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
In a sort of hope that the sight of Milverton House might beguile his
melancholy, might soothe him, by reviving sweet images of past and
precious hours, and building, as he walked along, a new fabric of
happy and peaceful liberty for his distracted country, he reached the
well known gates of the once hospitable mansion. Absorbed in his
reflections, he never raised his eyes to direct them towards the
house, till he stood at the very portal. The gates lay upon the
ground; the noble edifice was a blackened and a yawning ruin. A sudden
and terrific thunder clap, bursting from a serene sky, could not so
painfully have startled him. All around was silent--desolately,
dreadfully silent; and the sun was bright, and the stony skeleton of
the vast dwelling was black. He poured a passionate cry to God: he
fell down upon the earth, and petitioned feverishly that the evil one
might not hunt him to despair.
When he had in some measure recovered his composure, he rose and
walked through the lonely and roofless ruins. The rubbish, which had
fallen in when the floors and ceilings of the upper chambers gave way,
or were consumed, had been disturbed, and removed in large quantities,
to be sifted for any valuable metals which they might contain, so that
he could make his way without difficulty, and could still trace
distinctly all the lower apartments.
Near the fire-place in the large kitchen, on a part of the wall that
had only been scorched, might still be read one of those rude and
homely posies which were the delight of our honest forefathers, and
might be found alike in the manor-house and the humbler cottage of the
husbandman:--
“At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal,
And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small;
Yea all the year long, to the poor let us give,
God’s blessing to follow us while we do live.”
And upon the other side of the fire-place was written up,--
“Play thou the good fellow; seek none to misdeem;
Disdain not the honest, though merry they seem;
For oftentimes seen, no more very a knave,
Than he that doth counterfeit most to be grave.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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