“Remember, remember,
The Fifth of November.”
NEARLY six years have passed away since the Escalade of Geneva sent a thrill of indignation and horror through every Protestant heart in Europe. Nearly three years afterward, Protestant England encountered a peril perhaps as great, and was vouchsafed a deliverance perhaps as marvelous. In both cases the means employed by the conspirators were in flagrant violation of every law of morality or of civilization, and in both, had they succeeded, the results would have been terrible, almost beyond description. As the 12th of December, 1602, was "a day much to be remembered" in Geneva, so in England was the 5th of November, 1605.
Those who were "delivered from the hand of the enemy" commemorated their deliverance, in both cases, with prayer and thanksgiving. But "Merrie England" acted up to her character, for her sons found also other ways of doing it, more attractive, it is to be feared, to the multitude.
In no parish of England was there more fun and frolic on the 5th of November than in that of Sheriton, Dorsetshire. Nowhere was a more gigantic or more hideous Guy Fawkes constructed by more eager or more willing hands; and nowhere was he consumed in a larger bonfire, or with greater zeal and louder rejoicings. Sir John Musgrave, the lord of the Manor, saw to all that, and took care also that the villagers who assisted at the ceremony should not go fasting to their homes. In the great field near the Manor House where the harmless Auto-da-fé took place, casks of ale were broached, and bread and meat were distributed freely—though, be it added, no excess was allowed, and care was taken for the prevention of riot and disorder.
On this particular occasion, Sir John.
Musgrave himself was absent. He had taken his wife to Wiltshire to visit her father, taking with them their only daughter, the old man's god-child and especial favorite. Some accident had prevented their return, which was to have been in time for "the Fifth." The two younger sons of the house were at Oxford, so only Robert was left to represent the family, and to direct matters in his father's place.
This he was well able to do. He was a man now, tall, erect, vigorous, in all the fire and freshness of his one-and-twenty years. Some time ago he had finished this course at Oxford with credit and distinction. Since then he had stayed at home; not idle—far from it—becoming more and more the right hand of his father, helping him in every way he could, and gaining, as he did so, a practical acquaintance with the duties that would one day—as he hoped, a very distant one—devolve upon himself: the management of a considerable estate, and the care of those who dwelt upon it.
This evening he had done his part in greeting the villagers, talking with them kindly and cheerily, and making friendly inquiries for this man's cough, that woman's rheumatism, and so forth. He had stayed a good while witnessing, and even sharing their sports. But at last he went indoors, sought the library, called for a lamp, and sat down to write to his father.
He was deep in his letter, when the steward knocked, and entered with a hurried apology. "Craving your pardon, Master Robert," he said, "will you come back to the field? And at once, an' it please you, for I fear there will be mischief done else.”
“Will they not heed thee, Colson?" asked Robert, looking up.
“Can't make them, Master. The others would, but 'tis those malapert young fellows, Harry Trueman, Dick Butts, and the like, that all the rest of them go after. They have taken to pulling brands out of the fire, and casting them at each other.”
Ere he finished the words Robert had caught up his hat from the table, and was hurrying to the field, followed by Colson.
What they heard as they drew near quickened their pace. There were not only the confused noises of a crowd at horseplay, but screams, even shrieks of absolute terror. Some of the crowd were trying to break away, and thrusting the others aside with blows and pushes.
But all made way for Master Robert. He passed through to the center space, where the great fire still blazed and crackled, as if seeking what it might devour, though its chief prey was in ashes, or in charred and twisted fragments. In their fun and excitement the crowd had been drawing nearer and nearer, until some of the young folk were quite close, throwing fresh sticks on the fire, or pulling half burned ones out to play rough tricks upon each other.
“Back, all of you!" Robert cried aloud, in the voice of authority. "Back, I say!”
As he spoke, he saw an urchin holding a stick, the end of which was on fire. "Drop that!" he said, then setting his heel upon it, trod it out. When the space was cleared, he took up a piece of charred wood that was lying on the ground. "Come hither, Dick Butts," he said.
The lad came, looking shamefaced, and expecting a rebuke. "Thou art Will Carpenter's 'prentice. Canst draw a good circle?”
Dick muttered something, probably a "yes.”
“Then take this—start from here, where my foot is, and draw the best circle thou canst on the ground, with the fire for center.”
While he did it, and very well too, Robert spoke to the crowd.
“Now, friends," he said, "not one of you is to cross that line. Mind that. But since, with the best will in the world, folk will sometimes forget, I make Harry Trueman, Dick Butts, Jim Masters and Tom White warders of the line.”
There was a general laugh, for the four young men Robert had named were known throughout the parish as the leaders in all mischievous pranks or daring escapades. But he knew his ground—and he knew his men. He began to speak, "And this I have got to say—Ah!”
For a boy had broken from the crowd, dashed to the fire, and flung something in.
It was Jack Staines, known as the parish "fool," the care of the kindly, and the sport of the thoughtless. He turned to go back, with a grin of satisfaction on his face—and the sleeve of his smock on fire.
Robert was upon him in a moment. Snatching somebody's discarded cloak from the ground he wrapped it tightly round him, and held him close in spite of his screams and struggles. In another moment the fire was out. The boy's hurt was very slight, but his terror was great and his cries proportionately loud.
“Shall I carry him home, Master?" asked a strong man, coming forth from the crowd.
“No, friend. Take him to the Manor—and thanks for thy good help. How did it happen?" asked Robert, when this matter was arranged.
“Please you, Master, it was thus," someone answered him. “The poor lad had gathered up a handful of half-burnt sticks to take home with him for treasures, and one of those naughty fellows must needs say to him, for a jest, that you would think he had taken them out of the fire, and be wroth with him.
And so it was, that nothing would serve poor Jack but to go and throw them back again into the fire, so as not to vex the young Master.”
“Will he hath to please you, Master, but pity 'tis, the wit he wants," added someone else.
“Better want wit than will," was the comment of a third. “And best use our wit to get our will," he added.
“So say not I," said Robert." Best use our wit not to get, but to do—the will of Another.”
To himself he added, “Perfect to do His will!” And then he turned homewards, for he wanted to look after Jack, and to finish his letter to his father; and he saw that his four" warders of the line” were likely to keep the charge he had given them with spirit and good humor.
Two hours later found him again in the library; not writing now, but standing at the window, looking out. Once more he had gone back to the field, where he led the people as they sang with heart and voice, "God save the King," and then, with a few farewell words, dismissed them to their homes. Now, where the great fire had been, all was blackened ashes. Only the trampled grass, and here and there a few fragments of bread and meat scattered about, told that there had been a frolic and a feast.
The house was quiet, too. Poor Jack was fast asleep in the servants' quarter; all, indeed, except himself, had gone to rest. Robert Musgrave loved stir and movement, and the keen excitement of active life. Right welcome would the clash and clang of arms and the din of battle have been to him, so it were under a worthy chief and in a righteous cause. But he also loved thought and silence: he loved wide spaces, the great broad sea, the starry heavens. This was a night of stars; and as he looked at them in their majesty and their mystery, high thoughts were rising in his heart.
“Perfect to do His will," he said again, repeating the words that for six years had been his motto. Not that he wore it, as others in those days wore theirs, engraven on a ring or embroidered on a scarf; it was for no eye save his own, and engraven only on his heart. It was a rule of conduct, but it was very much more, it was a principle of life. "Perfect," he accepted in its Scriptural sense, as meaning—not faultless, which those who most try to be know best they are not, but—sincere, whole-hearted in his aim and his pursuit of it. "To do His will," thought Robert. “Is it His will I am wanting to do now, or my own? They are sometimes the same, thank God. An' I wanted aught that was right and good for me to have, and told my father of it, he would say, if 'twere his, Take it, Robin,'—if 'twere another's, ‘I’ll get it for thee.' Ay, and in this matter I am thinking of now, I trow his heart is with mine. That old city by the Lake, how it calls me! There are faces there I see in dreams, and would fain see again in living flesh. I want to stand once more in great St. Peter's, where the voice of John Calvin used to sound. I want to sit once more in my own place, on my own bench, in the Academy. I want to see my old friends, such as the Virets. I dare say today's rejoicings have brought these things back to me even more than is wont. Two such plots devised, two such deliverances wrought, in the space of three years—do not these things show the desperate malignity of our foes? And still more the tender, protecting, watchful care of our God over those who trust Him? He that keepeth Israel slumbers not nor sleeps.'
“I have borne part today in the thanksgiving of England for her deliverance. Now what should hinder that, next month, my father being willing, I should bear a part in the thanksgiving of Geneva for the like, which God wrought for her on the 12th of December, the night of the Escalade?”
These were his conscious thoughts, but below the tide of consciousness many great things live and move, and often profoundly influence our whole lives, although we have never dragged them into the daylight, or looked them steadily in the face. Such mysteries are we to ourselves.