This deadly night did last

But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,

Doth shew his pleasant face:

* * * * * * *

The mystie clouds that fall sometime,

And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time,

Which do but dimme our eyes;

But as such dewes are dried up quite

When Phoebus shewes his face,

So are such fancies put to flighte

Where God doth guide by grace.

GASCOIGNE

It would be an act of positive inhumanity to leave the unfortunate

preacher any longer to his solitude, without taking some note, however

brief it may be, of his feelings and his sufferings. After consigning

his packet (which, as we have seen, was not only received, but

appreciated by--the Protector) to the rocks and breezes of the Gull's

Nest Crag, he sat him down patiently, with his Bible in his hand, to

await whatever fate was to befall him, or, as he more reverently and

more properly termed it, "whatever the Almighty might have in store for

him, whether it seemed of good or of evil." The day passed slowly and

heavily; but before its close he had the satisfaction of ascertaining

that the parcel had disappeared. Again and again he climbed to the small

opening: at one time he saw that the fierce sunbeams danced on the

waves, and at another that they were succeeded by the rich and glowing

hues of the setting sun; then came the sober grey of twilight--the

sea-birds screamed their last good-night to the waters--one by one the

stars came out, gemming the sky with brilliancy, and sparkling along

their appointed path. The preacher watched their progress and meditated

on their mysteries; though his meditations would have been more cheerful

could he have partaken of any of the "creature comforts" appertaining to

Cecil Place, and under the special jurisdiction of Solomon Grundy. It

was in vain that he had recourse to the crushed oranges--they merely

kept his lips from parching and his tongue from cleaving to the roof of

his mouth, and by the dawning of the Sabbath morn he was "verily an

hungered"--not suffering from the puny and sickly faintness of

temporary abstinence, but literally starving for want of food. He paced

his narrow cell--called loudly from the window--exhausted his strength

in fruitless endeavours to shake the door which the treacherous Burrell

had so securely fastened, until, as the day again approached to its

termination, he threw himself on the ground in an agony of despair.

"To die such a death--to die without a witness or a cause! If the Lord

had willed that I should suffer as a martyr for his holy word, Jonas

Fleetword would not have been the man to repine, but gladly would have

sacrificed his body as a proof of his exceeding faith, and as an example

to encourage others; but to be starved for Sir Willmott Burrell's

pastime--to starve in this horrid cell--to feel nature decaying within

me, while not even the ravens can bring me food! O God! O God! pass thou

this cup from me, or implant a deep spirit of patience and resignation

within my soul!"




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