The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 2 (of 2)Sherer, Moyle
History
The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 2 (of 2)
Sherer, Moyle
Great Britain -- History -- Civil War, 1642-1649 -- Fiction
The village of Old Beech, which has been often named in this story as
the living of George Juxon, was a retired and picturesque place,
containing about three hundred inhabitants. Here, as at Cheddar, there
was no lord of the manor in residence. The principal owner of the
village lands for the last twenty years had been a Roman Catholic
gentleman, who, being single, and of a severe and gloomy temper of
mind, had, before this accession of property, embraced the monastic
life in Italy, and taken the vows as a brother of the Carthusian
order. The lessee of his estates had let them advantageously to four
substantial farmers; one of whom occupied the venerable old
manor-house. Its quaint wooden gables and ornamental carpentry always
arrested the attention of the passer by their venerable appearance.
A bay window, with five lights in two divisions, marked very
distinctly the situation of the great hall; a noble apartment used
only by the tenant as a vast store-room for the produce of his orchard
and his garden. The broad gates hung broken and decaying from the
square stone columns in which their hinges had been fastened by iron
staples, and the pavement of the court was half hid by rank weeds. The
church was small and ancient, and stood, not far from the manor-house,
on a gentle eminence, which commanded a beautiful flat of meadow-land,
watered by a small clear river that meandered through the fields in
fine and graceful curves, was richly fringed with willows, and turned
in its course two clean-looking busy mills. Not far from the
churchyard stood a tall and stately beech-tree, about two centuries
old, and near it the stump of the very tree from which the village had
been first named was still visible.
The smooth bark of this noble old beech was covered with initial
letters, true love knots, and joined hearts, rudely carved by rustic
hands, many of which, it might be seen by the dates affixed, had long
since mouldered under the grassy heaps, to which lowly beds of peace
the very same bell still tolled the parting summons of their lineal
descendants.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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