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 history in which the scene and action of my tale are laid without partaking of the feelings of both parties in that great quarrel, and “being (in an innocent sense) on both sides.” In such a spirit has my story been conceived and written. Until the sword was drawn, the more generous and constitutional Royalists were separated by but a faint line from the best and most patriotic men of the Parliament party. I have, however, confined myself more particularly to the contemplation of those miseries and violent acts of persecution which the appeal to arms brought upon many private families, and especially upon those of the clergy. In the contrivance of such a fiction, it became necessary to introduce pictures of fanaticism and hypocrisy, and to describe scenes of cruelty and of low interested persecution; but such parts of the story must not be considered separately from the rest. The general tenor of my volumes will, I trust, be found in strict consistency with that charity that “thinketh no evil,” but “hopeth all things.” 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 of April, in the year 1640. The sun shone warm; not a breath of wind was stirring the tender foliage of the tall trees, or the delicate flower of the lowly harebell beneath the hedge-rows. All was still, save that at intervals the voice of the cuckoo was heard--loud, but yet mellow--from the bosom of a neighbouring wood. The swains in the field 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 life disturbed the silence of the hour.