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!"