Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance,we strolled along till we came to a spot called by the country people,"The Bloody Meadow,"from being,like several other places in the neighbourhood,the scene of one of those terrible slaughters chronicled in the wars of the Roses.It was a sloping field,through the middle of which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end,where,fringed and hidden by a plantation of trees,the Avon flowed.
Here,too,in all directions,the hay-fields lay,either in green swathes,or tedded,or in the luxuriously-scented quiles.The lane was quite populous with waggons and hay-makers--the men in their corduroys and blue hose--the women in their trim jackets and bright calamanco petticoats.There were more women than men,by far,for the flower of the peasant youth of England had been drafted off to fight against "Bonyparty."Still hay-time was a glorious season,when half our little town turned out and made holiday in the sunshine.
"I think we will go to a quieter place,John.There seems a crowd down in the meadow;and who is that man standing on the hay-cart,on the other side the stream?""Don't you remember the bright blue coat?'Tis Mr.Charles.How he's talking and gesticulating!What can he be at?"Without more ado John leaped the low hedge,and ran down the slope of the Bloody Meadow.I followed less quickly.
There,of a surety,stood our new friend,on one of the simple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury,a low framework on wheels,with a pole stuck at either of the four corners.He was bare-headed,and his hair hung in graceful curls,well powdered.Ionly hope he had honestly paid the tax,which we were all then exclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity.
Despite the powder,the blue coat,and the shabby velvet breeches,Mr.Charles was a very handsome and striking-looking man.No wonder the poor hay-makers had collected from all parts to hear him harangue.
What was he haranguing upon?Could it be,that like his friend,"John Philip,"whoever that personage might be,his vocation was that of a field preacher?It seemed like it,especially judging from the sanctified demeanour of the elder and inferior person who accompanied him;and who sat in the front of the cart,and folded his hands and groaned,after the most approved fashion of a methodistical "revival."We listened,expecting every minute to be disgusted and shocked:but no!I must say this for Mr.Charles,that in no way did he trespass the bounds of reverence and decorum.His harangue,though given as a sermon,was strictly and simply a moral essay,such as might have emanated from any professor's chair.In fact,as I afterwards learnt,he had given for his text one which the simple rustics received in all respect,as coming from a higher and holier volume than Shakspeare--"Mercy is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest."
And on that text did he dilate;gradually warming with his subject,till his gestures--which at first had seemed burthened with a queer constraint,that now and then resulted in an irrepressible twitch of the corners of his flexible mouth--became those of a man beguiled into real earnestness.We of Norton Bury had never heard such eloquence.
"Who CAN he be,John?Isn't it wonderful?"
But John never heard me.His whole attention was riveted on the speaker.Such oratory--a compound of graceful action,polished language,and brilliant imagination,came to him as a positive revelation,a revelation from the world of intellect,the world which he longed after with all the ardour of youth.
What that harangue would have seemed like,could we have heard it with maturer ears,I know not;but at eighteen and twenty it literally dazzled us.No wonder it affected the rest of the audience.Feeble men,leaning on forks and rakes,shook their old heads sagely,as if they understood it all.And when the speaker alluded to the horrors of war--a subject which then came so bitterly home to every heart in Britain--many women melted into sobs and tears.At last,when the orator himself,moved by the pictures he had conjured up,paused suddenly,quite exhausted,and asked for a slight contribution "to help a deed of charity,"there was a general rush towards him.
"No--no,my good people,"said Mr.Charles,recovering his natural manner,though a little clouded,I thought,by a faint shade of remorse;"no,I will not take from any one more than a penny;and then only if they are quite sure they can spare it.Thank you,my worthy man.Thanks,my bonny young lass--I hope your sweetheart will soon be back from the wars.Thank you all,my 'very worthy and approved good masters,'and a fair harvest to you!"He bowed them away,in a dignified and graceful manner,still standing on the hay-cart.The honest folk trooped off,having no more time to waste,and left the field in possession of Mr.Charles,his co-mate,and ourselves;whom I do not think he had as yet noticed.
He descended from the cart.His companion burst into roars of laughter;but Charles looked grave.
