of the three, Uncle Robert, who was a good deal younger than the other pair, two sisters having been born in between.

Now Uncle John was a big man, as big as father himself, with a loud voice and a right jovial manner. I doubt not that he found this jovial address a great source of income to him; for he kept the inn of the Three Cups in gay Taunton Town, and travellers who paused at his door to ask the way or quaff a cup of mead on horseback seldom rode onwards after having had speech of mine host—unless much pressed for time—but dismounted to taste the good cheer of the house, and more often than not remained until the morrow beneath the friendly shelter of the roof-tree. I was to learn all about this in good sooth, as will shortly be made clear to all.

Uncle Robert had followed the example of Uncle John, or had perhaps been guided in his choice by the old adage of which I have spoken; for he too became master of an inn in Bridgewater, by name the Cross Keys. It was not such a flourishing or important house as the Three Cups in Taunton, nevertheless it was a comfortable and well-liked place of rest; and the name of Snowe went far in the district as a warranty for good cheer and fair charges.

Now it will readily be seen that it was a great matter of advantage to my father to have two brothers within easy distance of the farm, both in the inn-keeping line of business. All our spare produce was sent to one inn or the other, bought readily at fair prices, and often bespoken for months beforehand. We prided ourselves on the breed of our sheep, the quality of our beef, the excellence of our smoked hams; and the fame of all these things made us well known both in Taunton and in Bridgewater, so that private persons from the neighbourhood would come craving of mother to spare them of our produce, and these earnings of hers came in the course of a year to a tidy little sum of money.

But I must not wander on in this fashion, or I shall scarce get my story told as I have promised. And to pave the way for the tale I am to tell, I must needs talk for a while about myself, even though this may savour somewhat of self-conceit and vanity. Not that I have any cause to be vain of my outward man, as I will incontinently show, for I have been malformed and somewhat of a hunchback all my life; and if the word I have used is somewhat too strong, at least it is the one I most often heard employed towards me when first I mixed with other lads in Taunton Town. And I may not deny that I had and always have had a stoop of the neck, and that one of my shoulders is higher than the other, whilst my stature has always been notably less than that of any of the men of my name and race.

Now this would be very surprising in a family noted for its tall and comely sons and daughters, had it not been for the lamentable fact that in my tender infancy I was overlooked by a witch, or in some sort bewitched, so that from that day forward I began to grow crooked, and never attained the grace or stature which my brothers and sisters inherited as a natural right.

And this misfortune befell me in this wise.

I was but a babe in arms, I think I was nigh upon a year old, and as fine and comely a child (so at least my mother will have it) as one need wish to see. She had been out to visit a neighbour, and was returning across the moor as the dusk was drawing on; and as ill-luck would have it, her way led her close to the hut where there lived a witch, who went by the name of Mother Whale—though whether this were truly her name, or whether witches have rightly any names at all, I have not knowledge to say. Be that as it may, Mother Whale was so called by all the country side; and young maids resorted to her to have their fortunes told, whilst the village swains who dared as much would purchase from her small bottles in which she had brewed love potions to win them their sweethearts, or magic draughts to make them strong in feats of courage or skill. She had worked many notable cures on cattle and pigs, as well as on human beings, by her charms and simples, and was held in much repute. Nevertheless men feared her not a little also, because that she was without doubt possessed of the evil eye; and when she chose to overlook a man or his possessions, as sure as the sun shone in the sky some grievous harm would happen to him or to them, as had been proved times without number—so all the folks of the place said.

My mother felt a great fear when she found herself nigh to this lonely hut so near the day's end, for she had an idea that witches who were fairly friendly and well disposed by day became full of evil purposes at night (which may or may not be true—I pass no opinion on the matter), and she was hurrying by in a great fright, when suddenly the form of the old woman rose from the very ground at her feet.

I have heard my mother tell the story many and many a time; and she always maintains that there was nothing to conceal the old woman—not so much as a mound or a tuft of grass—and that she must have sprung out of the bowels of the earth, for there she suddenly was, standing full in front of her; and my mother being already somewhat scared, fell now into such a terrible fright that she dropped me upon a heap of sharp-pointed stones close by (when I ask her if the old woman might not have been concealed behind this heap of stones, she always grows irritable, and tells me not to cavil at her words), and fled for her very life. But inasmuch as the power of a mother's love is a notable thing, and will run many a risk sooner than leave a helpless babe in peril, so it befell that my mother turned back after a while, and even dared to go boldly up to the very hut itself in search of her offspring.

The door of the hut stood open as she approached, and by the light of the turf fire she could see what passed within, and a sight was revealed to her which made her heart stand still and curdled the very blood in her veins. For the old woman had actually got me laid across her lap, and was rubbing my back, which was sorely cut and bruised by the stones, with some preparation of her own; and when my mother appeared to claim her child, she looked her over with a glance which made the poor creature shake in her shoes, and chid her severely for dropping a tender babe and fleeing without so much as a backward glance.

My mother declares that from that day forward she always knew that harm would come of it; that the witch had overlooked either her or me. And in truth from that time I grew puny and peaked, and when I began to walk (which was not till long after a child should do so) it was easy to see that something was wrong with me. All the place knew that I had been bewitched, and held Mother Whale responsible, and respected and feared her the more for it; but for my part I often wonder whether it was not the fall upon the stones, for Mother Whale was always very good to me, and in my lonely childhood I found in her one of my chiefest friends.

For my childhood was lonely. I could not work on the farm like my brothers. I was sickly and weak until I grew to be ten or twelve years old. My back would ache for almost nothing, and I was so little use that I was always pushed on one side, or bidden to run indoors out of the way. My sisters were kind to me, and would find me little light household tasks; but the manhood in me revolted from doing "woman's work," and I suppose that is why I became what the neighbours used to call a scholar,—which convinced them almost more than anything else that I had indeed been bewitched.

I could write a long history of the joys opened out before me when once I had mastered the mysteries of reading, and could cull from the row of ancient books upon the shelf in the parlour the treasures they contained. But this would be but tedious reading for others. The Bible was in itself a perfect storehouse of information, and my mother encouraged me to read it, thinking that it might prove an antidote to the poison of witchcraft which she always believed was working within me. And there were certain godly pamphlets written by persecuted men of past days, showing forth the evils of Popery, and claiming for men the rights which Protestants have since won for themselves: these I was permitted and encouraged to read, and also "Fox's Book of Martyrs," which had a gruesome fascination for me, the more so as it was illustrated with many a horrid picture of some martyr enduring punishment or death. I was brought up in the fervent conviction that all Papists would like to serve us good Protestants as these martyrs were being served in my pictures; and not unnaturally I grew up with a pious horror of the very name of Popery, and shivered from head to foot when I heard whispers of the Popish inclinations of the King, and the unconcealed Popery of the Duke of York, who was like to be his successor—unless, indeed, the Duke of Monmouth should turn out to be the King's legitimate son, when all danger of a Papist on the throne would cease at once.

Without therefore pausing to speak of the other books in which I delighted more than in all these godly writings put together—to wit, the immortal dramas of the great bard William Shakespeare, and that marvellous conception of Mr. John Milton's, "Paradise Lost"—I will pursue the theme just suggested, that of the Protestant Succession, as men began to call it, meaning the hopes and aspirations of the people of the country, that if the King died without issue by his Queen, some way might be found for placing the Duke of Monmouth upon the throne instead of the dark Duke of York, whom men both feared and hated.

Now it is needless to say much respecting the parentage of the Duke of Monmouth, for all the world knows that he was the son of Lucy Walters, a woman of whom little good can be written, and that the King was always supposed to be his father, and indeed gave to him a father's affection; so much so that men hoped he would seek to pass an Act of Parliament excluding the Duke of York from the succession, on account of his religion, and appointing the Duke of Monmouth to succeed him.

This hope was the more fervent in the minds of the people because there were many who declared that the Duke was born in lawful wedlock, and that there was in existence a black box containing all the needful proofs of this fact. We in the West Country believed in that black box almost as in an article of faith, and every news-letter that came to Taunton Town was eagerly opened and scanned in hopes of finding in it some precious hint with regard to this matter.

But my own interest in the handsome and dashing young Duke was of a more personal and particular nature than could have been the case simply from reading books and leaflets and pamphlets, or even from hearing through our uncles on their visits the talk of the towns.

And it came about in this wise.

I have said before that I was but a puny and sickly child, and that until I grew to be ten years old I had but little health. This was indeed my melancholy condition; for in addition to my crooked spine and lack of muscle, I suffered from time to time from that obscure and painful malady which used to be known as "King's Evil," and which was not to be cured by any leech or physician, but only by the touch of the King's hand, or the hand of his lawful successor. Some indeed declared that a seventh son could sometimes cure it by touching; but though I was taken more than once to such, I received no good from the touch. It was the seventh son of a seventh son in whom the power was said to lie, and some held that it lay also in the hand of a man who had been hanged; but my mother would never let me try that touch, and so I went on enduring the evil until the day of which I am about to write.

I had an aunt in the town of Ilminster, one Betsy Marwell by name, my mother's sister, and a widow of some substance. She having heard of me and my malady, sent one day when I was about ten years old, and bid my mother let me pay a visit to her, for that she knew a great collector of herbs and simples who had had wonderful success in curing all manner of maladies that baffled the skill of the leeches; and she would keep me in her house and doctor me with his preparations, and send me home, she fondly hoped, in better and sounder health than I had when I came.

I remember well even now that first visit I ever paid away from my own home, and the excitements of dwelling in a town, and of sitting at table in a parlour with a carpet laid down in the middle, and eating with a fork instead of a wooden spoon as I had always done at home. I remember the grave face and the long beard of the man who came to look at me, and who bid me take many baths with sundry simples thrown in, and use certain ointments of his preparation, and who said that in time I should be sound and whole again.

I abode with my aunt two whole months, and it was during that time that the wonderful thing happened to me of which I am now about to write.

I had not been long at Ilminster before the whole town was thrown into joyful excitement by the news that the Duke of Monmouth was about to make a progress through the county, staying in the houses of such of the gentry as had accommodation sufficient to receive him and his suite, and allowing himself to be seen by the people, and approached by all who desired it. I soon heard that the house of Mr. Speke—White Lackington by name—was to be one of the places visited. I knew Mr. Speke by name right well—he and his son-in-law, Mr. Trenchard, being looked upon in our county as men of great virtue, and stanch to the Protestant cause, as in very truth they were, and suffered for it much; and I knew by this time that White Lackington House was but the distance of a mile or so from Ilminster, and I thought it would go hard but that I would make shift to see the Duke when he was there, if I were still with my aunt.

Indeed when the time drew near there was no difficulty about this, for all the world was agog about the Duke, and preparations were being made to admit all those who desired to see him to the park of White Lackington upon a certain day; whilst my aunt Betsy was as eager as any to see the hero, and before the day arrived she drew me to her side and spoke to me very earnestly.

First she examined my wounds, and shook her head over them. To be sure they were better than when I came to her, and some were fast disappearing; but she was not satisfied with the progress I had made, and she said to me with grave emphasis,—

"Dicon"—my name, I should say, was Richard, but I was never called anything but Dicon for many a long year of my life—"Dicon, to-morrow, if by any hap you can make shift to do so, get near to his Grace the Duke, and pray of him to lay his hand upon you and touch you for the King's Evil. If he be, as I hold him, the rightful son of our gracious King, his touch will be a cure for you such as none other can help you to. If you can only make shift yourself to touch him in the throng, it will perchance be enough. But let not this chance slip unused. Providence, it may be, hath sent it. Let the people but know him for the true heir to the throne, and not all the Dukes of York ever yet born shall keep him from his own when the right time comes!"

Whereby it may be seen that my aunt was a woman of spirit, as indeed she proved herself to be in days to come.

Upon the morrow we, in common with half the good folks of Ilminster, set forth for White Lackington to see the Duke at our ease. He had ridden into Ilminster the previous day, to attend divine service in the church; but although I had been well-nigh squeezed to death in the press, I had not succeeded in obtaining so much as a sight of him. But to-day there would be no such crowding and crushing. The wide park land gave space for us to move at ease, and all would be able to look upon the face of one whom they loved, perhaps with scarce sufficient cause.

How we huzzahed and shouted, and tossed our caps into the air, when the party from the great house moved across the sunny gardens and came toward us! For my part, I had a most excellent view, for I climbed into the fork of the huge chestnut tree which is one of the notable objects of interest at White Lackington, and from my perch up there I beheld the Duke, was able to scan his handsome features, to see the smiles that lighted his face, and almost to hear the gracious words he addressed to the people who crowded round him as he moved.

Fortune favoured me that day; for as the throng about him increased, the Duke took up his position beneath the great chestnut tree, and I was able to command a fine view of everything that went on.

I was greatly charmed by the gracious manner of the Duke, by his kindness to all who approached, and by the friendly way in which he addressed even the humblest who succeeded in reaching him. I was wondering whether my courage would permit me to drop myself suddenly at his feet and ask the boon my aunt had desired, when my way was paved in a curious fashion. A woman suddenly forced her way through the crowd, threw herself on her knees before the Duke, touched his hand, and as suddenly disappeared in the throng, before the Duke had time to speak a single word or ask the meaning of her approach.

"Marry, but that is Elizabeth Parcet," said one of those who stood by; "the poor soul suffers terribly from the King's Evil. Doubtless she has touched your Grace with a view to cure herself of her malady."

Now hearing those words, and marking the look upon the Duke's face, I tarried no longer, but without pausing to think what I was doing or what I should say, I hastily let myself down from my exalted position, and fell on my knees before the Duke.

"Touch me, even me also, your Grace!" I cried, clasping my hands together. "I too am a sufferer from that dread malady, and I would fain be made whole."

Immediately I felt a hand laid kindly upon me, and my face and hands were touched by long white fingers such as I had seldom seen in all my life before.

"There, boy," said a kindly voice which I knew to be the Duke's. "May thy wish be given thee, and thyself healed of thy malady."

Bowing and blushing, overcome with confusion now that the thing was done, I made my way out of the crowd, scarce daring to utter the words of fervent thanks which rose to my lips.

As I went home in triumph that day, I knew within myself that I was healed, and so I told my aunt and the kind old man who had given me his simples and herbs, and who listened to my eager tale with a smile on his lips.

"Ay, lad; ay, lad," he said, nodding his head till his long beard waved to and fro, "I doubt not that thou wilt be cured. Yet cease not for a while to use my ointment and simples. They cannot harm thee, and may give thee strength and health yet."

I promised I would do so, and I kept my word, for that our father had always bidden us do. But it was the touch of the Duke's hand that cured me of my malady; that I never doubted at that time, since within a week of receiving it all my wounds were healed, and at once I began to gain such strength and power and vigour as I had not known since the day of my accident. Herbs and simples may have a value of their own—I would not take upon myself to deny it; but I was cured of the King's Evil by other means than that, and went to my home rejoicing when the time came that I had no further need for my good aunt's care or skill.

She shed many tears at parting with me, and bid me not forget her, and come and see her again some day. This I promised I would do when occasion served, and I kept my word, as this tale will show. But we little guessed how and under what circumstances the next visit would be paid, nor how large a part the gay young Duke who had touched me for my cure would play in my future life.

At home I was received with wonder and joy. Of course my parents knew nothing of my adventure at White Lackington, for we did not write letters to absent friends, as men are beginning to do now. But when seated at the well-spread supper-table I told them of what had befallen me, they listened with open eyes and mouths agape, and my father, bringing his hand heavily down upon the table, cried,—

"That settles the question. The black box could do no more. The Duke of Monmouth is our rightful King. Hurrah for the Protestant Duke! Down with the Papists and with the Popish Duke of York!"

And we all echoed these words with acclamation. Our hearts were from that day forward centred in the Duke.

All this happened in the year 1680, when I was just ten years of age.

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CHAPTER II.

MY CAREER IS SETTLED.

Of the next two years of my life I need say little. They passed in a fashion that to me was pleasant and easy enough.

I have before explained that I had been a sickly child, and was on this account spared from those duties about the farm which were required of my brothers; and I have said something with regard to my acquirements in the matter of reading, which were then somewhat more rare than they are like to become as time goes on. My father had a small library of books which had been bequeathed to him by a distant kinsman, who could have known but little of his tastes, and in these books I revelled with a delight past the power of expression. Whilst at my aunt Betsy's house in Ilminster, I had also acquired the rudiments of the art of writing and the casting up of accounts and the keeping of books; and when I returned home, I had no mind to let these things slip from my memory.

Nor was there any need for this, since my father showed no disposition to make use of me upon the farm, having indeed the full belief that I had been bewitched, and that I should bring him ill-luck with the beasts if I went amongst them.

Nor was the belief in my possession of unlawful powers lessened by an incident which I will forthwith relate, although, truth to tell, I cannot explain it, nor do I think it to be any proof that there is aught amiss with me, or ever was. I believe that dumb beasts may be governed by motives of caprice, even as human beings are, and that they can take likes and dislikes and act upon them as stubbornly as their masters.

My father was a breeder and owner of forest ponies, and once in the year they were collected from the moors, where they used to run wild during a great part of the year. The foals were branded, the numbers of the yearlings and two-year-olds counted, and such amongst the rest as were old enough and strong enough for work were taken up and broken in, and sold in the neighbourhood at the various fairs to such as were wanting the like.

Now it chanced that one of the ponies thus driven in and kept for breaking, soon after my return from Ilminster, was a particularly handsome animal. He had a coat as black as the raven's wing, and eyes as large and soft as those of a deer; when he galloped round and round the field in which he was placed, he seemed scarce to touch the ground, and his pace was such that none could come anigh him save by artfulness or coaxing. And he would not suffer so much as a halter to be put upon him, but tossed his head and was off like a lightning flash, and cared not whom he overthrew and maimed as he wrested himself away; so that two of our men had been sorely hurt by him, and the rest began to say that handsome as he was, and valuable as he would prove could we but get the mastery over him, yet he had plainly been bewitched, and was possessed of a devil of malice and wickedness, and to try to tame him would be but labour thrown away. In good sooth, before long people came so to fear him that my father had perforce to say reluctantly that he was past breaking, and must either be sent back to the moor to run wild all his days, or be shot to rid him of the evil fiend within.

Now when I heard them talk thus I was grieved to the heart, for I greatly admired the beautiful creature, and had more than once stolen into the field when none else had been by, and had coaxed him to come and eat out of my hand, sometimes giving him a bit of bread or a morsel of sugar that I had reserved from mine own breakfast or midday meal, and which he came to look for now as his right. He would rub his nose upon my shoulder, and seemed to like the feel of my hands caressing his ears and his neck. It seemed to me that I could even make shift to put a halter upon him if I tried; but I had never dared to do so hitherto, lest they should say I was spoiling him—it being always thought that I knew nothing of the ways of beasts or how to manage them.

Nevertheless it was allowed by all that I could ride. Not being gifted with the strength of the others for walking, I had been suffered to ride one of the forest ponies from the time I was little more than an infant. I could ride barebacked across country without a qualm of fear, and I had little doubt that if once I could make a spring and place myself upon the back of this unruly pony, I should be able to master him forthwith.

Well, to make a long story short, and to avoid the appearance of praising myself, I will only say that when all others had given him up, I went to the refractory colt and used my methods upon him. There was no magic in these; that I will swear if need be. But I made the creature fond of me by gentle caresses and endearing words, and when I was sure of his affection I was able to do what I would with him. He scarcely resented the halter when it was put upon him; and though the first time he felt the bit between his teeth he tossed his head and his eyes grew red and angry, yet a few kind words and caresses reconciled him even to this; and he made no plunge or unruly demonstration when I gently clambered upon his back for the first time, talking all the while and praising him for his docility. I think he looked upon it as another form of caress, and he held his tail and head high as he set to trot with his burden around the field, his long elastic stride seeming to scorn the earth he trod on, and sending thrills of delight through his rider; for methought it was like the action of one of those winged steeds from Ph[oe]bus' chariot, of which I had read in one of my books.

Erelong Blackbird—for so I came to call him from his colour and his easy pace, which always made me think of flying—would carry me whithersoever I wished, and would follow me about the farm like a dog. I always looked to him myself within the stable, feeding him with my own hands, and bringing him water in the pail from the clearest spring. Indeed not one of the men cared to approach him, even though he was presently cured of his trick of giving a sly kick to any who passed by. But there was a look in his eye (so at least they said; I never saw it) which bespoke the devil within; and some of the men looked askance even at me, and would whisper, when they saw me tending and caressing my favourite, that it was plain there was a pair of us. Even my father did not quite like it, though he made me a present of Blackbird, and was always rather proud of the conquest I had made.

Certainly the possession of this light-footed steed all mine own (and he would suffer none else to mount him even when he had grown tame within stable walls, so that I had the exclusive use of him and all his great strength) added not a little to my happiness and health during the two years which followed my visit to Ilminster. With my books and some food in a wallet at my back, I would start off with the first freshness of the morning, and ride to one of those favourite solitary haunts of which Blackbird and I came to have many. Then turning him loose—for he would always come at a call or a whistle, and indeed seldom strayed far away, having come to guard me almost as a dog guards his master—I would set to study might and main at those arts of caligraphy and calculation which I was so wishful to acquire. Moreover, I would also declaim aloud from one of my books, reading out the words loud, and striving to give each its due weight and meaning, as my aunt Betsy had taught me to do when she made me read to her. And never was boy happier than I all through the long days of summer and the mild sunshiny ones of spring and autumn. I was so hardy by this time that only severe cold drove me within doors; and there was always a warm corner in the ingle nook where I could sit at ease. As for my sisters, when they had time to do so, they were glad enough for me to read to them out of my immortal Shakespeare, explaining as well as I could the meaning of all I read, and awakening by degrees within them so great a respect for my learning that I found myself at last in the way of being quite famous in our parish.

This fame of mine gained for me another advantage, which was the interest taken in me by our parson, who came sometimes to overlook my self-imposed tasks, and who of his own accord taught me the axioms and some of the lore of Euclid, and set my brain all in a ferment to puzzle out the propositions in the little brown volume he lent me. I never, however, became a mathematician of any note, since these studies were destined to be speedily interrupted; but much of the last winter spent at home was given to the scrawling of lines and circles upon the hearth-stone with a fragment of charcoal, and my brain certainly grew in those days, and I was conscious of a widening of my mental horizon such as it is impossible to explain in words.

But soon a great change came into my life.

It was a beautiful mild day in May. I had been out with Blackbird as usual, and riding homewards in time for the supper, I saw our uncle John from Taunton standing in the yard with father.

Our uncle John was a favourite with us all, and I was well pleased to see him. He had always news to tell of what was going on in the world, and I had begun to desire to know more of this than was possible in our quiet life upon the farm. So I threw myself off Blackbird's back with haste and ran up with my greeting.

"Hey, Dicon lad, but thou hast mended wonderful for the better since I saw thee last!" cried Uncle John. "We shall make a man of thee yet, I take it, hunchback or no. What has come to thee, lad?"

"I was touched for the King's Evil by our gracious Duke," I answered with enthusiasm, "and since I have been whole from that malady, I have grown in strength and soundness every way. Tell me of the Duke, mine uncle. Where is he? what does he? and how goes it with him? Will he be King after his father? When will the black box be opened and the truth anent him be brought to light?"

My uncle smiled as though he knew more than he would say, but he put his finger to his lips as if to impose caution.

"Hist, boy, it is not well to wear the heart always on the sleeve. The days we live in are something too full of peril. There be wheels within wheels and plots within plots of which we simple country folks know little. Walk warily, and wait till the right moment comes; that is what men in these days have to do."

I was disappointed at the caution of the answer; nevertheless my uncle did tell us something of the movements of the Duke during the past year. He had made another "progress" through Cheshire and the more northern portion of the kingdom, and this progress had been very jealously regarded by the court party. The Duke of York was always the enemy of Monmouth, as was perhaps natural, and the King, who loved them both, had often an evil time of it between them. Sometimes Monmouth seemed in the ascendant, sometimes his black-browed uncle; and the plots and machinations of scheming courtiers and ambitious statesmen were without end. I grew bewildered even trying to follow Uncle John's talk about all these fine nobles, whose names I scarcely knew. But when he pulled out from his capacious pocket two or three old "news-letters," as they were then called, and asked if I could read them, I soon became absorbed in the contents to the exclusion of all besides; for anything new to read was as an elixir to me. And when our father and uncle were smoking their pipes, and mother and the girls washing up and putting away, I began reading loud to them the most interesting bits of news that I could find, quite unaware that Uncle John had ceased to talk with father, and was staring at me open-eyed.

At last he broke into speech.

"By the Lord Harry," he exclaimed (a favourite expletive of his), "the boy reads like a parson! Where did he learn it all?"

"He has always been a scholar," answered mother, with some pride; "that is what I say to them that pity his crooked back. He has a better head than the best of them. He will be a fine scholar in time.—Dicon, go get thy writing-book, and show thine uncle what thou canst do."

Aunt Betsy had given me a neat book full of blank paper, and I had taken pains to write my best themes and most lengthy calculations and cipherings into it. I showed it to my uncle with some pride; and as he turned the leaves I saw him look astonished, impressed, and almost triumphant, and I wondered not a little what could be in his mind.

"Why, boy," he cried, looking up at me at last, "canst add up rows of figures like that, and bring the right total at the end?"

"I trow I can, uncle," I replied with some confidence; for by this time I knew that I could trust myself to get the right answer however long the sum might be. "Set me down a sum and I will show you. I can reckon in my head too, and I seldom make an error."

Well, not to be tedious in telling all this—for I find it hard to know just how much to say and how much to leave unsaid in this history—it appeared at length that our uncle's inn in Taunton was becoming so well patronized by all sorts and conditions of men, that he knew not how to find time to keep his books as well as to entertain his guests; and since neither his wife nor his daughter had any skill with the pen, he was looking about him for somebody whom he could trust to relieve him of those laborious duties of book-keeping which he had hitherto managed to overtake himself, though at the cost of much time and labour.

Seeing my aptitude at figures, and hearing my fluency at reading aloud, he had been seized with the idea that I should be valuable to him.

Many and many a time had he wanted the weekly news-letter read aloud to his customers and guests in an evening; but there was no one with skill enough to make it intelligible thus read. He could read to himself, but had no courage to declaim it to others. Then if only he could have my pen at command during the evening, he could enter easily and rapidly into his books the outgoings of the day, and have bills made out when need was without trouble to himself. Like many men of his class, he had a marvellous memory for figures, and could keep a whole day's reckoning in his head without effort; but the trouble of writing it down afterwards was great, and to be spared that labour he would give much.

Then he was proud that any nephew of his should possess such talents as I did, and he roundly declared to my father that it would be a sin and a shame to keep such a boy at a farm, where he could learn nothing but what he could teach himself. In Taunton there was a free school to which he would send me by day, to learn all I could there with boys of my own age; whilst in the evening I should aid him with his books, and read the news-letter to such as desired to hear it, or amuse the guests of the better sort by declaiming to them some of those scenes from Shakespeare or Milton which I had now by heart, and which my mother made me recite to my uncle to show how clever I was.

It may well be guessed how excited I was whilst this matter was being discussed over my head. Of course no question was asked of me as to my own disposition in the matter. It was a thing for my father and mother to decide as they would; and when my mother argued my lack of health and strength of body, my uncle laughed at her, and said I was full strong enough for him; whilst my father remarked that schooling for a few years would be a grand thing for me, since I should never make a farmer, lived I all my life on the farm, but that in Taunton Town I might rise by my wits to some post such as that of clerk, or schoolmaster, or even parson, and it might be a fine thing for me in the end.

Uncle John was very liberal in his offer to my parents. He said he would feed and clothe me, give me a groat from time to time for myself, and send me regularly to school for the first year at least, and probably for two years, till I had learned as much as was needful, and then they would see what my future career should be. Uncle John had no son to succeed him in the business, only a daughter, who was likely to wed a son of Mr. Hucker the serge-maker, and that son was more like to take to serge-making than to inn-keeping. A hint was given that if I did well and grew to be a help and comfort to my uncle, I might look even to be his successor in the business. Certainly that would be a grand opening for one who had always been looked upon as likely to do badly in life; and before the talk had lasted an hour, it was settled, to my great satisfaction, that I was to return with my uncle to Taunton, and remain in his house as an inmate for at least three years.

How eagerly I made my few simple preparations for leaving home; and how I counted the hours until I and my uncle were to start off for his home in the town! Ever since my stay in Ilminster I had greatly desired a town life. I loved my home in a fashion, but it did not satisfy the cravings of my nature. I felt shut up and out of reach of news there. I missed the heart-beat of a great nation, of which I had been dimly conscious when at my aunt's house during the excitement of the Duke's progress, when so many stirring matters had been discussed daily. I was sure that stirring times were coming upon us. I gathered it from my uncle's words, as well as from certain statements made in the news-letter which I had read. I was conscious that there were things of great moment going on in the world of which we country folk knew nothing. I wanted to know more—to be in the thick of the tumult and the strife. Little knew I how fully my aspirations would be fulfilled during my residence in Taunton, and how fearful would be the scenes upon which I was destined to look in days to come!

I was up with the lark upon the following morning; and whilst I was attending to Blackbird and diligently grooming off from his sleek sides the last remnants of his winter coat, my uncle came in at the door and stood looking at me with an air of approval.

"So you know how to groom a horse as well as how to read a book?" he said. "That is a pretty pony you have there. I never saw a better made animal. He will be a fine fellow to go, I take it; and a rare weight-carrier, if my eye does not deceive me. How old is he?"

"Five this spring, and he can go like the wind. He's been broken these two years; but he will not let any ride him save me. Uncle, may I take him with me to Taunton? If he goes not with me, he must be turned loose to forget all his breaking, and be a wild thing again; for he will not suffer any rider on his back save me only."

Uncle John made me tell all the story of Blackbird's refractory youth and of my success with him, and at the end gave a cordial assent to my request to take my favourite with me.

"To be sure, boy, to be sure. You will want something to ride even in the town. There is many an errand I shall send you now which I have had to do myself hitherto. You know something of fat beasts and milch cows, I take it, else you are scarce your father's son; and if you know not how to drive a bargain yet, Uncle John will soon teach you!"

At that we both laughed, and I felt already as though raised to man's estate by being thus addressed by my uncle.

The taking of Blackbird to Taunton Town made my departure from home a matter of much less regret to me; for the distance being less than seven miles, and Blackbird making nothing of my weight or of that distance, I could when occasion served pay ready visits to my father's house, notwithstanding the fact that the road was in evil plight, as was the fashion with roads then (a matter which time has seen considerably amended, and may amend even more as coaches seem to grow more and more in favour), and highwaymen made travelling ofttimes dangerous, even for such as owned but small worldly wealth.

How well I remember our start on that bright May morning! Blackbird seemed to partake of my joy, and held his head proudly, whisked his long tail to and fro, and arched his neck and looked so proud and gay withal that my uncle kept regarding him with approving eyes, and more than once remarked, "Thou shouldst teach him to turn a lady's palfrey, nephew Dicon, and he would put a pretty penny in thy pocket!"

But I thought I preferred the feel of my eager steed between my knees to any gold in my purse. Blackbird and I had been comrades and friends too long for the thought of parting with him to have any attractions for me. I patted his glossy neck, and was glad his exclusive preference for me would brook no other rider. As we galloped across the moorland that day, making wide circuits from the road in our exuberance of spirit, and returning to join my uncle's sober roadster when we had had our fill of motion and fresh air, he would give an approving nod and say, "Fine pony that; and you know how to ride, boy. When you go a-wooing it had better be on horseback. Pity one can't sell the steed! he would fetch a pretty price. We'll see, we'll see! Maybe he will learn sense in the air of a town."

I had once spent a night at my uncle John's inn, on the occasion of my journey to Ilminster. Although living so near to Taunton as we did, I had never been in the way of going thither. My mother loved not towns and their ways; and though I had liberty to scour the country round at will on Blackbird, I was always bidden to keep to the open country, and never to extend my excursions to either of the towns within reach of us. So that after we had passed Volis Cross and descended the hill, the country was almost strange to me, and I eagerly demanded the name of every house and hamlet we passed, until my attention was completely absorbed by our entrance into Taunton itself.

That fine town, which will always be the queen of towns to me, was looking its best and gayest upon that brilliant May evening. The clocks were chiming six as we rode across the bridge into North Street, and it seemed to me that there must be something going on; for the town was plainly en fête—the streets decked with garlands, and the people saluting each other with the gayest of gay greetings, as though all hearts were in tune for merriment.

"What is it? what does it mean?" I asked of my uncle; and he looked surprised at the question as he replied,—

"Why, boy, dost live so nigh to Taunton and not know that to-morrow is the eleventh day of May?"

I certainly knew that, for I had a calendar of mine own, and studied it with care; but why Taunton should be so joyful on that account I did not know, and my puzzled face said as much.

"Why, boy," he said again, "thee such a scholar and not to know how the good folks of Taunton suffered and starved when holding the town for the Parliament against that villain Goring, who sought to win it back to its allegiance to a traitor King? Hast never read that page of history, nor how it was relieved on the eleventh day of May? Well, that is why we keep the day with garlands and songs and rejoicings, as thou wilt see to-morrow. Marry, they say that the King likes it not well, and our Mayor looks sourly on our sports, and threatens us with penalties if we are thus disloyal to the monarchy. But the people will e'en go their own way. The King has done his part to gain their ill-will, as doubtless thou wilt learn in good time. Where are our stately walls that once held at bay the thousands of a false King's troops? Where are many of the noble buildings and commodious houses which once adorned the Eastreech and East Street? He has worked his will on them. He has destroyed and ravaged at pleasure. But the mind and the heart and the will of the citizens are not his. If he takes away our charter (which he did, though we have it again now), he wins not the love of the people. We give him loyal and liege service, but we do not give him love and trust."

My uncle's face was rather grim as he spoke thus, and I understood that I had come to a place where the divine right of kings, in which I had believed until now, was not greatly regarded. The story of the nation had not formed one of my studies. I knew little enough of the events of the past century, albeit my father had lived through the great civil war, and had seen some fighting, though holding aloof from it himself. I had not thought much of anything save the position of the Duke of Monmouth, and the hope that he would one day be King. As I rode through the streets of Taunton and saw the decorations being put up for the morrow, I felt indeed that a new life was opening before me, and that I was now to learn many things which hitherto had been but names to me.

---

CHAPTER III.

MY NEW HOME.

"The eleventh of May was a joyful day,
When Taunton got relief;
Which turned our sorrow into joy,
And eased us of our grief.

"The Taunton men were valiant then
In keeping of the town,
While many of those who were our foes
Lay gasping on the ground.

"When Colonel Massey, of the same,
Did understand aright,
He, like a man of courage bold,
Prepared himself to fight.

"With that our soldiers one and all
Cast up their caps, and cried,
'What need we fear what man can do,
Since God is on our side?'

"Long time did Goring lie encamped
Against fair Taunton Town;
He made a vow to starve us out,
And batter our castle down.

"Within our castle did remain
(A garrison so strong)
Those likely lads which did unto
Our Parliament belong.

"Before daylight appeared in view,
The news to them was come
That Goring and his cursèd crew
Were all dispersed and gone.

"But who can tell what joy was there,
And what content of mind
Was put into the hearts of those
Who'd been so long confined?

"Our bread was fourteenpence per pound,
And all things sold full dear;
Which made our soldiers make short meals
And pinch themselves full near.

"Our beer was eighteenpence per quart
(As for a truth was told),
And butter eighteenpence per pound
To Christians there was sold.

"The Cavaliers dispersed with fear,
And forced were to run,
On the eleventh of May, by break of day,
Ere rising of the sun."

It was with the words of this song, chanted by a number of voices in the street below, that I was awakened upon the first morning of my residence in my new home.

I had slept profoundly, despite the excitements of my arrival; and when I awoke suddenly, roused by the sound of this unfamiliar chant, it took me some moments to recollect where I was, and to convince myself that I was not dreaming still. The moment that memory returned to me I sprang out of bed, and putting my head out of the open window, tried to obtain a view of the singers below.

But this I was unable to do, as I might have known had I taken pains to consider. My room was high up in the quaint old inn, which even in my youth was accounted an old house. It looked upon the court-yard behind, where the stables lay, and where hostlers were already passing to and fro. I remembered well that I had observed this last night, and that I had also remarked with satisfaction how my window was provided with a little wooden balcony, of which the house had many. It was in an angle of the building above the stables, and not in the main block of the house where the guests were lodged. Near at hand, and at right angles, rose the walls of another house, which I could see was not a part of the inn. It did not look so old, and it was more like a gentleman's private residence, I thought. All the windows were close curtained, and I could not gather anything as to the character of its inhabitants. It seemed passing strange to me then that houses should be thus locked together; and I was calculating with what ease I could make shift by the aid of a water-pipe to get in at the window of this house were it left open, and possess myself of anything the room contained, when the sound of an impatient neigh from the yard below warned me that time was getting on, and that Blackbird was probably still unfed (for I had warned the men not to go to him at first, save in my presence), and that he was asking for his breakfast as plainly as though he could utter human speech.

I, too, was in a great hurry to be up and doing, and to see some of the wonders of the town of which I was in future to be a resident. In a few moments I was dressed (words of the song below still floating up to me clearly enough, and getting fixed in my memory, as all words with rhyme and rhythm have a trick of doing), and was ready to try to find my way down the curious stairways and along the intricate passages I had traversed last night under the guidance of my cousin Meg. It was not so easy as I expected, but as yet nobody in that part of the house was stirring. It was still very early, for all that the sun was shining brightly; and I had Blackbird fed, and was ready and eager to be out in the streets before there was any sign of my uncle or aunt to be seen.

However, my impatience was too great to be stayed by any thought of a rebuke later, and plunging under the archway which led from the street to the yard, I found myself in the open space where East Street and Fore Street join, and looked about me with a lively curiosity, wondering where I should go and what I should do.

The singers were no longer in sight; they had passed on, and the wide streets were almost empty. But as I stood looking admiringly about me, a boy of about my own age came swinging along with a parcel under his arm, whistling the very tune I had heard set to the words I have just quoted.

I looked curiously at him, and he returned my glance with interest. No doubt he was familiar with most of the faces of the towns-folk in these parts, and wondered who I was. Perhaps my crooked back attracted his notice, but I did not think of that then, and noting that he half paused as though not unwilling to speak, I wished him good-morning, and he returned the salutation.

There was something so bright and friendly in his smile as he did so that I found courage to say, "Are you going somewhere? May I go with you?"

"Why, yes, if you like," he answered readily. "I am going to my work. I am apprenticed to Master Simpson of High Street. If you know aught of Taunton, doubtless you have heard of him."

"But I do not. I only came hither yester-e'en with mine uncle. I am nephew to John Snowe of the Three Cups yonder. I am to dwell with him, and go to the Free School here. I would fain know all I can of Taunton Town. It is a right fair city. I like it well."

"And you have come on a good day!" cried my new friend, with brightening eyes. "To-night, so soon as the sun be down, we shall light a great bonfire in Paul's Fields, and all the town will be there to see. Ah! I would I had lived in the days when Taunton Town held for the Parliament against King Charles! But it may be even yet that we may some of us live to see fine doings and hard fighting; for if the King dies before his brother, and the Papist Duke of York sits upon the throne—"

The lad paused as if struck by the magnitude of the thought within him, and I glanced round to be sure we were not overheard, and asked with keen interest, "Well, and what then?"

"Why, then, methinks there would be hard blows struck for the rightful heir, the young Duke of Monmouth," answered the boy, with sparkling eyes. "All Taunton and the West Country would rise for him, as they rose for the rights of the nation against the King's father. The poltroons of London may lick the dust before a Papist usurper, but not we of the free West Country! We will know the reason why before we bow to a Papist, be he never so much the King's brother!"

The boldness of this boy astonished me greatly, and also his evident comprehension of the burning questions of the day, with which I myself was but imperfectly acquainted. My heart always warmed within me at any mention of the Duke of Monmouth, and I eagerly plunged into the story of my own miraculous cure at the hands of his Grace—a tale to which my companion listened with kindling eyes.

"Marry, but thou shalt come with me and tell it to my master!" he said, as I ended. "If proof were lacking, there it is; for none save a lawful King or his lawful heir can cure the King's Evil. There will be a ready welcome for thee at Master Simpson's. He is one that is bound heart and soul to the cause of the Duke."

"And what is thy name?" I asked, as I willingly allowed myself to be led whither my comrade would.

"Will Wiseman is my name, and I be apprenticed to Master Simpson, as I have said. I dwell beneath his roof; but yester-eve I visited my aunt in the North Street, and tarried with her till dawn. Thou sayest thou art nephew to Master Snowe of the Three Cups? He is a good man, one of our Capital Burgesses; and we take it he would be stanch to the good cause if the time should come for men to declare themselves."

I was considerably impressed by Will's way of talking. It was as though he were living in a world of which I knew almost nothing; as though he were looking forward to something definite and expected, whilst to me the future was absolutely blank and vague. I felt my ignorance so great that I did not know so much as how to frame questions; but I was saved the trouble of doing this partly from the eager talk of my companion, partly from our speedy arrival at our destination. For soon after we had passed the bend in High Street, where it turns sharp to the right toward Shuttern, Will paused before a door with a right goodly sign hanging above it; and after obtaining entrance, began quickly taking down the shutters, in which office I gave him what assistance I could, so that soon the bright light of morning was streaming into the interior of the shop.

So soon as this was the case I stood open-mouthed in admiration and wonder, for I had never seen so goodly a shop in all my life before. Master Simpson must be a man of much substance—so much I could see at a glance—and his wares were beautiful to the eye and delicate to the touch. There were bales of costly silk set in a mighty pyramid in one place; and cloths and lawns, and the good serge manufactured in Taunton Town, disposed with a simple eye to effect, in due order along shelves and in the large window. And besides all these things, there was an inner shop, visible through an archway, in which I saw a sight that made my mouth water; for there were shelves, guarded by wire doors, in which hundreds of books were arranged in tempting order—books new and books old—a sight that drew me like a magnet, so that I forgot Will and his work, forgot the strangeness of the house and my lack of manners, and went straight to the book-cases and began reading the names of the volumes one by one, speaking them half aloud without knowing it.

I was aroused by feeling a strong hand laid upon my shoulder, and by the sound of a friendly voice in my ear.

"Hey, but we have a scholar here, in good sooth! So thou art nephew to good Master Snowe, Will tells me; and hast been touched for King's Evil by our gracious Duke? Now, boy, tell me all about that, and how the cure was made, and I will give thee a book for thy pains; for it may be that this cure of thine shall be a notable thing in the annals of the day that be coming."

The speaker was plainly the master of the house and shop. He was soberly habited, as became his condition in life; but he had a strong face as well as a strong hand and voice, and I felt drawn towards him I scarce knew why, and told him my tale very gladly, with the story of my own brief and uneventful life to boot.

He listened with attention, nodding his head the while. Heaven forgive me if I did amiss. I had no thought to deceive him or others, but I spoke no word of the man of herbs and potions, nor of the ointments I had been using for my wounds ere ever the Duke's hand touched me. In good sooth, I had scarce ever thought of him and his simples since. Never for a moment did I believe that these had had anything to do with my cure. It is only long since, when I have heard from others how in nature there be such marvellous cures for human ills to be found by those who have skill and faith to seek them aright, that I have wondered if perchance it was the herb baths and ointments, and not the touch of the Duke's white hand, that made me whole and sound. But in those days no such thought ever came to me. I had well-nigh forgotten the kind old man with his long beard, and of him I spoke no word; only telling how weak and ill I was and had been from childhood, and how soon after I had besought the Duke to touch me I became sound and whole, and had no return of the Evil, which none but such a one as he could cure.

Master Simpson heard me with great satisfaction, and kept his word right generously, making me the proud and happy possessor of a small copy of "Æsop's Fables," with the Latin on one side of the page and the English on the other—a treasure that in those days was even more costly than it has become now, and which in spite of its shabby binding was looked upon as of exceeding worth.

"Thou hadst better learn the Latin tongue, an thou hast the chance at the Free School," said Master Simpson. "Learning is a grand thing, and will be a mighty power in the days to come. Learn all thou canst, boy, when thou art young. The time may come when thou wilt not have the leisure; make the most of that leisure now."

I was well disposed to carry out that sage advice, being greedy after knowledge, and I almost longed to run away then and there to study my book, and see if I could make out aught of the strange Latin words. Even the possession of such a book made me feel almost a scholar. But I could not refuse the invitation of Master Simpson to come and take breakfast with him, albeit my uncle and aunt might well be wondering what had become of me. But, as I reflected, the hostlers would tell him I had risen and gone abroad, and upon this festive holiday I did not think I should be chidden for my early walk.

Behind the shop was a pleasant parlour, and behind that again a kitchen, from whence a savoury odour proceeded. It gave one an appetite even to scent it, and I was nothing loath to follow the mercer into that same kitchen, where a goodly fire burned on the hearth, and a merry-faced young maiden was flitting about setting trenchers on the table, and humming a gay ditty the while. She made a reverence as we came in, and her father (for she was none other than the master's daughter) gave her a blessing; after which he turned him to a portly dame who was taking a steaming pot from the fire, and bid her good-morn, telling her my name and state, and how I was come to Taunton to make a scholar of myself.

From the likeness which showed itself between the pair before me, I felt assured that they must be brother and sister, as was indeed the case. Master Simpson was a widower, but his sister kept house for him, and played a mother's part to the young Eliza, who gave her almost a daughter's love. It was pleasant to see so much affection between those of a household, for at home, albeit we all loved each other well, it was not our fashion to show it; wherefore it seemed pretty to me to watch the sly caresses which Eliza would bestow upon her father, or the way in which Mistress Susan's glance softened when she addressed herself to the maid.

Will Wiseman and a young man who served in the shop, but who spoke no word and gave himself only to making a right royal meal, sat at table with us, though somewhat apart; and ever and anon Will would put in a word when his master turned to him with a question. He plainly heard and gave heed to everything that passed, with a keen intelligence that was shown in the glance of his eye and in the ready way in which his words came when he had occasion to speak. I took a great liking to Will from the first moment of our acquaintance, and everything I noted about him increased the good-will I bore him.

We had a merry meal, and I told the story of my cure yet once again that day. Lizzie's eyes brightened at the tale (Eliza was always called Lizzie both at home and abroad, since it appeared that there were many Elizas in the town, and confusion apt to arise), and she clasped her hands together and cried,—

"Faith, but Miss Blake will greatly rejoice to hear this! I will tell her forthwith, and I warrant me I shall be high in favour all the day for the same story. Good Dicon, thou wilt be a rare favourite in Taunton Town an thou dost uphold here the rights of our well-loved Duke!"

"Hist, lassie!" answered her father, yet smiling nevertheless. "It behoves us to talk with care even in Taunton Town. Let not such words be heard by the Rev. Mr. Axe, nor still less by Mr. Blewer. The Duke hath his foes as well as his friends within the town. We must not hurt a good cause by over-zeal ere the right moment comes."

Lizzie laughed, and asked with a pretty, saucy air who would trouble to take note of the words of such an obscure maiden as herself; and then she looked at the clock and sprang up, and said she must even go, or she should be late, and Miss Blake would chide. And I then learned that Miss Blake was the mistress of the school where this maiden went daily for instruction, and moreover that it stood adjoining my uncle's inn, and must indeed be the house I had been wondering about in looking from my windows on awakening this very morning.

So on understanding this much, I sprang up and asked leave to escort pretty Lizzie to her school; and soon we were walking along the garlanded streets, and she was telling me how greatly Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave loved the Duke, and how dear his cause was to the hearts of the people of Taunton. I also learned that Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave were two ladies of virtue and learning, and that they had each kept a school for girls in the beginning, but had now joined these two seminaries into one. Miss Blake took the younger maidens, and Mrs. Musgrave the elder ones; and my companion chattered so fast about her companions, telling me their names, ages, and accomplishments with such fluency, that I was quite bewildered; and the only item of information which I retained in my head was that there was one, Mary Mead, a youthful heiress, some years older than any of her companions, who had been educated by Mrs. Musgrave, and still remained in her charge, although since she was now of marriageable age it was likely that her condition in life would speedily be changed.

We parted the best of friends at the door of the seminary, where some other maidens were assembling, who looked curiously upon me as I took off my cap and made my best bow to them all. The door of the school was a few paces round the corner, and the house was of fine proportions. I well understood as I looked at it—Lizzie and her companions having now disappeared within—how it was that my room over our stable buildings approached so nigh to it. I felt a good deal of interest in the close vicinity of these bright-faced town maidens, who seemed so different from the country girls I had lived amongst hitherto. Not that I would disparage mine own sisters and their friends; but there were a brightness and ease of manner and readiness of wit amongst these damsels which dazzled and captivated me, and which I had never seen at home.

When I got back to the inn, I found breakfast well-nigh done; but I received no chiding for my absence, especially when I said whither I had been and with whom. Master Simpson was plainly a notable man of good repute in Taunton, and a friend of mine uncle's to boot. My uncle, too, was pleased at the gift of the book which I had received, arguing that Master Simpson must have thought well of my scholarship. I read him two or three of the fables; whereat he laughed not a little, and bid me hold myself in readiness to amuse his guests therewith on another occasion.

I was not to go to school till the following week, and to-day I had leave to wander whither I would, to see what I could and what I most desired, and enjoy the merry-making of the town.

My cousin Meg, a fine buxom lass of nigh upon twenty summers, was all agog to go with me; and I was proud enough to have such a companion. So after I had helped her with her dishes and so forth, being skilled in many feminine tasks through helping my mother at home when she and the girls were pressed, she donned her holiday gown and gayest hood—and well she became them both, as I failed not to tell her—and I put on my best clothes, which seemed to me fine enough even if somewhat lacking in the grace and fashion I saw in some of the towns-folk of the better sort; and forth we sallied to see the sights of the town, and to enjoy any revelry that might be going.

The best of the merry-making would be towards evening, when the shops would close, and the apprentices and shopmen be free to join; but even now there was plenty to see and to admire. The fine proportions of the streets and public buildings filled me with a great wonder; and when we dived down a passage past Huish's Almshouse, and came out in front of St. Mary's Church, I stood still and silent in speechless admiration, marvelling at its wondrous beauty and lofty dignity, and asking of myself whether St. Paul's itself in fair London town could be as goodly a sight.

It so chanced that service was going on, and nothing would serve me but that I must go in and hear what it was like. Meg was willing enough to gratify me: for from being bred a dissenter, like the majority of the towns-folk, she attended the services of the dissenting flock in Paul's Meeting Sunday by Sunday; and the offices of the Establishment, which she was wont to hear stigmatized as "Popish," were quite unfamiliar to her, and had therefore a certain fascination.

There were two clergymen taking part in the service; and when we were in the street again, Meg said to me (interrupting my raptures about the architectural beauties of the place),—

"He with the grey hair peeping from beneath his wig is Mr. Axe. He is much beloved in Taunton, although men say that he is an enemy to the Duke of Monmouth, and tells men freely that he can never be lawful King, but that if the King dies childless, as seems like, we must submit to see the Duke of York upon the throne—a thing which is abhorrent to the minds of many. Yet in spite of this he is loved and trusted. But the other, Mr. Blewer, is hated and feared. I scarce know why we all think so ill of him, but he hath a cruel face and an evil eye; and some say that he is the bitter foe of all who follow not the teachings of the Established Church, whilst there be others who call him a Papist at heart, and say that when the Duke of York is King (if ever such a day comes, which Heaven forbid!) he will show what manner of man he is, and evil will fall upon many in Taunton through him."

"He has a bad face and a cruel mouth," I answered, having studied his face with a sense of reluctant fascination for which I could not account as I knelt in the church. Could it have been that some presentiment of his cruelty stole over me even then? I know not how that may be, but I do know that though my hair is now grey, and though I have lived beyond the allotted span of man's days, I cannot even now think of that miscreant without a tingling of the blood in my veins such as I seldom experience for aught besides.

That day was a notable one in my life, although it seems like a dream now. I looked upon the outside of many a noble building—St. James's Church; Paul's Meeting, which I was to worship in for a time; the Castle; the Free School, which I was to know right well erelong; and the Almshouses, which had been erected by the charitable in bygone years for the benefit of the aged poor.

The town was all bedecked with flags and garlands, and the bands of singers went about chanting their ditties, receiving rewards from many of the richer and more prosperous of the towns-folk, as well as the humbler, who were all so devoted to the cause of what they termed "liberty and right."

In the evening there was a grand bonfire in Paul's Field, and another in Priory Fields at the other extremity of the town.

Will Wiseman and I joined forces, and rushed from one to the other, getting an excellent view of both; and we danced around the fire with the best of them, and hooted for the Duke of York and the Pope, and shouted for the King and the Duke of Monmouth, until at last we had no voice left wherewith to shout more. When the embers burned low, and the sheriff's officer came to bid the people disperse, we went reluctantly home with the crowd, talking in friendly whispers of the glorious days that perhaps were coming, when we should be able to show the metal of which we were made, and almost ready to wish for the excitements and horrors of another civil war, if only we might bear a share in its glory and its danger.

We had heard so many stories from the bystanders who did remember those days, that our blood was fired, and we ardently longed for a repetition of such exciting events.

Well, we were destined to see something of bloodshed before many years had passed over our heads, and one of us was to shed his blood—as he sincerely longed at that moment to do, but whether in the fashion that came about it is not for me to say here.

And so ended my first eventful day in Taunton Town.

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CHAPTER IV.

MY NEW LIFE.

If I were to begin to set down in order all the many things that happened to me without and within the town of Taunton during the early days of my residence there, I should go far to fill a volume ere ever I had reached the matters of which it is my intention more particularly to speak.

So I must strive after all the brevity of a skilled master of the craft of penmanship and story-telling, and seek to skim the cream from the surface of events, without wearying the reader with overmuch detail.

Let me say, in the first place, that I was very happy in my new life. I was kindly treated by my relatives. I made myself useful to my uncle in many ways, and I was a favourite with his guests, who delighted to hear the news of the day read to them whilst they smoked their pipes at ease, and who were all ready to talk with me when the reading was over, one telling me one bit of public gossip, and another another, till my mind was quite a storehouse of information, and I was able to talk upon almost any subject with the air of one who knew something about it.

The reputation for cleverness and knowledge which I soon gained (though in good sooth it was less knowledge than a good memory that I possessed) gave me a small standing of mine own in the place, and I had quite a brisk little business erelong, in writing letters for those who could not do it for themselves, and getting them passed on by trusty hands, by means of some of the many visitors who passed to and fro between our town and other places. My uncle let me keep for myself all such moneys as I gained in this fashion, and so I was able to take home to my mother and sisters presents which made them open their eyes wide in amaze, on the occasions when I mounted Blackbird and rode over to my former home. I was looked upon now as a person of some importance; and although only a lad of thirteen summers, I felt as if I should soon arrive at man's estate.

I had something to suffer at the Free School from the gibes and the envy of the other boys, who liked not to be surpassed at their books by the "hunchback clown"—such was their name for me for a time—and who paid me many an ill turn and played off many a malicious trick, until at last they wearied of it, or I gradually grew into favour, I scarce knew which, and I was let alone to go mine own way. But in spite of all this I was happy in my school hours, for I was learning every day something new; and if the boys misliked me, the masters took good heed of me and favoured my thirst after knowledge, so that I was able to study with zeal and success, and to win the praise of Mr. Axe, who would come from time to time to hear the boys recite, or to ask them questions from Scripture or secular history, and who never left without a word of kindness for me.

I came to revere and love Mr. Axe right well. He was not truly the Vicar of beauteous St. Mary's Church. The Vicar, in very sooth, was one Mr. Hart, who was (so it was told me) also Canon of Bristol and Prebendary of Wells, so that he had but scant time to think of his duties here. Mr. Axe, however, supplied all that was lacking, and was greatly beloved by us—as much beloved as Mr. Blewer was mistrusted and feared: for we would cross the street to avoid coming within the radius of his basilisk glance; and I for one never saw him without the feeling that he would prove a cruel foe ere we had seen the last of him.

Now I had scarce been a month at my uncle's house before a great excitement befell us, and a great fear fell upon many of our towns-folk; for it was rumoured that this thing would lose the Duke of Monmouth his head, and that even if his life were spared he would have to fly the country, and be no more seen in this land.

And the reason for this rumour, which filled all Somersetshire with sorrow, was the discovery of a vile plot against the life of the King and that of the Duke of York, which wicked and slanderous tongues were eager to charge upon the virtuous and high-minded Duke of Monmouth.

Well do I remember the day when first the news of this infamous plot, which came to be called the Rye House Plot, reached the good citizens of Taunton.

It was upon a Sunday morning, and I, together with my uncle and aunt and his daughter Meg, had started forth for Paul's Meeting, which we always attended for morning service, when we noted that the people in the streets had an air of gravity and anxiety which was not usual, and that all seemed to be asking questions one of another, although none seemed to be ready with an answer.

Now generally we were the first to hear any news that might reach the town, because that travellers were wont to put up at the Three Cups rather than at the other hostelries, which were less beliked than our house. But to-day there had been none arrival, and my uncle stopped to ask the first acquaintance he encountered what was the meaning of the general discomposure.

Now it chanced that this acquaintance was none other than Heywood Dare—"Old Dare," as he was often called, less perhaps from his actual years than because he had a son who was also a notable man in his way, and who had a part to play in the days that were coming.

Now old Dare had a story of his own, and was a great man in Taunton. He was by trade a goldsmith, and a man of substance to boot; but it was not his wealth that had gained for him the repute in which he was held, but his courage and devotion to the cause of liberty and justice.

It was one of the grievances of the times that the King would not permit Parliament to sit sometimes for long years together. Men whispered that he received great sums of money from France, which enabled him to dispense with the summoning of his own loyal subjects to grant supplies. However that may be, the people were grieved and wroth that their assembly was not called and permitted to sit, as they claimed that it had the right to do; and petitions from townships were constantly sent up to his Majesty imploring him to call together his Parliament, until the King grew greatly incensed, issued proclamations forbidding the presentation of these petitions, and threatening with severe penalties those who went about "getting hands," as it was termed, to put to these documents. Indeed many barbarous severities had been put in practice against those who still strove to collect names for such papers; and curious enough were such documents when they were drawn up, for three-fourths of those who "set hand" to them could not write their names, but could only make a mark which was to stand instead of it.

Now some four years back Old Dare had got up a notable petition, and it had been signed or marked by half Taunton, and by Bridgewater and Ilminster and many another fair town. The sturdy old goldsmith pursued his way to London with it. It was his intention to deliver it to the King with his own hand; and this intention he carried out, meeting the King hard by the Houses of Parliament, and presenting his paper on bended knee. The King took it unsuspecting—for it was a bold man who would venture to place one of the abhorred petitions in the royal hands; but on unfolding it he became instantly aware of its nature, and turning sharply upon the offender, he asked him how he dared to do such a thing. "Sire," replied the intrepid goldsmith, "my name is Dare!" And forasmuch as there is always something noble in fearless courage, and that his Majesty is not without nobility of soul, no hurt was done to the bold petitioner, albeit no good that I ever heard of came from his petition.

Well then, to return to my present tale, it was Old Dare whom we encountered in the street to-day; and when my uncle asked what the coil was all about, he shook his head and answered,—

"I cannot say with knowledge; but a messenger rode post-haste to the house of the Mayor but now, and it was plain, by the stains of travel on him and his horse, that they had been hard pushed to reach the place. It is something of note, I take it, and something of evil, I fear." He lowered his voice and said in my uncle's ear (yet I heard every word, being very keen of hearing), "I fear me it will prove to be some plot to ruin the Duke and his Council of Six. It may be that they have been something rash and forward. I fear me we shall hear bad news ere the day is out."

I knew well what was meant by the Council of Six. The Duke of Monmouth had some faithful friends, lovers of liberty and constitutional rule—my Lord of Russell and Mr. Algernon Sydney being of the number—who met together often to discuss what might be done for a country beginning once again to groan beneath the yoke of an arbitrary exercise of the power of the Crown. Representations had been made to the King, it was said, to summon Parliament, and give to the people their lawful voice in the government; but this having proved of none avail, it had been whispered that these men had spoken of another Great Revolution, such as had cost the King's father his head; and of course such talk was accounted rank treason in those days, and was like to cost many a man his life.

Now we of the West Country in general, and of Taunton Town in particular, knew very well that if any rising or tumult took place, it would be like enough to be in our neighbourhood; and that, even if we kept ourselves tranquil, we might get the credit of being turbulent, and have our rights infringed, even if our charter were not taken from us, as it had been early in the King's reign, although restored seventeen years later. Also, we all of us pinned our chiefest hopes of constitutional government and the Protestant religion on the hoped-for succession of the Duke of Monmouth; and if he were to be implicated in a plot which should cost him liberty or life, our hopes would receive a crushing blow, and nothing lie before us but the succession of a bigoted Papist and a man of known cruelty and tyranny.

Small wonder was it, therefore, that our faces were grave, and that we all looked anxiously at our minister, Mr. Vincent, as he mounted the pulpit a little after the usual time, and looked seriously upon our upturned faces. He made no attempt at a regular sermon that day, but after giving thanks for the merciful preservation of his gracious Majesty the King from a recent and great danger, he proceeded to tell us that a plot had been laid against the King's life and that of the Duke of York, and how it was currently rumoured that the Duke of Monmouth and his friends were concerned in the matter. Arrests had been made of certain persons, and the Duke had fled and hidden himself.

Mr. Vincent also told us, with great seriousness, that rumour had already been forward to declare that an insurrection had commenced, with Taunton as its centre; and counselled us, as we valued the peace of the realm and our own safety, to avoid any cause of offence, and to remain perfectly quiet and tranquil. The time might come in the future when it would be a righteous thing to rise up and strike a blow for the liberty and the faith of the country, but certainly that day had not yet come. The King upon the throne was the rightful one; his rule was on the whole fair and just. There was no quarrel with him. Nothing would so injure the righteous cause as a revolt against law and order; nothing would so greatly hurt the cause of the young Duke of Monmouth. We must show discretion and wisdom at this time, that none might have cause to look with suspicion upon us.

This wise counsel from one who was a pillar of strength amongst us was not without due effect. We looked at one another and resolved to abide by Mr. Vincent's counsel. We knew that our Mayor was a bitter enemy to all dissenters, and would fasten upon us an indictment of disaffection if we gave the smallest ground. Indeed he took instant action upon hearing of the plot, and called some bands of the militia into the town; and I verily believe that it was with his consent, if not at his instigation, that a deed was done in the town which made us who called ourselves dissenters tingle with rage and feel almost ready to raise the very tumult of which we were altogether innocent in fact.

Now the thing of which I speak was nothing less than the demolishing of the great chapel called Paul's Meeting, of which I have spoken, and in which hundreds of citizens met to worship Sunday by Sunday. And this thing was done, to the great shame of those concerned in it, just when the excitement which I have mentioned prevailed, notwithstanding that Mr. Vincent and Mr. Burgess, both of whom preached to us there, were godly men, and taught us submission to lawful rulers, and spoke no evil of dignitaries.