Chapter I

OF MY DESCENT AND PARENTAGE, AND OF MY SENDING TO THE INDIES.

It will be convenient for me, before relating my history, to give some account of my birth and parentage, and this I will proceed to do. Our branch of the family of Carlyon, though not of the most illustrious, is at least respectable in its antiquity, having been settled at Ellswether (which at one time belonged to a branch of the noble family of De Lovetot) for the space of four hundred years, ever since the esquire Simon Carlyon wedded Dame Elianora, daughter and heiress to Sir Walter de Lovetot. My honoured father was the fourth and youngest son of Roger Carlyon, Esquire, and Margery Colepepper his wife. Being but a younger son, he quitted his home early, and adventured himself in the wars in foreign parts, together with his cousin, my Lord Brandon. Under the banner of this nobleman my father showed great valour and skill in arms, both in Bohemia and also in the Palatinate, so that his assistance was much sought after by many princes and captains of those parts. But on hearing of the troubles in England, my father accompanied his kinsman to Oxford, to the intent to place their swords at the disposition of his majesty. It was when on this visit that my father first saw my mother, that was then Mrs Margaret Brodie, daughter to Sir Nicholas Brodie of Rinnington in the county of Durham, and Anne Delamere his wife. In her youth my mother was bred up with a young lady of quality, Mrs Hyacinth Penfold, that was sister’s daughter to my lord Duke of London, and dwelt at his grace’s castle of Belfort in this county. Now when my lady duchess (that was as truly honest a lady in her opinions as ever lived, though his grace her husband was but a trimmer) came to pay her devoirs to the king and queen at Oxford, she carried with her the two young gentlewomen aforesaid, and they were to her as her own daughters.

My Lord Brandon, then, was presented to Mrs Penfold as a match she should do well to accept, though he was well advanced in years, and little beautified by the chances of war, and my father cast his eyes upon the gentlewoman that bare this lady company. And Mrs Brodie, hearing of his feats of arms in the wars of Germany, and finding his person not disagreeable to her, was not loath to look kindly upon her servant.[1] He then, discovering in her not only great beauty of countenance, but also a sweet civility of manner and marvellous parts of mind, did ask her hand of my lady duchess. Who did grant him, with many kind words, the boon he craved; and my father and mother were wedded at the same time and place with my lord and Mrs Penfold, and lived together for over seven years thereafter in the enjoyment of a rare peace and felicity, though troubled on all sides by the evil chances of the time. This same year was memorable for that my father was knighted on the field of battle by the hand of his sacred majesty himself, after a certain skirmish near to the city of Bristow,[2] since that he did, by his skill in war, save the king’s forces when near to their destruction. ’Twas at Oxford that I was born, in the year 1646, in a mean lodging in a certain poor street of that town, since my mother was afraid to show herself in any more convenient dwelling, and my father durst only visit her secretly by night for fear of capture, my Lord-General Fairfax having but just then took the city.

Shortly after this, also, by the deaths of my uncles, his three brothers (whereof the eldest was slain with my grandfather in that lamentable defeat of my Lord Astley at Stow-on-the-Wold, and the second, having been taken at Leicester the year before, died in prison, and the third was foully murdered in a tumult raised against him in the streets of Northampton), my father found himself possessed of Ellswether--that is to say, of the old house only, whereof all the lands were sold or mortgaged for his majesty’s service. And he, taking up his abode there with my mother and myself, fought still for the king, until that day when the rebels consummated their iniquity by that deed whereof no age hath ever seen the like for its enormity, when he left fighting, being assured that God must shortly punish the whole nation of England with utter destruction. Two years thereafter, notwithstanding, he joined himself to the cause of his majesty King Charles II., and at Worcester Fight was grievously wounded, and lay for many days in danger of his life in a certain mean house of that city. Being there found by the rebels, he was thrown into a dungeon, but after a while, by the good offices of my lord Duke of London, was released, and suffered to return home, being now incapable of fighting more, for that his left leg had been shot off by a ball from a great gun, and his right arm disabled by a pistol-shot, at Worcester Fight.

In the year 1653 there come sad news to Ellswether. My Lord Brandon, heading a rising for the young king in the North, was taken and beheaded; and my lady his wife, who had wearied herself in vain to obtain his pardon, died after giving birth to a daughter. Their son and heir had died in his infancy, and the barony must needs descend to a distant cousin of my lord’s, that was a boon companion of the king in France and Flanders. My lord’s estates and property was all confiscated, and for the poor babe was nothing left, save that she might have my lady’s gowns and suchlike. My lady had committed her babe to the charge of the gentlewoman that bare her company, desiring that she should be brought to Ellswether, and bred up by my mother. Wherefore this gentlewoman, Mrs Sophronia Skipwith by name, took with her the babe, together with my lady’s gowns and jewels, and the great portraits of her and my lord which he had had painted for her on their wedding, and divers tomes of French and English romances, and started on her journey. Coming to Ellswether, she found there sore lamentation, for that my dear mother had departed this life two days before. And Sir Harry, my father, finding himself with my Lady Brandon’s babe to keep, and discerning Mrs Skipwith to be a gentlewoman of most discreet conversation and a sobriety suiting her years (which were thirty-five at the least, and rather over than under), did offer her to remain as governess to the babe, the rather as the aforesaid Mrs Skipwith was an orphan and a distant kinswoman of my lady’s. Now if you look to hear that Mrs Skipwith made use of Sir Harry’s kindness to creep into his good graces, and thus marry him thereafter, you shall be disappointed, for she behaved herself throughout her life with a rare discreetness and wisdom, and hath left behind her a memory full of praise.

My good father, then, adopted for his own the little Mrs Dorothy Brandon (whose kinsman, even after the happy Restoration of his majesty King Charles II., when he gat back his lands, never troubled himself to inquire after her, lest for very shame he must settle on her a portion out of the estates of my lord her father), my father, I say, adopted her, intending in due time to marry her to me his son, and we grew up together as brother and sister, but in that prospect. Now at the Restoration, as I have said, there was many received back their confiscated lands, but my father, who (with his brothers) had sold and mortgaged all for the king’s service, gat nothing, since he had done it all willingly. There remained to us, then, only the manor of Ellswether itself, whereon was a heavy mortgage, that was fallen into the hands of Mr Sternhold, the attorney that my grandfather had been wont to employ. And again, if you look to hear in this place that Mr Sternhold proved himself a cruel or an unrighteous creditor, you will again receive a disappointment, for sure there was never no man that served better either the father or the absent son. But if this great burden of the mortgage was to be removed, it was needful for me to make my fortune, and this in no unspeedy way. And if you shall be surprised that my father allowed me, his only son, to undertake such a distant and dangerous manner of life as that I have followed, I would have you remember that Sir Harry, as was but natural in a gentleman of his family and breeding, cared more for the honour and name of the house than for him that might one day bear it, and that he sent me forth in quest of wealth for to redeem the estates, as any father in Rome might have sent forth his son in quest of warlike honour. After this explanation, which I trust shall resolve any matters that might otherwise seem to you obscure or contradictory, I will proceed to my tale.

Since I have spoke to you of my father’s poverty, you will readily perceive that he could not send me to any great school, nor was he likely, in the dark days that then shadowed this poor realm of ours, to commit me to the tuition of the schismatical minister that had usurped the room of the vicar of our parish, wherefore he was constrained to send me by the day to the grammar-school of Puckle Acton, which town lieth in the vicinage of Ellswether. Here, in common with the sons of many gentlemen of the country round, I gained a slight acquaintance with Greek and Latin, and (for which my life hath made me far more grateful) such a knowledge of the art of fence, of boxing and shooting, as hath often stood me in good stead. When I was not at the school, the time did often hang heavy for me, for the gentlemen’s sons of whom I have spoken durst not admit me to their company more than rarely, for fear of the suspicions of our tyrants, that were wont to scent a conjuration or conspiracy whensoever any number of Malignants (for so they called us) was met together. The company of the boys of the town I neither sought nor would my father have permitted me so to do, and I came thus, almost of necessity, to use and enjoy that of my little cousin Dorothy Brandon, in all my holidays and times of rest. ’Twas with her I learned from Mrs Skipwith to read French, and we loved to pore together over the pages of the ‘Grand Cyrus,’ that magazine of brave thoughts and witty conceits, of the ‘Cleopâtre’ and of the ‘Clélie.’ Of English books we had no great store, but in Sir Philip Sidney his ‘Arcadia’ and in Mr Lyly’s ‘Euphues’ we found a rare delight. Add to this, that my little cousin taught herself Latin in order to the reading it with me, and (her youth remembered) was no mean scholar in the Greek, and you shall see that we had no lack of fantastic and heroical reading for to divert ourselves withal.

Nor was this all our diversion, for we had, beside, our especial romance, or rather romancical drama, since we never writ our incidents, but, if I may so speak, lived them. In this piece my cousin was called Polyxandra, a wood-nymph vowed to Dian’s service, and I Cleombrocles, her faithful knight. The action of the plot was mighty tragical, and full of moving scenes and incidents, for we were beset not alone by the horrid monster Anthropophage, whose castle I have ofttimes besieged, and whose self (as presented by Bevis our house-dog) I often slew, but also by Sophronysius, the tyrannic governor of Mycene, whose part, unknown to herself, was played by Mrs Skipwith. This tyrant was wont to carry off the amiable Polyxandra whensoever as our romance was most alluring; and many fearful vows have I breathed against her, the poor victim weeping meanwhile over her task of presenting in needlework the history of Sisera and Jael. My father performed the part of the _Deus ex machinâ_, stepping in to grant Polyxandra an holiday when all my intercessions failed; but even he could do little against a certain terrible enchanter, named Virgilius Tully, to whom the renowned Cleombrocles was bound by a solemn vow, that he should attend upon him daily in his cave, and there serve him. Yet was not all our life spent in wars, for to us the meadows and woods around Ellswether were those of Arcady and Thessalia, and we wandered through them engaged in heroic discourse, carried on in extreme picked and delicate language, and garnished with many euphuisms and other pretty conceits, such as I now hear the learned ladies of France do mightily affect. Oh! the vows of never-dying devotion these woods have echoed, the coy answers of the nymph, and the renewed passion of Cleombrocles, interrupted by the approach of the fell Sophronysius!

After the joyful and happy Restoration of his majesty King Charles II., I was able to meet with my fellows without molestation, and also to join with them in many noble sports; but so great was the ruin and poverty brought upon us by the dominion of the rebels (though now happily past), that of the common usages and hospitalities of the country was there next to none among us. ’Twas but rarely that my little cousin and I visited upon any, and ’twas fewer still that came to the Hall, save now and then an ancient cavalier that had known my father in the days of his youth. Yet ’twas one of these ancient gentlemen, as I believe, that must have stirred Sir Harry’s mind to see that I, his only son, was growing up in idleness, and thus embarked him, if I may so speak, on that long voyage of treaties and negotiations, whereof I was only made aware when all was complete.

Two or three times in the year, it was our custom (my little cousin’s and mine) to go to Puckle Acton and take supper with good Mr Sternhold, the attorney. There was never there for us any lack of welcome on the part of Mrs Sternhold or himself; and their two comely daughters, Mrs Diony and Mrs Sisley, were wont to make much of me, and to show great kindness to my little cousin. It did much please them that we, being so young, were deemed troth-plight; and they did delight to set us side by side, and to cry out how pretty a couple we made, and then to incite me to show myself a courteous servant to that my little lady. But always after this was Dorothy wont to behave herself so coy and disdainful as ’tis impossible to conceive, and would try me with as many grievous slights as did ever the coldest and cruellest maid in the romances, so as I would threaten to go away into some foreign kingdom, and seek my fortune, far from my untender love, as did the knights of whom we read so often. And this also did mightily divert the two young damsels and their mother. ’Twas on my eighteenth birthday, at the close of the year 1664, that that occurred which enabled me, though without any knowledge of mine beforehand, to perform this frequent threat--nay, rather compelled me so to do. We had been supping at Mr Sternhold’s house, Dorothy and I, and as we returned she did most steadfastly refuse to take my hand through the woods, because, said she, I had had the misfortune to turn my back on her during the evening. And we wrangling and quarrelling over this mighty matter, the dispute lasted until we were come to the Hall, where I spake after my usual fashion, but Dorothy tossed her saucy head, and must needs say that I talked much of going to foreign parts, but should never go there. Then upon this scornful humour of hers brake in the voice of my father, that was sitting in his great chair in the study, with many papers upon the table before him.

“Son Edward,” says he, “I would fain speak with you.”

“At your pleasure, sir,” says I. “When shall I attend upon you?”

“Now,” says my father; “so soon as little Doll here be gone to bed.”

Dorothy kissed my father, though with a pout, made me a curtsey, and ran away, I shutting the door after her.

“You are now arrived at your eighteenth year, Ned?” says my father.

“Yes, sir,” says I. “I was born in the year that my Lord Fairfax took Oxford city, as I have heard you say.”

“True,” saith Sir Harry, “and you are come to this age without being bred to any trade or calling. Not that ’tis your fault, lad, but mine. ’Tis no news to you, my son, that we abide here truly only on sufferance of Sternhold, and that ’tis all I can do to keep up the house as we live at present. Wherefore you won’t be surprised when I say that I can neither send you to the university, even had you displayed any leaning thereto, nor yet maintain you while you seek a place in his Majesty’s service in foreign parts.”

“Indeed, no, sir,” says I.

“There remains, then,” said my father, “the life of a soldier; but now that the wars of Germany are ended, that an’t any longer a road to wealth by the means of large spoils and larger ransoms, and moreover, you are too old, for I hold that a lad should be bred to that calling from fourteen years, or fifteen at the most. Also there are now no such masters in the art of war as those I had the honour to observe in my young days, nor any such noble theatre as that wherein I observed ’em. And with regard to his majesty’s navy, I fear there is but little glory to be won there nowadays. The rebels were good sailors, even I will say that for ’em. And beside these, which we need not consider, there is two other places offer ’emselves to your choice, for I am willing you should choose which you will accept. Being lately reminded of your age and stature (and sure ’tis well I was reminded on’t, for I had clean forgot it), I writ to my lord Duke of London, son to my Lady Brandon’s uncle that did deal with me so kindly after Worcester Fight, and asked him to use his good offices with his majesty to gain for you some place or preferment. And to this my lord duke hath replied, with many civil words touching my care of little Doll there, his kinswoman, that places be now so few, and they that seek ’em so many, that he knows none for which he might make interest with his majesty on your behalf. Yet out of his remembrance of his parents’ ancient love for our house, his grace is good enough to offer you his nomination to the post of writer[3] in the India Company’s service, which if I accept on’t for you, his majesty hath been graciously pleased to command that the bond of £500, which must be entered into for your good behaviour, shall be pledged from his privy purse. Had it been but five hundred pence instead of pounds, I had never been able to pay ’em, and this, no doubt, in his singular great kindness, his majesty hath guessed. And with regard to this offer, I can say naught but good on’t. As for wealth, this is one of the straightest roads to’t, for though the wage be but £10 by the year for five years, and after that a convenient increase, yet are there many places of trust to be obtained, and, as I hear, many chances of trading on your own account, so that many gentlemen of that service are become by this means very rich. ’Tis true that you must needs leave your country for a term of years, but that is no more than I did myself, and many other noblemen and gentlemen that fought in that long war.”

“And the other place, sir?” said I, when my father left speaking.

“The other place, Ned,” said Sir Harry, “an’t such as I could desire for a Carlyon of Ellswether. Mr Sternhold is so good as to say that he will find you work as his clerk, and although you should at the first receive nothing by way of wage, yet afterwards, I make no doubt, you may rise to wealth. The lawyers have gained much by the troubles of these days, and stand to gain much more. Still, what say you?”

I need scarce say to you that I had not to think for long. When the choice lay between the Indies and Mr Sternhold’s clerkship (the which, as I well knew, should never have been proffered by him had not my father asked it), you won’t wonder that I sprang joyfully at my lord duke his offer. Which also did hugely please my father, he saying that he was glad to find he had a son that would show himself no laggard in seeking to repair the fortunes of his house. And before aught else in the next morning, my father writ to the aforesaid nobleman to signify his grateful acceptance of his singular kindness, I myself also writing to express my duty to his grace and my desire to comport myself suitably in that place he destined for me. And this letter wrote, and set in readiness for my Lord Harmarthwaite’s messenger, that was, by the especial kindness of his lordship, to carry it to London, and there deliver it into his grace’s hands, I found time to consider what great change in my manner of life one day had brought. For but yesterday was I a masterless man (saving, of course, the authority of that my good father), too old for school, and yet without a calling, but to-day I was pledged to the Hon. East India Company, the which was now my master. And notwithstanding the joy that was in my heart, that I should at last have good hope of freeing my father’s estates, in process of time, from the burdens that oppressed them, there come upon me some natural sorrow that I must part from my good father, and from Dorothy, that quarrelled with me and loved me as she had been indeed my sister.

Standing on the staircase in some disquiet, and thinking thus with myself, there came running to me on a sudden my said little cousin Dorothy herself, dressed up mighty fine in a laced waistcoat[4] and petticoat of white satin, with cherry-coloured knots, and cried laughing to me, all our quarrels forgot--

“Why so sad and solemn, Cousin Ned? Do you see my new gown? How doth it please you?”

“Why so fine, little lady, rather let me ask?” says I, bowing low, lest she should again reproach me of lack of courtesy.

“Mrs Skipwith hath ripped a gown of my mother’s, and made this for me,” says she. “Come with me to the picture-room, Cousin Ned. I would have you tell me whether I am like my mother.”

So we two to the oaken gallery, where Dorothy held me by the hand, and we stood before the portraits of my Lord and Lady Brandon, he in his harness,[5] with a battlefield behind him, and she in her wedding-gown.

“Help me with this chair, Ned,” quoth my little cousin, and I dragged the great chair for her between the two portraits, when she climbed up on it, and stood thus between them.

“Tell me, Cousin Ned, am I like her?” she cries.

Truly there was a marvellous likeness, they both wearing white satin and lace, though there was pearls in my Lady Brandon’s dark hair in the stead of the cherry-coloured ribbons; nor did I find in her countenance that intrepidity and firmness that was displayed in my little cousin’s, and which she hath, I take it, from that gallant cavalier my lord her father.

“Well, Cousin Ned?” cries Dorothy, tired of standing.

“_O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior_,” quoth I, with a low bow.

“Speak to me in good English,” cries she, pouting.

“’Tis but to say (as you very well know) that my lady your mother was fair, but you are fairer, little Doll.”

“Nay,” cries she, “I won’t be called that. Sure I an’t Miss Doll any more. Sir Harry saith I am to be called Mrs Dorothy always, for I am nearly eleven. Oh, Cousin Ned, is it true that you are going to the Indies?”

“Ay, sweet Doll,” says I; “to furthest Ind, and to the kingdoms of Cathay, perhaps.”

“You are ever teasing me,” she saith. “I would I had a fan here, that I might give you a tap therewith, Master Ned. But I will have one some day. When you come back from your voyages and adventures, I shall be a court lady, like my Lady Penelope Harrington, so”--and she held up her hand like a fan, and made great eyes over the edge on’t at me.

“God forbid!” cried I, in a grievous heat.

“And why, prithee?” she asked, somewhat angered. “My mother was a court lady, so why not I?”

“That was in better days,” says I, much disquieted by her speech, yet little caring to tell her what I meant; “but now times are changed. I can’t tell you much, little Doll, but this I will say, that rather than know you such as my Lady Penelope is now become, I would see you in your grave.”

“Then I won’t be like her,” says Dorothy, putting her hand in mine, “for when you have wrought all your great deeds you are coming back to marry me, Ned, an’t you?”

“Ay,” said I, “so that I find you a gentle and comely maiden, caring for my father, and seeking no court gaieties. I would not, with my goodwill, wed a court lady.”

“As you will,” says she. “And you will bring me back a parrot, Cousin Ned, and a pearl chain for to wear on Sundays, and an _escrotore_[6] of Indian work wherein to keep my jewels?”

“Ay so,” quoth I; “and when I go to London, as this next month, I will send you a fan and a cherry-coloured girdle for to hold it withal, as fine as any in the county, if you will give me one of your knots whereby to choose it.”

“Nay,” says she, “not for that only, but to keep for yourself. Sure after this goodness of yours, I must make you some return on’t. See here,” and she unfastened with great gravity her breast-knot, kissed it, and gave it to me, “now are you my knight, Cousin Ned, and you must enter upon all your adventures for my honour, as did Ambixules for Mizalinza, in the book[7] wherein Mrs Diony read to us last night. And I have made for you, beside, a badge in gum-work, for to carry with you and wear on Royal Oak Day, and you must needs keep ’em both for ever for my sake.”

“So be it, little cousin. But is my departure naught to you?” says I, somewhat grieved. “You have no farewell for me, Doll?”

“Come back with your shield, or else upon it,” quoth she slowly, and, as it seemed, with difficulty.

“Truly a Spartan message!” I cried. “Is there naught beside, little Doll?”

“I shall miss you,” she said, and climbed down from the chair, walking to the window away from me. And I, looking after her, saw that her face was pale and her shoulders heaving, the while she held her head as high as ever, and clenched her hand for to keep back the tears. And with this I was ashamed.

“Dorothy, my little cousin,” says I, going after her and taking her by the hand, “I beg your pardon. Trust me, I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Why--why,” cries Dorothy, turning round upon me in anger, and then on a sudden falling into a passion of weeping and tears, and hiding her face in my sleeve--“why will you make me cry, Cousin Ned, when I have been essaying to send you forth with all composure of mind, as a lady should her knight? ’Tis all spoilt now.”

“Not so,” says I, admiring the child’s insistence in her romancical dreams. “I am going forth as your knight, my Lady Doll, to forge my weapons, and with ’em to fight the great and cruel giant Poverty, and to release my noble father, whom he holds in his toils. You also the giant keeps in durance, but not so strong but you are allowed to help and solace the other captive, and to send words of cheer to your knight. Here is a noble tale, indeed!”

“True knight for true lady?” asks she.

“There is our motto,” says I. “Now are we indeed well provided with all that a romance could lack, little cousin.”

“I would I were going too,” says she, looking up at me with her eyes yet shining with tears; “I would fain be your page, Cousin Ned, like the ladies in the romances, for you will see all the marvels, the tigers and the wild men of the woods, and the elephants, and the Great Mogul himself, and I must stay here. But be sure, if you fall, that I shall don armour and avenge you, as did Parthenia for Argalus in the ‘Arcadia.’”

“But that, we may hope, shall not be needful,” said I. “Come into the garden with me now, Doll, and we will slay Anthropophage once more before I depart,” and we left speaking, and went down into the garden, holding each other by the hand.

Now this relation of all those things that preceded my setting out in search of fortune I have set down at length, to the end that all may see how falsely ’tis said that I went to East India in pursuance of my own way and against my father’s will, and also that I was already tired of the match my said father had prepared for me, and desired to rid myself of my cousin Dorothy. Such is the malice of my enemies, that they don’t scruple to say even this, whereas I have showed to you that my father did wellnigh force me to set out, and that I departed in the full intention to return and fulfil my contract with my cousin. And this relation I do hereby declare to be true of all things therein contained.