That the Arms of the Earl of Dorset which were at Knole House, are brought to Town, to be kept from being made use of against the Parliament,
That such as are rich Arms shall not be made use of, but kept safely for the Earl of Dorset; but such as are fit to be made use of for the service of the Kingdom are to be employed; an Inventory to be taken, and money to be given to the Earl of Dorset in satisfaction thereof.
Thus ran the official reports; but Knole, astonished, aggrieved, and outraged, drew up a fuller list of injuries. It was the first time rude voices had ever echoed within those venerable walls or rude hands rummaged among the sacred possessions, the first time that orders had been issued there by another than the master. The Parliament men had entered with arrogance, spoken with authority, gone beyond their warrant, and ransacked wantonly—for from what motive but wantonness could they have taken the plumes from the bed-tester or the cushions from his Lordship’s own room? or spoilt the oil in the Painter’s Chamber? or, indeed, broken forty locks, unless to overcome such slight resistance in an unnecessarily high-handed manner? No doubt the novelty of the experience turned their heads. Rhetorically they were the representatives of the English Parliament, that sober and tenacious senate, as stubborn now as at Runnymede, but in private life they were men, however insignificant hitherto to Lord Dorset, men who, when he passed with a swagger, murmured dully beneath their reluctant deference. The moment when, cantering up over the crest of the hill, they first saw the grey forbidding walls and drew rein before the massive door, their horses’ bits jingling and the restive hoofs pawing at the gravel, must indeed have been an experience. Likewise, to ring their spurs on the paving-stones of the courtyards, to pass from room to room followed by a protesting and impotent steward, to stare at the pictures, to lounge on the velvet chairs, to set out their ink and paper on the solid table of the parlour and to draw up their indictment. It was August; the rose planted beneath the window of a Stuart King to commemorate his visit was covered with its little white blossoms; the turf was smooth and green; the flowers were bright under the young apple-trees in the orchard; the beeches and chestnuts were deep and heavy with the fullness of summer. The austerity of the Roundheads surely stiffened in the soft summer spaciousness of Knole. The owner was absent: they had only his new portrait to gaze at, with scorn of his brilliant doublet and his curling hair.