The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 1 (of 2)Sherer, Moyle
History
The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 1 (of 2)
Sherer, Moyle
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
Laud was already paying the penalty of his mistaken, but certainly
conscientious, severity, in a prison, from whence it might be plainly
foretold he would at length be conducted to the block. The bishops’
votes in parliament were taken away, and the deans and chapters were
already voted against in the Commons, although their spoliation had
not yet taken place, neither were the cathedral services as yet
discontinued. As regularly, therefore, as the Thursday came round,
Noble, if not prevented by a special call of duty at home, made his
weekly visit to the fair city of Wells; where he in the first instance
always bent his steps to the cathedral, and joined the congregation
assembled for morning service.
It was on a saint’s day, in the summer of 1641, that, as usual, he
proceeded to that venerable and glorious temple, and took his seat in
the vacant stall which it was his wont to occupy. Directly opposite he
observed a tall uncouth man of harsh features and a sour countenance,
sitting very upright, and glancing a severe and restless eye at the
organ, the first tones of which were pealing through the long aisles,
as the dean, the prebends, and other officers of the choir, preceded
by the vergers with their maces, slowly entered, and reverently took
their seats.
The service began, and was conducted with that solemn decency, and
with those clear fine chants, which dispose most hearts to a subdued
feeling of intense devotion.
There is a something in sacred music which does wonderfully compose
the mind, and cleanse it of all earthly-rooted cares. Upon the
stranger above mentioned, however, it produced no such effect. He sat
erect, cold, and contemptuous: he put aside the Book of Common Prayer
with a rude thrust; and taking a small volume from his pocket opened
it with ostentatious gravity, and, not joining in the worship that he
witnessed, either by response, gesture, or any conformity of posture
with those around him, sat, now casting his eyes on the page of his
book, now severely around, and now raising them to Heaven after a
manner that left nothing but the jaundiced whites visible.
This strange conduct disturbed, irritated, or amused the observers,
according to the impression that was made upon them. Some of the
prebends and vicars choral looked red and angry. The dean was greatly
distressed, and knew not what to do. At first he called the verger,
with a design to remove the intruder; but, upon second thoughts, he
feared that a yet greater interruption and indecency might take place
if such a course was attempted, he therefore commanded his feelings
with as much dignity as he could. But his grave frowns were totally
without power upon the youthful choristers, whose laughter would have
been loud and audible, but for the thick folds of the surplice with
which they stuffed their rebellious and aching jaws.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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